One of the federales held a microphone to his lips and spoke into it, his voice booming out of the police car's public address speaker, but the helicopter behind the agents was so loud that Kat couldn't understand what the man was saying.
"I'll get out and see if I can talk to them," Miller said. "Maybe we can straighten this out before it becomes some big international incident." He smiled at Kat and Lundy as he reached for the door handle. "How much cash you guys got on you?"
As soon as Miller opened the door, Kat saw a bright yel-low flash in front of one of the cops aiming an M-16. Then the Tahoe's windshield exploded.
Chapter 8
Northbound traffic was jammed up on the Mexican side of the Juarez-Lincoln International Bridge. Three of the four lanes that went through the exit booth were open. The far right lane was closed and blocked off with bright orange rubber traffic cones. Hatch had to stop twenty cars back from the booth in the outside left lane.
Scott checked the sideview mirror. The black Suburban was four cars behind them. The passenger stepped out. He was a tall white man in his mid- to late-forties. Definitely American, with a buzz cut, dark aviator sunglasses, and a tight-fitting olive-drab T-shirt tucked into khaki 5.11 cargo pants. All of which tagged him as having spent a lot of time in the U.S. military. Scott couldn't tell for sure if the man was armed, but he assumed he was. "We have to go, Hitch."
Hitch gestured to the stack of idling cars in front of them. "How?"
Scott pointed to the empty lane. "Take that one."
"It's closed."
"We're sitting ducks here," Scott said as he checked the mirror again. The man with the buzz cut was walking toward them, slowly, like a cop approaching a suspect car during a felony traffic stop. Scott turned in his seat and looked through the dirty rear window. The second man, the driver, was black and just as definitely American. He was in his mid-thirties and had lots of muscle packed under his tight-fitting olive-drab T-shirt, also tucked into a pair of 5.11s. He was out of the Suburban and cautiously approaching the Ta-hoe on foot. "Drive," Scott shouted and pointed to the far right lane. "Now."
Hitch turned the wheel hard right, but the lane next to them was backed up just as bad as their lane.
"Ram somebody if you have to," Scott said, "but get us the fuck across that bridge."
Hitch bumped the car next to them, an old Buick sedan. The driver laid on his horn and cursed at them in Spanish through his open window. Scott didn't understand the words but he understood the hand gestures and the tone.
"Punch it," he told Hitch.
Hitch goosed the motor and with a grinding shriek of metal on metal, the powerful SUV shoved the Buick out of the way. But there was still a third lane of traffic, also backed up to a standstill. A couple of the drivers in that lane, though, seeing the determination of the Tahoe's driver, moved out of the way before Hitch slammed into them. Then they were clear and into the empty far right lane.
Scott checked the mirror. Both Americans were scram-bling back to the Suburban. "Keep going," Scott said.
Hitch plowed over the orange cones and blew through the booth. As they shot past the small Mexican customs and immigration office just off the bridge to the right, Scott saw two uniformed Mexican officials, police of some kind, storm out the door and chase after them, but by then it was too late. The DEA agents were on the bridge headed north. Scott checked the mirror again and saw the black Suburban racing after them. "They're still with us."
Hitch mashed the accelerator to the floor.
The Suburban tried to pass, but Hitch swerved toward the bigger, heavier vehicle and the driver had brake to avoid a collision.
"Good move," Scott said as he tracked the Suburban in the side mirror.
Then the other driver veered away to gain some dis-tance. He cut back hard and slammed the Suburban's left front bumper into the back fender of the Tahoe. Cops called the move a P.I.T., a precision immobilization technique, and the intent was to force the fleeing car into a tailspin that end-ed in a crash. But Hitch knew the technique and knew how to escape it. Instead of turning into the spin, he counter-steered and kept pressure on the Suburban's front end until he forced it off the Tahoe's back fender. Then he cut to the right and rammed the Suburban and sent it spinning into the concrete railing.
"Fucking-A good driving, man," Garza shouted from the back seat. Hitch smiled but kept his eyes glued to the bridge.
