by Marc Rainer
"Oh, God! I give up." Lynn sank back in her chair, shaking her head.
"I can do the rehab at home, babe. Low weights and low reps at first, build the shoulder back up gradually," Trask said. "Piece of cake."
"The man who feels no pain," Wisniewski quipped.
"Not true. Paper cut my fingers and I'll cry like a girl," Trask replied.
"I heard that," Lynn said from down behind her wall.
"It's just the upper torso where I don't feel much," Trask said. "I'm sure it'll come in real handy in our next bar fight."
"Anyway, welcome back," Carter said. "Enjoy the break?"
"Actually, I did." Trask walked into Lynn's cubicle and rubbed her shoulders. "I got to see what Lynn's been looking forward to in her retirement. Lots of time with three lovin' puppies who think I'm a superhero, as long as I give 'em a treat at least once an hour."
"I think Boo gained five pounds this past week," Lynn said, shaking her head again.
Trask patted her shoulders, then headed for Doroz' office. The squad supervisor was just hanging up the phone on his desk.
"Anything happen in my absence?" Trask asked.
"Nothing until just now. And that's not a good thing. As I'm sure you know, Lynn and Randi have both been taking shots at the video feed from the racquet club, and we haven't seen any vehicles that fit the pattern we saw from the truck before it blew up."
"So I heard. I asked my guy in Mexico to see what he could find out, but his source within the Zetas isn't that highly placed yet. No news for now. They could just be using different load cars."
"Or they could have shut down for a while to let things cool off. I was prepared to have that argument with you again about tabling the case until I got that phone call—the one I hung up just now. It was Kathy Davis at the medical examiner's office. We have another dead hooker. Heroin overdose. China White. They're still rolling."
Waldorf, Maryland
6:15 p.m.
"From the looks of that, I guess my diagnosis was wrong." Willie Sivella nodded toward the sling on Trask's left arm. The bartender handed Trask the frosted mug of beer.
"Only about the hand, Willie. I think everything else you said was spot on."
Sivella nodded. "Glad to hear it, and glad you feel that way. So your pitchers are following your signals again?"
"I'm talking more with them about what signals to put down. The communication's good all around. I think my ace just needed a day off from the rotation."
Sivella laughed. "Bear can get cranky from time to time, can't he?"
"That he can."
"So who'd you find to take his start?"
"A new ace, if he's not careful. Nobody you know, for once. I found him in the Mexican league."
San José de Lourdes community
Fresnillo, Zacatecas, Mexico
June 30, 2011, 9:19 p.m.
"The bait is out, Lazca." Ramón Dominguez put his boots up on the desk in what was supposed to be the police station for the community. He shifted the cell phone to his other ear. "No, believe it or not, you are the bait, and you aren’t even here! We hung a narcomanta from a pole on the main street next to the body of one of the cops who tried to interfere. It said that you—El Lazca—were taking an interest in removing the Federation sympathizers from Zacatecas. Anyone reading it would think that you are personally supervising things in Fresnillo. I don’t think Aguilar will be able to resist it. Comandante Ardila and I have arranged a nice welcoming party for them when they arrive. I expect that they’ll be here first thing in the morning. They like to strike at dawn, when they think we are asleep. I’ll keep you posted."
Domínguez clicked off the phone and grinned at the other man in the room. "Well, Comandante, let's see how well the men you command have been trained."
"You'll find them in position. I instructed them to get some sleep, but there is a sentry on watch on both sides of our choke point. They are all to be awake before daybreak. We will have something to celebrate tomorrow."
Tampico Naval Air Station
Tamaulipas, Mexico
June 30, 2011, 10:41 p.m.
The helicopters lifted off and headed west, bound for the central highlands.
"The reports place Lazcano here, Major." Torres pointed to the map spread across his lap, the light mounted on his helmet illuminating the grid. "It's a little settlement northwest of the crossroads at Fresnillo. A place called San José de Lourdes. A small town of about five thousand people."
Aguilar studied the map. "There's an army installation in Fresnillo. Radio ahead and tell them we'd like to borrow some armored personnel carriers. We'll land at the post and go in from there. Tell the commander I'd like to see him when we land."
"We're going to use APCs instead of our usual operations plan, sir?"
"This doesn't smell right, Torres. Lazcano has used narcomanias before, but only after a significant victory, with lots of his enemies' bodies strewn all over the place. You say there was a single policeman hanging by this sign?"
"That is what was reported."
"I don't like it." He flicked a radio button, activating a communication channel to all the marines on the choppers. "This is Aguilar, gentlemen. We will hit the enemy at dawn, as usual, while he is wiping the sleep from his eyes. We will be using armored transports, however. If we experience crossfire, if we are the targets of an ambush, remember your training. It may be natural to steer or run away from a gun firing at you. You will live longer if you attack the points of fire. You can return fire at an enemy if you face him. You are marines, and you will prevail. If you show your enemy your backs, he will be firing and you will not. Follow your officers. Follow me. We will split our forces and attack. I know you will all make Mexico proud. You always have. Aguilar out." It is a major risk, bui if Lazcano is there, it is worth it.
