Velocity

Dixon said to Wirth, “Did you ever have any indication that Superior was engaged in anything other than legal activities?”

Wirth’s chin jutted back. “No. Should I have? I mean, our business with him was strictly related to bottling, and nothing else.”

Dixon placed a hand on his forearm. “Ian, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about this. We’re not accusing you of anything. Like I said at lunch, we’re still investigating something that may or may not be related to John Mayfield.”

Wirth’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Brix asked, “Was there ever a time when Superior closed down for annual maintenance?”

“Annual maintenance. You mean on his rigs?”

“On anything,” Dixon said.

Wirth thought a moment. “Nothing I’m aware of. But our business with them is seasonal, so it’s conceivable he went off line. I’d have no idea.” Wirth sucked on his top lip. “But he did periodically make trips out of the country. There were a couple times when our appointments got rescheduled because he had to leave unexpectedly for a week or ten days at a time.”

Dixon said, “So there may be a perfectly reasonable explanation for him being gone.”

“Maybe,” Brix said in a low voice. “I’m not so sure.”

A thought wormed its way into Dixon’s head, but she didn’t want to discuss it until she and Brix were in private.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about Guevara?” Brix asked.

Wirth did not hesitate. “He’s a shrewd businessman. He understands his product and what it saves his customers. At the same time, he does what it takes to get our business. And I have to admit, even though I was resisting the renewal of his contract, it wasn’t because they didn’t do a fine job. There were other forces at play.”

Dixon smirked. There were, indeed, other forces at play—more than Ian Wirth knew. “Has he ever been to your home, know where you live?”

“No, why?”

“So he wouldn’t have a need for your home address.”

Wirth eyed her cautiously. “No.”

Dixon slipped a hand inside her pocket and pulled out Robby’s photo. “Ever seen this man?”

Wirth studied the picture, then shook his head. “Should I have?”

Dixon tucked away the photo. “I honestly don’t think so.” She rose and extended a hand to Crystal. “Once again, Ms. Dahlia, a pleasure. Thanks for all your help. “Ian, thank you. We’ll call you if we have any other questions.”

She hurried out of the winery, anxious to share her thoughts with Brix.

AS SOON AS DIXON hit the front door, she said, “Add it up, Redd.”

Brix glanced back over his shoulder at the glass structure embedded in the mountainside. “Already have. Guevara’s involved with a drug cartel. He owns several rigs that can easily be attached to large trailers and used for long haul transport.”

“I think we’ve got enough for a search warrant.”

“If we get the right judge. Let’s work on it, see how far we can get. Whether Guevara’s there or not, it’ll get us in the front door so we can take a closer look around.”

“If we’re going to find Robby, I don’t think that’ll help us. We need Guevara. And we need to find him without going down the usual roads because I doubt they’ll lead anywhere. APBs and subpoenas on his credit card transactions will be useless. He’s too sophisticated for that. But somehow we need to find out what he knows.”

Brix sighed. “You know what my brother would say?”

Dixon shrugged.

“He’d say, ‘Good luck with that.’”

“Yeah,” Dixon said. “But here’s the thing. Luck hasn’t once factored into this investigation. I don’t think it’s something we can count on.”

50

DeSantos gunned the Corvette. Vail, once again, grabbed for something to hold onto. The repeated whiplash was starting to get to her.

Four minutes earlier, DeSantos had received a call from ASAC Yardley telling him that Antonio Sebastiani de Medina had surfaced and was being debriefed at the DEA’s facility at Quantico.

Vail showed her creds and was admitted to the base. DeSantos zipped along the road past the FBI Academy and five minutes later pulled into the parking lot of the DEA’s decade-old training academy complex.

Inside, after being informed that they were on the premises, Peter Yardley walked out into the hallway. “He showed up at the front gate. No ID, no money, and he hadn’t eaten in two days. Apparently he babbled enough credible information that the guard got me on the line.”

“Can we see him?” Vail asked.

“He’s had a rough go of it. Normally, I’d say we should give him some time. But—”

“We don’t have that luxury,” Vail said firmly.

Yardley frowned. “No, we don’t. Follow me.” He led Vail and DeSantos down a long corridor. The building still had a new construction feel to it, even after a decade of use. Multicolored blue, red, and gray industrial carpet led up to glass administrative doors. “Undercover agents are not normally debriefed at the Quantico facility,” Yardley said. “It’s used primarily for training, but he was in a bad way and I didn’t want to risk transporting him. The nurse has him hooked up to fluids and he’s perking up. But we haven’t gotten a whole lot out of him yet.” Yardley pushed through a wooden classroom door and held it open for them.

Inside, a trim-bearded man with an olive complexion sat at a table with an IV snaking from his left hand.

Antonio Sebastiani de Medina.

“I’m Karen Vail,” she said. “This is Hector DeSantos.”

Sebastian’s gaze flicked between them. “You’re Robby’s girlfriend,” he said softly.

“Do you know what happened to Robby?”

Sebastian sucked in a healthy dose of air. “I know what happened, yeah. But—”

“Tell me.”

Sebastian’s gaze moved around the room, then came to rest on the ceiling, as if the answers were printed on high. “We were undercover. I’d gained the trust of César Guevara, a lieutenant in the Cortez cartel. Things were going good. Robby was a godsend because the agent I was working with had an accident and I was afraid that’d fuck up everything we’d worked for.” He looked at Vail. “But he took a liking to Robby right away. Robby’s a natural UC. He’s got a sixth sense for it. Guevara’s not an easy mark.”

Vail scrunched her lips into a frown. “I noticed.”

“But the asshole bought it. Robby got him talking, and he started taking us inside his operation, how they operated. And I thought we were finally going to blow it all wide open.” He stared off at the table a moment. “Then it all went to hell. Somehow our cover got blown. I don’t know how,” he said with a shake of his head. “We were so careful.”

Vail cleared her throat, then took a seat at the table opposite Sebastian. DeSantos remained in the back of the room, beside Yardley. “I’m afraid that might’ve been my fault.” She proceeded to explain what had happened, then sat back, her eyes in her lap. Embarrassed. “I’m deeply sorry. Obviously this isn’t what I wanted to happen.”

Sebastian chewed on that a long moment, then said, “Jesus Christ, of all our goddamn luck.” He sucked in some air, took a swig of Powerade, made a show of swallowing it. Then he set the bottle down harder than necessary.

Vail figured he was considering if he was going to go off on her and stop answering her questions. No doubt wondering how this FBI agent had destroyed months of high-risk, hard-won work.

But instead, Sebastian waved a hand. “Wasn’t your fault, Karen. Just the way it went down, is all. Besides, how can I get angry at you? Robby thinks you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”

“Do you think—” Vail had to choke back the emotion threatening to tighten her throat. “Is it possible he’s still alive?”

Sebastian looked away. He seemed to follow the IV tube from his hand up to the bag hanging from the stand. He answered without looking at her. “Years ago, a friend of mine once told me that anything’s possible. So, yeah, I guess it’s possible.”

DeSantos walked up to the table and took a seat beside Vail. “Sebastian. We know this was an op that’s been in process since ’06. What’s the objective?”

“What do you know about César Guevara?”

“CFO of Superior Mobile Bottling,” Vail said. “Superior does mobile bottling for the greater wine country in northern California. Big operation.”

“Guevara is more than the CFO,” Sebastian said. “And Superior is more than a mobile bottling company. They’ve become a major arm of the cartel.”

This just keeps getting worse. “You’re kidding,” Vail said. “How so?”

“Brilliant operation, actually. It wasn’t until a few days ago that we got a handle on what they were doing. Guevara outlined everything for Robby and me.” He leaned both forearms on the table, seemingly infused with a renewed sense of energy. “That bottling deal. Yeah, it’s a business, and yeah, they make good money on it. But its real purpose is to function as a front for a major smuggling operation. They need contracts with area wineries to keep their bullshit business running, which gives them the cover to do what they’re really in business to do: bring huge amounts of illicit drugs into the U.S. from Mexico.”

“Using the rigs?” Vail asked.

“Yeah, but there’s more to it than that. A lot more.” Sebastian took a long gulp of Powerade. “There are a few aspects to it. First, you got the corks.”

A shiver sparked across Vail’s spine. I knew there was something going on with that. “The synthetic corks.”

“Right. They truck in tons of them across the border. Only about a quarter of them are legitimate. The rest are hollowed out, then Fentanyl powder is compacted into the core. Fentanyl’s unusual for Mexico, because they typically only move coke, meth, heroin, and their cash crop, marijuana.”

“How much Fentanyl can they possibly fit in a cork?” Vail asked. “Hardly seems worth it.”

Sebastian shook his head slowly, either disgusted at her ignorance or annoyed that she interrupted him. “Fentanyl powder is extremely potent. One gram can be cut into a thousand units, or tablets, or whatever. That’s a thousand-fold return on your money. But these corks don’t hold one gram, they hold about four. And if you’re transporting a million corks in a semi, that’s a lot of fucking money.”

Vail tilted her head. “Isn’t that detectable?”

“They seal off the cork, which is a chemically treated silicone shell, to help keep the drug scent from being detected by CBP dogs at checkpoints.”

“And,” DeSantos said, “NAFTA opened the door to allow Mexican trucks to cross the border into the U.S. It got worse last year because of the treaty Mexico strong-armed us into signing.”

“What treaty?” Vail asked.

“There was pressure to allow Mexican truckers to travel on U.S. roads,” DeSantos said. “It became a huge trade issue, and the Mexican government made a big deal out of it. U.S. unions didn’t want Mexican trucks transporting product that could be transported by union drivers. Others thought Mexican trucks weren’t inspected as often and posed a safety danger to American drivers.”

“I remember reading something about that.”

“They negotiated a compromise,” DeSantos continued. “They carried out an experimental project with a small number of Mexican trucks traveling on U.S. freeways. They found that Mexican truckers got into fewer accidents than their American counterparts. The findings were challenged because it was such a small sample size and because those Mexican trucks went through more rigorous inspections than normal since they knew they’d be part of this study. But because of political pressure, they expanded the program.”

“And because of that,” Yardley said with a tinge of hardness, “the volume of Mexican trucks on U.S. freeways increased exponentially. Customs and Border Protection can’t possibly inspect all of them. Guevara capitalized on that. And he took steps just in case.”

“Like hiding the drugs inside the synthetic corks,” Vail said.

Sebastian took another gulp of Powerade. “Yes. But that’s not all. It wasn’t just about the corks. These cartels, they’re flush with money and time and imagination. They worked on ways of maximizing what they were doing while still taking advantage of the front of being a mobile bottler. And they came up with liquid cocaine.”

Vail leaned forward. “Liquid cocaine?”

“That’s what they transport in the wine bottles. Cocaine hydrochloride is soluble in alcohol or water. Cortez uses alcohol because it’s easy to recover the drugs. You heat it to 50 degrees Celsius, or just let it sit out in the sun. The alcohol evaporates, leaving the coke.”

Vail shook her head. “Damn.”

“Damn effective is what it is,” Sebastian said. “There are about eight thousand grams of coke in a case of wine. And if you’ve got a semi full of cases, that’s a huge amount of contraband being moved around without being threatened or even challenged.”

“Brilliant,” Vail said. “They can move the cocaine around the country under the cover of shipping cases of wine, and short of opening the bottles and testing the liquid, we’d never be able to detect the drugs.”

“Exactly. Even the random screening they do at certain border ports of entry can’t pick it up. We generally use fluoroscopy, and fluoroscopy can’t detect liquids containing illicit drugs. And if it’s sealed inside a bottle, drug-sniffing dogs can’t pick it up, either. So we’ve experimented with CT scans—computerized X-ray tomography—to measure the mean opacity of what’s inside the bottles. Differences in the opacity of dissolved drugs can be detected without having to open the wine and destroy the product if it’s legit.

“But it’s extremely expensive to deploy these CT machines. You’d really need a hospital nearby to make it work. But Guevara’s already found a way around it. That liquid cocaine, it’s got what’s known as X-ray attenuation. The way he explained it to me is that when a case of wine contains identical liquid contents, the bottles have the same mean attenuation when scanned with the CT equipment. If the attenuation readings of some bottles differed from the others, that’d set off a red flag. Filling the bottles with liquid cocaine gets around that.”

“So he’s a smart shit,” DeSantos said.

“All these cartels are. You’d be surprised at the stuff they come up with. Baseball hats made of cocaine, chocolate bars, decorative globes, jet engine turbine gears—anything that can be innocently imported is a potential gold mine for them. It’s only limited by their creativity.”

Is that what John Mayfield was referring to when he said there’s more to this than you know? But how is Mayfield connected to Guevara? And what’s that got to do with the murders in Napa? Ray Lugo? And the Cortez cartel? C’mon, Karen, add it up.

“Then there are the labels,” Sebastian said.

“Labels?” Vail asked. “How can there be drugs in the label of a wine bottle?”

A thin smile crept across Sebastian’s face. “The adhesive that holds the label on the bottle is actually black tar heroin. Very sticky and an ideal glue. The label itself is made of LSD blotter paper. It’s so fucking potent they have to cover it with a plastic film so they don’t get it on their hands. And because it’s so potent, one wine label can be sliced into multiple small pieces that are placed on the tongue. It dissolves, giving the high. Again, well thought out. Maximum yield.”

Vail ruminated on that for a moment, then jumped from her seat. Sebastian flinched. “Sorry,” Vail said. “Would you excuse me for a few minutes? I’ve gotta make a call.”

DeSantos leaned back and looked at her over the top of his tiny glasses. His face said, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

But Vail had an idea by the tail—and she needed to firm up her grasp before it had a chance to escape.

51

Vail pushed through the door while simultaneously pulling out her BlackBerry. Dialed Roxxann Dixon.

“I’ve got something, Roxx. You in a place you can talk?”

“I’m sitting in the conference room with the task force.”

“Perfect. Call me back so you can put me on speaker.”

Seconds later, her phone buzzed. “Okay,” Vail said. “I think I’ve put a lot of this shit together. All these parts that were dangling out there, things I couldn’t add up because they didn’t seem to make sense. I think I’ve got it. Or most of it.”

“Go on,” Brix said.

“All of Mayfield’s murders, I had such a hard time profiling him, because the more information we got the less sense it all made to me. Because male serial killers don’t kill for profit. Right?”

“That’s what you kept saying,” Dixon said.

“One thing I’ve learned is there are exceptions to most of what we think is behavioral fact. There are general guidelines and tenets, but people are different. Circumstances are different. And when two converging powers find one another, they discover they have desires and needs that come together in a symbiotic relationship. That’s what we’re talking about here. Symbiosis.”

“Karen,” Austin Mann said, “you’ve lost me.”

“John Mayfield killed because it filled a psychosexual need. He marked the bodies the way he did, severing the breasts, slicing the wrists, yanking off the toenail. He did those things for reasons he wasn’t consciously aware of. He did them because they comforted him. And that made sense to me. It fit our paradigms of serial killer behaviors. But then he also did things that didn’t make sense, that didn’t add up. It was almost like he was a schizophrenic killer. The male victim, for one. That didn’t fit.”

“And you’ve figured it out,” Gordon said.

“I think so.” Vail thought another moment, then continued. “It seemed at times like he was killing for a profit motive, while at other times the victims appeared to be unrelated. So here’s what I think was going on. John Mayfield was a bona fide serial killer, with classic childhood pathologies that shaped him into what he became: someone who was selecting victims that reminded him of his mother. But there was more to this than just the classic serial killer behavioral patterns. He was working with César Guevara. This is where the symbiosis comes into play.

“Mayfield was a psychopath, but the reason why some of his victims didn’t match his ritual was because he was killing vics chosen for him, by Guevara. And they used his behavioral murder patterns as a cover to divert attention from the Guevara-ordered killings, so no one would suspect they were contract kills. And we fell into that trap.”

“But what’s Guevara’s role?” Gordon asked. “Why did he choose these particular victims?”

“Guevara’s a lieutenant with the Cortez drug cartel. They smuggle liquid cocaine in wine bottles all over the country. Heroin and LSD in the labels. And the synthetic corks—they have ultra high potency, very expensive Fentanyl hidden within them.”

“That’s why,” Dixon said, “Superior almost exclusively uses synthetic corks—because they can hollow them out and fill the inside with drugs.”

“Right. And they have the license to do all this because of their company, Superior Mobile Bottling. Key to Superior being able to do its thing is the bottling contracts it has.”

“Because it’s a front,” Brix said.

“And because the Georges Valley AVA board is unique in that it negotiates bulk contracts for its member wineries. If Superior gets that contract, they bottle, label, and ship a shitload of cases of wine. That gives them the cover, should DEA or ATF or CBP question it, to be handling a large volume of wine shipments.”

“That’s goddamn ingenious,” Brix said.

“Yes.” Vail started walking down the hallway toward the building’s entrance. “So look at our vics. Victoria Cameron, Maryanne Bernal, and Isaac Walker were AVA board members, or affiliated with board members who were decision makers on this bottling contract. And Victoria and Isaac, through his partner Todd Nicholson, were opposed to Superior’s contract renewal. Bang, they turn up dead.”

Vail flashed on something Robby had said to her: that if she dug some more, she’d find something that provided connections she wasn’t expecting. It seemed like a generic pep talk at the time, but now in the context of all she had learned, he was trying to key her in on important aspects to her case.

“But Ian Wirth wasn’t killed,” Dixon said.

“Wasn’t killed yet,” Vail corrected. “Remember, we found Ian Wirth’s home address in Guevara’s house. Wirth was going to be Mayfield’s next victim.”

“Hang on a minute,” Mann said. “You’re saying John Mayfield was a contract killer.”

Vail pushed through the doors that led into the parking lot. She squinted against the bright sun, which was analogous to what she was feeling: that she was suddenly enlightened as to what this case was all about. “A contract serial killer. First of its kind, far as I know.”

“That explains Ray’s state of mind,” Dixon said. “He seemed so tightly wound at times. We took it as the same stress we were all feeling. But he’d internalized it. He took each of those murders hard because he felt partially responsible.”

“Regardless of the circumstances surrounding his wife and son, if Ray was aiding and abetting John Mayfield in any manner, that wouldn’t be far from the truth.”

“That also explains why Ray felt so strongly that Miguel Ortiz was not our guy,” Brix said, referring to an illegal vineyard worker who was, for a brief time, suspected of being the Crush Killer. “Because of Merilynn’s description, he knew it was a physically large Caucasian male, not a Hispanic.”

“But what about the other vics?” Mann said. “Ursula Robbins, Dawn Zackery, Betsy Ivers. And Scott Fuller.”

“Ivers was one of Mayfield’s first kills in the region.” Ivers’s body was found in 1998 at Battery Spencer, near Golden Gate Bridge. “No relation to Superior or the bottling contract. Just the victim of a serial killer. Zackery was probably killed because of me, so to speak. We thought at the time that Mayfield was in Virginia. Killing Zackery was his way of sticking his finger in our eye. Saying, basically, ‘You dumb shits, I’m right here. And I’ve been here all along.’ For a narcissistic killer, which Mayfield was, that’s how he’d do it. Telling us wouldn’t have been as dramatic as leaving us a body. It was the ultimate insult, his way of showing his superiority.”

“And Ursula Robbins?” Gordon asked. “Cameron, Bernal, and Walker weren’t included in that PowerPoint file he sent us. But neither was Robbins, which suggests a connection to the other three.”

“Robbins was a Georges Valley winery exec,” Dixon said. “I think that if we were to dig some more, we may find that she was against the board approving Superior’s first contract.”

“Very possible,” Vail said. “Or she was merely another woman who matched certain characteristics that a serial killer needed to fulfill his fantasies and psychopathic desires.” She ticked each name off her mental list. “And then there’s Fuller. I’m not sure we’ll ever know for sure what happened with him. But I think he was collateral damage. He was following me, with the intent to scare me. Or worse.”

