“I always do.”
“I know.” A pause. “Before you go, let me ask you something.”
“What is it?”
“What do you think of Gael Morales?”
Diego liked Gael but didn’t want to put himself out on a limb when Alejandro was the one holding the chainsaw, so he only shrugged and said, “He seems okay.”
“You’ve spent more time with him than I have. Worked shoulder to shoulder.”
“He’s done good work.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Did he do something?”
Alejandro slipped into a button-down and stitched the front together, dexterous fingers working quickly. “No. I’ve been thinking about giving him more responsibility. I wanted to know what your feelings were.” He shrugged himself into an off-white Ralph Lauren seersucker sport coat with navy pinstripes.
“He hasn’t been here that long but—”
“If you were in a life-or-death situation, would you trust him to have your back?”
Diego thought about it for a moment and—after weighing the risk: this was tantamount to vouching for the man, which might make him responsible if something went bad—he decided to answer honestly. “Yes,” he said, “without hesitation.”
Alejandro nodded. “Good. Thank you.”
* * *
Francis Waters was already sitting at an outside table, looking at the Circle K on the other side of the parking lot, when Diego brought the car to a stop in front of Ripe Eatery. He shoved the transmission into park, killed the engine, and with the key ring dangling from an index finger, pushed his way out of the car and into the heat. Sweat immediately began to bead on his face and head. He pocketed the car key, raised a hand at Waters, and made his way to the table where the man was sitting. Pulled out a green plastic chair and sat down himself, tonguing a wooden toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other.
Waters sipped his coffee. “Afternoon.”
Diego grunted his greeting and set a thick white envelope on the table.
“I was waiting for you to order. Know what you want?”
“Not yet.”
He picked up a menu, browsed it, and decided on the chicken-fried chicken. Looked up, waved at the server and, when she walked over, ordered his lunch. Francis Waters ordered the grape steak salad, which surprised Diego not at all. He seemed like the kind of asshole who’d order salad for lunch.
Diego glanced at the table and saw the envelope was gone. Waters had, at some point, slipped it away. Five thousand dollars. Every two weeks he received a similar envelope. In Diego’s opinion, the man was overpaid, but Diego’s opinion didn’t matter. Alejandro thought he was worth the expense, so that was that.
He pulled the toothpick from his mouth, snapped it in half, and set it on the table.
“Did you find out anything more about the undercover agent?”
“No,” Waters said. “I tried but Rankin’s an untrusting motherfucker.”
“You can’t work around that?”
“Not without raising suspicions.”
“How much does the DEA pay you?”
“About sixty-seven after taxes.”
“How much does Alejandro pay you?”
“A hundred and twenty.”
“A hundred and thirty. There’s fifty-two weeks a year, not forty-eight, so a hundred and thirty. Tax fucking free.”
“I get your point, but if I don’t stay with the DEA, I’m useless to Alejandro. I collect what information I can without jeopardizing my position. That way I can remain useful.”
There might be truth in the man’s words, but more than that, there was justification for cowardice. Francis Waters was unwilling to stick his neck out despite what Alejandro paid him. It only made Diego dislike him more than he already did. Waters was useful, but there was something distasteful about a man who worked both sides, talking out of both corners of his mouth. He was a man whose loyalties couldn’t be trusted. His real loyalty would always be to himself, which meant he’d do whatever was expedient in the moment.
Diego might be a drug dealer and a murderer, but he owned what he was. He was one of the bad guys and didn’t pretend he was anything else, didn’t rationalize his actions.
But, unlike Francis Waters, he reasonably could have. He’d gotten into this so he’d have money to raise his daughters, but he didn’t pretend he was noble. He was a bad man who sometimes did good things, and he was as loyal to Alejandro as he was to his girls. His junkie ex-wife was useless. She might be dead for all he knew. He raised his girls because that was his obligation, and he did what he did for Alejandro because that was what he’d signed up to do. An electrician wasn’t noble; he was a man doing a job.
The same was true of him.
“What’d you find out about James Murphy?”
“He’s a Marine Corps sergeant, part of a scout sniper platoon currently stationed at Fort Bliss after a year in Afghanistan. His little sister used to work for Alejandro.”
Their food arrived. Diego looked up at the pretty server and smiled. “Thank you.”
“No problem, handsome.”
Diego watched her walk away—she had a fine backside—and after she was gone, turned back to Waters. “Used to work for Alejandro? Who was she?”
“Layla.”
Diego thought about this, then said, “Does he know she was murdered?”
“No way he could. El Paso police don’t. There wasn’t even a thorough investigation. She’s just another dead junkie. No point in wasting police resources. But my guess is he blames Alejandro for her overdose.”
“Is there any reason to think he isn’t here on his own?”
“No.”
“Should Alejandro be worried about him?”
“He’s not a carpenter. He’s a Marine Corps sniper. A trained assassin. This isn’t a guy you want on your bad side.”
“So … yes.”
Waters forked a bite of salad into his mouth.
“I’ll let Alejandro know. Who’s next on your list of girls?”
