Escobar fell silent for a couple of seconds. “See, here’s the reason I tell you this. You know why I killed this bastard, huh? No? I didn’t do it because he defiled my mama. I didn’t do it because he beat her up. None of that crap. No, I did it because he took money from my pocket. Someone does that to you once, they’ll do it twice, maybe more. So I killed him. And I’ve killed one hundred like him since.”
Ortega heard something change in the gunrunner’s voice.
Escobar’s hand stabbed for the pistol stowed under his arm. Ortega made a play for his own weapon, but he was too slow. The .38 was in Escobar’s hand, flame stabbing out from the muzzle. The slug drilled into the undercover Fed’s chest, the pistol’s report echoing through the room. The gun barked again and a hole opened in Ortega’s forehead as his skull jerked backward. His body suddenly went slack and he slumped in his chair.
* * *
ESCOBAR STARED AT the corpse. His dark brown eyes were fixed on the hole in Ortega’s forehead, the crimson rivulet of blood rolling down his skin. The crime boss opened the .38’s cylinder and pulled the spent shells from it. Taking a couple of bullets from his pants’ pocket, he began reloading the weapon.
“Hijo de puta,” he muttered.
“You did the right thing,” Castillo said.
Escobar slammed the cylinder back into the pistol, whirled toward his lieutenant and aimed the weapon at his chest.
Castillo’s eyes widened, flicking from the gun’s muzzle to his boss’s eyes and back to the muzzle.
“Do I look conflicted?” Escobar asked.
“No.”
“Then shut the hell up. And get someone to get this pig’s carcass out of here.”
“Yes, sir.” Castillo slowly rose from his chair, his eyes locked on Escobar’s, and backed out of the room.
Escobar’s phone rang. He picked it up from the table and brought it to his ear. “Sí?”
“We have him,” Vargas said.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“You know what to do from here?”
“Of course.”
“Then do it.”
“Where’s Ortega? He was supposed to be here for this.”
“I put him on something else. Got an issue with that?”
She hesitated for a couple of beats. “No.”
“Good,” he said. “Just move Perez and I’ll worry about Ortega.”
He ended the call and set the phone on the table. He stared at Ortega’s face, eyes locked open, blood carving trails down either side of his nose, past his mouth and off his chin, and realized he wasn’t worried at all about the guy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lyons rounded the corner in time to see the helicopter rising, the spinning blades scattering dirt and trash as the craft worked to gain some altitude. The chopper already was too high off the ground and too far away for him to try to grab hold of the landing skids, he decided. And even if he made it, what then? The pilot probably would shake him loose from the skids before he ever could gain entry to the helicopter.
Four of Escobar’s men had stayed on the ground. They were facing Schwarz and Lyons, ready to keep the Able Team commandos from getting too close to the helicopter. Adrenaline-fueled rage pumped through Lyons’s body, spurring him to move forward.
He wanted to know where Escobar was taking his colleague. The most immediate way of doing that was to grab one of these morons and beat the information out of him. It wasn’t much of a plan, but considering how fast things were unfolding, it would have to suffice.
He surged forward, running in a zigzag pattern, at the assembled thugs. They responded in kind, unleashing withering waves of fire from the machine pistols they wielded.
Lyons’s MP-5 rattled out short bursts that missed his opponents but caused them to scatter. Maneuvering the SMG in a horizontal line, he caught one of the men with a spray of lead that tore through the guy’s legs. To his left, Schwarz was laying down his own barrage of autofire that cut down two more of the gunners. The fourth thug ripped off a quick burst from his Skorpion machine pistol even as he backed away from the Able Team fighters and maneuvered himself behind a parked car for protection.
By now the loudness of the sirens told Lyons they were about to have company.
The man with the Skorpion pistol popped up from behind the car, extending his arm over the roof and firing off quick bursts at the Americans.
Lyons and Schwarz in unison concentrated their fire on the car’s windows. The storm of gunfire disintegrated the vehicle’s safety glass, and bullets ripped into the man, killing him.
Lyons started toward the gunner who’d been shot in the legs. The guy was lying on the ground. He’d lost a lot of blood, but still was moving his head side to side and groaning.
Lyons had taken five steps when police cars careened around the corner, sirens blaring, tires screeching. He swore loudly and took another step. However he thought better of it as the first couple of cars stopped, the doors swung open and officers went EVA, their weapons drawn, shouting commands in Spanish.
The Able Team commandos had no choice but to put down their weapons and surrender. Lyons and Schwarz set their guns on the pavement and raised their hands.
Mexico City, Mexico
“THIS IS BULLSHIT,” Lyons stormed.
“It is,” Schwarz agreed. “But we can’t do anything about it. At least not yet. We need to wait on Hal to get us out of here.”
“If he knows we’re in here. You know how it is. They could keep us in here for two months without even telling the Embassy. For all Hal knows, we’re in the middle of trying to infiltrate Escobar’s organization.”
Schwarz shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “At this point, if Ortega’s dead and his people are dead, they have to know that in Washington. If nobody checks in, they’re going to start looking. They’ll ask questions.”
