Velocity

by Alan Jacobson

  The interior was nearly dark, but white beady eyes blinked at her from all directions.

  “FBI!” she said, her pistol swinging left to right, pointed at the long, drawn faces staring back at her.

  An angry mission leader entered, his MP-5 at the ready—in full gear. His tactical light scanned the darkness, showing half-naked men packed shoulder to shoulder, seated on the floor.

  Vail shoved her nose into the crook of her elbow to mask the fetid odor of human feces and urine that pervaded what passed as air.

  “Jesus Christ,” Turino said as he entered. He quickly ducked out the front door. “Get some lights on in there,” Vail heard him say to an approaching SWAT officer.

  “Dondé está el jefe?” Vail yelled into the darkness.

  An overhead stairwell light came on.

  A mass of humanity sat packed into the living room to the right, the family room to the left, the hallway ahead of her, the staircase twenty feet away—there was no free space in which to walk.

  She tried a different question, in English. “Who’s in charge here?”

  The faces stared blankly at her. Too weak to respond? Or too afraid. Even though Turino had briefed them on the nature of these drop houses, she hadn’t been prepared for what lay before her.

  “Is there anyone here who can answer some questions?” Vail said. Still no response. “You’re not in any trouble. We’re here to help you find your loved ones, to take you away from these people. But you need to tell me where they are.”

  No response.

  “Do you know their names? The people holding you.”

  “Grunge,” a woman’s voice said.

  Vail’s eyes frantically scanned the faces, hoping to find the person who had answered. “Grunge,” Vail repeated. “Anyone else? Is there only one of them? It’s important you tell me. If you want us to help you, I have to know.”

  “Roger that.” Turino came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. “Out back,” he said by her ear. “You need to see this.”

  71

  Vail stood in the yard staring at the shed, partially illuminated by the spotlight. The structure measured no more than twelve feet square, but her mind was already manufacturing what might lie inside.

  She cleared her throat. “Robby?”

  “Come see,” he said, then grasped her arm and led her forward. Shell casings littered the cement everywhere she stepped.

  Off to her right, two bodies lay sprawled across the pavement, expansive red puddles beneath them. Carnage from what was likely a fierce gun battle.

  Using the barrel of her pistol, Vail pulled on the wood door and opened it. The stench of rotten eggs, urine, and feces struck her nose like a first-degree assault. “Jesus.” She threw her arm up, once again burying her nose in the bend of her elbow. “What is this place?”

  Turino handed her a tactical flashlight. “You tell me.”

  Vail stepped inside, then swept the bright xenon beam around the interior. An object balled up in the corner grabbed her attention. She moved toward it, avoiding the puddles, then knelt down. Droplets of a familiar substance dotted the floor beside it. Blood. Enough for a wound, but nothing life threatening.

  She leaned forward and examined the crumpled mass in front of her. But suddenly she recoiled, threw herself backwards, and landed against Turino. “No . . . ” It would be all she got out—words, that is—because she turned to the left and vomited on the floor. There wasn’t much in her stomach, so it was mostly hot, burning acid.

  Vail did not speak. Her mind was blank, all thoughts vacuumed away.

  She slowly turned her face toward the bundle, then wiped her mouth on her left arm. Stepped closer, reached out and lifted the heavy mass. Ran the light over it. It was what she thought it was.

  A leather jacket.

  Robby’s leather jacket, the one he had bought in Napa. The one he had worn the night they went to Bistro Jeanty. No DNA or fingerprints needed.

  Vail shook it a couple times to uncoil it, then slowly searched the pockets. She rooted out a spent matchbook splashed with block letters that spelled “Bistro Jeanty.” It was a painful confirmation that these were the matches Robby had used to light the candles on their last night together.

  Vail drew in a deep breath. “He was here. This is his.” She draped the jacket across her left forearm, then spun on her heels and faced Turino. “The shell casings, the gunfire we heard—” She pushed past him, walked outside the shed, and scooped up a handful of the brass skins. “Still warm.”

