Unfortunately, at the moment, contemplating his next assignment was problematic. That was getting ahead of himself. At present, he needed to focus on finding a way to survive, of getting out of here alive.
THE RUSTED METAL DOOR cracked a few inches and a bar of light fell across the urine puddle. Robby rolled his eyes upward—not expending the energy to raise his head—and wondered what they had planned for him.
A large man stood at the door—he had earlier told Robby his name was Ernesto “Grunge” Escobar. Robby easily had six inches on the guy, but their weight was roughly the same. While Robby was lithe and muscular, this guy was square and thick. Escobar’s job was apparently to make sure no one got the upper hand while in his custody. And in his current state, Robby was not much of a threat to anyone.
Escobar was the one who had inflicted the damage to Robby’s body and mind. He had learned his techniques somewhere, Robby surmised. But that knowledge didn’t make the pain any less intense, the torture any more humane.
“Hernandez,” Escobar said. “Let’s go. Up.” He folded his broad forearms across his chest and waited for Robby to drag his left leg in toward his body, followed by his right. He then rolled onto his side and summoned his remaining strength to push up his torso.
“Food,” Robby said in a low, frail voice. “Water.”
Escobar stood there, looking down at his captive. At some point in the next second, he must have brought his leg back—Robby didn’t see it—but he sure felt it. Boot to the face. Again. It lifted Robby off the ground and launched him into the adjacent wall. And that’s where he lay when the lights went out.
63
Vail and DeSantos had been granted a prime flight path and made excellent time with nary a drop of fuel to spare. DeSantos, chewing hard on a piece of Wrigley’s, kept fobbing off her comments about what they had left in the tank, usually with a joke that left Vail more frustrated.
But he seemed at ease, so she finally realized that if it was an issue, he would not only tell her but would be concerned himself. It was only when the low fuel warning sounded that the anxiety rose up in her throat like a bacteria-infested meal. He then explained he had to come in empty because of the maximum landing weight the regional airport required.
“Is that really true?” Vail asked as the wheels screeched against the runway pavement of San Diego’s Montgomery Field.
DeSantos guided them toward their slot. “Yes and no. I could’ve stopped somewhere and put in a couple thousand pounds of fuel, but would you have wanted to waste another hour?”
Of course not. That’s not a fair question to ask when Robby’s life is at stake.
“Didn’t think so,” DeSantos said with a wink. “Sometimes you just gotta trust me, Karen.”
“I think I just did, with my life.”
“Not really. With only us and no payload, I figured we’d be fine. I’m a bright guy. Time you started giving me some credit.”
Vail rolled her eyes, then unbuckled her belt.
“Hey, Sammy got us this lead. And you wouldn’t have met Sammy if it wasn’t for me. Right?”
I think for now I’m going to reserve judgment on just how good this lead is.
They were ushered into the terminal, where Dixon, Turino, and Mann were waiting.
Turino shook hands with his new task force members and they started moving toward the parking lot. He pushed open a door and led them through a hallway. “I got us some wheels from the DEA field division office. Because of who we’re dealing with—and since we don’t know what to expect—SWAT’s been alerted and has been working up a breach plan. They’re prepared to rendezvous with us one mile from Cortez’s house.”
“Any indication he’s there?” DeSantos asked.
“SWAT’s had ‘eyes on’ since we first called. No activity.”
Mann pushed through a set of doors. “That would’ve been too easy.”
“Let’s not give up on it yet,” Dixon said. “It’s a starting point.”
With Turino—the de facto case agent—driving the DEA’s black Chevy SUV, they pulled up in front of a house in the tony beach community of La Jolla—one of the most expensive areas in the nation, with homes topping out at $20 million and averaging a mere $2 million. Unfathomable—and unreachable—to most Americans.
The white oversize SWAT RDV, or rapid deployment vehicle, and black armored Bearcat were parked and waiting. The mission leader—the tactical commander—was standing by his command car. The large double doors of the RDV, a Ford E-450 Super Duty, were swung wide, revealing the utilitarian steel interior and twenty tactical officers—the equation was two men per room—in full garb.