Vail didn’t want to be too harsh on their colleague. Even though she felt he truly meant to kill her, she kept the thought to herself. “But things got out of hand, and we had that car accident. John Mayfield was also following me that night. Why? Who knows. Maybe he followed me more often than we knew. Regardless, that night, he was there. He came up behind me, injected me with a sedative, and shot Fuller with my gun. Maybe he intended to make trouble for me, to throw me off my game. I don’t know.”

“Almost worked,” Brix said.

“People were really pissed at you over Scott’s murder.”

People. As in Sheriff Owens. The boss.

Brix said, “Let’s be glad cooler heads prevailed.”

“Cooler heads and forensics,” Dixon added.

Vail closed her eyes and aimed her face at the sun. “What’s Mayfield’s status?”

“No change. The doc said he’s not ready to be brought out of it.”

“There’s something else we can cross off our list,” Brix said. “How Mayfield got the BetaSomnol that he injected you with. We got the pest control company’s records, the one Mayfield worked for. He paid visits to the Napa Valley Medical Center five times in a four-month span. For ants.”

“Sounds like he got more than ants,” Vail said. “Any thoughts on how the arson figures into all this?”

Burt Gordon, the arson investigator for the Sheriff’s Department sitting on the task force, explained: “I think that’s exactly as we had it figured—that Tim Nance, Congressman Church’s district director, and Walton Silva conspired with Fuller to get you, Karen, off their backs. Permanently.”

“I don’t know if your Bureau buddies told you,” Brix said, “but the Feds found a bungled wire transfer this morning. They traced it to an account that appears to be controlled by Nance. They’re still wading through everything, trying to find other transactions, other accomplices. But he’s toast. So to speak.”

Vail opened her eyes and watched a black sedan pull into the parking lot. “So Nance was taking payments to influence the outcome of an issue due to be ruled on by the Alcohol and Tobacco Tax Trade Bureau. They were using Nance to buy government legislation regarding the minimum grape requirement for the Georges Valley AVA.”

“If Church became governor,” Dixon said, “Nance, Fuller, and Silva all stood to take major posts in the administration. And you, Karen, threatened the power and prestige that went along with that because you wanted to bring the Crush Killer case public. That would’ve dirtied Church’s congressional district and potentially damaged his chance at being elected governor.”

Brix asked, “What about Robby? How does he factor into all this?”

“He doesn’t,” Vail said. “Not directly. Remember Sebastian? Real name’s Antonio Sebastiani de Medina and he’s a DEA agent. Robby was running an undercover op with him and their target was the Cortez Mexican drug cartel. César Guevara runs their front, Superior Mobile Bottling. So when Robby went dark, and we started looking for him and showing his photo around, I fucked things up big time. One of the people I showed Robby’s photo to was Guevara. Not only was there a connection between me and him—I think I told Guevara he was my friend and colleague—but the photo was one we’d taken in front of the FBI Academy sign.”

“So you blew his cover,” Mann said.

“I blew his cover. Yeah.” Merely saying it caused a stab of pain to Vail’s stomach. “Sebastian escaped. I’ve gotta go back and ask him how it went down, but I suddenly put everything together and wanted to let you know how it all fit.”

“Does he know Robby’s disposition?”

Vail watched an FBI police SUV circle the parking lot. “No.”

“Well, this all makes sense with what Matt Aaron just told us,” Dixon said. “Remember that cork I found at Superior? They finally got around to running it. On the surface, he said that it appeared to be a thermoplastic elastomer. But after swabbing it and putting it through the mass spectrometer, he picked up a trace of cocaine.”

“How much is a trace?” Vail asked.

Rustling of papers. “Here’s what Aaron wrote: ‘Looks like enough for identification. I got reproducible fragments at 303, 182, and 82, but below our quantitation limit.’”

“Did he happen to translate that into English?”

“Not enough to get a warrant, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Vail chuckled. “I don’t think a warrant’s going to be a problem, Roxx. I was wondering about the cork. Obviously it’s not one of the fake ones packed with Fentanyl.”

“I’ll make sure he slices it open and checks,” Dixon said. “But he said this kind of minute dusting could be from someone touching it who’d handled powdered cocaine. That said, the elastomer material can retain natural oils, and there weren’t any prints on the cork.”

“All right,” Brix said. “Get back to your interview with Sebastian. We’ll keep working things on our end. Whether Guevara knows we’re looking for him or he’s on a regularly scheduled drug run, we don’t know.”

“Either way,” Mann said, “with Sebastian’s statement, we’ll have enough for warrants. As soon as they’re executed, we’ll turn his place inside out.”

“Too bad you can’t join us,” Dixon said. “Tossing his place would probably be therapeutic.”

52

Vail disconnected the call and took a deep breath of March air . . . far damper than it had been in Napa. Had it been late summer or early fall, the chorus of cicadas and crickets in the nearby thicket of trees would be like a welcome home song. But it was silent now. She turned and headed back to Sebastian, toward—hopefully—more answers.

DeSantos was standing outside the room, touching the screen on his phone. He looked up when Vail approached.

“What’s going on?”

“The nurse needed to adjust something. He wasn’t feeling so good.”

The door opened and Yardley motioned them in.

Vail and DeSantos sat at the table opposite Sebastian, whose face was ashen and his hair slick and stringy from perspiration. He was taking another swig of his Powerade.

“You okay?” Vail asked.

“Better.”

“We won’t keep you much longer.” She leaned both forearms on the table and scooted her butt forward in the seat. “I’d like to go through what happened, what you saw. When you realized there was a problem.”

Sebastian tilted the plastic Powerade bottle and picked at the label with a fingernail. “You sure you want to hear this?”

“I have to wear two hats here. I’ve got my business as a federal agent in pursuit of a missing colleague. And I have to acknowledge that I care deeply for what happens to that missing colleague. I’m doing my best to keep those two hats from interfering with each other.”

“What she means,” DeSantos said with a shake of his head, “is just answer the question.”

Vail gave him a stern look. She didn’t need him acting like her interpreter.

“Robby was already there. They sent me on an errand. At the time, I didn’t think there was anything up. But then when I got back, Robby was surrounded by five guys. Guevara, a top Cortez lieutenant named Ernesto Escobar, and three others I didn’t know. But they weren’t friendlies.”

“Why do you say that?” DeSantos asked.

“Because they weren’t treating Robby very good.”

“Don’t mince words. What did you see?”

“I wasn’t there when it started. But I heard the noise. I hid behind a car. What I saw . . . it was hard to watch, but I knew if I tried helping Robby, I’d either blow my cover or if I played along, they’d expect me to . . . I—I just couldn’t do that.” He closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t have been able to hurt my buddy.” He shook his head, then faced Vail. “I took off, kept a low profile, caught a ride with a trucker out of town. Figured, worse came to worst, I might be able to go back, make up some bullshit excuse for being gone.”

“And,” DeSantos said, “you figured, if Robby’s cover’s blown, yours was probably worth shit too, since you’re the one who vouched for him. They might kill you before they killed him.”

Sebastian didn’t respond. He continued to pick at the Powerade label.

Vail was sure DeSantos’s analysis was accurate, but she didn’t want to move off topic. She swallowed hard. “What were they doing to Robby?”

Sebastian clenched his jaw, looked down at his Powerade. “Yelling at him in Spanish. Working him over. Kicking him. Worse.”

Vail closed her mouth. She couldn’t let anyone in the room see how much it hurt to hear that.

DeSantos placed a hand on her forearm. With a quick flick, she shook it off. She knew he meant well and she appreciated the gesture, but that wasn’t what she wanted to project to the men in the room.

“A guy like you,” DeSantos said, “you’ve got CIs with their ears to the ground. If there’s something to be known about Robby’s . . . disposition . . . they’d hear about it.”

“I’m not going anywhere, not for a couple days. Believe me, I tried talking to the doc. He didn’t want to have any of it.”

“Then us,” Vail said. “Set it up. We’ll do the meet.”

Sebastian leaned back in his seat. “That could work, I guess.”

“No,” Yardley said, stepping forward.

Sebastian looked up at the ASAC. “All I gotta do is call my guy, let him know—”

“Absolutely not.”

Vail rose from her seat and faced Yardley, toe to toe. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Yardley, a few inches taller than Vail, stood his ground. “Soon as the doc clears him,” he said calmly, “Sebastian will go. He’s worked too hard, too long, to cultivate his CIs. Especially this one, who’s got reliable roots right into the goddamn cartel. We screw it up, guy so much as smells something bad, we may never find a replacement.”

“I realize Robby’s ‘only’ a task force officer, but he deserves 100 percent effort on our part—all our parts—to get him out of danger.”

“Agent Vail, we don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

Body blow to the gut. Don’t take that shit. “Listen to me,” she said, bringing an index finger up toward his face. “With your help or not, I’m going to find Robby. Dead or alive. We owe that to him. I owe it to him. If my fuckup is responsible for blowing his cover, it’s on me.”

“I understand you don’t like it,” Yardley said, “but this is the way we handle these matters. Soon as we can, Sebastian will meet with the CI with regard to the issues at hand and then we’ll get back to you.”

Yardley started to turn away, but Vail grabbed his forearm. “When?”

He spoke while looking down at her hand. “We’ll do what we can, when we can. But how we do it, and when, and what resources we use to do it, is our business, not yours.” He brought his gaze up to hers. “I know you’re concerned about Hernandez, but there are multiple lives at stake. You think he’s the only asset we have in that organization?”

Vail dropped her hand. She was not prepared for that.

DeSantos was by her side. “Look,” he said, both hands out in front of him, fingers spread, a calming gesture. “I can make some calls. Go over your head. Have one director talk to another director. And get that information. Or I can go to my sources and dig up who this CI is that Sebastian won’t disclose. Either way, we will get what we want. Both ways are messy for you.” He shrugged. “Your choice.”

Yardley looked at DeSantos with a tournament-winning poker face. “Fuck you. And you too, Agent Vail.” He turned to Sebastian. “We’re done here.”

Yardley walked to the door and flung it open. “This is a DEA investigation, Mr. DeSantos. Interfere, and I don’t care what juice you can pour. I’ll make sure it goes sour. So if it’s a pissing contest you want, have at it.”

DeSantos returned his poker face, then he and Vail started for the door—but not before Vail glanced back over her shoulder at Sebastian. He was biting his lower lip and picking at the Powerade label.

Vail had a sharp rebuke for him on the tip of her tongue, but held it. As DeSantos had implied, Sebastian abandoned Robby out of fear for his own life. But it was her fault, not his, that Robby’s life was in danger in the first place. And now it was her responsibility to find him.

Before it was too late.

53

They got into the Corvette and DeSantos gunned the engine and peeled out of the parking lot. “You’re doing your best to make my life difficult, you know that, Karen?”

Vail released her grip on the dashboard. “What?”

“I played our hand and I had nothing.”

“What about ‘I’ll call the director’?”

DeSantos brought the Vette to a screeching halt. “Karen.” He licked his lips, looked off into the distance as he gathered his thoughts. “I can’t call the FBI director every time I can’t get what I want. I don’t even work for him—he’s a . . . let’s just say I’ve got a special relationship with him. Bottom line, I bluffed. Yardley called it. That’s it.”

Vail covered her eyes with a hand. Great. “What about working your resources?”

“My resources, my assets and CIs and everything else I use for terrorism-related intel, is valuable shit. I can’t use it for stuff like this. One life . . . I don’t want this to come out the wrong way. But I deal with threats that involve dignitaries or U.S. congressmen, thousands—sometimes millions—of civilians. I can’t burn though valuable assets for this. I just can’t.”

“Wait a minute. Sebastian said something . . . ” She thought a moment, then said, “He may’ve been trying to tell us something.”

“Yeah. He and Yardley told us to go fuck ourselves.”

“No, no. He said he could call up his CI.”

DeSantos looked at Vail. “His phone records. If we can look through the calls he’s made in the past, what, three months—we may have his CI.”

“We’ll never get access to his records.”

“Legally,” DeSantos said. “We’ll never get his records legally. I’ve got other ways.”

“Ways that won’t burn your assets?”

“Exactly.” He shoved the gearshift into drive and stepped on the accelerator. Vail flew back in her seat. Only this time she didn’t mind. As far as she was concerned, the faster, the better.

54

At the Pentagon security booth, DeSantos spoke with the guard while Vail waited in the car. The telephone was lifted, words were exchanged, and a moment later DeSantos was climbing back into the Corvette.

“Give me your driver’s license.”

Vail handed it over, and DeSantos delivered it to the guard. Moments later, they were admitted into the parking lot. And moments after that, Vail was following DeSantos into the lower reaches of the Pentagon.

“No one can know what you see or hear. Are we cool?”

Vail nodded. “Yeah. Yeah.” Her head rotated in all directions. “Where are we?”

“The bowels, where I work. No sarcastic comments, please.”

He stopped at a door, placed his hand on a glass panel, and waited while a yellow light scanned his palm and a beam struck his retina. A computer voice said, “Scanning complete,” the electronic click of a lock released, and DeSantos pushed through the door.

“What’s OPSIG?” Vail asked. She thumbed a fist over her shoulder. “Sign on the door.”

“Operations Support Intelligence Group. We’re a highly covert team. And that’s all I can tell you.”

“That’s all I think I want to know,” she said.

Inside, an entire wall was subsumed by oversize LCD monitors, which displayed satellite imagery and blinking locator beacons. A worn conference table sat off to the side. An air-conditioned breeze whisked by Vail’s ears, neutralizing the intense heat radiating from the wall of screens that buzzed her face as she passed them en route to a chair.

DeSantos sat down on one of the navy seats, placed his hands on a laptop PC in front of him, and stroked the keyboard. He leaned forward and a light from an external device scanned his retina.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m logged in. Now, let’s see what I can do.” He reached over to a button on the table and pressed it. “Hey, man, can you come in here a sec?”

Vail moved to a seat beside DeSantos. “Who’s that?”

“Let’s call him Benny. My personal tech guru. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing half the time. I’m TC.” He glanced at her, must’ve seen her mind unsuccessfully processing that acronym, then said, “TC. Technologically challenged. My former partner could troll servers and penetrate secure databases like a true hacker. But me? I do Windows. That’s about it.” He struck a key. “When it involves delicate hacking, I need someone who knows how to hide our tracks.”

In walked Benny, a bear of a man with fingers so thick they reminded Vail of bratwurst. She wondered how he was going to navigate the keyboard.

“Whazzup, boss?”

“Have a seat,” DeSantos said. “We’re going fishing.”

BENNY, INDEED, HAD DIFFICULTY manipulating the computer keys—and as a result had to go slow, regularly correcting his mistyped commands. Finally, twenty minutes later, DeSantos retrieved a sheaf of papers from the LaserJet.

“Those are Sebastian’s phone logs?” Vail asked.

He splayed them across the table in front of him. “Cell, home, and work.”

“Scary that you can do that.”

DeSantos chuckled. “This ain’t nothing, my dear. You should see what we’re capable of.”

“Something tells me that if I did, you’d have to kill me.”

Benny chuckled as DeSantos regarded the papers.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” DeSantos said, “believe me.”

Based on what little she had seen thus far, Vail certainly did.

Prior to printing the document, DeSantos had Benny sort the data multiple ways. He filtered out calls that were made to known people in Sebastian’s life: his family members, girlfriend, known acquaintances, and of course, Robby. Established businesses and federal agency contacts were eliminated. And that left calls to individuals or businesses that were unidentified or suspect.

“We’ll go from here, which is a lot more manageable.” DeSantos turned to Benny. “Page three. Do a search and get me the names of all the owners of these phone numbers.”

Benny turned back to the laptop and began poking at the keys. After a moment, he leaned back in his chair, which bent precariously close to the ground. “We’ll have the results in a minute. So,” he said to Vail, “I haven’t seen you around here.”

“I’m with the behavioral analysis unit.”

Benny looked at DeSantos.

“She’s fine,” DeSantos said. “She hasn’t seen anything and even if she did, she can be trusted.”

Benny eyed her cautiously. His laptop beeped and he turned his attention back to the screen.

DeSantos rose and placed a hand on Benny’s thick shoulder. He pointed at the color-coded display. “Sort it here and here. Give me a printout. That’ll leave us with a manageable list.”

Benny did as instructed, then left the room. DeSantos handed Vail the new, streamlined printout, which contained five names and numbers. “Let’s eliminate the four non-Hispanic names. If I had to guess . . . ” He placed a finger on the paper. “That’d be our guy.”

55

Union Station was an odd place. Not the building—which was outwardly and inwardly architecturally pleasing, having been refurbished in 1988 into a modern transportation hub, shopping and restaurant destination—but the surrounding area. Located in the heart of the district and only ten football fields from the Capitol building, one might assume it sat in a premier neighborhood, the pride of the heart of U.S. government. Yet a wrong turn to the northeast landed you in a down-and-out section of D.C. that was best avoided.

And that was where DeSantos chose to meet Jose Diamante, purportedly a man who had insider information into the Cortez drug cartel, the confidential informant that DEA agent Antonio Sebastiani de Medina coddled and cultivated, paid and protected. Yardley knew the value of a high-level CI such as Diamante, which explained the resistance to providing his identity.

DeSantos foiled their plans, however, and now Diamante had agreed to meet his contact Sebastian. In another tech feat, a different OPSIG team member had cloned Sebastian’s cell phone number, enabling them to send a text message to Diamante requesting the meet. After a tense ten-minute wait, the CI responded. He would be there.

Benny then hacked the DMV server and secured a photo and physical description of Jose Diamante. Now it was a matter of executing a get-together with a high-level CI who was, no doubt, a careful and suspicious sort.

“Me or you?” Vail asked.

“You mean the attractive woman approach? You think you can show a little cleavage and get closer than I can?”

“You don’t think I can pull it off?”

DeSantos made a point of running his gaze from head to toe. “Probably best if I circle around, bring up the rear in case he runs.”

Vail dropped her jaw. “Thanks a lot.”

DeSantos broke a smile. “If he runs from you, the guy needs glasses. C’mon, let’s go.”

Leaving the car in the Union Station parking lot, they hoofed it down H Street NE. DeSantos stopped abruptly. “There used to be an Amoco station there, on the corner,” he said, nodding ahead of him. “That’s where I told him to meet us.”

Ahead of them was an empty lot, filled with sprouting weeds and partial remnants of asphalt that was spider-cracked like a sun-weathered face. At the corner of 3rd and H Street stood three battered passenger bus-size cargo containers. It appeared as if construction was due to start and the crew brought the equipment onsite prior to initiating the project.

“Maybe he figured it out and is waiting by those storage containers,” Vail said.

“Let’s hope so.”

They approached separately, DeSantos taking a detour between freshly constructed multistory brick apartment buildings, where he’d walk parallel to H, toward and across 3rd Street. He would then come up fifty yards behind the location where they hoped Diamante was waiting.

DeSantos was carrying the cloned cell phone—and all network traffic to that number was diverted to his handset. Like an arrested suspect, Sebastian’s real phone would remain silent until DeSantos’s team member released it for normal telephonic reception. If Diamante was not where he should be, DeSantos could contact him while retaining his cover.

DeSantos advanced from the rear. He signaled Vail, who began walking toward the front of the closest blue-gray cargo container. As she approached, she saw there was just enough room between the long structures for a person to fit—not comfortably, but it was possible to shuffle sideways through the opening. Just looking at the tight quarters made her chest tighten.

Along the exposed side of the shipping container was a smaller storage box. Roughly half the size of the other two, it was positioned approximately a dozen feet away. And leaning against its side pulling on a cigarette was Jose Diamante. DeSantos had spotted him too, as he was tipping his head left in the CI’s direction. DeSantos stood frozen, waiting for Vail to advance so that errant footsteps wouldn’t be detected before Vail could engage him.

