Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(109)

75


The stars popped above like white dust blown skyward. Regardless, DeSantos wished he had night vision goggles. In the darkness of this rural land, their SUV running with its lights off, he couldn’t see much of anything.

But like a rat sensing a predator, their target picked up their approach. And that’s when it all went to hell.

The traffickers ran for the truck cab, then revved the engine. Another got into the adjacent Land Rover and peeled away in a cloud of loose dirt.

Thomson made a neat maneuver with his pickup—cutting off the truck and pinning it against a cinderblock fire wall. Two other cruisers appeared—Thomson must have radioed them while en route—and surrounded the vehicle.

“Go for that Land Rover,” DeSantos yelled, pointing at the windshield, as if Mann did not see the fleeing vehicle.

As DeSantos spoke, another police vehicle was approaching, its lightbar flashing and its siren blaring. Mann stole a look in his sideview mirror. “I think they’ve got the situation back there under control.”

“That’ll make the police chief happy,” Dixon said, watching the scene unfold through the rear window. “Snagging all those drugs, gotta be a feather in his cap, for sure.”

“That wasn’t a joke,” Mann said, “was it?”

The Land Rover’s brake lights tapped once, then it hung a sharp left. A fog of dense haze kicked up behind it.

DeSantos leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. “Did he just go off road?”

“Hell yeah,” Mann said. “Smart move. He’s got a four-wheeler, we got shit.”

“We gonna lose him?” Dixon asked.

“Very possible,” Mann said as he accelerated and remained on the paved road as long as he could.

DeSantos pulled his phone, hit a key, and waited as it dialed. Vail answered on the first ring. “Where are you?”

“Passing Montgomery Field, about a half mile from the division office. Why?”

“Pull into the airport,” DeSantos said. He waited while Vail issued the instructions to Turino.

“On our way in,” Vail said. “What’s going on?”

“Put me on speaker.”

Vail pressed the button on her BlackBerry and said, “Go ahead.”

“Turino, does DEA have access to choppers?”

“Of course.”

“Get the largest, fastest motherfucker and fly it out to Clover Creek. How soon can you be here?”

“For what?”

“We just intercepted a handoff—kilos of coke. One of the Cortez lieutenants—I’m guessing it’s Arturo Figueroa—”

“No shit?” Turino said. “Figueroa?”

“He’s in a four-wheeler and we can’t off-road. He’s a smart shit. If we can corral him, we might be able to sweat him, get info on Hernandez.”

“Division has a Super Huey on loan from the Marines, tops out at 185. Best we can do. We can be there in . . . I don’t know, about ten to twelve minutes if I push her.”

“Push her. Before we lose this guy.” DeSantos peered into the darkness, where the dust cloud from Figueroa’s four-wheel drive continued to impair his view.

“Coming up on the hangar,” Turino said. “But I’m gonna need to get permission—”

“No,” Vail said, “You won’t.” She apparently took the phone off speaker, because her tinny voice was instantly clearer. “See you guys in a few minutes.”



TURINO WATCHED as Vail grabbed Robby’s leather jacket and got out of the SUV.

“Really,” he said, following her. “I need permission. I can’t just fly off with a $10 million aircraft.”

Vail headed for the Huey, which sat atop a wheeled dolly outside the hangar. “We’ll call from the air. But we can’t let this guy get away. If he knows something about Robby—”

“It’s not likely, Karen.”

She spun and faced him. “Hell with ‘not likely.’ You’ve been reluctant to take action since you took over the task force, and it’s really beginning to piss me off.” Vail pulled her Glock but kept it angled at the floor. “Now get in that goddamn helicopter or I’ll fly it there myself.”

Turino squinted at her, cursed loudly, then trudged ahead toward the Super Huey that sat outside the hangar in quiet repose, on its mark. He climbed inside, got the engines spooled up and the rotor system online, then slipped on the headset. He radioed the tower and requested takeoff clearance for an “emergency departure”—terminology used to signify a life-threatening or urgent tactical situation requiring quick takeoff and traffic priority. With the Huey vibrating and the rotors thrumping, he turned to Vail, who had also placed the bulky radio over her ears.

“Would you have really taken the chopper if I refused?”

Vail looked at him with a clenched jaw, one of those looks that conveyed that she was damn serious. “What the hell do you think?”

They were interrupted by the tower providing clearance. When the helicopter lifted into the air, Vail watched as the lights of San Diego appeared to move away from them.

Turino swung the craft to the left and headed toward Clover Creek. “I think,” he said, “that you absolutely would’ve done it. Anything to find Hernandez. That’s why I got in. Ultimately, as task force commander, I’m responsible for the actions you take.”