by Tom Clancy
“Do you remember what Raúl said before they killed him?”
She grimaced. “Do we have to talk about that?”
“Please …”
She sighed deeply. “I don’t remember what he said. I only remember the screaming. And …all the blood …” She put a hand to her own cheek, clearly remembering how they’d wiped Raúl’s blood across her face.
“He said the cartel would pay anything. Let me say that again. He said the cartel would pay. Why would he say that?”
“Maybe he was working for a cartel, too, and never told Fernando. Who knows? Maybe that’s why we got into trouble in the first place. Why is that bothering you?”
“It’s just …nothing.”
“You said there’s a guard outside the door to the basement. I haven’t seen him.”
“We haven’t been to that side of the house.”
“Maybe we can bribe him.”
“Won’t work.”
“We don’t know till we try. Come on. It’ll be fun. It’ll take your mind off all of this.”
She picked herself up and turned back toward Fernando, who’d come onto the pool deck and who was lowering his cell phone. “Better get showered and ready,” he said. “We’ll be joining Señor Rojas for dinner soon …”
“We want to go down to the basement first.”
He frowned at her and looked to Miguel. “I’m sorry, but only Señor Rojas is permitted there.”
Sonia softened her tone and edged up to him, thrusting out her chest. “Come on, Fernando. Take us for a little tour.”
“That’s not possible.”
She pouted like a schoolgirl. “Okay, then. We’ll go get ready for dinner. Come on, Miguel. I’m getting burned, anyway …”
She helped him out of the pool, and he accepted a towel from her, then stood there, being scrutinized by Castillo. “Fernando, is something wrong?”
“No, señor.”
The suspicion hung heavy in the bodyguard’s tone.
Private Residence
121 South Broad Street
Palmdale, California
The cartel truck backed into the driveway of a two-story private home in a suburban neighborhood of southeast Palmdale. The truck sat there in the driveway, just idling, with Ansara and Moore parked about fifteen houses away, down the street, sandwiched between two other cars. Palmdale was a city in the high desert, separated from Los Angeles by the San Gabriel Mountains and exceedingly hot in the summertime. It was a well-planned community of suburbs with the tiled roofs of thousands of houses forming terra-cotta ribbons across the otherwise drab mountains. More than 150,000 people called Palmdale home, and bike trails, parks, theaters, and a new regional medical center attracted young families who deemed the city a great place to raise kids. Moore had been there once before, visiting a SEAL buddy’s parents who worked for the largest employer in the area, Lockheed Martin. The seedy under belly of Palmdale and its neighboring city Lancaster was much more apparent at the hotels and motels that had sprouted up along the freeway, where prostitution and drug deals ran rampant.
While they waited, Moore contacted Towers, who had another bit of news to share. They’d reestablished contact with Sonia, who’d reached one of the many dead drops the Agency had established for her around Rojas’s mansion in case she got into trouble. Hidden at each drop were a pistol and a satellite phone. The dead drop she’d used was at a restaurant not far from Rojas’s mansion. While Miguel waited, she’d gone to the ladies’ room and, once the room was empty, she’d retrieved the phone from a small box tucked deeply beneath the far-right sink and made the encrypted call to her handler. She was demanding to know who’d saved her, and trying to find out why a joint task force had been assigned to her case without her knowledge.
“Did you tell her we had the same question?” Moore asked, chuckling sardonically through his words.
“Are you kidding? I can’t talk to her directly. This comes to me from your bosses.”
“Oh, well, tell them I said she owes me a cup of coffee.”
“Yeah, right, I’ll do that. She does offer some news. Dante Corrales is missing. Off the grid. His girlfriend with him. Vega confirmed that before she was killed. They murdered the desk clerk at Corrales’s hotel. That tells me they’re looking for Corrales.”
“Maybe he screwed over the Guatemalans, and now he’s on the run from them and from his own cartel.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking.”
