La-la Land so that his shipment could receive white-gloved distribution to Hollywood’s elite, who had the means, the access, and the desire to get higher than the hills on which they’d constructed their mansions.
The driver shook hands with the cartel guys, handed over two thick envelopes to the driver, then climbed into his car and whirred off. Moore and Ansara were prepared to leave when another car rumbled into the alley, sending them crouching even tighter against the Dumpster. The vehicle was a Toyota Tacoma pickup truck, an older model, with a roll-lock cap and tinted windows. Two men climbed out dressed like wannabe Mexican gangsters, with baggy pants, and wallets affixed to chains that dangled from their hips. One guy, the fatter one and driver, shook hands with the cartel guys, and once again, more bricks were loaded into the back of their truck.
When they finished, the cartel guys got in their truck and pulled out. Moore and Ansara were waiting for the two guys in the Toyota to leave, but they just sat there in their idling vehicle. Then one climbed out, banged on the back door of the restaurant, and yelled something about their food taking too long. Moore almost laughed. They’d ordered takeout as part of the drug-buying operation.
The man who answered the door was not Mexican but Chinese, although he wore a Jose Taco apron. He shouted at the guy in broken English, told him to be patient, then slammed the door in his face.
As the thug whirled back toward his car, he looked over at the Dumpsters.
Moore froze.
“Oh, shit,” Ansara whispered.
The thug frowned, took another step toward them. He suddenly jogged to one side, spotted them.
His eyes bugged out.
He whirled around, screaming at the guy in the Toyota.
Moore had already shoved his camera back into a side pocket and had drawn his suppressed Glock.
He was on his feet as the guy looked over his shoulder and saw Moore sprinting toward him, with Ansara now right behind. The thug reached into his waistband and drew the pistol he’d stored there. He swung the gun back at Moore, who fired two rounds into the guy’s chest before the thug could fire.
The guy in the pickup, seeing what was happening outside, must have slid into the driver’s seat. The engine roared, and the truck began to pull away.
Shots rang out behind Moore — and that was Ansara, firing at the truck’s rear wheels, his aim pinpoint- accurate. The left tire popped and blew out, followed by the right, rubber flapping loudly now against the asphalt. The truck slowed enough for Moore to reach the back and make a flying leap onto the rear bumper. He latched a hand onto the tailgate and held on as the driver tried to steer them out of the alley on two flat tires.
Moore leaned out to the side and fired two rounds into the driver’s-side window, shattering it. He still couldn’t get a direct bead on the driver. In the mirror, he saw the guy bringing his cell phone to his ear.
With a curse, Moore fired a third round into the back window, but the shot must’ve missed the guy, who just ducked and kept on driving.
Now Moore leaned out even farther to his left, getting the angle he needed. He fired once more, a direct headshot, and the truck veered to the right and plowed into the brick wall, just as Moore jumped off, hit the ground, and fought to keep balance. Out of breath, and with Ansara on his heels, he rushed up to the cab and wrenched open the door. The driver leaned over and fell out of the truck. There, on the center console, was a heap of cocaine, a few joints, one of them still burning in the ashtray, and a few more bags of coke sitting inside the open glove compartment.
Moore reached down and grabbed the man’s cell phone, checking to see if he’d made that call. No, the call had never gone through.
He didn’t realize he was just standing there, looking at all the drugs, until Ansara nudged him aside and said, “Whoa, look at that. But hey, come on, let’s go! We’ll have to call this in. I got the other guy’s cell. Moore? Are you listening to me?”
He faced Ansara, stared through him as though the man were on a movie screen, then blinked and said, “Yeah, come on!” They raced through the alley, and by the time they turned the corner and Moore stole a look back over his shoulder, the Chinese guy with the Jose Taco apron was coming outside, carrying two bags of takeout.
Within five minutes they were in the pickup, back on the road, and back on track, following the cartel truck, which Ansara predicted was heading down into Palmdale. Moore reported what had happened to Towers, who wasn’t happy, but at least the thugs hadn’t alerted the cartel guys. Local police were en route to the scene.
31 RITES OF PASSAGE
Miguel swam down to the deepest part of the pool and remained there, wondering what it might feel like to hold his breath until he lost consciousness. That he was having such morbid thoughts was due in part to his failure to act more bravely during their kidnapping. Sonia had been the strong one, and while he loved her deeply, he found it increasingly hard to accept how scared he’d been and how he’d failed to protect his woman, as any good man should. At one point, he’d even begun to cry, and it’d been Sonia who’d talked him through it. He cursed himself for that.
His father had touched on the subject over breakfast, even suggesting that Miguel should return to practicing the martial arts he’d studied during his preteen years. He’d even said that Fernando could show him a few new moves, and he’d even pay for a trip to Thailand so that Miguel could study with some Muay Thai masters there. Miguel had politely declined. And then he’d excused himself and retired to the pool, where he’d remained for most of the day, with Sonia sprawled across a lounger in her bikini and reading a Spanish soap-opera magazine.
He hadn’t discussed with her what Raul had said, and he wondered if she’d even noticed it. In fact, he’d tried to repress it himself but he kept coming back to the poor man’s last words, his pleading to the Guatemalans that the “cartel will pay you anything” and that “Dante will do whatever you ask.”
Over the years, Miguel had overheard many conversations between his father and his father’s associates, and the words
So why, then, would Raul — a man who answered directly to Corrales — call upon the help of “the cartel,” and why, then, would Corrales do “whatever you ask”? Why would the cartel be willing to pay ransom for Raul if he was not one of them? And if he was, then were Fernando and Miguel’s father aware of that? Was Corrales also involved? How had the kidnappers known where they’d be? Miguel had assumed that their vacation was known by only close family members and bodyguards. There was definitely a rat in the organization, and Miguel assumed his father and Fernando were trying to weed him out.
Miguel didn’t want to believe it, but there had always been — deep down — a gnawing suspicion that something wasn’t exactly truthful about his father’s businesses. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that his father had direct ties to any of the cartels, but perhaps bribes were paid, thugs kept quiet, so that operations could go on. That was understandable and did not make his father a criminal. This was business in modern Mexico. But what if he was wrong about everything? What if his father was in bed with all of them? What if the man who had tried to kill his father wasn’t just some nutjob bent on revenge? What if he’d been a professional assassin hired by a drug cartel?
Miguel swam straight up and exploded out of the water, shook his head, and swam over to the pool’s edge.
“You were down there for a long time,” Sonia said, staring over the rim of her sunglasses.
“There are places in this house that we are not allowed to go,” he said.
