“Arial footage? How did you get that?”
I shrugged. “We bought a drone. I took a little drive at the nanomites’ direction and sent up the drone with a smart phone attached. The mites controlled the drone and took the video and photos. The rest was easy.”
Gamble forgot his coffee while he perused the papers. “Do I want to ask how you got these MVD records?”
“No.”
He grunted.
“I can provide the video feed to you, if you like, Gamble. On a flash drive.”
He shook his head. “Tell me where this place is. We’ll send up our own drone.”
“I will; that’s why I came this morning—I told you I would deliver Soto’s location to you. But you get that information under one condition.”
His head snapped up. “What condition?”
“I come with you when you take him down.”
“No.” His head was moving back and forth before he uttered the word.
“Then no location.”
He stared at me, his mouth hard and angry.
“That’s the deal, Agent Gamble. I’ll stay out of the way, but I get to be there.”
“Stay out of the way? What about us? We can’t see you. We won’t know if you’re in the line of fire or not!”
“That’s my problem, not yours.”
Head still wagging back and forth, Gamble looked back to the photos and documents I’d provided. Then he shoved them back into the folder.
“I need to get to the office.”
~~**~~
Chapter 24
It took Gamble half the morning to brief his superiors and hours longer to verify Soto’s location to the SAC’s satisfaction, get a warrant, assemble the assault team, and put together the assault plan. The FBI invited a contingent from the APD gang unit and the Torrance County Sheriff’s Department to join them in the planning, execution, and mop-up.
I hung out at a discreet distance, paid attention to the plan, and kept an eye on Gamble. As occupied as he was with the operation, I could tell he was worried about me—the occasional looks he shot around the briefing room spelled out his concern. What he didn’t know was that I had no intention of going along with the FBI to arrest Soto.
I would be there ahead of them.
With Soto’s arrest so close, I could almost taste it. However, I wanted the opportunity to speak to Dead Eyes and Mateo first. I needed to “convey”—in my own way—the disgust and rage I felt toward them.
The nanomites piggybacked on the FBI’s aerial recon of the gang’s headquarters and downloaded what we already knew: Soto was ensconced in a very nice two-story house in the center of a ten-acre parcel. The house was built on the flat basin some miles east of the backside of Sandia Crest. According to FBI data, Soto—from the relative safety of his pricy digs—directed the manufacture, packaging, and distribution of drugs to a large chunk of New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, Texas, and Oklahoma.
Despite a glut of real estate speculators and builders, a lot of the land due east of the Crest was still rural. Underdeveloped. Isolated. Just how the residents liked it. Soto’s property was down a long dirt road. It was fenced, and the house afforded unobstructed views in all directions.
The FBI’s assault team planned to come, in force, under cover of darkness, from multiple directions. An hour after twilight, they would begin infiltrating their personnel to their assigned positions.
I, on the other hand, would walk in, undetected, before sundown, and leave before the FBI team hit Soto’s house. I waited until the FBI had solidified their timetable. Then I pilfered one of their radios on my way out so the mites could monitor the team’s communications.
I drove east on I-40 until I’d cleared the canyon. After I passed Edgewood, the mites directed me north on graveled back roads toward Soto’s headquarters.
I wondered about Mateo, where he’d been hiding since he and his gang thugs beat Zander and Abe. I wondered whether we’d catch him and Soto together. Soto was the primary target, but part of me hoped that our trap would snare them both at the same time.
I had the FBI radio in one pocket and my phone in the other, and I had Gamble on speed dial. I would communicate any problems I noted before the assault team received their go signal.
Gemma Keyes.
“Yes?”
You will wear your weapons to this encounter.
“Yeah, that I will.” The quiver holding two kamagong sticks lay on the passenger seat floor.
This encounter may afford realistic training practice. We must be optimal when we free Dr. Bickel; realistic practice furthers our goal.
