Velocity kv-3

by Alan Jacobson

  The man shifted his body in the seat but kept his gaze focused on the windshield, occasionally rotating his head or shifting his eyes between the front and side windows. “Does the name Sandiego Ortega mean anything to you?” he finally said.

  Robby grinned. “Diego Ortega was my friend, when I was young.” “He was, I know. He thought a lot of you.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  The man reached into his pocket and removed a protein bar. He tore it open and handed it across the seatback to Robby, who struggled to maneuver it in his handcuffed grip. He brought it toward his mouth and hungrily attacked the food.

  “Easy, easy. When you haven’t eaten in days, you can throw up. And I don’t feel like driving the rest of the way with vomit in my car.”

  “Why are you helping me?” Robby asked again, his voice muffled as he chewed on the food.

  “Diego told me you moved, after your uncle was killed. He said he missed you. He was angry at first, because he didn’t understand why you would leave him.”

  “Wasn’t my idea. When my uncle was murdered, I didn’t have a choice. I went to live with my mother back east.” He took another bite of the bar, chewing quickly in case the man changed his mind and yanked it away.

  “It changed his life, your leaving. Not for the better.”

  “Why would anything I did change his life?”

  “Your uncle was like a father to him, his house a sanctuary. When Diego was there, he could escape.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  The man reached up and clicked the overhead light, then turned toward Robby. His face was now partially visible, exposed in muted hues with dark shadows exaggerating his features.

  Robby stopped chewing and stared.

  “Because, Robby, I am Diego.”

  Robby fought to sit upright, but his efforts failed. “Diego—”

  “It is good to see you, Robby. We have much to talk about, but we can’t do it with Willie here.”

  “Willie?”

  “Willie Quintero, one of Villarreal’s inside guys. He doesn’t know our relationship. If he finds out, we will both be killed.” Diego turned off the dome light, then craned his neck to look outside. “Finish your bar before he comes back. I’ve gotta get us some gas.” He climbed out and moved around to the pump, sorted it out and shoved the hose into the tank. The front door popped open and Diego stuck his head inside. “I think you know you were being held by the Cortez drug cartel. And I think you know they were going to kill you.”

  “That was becoming clear, yeah.”

  “Word of your cover being blown spread. Cortez made no secret that he had a federal agent and that he was going to make an example of you. He said it was time to stop fearing the U.S. federales, that he was going to change our thinking. Just like he did in Mexico. He has plans, big plans for the U.S.”

  “That doesn’t explain your involvement.”

  “I’m with the Villarreal cartel. You asked how your leaving could’ve changed my life. When you left, I had nowhere to go that was safe. My father . . . I never told you this, but he used to . . . ” Diego took a deep breath, his gaze wandering around the interior. “Let’s just say I couldn’t stay there.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Robby pushed himself up onto his left elbow. “If you feel comfortable telling me.”

  The pump clicked off. Diego stepped away, handled the gas hose, then got back into the passenger seat and closed the door. “He abused me, Robby. Sexual stuff. That’s all I want to say about it.”

  Robby knew admitting that took a lot of courage on his friend’s part, and he let the issue drop. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t want you to know. Hard for a boy to admit that shit. I couldn’t tell anyone. But that’s why staying at your place was so important. It was the only way I could escape that fucker. When you moved, I went to Mexico. Ran away. I had nothing, no clothes, no money. I joined a gang to survive. Eventually I graduated to the cartel. Paid good, gave me a life I could be proud of.”

  “You’re proud of what you do?”

  “I was.”

  “I came back,” Robby said. “To LA. I lived in Burbank, joined the LAPD. Because of my uncle.”

  Diego nodded, thought a moment, then said, “Have you ever told anyone? About your uncle? About what you did?”

  Robby looked away.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Diego said.

  “I couldn’t. Just like you couldn’t tell anyone about your father.”

  Diego turned to face him. “It’s not the same. And the sooner you can admit that, the sooner your soul will be cleansed.”

  Robby chuckled. “You’re telling me about cleansing my soul?”

