that these private security firms built to analyze that data-to keep us safe-actually did the opposite? What if whoever’s doing this is using that data to select targets?”
Odin leaned up on his side, looking at her. He nodded slowly, pondering what she’d said. “Meaning maybe we shouldn’t have been searching for patterns between the victims but instead on who was watching their data trail just before they died.”
McKinney nodded. “That might lead you to whoever’s behind this.”
“But that means the surveillance complex. NSA, telecom, consumer data-tracking firms. All our access was cut off when they discovered my team’s existence…” His voice trailed off as something seemed to occur to him.
“What is it?”
He turned to her. “There’s a man we need to see. A very bad man…”
E ight or nine miles outside the town of Reynosa, Mexico, and close by the U.S. border, Mouse, McKinney, Odin, and his team members stood at the bottom of a finished mine shaft hundreds of feet belowground. It was a concrete-lined elevator room brightly lit by fluorescent lights. Yellow wire mesh surrounded the cargo elevator that had delivered them here. The ceiling was mounted with what appeared to be an overhead rail system for hauling cargo down a nearby corridor. The elevator operator pulled the doors closed with a thunderous rattle. Its electric motor kicked in with a whine, and it began to rise to the surface, leaving them behind.
Mouse, whose prosthetic legs were concealed beneath jeans, walked confidently past several tough-looking Mexican men carrying assault rifles. They were dressed unaccountably in suit coats, silk shirts, and slacks. They nodded to Mouse as he brought the team into the corridor beyond.
They’d driven several hours north from Kalitlen through cartel-controlled territory to arrive at an innocuous- looking maquiladora marked by signs as Scholl Manufacturing. Mouse had guided them past several layers of concealed doors and smuggler security to arrive here.
McKinney glanced around as they continued down the corridor to a locked gate a hundred meters away. The overhead rail extended the entire way. “I thought we were crossing the border.”
“You are.”
“But we’re miles away from it.”
“That’s what makes this so reliable. Welcome to the safest tunnel into the U.S. Seven hundred feet belowground and sixteen miles long.”
“My God, sixteen miles?”
“Don’t worry, Professor, you won’t be walking.”
“Did the cartels build this?”
Odin took her by the arm to keep her moving. “Not important. What’s important is that it’s one of the most reliable routes into the U.S., and if someone were to smuggle something or someone truly dangerous into the country, this is the route they’d use.” Odin nodded to the men around them. “These men would let Mouse know. They work for him.”
“Mouse is running an illegal tunnel into the United States?”
“Better a tunnel we know about than one we don’t. If you shut them all down, the cartels just dig new ones.”
“The more I learn about the sausage-making that goes on, the less I want to know.”
They’d arrived at the steel gate. Mouse pulled it open with a clang and ushered the team into a dark, ten- foot-diameter circular tunnel perpendicular to the corridor. The tunnel ended just a few yards to their right, but to the left echoes hinted at a vast emptiness. Rails extended off into the darkness, and a seven- or eight-foot-wide and thirty-foot-long bullet-shaped fiberglass railcar stood in front of them alongside a concrete platform. Aside from its lack of windows, it looked like a tiny commuter train.
Mouse opened a breaker box on the wall and started slamming switches. Section by section a control console on a raised platform came to life nearby with dozens of glowing buttons. This was clearly a sophisticated operation.
McKinney noticed power conduits extending along the walls. A gentle hum started to reverberate along the tunnel. And a moment later the railcar rose several inches.
She nodded to herself. “You’re running an illegal maglev train into the United States.”
Mouse was now poking at switches on the console. “The economics might not scrub for passenger trains, Professor, but they sure as hell do for Schedule One narcotics. Quiet too. No seismic disturbances for the good folks in McAllen, Texas.”
Her technical curiosity was getting the better of her as the solid gray doors opened with a hiss, revealing a Spartan but serviceable passenger and cargo area. “How fast can it go?”
Mouse looked down his nose at her. “It can go nearly two hundred, but you’ll be doing one-twenty. That should get you Stateside in about eight minutes.”
McKinney couldn’t help but be impressed. Any concern she had that they’d be climbing into concealed truck compartments to cross the border had disappeared.
Mouse unslung a light rucksack from his shoulder and opened it. He passed Odin what looked to be a stack of black passports in plastic bags. “Canadian-two for each of you in case your initial cover gets blown. Some credit cards too, but go easy on those. I can’t guarantee the numbers are still active. Oh…” He reached into the backpack and revealed packets of twenty-dollar bills several inches thick. “Some operating cash.” He zipped the backpack and handed it to Odin. “The guys at the other end will hook you up with a passenger van registered to a Toronto reality television production company-along with a couple video cameras that’ll give you cover for action just about anywhere.” He stopped to look at the team.
Odin, Foxy, and the rest of the team embraced him one at a time with slaps on the back.
Foxy looked saddest. “Mouse, man. We owe you. Again.”
“You don’t owe me. Just complete your mission, and earn your damn paycheck.”
“Wish you were coming with us.”
He laughed good-naturedly. “Fuck that. I got my own war to fight. Find the bad guys and get back safe-and keep the professor here out of trouble.”
McKinney hugged Mouse too.
He studied her with his one eye. “You remember what I said.”
She nodded. “I will. Give my best to Lalenia. Hopefully we’ll see you both again.”
He saluted as they all entered the railcar, and the doors closed behind them.
CHAPTER 25
Linda McKinney gazed across the street at a generic four-story stucco office building near Palm River in East Tampa, Florida. It was the type of building you could drive past for years without noticing. The rest of the neighborhood was dotted with liquor stores and check-cashing outlets. She was dressed in business slacks and a cotton blouse, with a leather handbag over her shoulder. Odin walked next to her in khakis and a green polo shirt with loafers. It was a balmy seventy degrees and sunny. They traversed the cracked, weed-encrusted sidewalk to enter a musty lobby with a faded NO SOLICITING sticker stuck to the window.
Odin perused the disheveled lobby directory and tapped the black-and-white push-on letters above “Zion Strategies” on the fourth floor. He led the way to a worn-looking elevator carved with messenger graffiti.
McKinney spoke after the doors closed with a loud thump. “Would we need this person if we hadn’t lost Hoov?”
“Probably. Hoov had scruples.”
“How do you know this guy?”
“Someone I worked with in the past. His specialty is data-getting it and misusing it.”
She looked at the shabby elevator car. “Looks successful.”
