He shrugged. “A town in Oregon? Maybe someone he’s planning to meet with?”
“Or a street address where they’re going to meet.” Morgan jotted down the phrase in her notebook and handed the items back to the officer.
After making their reports of the chase to Abel, they walked back toward their car.
Grant searched for the phrase on his phone while Morgan was lost in thought. The entire phrase failed to yield anything useful, so he started plugging subsections of it into a search engine.
“When Kessler didn’t show to make the drop,” Morgan said, “their next move would probably have been to leave Australia. We think that they had some connection with the Baja drug gang. This could be related to their contact in the cartel.”
Grant continued trying different combinations. “Like we said earlier, a drug gang would be a good way to smuggle the Killswitches back into the US. They’ve got the systems already in place, and they’ll do anything if the price is right.”
“We can’t send out a blanket alert to the Border Patrol describing the Killswitch because of its secret status. And unless we send a detailed description, they won’t know what to look for. We’ll have to see if we can narrow it down to a particular city.”
“Got it!” Grant said triumphantly. “That guy had the abbreviation wrong or we couldn’t read his handwriting. It should have been 22 Lic. Jose Lopez Portillo Ote. It stands for 22 Licenciado Jose Lopez Portillo Oriente. It’s an address in Tijuana. There’s a border crossing a quarter mile from there.”
“That could be where they’re planning to meet to repack the shipment for the smuggling operation.”
“If we can intercept them there, we might be able to retrieve the Killswitches before they even cross the border.”
“We’ll have to coordinate with the Mexican Federales to put a stakeout on the location. When the weapons arrive, we’ll raid the place and get them back.”
“How will you know when the Killswitches are there?”
“Because you’re coming with me. You know what the Russians look like.”
“Do I get to have a gun?”
Morgan squinted at him. “I guess so. You’ve come in handy so far.”
Grant smiled. “Then I’m in.”
She got on her phone. “This is Special Agent Bell. How fast can Grant Westfield and I get to San Diego?”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Jess had been shocked when Polk was dashed on the rocks by the falling Suzuki, but she’d been outraged by the kidnapping of her grandmother. Her instinct had been to charge up over the cliff edge to get Fay back, but Tyler had restrained her when he saw how well Colchev’s gunmen had them pinned. Harris’s lifeless form in the grass only confirmed that they would have had no chance.
When Colchev’s car was out of firing range, Tyler and Jess gave chase. Her feet crunched on the hard- packed dirt as she ran next to Tyler. They’d settled into a fast jog after sprinting for five minutes behind Colchev’s rapidly receding SUV, which was now long gone.
“How far … to the airport?” she asked between breaths. She wasn’t struggling for air, but Tyler’s long legs made it a challenge to keep up. He didn’t seem to be huffing and puffing.
“At least four miles,” he said. “At this pace it’ll take us another half hour.”
“They could take off by then.”
“I know. We have to stop them before they get airborne.”
She wanted to get reassurance from Tyler that Fay would be all right, but wasting her breath on extracting meaningless platitudes wasn’t going to help her get to the airport any faster. She concentrated on sucking in air through her nose and exhaling through her mouth as she did on her twice-weekly jogs.
Tyler jerked his head around at the sound of an engine behind them.
She turned to see two motor scooters puttering toward them. Two skinny guys, both in their twenties, waved as they approached.
“We need those scooters,” Tyler said. “Follow my lead.”
The kids seemed like college students on summer break, backpacks slung over their shoulders.
Tyler smiled and flagged them down. The look was non-threatening, just a dirty, sweaty man and woman who were out in the middle of nowhere.
The riders came to a stop. Both of them paid more attention to Jess than Tyler.
“
“
The men shook their heads.
“Do you speak Spanish?” Tyler said to Jess.
“No,” Jess said. “And we don’t have time for this.”
With a quick nod at the bikes, she took a running lunge and pushed the closest guy off his scooter, grabbing the handle before it could fall.
Tyler didn’t hesitate to follow her cue. He ripped the second man off his bike as if he were a doll. The man hit the ground with an “oof.”
“Sorry,” Tyler said, and hopped onto the seat.
They gunned the engines and zipped away before the men could get to their feet. In her rearview mirror she could see them give chase, but their cursing and arm-waving didn’t help them catch up.
The scooters could hit forty miles an hour, but the frequent potholes meant that thirty was pushing the safest top speed. Tyler pulled even with her.
“That’s one way to do it,” he said over the wind.
“Those guys will be fine. We can’t let Colchev get away with Nana.”
“We’ll park a truck across the runway if that’s what it takes to keep them from leaving.”
“I hope you’re right. She doesn’t have her medication.”
“What medication?”
“Insulin. She’ll tire quickly without it. If she doesn’t get another dose within a few days, she could pass out and go into a coma.”
“Is she diabetic?”
Jess hesitated, but she had to tell him. “Nana has pancreatic cancer. She wanted me to keep it quiet.”
“She seemed fine to me.”
“She had some rough days earlier in the month, but she’s been okay the past week.”
“How far along?”
“Stage four. Terminal. I’m not giving up hope, but most people in the same situation last only a few months. She’s supposed to start chemotherapy next week.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I would never have let her come along if I’d known.”
“I tried to talk her out of it, but you’ve seen how stubborn she can be.”
“She’s a tough bird. Maybe the doctors are wrong.”
They were only a few miles from town, but a thunderous roar coming from that direction made Tyler stop. Jess pulled to a halt next to him.
It sounded like a jet engine.
“Damn it,” he said. “We’re too late.”
The roar receded into the distance until she saw a white twin-engine private plane take to the air above the far end of the runway.
“No!” she cried out. “No!”
“It’s all right. The C-17 should be able to match the speed of Colchev’s jet. We’ll get into the air as soon as we reach the airport, and we’ll make sure to have a SWAT team waiting wherever they land.”
He revved his engine and took off.
