Turino stepped forward, shaking his head vigorously. “They bring dozens of people across and pack them into what we call ‘drop houses.’ They strip them down to their underwear and beat them, threaten them with pistols. It’s all about control.”
Vail nodded. Exactly.
Jordan said, “They either occupy abandoned homes or they rent ’em out on the cheap from distressed owners who’re happy to be getting something, rather than nothing. The owners have no idea how their house is being used. It’s been a huge issue in Phoenix, and now we’ve got it here.”
“If you know the location of these vacant houses, why don’t you just raid ’em?” Mann asked.
Jordan held up the sheaf of papers, as if that explained everything. “There are literally thousands.”
Vail knew no further explanation was needed for those in the room. Law enforcement was stretched to its limits as it was, and committing substantial resources to search thousands of homes was not feasible. Complicating the matter was that they could check a hundred houses, only to have a cartel move into one of the ones they had just cleared.
“There’s no way to monitor all the homes that go vacant,” Turino said. “And it’s too profitable, so the problem isn’t going away on its own. Some of the cartels have also taken to storing their drug caches in these houses. We’ve found entire marijuana grows and processing factories in several of them.”
Vail’s eyes found the Clover Creek map. A wave of impatience hit her like a blow to the back of her neck. She blurted, “Agent Jordan, you said you had something for us.”
“I do,” Jordan said. “I do. One somewhat effective way of combating this drop house problem is by using surveillance and phone traps. In some cases, judges have denied us, but we kept at it, and finally got one to sign off on a wiretap warrant.”
“You heard something,” Dixon said.
“Oh, yeah. They’ve got a house packed with illegals and one of them is from a family in Carlsbad that’s got some money. Once the cartel found out who they had, they went ape-shit. Lots of chatter starting yesterday afternoon. We picked up on it and dispatched a UC to do surveillance, then got a search warrant. This morning, they seemed to be talking about something else, something bigger. ‘A major asset.’”
DeSantos poked his glasses with a finger and again pushed them up the bridge of his nose. “How good is your undercover? These cartels, they’re wise to that shit.”
“No worries. Our guys are good. They’re out there doing survey work on the road down the block from the house. So we know which one it is. They’ve located two of the phone parties, one at the house and one a few miles away.”
“If it’s illegals, wouldn’t ICE be running the show?” Vail asked, referring to Immigration and Customs Enforcement. “Don’t you need illicit drugs to be involved?”
“We have reason to believe they’re using the garage as a marijuana processing plant,” Jordan said. “ICE has been notified, and they’ll be going in with us. Along with SWAT, who’s been doing their surveillance of the house: they’ve shot aerial photos, assembled a floor plan, sketched out an entry strategy. They’re ready to move. Given the possibility that this ‘major asset’ could be your TFO, I think we should move now, rather than later this evening, when it was planned.”
“I don’t know about this,” Turino said.
“Did I miss something?” DeSantos asked. “This is good shit. ‘A major asset’ could be Roberto Hernandez.”
“Not likely,” Turino said. “I know these cartels. They’re not holding Hernandez for ransom, I can guarantee you that much.”
“But,” DeSantos said, “even if it’s not Hernandez, there could be a cartel lieutenant in there who can be squeezed. Right now, we got nothing. If we rattle the bush . . . ”
“Fact is, there’s no direct evidence Hernandez is being held in that house,” Turino said. “I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.”
DeSantos pulled up a chair and sat down facing Mann, Dixon, and Vail. “Look. These cartels, they’re like the terrorists I track every day. They talk in code. There’s no way for us to be sure of anything. But this is what the DEA does. In the drug world, there are none better at putting two and two together. And right now Agent Jordan is telling us it’s adding up to four. No guarantees, but I think we’ve got something worth tracking down here.”
“I agree,” Jordan said.
