by Glen Robins
“But we’ve got some major trouble brewing for our man, Collin, too,” said Reggie.
“You mean beyond what you’ve already spelled out?” asked Nic. “Cause what you’ve told us to this point sounds pretty major already.”
“Yes, yes,” added Alastair, “What sort of major trouble are you referring to, may I ask?”
“He’s been implicated in a plot to assassinate the president of Mexico and overthrow the democratically elected government.”
****
Highway 180, West of Villahermosa, Mexico
June 17, 7:10 p.m. Local Time; 5:10 p.m. Pacific Time
The accumulated heat in the back of the truck made it hard to breathe. Evening air was not necessarily cool air in southern Mexico, especially crammed in the tight space in the back of a covered pickup truck. Collin remained still, however, and tried to listen to the conversation. With his eyes closed, he concentrated on the Spanish words he could make out, then tried to piece together some sort of context. It was tough to make out the words from his vantage point at the bottom of a long wooden tool box. He lay under the false bottom with stacks of tools piled on the plywood ledge above him. Small gaps along the side allowed fresh air in for him to breathe, but that air was still hot, humid, and stagnant. It also smelled of mildew, soil, and rotting vegetation, with a hint of gasoline. This convenient space usually housed large weapons. The rocket launcher and sniper rifle were hidden in a similar box on the opposite side of the truck bed, wedged in with several other military-grade armaments.
Among the small repertoire of fears Collin carried, claustrophobia was near the top of his list. He loathed being confined in small spaces, but here he was yet again, forced to endure another round of torture for the sake of his safety and freedom. To avoid a panic attack, he focused on something other than his discomfort. The voices of the policeman and the driver, though muffled, gave him that something he needed to occupy his mind.
The pickup truck that carried him and four highly trained operatives was a gardener’s truck. The driver and other passengers were Mexican-Americans. The guise was supposed to work, but here they were, having been pulled over by the Federales on a country highway an hour into their journey. The shell over the truck bed had concealed Collin and his movements from the view of the police while he hurriedly wiggled into place. One of the operatives had replaced the tools in the box and snapped the lid on tight, locking the two brackets along one of the edges of the hinged crate top.
From what Collin could hear, the officer was quizzing the driver about a number of things, including who his customers were, how he could afford to employee three other men, and what they were doing this far out in the countryside. In Collin’s view, the driver could have asked that last question of the officer. The driver gave short answers, intended, Collin supposed, to make him out to be a simpleton who was merely following instructions from his jefe, or boss. This little speech had obviously been rehearsed and possibly used before. The driver never hesitated or sounded stumped. Each response was slow and measured, but seemed to follow a scripted narrative.
At length, the Federale officer grew impatient and let them on their way, but not until he had opened the back and inspected the boxes. Collin sensed that there were other men standing around, and assumed they had guns out and at the ready. When nothing turned up in their cursory search, the leader called to the others to load up and head out.
The truck pulled back out onto the highway slowly. “Riptide,” as he was known, waited for the roar of the police truck to subside as it passed them before he opened the crate and began unloading its contents. Collin could hear each shovel and rake and hoe as they hit the bed of the truck. Finally, the plywood sheet above him was jiggled free, then lifted out of the way, breaking Collin free from his trance-like state.
Although the air in the back of the truck wasn’t exactly fresh, Collin was glad to suck in a couple of quick lungs full. Sweat covered his face and had soaked his hair and shirt. Riptide helped him climb out of the coffin-like confinement, shaking his head all the while.
“Tu es muy loco,” Riptide snorted as he twirled his pointing finger in a circle around his ear. You’re crazy.
Collin crawled toward the opening to the cabin where the air conditioning blew. “That may be true. It seems I’ve become crazier lately.”
Riptide shook his head. “Remember, that was your idea, not mine.”
“Yeah, I know, but it was worth it, wasn’t it? This white kid would have caught their attention and brought on even more questions.”
“I’m sure you’re right . . . what do we call you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have a clever nickname like you do. Where’d you come up with Riptide?”
“Don’t you know the Percy Jackson books, man?”
“I’ve heard of them, but never read them.”
“Oh, man, they were my favorites as a kid. So it’s all about gods and demigods and bad guys from Greek mythology and this guy, Percy Jackson, finds out he’s the son of Neptune. Anyway, he’s got a pen that turns into a sword and it’s called Riptide.”
“OK,” said Collin, taking it all in. “But how does that become your nickname?”
“Because I loved Percy Jackson as a kid, I used to do swordplay with those fake nerf swords and I got pretty good at it. So, during basic training, my buddies started calling me that and it stuck.”
“All right. That’s pretty cool. What about him?” Collin asked, pointing to the driver.
“Butch? Now that’s a funny story, but I’ll give you the short version. We started calling him Butch when an argument broke out after watching the movie with Paul Newman and Robert Redford. This guy”—he chuckled, pointing through the back window at the driver—“has a steadfast belief that Butch Cassidy survived the shoot-out in the small mining town of San Vicente, Bolivia. He practically worships the guy. Knows everything about the legend of Butch Cassidy. Just ask him.”