“But that’s going to take time,” Lyons countered. “We don’t have time. We don’t know what happened to Blancanales. For all we know, he could be dead right now.”
Schwarz nodded his head slowly, estimating they’d already been in the cell for at least two hours. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s possible.”
“And we’re not going to figure a damn thing out if we have to stay in here.”
Schwarz knew that Brognola pulled a lot of weight, not just in the United States, but with law enforcement and intelligence officials in other countries, too. With the U.S. working with Mexico to fight the drug trade, Schwarz guessed that when the big Fed spoke, Mexican officials would listen.
But what Lyons had said was right. They were losing time. The longer they spent cooling their heels in a jail cell, the more remote their chances of finding Blancanales and taking down Escobar.
They could only hope Brognola had gotten word that something had happened to Able Team and he could move fast enough to get them out of jail.
In the meantime all they could really do was sit and wait—not their specialty.
“This is bullshit,” Lyons said.
“You just said that five times in the past hour,” Schwarz replied. “We’re stuck here. Get over it.”
“No, not that. It’s bullshit we’re even in this situation.”
“Meaning?”
“I knew this was a bad idea and I let Blancanales talk me into letting him go undercover.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“The hell I can’t. I’m supposed to be the commander. I’m the leader and I led you guys right into something awful. Now, here we are, stuck in jail and he’s missing. I screwed the pooch on this one.”
“This is no time for a crisis of confidence. We need to stay focused.”
“Hell, I know we need to stay focused. I am focused. Part of what I’m focus
ed on is figuring out why the hell I ever decided to lead us into this. What we should’ve done in the first place is come in and gone Scorched Earth on Escobar from the beginning.”
“We didn’t want to tip our hand. You know that. We didn’t know what kind of repercussions there would be, not just here in Mexico, but globally. Obviously this guy is linked in with people overseas. If we had moved too aggressively...”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. If we’d gone too aggressively, they might all go to ground. Well, guess what. They’ve all gone to ground. And our asses are in a Mexican jail. I’m sure the trail’s already being covered even as we speak. We accomplished nothing.”
Schwarz struggled for a reply. He didn’t question Lyons’s skill as a leader.
The ex-cop was brash and mouthy. But he was a damn fine commander. But he was also right—they’d walked away with nothing. Schwarz remained silent.
A couple of seconds later Schwarz heard footsteps outside the cell, growing louder with each passing moment. He and Lyons turned their heads in unison toward the door. Schwarz heard keys jingle, followed a second later by the sound of a key being inserted into a lock and the thunk of a lock releasing.
The door came open. A pair of Mexican police officers stood outside the cell, one positioned in front of the other. The one closest to the door pointed at Lyons and then jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“You,” the officer said, “come on.”
Lyons rose from the bed. He motioned at Schwarz. “What about him?” Lyons asked.
The officer shook his head. “He stays. You’ve got a phone call.”
“Go,” Schwarz said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Damn it,” Lyons muttered. He walked through the door. He turned to say something to Schwarz, but one of the cops was already swinging the door closed.
The cop who’d spoken earlier grabbed hold of Lyons’s bicep. Lyons jerked his arm away. “Do not touch me,” he said. “I may be staying here, but it’s only because I decided to come quietly.”
Both officers glared at Lyons. The cop who’d grabbed Lyons’s arm dropped a hand to his belt and started to reach for his collapsible police baton. The other police officer, who was younger, followed the first guy’s lead, making a grab for his baton, too.
They hadn’t tried to cuff him immediately, which meant they probably already had heard something from Washington. Or at least he hoped so. Lyons let his arms hang loose at his sides and stared at the officers.
“You do not want to take out that baton,” Lyons said. “Chances are it will be used by me and not against me. If you thought I was a threat, I’d already be in handcuffs. You know I’m not a threat. Now, take me where we’re going and do not touch me.”
Five minutes later the pair of officers escorted Lyons up two flights of stairs and into a squad room.
A handful of uniformed cops milled around. A couple of men in civilian clothes were seated at desks. One was talking on the phone. The other had his eyes locked on the screen of his computer and was typing on a keyboard.
A third stood in front of a filing cabinet. He held open a folder and was studying one the papers stored in it.
In a weird way, Lyons suddenly felt at home. He’d spent more than his fair share of time in an LAPD squad room.
He turned to the cop who’d first tried to pull out his baton.
“Where am I going?”
The officer pointed across the room to a glassed-in office area. Lyons could tell it was the office of someone who held rank. Without waiting on the two cops, he moved to the office, twisted the doorknob, opened the door and stepped inside.
A man was sitting at a desk. A short stack of folders stood at the right edge of his desk blotter. Another file was spread open in front of him and he was leafing through its contents. With weary eyes, he looked at Lyons and scowled.
“You the gringo?” he asked.
“One of the gringos.”
“Happy day. Can never have enough of you people here.” He gestured at a chair. “Sit down.”
Lyons’s first instinct was to rebuff the offer, just because he was pissed. He checked himself and, with a nod, walked to the chair, dropped into it and leveled his gaze at the man.
