The Apparatus (Jason Trapp Book 5)

by Jack Slater

  The waiter brought the espresso and set it in front of Grover. Once again, the two men briefly lapsed into silence. Grover reached for the coffee, but Fitz locked his wrist to the table, wrapping his fingers around it until his nails dug into the skin. “Money, Warren. That’s all I need. You owe me.”

  “I don’t owe you a damn thing,” Grover hissed. He tore his hand away from the restraint, and more casually lifted the espresso to his lips.

  “Then I’ll release everything.”

  Grove shrugged. “Do it. They’re after me too.”

  “They don’t know your name. They can’t. That’s the difference, don’t you understand?”

  “I’ve got bigger problems to worry about than the Bureau,” Grover said somewhat self-importantly. “The cartels don’t fuck around. I crossed them, and now they’re coming after me. So you’ll forgive me for not caring too much about your legal issues.”

  “What if I had something? Something you could use.”

  “It would depend on what exactly you had. I’m going to need more than that.”

  Fitz rocked back and forth as if coming to a decision. He leaned forward, and his voice adopted a wheedling tone. “What are you doing? You’re working an angle, I know you. You’re too calm.”

  Grover prepared to leave. “What do you have, Ethan? You’re running out of time.”

  “I want in,” Fitz announced, with the determination of a man who’d made his bed. “Whatever it is. I don’t care about the money. We both know you’re my best shot at surviving this.”

  “Show me your cards, and maybe I’ll show you mine.”

  Fitz didn’t want to talk, that much was evident. But by now, Grover was intrigued. The truth was that his own position was much less secure than he was making out. He could use an edge. Perhaps this was it. Either way, it was clear that his former comrade in arms wasn’t going to give up the goods without an extra push.

  Grover stood and tossed a couple of peso notes onto the table. “It was nice to see you, Ethan. But this is all you’re getting from me.”

  “Wait. Okay. Nash is coming.”

  “Coming where?” Grover asked, his voice hardening.

  Fitz screwed up his face, seemingly with disbelief. “Don’t you get it? Here!”

  52

  The Marriott Hotel in Mexico City was located just opposite the famous Campo Marte – the parade ground owned by the Mexican Defense Ministry. An enormous flag mounted on a pole a hundred meters tall occasionally roused itself to flutter in a soporific breeze. It was a beautiful counterpoint to the most obvious example of American power in view – the Starbucks which Trapp was standing in front of.

  Ikeda was just barely in his line of sight, waiting at a bus stop. That was one good thing about Mexico. People here didn’t rush around like they did back home. They didn’t always have some place to be. There was a whole lot more sitting around and enjoying life.

  Which fact, combined with her tanned skin and naturally dark hair, meant that she didn’t stick out among the crowd as she waited.

  “I see him,” she murmured. “Coming right your way, Jason. Thirty seconds.”

  “Copy that,” Trapp replied. He was wearing the same white wireless Apple headphones that were de rigueur for anyone from teenagers to tech types, which made surreptitious communications a whole lot easier. Gone were the days of whispering into a wrist mic.

  Lieutenant Ramirez, who was now seated in a parked car, added, “He’s alone. No one following.”

  Trapp clicked the radio, and caught sight of Ethan Fitz’ unmistakable tall, blond frame a moment later. The spy – or whatever he was now – was wearing a light blue suit and a white shirt. He could have been a model or a business traveler instead of what he was.

  A traitor.

  The fact that he’d sold out his country for cash in service not of another nation, or even an ideology, but for an international criminal organization did not change the raw facts of the matter. What he had done had led to the deaths of Americans. It helped destabilize one of the United States’ closest allies. It had caused violence on American streets.

  And now he was doing his penance. There would be a lot more making up for the evil he’d helped wrought. Many years of it. But Trapp was here to ensure that he didn’t try and wriggle out of the deal he’d made.