She smiled and walked gaily toward Diamante, motioning at him until his head lifted and his body straightened. He was locked in.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m totally lost. My phone battery’s dead and I was looking for a pay phone. Someone said there was one in the gas station on the corner, but”—she spread her arms and made a point of swiveling her head from side to side—“there’s no gas station.”

“Looks like they tore it down,” Diamante said, then sucked again on his cigarette, out the side of his mouth, like he was thinking of what kind of fun he could have with the attractive redhead who was approaching.

“I was looking for a street that had an ‘NW’ after it, but all these street signs say ‘NE.’ Is there a difference?” She laughed. Stupid me, I’m a vulnerable woman in a bad neighborhood where a missing dimwit might go unnoticed for hours, if not days. Go ahead and try something.

But he suddenly swiveled 180 degrees, and his body language suggested he caught sight of DeSantos and had read him as a cop. Not merely suggested—he tensed and coiled low and bent his knees and took off in Vail’s direction. She was still a ditsy redhead and had not entered his threat zone. Yet.

Vail stepped left, into his path, and threw her arms around him. But he must’ve seen this move before, because he stuck an elbow into her neck, and she went down.

Diamante continued south, toward H Street.

Shit. She hustled to her feet—DeSantos was still thirty or forty yards away—and resumed her pursuit.

Diamante tried cutting a hard left and he went down, sprawling in a patch of loose dirt. As he gathered himself, Vail pounced, wrapping her arms around his back. But she was only 115 pounds and Diamante was—per the DMV—200.

And that seemed about right as he flung her off his back rather easily. But Vail was not about to let her sole connection to Robby go that easily. She had an iron grip on his collar and he dragged her forward through the dirt. She pulled with all her weight, choking him best she could. But he wouldn’t go down.

She fumbled for the handle of her Glock, yanked it free, then swung it as hard as she could, clocking him across the back of his head. Diamante stumbled, then crumpled to his knees.

Vail landed atop him but maintained the grip on her pistol. She thrust it into the base of his skull and damn-near shouted, “Don’t move. Not one move—or I’ll blow your goddamn brain all over the dirt, you hear me?”

DeSantos was pulling up behind them in full stride. “Karen! Karen, what are you doing?”

Ignoring DeSantos, she said into Diamante’s ear, “We need some information. We’re not here to hurt you. Understand?”

He nodded his head, and his face scraped across the ground.

She gave him a thorough pat down and pulled a .45 Magnum from his belt. She handed it back toward DeSantos, who snatched it away, anger pulling his face into a snarl.

They needed to move Diamante away from the main drag. People would be getting out of work soon, and it’d be best not to be in full view while they questioned him. In the era of camera phones—not to mention ATM cameras and security eyes recording everything within reach—they had to be careful.

“I’m gonna get off you now,” Vail said to Diamante. “You’re going to stand up. Slowly. Then we’re going to walk to the back of this container and have a chat. You cooperate and no one will get hurt. Understand?”

He again abraded his face against the dirt.

Vail backed off him but kept her Glock at her side, against her pants, out of view of any passing onlookers—who’d already gotten a good show if any had cared to watch. Vail surmised that in this neighborhood, when shit like this happened, people either turned their backs—or got the hell away before bullets started flying.

They also needed to avoid trolling Metro police cruisers. Vail didn’t have a problem with pulling her creds and explaining their purpose, but the last thing they wanted to do was make a show of being seen with Diamante; it could destroy him. Talking to cops was . . . frowned upon in this hood, and it would likely result in him no longer being a source of any value. Not to mention it’d probably get him killed.

Diamante, a coerced but willing party, walked alongside Vail, with DeSantos bringing up the rear. They continued about a hundred paces until they reached the far end of the long container. Two dozen feet away stood a line of parked vehicles. Realizing that these SUVs, pickups, and minivans could provide adequate cover while they talked, Vail headed in that direction.

Before they arrived, her phone buzzed. It was Gifford. She muted the ringer, then steered Diamante between two Suburban-type SUVs.

Vail got a good look at his face for the first time: not a bad-looking guy. She wondered what he was really like, why he had a connection to one of the most powerful drug cartels—and if he’d be a cooperating informant.

DeSantos stood with his hands in the back pocket of his jeans—no suit for this meet—and did not look pleased.

“Sorry about that back there,” Vail said to Diamante. “I didn’t think you’d run. I didn’t have a choice.”

Diamante turned to DeSantos. “Whaddya want with me?”

“It’s like I said,” Vail replied. “We need some information.”

With his gaze still on DeSantos, Diamante said, “I don’t talk to women who carry guns. It’s one of my rules of doing business.”

“What business are we doing here?” Vail asked.

But DeSantos held out his arm and eased Vail aside. “That’s fine. Talk to me.”

Vail bit down hard—the objective was to get information. How they did that did not matter. Now was not the time to allow her bruised female ego to intervene.

Diamante reached for his pocket. Vail raised her Glock.

And Diamante raised his hands. “A cigarette, cabrona, take it easy.” Vail knew that translated to “bitch”—but she let it pass. Dr. Rudnick would be proud.

DeSantos nodded for him to continue. He pulled a lighter and held it out for Diamante, who lit up. He puffed smoke into the air and said with a shrug, “I don’t know nothing, so there ain’t nothing to talk about.”

DeSantos stepped forward and spoke in a low voice. “Cortez. We know you’re connected. That’s what we need to know about.”

“You’re loco, amigo. Fucking loco if you think I know something about drugs.”

DeSantos grinned. “I didn’t say anything about drugs. So you know enough to know what Cortez’s business is. But okay, I get it. You had to say that. Now that we’re past all that shit, I need to know what you’ve heard. About a certain guy.”

“I told you. I don’t know nothing.”

Vail stepped forward, nudging DeSantos aside. “Bullshit. And I’m not in the mood to play games, so you will answer our questions.”

Diamante spit in her face. A gooey, cigarette smoker’s phlegm stuck to her cheek. Rather than wiping it away, she reached back and slugged him, right in the nose with the butt of her Glock. His head snapped back into the top of the car and he slunk down onto his knees, at her feet.

DeSantos turned away and brought a hand to his forehead. “Jesus Christ.”

Vail crouched between the trucks. Her face was now an inch from Diamante’s bloodied, crushed nose. “Now we’re going to try this again. I don’t know you and I don’t know what you’re involved in. But I do know you’ve got a line into Cortez. That’s all I care about.” She lifted the Glock to the man’s face. He looked at it with groggy eyes, his head bobbing slightly to the sides. He probably had a mild concussion. Getting slugged in the face with a handgun will do that to you.

Vail tilted her head. “I want to know what you heard about an undercover cop whose cover was blown.”

Diamante’s eyes slid from her weapon to her face. “Yeah. Cortez and Guevara were pissed, big time. What was he . . . your partner or something?”

“Yeah. Or something.” Vail glanced at DeSantos. A confirming look that this was working. “See?” she said to Diamante. “This isn’t so hard, talking to a woman with a gun. Is it?” She wiggled the Glock in front of his eyes. “Where is this undercover cop now?”

Diamante’s gaze rose skyward. “Don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Hey, you don’t believe me, shoot me. But you’re a cop, you won’t do that. So I guess we’re done here.”

Vail brought her hand back to strike him, but DeSantos grabbed her arm.

“He’s lying,” she said. “He knows more than he’s telling us.” DeSantos frowned, then shook his head and knelt down in front of their informant. “See, the thing is, Jose, she’s a bit of a loose cannon. And what we do, we do off the grid. So if you don’t cooperate, we’ve got the option of killing you. Honest. I’ve done it before.” He leaned forward and lined up his eyes with Diamante’s. “Many times.” He waited a long minute, then shrugged. “But I think we can come to some kind of understanding. I’m gonna be reasonable. You’ve got till midnight to get us the information we need.”

Diamante shook his head.

DeSantos held up a finger. “Again, I understand how this works. I know that demanding that you get us some intel wouldn’t mean much if I didn’t back it by a threat. Right?” He grinned. “So here’s the deal. If we don’t hear from you, I’m going to spread the word, carefully, selectively, so that, in time, it’ll make it back to Carlos Cortez himself that you’re a CI for the DEA.”

Diamante’s jaw line tensed.

“On the other hand,” DeSantos said with a shrug, “you give us what we want, and you’ll never hear from us again. And that’s a promise.” He rose from his crouch—and Vail followed suit.

Diamante swallowed hard, touched his bloody nose with a finger, testing to see how badly broken it was—then threw Vail a dirty look. He pushed his back against the SUV and got to his feet.

A moment later, he was disappearing down the block, gone from view.

56

DeSantos stood there glaring at Vail. She stared back.

“What the hell was that?” he asked.

“Oh come on. You know what it was. And don’t tell me you never roughed someone up to get information vital to your mission. Or whatever the hell it is you do.”

“That’s different. Do you really need me to tell you that’s not the way to go about this, that you’re burning a CI? Sebastian’s gonna be pissed as all hell if Diamante tells him to go fuck himself next time he contacts him for a line on Cortez. Not to mention your behavior’s going to get us both killed.” He lowered his voice and took a breath. “Do you usually go about your business like that? Because if you do, I’ve had the FBI all wrong.”

Vail looked away at the deteriorating apartment buildings and duplex homes in the near distance. “No. Yes. Lately, I’ve lived on the edge. I’ve done things I’ve never done before.”

DeSantos stood there looking at her before responding. “I’m no shrink, but I think you need help, Karen. Anger management.”

“Been there, done that.” She thought of Dr. Rudnick. “Still doing it, I guess.”

“Yeah?” DeSantos stood with his hands on his hips. “Well, it’s not working.”

“You know what? If you’re going to preach, you’d better be prepared to follow the advice in your own sermon. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t be doing exactly what I’ve been doing if your loved one’s life depended on it.”

DeSantos dropped his arms and turned away, placed both palms on the driver’s side window of the adjacent SUV.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

DeSantos did not answer. But the fact that he hung his head suggested she was, indeed, correct in her assertion. Finally, DeSantos pushed back from the truck and walked away, back the way they had come, toward Union Station.

57

Vail had returned Gifford’s call while they were en route to their car. She had nothing else to do, since DeSantos was in no mood to talk. At least he was in no mood to talk to her.

Lenka told Vail that Gifford was in a meeting but wanted to see her in his office if she was headed back to the unit. Vail could not think of other leads to track down, so going back to the BAU seemed to be the best move. If Rooney had not yet left for Iraq, she wanted to sit down with him and tell him all she had learned about Guevara, John Mayfield, and the drug smuggling operation. Perhaps he could recommend some unseen angles worth pursuing.

DeSantos said he had an errand to run twenty minutes from the BAU, so he dropped Vail at her office and told her to check in with him when she was done.

As Vail moved through the secure door to the BAU, a text came through from Dixon:answer on audio of message left on wirths voicemail. guardian angel was robby. :-)

She allowed herself a moment to grin. Robby may’ve been undercover, but after giving Ian Wirth’s home address to Guevara, he found a way to send Wirth an anonymous warning.

While Vail was typing a reply, another text came through:and got a hit on handcuffs serial nmbr. female cop napa pd. last seen at a bar downtown about 1am. didnt report to work today. this isnt gonna end well

No. This isn’t going to end well. Vail typed back:for what its worth she was probably cannons first victim

“Everything okay?”

Vail looked up. She was standing in front of Lenka’s desk.

“Yeah, sorry. I was—” She held up her BlackBerry. “Got a text.”

Lenka reached for her phone. “I’ll let him know you’re here. I’m not sure if he’ll be glad or mad.”

Vail tucked her chin back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My sense is that he’s had a bad day. And right now, with the people in his office and the noises coming from inside, I think it’s only gotten worse.” She lifted the receiver and poked a button. While it rang, she said to Vail, “Not to mention he should’ve gone home fifteen minutes ago.”

Vail’s relationship with Gifford was odd, to say the least, for an ASAC and an agent. Profilers usually dealt directly with their unit chief. But Vail and Gifford always worked one-on-one. Her unit chief didn’t mind—at least, he’d never said anything to her about it—although that could’ve been Gifford’s doing. Maybe he labeled her a troublemaker and felt a more direct, hands-on approach would be the best way of keeping her reined in.

Am I a troublemaker?

Lenka set the handset back in its cradle. “You can go in.”

Vail nodded, then turned toward the office door.

“Good luck.”

Vail looked over her shoulder at Lenka, hesitated with her hand on the knob, then walked in.

And it immediately became apparent why Lenka had wished her luck. Gifford was behind his desk. Standing to his left was FBI director Douglas Knox. And to his right was DEA administrator Bronson McGuire. Gifford did not look pleased.

Knox did not look pleased.

Nor did McGuire.

In fact, they looked downright angry, like frustrated cougars who couldn’t get at their meal. And Vail suddenly felt like a sacrificial lamb.

“Agent Vail,” Knox said. “Good of you to finally join us.”

“I just got word—”

“I received a call about an hour ago,” Knox continued. “Do you know who it was?”

“I’m guessing it was Administrator McGuire,” Vail said, and glanced at McGuire. Is he salivating?

“That’s right,” McGuire said. “I had a scheduled meeting with the president, which was supposed to be happening—” he consulted his watch “—right about now. Only once have I ever told a president I had to reschedule. And that was when I was in an ambulance on the way to an emergency appendectomy.”

Vail licked her lips. Something tells me I’m about to have some scars of my own.

“Do you know what the problem is?” Knox asked.

“No sir, not exactly.” There’ve been so many things I’ve fucked up. Take your pick.

Knox’s eyes flicked over to McGuire before settling back on Vail. “I’m pulling you off this case. Effective immediately.”

“You mean Rob—Detective Hernandez’s case?”

“That would be the one,” McGuire said. “You weren’t officially authorized to be working it, anyway. And if you’d kept your nose out of things, we wouldn’t be needing to have this discussion.”

“Okay,” Gifford said, lifting a hand. “Just hold it right there. We all know that’s not true.”

McGuire snorted. “We don’t know it’s not true. Agent Vail—”

“No need to rehash it,” Gifford said. “I’ve heard your position.”

McGuire’s hard stare spoke volumes. Gifford, a subordinate, was standing up to the DEA administrator. Ballsy. Risky. And—holy shit—it sounds like he’s defending me.

“Your actions,” McGuire said to Vail, “have seriously jeopardized a years-long effort to take down the Cortez cartel. And while I understand your knee-jerk, ill-conceived, half-assed attempt to find your boyfriend, we are professionals. We all know the risks when we go undercover. Detective Hernandez certainly knew them.”

Gifford shifted his feet, turned his head, and looked off at the wall. Vail couldn’t help noticing. Interesting body language—that statement made him uncomfortable. Why? Because he feels responsible for what happened to Robby?

“This operation is far more important than absolving yourself of guilt over having blown his cover. And possibly costing him his life.”

Vail clenched her jaw. She had reached her tolerance point for taking the bullshit McGuire was doling out. Respect for authority or not, she could not let his statement stand without a response.

“I resent the implication, sir,” Vail started.

“I’m not implying anything. I thought I was pretty damn clear.”

“Bronson,” Knox said firmly, “that’s enough. This has been a tragedy. For the DEA op, for Detective Hernandez—and, yes, for Agent Vail. Pointing the finger is not going to get us anywhere. Move on.”

“Fine,” McGuire said. He turned to Vail. “Then let’s get something straight. If you ever get in the face of one of my ASACs, I’ll make sure you’re busted down from the BAU so you regret your behavior for a good long time.” He faced Knox. “The Bureau is done here. Don’t come near my operation. I’ll let you know when we find Hernandez. Alive—” he turned to Vail—“or dead.”

McGuire slammed the door on his way out. The room was silent.

“Don’t worry about him,” Director Knox said. “He’s got no jurisdiction over Bureau personnel matters. I’ll clean up the mess once he calms down. But me . . . that’s another story. We are done with this case, and you do have to do as I tell you, Agent Vail. Because I do have the power to make your life miserable. And I know you’re not even close to retiring from the Bureau, so let’s be honest. Your work is exceptional but you tend to find yourself in deep shit more often than is acceptable. Don’t think I’ve not been made aware of all your recent escapades. And for an FBI director to be made aware of the actions of a profiler in the BAU, that means something’s wrong with its management.”

Knox did not look at Gifford, but the implications were clear.

Shit. Gifford deserves a lot of things, but blame for my screw-ups is not one of them. “Mr. Gifford suggested suspending me by a crane over the Potomac to keep me out of trouble.” Levity. Did it work?

Knox looked at her, an expression that said he was gauging whether or not she was serious. Gifford was facing away, clearly uncomfortable.

Gazing squarely at Vail, Knox said, “That may yet be a good idea.” He turned to leave. “I’ll take it under consideration.”

When the door clicked shut, Vail found a nearby chair and fell into it. Hard.

Gifford stood there, staring at her, sucking his bottom lip. Seconds passed. “Damn it, Karen.”

“Sir—”

“No. Just goddamn it. I have a love-hate relationship with you, you know that? You frustrate the hell out of me. I don’t know what the hell to do with you sometimes. If you weren’t so damn valuable to the unit, I’d recommend you be kicked out of the Bureau so far you wouldn’t be able to find your way back.”

Vail leaned forward and rested her forearms on her knees. This time, for once, she kept her mouth shut.

“What the hell were you thinking? Threatening Yardley, a DEA ASAC? What possible good did you think would come out of that?”

“We were trying to get information about Sebastian’s CI,” Vail said. “Yardley didn’t want to help us out. I was just trying to save Robby.”

“Yeah, about that. Your behavior might just have sealed your boyfriend’s fate. Because we can’t do anything to help find him now. And we’re the ones who are most concerned about his well-being.”

Gifford’s voice was now so loud Vail was sure it could be heard on the other side of his door.

“Do you realize that? We are fucked. You heard the director.”

“I heard him, but—”

“Robby’s status—a task force officer—was some goddamn fabrication we created to help him advance his career because there was no task force. But it leaves him in no-man’s-land. He’s not one of DEA’s own. Will they go to the end of the earth to save him? Probably. But do you see any written guarantees? Because I sure don’t. I can tell you that this op is hugely important to them. They have to nail it to show the war on drugs is worth pumping more money into. With all federal budgets under pressure, you bet they need a home run on this. Normally, they’d do everything they could to get Robby back. But with all this in play, it’s not a normal situation.” Gifford hung his head and said, beneath his breath, “And it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“No sir. I’m the one who blew his cover.”

Gifford’s head snapped up. “And I’m the one who pulled strings to get him into that operation in the first place.” He shook his head, leaned back in his chair, and massaged his face briskly with a hand.

Vail watched him. He was under unaccountably severe duress. Yes, a law enforcement officer was in danger. And some time ago, Gifford had promised Robby’s mother he would look after him. Was that all there was to this? Or was there something more?

“Sir, we’ll find him. Hector and I have got a line—”

“Karen, I don’t want to hear this. I can’t hear this. Did you get what the director just said to you? The Bureau’s done, we’re out of this. Our hands are tied.”

“Your hands are tied, sir. I don’t intend to sit by and wait for Robby’s body to show up on a morgue slab, or worse—along the side of some Mexican highway. Not gonna happen.”

Vail realized Gifford was not listening. He was staring ahead, at nothing in particular. Eyes glazed.

“I promised his mother I’d look after him. On her death bed, I promised.”

Vail studied his face a long moment—and then it hit her. She should have seen it before . . . the information had been there, teasing away at her brain for months, but she never put it all together. Until now, the look in Gifford’s eyes. Guilt—but not just guilt.

“Robby isn’t just the son of a good friend, is he, sir? He’s your son. Biologically.”