  “I found God, Robby. I’m a changed person.”

  Robby studied his friend’s face. “You’re serious.”

  “The Sandiego Ortega that Willie Quintero and the rest of the cartel members know is no longer. He’s dead to me.”

  “Bullshit. Didn’t you just hose those guys in that yard, back at the house?”

  “That was Willie. I was shooting, yeah, but I was aiming low and wide.”

  “Come on, man. How long do you think you can survive in this cartel with your newfound religion?”

  “I can’t.” Diego turned away. “The minute they ask me to blow somebody away, I’m going to have to refuse, and they will then kill me. I won’t just be useless to them, I’ll be a liability. I know too much. I know a lot.”

  “Then we’ve both gotta get out of here.” Robby tried again to sit up but couldn’t negotiate the maneuver in the small backseat. He held up his cuffed wrists. “Unhook me. Now.”

  “It’s too dangerous. I sold the idea to my boss that you’re worth more to him in credits with the DEA. But the real reason is that if I get you out, you have to take me with you. I will confess to one killing. They will probably want to send me to prison, I understand that.”

  “You’ll be killed. The cartel, they’ll find you.”

  Diego leaned close, across the backseat. In a hushed voice, he said, “I’ll be in witness protection, hermano. I will testify, give them money launderers here in the U.S., tell them how the cartel moves their product. Who helps, what businesses and individuals clean the money. I know a lot of shit about Cortez, too.”

  “Witness protection or not, I’m sure you realize the danger inv—”

  “I can take care of myself, hermano, no worries. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “Me?”

  “If we’re going to do this, you need to confess, too. Make right with the Lord.”

  Robby jolted backward, as if burned by a stove. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.” His gaze turned dark and hard. “Don’t insult me.” He waited and when Robby did not respond, Diego tightened his lips. “If you’re going to play games, the deal’s off. I’ll find my own way into custody. I’m giving you a way out, Robby—for both of us.”

  Robby ground his molars. He knew what Diego was referring to. Fourteen years ago, Robby’s uncle was shaken down by a Los Angeles gang running a protection ring. That his uncle would land on their radar was something Robby never understood. His convenience store made, at best, a modest profit. Regardless, his uncle made the payment for several years, until the store fell on hard times. He then faced a choice: feed his family or cover the monthly protection fee. He chose to buy food.

  After a month of warnings, one day after school when Robby was in the store, Gerardo Soto grabbed Robby around the neck and threatened to kill him unless his uncle paid up—with interest. His uncle told Soto he was done, that he didn’t have the money—and that no one threatened his family. Soto and his two thugs pulled weapons. Robby broke free and fled, but in the reflection of the Coke refrigeration unit, he saw Soto riddle his uncle’s body with hollow point rounds. It was an image Robby had never been abl
e to wipe from his brain.

  Robby blinked away tears. “That’s no one’s business, Diego.”

  Diego wagged a finger at him. “The Lord is judging you, Robby. Here and now. Do not lie. When you went after Soto, when you hunted him down, and then pulled the trigger, you broke the law. You murdered him. In cold blood.”

  “C’mon man. I was a kid.”

  “I’m sure that’s what you’ve told yourself all these years. But you were a teenager. Doesn’t matter. Are you saying that excuses it? If you see a teen murder someone now as a cop, do you let him go because he was young, or do you arrest him?”

  Robby’s hands were fisted knuckle-white. “What do you want me to say, Diego?”

  “Say, ‘I accept responsibility for what I’ve done. And I will pay the price and I will ask the Lord’s forgiveness.’”

  “Soto was scum, you know that. He killed my uncle, and I’m sure he’d killed others. He deserved it.”

  “Not your decision, was it? That’s what you would tell the guys you hook up in handcuffs now, no?”

  Robby did not answer. Ahead, out the window, he saw Willie Quintero—Diego’s partner—approaching.

  “Willie will be back any second. This ain’t up for discussion, hermano. You’re in or you’re out. I need to know.”