Vail sat down beside DeSantos. “There’s something else. That map,” Vail said, indicating the rear projection screen. “We got a hit on a twenty where that photo was taken, the one we took from Cortez’s house. I asked Microsoft for help and their analysis located it nearby, about an hour from here. There are three Indian reservations: Mesa Grande, Los Coyotes, and—”
“Clover Creek,” Jordan said with a knowing nod. “Makes sense. Lots of rough, desolate terrain. We’ve seen an uptick in smuggling activity there, especially the past ten, eleven months. We’ve gone in and raided some meth labs, but the problems there run a lot deeper.”
“So,” DeSantos said, “we’ve got two potential leads. Both could lead somewhere and both could lead nowhere. But we need to vet both.”
Vail closed her eyes. She couldn’t be in two places at once. “All right. We split up. Some go to Clover Creek, some to this drop house.” She crooked her head toward Turino. “You okay with that?”
“There’s a team ready to move on the drop house, so actually you can all go to Clover Creek.”
“No,” Vail said. “I’ll go with you to the drop house.”
Turino held up a hand in protest. “That’s not necess—”
“We’ll need transportation,” Dixon said, eyeing the map.
“Done,” Jordan said. “Meet me downstairs in the lobby in five.” He grabbed the knob and yanked open the door.
Vail bit down on her lip, then rose quickly from her seat. “Keep me posted, Hector. If you find out anything—proof of life . . . or death—I want to know ASAP.”
DeSantos winked at her. “You’re already on speed dial.”
67
Robby pried open his left eye, then the right. His head—a throbbing mass of pain mounted atop his shoulders—bobbed as he feebly pushed himself upright. He stopped, the pounding worsening as his heart kicked into higher gear to pump against gravity.
Outside the shack—or shed—or wherever he was being held—voices rambled on in Spanish. Anger . . . restrained . . . though now that the headache eased a bit, he realized it was a heated discussion. Not anger, but disagreement.
He rolled slowly onto his knees and crawled closer to the voices. Sat back against the wood wallboard. Listened. His Spanish was fluent—truly a second language—and even in its trampled state, his brain translated on the fly—at least, the parts he could make out.
“Wants him moved—now.”
Second voice, which he could now identify in his sleep: Ernesto Escobar. “I’ll get him.” Jangling of keys, then the metallic click of a tumbler sliding and shifting.
Robby looked up as the door cracked open. A flashlight sliced inward, falling across his face and forcing him to turn away and clamp his eyes closed.
“Up,” Escobar said. “Time to go.”
“Where?” Robby asked, not making any effort to move.
“You’re not in any position to ask questions, amigo.”
Robby couldn’t argue with that. Still, he knew the tenets of safety: when kidnapped, do everything you can to resist at the outset and don’t assume your fortunes will improve. When they had taken him and had a pistol shoved against his head back in Napa, he figured they were more likely to kill him than pour him a glass of water. Resisting at that point was not wise.
But at the moment, in the darkness at least, Escobar had no visible weapon—not the sparkly handgun nor the blood-tinged knife. While neither was likely far from his reach, it was perhaps far enough away—tucked in a belt or a shoulder holster—that Robby might have a split second advantage. Escobar likely felt he had wea
kened Robby to such an extent that he did not have the strength to resist. That was not far from the truth. But when his life depends on it, a determined human being is capable of mustering energy and resources no one knows he has.
So Robby made an effort to appear slow and uncoordinated as he rolled onto his knees, while positioning himself in such a manner that he could launch himself at Escobar. He’d become a human mass that, hopefully, would strike his captor forcefully enough to hyperextend his knees and cause debilitating pain.
“Let’s go,” Escobar said.
Now on all fours, Robby glanced to his right at Escobar’s shoe tops. It was time.
68
A black SUV ferried the task force, minus Vail and Turino, toward Clover Creek. Meanwhile, in the darkness of a low-income suburban neighborhood devoid of the orange hue of sodium vapor streetlights, Vail joined Turino and the geared-up DEA and SWAT teams in the sally port of the San Diego Police Department’s Broadway headquarters.