“Danielle Preston.”
“Good,” Diego said. “She’s supposed to make a run to Los Angeles in three days, which means she gets a shopping trip to buy clothes. The girls love that shit. Approach her tomorrow afternoon.”
“Any reason to suspect she might turn?”
“No. But there was no reason to suspect Layla might turn either. Until she did. It’s why we do this.”
“I’ll take care of it. Will you be with her?”
“I don’t think so. It’ll probably be another one of Alejandro’s men. Guy named Gael Morales.”
“He’ll know what to do about it?”
“I don’t know. Just see what Danielle does and call me. We’ll take it from there.”
Waters nodded.
* * *
George Rankin sat in an unmarked black sedan parked at a gas station some distance from the table where Diego Blanco and Francis Waters were talking. He had a parabolic dish aimed at them, recording their conversation, and was taking pictures using a 500mm lens, but while he was getting good shots, there was a too much traffic to get consistent audio. Westwind Drive sat between George and the restaurant, and every couple minutes a new patch of cars would rumble through. Still, he heard enough to understand the nature of the conversation, and to pick up a few specifics.
He’d been second-guessing himself while tailing Francis Waters earlier, second-guessing himself and thinking he was being an asshole for doing this to another DEA agent, but he was glad he’d listened to his gut and ignored his brain, glad he’d been suspicious of the man’s questions about his case and the way he’d asked them, because while he’d known Francis Waters was crooked, or suspected it, the fact he was putting Gael Castillo Jimenez in harm’s way meant something must be done about it. In truth, it made him want to murder Francis Waters where he sat. George could, without any guilt, do to him what Rocha would do to Gael if he ever discovered he was a narc. Walk up to h
im at the restaurant, put the barrel of his weapon against the motherfucker’s temple, and squeeze the trigger.
But while he might be capable of killing Francis Waters, he wouldn’t do it.
Instead, he’d nail him to the fucking wall with evidence. He’d make the man do time in prison with men he’d put there, men he’d testified against, and let them kill him. Because based on what George had heard of the conversation, Francis Waters was involved in at least one murder. Someone named Layla was dead and he’d had something to do with it. Layla. The little sister of a Marine Corps sergeant named James Murphy.
He needed to find out who these people were and how they were connected to Rocha.
He started the engine, shoved his car into gear, and pulled out into the street.
He wondered how long he had before Francis Waters did something to ruin his case or get Gael killed. There’d be no way to find out until it was too late. But he did know one thing. He had to work fast. He needed Gael out of Mexico as soon as possible. If Francis Waters saw Gael, he’d recognize him, and all the precautions would prove pointless.
Gael had been in Mexico for six months, and every day he’d been in danger, every day at risk of being discovered, but now George knew how much danger he’d been in, and he wanted him out of there.
But not before they put their case together.
13
They were sitting at a table in Los Parados, the dive bar across the street from Hotel Amigo. The table was streaked with moisture and had the musty stink of a dirty bar towel. Coop had bought them all drinks: three fingers of whisky sat on the table in front of him while Pilar had a screwdriver and Bogart and Normal each had a bottle of beer. Everybody was in a pensive mood, the table quiet but tense with things unsaid. Normal took a swallow from the neck of his brown bottle and set it back down on the table. He looked at it for a long moment. Finally he spoke: “James might never drink another beer.”
Coop said, “Come Wednesday, he might be done with breathing,” but when he saw the look on Pilar’s face, he regretted it.
“Don’t talk like that,” she said.
“He’s just telling the truth.” This from Bogart, who must have smoked a joint when he went to the bathroom a few minutes ago. His eyes were bloodshot. “Unless we can figure out something to do about it, James is gonna end up dead.”
Pilar’s eyes welled with tears. She wiped at them with the heels of her hands, looking to Coop like a little girl, and his heart broke for her, but he didn’t know how to make it better. Neither for her nor for James. The situation was impossible.
“He’s not gonna die,” Pilar said, her voice steady.
Coop took a mouthful of whisky, strained it through his teeth to swish it around his gums, tilted his head back, and swallowed. He looked at the ceiling for a moment, then closed his eyes. He understood Pilar’s refusal to accept the situation, but she was wrong. James was going to die. The day after tomorrow he was a dead man. He’d be shanked in the cafeteria or the yard. He’d have his throat slit in his cell while he slept. A guard would shoot him and claim he’d tried to escape. Something would happen and though Coop didn’t know what, he knew the result: James in a coffin in a dark suit.
He opened his eyes and looked from one face to the other, pale moons in the dim light of the bar, and after a moment he said: “We have to break him out.”
“Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“If we don’t, he’s dead.”
“You have lost your fucking mind.”
“Do you have a better solution?”
“There is no solution.”
“I just gave you one.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s the beginning of one,” Pilar said.
“What does that even mean?”
“We save his life, get him out of jail, and with him safe, we can work to prove his innocence.”
“He’s not innocent,” Normal said.
“Those drugs weren’t his.”
“The guns were.”
“He was seeking justice,” Coop said.
“Vigilante justice ain’t exactly legal.”
