Normal sat on the bench seat in back and picked up an M1903 Springfield, an old weapon but a reliable one.
“We got thirty-aught-six rounds?” Normal asked.
Bogart held up a box.
“We got a scope that’ll fit this bitch?”
“We got a Buehler I think’ll work.”
“Lemme see it.”
While Normal worked on getting the Springfield ready, Bogart picked up an already scoped Remington 700 with a twenty-six-inch barrel.
Normal looked toward Coop, face still expressionless, as it would remain until this was finished. “Think anybody’ll hear gunfire if we calibrate out here?”
Coop shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if they do. It’s gotta be done.”
So Bogart and Normal loaded their weapons and stepped out of the back of the truck.
* * *
Using binoculars and a laser pointer—they didn’t have a bore sighter available—they removed the bolts from their weapons and bore sighted them against a boulder with a dark spot near its center about twenty-five yards away, lining up their sights’ crosshairs with the red dot of the laser pointer, which was barely visible in the bright light, even at such a short distance. Once this was finished, they went about narrowing their rifles’ accuracy, working from one hundred yards to five hundred, to a thousand. It was a tedious process, each of them firing five rounds per test, but if they didn’t do it they wouldn’t hit a barn at distance.
With their rifles ready, they got back into the truck.
It was ten forty-five.
34
When George Rankin reached his cubicle, cup of coffee in hand, he found a sheet of paper laying across his computer’s keyboard, information on the social security number Mulligan Shoibli had used to open his bank account and get a Visa card. The number was originally assigned to a man named Marcus Shawn. Born in 1962. Died, at the age of forty-five, in 2007. Both transitions—into life and out of it—had occurred in Chicago, Illinois.
George fell into his desk chair, set the paper from the SSA to the left, set his coffee to the right after taking a sip, and turned on his iMac. He ran a records search for Marcus Shawn and found a string of arrests, from assault to car theft to drug possession to possession with intent to sell: guy was a regular Renaissance man of petty crime.
In October 2006 the DEA began to investigate both Marcus Shawn and his older brother, Leonard, a pharmacist in Northbrook, under suspicion they were selling prescription narcotics on the streets of Chicago.
In 2007, on March 8, the Drug Enforcement Agency got themselves a no-knock warrant. They executed the warrant at two thirty in the morning on March 9, and after a DEA agent was hit in the back of the head with a Louisville Slugger while attempting to climb through a window, Marcus Shawn was shot twenty-eight times. He was declared dead on arrival at Loyola University Hospital at five minutes past three. DEA agents found Adderall, Ambien, and OxyContin in his home, with a combined street value of less than five hundred dollars.
The lead agent on the case was Horace Ellison.
Chicago had been nagging at George Rankin since he heard the place was connected to Shoibli. Now he knew why—or thought he did.
He hadn’t immediately connected it to the chief of intelligence—despite the fact that he knew Ellison had transferred from there—because one tended to think men wearing the same color jersey as you were on your team. But it was naïve to make such assumptions and he should have known better, especially with so much money involved.
It made sense that Mulligan Shoibli would be DEA, especially if Shoibli was the real power behind the Rocha cartel, and a man in Horace Ellison’s position would have access to all sorts of information that could keep the cartel running for years. It was no wonder that the Rocha cartel had operated so quietly for so long. No wonder Rocha had been able to slip through the cracks for years while simultaneously trafficking millions of dollars in cocaine and heroin and marijuana a month.
Even if he had to behave as though his organization was under investigation—George had brought this case to Ellison, and it’d been strong enough even at the beginning that rejecting it out of hand would have been suspicious—he could work to undermine said investigation at every step while staying hidden in shadows.
He could feed Rocha just enough information to trip up the investigation at every step. No wonder George and Gael had been working at an indictment unsuccessfully for years. No wonder incriminating evidence had slipped through their fingers again and again.
