Pescatore showed him cell phone photos of the captive Krystak and the equipment in his vehicle. Noonan shook his head, dismayed but not surprised.
“Who are you?”
“Valentine Pescatore. Homeland Security.”
“The USG.”
“Yep.”
“Why’d you run me down?”
“Why’d you pull a gun? I just wanted to talk to you.”
Pescatore scowled. In fact, he had hoped to pressure Noonan to join forces with the good guys, but he had waited too long before deciding to make the approach. The encounter had escalated in a way he hadn’t been able to control.
“I investigated that massacre at the border you organized,” Pescatore said. “I was there today when Robles ambushed Méndez, who’s a friend of mine. The cop who died was my friend too. I smoked your boy Robles. Personally.”
Noonan’s eyes turned incredulous and desperate, a boxer on the ropes.
“Fuck…” he muttered. “I…”
“Tell you the truth, I’m having trouble working up sympathy for him. He pulled a boot knife on me. Did you know he carried one? Yeah, I can see you did. Good. Now you know I’m not bullshitting.”
“Sir, I swear, I had nothing to do with Vincent shooting your friends. That’s on him. He was supposed to be hiding in Mexico or Guatemala somewheres. He was pissed. He felt like he got screwed over, and he went crazy. He did it on his own.”
“Yeah, he told me that before he died. A big fucked-up joke on everybody, huh? If it’s true.”
“It’s true, bro.”
“He gave me your name. That’s why I beelined up here. I figured Krystak would whack you. You’re lucky I got here first.”
“What happens now?”
“All this media heat, the feds need a big fish. The Blakes have money and political yank and hotshot lawyers. The U.S. attorney will need inside testimony. Looks like you’re the star witness. Krystak would be better, but he’s too high up the ladder. If they flip you, they’ve got a shot.”
“Are you making an offer?”
Pescatore frowned. “Everybody wants an offer today. I’m an off-the-books guy. Low profile. Kinda like you. Except I don’t set up executions of helpless women. That’s a big fucking difference.”
Noonan grimaced. Pescatore continued.
“The feds’ll give you a speech. They’ll tell you a story and say you can write the ending. You served your country. You made life-and-death decisions on the battlefield. Time to make another one. Get with the USG again. If you don’t, you’re looking at the death penalty, life without possibility, blah-blah. You see how bad your situation is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, listen to this: Nobody knows I’m here right now. Absolutely nobody. And I’m disgusted and furious. Even if Robles did today on his own, it’s still your fault. Even if you didn’t pull the trigger in Tecate, you’re still responsible for that fucking bloodbath. I’m tempted to put a bullet in your head, you and Krystak both. Make it look like you did each other. Set up the scene, leave the bodies, let you rot. If you don’t answer my questions right now, the death penalty won’t be a theoretical punishment. Am I making myself clear?”
Looking punch-drunk again, Noonan said he was making himself clear.
Pescatore turned on the recorder in his telephone.
“First question: What’s the connection between you and Robles and Krystak?”
Noonan said he had gone to high school with Robles in Riverside. They’d joined the military together, did basic training together. Noonan went off to fight in Afghanistan, where he met Major Louis Krystak. Later, Noonan did a tour in Iraq and reunited there with Robles, now a fellow sergeant. In the mid-2000s, Noonan left the army and opened his security firm. Meanwhile, Krystak became security chief for the Blake Group, dividing his time between coasts. He hired Noonan for jobs in California.
“Background checks, surveillance. Discreet stuff.”
“Rough stuff?”
“Nothing like this summer.”
In the flat declarative sentences of an after-action report, he recounted how Krystak had summoned him to Los Angeles. An employee of the Blakes had stolen sensitive material and fled to Mexico. Krystak wanted to track her down. Could Noonan help?
“I’d stayed in touch with Vincent. I knew he was deep into cartel activity at the border. Making coin. You heard of the Kaibiles? The Zetas?”
“Guatemalan and Mexican commandos who work for the narcos.”
