Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(80)

And that was where DeSantos chose to meet Jose Diamante, purportedly a man who had insider information into the Cortez drug cartel, the confidential informant that DEA agent Antonio Sebastiani de Medina coddled and cultivated, paid and protected. Yardley knew the value of a high-level CI such as Diamante, which explained the resistance to providing his identity.

DeSantos foiled their plans, however, and now Diamante had agreed to meet his contact Sebastian. In another tech feat, a different OPSIG team member had cloned Sebastian’s cell phone number, enabling them to send a text message to Diamante requesting the meet. After a tense ten-minute wait, the CI responded. He would be there.

Benny then hacked the DMV server and secured a photo and physical description of Jose Diamante. Now it was a matter of executing a get-together with a high-level CI who was, no doubt, a careful and suspicious sort.

“Me or you?” Vail asked.

“You mean the attractive woman approach? You think you can show a little cleavage and get closer than I can?”

“You don’t think I can pull it off?”

DeSantos made a point of running his gaze from head to toe. “Probably best if I circle around, bring up the rear in case he runs.”

Vail dropped her jaw. “Thanks a lot.”

DeSantos broke a smile. “If he runs from you, the guy needs glasses. C’mon, let’s go.”

Leaving the car in the Union Station parking lot, they hoofed it down H Street NE. DeSantos stopped abruptly. “There used to be an Amoco station there, on the corner,” he said, nodding ahead of him. “That’s where I told him to meet us.”

Ahead of them was an empty lot, filled with sprouting weeds and partial remnants of asphalt that was spider-cracked like a sun-weathered face. At the corner of 3rd and H Street stood three battered passenger bus-size cargo containers. It appeared as if construction was due to start and the crew brought the equipment onsite prior to initiating the project.

“Maybe he figured it out and is waiting by those storage containers,” Vail said.

“Let’s hope so.”

They approached separately, DeSantos taking a detour between freshly constructed multistory brick apartment buildings, where he’d walk parallel to H, toward and across 3rd Street. He would then come up fifty yards behind the location where they hoped Diamante was waiting.

DeSantos was carrying the cloned cell phone—and all network traffic to that number was diverted to his handset. Like an arrested suspect, Sebastian’s real phone would remain silent until DeSantos’s team member released it for normal telephonic reception. If Diamante was not where he should be, DeSantos could contact him while retaining his cover.

DeSantos advanced from the rear. He signaled Vail, who began walking toward the front of the closest blue-gray cargo container. As she approached, she saw there was just enough room between the long structures for a person to fit—not comfortably, but it was possible to shuffle sideways through the opening. Just looking at the tight quarters made her chest tighten.

Along the exposed side of the shipping container was a smaller storage box. Roughly half the size of the other two, it was positioned approximately a dozen feet away. And leaning against its side pulling on a cigarette was Jose Diamante. DeSantos had spotted him too, as he was tipping his head left in the CI’s direction. DeSantos stood frozen, waiting for Vail to advance so that errant footsteps wouldn’t be detected before Vail could engage him.

She smiled and walked gaily toward Diamante, motioning at him until his head lifted and his body straightened. He was locked in.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m totally lost. My phone battery’s dead and I was looking for a pay phone. Someone said there was one in the gas station on the corner, but”—she spread her arms and made a point of swiveling her head from side to side—“there’s no gas station.”

“Looks like they tore it down,” Diamante said, then sucked again on his cigarette, out the side of his mouth, like he was thinking of what kind of fun he could have with the attractive redhead who was approaching.

“I was looking for a street that had an ‘NW’ after it, but all these street signs say ‘NE.’ Is there a difference?” She laughed. Stupid me, I’m a vulnerable woman in a bad neighborhood where a missing dimwit might go unnoticed for hours, if not days. Go ahead and try something.

But he suddenly swiveled 180 degrees, and his body language suggested he caught sight of DeSantos and had read him as a cop. Not merely suggested—he tensed and coiled low and bent his knees and took off in Vail’s direction. She was still a ditsy redhead and had not entered his threat zone. Yet.

Vail stepped left, into his path, and threw her arms around him. But he must’ve seen this move before, because he stuck an elbow into her neck, and she went down.

Diamante continued south, toward H Street.

Shit. She hustled to her feet—DeSantos was still thirty or forty yards away—and resumed her pursuit.

Diamante tried cutting a hard left and he went down, sprawling in a patch of loose dirt. As he gathered himself, Vail pounced, wrapping her arms around his back. But she was only 115 pounds and Diamante was—per the DMV—200.

And that seemed about right as he flung her off his back rather easily. But Vail was not about to let her sole connection to Robby go that easily. She had an iron grip on his collar and he dragged her forward through the dirt. She pulled with all her weight, choking him best she could. But he wouldn’t go down.