He glanced down at what was apparently his outline. “So. Illicit Drug Trade 101. Running the show these days are Mexican drug trafficking organizations. You’ve heard ’em called cartels. We also call ’em DTOs. Bottom line is, no matter what we call ’em, they were a big problem and have become a huge problem. They’ve set up shop in 230 U.S. cities, and are now expanding into suburbs and rural areas.
“To put this in perspective, in the past three years, Mexico’s had over 18,000 drug-related murders. And the violence has started spilling onto U.S. soil. So let’s go through how these DTOs get their drugs into our country. California ports of entry are the cartels’ equivalent to an interstate highway that runs from Mexico into the U.S. The Arizona and Texas borders are just about as problematic. In California, Mexican cartels typically enter at or between the six land ports of entry along the U.S.-Mexican border: Andrade, Calexico East, Calexico West, Otay Mesa, San Ysidro, and Tecate.” He pointed at the map, beginning west at San Ysidro and moving east toward Calexico.
“You got the obvious, stuff you’ve probably been briefed on at some point: trucks and cars bringing the shit in, hidden away in secret compartments. These cartels are extremely motivated and very wealthy, so they find all sorts of ways to get their stuff across the border. Spend a day at any port of entry along the border with Customs and Border Protection officers, and you’ll see what I mean. Underneath the carriage, inside the dashboard, in the engine compartment, embedded in the seats, the tires. Name any part of a vehicle, we’ve probably seen it rebuilt or hollowed out and filled with drugs.
“Then you got drug mules, which you might’ve heard about. The cartels pay these people to carry drugs inside their bodies, in sausage link type packaging they swallow and then crap out when they get across. That is, if it doesn’t burst and kill ’em before they reach their target. Or they carry the shit strapped to their bodies, in huge backpacks, across the desert or through the mountains. Real rough terrain. A lot of ’em don’t make it. A lot of ’em do. May I?” He pointed at the large map hanging on the wall near the window.
“Go for it,” Dixon said.
“You got a U.S. map?”
“Flip it. Third one down.”
Turino did as instructed and found the chart he needed. He pulled a pen from his pocket and slapped the point against the map. “A majority of the illicit drugs coming into the U.S. are now crossing over the Arizona border. Right here.” He indicated an area south of Tucson. “Problem is most of this border is wide open. No rivers or other natural barriers. Checkpoints only in the larger cities or along the major highways in and out. Actually, a lot of the border only has chicken-wire fencing, if that. Maybe sensors. But that’s it. The border’s more heavily regulated in bigger towns, so the mules take the routes of least resistance. Makes sense.” He glanced up. “Any questions?”
“Yeah,” Brix said. “How much are we talking about? I mean, so you got some poor guy you’re paying to ferry drugs across the desert or on a plane. How much is he really gonna be able to carry, inside or outside his body?”
“Limited only by their imagination. Backpacks if they’re coming across land. If they’re coming on foot through a port of entry, or even on a plane, they’ll stuff it in their underwear, their bras, or strap it to their bodies. They wear oversize clothing or baggy jeans to conceal it. Typically, a mule can hold up to 800, 900 grams, and maybe even a little more. They pack the coke into wax-coated condoms that the mule then swallows. Sometimes they use large capsules—10 to 20 grams per capsule, depending on the person. They practice swallowing large grapes whole until they can get 50 to 70 of them into their bodies. They ingest them prior to boarding the plane or crossing the border, then crap ’em out at the other end. But the measures we’ve got in place at airports—scanners, dogs, X-rays—nab a lot of ’em. Like I said, though, the capsules or condoms sometimes open and these people have gotta be rushed to a hospital for emergency surgery. A lot of ’em OD and die.”
Dixon asked, “How much do they get paid for that?”
“Not a whole lot. Two to three grand, maybe even less.”
“And what does it net the cartel?” Gordon asked.
Turino bobbed his head. “Twenty to twenty-five grand. Per kilo.”
Vail piped in through the speaker. “How much can they carry outside their bodies?”
