Cartel

by Chuck Hustmyre

  "You wanted me to go to law school."

  "Is that so bad?"

  "I was a cop when we met."

  "Yeah, a Dallas cop. Not a DEA agent. And you said you were thinking about going to law school."

  "I did think about it," Scott said. "And I decided not to."

  "But you waited until after we got married to tell me that."

  "I like my job."

  "That's not what you said when you were stuck in D.C."

  "That was headquarters," Scott said. "And that's not the job. This is the job. Right here. On the border."

  Victoria shook her head. "You actually like this place."

  He nodded. "Yeah, I do."

  "Well, I hate it." She yanked open the drawer and slammed it shut. "And I hate your fucking job."

  There was an open overnight bag on the bed, but so far Victoria hadn't put anything in it. Scott didn't know if she was packing to leave or just blowing off steam.

  "Four cities in ten years," Victoria said. "Four schools for Jake, two for Samantha. When does it end, Scott? When do we get to stay on one place?"

  "The transfers haven't hurt them. They're both doing great in school."

  "How would you know? You're don't get home until af-ter they're in bed."

  "That's not true. I read to them all the time."

  "Once a week," she said. "On weekends."

  "I see their grades. I know how they're doing."

  "What about me?" Victoria said. "How am I doing? Have the transfers hurt me? I've had to quit three jobs." She stared at him, waiting for a response, but he didn't say any-thing. "And let's not forget Afghanistan, where you picked up a parasite that nearly ate a hole in your stomach."

  Scott stood up so suddenly that Victoria took a half-step back. "No, let's not forget Afghanistan."

  Victoria shook her head, her long blond hair swinging across both shoulders, and held her hand up in a stop ges-ture. "No. No, you don't. Not that again. The counselor said-"

  "I don't give a damn what the counselor said." Scott's voice rose with each word. "It wasn't his wife fucking her tennis instructor."

  Victoria looked horrified as she glanced at the closed bedroom door. "Keep your voice down," she pleaded. "The kids will hear you."

  And there it was, Scott thought, the scab ripped off the wound that would not heal, Victoria's fling with her twenty-something tennis instructor while Scott was risking his ass in Afghanistan.

  When he found out about the affair, Scott had followed the tennis punk around for a couple of nights and discovered the son-of-a-bitch was screwing at least two more of his middle-aged, bored housewife students. He had really en-joyed telling Victoria about that, and he had relished sending her to a clinic for an STD test.

  But even after that, Scott had still wanted to smack that no-good, wife-chasing, tennis-playing Lothario around. Land just one good punch, right on the nose. Punk had probably never been hit by anything harder than a tennis ball in his entire life. But what if the punk went crying to the police? Scott might end up with criminal charges filed against him, and if the charges stuck, especially a felony, his security clearance would be revoked and DEA would have no choice but to fire him.

  Then he'd had an even worse thought. What if the punk turned out not to be the weak sister Scott took him for? The kid was six-two, a hundred and eighty pounds, and almost fifteen years younger than Scoot. No doubt in better shape. How embarrassing would that be, getting his ass handed to him by the punk who was sticking it to his wife?

  So Scott and Victoria went to counseling instead. Where, as expected, the counselor laid eighty percent of the blame on Scott. What a colossal waste of time and money that had turned out to be. He could have stayed home and listened to his wife bitch at him for free and saved the hun-dred bucks an hour.

  But maybe some of the counselor's advice had sunk in. Scott cut back on his hours and spent more time at home. He had applied for a transfer to headquarters and landed an 8-to-5 desk job with three weekends off a month. A year and a half later, the RAC job opened in Laredo. Scott wanted back on the street, so he put in for the job and didn't tell Victoria about it until he got selected for it.

  If D.C. had been purgatory for Victoria, Laredo was hell. She absolutely hated it. At first she threatened to take the kids up to Dallas to live with her parents. Not a legal separation, just separate residences for as long as Scott was in Laredo. He could come up on weekends and visit. He had managed to talk her out of that by explaining that he was back on the street, and, unlike when he'd been assigned to headquarters, he wouldn't have most weekends off.

