The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(128)

Carreras-López prepared himself for what was coming next: the emergency evacuation of the courthouse. The guard detail would have Carreras-López leave and would usher El Halcón to his armored van in the loading dock on the ground floor for transport back to the detention center.

But El Halcón’s evacuation wouldn’t go quite as the federal marshals planned. The armored transport van would not be driven by the guards assigned to the vehicle. Carreras-López’s men, dressed in guard uniforms, would have shot them with silenced weapons and taken over the van. It would drive up to the exit to await El Halcón and his two guards. Once they were in the van and the door closed, those guards would die too and the van would speed to the helicopter.

By tomorrow El Halcón would be enjoying life in his compound outside of Caracas. And Carreras-López—to whom no links to the plot could be proven—would be at home whipping up a Latin coq au vin, his own recipe.

And marveling at the plan.

Gracias, Monsieur Fran?ois Letemps.

Or, merci.

Accompanying this thought was the first whiff of natural gas.

His eyes rose and met those of his client. El Halcón’s brow furrowed only slightly. Carreras-López ripped the grocery list from his yellow pad and carefully folded and slipped it into his pocket.

Only sixty seconds later the door burst open and the guards streamed inside.

“The building’s being evacuated.” To Carreras-López, one said, “Out the main exit. Front.” Then turning to El Halcón. “You’re coming with us. Not a word. Keep your head down and walk where we tell you.”

Out of courtesy, or adherence to the rules, they repeated the statement in Spanish. El Halcón rose to his feet and a guard bent to undo the shackles from the floor rings.

With concern on his face, Carreras-López asked, “But what’s going on?”

“Gas leak. That asshole set the gas bombs? In the news? He planted one here or nearby. Move. Now!”

“Dios mío!” Carreras-López muttered and, blessing himself, walked to the doorway.





Chapter 69



He had asked for chaos and chaos had been delivered.

Antonio Carreras-López was across the street from the prisoner entrance loading dock of the federal courthouse. He was on the second floor of a coffee shop, where he had planned to observe the operation.

The streets were jammed with rescue workers—actually rescue preparers since no explosions or conflagrations had yet occurred. Fire trucks, police, ambulances. The press too, of course. And plenty of gawkers, arms lifted like saluting Fascists as they held high cell phones to record the anticipated carnage. Loudspeakers urged pedestrians and onlookers to back up behind the barricades. “Immediately! There is a major fire and explosion risk! Move back!” The voices were stern. Nobody paid any attention to the warnings.

Behind this coffee shop Carreras-López’s limo awaited. He had confidence in Letemps’s scheme but, ever a practical man, the attorney was hedging bets. If the plan stumbled now, which was a possibility, of course, and the guards shot and killed his men and kept the Mexican drug lord in custody, the lawyer would hightail it from the country.

He had a family and a fortune and a cooking engagement awaiting at home. And he had a jet of his own all paid for.

Now he stiffened. He observed the armored transport van assigned to El Halcón pull forward. He had received another text.

Your aunt is on the way home.



Meaning that the prison guards in the van were dead and Carreras-López’s men had taken over as driver and accompanying guard.

Now for the most critical moment.

The two guards from outside the interview room would soon appear, accompanying El Halcón as he walked to the van. Carreras-López could count three other guards, armed with submachine guns, presently outside, eyeing the crowd. It seemed to him that they were distracted, and understandably. Yes, they would not want their prisoner to escape, but they also would not want to burn to death when the gas blew; by now the scent should be overwhelming. And they would know, like the rest of the city, that the timer on the gas line was counting down—ten minutes from tremor to blast.

Then El Halcón and the two guards—only two—appeared from the doorway.

They hurried to the van as fast as they could—the crime boss’s legs were still shackled—and the door opened. In they went. The door slammed shut.

Then, very faint, came several flashes of light from inside.

The silenced pistol killing the guards.

Pulling into the street, which had been cleared of traffic, the van accelerated away and turned the corner.

Another text.

She is doing well.



The last of the coded messages meant that the guards were dead and the van was proceeding to the rendezvous spot.

Carreras-López turned and hurried down the back stairs of the coffee shop to his limo. He climbed inside. The driver greeted him and they started off, the Caddie circling the blocked streets. Soon they hit the highway, about five minutes behind the van.

The security van would have GPS; its progress would be tracked. So Letemps had picked a rendezvous spot that was just off the highway on the way to the detention center. Anyone tracking the van would think that, when it pulled off, it was simply diverting briefly to avoid a traffic jam.