by Alan Lee
Manny didn’t break stride, nor even remove his left hand from his trouser pocket.
“Adios, mijito,” he said.
How far would a .22 slug penetrate from the esophagus? Into the brain, it appeared. Would Julio die? Or merely suffer permanent and debilitating brain damage? He didn’t care, one way or another.
Sometimes warnings simply didn’t work.
A minute later, Hubert’s security detail politely returned his shoes, belt, phone, and firearms.
17
“Sinatra, thank God,” said Beck.
Manny drove away from the house, talking on speaker. “Are you allowed to say that?”
“Of course. I’m speaking literally. Are you injured?”
“I’m fine. An EMP broke the mic. Where are you?”
“A hotel in Gate City.”
“Qué susto! Gate City’s over an hour away.”
“It’s the closest I could find. I waited until two in the morning before driving here,” she said. “I assumed you died.”
No complaint about her hotel selection was appropriate, he supposed. Especially recalling what he’d been doing late the previous evening.
“I’m sure my car is bugged. Go back to sleep. I’ll get a room and meet you later today. Our target isn’t going anywhere. Yet.”
“You found her, then.”
“She’s there,” he said.
Though he still didn’t know why. Or how to arrest her.
Or if he even could force himself to.
At noon, he and Beck sat in his Camaro wearing Bluetooth ear pieces connected to his phone. Across the street, a 7-Eleven sign buzzed noisily and locals bought cheap snacks.
JFIC’s director, Special Agent Weaver, spoke directly into their ears. “This line is encrypted but his hardware might be compromised.”
“It was,” said Manny. “Beck discovered two bugs, removed both, updated the SIM card, and swapped out circuitry.”
Beck didn’t bother to correct his cybersecurity jargon. “Close enough. I also removed a magnetic GPS tracking device from his car.”
“Give me the short version, Sinatra.”
“She’s there. El Gato.”
“Bingo. What’s she doing?”
“She wouldn’t say. She no longer traffics narcotics, preferring to topple governments instead. From context clues, I think another country is on her agenda.”
“You had no chance at extraction?”
“None.”
“Figured. We didn’t expect you to storm the castle and shoot your way out. What’d she want?”
“To reconnect. She wants me to leave with her. To be a hired hitman, essentially. And to share her bed.”
Weaver released a vexed sigh. “JFIC’s newest agent, the paramour of an international terrorist.”
Manny made a shrugging motion. “Can’t blame the poor girl.”
Beck rolled her eyes.
Weaver asked, “That’s the only reason she’s here?”
“No. There’s something else. I’m still working on it.”
“Your impression of the Palace?”
“It’s better than you know. Guests sleep deep underground. Bunker-buster missiles would do the trick.”
“On American soil? No chance.”
“The security team is large, maybe twenty-five,” he said and Weaver made a surprised noise. “All ex-military. Plus El Gato’s personal detail. Impressive arsenal. The house hides choppers and a fleet of SUVs. They gave me glimpses only. But I saw infrared cameras, motion sensors, rocket launchers, barricades, reinforced walls and windows.”
She whistled. “They intentionally let you see? A warning, then.”
“Probably. You’d need Kentucky’s National Guard to knock it down.”
Weaver said, “And they know we don’t want that political nightmare. Type up an FD-302 and make recommendations. I need to touch base with our board of supervisors. Catching her would be a serious feather in the cap.”
He didn’t respond. He gazed at the 7-Eleven sign and the picture went fuzzy. Little Catalina, drinking a Coke. Crying on the airplane. Locked behind bars, a feather in the cap of the DEA.
Weaver said, “It’s Tuesday, Sinatra. That private jet leaves Saturday morning from Roanoke Airport. I need your report tonight.”
18
“The mind does strange things alone at one in the morning,” said Beck.
They sat at a private table at the town’s only true bar. Fake paneling on the walls, a television turned to ESPN and the other to Fox News, pictures of local high school football on the walls. The bartender, a gorilla of a man with heavy forearms, judged them foreign and suspicious.
