“Darla?”
“Nothing yet.”
Mason changed magazines and sent another barrage.
“I’ve got a bead,” Darla said.
Mason stopped firing and listened for the report of Darla’s handgun. A muted clap rang out.
“Affirm: he’s down.”
“Make sure he’s dead and conceal the body as best you can. We’re leaving in thirty seconds. Chip?”
“All set.”
Back at the van, he found Chip behind the wheel, ready to go. He looked through the driver’s side window and saw the duffels piled up next to Michaels. Excitement stirred. He was tempted to open one of them, but it could wait until they cleared the area.
“Darla, cruise out of here without speeding. Get eyes on Harbor Drive, we’ll be right behind you.”
“Copy.”
“Get going, Chip. Normal speed like Darla.” As inviting as it was to run, Mason walked over to his SUV. He knew the bodies would be discovered before too long, but he planned to be miles away by then. At best, a witness might be able to offer a general description of some vehicles leaving the marina, but Mason wasn’t concerned. The entire gun battle had taken less than two minutes.
Before getting behind the wheel, he scanned the area and didn’t see anyone watching him.
“Darla, Chip and I are mobile. Turn right at Harbor, left on Nimitz, then right on Rosecrans. Wait for us to catch up. Chip’s driving the van.”
“Copy.”
In his rearview mirror, Mason saw the prone forms of dead men stuffed under the parked cars and had mixed feelings. He hadn’t relished killing them, but if they were associated with Alisio, that made them complicit in murder, human trafficking, smuggling, and everything else illegal.
Three less scumbags walking the planet.
A pleasing thought, but he still felt unsatisfied. For scheming with a scumbag like Alisio, the South Koreans needed a bigger black eye. He made a U-turn, drove down to the wharf, and grabbed his M4 from the backseat.
After a quick look around, he climbed out, leveled the assault rifle at the closest fishing boat, and pulled the trigger.
With a tremendous roar, the M4 answered the call. A curved procession of spent brass flew into the water as he unloaded the entire magazine into a tight group at the waterline of the hull. Fiberglass splintered and cracked. Within a few minutes, that fishing boat would need a submarine for an inspection.
“Mason, you okay? I just heard gunfire.”
“Affirm, Chip, just indulging myself. I’m right behind you.” He felt relief when he turned onto Harbor and didn’t hear any sirens. Darla’s vehicle was gone, but he saw the van’s taillights just ahead.
Adrenaline stirred as he imagined what 300 million pesos looked like.
He’d know soon enough.
Traffic on Rosecrans was light, and Mason had no trouble spotting the van.
“Chip, I’ve got eyes on you,” Mason said. “Go east on the Eight.”
Both Chip and Darla copied they’d heard his transmission.
Now what? Michaels said he got the exchange location via a cell call about an hour after the delivery to the marina. But that assumed there hadn’t been a firefight. Mason didn’t have a lot of options at this point. He’d keep Michaels alive and hope the call came anyway. He didn’t think any of the South Koreans were alive to report the raid, but that didn’t mean whoever made the call about the exchange location wouldn’t learn of it. More proof that shit happens, thought Mason. At least he had 300 million state-of-the-art counterfeit pesos and had ruined Alisio’s deal—not the end of the world.
He passed the Econoline and the sedan and radioed for them to follow him onto eastbound I-8. He took the Hotel Circle exit, led them under the freeway over to the Fashion Valley mall, and pulled into the closest parking structure. He scanned the area for security patrols before driving up to the fourth level. At 0615, the parking structure was all but empty. To avoid drawing attention from a security patrol, Mason didn’t intend to be in here longer than a few minutes.
The three vehicles parked side by side in the middle of an open expanse of concrete. Mason asked about Top Hat’s status, and Chip relayed he was still unconscious.
With Darla at his side, Mason joined Hahn at the van’s rear bumper.
