by Jack Slater
A crack of gloom emerged on the other side. Not quite lit, and not entirely dark.
He paused, listening for any sign that there was a party waiting. But he heard nothing. There was nothing for it. Reyes pushed, and the hatch clanged back against the concrete of the empty warehouse’s floor.
The building was empty. They were safe.
And as Emiliano clambered out of the tunnel after him, his black denim coated with dust and dirt, a far louder explosion erupted from the far end of the tunnel.
29
The newly rented safe house now housing their operation was messily strewn with loose papers, empty candy wrappers and various bits of equipment, as was so often the case on counter-espionage operations. The long hours and intense focus needed to hunt a mole or identify their handler rarely allowed much time for cleaning or left anyone with either the desire or energy to do so.
All four members of Pope’s ad hoc team were present. Trapp was half asleep, lying on the couch that had come with the place. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke, but he’d slept on worse. The aroma of coffee brewing in the kitchen battled with the more deeply ingrained scent and began to tug him toward wakefulness. Eliza was leaning against him.
The television in the living room was large, and the box it had arrived in was still leaning against a nearby wall. No one had thought to purchase either a stand or a wall mount, so it now sat on top of a dented coffee table, perilously balanced in such a way that it threatened to topple over at any moment. It was muted, though the kaleidoscopic image of ATN News’ intro graphic was flashing in the dimly-lit room.
“Guys…” Ikeda called, reaching for the remote and stealing her warmth away. “I’m guessing we want to watch this.”
Behind Trapp, Pope dropped a stack of paper onto the dining table and said, “What?”
The sound on the television barked into life as Ikeda keyed the remote, catching the ATN anchor halfway through her spiel. “– And we go right to our Washington correspondent, Ciara Olson for the latest. Ciara?”
Trapp levered himself into a vertical position on the sofa as the news producer switched the feed. He faintly recognized the reporter, a redhead with deeply freckled cheeks that almost looked like a tan until the camera zoomed in.
“Thank you, Amanda,” Ciara said. “A brutal but until now limited war between Mexico’s two largest drug cartels, the Crusaders and the Federación, last night spilled onto America’s streets for a second time.”
The image on the screen cut to a scene from a highway in Texas, California, or somewhere equally hot, dry, and dusty. A location flashed up a second later, confirming his suspicions. The feed showed a smashed-up Honda SUV, windshield riddled with bullets, and a spattering of what was unmistakably blood on the driver’s cracked window.
“National security sources here in Washington say that a large shipment of drugs that came through the southern border was last night hijacked by a rival narcotics gang, resulting in at least six homicides that we are so far aware of, and perhaps several more. It is not yet known which faction the drugs initially belonged to, but as you can see, Amanda, this is a dramatic escalation in cartel behavior – and following the murder of Administrator Mark Engel along with several US Attorneys last week, a dark sign indeed.”
“Thank you, Ciara. Is there any indication as to why this attack took place?”
“That’s where it gets interesting, Amanda. Until last night, this was primarily a Mexican affair. Squabbles between the cartels are not uncommon, though the early indications are that this one is becoming extremely serious. We know that over the past week, several key figures in the Crusaders have been assassinated or gone missing. It’s understood that last night there was also an attempt on the life of Ramon Reyes, the leader of this particular organization. The fight appears to be over territory within Mexico – the violence in the United States is an unfortunate side effect.”
“How so?” the anchor asked.
“It seems that a network of Crusaders-operated safehouses and drug runners inside Mexico has been targeted by the Federación. Drug gangs affiliated with the Crusaders inside the United States have started running out of product, and it seems that they have begun resorting to extreme measures to acquire it. We don’t yet know whether last night’s violence was a result of Crusaders gangsters targeting a Federación shipment or the other way around – but the results are the same. Violence on American streets.”
“Thank you, Ciara,” the blond newsreader said, shifting her gaze to a different camera angle. “ATN is also able to reveal an exclusive recording from the cartel leader Ciara just mentioned, Ramon Reyes, that we believe was sent to his supporters last night. Please note, if you have minors in the room, this may not be suitable.”
An image of a squat yet obviously muscular man appeared on the television screen. He had dark hair, and that was about all that could be made out from the grainy, long-distance photograph. A name appeared on screen to help those who hadn’t been paying attention. The recording was in Spanish, but captions promptly appeared on-screen.
“Guys, it’s time to fight. They came after me, they came after our people. And we f****** killed them, okay? You know who I’m talking about. It’s time to go to war. We never wanted this fight. But now we’re in it, we will win it. You know that, okay? You are killers. So go kill. If you see a Federación cockroach, kill him. I will give $1000 for every sicario. Ten thousand for any capo. Ten million for the man who brings me Carreon’s skull.”
The anchor returned to the screen. “And in a disturbing development only just breaking in the state of Michoacán, deep in Federación territory, more than fifty bodies were dumped in the middle of the highway. ATN has also received unconfirmed reports of several similar atrocities. The question now is whether the Mexican authorities will be able to get a handle on this horrific wave of violence – and whether they will do so before we see more death and destruction on American streets.”
