when you worked for the Border Patrol in Arizona.”
Dalton took a breath and managed a faint smile. “Not a subject I revisit often,” he agreed. “But I can tell you what I remember.”
“Please,” Grier added.
“There was a man. I’d forgotten until a friend of mine—” he didn’t name Merissa or the circumstances under which she knew about the man “—brought it up. There was a DEA agent who came to me about a possible incursion in my territory. He said a shipment of narcotics was being brought across by men in paramilitary uniforms and he needed assistance to stop them.” His eyes narrowed with memory. “He was in an unmarked car. I was in my patrol vehicle. I followed him to the site. It was dark, but there was a full moon, so I could see the movement. I got out of my vehicle and when I saw the perpetrators, I realized that I needed backup. But when I went to call it in, he stopped me. He said that he had other agents in place, I just needed to go in with him to support them.”
“He said there were other agents there?”
“Yes. I had no reason to distrust him. He had proper ID. I always check,” he added. “Checked, that is. Anyway, I pulled my service weapon and we went in sight of the suspects. He called out first that we were federal agents, for them to stand down and put their arms on the ground.”
He blinked. “The rest...is still a bit hazy. I was shot, but not by the suspects. The shot seemed to come from behind me. It hit my lung. I went down. I remember looking up at this flashy Hispanic man. He had a gold-plated automatic aimed at me and he was smiling. He said that it was stupid to tangle with a cartel the size of his, and that I wouldn’t have the chance to do it again. I remember it felt like being hit by a fist, several times. I lost consciousness and came to in the hospital.”
“How did you get there?”
Tank managed a smile. He felt as if there was bile in his throat. The memory was still sickening. “Of all things, I honestly believe it was one of the mules who called an ambulance. He slipped back when the other men were driving away. The other man, I vaguely remember, was cursing because he’d called for help. They argued. I passed out before they left. I talked to dispatch when I got out of the hospital. The 911 operator said the Hispanic man actually apologized and said that if he could have stopped it, he would have. He said that he and his family would pray for me.” He shook his head. “They must have, because the doctors said they’d never seen a man in my condition live to tell about it.”
Blackhawk winced. “I know about gunshot wounds. My brother worked for us, and for the CIA. Over the years, he was shot at least twice, and one wound was life-threatening. It was rough on the family as well as on him.”
“My brothers almost went crazy,” Tank recalled quietly. His eyes fell. “So did I. I didn’t deal with it well.” He shrugged and managed a smile. “I’m still not dealing with it all that well.” He shook his head. “I was in the hospital for weeks.”
Grier’s dark eyes were icy. “These people think of their adversaries as insects. They don’t mind killing anyone—women, children, it’s all the same to them. The only thing they care about is the money.”
Tank laughed shortly. “I noticed. The guy had a gold-plated automatic, for God’s sake!”
“Did Sheriff Hayes tell you how he and his new wife escaped the kidnappers?” Blackhawk asked with a smile in his black eyes.
“He did tell me some things about it, but not all the details,” Tank replied.
The two visitors exchanged glances. “One of the kidnappers owned the house where they were kept. He had an outhouse with, get this, a gold-plated, jewel-encrusted toilet paper holder. She used it to cut through their bonds.”
Tank laughed. “I don’t believe it!”
“Neither did they.” Grier shook his head. “I thought I’d heard everything. I used to work with our Hostage Rescue Team,” he added. “I do know about hostage-taking. In many cases, the victims are dead in the first twenty-four hours. Hayes and his wife were very lucky.”
“Which brings us to you, and the purpose of our visit,” Blackhawk added, leaning forward. “Hayes Carson arrested a major player in the cartel, which was founded by the late, great drug lord they called El Ladr?on. The guy was carrying gold-plated hardware. Thing is, Hayes Carson was in the company of a supposed DEA agent. When people started asking questions about the man, and started digging into his identity, things popped. A bogus secretary got a job with Carson’s office and managed to get her hands on the computer—she erased evidence of the man’s presence at the arrest. When they hired an outside consultant to try to recover the evidence from the hard drive, he was killed.”
“This sounds big,” Tank said quietly.
“It is big,” Grier added. “Obviously somebody doesn’t want the agent identified. We want to know why.”
“Especially since it seems he’s been feeding information to the major drug cartels for several years, as a rogue DEA agent,” Blackhawk agreed.
“If you can remember anything, you need to tell us,” Grier said. “We have reason to believe there may be a connection between the rogue agent and a politician who’s running for office.”
Tank stared at them, frowning. He’d heard all this, but he did have a question. “What does that have to do with the cartels?”
“One of them seems to be feeding money to his campaign, hoping for better access across the border with his election,” Blackhawk said solemnly. “It’s an ugly business. And we also have reason to believe that the rogue agent has a background in assassination.”
“This just gets better and better,” Tank said, shaking his head.
“What can you tell us?” Grier asked.
“For one thing, your rogue fed posed as a surveillance firm installer and bugged my damned house,” Tank said.
Grier looked around worriedly.
“No worries” came a good-natured voice from the doorway. “I fried them. The chap’s good, but he leaves a lot of nasty footprints!”
Blackhawk glared at him. “Rourke. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Working,” Rourke said with a grin. “You boys are a long way from home.”
“You know Rourke?” Tank asked the men.
“Yes,” they said in unison, and not in a happy tone.
“Now, now.” Rourke chuckled. “I don’t step on your toes. At least, not much.” He sobered. “This chap is quite good. He’s efficient and he has all the aspects of a chameleon. If he has a background in assassination, Cy Parks has a man working for him who might know something about him.”
“Carson.”
“The sheriff?” Tank asked.
Blackhawk shook his head. “Not the same Carson. This one is Lakota.” He made a face. “We have a mutual cousin.”
“He’s Native American?” Tank asked.
Grier nodded. “Damned good at his job. He was employed by the government at one point. But he didn’t fit comfortably in a conventional unit, so they transferred him to spec ops. He worked with us on one job.” He shook his head. “Scary fellow.”
“Bad attitude,” Blackhawk agreed. “Most snipers miss occasionally. This guy—never.”
“We’ll talk to him when we get back home,” Blackhawk said. He cocked his head at Rourke. “I thought you were bogged down in that job in South Africa.”
“I made enemies,” Rourke said shortly, and he didn’t smile. “I hate damned politicians. They’re arming eight-year-old kids and sending them out with automatic weapons, too doped up to care what they shoot.”
“Run for public office and put a stop to it,” Grier suggested.
Rourke made a sound deep in his throat. “Not in that country. All I want for Christmas is to see the rebel leader hung by his entrails.”
“Bloodthirsty,” Blackhawk muttered.
“Not if you saw what he did to a village near the capital,” Rourke replied.
“How do you know Kirk here?” Grier asked him.