  Eventually, Victoria settled down. They bought a nice house in a nice neighborhood. Things seemed to be going their way. Then Mike Cassidy got killed, and Scott started working sixteen hours a day, seven days a week.

  Now he was suspended, the subject of a criminal inves-tigation, and facing the very real possibility of losing his job and maybe even being sent to prison. And his wife was try-ing to decide if she should pack a bag and take their kids back home to Dallas.

  Chapter 20

  Scott was sitting in the dark on his back porch, in a very comfortable Adirondack chair, with an open bottle of beer standing in a puddle of condensation on the armrest, when he heard his cell phone ring inside the house. The phone was on the dresser in his bedroom. He didn't get up to answer it because there was no one he wanted to talk to, especially not on that phone, his DEA phone. Technically, he should have turned the phone in along with his badge, gun, and G-car, but he had forgotten about it. Apparently, so had the SAC.

  The phone rang again.

  The back door opened and Victoria stepped onto the porch, Scott's phone in her hand and a scowl on her face. She had decided not to pack a bag. Instead, she had put the kids to bed early, then disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door. It was the usual signal that she was mad and that Scott needed to make himself comfortable on the sofa.

  The phone rang again as she handed it to him.

  "Thanks," he said.

  She turned around without a word and stalked back into the house.

  Scott checked the caller ID. It read, "RESTRICTED." He answered as it started to ring a fourth time. "Hello."

  "I heard the SAC put you on the bench," ASAC Glenn Peterson said.

  "And called the Rat Squad and Justice OIG"

  "I wish I could help you."

  "I appreciate the thought."

  "You tell Victoria?"

  "Yes. And she's pissed. At me, of course."

  "Job's tough on a marriage," Peterson said. "I got two ex-wives to prove it."

  Scott didn't say anything and the silence dragged be-tween them.

  "Listen," Peterson said. "Reason I called, I think I got something for you."

  "What is it?"

  "Mike Cassidy was running an investigation off the books."

  Scott sat up a little straighter. "Into what?"

  "He didn't say. Just told me it was big. Huge was the word he used."

  "Okay," Scott said, wondering where this was going.

  "He was working with a PF in Nuevo Laredo, a cop named Benny Alvarez."

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  "Alvarez wants to meet you," Peterson said. "Other side of the river, a place called Café Americain."

  "I'm suspended, remember? The SAC took my badge and gun?"

  "Doesn't matter," Peterson said. "A DEA badge doesn't mean shit down there, and you can't bring a gun anyway. Or hadn't you heard that?"

  "When?"

  "Ten o'clock."

  "All right," Scott said. "It's not like I have to go into the office tomorrow anyway."

  "I'm talking about tonight."

  Scott checked his watch. It was 9:20. "You want me to go across the border tonight and meet up with-"

  "I don't want you to do anything. In fact, I didn't even call you tonight. I'm at the hotel restaurant right now eating a steak and drinking a beer, which is exactly what my credit card statement w
ill prove."

  "So this cop..."

  "Alvarez."

  "Called you?"

  "Ten minutes ago. Said Cassidy left my number as an emergency contact."

  "And it took three months to pick up the phone?"

  "Alvarez wants to meet," Peterson said. "I'm just pass-ing along the message."

  "Why me?"

  "I don't know," Peterson said. "Maybe you should find out." Then the line clicked as he hung up.

  * * * *

  "He just got a call," Cyril said from the back of the Suburban.

  Marcus sat up straight in the driver's seat. He'd been watching Scott Greene's house while Dwayne slouched in the passenger seat and dozed. Now Marcus turned to the partially open hatch that led to the rear compartment. "From who?"

  "They didn't use names." Cyril said. "Definitely DEA, though, from the context. I think he's about to be on the move."

  "What was the gist?" Marcus asked.

  "He's meeting a Mexican cop at ten, at a place called Café Americain."

  "Across the border?" asked Dwayne, who was stretch-ing and yawning after his little nap.

  "Yeah," Cyril said, his fingers clacking away at his key-board. "I'm looking it up now."