Gifford’s eyes found hers. But he did not reply.

Back when they were working the Dead Eyes case, Robby told her he suspected Gifford of having a fling with his mom. Vail assumed it was a recent occurrence, in the year before his mother died. But what if it had been a much longer relationship than Vail realized—than Robby realized? “You knew Alexandra a great many years,” she said softly. “You had an affair with her. A long time ago.”

Gifford rocked forward in his seat and dropped his gaze to his desk. In a weak voice as flat as Texas, he said, “I think it’s time you left.”

Vail sat there, debating how hard to push. But she realized she knew all there was to know—for now. Her time was best spent trying to find Robby. After what just went down, she had to operate under the radar of both the Bureau and the DEA.

It was then that she realized it was a good thing the man assisting her was Hector DeSantos. Under the radar was his specialty.

58

Vail met DeSantos at the World War II memorial. When she had called and told him she was officially removed from the case, he told her to put that thought on hold.

“I’ve got someone who wants to meet.” He told her where and encouraged her not to be late.

She caught a cab and was there two minutes early. Vail got out and walked toward the towering southern entrance, the limestone block four-poster Pacific gateway. A giant stone wreath hung above, supported by eagles in midflight. Splitting off to both sides of the archway were dozens of freestanding pillars, each lettered in relief with the states’ names, in addition to the various U.S. territories. The columns were dramatically lit from below and curved in a gentle semicircle, forming a recessed central plaza, where a large, active fountain sat. Carved in bas relief along two long walls were scenes depicting iconic milestones in the war.

Standing a few yards from the edge of the rainbow pool was Hector DeSantos. Several clumps of people milled about the water’s periphery, including the usual contingent of tourists with cameras; older men reminiscing about the war and commiserating about how the world had changed in the intervening decades; children holding their grandfathers’ hands, learning their country’s history in a way that transcended textbooks and two-dimensional black-and-white photos.

Vail walked up to DeSantos and was about to speak when he tapped her arm, then turned to his right and began walking. He stopped twenty yards later, near a cutout in the pool’s rim, midway between the Pacific and Atlantic gateways. A man sat at the water’s edge, hands clasped around his knees.

Vail eyed him closely. It was Sammy, DeSantos’s DEA contact.

DeSantos sauntered toward the man but kept a distance so that the two of them did not appear to know each other. Vail stood at DeSantos’s left, between him and Sammy. She figured it was her job to stand there and make like DeSantos was chatting with her, when in fact he was talking across her to Sammy.

“What’ve you got?” DeSantos asked.

Sammy looked down at his lap and picked at a loose thread on his shirt. “I haven’t heard anything about your guy.”

“Who would you be hearing this from?” Vail asked. She glanced at DeSantos and noticed his tight jaw. But she couldn’t help herself.

Sammy did not react. Calmly, he said, “We have more assets in place than just the two you knew about. They send us texts using clean phones, but contacting them is risky and not always possible. We prefer to keep it a one-way street.”

DeSantos faced Vail, as if he was talking to her. “And?”

“They’re gearing up for some big changes. Some new shit with real bad consequences.”

“How so?”

Sammy looked out at the fountains a moment, then tucked his chin.

Vail realized he was probably hiding his face in case anyone was attempting to read his lips. Good tradecraft—but paranoid as shit.

“You know about the wine bottles? The labels?”

“The black tar heroin,” DeSantos said. “The LSD.”

“There’s more to it. They’re testing something new, something that could turn the drug trade on end. A potent drug with a revolutionary delivery system. No needles. Using the wine bottle labels.”

“What drug?”

“BetaSomnol. Ever hear of it?”

Vail couldn’t help but turn toward Sammy. “Fuck yes. I was shot up—”

“Honey,” DeSantos said with a forced chuckle. “Please watch your language.” He grinned at her, then said in a whisper, “Keep your eyes in my direction and lower your goddamn voice.”

“I was injected with it,” Vail said. “It put me to sleep. Why would ‘our guy’ think there’s anything special about that?”

“Injecting the drug causes different effects,” Sammy said. “But put the drug on a film—or a label—and then put the film on your tongue . . . and you’ve got a novel delivery system. Oral and transdermal. It releases part of its total drug content orally—which produces the nap you experienced with the injection. But the rest of the drug is transdermally released to produce the lasting high upon waking a few minutes later.”

“Who’d want to walk around with this film in your mouth?” DeSantos asked.

Sammy shook his head, then examined something he was holding in his hand. A digital camera. He thumbed through the pictures on the display while he talked. “Transdermal delivery deposits the drug in the dermis, the tongue’s top layers under the patch. When the patch is removed, the dermis continues to release the drug into the person’s system. So the euphoria continues even though the film’s been removed. It’s a very intense, long-lasting high. The gift that keeps giving.”

Vail looked out at the milling tourists as they snapped photos. “This is new?”

“Totally. BetaSomnol is used in hospitals as a powerful, fast-acting sedative—”

“I know how it’s used.”

“Then you know it’s a growing problem. Abuse by physicians on long shifts. They take the drug and it induces a rapid nap. After they wake, they have an intense, momentary high—which doesn’t last because they’re not using the transdermal film—but it does make it seem as if they’d slept for hours, even though it’s only been about twenty minutes. Helps on long shifts.”

“And that’s legal?” Vail asked.

“Not exactly. But it’s becoming an abuse problem among hospital docs and nurses. Guevara found out about this. There was a doc at the hospital in Napa who nearly killed himself when he screwed up and misadministered the BetaSomnol to himself. Guevara heard about it, had an idea, took it to Cortez, and their chemist started working on it. Five months later, he came up with this transdermal film, modeled after a patented process that’s currently used in the manufacture of Duragesic. Transdermal Fentanyl.”

“And there’s a market for this?” DeSantos said.

“Guevara wanted to bring something big to Cortez. Be a big feather in his cap. He’d already looked into using Propofol, the shit that killed Michael Jackson. But it was too damn dangerous. Too easy for some junkie to OD—that’d bring serious addict heat.”

“Addict heat?” Vail asked.

“When addicts start dying, the police take notice and come down hard. The cops know they’ve got a big problem, so it gets more attention. I’m not saying we look the other way when there aren’t as many junkies dying—but it’d make the papers. And once that happened, word would get out the stuff’s no good. Bad for business. So the cartels gotta keep their customers happy. And alive. Dead customers tend to stop buying stuff.”

DeSantos took Vail’s hand in his. He obviously wanted this to look believable. It didn’t help that Vail turned and gave him a hard stare.

“Cortez wasn’t totally convinced it was safe. Apparently skin permeability varies person to person and he didn’t want to risk it. But a couple days ago, his chemists came up with a fix. They refined the product by processing the film with some chemicals. It worked. Word is that it produces a very intense, long-lived high—that’s completely safe. And the return on investment’s very high. The label can be sliced into multiple smaller sections, multiplying the doses per smuggled wine bottle. His goal is to create a whole new craze in the marketplace. And Cortez is the only one who’s got it. He’s the sole supplier. He’ll clean up.”

“Great,” Vail said. “Not good enough we’ve got tens of millions of drug abusers in this country. Now he’s gonna make it quick, easy, and safe to walk around stoned. Great goddamn world we live in.”

“It’s a credible threat,” Sammy said. “We’re taking it very seriously. Only solution is to take down his organization. Or cut off its head and weaken it.”

DeSantos let go of Vail’s hand and put his arm around her. “I think it’s time we got back, honey.”

Vail rolled her eyes. “Yes, dear. Let’s get back.”

DeSantos said, “Anything comes up on our guy, let me know.” He turned to glance at Sammy—but the man was thirty feet away, heading toward the steps at the far end of the plaza.

59

Vail called Gifford to update him on what they had learned from Sammy—and Lenka informed her he had just left the office. She could reach him on his cell, as he was headed into Georgetown for a late dinner.

Gifford agreed to meet them at the restaurant provided they got there quickly and didn’t stay long.

Georgetown Seafood Grill was located below street level in a marble-faced office building. DeSantos pulled his car to the curb, again with no regard for the district’s parking enforcement laws and the five—five—stacked No Parking signs that towered in front of the restaurant’s entrance.

“They have valet parking,” Vail said, pointing to the A-frame sign at the curb.

“Won’t be here that long. We’re fine.”

They walked past a handwritten “50 cent Clams & Oysters” sign locked inside a display case that featured the restaurant’s menu, then descended the stone steps and pushed through the glass doors.

Vail moved past the bar and into the maritime-themed dining area. Clinking glasses and silver-on-ceramic clatter mixed with the rumble of idle chatter among the patrons. Polished cherrywood booths were separated by frosted dividers, neatly finished by crisscrossed wires that wove through riveted holes in the glass. Oars hung overhead, alongside inverted canoes and three sizable swordfish.

Gifford sat at a booth along the side wall, alone, a mixed drink in his hand and a menu propped up to his left. Vail slid in beside him. DeSantos stood at the end of the table, not wanting to invade the ASAC’s space without asking permission.

Gifford motioned him in. “My friend should be here soon. Make it fast.”

“We need to get the Bureau back in the game,” Vail said.

Gifford set his drink down beside a metal porthole carved into the wall just above the table’s surface. He removed his reading glasses and said, “No.”

“Sir—”

“I realize ‘no’ is a hard concept for you, Karen. But this is a DEA op, and the FBI has no part in it. No jurisdiction.”

“What about interstate trade? Crossing state lines? Kidnapping?”

Gifford was silent.

“Karen can be a pain in the ass,” DeSantos said, “But I think she’s right here.” He proceeded to recap what Sammy had told them. When he finished, Gifford sat back. He lifted an oversize canister marked SEA SALT and absentmindedly rotated it in his hand.

“Sir?”

“Yes. Yes. Kidnapping.” He set the salt container on the table. “This flies in the face of interagency cooperation. If we’re running our own op and not coordinating with DEA, it’s just bad. So let’s do it right. Keep DEA in the loop.”

“And just how are we going to do that?” Vail asked. “We have no contact on the case other than Yardley. I don’t even know if Sebastian is still working it.”

“He is. More than that, I don’t know. But the docs have cleared him for duty as of tomorrow.”

DeSantos pushed his glasses back up his nose. “As soon as you tell Yardley we’re back in, he’ll throw a fit.”

“Let me worry about that. Meantime, work it as a kidnap case, not a drug case.”

“And the difference is?” Vail asked.

“A matter of interpretation. But your objective is to find Robby—Detective Hernandez. It’s not to bring down the cartel. Let the DEA handle that. That should clarify it for you.”

Not really. It’s not always possible to separate one string from a ball of yarn. You pull and yank and the whole thing starts to unravel.

“Start out by letting DEA know about this BetaSomnol thing.”

“Yeah . . . ” Vail said. “Can’t do that. And what I told you has to remain in confidence.”

Gifford threw up his hands. “Karen—”

“I’m sorry. It came from a very sensitive source.”

“This isn’t the way to start off our newly restored relationship with DEA.”

“I think it’s safe to assume the DEA knows all about Cortez’s plans for BetaSomnol.”

“And how is that?”

Vail bit her lip. He’s not going to like this. “Hypothetically. What if I told you that our sensitive source is a DEA agent working the case?”

“Hypothetically, I’d have to say you’re finding new ways to shorten my life. Just when I thought I’d figured out what to expect from you—”

“I got the info, didn’t I?”

Gifford rubbed his face with both hands.

“As soon as you have information you can share with DEA, I expect you to do that. For now, consider Antonio Sebastiani de Medina to be your contact. I’ll have Lenka text you his cell when I get in tomorrow.”

Vail tossed a quick glance toward DeSantos. “I believe we’ve already got it, sir.”

A woman dressed in a clinging violet dress and diamond drop necklace walked up to the table. The stress drained from Gifford’s face like water through a storm drain.

DeSantos rose and nodded at the woman. Vail followed and excused herself.

“Remember what we talked about,” Gifford said. “Both of you.”

“Yes sir,” Vail said. She bowed slightly, as if he were Asian royalty. “Absolutely, sir. You know that whatever you say goes.”

As they moved past the bar, DeSantos leaned close to her ear. “What’s up with that bowing thing?”

“Just trying to make him look important in front of his date. He and I have our moments, but overall he’s a good man.”

DeSantos grinned. “If you were his date, would you have bought that crap?”

“Me?” She chuckled. “Come on.”

They emerged from the restaurant and ascended the steps. DeSantos stopped short and yelled. “Fuck!”

Vail turned to see what he was looking at—or, rather, what he was not looking at. The curb space was empty. His Corvette had been towed.

60

The morning arrived, a welcome occurrence given her futile attempt at sleeping. Earlier in the evening, Vail had spent a few hours with Jonathan, relating an edited version of her adventures in Napa and dancing around Robby’s disappearance by explaining that he was working undercover.

They capped the evening by watching the latest Star Trek movie, during which Vail nursed a glass of bargain-priced Cabernet—a throw-back to her pre-enological education. The inevitable comparison to the fine Napa Valley out-of-her-budget reds that she had recently tasted was a foreseeable disappointment.

Upon climbing into bed, instead of shutting down, her mind up-shifted to a gear in which she had spent too much time lately. Images, thoughts, and ideas zipped and flowed for hours. Mayfield, Fuller, Owens, Lugo, Cannon. Her friendship with Dixon, even Brix. Everyone paid a visit to her thoughts, except the sandman. But ultimately her focus was Robby. Not knowing if he was still alive . . . and if he was, what were they doing to him? She didn’t have to ask the DEA how cartel members treated exposed undercover agents.

At four o’clock, in the desolate silence of the dark night, her pillowcase had absorbed an hour’s worth of tears and needed to be changed. She rolled out of bed, retrieved the new linen, and walked into Jonathan’s room. She sat down on his ottoman and watched him awhile. It was only a short time ago she had done this very thing—in a hospital, hoping to God he would regain consciousness. A huge battle among many in a war she was fighting at the time.

And now, still engaged in that war, just a different theater. Like Iraq and Afghanistan.

Vail grabbed breakfast with Jonathan and Faye, then sent her son off to school while Faye went to visit Vail’s mother at the assisted care facility.

“I saw her before I left for California,” Vail said as she cleared the table. “She seemed to be doing well.” She stopped in front of the sink, a plate in each hand, lost in thought. “As well as someone can be with advancing Alzheimer’s.”

“I’ll tell her you send your love,” Faye said.

Vail shook the funk from her thoughts, then set the dishes down. “Give her a kiss for me, will you?”

Faye’s grin conveyed empathy mixed with pity. She gave the back of Vail’s head a thoughtful stroke. “Of course.”

Vail spent the next hour in her den jotting down all she knew about Robby’s disappearance. It was not much help, but it passed the time until DeSantos picked her up. She slid into his Corvette, which looked no worse for its trip to the impound lot.

DeSantos had summoned two cabs last night, one to take Vail home and the other to bring him to the tow yard.

“Your Vette looks fine,” Vail said as he eased it onto the interstate. “I assume you got it all straightened out.”

“Can we not talk about it?

Vail suppressed a grin. And then her belt vibrated. A text from Dixon.

can u get to a pc with internet?

She wrote back:

yes in about 15 min. K?

“What’s the deal?” DeSantos asked.

“We need a PC with a broadband connection.”

“We can do that. When? For what?”

“Got a text from Roxxann Dixon. Don’t know what it’s about.” Her BlackBerry buzzed again.dea bringing us on board. u and ur partner need to be plugged in. welcome to the dea

She replied and told Dixon they would be ready. “I think we’re being added to a DEA task force.” Another text, this one from Gifford: expect a call. they’ve set up a jtf. pulled strings. u owe me. dont fu.

Vail chuckled.

DeSantos tossed her a sideways glance. “What’s so funny?”

Vail shoved her phone into its holster. “Gifford. He pulled strings, got DEA to set up a joint task force. We’re apparently on it. He told me not to fuck it up.”

“Give me a break,” DeSantos said. “With you on the case, does your boss really think things are going to go smoothly?”

61

A dark-skinned black man who fit the mold of a starting middle line-backer walked into the room. Sporting a shoulder slung beat-up leather messenger bag, unmoving confidence, and three day’s growth of stubble on his face, he dumped his satchel on the table. “I’m the DEA task force coordinator from the San Diego field division.” The man had the type of Brooklyn-specific accent that had faded somewhat with time and place, but still poked through on certain words. He stepped forward, found Dixon first, and extended a hand. “Guido Turino.”

Dixon unsuccessfully suppressed a laugh.

Turino had just clasped her hand. He tightened his grip. Narrowed his eyes. “You got a problem with something?”

Dixon looked down at their conjoined hands, then at Turino. She squeezed back, matching his strength. “Just wondering. Is Guido your real name?”

“My unit calls me Guy.”

“Seriously. Guido? I mean, that was a joke we had growing up. You know, somebody screwed you over, you’d threaten to send Guido after him.”

Turino cocked his head. “What are we in, junior high?”

Dixon pulled her hand away, then dipped her chin. “You’re right. I apologize. I haven’t had a whole lot of sleep. It’s been a tough couple of weeks. I’m a little giddy.”

Turino eyed her a moment, then nodded. “Then I suggest you find an empty room and get some rest.” He turned to the others. “We got a lot of work to do. Best we get down to it. First, I need to know who all of you are so I can match names in my file with faces.” He nodded at Dixon. “The tired, ditsy blonde. You are?”

Dixon clenched her jaw. What the hell, she deserved that. “Roxxann—”

“Dixon. Yeah, got it. And who’s Redmond Brix?”

“Redd is fine,” Brix said. “And that’s Burt Gordon and Austin Mann.” He indicated each with a quick nod.

Turino folded his arms across his thick chest. “I’ve been briefed on everything that’s gone down. The Mayfield thing, the Georges Valley AVA board stuff, Superior Mobile Bottling, and Guevara. You people’ve done a good fucking job on all that.” He frowned a moment at Dixon, still registering his disappointment with her, and said, “You should all be commended. And it makes me feel good that I’ll be working with all of you. Gets under my goddamn skin when I have to work with a bunch of rooks.” He threw back the flap of his bag, reached in, and extracted a thick file folder. Held it up and said, “I’ve got all your reports here, and some classified reports from our deep cover op.”

“You got copies for us?” Dixon asked.

“No. It’s deep cover. You got questions, I may be able to answer them. If something’s relevant, I’ll let you know. And that’s where I’m gonna start, if that’s okay with you.”

Dixon set her jaw. “Just so we’re clear, Guy. I’m the lead investigator of this task force. So if I ask a question or make a request, I do expect you to make sure we have what we need to make correct and prudent decisions. We’re all professionals, and we’re all on the same side here. The information shared in this room stays in this room.”

Turino sucked on his upper teeth. “I assume that doesn’t include the documents you left on the table in this here room, the one the Crush Killer stole right from your own house.”

Dixon felt her blood pressure building.

But it was Mann who spoke. “I completely understand your need to protect your assets undercover. If I was the guy with my balls on the line, I’d want a hard-ass like you protecting it. But there’s a certain level of trust we need here if we’re going to work together. That’s not an ATF thing, a DEA thing, or a Napa County sheriff thing. It’s just common sense.”

“I’m glad we’re getting all this out in the open. Better that way. And like you said, Roxxann: Let’s be clear. We’re all on the same team, and I trust you people. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. But Operation Velocity is an extremely sensitive op spanning two continents and five countries, and might be on the verge of costing one of our men his life. So excuse me if I offend some of you. I’ll take what you said under consideration. But you have my word: I’ve been doing this a long time, and I have a real good feel as to what’s necessary information to release and what’s not. I’ll make sure you have what we need to find Task Officer Hernandez.”

Dixon, Mann, Gordon, and Brix shared looks. None of them had anything to say, so Turino opened his file and splayed it open.