“That’s a much bigger issue, from a law enforcement point of view. The land-based border. You might not believe it, but like the rest of us, they also ship their products in FedEx and UPS packages. Then you’ve also got trucks, tractor trailers, and containers. Not to mention maritime—boats, fishing trollers—”
“They’re also using submarines,” DeSantos said.
Turino pointed at the RoundTable screen. “Yes. That’s a fairly recent thing. Semi-submersible vessels. But a far more dangerous threat, because of the volume they can move, is subterranean tunnels. It’s a trick they borrowed from Hamas in Gaza. These tunnels can be anything from large diameter PVC pipes to well-engineered concrete structures equipped with electricity, ventilation, and rails for moving mining-type carts. Bad news is our GPR—ground penetrating radar—can’t find these tunnels unless they’re right below the surface, and they’re usually much deeper than that.
“But by far, most of the drugs coming into the U.S. flow across the Arizona and California borders. San Diego’s particularly bad, with San Ysidro and Tijuana leading the way. Ciudad Juárez/El Paso is another hotspot that’s gotten a lot worse and more violent lately. There aren’t any rivers to cross in these areas, so it’s an ideal place to transport your load into the U.S.”
“Isn’t this whole goddamn thing simple supply and demand?” Brix asked. “I mean, we’re a big part of the problem. If we’d stop buying this shit, the cartels would be out of business.”
“Good luck with that one,” Mann said, almost a grumble.
Turino nodded his head animatedly. “Exactly right, Redd. The U.S. is one of the largest consumers of illicit drugs in the world. And 90 percent of the coke entering the U.S. from Colombia comes in through Mexico. That’s why the Mexican cartels there have become so much of a problem for us.”
He stepped up to the U.S. map he’d pulled. “Take a closer look at the border regions we talked about a minute ago.” Tipped his head back, found an area, and pointed a finger. “A lot of it is reservation land. And that’s been a big fucking problem for us. Because a criminal band of Native Americans facilitate the drug trade.”
“Native Americans? How’s that work?” Mann asked.
“Pretty damn well, actually. You got mostly barbed wire along the reservation’s border with Mexico. Not much of a deterrent—especially if you’ve got willing partners on the other side of the wire. And the smugglers are most definitely willing partners.”
“Unbelievable,” Gordon said.
“Gets better.” Turino pressed a finger against the map. “See this here? The Tohono O’odham Nation territory has been a longtime problem for us. It’s huge,” he said as his hand traced the almost circular shape of the land, which covered a substantial portion of the Mexico/Arizona border. “Roughly the size of the state of Connecticut, 2.8 million acres.”
“The size of Connecticut?” Vail asked over the speaker. “This is reservation land within the state of Arizona?”
“Right. And they’ve got only about eighty cops to cover nearly 3 million acres. You can see the problem. Mules can literally drive up to the border in trucks and hand over kilos of drugs across the barbed wire fence. Cartel-backed criminal bands of Native Americans take the handoff and drive it to their buildings for storage before it’s transported into Tucson or Phoenix in a stolen van. The locals like it because they get a thousand bucks or more per load. It’s good money and a lot of ’em are unemployed.”
Dixon blew air out her lips. “What are you guys doing about it?”
“We’ve beefed up our presence. The smugglers use radios with rolling codes and watch Border Patrol with night visi
on equipment so they can see when it’s clear for them to move their loads. Border Patrol’s countered with trucks outfitted with infrared cameras that can detect heat signatures. Bottom line, the land’s in danger of turning into a militarized zone. But even with that, last year alone was a record year. Over 160 tons of marijuana were seized—and that’s only what we caught.”
“Don’t be fooled by marijuana,” DeSantos said. “The people trying to legalize it? Be careful what you wish for. Pot may seem harmless to some, but it’s really the driving force behind the whole illicit drug trade. The cartels use the profit from pot to buy coke in Colombia as well as the ingredients for making meth and heroin.”