“Let’s have a look,” Mason said. He opened the double doors and pulled his knife. The image from Mullah Sanjari’s compound flitted through his mind. A box of cash, ripe for the taking but equally untouchable. Now, things were different. He’d earned this, and he didn’t feel any guilt having it.
He cut the plastic tie and pulled the two zippers apart.
What he saw astonished him.
He wasn’t looking at bundles of counterfeit pesos but worthless South Korean fashion magazines held together by parcel twine. Red-lipped models with seductive smiles sneered at him.
“What the fuck is this?” Chip asked.
Thinking the money might be underneath, Mason tore the top layer of magazines out and was rewarded with a second layer of equally worthless periodicals. He turned the bag over and dumped its contents on the concrete. Not a single bundle of pesos fell out.
Chip stepped forward and opened a second bag.
More magazines.
Mason opened a third and fourth and found the same thing. “Check the magazines,” he said. “Maybe the money’s inside.”
Darla reached down and grabbed a bundle from the ground. She cut the twine and thumbed through the pages. Nothing fell out but subscription cards. She got the same result with ten other bundles.
“Fuck!” Chip yelled.
Darla smacked the van’s side with an open hand.
“Now what?” Chip asked. “We’ve got shit.”
It was worse than that. Not only had they sacrificed their jobs, they were likely on the FBI’s most-wanted list. Murder, coupled with kidnapping, was a federal crime. At best, the three of them had around $100,000 stashed at the safe house, but that wasn’t going to last long. They could flee the country and scratch out a living for a few years, but that was a far cry from the lifestyle Mason had imagined.
“We can’t let Alisio get away with this,” Chip said.
“What if it wasn’t Alisio?” Darla offered. “Maybe it was the South Koreans, or even Ramiro.”
“You mean he set us up?” Hahn asked.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Mason said. “Right now, we’re out of here. Set an IED for ninety seconds. We’re torching the van.”
Mason thought about Darla’s question. It seemed outrageous. Why would Ramiro betray him, and why now? It didn’t make sense. Mason held Ramiro’s fate in his hands. Mason didn’t believe Ramiro would risk an agonizing death by double-crossing him. Ramiro was well aware of how horribly Special Agent Hutch had died. No way. It was far more likely the phony duffels were a sting to test Top Hat’s loyalty, and if so, there would be no follow-up call relaying the location of the real exchange. Thinking about it more, it answered lots of questions. The bottom line? It didn’t matter because the end result was the same: they had nothing.
“What about Michaels?” Chip asked.
“He’s worthless now.” Mason climbed in and put three bullets into Michaels’s head. The world won’t miss a low-life scumbag like you.
Anger flared toward the old man, but he knew that wasn’t fair. Beaumont had given him another chance when no one else would touch him. For that, he’d always be grateful. He knew Beaumont had cash and other liquid assets, but robbing the old man wasn’t an option. There were certain lines he simply wouldn’t cross.
One thing was certain, that slimy troll Alisio wasn’t off the hook. He pictured the asshole in his lavish lifestyle, complete with expensive cars and homes, wine and women, gold and jewels, suitcases of cash, and the smug certainty he was untouchable. The thought made Ma
son ill. One way or the other, he’d find a way to kill Alisio, with or without stealing his money. Vengeance was merely delayed, not finished. They’d survive off their reserve cash and use the downtime to plan another move against Alisio.
He looked at Darla and Chip. They needed to hear something positive, something to give them hope.
“Listen up, this is far from over. Alisio’s not getting away with this shit. We’re going to regroup at the safe house and come up with a new plan. We aren’t going to beat ourselves up, and we aren’t pulling a Thelma and Louise. None of us could’ve predicted this. I’m going to initiate contact with Ramiro and figure out our next move. Darla, you’re with me. Chip, you’re in the SUV. Let’s get going.”