Beck drank a Sprite. Nothing with alcohol or caffeine.
Manny sipped his whiskey sour, which was bad, and stewed. His laptop sat open on the table, glaring at him. Typing up his report clarified one major fact—he’d botched the job. No way around it. He’d lost his logic at the sight of her. The Julios and the Nicoláses and the Diegos and the Milos of the world didn’t cause him worry. Nor did the Marshal Warrens or the Director Douglases or the Special Agent Weavers. Not even high ranking mobsters, like the District Kings. But one look at Catalina García…
He should have attempted extraction in the middle of the night. Drugged her, carried her out, maybe. But that was worse than wishful thinking. Worse than revisionist history. Any attempt would’ve resulted in disaster.
Weaver had expressed no disappointment in his performance, but only because she hadn’t been watching his evening. He demanded better of himself.
He asked himself for the hundredth time, what should he have done differently?
Kept his pants on, for one.
Beck was speaking, her cheeks pink with passion. “I’m not a field operative. I left the Air Force for a reason. Hidden off the highway, alone, listening to thousands of animals in the dark forest, assuming you’d been shot. I started thinking about the nature of JFIC and our assignment. And…it’s asinine, sending two operatives alone to a place like that, full of known criminals.”
Manny nodded. It was an unusual and dangerous way to catch a fugitive. And yet, he loved it. He felt alive and free, away from rules and supervision. Even if he hadn’t succeeded. Yet.
She continued, “You died. In my head, you were dead. And JFIC wouldn’t tell anyone how or why, and I’d be transferred, and that would be that.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s outrageous. I’m in cyber security. I don’t know why I agreed.”
“We’re doing good, Beck. Protecting the realm. Making the world a better place.”
“I don’t doubt the impetus, I doubt the methods.”
“But we’re having fun. Doesn’t that count?”
“It does not.”
He turned his eyes back to his screen.
The size of the hospitality staff and security force suggests the APOG is part of a larger structure. A ‘franchise,’ for lack of a better term, because it’s too well organized and thorough to be the brainchild of one individual. The array of munitions alone indicates contacts within the military…
He scrolled down.
…recommend we prepare for a large security detail escorting El Gato to Roanoke’s airport. (If indeed she utilizes the plane reserved by APOG) Evidence suggests she and her team will not surrender without using force to resist. Although she admitted she knows our agencies track her, she indicated we would not be able to apprehend her. Possibly due…
He leaned back and laced fingers across his abdomen. Glaring details were omitted from his FD-302. Such as, why was she here? And where was she going next?
Beck rested her chin in her palm and scowled at her laptop. Tapped a few keys. “I’m finding nothing. I’m mining databases and news articles for El Gato and Catalina García, focusing on Brazil and Honduras and banana crops, and…zip. Even with my security clearance. It’s like the woman didn’t exist for the past four years.”
“Her husband died. Assassination.
Approximately three years ago. A well-connected drug lord in Honduras, I assume. If we find him, we’ll unearth her Honduran alias.”
She nodded and her finger flew across the keys. “Worth a shot.”
They drank in silence for ten minutes.
Eventually she asked, “Is it possible she’s telling the truth? She’s only here for you?”
“No. There’s another reason.”
“What’s she like?”
Manny released a blast of air at the ceiling. “She’s passionate. Driven. Hedonistic. Perhaps a little sadistic. Her father made a lot of money, so she’s spoiled. But she’s sentimental. Loyal to her family. Affectionate.”
“Affectionate?”
Manny nodded. Drank some whiskey sour. Should’ve ordered a beer. He said, “Your little gun worked, by the way.”
“The Chapstick tube?”
“One of her cousins got handsy. And maybe I behaved poorly and embarrassed him. It was me or him, and they’d taken my guns. So…”
Her eyebrows rose. “You killed him. Close range?”
He nodded. “It’s quiet. Burnt my fingers.”
