Pull it together, she thought. Maybe Escobar knew she had a secret. Maybe he was just jerking her chain, trying to get a reaction from her. She knew from experience he was paranoid enough to administer occasional loyalty tests. And he was so opaque it was hard to tell why he did anything.
She couldn’t blame him for being unsettled by Perez’s request, though. She’d described how Perez had manhandled Castillo’s hardmen without breathing hard. Other customers had demanded to see the main guy, but they usually were narcissistic ones, the guys with a hyper-inflated sense of importance. She hadn’t sensed that with Perez, though. He struck her as confident, but not arrogant; a man who’d faced tough circumstances and come out on top. In some ways, Perez reminded her of Daniel Ben-Shahar. Ben-Shahar had been her father’s oldest friend. And, though not related by blood, he’d been her favorite uncle and an influential figure in her life. She’d joined Mossad to honor him and follow in his footsteps.
All at once, she realized where her thoughts had drifted and her face flushed with embarrassment. Ben-Shahar was a decent man. Perez wasn’t. He was a crook who ran a criminal enterprise. By his own admission, he was willing to broker the sale of drones to a bunch of terrorists to line his pocket. She’d charm and flirt with Perez. If he was feeding them a line of bullshit, she’d pretend to believe it.
But if Escobar decided it was good business to kill Perez, she’d make it happen, even if she had to pull the trigger herself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The telephone on Blancanales’s nightstand rang once. He rolled over, trapped it under his hand and brought it toward his ear. A glance at the screen told him the call was coming from Ortega.
“Yeah?” he growled.
“Hey, Sunshine, get your ass out of bed,” Ortega said.
Blancanales heard a note of urgency in Ortega’s voice. He threw aside his sheet and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor felt cool against the soles of his feet.
“What’s going on?”
“You passed the first test,” Ortega replied. “The man wants to meet with you.”
“When?”
“Not for a couple of hours. He has a restaurant in town. Place is a freakin’ dive. But it gives him a way to account for his extra cash, if you know what I mean.”
Blancanales did. He was surprised at how freely the agent was speaking on the phone. Was the bastard drunk? It was early morning, but maybe the guy had stayed up all night drinking. It certainly wasn’t unheard of.
“You need me to pick you up?”
“Negative,” Ortega replied. “I’ll drive myself if it’s all the same to you.”
“It’s not.”
“Tough shit. Last time I let you drive, I ended up with a split lip and a bloody nose. I’d rather crawl over a mile of razor blades than lock myself in the car with you again.”
“Sorry,” Blancanales offered.
“No you’re not. Look, you want the address for the restaurant or not?”
“Yeah,” Blancanales said.
Ortega recited the address and Blancanales memorized it.
“We should go in together,” Blancanales said.
“You’re a big boy. You don’t need an escort.” The phone went dead and Blancanales swore under his breath. The idiot just seemed to be getting more reckless, as though he wanted to undercut the team.
Blancanales jumped from the bed, slipped on a pair of jeans, a polo shirt and a pair of moccasins and left the room to get the others. When he exited his bedroom, he found Schwarz seated on the living-room couch staring into the screen of a laptop poised on a coffee table in front of him. Schwarz greeted him with a nod.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Schwarz said.
“Carl asleep?”
“Yeah. Can’t you hear him snoring? Sounds like someone using a chainsaw to cut through steel. What’s up?
“Tell you in a minute.” Blancanales moved to Lyons’s door, rapped on it and called for Lyons to get up.
Five minutes later the three Able Team warriors had gathered in the living room. Blancanales quickly recounted his phone conversation with Ortega.
“This has ‘trap’ written all over it,” Lyons said.
“I agree. But if it allows us to get close to Escobar, it’s worth it. That’s what we came for, right?”
“Yeah,” Lyons said.
“So I have to meet with the guy.”
“You do,” Lyons replied. “But we’re going to have a plan. This thing stinks to high heaven and I think our little buddy Ortega will end up getting you killed, whether he means to or not.”