When they reached the midpoint of the bridge, where Nuevo Laredo's Luis Donaldo Colosio Boulevard became Laredo's San Dario Avenue, Scott looked back and saw the Suburban again. Both front fenders were bashed up, but it was still chasing them.
On the north side of the bridge, the four travel lanes fanned out into twelve numbered lanes that funneled into a covered inspection plaza manned by U.S. Customs and Bor-der Protection officers. Lane twelve, the far right lane, was labeled OFFICIAL USE ONLY. That was their only chance. Scott pointed at the booth, but he didn't need to. Hitch was already racing toward it.
The CBP officers saw them coming. Two officers rushed out of the plaza with drawn pistols just as three steel posts shot up from the pavement in front of the booth. The retractable posts were an emergency measure designed to stop vehicles from crashing through the lane. A third CBP officer joined the other two. He was armed with an M-16 and took up a kneeling firing position behind one of the steel posts. The three officers took aim at the racing Tahoe.
"Stop before they shoot us," Scott said. He glanced at the side mirror and saw the Suburban was slowing down. Hitch maintained their speed for several seconds, then jammed on the brakes and slid to a tire-burning stop twenty yards from the CBP officers.
"Raise your hands," Scott said as he pressed his finger-tips high up on the windshield. "Show them we're not a threat."
Hitch and Garza raised their empty hands, palms out. The two CBP officers who were armed with pistols ap-proached the Tahoe, while the third, the one with the M-16, maintained his position and kept the vehicle covered. The two approaching officers split up, one to each side of the Ta-hoe. The one on Scott's side reached out with his off hand and pulled the door handle while keeping his pistol aimed at Scott's head through the glass. The door was locked.
Goddamned automatic locks, Scott thought.
"I'll reach down with one hand and open it," Scott shouted through the glass.
"Slowly," the officer said. He was Hispanic, mid-thirties, obviously with some experience under his belt be-cause he handled himself well.
Scott nodded, then reached down and pulled the han-dle. The lock disengaged and the door opened a crack. The officer jerked it all the way open. "Get out of the car and lie facedown on the ground."
Scott stepped out of the Tahoe but stayed on his feet. "We're DEA agents with a prisoner."
"If that's true then you're even dumber than I thought," the officer said. He had his pistol aimed at Scott's chest. "We would have been totally within policy to have lit your asses up."
"That vehicle behind us," Scott said, without turning his head, "that black Suburban, has been chasing us the last twenty miles. We had to get across fast."
"Let me see your ID"
Scott reached for his back pocket.
"Slow and easy," the officer said.
So, slow and easy, just like he'd been ordered, Scott pulled out his leather credential case, with the gold DEA badge fitted into a cutout on the outside. Then he opened the case and showed the officer his credentials, which consisted of two laminated cards behind clear plastic. The top card had 'DEA' superimposed across it in big blue letters, and the bottom card had Scott's official photograph affixed to it, taken in a suit and tie.
The CBP officer lowered his pistol. He peeked into the Tahoe and saw Ortiz handcuffed in the back seat. "I assume that's your prisoner."
Scott nodded.
"Mexican national?"
"Yes, he is," Scott said.
The officer glanced at the black Suburban, idling fifty yards back. "So who are those guys?"
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Scott turned. The Suburban's passenger door was open and the tall white guy was standing outside, staring back at him through his black aviator sunglasses. "Hell if I know."
Chapter 9
By 7:30 a.m., the DEA Laredo Field Office was in chaos. Scott Greene had called in his two investigative assistants an hour early to help. Some of his agents were working the phones, calling their contacts in Mexican law enforcement and trying to find the three missing agents. Another agent was manning the DEA radio, periodically calling for the missing agents by last name and call sign. Scott also had an agent repeatedly dialing the missing agents' cell phones and sending urgent text messages. Still another agent was typing up a flash message to DEA Headquarters about the arrest of Felix Ortiz.
