Veronica that she wanted to meet.
As she drove past the post box at the corner of Chelsea Street and Frutas Avenue, her heart fell. If they were to meet outside the pharmacy in the 2700 block of Santa Anna Boulevard, there would be a chalk mark on the paint-an X if the meeting was to happen tonight, and a heart if it was to happen tomorrow night. The box was in fact the flat green that it normally was.
She drove toward the Church of St. Michael the Archangel, hoping to see a bicycle chain on the wrought-iron fence out front. A silver chain would have had them meet in lobby of the Omniplex Theater for the nine o’clock show tonight, a black one for the same show tomorrow. Maria cursed under her breath as she saw no chain at all.
How could this be? If her cover had been blown this badly, surely Veronica would know about it. And if she knew about it, surely she would want to arrange a meeting.
A chill crawled up her spine as she considered the alternative: that the FBI was unaware that they had their own informant in their midst. That could be a disaster.
Maria resolved that when she got back to her house, she would post on Facebook that her tooth was hurting today. That was the signal for Veronica to make contact as soon as possible.
While she would never reenter Felix Hernandez’s world, she could pretend to be sick tomorrow as the details worked themselves out. Her absence would undoubtedly raise Felix’s suspicions, but there again Maria’s histrionics at the hacienda might serve her well. If she failed to show up, maybe Felix would merely assume that she was angry.
Maria lived in the Campestre neighborhood, once a lovely place where as a child she never would have dreamed she could afford to live. Now, the drug violence had driven most of the decent people away. Many had just abandoned their homes and their businesses, leaving the streets to the warriors. More than a few of the side streets had been completely blocked off with stacks of boulders in an effort to dissuade kidnappers and extortionists from gaining access to their enclaves.
Her heart raced as she pulled to the curb in front of her house. She slapped the transmission into neutral, set the brake, and hurried out of her seat. She made no effort to lock the car because locked doors just made the thieves break windows. Let them explore her ashtrays and the center console. If they found a few pesos, let them have them. Anything to take the edge off those poor wretches’ misery.
Even in the diminishing light, the heat remained oppressive as she scurried across her yard toward the front door. On Felix’s suggestion, she’d long ago taken out all the shrubbery from around the single-story structure, in theory eliminating places for attackers to lie in wait.
But dusk brought shadows-nature’s own hiding places.
As was her habit, she had her keys out for the entire walk, the longest of them-the one for the padlock on the security gate-extending between her fisted fingers. In the past few years, attacks against women-once unthinkable in Latin cultures-had skyrocketed. Thousands of rapes and murders, most unsolved because they were never investigated. The police knew who the offenders were, but to investigate would be to confirm those suspicions, thus prompting an arrest that would cost the police officer and his extended family their lives.
With her key deployed, an attacking rapist would have to sacrifice an eye to earn his prize. And after the first eye, his second one, and then whatever else she could destroy until the attack resolved itself one way or the other.
The wrought-iron gates over the door and the matching ones over her bulletproof windows had been Felix’s idea, as well. In fact, he’d had his own people install them. That was how much he cared for her. And while they gave her some sense of peace while inside, it always felt like too many locks while she was trying to get in.
Tonight, as her paranoia spiked beyond desperation, Maria’s hands trembled and made the operation of the keyway that much more difficult. Finally, with the massive padlock freed from its hasp, she pulled the hundred- pound gate away from the solid core door. Two more keys turned two more dead bolts, and then she could finally see into her home. She pulled the gate closed next, and slipped the padlock into a hasp on the inside that was protected from bolt cutters by a heavy steel plate.
With the door closed and those bolts thrown again, Maria allowed herself to relax just a little. With her hands pressed against the door, she leaned forward and touched her forehead to the cool wood. With her eyes closed, she tried to imagine what the future could be like for her if the FBI would only come to her aid. And how short it would be if they did not.
She’d given them so much. She’d fulfilled her promises, every one. Yet they always wanted one more. Maybe now-
Her head jerked up and her eyes shot open as she whirled to confront the darkness of the house.
“Who’s there?” she shouted.
“What do you think, Big Guy?” Jonathan whispered. “Is it airworthy?”
The three of them crouched in the undergrowth just on the edge of the makeshift runway. Ahead about fifty yards and to the left, a high-wing Cessna sat bathed in dim white light under a pole barn. It looked as if it was lighted by a single incandescent lightbulb. The rest of the area shone silver in the light of a nearly full moon.
“Does airworthiness really matter at this point?” Boxers asked. “One way or another, that’s what we’re flying out on, right?”
“Way to make the PC feel confident,” Tristan said.
“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Boxers said. “I’ll be able to get it off the ground.”
“Yeah, but will you be able to land it?”
Boxers smiled. “Takeoffs may be optional-”
“-but landings are mandatory,” Jonathan finished. With his night vision in place, Jonathan could see the look of concern in Tristan’s face, and he slapped his knee. “We’re kidding, Tristan. We’ll be fine.” Say it with enough conviction and maybe it will come true.
“How do you want to handle it?” Boxers asked.
“You’re the pilot,” Jonathan said.
Boxers brought a night vision monocular to his eye and scanned the area more closely. “Well, I see a gas pump,” he said. “That’s a bit of good news. I’m not sure that a thorough preflight makes a lot of sense at this point, but we’ll want to make sure we have gas.”
“How long will take to fill it up?” Jonathan asked.
“Kinda depends on how empty the tank is and how fast the pump pumps.” Boxers’ tone said that he thought it was a stupid question.
For good reason, Jonathan thought. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do,” he said. “We’ll stay in the weeds until we’re even with the aircraft, and then we’ll move in.”
“Do you want me to stay here?” Tristan asked.
“No,” Jonathan said. “I want you to stick to me like a shadow. You should be able to see well enough in the moonlight.”
“Is your safety on?” Boxers asked. Jonathan heard the teasing in his voice, but Tristan evidently did not.
“Yes!” the kid hissed. “I’ve got the freaking safety on. I’ve never taken it off.”
“Just checkin’,” the Big Guy said.
Jonathan led them forward more quietly now. Clearly, they were in somebody’s yard, and the last thing he needed now was a blown cover. Whatever complication the bright moon threw at them was compensated for by the white light in the pole barn. The light was bright enough, in fact, that Jonathan pulled his NVGs out of the way to surveil the scene unassisted. The area beneath the pole barn looked like any other mechanics’ workshop. Chests of tools served as a surrogate wall on the far side-the western side-and there appeared to be a waste oil drum in the far southwest corner. The gas pump looked like something for a 1980s gas station, but with a long hose to accommodate the fill spout on the upper surface of the wing.
Jonathan’s stomach fell when he saw that the engine cowling was open. He pressed his mike button. This close, he was less likely to be overheard whispering loudly enough to be picked up by his ear mike than he was whispering loudly enough to be heard through the air. “Looks like they’re in the middle of a repair.”
“Movement,” Boxers said.
As the announcement registered in Jonathan’s brain, the Big Guy brought his weapon to his shoulder. Jonathan