Ellison might not have been willing to tell Rocha who the undercover agent in his midst was—Rocha was likely to kill him and a dead (or missing) DEA agent would only draw more attention to La Paz—but the man had known there was one, and he’d known what the limits of his activities might be. Known what the DEA could and couldn’t get him for.
But there were still questions.
Like whether Francis Waters had been working for Horace Ellison or Alejandro Rocha.
Like why Horace Ellison had allowed this information from the SSA to reach George’s desk in the first place. Maybe he thought George wouldn’t put the pieces together, but that was a risky assumption, and didn’t make sense if Ellison had been so careful about remaining undetected to this point. Maybe …
George got to his feet, walked to the elevator, and pushed the call button. He waited for about thirty seconds before the doors opened, and once they had, stepped into the elevator car and pushed the button for the lower level.
He stepped out of the elevator, walked to the desk at the front of the holding-cell corridor, and picked up a pen to sign in, but before he did this, he examined the sheet. Only four people had signed in to visit arrestees so far today, and none of them was Horace Ellison. None of them either, had come down to visit Francis Waters.
George scrawled his name, the name of the man he was here to visit, and the current time in the form’s three columns. He looked at the whiteboard chart on the wall, written in green dry erase marker, telling him which cell Francis Waters was in. He made his way down the corridor, pulling his key ring from his pocket as he walked.
He reached the door, keyed the lock, and pulled open the door.
Francis Waters was hanging by his neck. He had, based on the evidence at hand, stood on his cot, knocked the drop-ceiling tiles aside, knotted one end of his necktie around a steel beam running the length of the crawlway above, and the other end around his throat, after which he’d stepped off the cot and hanged until he was dead.
Urine had pooled on the vinyl floor under his feet.
George stood in the doorway unmoving for too long but a finger twitch in Francis Waters’s right hand yanked him from his paralysis. The man wasn’t dead. George ran to where Francis hung and grabbed the legs. He lifted his weight off the necktie noose and yelled out:
“I need some fucking help in here! I need some help!”
35
Gael Morales stared down the barrel of the gun to the darkness that would greet him if Rocha squeezed the trigger. He’d had guns pointed at his head all too frequently these last couple days. But he thought this entire situation was coming to a head. He thought it would be finished soon. All he had to do was get to the end alive.
“Listen to me,” Gael said.
“I’m all ears, Gael, if that’s your real name.”
“I never saw the truck. I drove to the department store and parked. Danielle and Monica went inside. I sat in the car smoking and listening to the radio for two hours. They came out and we drove back here. That’s it. If Danielle is telling you a different story, she’s lying. For all I know, she’s the reason Diego’s missing. Whatever the fuck she’s selling you, it’s all packaging. The box is empty. You know me, Alejandro. I’ve been working for you every day for six months and never once have I done anything to make you suspicious of me. I’m a man making a living by doing his job—that’s all I am—and I think we can both agree that I do my job well. I’m on time, I do what I’m told, and I d
o it well and without complaint. You shouldn’t be pointing that gun at me. If anything, you should be pointing it at Danielle—because she’s the bitch who’s lying to you.”
* * *
Alejandro thought about Gael’s words. He wanted to believe them—partly because he liked the guy and partly because they made sense. Francis Waters was supposed to have approached Danielle Preston yesterday. If he had, and if she’d agreed to talk, Diego would have gone for her. It was possible that she’d somehow managed to get the upper hand. Even good men sometimes made stupid mistakes, and in this line of work, a stupid mistake could cost you your life. But if she’d gotten the upper hand, what had become of Diego?
“Don’t fucking move,” he said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. He dialed Francis and put the phone to his ear. It rang five times before going to voice mail. He ended the call and replaced the phone. He didn’t know what to do. So, for almost a full minute, he simply stood there aiming his gun at Gael Morales.
Finally he said, “I want you to kill her.”
“What?”
“Danielle Preston. If she’s lying to me—if you’re not DEA—I want you to prove it to me. Put a bullet in her head. That’s not a problem, is it? If she’s willing to lie, willing to tell me lies that’ll get you killed, you should want her dead.”
