by JB Turner
"Technological know how, anti jamming telecommunications, intel very useful for drug cartels. You rub my back I'll rub yours. Probably getting financial backing from Tehran and in return the cartel help Quds operatives cross the border to America."
Meyerstein tapped the driver on the shoulder. "Freeway south!"
The driver nodded and sped off at breakneck speed. "Got it, ma'am."
Meyerstein said to Veitch, "Helicopter support on this?"
"Choppers are in the air. FBI and LAPD. California Highway Patrol are also in the loop on this."
"So what's their location just now?"
A long sigh. "We don't know. We've just received the Ramada footage and going over it. I'll get back to you as soon as I have something."
Meyerstein's felt as if things had spiraled out of control. She wondered where Mohsen was headed. Was LA really his final destination? But if escape was indeed the plan, the only option would be to cross over into Mexico.
The sound of her cellphone ringing snapped her out of her thoughts. She recognized the number. "Talk to me, Veitch," she said.
"Fourteen minutes ago, Mohsen and the Mexican woman got into an Escalade. They drove away. Headed south."
The SUV went over a pothole and shook Meyerstein in her seat. "I do not believe how this is playing out."
"It doesn't end there."
"Reznick?"
"You got it. CCTV picked him up. BMW followed Mohsen on to the I-5 south."
Meyerstein stared as the headlights of the cars blurred on the freeway. "I want all our resources on this. Find Mohsen, and find Reznick."
"We'll find them. It's just a matter of time."
"We're clean out of time, Veitch."
FIFTY SIX
Reznick headed off the I-5 drove through downtown San Diego. The car he was following was more than one hundred yards in front. He switched lanes and followed at what he thought was a discreet distance.
He lost sight of the vehicle.
"Goddamn!" Reznick said. He punched the dashboard and drove on, annoyed with himself. "Gimme a break!" The BMW's headlights strafed the dark streets in a sketchy part of San Diego. Up ahead in front of a truck, signaling left, he spotted the Escalade. He hit the gas and was within seventy yards of the vehicle. He followed on.
He knew he was taking a chance getting close. But time was fast running out, the border only a matter of miles away.
The Escalade drove on for a mile or so to the parking lot of a suburban diner. Reznick drove past the diner for a hundred yards before he doubled back and parked up. He was just in time to see the guy with the baseball cap stroll into the diner. The Mexican woman stayed in the car, lights off.
Reznick waited for a couple of minutes. A short while later the man emerged and cocked his head to the Mexican. She got out and followed him towards a BMW parked under some trees at the far end of the parking lot.
Nice counter surveillance move. Clearly pre-planned. A clean vehicle for crossing the Border.
Reznick slid down low as the car sped off past him. He waited a moment before he pulled away and sped back onto the freeway, still headed south. They were on the 805 South and before long passed the lights of National City. Deeper and deeper through southern California. Closer and closer to the border.
Up ahead a sign for the 805 east.
The BMW took Exit 3 onto the road.
Reznick punched in the number for Bob Haines in Nebraska. "It's Jon."
"Man, your tab's gonna be maxed out today."
"Bob, I'm heading east on the 805, south of San Diego. Very close to the Border. I believe the guy I'm following is trying to get over the Border. What intel you got on this part of the world?"
Haines sighed. The sound of keys being tapped out. "Mmmm . . . okay, can only be one place, man. Otay Mesa. Border crossing."
"But my guy is smart. He's a wanted man. And even if he's got fake papers, he's going to attract some heat."
"So what exactly are you looking for?"
"What do I need to know about Otay Mesa?"
A beat. "Okay, this area is within the reach of the Mexican drug cartels. They have money to throw around. It buys a lot of influence in and around the town."
"Still risky. Too risky."
"There is something else."
"What?"
Haines cleared his throat. "Are you there yet?"
"Just approaching it."
"If he has Mexican help, there is one sure way of avoiding the border crossings."
"And what's that?"