San José de Lourdes community
Fresnillo, Zacatecas, Mexico
July 1, 2011, 6:03 a.m.
The marines walked in two rows, one on each side of the street. The APCs rolled alongside of them, rumbling slowly through the dark. Each time a door was forced open, the transport beside the column would stop and wait to see if the latest structure housed a Zeta barracks, the gunners on the outside of the vehicles at the ready to offer fire support to the exposed marines.
As the company neared the center of the block, muzzle bursts from automatic weapons in buildings on each side of the road lit the pre-dawn darkness. The marines closest to the buildings dropped down to prone firing positions for seconds, just long enough for the gunners in the transports to return fire with their heavier caliber machine guns. After the return fire had shredded the ambush points, the marines were back on their feet, charging into the Zeta positions. The initial firefight lasted only moments.
Aguilar's radio squawked inside one of the transports. "Yes, Torres?"
"We're under heavy fire on this end, Major. The Zetas have blocked the streets behind us. They pulled trucks into the streets on either side of us. We are holding our own for now, but—"
"We're on our way." Aguilar pushed one button, then another. "We could use your reserves on the west side of town now, sir," he told the army colonel.
Five hours later, the last of the firing stopped.
"How are your men, Torres?" Aguilar asked.
"I have five disabled, Major. Mostly light wounds. One man took a knife in the leg. He bled a lot, but none of the wounded are in danger. How did you do?"
"One wounded," Aguilar said. "Not serious." He looked toward the side of the street. Some marines, assisted by men of the Mexican army who had joined them in the fight, were lining up bodies along the road.
"Fifteen enemy dead, and seventeen captured, Major," Torres reported.
"Lazcano?"
"No, sir. The prisoners who talked told us he was never here. They did say that Lazcano's number two, the one they call El Ratón, was setting the ambush up last night. We have not found him. We did get one of the local big fish, however.
Not Heriberto Lazcano, but Heriberto Centeno Madrid. The Zetas called him Comandante Ardila"
"Has he been interrogated?"
"That would be difficult, sir. He has very little brain matter left. A round took off the back of his skull."
"I see. What have we seized from them?"
"The usual homemade assault vehicles. We have one Toyota FJ cruiser with some impressive welding work on it—lots of steel plates—and another truck with a turret on top. A couple of dozen AK 47s and several thousand rounds of ammo. The army is taking control of the prisoners."
"Good. Let's go home, Torres." Aguilar looked around the street. The haze of the gunpowder was disappearing, and his marines were ushering their prisoners toward waiting trucks. I love these men, he thought. I love them.
Tampico Naval Air Station
Tamaulipas, Mexico
11:48 p.m.
Aguilar answered the cell phone when it rang on his night stand.
"Thank you, my friend. You saved lots of good marines today."
"Glad I could help, for once, Major."
"So they trust you more now?" Aguilar asked.
"Much more. I am on El Ratón's staff now; not highly placed yet, but more trusted, and with a better vantage point."
"Excellent."
"How did you let the men know, Major?"
"Relax, my friend. I never mentioned you, or even the fact that I had warning. They all think I am a military genius."
"I think you are, sir."
"No, my friend. Just fortunate to have good men beside me, and men like you looking out for me. Stay safe."
"Good night, Major."
Washington, D.C.
11:58 p.m.
"It's almost midnight, Tim. Are you coming to bed?" Randi asked.
Wisniewski clicked the television off with the remote and put his arm across her shoulders as they walked back toward the bedroom.
"I can't stop thinking about poor Sam, and I need to be with you. I'm glad you can stay with me. I can't spend too much time at your place in Bethesda. I have the residency requirement, you know. Still a rookie, have to reside in DC."
"Yeah; been there, done that. You know your bed's too little for the both of us; I'm not getting any sleep in that bassinet."
"Is it that big a problem?"
"Not if we conserve space."
"What?"
"The surface area of the bed is only big enough for one of us," he said. "It might work, however, if—"
"If what?"
He pulled the tee shirt up over her head and kissed her.
"If you just stay on top tonight."
FBI Field Office
Washington, D.C.
July 15, 2011, 9:00 a.m.
"Sorry, but I got nuthin'. I mean nada and zilch." Lynn shook her head as the squad staff meeting convened in the conference room. "I haven't seen the same vehicle twice in any pattern at the racquet club, and no Texas plates. I know we think the dope is still coming in, but I can't find anything that might tell us how."
"Ideas?" Doroz asked, looking around the table.
"Hmmph." Carter cleared his throat, but didn't say anything.
"Spill it, Dix," Doroz said. "I've known you long enough to know when those wheels of yours are turning."
"Ever since we struck out—or thought we did, since Jeff disagrees—with our janitor friend, we've been concentrating on the supply line into the club. We all agree that the truck that exploded was probably the load vehicle. That all fits, and dovetails with what Jeff's sources in Mexico are telling him. If we aren't getting anything on the supply into the place, it might be time to take another look at what's coming out of the racquet club."
"What do you have in mind, Dix?" Trask asked.