Meanwhile, Scott was processing his prisoner, filling out a personal history form, taking mugshots, and getting three sets of original inked fingerprints: one for the FBI, one for DEA Headquarters, and one for the case file, which would stay in the Laredo office. The mugshots were full face, left profile, and right profile. When Scott was finished he shoved Ortiz into one of the four small, cage-like holding cells and slammed the door. The lock engaged automatically.
Ortiz stood at the door and stared at Scott through the wire mesh. "You're in over your head, amigo."
Scott ignored him.
"Three of your agents are missing."
"You have the right to remain silent," Scott said. "I sug-gest you use it."
"You don't know what you started."
"I know I started you on a one-way trip to the needle."
"You have no idea what's really going on here, do you?" Ortiz said. "You gringos think you understand everything, but you don't. You only see what's right in front of you. You don't see the...how do you say? The large...?"
"The big picture," Scott said.
"Sí, the big picture," Ortiz said. "You don't see the big picture. This isn't about drugs. This is about politics. Politics, power, and money. In my country...and in yours."
"I don't have time to debate politics with you," Scott said. "I have work to do." He pointed to the bench at the back of the holding cell. "Have a seat and wait."
Ortiz smiled, showing that silver tooth again. "I'm going to wait right here for my free lawyer, the one you told me about when you were reading me my rights."
"Sit down and shut up," Scott said. "When I get a chance I'll have somebody run you over to the U.S. marshal's office."
Ortiz looked around the small cage. "No hurry, señor. Take your time. I like it here. You have air conditioning."
Scott walked out of the prisoner processing room and into the long hall that ran the length of the office. Almost immediately he bumped into his boss, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Glenn Peterson. The ASAC was in his mid-fifties and looked like he could still swing a ram and take down a door, unlike a lot of chair warmers in DEA middle management, whose most strenuous exertion of the day was going to lunch. But Peterson was pushing up against the mandatory retirement age of fifty-seven and had less than a year left before he was shown the door.
Still, Scott was surprised to see his boss. Peterson's of-fice, along with that of the special agent in charge, the SAC, was at the division office in Houston. It was rare that the suits came down to Laredo, and when they did, long-standing tradition held that they give the local RAC a heads-up. "I didn't know you were coming down," Scott said.
"The SAC sent me as soon as he heard about the clus-terfuck you ran this morning," Peterson said. He wore a dark blue suit with an American flag lapel pin. "I tried to call, but your phone went straight to voicemail."
Scott reached in his pocket for his cell. Out of habit, he had turned it off while he was booking the prisoner. He switched it back on and saw he had several missed calls, in-cluding two from his wife. "Sorry."
"You got bigger problems than missing my call."
"How big?"
"The SAC is on his way down right now."
"I guess he's pissed," Scott said.
"You think?"
"What about headquarters?"
"He's got them stirred up too."
Scott had nothing to say to that. There wasn't anything he could do about the SAC or the pencil pushers in head-quarters. He had three missing agents to find. That had to be his first-his only-priority.
"I admire your guts," Peterson said. "I always have."
"I'm sensing a but coming."
Peterson nodded. "But you stepped into a huge pile of shit with this one."
"We got him, though," Scott said. "We got the man who set up the hit on Mike Cassidy."
"But three more agents are missing."
"I think the PFs caught up with them and are holding them to make a point."
"You better hope that's true," Peterson said. "Because if they don't show up soon, it's going to get really ugly. The Mexican government is already saying they're going to file a formal protest with the State Department. If they do that, then the White House has to get involved. Eventually, your little stunt could end up forcing the president of the United States to call the president of Mexico and make a personal apology. And I shouldn't have to tell you what your career is going to be worth if that happens."
"It's not going to come to that," Scott said. "The Mexi-cans can't hold them for very long."
"They can hold them as long as they want," Peterson said. "And the reason they can hold them as long as they want is because you invaded a sovereign nation and kid-napped a federal police officer."
"That's not exactly how it-"
"What do you think the United States government would do if a group of Mexican police officers came across the border and kidnapped a DEA agent and took him to Mexico?"
"Ortiz set Mike Cassidy up so the Zetas could snatch him off the street. They tortured him, killed him, and cut off his head. And not necessarily in that order. There's a federal arrest warrant out for Ortiz, and I'm not going to apologize for bringing him in."
