by Marc Rainer
"What are your orders, sir?"
"Sweep the town again. Arrest any Zetas you may have missed before—some may have been hiding—and disarm and arrest any of the worthless bastards who called themselves members of the local law enforcement. They could not have been unaware that this was happening for days. They either took bribes or hid themselves like cowards and allowed this catastrophe to occur. I am recommending to headquarters that we establish a permanent base here with several hundred troops. It is the only way we can prevent this from happening a third time."
Washington, D.C.
April 29, 2011, 5:51 p.m.
Detective Timothy Wisniewski sat at the corner of the bar of the Fraternal Order of Police. He had chosen the corner stool because it gave him a view of the front door.
"Another beer?" The girl behind the bar asked him.
"One more."
"Waitin' on someone?" She put another cold mug under the tap.
"No. Just killin' time. Winding the week down."
"Right," she said skeptically. "Wanna order anything?"
"Sure. It'll help soak up the beer before I hit the road. What's good tonight?"
"Special's the chicken parm. Pretty good, actually."
"That'll work."
He picked up the beer and sucked off a little of the head. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and stared—far too long—into the very pretty face of Officer Randi Rhodes. She was in her patrol uniform, but he didn't notice.
"Don't I know you from somewhere?" she asked.
"Could be," he finally said. "Where's your partner?"
"Day off." She slipped onto the stool beside him. "I hear you've been waiting for me."
"Who told you that?"
"Your partner."
"Not after today," Wisniewski said. "He's got a lot of nerve pulling that stunt."
"Well, have you been waiting for me?"
"Would it be okay with you if I had?"
"Might be."
"That's pretty vague."
"So were you—'would it be okay with you if I had'—he said."
"Okay, you got me. Yes."
"That's better. I hate games. Yes, it would be okay if you had been waiting for me, but it would have been better if you'd called me instead of Detective Carter."
He nodded. "I completely agree."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Have you been waiting for my call?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Would it be okay with you if I had?" she giggled.
He smiled. "Let's get a table."
A second order of chicken parmesan and an additional mug of beer later, she leaned back in her chair.
"I have a confession to make," she said.
"Okay. I'll brace myself."
"Carter didn't call just to hook us up. He called for Sam, but like I said, it's his day off. Carter said that the FBI surveillance team had too many irons in the fire to fully staff some kind of road trip you guys were setting up. He said he was asking our brass to detail us to your FBI squad for a month or so, since we were the ones who first saw this truck you're so interested in. I actually asked Carter if you were seeing anyone, and he told me you were seeing a lot of this place."
Wisniewski felt himself frowning.
"Did I say something wrong?" she asked.
"Not at all. I've just always made it a personal policy not to date any co-workers. If you're going to be working with us—"
"Then that's something we'll have to discuss and get by, or we'll discuss it and just keep things professional. Agreed?"
"Agreed," he nodded.
"I really enjoyed dinner. You have wheels?"
"A block down—at the Bureau garage."
"I live up toward Bethesda. Took the Metro here. Want to give me a lift?"
"Sure."
She lived in a modest townhome just inside the District line with Maryland, complying with the residency requirements for new cops on the force. He pulled to the curb, and walked around the car to open the door for her.
"Oh, a gentleman to boot," she said.
"It's how my mama raised, me ma'am," he said putting on his best western drawl.
"That is appreciated. Shall we have our discussion now or later?"
"We can talk it over now if you like."
He followed her up the stairs to the door, totally absorbed in her shape and in the way that that shape moved. Inside, she had him sit on a sofa.
"Another beer?"
"Better not. I had one before you got there, and I'm driving."
"Coffee?"
"Sure. Thanks."
"I'm gonna lose the uniform and the hardware first. Be back in just a sec."
He picked up a catalogue lying on the coffee table and saw that it was for all varieties of police tactical gear and clothing. He thumbed through it until he became aware that she was standing in the door to the hallway, smiling at him. She wasn't wearing a stitch.
"Still want to discuss something?" she asked.
He stood and walked toward her. He didn't say a word.
Tampico Naval Air Station
Tamaulipas, Mexico
May 9, 2011, 7:41 a.m.
"The numbers are in, Major." Torres handed Aguilar the report.
"Casualty totals for April. Fourteen hundred dead. The worst month since our war began." Aguilar nodded. "I suspected we'd get news like this after the San Fernando thing. Anything else?"
"Headquarters called. They've agreed with your suggestion. We are to start disarming all police forces in Tamaulipas, beginning with Matamoros, Reynosa, and San Fernando, if any of the cops there have any weapons remaining, of course."
Aguilar nodded. "About time."
Washington, D.C.
May 12, 2011, 4:17 p.m.
"I'd like to first introduce everybody," Doroz said, standing at the head of the squad conference table. "Some of you have already met. All of us from the squad know each other." He waved toward the left of the table. "Detectives Dixon Carter and Tim Wisniewski; Lynn, our analyst; and Jeff Trask, her husband and our AUSA. We also have two teams from our surveillance squad." He motioned to four agents along the right side of the table. "George Hurst, Frank Woodley—he goes by "FB"—Margie Camp and Bobby Thames. We also have Officers Sam McInnis and his partner Randi Rhodes as on-demand TFOs from the Police Department. They've actually seen our target vehicle."
