A pretty Mexican girl in a navy blue suit smiled at him from behind the concierge desk. A security guard in an ill-fitting blazer was posted next to a potted plant in one corner of the lobby. Noble slumped his shoulders and pretended to smack gum. If anyone asked, he was an express courier.
He rode the elevator up to seven, waited to be sure no one got on, and then pressed the button for the underground. When the car started moving again, he climbed onto the handrails and pushed up the access panel. A breath of warm air hit him in the face. The temperature in the shaft was well over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Small red emergency bulbs in wire housings gave enough light to see by. Thick metal cables twanged and popped. The sound filled the narrow shaft. Noble stepped carefully around the large pulley system to the edge of the car. Far below he saw the spill of light from an air vent.
It was a short ride to the bottom. The bell chimed and the doors opened. A blade of light appeared along the top edge of the car. He had assumed the cartels would have people checking everyone who stepped off the elevator for the next couple hours and he wasn’t disappointed. A hired thug stuck his head in the car and said, “It’s empty.”
Another voice said, “Maybe someone pushed the button by mistake.”
A minute later the doors rolled shut.
Noble slid over the side of the elevator and hung by his fingertips in the narrow space between the box and the wall. He dropped to the bottom of the shaft, right into a puddle of standing water.
A voice said, “Did you hear something?”
Chapter Sixty-One
THE TOP FLOOR PENTHOUSE was calculated decadence. Maintained jointly by the drug cartels, it was accorded neutral ground in the never-ending turf wars, someplace they could meet and talk shop. There was a private wait staff made up of exotic young women in short dresses, with plunging necklines and easy smiles. Original oil paintings by Spanish and Italian renaissance masters graced the walls. Chinese vases stood on rich mahogany accent tables. The floors were covered in Oriental rugs.
Santiago followed Machado into the billiard room. The sweet odor of Cuban cigars hung in the air. A fat man in a white suit with gray hair, known to the police as el Cazador, lined up a shot. He tapped the cue ball. It kissed the three, which sank in a corner pocket. El Cazador grinned. The other players each counted out enough money to buy a new car lot. Some of the hired muscle in the room clapped while the rest eyed each other with open hostility.
Santiago rolled his shoulders. Every nerve ending in his body was on high alert. Being an ex-cop in a room full of hired goons with automatic weapons made him jumpy. This was neutral ground, but these were stone-cold killers. The slightest provocation could start a fight and Santiago already knew how that would go down. He had played the scenario out in his head a dozen times. It didn’t end well for anybody.
While Machado greeted his rivals, Santiago accepted a glass of champagne from a serving girl. As a lieutenant, he was afforded that privilege. The rest of the security detail was expected to be sober and silent. Santiago had replaced his dead team with three up-and-comers. They weren’t as good as the guys he had lost, but they would do.
“Sorry to hear about your accountant,” El Cazador was saying as he chalked his stick. “He had been with you several years, no?”
“Eleven,” Machado said.
“I hear he threw himself out of a window.”
Escobedo, a tall man with a thin face, said, “I heard he was pushed.”
“Embarrassing,” said el Cazador.
The muscles in Machado’s jaw bunched. “He had outlived his usefulness.”
“Then his death did not come as a surprise to you?” Escobedo commented.
“Not at all,” Machado assured them.
“I see.” El Cazador lined up his next shot. “Perhaps it was for the best then.”
Escobedo said, “I hear rumors of an American vigilante.”
“The Americano is being dealt with,” Machado said. “And the two events are unrelated.”
El Cazador sunk the four. “Well, by all means, let us know if you need assistance dealing with this lone vigilante.”
Machado showed his teeth in what was supposed to be a polite smile. It looked more like a shark’s grin. “Shall we get down to business?”
“Of course,” El Cazador said. “We can finish our little game latter.” They left their sticks on the table and filed out of the billiard room, down a short hall toward the drawing room.
