Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(103)

The interior was nearly dark, but white beady eyes blinked at her from all directions.

“FBI!” she said, her pistol swinging left to right, pointed at the long, drawn faces staring back at her.

An angry mission leader entered, his MP-5 at the ready—in full gear. His tactical light scanned the darkness, showing half-naked men packed shoulder to shoulder, seated on the floor.

Vail shoved her nose into the crook of her elbow to mask the fetid odor of human feces and urine that pervaded what passed as air.

“Jesus Christ,” Turino said as he entered. He quickly ducked out the front door. “Get some lights on in there,” Vail heard him say to an approaching SWAT officer.

“Dondé está el jefe?” Vail yelled into the darkness.

An overhead stairwell light came on.

A mass of humanity sat packed into the living room to the right, the family room to the left, the hallway ahead of her, the staircase twenty feet away—there was no free space in which to walk.

She tried a different question, in English. “Who’s in charge here?”

The faces stared blankly at her. Too weak to respond? Or too afraid. Even though Turino had briefed them on the nature of these drop houses, she hadn’t been prepared for what lay before her.

“Is there anyone here who can answer some questions?” Vail said. Still no response. “You’re not in any trouble. We’re here to help you find your loved ones, to take you away from these people. But you need to tell me where they are.”

No response.

“Do you know their names? The people holding you.”

“Grunge,” a woman’s voice said.

Vail’s eyes frantically scanned the faces, hoping to find the person who had answered. “Grunge,” Vail repeated. “Anyone else? Is there only one of them? It’s important you tell me. If you want us to help you, I have to know.”

“Roger that.” Turino came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. “Out back,” he said by her ear. “You need to see this.”





71


Vail stood in the yard staring at the shed, partially illuminated by the spotlight. The structure measured no more than twelve feet square, but her mind was already manufacturing what might lie inside.

She cleared her throat. “Robby?”

“Come see,” he said, then grasped her arm and led her forward. Shell casings littered the cement everywhere she stepped.

Off to her right, two bodies lay sprawled across the pavement, expansive red puddles beneath them. Carnage from what was likely a fierce gun battle.

Using the barrel of her pistol, Vail pulled on the wood door and opened it. The stench of rotten eggs, urine, and feces struck her nose like a first-degree assault. “Jesus.” She threw her arm up, once again burying her nose in the bend of her elbow. “What is this place?”

Turino handed her a tactical flashlight. “You tell me.”

Vail stepped inside, then swept the bright xenon beam around the interior. An object balled up in the corner grabbed her attention. She moved toward it, avoiding the puddles, then knelt down. Droplets of a familiar substance dotted the floor beside it. Blood. Enough for a wound, but nothing life threatening.

She leaned forward and examined the crumpled mass in front of her. But suddenly she recoiled, threw herself backwards, and landed against Turino. “No . . . ” It would be all she got out—words, that is—because she turned to the left and vomited on the floor. There wasn’t much in her stomach, so it was mostly hot, burning acid.

Vail did not speak. Her mind was blank, all thoughts vacuumed away.

She slowly turned her face toward the bundle, then wiped her mouth on her left arm. Stepped closer, reached out and lifted the heavy mass. Ran the light over it. It was what she thought it was.

A leather jacket.

Robby’s leather jacket, the one he had bought in Napa. The one he had worn the night they went to Bistro Jeanty. No DNA or fingerprints needed.

Vail shook it a couple times to uncoil it, then slowly searched the pockets. She rooted out a spent matchbook splashed with block letters that spelled “Bistro Jeanty.” It was a painful confirmation that these were the matches Robby had used to light the candles on their last night together.

Vail drew in a deep breath. “He was here. This is his.” She draped the jacket across her left forearm, then spun on her heels and faced Turino. “The shell casings, the gunfire we heard—” She pushed past him, walked outside the shed, and scooped up a handful of the brass skins. “Still warm.”

Turino grabbed his radio. “This is Turino. TFO Hernandez was here, at our twenty. Searching premises. Two DBs discovered. No sign of Hernandez. I want roadblocks in . . . ” he closed his eyes, deep in thought. “A five-mile radius. Shut everything down. All arteries. And let me know when ICE gets here.”

“Is five miles enough?” Vail asked.

“If they left when we were pulling up, moving through surface streets, five miles should be sufficient.”

“I don’t think so,” Vail said. “Can we expand it?”

“Five’s enough,” he said firmly.

Vail sighed. “Robby was here. We missed him by a minute?”

“It’s possible he’s still here.”

Vail headed back toward the house. “Doubt it. Whatever happened here was violent and aggressive. Whoever was involved was not interested in staying put. Robby either escaped on his own, or . . . ” Vail shook her head.