“I’ll have to save that question for another time, perhaps.” Turning to the driver, Collin asked, “What do you think that was all about back there?”
“Your friend in Washington says the government is searching for you.”
“What? Me? How do they know anything about me?”
“The bad guys know where you are.”
“How—?” he started to ask. Then it dawned on him. Penh was tracking him using his computer. It was the only explanation. On the boat, the long-haired guy had been working on Collin’s laptop and must have installed some sort of tracking software. That was the only thing he could think of. He explained it to the others. “Mongoose told me to leave the computer with him so he could run some diagnostics on it. Do you think he can also remove whatever code that guy installed?”
“Probably,” said Butch. “I’ll call him.” He thought for a moment before continuing. “It could also be the plane wreck. I’m sure it attracted some attention.”
“Why, because I was flying so low or because people were shooting at me?”
“Maybe some of each,” said Jorge, the man in the passenger’s seat. Collin knew Jorge was a nickname, but hadn’t yet figured out where it came from. “Our planes don’t usually get shot at.”
“Usually? So planes have been shot at before?”
“Yeah, but never hit. Of course, we never had one come in so low before, either.”
“Do you know who these guys are, then?”
Jorge answered. “We keep an eye on them. They’re rumored to be arms dealers, supplying the local drug lords. But they keep to themselves, same as us.”
“So that’s what you guys do down here? Watch the arms dealers and the drug lords?”
Butch smiled and said, “Something like that.”
“I thought NSA was more about cybercrime and other nonmilitary threats,” said Collin, furrowing his brow.
“Who says we’re NSA?”
“I guess I just assumed.”
“We’re not. Contractors, really. No direct ties
to anyone. Keeps things clean for the politicians in Washington,” Butch explained.
Collin sat silent for a minute, digesting all this new information. “Why did they send me here with you guys?”
“We’re your best bet for getting into and out of Mexico City undetected and unharmed. We’re all ex-military. We do whatever needs to be done to protect our country. For now, consider us your escorts.”
Collin’s eyes widened and he pulled in a deep breath as he absorbed this information. “Military contractors? In Mexico?”
“Intelligence operatives, really.”
“You mean spies?”
“Like I said, we provide protection when protection is needed. Let’s leave it at that.”
“What’s the plan, then?”
“To keep you safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“Any and all enemies.”
Chapter Eighteen
Washington, DC
June 17, 8:18 p.m. Local Time; 5:18 p.m. Pacific Time
The war room was aglow with the bluish light of computer monitors and the large plasma screens on the wall when a wedge of light stretched into the room from the hallway as Lukas pushed open the door and hobbled to his desk at the back of the room. The three team members turned almost in unison to watch their leader reenter the room after a long absence. He dropped his computer bag on the chair and asked, “What do we know now that we didn’t when I left for the meeting?”
Kevin swiveled in his chair, anxious and excited to share his findings. “Sir, we’ve managed to track the phone.”
Lukas pinched his eyes shut and pursed his lips, like people do when they’re trying to solve a riddle.
“The phone that was used to call the satellite phone that the team in Mexico cloned—the one that Collin took from the dead guy,” Kevin explained.
“Ah, yes, that phone. Terrific. What do we know about it?”
“It’s moving at five hundred sixty miles per hour over the Pacific. Looks to be en route to Hawaii.” With the click of Kevin’s mouse, a map appeared on one of the screens in the front of the room. It showed a red plane icon moving over a blue ocean with a yellow line trailing behind it and a white line projecting forward from its nose.
“That makes sense,” Lukas said with a nod. “He’s on his way to Mexico via Hawaii to refuel, I’d imagine. What else do we know?”
Carmen, the eager, intelligent blonde gal on the far end, started her assessment. “Sir, I’ve managed to track that minivan we believe is carrying Rob Howell.”
Lukas looked at her and raised an eyebrow.
She tapped a key and another one of the wall-mounted screens came to life and showed a sped-up, grainy video. “This is a recording from one of our satellites taken earlier this afternoon. It seems that the driver and her two passengers pulled into a storage rental facility in Mexicali and swapped cars. The blue minivan pulled into one of the units and never came out. Instead, this black SUV emerged a few minutes later”—she wiggled the pointer on the screen to highlight the vehicle—“and has been traveling south on Highway 2 until just a few minutes ago. It stopped at a restaurant in Hermosillo, Mexico.”
Lukas nodded and tried to suppress a smile. “Do we know if Rob is still alive?”
“He appears to be, although they transported him into the restaurant in a wheelchair.”
“That figures. They want to keep him immobile, I’m sure. Keep watching them and let me know if anything changes. I’d bet my paycheck they’re heading to Mexico City for the grand rendezvous.”
“No grab team?”
“No. Too risky. We have to let this play out. Penh doesn’t know that we know what he’s up to. He’s flying like a moth to the flame.” Lukas turned toward the third member of his team. “How about our guys in Villahermosa?”