Machado caught Santiago by the arm. His powerful fingers sunk deep into Santiago’s bicep. They fell behind the rest of the group. When the others were out of earshot, Machado said, “The gringo must not be allowed to disturb the meeting.”
“You think he would attack us here?” Santiago asked. “With all this security?”
“If he does,” Machado said, “I’ll hang you upside down and slit your throat.”
Santiago’s nostrils flared. He bit back a sharp rely. Machado was as good as his word. If the gringo interfered Santiago’s life would be worth spit.
Machado let go of his arm and joined the meeting in the drawing room.
Santiago drained his wine, put the empty glass on an occasional table and went to the private elevator.
Chapter Sixty-Two
EVERY MUSCLE in Noble’s body tensed. He was at the bottom of the elevator shaft with nowhere to go. If the cartel thugs found him, they would cut him down like a cornered rat. He pulled Hunt’s Kimber and listened.
“I thought I heard something.”
“It was my stomach growling.”
“Shut up and listen.”
Noble stood still, careful not to disturb the water pooling around his feet, and tried to control his breathing.
“It’s nothing. Come on.”
Noble exhaled slowly. He holstered the weapon and crept across the floor of the shaft to an exhaust vent which faced away from the elevator doors. Through the slats, he could see oil-stained concrete and the tires of an SUV. Using the ambient light, he found the latches securing the vent and turned them, one by one, with painstaking care. They made small scraping noises, like a mouse in search of cheese. Noble winced. He went slow, twisting the knobs a fraction of an inch at a time until they released. That done, he lifted the grate and hoisted himself up.
The elevator bank was a square of concrete in the center of the underground garage. Fluorescent lights glowed on the roofs of the cars, creating an artificial brilliance and deep pockets of shadow. Gasoline fumes filled Noble’s lungs. Around the corner on his right, a pair of hard cases with submachine guns guarded the elevator doors. Another pair hovered near the exit ramp. Bright sunlight turned them to silhouettes.
There were footsteps on his left. Noble eased the vent shut, took two long strides and rolled under the nearest vehicle—an SUV—as a cartel soldier with an MP5 rounded the corner. Noble lay in the shadows and waited for the soldier to pass. He rounded the corner to the elevator doors and paused to bum a cigarette from a buddy.
The drug lords had parked their motorcades in the aisles. Locating Machado’s white limousine was easy enough. The driver of the rear vehicle had gotten out to stretch his legs and smoke. The limo driver had the window down and a magazine open. The lead vehicle was empty. The driver must be roaming around someplace. Maybe he was on elevator duty.
Noble crept along the lanes, pausing twice for patrols, until he reached Machado’s motorcade. He waited behind the bumper of a Hyundai. The driver of the rear Range Rover smoked his cigarette down to the filter, tossed it, and climbed back inside. He switched on the radio. Mexican rock blasted from the speakers.
Noble used the opportunity to dart across the aisle.
The driver dialed in a pop station. In back of the Range Rover, Noble dropped to the ground and belly crawled. The engine was still hot and had warmed the concrete. This must be what a waffle feels like, Noble thought. He paused at the front bumper. Less than half a meter separated the Range Rover from the limousine. He took a deep
breath, flipped onto his back and shimmied forward until his head and shoulders were under the limo. His hips were exposed to anyone who might happen by. The limo’s gas tank was directly overhead. He wedged the satchel between the tank and the tire well, made sure it was snug, then flipped onto his belly and did an awkward backwards crawl.
A two-man patrol chose that moment to wander past. Noble waited until they were gone, let out a shaking breath, and palmed sweat from his face. The first part of the plan was done. Now all he had to do was cause enough chaos to get Machado back in the limo. He shimmied backwards until he was out from under the Range Rover and rose to a crouch. His knees popped and his back ached. Thirty-four was too young for bad joints, but Noble had put a lot of mileage on his body. He was getting ready to retrace his steps when he saw Santiago crossing the parking garage towards the convoy.