"The cartels have a network of secret tunnels running from Otay Mesa into Tijuana on the Mexican side."
Reznick realized immediately what he meant. "Goddamn. He's not going to go over the border is he? The fucker is going under."
FIFTY SEVEN
Meyerstein adjusted the radio headphones as she sat in the front seat of the chopper headed south, the lights of San Diego below. She turned to the pilot. "Can't this thing go any faster?"
"Ma'am, we're going into a strong headwind. We're doing well cruising at 107 knots per hour."
"What's that in real money?"
"123 miles per hour, give or take."
"ETA?"
"Five, maybe six minutes and we'll touch down at Otay Mesa."
Meyerstein nodded as the chopper dipped lower and headed due south east. Her stomach fluttered. In the back seats buckled up were three FBI colleagues, one whose eyes were closed, not enjoying the flight. She felt sorry for the guy. It reminded her of her father's fear of flying. He wasn't scared of anything or anyone. But put him on a plane, and he was stricken, clutching on to Meyerstein's mother's hand throughout the flight. "Neil, we'll be down before you know it," she said.
Special Agent Elbourne opened his eyes. "I'm fine, ma'am."
"Glad to hear it."
Her headphones crackled into life and it was Veitch. "Martha, Reznick is in Otay Mesa, edge of downtown. Border Guards have been alerted."
"Good. What else?" The chopper hit some turbulence as they flew hard against the wind, getting buffeted. Her stomach fluttered again. Elbourne's eyes closed tighter as color drained from his face.
"NSA lost the end of the conversation between Reznick and this guy in Nebraska."
"Gimme a break. Gimme something!"
"Martha our analysts have been pulling up everything we have on the Tijuana Cartel and their interests in Otay Mesa."
"Tell me something useful."
"They own numerous distribution companies in and around California."
"And?"
"They have opened one in Otay Mesa, but through a legitimate shell firm who launder some of their drugs money."
Meyerstein's brain was racing. "So if this cartel own this distribution company, it can only mean two things. Either smuggling Sazegara out on one of their lorries or trucks. But that would be too risky."
"Indeed."
"Or the second way. Out of sight. Something that takes long term planning and serious money."
Veitch said nothing.
"You wanna know how many high-tech tunnels go under from California to the Mexican side?"
"Son of a bitch," was all Veitch could say.
FIFTY EIGHT
The car's Satnav showed Reznick was west of the Otay Mesa Road at the intersection of Highway 125. He had tailed the BMW all the way to a non-descript industrial area of modern warehouse complex with a floodlit gatehouse.
Reznick pulled over. He spotted a sign over the razor wire topped chain-link entrance to Ramirez Distribution. He watched as the armed guard waved the car through. Cameras high up on poles strafed the entrance in all directions.
This was it. This was definitely the stop off.
He pulled out the field glasses and saw the guard light a cigarette as he leaned against a metal barrier, talking into a radio. He watched as the BMW crawled past a dozen or so sixteen-wheeler trucks to the furthest away red brick building. The man he was tailing stepped out followed closely by the Mexican woman.
They punched in a code and disappeared inside.
Reznick scanned the rest of the compound and saw a gas storage facility with an adjacent gas pumping station. Self-sufficient. He pulled out the kit bag with the stolen guns and ammo, tucking his 9mm into his back waistband. Then he walked the fifty yards to the entrance and up to the gatehouse.
The guard shrugged, dragging hard on the cigarette. "You lost, my friend?"
Reznick pressed the Beretta to his forehead and cocked his head in the direction of the gatehouse. "Dentro!"
The guard went inside as he was told.
Reznick looked at the guy. Eyes hooded, dark. Jailhouse tattoos on his wrists and hands. He pressed the gun tighter to the man's head. "Speak English?"
The guard nodded.
"Who were the two people who just entered?"
"Don't know, man."
"What is this place?"
"Distributions, man. Look, I don't know who you are. I just work when they need me."