Blancanales heaved a sigh. “You’re right.”
“Bet your ass I am. So, yeah, you’re going to meet Escobar at that restaurant, but we’re going to do this the right way.”
“Meaning?”
“We take the direct approach. If we spook these bastards, then we’ll deal with it.”
“You can’t go in with me.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Lyons replied. “We don’t have to go in with you. But we also don’t have to sit five blocks away in some damn mobile home. We’ll get in close so we can move quickly if you need us.”
Blancanales nodded his agreement.
“So suit up,” Lyons said. “It’s time to wind this up. If we handle this right, we could take out Escobar and be back on our way to Virginia in a matter of hours.”
* * *
BLANCANALES HIT THE Mercedes’s accelerator and the car darted into traffic. His mind whirled as he weaved between cars, the sports car knifing its way to its destination. At the same time, his mind whirled with questions. Ortega had continued to ignore his phone calls. Was the guy really that unhinged? Had he been forced to call Blancanales? If that was the case, Escobar already knew the Able Team warrior wasn’t really in the country to buy weapons, which meant he was hurtling right into a trap.
He glanced up into the rearview mirror and could see the top of the SUV carrying Lyons and Schwarz poking up over the tops of the cars between them. Their plan was simple: they’d follow him to the meeting, go EVA and surround the building. If everything was okay, Blancanales would turn off his phone. If something was wrong, he’d hit the emergency button and they’d blitz the building, guns blazing.
His phone trilled again. Blancanales hit the speaker button.
“Go,” he said.
“I called the other members of Ortega’s team,” Schwarz said. “I got nothing but voice mail for any of them. No call-backs yet.”
Blancanales swore under his breath. Schwarz continued, “Yeah. I dropped Hal a line so he can ring some alarms in Wonderland.”
“Okay. Do we have addresses on these guys?”
“Yeah.”
“We should call the locals,” Blancanales said. A red light loomed ahead. He tapped the brake to begin slowing the car down. “Someone needs to check on those guys and see if they’re okay.”
Lyons interjected, “If the local police mobilize, there’s a chance that would tip off Escobar. He probably has bought off more than a few locals.”
“Understood,” Blancanales said. “You have any ideas?”
“We have FBI and DEA agents in the city,” Lyons replied. “We’ll call Hal back, ask him to mobilize those guys. They can knock on some doors, do it discreetly, and free us up to do our thing. You hear any more from Ortega?”
“Negative. I called, but can’t get through to him.”
“Little prick,” Lyons muttered. “He’d better not be dodging our phone calls.”
“We should be so lucky,” Blancanales said.
“You think they got to him?” Schwarz asked.
“Not sure,” Blancanales said. By now the light had turned green and the car in front of Blancanales eased forward as traffic began
to move. “The guy’s a douche bag. And he’s plenty pissed at me. But I’m not sure he’d expect me to go into this blind.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Lyons growled. “Guy’s a walking disaster.”
“Fair enough,” Blancanales said. He eased down on the gas pedal. The Mercedes’s power plant responded with a growl before it thrust the vehicle into the intersection. All but one of the line of cars between him and his comrades’ SUV made it through the intersection before the light changed. He heard the squeal of brakes behind him and looked up into the rearview mirror again.
The car in front of Lyons and Schwarz had screeched to a stop, blocking them from going through the light. Another car was pulled up next to them. With Lyons at the wheel, Blancanales half expected to see the SUV jump the curb and dart through the light. Instead Lyons waited for the light to change.
Blancanales continued on. He glanced down at the briefcase that lay on the passenger’s seat. It was outfitted with a GPS unit so his friends could track him even if they lost sight of him. And, if he was being watched, pulling to the side of the road to wait for the others to catch up would only arouse suspicion.