Noble darted behind a gray Lincoln Navigator. The Los Zetas sicario stalked between lanes to the lead Range Rover and rapped on the driver’s window.
The glass buzzed down.
“Keep your eyes open. Call me on the radio if you see anything suspicious.” Santiago went to the limo, repeated the message, and then to the rear SUV.
He was less than ten feet away. The ghost of Torres screamed at Noble to take the shot. From this distance, he could lean around the bumper and drill a bullet through Santiago without aiming, but he stayed put. Stick to the plan, he told himself, stick to the plan, or this whole thing falls to pieces.
Chapter Sixty-Three
SANTIAGO STALKED AWAY, his heels echoing on the garage floor. Noble waited until he was out of sight, then retraced his steps to the elevators. The grate squeaked gently. Noble slid back into the stifling heat and darkness of the shaft. The elevator car was still on the underground level but getting on top of it was going to be difficult. He put his back against the car, planted his feet against the wall and shimmied up. It took ten minutes, but he was able to scramble onto the roof.
With gun in hand, he lifted the access hatch, made sure the elevator was empty and then swung his head and shoulders down through the opening. He had to strain and almost lost his grip, but was able to use the barrel of his pistol to press the button for seventeen.
The car hurtled up through darkness. Noble knelt on one knee, one hand pressed against the top of the elevator, listening to the cables hum. Red maintenance bulbs flashed past. On his left was a long drop, getting longer by the second. Noble tried not think about that.
The cables slowed and the car stopped one floor below the penthouse. A soft red glow lit a pair of double doors overhead. On the other side of those doors was a small army of killers with enough firepower to fight a war.
Long odds, Noble told himself.
He rolled his shoulders, loosening up. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, he repeated inside his head. Make enough noise to get Machado back in the car and let the thermite finish the job.
Standing on tip-toes, he managed to trip the door activation arm with the barrel of the Kimber.
Time slowed down. The doors rolled open like the curtain parting on a deadly ballet. Light filled the elevator shaft—a spotlight drawing the crowd’s attention to the main performer. But this show was unscripted. Who lived and who died was entirely up to chance.
A trio of cartel soldiers stood in front of the doors. They were bunched together under a crystal chandelier in the middle of the entry hall. All three had automatic rifles slung around their necks. They turned in unison as the doors opened.
Six months ago, Sam Gunn had prayed before a firefight in a rock quarry north of Kowloon and they had won against overwhelming odds. Now, as the doors reached their bumpers, Noble offered up a quick prayer in the hopes that God—if he existed—would grant some divine protection. A little luck at the very least.
He sighted on the first man and rolled the trigger back until he felt the Kimber breathe fire. A deafening boom filled the elevator shaft. A hole the size of a quarter opened in the thug’s forehead. The back of his skull disappeared in a grisly spray of blood and brains. His knees buckled.
At the same time, the second man thrust a submachine gun out in front of him and mashed the trigger. The little automatic sounded like an angry buzz saw. Empty shell casings jumped from the breech. Lead impacted the floor, digging trenches and skipping up to drill holes in the elevator shaft over Noble’s head.
He crouched, making himself as small as possible and fired a pair of rounds. Both bullets punched through the cartel soldier’s chest, driving him backwards.
The third man held down the trigger until the bolt locked back on an empty chamber. As his friends fell dead, he ejected the spent magazine and tried to reload, but in his haste, had the magazine backwards. He realized his mistake a second too late. Noble put a pair of rounds through his chest.
All three targets were down. A thick cloud of blue smoke hung in the air. The floor had deep gouge marks and the wall of the elevator shaft two feet above Noble’s head was shot full of holes.
If that didn’t qualify as a miracle, what did?
He hauled himself up, grabbed the dead man’s AK-47 and snagged a radio off his belt. There were shouts from an open door on Noble’s left. He shouldered the weapon and triggered a three-round burst in time to catch a cartel soldier coming to investigate. Slugs stitched the soldier’s chest. His head and shoulders went backwards. His feet shot out from under him. He landed flat on his back. He was still breathing, but not for long.