  Robby watched Quintero’s shuffling gait as he moved closer. Less than fifty feet away. “Get us out of here, man. Now—he’s got no way to follow us. Turn around and drive right into the roadblock—”

  “Willie doesn’t trust anyone, Robby. He took the keys with him. But I got us a plan.” Diego covered his mouth, turned, and looked toward the minimart. “He’s got a bad prostate, so he has to pee a lot. Next time he pulls over, I’m gonna make a call. You got someone we can trust?”

  “Hell yeah. Someone I trust with my life.”

  “Next stop. I’ll call.” Diego turned back to Robby. “I need your answer. In or out? Give the word, hermano, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Robby’s eyes scanned the car’s interior, came to rest on the dark gray grease-stained carpet. He had no choice. He had to confront the matter at hand. And that was finding a way to escape. If that meant agreeing to Diego’s demand to repent and turn himself in, so be it. But was Diego right? Was that the right thing to do?

  Diego craned his neck around and then swung back. “He’s coming. Well?”

  “I ask the Lord’s forgiveness for having sinned.” Despite the protein bar, the only thing he had eaten in days, he still felt weak. The stress of his confession did not help. He let his torso lie back on the seat. “I ask forgiveness for taking the life of Gerardo Soto.”

  “Very good. But make no mistake, hermano. If we get away, and you do not confess—if you do not tell them what you did—I will.”

  Robby nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  The door flung open and Quintero got in the car. He threw a glance at Robby, then faced Diego. “How is he?”

  Diego locked eyes with Robby. “I think he’s doing much better now.” He swung around in his seat. “Let’s get going. We’re behind schedule.”

  77

  Mann did an admirable job of keeping the DEA’s Chevrolet SUV lined up with the Land Rover, but they were falling dangerously far behind. The road was rough and their vehicle had bottomed out several times. Their heads were slamming into the roof and their shoulders into the doors, despite their seat restraints.

  Without night vision equipment to allow him to see in the dark, DeSantos was beginning to think they were going to lose their target into the darkness of a rural, hilly countryside. Then his phone rang. Vail.

  “We’re approaching your position,” she said. “I see you, in a cloud of dust, about a thousand yards ahead.”

  “Do you see the asshole we’re chasing? We’re losing visual.”

  With her headset off, Vail had to strain to hear him. “He’s about three-quarters of a mile ahead of you.”

  “You see him?”

  “Affirmative,” Vail said. “I’m wearing a set of NVGs.”

  DeSantos looked skyward—and a lurch smashed his forehead against the windshield trim of the roof. He winced, picked up the phone that had dropped in his lap, then said, “I love you, Karen. Go get that sucker. Take him down, hard.”

  “Will do,” Vail said. “Follow us in.”

  TURINO, ALSO WEARING night vision goggles, banked the Huey and brought them a few hundred yards above the Land Rover.

  “You see what I see?” Vail asked.

  “That huge body of water up ahead?”

  “I don’t think he can see where he’s going,” Vail said. “No headlights, running dark. Unless he knows this rough terrain intimately—”

  “We should force him straight into the lake, end this chase sooner rather than later.” Turino jutted his head forward, concentrating on the landscape.

  “Can you do that?”

  “I’ve landed a Huey at night in a Bolivian jungle. Ended up clipping the rotor tips because the clearing wasn’t very clear at all. Thick foliage all around us. But if I can do that, I can do this.”

  “Yeah,” Vail said, “I was thinking the same thing.” Not really. I know nothing about landing in jungles and clipped rotor tips. Gotta admit, though, it sounded damn good.

  “I’m going to drop us down low, take us in alongside him. If you see anything ahead we don’t want to hit—trees, wires, poles, whatever—speak up. Anything like that’d seriously fuck us up.”

  Vail leaned forward and peered out the window, concentrating on the approaching terrain. “How long till he reaches that lake?”

  “Approximately half a mile. He’s moving about sixty. He’ll hit it in about thirty seconds.”

  “So the plan is to steer him into the water.”

  “Unless you come up with something better, yeah, that’s the plan.”