Without looking up or interrupting his typing, Marty replied, “The truck taking Collin to the city is behind schedule, but only twenty-five minutes or so. Got pulled over and searched by the Federales.”
“The Federales? Oh no. That’s not good,” Lukas said with a frown.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” said Marty. “So, I called and warned our guys who stayed back at the shop in Villahermosa. Mongoose safeguarded the laptop and sent it north in another vehicle with another team.”
“What happened with the Federales when they pulled over the truck?” Lukas’s countenance had grown dark with worry.
“Cursory look through the back, but only found gardening tools, so they let them go,” replied Marty, still consumed with this current task.
“What about Collin?”
“Stowed safely in a coffin-like toolbox in the back of the truck.”
“They didn’t check it?”
“Nope. Apparently Butch and his team were convincing enough.”
“That’s good news. What about the others back at the shop?”
“Packing up all the gear and electronics, preparing to leave.”
“The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned. We don’t know how much the Federales know about what’s going on. It’s possible that they are in league with Torres, our rogue senator, and are on high alert.”
****
Scripps Patient Clinic, La Jolla, California
June 17, 5:25 p.m. Pacific Time
Dr. Navarro arrived right on time, at the end of his shift as he had promised. He smiled cautiously as he announced that Sarah’s test results came back and looked pretty good. Three days in the hospital with plenty of rest and a carefully monitored diet, and Sarah was back on track, more or less. He was pleased but guarded. “Are you feeling strong enough to go home tomorrow, Mrs. Cook?” asked the quiet, contemplative physician. “I worry about you negotiating the stairs in your home. You told me they are hardwood and that makes me just a bit nervous.”
“I’ll be fine. Most of my family is in town, so I’ll have plenty of help.”
“Nonetheless, we’ll send someone to check in with you and take some more tests in a few days.”
Dr. Navarro stood. When he smiled, his lips formed a straight line across his face. He looked satisfied but not enthusiastic.
When he left the room, Emily checked her watch. “You think we should call him now?”
“Yes, he needs to know,” said Sarah matter-of-factly.
Reggie’s voice came through the speaker of Sarah’s phone, sounding tired. “Hi, Sarah. I wish I had some news for you—”
Emily jumped in. The nervous energy had made it difficult for her to sit still during Dr. Navarro’s visit. It also caused her to talk fast. “Never mind that, Agent Crabtree. Mr. Penh called me and told me that if I didn’t comply with his demands he would cut Rob’s fingers off. He has Rob. I heard him. He started to say something, but Penh cut him off. What should we do?”
Reggie drew in a breath and held it for a beat or two before exhaling. “Whoa. Let me see if I got all that. Penh called you? What exactly did he want you to do?”
Emily thought for a moment. When she spoke again, she consciously controlled the speed of her words. “He just said that I had better make sure Collin complied with his demands. I’m to remind Collin that he still wants his money back and Collin’s laptop. It’s weird how he thinks I’m able to contact Collin to tell him these things.” She paused to control the rising panic for Rob. “I haven’t heard anything from him for weeks. I don’t know what I can do. He’s going to hurt Rob if I don’t comply, but I don’t know how to comply. Can you help me, Agent Crabtree?”
An awkward pause followed. Emily could hear a muffled, whispered conversation taking place, she assumed with Agent McCoy.
“I’ve got an idea or two. Let me relay this information to the appropriate people and see what kind of a solution we can come up with. OK?”
****
Highway 145D, 300 miles southeast of Mexico City
June 17, 7:56 p.m. Local Time; 5:56 p.m. Pacific Time
“That’s the fourth one I’ve seen in two hours,” Butch said, poin
ting out the window at a military transport truck approaching from the opposite direction.
They had been on the road only two hours, ambling along on a northwesterly course toward Mexico City. Rolling green hills covered in trees were punctuated by lake-filled valleys on either side of the sparsely populated four-lane thoroughfare. Collin lay sleeping in the back of the truck on a bed of burlap bags and plastic tarps, catching up on some much-needed rest, while Riptide kept as alert as he could as he leaned up against the back of the cab in order to avail himself of what little air conditioning there was.
“Seems to be more than just a coincidence,” said Jorge grimly.
“Yeah, it would seem so. I’m calling it in,” said Butch as he handled his phone and searched for the number.
The pleasant voice of the young lady he had been dealing with the past few days answered in her usual calm but attentive style.
“We’ve got an unusual number of federal troop carriers on the road down here. Any ideas why?”
“At this point, we can’t be certain which battalions are loyal to the current government and which are working for Torres. Since the loyalists are fortifying the capital right now, perhaps it’s not too misguided to assume these units are rebels.”
“Have you heard from Mongoose or the other guys in Villahermosa?”
“I haven’t heard from them since I ordered the evac,” Carmen said. The familiar background noise, including key tapping, filled the otherwise silent void. “They aren’t responding to my texts, either.”
“Is that unusual?”
“With Mongoose it is. He’s almost always instant with his replies, especially when I’m asking him to check in. I’d better look into this. I’ll get back to you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Penh’s private jet, over the Pacific Ocean