“I’ll put that in the files. I’m not sure if its ever been fired in the field.”
“Fields,” said Manny, irritated and changing the subject. “There’s nothing near the Appalachian Palace except forests and fields. What the hell is she doing here? Why here? Why this place? Other than me.”
“Maybe there’s something about this particular area? Something we don’t know.” Beck opened Google Maps and zoomed in.
“There’s nothing. Nada.”
Beck surfed the geographic region and scanned local newspapers and articles. “Very little. Could she be here for the coal mines?”
“Not her style. She’s into espionage and government secrets and blackmail.”
The screen’s light tinted her face blue. “Railroads?”
“No.”
“Whiskey? Tobacco?” she asked, scrolling through the region’s major employers. “Probably not. Maybe the prison at Big Stone Gap?”
“The prison?” Manny’s drink paused halfway to his mouth.
“Wallens Ridge State Prison. Seven hundred inmates. Forty miles from the Appalachian Palace.”
He set the drink down and drummed his fingers on the table. Interesting idea. But what would she want with the prison?
“Surely El Gato wouldn’t try a jailbreak,” she said.
“No. She doesn’t want attention and that would wake the whole state. Even if she did, her crew is too small. And the Palace would never get its hands that dirty.”
“Not much of value in a prison, anyway. What else—”
“Check for prisoners being released this week.”
She sucked at her teeth and worked. “How on earth do I do that?” The question was for herself, not him.
Manny took the whiskey back to the bar and said, “This is piss.”
The gorilla bartender eyed him coolly. “Too bad, no refunds.”
“I don’t want a refund. I want to pour this into your toxic waste bin.”
“Think you’re funny.”
“I do, but not the point. Get me a beer. American, in a bottle.”
“American? Sure you don’t mean margarita, José?”
“Cause I’m Latino? That why?”
The guy shrugged and crossed his arms. “Don’t care what the hell you call yourself, José.”
“José. I like that. I don’t look like one of your hunting buddies, my name must be José. What do I call you? You’re white, so maybe Hitler? Elvis? Justin Bieber?”
“Time for you to go, José. I ain’t serving your ass anymore.”
Manny threw his drink at the man, glass and all. A soft toss—the bartender caught it but got sloshed. When he looked up, dripping, Manny had his badge out.
“I want a beer, Hillbilly Elegy. You don’t speak English?”
“You’re a cop?”
“Federal marshal. Bout to impound your truck, too, if I feel like it. You got a truck? Of course you got a truck.” He reached over the bar and took a Budweiser out of the ice cooler. “I’ll pay for this later. Meantime, you learn to make a whiskey sour. Us Americans like them.”
The men held eyes. For Manny, who dealt death and stared it down since he was a boy, the conflict seemed natural and invigorating. Men such as him didn’t look away. Another moment and the bartender conceded, set the drink down, and fetched a rag to clean his face.
Manny went back to their table, feeling mean and twitchy.
Beck slid the computer around. “Two prisoners are scheduled to be released Thursday. One Friday. The last one caught my eye…”
The two prisoners on Thursday were both African Americans in their fifties and he dismissed them. The man being released on Friday was Hispanic. Named Fidel Arroyo.
“I recognize him,” said Manny. “Fidel.”
“How?”
“Not sure.” He reclined in his chair and drank some Budweiser. His beer palate had improved under the August household’s strict standards, and he judged it average at best. He drank more, determined to enjoy the classic American staple. He said, “Fidel Arroyo. Name doesn’t ring a bell, but the face…”
Beck brought up Fidel’s file. He was a powerful looking man. Strong neck, thick black hair. Stark cheekbones. “He’s a handsome guy. He’s in for breaking and entering, and assault. Plead guilty to get his sentence reduced. Out on good behavior six months early.”
“Fidel Arroyo. That’s not his name. I know this man.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, searching memory banks.
“Someone you locked up, maybe?”
He didn’t respond. It was possible.
