Payback

116

Plan B for Manzanillo was to check all of the other containers in the lot and then to look around the industrialized area for other possible hiding places. A second wave of DEA and FBI agents, along with a contingent of U.S. Army rangers, began fanning out across the area. Lia and Karr joined in the hunt. They were tasked to work with a CIA agent named Jason Milano and check a string of industrial parks several miles from the port.

This was detective work at its shoe-leather worst. Or, as Tommy Karr put it, driving from the airport to begin their search, “Needle in the haystack time.”

“Yeah, but don’t you want to be where the action is?” asked Milano from the backseat.

“Action,” said Lia sarcastically.

This made Karr laugh so uncontrollably that he nearly missed the traffic light. He jammed on the brakes.

“Being where the action is is no big deal,” said Karr. “What we want to be near are the babes.”

“Real funny, Mr. Comedian,” said Lia. “I’m just rolling on the floor here.”

“I thought so.” Karr glanced back at the bewildered CIA officer — he was a paramilitary with about three months in the agency. “You OK, Spook Dude?”

“You can call me Jason.”

“Once he gives you a nickname, you’re stuck with it,” Lia said.

“You tell him, Princess.”

“One of these days, Tommy, I’m going to strangle you.”

“If your hands fit around my neck I’d be scared.”

“Mr. Karr, this is Bill Rubens. We have a truck you should make your top priority. It’s in a lot not far from where you are. The U-2 took a picture of it a short while ago. It’s not attached to a tractor, or I should say it wasn’t when we last looked at it. It’s isolated. It should be eminently approachable.”

“Great. Give me some direction.” said Karr.

“Who are you talking to?” asked Milano.

The Deep Black communications system was classified; while technically it was considered all right to tell him about it since he was working with them, as a general rule Karr wouldn’t unless it was absolutely necessary.

Besides, he loved goofing on CIA people.

“I hear voices,” Karr told him, turning left as Rockman began directing him. “Some people think I’m the reincarnation of Joan of Arc. Get that submachine gun out and make sure you have it loaded.”

The container truck was at the rear of a warehouse lot, parked near a fence that ran along a road. Lia got out of the car two blocks away and began trotting toward a cluster of small industrial buildings that lay between her and the target.

“We’re about three minutes away from getting the overhead view online,” Rockman said in her ear. “The U-2 is still covering the cargo container park.”

“It’s all right,” Lia told him.

Lia slowed her pace as she reached the buildings. A group of women waiting to start work were standing nearby, gossiping; they glanced at her as she walked toward the back of the building. Lia had a pistol under her jacket, but if challenged she would just back off; the container wasn’t going anywhere and there was no sense upsetting the locals, at least not yet.

A chain-link fence separated the warehouse lot from the yard behind the buildings. Cars were parked close to the fence, blocking her view.

“I’m going over the fence,” she told Rockman.

“Wait until Tommy makes his pass.”

“You sure this is the right truck?”

“No,” said Rockman. “We’re guessing, but it’s a good guess. We think someone was bribed to change the registration numbers around when the container was loaded. The shipment in this truck matches the cargo that was found in the trailer back in the lot. Paper. Here comes Tommy,” added Rockman.

Lia heard Karr “yee-hah” over the communications system. Karr was always a pill, but he was insufferable when working with anyone from the CIA.

Not that he was actually taking things lightly — he had placed a sawed-off shotgun on his lap as he dropped Lia off and had a flash-bang grenade in the armrest in case he had to divert attention and make a quick getaway. But she was sure the poor liaison in the backseat thought he’d hooked up with the teenage son of Genghis Khan.

“Clear,” said Rockman. “Go.”

Lia took a quick glance behind her, then jumped up on the fence. As she reached the top, she saw that the container sat all alone — and that its rear door was ajar.

Not a good sign.

“Señorita?” called someone behind her.

The voice sounded more inquisitive than hostile, so Lia didn’t bother to turn around. Instead, she continued over the top and dropped to the ground on the other side. An older man stood near the side of the building watching her, literally scratching his head.

By the time Lia reached the truck, Karr and their CIA sidekick had circled around and parked their car on the side of the road twenty yards from the container.

“Door’s not locked,” Lia told Karr, who was standing near the fence, shotgun pressed against his jacket.

“Watch out for booby traps.”

“Yeah. Rad detector’s quiet.”

“It would be if it were a bomb, unless you’re right in its face,” said Karr. “You have to get real close. Check the door first.”

“Yeah.”

“Watch for booby traps.”

“You’re getting as bad as Rockman.”

By the time she was sure it was clean, Karr and their CIA sidekick were standing on the ground behind her.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Get back,” Karr told her, taking hold of the long pipe that worked the external door latches.

“I’ll do it.”

“No, no. You stand back,” he said. He waited a second — probably just long enough to see that she wouldn’t move — then threw the door open, ducking around as he did, as if he expected an explosion.

“Empty,” said Jason, standing with his hands on his hips.

Lia climbed into the interior. A few pieces of wood lay scattered on the floor. One was stamped with black letters; half of the word was cut off, but she thought it read baño—bath.

“That would make sense,” said Karr. “Because that factory over there makes bathtubs.”