Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(107)

“Of course. Why, is he involved?”

“We have reason to believe he is. You aware of any pending activity—tonight, in fact?”

Thomson stood up straight. “Do you have any information—”

“Yes and no. Possibly tonight, but we don’t know where.”

“That’s always the question. Not when, or if, but where. Whenever I hear something, I increase patrols out in those parts. But it’s like a needle in a haystack.”

“Is there a general area they like to use?”

“Sure, I can tell you which sector. But—”

“Even if it comprises a hundred houses, that still might help.” Thomson lifted his eyebrows in a “hey, it’s your call” expression, then pushed off the worn arms of his creaky metal chair and limped forward, carrying his overweight torso to the far wall, where an earth-toned map hung. Thomson stabbed a weathered finger at a particular location, then drew a circle. “Twenty square miles. Like I said, not much help.”

“You have the GPS coordinates?”

Thomson drew his head back. “I can get ’em, sure.”

“Get them.” DeSantos pulled his phone, stepped into the hallway, and started dialing.



TURINO AND HIS TEAM had moved their vehicles two blocks away and had extinguished the house’s interior lights while they completed their work. The marijuana plants they had expected to find in the garage were photographed while the smuggled Mexicans were transported to the staging area. Most of the officers and agents had left, except for a strategically placed surveillance team.

Vail, sitting curbside down the block from the drop house, tried reaching DeSantos, but his phone went to voice mail. She sent a text to the task force informing them of their close call, as well as their assumption that Robby had been snatched by a rival cartel.

She had questions about the “intercartel conflicts” Turino had mentioned, but she wanted to give him room to do his job as quickly as possible. If what he said was accurate, they didn’t want to still be there when any Cortez cartel members arrived.



ONE OF THE PHONE CALLS DeSantos made was to “Benny,” his OPSIG tech guru at the Pentagon. DeSantos provided the GPS coordinates he needed to monitor and asked him to angle one of their satellites over that area. When Benny asked what they were looking for, DeSantos’s response brought a brief silence to the line.

“That’s like a needle in a haystack, Hector. You realize that.”

“So I’ve been told. Just get that satellite over those coordinates and I’ll know what I’m looking for when I see it. That’s what I’m good at, remember?”

“I’ve only got one in position.”

“There are nine thousand satellites in orbit and we’ve only got one over that area?”

“Do I really have to answer that, Hector? I’ll have a better angle in about nineteen minutes, if you can wait.”

“I can’t. Give me what you’ve got.”

“Already done. Log in and let me know if it’s to your liking.”

“Thanks, man. See you when I get back.”

DeSantos walked back into Thomson’s office. “I need a PC with broadband. Tell me you’ve got one.”

Thomson led the way into their communications room, a six-square-foot space crammed with a two-way radio console, a shortwave set, two computers, monitors, and a variety of electronic equipment that spanned decades. He motioned to the far left PC. “It’s yours.”

DeSantos texted Mann and Dixon and told them to sit tight, that he hoped to have some info in a matter of minutes. He then opened Internet Explorer, applied the InPrivate Browsing and filtering modes, and navigated to the assigned, covert website. He entered his login information and a moment later was viewing a real-time feed of the reservation land in question. Using onscreen controls, he made a minor adjustment to the zoom, then began scanning in a gridlike pattern.

Ten minutes later, DeSantos leaned forward in his seat. “There.” He yelled through the open door, “Chief, come look at this!”

Thomson came running down the hall. “Found something?”

DeSantos pointed at the monitor. “Where is this?” Onscreen, despite an oddly sharp angle, they saw a light duty flat nose truck backed up to what looked like a double wide mobile home, and five men loading what appeared to be rectangular plastic-wrapped bricks into the vehicle. A smaller SUV-size vehicle sat beside it.

Thomson leaned both hands on DeSantos’s seatback and squinted at the monitor. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Cocaine, yes. And a big freaking load at that. Where is this?”

Thomson pushed away from the back of DeSantos’s chair. “I’ll take you there. Too hard to describe if you don’t know the terrain. And I want this bust, Mr. DeSantos. They’re not getting away on my watch.”



THEY RAN OUTSIDE. DeSantos jumped into the task force SUV and Thomson into a battered Ford pickup with Tribal Police black-and-white decals. DeSantos told Mann, who was behind the wheel, to follow Thomson’s vehicle, then briefed them all on what he had seen.

“So this is a handoff of coke,” Mann said.

The vehicle swung left and they all leaned right. Dixon grabbed the handrail above the door. “So there are drugs. That’s great. Any connection to Robby?”