The Debriefing

Two

The headache. The dry throat, searing.

Was he going to puke?

No.

Yes.

The nursing staff had apparently figured this was a likelihood and had left beside him in bed several plastic containers, like something that housewives would buy in triplicate at the Tupperware parties Tony’s mother hosted.

He seized the gray plastic, bent forward and evacuated until his gut screamed. He set the container on a metallic tray attached to a set of wheels beside the bed, then pushed the repugnant thing as far as he could. Tony collapsed onto his back, gasping.

White room. A hospital room filled with hospital things, all those gadgets and electronic panels and outlets and machines sprouting wires and armatures — accessories that managed to fill you with dread, even while you knew they were tools of healing. Signs too, with weird capitalization.

Ugly and unsettling but, thank God, cool.

He looked up. He was half surrounded by a beige curtain hanging from a U-shaped rod mounted to the ceiling.

And Matt. Where was Matt?

Was he alive?

Oh, let him be alive. Please.

Tony observed no decorations on the wall. This was a functional place, minimal, matter of fact. He soon understood why. Through the sealed window he could see an army Humvee, painted in desert camo. Just past were two flags on poles: one an American and one with an army unit designation. So, a military hospital, not civilian. Explained the stark room; no government money would be wasted on décor.

He coughed hard.

Which brought back memories of the incident.

The grenades.

Tony kneaded various body parts, in descending order of importance, of course, probing for shrapnel wounds. He was relieved to find none. A bandage on his palm. When he peeked it was only a scrape, Betadined to brown. The worst pain was in his ankle, maybe a sprain, twisted when he face-planted on the warehouse floor. But other than those minor injuries, the pain was minimal. Was he on drugs?

Then he realized in horror that Matt must’ve taken the brunt of the explosion. M was the sort who would be awarded the Medal of Honor — posthumously — after diving on a grenade to save his fellow soldiers. He imagined Matt’s shattered body.

Or had he actually seen it?

No, no...

Then he thought: I’m going to puke again.

I won’t.

He did.

Finally he controlled the retching, and set the second Tupperware on the bedside table. He was thinking, Where the hell’s the nurse to get rid of these things, when he heard a voice: “Could you fucking stop that? Makes me want to puke.”

Matt’s voice.

Tony barked a laugh. “Oh, man, Jesus. There you are.” The laughing started a coughing spasm.

With a clatter and rustle, Matt swept the curtain back. The two men were six feet apart.

Matt looked him over. “How are you?” He coughed too.

“Jesus, I thought you got blown up.” More spasms in his lungs. “Damn smoke. You okay?”

Matt, shrugging. His bandages were minimal. Wrist and a patch on his forehead. “Hit the floor hard. That’s all. You?”

“Ankle.”

The men’s eyes swiveled to the door, as a round Latina in blue scrubs decorated with pictures of tiny pandas stepped inside. “You hit the call button?” She looked mildly irritated.

“I wanted to know where he was.” A gesture toward Tony. Often edgy and impatient, Matt was presently polite. In hospitals patients exist at the bottom of the food chain. Best to be nice to those higher up. Even the lower higher up. Maybe especially.

She stared, not sure how to answer. “Someone will be in, see you soon.”

Tony asked, “Could you...” He gestured toward the Tupperware containers. Without reaction, she collected them and left.

Matt said, “I’m not leaving a tip.” Then: “Where are we?”

Tony nodded to the window beside him. Matt learned forward and saw the Humvee. “Hendrix. Probably.” The army base closest to El Paso.

Matt did the probing thing, then coughed hard too. When the bout was over he said, “No shrapnel. You?”

“No, just the fucked-up ankle.”

“What the hell kind of grenades were they? Smoke?”

Another voice, from the door: “Incendiary. They wanted to burn the place down.”

The man was big. Bald, six four or so, stocky but muscle bulk, not fat bulk. He wore a suit that he’d have bought for price, not fit. The sort that was in Tony’s closet. Around his neck was a chain lanyard holding a DEA badge.

“Officers... I’m Bill Holmes, regional district supervisor from Dallas.”

So, a top gun.

He squinted at Tony. “I think I met you once. While ago. Rio Grande operation.”

“Could’ve been.”

“How are you doing?” Holmes asked.

“The others on the team?” Matt asked bluntly.

Tony was ashamed he hadn’t thought to ask that question, he was so happy to be alive. Matt had a more fatalistic view of life. As if he assumed death was around every corner and didn’t bother to waste any effort describing how he was feeling or doing or getting along. And the way Matt lived, death could very well be waiting.

We all know Matt...

Holmes’s face shadowed.

“Who was it?” Tony asked, heart thumping.

“Jonny.”

“Christ,” Tony muttered. He closed his eyes momentarily, as anger and dismay flowed in.

Matt asked, “What happened?”