Doroz flashed a photo of the truck on the screen at the end of the room. It was the one Trask had frozen on his computer. The front of the racquet club was behind the truck.
"Ton-and-a-half, light-colored cab, probably driven by a short white male, late forties," Doroz continued. "The only time anyone's seen the guy—those folks being Sam and Randi—he was driving alone. He'll probably have some boxes in the bed, some sort of cover load, but we believe his main cargo will be several kilos of heroin. China White, to be more specific.
"Our plan is a simple one. Be ready to roll when we call you. Bags packed for a short-notice road rally. When and if we see the truck at that same racquet club, we scramble. Standard surveillance protocol for multiple vehicles and long distance. We should be able to put six or seven sets of wheels behind this guy, and we'll rotate cars behind him and eyes on him 'til we see where he goes after he makes the first drop."
"Why not just get a search warrant for the racquet club after he makes that first drop?" Hurst asked.
"I'll take that, Bear," Trask said. "It's a good question, George. The answer is that we're in a completely unique situation here. We're operating on our best information—tips from far outside sources—but we have no history of reliability for those sources, no confirmation from anyone we could call into a Grand Jury or before a judge. In short, we have no probable cause to ask for a warrant."
"That's weird," Hurst said. "Who the hell are your sources?"
"I don't know," Trask said. "They're in Mexico. I know that's weird, but I think they're accurate, and it's all we have to go on."
Hurst rolled his
eyes. "Okaaay, then."
"I have a question." Randi Rhodes half-raised her hand.
Trask saw that all the three male surveillance agents appeared to be very interested in the coming question, but that Wisniewski was trying hard not to be. I wonder how long Tim and Randi are going to try and hide this.
"Sure." Doroz said. "What?"
"Since Sam and I will still be on patrol out west, where we first saw this guy, what do we do if we spot him again—you know—coming into town before he makes it to the racquet club?"
Doroz thought for a moment. "Since you and Sam are only going to be coming with us if this materializes, and since you'll be in uniform and in a marked unit, call me if you see him, and hang back. Don't get burned or make him hinky at all. We'll put somebody else on him as he approaches and then leaves the club, and you guys can scramble back to your district for a change of clothes. We'll pick you up and bring you back here for one of our unmarked vehicles, and then you can catch up and join the parade. We'll have a radio in the car tuned to our frequency. Your call—if you're able to make it—will actually give us a few more minutes of lead time."
"Got it," McInnis said. He nodded approvingly toward his partner.
"Where are we going with this guy, or did your unknown Mexican sources give you that?" Hurst asked, looking at Trask.
"Probably New York." Trask answered. "More specifically, Long Island. Let's give this a shot, George. We've got reason to believe it may be a break in several overdose cases."
"Okay," Hurst shrugged. "Beats a traffic jam on the beltway."
9:40 p.m.
"So what was that little act of yours at the meeting today?" she asked him, rising up in the bed on an elbow.
"Act?" Wisniewski frowned as he flicked the hair from her eyes, caressing her face.
"Don't play dumb, now." Randi smirked at him. "That could get you an evening alone, and neither one of us would like that after the past week. You acted like you didn't know me, and never wanted to."
"I was just trying not to alienate your partner. He's already marked me as a threat of some kind. It's one of the dynamics I worried about when we started seeing each other. If we're on the same squad for any length of time I don't want it to be a complication."
"Sam? He's got no reason to be jealous. He's just my partner, my big brother in blue. Plus, he's o-o-old."
"Listen to me, Randi. My mom used to tell me that she could tell when some girls in school or in the neighborhood were on the hunt for me. I thought she was full of it, until her predictions proved to be true more than once. I think females read other females better on things like this. They know who's on the prowl when we dumb guys don't have a clue. I also think it works the same for men sometimes. We can sure read other guys more easily than we can women. I think Sam would like to be more than your partner, whether you can see that or not. I was trying to keep the water smooth."
"Great. That doesn’t complicate a squad, it complicates my patrol car, and my relationship with my training officer. If you’re right, anyway. I’m still not convinced."
"I hope I'm wrong, but I don't think so."
She leaned over and kissed him. "Tell me about the rest of the crew so I don't step on any toes."
"Okay. Who first?"
"Let's start at the top of the squad."
"Supervisory Special Agent Barry Doroz. Veteran of several mega-cases. International drug trafficking and smuggling, the Oklahoma City bombing, white slave trade, you name it, he's seen and done it all. Good man. Doesn't look down on us poor little local cops just because he's a fed. He works really well with Jeff Trask. They're a hard team to beat. I wouldn't want to be on the other side."
"Your other partner." She kissed him again. "You know, the work one."
"Dix? You know about him from all the old-timers on the force. Best detective in the metro. Works off-policy when he has to and usually gets away with it. He's got instincts I'll never have. He's still getting over the death of his old partner a couple of years back. Juan Ramirez. Good guy. I was around them both for a little while. Helluva team. Juan got surprised and suffocated by a Jamaican named Reid. Dix blames himself to this day, even though he shouldn't."
