“If it’s him, he won’t answer.”
“Then Rahmani must answer for this.”
“And if he denies everything?”
Rojas bolted up from his chair, his voice lifting: “Then everything we’ve built together is in danger.”
Castillo recoiled as a chill struck him.
Rojas winced. “Fernando, I’m sorry for shouting. It’s just …you know I’ve thought of putting an end to all this. Walking away from it all — and if what you’re saying is true …”
“I understand, senor. I would still call Rahmani to let him know that he must pay if Samad has entered the United States. Any threat to the cartel must be neutralized.”
Rojas stood there, his gaze going distant, as though he were imagining mushroom clouds rising over every major American city. “Our Calexico informants are well paid. Lean on them hard. Find the drivers of those police cars. I want to be certain before we act. Am I clear?”
“As always, senor.”
Castillo left the office. He’d planned to share with Rojas one other bit of news, but the man already had enough on his mind. Miguel was doing some probing around the house and on the Internet, and of course this wasn’t the first time that he’d tried to spy on his father. Occasionally a news report would come out that attempted to link Senor Rojas to investment fraud or real estate scams or even vote tampering during several elections, and while Miguel would always openly stand behind his father, Castillo knew that the young man still had his doubts. The recent attempt on his father’s life had probably rekindled his curiosity. Castillo would have a long talk with Miguel to once more allay his suspicions. On this point, Senor Rojas had been adamant.
Moore’s senses were already reaching into the house as he opened the back door as silently as he could and stepped into a small washroom. Beyond it was a narrow hall with two bedroom doors and a third door farther up. Ansara moved ahead, pistol drawn, and turned left down another hall, toward where the garage door should be. Meanwhile, Moore searched the first two bedrooms for the tunnel entrance. Just some cheap put-together Walmart furniture and old mattresses standing atop stained carpeting. Ansara met him back in the hallway to say, “They’ve only moved half the cases so far. They’ll be coming back for the rest.”
He’d barely finished when the sound of footfalls came from the master bedroom.
They ducked back into one of the smaller rooms and stood there, behind the door, not daring to breathe, as the men shifted across the hallway and back out toward the garage door.
Moore was back in a zone of calm, standing there behind the door, just looking at Ansara, who’d given up on holding his own breath. The man’s chest rose and fell, his breath coming louder. Moore raised a palm, as if to say,
Ansara nodded quickly.
The men lumbered back from the garage with the rest of the cases and crossed into the bedroom. The sound of shuffling feet and metal buckling tightened Moore’s frown.
He held up a finger.
A sharp nod to Ansara said it was time to go. They shifted gingerly out of the bedroom and crossed into the master, where, near the closet door, they found a man lying on his back, his shirt soaked in blood. Ansara leaned over him, then drew back his head and whispered, “I know this guy. I mean, I know who he is. Pedro Romero. He was the engineer on this project. He had contact with my mule.” Ansara’s expression grew darker. “Dude, we got some wild-card shit happening here. Sinaloas …who knows …”
Why they’d killed the engineer remained to be seen. While Ansara took pictures of the dead man and messaged them back to Towers, Moore inspected the tunnel entrance set into the closet. They would gain access via an aluminum ladder someone had picked up at the local Home Depot for $89.99 plus tax (the sticker was still affixed to the top).
Ansara motioned that he’d go first. The ladder protested, and Moore winced. He reached the bottom some eight feet below. Moore followed, and together they started down the shaft. Despite the rather crude entry, the shaft itself was an engineering marvel. Using penlights they’d drawn from their breast pockets and keeping their pistols at the ready, they picked up the pace. Moore rapped a knuckle on one of the acoustic panels and grew further impressed. They had strung up LED lights, which were now dark, had hung ventilation and electrical pipes, and what could be a drainage pipe ran along the floor, which was still dirt but swept and leveled with great precision. The tunnel was, Moore speculated, one of the most complex and audacious smuggling operations that had ever been constructed by any cartel.
Flickering light came from ahead, and for a few seconds Ansara froze, believing the light was headed toward them, but they resumed their pace and shifted left to find what Moore interpreted as a makeshift chapel built within a shallow side tunnel that terminated in a wall of wooden trusses bound together by aluminum straps. The candles and crucifixes and photographs stole his attention away from the floor, where Ansara was first to spot the body.
“It’s the kid,” he gasped, just as Moore noted a pair of furrows in the dirt caused by the kid’s heels as he’d been dragged from behind.
Ansara dropped to his knees and directed his light at the boy’s eyes. Damn, the mule was young. Stabbed. His life snuffed out in an instant.
Suddenly, Ansara put his ear to the boy’s mouth. “Shit, he’s still breathing!”
“Yeah, but buddy, we can’t stay,” Moore insisted. “They could be gone already. And all we got is one guy’s cell to track. He turns off that phone, and we’re screwed.”
Ansara nodded, then faced Rueben. “I know, I know, but look, he’s trying to say something. Who did this to you, Rueben? Who did this?”
Moore slid up beside Ansara and watched as the kid, his eyes narrowed to slits, moved his mouth, but he couldn’t muster the words.
“Hang in there, kid,” said Moore. “We’ll come back for you, I promise.”
The kid reached up and grabbed Moore’s wrist.
“Just relax, don’t strain yourself,” said Ansara. “You don’t worry.”
Moore pulled free and started off. A look back told him Ansara was right there, though his eyes were glassy, his breathing even more labored. Ansara wore the guilt on his face, and Moore knew exactly how he felt.
Rueben was screaming in his mind, but he lacked the strength to convert those thoughts to sounds that the FBI agent could understand:
The thoughts were too quick, too disorganized, too erratic, for him to dwell on any longer. He heard Ansara telling his mother that he’d been killed.
His death would be enough of a shock, but add to that his involvement with a drug cartel and the FBI? He wasn’t sure his mother could survive that news.
And that was all he could think about now, not even realizing that he was no longer breathing and that the candlelight had gone dark.
The man had not identified himself on the phone, but Jose understood what was happening, and the sudden arrival of four more cars and at least a dozen more
“But remember,” Jose told him. “I am El Jefe. Corrales is gone now.”
“Yeah, okay, kid, fine. Now you do exactly as I ask. You’re inside the trailer, right? Do you see the safe under the desk?”
“Yeah, I see it.”
“Get down in there. Hit the power button. Type in 43678009, then hit the pound key. Got it?”
Jose did as he was told, screwed up the number, had to ask for it again, then finally got it right and heard a