I coughed a laugh up the sleeve of my hoody. I didn’t think the nanomites understood the level of danger tonight’s situation presented—or how quickly things could go south if I were to inadvertently rouse Soto’s guards. I was more than happy to let the FBI do the heavy lifting in lieu of “realistic practice”!
My aim was to conduct a private and personal “interview” with Soto and Martinez—just before the FBI arrived. I intended no risk to myself.
“Nano. Time?”
The time is 4:34 p.m., Gemma Keyes.
The FBI would begin positioning their people soon. They would pull the trigger at 5:55. I had a large enough window of time to hike onto Soto’s land, reach the house, locate Soto and Martinez, and conduct a candid “discussion” concerning their brutal attempted murder of my friends.
Find a place to pull off the road and hide your car, Gemma Keyes.
“Roger that, Nano.”
***
Arnaldo Soto was alone in what served as his office on the second floor of his house, savoring a well-deserved brandy at the end of a long day. The fire in the corner kiva crackled, and Soto sniffed at the scent of piñon and cedar sap sizzling from the logs.
He stood and lifted the Russian-made vintage snifter to the light, studying the dancing fire through the crystal prisms. Closed his eyes.
Smiled.
Not bad, considering—considering I was banished from Mexico and sent into exile here. Not bad at all. Soon I will have a stranglehold on this part of this weak country, a monopoly even my family will not be able to break.
“To New Mexico,” he toasted with a laugh. “To the Land of Enchantment, the land of my many new opportunities!”
***
“I’m delighted you have found our state to your liking,” I murmured, locking the office door behind me. Since you’ll be spending the rest of your miserable life here.
Soto jerked at the sound my voice and, seeing no one, turned in a circle. “Who is that? Who is talking to me?”
“You’ve terrorized innocent people, Arnaldo Soto.” I whispered the words less than three feet from him.
The glass dropped from Soto’s hand and shattered on the gleaming hardwood floor. He skittered away and opened his mouth to shout for a guard.
My movement was faster than his reaction, than his instinct for self-preservation.
I placed the blunt end of an escrima stick on his throat. And pushed. Just a little.
“No, don’t raise an alarm, Arnaldo. It would not be wise. I could break your nose, put out an eye, and shatter half your teeth before they got in here—and your men still wouldn’t see me. Why, if you told them about me, they’d think you were crazy!”
Soto’s eyes bugged out of his head; he tried to back up, but I followed him, pressing my stick harder. He swallowed with difficulty.
“I advise you to stand still and not move your hands, my pasty friend. Make any sudden moves and, with the flick of my wrist, I will break your jaw—and that would be too bad, because I have some questions for you.” I tapped his jaw with the heavy stick to prove my point.
I glanced around. “Better yet, I want you to sit down. Yes, right there.”
Soto, my stick digging into his Adam’s apple, lowered himself into his desk chair.
“Scoot it this way, please. Yes. Away from your desk. Come on.”
Soto rolled the chair
as I allowed him to, as I eased the pressure of the stick against his throat.
“Right here is good.”
He was centered in the room, broken glass crunching under the wheels of his expensive, oversized chair, spilled alcohol under his feet. He’d regained some of his bluster during transit.
With an arrogant lift of his chin, he demanded, “What is it you want?”
“Well, that . . . is a good question.”
And it was. I stared at him, at “Dead Eyes,” the psycho. He’d terrified me the first few times I’d seen him, but now? I guess my training had done more for my confidence than I’d realized. Soto was just a man, and I could injure him—if I chose to.
He was powerless; I was in control.
I glanced down, uncertain of how to proceed. All I desired was to understand: Why? Why had Mateo beaten a kind, defenseless old man? Why had he nearly killed him? Mateo didn’t care about Emilio! So, why?
“Where’s Mateo Martinez?”
Soto had not been expecting my question, and something flickered across his face. I had to admire him, though. He didn’t lick his lips or exhibit other signs of fear or nervousness. He was trying to find me, though. Trying to figure me out.