  He waited for Fitz to cross his path, then walked intentionally toward him, shouldering him bodily toward the café. It was a glass-fronted modern franchise, just like any back home. Starbucks really had swallowed the world and cuffed it back out all the same.

  “Inside,” Trapp hissed. He’d surreptitiously altered the man’s direction without Fitz even really realizing what had just happened.

  Fitz grunted as the air was driven out of his lungs. “Who –?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Trapp murmured, pushing ahead of his unwitting charge and through the glass doors. “Keep your eyes forward and order a drink.”

  Trapp did the same and stepped away from the register. Fitz did as he was told, only a slight tremor in his voice betraying his concern as he ordered an iced coffee. Both men stood side by side as they waited for their drinks to be made.

  “You know who I am?”

  “Should I?” Fitz replied softly. Trapp noted approvingly that he was barely moving his lips. He’d done this kind of thing before.

  “I believe a mutual friend paid you a visit the other day. Do you remember what he asked for me?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. You’re wearing the watch?”

  Fitz raised his left arm and ostentatiously scratched his nose. As he did, the cuff of his suit shifted slightly, revealing a silver wristwatch. “I am.”

  “It’ll pick up any conversations within fifteen feet or so. But keep it in line of sight to anyone who is talking.”

  “We went through this already, back in Washington. Why –”

  “I thought you might need a reminder, that’s all. We are watching. If you try and renege on our agreement, it will not end well for you.”

  “I wouldn’t!” Fitz protested.

  “We both know you would,” Trapp remarked derisively. “So consider this the only warning you are going to get.”

  “I can’t be here long,” Fitz said. “I’m expected.”

  The girl at the counter called out the name “Jackson” rather than his own, but Trapp stepped forward to claim it anyway. It was close enough. The ice rattled in the plastic cup. He took a sip. As he turned to leave, he said, “I’ve said what I came to say. Just remember the deal you made.”

  Trapp left the Starbucks and walked directly for the road. Leafy green trees swayed overhead. He stuck his arm out, and a taxi veered out of traffic, pulling in to the yellow-painted curb just beside him. He climbed in.

  “You think he got the message?” Hector asked from behind the driver’s wheel, already stepping on the gas and easing back into traffic.

  “I do. He won’t screw us over.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Me too.”

  The taxi only carried him around the block before parking up outside the W Hotel right next to the Marriott itself – only driving long enough to check they hadn’t somehow picked up a tail. It was unlikely, since Hector knew that Abalos had given his Marine bodyguards the day off.

  “I’ll see you up there in ten,” Hector said as Trapp stepped out. He grinned as he saw the jokingly proffered peso notes. “It’s on the house, amigo.”

  Burke was already waiting inside the hotel room on the twelfth floor, seated behind a bank of surveillance equipment. They had pirated the feed from the Marriott’s internal security cameras, every single one of which was being saved onto local hard drives. None of these images would ever see the light of day or the inside of a courtroom.

  But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be useful.

  “Remind me never to get on your bad side,” the DEA agent said as Trapp closed the door behind him. “You do a real ominous bad cop bit
. Ever thought about Hollywood?”

  “I haven’t got the looks.” Trapp grinned, grabbing a cold soda from the minibar to wash away the taste of the iced coffee.

  “I don’t know,” Burke said mischievously. “I hear they’re doing a Frankenstein reboot.”

  Trapp sat down beside him. “Frankenstein was the doctor.”

  “I never said he wasn’t. Doesn’t mean I’m putting you forward for his role.”

  “Yeah, yeah, wise guy.”

  Ikeda joined a moment later. “Good job,” she said, squeezing his shoulder, then stealing the Coke. “What did you say to him? He looked real shook up.”

  Trapp rolled his eyes. “Not you too…”

  “What?”

  “Forget about it.” He turned to Burke. “How’s the signal?”

  “Right now? Dead.”

  “That a good thing?” Trapp remarked, his tone of voice suggesting that he very much thought it was not.

