Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(114)

DeSantos and Dixon stopped but maintained their hold on either side.

Vail walked up to him. “Very good. I’ve got a few other questions, Arturo. Answer, and we may let you go. If you don’t answer, I think you know what’ll happen.” She waited a beat, then said, “We’re looking for a federal agent by the name of Hernandez. He was running an undercover op against your cartel. We know his cover was blown and we know you brought him to San Diego.”

“Then you know a lot,” Figueroa said.

Vail waited, but he offered nothing further. “You’re pushing me, Arturo, and I’ve reached my end. Last chance. Where’s Hernandez?”

Figueroa struggled against DeSantos and Dixon. When he apparently realized his efforts were futile, he said, “I don’t know. He was being held at a house with smuggled illegals near Palm and the 805. Someone came and busted him out a little while ago.”

“Who? Who busted him out?” Figueroa set his jaw. “I don’t know. Information like that isn’t shared. We work in groups, so one doesn’t know what the other’s doing.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got the boss’s ear. We know that.”

“I’m telling you, I haven’t spoken to Carlos. I don’t know who took him.”

“If you had to guess,” Vail said. “Who?”

Figueroa glanced around, shuffled his feet. Licked his lips. Clearly uncomfortable. “We had some discussions with a guy repping Alejandro Villarreal. Know who that is?”

“Yeah,” Turino said. For his task force colleagues, he said, “Villarreal runs a rival cartel. Smaller—much, much smaller than Cortez. But they make plenty of noise—and money—in their own right.” To Figueroa, Turino said, “What kind of discussions did Villarreal’s man have with Cortez?”

“I wasn’t there. I only know what my friend told me.”

“Who’s your friend?” Vail asked.

Figueroa again wind-milled his arms against the grip of DeSantos and Dixon. It was a fruitless effort that nevertheless reminded them to remain attentive.

“Your friend, Arturo. We want a name,” Vail said.

“Grunge. Ernesto Escobar.”

Turino stepped forward. “Cortez’s right-hand man? He’s your buddy?”

DeSantos knew what Turino was thinking: Arturo Figueroa was obviously an important catch, but possibly a bigger fish than they had anticipated. If he was close to Cortez’s second in command, regardless of their compartmentalized structure, he might hold key information regarding the cartel’s inner workings.

With his free hand, DeSantos pulled his phone and typed a short message to Jack Jordan telling him they had Figueroa in custody—and asking him to get Thomson over here with some of his men as soon as possible.

“So what did Escobar tell you about these discussions with Villarreal’s rep?” Vail asked.

“That’s it,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t rat on my friends.”

“You haven’t ratted on your friends,” DeSantos said. “Only on Villarreal. Unless Villarreal is one of your friends.”

“I’d like to see Villarreal rot in hell.”

“Help us out, and maybe that’ll happen.”

Figueroa’s face contorted into a crooked smile. “We’ll take care of it. Our own way. We don’t need your help. El jefe knows how to deal with it.”

“El jefe,” Vail said. “What do you think of el jefe’s plans to kill Hernandez? That doesn’t seem like such a good idea to me.”

Figueroa tightened his jaw. “Big mistake.”

Vail nodded. “So help us find Hernandez before your boss does. No one will know you told us.”

Figueroa chewed on that a moment, then shook his head again. “I’m done here. I’ve told you what I know.”

“That’s bullshit, and we both know it,” DeSantos said. “What did Villarreal want with Hernandez?”

The man looked around into the darkness. He sighed deeply and said, “He wanted us to release him.”

“To keep DEA off your backs.” Vail nodded slowly. “So Villarreal and his men had something to do with busting Hernandez out. Because if Cortez killed him, they knew it’d bring big time heat, destroy their business.”

“Like I was saying,” Figueroa replied. “You already knew what I know. So cut me loose.”

“Where’s Villarreal taking Hernandez?” Vail asked.

Figueroa forced his chin back. “How should I fucking know?”

Vail tilted her head and studied Figueroa. “Because you do. Even if you don’t know for sure, you’ve got an idea.”

Figueroa looked down, struggled once more against DeSantos and Dixon.

“You’re not hurting yourself here, Arturo. You’re helping yourself. And you’re helping el jefe.”

“Las Vegas. They’re taking your friend to Las Vegas.”

“Vegas?” Dixon asked. “Why Vegas?”

“Villarreal has a place there. Now, can I go?”

DeSantos checked his phone and played with the joystick. Jordan was attempting to pinpoint their position using their cell signals. Thomson was on his way over and would be there shortly. But when DeSantos flipped to the next text, what he saw surprised him. He reread the message to be sure he’d gotten it right.