  Marcus keyed his headset microphone. "Sierra One, this is Sierra Two. Looks like Tango One is about to head south."

  Gavin's reply was immediate. "Roger that, Sierra Two. We'll be at the Juarez Bridge. Keep me posted. Sierra One, out."

  Marcus clicked his mic button twice to acknowledge. The Juarez-Lincoln International Bridge was centrally locat-ed in downtown Laredo, and it was the bridge Greene had used that morning. It was a good choice, Marcus thought, the logical choice. Which, of course, made him question it.

  "Might not be as boring as I thought," Dwayne said. "I kind of got a thing for Mexican pussy. Maybe we can scare some up while we're down there."

  "Cyril," Marcus said, ignoring Dwayne, "are you sure you can track his phone in Mexico?"

  "Unless he's using a bag phone circa 1989," Cyril said, "I can activate his GPS remotely and track him all the way down to Tierra del Fuego."

  "Good," Marcus said. "Because I don't think he's going to be easy to tail."

  "Why the fuck not?" Dwayne said. "He's just a dumb cop."

  * * * *

  Victoria was propped up in bed using her iPad when Scott walked into the bedroom. He opened his underwear drawer and dug out a flat, gunmetal gray box with a three-dial combination lock. He spun the wheels to the first three digits of his badge number and opened the lid. Inside was a Springfield Armory Model 1911, .45 caliber pistol, and three loaded eight-shot Wilson combat magazines. Scott stared at the pistol. It was just a meeting, he thought. And he was al-ready in enough trouble. He left the gun in the box, closed the lid and relocked it.

  "Are you going somewhere?" Victoria asked.

  Scott shoved the gun box back in place and closed the drawer. He turned to his wife. "I have to meet somebody."

  "And you need a gun?"

  "Habit," he said. "I almost feel naked without one."

  "You're not supposed to carry one while you're suspend-ed, right?"

  "That's why I decided to leave it."

  She stared into his eyes. She'd always been good at reading him. "That's not why," she said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "This is Texas. Everybody carries a gun. And all the cops know you."

  "Pretty much."

  "So if you think you need a gun, why aren't you taking it?"

  He made a show of looking at his watch.

  "Because you're going to Mexico," Victoria said.

  "I lost three agents today, and their deaths are tied to Mike Cassidy's murder."

  "And this person you're meeting knows something about that?"

  "It's a cop," Scott said. "And yeah, that's what I'm hop-ing."

  She gave him a long look. "Be careful."

  "I will." He walked toward the door. When he reached it he heard her say, "I do love you, you know."

  He turned around. "I love you too."

  Chapter 21

  Marcus took some small measure of satisfaction in the fact that he'd been right. Scott Greene was not easy to tail. Greene's Ford F-150 was four-wheel drive and taller than most of the other vehicles on the street, so it was easier to keep track of, which was a plus. The problem was that Greene didn't head straight for the river. He drove a mean-dering route and made seemingly random turns. Except they weren't random at all. They were textbook counter-surveillance moves, designed to see if anyone was following him.

  Mobile surveillance was tough under the best of circum-stances. To be effective, a good surveillance team needed at least four cars and four walkers, passengers who could bail out of the vehicles, blend in with the community, and follow the target on foot. Marcus had one vehicle, a tech geek, and a 'roided-up white boy who didn't speak Spanish.

  They followed Greene west on Hidalgo Street. Marcus expected him to turn left on Santa Ursula Avenue and head south toward the Juarez Bridge, but when Greene kept going west on Hidalgo, Marcus realized he wasn't going to the Jua-rez Bridge. He keyed his headset. "Sierra One, this is Sierra Two."

  "Go for Sierra One," came Gavin's voice.

  "Tango One just crossed the access road. He's either go-ing to the old bridge or all the way to the World Trade Bridge."

  "Roger that," Gavin said. "Let me know."

  They followed Greene past Convent Street, Salinas Av-enue, then Juarez Avenue. Marcus expected him to make the next left, onto Santa Maria, which ran one way south and led to Water Street, then back to Convent Avenue and across the Gateway to the Americas Bridge, what locals called the old bridge. But Greene kept going, past Davis Avenue, past Main Avenue. He banged a right onto Santa Cleotilde Avenue and drove north.