Dixon’s phone buzzed. Text from Vail. They were ready. “Hold up,” Dixon said. “We’ve got Karen Vail and Hector DeSantos joining us by teleconference. Any of you know how to work that RoundTable thing we used the other day?”

“I got it,” Mann said. He settled himself in front of the laptop that sat in the middle of the conference table, made sure they were logged into Live Messenger, then started the RoundTable device. “Are you there? Karen?”

Vail—and a male figure—appeared on the laptop and on the projection screen. On Vail’s computer, she would see each of their likenesses strung along the bottom, with the person whose voice was loudest taking the top position as an enlarged image.

“Hi everyone. Long time no see. This cool-looking dude to my right is Hector DeSantos.”

A sad-sounding chorus of grunts and greetings issued forth from the various task force members.

“Special Agent Guy Turino’s joined us. DEA.” Dixon knew that if she introduced him as Guido, Vail would likely have some smart comment—and Dixon already regretted subjecting Turino to that once.

“You logged on at a good time.” Turino turned away from the screen and said, “All right. Picking up where I left off. This is a DEA operation, so DEA runs the show. We appreciate the cooperation of your respective agencies and we’ll do our best to make sure everyone’s kept in the loop. You’re now officially federal TFOs—task force officers. As federal agents, you’ll be able to carry your sidearms across state lines and we’ll have jurisdiction to conduct our business.”

Turino looked at the RoundTable camera telescoping up from the table surface and said, “Obviously, Vail and DeSantos, you don’t have to worry about that.” He reached into his file folder and spoke as he dug through some papers. “Because of Superior Mobile Bottling and Cesar Guevara’s involvement, this area’s been an important focal point for us—and might continue to be so.”

Brix had a can of Coke Zero in front of him. He twirled it slowly as he spoke. “Since we’re all being honest with one another, I’d like to throw something out on the table. With DEA San Diego coordinating Sebastian’s and Hernandez’s op, isn’t it safe to say they wanted to be sure we’re all on the same page, that they don’t want us poking around without their knowledge? Seems to me, Guy, the easiest way to make sure they know what we’re doing is by bringing us under your thumb. We’re happy because we’re part of the team, but in reality, you’re just keeping us busy.”

Turino scraped an open hand across his stubble. “I’m going to respect your intelligence, Redd. So the answer would be yes. And no. ‘No’ because I got better things to do with my time than be a baby-sitter. So yeah, they don’t want you poking your dicks in places that could fuck things up. But this’ll be an active, working task force. And because I’m in charge of it, you can bet your last dollar we’re gonna be at the epicenter of anything that goes down. That good enough for you?”

“Absolutely,” Dixon said with a glance at Brix.

Turino found the document he was looking for and set it in front of him. “Now then. I haven’t had a whole lot of time to put stuff together for this task force, but its goals and objectives are pretty damn clear. First off, it’s my job to get you up to speed on a few things you’ll need to know about the drug trade and how these cartels operate. One or two of you may know some of this stuff, but you won’t know all of it, so I’m going to go through it because I think the answer of where we focus our efforts is right here.”

He glanced down at what was apparently his outline. “So. Illicit Drug Trade 101. Running the show these days are Mexican drug trafficking organizations. You’ve heard ’em called cartels. We also call ’em DTOs. Bottom line is, no matter what we call ’em, they were a big problem and have become a huge problem. They’ve set up shop in 230 U.S. cities, and are now expanding into suburbs and rural areas.

“To put this in perspective, in the past three years, Mexico’s had over 18,000 drug-related murders. And the violence has started spilling onto U.S. soil. So let’s go through how these DTOs get their drugs into our country. California ports of entry are the cartels’ equivalent to an interstate highway that runs from Mexico into the U.S. The Arizona and Texas borders are just about as problematic. In California, Mexican cartels typically enter at or between the six land ports of entry along the U.S.-Mexican border: Andrade, Calexico East, Calexico West, Otay Mesa, San Ysidro, and Tecate.” He pointed at the map, beginning west at San Ysidro and moving east toward Calexico.

“You got the obvious, stuff you’ve probably been briefed on at some point: trucks and cars bringing the shit in, hidden away in secret compartments. These cartels are extremely motivated and very wealthy, so they find all sorts of ways to get their stuff across the border. Spend a day at any port of entry along the border with Customs and Border Protection officers, and you’ll see what I mean. Underneath the carriage, inside the dashboard, in the engine compartment, embedded in the seats, the tires. Name any part of a vehicle, we’ve probably seen it rebuilt or hollowed out and filled with drugs.

“Then you got drug mules, which you might’ve heard about. The cartels pay these people to carry drugs inside their bodies, in sausage link type packaging they swallow and then crap out when they get across. That is, if it doesn’t burst and kill ’em before they reach their target. Or they carry the shit strapped to their bodies, in huge backpacks, across the desert or through the mountains. Real rough terrain. A lot of ’em don’t make it. A lot of ’em do. May I?” He pointed at the large map hanging on the wall near the window.

“Go for it,” Dixon said.

“You got a U.S. map?”

“Flip it. Third one down.”

Turino did as instructed and found the chart he needed. He pulled a pen from his pocket and slapped the point against the map. “A majority of the illicit drugs coming into the U.S. are now crossing over the Arizona border. Right here.” He indicated an area south of Tucson. “Problem is most of this border is wide open. No rivers or other natural barriers. Checkpoints only in the larger cities or along the major highways in and out. Actually, a lot of the border only has chicken-wire fencing, if that. Maybe sensors. But that’s it. The border’s more heavily regulated in bigger towns, so the mules take the routes of least resistance. Makes sense.” He glanced up. “Any questions?”

“Yeah,” Brix said. “How much are we talking about? I mean, so you got some poor guy you’re paying to ferry drugs across the desert or on a plane. How much is he really gonna be able to carry, inside or outside his body?”

“Limited only by their imagination. Backpacks if they’re coming across land. If they’re coming on foot through a port of entry, or even on a plane, they’ll stuff it in their underwear, their bras, or strap it to their bodies. They wear oversize clothing or baggy jeans to conceal it. Typically, a mule can hold up to 800, 900 grams, and maybe even a little more. They pack the coke into wax-coated condoms that the mule then swallows. Sometimes they use large capsules—10 to 20 grams per capsule, depending on the person. They practice swallowing large grapes whole until they can get 50 to 70 of them into their bodies. They ingest them prior to boarding the plane or crossing the border, then crap ’em out at the other end. But the measures we’ve got in place at airports—scanners, dogs, X-rays—nab a lot of ’em. Like I said, though, the capsules or condoms sometimes open and these people have gotta be rushed to a hospital for emergency surgery. A lot of ’em OD and die.”

Dixon asked, “How much do they get paid for that?”

“Not a whole lot. Two to three grand, maybe even less.”

“And what does it net the cartel?” Gordon asked.

Turino bobbed his head. “Twenty to twenty-five grand. Per kilo.”

Vail piped in through the speaker. “How much can they carry outside their bodies?”

“That’s a much bigger issue, from a law enforcement point of view. The land-based border. You might not believe it, but like the rest of us, they also ship their products in FedEx and UPS packages. Then you’ve also got trucks, tractor trailers, and containers. Not to mention maritime—boats, fishing trollers—”

“They’re also using submarines,” DeSantos said.

Turino pointed at the RoundTable screen. “Yes. That’s a fairly recent thing. Semi-submersible vessels. But a far more dangerous threat, because of the volume they can move, is subterranean tunnels. It’s a trick they borrowed from Hamas in Gaza. These tunnels can be anything from large diameter PVC pipes to well-engineered concrete structures equipped with electricity, ventilation, and rails for moving mining-type carts. Bad news is our GPR—ground penetrating radar—can’t find these tunnels unless they’re right below the surface, and they’re usually much deeper than that.

“But by far, most of the drugs coming into the U.S. flow across the Arizona and California borders. San Diego’s particularly bad, with San Ysidro and Tijuana leading the way. Ciudad Juárez/El Paso is another hotspot that’s gotten a lot worse and more violent lately. There aren’t any rivers to cross in these areas, so it’s an ideal place to transport your load into the U.S.”

“Isn’t this whole goddamn thing simple supply and demand?” Brix asked. “I mean, we’re a big part of the problem. If we’d stop buying this shit, the cartels would be out of business.”

“Good luck with that one,” Mann said, almost a grumble.

Turino nodded his head animatedly. “Exactly right, Redd. The U.S. is one of the largest consumers of illicit drugs in the world. And 90 percent of the coke entering the U.S. from Colombia comes in through Mexico. That’s why the Mexican cartels there have become so much of a problem for us.”

He stepped up to the U.S. map he’d pulled. “Take a closer look at the border regions we talked about a minute ago.” Tipped his head back, found an area, and pointed a finger. “A lot of it is reservation land. And that’s been a big fucking problem for us. Because a criminal band of Native Americans facilitate the drug trade.”

“Native Americans? How’s that work?” Mann asked.

“Pretty damn well, actually. You got mostly barbed wire along the reservation’s border with Mexico. Not much of a deterrent—especially if you’ve got willing partners on the other side of the wire. And the smugglers are most definitely willing partners.”

“Unbelievable,” Gordon said.

“Gets better.” Turino pressed a finger against the map. “See this here? The Tohono O’odham Nation territory has been a longtime problem for us. It’s huge,” he said as his hand traced the almost circular shape of the land, which covered a substantial portion of the Mexico/Arizona border. “Roughly the size of the state of Connecticut, 2.8 million acres.”

“The size of Connecticut?” Vail asked over the speaker. “This is reservation land within the state of Arizona?”

“Right. And they’ve got only about eighty cops to cover nearly 3 million acres. You can see the problem. Mules can literally drive up to the border in trucks and hand over kilos of drugs across the barbed wire fence. Cartel-backed criminal bands of Native Americans take the handoff and drive it to their buildings for storage before it’s transported into Tucson or Phoenix in a stolen van. The locals like it because they get a thousand bucks or more per load. It’s good money and a lot of ’em are unemployed.”

Dixon blew air out her lips. “What are you guys doing about it?”

“We’ve beefed up our presence. The smugglers use radios with rolling codes and watch Border Patrol with night vision equipment so they can see when it’s clear for them to move their loads. Border Patrol’s countered with trucks outfitted with infrared cameras that can detect heat signatures. Bottom line, the land’s in danger of turning into a militarized zone. But even with that, last year alone was a record year. Over 160 tons of marijuana were seized—and that’s only what we caught.”

“Don’t be fooled by marijuana,” DeSantos said. “The people trying to legalize it? Be careful what you wish for. Pot may seem harmless to some, but it’s really the driving force behind the whole illicit drug trade. The cartels use the profit from pot to buy coke in Colombia as well as the ingredients for making meth and heroin.”

DeSantos’s image enlarged as he leaned closer to the webcam. “Take it a step closer to home. Almost half the foreign terrorist organizations—which are involved in investigations with a validated terrorist link—have ties to the drug trade and are responsible for our country’s illicit drug supply. Groups like the FARC, the AUC, and the ELN in Colombia. And the proceeds from drug trafficking end up with groups like Hezbollah and Hamas. So in a perverse way, like Detective Brix said, the American drug user is the single largest funder of terrorism in the Western Hemisphere.”

“Drugs aren’t the only problem with these cartels,” Turino said. “People. Lots of human smuggling, too.”

There was a collective sigh from the task force. They leaned back in their seats, sensing the enormity of the situation. Everyone in the room had been briefed at one point or other about some aspect of the war on drugs. But Turino’s presentation, and the fact that it was hitting close to home, made it suddenly more real—and overwhelming in scope.

“Biggest problem is that once they get these drugs into the United States, no matter how or where, they’re transported on our freeways—Interstates 5, 8, 10, 15, 19, 805—they link the southwest smuggling routes to drug markets throughout the United States.”

“I’m beginning to reassess my view of whether or not we can win the war on drugs,” Mann said.

“Can’t think of it that way,” Turino said. “Every operation is a battle. You grab up a bad guy and take a kilo of coke off him, that’s one less kilo of coke going into your child’s nose. Or vein. That’s how we do it. One battle at a time. I’ve devoted my life to it.”

“You mentioned Operation Velocity,” Dixon said. “What is it, who’s running it?”

“It’s a DEA op. We’ve got plans in place for a nationwide sweep that’ll involve the Mexican military, FBI, ATF, and ICE. If our recent estimates are anywhere near reality, we think we should be able to take a shitload of drugs out of circulation. A couple thousand pounds of meth, two to three thousand kilos of coke, dozens of pounds of heroin, tens of thousands of pounds of high-potency marijuana. And that doesn’t even include the weapons we’ll get off the street. If all goes as planned, we figure we’ll be able to grab up between two and three thousand traffickers, cartel members, and money launderers.”

“Two or three thousand?” DeSantos asked.

“A lot of ’em in Mexico, but several hundred here in the States, too. It’s one of the most important ops in DEA history, so we gotta make sure all goes as planned. We can’t afford any fuckups. Sebastian—Agent Sebastiani de Medina—was playing a key role in opening up avenues to drugs, traffickers, and money launderers we didn’t even know existed. It looked like TFO Hernandez was going to get us in close to the part of the operation we hadn’t yet penetrated. We’ve done a quick and dirty assessment, and as far as we can tell, the op hasn’t been compromised.”

“Speaking of Robby,” Vail said, “where do you suggest we start looking for him?”

DeSantos’s phone sang a whale song. “Excuse me.” He reached down and turned away from the webcam.

Turino sucked on his front teeth a moment, then turned back to the map. He folded tattooed arms across a hairy chest peppered with gray. “I’m not sure there’s a good answer to that. We’ve really got nothing to suggest it’d be any one of a hundred different potential hot spots.” He studied the map some more.

“I think we should go to San Diego,” DeSantos said, cell phone still in hand. “I just got a call from one of my . . . people. There’s been a tremendous amount of cartel activity out of San Ysidro the past year and a half. Assassinations, kidnappings, beheadings. And Carlos Cortez’s main residence is in a San Diego suburb. My guy says that’s where we should look first. His house.”

“Good enough for me,” Vail said. She nudged DeSantos in the arm. “Can you get us on the next flight out?”

“We don’t have time for that.” DeSantos leaned forward, which distorted the features of his face and nearly shifted him off-screen. He lifted Vail’s telephone handset, then tucked it between his neck and shoulder. “Let me see if I can scare up a military transport. Or—” he lowered the receiver and said, “Turino. You guys get confiscated shit all the time.” He lifted his cell phone and started to press keys. “You’ve gotta have a jet. I’ll give Yardley a call—”

“No need,” Turino said. “We picked up a Lear 60XR during a raid last year. A real beauty. Find yourself a pilot and you’re good to go. If you fly it right, you’ll probably make it without a refueling stop.”

“Probably?” Vail asked.

“We’ve used it a few times for stuff like this,” Turino said, passing over her comment. “Very easy on the department’s budget.”

“Don’t need to search too hard for a pilot,” DeSantos said. “You’re looking at one. If you can give Yardley a shout to alert the ground crew, we’ll see you in a few hours.”

Vail reached forward and their screen went dark.

Mann logged off the teleconference session.

Turino folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heels. “I saw in your file that you’ve been working with the Napa Special Investigations Bureau on the Crush Killer case.”

“Right,” Brix said. “NSIB provides support and overflow investigative functions, but their main purpose is narcotics investigation and enforcement. As soon as we were informed about Superior Mobile’s operation, I alerted them.”

“Before I left the office to come here,” Turino said, “we got a call from them. I’d like to have two of you consider staying behind, working with NSIB to monitor the status of César Guevara and Superior Bottling. You’d be our liaisons.”

“You sure?” Dixon said. “That leaves us a bit thin.”

“With Vail and DeSantos on board, we’ll be fine. For a mobile unit, it’s easier logistically to get around.”

Brix turned to Dixon. “Your call.”

Dixon’s eyes canted toward the ceiling as she leaned back in her chair. “Redd, you and Burt. Stay here, coordinate with NSIB and DEA.”

Brix and Gordon indicated their agreement with her decision.

“Okay then,” Turino said. “We’ve got a lot to do before our colleagues from Quantico arrive. And we’ve gotta get down south, too.” He flipped his folder closed. “Redd, see if you can get us booked on a flight down to San Diego. Everyone else, do you have go packs in your trunk?”

Mann did, the others did not.

“Fine. Pack a bag for three days and meet back here in one hour. No later.”

Brix pulled out his cell. “I’ll get us some transportation to the airport, too.”

Turino lifted the handset of the conference room phone. “See you all in an hour, sharp.” He twisted his wrist, stole a look at his watch, and said, “Let’s do it.”

PART 3

ACCELERATION

A puddle of urine covered one corner of the bare cement floor. Across the room, the captive lay curled in a ball to conserve heat. His thoughts were confused, his brain devoid of the necessary fuel to keep the mind churning out the impulses that fired neurons and formed images. Two days without food or water would do that to you. Especially when coupled with what he had endured during that time.

The duress his body had been subjected to was equal to techniques the CIA had used in the farthest reaches of Afghanistan and Iraq during wartime. He had the scars to prove it—emotional as well as physical.

Roberto Umberto Enrique Hernandez was a man of the law. That’s what he kept telling himself. Though he was determined to withstand anything his captors could put forth, the truth was, he had no choice. And he knew it. But accepting the abuse and succumbing to it were two different things. He needed to find a way out, and if there was one thing he had in abundance, other than pain, it was time to ponder potential escape scenarios. Yet nothing of practical value had come to him. And no opportunity had presented itself.

Undercover work was new to him. He knew about it from his everyday work as a detective, but that kind of exposure was like reading how to fire a gun versus actually holding one in your hands, pulling the tension from the trigger, locking your shoulder, and sending the projectile hurtling through the air toward its target. Some things you could learn from a book. Others required the practical experience of trial and error.

Undercover work, he surmised, was like that. But trial and error in this line of work could get you killed.

He was given a private crash course with a retired undercover before leaving for California, but sitting in a room in a briefing is not as efficient as living and learning, experiencing and absorbing over a period of time—a break-in period of sorts.

But he did not have that luxury. He knew the type of people he would be facing: the kind he encountered growing up in a Los Angeles neighborhood that was as far removed from Beverly Hills and Hollywood as is a minnow from a shark on the evolutionary chain.

Robby’s drive to succeed, to excel in life and in his career, had brought him to this place. There was no one to blame—not even himself. If presented with the same opportunity tomorrow, he would seize it without reservation.

Unfortunately, at the moment, contemplating his next assignment was problematic. That was getting ahead of himself. At present, he needed to focus on finding a way to survive, of getting out of here alive.

THE RUSTED METAL DOOR cracked a few inches and a bar of light fell across the urine puddle. Robby rolled his eyes upward—not expending the energy to raise his head—and wondered what they had planned for him.

A large man stood at the door—he had earlier told Robby his name was Ernesto “Grunge” Escobar. Robby easily had six inches on the guy, but their weight was roughly the same. While Robby was lithe and muscular, this guy was square and thick. Escobar’s job was apparently to make sure no one got the upper hand while in his custody. And in his current state, Robby was not much of a threat to anyone.

Escobar was the one who had inflicted the damage to Robby’s body and mind. He had learned his techniques somewhere, Robby surmised. But that knowledge didn’t make the pain any less intense, the torture any more humane.

“Hernandez,” Escobar said. “Let’s go. Up.” He folded his broad forearms across his chest and waited for Robby to drag his left leg in toward his body, followed by his right. He then rolled onto his side and summoned his remaining strength to push up his torso.

“Food,” Robby said in a low, frail voice. “Water.”

