“Well, you know how you find out?” Moore asked. “Everyone around Corrales dies as they home in on their target.”
Within thirty minutes Moore had a video conference with Chief Slater and Deputy Director O’Hara regarding the photos of Gallagher, who they confirmed was not working any deep-cover operation and had, for all intents and purposes, gone rogue. Whether he was on the Taliban’s payroll, the cartel’s, or even the Pakistan Army’s remained to be seen, but operatives there were issued orders to capture or kill him. All of his access codes to the Agency’s databases had been erased within twenty-four hours of his disappearance, but Gallagher was an accomplished hacker, who not only knew his way around the Agency’s computer and communications systems but may not, as Slater had speculated, have been working alone.
The DNA results had come back and had identified Moore and Rueben, but DNA from a third subject had been detected, possibly Middle Eastern or sub-Saharan African. While standing inside the step van, Moore showed one of the techs some of the pictures that Wazir had sent to him.
“Probably this guy,” said the tech, tapping his finger on the photo of Mullah Abdul Samad. “He’d fit pretty closely.” Moore stared hard at the picture for any sign of a necklace or pendant, although the necklace might’ve been tucked under Samad’s shirt.
He turned to Towers. “You’re still not buying this?”
“All right, I’m buying. And now excuse me while I go throw up.”
Moore sighed and said, “Mind if I join you?”
They left the van and headed back into the office building, where ATF Agent Whittaker was waiting for them.
“Back from Minnesota with good news,” he began. “The other part of the weapons cache was seized.”
“Excellent,” said Towers; then he read something from his smartphone. “And I just got some intel right here. Juarez police captured the second cache from the Ford Explorer, and they busted three
“Did they recover the money?” asked Whittaker.
“I’m not sure. Two guys fled on foot. Money could be with them. They’re still looking for them.”
“You think if the Juarez police bust them with the money we’re going to get it back?” Moore asked.
Whittaker gave a resigned sigh. “Good point. This ain’t Kansas, and it ain’t Minnesota.”
It was five p.m., and Inspector Alberto Gomez had just left the station. He was walking toward his sedan in the dirt parking lot out back. He’d just received a call on his second line from Dante Corrales, who said he was at Zuniga’s ranch house, that the cartel knew he was there, and that he feared an attack. He wanted Gomez’s federal troops to be put in place to aid Zuniga’s security team. Gomez had felt torn over that decision but had decided to dispatch two units to the perimeter, four men in all.
The cinder-block wall to his left, repainted last week to cover the splotches of graffiti, had once more been stained by young thugs with their spray cans. He shook his head in disgust, opened the car door, then climbed inside.
He reached down to put the key in the ignition when a hard tap came on the glass. He glanced over and saw a gun, a Glock with a suppressor attached, pointed at his face.
“Open the window,” ordered the man outside, who was dressed in black jeans, a black shirt, and a long leather jacket. Gomez could not yet see his face.
He inserted the key in the ignition, thought of firing up the car and screeching out of there, but a scintilla of curiosity nagged him — that and the fear of being shot in the head. He hit the button, and the window scrolled down, allowing his assailant to press the gun deeper into his head. “You know this is a police station, right?”
“I know. But what I got in front of me is hardly a policeman. Hardly. Your weapon.”
Gomez turned his gaze higher. The man was in his forties, with slightly dark skin, unshaven, with thick black hair pulled into a ponytail. His Spanish was good, but he was not Mexican. A weird light burned in his eyes.
“That’s it,” said the man. “Very slowly take it out and hand it over to me.”
Gomez complied, and the man tucked the pistol into his waistband.
“Open the back door.”
Again, Gomez complied, and the man climbed into the backseat and shut the door. “Drive.”
“May I ask where we’re going?”
“Just pull out of the parking lot and get on the road.”
“And if I refuse?”
The man’s voice turned dark. “Then I’m going to blow your brains out all over this car, and I won’t think twice about it. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Gomez pulled out of the lot and headed down the street, into very light traffic.
“I’m going to ask you a simple question: Did you order her death?”
“Whose death?”
“Gloria’s.”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
“You will. To save your family.”
Gomez stiffened. “Who are you?”
“Just tell me that you ordered her death, and your family lives. It’s as simple as that. It’s too late for you, but I’ll spare them. You’ve spent your entire life providing for them, protecting them, pretending to be a model citizen, when you’ve been in bed with the Juarez Cartel for many, many years.”
Gomez couldn’t help himself. He screamed, “Who the fuck are you?”
“DID YOU ORDER HER DEATH?”
“It doesn’t matter!”
The man fired his pistol just over Gomez’s shoulder, the round punching a neat hole in the windshield, the crack still loud enough to make Gomez wince, his ear now ringing in pain.
“DID YOU ORDER HER DEATH?”
“If I admit that, you’ll leave my family alone?”
“I promise.”
“Then okay, I ordered her death. It was me.” Gomez began to choke up.
“Pull over.”
He did, and something white flashed in his rearview mirror. A van. Men wearing black fatigues and helmets and carrying high-powered rifles were already flanking the car, their weapons trained on him. They weren’t Federal Police. No patches of any kind.
“Who are you?” Gomez asked again.
“I’m a friend of the lady you had killed. She was an intelligence agent of the United States of America.”
Gomez closed his eyes, and his shoulders slumped. He raised his palms in the air. “It’s much worse than I thought.”
“Oh, yes,” said the man. “Much worse.”
Moore climbed out of the car as the men behind him cuffed Gomez and escorted him toward the van. Towers was waiting for him, his gaze sweeping the rooftops for spotters. Moore unclipped the digital recorder from his inside breast pocket and handed it to his boss. “This, along with the evidence that Gloria gathered, should be more than enough. How many do you think he can hand us?”
“I think he’s a talker,” said Towers. “I think he’s going to do very well for us. And I appreciate you exercising so much reserve. I would’ve shot the motherfucker myself.”
“Look at this,” Moore said, holding up his trembling hand. “This is me still wanting to shoot him.”
Towers slapped a palm on his shoulder. “We needed some good news today. Now you can get something to eat before your big meeting.” He checked his watch. “Damn, we need to move.”