DeSantos’s image enlarged as he leaned closer to the webcam. “Take it a step closer to home. Almost half the foreign terrorist organizations—which are involved in investigations with a validated terrorist link—have ties to the drug trade and are responsible for our country’s illicit drug supply. Groups like the FARC, the AUC, and the ELN in Colombia. And the proceeds from drug trafficking end up with groups like Hezbollah and Hamas. So in a perverse way, like Detective Brix said, the American drug user is the single largest funder of terrorism in the Western Hemisphere.”
“Drugs aren’t the only problem with these cartels,” Turino said. “People. Lots of human smuggling, too.”
There was a collective sigh from the task force. They leaned back in their seats, sensing the enormity of the situation. Everyone in the room had been briefed at one point or other about some aspect of the war on drugs. But Turino’s presentation, and the fact that it was hitting close to home, made it suddenly more real—and overwhelming in scope.
“Biggest problem is that once they get these drugs into the United States, no matter how or where, they’re transported on our freeways—Interstates 5, 8, 10, 15, 19, 805—they link the southwest smuggling routes to drug markets throughout the United States.”
“I’m beginning to reassess my view of whether or not we can win the war on drugs,” Mann said.
“Can’t think of it that way,” Turino said. “Every operation is a battle. You grab up a bad guy and take a kilo of coke off him, that’s one less kilo of coke going into your child’s nose. Or vein. That’s how we do it. One battle at a time. I’ve devoted my life to it.”
“You mentioned Operation Velocity,” Dixon said. “What is it, who’s running it?”
“It’s a DEA op. We’ve got plans in place for a nationwide sweep that’ll involve the Mexican military, FBI, ATF, and ICE. If our recent estimates are anywhere near reality, we think we should be able to take a shitload of drugs out of circulation. A couple thousand pounds of meth, two to three thousand kilos of coke, dozens of pounds of heroin, tens of thousands of pounds of high-potency marijuana. And that doesn’t even include the weapons we’ll get off the street. If all goes as planned, we figure we’ll be able to grab up between two and three thousand traffickers, cartel members, and money launderers.”
“Two or three thousand?” DeSantos asked.
“A lot of ’em in Mexico, but several hundred here in the States, too. It’s one of the most important ops in DEA history, so we gotta make sure all goes as planned. We can’t afford any fuckups. Sebastian—Agent Sebastiani de Medina—was playing a key role in opening up avenues to drugs, traffickers, and money launderers we didn’t even know existed. It looked like TFO Hernandez was going to get us in close to the part of the operation we hadn’t yet penetrated. We’ve done a quick and dirty assessment, and as far as we can tell, the op hasn’t been compromised.”
“Speaking of Robby,” Vail said, “where do you suggest we start looking for him?”
DeSantos’s phone sang a whale song. “Excuse me.” He reached down and turned away from the webcam.
Turino sucked on his front teeth a moment, then turned back to the map. He folded tattooed arms across a hairy chest peppered with gray. “I’m not sure there’s a good answer to that. We’ve really got nothing to suggest it’d be any one of a hundred different potential hot spots.” He studied the map some more.
“I think we should go to San Diego,” DeSantos said, cell phone still in hand. “I just got a call from one of my . . . people. There’s been a tremendous amount of cartel activity out of San Ysidro the past year and a half. Assassinations, kidnappings, beheadings. And Carlos Cortez’s main residence is in a San Diego suburb. My guy says that’s where we should look first. His house.”
“Good enough for me,” Vail said. She nudged DeSantos in the arm. “Can you get us on the next flight out?”
“We don’t have time for that.” DeSantos leaned forward, which distorted the features of his face and nearly shifted him off-screen. He lifted Vail’s telephone handset, then tucked it between his neck and shoulder. “Let me see if I can scare up a military transport. Or—” he lowered the receiver and said, “Turino. You guys get confiscated shit all the time.” He lifted his cell phone and started to press keys. “You’ve gotta have a jet. I’ll give Yardley a call—”
“No need,” Turino said. “We picked up a Lear 60XR during a raid last year. A real beauty. Find yourself a pilot and you’re good to go. If you fly it right, you’ll probably make it without a refueling stop.”