That wasn’t going to happen.
“Nano,” I whispered inside. “Sting him.”
I felt them leave.
Soto flinched and stared at his palm. He rubbed it, almost against his will, across the sleek fabric of his trousers. I moved my stick to his elbow and gave it a little knock—okay, a significant knock—then returned the stick to his throat. Pressed it.
He cursed, but was shrewd enough to keep his voice down.
“I asked about Martinez.”
This time Soto did lick his lips. What was he hiding?
I pushed the stick into his throat. “Martinez and his men beat up two friends of mine, in particular, an elderly man. Martinez didn’t care about Emilio! So, why? And where is he? Where is Martinez?”
“Is that why you’re here? Because Martinez beat up an old man?” Soto spit the words at me. His patience was wearing past the point of his ability to control his temper. He coughed and turned his head to diminish the pressure on his throat, but the weight of my stick followed.
“You’re going to get quite the kink in your neck if you keep leaning away like that,” I observed. “Turn this way, Arnaldo, and answer my question. Where’s Mateo?”
Soto’s head came around front. I reapplied the pressure of the stick on his throat. He squirmed, anger boiling under the surface.
It made me laugh. “Why, you’re not much more than a spoiled rich kid, are you? You can dish it out, but you’re not much in the ‘taking it’ department.” I moved my stick and smacked him on the cheek.
When he did not answer, I told the mites what to do.
They stung him. Three times in succession, in three different places, they stung him. Soto cursed and turned white under the strain of controlling himself.
“You needn’t be concerned about Martinez,” he snarled. “That man’s actions were . . . precipitous. I couldn’t have a loose cannon in my organization, so I removed him.”
I felt suddenly sick. “You . . . What does that mean?”
He shrugged with disdain, that very Latin equivalent of “whatever.”
I spoke inside, and the nanomites responded to my request. Yes, Gemma Keyes.
Swallowing my nausea and affecting curiosity, I managed, “I think I get it, but I’d like to hear it from you, how you did it, how you ‘removed’ Martinez. I’m . . . interested.”
My captive grinned through clenched jaw. “Martinez possessed neither the intellect nor strength of character to be more than an underling. He was, at his best, a useful tool, but he had been promoted beyond his ability.”
Soto chuckled. “Any prod to his ego elicited temper; any slight to his manhood produced a violent response.”
“Let me guess. You insulted his manhood. And how did you do that? Tell me.”
Dead Eyes shrugged again, warming to his tale. “The boy.”
“You used Emilio?”
Speculation glinted in Soto’s black eyes. I didn’t like it. Didn’t know what it implied.
I nudged him. “Go on.”
“Yes, the boy. Emilio. The old man next door called social services because Martinez had neglected the child. I merely suggested that the old man’s actions called into question Martinez’s ability to lead.”
“You ‘suggested’ this in front of Mateo’s men.”
“But of course. In his mortification, he could not wait to take care of things. Mateo was easy to manipulate, easy to goad.”
I ground my teeth against the rage rising in me. “So you goaded him? Into beating the old man?”
Soto cocked his head to one side. “I assure you: I gave no orders for such an ill-advised action.”
“But you provoked him. Because you wanted him to screw up.”
Soto’s laugh was full-throated. Indifferent. “It was . . . amusing to watch.”
“And afterward? Because of the attention Mateo brought down on you?”
“Surely you understand. I could not allow Mateo to further jeopardize our operations, now could I?”
“Thank you; I do understand. Completely. Where is he now?”
Soto spread his hands wide and smiled. “Let us say that the sands of the Albuquerque West Mesa will be richer for Mateo’s contribution, eh?”
That was that. Emilio’s uncle was dead.
Soto glanced up and around, cunning in his eyes, still trying to figure me out. The expression on his face froze, then turned to concern as the noises below came to us: Shouts, gunfire, chaos. The FBI breaching Soto’s house.
