The Debriefing

Ten

“M!” Tony was on his feet, woozy, ankle screaming. “Men, outside. They’re coming! The Cardozos.”

His younger brother glanced outside at the men in camo, their heads covered in the balaclavas. They now numbered six.

He seemed oddly placid.

Of course, Tony thought with dismay, why should he be worried? They weren’t coming for him. They were after Tony. Matt had sold out to them; they were his buddies.

Tony lunged toward the door. He’d put all his weight on the bad ankle, and he went down hard.

“Jesus!” Matt called, rising too.

A burst of automatic weapons fire from a corridor nearby. Screams.

“No, no!” Tony cried, as three masked figures burst into the room, their submachine guns ready.

Tony turned to his brother and was about to shout, “Hope you’re happy, Judas,” or something like that.

When one of the three gunmen pulled off his balaclava.

Tony gasped aloud. The man he was looking at was Ronaldo Suarez, the head of El Paso PD’s SWAT team.

“Hola,” Matt said.

“Hey,” Suarez responded. He and another of the trio helped Tony up. “Can you walk?”

Tony was speechless.

Suarez again: “Officer? I’m asking. Can you walk? We don’t have a lot of time.”

“Yeah. Need an arm. But—”

The SWAT leader ordered one of his men to help. Another to gather Matt’s and Tony’s clothes and belongings. “You can dress in the vehicle. Gotta move. Now!”

As they stepped into the corridor Suarez asked, “Does it have a slit?”

“What?”

“That robe? That you’re wearing? Does it have a slit up the back?”

“I... Yeah, I guess.”

“Then you follow me out. Some things I don’t get paid to see.”

Eleven

The two SUVs moved forward toward the restaurant, and the syringe man stepped along the sidewalk, coming up at Elena from behind.

The two in charge of transporting her would pull her to the sidewalk. Punch her hard in the solar plexus, a debilitating blow. She’d be injected into oblivion.

Then into the SUV, and razor time, acid time.

Closer...

Ready...

Then Santos noted something odd. While Elena was indeed touching brush to canvas, there was no paint on the stubbly tip of bristles. In fact, the disks of paint on the palette were simply dry splotches, not smears of real paint.

No! My God, no!

His understanding was accompanied by a paroxysm of movement around the restaurant. The dog walker, the window washer, the couple — and their fake daughter! — were all drawing weapons under their jackets and from purses and beneath tables.

Elena herself drew a stubby, black Heckler & Koch submachine gun from a floppy purple velvet purse.

No, no, no!

Demands, simultaneously in English and Spanish, roared from the officers in the street, as well as from those on high — snipers on the surrounding buildings. “Drop the weapons, drop the weapons, lie face down, hands out, drop the weapons or you will be fired on!”

My Lord, there were cops everywhere! US and Mexican.

His men’s heads swiveled, and their eyes flashed in desperation. Some fled, firing as they did so, and officers pursued, returning shots. Most stayed put and dropped the guns, which clattered loudly on the cobblestones, and they pitched forward. The US officers and Federales went to work with zip ties.

Santos then noted that one of his crew did not comply. Felipe, nineteen or so, had dropped his weapon but remained upright, frozen. Not out of defiance but terror.

Santos, too, remained still. His palms up.

The screams and shouts and low-pitched commands continued. He was mentioned by name several times. He was to get down immediately.

This thought edged into his mind: in theory prison might be just up his alley — it being a most dispassionate place to live out your life.

Surrender was logical. It made infinite sense.

But surrender he did not. He stepped directly behind Felipe. Sensing the boy was about to bolt, he flung his arm around his neck, drew the Sig Sauer and fired at the approaching police. They returned shots, hitting Felipe several times. The forehead shot was messy and fatal.

Using the limp body as a shield, he turned his weapon toward a shop behind him, a florist’s. With two bullets he blew out the plate glass window. Because of the silencer the cascading glass made a far louder sound than the gunshots. Santos leapt into the store and sprinted toward the back door, firing a shot into the mirrors, shattering them into shards, to scatter the patrons and clerks. The smell of smokeless powder mingled with that of lilies.

Santos was thinking: hijack a car, escape, call more men from the cartel, engage the enemy. He could have his own dozen men here in five minutes.

They wanted a battle, a battle they would have.

He looked out the back door. No Federales, no American cops.

Move now, fast!

Ah, good. No need for hijacking. Garcia was in the bulletproof SUV, speeding to his rescue.

Santos turned and emptied his magazine — a dozen shots — into the florist store to keep his pursuers hiding in cover. He then reloaded and ran toward the approaching vehicle.

He was going to escape.

Manuel Santos knew this for a certainty. He was indestructible, he was the Stone.