“Hey, I know where he’d go.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Hang on now. I’ll call you back.” Moore lifted his camera and zoomed in.
Two motorcycles pulled up and parked across the street from the truck. A tall man got off the first one, and a slightly shorter man swung off the second. They wore jeans, leather jackets, and expensive basketball sneakers. They both had athletic builds, and once they removed their helmets, it was clear neither man was over thirty-five. Moore got some good pictures of their faces and immediately uploaded them to the satellite so Langley could begin working on their identities.
They crossed the street and had a conversation with the driver of the truck, who did not get out of his vehicle, and neither did his two accomplices. After two minutes of that, one of the men opened the garage door with a remote, and the men inside the truck climbed out and got to work. What appeared to be the final shipment of marijuana bricks was transferred into the garage and packed into cardboard moving boxes. The weapons remained onboard the truck.
By the time the cartel men were finished unloading and the two men were getting ready to rumble off on their bikes, Towers had called to confirm that the bikers were local sheriff’s deputies. Moore could only shake his head. American law enforcement officers were as susceptible to temptation as the Mexican local and federal authorities. When there was this much money at stake, men barely making $50,000 per year—men who could make that much in a weekend doing the cartel’s bidding—found it excruciatingly difficult to remain honest. While Moore hardly agreed with that, he understood it. And hated it.
“Let’s bust these bastards right now,” he muttered. “They take an oath …and then shit on it.”
“I’d love to,” said Ansara. “But it’s not over yet. There they go.”
The truck pulled out of the driveway and started down the street. Towers had sent over more information on the vehicle’s registration, which Moore had reviewed. The truck was registered to Roberto Guzman of 14818 Archwood Avenue, Van Nuys, California. Guzman owned a produce distribution company in Los Angeles. He’d already been brought in for questioning and claimed he didn’t know anything about his truck being used to pick up, transport, and distribute marijuana. According to him, the driver of the vehicle worked for him and had taken the truck home for the weekend to perform some minor repairs in order to “save the boss some money.” That was bullshit, of course. Guzman had been bought, his truck borrowed, his ass now in a sling for helping the cartel.
They drove for another hour, still heading south, when the truck exited the freeway and pulled into a gas station. All three men got out. They entered the convenience store, where two slipped down a back hall, presumably to use the bathroom, and the third, the driver, went over to the soda-and-beer case.
Moore instructed Ansara to park at the pump behind the truck, and within two minutes he had placed the GPS transponder beneath their bumper and was back to pumping gas into their own pickup truck. He tugged down the baseball cap he’d put on before getting out, and he kept his head low as the men returned, climbed into the truck, and pulled away.
They had redundant systems of surveillance now, and Moore felt very confident that they would not lose the truck again. They had them by video streamed from the satellite, by the driver’s cell phone, and now by Moore’s GPS transponder. If these guys escaped, Moore would retire on the spot. Then again, he’d better not make that promise. Stranger things had happened.
“They bought some Corona and limes,”
said Ansara. “They’re celebrating already.”
Before Moore could answer, Ansara reached for his vibrating cell phone. “Yeah? Really? Okay. We’ll be on it. Thanks, kid …”
He looked at Moore. “My mule says he’s making a run through the new tunnel tonight, and afterward, he’s been told to stick around to do some heavier moving.”
“Well, isn’t that convenient,” Moore said.
“These guys are going to Calexico. I’d bet anything on that.”
“If you’re right, it’ll be dark by the time we get there. Going to hit some traffic as we get through San Bernardino.”
“Only there?” Ansara asked. “We’ll be sitting in traffic for most of the way.”
Moore sighed and glanced out the window at the cars passing them, at another pickup truck with a couple of dirt bikes lashed to the truck’s bed. He grinned to himself. If he tried riding one of those, he’d definitely kill himself.
