Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(102)

Turino sat behind the wheel, his knuckles white, leaning forward in his seat.

“You might want to loosen your grip, Guy, or you’ll squeeze right through the vacuum sealed plastic steering wheel.”

“There’s a lot at stake here. I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing.”

“Robby could be in there. Your agents have had wiretaps in place. We’re moving a few hours early, is all. What’s the big deal?”

Turino hesitated a moment before answering. “The potential for collateral damage is very high. These cartels, they couldn’t give a shit who gets caught in the crossfire.” He craned his head around into the darkness, eyes narrow and face taut. “The halcones make it very dangerous.”

“Halcones. Spanish for . . . ”

Turino’s eyes kept moving. “Cartels rely on a network of street informants. Taxi drivers, bus drivers, storefront owners. Shit, even teenagers. They’re called halcones, or falcons. Their job is counterintelligence, to be the lookout for the arrival of law enforcement. Started in Mexico and it’s spilled onto U.S. streets where the traffickers are operating. If they see us and know we’re headed for their drop house, they’ll either jump ship if there’s time—or deploy for a firefight. When we circle around back, they could be in a neighbor’s yard, waiting to ambush us.”

Vail’s son Jonathan flashed through her mind. She suddenly wondered if she’d made the wrong choice—going to the reservation would’ve been vastly safer. And the DEA team certainly could’ve handled this op without her, as Turino had suggested. Still, if Robby is being held here . . .

Turino tapped the wheel. He leaned forward, spied his colleagues in the truck. “C’mon, guys,” he whispered. “Make a decision.”

A crackle over his radio. “Green. Repeat, green. Ready to execute.”

Turino lifted the two-way from his belt. “Roger that.” He dropped the radio to the seat between his thighs, threw the SUV into drive, and glanced at Vail. “You ready?”

She pulled her Glock and held the cold metal in both hands, gaining strength and comfort from its stopping power. “You heard the man. Ready to execute.”





69


Robby took a deep breath and pushed his left bare foot against the wall of the shed and sprung his body to the right, into Escobar’s thigh. But he lacked strength and there wasn’t sufficient distance to build enough momentum to do any damage. He glanced off the man’s lower leg and fell pathetically behind his captor. Robby was about to reach out and grab, swing, knock—anything rather than be subjected to another boot in the face.

But before he could get hold, the sound of nearby machine gun fire snatched Escobar’s attention. He bolted outside, leaving the wood door swinging on its hinges, unlocked.

Unlocked. Robby crawled forward on his elbows, fought to bring himself to his knees and then to all fours. He moved to the door and lifted his head. The glare from a halogen spotlight blasted his eyes and brought an instant headache. Best he could see—his night vision was now virtually destroyed by the intensity of the radiant beam—he was in the backyard of a house. Homes all around him—a development of some sort.

His internal voice told him to get up, get out, get away.

Machine gun fire, mixed with the rapid staccato of automatic pistols, blared in the near vicinity.

He saw Escobar off to the far left, in shadow. In retreat.

And twenty feet away, two men toting heavy metal weapons moved confidently into the yard, firing from their shoulders.

Robby stumbled forward, out of the shed and onto concrete. The unmistakable odor of cordite stung his nose. He slammed his face against the side of the structure, scraping his skin against the rough grain of the wood siding, his fingers crawling along its edge, trying to keep himself steady, his body erect . . . hoping the rounds zipping by would somehow miss him.

Then the gunfire stopped. But Robby kept moving—until four hands grabbed his clothing, his shoulders, and yanked him back, away from the shed.

“No,” he said feebly. “No—”





70


Shots fired!” the voice blurted over the radio.

Vail grabbed the two-way off Turino’s seat. “Gunfire? From us?” “Negative,” came the filtered, rushed reply.

As they approached the drop house, Vail heard the unmistakable rhythmic drumming of a submachine gun. The SWAT RDV screeched to a stop at the curb. Turino’s SUV followed a second later, its headlights splashing across the tactical van’s sparse white backside. The doors flung apart and officers leaped out, planted, and pivoted toward the house.

Their deployment was far quicker than their mission plans had outlined. Vail was sure their strategies were now being rewritten on the fly.

She was out of the SUV before it stopped moving. The momentum threw her balance off, and she fell back against the car. She quickly regained her footing, then ran toward the fray.

“Karen!” Turino said.

Vail pulled up to the two-story chocolate brown and cream-trimmed stucco house as the mission leader was running a light over the doorframe, checking for signs of booby traps.

“Clear,” he yelled.

Glock in front of her, Vail nudged the man aside and kicked open the door. She was inside before he could stop her.