“He calls it the Jesus nut, because if that nut falls off, then you better start praying to Jesus …”
“Gee, that makes me feel better,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Are you scared?”
She shook her head, her hair gleaming in the light filtering in through the window.
“It’s worth the flight, trust me,” he told her. “And we’ll be getting there during a special carnival they put on for tourists. You’re going to love this place.”
She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “I know I will.”
It was pretty damned obvious that Moore, aka Scott Howard, couldn’t return to the hotel owned by Dante Corrales, as he’d have some explaining to do about why the men following him had been killed. He’d smiled inwardly over actually going there anyway, walking nonchalantly past Ignacio, who might ask, “How was your day, senor?”
“It was great. I got kidnapped by this
Instead Moore chose the safer and far less audacious route of finding another hotel, but why scour the streets for a nice one when Johnny Sanchez had found himself a little slice of heaven right near the U.S. Consulate? Thus Moore got a room three doors down from Johnny’s and rented himself a new car. Johnny wasn’t happy with the arrangement and threatened to check out. Moore warned him about that.
JTF leader Towers sent a text message: Rojas’s son, Miguel, had just left with his girlfriend, in a helicopter heading westward. Dante Corrales and two others were with them.
That Rojas’s son was fraternizing with a known cartel member did “seem” to link Rojas to the cartel, but that evidence was, at the moment, purely circumstantial.
Yet something about that bothered Moore. A lot. Their joint task force had already received intelligence that identified Dante Corrales as a cartel member. This intelligence had been gathered well before the joint task force’s formation. It was reasonable to assume that the Agency had kept their electronic and human eyes on Corrales since first identifying him as a player. Moore would have to check the file to see how long ago that had occurred — because if Rojas was involved, then it was reasonable to assume that this wasn’t the first time Corrales had been around the family, in which case the Agency would have more clearly identified Rojas as more than a “person of interest.”
Or maybe this was the first time Corrales had been seen with the family? Moore still had a difficult time believing that. So what was happening now? Where were they going? Moore leaned on Sanchez, and the writer called Corrales, who’d said he couldn’t work on the screenplay for a week because he’d be in San Cristobal de las Casas on a babysitting job.
Moore called Towers with a plan. Rojas made only rare public appearances and was otherwise never seen. Moore had a plan to draw him out, and when he finished going over it, Towers gave him the blessing.
An hour later, Moore was sitting in the backseat of Luis Torres’s Range Rover. The fat man was at the wheel, with DEA agent Fitzpatrick riding beside him.
“You guys need to fly down there and kidnap the son and his girlfriend. You’ll have some great leverage if you can do that. We’ll draw out Rojas, and I’ll take care of the rest. You bring this plan to Zuniga and see what he says. And tell him he needs to start returning my calls.”
“He doesn’t trust you, Mr. Howard. And I doubt he’ll start trusting you anytime soon.”
“I’ve got intelligence photos of them leaving on the chopper. I’ve got an informant who personally spoke to Corrales and confirmed they’ll be there for a week. You go down there, you kill Corrales and the other bodyguards, you kidnap the kid, and you’ve got Rojas by the balls. Which part are you failing to understand? I’m going to help you take out your main rival. Your enemy is my enemy. How many other ways do you want me to spell it out?”
“You could be setting us up, getting us to go down there so you and your little overseas group can take us out. Maybe you work for Rojas.”
“Dude, if we wanted you dead, there’d already be weeds on your grave. Don’t be fools. You
“I think he’s right,” said Fitzpatrick, trying not to make his endorsement too obvious. “Let’s look at what he’s got, and then Senor Zuniga can make a decision.”
“Don’t waste too much time.” Moore opened the back door and got out. “You need to be on an airplane today.”
Moore walked across the alley to his rental car, climbed in, and drove off.
Miguel Rojas’s little vacation with his girlfriend was an excellent lead and opportunity, and Moore had already shared the news with FBI Agent Ansara, who was working with his new mule/informant to penetrate one of the Juarez Cartel’s primary smuggling routes.
Fellow CIA operative Vega was still keeping a close eye on inspector Alberto Gomez, the legendary veteran of the Federal Police who’d been dirty since his rookie year. However, Vega had shared some troubling news. Gomez, along with several other inspectors, was trying to “expose corruption” by setting up another inspector to take a fall, thus pointing the spotlight elsewhere. Vega suspected that he knew he was being watched, so this ploy was his answer.
ATF agent Whittaker reported that a large shipment of guns might be coming down from Minnesota very soon. Cartel members up there were amassing what he contended was their largest cache to date.
Fitzpatrick called later on in the day to confirm that Zuniga was still mulling over the intel photos and plan, but he also said that the Sinaloa Cartel had just picked up some information from a spotter about a sizable shipment coming up from the south, and their spotter believed that this group of mules would use one of the cartel’s smaller tunnels that ran for about 130 feet under a concrete-lined section of the Rio Grande near Juarez and the Bridge of the Americas.
Moore sent a message to Fitzpatrick: Tell the Sinaloa boys to stay away from the tunnel and go after Miguel Rojas. Moore would personally intercept that shipment and deliver it to Zuniga as a clear sign of his willingness to help. That Moore would take out one set of drug smugglers to help another was the price they paid in order to catch the biggest fish of all. He’d done likewise in at least four different countries and no longer questioned the moral or ethical implications of his actions. It was the only way to fight an asymmetric enemy with no rules. He contacted Ansara and told him to have a Border Patrol force waiting at the predesignated storm drain in El Paso. Ansara was on it and would be ready with the net.
Moore was a bit surprised that JTF leader Towers himself met him in a parking lot about three blocks away from the drainage ditch. Moore’s watch read nearly 1:08 a.m., and according to Towers, the mules would arrive within fifteen minutes in a white cargo van.
“They’re not only moving drugs,” Towers said, “but women and children. Big-time coyotes employed by the cartel. These guys might have a deal with a group of snakeheads in China — because the young girls we saw were all Asian. They bring them over here as sex slaves.”
“Damn, it’s just keeps getting uglier. Drugs, human trafficking …”
“Just stick to the plan.”
“I will. So what brings you to this beautiful part of town?” Moore figured he’d pose the question, since the assumption had been that Towers would remain back in San Diego.
“I’m a field officer. They knew that when they hired me. Did they think they could get me to sit behind a desk the whole time? Hell, no …”
“I hear you.”
“All right, then, buddy, let’s get you ready.”
Moore grinned and began to suit up in nondescript black fatigues, Kevlar vest, and balaclava. He was wearing nearly the same clothes as the two guards the Juarez Cartel had posted at the tunnel entrance.
His inventory included two Glock 21 .45-caliber pistols with attached wet/dry suppressors whose inside