Turino left the SUV to make contact while the others remained in their seats.
“Been awhile since I went on a raid like this,” Mann said. “Hope the asshole’s there. Be a pleasure interrogating shit like him.”
“You’ve dealt with people like this,” Vail said to DeSantos. “What’s your take?”
“Cortez? Long gone. As soon as he got wind Hernandez is a UC, he went into retreat mode. Probably won’t be back here for a while, if ever. He knows we’re looking for him, so finding him’s going to be a challenge. With a huge cache of dough to draw on, I’m sure he’s got some secure, off-the-grid places he can go. Homes owned by a shell corporation or in someone else’s name. Very, very tough to track shit like that unless we can grab up an associate who can give us something. But finding a guy willing to squeal on one of the most violent cartel families ain’t gonna be easy.”
“Even though we’ve issued a BOLO,” Mann said, referring to law enforcement’s Be On The Lookout alert, “guys like Cortez have ways of getting across the border without going through traditional channels.”
Dixon grabbed the seatback and pulled herself forward. “So he could’ve already fled to Mexico.”
DeSantos extracted the package of gum from his pocket. “I’m not sure poking around his house will give us much.”
Through the SUV window, Vail took in the stylish beach homes all around her. “To a trained eye, going through his place could tell us a lot. If we know where to look.”
DeSantos folded a slice of gum into his mouth. “Such as?”
She twisted her lips. “Don’t know yet. I’m a behavioral analyst. I’ve spent my career studying human behavior. I’ve never applied it to something like this, but why the hell not? I’ll see if something hits me.”
Turino came back toward their vehicle. “We’re good to go. Eyes on the house haven’t seen any movement. They did a covert canvass of the immediate neighbors. No one’s seen any activity in days.”
“Since they discovered Robby’s a UC,” Vail said.
Up ahead, several of the SWAT officers hopped onto the Bearcat’s steel exterior skids and prepared to make the short ride to the Cortez estate. Hanging off the sides of the vehicle, they would be ready to deploy the second the Bearcat drew to a stop.
Turino yanked the gearshift into drive. As he pulled away from the curb, following the SWAT vehicle, he said, “They’ll go in first, clear the house. We’ll follow. Anybody got a problem with that?”
“I just hope they don’t destroy anything on the way in,” Vail said. “I need to see everything as Cortez left it.”
“I’ll let ’em know. While they’re watching out for loaded AK-47s poking around the edges of doors, I’ll make sure they wipe their feet so they don’t dirty the carpet.”
Vail smirked. “I meant we need to preserve—”
“I know what you meant.”
Vail felt like cracking Turino across the noggin but thought better of it. Her objective was to find Robby, and at the moment she needed the agent’s assistance.
They approached Cortez’s home, which was on a hill near a country club overlooking the ocean. Vail craned her neck to peer out the window. Beyond the town of La Jolla, which sported white buildings, red tile roofs, and groupings of palm trees, pristine sky blue-tinted water stretched into infinity, sun glinti
ng off its surface.
She pulled her gaze from the window and her Glock from its holster. The others in the SUV followed suit.
The two SWAT vehicles pulled to a hard stop in front of the Cortez estate. Turino brought their Chevy perpendicular to the wide vehicles. Next came two patrol cars, approaching from opposite ends, to block traffic from entering the street. Turino shoved the shift into park.
The SWAT officers leaped from the Bearcat, then fanned out as they neared the white brick structure, MP-5 submachine guns at the ready. A stone fence wrapped around the home, providing a slight but insignificant impediment as the officers scaled it with aplomb.
The mission leader issued hand signals and his contingent took their positions.
The task force followed SWAT toward the house, pistols gripped in both hands, pointed at a 45 degree angle toward the ground. Over the fence and down the slate steps they went, some remaining out front, others taking up a position at either side of the mansion—but they remained along the perimeter and waited to advance until SWAT gave the all-clear. This was SWAT’s show until the structure was secure.