CHAPTER 31
When Special Agent Mary Grangeland stepped out of her car in First Security’s parking lot, Nathan and Harv stared despite themselves. Granted, it hadn’t been all that long since Nathan had seen her, but Harv hadn’t laid eyes on her in several years. Her shoulder-length blond hair was tied in a ponytail. Gleaming in the morning sun, she looked amazing, her light-blue eyes intense. What was her secret? Somehow Grangeland managed to look younger than ever. In any case, it felt good to see their friend again.
“Oh, man . . . ” Nathan said under his breath.
“Amen to that.”
She rushed forward, wrapped Harv in a bear hug, and took the weight off her feet. Nathan smiled at seeing Grangeland suspended in Harv’s grasp. She let go of Harv and gave Nathan a tight hug as well.
They called her Grangeland, not Mary, because she liked it that way. Everyone had been calling her Grangeland since her freshman year in high school, even her teachers. Only her mother used her first name, and only when she was in trouble.
Dressed in khaki 5.11 Tactical pants and a white golf shirt with an embroidered FBI logo, SA Grangeland was the real deal. There was nothing artificial about her, physically or mentally. He and Harv trusted her with their lives—a litmus test for any friend. The reverse was also true; either of them would lay down his life for hers.
“I must say,” Nathan offered, “your clothes . . . They, uh . . . fit you well.”
Harv offered a low whistle.
She rolled her eyes. “Hasn’t our new chief of staff been here for three days . . . and nights?”
Nathan looked at Harv and shrugged as if asking: And her point is . . . ?
“Forget it,” she said.
“So how’ve you been?” Nathan asked. “When are they going to promote you to Fresno’s ASAC?”
“I hope never; I like working with guns, not pencils.”
Nathan exchanged another glance with Harv.
She narrowed her eyes.
Harv nudged him.
“Thank you, Harv.”
“Hungry?” Nathan asked.
“Starving. I was going to grab a bite on the way, but figured I’d wait for you guys.”
“Glad you did, but we have to pick a place with a pay phone nearby.”
“Lansing?”
“Yep. We’ve been hot racking on Harv’s office couch in two-hour shifts.”
“Sounds serious. I’m assuming we’re going on a bug hunt?”
“Kinda sorta . . . we don’t have our marching orders yet.”
“Who are the bad guys?”
“Private military contractors from OEF. Two very bad hombres and one equally bad mujer. We’re waiting on a return call from your boss.”
“Why is it every time your name gets thrown around, the chain of command goes out the window? I’m supposed to get my assignments from my ASAC, not the big cheese.”
“Lansing called you directly again?”
“He said to drop everything and get on the road to your office. He also said he’d handle all the quote, paperwork, unquote. Not only that, I’m to tell no one I’m down here.”
“Outstanding,” Nathan said. “It’s pretty clear he thinks you’re the perfect agent for the job. Consider it a compliment.”
“Either that or he thinks I’m expendable.”
“He doesn’t think that.”
She didn’t respond.
“Trust me: he doesn’t.”
“So,” Grangeland said, taking Nathan’s arm as they walked, “how’s our new chief of staff doing? It’s quite a promotion for her.”
Nathan saw no reason to BS with Grangeland; she wouldn’t respect it. “I put her in a difficult position. I asked her to delay reporting our activity to Lansing. He told me not to worry about Holly and that his trust in her hasn’t been compromised. Still, I probably should’ve handled things differently.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Yes.” Nathan took a moment to give Grangeland a quick summary of everything they knew to date. Grangeland was a good listener; he liked that about her.
“Are you two on the rocks?” she asked, returning to the subject of Holly.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? How can you not know?”
“Nate’s more worried than I am,” Harv said. “I’m certain Lansing told her to let things cool down a bit.”
“Let me guess: he doesn’t want his office smeared if things go south.”
“Partially, but it’s more than that,” Nathan said. “Something Lansing and I would never say to Holly.”
“Okay . . . ”
He looked at Harv, then back to Grangeland. “Physically, Holly’s not one hundred percent. She still walks with a slight limp. She’s riding a desk now.”