“Probably?” Vail asked.
“We’ve used it a few times for stuff like this,” Turino said, passing over her comment. “Very easy on the department’s budget.”
“Don’t need to search too hard for a pilot,” DeSantos said. “You’re looking at one. If you can give Yardley a shout to alert the ground crew, we’ll see you in a few hours.”
Vail reached forward and their screen went dark.
Mann logged off the teleconference session.
Turino folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heels. “I saw in your file that you’ve been working with the Napa Special Investigations Bureau on the Crush Killer case.”
“Right,” Brix said. “NSIB provides support and overflow investigative functions, but their main purpose is narcotics investigation and enforcement. As soon as we were informed about Superior Mobile’s operation, I alerted them.”
“Before I left the office to come here,” Turino said, “we got a call from them. I’d like to have two of you consider staying behind, working with NSIB to monitor the status of César Guevara and Superior Bottling. You’d be our liaisons.”
“You sure?” Dixon said. “That leaves us a bit thin.”
“With Vail and DeSantos on board, we’ll be fine. For a mobile unit, it’s easier logistically to get around.”
Brix turned to Dixon. “Your call.”
Dixon’s eyes canted toward the ceiling as she leaned back in her chair. “Redd, you and Burt. Stay here, coordinate with NSIB and DEA.”
Brix and Gordon indicated their agreement with her decision.
“Okay then,” Turino said. “We’ve got a lot to do before our colleagues from Quantico arrive. And we’ve gotta get down south, too.” He flipped his folder closed. “Redd, see if you can get us booked on a flight down to San Diego. Everyone else, do you have go packs in your trunk?”
Mann did, the others did not.
“Fine. Pack a bag for three days and meet back here in one hour. No later.”
Brix pulled out his cell. “I’ll get us some transportation to the airport, too.”
Turino lifted the handset of the conference room phone. “See you all in an hour, sharp.” He twisted his wrist, stole a look at his watch, and said, “Let’s do it.”
PART 3
ACCELERATION
A puddle of urine covered one corner of the bare cement floor. Across the room, the captive lay curled in a ball to conserve heat. His thoughts were confused, his brain devoid of the necessary fuel to keep the mind churning out the impulses that fired neurons and formed images. Two days without food or water would do that to you. Especially when coupled with what he had endured during that time.
The duress his body had been subjected to was equal to techniques the CIA had used in
the farthest reaches of Afghanistan and Iraq during wartime. He had the scars to prove it—emotional as well as physical.
Roberto Umberto Enrique Hernandez was a man of the law. That’s what he kept telling himself. Though he was determined to withstand anything his captors could put forth, the truth was, he had no choice. And he knew it. But accepting the abuse and succumbing to it were two different things. He needed to find a way out, and if there was one thing he had in abundance, other than pain, it was time to ponder potential escape scenarios. Yet nothing of practical value had come to him. And no opportunity had presented itself.
Undercover work was new to him. He knew about it from his everyday work as a detective, but that kind of exposure was like reading how to fire a gun versus actually holding one in your hands, pulling the tension from the trigger, locking your shoulder, and sending the projectile hurtling through the air toward its target. Some things you could learn from a book. Others required the practical experience of trial and error.
Undercover work, he surmised, was like that. But trial and error in this line of work could get you killed.
He was given a private crash course with a retired undercover before leaving for California, but sitting in a room in a briefing is not as efficient as living and learning, experiencing and absorbing over a period of time—a break-in period of sorts.
But he did not have that luxury. He knew the type of people he would be facing: the kind he encountered growing up in a Los Angeles neighborhood that was as far removed from Beverly Hills and Hollywood as is a minnow from a shark on the evolutionary chain.
Robby’s drive to succeed, to excel in life and in his career, had brought him to this place. There was no one to blame—not even himself. If presented with the same opportunity tomorrow, he would seize it without reservation.
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