The producer cut away to a new segment on soybean prices in Iowa, or some other topic that Trapp rationally understood must have importance, without being able to prompt any great personal interest one way or another.
“Okay…” Pope murmured, drumming his fingers against the flatpack table. “You guys are thinking what I’m thinking, right? This is all just one big coincidence. Right?”
“Right,” Trapp snorted.
“Rutger’s going to want results,” Pope remarked. “Now that this thing has spilled over into the US, the press is going to be on this like a bitch in heat. The president’s going to need to give them something.”
“You can’t tell him not to?” Ikeda asked, a smile dancing on her lips. “I thought that’s all you counter-intel pukes did: just hide in a corner somewhere and tell everyone how hard you’re working.”
“We are!” Pope grinned back. “We just can’t tell anyone about it. Problem is –”
“– it’s not the Russians or the Chinese we’re up against,” Trapp cut in. “At least, I doubt it. I’m guessing the cartels finally figured they’d get further in life by hiring experts. Whoever Conway’s handler is, we know he’s good. He’s probably former intelligence. Whether us, the Brits, someone else, who knows. It doesn’t really matter. We won’t get away with pulling the national security card on this one.”
“Then what?”
“We need to accelerate the sting. Find out who the handler is and who he works for,” Pope said.
“Do we?” Ikeda asked.
Pope frowned. “Do we what?”
“Need to find out who he’s working for. Seems to me like the cartels are starting to tear themselves apart. Is that such a bad thing? Why don’t we just let them do the hard work for us?”
“You really are CIA, aren’t you?” Pope said, shaking his head wryly. “That sounds like something you guys would have pulled back in the eighties. Real Machiavellian shit. And you look so innocent, too…”
“It won’t work,” Trapp agreed.
�
��Why not?”
“What we just saw on the news is only the start. It’s simple supply and demand. If the supply coming up through Mexico falls, then the price north of the border skyrockets. This thing’s only gone hot in the last week, and gangbangers are already having it out right in the open. If it’s this bad now, it’ll be an inferno in a month’s time. No way the politicians stand for it. They’ll be clamoring for a solution – and looking to us to provide it.”
Ikeda pouted, though he could tell she agreed with most of what he was saying. “That’s why nothing ever gets done around here.”
She wrinkled her nose and continued, “Politicians. If they just left it to us, maybe we’d actually get somewhere. Okay. Let’s say you’re right – where does that leave us? Counterintelligence is a slow business. Even if this mad-scientist idea of yours pays off, who’s to say how long it’ll take for us to figure out who he is – let alone who he works for?”
“I had an idea about that, too…”
Pope looked up. “What are you saying, Jason?”
“I think it’s about time Eliza and I took a vacation. I hear Mexico’s nice this time of year.”
30
Fernando Carreon was enjoying a scotch by the pool at about seven that evening when he recognized the first sign that something strange was going on. Jennifer Reyes was in her room, where she’d spent most of the last few days. He couldn’t work out whether she was more terrified of him or the guards.
A masked guard – the one with the mirrored Oakleys – strode onto the terrace, the heels of his boots reverberating against the stone with his own importance.
“Come with me,” he grunted imperiously.
Carreon had enough alcohol in his veins both not to want to and also not to be concerned about the consequences of disobeying. He set the scotch glass down on the side table next to his lounger with a clink.
“Why?”
“Stand up,” the guard grunted, drumming the tips of his fingers against a holstered pistol.
He wondered idly whether he could be quick enough to disarm the man but decided against it. He was always more of a thinker than a fighter. Other people were always better with their fists, and thankfully they spent their lives cheaply. For most of his life that awareness had carried him where he needed to go. And so Carreon came to the conclusion that now wasn’t the time to change the habits of a lifetime.
“Now!” the guard intoned, though the added stress wasn’t necessary. His prisoner was already rousing himself from his alcoholic half-slumber.
His muscles were pleasantly loose in the heat of the evening, and he pushed himself upright without too much effort. He shrugged insolently, resting most of his weight only on his rear leg and thrust the other forward with a nonchalance that was only half feigned. “What do you want?”
“Inside, now,” the guard barked.
He did as he was told, irritably shaking his arm loose of the guard’s outstretched grasp. He could at least do things with dignity.
Within the villa, another guard reached for a bank of light switches and killed the pool lights. The turquoise glow died instantly, leaving only a lingering image in Fernando’s retinas and a string of glimmering LEDs set into the flagstones that ringed the terrace.
“Stop,” the guard ordered the second they were back inside the villa.
“Why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on?” Carreon said, grimacing with frustration. “What does it matter to you where I spend my evenings?”
He fell silent then, considering that very question. He’d been here for a week, maybe eight days now. He hadn’t exactly been in a perfect state to commit his exact movements to memory those first two or three. And yet in all that time – barring Jennifer’s arrival – the overall routine had not changed. Breakfast was set out on the table every morning by the time he arose. Lunch a few hours later. And dinner some time after that.