“It wasn’t justice, anyway,” Bogart said. “It was vengeance.”
“Thank you,” Normal said.
“They’re the same fucking thing.” Coop had been thinking about this since he’d found out what James had been doing. They’d worked together in Afghanistan, and together they’d killed people, but the decision to do so hadn’t been theirs. They’d followed orders, which had made it acceptable. They weren’t responsible for these deaths. They were only tools. They were the weapons the United States government was using.
This was different. James had made a decision that someone must die and had gone about trying to make that death happen. If he had succeeded, he’d be a murderer.
Except he wasn’t killing some random person. He had a specific target and his target was himself a murderer. The man who, as far as James was concerned, had killed his baby sister. So while it might be murder, it was also justice, even if it was vengeance too.
“They’re the same thing,” he said again.
“Not in the eyes of the law.”
“He’s not being charged with attempted murder.”
“Doesn’t mean he don’t wanna kill someone,” Normal said.
“Point is, if we don’t break him out, he’s a dead man. I think he’d rather be on the run than in the grave.”
“If we do break him out, we’ll end up where he is.”
“Not if we don’t get caught,” Bogart said.
Normal turned to look at him, and Coop could see the feeling of betrayal floating behind his eyes. Bogart was his partner and was supposed to side with him in arguments such as these, even if he didn’t agree.
“If Bogart was in jail,” Coop said, “would you just let him die?”
“Of course not, but—”
“But what?”
Normal was silent a moment. He sipped his beer. He looked to the corner of the dark bar and stared at nothing in particular, a faraway look in his eyes. Finally he turned back to Coop and said, “If we were to break him out, how would we do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, there you go.”
“We do it when he’s in the yard,” Pilar said. “It’s the only way.”
“What’s your plan?”
Pilar told them, and when she was finished, she looked from face to face expectantly. Coop put his hand on her shoulder and said, “You know I’m in.”
“I’m in,” Bogart said.
Normal was silent. He took a swallow from his beer bottle. He scratched the Marine Corps tattoo on his bicep.
“Fuck it,” he said. “I’m in too.”
14
The next morning, Tuesday, George Rankin walked across stained gray carpet to Lou Billingham’s office, florescent lights humming in the ceiling overhead, the low drone of work chatter all around. He knocked on the thick wooden door. Billingham, deputy chief of intelligence, worked directly under Horace Ellison. Ellison’s office windows were dark, which meant he wasn’t in yet, otherwise George would talk to him. But the man didn’t show up until seven fifty every morning, and that was still twelve minutes off.
“Come in.”
He pushed open the door to find Lou Billingham behind his desk eating a bagel with cream cheese and lox. He had gray hair and a pockmarked, though clean-shaven, face. Brown eyes that always looked tired. A sag in his neck like a turkey wattle. He took a sip from a coffee mug with WORLD’S BEST GRANDDAD written across it. It was hard to imagine Billingham being any kind of granddad, much less the world’s best; he struck George as the kind of guy who’d push kids away with a broomstick.
“Rankin.”
“Sir.”
“Cup of home-brewed coffee? Got a thermos full and you can bet your ass it’s better than that slop in the break room.”
“No, thank you, sir.”
“Then how can I help you?”
“Ellison isn’t in yet or I’d have asked him, but have we got anything back on that bank account information Gael got us? Or the phone records?”
“We got a name but we haven’t been able to connect it to a birth certificate, or anything other than an Illinois driver’s license and a Citibank Visa card with a two thousand dollar limit, and of course, the bank account itself.”
“Wouldn’t he need a social security number for the bank account and the credit card?”
“Yeah, we’re still waiting on the SSA to get back to us.”
“What about the phone records?”
“People are going through the numbers, seeing what they can pin down.”
“What’s the name?”
“First name Mulligan. I can’t remember the last name offhand, but I’ll get you Xeroxes of everything that came in.”
“Mulligan like in golf?”
“Just like.”
“Think it’s a real person’s name?”
Billingham shrugged. “Look at the dumb shit some of these actors name their kids and it doesn’t seem impossible.”
“Did we get an address from the driver’s license?”
“We did. It’s a bar in Chicago. Nobody lives there, and best as we can tell, nobody there knows anybody named Mulligan—and it’s not exactly a forgettable name.”
“Will you keep me updated on anything new?”
“It’s your case.”
“Thank you.” George paused, opened his mouth to speak again, but hesitated.
Billingham let him dangle a moment before he said, “What is it?”
“We have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
George told Billingham about Francis Waters asking after the Rocha case; told him about yesterday’s meeting with Diego Blanco; told him what he thought these things added up to: “The son of a bitch is crooked, sir.”
Billingham sipped his coffee. “Do we have anything solid?”
“Just the recording and the pictures.”
“We’ll need more than that.”
“The recording is pretty incriminating.”
“You’ve never said anything that might seem incriminating if taken out of context? We can’t have agents afraid to do their job, Rankin, and sometimes doing your job means talking to bad guys about bad things. You know that.”
The Breakout Page 12
