Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(101)

“Clover Creek,” Jordan said with a knowing nod. “Makes sense. Lots of rough, desolate terrain. We’ve seen an uptick in smuggling activity there, especially the past ten, eleven months. We’ve gone in and raided some meth labs, but the problems there run a lot deeper.”

“So,” DeSantos said, “we’ve got two potential leads. Both could lead somewhere and both could lead nowhere. But we need to vet both.”

Vail closed her eyes. She couldn’t be in two places at once. “All right. We split up. Some go to Clover Creek, some to this drop house.” She crooked her head toward Turino. “You okay with that?”

“There’s a team ready to move on the drop house, so actually you can all go to Clover Creek.”

“No,” Vail said. “I’ll go with you to the drop house.”

Turino held up a hand in protest. “That’s not necess—”

“We’ll need transportation,” Dixon said, eyeing the map.

“Done,” Jordan said. “Meet me downstairs in the lobby in five.” He grabbed the knob and yanked open the door.

Vail bit down on her lip, then rose quickly from her seat. “Keep me posted, Hector. If you find out anything—proof of life . . . or death—I want to know ASAP.”

DeSantos winked at her. “You’re already on speed dial.”





67


Robby pried open his left eye, then the right. His head—a throbbing mass of pain mounted atop his shoulders—bobbed as he feebly pushed himself upright. He stopped, the pounding worsening as his heart kicked into higher gear to pump against gravity.

Outside the shack—or shed—or wherever he was being held—voices rambled on in Spanish. Anger . . . restrained . . . though now that the headache eased a bit, he realized it was a heated discussion. Not anger, but disagreement.

He rolled slowly onto his knees and crawled closer to the voices. Sat back against the wood wallboard. Listened. His Spanish was fluent—truly a second language—and even in its trampled state, his brain translated on the fly—at least, the parts he could make out.

“Wants him moved—now.”

Second voice, which he could now identify in his sleep: Ernesto Escobar. “I’ll get him.” Jangling of keys, then the metallic click of a tumbler sliding and shifting.

Robby looked up as the door cracked open. A flashlight sliced inward, falling across his face and forcing him to turn away and clamp his eyes closed.

“Up,” Escobar said. “Time to go.”

“Where?” Robby asked, not making any effort to move.

“You’re not in any position to ask questions, amigo.”

Robby couldn’t argue with that. Still, he knew the tenets of safety: when kidnapped, do everything you can to resist at the outset and don’t assume your fortunes will improve. When they had taken him and had a pistol shoved against his head back in Napa, he figured they were more likely to kill him than pour him a glass of water. Resisting at that point was not wise.

But at the moment, in the darkness at least, Escobar had no visible weapon—not the sparkly handgun nor the blood-tinged knife. While neither was likely far from his reach, it was perhaps far enough away—tucked in a belt or a shoulder holster—that Robby might have a split second advantage. Escobar likely felt he had weakened Robby to such an extent that he did not have the strength to resist. That was not far from the truth. But when his life depends on it, a determined human being is capable of mustering energy and resources no one knows he has.

So Robby made an effort to appear slow and uncoordinated as he rolled onto his knees, while positioning himself in such a manner that he could launch himself at Escobar. He’d become a human mass that, hopefully, would strike his captor forcefully enough to hyperextend his knees and cause debilitating pain.

“Let’s go,” Escobar said.

Now on all fours, Robby glanced to his right at Escobar’s shoe tops. It was time.





68


A black SUV ferried the task force, minus Vail and Turino, toward Clover Creek. Meanwhile, in the darkness of a low-income suburban neighborhood devoid of the orange hue of sodium vapor streetlights, Vail joined Turino and the geared-up DEA and SWAT teams in the sally port of the San Diego Police Department’s Broadway headquarters.

Normally DEA ran its own raids, but given the potential level of violence, SWAT had been called in to run the tactical op. As before, once the area was secured, DEA would assume control of the scene and begin its own drug discovery and evidence collection operation. In this case, due to the presence of the illegal immigrants, Immigration and Customs Enforcement—ICE—was invited to join the raid. However, because of the speed with which the warrant was being executed, ICE would be following a short time after SWAT made entry. The ICE commander was not pleased with the decision to move without their concurrent participation, but understood the urgency.

Vail and Turino, traveling in the SUV they’d picked up at the airport, followed SWAT’s Bearcat and rapid deployment vehicle, as well as DEA’s tactical truck.

Wheels hugged asphalt as the vehicles swerved in tandem around tight corners and traversed the miles in the shortest distance between two points—though their trip didn’t involve a crow and the route it flew.

SWAT pulled to a stop at a predetermined location in a parking garage one mile from the house, not far off the 805, near Palm Avenue. Vail was familiar with the procedure. The team would check in with undercover operatives to determine if they still green-lighted the operation—that no unusual activity had been noted—and to confirm that the cartel members they were targeting were still in the house. If the mission was still a “go,” the agents would move in with the speed and thirst of a shark in bloody waters.