"What happened to Reid?"
"He took himself out. Jeff Trask worked with some Mounties to catch him up in Canada, got him into trial and shredded the shrink who was trying to get Reid off on an insanity defense. Reid saw he was about to go down hard and rushed Jeff in the courtroom. Jeff ducked and Reid cracked his head on the judge's bench. He died in the courtroom."
"I remember hearing about that now. Is Jeff that good?"
"He's scary. Never forgets anything. He's probably a better detective than anybody on the squad besides Dix, and he can wear three hats in the courtroom at the same time."
"Three hats?"
"One, the cop who can question anybody on the stand like he was getting a confession out of 'em in an interrogation room. Two, the attorney who's checking all the squares on the elements of the offense he has to prove, and getting the jury to agree with him. Three, doing it all by the book so that it's bulletproof on appeal."
"How'd you hook up with those three, then?"
"I worked with Jeff for a while in the US Attorney's office—"
"As an investigator?"
"As a prosecutor."
"You have a law degree?"
"I have the degree; I had the license."
"What happened?"
"A little dispute with my friendly bar association back in New Mexico. They didn't like that I was trying to use my position as a prosecutor to follow Supreme Court precedent and put bad guys in jail. They said I violated the rule against contact with a represented party when that party—a defendant—contacted me and said he didn't want his attorney representing him anymore 'cause he didn't trust him. The kid was right not to trust him. The mouthpiece was a total scumbag who just wanted the kid to keep his mouth shut so he wouldn't implicate the bigger bad guy who was paying the lawyer."
"So you were a lawyer."
"I know. I'm not proud of it."
She poked him. "I think that's impressive. So what's your role on the squad now?"
"I'm the muscle." He flexed a bicep. "See?"
She laughed and squeezed it. "OOOh yes, I can tell."
"Dixon Carter needed another partner. He's the best there is, but needed somebody to watch his back. I lucked out and drew the job."
"Trask seems to be lugging a little baggage of his own."
Wisniewski looked at her and shook his head. "Beauty and brains. Incredible. Very perceptive, actually. Jeff's mentor and close friend in the office, Bob Lassiter, was gunned down by a hit man Reid hired in case the trial didn't go his way. Lassiter was on the courthouse steps, stepping to the podium for a posttrial presser after Reid went down in the courtroom. He took a sniper round to the heart. His name is right under Juan Ramirez' on the memorial wall in Judiciary Square."
"God. I didn't know I was joining a combat unit. What happened to the sniper?"
Wisniewski paused. "He took two rounds to the head. Lynn Trask fired one, I fired the other one."
"Jesusl" She sat up in amazement, the sheets falling off her breasts. "Sweet little Lynn? You're kidding?"
He pulled her back down, and pulled the covers up to her shoulders. "If you want me to talk, you've got to cover those things up. Men are visual creatures, don't ya know." He caught his breath. "Don't let her fool you. That lady is as lethal as they come. She retired as a Special Agent for Air Force OSI—it's their version of the FBI. She was an undercover narc and used to do long-term operations, going under for months at a time. When she came up for air, people went to military prisons. She's a helluva shot, too. Some paramilitary types from El Salvador broke into their house in Waldorf a few months back and tried to take Jeff out. She killed 'em both. Head shots. Now she analyzes stuff. Nice and peaceful work, if the bad guys are smart enough to leave her alone."
"And what am I supposed to do whil
e I'm attached to this unit?"
He rolled toward her and looked into her eyes. "Watch a truck."
Nuevo Laredo, Tamaulipas, Mexico
May 17, 2011, 5:38 p.m.
"Was your mission successful, Ramón?" Lazcano looked up when he saw Domínguez standing in the doorway.
"Of course. Just some stupid farmers who were objecting to our using their property as a staging facility. The site was optimal—good barns and right off the road—in Guatemala just south of the border. We needed it to protect our supply lines. I left a few men to garrison the place."
"How many of the farmers opposed us?"
"Only a few. A couple of dozen, perhaps. They had tried to band together. A few had even managed to find guns. Now they are missing their heads."
"Excellent," Lazcano laughed. "Any casualties?"
"None of our men had a scratch. The Guatemalans were amateurs."
"Good. We'll need as many men here as we can muster. Guzmán is trying to move in on Nuevo Laredo again. We've set some traps for him."
"Speaking of traps, I've been thinking about that problem you mentioned. You know, the Americans sending guns to our enemies and their agents to our capital. I think I may have a way to take care of two problems at once."
"What are you thinking, Ramón?"
"We hit their capital. We already have the explosives, and the delivery system."
Nuevo Laredo, Tamaulipas, Mexico
May 21, 2011, 3:26 p.m.
Major Luis Aguilar walked down the center of the street, surveying the damage. More burned-out buildings, broken windows everywhere, chipped bricks and mortar from bullet impacts. I can't blame the police this time. We're the police now.
"You shouldn't be this exposed, sir," Torres said as he approached.