Escobar stood there, looking down at his captive. At some point in the next second, he must have brought his leg back—Robby didn’t see it—but he sure felt it. Boot to the face. Again. It lifted Robby off the ground and launched him into the adjacent wall. And that’s where he lay when the lights went out.

63

Vail and DeSantos had been granted a prime flight path and made excellent time with nary a drop of fuel to spare. DeSantos, chewing hard on a piece of Wrigley’s, kept fobbing off her comments about what they had left in the tank, usually with a joke that left Vail more frustrated.

But he seemed at ease, so she finally realized that if it was an issue, he would not only tell her but would be concerned himself. It was only when the low fuel warning sounded that the anxiety rose up in her throat like a bacteria-infested meal. He then explained he had to come in empty because of the maximum landing weight the regional airport required.

“Is that really true?” Vail asked as the wheels screeched against the runway pavement of San Diego’s Montgomery Field.

DeSantos guided them toward their slot. “Yes and no. I could’ve stopped somewhere and put in a couple thousand pounds of fuel, but would you have wanted to waste another hour?”

Of course not. That’s not a fair question to ask when Robby’s life is at stake.

“Didn’t think so,” DeSantos said with a wink. “Sometimes you just gotta trust me, Karen.”

“I think I just did, with my life.”

“Not really. With only us and no payload, I figured we’d be fine. I’m a bright guy. Time you started giving me some credit.”

Vail rolled her eyes, then unbuckled her belt.

“Hey, Sammy got us this lead. And you wouldn’t have met Sammy if it wasn’t for me. Right?”

I think for now I’m going to reserve judgment on just how good this lead is.

They were ushered into the terminal, where Dixon, Turino, and Mann were waiting.

Turino shook hands with his new task force members and they started moving toward the parking lot. He pushed open a door and led them through a hallway. “I got us some wheels from the DEA field division office. Because of who we’re dealing with—and since we don’t know what to expect—SWAT’s been alerted and has been working up a breach plan. They’re prepared to rendezvous with us one mile from Cortez’s house.”

“Any indication he’s there?” DeSantos asked.

“SWAT’s had ‘eyes on’ since we first called. No activity.”

Mann pushed through a set of doors. “That would’ve been too easy.”

“Let’s not give up on it yet,” Dixon said. “It’s a starting point.”

With Turino—the de facto case agent—driving the DEA’s black Chevy SUV, they pulled up in front of a house in the tony beach community of La Jolla—one of the most expensive areas in the nation, with homes topping out at $20 million and averaging a mere $2 million. Unfathomable—and unreachable—to most Americans.

The white oversize SWAT RDV, or rapid deployment vehicle, and black armored Bearcat were parked and waiting. The mission leader—the tactical commander—was standing by his command car. The large double doors of the RDV, a Ford E-450 Super Duty, were swung wide, revealing the utilitarian steel interior and twenty tactical officers—the equation was two men per room—in full garb.

Turino left the SUV to make contact while the others remained in their seats.

“Been awhile since I went on a raid like this,” Mann said. “Hope the asshole’s there. Be a pleasure interrogating shit like him.”

“You’ve dealt with people like this,” Vail said to DeSantos. “What’s your take?”

“Cortez? Long gone. As soon as he got wind Hernandez is a UC, he went into retreat mode. Probably won’t be back here for a while, if ever. He knows we’re looking for him, so finding him’s going to be a challenge. With a huge cache of dough to draw on, I’m sure he’s got some secure, off-the-grid places he can go. Homes owned by a shell corporation or in someone else’s name. Very, very tough to track shit like that unless we can grab up an associate who can give us something. But finding a guy willing to squeal on one of the most violent cartel families ain’t gonna be easy.”

“Even though we’ve issued a BOLO,” Mann said, referring to law enforcement’s Be On The Lookout alert, “guys like Cortez have ways of getting across the border without going through traditional channels.”

Dixon grabbed the seatback and pulled herself forward. “So he could’ve already fled to Mexico.”

DeSantos extracted the package of gum from his pocket. “I’m not sure poking around his house will give us much.”

Through the SUV window, Vail took in the stylish beach homes all around her. “To a trained eye, going through his place could tell us a lot. If we know where to look.”

DeSantos folded a slice of gum into his mouth. “Such as?”

She twisted her lips. “Don’t know yet. I’m a behavioral analyst. I’ve spent my career studying human behavior. I’ve never applied it to something like this, but why the hell not? I’ll see if something hits me.”

Turino came back toward their vehicle. “We’re good to go. Eyes on the house haven’t seen any movement. They did a covert canvass of the immediate neighbors. No one’s seen any activity in days.”

“Since they discovered Robby’s a UC,” Vail said.

Up ahead, several of the SWAT officers hopped onto the Bearcat’s steel exterior skids and prepared to make the short ride to the Cortez estate. Hanging off the sides of the vehicle, they would be ready to deploy the second the Bearcat drew to a stop.

Turino yanked the gearshift into drive. As he pulled away from the curb, following the SWAT vehicle, he said, “They’ll go in first, clear the house. We’ll follow. Anybody got a problem with that?”

“I just hope they don’t destroy anything on the way in,” Vail said. “I need to see everything as Cortez left it.”

“I’ll let ’em know. While they’re watching out for loaded AK-47s poking around the edges of doors, I’ll make sure they wipe their feet so they don’t dirty the carpet.”

Vail smirked. “I meant we need to preserve—”

“I know what you meant.”

Vail felt like cracking Turino across the noggin but thought better of it. Her objective was to find Robby, and at the moment she needed the agent’s assistance.

They approached Cortez’s home, which was on a hill near a country club overlooking the ocean. Vail craned her neck to peer out the window. Beyond the town of La Jolla, which sported white buildings, red tile roofs, and groupings of palm trees, pristine sky blue-tinted water stretched into infinity, sun glinting off its surface.

She pulled her gaze from the window and her Glock from its holster. The others in the SUV followed suit.

The two SWAT vehicles pulled to a hard stop in front of the Cortez estate. Turino brought their Chevy perpendicular to the wide vehicles. Next came two patrol cars, approaching from opposite ends, to block traffic from entering the street. Turino shoved the shift into park.

The SWAT officers leaped from the Bearcat, then fanned out as they neared the white brick structure, MP-5 submachine guns at the ready. A stone fence wrapped around the home, providing a slight but insignificant impediment as the officers scaled it with aplomb.

The mission leader issued hand signals and his contingent took their positions.

The task force followed SWAT toward the house, pistols gripped in both hands, pointed at a 45 degree angle toward the ground. Over the fence and down the slate steps they went, some remaining out front, others taking up a position at either side of the mansion—but they remained along the perimeter and waited to advance until SWAT gave the all-clear. This was SWAT’s show until the structure was secure.

The mission leader checked with his charges. Everyone was in position.

He fisted his hand and rapped on the walnut door. Knock and notice, an “844” in the penal code. Warrant in hand, they didn’t need to be nice about it—just efficient. “San Diego Police with a search warrant demanding entry!”

Another officer tossed two flash bangs away from the team, below the side living room windows. They exploded and lit up the area. The intent was shock and awe—to let the occupants get the sense they were overpowered before they could figure out what was playing out on their front lawn.

Normally SWAT would’ve driven the Bearcat up to the door and used the ram device built into the bumper. But because of the stone wall and uneven terrain of the front yard, they were forced to use a compact battering ram. The mission leader waited a beat, then motioned to the breach specialist, who moved into position, then swung back the weighted device.

Austin Mann’s scream came a second too late, as the officer had already brought the heavy cylinder forward, arcing through the air and smashing into the wood door.

Mann’s “Stop!” was followed a split second later by the concussive force of a thunderous blast. Windows blew out, wood splintered, and bodies flew backward.

Vail charged forward. “Shit!”

DeSantos and Dixon followed, assisting Vail by grabbing the arms of the fallen SWAT officers and dragging them out behind the Bearcat.

“What the hell happened?” Dixon asked.

“They’re alive,” Vail said, checking pulses.

“Officers down,” Turino shouted, the two-way pressed against his ear. “Medics up!” He looked back toward the house. “Goddamn son of a bitch.”

Two Special Trauma and Rescue personnel, kits in hand, hurtled the low wall and immediately began attending to the downed men.

Mann stood there staring at the gaping hole. “I saw it right before they blasted the door open.”

“Saw what?” DeSantos asked.

“Countersurveillance camera.” He threw out a hand, motioning toward the trees. “I thought, could just be good security. But then I turned back to the door. And I saw it, the trip wire. Hard to see from the breacher’s angle, but from where I was, it caught my eye. And in that split second, I thought, shit, the door might be rigged, too. Soon as he busted it open—”

“Sometimes that’s the way shit goes down,” DeSantos said. “Beating yourself up won’t help.”

Mann kicked at a tuft of grass that had been dislodged by their trampling on the lawn. It went flying toward the carnage strewn across the front of the house. “I’m the ATF agent here. Should’ve been first thing on my mind.”

Dixon jutted her chin out, indicating the geared-up men. “Why don’t you get over there, see if they need your help checking the remaining avenues of entry. We still need to get in there.”

Mann grumbled but took her advice, and he started off in their direction.

The thick scent of charred wood mixed with a heavy, gritty sulfur haze made breathing a chore.

Vail brought her elbow up to her mouth and suppressed a cough. Just what I need.

“How are they?” Turino asked.

“Unconscious,” Dixon said, “but alive. As to head trauma, no idea.”

Turino clenched his jaw. “When we catch Cortez, I’m going to take a lot of pleasure in hooking him up.”

Vail started toward the house. “I’m going in.”

DeSantos took two long strides and caught up with her, grabbed her arm. “Hang on, there. Let them clear the place, then we’ll go in. A little extra time isn’t going to matter.”

Vail wrested her arm free. “Every minute we delay could be one minute too long. We’ve no idea what’s happening to Robby. If he’s still alive, they could be pulling the trigger right now.” She looked hard into his gaze. “Or now.” She turned and continued toward the house.

“Jesus Christ, Karen. I’m a cowboy, willing to take all sorts of risks when I’m on a mission. But you’re—you’re just doing dumb things.”

“Really?” she asked, not slowing her stride. “Goddamn it, Hector. What’s wrong with you? If Robby was your partner, you wouldn’t be so cautious and goddamn slow and—and apathetic. Wake the fuck up!”

DESANTOS STOPPED. Vail’s comment was like an ice pick in the eye. A few years ago, his partner, Brian Archer, had been killed during an op they were running on domestic soil. The pain was unrelenting, the thirst for payback as ravenous as parched desert soil awaiting rainfall.

DeSantos bit down hard on his bottom lip. He had not been as emotionally invested in Hernandez’s kidnapping as Vail had been. Not in the same ballpark, the same state. Hell, not even in the same country. He realized now he had largely been going through the motions, treating this as a mission without consequence. A debt to be repaid, nothing more.

Vail’s call to order had done more than she could have envisioned. A comment made in anger roused his memories and rekindled the pilot light that had blown out long ago.

Since Brian’s death, he had been sleepwalking through life. His wife, Maggie, had tried telling him numerous times that his life had lost purpose. Lost passion. But he wasn’t in a position to listen. To hear her. As her pleas morphed into complaints that he was no longer attentive to her needs, he edged further away. His emotions had calloused over like a farmer’s well-worn hands. And it was on the verge of destroying his marriage.

It took an FBI profiler, in a fit of anger, to shake him out of his years-long stupor.

He ran forward, toward the house.

64

Vail stopped at the threshold to the front door, the splintered remains of the frame laid bare. She put her hands on her hips and stood there, unable to step inside.

DeSantos came up behind her. “What’s wrong?”

“My son. That’s what’s wrong.”

“Good decision.”

It was Dixon, approaching from the left.

“An impossible decision. But the only one I can make.” She stole a look at her watch. “How long will it take them to clear it?”

DeSantos looked over the expansive structure. “My experience, three floors, lots of rooms . . . could take awhile.”

The SWAT lieutenant, a neatly trimmed Asian whose nametag read “Kye,” came up from behind. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said, “Better if you three waited back there, by the Bearcat.”

“How long,” Vail said, “until I can get in there?”

“To be on the ultra safe side, a couple hours. We’re gonna comb through every nook and cranny with mirrors and fiber optic—”

“We don’t have a couple of hours. Can you do a quick once-over, let me in, then do the comb-through?”

Kye shook his head. “Standard procedure dictates—”

“We’ve got an officer who’s missing, lieutenant.”

“I’m aware of the situation,” Kye said firmly. He keyed his mike, then walked off. “All units, I want . . . ”

“You’re asking a lot of men to risk their lives by rushing,” Dixon said.

Vail glanced over her shoulder at Lieutenant Kye. “I’m sure they won’t do it if it’s not safe, Roxx. They’ve got their procedures, I get that. But we’re dealing with extenuating circumstances here. Time is a luxury we don’t have.”

“I’m with Karen on this,” DeSantos said. “Moving too fast is a risk, yeah. But so is moving too slow.”

Kye returned. “We’re going to clear one level at a time. When we’ve got the ground floor cleared, you can poke around there. When we’ve got the second floor done, you can check that out. Meet with your approval?”

“Thank you,” Vail said. “Appreciate it.”

Twenty-five minutes later, the task force was stepping through the littered debris, across the front door threshold and into an opulent mansion. In the background, Vail heard SWAT officers yelling, “Clear.”

Vail moved through the rooms, taking in the marble statuettes, museum-grade artwork—including a Renoir, a Chagall, a Matisse—and several gold-leaf framed family photos neatly arranged on a living room coffee table. Apparently the blast blew outward and left much of the interior intact. She took her time going through the formal living room, the dining area, the sitting and family rooms, kitchen, pantry . . . it wasn’t often she had the opportunity to see firsthand how the very wealthy lived. But lost in all this beauty was the realization it had all been bought with the proceeds from illegal mind- and life-altering illicit drugs.

Vail was the first of the task force to ascend to the second floor. She had just entered the master bedroom when one of the SWAT officers swung his rifle into the doorway and startled her. “Jesus, lady. I damn near shot you.”

“Supervisory Special Agent Karen Vail.” She slowly moved her sweater aside, revealing her badge, which was clipped to her belt. “I thought you were done on this floor.”

“We are now.”

“Anything?”

The man keyed his shoulder-mounted mike and said, “We’re good on two. All clear.” He listened a second, then said, “Roger that.” To Vail, he said, “Team’s on three. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for a few days. Mailbox out front stuffed full.”

Vail turned away and continued her analysis. Nothing here that would indicate the owner was anything but a wealthy businessman.

She stepped into the spacious walk-in closet and stood there a moment, taking it in. Dark suits lined both sides of the room, the apparel evenly spaced on the bars. Highly polished shoes resting on an angled display stand. Cedar trees pressed inside each pair, keeping the leather age- and crease-free.

As she stood there, she asked herself, Who is Carlos Cortez? An organized, intelligent, mildly obsessive compulsive man. Does that help me? How?

In the center of the closet, a double rack held more meticulously arranged dress clothing—slacks, sport coats, shirts. Vail riffled through everything, looking for—what? She wasn’t sure.

She knelt down and spied the walls. No safes or hidden compartments she could see. Her entire time in the house, she hadn’t found one useful tidbit. No lead at all.

Dixon located her and stepped into the closet. “Well?”

“His mind is organized. Either he or his wife is into fine art, and they have good taste. He’s intelligent, detail-oriented. He enjoys the wealth he’s accumulated and doesn’t mind spending it.” She thought back to the photos she saw in the living room. “He’s got young children, and they’re important to him. He appears to have a circle of friends—” She stopped and locked on something. What is it? Something about the pictures.

Vail pushed past Dixon and headed downstairs, back into the living room, where Mann was sifting through items in a desk drawer and DeSantos was on his cell phone.

DeSantos covered the handset microphone with a couple of fingers. “I’ve got someone putting together a dossier on Cortez for us. NSA and CIA contacts, I’ve got them searching for any known cartel hideouts, family members, business associates . . . ” He watched her lift the framed photos, examining each one carefully. “Karen? What is it?”

Vail pulled her BlackBerry. She scanned through the call history. Shit. Not here. Dialed information. “I need the phone number for the Microsoft corporate campus.”

Dixon said, “What do you see?”

Vail handed her the framed photo. “Get the picture out of here. And keep your fingers off the surface.”

Dixon took it and flipped it over, then dug a fingernail into the brown paper backing.

“Yes,” Vail said, “please connect me.” She waited a moment while the phone rang, then said, “This is Karen Vail with the FBI. I need to talk with someone in the Office division; we’ve worked with a guy who handled security stuff.” She turned to Dixon. “The guy Eddie knew, the one who helped identify Mayfield—”

“Tómas,” Dixon said.

“His name’s Tómas,” Vail said into the phone.

“You think they can help us with this photo?” Dixon asked.

“Worth a shot.”

“No—no,” Vail said into the phone. “I can’t wait. Is there anyone else on his team I can talk with? I’ve got a picture of some violent criminals and I need to see if someone can tell me where it was taken. And I don’t have a lot of time.” She listened, then said, “Sure, that may work.” While on hold, Vail called Mann over.

“What’s up?”

Vail rotated the handset away from her mouth. “Those Mayfield photos you sent over to Microsoft. How did Tómas figure out where they were taken?”

“He said he analyzed stuff like textures, lines, vegetation, topography. Then he compared it to some database.”

Seconds later, a woman’s voice came on the line. “Athena Hu.”

Vail nodded at Mann, then turned her attention to the call. “Athena, this is Karen Vail, FBI. A few days ago we worked with a colleague of yours on a case, and I’ve got another photo here I think will give us some important clues as to where a kidnapped law enforcement officer’s being held. Your guy analyzed some photos based on textures, lines, vegetation, that sort of thing. He then compared that to some kind of database.”

“Sounds like he used the Flickr GPS-tagged database. Can you email me the photo?”

Vail took the picture from Dixon, who was holding it by the edges. “It’s not digital, but I guess I can have it scanned.”

“That’ll work. Make sure you scan it at a decent resolution.” She gave Vail the email address, and Vail gave Athena her contact info.

“As soon as you’ve got something—a man’s life depends on it.”

“Do my best.”

Vail disconnected the call, then spun around. Facing her were DeSantos and Mann.

“Can they help?” Mann asked.

“We need to get this photo to the DEA field division ASAP.” As Vail spoke, Turino walked through the door. “I assume you have a scanner at your office?”

Turino’s brow bunched. “We do. But why—”

“I’ll explain on the way over.”

On the ride back, Vail told Turino that cutting-edge digital photo analysis could determine where in the world a particular picture was taken. It was highly accurate—but a bit of a crapshoot on Vail’s part. The photo showed Cortez with two buddies mugging for the camera, Dos Equis bottles in their hands, shirts off, looking as if they were having a stellar time. But the background was what Vail was interested in. She would also send the image to the FBI for analysis of the other men in the photo in hopes that could generate other leads: known accomplices, people they could track down and interview.

They arrived at the San Diego field division, a modern three-story structure with a solitary American flag flying by its front entrance. Outside, there was no DEA sign proudly displayed, no seal or any indication that it was a building where vital government business was transacted.

Vail and the task force entered and passed through the X-ray scanner. They surrendered photo ID and were cleared to take the elevator up to the third floor. While waiting for the car to arrive, Vail noticed the sign on the wall behind the security guard: they were in the Enrique “Kiki” Camarena building.

Within minutes of entering the field division facility, Vail was in the command center, a cavernous room on the third floor replete with high-tech gadgetry: along the side walls were computer stations, while the front stage was fitted with an outsize rear projection screen, sliding white boards that rode in vertical side tracks, and a Windows PC designed to project PowerPoint presentations and pictures to those in attendance.

Vail set the photo down on the scanner and watched the bright white light pass beneath its surface, turning analog colored ink and paper to digital ones and zeroes. A moment later, the jpeg image was on its way to Athena Hu at Microsoft.