  Turino grabbed his radio. “This is Turino. TFO Hernandez was here, at our twenty. Searching premises. Two DBs discovered. No sign of Hernandez. I want roadblocks in . . . ” he closed his eyes, deep in thought. “A five-mile radius. Shut everything down. All arteries. And let me know when ICE gets here.”

  “Is five miles enough?” Vail asked.

  “If they left when we were pulling up, moving through surface streets, five miles should be sufficient.”

  “I don’t think so,” Vail said. “Can we expand it?”

  “Five’s enough,” he said firmly.

  Vail sighed. “Robby was here. We missed him by a minute?”

  “It’s possible he’s still here.”

  Vail headed back toward the house. “Doubt it. Whatever happened here was violent and aggressive. Whoever was involved was not interested in staying put. Robby either escaped on his own, or . . . ” Vail shook her head.

  “Or someone else took him.”

  “Let’s clear that house, do a canvass. We’ll need bodies.” Turino keyed his radio again. “Request all available personnel to our current twenty to canvass the area. Alert ICE we’re on scene and get an ETA. Inform them we’ve got about three dozen illegals to process.” He pointed at a nearby SWAT officer. “Make sure all our vehicles are moved a few blocks east, away from this house. I don’t want any obvious police presence out front.” He lowered his two-way. “We’ll find him, Karen.”

  Vail drew Robby’s jacket against her chest. He was here. He’s alive and I’m gonna find him. She turned to Turino. “Huh?”

  “I said we’ll find him.”

  Vail had moved beyond that. “I don’t just want to find him. I want to find him alive.”

  72

  Robby’s eyes fluttered open. His body bounced and rolled, a disorienting sensation in the near darkness. He tried to lift his head, but he was too weak from lack of food and water. His skin and mouth felt parched, like a sponge left out in the sun too long.

  He licked his lips and tried to generate some saliva. As his mind returned to full awareness, he saw that he was in the rear seat of a car. Two men were in front. From this angle, and in this light, he couldn’t see either of their faces. His wrists and ankles were bound tightly together. His cop instincts kicked in, and he realized that the best strategy he could take at the moment would be to remain quiet and still. He needed to listen and observe, see if he could ascertain who his captors were.

  His chief concern: was he better off now, or as he was before, in the shed? It was hard to imagine his fortunes having shifted for the worse. But until he knew what was going on, it was better to reserve judgment. For all he knew, he was headed to the chopping block and acid bath Escobar had promised.

  “If Cortez finds out what we did,” the driver said in Spanish, “we’re dead men.”

  “Only you, me, and Mr. Villarreal know it was us. Those two back at the house won’t be talking. And I think it goes without saying Mr. Villarreal won’t be having dinner with Cortez anytime soon.”

  The driver squirmed in his seat. “Still.”

  The passenger pointed to the opposing lanes of traffic. “Look.”

  Approaching with their lightbars blazing were three San Diego PD cruisers. And coming up behind them, another three.

  “Fuck me. What do we do?”

  “Keep calm,” the passenger said. “Look in your mirror, tell me what they’re doing.”

  He lifted his eyes to th
e rearview. “Looks like they’re slowing all the lanes. Shit, man, they’re starting a roadblock. You were right, we shoulda put him in the trunk. If they stop us—”

  “Wait a minute. You fucking kidding me? A roadblock—behind us?”

  The driver cracked a wicked laugh laced with relief. “Are we lucky or what, bro?”

  “Maybe we’ve got some Irish in our Mexican blood.”

  “Whatever it is, I don’t care.” He slapped the steering wheel. “We’re on our way now. Nothin’s gonna stop us.”

  Robby wanted to sneak a peek at the passenger. Something about the voice sounded familiar. Where had he heard it before? He dared not open his eyes again. He needed to continue listening, and if they thought he was still unconscious, they may say something he could use.

  He had already learned that Carlos Cortez no longer had custody of him. Presumably, that was a positive development. But he’d also discovered that his new captors, possibly a rival cartel, had evaded the roadblock. That, certainly, was not a good thing.

  Robby had also snatched one other morsel of intel: they were “on their way.” Question was, on their way to where?

  73

  Turino knelt down and used a pen to nudge the assault rifle that the dead cartel member was still clutching. “Cuerno de chivo.”