"Who are they?"
"Mr. Ramirez and his family."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know, man."
"How did you get this gig?"
The guard said nothing.
"Tell me about the far away office block, red brick."
"What about it, man?"
"What's the code to get in there?"
"I don't know."
Reznick pulled back the slide and the man scrunched up his eyes. "Don't give me that bullshit. You know."
The guard said nothing.
"What the fuck is the code?"
"I swear to God, man, I don't know no code."
The glint of a metal shank flashed in the dim guardhouse light. The guard thrust it toward Reznick. He parried it away and jabbed the man in the neck, knocking him out cold.
Reznick picked up the man's radio and clipped it to his shirt pocket and headed towards the red brick office building. He moved to one side of the door and pulled out the rifle from the kit bag, which he quickly assembled. Then he took aim at the gas storage tank and fired three rapid shots into the metal tank with the armor piercing bullets. The sound of gunfire echoed across the concrete compound.
But nothing had happened.
"Goddamn," Reznick said,
He took aim again and fired off three more shots into the tank before it exploded it a huge ball of flames. Flames licked the dark sky. Reznick felt the heat and oil on his skin.
He stood back from the door.
A few moments later three heavyset Mexican guys stormed out.
Reznick immediately gunned all three down before they could take him down. His mind was in freefall. He stepped over the Mexicans' bodies and headed into the dimly lit cavernous facility inside. At the far end he saw floor to ceiling stacked plastic wrapped bales of Marijuana. He moved closer. He caught a whiff of the unmistakable pungent aroma of weed.
Further down the warehouse he approached a black steel door. He tried the handle. Locked. He blew off the handle with his 9mm and opened the lock. He pushed open the door, which revealed a narrow vertical staircase.
Reznick put the 9mm in his waistband, rifle slung over his shoulder, and climbed down. The stairs stopped beside an archway door, dimly-lit. The smell of water.
Reznick kicked in the door and saw that a tunnel lay ahead. His eyes adjusted to the low light. The tunnel was around five feet high, probably 90 foot deep underground. Wooden beams supported the tunnel. The floor was cement and the walls clay. Lights lined one side; the low hum of what was probably a ventilation system to keep fresh air circulating.
It had to have taken years to construct. Millions of dollars in man-hours and materials.
He peered in. Then he crouched down and headed into the tunnel. Senses switched on.
A sense of foreboding washing over him as he headed into the unknown.
FIFTY NINE
Meyerstein's chopper was circling high over the warehouse as the flames licked the sky. She looked down and saw FBI SWAT teams fast rope down into the compound from the second chopper. Her headset buzzed.
"Martha," said Veitch, "drones on the Mexican side are showing a six car entourage just leaving a cartel compound on the outskirts of Tijuana."
"What about Reznick?"
"We've just plugged into the compound's surveillance camera system. He's inside the end building. Already taken out three guys."
Meyerstein stared down as the SWAT guys encircled the compound and fanned out towards the redbrick building. "We need to get Mohsen before he escapes to the other side."
"Martha, I'm just being told we've got their radio frequency now. CCTV shows Reznick picked up a guard's radio clipped to his shirt."
Meyerstein breathed deeply. She willed herself to keep calm and focused.
"I'm getting the frequency sent to the pilot now. Elbourne will get the field radios we keep on board the choppers set up for you ASAP, Martha."
"Good work, Veitch."
The chopper descended and Agent Elbourne passed the radio to Meyerstein. She flicked open the channel and took and deep breath. "Jon, pick up. This is Meyerstein, over."
She waited a few moments. No response. She was about to try again when her radio crackled into life.
"Reznick here!" he panted. "I'm in pursuit. Red brick building. South side of the warehouse. Ninety maybe a hundred feet down there's a tunnel."
"How far in, Jon?"
"Couple of hundred yards."
"Wait for back-up, Jon."
"Forget it. I'm going after them."