“Sniper got him.”

Tony fought down another urge to throw up. He seized a covered water glass and sucked from a straw. He noted he had only one plastic pan left.

Matt said grimly, “Anybody ID the shooter?”

“No ID yet. We’re putting the word out. But you know the Cardozos. We’ll never get a name.”

The cartel made the most talkative turn mute.

“Jonny,” Tony muttered.

I thought I was the funny man here, El Paso...

“Any other injuries?”

“No. As soon as Jonny was down, they tossed the grenades and got away.”

Tony said, “Yeah. Why the firebombs?”

Holmes nodded. “There was some supply inside. Oxy and fent. They didn’t want it to fall into anybody’s hands. That’s what happened to you two. The fumes, you know. The other agents on site got you just in time.”

Fentanyl... That explained the disorientation... and giddiness.

And also explained how close he’d come to dying. Gram for gram, fent is the most dangerous drug on the planet.

His face still, Matt said angrily, “The intel was it was unoccupied.”

And a sharp, brave, funny man was now dead, as a result of that error.

“I know,” Holmes said.

Matt continued, “We didn’t just walk in blind. We staged at four hundred yards, then one hundred. No sign of life. Scanned for transmissions. Everything negative. Something’s wrong here...”

Holmes gave no response but glanced into the corridor. “Ah, here we go.” A woman of about thirty-five, attractive in a severe, pulled-back-ponytail way, strode into the room, a computer bag over her shoulder. She, too, had a Justice Department shield but she played with a different team. FBI.

Shea Talbot was with the Foreign Narcotics Operations Task Force in Dallas.

A.k.a. the Cartel Busters.

“How are you feeling?” She glanced at both of them.

Tony said, “Not hurt bad. But still groggy.”

Matt said nothing, maybe digesting Boyd’s death.

Talbot unbuttoned her dark-blue blazer, revealing a thick, starched white blouse. Her skirt was gray. “You were lucky. It doesn’t take much fentanyl to...” Her eyes swept over their faces and she lifted a hand. “Sure. Sorry. You do this for a living.” Yeah, pretty and with captivating eyes but she had rough edges. Women in this business sometimes got that way... because they had to. Tony knew she wouldn’t smile much. On the humor scale Talbot was at one end, Boyd had been on the other.

Tony had been married to his high school sweetheart for nineteen years. Lucy smiled a lot. He’d have to call her. Did she even know he was in the hospital?

Then his thoughts of family vanished and, with a thud in his gut, he thought: FBI? That means only one thing. He thought of Matt’s words.

Something’s wrong here...

Tony grimaced. “The team got set up.”

“Hell,” Matt whispered. “Sure.”

Talbot glanced at Holmes, who delivered the bad news straight: “Looks like somebody told the Cardozos you were on your way and that Jonny Boyd was riding point.”

Tony continued, “So they planned to assassinate him. That’s why the sniper.”

Talbot nodded. “Gunning Boyd down on the streets of El Paso — US territory — no way. That’d go all the way to Washington. But a DEA supervisor killed in action at a drug drop on Mexican soil? Just another death in the drug wars.”

“‘Just another death,’” Matt spat out, though the bitterness wasn’t aimed at her, Tony knew. He turned his intense eyes her way. “Was La Piedra behind it?”

Holmes said, “Likely.”

The chief enforcer for the Cardozo cartel. His nickname meant “the Stone.” Manuel Santos was a sociopathic murderer, known for being utterly emotionless. He never got angry, never raised his voice. Never laughed either, was never joyful. They knew for a fact he’d murdered more than three dozen people, often leaving their heads in public places as reminders of where loyalties should lie.

La Piedra was also a ghost. No one in either Mexican or US law enforcement knew where he slept — or whom he slept with, if he shared a bed with anyone. La Piedra remained invisible, even with a $10 million price on his head, offered by the Americans, and a more modest but still sizable sum posted by the United Mexican States. But every man, woman and child in that battered country knew that no one would ever claim the heavenly sum; if they did, they wouldn’t live long enough to spend a single peso.

Tony knew that Matt had a special hatred of Santos. The man had murdered one of Matt’s first partners, in an undercover set that went bad. The cop had been killed for no reason other than convenience — it was less of an effort to murder him and escape down an alleyway than to walk a few blocks around.

“So,” Talbot said, “this debriefing is about trying to find who set the team up. Were they with El Paso PD or DEA or somebody else?”

Tony couldn’t help but give a faint laugh of curiosity. “Well...” He lifted his hands.

She frowned. “I’m sorry?”

Matt said, “What he’s asking is how are you so sure that Tony or me didn’t sell the team out?”

Opening her computer bag in a matter-of-fact manner and extracting a notebook and digital recorder, Talbot said, “Oh, we’re not sure about that at all. That’s why I’m here.”