And then Vail was pacing the hall, like a 1950s expectant father waiting for word of his child’s birth.

But Vail was hoping for the birth of something far different: a lead they could pursue hard, and fast. Something that would bring her closer to finding Robby.

65

Robby awoke to the sickly sour scent of rotten eggs. Not rotten eggs—sulfur. Why? He didn’t know, and in his current state, it did not matter. He had greater concerns. But before he could consider those issues, he drifted off again.

Sometime later, Ernesto Escobar knelt in front of him. A large gleaming silver pistol with a diamond-encrusted handle caught a crack of light and sparkled off the black of Escobar’s eyes. His captor made an exaggerated point of displaying the handgun, its power inherent and unspoken, a method of control as effective as a set of handcuffs.

The naps had done Robby good. He glared at Escobar, a newfound defiance etched in the tight set of his jaw.

“You probably don’t know it,” Escobar said, “but you are a fortunate man. If it were up to me, you’d have been killed days ago. We usually behead traitors like you. Then we cut up your body and cook it in acid. I’ve done it in the reverse, too. Cook you in acid, then while you’re screaming in unbelievable pain, I slice off your head with a machete.”

Robby frowned. “I got what you meant when you said you’ve done it in reverse.”

“It’s called levanton,” Escobar said, ignoring Robby’s comment. Apparently Escobar felt that using its official name would make it seem more real. He shifted his weight left and pulled a long, thick machete from a scabbard along his right thigh. The silver gleamed except for a red smear that coursed the blade.

Robby kept his face impassive, his gaze riveted to Escobar’s, refusing to direct his eyes to the weapon. He was not going to give his captor any ground in this escalating war of nerves.

Escobar leaned back, appraised Robby, and smiled. Then he pressed the knife’s edge against Robby’s cheek, brought it down swiftly and drew a bead of blood. “I’m looking forward to doing levanton on you.”

Although the pain was searingly sharp—the nerve endings in his face were already hypersensitive because of the beatings Escobar had inflicted—Robby did not flinch.

Escobar tilted his head, appraising his prisoner’s lack of response. His eyes narrowed, no doubt in frustration and anger. If there was one thing Robby was able to draw upon from all that Vail had taught him about psychopathic killers, it was the issue of control. And Robby was not going to accede any to Escobar by giving him the fear he expected and wanted—no, needed.

“Because of your attitude,” Escobar said, “I will do it in reverse. Cook you first, then cut off your head. What do you think?”

Robby grinned. The broadening of his face opened the cut wider, and the blood trickled across his lips, into his mouth. He licked it, brought his eyes level with Escobar’s, and said, “I think, Ernesto, that you are a coward who needs big guns and knives and whips to take me on. Because without all that, I’d wipe the walls with your pinche ass.” He made a quick move with his head toward Escobar, who recoiled. “So enjoy your advantage, asshole. Because to me, you’re just a piece of shit.”

Escobar looked down at his knife, tilted it, and examined it as if for the first time. “You think you are a brave man, talking like that. But we will see, won’t we? Because in the end, you’ll just be a pile of bleeding, burning flesh.”

“I may not survive to have my revenge,” Robby said. “But I guarantee my friends will hunt you down. And you will pay for whatever happens to me.”

Escobar laughed. “Your police buddies? I’m shivering in my boots, amigo. If that’s the best you’ve got, I’m disappointed.” He rose from his crouch, walked to the door, and knocked. “Coming out.”

It swung open and Escobar disappeared into the bright sky. The door slammed shut and Robby was, once again, alone. “Not just police,” he said under his breath. “Karen Vail. You know not the wrath you have wrought.”

66

The hour passed like honey dripping from a spoon. Outside, the sky was beginning the changeover to dusk. As the clock ticked beyond 6:00 PM, the fading light was yet another reminder that the day was coming to a close. Vail had made a point of perusing the wall displays in the command center, including the photo array and brass bust devoted to the revered and fallen DEA undercover agent, Kiki Camarena, the building’s namesake. Farther down was a depiction of the decals and logos of the eighteen state and federal agencies that served on the San Diego County narcotics task force.

As the room lights brightened and the sky shaded a deep steel blue, Vail walked into the next room over, the break room, where she grabbed—and downed—a can of Diet Coke. She then paced the hallway, where she fended off Dixon’s attempts to keep her mind focused on other matters. But Vail found it difficult to concentrate on anything other than Robby.

At some point, Mann had ventured downstairs and gotten a status report on the downed SWAT officers. They had suffered moderate concussions and one would likely have a temporary hearing deficit, but otherwise they would fully recover.

DeSantos, after talking with a number of agents and support personnel in the building, now had his sleeves rolled up and was huddled in the corner of the conference room. He seemed deeply committed to working his phone, trying to track down known associates who could provide a lead for them to pursue—some way of narrowing their search in a meaningful manner.

“I’ve left messages,” he told Vail. “We’ll see if anything comes of it.”

“Yeah, well, jury’s still out on the value of Sammy’s lead.”

DeSantos pushed the glasses up his perspiring nose. “You’re a tough person to please, Karen, you know that?”

Vail feigned surprise. “No, Hector, I’ve never been told that before.” A moment later, she apologized. Then she resumed pacing.

When Athena’s call vibrated her belt, Vail startled, then fumbled the BlackBerry as she attempted to answer it.

“Agent Vail, this is Athena from Microsoft. I’ve got some good news for you.”

“I can use some of that.”

“Can’t we all?”

Athena, you have no idea what I’ve been through.

“I’ve run the photo through that Flickr database,” Athena said, “as well as through some new image matching technology called robust hashing that we’ve developed. And I think I’ve got a hit for you.”

“What’s robust hashing?”

“Microsoft Research created it for our digital crimes unit to match up signatures, or hashes, in photos. It’s part of our PhotoDNA software, which we developed for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children to help them catch child pornographers. The idea is to match color grading variations between known and unknown photos using a mathematical algorithm. It codes the colorations across the unknown image to establish a specific signature that can then be matched against the signatures in a known database. I took your photo, applied the robust hashing, then cross-referenced that information with Flickr GPS data. And I’ve got something.”

Vail felt her respiratory rate drop precipitously. She wanted to speak but had to force air up through her lungs, scrape the words from her throat. “So where is he—I mean, where was the photo taken?”

“The picture appears to have been taken in a desolate area near San Diego, east of the Cleveland National Forest. Clover Creek, to be exact.”

Vail motioned to Dixon, whose attention had been roused by the phone call. Vail rotated the handset away from her mouth and said, “Clover Creek.”

“There are no maps in here.”

Vail’s eyes searched the room. “The PC,” she said. Dixon moved behind the podium and tapped the touchpad. The screen woke, displaying the Windows desktop. “Hang a second, Athena.” Vail dropped the BlackBerry from her face and walked into the back room, where the projection and audiovisual equipment was located. A technician stood there stacking digital media. “Can you turn on the projector? We need to find a map on the Internet.”

“Sure thing,” the woman said. She moved to a stack of electronic equipment, threw some switches, then followed Vail out to the podium. Dixon moved aside and watched as the woman opened Bing maps and pulled up the bird’s-eye view of San Diego. Behind her, on the large rear projection screen, the countryside appeared.

“Clover Creek,” Vail said to the technician.

The woman typed in the location, then rotated and zoomed, and Clover Creek appeared onscreen.

Vail brought the phone back to her mouth. “Okay, Athena. I see Clover Creek.”

“I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got. If you want, I can continue to work on it, see if there’s someone else here who can refine that a bit more.”

“I’d appreciate that. Anything breaks, call or text me. And thanks for your help.” Vail slipped her phone away while eying the map.

Dixon, who was still examining the region identified by Amanda Hu, pointed at the screen. “Look what we’ve got here.”

Vail stepped closer and the bold print nearly hit her like a poke in the eye: three Indian reservations—Mesa Grande, Los Coyotes, and Clover Creek. Given what Turino had told them about some reservations serving as drug trafficking portals, the text didn’t need to be highlighted. It jumped from the screen.

“Hey, look at this,” Dixon said to Mann and DeSantos, who were huddled against the far wall, looking at a display case of Challenge Cup trophies won by the field division.

Before they could move, the command center door swung open with a whisk of air. A clean-cut mid-forties man rushed in holding a sheaf of papers. “Which one of you is Agent Turino?”

“That’d be me,” Turino said from behind the man as he came through the door. “You are?”

“Jack Jordan, NTF. Narcotics task force. I’ve got something you people might be interested in.”

Vail’s heart rate ticked up a notch. “Rob—Roberto Hernandez?”

“No,” Jordan said. “But some definite activity in the area. It’s a bit of a long shot, but Agent DeSantos told us that if we came across something of interest, anything, you people’d want to know.”

“We’re scrambling for leads,” Dixon said. “We’ll look at anything you’ve got.”

Jordan slapped the bundle of papers in his hand. “When the economy tanked and the real estate market collapsed, the flood of foreclosures caused some unwanted side effects. Houses were left empty, abandoned by owners skipping out on their mortgage. Renters lost their jobs and moved out. Home builders suddenly had new houses they couldn’t sell. Bottom line, there are a lot of vacant homes. In some cases, large sections of communities are vacant or abandoned.”

“And an abandoned house anywhere near the border is a haven for illicit drug trafficking,” DeSantos said.

“Exactly.” Jordan stepped up to the map. “And illegal human trafficking. The illegals are smuggled across the border for a fee, usually around a grand, paid by family members in the U.S. But when the illegal gets here, the price jumps to five grand or more, and their loved one is basically held for ransom. The cartels, looking to expand their business model, got into human smuggling several months ago. It’s been a real big problem.”

“How do the houses play into this?” Dixon asked. “They hold the relative there while waiting for the ransom to be paid?”

Turino stepped forward, shaking his head vigorously. “They bring dozens of people across and pack them into what we call ‘drop houses.’ They strip them down to their underwear and beat them, threaten them with pistols. It’s all about control.”

Vail nodded. Exactly.

Jordan said, “They either occupy abandoned homes or they rent ’em out on the cheap from distressed owners who’re happy to be getting something, rather than nothing. The owners have no idea how their house is being used. It’s been a huge issue in Phoenix, and now we’ve got it here.”

“If you know the location of these vacant houses, why don’t you just raid ’em?” Mann asked.

Jordan held up the sheaf of papers, as if that explained everything. “There are literally thousands.”

Vail knew no further explanation was needed for those in the room. Law enforcement was stretched to its limits as it was, and committing substantial resources to search thousands of homes was not feasible. Complicating the matter was that they could check a hundred houses, only to have a cartel move into one of the ones they had just cleared.

“There’s no way to monitor all the homes that go vacant,” Turino said. “And it’s too profitable, so the problem isn’t going away on its own. Some of the cartels have also taken to storing their drug caches in these houses. We’ve found entire marijuana grows and processing factories in several of them.”

Vail’s eyes found the Clover Creek map. A wave of impatience hit her like a blow to the back of her neck. She blurted, “Agent Jordan, you said you had something for us.”

“I do,” Jordan said. “I do. One somewhat effective way of combating this drop house problem is by using surveillance and phone traps. In some cases, judges have denied us, but we kept at it, and finally got one to sign off on a wiretap warrant.”

“You heard something,” Dixon said.

“Oh, yeah. They’ve got a house packed with illegals and one of them is from a family in Carlsbad that’s got some money. Once the cartel found out who they had, they went ape-shit. Lots of chatter starting yesterday afternoon. We picked up on it and dispatched a UC to do surveillance, then got a search warrant. This morning, they seemed to be talking about something else, something bigger. ‘A major asset.’”

DeSantos poked his glasses with a finger and again pushed them up the bridge of his nose. “How good is your undercover? These cartels, they’re wise to that shit.”

“No worries. Our guys are good. They’re out there doing survey work on the road down the block from the house. So we know which one it is. They’ve located two of the phone parties, one at the house and one a few miles away.”

“If it’s illegals, wouldn’t ICE be running the show?” Vail asked, referring to Immigration and Customs Enforcement. “Don’t you need illicit drugs to be involved?”

“We have reason to believe they’re using the garage as a marijuana processing plant,” Jordan said. “ICE has been notified, and they’ll be going in with us. Along with SWAT, who’s been doing their surveillance of the house: they’ve shot aerial photos, assembled a floor plan, sketched out an entry strategy. They’re ready to move. Given the possibility that this ‘major asset’ could be your TFO, I think we should move now, rather than later this evening, when it was planned.”

“I don’t know about this,” Turino said.

“Did I miss something?” DeSantos asked. “This is good shit. ‘A major asset’ could be Roberto Hernandez.”

“Not likely,” Turino said. “I know these cartels. They’re not holding Hernandez for ransom, I can guarantee you that much.”

“But,” DeSantos said, “even if it’s not Hernandez, there could be a cartel lieutenant in there who can be squeezed. Right now, we got nothing. If we rattle the bush . . . ”

“Fact is, there’s no direct evidence Hernandez is being held in that house,” Turino said. “I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

DeSantos pulled up a chair and sat down facing Mann, Dixon, and Vail. “Look. These cartels, they’re like the terrorists I track every day. They talk in code. There’s no way for us to be sure of anything. But this is what the DEA does. In the drug world, there are none better at putting two and two together. And right now Agent Jordan is telling us it’s adding up to four. No guarantees, but I think we’ve got something worth tracking down here.”

“I agree,” Jordan said.

Vail sat down beside DeSantos. “There’s something else. That map,” Vail said, indicating the rear projection screen. “We got a hit on a twenty where that photo was taken, the one we took from Cortez’s house. I asked Microsoft for help and their analysis located it nearby, about an hour from here. There are three Indian reservations: Mesa Grande, Los Coyotes, and—”

“Clover Creek,” Jordan said with a knowing nod. “Makes sense. Lots of rough, desolate terrain. We’ve seen an uptick in smuggling activity there, especially the past ten, eleven months. We’ve gone in and raided some meth labs, but the problems there run a lot deeper.”

“So,” DeSantos said, “we’ve got two potential leads. Both could lead somewhere and both could lead nowhere. But we need to vet both.”

Vail closed her eyes. She couldn’t be in two places at once. “All right. We split up. Some go to Clover Creek, some to this drop house.” She crooked her head toward Turino. “You okay with that?”

“There’s a team ready to move on the drop house, so actually you can all go to Clover Creek.”

“No,” Vail said. “I’ll go with you to the drop house.”

Turino held up a hand in protest. “That’s not necess—”

“We’ll need transportation,” Dixon said, eyeing the map.

“Done,” Jordan said. “Meet me downstairs in the lobby in five.” He grabbed the knob and yanked open the door.

Vail bit down on her lip, then rose quickly from her seat. “Keep me posted, Hector. If you find out anything—proof of life . . . or death—I want to know ASAP.”

DeSantos winked at her. “You’re already on speed dial.”

67

Robby pried open his left eye, then the right. His head—a throbbing mass of pain mounted atop his shoulders—bobbed as he feebly pushed himself upright. He stopped, the pounding worsening as his heart kicked into higher gear to pump against gravity.

Outside the shack—or shed—or wherever he was being held—voices rambled on in Spanish. Anger . . . restrained . . . though now that the headache eased a bit, he realized it was a heated discussion. Not anger, but disagreement.

He rolled slowly onto his knees and crawled closer to the voices. Sat back against the wood wallboard. Listened. His Spanish was fluent—truly a second language—and even in its trampled state, his brain translated on the fly—at least, the parts he could make out.

“Wants him moved—now.”

Second voice, which he could now identify in his sleep: Ernesto Escobar. “I’ll get him.” Jangling of keys, then the metallic click of a tumbler sliding and shifting.

Robby looked up as the door cracked open. A flashlight sliced inward, falling across his face and forcing him to turn away and clamp his eyes closed.

“Up,” Escobar said. “Time to go.”

“Where?” Robby asked, not making any effort to move.

“You’re not in any position to ask questions, amigo.”

Robby couldn’t argue with that. Still, he knew the tenets of safety: when kidnapped, do everything you can to resist at the outset and don’t assume your fortunes will improve. When they had taken him and had a pistol shoved against his head back in Napa, he figured they were more likely to kill him than pour him a glass of water. Resisting at that point was not wise.

But at the moment, in the darkness at least, Escobar had no visible weapon—not the sparkly handgun nor the blood-tinged knife. While neither was likely far from his reach, it was perhaps far enough away—tucked in a belt or a shoulder holster—that Robby might have a split second advantage. Escobar likely felt he had weakened Robby to such an extent that he did not have the strength to resist. That was not far from the truth. But when his life depends on it, a determined human being is capable of mustering energy and resources no one knows he has.

So Robby made an effort to appear slow and uncoordinated as he rolled onto his knees, while positioning himself in such a manner that he could launch himself at Escobar. He’d become a human mass that, hopefully, would strike his captor forcefully enough to hyperextend his knees and cause debilitating pain.

“Let’s go,” Escobar said.

Now on all fours, Robby glanced to his right at Escobar’s shoe tops. It was time.

68

A black SUV ferried the task force, minus Vail and Turino, toward Clover Creek. Meanwhile, in the darkness of a low-income suburban neighborhood devoid of the orange hue of sodium vapor streetlights, Vail joined Turino and the geared-up DEA and SWAT teams in the sally port of the San Diego Police Department’s Broadway headquarters.

Normally DEA ran its own raids, but given the potential level of violence, SWAT had been called in to run the tactical op. As before, once the area was secured, DEA would assume control of the scene and begin its own drug discovery and evidence collection operation. In this case, due to the presence of the illegal immigrants, Immigration and Customs Enforcement—ICE—was invited to join the raid. However, because of the speed with which the warrant was being executed, ICE would be following a short time after SWAT made entry. The ICE commander was not pleased with the decision to move without their concurrent participation, but understood the urgency.

Vail and Turino, traveling in the SUV they’d picked up at the airport, followed SWAT’s Bearcat and rapid deployment vehicle, as well as DEA’s tactical truck.

Wheels hugged asphalt as the vehicles swerved in tandem around tight corners and traversed the miles in the shortest distance between two points—though their trip didn’t involve a crow and the route it flew.

SWAT pulled to a stop at a predetermined location in a parking garage one mile from the house, not far off the 805, near Palm Avenue. Vail was familiar with the procedure. The team would check in with undercover operatives to determine if they still green-lighted the operation—that no unusual activity had been noted—and to confirm that the cartel members they were targeting were still in the house. If the mission was still a “go,” the agents would move in with the speed and thirst of a shark in bloody waters.

Turino sat behind the wheel, his knuckles white, leaning forward in his seat.

“You might want to loosen your grip, Guy, or you’ll squeeze right through the vacuum sealed plastic steering wheel.”

“There’s a lot at stake here. I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing.”

“Robby could be in there. Your agents have had wiretaps in place. We’re moving a few hours early, is all. What’s the big deal?”

Turino hesitated a moment before answering. “The potential for collateral damage is very high. These cartels, they couldn’t give a shit who gets caught in the crossfire.” He craned his head around into the darkness, eyes narrow and face taut. “The halcones make it very dangerous.”

“Halcones. Spanish for . . . ”

Turino’s eyes kept moving. “Cartels rely on a network of street informants. Taxi drivers, bus drivers, storefront owners. Shit, even teenagers. They’re called halcones, or falcons. Their job is counterintelligence, to be the lookout for the arrival of law enforcement. Started in Mexico and it’s spilled onto U.S. streets where the traffickers are operating. If they see us and know we’re headed for their drop house, they’ll either jump ship if there’s time—or deploy for a firefight. When we circle around back, they could be in a neighbor’s yard, waiting to ambush us.”