“Vincent Robles could scrap with any Kaibil or Zeta you got. And he was American, so he had mobility across the border. When he left the military, he did wet work for hire. Then he put together a rip crew. A squared-away setup. Mexican law enforcement protection. We subcontracted him for our op.”
“Communications and money went through you?”
“Affirmative. Compartmentalized. For opsec.”
“What?”
“Operational security. Robles talked to me, I talked to Krystak. Face to face or using messengers.”
“And?”
“The Major had urgent intel: The African girl was coming back to New York to extort the company. The order was take her out, recover compromising information if we could. It couldn’t look like a targeted hit. We had to erase connectivity back to us.”
“These directives were from Perry Blake himself?”
“I think so. Vincent said he’d locate her. He’d stage it like a cartel thing. A rip-crew job gone bad. They smoke aliens all the time. I reported back. The Major said they liked that strategy. Nobody’d think we did a dozen to do one.”
“‘They’ being the Blakes?”
“I think so.”
“Listen, it’s real important to confirm that. Otherwise the Blakes could try to pin it on you or the Major. Play it off like you guys went rogue.”
Noonan shook his head reluctantly. “I’ve never met the Blakes. The Major talked like he was relaying orders, like it was Perry who wanted this girl dead. But he didn’t come out and say those words.”
“Did he tell you Blake tried to rape Abrihet Anbessa?”
“No. I heard that on the news. I’m not surprised. Perry’s like that. Chasing tail, putting his hands on girls, expecting the Major to clean it up. Ain’t the first time.”
“What happened in Tecate?”
“A cluster-fuck. Vincent’s crew didn’t deliver. The girl got away. Vincent kept looking for her in Baja and down south in Chiapas.”
The errors seemed to bother him more than the bloodshed.
Glad you’re all broken up and remorseful about it, Pescatore thought. A real sentimentalist.
“Did you do surveillance on me and Méndez?”
“Just Méndez. And his family. After he wrote about the Blakes.”
“Somebody tailed me on the East Coast.”
“Krystak’s operators, I guess.”
“What about trying to kill me and Méndez in Italy?”
Noonan steadfastly denied having anything to do with the attack in Palazzo di Sabbia. He hadn’t known about it until the articles by Méndez. He looked Pescatore in the eye.
“The Major has a buddy in Italy,” Noonan said. “A Brit he met in Kabul, special forces vet. He’s a mercenary now, active in Africa. A gun seller too. Does business with the Mafia.”
That fits the profile, Pescatore thought. Another subcontractor.
“You got a name?”
“Might have it somewheres.”
“What did the Blakes pay you?”
“For me and Robles both, about a quarter million total.”
“Through banks? Traceable?”
“You kidding? Straight cash, bro.”
“Who are the sources Krystak has in law enforcement?”
“Sources?”
Noonan shifted his position on the floor, extending his legs. He winced in discomfort. His gaze lowered. Pescatore tilted his head impatiently.
“Don’t get slick on me. I know for a fact the Blakes get i
nside intel.”
Noonan shrugged. “Shit, you’ll find out sooner or later. The Blake Group has a law firm in Washington. One of the lawyers was at the Justice Department before. Financial crimes. He still has access. Serious access. He passes info to the Blakes and the Major.”
“Name?”
Noonan knew the name of the firm, not the lawyer, and that was only because Krystak had gotten talkative over drinks. Pescatore had heard of the law firm. He recalled the dapper black prosecutor who had overseen the Ruiz Caballero case and who was friendly with Isabel and Méndez.
“Sylvester Daniels works there. Used to be at Justice. Is he the guy?”
“Negative. The Major mentioned Daniels. Arrogant prick. Won’t lift a finger for us.”
“Who else in the government?”
“The Major knows people in the military, intelligence, drug task forces.”
“Active, not just retired.”
“Yeah.”
“Here in California?”
“I’m pretty sure, yeah.”
“Operational? Street level? Supervisors?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do Perry or Walter Blake know who you are? Would they know Krystak is here now?”