  Vail crouched beside him. “Come again?”

  “Goat horn. Basically, it’s their nickname for an AK-47, a favorite weapon of cartel gunmen.” He pointed with his pen. “It refers to the magazine’s curved shape. See?”

  “Yeah, it’s curved. So what?”

  “They’re moving to higher-powered weapons. Stuff like .50-caliber machine guns and 40-millimeter grenade launchers. Grenade launchers . Not to mention pistol rounds that can penetrate body armor. They call them matapolicias. Cop killers. Nice, huh?” Turino looked around, then put two fingers in his mouth and blew. The on-scene law enforcement personnel, congregated around him at varying distances, stopped their conversations and turned toward him.

  “Those of you who’ve just arrived. Leave everything as is. Don’t pick up a shell casing, don’t dust for prints. We’ve taken photos and video, that’s it. Right now, the focus is on helping ICE get the immigrants out of here ASAP. They’re gonna process them offsite at our staging area, in the parking garage. Any cartel members come by here, we want them to see that mess in the yard. They’ll know it was the work of a rival cartel. If they’re looking for Hernandez, hopefully they’ll think he was snatched up. It’s cover for us. We lucked out here big time. Okay, let’s move! We’ve already been here too long.”

  As the personnel dispersed, Vail corralled Turino. “So you think a rival cartel grabbed him?”

  “That’s what my gut says. Look at the spray of rounds. It was an aggressive move. Who else would know, or even care, about Hernandez? Gotta be another cartel. Leverage or bragging rights, I’m not sure. But Cortez no longer has Hernandez. I think that’s safe to assume.”

  “And how exactly did we luck out? Whatever happened here, whoever it was, they took Robby.”

  Turino walked through the kitchen, headed to the front of the house, rubbernecking his head, checking out the progress of his orders. “You’re thinking of one person, Karen. I’m thinking about a major op that’s been in the works for years, that’ll get a ton of drugs off the street and put thousands of major dealers and money launderers behind bars. So if we can cover our tracks by using an intercartel conflict and let them think we weren’t even here, and if Velocity stays intact as a result, yeah, we lucked out.” He stopped and faced her. “Big time.”

  “I thought we were on the same side here.”

  Turino squinted. “You just don’t get it, do you? This isn’t a war on drugs; it’s a series of battles. And the more battles we lose, the more they win. And their wins mean they dig their claws in deeper, degrading our society like a cancer.”

  “You don’t have to lecture me on the dangers of illicit drugs. I get it.”

  “Do you? I’ve lived and breathed this every day for the past twenty-eight years. I’ve seen stuff you don’t even want to know about. Ice chests full of severed heads. Burned bodies left on a playground so kids would find them in the morning when they came to play and know, at a young age, that you don’t mess around with the cartels. This stuff is making its way from Mexico into our communities.”

  “I’ve seen bad shit, too,” Vail said. “Probably a lot worse than what you’ve seen. But this isn’t a pissing contest, Guy. I just want Robby back alive. He’s a federal agent, a member of your team. We owe him.”

  “DEA is family to me. I get what you’re saying. I do.”

  “Then I don’t see any reason why we can’t accomplish both goals—protecting Velocity and finding Robby. Do you?”

  Turino sighed, then pointed at one of the San Diego police officers. “Pack that shit up and get it out of here. We’re running out of time. Five minutes, I wanna be outta here!” He pulled his BlackBerry and, while thumbing the joystick, he said to Vail, “You’re right, okay? We’re on the same team. We’ll do everything we can to get Hernandez back. Now let me do my thing so we don’t screw this up.”

  Vail watched as Turino grabbed a duffel and slung it across his shoulder. She unfolded Robby’s leather jacket and slipped it on. It was ridiculously large on her, but she didn’t care. She walked outside, rolled up the sleeves, then sat down on the curb and drew the front closed.

  74

  Hector DeSantos, having run incursions not unlike this one, took the strategic lead. While Mann drove, he pored over the regional map in consultation with his contacts, who knew tribal commissions and the best way to approach them.

