“If the Killswitch played music, you’d be a big help.”
“It’s the only Spanish I remember.”
“Let me do the talking.”
“
She pulled into a parking spot next to the customs building. When she opened the car door, a blast of hot air hit her, reminding her that it was summer now that she was back in the northern hemisphere.
“Good God,” Grant said as he got out. “I must have really been out of it at the San Diego airport not to notice this heat.”
“We’re ten miles inland here.”
“Aren’t you hot?” He nodded at her suit. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans.
“I’m fine.”
“Suit yourself. Ha! Get it?”
“I’m amused.” She wouldn’t admit it to him, but she actually almost cracked a smile. His bad jokes were starting to grow on her.
They went inside, where they were met by air conditioning and Policia Federal Captain Benitez, who was dressed in full tactical gear.
“Special Agent Bell?” he asked in precise English.
She nodded and showed him her ID. He responded in kind, then eyed Grant.
“This is Sergeant Grant Westfield,” Morgan said. “He’s on temporary assignment with me from the Army Rangers.”
They shook hands.
“I was instructed to give you every cooperation I can, Agent Bell.”
“I appreciate your help. This is a dangerous situation, and I understand that you are this state’s top anti- cartel officer.”
“Until they kill me,” Benitez said without a trace of humor. Mexican anti-drug officials had a depressingly short lifespan.
“We think the Baja cartel is going to attempt to smuggle some explosives into the US sometime today,” Morgan said.
“You think they will meet at this address that I was given?”
“It’s possible. Do you have it under surveillance?”
“Yes, for eight hours now.”
“Any unusual activity?”
Benitez shrugged. “A few men came and went. Nothing strange.”
“Were any of the men Caucasian?”
“No. All Hispanic.” He showed her and Grant the surveillance photos.
Grant shook his head. “None of them look like our guys.”
“Captain,” Morgan said, “it is vital that we get those explosives before they enter the US.” She wasn’t going to share that they were looking for a top-secret weapon, only one of which now remained in existence according to the message she’d received about the EMP blast that disabled Easter Island.
“We are prepared for a full tactical breach once you confirm that the explosives have arrived on the premises,” Benitez said.
“We’d also like to capture these men alive, but the explosives are the top priority.”
Benitez shook his head. “The Baja cartel is responsible for over a hundred murders in the last month, including a night club where twenty-five were killed. If this house is theirs, they won’t come quietly.”
“Sounds like our boys have connected with some real winners,” Grant said.
“If your suspects need smuggling assistance, they chose the right gang. The Bajas have moved three tons of cocaine out of Tijuana this year, and we’ve intercepted none of it going into the US.”
“Could this house be their staging area?” Morgan asked.
“Possibly. It’s very close to both the truck and car crossings. It’s also possible that they could be planning to smuggle your item under the border. Some of the cartels’ drug tunnels have been found to be more than a quarter-mile long.”
“I’ll let my team in the US know to be ready for anything. Let’s get over to the house. Oh, and one other thing. Westfield and I need to go in with the tactical team. Sergeant Westfield is a bomb-disposal expert, and we may need him in there.”
Benitez nodded. “Of course. Come with me. We will supply you with uniforms and weapons.” He walked toward the rear of the building. Morgan and Grant fell into step behind him.
“He didn’t bat an eye,” Grant said under his breath. “That was easy.”
“That’s what happens when the Secretary of the Air Force calls up the Commandant of the Federales,” Morgan said.
Ten minutes later they were fully geared up with black fatigues, ballistic vests, M4 rifles, comm units, and helmets.
“You’ll have to leave your car here,” Benitez said. “They’d spot the US plates immediately.”
“Lead the way,” Morgan said.
They went outside to a beat-up Chrysler minivan with blacked-out windows.
Benitez saw Grant’s bemused appraisal. “Our black Suburbans would be noticed even faster than your car.”
They climbed in the back. The driver was one of Benitez’s men dressed inconspicuously in a dingy white tank top. When the sliding door closed, he steered onto the road leading south from the border.
“We’ll only be able to drive by the house once. Any more would be suspicious.”
“How are you watching the house?” Morgan asked.
“Someone abandoned construction of a four-story building across the street. Only the girders have been put up. I had one of my men climb up late last night and install three wireless cameras facing the house.”
“And your man wasn’t seen?”
“It was a moonless night, and I made sure the streetlights went out for a short time.”
In two minutes they were cruising down a boulevard paralleling the border only two hundred yards away. On the left were enormous warehouses supplying the truckers shipping goods back and forth to the Mexican factories. On the right were tiny stores, freight yards filled with semis, street food vendors just setting up shop in their trucks, apartment complexes, and homes. It wasn’t Beverly Hills, but it wasn’t a slum, either.
“There’s the construction,” Benitez said, pointing out the windshield.
A chain-link fence protected the skeleton of bare girders rusting in the sunlight.
The driver turned right at the next street.
“This is Licenciado Jose Lopez Portillo Oriente. Number 22 is the pink house on the left.”
The second house down from the boulevard was a rundown home set back from the road just enough to make room for a paved front yard. The paint was peeling, tiles on the roof were missing, and old lawn furniture was piled against the garage door.
The only thing that looked out of place was the new iron fence and gate that protected the parking area.
The driver didn’t slow down for Morgan and Grant to get a better look.
“The garage looks big enough for a full-sized van,” Grant said.
“Trucks are very common in this area,” Benitez said. “If they’re planning to move the package across the border that way, it would take only a few seconds to put it on a passing semi.”
“Grant and I are going to need line-of-sight to the house,” Morgan said. “It’s the only way we can identify our subjects.” The night-vision goggles for the ID dust had a limited range, and the cameras on the abandoned building wouldn’t pick up the signal.
“I told you that’s impossible,” Benitez said. “They would see you.”
“Well, we have to figure out something. Otherwise, they could drive straight into that garage, and we wouldn’t know if the explosives had arrived.”
Grant raised his hand. “I have an idea. Is anyone else hungry?”
“You’re hungry?” Morgan said. “The only thing you did on the plane besides sleep was eat.”