A couple of blocks later he turned the Mercedes right down a side street. His Beretta 92 rode in a shoulder rig. A small SIG-Sauer was strapped in an ankle holster, while his Gerber folding knife was stowed in his pants’ pocket. It wasn’t exactly full combat turnout gear, but it was enough.
The flat, feminine voice on the GPS unit directed him to make a left.
“Sure, sweetheart,” he muttered, twisting the wheel. The street was nearly empty of pedestrians and only a few cars were parked along the curb. He rolled past the restaurant and noted that a sign in the window declared in Spanish that the place was closed.
His brow furrowed. What the hell?
His phone pinged, alerting him that he’d received a text message. He saw that it was from Ortega. He opened it.
Go around back. Door’s unlocked.
Blancanales pulled the Mercedes to the curb and parked. He looked around at the cars assembled on the street, most of them older-model American imports with rusted bodies and scratched paint. No crew wagons or limousines were parked outside the restaurant. No guards milling around outside the building.
This only heightened his suspicions. If Escobar was inside the restaurant, he’d have his entourage with him. He wouldn’t go out without a security detail. He wouldn’t be cruising around the city in a shitty compact car.
Blancanales uncoiled from inside the sleek sports car. He slipped his sunglasses from his face, folded them and slipped them into the inside pocket of his sport coat, keeping his hand inside his jacket and within reach of the Beretta. He checked his watch. About five minutes had passed since he’d been separated from his comrades. They should have caught up with him by now. He pulled out his phone and thumbed in Lyons’s number. It rang four times before sending him to voicemail.
A cold feather of fear brushed along the length of his spine. If he couldn’t reach them, something was drastically wrong. Every instinct told him to climb back into the little black car, turn around and backtrack until he found the other two men. They’d already lost contact with nearly all of the Justice Department team. If Lyons and Schwarz were in trouble, they’d need his help.
He stowed the phone in his pocket, wheeled around and took a couple of steps toward the Mercedes. The growl of an engine sounded behind him. He spun around and saw a forest-green SUV barreling down the street at him.
A heartbeat later, tires squealed from the opposite direction, followed by the rumbling of another big-block engine. He threw a look over his shoulder and saw a black extended-cab pickup hurtling toward him.
He didn’t hesitate. He yanked the Beretta free, spun a quarter turn and darted toward the mouth of a nearby alley. Out in the open he was vulnerable to multiple attacks from different angles. If he could get into the narrow passage, it at least would force his attackers to come at him in smaller numbers. He could hear the vehicles screeching to a halt behind him. When he reached the alley, he turned and saw a burly guy climbing from the backseat of the SUV, a shotgun cradled in his hands.
Blancanales raised the Beretta and squeezed off three quick shots. One of the Parabellum slugs lanced into the thug’s right shoulder and jerked him around before a second round drilled into his chest. His finger pulled the trigger in a death reflex, and thunder pealed as a blast lashed out from the shotgun’s muzzle. Another of Escobar’s gunners was coming around the other side of the truck, pistol drawn. Blancanales fired off two more shots. Neither of the bullets hit their target but they did slam into the SUV’s hide and caused the gunman to duck behind the vehicle’s nose.
Blancanales darted a few yards into the alley. He heard the sound of rubber squealing against pavement and assumed even more of Escobar’s people were coming for him.
At the back of his mind he wondered what had ignited all of this. Had Ortega given him up? If so, Escobar had probably already gone to ground. That’d make him all the harder for Blancanales and his comrades to find.
If he lived through the next few minutes.
Two more of Escobar’s thugs lumbered forward, each with a weapon trained in Blancanales’s direction.
He aimed the Beretta at the nearest gunner and squeezed the trigger. The second thug broke off his approach and ran for cover behind a rusty pickup.
Even as the man disappeared from view, Blancanales detected movement in the corner of his eye. He glanced left and spotted three ropes unfurling from the restaurant’s roof. He looked up and saw three hardmen preparing to rappel down the side of the building.