"There's a legal process."
"Mexico was never going to extradite him."
"The State Department says they were close to a deal."
"Bullshit," Scott snapped. "State's nothing but a gigan-tic circle jerk. Their idea of a deal would be Ortiz serving six months in a Mexican halfway house and getting to keep his job. My idea is he goes to the federal death house and gets a needle in his arm."
"There's a process, and renditions aren't a part of it."
"Headquarters gives renditions a wink and a nod."
"Only if you don't get caught," Peterson said. "Or lose anyone."
"They'll be back." Scott hoped he sounded more confi-dent than he felt.
"I'm too close to punching out," Peterson said. "And I'm way too old to go looking for another job. I'm sorry, but I can't cover you on this."
"That's why I didn't tell you."
"You didn't tell the SAC either."
"If you were in my place, would you have told Bobby Socks about an off-the-books operation?"
Peterson shook his head. "I guess not."
They stood there for a moment, just looking at each oth-er. Then at the far end of the hall, they heard a commotion. Several voices raised in anger. And a pitiful cry of anguish. Then something hard-maybe a fist?-slammed into a wall.
Garza stepped out of the last office and looked down the hall at Scott and Glenn. His face was red, and even at this distance, Scott could see there were tears in his eyes. "They found them," Garza said. "Miller, Lundy...and Kat. They found all of them. They're dead."
Chapter 10
Scott Greene stared at the bullet-riddled Chevrolet Tahoe and the bloody, twisted, lifeless bodies inside it. Miller was slumped against the steering wheel. Lundy sat in the passen-ger seat, his bandaged leg still propped on the dashboard. And Kat lay sprawled across the back seat.
The Policia Federal had stretched a cordon of bright yellow crime scene tape around the entire area. Printed on the tape in bold black letters was a repeated warning in Spanish no
t to cross the barrier. Since the location of the crime scene was in the desert with nothing to tie the tape to, the federal cops had driven long wooden stakes into the sand and wrapped the tape around them.
Outside the perimeter of yellow tape, where they had been warned to stay, Scott stood in helpless rage with the rest of his agents: Diego, Jackson, Cajun, Hitch, and Garza. The ASAC, Glenn Peterson, stood with them. They had driven across the border in two Dodge Chargers, which the ASAC said were less threatening than the blacked-out Ta-hoes, and this time they came over without weapons since Mexican law prohibited U.S. law enforcement agents from carrying firearms in Mexico. Any agent arrested in Mexico for violating the law could expect to spend from one to three years in a Mexican prison, but everyone knew that the chance of a DEA agent actually surviving any sentence in a Mexican prison was essentially zero. So in effect, any sen-tence was death sentence.
As a result, Scott and the remaining members of his team were unarmed and unprotected, wearing nothing but 5.11 cargo pants and plain black T-shirts. Peterson was the odd man out, still in his dark blue suit, though Scott was glad to see his boss hadn't taken the American flag pin out of his lapel. When you're in enemy territory, you need to show the flag. In this case, literally.
The dead Tahoe sat on four flat tires, its hood, grill, and doors punched through with bullet holes. All the glass had been shot out. A puddle of green radiator fluid lay under the engine.
In front of the Tahoe, two marked Policia Federal pa-trol cars sat nose-to-nose across the highway. From the number of .223 and 9mm shell casings on the ground behind the patrol cars and along the sides of the highway, Scott fig-ured the federales had fired more than a hundred rounds into the Tahoe.
At least twenty Policia Federal officers were wandering around the crime scene, both uniformed and plainclothes. Most of them doing nothing. A lone PF photographer was snapping pictures, but even he wasn't getting too close to the Tahoe.
Flies buzzed in and out through the empty windows and blood had leaked out under the doors and pooled on the highway. Most of the blood had dried, but some of it was still dripping. The desert sun was almost directly overhead and sent heat waves shimmering off the blacktop. The inside of the Tahoe must be like an oven, Scott thought, because the cooked-meat smell emanating from it was nauseating.
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