  His phone rang as they were nearing the turnoff for the reservation. It was Jack Jordan.

  “Your team’s headed to Clover Creek, right?”

  “That’s affirmative. We’re a few minutes out.”

  “Got some good news. That photo Agent Vail dropped off earlier. We got a hit on the two guys in it. The one to the right of Carlos Cortez is Ernesto ‘Grunge’ Escobar and the one to his left is Arturo Figueroa.”

  “You’ll have to help me out, Jack. This is your sandbox, not mine.”

  “There aren’t many guys Cortez lets into his inner circle, but these two made the grade. Escobar is a mean SOB known for torture and brutal murder. Figueroa is a low level confidant of Cortez, someone he trusts enough to oversee some key U.S. drug distribution agreements. Figueroa’s the one that caught our attention.”

  “Go on,” DeSantos said as he peered out the window, keeping an eye on where Mann was headed.

  “NTF has had a wiretap on his cell and we know he’s arranged to pick up a particularly large load of coke, and we think it’s going down in the next two days. There’s only one problem.”

  “You have no idea where.”

  “Exactly.”

  DeSantos glanced at the GPS, which showed they were headed into vast swaths of undeveloped land. If his calculations were correct, the entrance to Clover Creek wasn’t far down the road. “Get to the point, Jack. We’re running out of time.”

  “Right. So here’s the thing: Figueroa’s last cell signal triangulated somewhere near Escondido an hour ago.”

  “We’re near Escondido.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “So you think Figueroa is personally overseeing this pickup and it’s possible the handoff is going to happen tonight, on the reservation.”

  “Combined with that photo you guys gave us, which was supposedly taken on the rez, yeah, we’re putting two and two together again. And if you’re looking for someone close to Cortez as a bridge to Roberto Hernandez—”

  “Got it, Jack. Thanks. I’ll keep you posted. If you pick up any further transmissions, let me know. If this thing’s going down here, and tonight, we’re on-site and ready to act.”

  “I’m counting on it. We’ve got a team of agents on their way, just in case.”

  DeSantos ended the call and infor
med Dixon and Mann what the narcotics task force had discovered.

  “I have a good feeling about this,” Dixon said.

  “If we can turn good feelings into reliable intel,” DeSantos said, “that’s the kind of thing that’ll get me excited.”

  They arrived at the Clover Creek reservation moments later. After traversing an ancient paved road that needed a seal coat two decades ago and a repaving some time after that, they arrived at a used brick building with a flag mounted atop a white pole. The whipping material, spot lit from below, depicted the logo of the Clover Creek tribe: a maroon clover leaf with a blue body of water flowing through its center.

  They parked and DeSantos entered the structure alone, preferring a low-profile approach. Several federal agents marching into the police station might send the wrong message. DeSantos badged the support personnel and was led to the office of the police chief, whose nameplate read, “H. ‘Sky’ Thomson.”

  Thomson was seated behind a bare metal desk, papers pinned to a cork board that covered half the wall to his left. The room was large and vacant save for the chief’s furniture and a lone guest chair. DeSantos shook the man’s hand and explained that he was working on a DEA task force looking for an officer who had been kidnapped by a cartel they had reason to believe was operating off the reservation.

  Thomson nodded silently, his hands perched in a triangle in front of his mouth. He motioned DeSantos to the empty chair. “We’ve been battling the illicit drug trade for many years. Worse now than I have ever seen it. But I assume you know that.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Problem is, we’ve got 40 percent unemployment. We have a little casino, but there are so many tribes in the area with big, fancy gambling operations that we’re small fish. So the tribal commission does what it can with what we have. Which isn’t much. Our people need money, and the drug traffickers have plenty of it. Carlos Cortez, his people run a lot of their coke and high-potency marijuana through here. And from their point of view, it makes sense. They transport the contraband across the border, then up here on the 805. They store the drugs in any number of houses on the reservation until one of their lieutenants and a crew come by to pick it up. Then they’ve got a straight shot up the 5 to LA, the 15 to Las Vegas, or the 40 to points east. In any one of these directions, they’re headed to cities where they’ve set up shop to distribute and sell it.”