She continued reading, “He was arrested in Washington D.C. No family, no history. Suspected stolen social security number. Maybe—”
Manny quit listening. The prisoner wasn’t from Washington. That face didn’t belong there. From L.A., maybe, his old life? Strange, Manny couldn’t remember the man’s voice. Just the face. Almost like he knew the guy, but they never met…
Manny’s eyes snapped open. He sat up. “He’s from California. That’s where I knew him. Los Angeles.”
“Who is he?”
“He is the reason El Gato is in America.” He drank from the bottle. Set it down with a solid thunk. “His real name is Rafael García. He’s Catalina’s older brother.”
19
“This plan is outrageous.”
“You say that a lot, Beck.” Manny paced, fists on hips. “But fortune favors the brave.”
“The bold.”
“Whatever, shut up. Rafael gets out Friday. Tomorrow is Wednesday. We need action. Also, sorry for saying shut up.”
She sat in the corner of the room, computer in her lap. She’d prefer to sit on the comfortable bed, but with another man in the room? With Manuel Martinez fuming mere feet from her? Absolutely not. Professional government agent or not, her mother would have a heart attack.
But, she supposed, this was superior to the previous night’s work station—cramped in her car and hoping her partner hadn’t been killed. At least in a hotel, even a dingy one, she didn’t have to pee in the dark with a flashlight. It wasn’t just that the plan was outrageous, but so too was everything else. On Monday she’d been securing servers and updating encryption technology on company phones, pleased with her career and not discontent with her personal life. Now she sat on thin carpet she was positive hadn’t been recently vacuumed, in a small town hours from her apartment, working with a man whose modus operandi bordered on reckless to put it mildly, chasing a dangerous fugitive on a mission the FBI and NSA would disavow, entirely alone…
The federal government’s predilection for avoiding humiliation could easily cost her life, and her superiors wouldn’t blink twice.
Plus, she was hungry. It was ten o’clock and they’d skipped dinner.
“This won’t work,” she said.
“Why not?”
�
�He’ll recognize you.”
“Rafael and I never met. Only occupied the same room a couple times. And I kept my head shaved then.”
On screen she had prisoner transfer paperwork displayed. It would take her an hour, and constitute a felony. Much depended on the strength of their Supremacy License.
She said, “Special Agent Weaver won’t approve of you going undercover inside a level five state prison. Rafael shouldn’t even be there, considering his sentencing. Another option, we can hold his release and interrogate him.”
“Dios mio, Beck, think about it. Rafael got picked up over a year ago, only the police didn’t realize who they had. They charged his alias Fidel Arroyo with minor crimes unaware they should be prosecuting Rafael García for major. That’s why he pled guilty instead of bringing the force of his family’s power into the courtroom—to avoid suspicion, to keep his alias intact, and to get out of jail quickly. So Catalina bided her time, waiting for Fidel Arroyo to be released, thinking they had the government fooled. If we delay his release she’ll realize we know that Fidel is really Rafael, her brother. She’ll vanish.”
“She will anyway.”
“Not till Saturday. This is still a game to her. At the moment she’s not a direct threat to America and she knows we don’t want a national incident. There’s a reason we don’t have the Palace surrounded with two hundred officers, sí? But if we hold her brother hostage it sends a signal that we mean business. And that is what JFIC is for, arresting high-profile fugitives covertly without the government having to get its hands dirty.”
“We need more help for this. Going undercover inside a state prison is a significant operation.”
Manny didn’t hear her. “She’s hiding something, Beck. She’s a danger, like a petulant child, and rattling entire countries is her toy. I never should have let her get on that plane.”
Beck watched him pace. A crease formed between her eyes. “What plane?”
“Ten years ago. She wasn’t El Gato, she was a scared girl. Central America was hard on her and she returned the favor. She’s broken now. Unstable. I could’ve made her stay. I could have demanded or begged or… She’s a killer, today. She used to be about family and loyalty, and now most of her family’s dead and she wants more power and she laughs about destroying economies. She’s a killer and I could’ve stopped it.”