The guards had barely troubled him with their presence in all that time, other than as a subtle reminder that he was not in fact free. So what had changed?
He didn’t expect an answer to his question, of course, so he wasn’t surprised when he didn’t receive one. The three men stood inside the villa.
Waiting.
But for what?
Because they were waiting, Carreon could see that now. His two guards were tense. It wasn’t in what they said, it was the way they said it. Voices taut, muscles almost vibrating with energy. They hadn’t been like this before.
And as he reached that conclusion, another thought struck him. Both were searching the sky with their eyes. They were expecting someone.
Could it be a rescue mission?
Carreon dismissed the prospect before hope had any opportunity to flare in his breast. He was not a sentimental man. It was best not to be in a business like this. He cared only for the cold, hard facts, which were not in his favor. If his people had located him, and the guards knew about it, then the last thing they would allow him to do was stand here.
So a visitor, then.
Deciding that he had no intention of waiting at the door like a mother pining for her children, Carreon paced inside and made for the small bar area. The movement caught the attention of the guard with the Oakleys – now placed ostentatiously on the top of his head – but he was afforded no more than a cursory glance.
Carreon poured himself another drink. He idly wondered whether he himself was paying for all this. Probably. That piece of shit Grover had tricked him. He had to admire the balls on the man, and the skill of his execution, if not the outcome.
Definitely not the outcome.
He heard the chopper blades a few seconds later. There were none, and then they seemed to be right overhead, which meant the helicopter had to be flying low. In these mountains, the sound would be trapped inside a rocky valley with no way out. You could be a few hundred feet away and have no idea a chopper was anywhere nearby.
It would take a good pilot, though. Especially in the dark. And the only pilots with that kind of experience were military.
Like his guards. And like Warren Grover, too.
The helicopter was flying without running lights and set down on the terrace by the swimming pool like a wraith appearing from the darkness. Its sudden appearance startled even Carreon, who had been expecting it.
The second the skids touched down, the rest of the lights on the terrace died, leaving the whole place lit only by the glow from the villa’s interior.
Two figures exited the helicopter while the blades were still turning. Carreon didn’t bother putting a crick in his neck to find out who was coming to pay him a visit. They would be here soon enough. He sat down on the sofa opposite a pair of plush armchairs and waited.
He recognized both men as they entered the villa. One conjured a sense of seething, incandescent rage within him, the other a cold, quenching fear. Perhaps that was the effect they intended. A good cop/bad cop kind of deal.
“Fernando,” Warren Grover said.
“You didn’t used to call me that,” Carreon observed. “Not so long ago you called me boss.”
“Times change.”
“Apparently so.”
“How are you enjoying my hospitality?” Grover asked. This time he was unable to conceal the vacuous smugness in his eyes.
Carreon raised his glass of scotch and a mock salute. “And here I thought I was paying for all this.”
“Times change.”
We’ll see, he thought, saying instead, “Can I offer you a drink?”
Grover shook his head. César said nothing. He remembered the man properly now. At Altiplano prison, when the sicario had broken him out, things had been muddled. But they were clearer now. He remembered who César was.
Carreon crossed his legs and took a sip of his whisky. Not much. Just enough to give the right impression. He had no doubt that his guards were sending Grover frequent updates about his behavior. It was important to play the part. He didn’t like the American – how could h
e? – but he could admit that the man was meticulous. It was why he’d hired him in the first place.
And how did that turn out?
Grover took a seat opposite him. César remained standing.
Carreon raised his eyebrow. “So?”
“I need you to do something for me,” Grover said without ceremony.
“I’m not particularly inclined to help you at the moment,” he replied, schooling his expression to avoid displaying even a hint of interest. He was right after all: Grover wanted something.
But that wasn’t entirely accurate. No – if he’d wanted something, he would have sent an underling.
Grover needed something from him. And that placed Fernando Carreon into a position of power. Sure, you had to squint to make it out, but it was there. And that was better.
“Perhaps César can convince you to help,” Grover remarked offhand.
The prospect sent a shiver of apprehension up Carreon’s spine. César was the kind of man you didn’t do business with, just in case. A lot of bad men worked for the Federación Cartel. But none had so little empathy as the one standing opposite him. César was a sociopath. A man who did not just kill but delighted in the application of pain.
“Why don’t you tell me what you need?” Carreon rejoined, stifling his fear. “I’ve never found your friend to be much of a conversationalist.”
“He has his uses,” Grover said. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a slim cell phone. The screen flashed into life, and the American quickly navigated to an audio file. He placed the phone between the two men and tapped play.
Carreon listened to the voice of Ramon Reyes with fascination. His rival was incandescent with rage. And the target of that anger was most curious indeed. He had to know more.
“It seems that you acquire enemies at quite a rate,” Carreon said, his mind racing behind a blank façade that he consciously leavened with a self-conscious smile. “I can warn you from bitter experience that there are more fruitful paths to choose.”