“Ouch.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. What I’m trying to say is, I’d never take her on a combat op against hardened OEF vets.”
“But you’re comfortable with me?”
“Absolutely, and Lansing is too. You’re here to help us get containment.”
“Containment . . . ”
“His word, not ours.”
“So it’s a dead-or-alive situation?”
Harv said, “He didn’t actually say it, but yeah, that’s the gist of it.”
“You guys don’t need me for that.”
“Not true, Grangeland,” Nathan said. “We’re thankful to have you. But to answer your question, Lansing assigned you to us.”
She stopped and faced them. “You guys didn’t ask for me?”
“We never got the chance. After Lansing said he insisted one of his people accompany us, we said there was only one agent we’d trust for this kind of thing. That’s when he told us you were already on the way.”
“He’d already chosen me.”
“Yes.”
“So I’m an FBI black-ops agent?”
“How do you feel about that?” Harv asked.
“I love it.”
Nathan smiled. He and Grangeland were kindred souls. “We’re in a holding pattern until we hear from him. All our tactical gear is packed up and ready to go, and our helicopter is sitting on the tarmac at Montgomery Field. We can be in the air within twenty minutes of getting the nod.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have a long flight. Spending several hours suspended above the ground inside a giant leaf blower isn’t my idea of fun.”
Harv half laughed. “A giant leaf blower?”
CHAPTER 32
Three hours into George Beaumont’s return flight to the West Coast, his first officer patched a phone call through to the cabin. Before leaving Ronald Reagan National, Beaumont had created a new voice mail recording with an emergency number to call if the situation was urgent. Well, Ramiro’s situation certainly qualified as urgent, and he wasn’t expecting a call from anyone else.
He picked up the phone and spoke two words. “Globular cluster.”
“Messier 22.”
Beaumont used the speaker feature so that he didn’t have to hold the handset. “Ramiro, we’ve
got a real shitstorm up here.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t call sooner. I don’t have much time. I’m on a pizza run for the gang. What’s going on?”
“Mason’s gone rogue.”
Ramiro didn’t respond for a long moment. “What do you mean, ‘gone rogue’?”
“He betrayed his oath.” Beaumont gave Ramiro a quick summary.
“This is seriously fucked up. I just got off the phone with him.”
“How long ago?”
“Shit, five minutes. I told him Alisio doesn’t trust his lieutenant in San Diego. There’s a new deal going down with new players, and Alisio set up a phony delivery. I just found out about it.”
“What’s your source? Alisio’s second lieutenant again?”
“Yeah, I’m dating the guy’s niece, and he totally trusts me. He told me someone tried to raid the fake delivery; everyone’s talking about it. Are you saying it was Mason?”
“Yes. Tell me everything you told him.”
Ramiro filled him in on the early morning’s events at Shelter Island, then paused. “Sorry. I’m just thinking. This news about Mason has me rattled.”
“Me too.”
“Anyway, the real duffels have already been delivered in the Coronado Cays to Alisio’s private residence. There’s a dock there big enough to berth the ROK yacht.”
“So they’re using the Yoonsuh again for this newest delivery?”
“Yes.”
“Is it guns?”
“No, counterfeit pesos.”
“Counterfeit pesos? How much?”
“Three hundred million. The North Korean paper stock is so realistic with all the security features and anticounterfeiting safeguards, it’s virtually real money. It even passes the ultraviolet test. Alisio’s paying twenty-five cents on the dollar for the funny money, but he’s gonna resell it on the streets for twice that. It’ll be easy to launder down here because the cash economy’s so bad. The South Koreans sent a small sample ahead of time, and we took it to the Banamex branch downtown. The teller tested it with a marker, used a black light, and held it up to see the watermark and then deposited it. It’s really good stuff. If this deal goes through successfully, the next shipment will be five times as big.”
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