Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(105)

As the personnel dispersed, Vail corralled Turino. “So you think a rival cartel grabbed him?”

“That’s what my gut says. Look at the spray of rounds. It was an aggressive move. Who else would know, or even care, about Hernandez? Gotta be another cartel. Leverage or bragging rights, I’m not sure. But Cortez no longer has Hernandez. I think that’s safe to assume.”

“And how exactly did we luck out? Whatever happened here, whoever it was, they took Robby.”

Turino walked through the kitchen, headed to the front of the house, rubbernecking his head, checking out the progress of his orders. “You’re thinking of one person, Karen. I’m thinking about a major op that’s been in the works for years, that’ll get a ton of drugs off the street and put thousands of major dealers and money launderers behind bars. So if we can cover our tracks by using an intercartel conflict and let them think we weren’t even here, and if Velocity stays intact as a result, yeah, we lucked out.” He stopped and faced her. “Big time.”

“I thought we were on the same side here.”

Turino squinted. “You just don’t get it, do you? This isn’t a war on drugs; it’s a series of battles. And the more battles we lose, the more they win. And their wins mean they dig their claws in deeper, degrading our society like a cancer.”

“You don’t have to lecture me on the dangers of illicit drugs. I get it.”

“Do you? I’ve lived and breathed this every day for the past twenty-eight years. I’ve seen stuff you don’t even want to know about. Ice chests full of severed heads. Burned bodies left on a playground so kids would find them in the morning when they came to play and know, at a young age, that you don’t mess around with the cartels. This stuff is making its way from Mexico into our communities.”

“I’ve seen bad shit, too,” Vail said. “Probably a lot worse than what you’ve seen. But this isn’t a pissing contest, Guy. I just want Robby back alive. He’s a federal agent, a member of your team. We owe him.”

“DEA is family to me. I get what you’re saying. I do.”

“Then I don’t see any reason why we can’t accomplish both goals—protecting Velocity and finding Robby. Do you?”

Turino sighed, then pointed at one of the San Diego police officers. “Pack that shit up and get it out of here. We’re running out of time. Five minutes, I wanna be outta here!” He pulled his BlackBerry and, while thumbing the joystick, he said to Vail, “You’re right, okay? We’re on the same team. We’ll do everything we can to get Hernandez back. Now let me do my thing so we don’t screw this up.”

Vail watched as Turino grabbed a duffel and slung it across his shoulder. She unfolded Robby’s leather jacket and slipped it on. It was ridiculously large on her, but she didn’t care. She walked outside, rolled up the sleeves, then sat down on the curb and drew the front closed.





74


Hector DeSantos, having run incursions not unlike this one, took the strategic lead. While Mann drove, he pored over the regional map in consultation with his contacts, who knew tribal commissions and the best way to approach them.

His phone rang as they were nearing the turnoff for the reservation. It was Jack Jordan.

“Your team’s headed to Clover Creek, right?”

“That’s affirmative. We’re a few minutes out.”

“Got some good news. That photo Agent Vail dropped off earlier. We got a hit on the two guys in it. The one to the right of Carlos Cortez is Ernesto ‘Grunge’ Escobar and the one to his left is Arturo Figueroa.”

“You’ll have to help me out, Jack. This is your sandbox, not mine.”

“There aren’t many guys Cortez lets into his inner circle, but these two made the grade. Escobar is a mean SOB known for torture and brutal murder. Figueroa is a low level confidant of Cortez, someone he trusts enough to oversee some key U.S. drug distribution agreements. Figueroa’s the one that caught our attention.”

“Go on,” DeSantos said as he peered out the window, keeping an eye on where Mann was headed.

“NTF has had a wiretap on his cell and we know he’s arranged to pick up a particularly large load of coke, and we think it’s going down in the next two days. There’s only one problem.”

“You have no idea where.”

“Exactly.”

DeSantos glanced at the GPS, which showed they were headed into vast swaths of undeveloped land. If his calculations were correct, the entrance to Clover Creek wasn’t far down the road. “Get to the point, Jack. We’re running out of time.”

“Right. So here’s the thing: Figueroa’s last cell signal triangulated somewhere near Escondido an hour ago.”

“We’re near Escondido.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“So you think Figueroa is personally overseeing this pickup and it’s possible the handoff is going to happen tonight, on the reservation.”

“Combined with that photo you guys gave us, which was supposedly taken on the rez, yeah, we’re putting two and two together again. And if you’re looking for someone close to Cortez as a bridge to Roberto Hernandez—”

“Got it, Jack. Thanks. I’ll keep you posted. If you pick up any further transmissions, let me know. If this thing’s going down here, and tonight, we’re on-site and ready to act.”