Romero Residence
Mexicali, Mexico
Pedro Romero had twice tried to call his wife, Cecilia, but she had failed to answer her cell phone. Then he’d tried Blanca’s number, but his sixteen-year-old daughter did not answer her cell, either. María, the twelve-year-old, did not have a phone but liked to call their home land line her own. And no, she didn’t answer, and the answering machine did not pick up. Maybe they’d gone shopping? The cell-phone network was down? Romero had called them only to say he’d be late, and now he was beginning to worry.
Yet when he pulled into the driveway, his wife’s Corolla was parked on the street and the lights were on inside the house. This was very strange, indeed.
He opened the front door and shifted inside, into the entrance foyer. He called out to his wife. No answer. He moved farther down the hall and into the living room.
What he saw felt like a curved blade plunged deeply into his spine to send out bolts of white-hot pain. He could not speak. He could not breathe. He could only stand there, in shock, in sudden fear, as in the next second he shuddered and widened his eyes.
Blanca and María were sitting on the sofa, hands behind their backs, their mouths covered by silver duct tape. Their eyes were red, their hair disheveled. Seated beside them was his wife, she too gagged and taped. And on either side of them were two men, olive-skinned and dressed in jeans and flannel shirts, like migrant workers, although they were anything but. They had long beards and held pistols on his family.
Another man came out of the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea, the bag’s string dangling from his mug. He was dressed like the others, bearded as well but a bit older. He narrowed his gaze on Pedro and spoke in accented Spanish. “We’ve been waiting a long time for you, Señor Romero. Was that you trying to call to say you’d be late?”
Romero began to pant in fear and in anger. More in fear. “Who are you?”
“We understand you are building something—a tunnel, perhaps?”
As an engineer, as a man who’d been trained to construct and deconstruct situations for the better part of his life, he knew immediately what was happening. These were Arabs. Terrorists, more than likely. They wanted safe passage into the United States, and they’d kill his family if he didn’t comply. No other words needed to be spoken.
“I understand,” said Romero.
The tall man widened his gaze. “You do?”
“Of course. I can make a call and let them know we’re coming. I’ll get you through. And you will release my family.”
“Señor Romero, you are a very brave and smart man. You do as we ask, and all will be well.”
“Is it just you three?”
The man shook his head. “No, we have fourteen more. Seventeen of us in all.”
“Seventeen?” Romero said and gasped.
“Why are you so worried? We won’t hurt your family.”
“But the men I work for will—if they learn I’ve allowed so many of you to go through.”
“They won’t find out.”
“That will be difficult. I’ll have to evacuate the tunnel before you arrive and have the cameras turned off. Will you have someone to pick you up on the other side?”
“I will arrange that. I will need the address.”
The toilet flushed in the other room, and then a Mexican man appeared, about Romero’s age. He frowned at Romero, then shrugged, as if to say, I’m sorry.
“This is Felipe. He’ll remain here to make sure we get through to the other side. If I call him and tell him that, your family will be released. If he doesn’t receive that call, he has instructions to kill them.”
Romero spoke rapidly to Felipe, hoping the sheer speed of his words would confuse the Arabs. He could tell they were translating in their heads as he spoke. “Señor, why have you gotten in bed with these terrorists? They want to kill the Americans, who are the cartel’s best customers. If that happens, we’ll both be killed. You are playing with fire, my friend.”
Felipe made a face. “They pay better than the cartel.”
The backpack rose higher than his head and extended down past his rump. The thing weighed a ton, and Rueben Everson was supposed to be back home, doing his math assignment. Instead he was about to enter a three-thousand-foot-long tunnel with about twenty-five kilos of cocaine strapped to his back. He, along with ten other guys of various ages, some Mexican, some American, had arrived at the warehouse and were loaded up by a team from the cartel.
They were supposed to deliver their backpacks to a room inside the house on the other side. Once there, they would wait for another delivery to arrive, and that second delivery would be carried back down the tunnel. This was the heavy-lifting part the sicarios had mentioned. After that, he and the rest of the mules would be transported from the warehouse via vans. Rueben had his doubts that he’d actually get a ride all the way home, but he took the cash ahead of time and figured he could use a few bucks of the thousand they’d given him to pay for a taxi.