  Twenty-five seconds later, the Land Rover braked hard in a dramatic up-churn of dirt, then veered sharply right, executing the maneuver they had anticipated.

  Turino dropped lower and lined up the chopper along the right side of the Land Rover, keeping a few dozen yards above the vehicle. He leaned forward and brought his face closer to the windshield. “Just thought of something. Hang on, I think I can pull this off.”

  Hang on? You think?

  Turino glanced over his left shoulder at the vehicle below. He clenched his jaw, then dropped hard and fast. He tightened his grip on the control stick and moved the Huey just ahead of the Land Rover.

  Vail didn’t know a whole lot about helicopters, but she had seen videos of them catching a skid or rotor blade and jackknifing into the ground in a spectacular and deadly crash.

  Jesus Christ. What the hell is he doing?

  As Vail opened her mouth to ask that very question, a dense, billowing cloud of dust rose and swirled in front of the SUV.

  “This baby’s big enough to cause a brownout,” Turino said. “Main rotor downwash. Blown up dust and debris, driver can’t see where he’s going.”

  The Land Rover slowed. “Okay, this is it!” Turino rapidly swung the Huey alongside the SUV. “Here’s the ‘hang on’ part—”

  He shoved the chopper’s skids against the roof of the Land Rover, and the SUV swung sharply left, down the graded embankment, skirting the water’s edge. With a sudden jolt, its right fender glanced off a boulder, sending the vehicle into the lake.

  Turino banked hard right and upward, moving away from the Land Rover as it splashed against the water and stopped abruptly, as if caught in a giant spider web.

  “He’s down!” Turino said.

  Vail phoned DeSantos. “Target’s in the water. Repeat. Target is in the water. We’re circling back to get a light on him.”

  Turino and Vail removed their NVGs. Turino switched on the Huey’s spotlight and trained it on the Land Rover. Vail moved it around in a sweeping left to right manner, attempting to locate the vehicle’s occupant.

  “There,” Turino said, pointing at a spot below. “Swimming back
toward shore.”

  “Got him.” Vail angled the light onto his position. The man was splashing desperately toward the lake’s edge. As soon as the area around him became illuminated, he stopped and looked skyward, the downdraft of the rotors flapping his hair and rippling the water’s surface.

  Vail pulled her BlackBerry back to her face and shoved it beneath the earpiece of her headset. “Your game now. When you’ve got him in custody, we’ll join you on the ground.”

  DESANTOS WAS FIRST to make it to the lake’s edge. He drew down on his target and waited for the man to approach. DeSantos could’ve jumped in after the suspect, but he didn’t have a change of clothes, and he reasoned that due to the temperature of the water, the man had no choice but to return to shore.

  And a moment later, that’s exactly what happened. A thin man with what appeared to be a gold front tooth slogged onto the rock-strewn edge, then placed his hands behind his head.

  DeSantos knew that having him provide answers might be a more difficult task. “Search him,” he said to Dixon, who was closest. While DeSantos covered her, Dixon holstered her pistol, then moved to the prisoner and shoved him facedown on the ground. She pulled a long switchblade from his back pocket, a cell phone, and ID that DeSantos was sure would turn out to be bogus.

  As Mann stood guard, watching the area behind them, Dixon read the suspect his rights, then placed a set of flex cuffs around his wrists.

  Fifty yards to the east, Turino set the Huey down. Vail deplaned and ran toward the knot of task force teammates.

  Dixon yanked the prisoner to his feet and DeSantos stepped up to him, remaining far enough away that the man would not be able to land a kick.

  “You speak English?” DeSantos asked.

  “Yeah,” the man said.

  “Your name?”

  The suspect turned and looked off into the darkness. Vail tried to recall the photo she had taken from Cortez’s house, but whether or not it was the stress of the moment—of the past few weeks—she couldn’t retrieve the image from the recesses of her memory. She was not sure if this man was Arturo Figueroa.

  “Silent treatment ain’t gonna work with us,” DeSantos said. “Believe me, you don’t want to know what I do for a living.”