Vail’s son Jonathan flashed through her mind. She suddenly wondered if she’d made the wrong choice—going to the reservation would’ve been vastly safer. And the DEA team certainly could’ve handled this op without her, as Turino had suggested. Still, if Robby is being held here . . .

Turino tapped the wheel. He leaned forward, spied his colleagues in the truck. “C’mon, guys,” he whispered. “Make a decision.”

A crackle over his radio. “Green. Repeat, green. Ready to execute.”

Turino lifted the two-way from his belt. “Roger that.” He dropped the radio to the seat between his thighs, threw the SUV into drive, and glanced at Vail. “You ready?”

She pulled her Glock and held the cold metal in both hands, gaining strength and comfort from its stopping power. “You heard the man. Ready to execute.”

69

Robby took a deep breath and pushed his left bare foot against the wall of the shed and sprung his body to the right, into Escobar’s thigh. But he lacked strength and there wasn’t sufficient distance to build enough momentum to do any damage. He glanced off the man’s lower leg and fell pathetically behind his captor. Robby was about to reach out and grab, swing, knock—anything rather than be subjected to another boot in the face.

But before he could get hold, the sound of nearby machine gun fire snatched Escobar’s attention. He bolted outside, leaving the wood door swinging on its hinges, unlocked.

Unlocked. Robby crawled forward on his elbows, fought to bring himself to his knees and then to all fours. He moved to the door and lifted his head. The glare from a halogen spotlight blasted his eyes and brought an instant headache. Best he could see—his night vision was now virtually destroyed by the intensity of the radiant beam—he was in the backyard of a house. Homes all around him—a development of some sort.

His internal voice told him to get up, get out, get away.

Machine gun fire, mixed with the rapid staccato of automatic pistols, blared in the near vicinity.

He saw Escobar off to the far left, in shadow. In retreat.

And twenty feet away, two men toting heavy metal weapons moved confidently into the yard, firing from their shoulders.

Robby stumbled forward, out of the shed and onto concrete. The unmistakable odor of cordite stung his nose. He slammed his face against the side of the structure, scraping his skin against the rough grain of the wood siding, his fingers crawling along its edge, trying to keep himself steady, his body erect . . . hoping the rounds zipping by would somehow miss him.

Then the gunfire stopped. But Robby kept moving—until four hands grabbed his clothing, his shoulders, and yanked him back, away from the shed.

“No,” he said feebly. “No—”

70

Shots fired!” the voice blurted over the radio.

Vail grabbed the two-way off Turino’s seat. “Gunfire? From us?” “Negative,” came the filtered, rushed reply.

As they approached the drop house, Vail heard the unmistakable rhythmic drumming of a submachine gun. The SWAT RDV screeched to a stop at the curb. Turino’s SUV followed a second later, its headlights splashing across the tactical van’s sparse white backside. The doors flung apart and officers leaped out, planted, and pivoted toward the house.

Their deployment was far quicker than their mission plans had outlined. Vail was sure their strategies were now being rewritten on the fly.

She was out of the SUV before it stopped moving. The momentum threw her balance off, and she fell back against the car. She quickly regained her footing, then ran toward the fray.

“Karen!” Turino said.

Vail pulled up to the two-story chocolate brown and cream-trimmed stucco house as the mission leader was running a light over the doorframe, checking for signs of booby traps.

“Clear,” he yelled.

Glock in front of her, Vail nudged the man aside and kicked open the door. She was inside before he could stop her.

The interior was nearly dark, but white beady eyes blinked at her from all directions.

“FBI!” she said, her pistol swinging left to right, pointed at the long, drawn faces staring back at her.

An angry mission leader entered, his MP-5 at the ready—in full gear. His tactical light scanned the darkness, showing half-naked men packed shoulder to shoulder, seated on the floor.

Vail shoved her nose into the crook of her elbow to mask the fetid odor of human feces and urine that pervaded what passed as air.

“Jesus Christ,” Turino said as he entered. He quickly ducked out the front door. “Get some lights on in there,” Vail heard him say to an approaching SWAT officer.

“Dondé está el jefe?” Vail yelled into the darkness.

An overhead stairwell light came on.

A mass of humanity sat packed into the living room to the right, the family room to the left, the hallway ahead of her, the staircase twenty feet away—there was no free space in which to walk.

She tried a different question, in English. “Who’s in charge here?”

The faces stared blankly at her. Too weak to respond? Or too afraid. Even though Turino had briefed them on the nature of these drop houses, she hadn’t been prepared for what lay before her.

“Is there anyone here who can answer some questions?” Vail said. Still no response. “You’re not in any trouble. We’re here to help you find your loved ones, to take you away from these people. But you need to tell me where they are.”

No response.

“Do you know their names? The people holding you.”

“Grunge,” a woman’s voice said.

Vail’s eyes frantically scanned the faces, hoping to find the person who had answered. “Grunge,” Vail repeated. “Anyone else? Is there only one of them? It’s important you tell me. If you want us to help you, I have to know.”

“Roger that.” Turino came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. “Out back,” he said by her ear. “You need to see this.”

71

Vail stood in the yard staring at the shed, partially illuminated by the spotlight. The structure measured no more than twelve feet square, but her mind was already manufacturing what might lie inside.

She cleared her throat. “Robby?”

“Come see,” he said, then grasped her arm and led her forward. Shell casings littered the cement everywhere she stepped.

Off to her right, two bodies lay sprawled across the pavement, expansive red puddles beneath them. Carnage from what was likely a fierce gun battle.

Using the barrel of her pistol, Vail pulled on the wood door and opened it. The stench of rotten eggs, urine, and feces struck her nose like a first-degree assault. “Jesus.” She threw her arm up, once again burying her nose in the bend of her elbow. “What is this place?”

Turino handed her a tactical flashlight. “You tell me.”

Vail stepped inside, then swept the bright xenon beam around the interior. An object balled up in the corner grabbed her attention. She moved toward it, avoiding the puddles, then knelt down. Droplets of a familiar substance dotted the floor beside it. Blood. Enough for a wound, but nothing life threatening.

She leaned forward and examined the crumpled mass in front of her. But suddenly she recoiled, threw herself backwards, and landed against Turino. “No . . . ” It would be all she got out—words, that is—because she turned to the left and vomited on the floor. There wasn’t much in her stomach, so it was mostly hot, burning acid.

Vail did not speak. Her mind was blank, all thoughts vacuumed away.

She slowly turned her face toward the bundle, then wiped her mouth on her left arm. Stepped closer, reached out and lifted the heavy mass. Ran the light over it. It was what she thought it was.

A leather jacket.

Robby’s leather jacket, the one he had bought in Napa. The one he had worn the night they went to Bistro Jeanty. No DNA or fingerprints needed.

Vail shook it a couple times to uncoil it, then slowly searched the pockets. She rooted out a spent matchbook splashed with block letters that spelled “Bistro Jeanty.” It was a painful confirmation that these were the matches Robby had used to light the candles on their last night together.

Vail drew in a deep breath. “He was here. This is his.” She draped the jacket across her left forearm, then spun on her heels and faced Turino. “The shell casings, the gunfire we heard—” She pushed past him, walked outside the shed, and scooped up a handful of the brass skins. “Still warm.”

Turino grabbed his radio. “This is Turino. TFO Hernandez was here, at our twenty. Searching premises. Two DBs discovered. No sign of Hernandez. I want roadblocks in . . . ” he closed his eyes, deep in thought. “A five-mile radius. Shut everything down. All arteries. And let me know when ICE gets here.”

“Is five miles enough?” Vail asked.

“If they left when we were pulling up, moving through surface streets, five miles should be sufficient.”

“I don’t think so,” Vail said. “Can we expand it?”

“Five’s enough,” he said firmly.

Vail sighed. “Robby was here. We missed him by a minute?”

“It’s possible he’s still here.”

Vail headed back toward the house. “Doubt it. Whatever happened here was violent and aggressive. Whoever was involved was not interested in staying put. Robby either escaped on his own, or . . . ” Vail shook her head.

“Or someone else took him.”

“Let’s clear that house, do a canvass. We’ll need bodies.” Turino keyed his radio again. “Request all available personnel to our current twenty to canvass the area. Alert ICE we’re on scene and get an ETA. Inform them we’ve got about three dozen illegals to process.” He pointed at a nearby SWAT officer. “Make sure all our vehicles are moved a few blocks east, away from this house. I don’t want any obvious police presence out front.” He lowered his two-way. “We’ll find him, Karen.”

Vail drew Robby’s jacket against her chest. He was here. He’s alive and I’m gonna find him. She turned to Turino. “Huh?”

“I said we’ll find him.”

Vail had moved beyond that. “I don’t just want to find him. I want to find him alive.”

72

Robby’s eyes fluttered open. His body bounced and rolled, a disorienting sensation in the near darkness. He tried to lift his head, but he was too weak from lack of food and water. His skin and mouth felt parched, like a sponge left out in the sun too long.

He licked his lips and tried to generate some saliva. As his mind returned to full awareness, he saw that he was in the rear seat of a car. Two men were in front. From this angle, and in this light, he couldn’t see either of their faces. His wrists and ankles were bound tightly together. His cop instincts kicked in, and he realized that the best strategy he could take at the moment would be to remain quiet and still. He needed to listen and observe, see if he could ascertain who his captors were.

His chief concern: was he better off now, or as he was before, in the shed? It was hard to imagine his fortunes having shifted for the worse. But until he knew what was going on, it was better to reserve judgment. For all he knew, he was headed to the chopping block and acid bath Escobar had promised.

“If Cortez finds out what we did,” the driver said in Spanish, “we’re dead men.”

“Only you, me, and Mr. Villarreal know it was us. Those two back at the house won’t be talking. And I think it goes without saying Mr. Villarreal won’t be having dinner with Cortez anytime soon.”

The driver squirmed in his seat. “Still.”

The passenger pointed to the opposing lanes of traffic. “Look.”

Approaching with their lightbars blazing were three San Diego PD cruisers. And coming up behind them, another three.

“Fuck me. What do we do?”

“Keep calm,” the passenger said. “Look in your mirror, tell me what they’re doing.”

He lifted his eyes to the rearview. “Looks like they’re slowing all the lanes. Shit, man, they’re starting a roadblock. You were right, we shoulda put him in the trunk. If they stop us—”

“Wait a minute. You fucking kidding me? A roadblock—behind us?”

The driver cracked a wicked laugh laced with relief. “Are we lucky or what, bro?”

“Maybe we’ve got some Irish in our Mexican blood.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t care.” He slapped the steering wheel. “We’re on our way now. Nothin’s gonna stop us.”

Robby wanted to sneak a peek at the passenger. Something about the voice sounded familiar. Where had he heard it before? He dared not open his eyes again. He needed to continue listening, and if they thought he was still unconscious, they may say something he could use.

He had already learned that Carlos Cortez no longer had custody of him. Presumably, that was a positive development. But he’d also discovered that his new captors, possibly a rival cartel, had evaded the roadblock. That, certainly, was not a good thing.

Robby had also snatched one other morsel of intel: they were “on their way.” Question was, on their way to where?

73

Turino knelt down and used a pen to nudge the assault rifle that the dead cartel member was still clutching. “Cuerno de chivo.”

Vail crouched beside him. “Come again?”

“Goat horn. Basically, it’s their nickname for an AK-47, a favorite weapon of cartel gunmen.” He pointed with his pen. “It refers to the magazine’s curved shape. See?”

“Yeah, it’s curved. So what?”

“They’re moving to higher-powered weapons. Stuff like .50-caliber machine guns and 40-millimeter grenade launchers. Grenade launchers . Not to mention pistol rounds that can penetrate body armor. They call them matapolicias. Cop killers. Nice, huh?” Turino looked around, then put two fingers in his mouth and blew. The on-scene law enforcement personnel, congregated around him at varying distances, stopped their conversations and turned toward him.

“Those of you who’ve just arrived. Leave everything as is. Don’t pick up a shell casing, don’t dust for prints. We’ve taken photos and video, that’s it. Right now, the focus is on helping ICE get the immigrants out of here ASAP. They’re gonna process them offsite at our staging area, in the parking garage. Any cartel members come by here, we want them to see that mess in the yard. They’ll know it was the work of a rival cartel. If they’re looking for Hernandez, hopefully they’ll think he was snatched up. It’s cover for us. We lucked out here big time. Okay, let’s move! We’ve already been here too long.”

As the personnel dispersed, Vail corralled Turino. “So you think a rival cartel grabbed him?”

“That’s what my gut says. Look at the spray of rounds. It was an aggressive move. Who else would know, or even care, about Hernandez? Gotta be another cartel. Leverage or bragging rights, I’m not sure. But Cortez no longer has Hernandez. I think that’s safe to assume.”

“And how exactly did we luck out? Whatever happened here, whoever it was, they took Robby.”

Turino walked through the kitchen, headed to the front of the house, rubbernecking his head, checking out the progress of his orders. “You’re thinking of one person, Karen. I’m thinking about a major op that’s been in the works for years, that’ll get a ton of drugs off the street and put thousands of major dealers and money launderers behind bars. So if we can cover our tracks by using an intercartel conflict and let them think we weren’t even here, and if Velocity stays intact as a result, yeah, we lucked out.” He stopped and faced her. “Big time.”

“I thought we were on the same side here.”

Turino squinted. “You just don’t get it, do you? This isn’t a war on drugs; it’s a series of battles. And the more battles we lose, the more they win. And their wins mean they dig their claws in deeper, degrading our society like a cancer.”

“You don’t have to lecture me on the dangers of illicit drugs. I get it.”

“Do you? I’ve lived and breathed this every day for the past twenty-eight years. I’ve seen stuff you don’t even want to know about. Ice chests full of severed heads. Burned bodies left on a playground so kids would find them in the morning when they came to play and know, at a young age, that you don’t mess around with the cartels. This stuff is making its way from Mexico into our communities.”

“I’ve seen bad shit, too,” Vail said. “Probably a lot worse than what you’ve seen. But this isn’t a pissing contest, Guy. I just want Robby back alive. He’s a federal agent, a member of your team. We owe him.”

“DEA is family to me. I get what you’re saying. I do.”

“Then I don’t see any reason why we can’t accomplish both goals—protecting Velocity and finding Robby. Do you?”

Turino sighed, then pointed at one of the San Diego police officers. “Pack that shit up and get it out of here. We’re running out of time. Five minutes, I wanna be outta here!” He pulled his BlackBerry and, while thumbing the joystick, he said to Vail, “You’re right, okay? We’re on the same team. We’ll do everything we can to get Hernandez back. Now let me do my thing so we don’t screw this up.”

Vail watched as Turino grabbed a duffel and slung it across his shoulder. She unfolded Robby’s leather jacket and slipped it on. It was ridiculously large on her, but she didn’t care. She walked outside, rolled up the sleeves, then sat down on the curb and drew the front closed.

74

Hector DeSantos, having run incursions not unlike this one, took the strategic lead. While Mann drove, he pored over the regional map in consultation with his contacts, who knew tribal commissions and the best way to approach them.

His phone rang as they were nearing the turnoff for the reservation. It was Jack Jordan.

“Your team’s headed to Clover Creek, right?”

“That’s affirmative. We’re a few minutes out.”

“Got some good news. That photo Agent Vail dropped off earlier. We got a hit on the two guys in it. The one to the right of Carlos Cortez is Ernesto ‘Grunge’ Escobar and the one to his left is Arturo Figueroa.”

“You’ll have to help me out, Jack. This is your sandbox, not mine.”

“There aren’t many guys Cortez lets into his inner circle, but these two made the grade. Escobar is a mean SOB known for torture and brutal murder. Figueroa is a low level confidant of Cortez, someone he trusts enough to oversee some key U.S. drug distribution agreements. Figueroa’s the one that caught our attention.”

“Go on,” DeSantos said as he peered out the window, keeping an eye on where Mann was headed.

“NTF has had a wiretap on his cell and we know he’s arranged to pick up a particularly large load of coke, and we think it’s going down in the next two days. There’s only one problem.”

“You have no idea where.”

“Exactly.”

DeSantos glanced at the GPS, which showed they were headed into vast swaths of undeveloped land. If his calculations were correct, the entrance to Clover Creek wasn’t far down the road. “Get to the point, Jack. We’re running out of time.”

“Right. So here’s the thing: Figueroa’s last cell signal triangulated somewhere near Escondido an hour ago.”

“We’re near Escondido.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“So you think Figueroa is personally overseeing this pickup and it’s possible the handoff is going to happen tonight, on the reservation.”

“Combined with that photo you guys gave us, which was supposedly taken on the rez, yeah, we’re putting two and two together again. And if you’re looking for someone close to Cortez as a bridge to Roberto Hernandez—”

“Got it, Jack. Thanks. I’ll keep you posted. If you pick up any further transmissions, let me know. If this thing’s going down here, and tonight, we’re on-site and ready to act.”

“I’m counting on it. We’ve got a team of agents on their way, just in case.”

DeSantos ended the call and informed Dixon and Mann what the narcotics task force had discovered.

“I have a good feeling about this,” Dixon said.

“If we can turn good feelings into reliable intel,” DeSantos said, “that’s the kind of thing that’ll get me excited.”

They arrived at the Clover Creek reservation moments later. After traversing an ancient paved road that needed a seal coat two decades ago and a repaving some time after that, they arrived at a used brick building with a flag mounted atop a white pole. The whipping material, spot lit from below, depicted the logo of the Clover Creek tribe: a maroon clover leaf with a blue body of water flowing through its center.

They parked and DeSantos entered the structure alone, preferring a low-profile approach. Several federal agents marching into the police station might send the wrong message. DeSantos badged the support personnel and was led to the office of the police chief, whose nameplate read, “H. ‘Sky’ Thomson.”

Thomson was seated behind a bare metal desk, papers pinned to a cork board that covered half the wall to his left. The room was large and vacant save for the chief’s furniture and a lone guest chair. DeSantos shook the man’s hand and explained that he was working on a DEA task force looking for an officer who had been kidnapped by a cartel they had reason to believe was operating off the reservation.

Thomson nodded silently, his hands perched in a triangle in front of his mouth. He motioned DeSantos to the empty chair. “We’ve been battling the illicit drug trade for many years. Worse now than I have ever seen it. But I assume you know that.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Problem is, we’ve got 40 percent unemployment. We have a little casino, but there are so many tribes in the area with big, fancy gambling operations that we’re small fish. So the tribal commission does what it can with what we have. Which isn’t much. Our people need money, and the drug traffickers have plenty of it. Carlos Cortez, his people run a lot of their coke and high-potency marijuana through here. And from their point of view, it makes sense. They transport the contraband across the border, then up here on the 805. They store the drugs in any number of houses on the reservation until one of their lieutenants and a crew come by to pick it up. Then they’ve got a straight shot up the 5 to LA, the 15 to Las Vegas, or the 40 to points east. In any one of these directions, they’re headed to cities where they’ve set up shop to distribute and sell it.”

DeSantos shoved his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Very convenient.”

“You know about Cleveland National Forest, I assume.”

“Don’t assume anything.”

Thomson rose from his chair and stepped over to a dog-eared topographical map of the region. He circled an area with his index finger. “They grow marijuana right here, in the middle of the forest. We’re not talking a few small plants. One of your colleagues told me DEA seized a million plants last year alone. Just in California. Street value, if I remember right, was something like $5 million.”

Thomson sat down heavily in his chair. “Cortez’s people typically cut down trees and use toxic chemicals, pesticides, and fertilizers that pollute the watershed, dig ditches, and set up irrigation pipes and dams to divert water from streams and rivers. And the bastards are heavily armed, so you’d better not be backpacking near their farm. Lucky for us, that terrain up there is mountainous and rocky, so they’re limited in where and how much they can grow. Problem is that they truck the marijuana here, where they process it, package it, and ship it out all over the country.”