The tunnel entrance inside the warehouse had been carefully concealed within a narrow electrical maintenance room. There was a four-foot-by-four-foot hole cut into the concrete, with a wooden staircase leading down to the dirt floor. Rueben carefully descended the stairs, following the heavyset man in front of him, then turned to his right, staring down the seemingly endless shaft. The ceiling rose to nearly six feet, and his backpack didn’t even brush along the sides of the tunnel, which he thought were at least three feet apart. LED lights had been strung across the ceiling, as though the cartel had decorated the place for the holidays. Rueben also noticed ventilation pipes and electrical wires, along with a piece of PVC piping that ran along the right side of the floor. As they got farther into the tunnel, the walls and ceiling became covered in strange white panels that he overheard one of the guys behind him say were being used to absorb sound.
The Bluetooth in Rueben’s ear began to itch. The FBI guys listening to his every move were losing their signal now, and even his GPS transponder was failing, he knew.
He began to grow claustrophobic and tried to steal a glance behind him as those panels on the walls seemed to close in. The long line of men kept coming, and the gap between himself and the fat man in front of him was widening.
“Come on, move it!” cried the guy behind him.
Rueben hustled up, reached the man, and began to breathe deeply, trying to calm himself. Even if the police were waiting to bust all of them on the other end, it didn’t matter. He’d walk. He’d already been turned, made his deal with the devil, and there was no going back. This is what it was to be a man, to take responsibility for his actions, and he hated it.
The man behind him grunted and said, “Welcome to America,” because someone had painted a line on the ceiling and written U.S. on one side, Mexico on the other, demarcating the border. Rueben just shrugged and moved on. A secondary tunnel shifted off to the right, where he noted a small sanctuary with burning candles. He wished he had time to say a prayer for himself and his family. He wished everything had been different. He thoug
ht of the boy with no toes …and shivered.
PAWNS IN THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN
En Route to Border Tunnel Site
Mexicali, Mexico
PEDRO ROMERO overheard one of the Arabs call the tall man “Samad,” and so he began addressing the man as such, just to unnerve him. I know your name. That was petty power but all Romero had for the time being; still, he was biding his time, because he hadn’t truly surrendered. Not yet.
There was a scintilla of hope.
He’d phoned the sicarios in charge of the cocaine shipment, and the newest lieutenant, José, a kid who used to work for Corrales and who now wanted to be called El Jefe, though he was barely twenty-two, began screaming at Romero that he could not get everyone out of the tunnel.
“These orders come down from Corrales himself.”
“Where is Corrales? Where has he been? No one has seen or heard from him. That’s why I’ve been put in charge of this shipment. This is my operation right here.”
“Shut up and listen to me. I want all those men out of the tunnel and out of the house within ten minutes. If you don’t get that done, Corrales will come for you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“If you want to take a chance, then okay. But you will die, young man. You will definitely die.”
The kid swore, hesitated, then finally agreed.
Three vehicles had been used to carry Romero, Samad, his two men, and the other fourteen Arabs to the tunnel site. Romero was driving his own car, with Samad seated next to him and the two lieutenants in the backseat. Behind them, in his wife’s car, were five other men, and behind them, crammed into an old Tropic Traveler van, were the other nine, along with six rather large traveling bags whose long rectangular shapes left Romero shaking his head. Bundles of rifles? Missiles? Rocket launchers? It was safe to assume they weren’t toting camping gear.
As they neared the site, Romero considered what might happen once the Arabs reached the end of the tunnel. He asked God for his salvation and prayed that his family be spared. These men did not want witnesses, and they would murder him once they got what they wanted out of him. He could no longer deny that. He’d been around evil men long enough to understand how they reasoned.