Normally DEA ran its own raids, but given the potential level of violence, SWAT had been called in to run the tactical op. As before, once the area was secured, DEA would assume control of the scene and begin its own drug discovery and evidence collection operation. In this case, due to the presence of the illegal immigrants, Immigration and Customs Enforcement—ICE—was invited to join the raid. However, because of the speed with which the warrant was being executed, ICE would be following a short time after SWAT made entry. The ICE commander was not pleased with the decision to move without their concurrent participation, but understood the urgency.
Vail and Turino, traveling in the SUV they’d picked up at the airport, followed SWAT’s Bearcat and rapid deployment vehicle, as well as DEA’s tactical truck.
Wheels hugged asphalt as the vehicles swerved in tandem around tight corners and traversed the miles in the shortest distance between two points—though their trip didn’t involve a crow and the route it flew.
SWAT pulled to a stop at a predetermined location in a parking garage one mile from the house, not far off the 805, near Palm Avenue. Vail was familiar with the procedure. The team would check in with undercover operatives to determine if they still green-lighted the operation—that no unusual activity had been noted—and to confirm that the cartel members they were targeting were still in the house. If the mission was still a “go,” the agents would move in with the speed and thirst of a shark in bloody waters.
Turino sat behind the wheel, his knuckles white, leaning forward in his seat.
“You might want to loosen your grip, Guy, or you’ll squeeze right through the vacuum sealed plastic steering wheel.”
“There’s a lot at stake here. I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing.”
“Robby could be in there. Your agents have had wiretaps in place. We’re moving a few hours early, is all. What’s the big deal?”
Turino hesitated a moment before answering. “The potential for collateral damage is very high. These cartels, they couldn’t give a shit who gets caught in the crossfire.” He craned his head around into the darkness, eyes narrow and face taut. “The halcones make it very dangerous.”
“Halcones. Spanish for . . . ”
Turino’s eyes kept moving. “Cartels rely on a network of street informants. Taxi drivers, bus drivers, storefront owners. Shit, even teenagers. They’re called halcones, or falcons. Their job is counterintelligence, to be the lookout for the arrival of law enforcement. Started in Mexico and it’s spilled onto U.S. streets where the traffickers are operating. If they see us and know we’re headed for their drop house, they’ll either jump ship if there’s time—or deploy for a firefight. When we circle around back, they could be in a neighbor’s yard, waiting to ambush us.”
Vail’s son Jonathan flashed through her mind. She suddenly wondered if she’d made the wrong choice—going to the reservation would’ve been vastly safer. And the DEA team certainly could’ve handled this op without her, as Turino had suggested. Still, if Robby is being held here . . .
Turino tapped the wheel. He leaned forward, spied his colleagues in the truck. “C’mon, guys,” he whispered. “Make a decision.”
A crackle over his radio. “Green. Repeat, green. Ready to execute.”
Turino lifted the two-way from his belt. “Roger that.” He dropped the radio to the seat between his thighs, threw the SUV into drive, and glanced at Vail. “You ready?”
She pulled her Glock and held the cold metal in both hands, gaining strength and comfort from its stopping power. “You heard the man. Ready to execute.”
69
Robby took a deep breath and pushed his left bare foot against the wall of the shed and sprung his body to the right, into Escobar’s thigh. But he lacked strength and there wasn’t sufficient distance to build enough momentum to do any damage. He glanced off the man’s lower leg and fell pathetically behind his captor. Robby was about to reach out and grab, swing, knock—anything rather than be subjected to another boot in the face.
But before he could get hold, the sound of nearby machine gun fire snatched Escobar’s attention. He bolted outside, leaving the wood door swinging on its hinges, unlocked.