I’d become engrossed in our conversation and had lost track of the fleeting minutes. My time with Soto was up—and he felt compelled to make a move.
I stepped left just as his left hand snaked out. My stick came down, and the crack of bone resounded in the room.
Ooops. Broken hand.
It didn’t bother me as much as I’d expected it to.
Soto howled in pain—but his howl never made it into the open. In the milliseconds it took for him to inhale, the nanomites swarmed Soto’s mouth and nostrils.
I stepped back and observed. Soto flailed. His uninjured hand scrabbled across his mouth and nose—only he couldn’t open them: The mites had sealed them shut.
Disbelief and panic set in, and Soto lurched to his feet. His initial scream was muffled, and he couldn’t draw another breath to protest further. In any event, screams, grunts, or other sounds could not pass his sealed lips.
Boots pounded down the hall toward Soto’s office. More shouts and the cough of heavy guns. I leapt behind the locked door as the agents breached it. At that moment, the mites released their hold on Soto and returned to me.
The door splintered and crashed open. Four FBI special ops agents filed in, their guns up and ready, Gamble close on their heels. Two additional agents, the tags on their jackets reading Scarpetti and Franks, brought up the rear.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
Gamble and his team stared at Soto sprawled on the floor, blue-faced, gasping for breath, cradling his shattered hand. Scarpetti and Franks exchanged grins.
Even Gamble cracked a smile. “Arnaldo Soto, I presume.”
While the special ops team and Gamble looked on, Scarpetti and Franks patted Soto down and—none too gently—flipped him onto his belly to cuff him.
Soto shrieked in pain. “My hand—don’t touch it! She broke it! That *blank blanking blank* broke my hand!”
They turned him on his back, and one of the agents studied Soto’s wrist. She glanced up at Gamble. “Yeah; it’s busted. We’re going to need medical.”
She directed a question at Soto. “Who broke your hand?”
“That woman! The invisible woman! She hit me with something—something hard, a stick of some kind.”
Special Agent Scarpetti smirked. “
The invisible woman? Right.”
That got a chuckle out of everyone except Gamble and Soto.
“She’s here! In this room!” Soto’s eyes narrowed and jinked around the room. Looking for me.
Gamble’s expression didn’t change. “Shut up, Soto. Read this piece of dung his rights and get him out of here. Medical can see to him downstairs.”
Scarpetti and Franks hauled Soto to his feet, but Soto did not shut up. Still searching the room for any sign of me, he screamed, “Where are you, you *blank*? Where are you? Are you afraid of me? Afraid to show yourself? Well, you should be—’cause I’m going to kill you; I swear on my grandmother’s grave, I will kill you!”
The agents hustled him toward the door, but Soto wasn’t finished. “Listen to me, you *blank*! I know you’re still here. I know you’re listening; I know you can hear me. You think because I can’t see you that I can’t find you? Oh, I will find you—but first I’ll find those you love. Don’t sleep, you *blank.* Don’t even blink! Because I will find you, and I will pay you back for this.”
Franks laughed and shoved Soto toward the door. “Yeah, right. Tell that to your friends in federal lockup.”
He and Scarpetti hustled Soto out the door and down the stairs.
I slipped out behind them unseen, unnoticed.
***
I visited the FBI field office the following morning. “Hey, Gamble. How’s it going?”
The man looked beat; dark circles ringed his eyes and his shoulders slumped with fatigue.
He dispensed with greetings. “How did you do that, Gemma?”
“You mean how did I get Soto to confess to Mateo Martinez’s murder?”
“No. Well, yeah, that, but what I meant was, how did you transmit your conversation with him across our radios?”
“Everyone heard it, did they?”
“Loud and clear. How did you do it?”
“Oh, you know. The nanomites. I had one of your radios; they took care of the rest. I returned the radio last night, by the way. Is what he said enough to convict him for murder? For accessory to the assault on Abe and Zander?”
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