Noble turned to his right, clearing the penthouse counter-clockwise. His only chance for survival was to create chaos, keep the enemy off balance, and make them kill each other instead of killing him. He mashed the button on the radio and, in his best Spanish, yelled, “The Los Zetas are attacking!”
He didn’t know if the radio he was holding belonged to the Los Zetas or one of the other gangs, but it was bound to cause confusion. He entered a well-lit hall with parquet floors and oil paintings hanging on the walls. A long table with high-back chairs suggested a dining hall. He was moving fast and nearly ran over a girl in a short dress with a tray of champagne glasses. The tray hit the floor. Glass shattered. Her eyes looked ready to pop right out of her skull. She opened her mouth to scream.
“Don’t scream,” Noble warned her. “Do not scream.”
The sound died on her lips.
He clapped his left hand over her mouth and drove her against the wall. There were shouts coming from the other end of the penthouse.
He said, “How many other civilians working here?”
He lifted his hand so she could speak.
“Seven.”
“Any other way out?”
She shook her head. “Just the elevator.”
“Where is the fuse box?”
She pointed to a door at the other end of the room. “Through there. Two doors down, on your right.”
“Lie down on the floor and put your hands over your head,” Noble ordered.
She hurried to obey, pressing herself into the corner.
Chapter Sixty-Four
ALONSO, head of the Caballeros Templarios, was a middle-aged man with a pair of chins. He was telling the gathering that he had begun equipping his coyotes with night vision goggles. If the U.S. border patrol had them, he reasoned, why shouldn’t they? It also allowed them to excavate new tunnels without worrying about installing electricity. The Templars were responsible for roughly two dozen tunnels stretching from Tijuana all the way to San Diego, many of which had light and ventilation.
The cartel heads had gathered around a low table in the conference room. They were surrounded by their security details. The wait staff kept their drinks filled. Cigar smoke hung in the air, stirred into slow-moving eddies by ceiling fans. Beyond the windows, dark storm clouds gathered in the west, blotting out the sun.
Escobedo shook his head. “We avoid the need for technology altogether if we simply buy off more of the U.S. border patrol.”
“That is getting harder to do,” Alonso argued. �
�Americans are tired of the killing on their southern border. The Norteamericano border patrol are vetting their people better. It’s hurting business.”
“That is why I called this meeting,” Machado told them. The time had come. He had spent decades putting all the pieces in place. It required patience and no small investment of capital but the fruits of his labor had finally ripened. He took a long drag from his cigar and exhaled. “What if I told you, in a few short months the border patrol will no longer be of any concern?”
Alonso snorted.
“I’d say you have been using your own product,” Escobedo muttered.
“I’ve been working on a deal to end America’s war on drugs and allow us open access,” Machado told them.
“Go on,” El Cazador said.
“You talk of buying off the border patrol.” Machado laughed and a cloud of smoke burst from his nostrils. “You think too small, my friends. Why buy the border agents when you can own the president?”
Alonso shook his head. “You’ll never buy off the President of the United States. Even America isn’t that corrupt.” After a pause, he added, “Yet.”
“What if I told you I already had?” Machado said and let the statement sink in. “What if I told you the current frontrunner for the DNC is in my pocket?”
El Cazador leaned forward. “This is incredible news.”
All eyes were on him. He took his time, enjoying the moment. “For decades now, American politicians have been taking campaign contributions from foreign governments, like Iran and Saudi Arabia. I thought to myself, why should the ragheads be the only ones dictating American policy?
“Several years ago, I began financing political campaigns in the calculated gamble that sooner or later one of my investments would pay off. One thing you can always count on, my friends, is greed. Helen Rhodes was all too eager to accept my campaign contributions. It was my money which helped secure her run for Governor of New York and my money is funding her presidential campaign.”
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