Unlocked. Robby crawled forward on his elbows, fought to bring himself to his knees and then to all fours. He moved to the door and lifted his head. The glare from a halogen spotlight blasted his eyes and brought an instant headache. Best he could see—his night vision was now virtually destroyed by the intensity of the radiant beam—he was in the backyard of a house. Homes all around him—a development of some sort.
His internal voice told him to get up, get out, get away.
Machine gun fire, mixed with the rapid staccato of automatic pistols, blared in the near vicinity.
He saw Escobar off to the far left, in shadow. In retreat.
And twenty feet away, two men toting heavy metal weapons moved confidently into the yard, firing from their shoulders.
Robby stumbled forward, out of the shed and onto concrete. The unmistakable odor of cordite stung his nose. He slammed his face against the side of the structure, scraping his skin against the rough grain of the wood siding, his fingers crawling along its edge, trying to keep himself steady, his body erect . . . hoping the rounds zipping by would somehow miss him.
Then the gunfire stopped. But Robby kept moving—until four hands grabbed his clothing, his shoulders, and yanked him back, away from the shed.
“No,” he said feebly. “No—”
70
Shots fired!” the voice blurted over the radio.
Vail grabbed the two-way off Turino’s seat. “Gunfire? From us?” “Negative,” came the filtered, rushed reply.
As they approached the drop house, Vail heard the unmistakable rhythmic drumming of a submachine gun. The SWAT RDV screeched to a stop at the curb. Turino’s SUV followed a second later, its headlights splashing across the tactical van’s sparse white backside. The doors flung apart and officers leaped out, planted, and pivoted toward the house.
Their deployment was far quicker than their mission plans had outlined. Vail was sure their strategies were now being rewritten on the fly.
She was out of the SUV before it stopped moving. The momentum threw her balance off, and she fell back against the car. She quickly regained her footing, then ran toward the fray.
“Karen!” Turino said.
Vail pulled up to the two-story chocolate brown and cream-trimmed stucco house as the mission leader was running a light over the doorframe, checking for signs of booby traps.
“Clear,” he yelled.
Glock in front of her, Vail nudged the man aside and kicked open the door. She was inside before he could stop her.
The interior was nearly dark, but white beady eyes blinked at her from all directions.
“FBI!” she said, her pistol swinging left to right, pointed at the long, drawn faces staring back at her.
An angry mission leader entered, his MP-5 at the ready—in full gear. His tactical light scanned the d
arkness, showing half-naked men packed shoulder to shoulder, seated on the floor.
Vail shoved her nose into the crook of her elbow to mask the fetid odor of human feces and urine that pervaded what passed as air.
“Jesus Christ,” Turino said as he entered. He quickly ducked out the front door. “Get some lights on in there,” Vail heard him say to an approaching SWAT officer.
“Dondé está el jefe?” Vail yelled into the darkness.
An overhead stairwell light came on.
A mass of humanity sat packed into the living room to the right, the family room to the left, the hallway ahead of her, the staircase twenty feet away—there was no free space in which to walk.
She tried a different question, in English. “Who’s in charge here?”
The faces stared blankly at her. Too weak to respond? Or too afraid. Even though Turino had briefed them on the nature of these drop houses, she hadn’t been prepared for what lay before her.
“Is there anyone here who can answer some questions?” Vail said. Still no response. “You’re not in any trouble. We’re here to help you find your loved ones, to take you away from these people. But you need to tell me where they are.”
No response.
“Do you know their names? The people holding you.”
“Grunge,” a woman’s voice said.
Vail’s eyes frantically scanned the faces, hoping to find the person who had answered. “Grunge,” Vail repeated. “Anyone else? Is there only one of them? It’s important you tell me. If you want us to help you, I have to know.”
“Roger that.” Turino came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. “Out back,” he said by her ear. “You need to see this.”
71
Vail stood in the yard staring at the shed, partially illuminated by the spotlight. The structure measured no more than twelve feet square, but her mind was already manufacturing what might lie inside.
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