“Well, thanks for the heads-up,” said Moore, as Ansara pulled into the parking lot of a transmission shop next door to the station. They had a clear, unobstructed view of the truck, which had, in fact, parked out back behind the car wash.
Moore called up one of Whittaker’s reports on his smartphone and scanned the inventory list of items purportedly stolen and smuggled by that Navy SEAL:
14 M4A1 rifles with SOPMOD accessory kits
11 M14 sniper rifles (7.62mm)
9 MK11 Mod 0 sniper weapon systems
2 HK MP5 submachine guns
6 Benelli M4 Super 90 shotguns
14 M203 grenade launchers
Moore gave Ansara a description of the Honda, and the words had barely left his mouth when the van pulled into the station, its rear end sagging slightly from the weight of its cargo.
“You know, at least in Afghanistan the bad guys tried to act like bad guys,” Moore said. “They smuggled opium and weapons at night. They used the caves. They tried to remain out of sight …but these guys … damn …”
Ansara nodded and lifted his camera. “Act like you’re doing nothing wrong and no one will think you’re doing anything wrong. The thing is, they know we’re looking for them at night. They know we’ll raid their houses in the early morning, when everyone is supposed to be sleeping, so a lot of them do business in the early morning, sleep all afternoon, then stay up all night.”
Moore nodded. “You’ve seen that inventory list, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you know we can’t let those weapons get into Mexico.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hang on there, cowboy. The money trail’s more important than the guns — you know that.”
“I know, but I just can’t bear the thought of a gun that once belonged to a SEAL being in the hands of some cartel scumbag.”
“Maybe they’re all new guns,” said Ansara.
Moore snorted and began taking pictures himself as a collection of black Anvil cases was hauled from the van and into the back of the truck. The cartel truck’s driver handed a brown-paper shopping bag to the van’s driver, a tall, wiry guy with wispy black hair extending down to his shoulders. He looked more Native American than Mexican.
The exchange took no more than five minutes, with the men performing their loading operations smoothly, even routinely. The van drove off. The cartel guys climbed into the cab but waited a few moments. Moore zoomed in with his camera. The driver was on the phone.
Moore’s own phone vibrated. Towers. Just three words to make Moore’s heart sink: “Vega is dead.”
“How?”
Towers explained. Then added, “I just got word. After they shot her, they rigged her body with C-4. When EMS and the local police arrived, they detonated the charges. You believe that?”
“Who rigged her? Gomez or the cartel?”
“Not sure. We had a feed on the area but lost the signal when we switched from one satellite to another.”
Moore spoke through clenched teeth: “I’ll bet it was that fucker Gomez. He had her killed, and he set it up to look like the cartel.”
“She was our best link to him. I’ve got a few spotters of our own out there, and some pretty good civilian informants, but this is still a major setback.”
Moore closed his eyes. “She didn’t die for nothing. We’ll make sure of that.”
After he got off the phone with Towers, he and Ansara sat in silence, watching as the cartel truck left the station and got back on the road. They fell in behind them, allowed several cars to get in front, and continued on with a good satellite signal. A message from Langley indicated that they’d identified the cartel truck driver’s cell phone and had hacked into its operating system to turn on its GPS signal — so now they were tracking the truck via visual images from a satellite and by using the GPS signal emitted by the driver’s cell phone. According to the message, signal interruption should not happen again. Moore wasn’t buying that and was looking for any chance he could get to plant a good old-fashioned beacon on the truck, which they could track locally.
“And five are now three,” Moore said, breaking the silence in the cab.
“Yeah,” answered Ansara. “I’ve only lost two close buddies over the years. Even after all my time overseas. Only two. Both FBI agents. All my close buddies in the Army made it through — at least so far. How about you?”
“We don’t want to go there.”
“That many, huh?”
“It’s not a numbers game.”
“I know you were there with Fitzpatrick. And I agree. He was an ace. I hope you’re not blaming yourself.”
Moore sighed. “You think about how you could’ve set it up differently and how your buddy might still be alive. I sent him into the house to clear it. He got ambushed and died. I can let myself off the hook, or I can take responsibility for the orders I gave him.”
“Dude, if you go through life like that, you’ll be miserable.”
“Yup. I know …”
For a few seconds Moore closed his eyes and sat down at a table with Frank Carmichael at the head. Beside him were Rana, Colonel Khodai, and Fitzpatrick. Vega sauntered into the restaurant, which turned out to be the Italian place where they’d had Carmichael’s wake. The feisty woman
He nodded.
About an hour later they reached Bakersfield, where they drove for a few minutes through the city and noted that the truck had pulled into the alley behind Jose Taco, a well-known Mexican restaurant, according to online reviews. On one side of the alley stood a row of businesses, including the restaurant, and on the other was a long brick wall cordoning off the business district from the six-story buildings of a low-rent apartment complex.
“Shit, this won’t be easy,” said Ansara, driving past the alley and heading farther down the cross street.
“We need to get out,” said Moore, gesturing to a line of empty parking spots to their right.
Ansara agreed, took them into a spot, and they both hustled out of the truck and sprinted toward the apartments.
“This way,” said Moore, running behind the first building and toward a bank of low-lying shrubs planted along the brick wall.
They turned the corner, and directly ahead, no more than thirty meters, was the truck, its rear door open, the men loading blocks of marijuana. Moore saw that if they edged up closer, remaining behind the bushes, they could reach two Dumpsters to the left whose black plastic lids hung open. From behind them they’d have a better view of the exchange.
Hunched over, he led them forward, up to the Dumpster, where they slipped around the side, and there, squatting in the shadows of some palm trees behind them, he began taking his pictures while Ansara did likewise from the other corner. The sour stench emanating from the trash left him with a tight grimace.
The other vehicle was a black BMW 650i two-door sport job whose trunk was being filled with bricks. The driver was a gray-haired Hispanic man in an expensive-looking suit and wearing gold cuff links. In Moore’s estimation, once you got into the world of cuff links, you could be into some serious money for clothes. The frame around the BMW’s tag indicated that the vehicle had come from a dealership in Santa Monica, and there was little doubt as to the destination of his newly acquired precious cargo. Again, he didn’t come in a big truck to pick up his drugs; rather, he took his expensive business machine and would carefully drive the speed limit all the way back to