The mission leader checked with his charges. Everyone was in position.
He fisted his hand and rapped on the walnut door. Knock and notice, an “844” in the penal code. Warrant in hand, they didn’t need to be nice about it—just efficient. “San Diego Police with a search warrant demanding entry!”
Another officer tossed two flash bangs away from the team, below the side living room windows. They exploded and lit up the area. The intent was shock and awe—to let the occupants get the sense they were overpowered before they could figure out what was playing out on their front lawn.
Normally SWAT would’ve driven the Bearcat up to the door and used the ram device built into the bumper. But because of the stone wall and uneven terrain of the front yard, they were forced to use a compact battering ram. The mission leader waited a beat, then motioned to the breach specialist, who moved into position, then swung back the weighted device.
Austin Mann’s scream came a second too late, as the officer had already brought the heavy cylinder forward, arcing through the air and smashing into the wood door.
Mann’s “Stop!” was followed a split second later by the concussive force of a thunderous blast. Windows blew out, wood splintered, and bodies flew backward.
Vail charged forward. “Shit!”
DeSantos and Dixon followed, assisting Vail by grabbing the arms of the fallen SWAT officers and dragging them out behind the Bearcat.
“What the hell happened?” Dixon asked.
“They’re alive,” Vail said, checking pulses.
“Officers down,” Turino shouted, the two-way pressed against his ear. “Medics up!” He looked back toward the house. “Goddamn son of a bitch.”
Two Special Trauma and Rescue personnel, kits in hand, hurtled the low wall and immediately began attending to the downed men.
Mann stood there staring at the gaping hole. “I saw it right before they blasted the door open.”
“Saw what?” DeSantos asked.
“Countersurveillance camera.” He threw out a hand, motioning toward the trees. “I thought, could just be good security. But then I turned back to the door. And I saw it, the trip wire. Hard to see from the breacher’s angle, but from where I was, it caught my eye. And in that split second, I thought, shit, the door might be rigged, too. Soon as he busted it open—”
“Sometimes that’s the way shit goes down,” DeSantos said. “Beating yourself up won’t help.”
Mann kicked at a tuft of grass that had been dislodged by their trampling on the lawn. It went flying toward the carnage strewn across the front of the house. “I’m the ATF agent here. Should’ve been first thing on my mind.”
Dixon jutted her chin out, indicating the geared-up men. “Why don’t you get over there, see if they need your help checking the remaining avenues of entry. We still need to get in there.”
Mann grumbled but took her advice, and he started off in their direction.
The thick scent of charred wood mixed with a heavy, gritty sulfur haze made breathing a chore.
Vail brought her elbow up to her mouth and suppressed a cough. Just what I need.
“How are they?” Turino asked.
“Unconscious,” Dixon said, “but alive. As to head trauma, no idea.”
Turino clenched his jaw. “When we catch Cortez, I’m going to take a lot of pleasure in hooking him up.”
Vail started toward the house. “I’m going in.”
DeSantos took two long strides and caught up with her, grabbed her arm. “Hang on, there. Let them clear the place, then we’ll go in. A little extra time isn’t going to matter.”
Vail wrested her arm free. “Every minute we delay could be one minute too long. We’ve no idea what’s happening to Robby. If he’s still alive, they could be pulling the trigger right now.” She looked hard into his gaze. “Or now.” She turned and continued toward the house.
“Jesus Christ, Karen. I’m a cowboy, willing to take all sorts of risks when I’m on a mission. But you’re—you’re just doing dumb things.”
“Really?” she asked, not slowing her stride. “Goddamn it, Hector. What’s wrong with you? If Robby was your partner, you wouldn’t be so cautious and goddamn slow and—and apathetic. Wake the fuck up!”
DESANTOS STOPPED. Vail’s comment was like an ice pick in the eye. A few years ago, his partner, Brian Archer, had been killed during an op they were running on domestic soil. The pain was unrelenting, the thirst for payback as ravenous as parched desert soil awaiting rainfall.
