Against All Enemies

boys. Three Juarez guys killed. The police are scared, and Gomez is in deep. He might be the key player and best link to the cartel. He’s carrying two phones, and the read I get from the others at the station is that he’s a god there. I think the best I can do is gather enough evidence on him, then flip him and see how many more he’ll hand us. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no way around it. We’ll have to cut a deal with him.”

“Don’t feel bad about that.”

“I don’t. I just feel bad because he won’t hand us everyone, and this just slows them down. That’s all.”

“Whatever we can do, we do it. Without exception.”

“Yeah, I get that. Or at least I’m trying to.”

Her cynicism was understandable but taxing, so he changed the subject. “Hey, you hear about that big bust in Puerto Rico?”

“Yeah, another huge score for the Bureau.”

“Our time will come, trust me. Just hang tight.”

“That’s not easy. Gomez is a male chauvinist pig. My tongue’s already sore from biting it.”

Moore softened his tone. “Well, if anybody can get it done, you can.”

She snorted. “How the hell do you know?”

“Trust me, pretty lady, your reputation precedes you.”

“Okay, talk soon.” She hung up.

Their call was, of course, encrypted and would not show up on her phone, the bill, or anywhere else, for that matter. If the Agency wanted a communication record to go away, it went away. Period.

Moore got an alert from Towers about a shooting at the Monarch strip club, where their bestest buddy Dante Corrales liked to hang out. Local police had arrived. No one injured, just shots fired, and the gunmen had fled. He mused that in the city of Juarez the TV stations needed to start reporting on the day’s shootings, as though they were temperature and humidity levels.

After checking the window once more to see that his two super-thugs were still down there, Moore slipped on a baggy hoodie to conceal his Glock and shoulder holster, then left his room. He figured he’d drive across town to the V Bar. Fitzpatrick had said that the Sinaloa sicarios often hung out there.

As Moore drove into the parking lot, his thoughts took him back to Rana and the cheesy Batman joke. He’d introduced Rana to the Special Forces guys as his sidekick, “Robin,” and the kid’s frown warranted an explanation, but Moore had forgotten all about that.

As he stiffened and tightened his fists, imagining his young friend’s murder all over again, he wasn’t aware of the man behind him until he felt something blunt and solid — the barrel of a pistol, presumably — jammed into the back of his head.

“Easy,” said the man in English, his voice deep and burred, as though from a lifetime of tobacco use. “Raise your arms.”

Moore rarely disconnected from his immediate surroundings; such a lapse could wash him out of the Special Activities Division, possibly the Agency itself. But losing Rana was like losing a kid brother, and giving in to his frustration and anger had — just that quickly — derailed his focus.

The man checked Moore’s hips, then reached up and almost immediately felt the shoulder holster. He tugged down the hoodie’s zipper, threw back the Velcro strap on the holster, and removed Moore’s Glock.

“Now get in and start it.”

Moore gritted his teeth, cursing himself for the error and feeling his pulse rise against the unknown. He wasn’t sure what the guy had done with his gun, but he could still feel the other one on his head. Too close. Too risky to make a move. He could knock one gun away only to find the other pointed at his chest. Boom. Shot with his own Glock. “You’re the boss,” he said. He slowly climbed into the car, and the man quickly wrenched open the back door and hopped into the seat behind him, pressing the gun once more to the back of Moore’s head.

“Do you want the car?” Moore asked. “My money?”

“No ese. Just do what I say.”

Moore pulled out of the parking lot, and in the rearview mirror he spotted the two guys in the Corolla hopping in their heap to follow.

He also caught a glimpse of the man in the backseat, his beard graying, his curly hair gone to ash. He wore a blue sweatshirt and jeans, and had a gold hoop earring in his left ear. His eyes remained narrow in a permanent squint. He was a far cry from the punks in the car behind them, and his English was surprisingly good. Those fools were already tailing them, though Moore wasn’t sure if they could see he was being abducted, and he wasn’t sure if his abductor was aware of them yet, either.

He drove on for another minute, made a right turn as ordered, then said, “There’s a car behind us, the Toyota with the red panel. Two men following. Are they with you?”

The man in the backseat whirled, saw the car, and cursed in Spanish.

“What do we do now?” Moore asked.

“Keep driving.”

“I guess they’re not your friends?”

“Shut up!”

“Look, if you don’t want the car or my money, then what’s the deal here?”

“The deal is you drive.”

Moore’s cell phone began to ring. Shit. It was tucked into his front pocket, and the guy had failed to find it.

“Don’t even think about it,” warned the man.

The ringtone indicated that Fitzpatrick had sent him a text message, and if that message had anything to do with Moore’s passenger, then Fitzpatrick was a day late and a dollar short with his warning.

“Throw that fucking phone out the window.”

Moore reached down into his pocket, set the phone on vibrate by holding down the side button, then threw the phone’s leather slipcase out of the window before the guy could get a good look at it.

“Where are we going?” he asked, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

“No more questions.”

Moore checked the mirror once more, while his abductor stole a look back at the punks following them.

The car tailing them began to accelerate, and the gap narrowed to within two car lengths. The man in the backseat grew more agitated — shifting forward and tossing repeated looks out the rear window. He was panting now, his pistol still trained on Moore’s neck. He’d tucked Moore’s Glock into his waistband. Moore slowed as the light ahead turned red. He glanced around: Wendy’s, Denny’s, McDonald’s, Popeyes, and Starbucks. All five of the food groups. For a moment, he thought he was back in San Diego, with the smog and stench of gasoline and exhaust fumes finding their way inside the air-conditioned car. Bad part of town. Bad guy in the backseat. Just another day on the farm.

“Why are you stopping?” shouted the guy.

Moore gestured with a hand. “Red light!”

“Go, go, go!”

But it was too late. The car behind them rushed up, and the two guys leapt out and began firing.

“No, no, no!” Moore shouted as he hit the gas and squealed away into the intersection, burning rubber and narrowly avoiding a pickup truck whose tailgate was nearly dragging along the ground.

The two clowns behind them were intent on emptying their magazines, the shots thumping into Moore’s trunk as the back window shattered, along with the rear driver’s side, and Moore’s passenger released a strangled cry.

Moore glanced back and wished he hadn’t. The man lay there with gunshot wounds to his head and shoulder.

The man wasn’t moving. Blood pooled onto the seat. Moore cursed.

A quick glance to the rearview mirror showed that the guys had rushed back to their car, jumped in, and were continuing after him. They’d bridged the intersection and were weaving around two small sedans.

Ahead lay another cross street, and farther out, the “better” part of the barrio, with tin roofs held down with nails instead of old truck tires. Moore wasn’t sure where he was now, and had planned to use his smartphone’s GPS