SIXTY
Reznick kept his head low as he headed further along the tunnel. His breathing was labored in the dank air. Vibrations from the ventilation pipes. His heart was pounding harder as the adrenalin flowed, flooding his body with chemicals. He knew he was close.
Up ahead he thought he heard a faint sound. Perhaps hurried breathing.
He stopped for a moment and peered further down the tunnel. He held his breath and listened. His senses were switched on. Nerve ends twitching.
The sound was gone. Only the slight hammering of the ventilation system.
He pressed on for another hundred yards. The tunnel began to zigzag.
Reznick craned his head a couple of inches lower and peered down the darkening tunnel as the light dimmed. Up ahead Reznick spotted a figure. One figure. A small woman. She just stood there.
As Reznick pulled out his 9mm, the sound of footsteps and breathing were on him. But behind him.
"Reznick!" a man with a heavy accent shouted. "Time to die."
Reznick turned and threw himself to the earthen tunnel floor as the man pressed a switch on what looked like a cellphone.
Everything plunged into darkness.
SIXTY ONE
Meyerstein strode through the compound toward the red brick building surrounded by a phalanx of FBI guys sporting semi automatic rifles. She approached the bloodied bodies of three Mexicans. A SWAT member was taking photographs.
Meyerstein turned to the lead SWAT Special Agent Peter Rimmer. "Who are they?"
"Still to be identified. Cartel members almost certainly."
Meyerstein walked round the bodies and into the redbrick block accompanied by Rimmer. Scores of SWAT guys inside, radios crackling.
Rimmer pointed to the far door. "It leads down to a tunnel."
"Why aren't we in there?"
"Steel door is blocking access. The lock's jammed."
"Blow it then."
"Thought of that. But the tunnel could collapse."
Meyerstein shook her head. "Can we cut our way in?"
"That's what we're doing."
"How long?"
"Who knows?"
"I'm looking for an answer."
Rimmer sighed. "Maybe an hour."
"You've got ten minutes."
"There's another problem."
"What?"
"The power has just gone out."
"How did that happen?"
"It's been cut deliberately. And t
hat would mean ventilation being cut off, no air, and the tunnel in complete darkness."
Meyerstein shook her head. "We need to get in there now!"
SIXTY TWO
Reznick was in pitch-blackness. He felt sweat beading his forehead and stinging his eyes. He rummaged blind in the bag for the rifle as he lay on the ground.
His breathing was labored as the air became heavy and humid. The ventilation no longer providing clean air. He felt the cold metal of the rifle barrel and pulled it from the bag.
Reznick switched on the night sights. He peered with his right eye pressed up tight to the optics. An eerie green glow. The dust was everywhere. In his nostrils. He began to taste it.
Reznick heard breathing. Getting closer. His mind was racing. He heard movement behind him in the direction of Mexico. He turned and scanned the area ten yards or so ahead. Dust and cement particles in the air. But nothing.
He turned back to face the threat coming from behind.
Out of the corner of the crosshairs he saw a red dot on the wall ahead of him. Then a flash of light. The muffled sound of a gunshot. Then a searing poker red pain burning his lower back.
Reznick felt his mind slow down as he realized he had been shot. He swiveled round as pain exploded in his lower back.
He pressed his right eye up against the rifle optics. The green hue of the Mexican woman with a handgun with night sights trained on him
He clenched his teeth tight. And got her in his sights as she aimed down at him to fire again.
Reznick aimed at her head. Squeezed the trigger. A double tap. A flash of light. Smell of cordite. The bullets tore through her head. Brain matter spray illuminated in a shade of green by the night vision sights.
"Reznick! Jon Reznick!"
Reznick turned round and gritted his teeth against the pain. He looked through the sights. The Iranian was on him. Reznick was expecting a bullet to the head. Nothing. He began to cough. He could hardly breathe. Gas. Tears streamed out of his eyes. Nose filling up.
"Reznick! How does it feel?"