  Burke replayed one of the feeds on the monitor, pointing to a familiar figure in a tan suit. “That’s him thirty seconds ago, climbing into the elevator. It’s just the concrete shaft, that’s all. Kills the signal.”

  “Yeah, let’s hope so.”

  “And… he’s back,” Burke said, holding out a set of headphones. “Want to listen?”

  “Sure.”

  Trapp cupped them around his ears. He didn’t last a second before he tore them back off, grimacing. “What the hell is that?”

  “Just rustling, that’s all. Never took you for such a snowflake.”

  They watched as Fitz walked up to the door to a suite on the top floor. Trapp tugged the headphones away a second time as he knocked. The door opened, and Fitz quickly slipped inside.

  “That’s Grover,” Burke remarked. “Arrived a couple hours ago. Shame we couldn’t get a set of eyes inside.”

  “The other two?”

  “Not here yet.”

  Grover and Fitz sat in stony silence inside the suite. Trapp wished they had gotten a camera inside as well, but the heavy breathing being transmitted through the listening device in Fitz’ watch told a story in itself.

  Abalos arrived ten minutes later, walking up the emergency stairwell from the floor below. Senator Salazar didn’t bother attempting to obfuscate her movements. She rode the elevator up and strolled right to the front door. Trapp couldn’t work out whether he was impressed by her arrogance or disgusted by her stupidity.

  The door to their own hotel room clicked open a second time, and Hector joined them.

  “You got here right in time,” Trapp remarked.

  “You think there’s any chance he tries to screw us?” Ikeda asked. “Go back on the deal he cut with Pope. Maybe he figures a few million bucks from Grover sounds better than a decade behind bars.”

  “I hope so,” Hector growled ominously. “My men are in position in the Marriott. If any of these traitors try something on, they know what to do.”

  Strangely, the meeting in Grover’s hotel suite began with small talk and pleasantries. Trapp hadn’t expected it to sound quite so…

  Normal. It was just like any business meeting between mid-level bureaucrats. Except the topic they were discussing was far graver.

  “You fucked us,” Abalos declared pompously, his voice muffled but perfectly audible. “You said you had a plan, and instead you’ve led us to the edge. Neto is furious. He is planning an investigation into this whole mess. None of us can survive that.”

  “We are where we are,” Grover replied. “And I suggest that instead of casting blame, we try and do something about it.”

  “Like what?” Abalos snarled, seeming to stand and pace around the room. It was difficult to make out with just the audio.

  “Neto’s investigation,” Grover said, his voice cracking, “is only a priority so long as he is president. The election is in three weeks. I suspect if Josefina here had the job she so desires, it might even be made to disappear. Am I correct?”

  “President Nash is in this city as we speak,” Abalos said, cutting across him. “You think Neto is going to slow-play his investigation with that kind of heat on him? Let alone the chaos in the rest of the country.”

  “Then do something about it,” Grover snapped. “You have the men, do you not? The Federación is crying out for a leader. The Crusaders are on the back foot. Reyes is weak. We have an opportunity to get what we always wanted. Don’t just sit on your hands and whine to me when the ball is still in play.”

  “It’s too late,” a woman’s voice said softly. “I’m three points behind in the polls. Too far behind to catch him with so little time. Especially if you hand him a win by crushing what’s left of the cartels.”

  “Let me handle Neto,” Grover said dismissively. “I can pin this whole mess on him, given time. It’s easy to manufacture doubt. To make it look like he was in bed with Reyes this whole time. But only if the admiral here gives me an opportunity. Hit the Crusaders while they are down. I’ll handle the rest. And let me remind you, you’re both in too deep to back out now.”

  There was a pause. A man’s laugh – bitter and desperate. “I’ll give you what you want. Like I have a choice.”

  A woman’s voice. “Fine.”

  They kept listening until the meeting ended, recording and transcribing every word. But in truth, the conspirators had implicated themselves in the crime right from the start – probably sealing their fates. They just didn’t know it yet.