  "He's headed to the World Trade Bridge," Marcus said into his headset.

  "Roger that," Gavin replied. "We're moving."

  "Why the fuck would he do that?" Dwayne asked.

  "Because he's careful," Marcus said.

  They followed Greene north past Farragut Street. A block later he turned right onto a one-way street headed east. "Change of plan," Marcus said into his headset. "He took a right on Matamoros and is doubling back."

  At Saint Peter's Plaza, Greene turned right onto Main Avenue, another one-way, this one headed south.

  "Now south on Main," Marcus said into the micro-phone. "He may be headed to the old bridge after all."

  "Roger," Gavin said. "He's a cautious son of a bitch, is-n't he?"

  Marcus clicked the transmit button twice to acknowledge.

  Main Avenue ended at the Riverdrive Mall, and Marcus followed Greene's F-150 as the DEA agent made his way around the mall and back to Santa Cleotilde, then made a left onto Water Street. "Headed east on Water to Convent and the bridge," Marcus advised Gavin.

  "I'm three blocks behind you," Gavin said, and Marcus could hear the deep roar of the engine as Gavin raced to catch up.

  Six blocks later, Greene merged onto Convent Avenue headed south toward the Gateway to the Americas Bridge. The two Chevrolet Suburbans were thirty yards behind him when he crossed the bridge into Mexico.

  Chapter 22

  Scott found Café Americain in a part of Nuevo Laredo called Mirador, four blocks west of Calle Monterrey. He drove past it once to check it out.

  Café Americain looked pretty much like every other ca-fé in Nuevo Laredo; in fact, it looked pretty much like every other café in Mexico. The front was wide open because there was no air conditioning. Six or eight tables were scattered around inside, and there were four more outside on the side-walk. A TV mounted in a back corner had the volume cranked up on a soccer game. Several men sat at the inside tables drinking beer and watching the game. The outside ta-bles were empty.

  Scott circled around and parked on a cross street two blocks from the café. He checked his watch. Five minutes past ten. He sat in his truck and watched the café.

  Nobo
dy came or left, and as far as Scott could see none of the patrons gave off a cop vibe. Scott considered the pos-sibility that the meeting was a trap, that Officer Benny Alva-rez was a friend of Sergeant Felix Ortiz, that this was going to be payback for snatching Ortiz. Maybe Scott would end up in the hands of Los Zetas, tortured, murdered, and be-headed, just like Mike Cassidy.

  But Glenn Peterson had vouched for Alvarez. Hadn't he? Not really. Glenn had simply gotten a call from a Mexi-can cop requesting a meeting with Scott and had passed it along. Glenn wasn't on the street anymore. He didn't know Alvarez. Because he was on suspension, Scott couldn't even check to see if Alvarez was a documented CI. Glenn could, but he hadn't mentioned it and Scott hadn't asked. This was Scott's only lead, one he had to follow it. Wherever it went.

  Scott checked his watch: 10:15. He tugged a baseball cap onto his head and stepped out of his truck. Walking the two blocks to the café, he kept his eyes, ears, and that inde-finable extra level of perception-what some called a "sixth sense" but what Scott thought of as cop intuition-scanning for trouble.

  Thirty feet from the café, he passed a dark recess. Something moved inside the darkness. Scott tensed and spun toward the threat.

  "Scott Greene?" a woman's voice said from the back of the recess.

  "Who wants to know?" Scott said.

  A slim figure stepped out of the darkness. "I'm Benny Alvarez."

  "You're Benny?" Scott said, unable to hide his surprise. She was in her late twenties, fit, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing jeans, a light jacket, and a sturdy pair of hiking boots.

  "Benetta. But everyone calls me Benny."

  "I'm sorry," Scott stammered. "I..."

  "Was expecting a man?"

  "No. Well, yeah, actually, I was."

  "I thought you Americans were more progressive that than."

  "We are...I mean...It's just that..."

  "That when you heard a police officer wanted to meet you, you expected that the officer was going to be a man."