Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(104)

“Or someone else took him.”

“Let’s clear that house, do a canvass. We’ll need bodies.” Turino keyed his radio again. “Request all available personnel to our current twenty to canvass the area. Alert ICE we’re on scene and get an ETA. Inform them we’ve got about three dozen illegals to process.” He pointed at a nearby SWAT officer. “Make sure all our vehicles are moved a few blocks east, away from this house. I don’t want any obvious police presence out front.” He lowered his two-way. “We’ll find him, Karen.”

Vail drew Robby’s jacket against her chest. He was here. He’s alive and I’m gonna find him. She turned to Turino. “Huh?”

“I said we’ll find him.”

Vail had moved beyond that. “I don’t just want to find him. I want to find him alive.”





72


Robby’s eyes fluttered open. His body bounced and rolled, a disorienting sensation in the near darkness. He tried to lift his head, but he was too weak from lack of food and water. His skin and mouth felt parched, like a sponge left out in the sun too long.

He licked his lips and tried to generate some saliva. As his mind returned to full awareness, he saw that he was in the rear seat of a car. Two men were in front. From this angle, and in this light, he couldn’t see either of their faces. His wrists and ankles were bound tightly together. His cop instincts kicked in, and he realized that the best strategy he could take at the moment would be to remain quiet and still. He needed to listen and observe, see if he could ascertain who his captors were.

His chief concern: was he better off now, or as he was before, in the shed? It was hard to imagine his fortunes having shifted for the worse. But until he knew what was going on, it was better to reserve judgment. For all he knew, he was headed to the chopping block and acid bath Escobar had promised.

“If Cortez finds out what we did,” the driver said in Spanish, “we’re dead men.”

“Only you, me, and Mr. Villarreal know it was us. Those two back at the house won’t be talking. And I think it goes without saying Mr. Villarreal won’t be having dinner with Cortez anytime soon.”

The driver squirmed in his seat. “Still.”

The passenger pointed to the opposing lanes of traffic. “Look.”

Approaching with their lightbars blazing were three San Diego PD cruisers. And coming up behind them, another three.

“Fuck me. What do we do?”

“Keep calm,” the passenger said. “Look in your mirror, tell me what they’re doing.”

He lifted his eyes to the rearview. “Looks like they’re slowing all the lanes. Shit, man, they’re starting a roadblock. You were right, we shoulda put him in the trunk. If they stop us—”

“Wait a minute. You fucking kidding me? A roadblock—behind us?”

The driver cracked a wicked laugh laced with relief. “Are we lucky or what, bro?”

“Maybe we’ve got some Irish in our Mexican blood.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t care.” He slapped the steering wheel. “We’re on our way now. Nothin’s gonna stop us.”

Robby wanted to sneak a peek at the passenger. Something about the voice sounded familiar. Where had he heard it before? He dared not open his eyes again. He needed to continue listening, and if they thought he was still unconscious, they may say something he could use.

He had already learned that Carlos Cortez no longer had custody of him. Presumably, that was a positive development. But he’d also discovered that his new captors, possibly a rival cartel, had evaded the roadblock. That, certainly, was not a good thing.

Robby had also snatched one other morsel of intel: they were “on their way.” Question was, on their way to where?





73


Turino knelt down and used a pen to nudge the assault rifle that the dead cartel member was still clutching. “Cuerno de chivo.”

Vail crouched beside him. “Come again?”

“Goat horn. Basically, it’s their nickname for an AK-47, a favorite weapon of cartel gunmen.” He pointed with his pen. “It refers to the magazine’s curved shape. See?”

“Yeah, it’s curved. So what?”

“They’re moving to higher-powered weapons. Stuff like .50-caliber machine guns and 40-millimeter grenade launchers. Grenade launchers . Not to mention pistol rounds that can penetrate body armor. They call them matapolicias. Cop killers. Nice, huh?” Turino looked around, then put two fingers in his mouth and blew. The on-scene law enforcement personnel, congregated around him at varying distances, stopped their conversations and turned toward him.

“Those of you who’ve just arrived. Leave everything as is. Don’t pick up a shell casing, don’t dust for prints. We’ve taken photos and video, that’s it. Right now, the focus is on helping ICE get the immigrants out of here ASAP. They’re gonna process them offsite at our staging area, in the parking garage. Any cartel members come by here, we want them to see that mess in the yard. They’ll know it was the work of a rival cartel. If they’re looking for Hernandez, hopefully they’ll think he was snatched up. It’s cover for us. We lucked out here big time. Okay, let’s move! We’ve already been here too long.”