DeSantos bit down hard on his bottom lip. He had not been as emotionally invested in Hernandez’s kidnapping as Vail had been. Not in the same ballpark, the same state. Hell, not even in the same country. He realized now he had largely been going through the motions, treating this as a mission without consequence. A debt to be repaid, nothing more.
Vail’s call to order had done more than she could have envisioned. A comment made in anger roused his memories and rekindled the pilot light that had blown out long ago.
Since Brian’s death, he had been sleepwalking through life. His wife, Maggie, had tried telling him numerous times that his life had lost purpose. Lost passion. But he wasn’t in a position to listen. To hear her. As her pleas morphed into complaints that he was no longer attentive to her needs, he edged further away. His emotions had calloused over like a farmer’s well-worn hands. And it was on the verge of destroying his marriage.
It took an FBI profiler, in a fit of anger, to shake him out of his years-long stupor.
He ran forward, toward the house.
64
Vail stopped at the threshold to the front door, the splintered remains of the frame laid bare. She put her hands on her hips and stood there, unable to step inside.
DeSantos came up behind her. “What’s wrong?”
“My son. That’s what’s wrong.”
“Good decision.”
It was Dixon, approaching from the left.
“An impossible decision. But the only one I can make.” She stole a look at her watch. “How long will it take them to clear it?”
DeSantos looked over the expansive structure. “My experience, three floors, lots of rooms . . . could take awhile.”
The SWAT lieutenant, a neatly trimmed Asian whose nametag read “Kye,” came up from behind. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said, “Better if you three waited back there, by the Bearcat.”
“How long,” Vail said, “until I can get in there?”
“To be on the ultra safe side, a couple hours. We’re gonna comb through every nook and cranny with mirrors and fiber optic—”
“We don’t have a couple of hours. Can you do a quick once-over, let me in, then do the comb-through?”
Kye shook his head. “Standard procedure dictates—”
“We’ve got an officer who’s missing, lieutenant.”
“I’m aware o
f the situation,” Kye said firmly. He keyed his mike, then walked off. “All units, I want . . . ”
“You’re asking a lot of men to risk their lives by rushing,” Dixon said.
Vail glanced over her shoulder at Lieutenant Kye. “I’m sure they won’t do it if it’s not safe, Roxx. They’ve got their procedures, I get that. But we’re dealing with extenuating circumstances here. Time is a luxury we don’t have.”
“I’m with Karen on this,” DeSantos said. “Moving too fast is a risk, yeah. But so is moving too slow.”
Kye returned. “We’re going to clear one level at a time. When we’ve got the ground floor cleared, you can poke around there. When we’ve got the second floor done, you can check that out. Meet with your approval?”
“Thank you,” Vail said. “Appreciate it.”
Twenty-five minutes later, the task force was stepping through the littered debris, across the front door threshold and into an opulent mansion. In the background, Vail heard SWAT officers yelling, “Clear.”
Vail moved through the rooms, taking in the marble statuettes, museum-grade artwork—including a Renoir, a Chagall, a Matisse—and several gold-leaf framed family photos neatly arranged on a living room coffee table. Apparently the blast blew outward and left much of the interior intact. She took her time going through the formal living room, the dining area, the sitting and family rooms, kitchen, pantry . . . it wasn’t often she had the opportunity to see firsthand how the very wealthy lived. But lost in all this beauty was the realization it had all been bought with the proceeds from illegal mind- and life-altering illicit drugs.
Vail was the first of the task force to ascend to the second floor. She had just entered the master bedroom when one of the SWAT officers swung his rifle into the doorway and startled her. “Jesus, lady. I damn near shot you.”
“Supervisory Special Agent Karen Vail.” She slowly moved her sweater aside, revealing her badge, which was clipped to her belt. “I thought you were done on this floor.”
“We are now.”
“Anything?”
The man keyed his shoulder-mounted mike and said, “We’re good on two. All clear.” He listened a second, then said, “Roger that.” To Vail, he said, “Team’s on three. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for a few days. Mailbox out front stuffed full.”
Velocity kv-3 Page 28