"Before we take that road trip we had set up for out of town, let's try it at home. If we think our man Roscoe is part of the dope flow down to the hookers and other junkies, let’s watch him—carefully—and see what he’s up to. We’ll at least get a more complete picture than the occasional encounters that Hammer has with Briggs’ truck on the track."
"In the absence of any objection, and hearing none, the motion is seconded and passes," Doroz said.
"I don't remember voting," Wisniewski quipped.
"You didn't," Doroz said.
Randi Rhodes managed a smile.
"You're with me, Officer Rhodes," Carter said.
Tampico Naval Air Station
Tamaulipas, Mexico
4:15 p.m.
"I'm sorry to ruin your day, Major," Captain Torres said as he dropped the report on Aguilar's desk.
"I knew it had been too calm," Aguilar replied. "What is it?"
"There's been another mass escape from the federal prison in Nuevo Laredo. Sixty-six inmates escaped, including some of those Zetas we just captured in Zacatecas."
"Saddle up," Aguilar said. "Maybe when we find them this time, they won't surrender." He paused. "If they do, we'll take them back." He patted Torres on the shoulder. "Our rules of engagement. Make sure the men understand that."
"Yes, Major. I'll see you at the choppers."
Washington, D.C.
8:20 p.m.
"Briggs is coming out, Dix," Randi said, lowering the binoculars she'd had leveled on the racquet club. "He's got his tool box and the same duffle bag he carried in."
"About time," Carter said. "I was beginning to think he was going to spend the night in there."
"What if he was actually doing some janitor stuff?"
"What if he was? That doesn't eliminate the possibility that he's doing both that and muling some dope for Adipietro. When you take the detective's exam—either the one on paper, or more importantly, the one out here in the real world—don't treat any scenario as an either-or, zero-sum game. That's what our targets want us to do." He paused. "If Jeff Trask is right, that's the mistake that Barry Doroz and I made after our interrogation session with Mr. Briggs. We bought the cover and didn't stop to think that it might have been a cover."
Rhodes pulled the unmarked car into traffic behind the Metro Maintenance van, staying about four cars behind him in traffic. She was careful to make the lights without gunning the car through yellows.
"Thanks," she said to Carter.
"You're welcome. For what?"
"For not telling me how to do what I already know how to do. Sam used to do that. 'Stay back, don't get burned. Careful, not too close.'"
Carter chuckled. "He probably did that because I used to do that with him."
"You did?"
"We mellow with age. I'm sure he was mostly thinking out loud, almost talking to himself. That's why I did it. Then my new partner—Juan Ramirez—kept bringing it to my attention. He made me stop."
"How'd he do that?"
"He'd pour coffee in my lap. I learned not to do it pretty quickly."
The maintenance van pulled to the curb in front of a brownstone. Rhodes turned right at a cross street before reaching the van.
"I got the address," Carter said.
"How'd you see it? I turned before we got to the house. I was going to make the block."
"I know. I've been to that house before."
9:27 p.m.
The broker pulled the car with the DC plates out of the parking lot of the restaurant and headed for New York. He'd pick up the load car with the Missouri plates in the storage unit in Arlington, Virginia, on the return trip, parking the DC car in the unit until he returned with the next load. A car with DC plates raised no suspicion on the eastern seaboard, and a car with Missouri plates raised no eyebrows between Texas and the capital city. Missouri, unlike Texas, was not a source state for dope. It was, like most other states away from the border, a destination for the drugs. In DC, a Missouri driver was not a mule; he was a tourist, and so sometimes he'd use the Missouri car to drop the stuff with Adipietro; on other trips, he'd use the DC vehicle.
The Texas vehicle—the one the Zetas had given him loaded with the heroin—was parked in another storage facilit
y in Oklahoma. He would park the Missouri car there on the way home.
What he liked to think of as a new version of the Pony Express made him feel eminently more comfortable than he had felt during his first delivery trip. He shuttered remembering it. He'd been in a cold sweat that entire week, worried that some alert cop or highway patrolman would peg him as a mule in the clunky looking Chevy with plates from south Texas, and also worried that the pounds of heroin packed in the big cooler in the trunk were actually explosives, and that he'd meet the same fate as his former driver.
He'd considered throwing the cooler off a bridge somewhere, but had decided that he'd be better off making the money a while longer. A few more trips and he could replace the ranch in Laredo with a nice place in Europe, somewhere far out of reach of the Zetas. Just keep that bastard Ramón happy at all costs. I'm not having to pay a driver anymore, so the money's better. Enough to buy the ponies and the storage sheds, plus some.
The dope worried him, of course. He'd been to every underground page on the web looking for something new to mask the odors, petrified that a drug detection dog might alert on the cooler. Some recommended peppers, but he didn't want to have to explain to some state trooper why he had a load of cayenne powder or even jalapenos. The cops were already training their dogs to ignore the old standards—coffee grounds, fabric softeners, bleach, motor oil and grease—so he'd come up with his own system. The heroin was triple-wrapped, in plastic at the bottom of the cooler, and covered with layers of steaks, with the whole container filled with as much as ice as possible. If stopped, he'd just claim that his brother in some berg back up the road had gotten a helluva deal on the meat, and he was taking some home to his folks in some berg ahead on the road.