* * *
LYONS SWORE THROUGH gritted teeth as the car in front of him slammed on its brakes. The force from the sudden stop pushed his body forward against the seat belt. From the corner of his eye, he saw Schwarz also being pushed forward.
“Damn it!” Lyons snapped. He smacked the heel of his palm against the steering wheel. He had wanted to keep close tabs on Blancanales, but now he was stuck at the light. He shot a glance at Schwarz, who was staring at a tablet computer that lay on his left thigh. The muscles of Schwarz’s jaws bunched and released visibly as he worked his jaws. He had an app open on his tablet that allowed him to track the signal from the GPS unit in Blancanales’s briefcase.
Lyons considered driving up onto the sidewalk and shooting through the intersection, but dismissed the idea. They’d only be stopped for a few seconds, more than enough time to catch up with Blancanales. He’d gain almost no time, but would attract lots of attention, including from any police that happened by. The last thing he or the other members of Able Team wanted was to end up going head to head with the local cops.
“He’s still moving,” Schwarz said.
Lyons acknowledged him with a nod but stayed silent.
When the light changed, the red sedan in front of them hesitated before it lumbered into the intersection. Another vehicle, a rusty pickup, was following on the left side of the SUV, with another car just behind it. Lyons was boxed in.
Lyons goosed the accelerator and rode on the other car’s bumper. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered.
In less than a minute the red sedan had gathered some speed and was starting to pull away from Lyons. After a couple of blocks, it was a few car lengths ahead.
The driver of a dark blue pickup gunned his engine and rolled the truck into the space behind them. A glance into the rearview mirror showed Lyons that, in addition to the driver, two other men were in the truck’s cab. Instinct told him these guys weren’t riding his tail because they were rushing out for a quart of milk or a six-pack of Dos Equis beer.
“I think we have a tail,” Lyons said.
Schwarz glanced up from his tablet and shot Lyons a questioning look. Lyons nodded over his shoulder. “Blue pickup,” he said.
Schwa
rz nodded. His hand disappeared under his jacket and came out gripping a Glock 18. The pistol, developed for an Austrian counter-terrorist force, had the ability to fire in semi-automatic or full-automatic mode. In full-auto mode, it fired around 1,200 rounds per minute. Schwarz had loaded the weapon with a 33-round clip.
Just as he brought out the Glock, his tablet beeped and he pointed at the intersection.
“Turn there,” he said.
The lumbering red car turned ahead of them, prompting Lyons to swear under his breath.
Lyons fisted the Colt Python while he jerked the SUV’s wheel right and threw the car into a sharp turn. The red car’s brake lights suddenly flashed and it halted. The truck barreled around the corner in the same instant and slammed into the SUV’s rear end, punching the vehicle hard and shoving it into the rear of the red car.
The force of the collision shoved Lyons and Schwarz forward hard against their seat belts. Schwarz’s tablet sailed off his lap and struck the windshield. The sound of metal being twisted and bent filled the SUV for a second. The SUV’s hood crumpled like paper; engine mounts broke off and the block crashed at an angle to the ground.
So much for avoiding any problems with the local police. Lyons whipped his head toward Schwarz. “You okay?” he asked.
Schwarz nodded and yanked on his door handle.
Lyons shoved open his door, stepped onto the pavement and brought the Python to shoulder height. Before he could take another step, the driver’s door of the red sedan flew open and a hardman jumped from the vehicle’s interior, a black handgun in his hand. The Python barked twice and a pair of holes opened on the guy’s chest and neck. Blood spurted up from the wounds, and the force of the slugs spun the guy around as he crumpled to the ground.
Another shooter, blood streaming down his right temple, darted from the passenger’s side of the car. The line of bullets chugging from the barrel of the hardman’s submachine cut a deadly arc through the air just inches above Lyons’s head. Before he could respond, though, the shooter suddenly went stiff as an onslaught of bullets from Schwarz’s Glock ravaged his chest.
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