Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(48)

USA

THE road’s dirt surface was rutted to the point that Rapp could barely get the SUV to forty miles per hour. In the east, the rising sun was illuminating the mountains and creating a blinding glare on his windshield. The desert in this part of California didn’t look much different than Yemen beyond the addition of a few scattered cactus and Joshua trees.

After another ten minutes and two dry river crossings, a building started to separate itself from the heat shimmer to the north. No photos had been available, but it was pretty much as Claudia described—a dilapidated wood and stone structure that had served various purposes over its sixty-year history: storage facility for the forest service, barracks for construction crews, and a temporary holding facility for captured illegal immigrants. Now some of the windows were missing glass, part of the roof was bowing, and the chain-link fence surrounding it was streaked with rust.

The two Mexican traffickers caught at the San Ysidro mall were being held there, but they couldn’t be kept incommunicado for much longer. The cartels had eyes and ears everywhere and this would already register as unusual to them. A few more days would blow past unusual and move into the territory of suspicious.

There was a partially collapsed wall about twenty yards from the fence and he pulled into the shade it offered. Claudia hadn’t called yet, so he grabbed a greasy paper bag from the passenger seat and got out, jumping up onto the vehicle’s hood and lying back against the windshield.

The Coke he extracted from the bag was a little warm, but the burrito wasn’t bad. He watched the sun climb into a cloudless sky as he chewed, finally turning his attention to the building when a man in his early thirties appeared and approached the fence. They looked at each other for a moment and then Rapp went back to his breakfast.

According to the intel he’d been provided, the man’s name was Holden Flores. He was a relatively new recruit to the DEA, well liked and in possession of a spotless record. It had been he who’d captured the two men being held in that building and for his first time at bat, it had been a solid performance.

A tiny dot became visible in the sky to the south and Rapp shaded his eyes to watch it approach. The radio-controlled plane set a course straight for him, finally circling at an altitude low enough to show off its six-foot wingspan, cerulean paint scheme, and video equipment. Apparently the cartels had started using these things to keep their eye on American law enforcement.

By the time he finished his burrito, another man had appeared at the fence. Thomas Braman was in charge of this operation and his reputation was more mixed than that of the young man he was now barking at. Not completely useless, but one of those arrogant government assholes who reveled in throwing around whatever scrap of weight they had. This was just the kind of situation that would drive a man like Braman crazy. He hadn’t been told about the anthrax, he had no idea why he’d just spent the better part of a week living in an abandoned maintenance building, and he was completely in the dark as to the identity of the man lying on the SUV outside his gate.

Apparently he’d already called headquarters demanding information nine times and was currently dialing for an even ten. Rapp watched him jab Flores in the chest while he waited for the line to connect. A moment later he was pacing across the dusty enclosure, pointing in Rapp’s direction as he spoke urgently into the phone.

Rapp went back to watching the drone, following it lazily for a couple of minutes before his own phone rang. The number that came up was a string of zeros ending in the number four, indicating an encrypted call from Claudia.

“Yeah.”

“I have them.”

“And?”

“One blank pardon and one letter saying that the president is aware of and has approved all of your actions. Both with original signatures.”

“Any loopholes?”

“They were too complicated for my English but Scott read them . . .” She paused a moment to recall his exact words. “He said you could ‘drive-by a bunch of nuns and walk.’ I’m not sure what that means exactly, but I gather it’s what you wanted.”

Rapp nodded. “And he’s got them now?”

“Yes.”

Coleman was going to put Rapp’s presidential get-out-of-jail-free cards in an airtight lockbox that would then be buried somewhere along the remote trail system they ran on. Alexander was a decent enough man for a politician, but it didn’t stretch the imagination to think he might get cold feet and want those documents back.

“And you’re set on your end?” Rapp said.

“Yes,” she said reluctantly.

“Then let’s do it.”

He hung up and slid off the hood, striding toward the gate. Flores just watched and Braman disconnected his call, moving to within a couple of feet of the chain link.

“What’s your name?”

“Mitch.”

“You got ID?”

“No.”

This was just a bullshit dance and everyone knew it. Braman had been told someone of Rapp’s description was coming and that once he arrived, it was his operation. But the DEA man wasn’t going to cede authority without at least a show of defiance.

Rapp pointed to the chain around the gate and Flores unlocked it, letting him through.

“Anything I should know?” Rapp said as he walked toward the building with Braman hurrying to catch up.