“You’re apparently well connected,” the guy said. “I’ve had people from Washington lighting up my phone, the mayor’s phone, everyone’s damn telephone, telling us to let you go. My name is Juan Ruiz. I’m the shift sergeant. And you, my friend, have created a lot of problems here.”
Lyons nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d apologize for my transgressions, but I’m a hell of a lot more worried about finding my friend.”
This didn’t seem to faze the sergeant. “Yeah, you should be worried,” he said. He shot a look over Lyons’s shoulder at the two officers standing behind him. “Get out.”
After some hesitation, the two officers nodded, exited the room and shut the door. Ruiz stared after them for a few seconds and waited until they’d put some distance between themselves and his office before he turned his attention back to Lyons.
“Look,” Ruiz said, “Escobar has people in here. Those two who brought you here? I don’t know about either one of them. I’m sure they’re in somebody’s pocket. Maybe it’s Escobar’s payroll. I’m not sure. But I wanted them out of here.”
Lyons nodded his understanding.
“The best thing we can do is get you out of here,” Ruiz said. “You and your friend both need to get out of here.”
Lyons spread his hands. “I got no problem with that.”
“But first you need to know where things stand. I mean, really stand.”
A smile ghosted Lyons’s lips. “Really? Well, please tell me, Sergeant Ruiz.”
The sergeant backed his chair away from his desk, opened the lap drawer and reached inside. Lyons tensed. Was he reaching for a gun? His hand came out holding a stack of photos and Lyons relaxed a little. The sergeant dropped the photos on the desktop and shoved them over to Lyons.
The Stony Man warrior leaned forward and began picking through the stack. Immediately his stomach clenched. In one of the photos, Ortega was lying on the ground, his head turned to one side, the ground beneath it stained with blood. In another, Steve King, apparently in an apartment, hands bound, was hanging by his neck. In the third photo was the other DOJ technician. He was lying facedown on a bed, a small red hole in his back, just between his shoulder blades. The edges of a dark red blossom of blood had spread from beneath him across the surface of his mattress.
“So this is pretty much my week,” Ruiz said. “I have three dead Americans in my city. I’m not even sure whether I have their real names. I have another guy who’s missing. And two more who are running around with automatic weapons, shooting everything that moves.”
“Sucks to be you.”
“Tell me about it. But, hey, I’m thinking at least I have these two bastards in jail, right? You’ve filled up your share of body bags. I caught you. At least I can do something right.” He paused and reached for the crumpled pack of cigarettes on his desk. “Except then the mayor gets a call from the president.”
“Of the United States?”
“Smart ass. No, of Mexico. We have one of those down here, too, you know. It’s a call from the president of Mexico saying, ‘Hands off.’ We need to let you guys go. So now I get to have a dozen or more unsolved homicides. I have to let two of the perpetrators go and pretend like I never met you.”
“Harsh.”
“But that’s not the worst part.”
“Okay.”
“The worst part is, I have to do something nice for you. Okay? I’m going to give you a warning. You need to get out of Mexico City. Whatever you are into, whatever you’ve done, Escobar is on the warpath. He’s killed at least three American federal agents and kidnapped a fourth in hi
s own country. This is a guy who normally wouldn’t get a traffic ticket in Mexico. You guys have put him over the edge. If he gets hold of you and your buddy, you two are dead men.”
“I’m terrified,” Lyons said, his voice even.
“I’m serious.”
Lyons heaved a sigh. “I know you are,” he said. “Listen, I appreciate the warning. But they have a friend of mine. The last thing I’m going to do is keep a low profile. And, if you asked my friend in the cell, he’d say the same thing. We’re going after Escobar. We’re not going to quit until we find him. End of story. Comprende?”
Ruiz stared at him for several seconds before he finally shook his head. “You are crazy, man. But, hey, it’s your funeral. Go with God, you freaking lunatic.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hours after Ortega’s death, Castillo stepped from the charter jet’s interior and immediately felt a wave of desert heat envelop him. A team of four gunners stood a few yards away, ready to escort him to his limousine.
The largest, a man named Lorenzo Lopez, stepped forward. The guy was a monster; his nearly seven-foot frame packed with muscle. From what Castillo understood, the guy was a brain, too. He’d used his size to earn a football scholarship at a university in California, where he’d studied physics or chemistry or something. A smart guy like Lopez probably could have risen through the ranks, maybe been one of Escobar’s finance guys and helped him hide his millions in places where the pricks in the DEA, the FBI and Interpol couldn’t find them.
From what Castillo understood, though, Lopez had a crazy streak in him. He liked busting heads more than he liked counting other people’s money. Yet the combination of brawn and brains made him a good team leader for Castillo’s security detail. He’d need someone good covering his ass if the Americans came for him.
Lopez extended a hand and offered to take Castillo’s briefcase. Castillo waved him off. Aside from bundles of cash and a satellite phone, the case also contained a micro Uzi and a couple of extra magazines. A small-frame Glock rode on his hip, hidden beneath his sport coat. If things suddenly went bad, it was nice to have a security team, but even better to have your own guns. If bullets started to fly, Castillo considered Lopez and his trained dogs cannon fodder—living, breathing targets to take bullets for him while he escaped.
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