“Perry might.”
“What’s Krystak’s relationship with the Blakes like?”
“He pretty much hates Perry. He says all the dope and drink and pussy is ruining his judgment. But the father wants him to clean up Perry’s mess, so the Major does it. The father’s a mean prick. The Major is too, so they get along. He’s been working for Walter ten years. Shitload of money.”
“Would the Major flip?”
Noonan laughed mirthlessly. “He wouldn’t rat out Walter Blake, anyway. Hard to hurt the son without hurting the father.”
“The Blakes calling the shots, that sounds logical. Your testimony is important. But what’s some corroborating proof that Perry gave the order to kill Abrihet Anbessa? Phone contact, e-mails, money?”
“Not much, bro. The Major’s big on opsec. It’s not like there’s anything putting everybody in the same place at the same time.”
“Huh.”
Pescatore ran a hand through his curly hair. He stopped the recorder.
“Okay,” he said.
“What happens to me now?”
“Sit tight. Maybe you get to live.”
Chapter 20
The ranch had become his private little interrogation center. A secret outpost. A black site. He was climbing the stairs of the conspiracy: Robles, Noonan, Krystak. Basic investigative techniques. Organized Crime 101. The higher you rose, the better—and tougher—it got.
Pescatore hauled Krystak upright and pushed him into the armchair. Off came the gag and blindfold. Krystak accepted a drink of water. He didn’t say thank you.
The Major was assembled like a mountain range: head, deltoids, shoulders, arms. The jut of his jaw suggested steroid use in the past. The polished scalp shone. As he sat with his wrists and ankles cuffed, his manner was stolid, almost sleepy.
Pescatore asked, “You know who I am, right?”
Krystak nodded.
“Then listen up,” Pescatore said.
He laid it out. Evidence from witnesses, communications and documents put Krystak at the heart of an ongoing criminal conspiracy. He had ordered the kidnapping and attempted murder of Abrihet Anbessa, causing the murders of a smuggler in San Diego, ten migrants and three kidnappers in Tecate, and a CBP inspector. As well as the attempted murders in Italy of Solomon Anbessa, Méndez and Pescatore. He had covered up the assault on Abrihet Anbessa and obstructed a federal investigation.
“Plus the killings today in San Diego, which can be attributed to the continuing conspiracy. Death-penalty offenses, Major. The one thing in your favor, the one single thing, is that you weren’t the top guy. But unless you help us go to the next level, you’re gonna be the fall guy. The goon gone rogue. Is that a role you wanna play? Sacrifice yourself for Perry Blake?”
“Fuck yourself.” The bass voice was affectless. “I want a lawyer.”
Pescatore said this wasn’t that kind of situation. He explained that he was there clandestinely. He repeated the threat he had made to Noonan: he could shoot them, then stage it so it looked like they had killed each other.
“Better start talking while you can,” Pescatore said.
Krystak’s thick eyebrows climbed the wall of his forehead. His breathing was slow and audible.
“Fuck yourself,” he said again.
Pescatore nodded. “Noonan said you wouldn’t rat them out because you’re loyal to Walter Blake.”
Leaving him in the chair, Pescatore walked down the hall to the gun room. He unlocked it, went in, came back out, and locked the door behind him. He returned to the living room holding a twenty-two-inch Monadnock expanding baton made of alloy steel. It was similar to the collapsible straight baton issued to agents by the U.S. Border Patrol.
He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the security screens on the wall console. The camera angle was from the side and above. The screen showed a compact, powerfully built, dark-haired figure in a leather jacket. The figure held the baton down along the right leg. The face was not visible.
“All right, then,” he said. “I’m not gonna waste time. I respect your decision not to talk. But there’s one thing you have to do. We’re gonna call Perry Blake. You do some acting; you tell him you whacked Noonan, but he shot you. You’re wounded. You need help. Perry has to get up here and save his soldier.”