  Burke pulled his headphones off and turned to Hector. “So do we have what you need?”

  The Mexican nodded, and though it would have been understandable for him to be elated, his expression was anything but. He looked almost sad. “This is enough to take to President Neto. After that, our next move is up to him.”

  Trapp shrugged. “Good enough for me.”

  “I thought you wanted to shoot them all,” Ikeda objected.

  “I still do.” He grinned. “But I’m a good soldier. Rules of engagement and all that. And hey, there’s a best case scenario here.”

  “Which is?”

  “Neto takes one good look at all this and orders us to kill them all himself.”

  53

  2 Days Later

  The Winnebago RV was parked inside a fenced-off area behind the stage set up for Senator Salazar’s rally in Constitution Square. It was about twenty feet long, and at least as old. A bodyguard – a plainclothes officer in the Policia Nacional – was posted outside the door that led to the passenger cabin.

  Hector León leaned against a section of metal fence, keeping the area under close surveillance. He was wearing light blue denim jeans and a dark jacket and had a lanyard around his neck that advertised that his presence was authorized.

  “Who are you?” the officer on duty asked.

  Hector flashed his credentials and placed his index finger across his lips. He spoke in a low voice. “I need to speak with the senator.”

  “I can’t let you do that, sir,” the officer replied. The tortured expression on his face reflected the fact that he was in an impossible situation. León clearly outranked him – and yet even so, he had a job to do. And Hector respected him for that.

  “Your name is Santiago, correct?” Hector asked, still speaking softly.

  The officer nodded. His dark hair bounced gently. “Yes, sir. How did you know?”

  “Have you ever met the president, Santi?”

  Santiago’s forehead descended into a mass of wrinkles. “No…”

  “You know what he sounds like?”

  A shrug. “I guess.”

  Hector reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a cell phone. The motion made Santiago flinch, but he did not otherwise react. He dialed the last number in his memory and held the phone out.

  The officer accepted it, holding it in front of himself for a few moments before pressing it to ear. A second later, his eyes widened. He nodded awkwardly, even though it was not a video call, and mumbled into the device. “Yes, sir. Yes.
Of course. Thank you.”

  Santiago handed the phone back. He said nothing, though he looked even more uncertain than before. If such a thing was possible.

  “So do we have an understanding?” Hector asked, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

  “That’s… That’s not proof,” Santiago muttered, though he didn’t even seem to believe it himself. “It could’ve been anyone.”

  “I think you know who that was, Santi,” Hector murmured. “Search me. I won’t touch her, you have my word on that. But I need to speak to the senator. In private.”

  Santiago looked up to the sky as if for reassurance. His head hung there without moving for a few seconds, then dropped back down. “You won’t do a thing to her?”

  “If I walk out that door and I’ve touched even a hair on her head,” Hector replied with disarming honesty, “then you can put a bullet in me.”

  The officer grimaced, but his decision was evidently made. “Arms out.”

  Hector entered the RV a moment later. He still sensed Santiago’s nervousness even as he closed the door behind him. The décor was faded but functional. A couch ran along one side of the cabin and a workspace on the other. There was neither a kitchen nor a bedroom. The senator was seated in front of a backlit mirror.

  He waited, saying nothing.

  Salazar didn’t look away from her reflection as she continued wrangling her hair into a semblance of control. “Is it time?”

  “That depends entirely on you,” Hector replied coldly.

  “Who the hell are you?” Salazar snapped. She didn’t raise her voice – at least not yet – but her tone was positively Arctic.

  “I think you know.”

  Her hair and makeup now forgotten, the senator stood. Outrage radiated from her, and her fists clenched into little balls. “Don’t presume to know me, young man. Now tell me who you are before I call security.”

  “I’m surprised,” Hector replied, “that you don’t recognize me. After all, you tried to have me killed.”

  Salazar was a pro. He had to give her that. She didn’t flinch at the accusation. If anything, her sense of injustice only strengthened. “I did no such thing. We never met.”