Krystak didn’t say anything. Sweat slid down Pescatore’s arms and sides. He shifted the baton from one hand to the other so he could wipe his palms on his jeans.
“How about it, Major?”
Krystak shook his shaved head. Pescatore walked across the room to the security console, located a master switch, and turned off the camera system. The screens went blank. He returned to his spot in front of Krystak.
“If you don’t do it,” Pescatore said very softly, “I’m gonna beat the shit out of you. Maybe beat you to death. Don’t test me, Major. Not today.”
“Fuck yourself.”
The voice was hoarse.
Pescatore thought, Now what?
He remembered the stifling Saturday night in Mexico when he had questioned Chiclet. He had imagined brutalizing the smuggler. He had told himself that he had never tortured a suspect and wasn’t about to start.
He paced back and forth, the baton over one shoulder, like a batter on deck. Memories assailed him. Disjointed images: corpses in a motel room; Blake in front of a skyline; blood on the carpet of a cybercafé; Abrihet Anbessa in a sweatshirt hood; the shattered windshield of a pickup truck. He stopped pacing.
“How do you live with it?” he demanded. “What the fuck is wrong with you? All those people hurt and killed. Just because some perverted billionaire wants whatever he can get.”
Krystak’s eyes were steel-colored. They studied Pescatore now. Probing, calculating. The gruff voice turned cagey. “You ever serve in the military, kid?”
“The Border Patrol.”
“Seen combat?”
“Firefights.”
“Kills?”
“Yeah.”
First he wouldn’t talk, Pescatore thought, a rivulet of sweat leaving a tang of salt on his tongue. Now the suspect is taking over the interview.
“You spend enough time in combat, you understand the world is shit,” Krystak said. “Kill or die. Win or lose. Most people lose and die. You spend enough time around people like the Blakes, you find out about a whole different world. A sweet life. Hardly anybody gets to live it, though.”
“That right?”
“Not unless you’re tough and smart.”
One side of Krystak’s mouth turned up in a semblance of a smile. It occurred to Pescatore that Krystak was accustomed to command. He had experience leading soldiers into harm’s way. He could talk up a storm if he had to.
“You must be tough and smart, kid,�
� Krystak continued. “Because you’re in control of this situation right now. A onetime opportunity. Take advantage of it.”
“Meaning what?”
“Killing me would be stupid. I have access to unlimited funds. A life-changing amount of money. You know that. So name your price.”
Pescatore spoke quietly, through clenched teeth. “Is that an offer?”
“Say the word. I can make it happen.”
Pescatore tilted his head. There was a long silence.
So that was the bottom line. If Krystak couldn’t kill him, he could still buy him. None of it mattered, all the lives lost and ruined. Krystak had money and that meant he could get away with anything.
“Fuck yourself,” Pescatore said.
Fury overwhelmed him. He gripped the baton with both hands. He swung it at the left side of the man’s body. Swift hammering blows: arm, ribs, knee, arm, ribs, knee. He was sickened by the impacts, the cries of pain, his silent punitive efficiency. There was a roaring in his ears, a metallic taste in his mouth. He saw more than heard Krystak scream in surrender.
Both of them took a while to catch their breath. Krystak looked straight up at the ceiling, his chin jutting high, the sinews of the neck straining. You could see him ride the pain, absorb it, dominate it.
“Okay,” he said, his face pale and twisted.
“You’ll make the call?”
“Yeah.” And then, grudgingly: “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Me either. Till you disrespected me.”
He put Krystak’s phone on a side table next to the armchair. He told him what to say and how to say it.
“Where is Perry right now?”
“Bel Air.”
“Does he know you came here to kill Noonan?”
“Yeah.”
Pescatore drew the gun from his shoulder holster and pointed it at Krystak’s face. He activated the speakerphone.
“Use Signal,” Krystak muttered. “He won’t talk unless it’s encrypted.”
“Okay.”
After four rings, they heard rock music. The percussive chug of a treadmill or a StairMaster. Fast breathing. Perry Blake was working out in his home gym.
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