* * *
Gael looked past the gun to Rocha’s face. He swallowed and heard a dry click in his throat.
“What about the trip she’s supposed to make tomorrow?”
“If she can’t be trusted, she’s not going. I’ll send someone else.”
“Fine,” Gael said. “I’ve got no feelings for the bitch.”
What he said wasn’t a lie. Gael Castillo Jimenez might like Danielle Preston. Gael Castillo Jimenez did like her. But Gael Morales had no feelings about her one way or the other.
Alejandro Rocha looked him in the eyes, examined his face, and after what felt like a long time, decided he was telling the truth.
“Good,” he said.
36
Normal sat in the back of the armored truck, staring blankly at the wall opposite, thinking nothing as Coop parked near the base of hills that surrounded the jail. As soon as the truck came to a stop, he got to his feet while still holding the Springfield, opened the back, and jumped out to the desert floor, the sun overhead shining down on him hot and bright. His left calf muscle throbbed with pain, and though he was aware of it on some level, it barely registered consciously.
He began his trek up the hill toward his shooting position, Emericas sliding through the sand, hearing but barely registering Bogart walking behind him. When they reached the large boulders near the crest of the hill, they got into place behind them, setting up their rifles, positioning their bodies for comfort.
Normal looked through his scope to the guard towers. It was five minutes to eleven and the guards were now in place, rifles in hand, though none of the prisoners were in the yard yet. He watched the guards standing there, moving his scope from one to the other, lining up their heads in his crosshairs, his index finger resting on his rifle’s trigger guard. In the Marines, he wasn’t a shooter but a spotter, but he had no doubt he’d be able to take them out—one, two, three, four—in only a few seconds. However, he didn’t want to take anyone out. He would if he had to, but these were not his enemies, and would only become his enemies when they threatened his friends.
Unfortunately, that would happen soon enough.
* * *
James walked with the other prisoners from his cell block, all of them in a single-file line, one guard leading the way and one guard behind. His makeshift pistol was tucked into his sock, and he felt it must be very conspicuous, felt the way the leg of his jumpsuit moved against it must be unnatural, but there’d been no other place to hide it. Anyway, nobody had said anything, which meant nobody had seen anything. If they did, he was fucked. But if he didn’t do this, he also was fucked, so it wasn’t really much of a risk.
The guards led them through the corridors, the only sounds the rhythmic thump of footsteps. It reminded James of marching with his company in boot camp, reminded him of drill instructors chanting cadence:
Left, left, left—right.
If I die in a combat zone, box me up and ship me home.
Issue my rifle to another Marine; it served me well and I know it’s clean.
Put me into my Dress Blues, comb my hair and shine my shoes.
Pin my medals upon my chest and tell my momma I done my best.
When I get to heaven, St. Pete will say, “How’d you earn your living, how’d you earn your pay?”
I’ll reply as I take my knife, “Get outta my way ’fore I take your life.”
He’ll open the gate and let me pass, and if God don’t like it I’ll whoop His ass.
Left, left, left—right.
The lead guard pushed through the door that led onto the yard. The inmates filtered out and headed to the free weights, the basketball court, and the naked ground where they played soccer. James himself walked to the back fence, kicking through the desert sand, wondering if he’d have an opportunity to make his move. Or if he’d have to create an opportunity.
He knew that doing what he intended to do would probably end in his death, but possibly dead was better than definitely dead, and if he didn’t get out of here, he was certain he’d be killed sooner or later. He stood with his back against the fence for a few minutes, watching the other inmates. He scanned the yard, looking at the guards who lined its perimeter. He watched as the inmates from one of the other cell blocks filtered out onto the yard. He reached down and scratched his ankle, palming his makeshift pistol, keeping it hidden as he stood up again.
His heart thudded in his chest. His mouth was dry. It was hard to swallow.
He looked toward the guard in the far left corner. That was the man he needed to get to. If he could put his pistol into the guard’s back and make him understand both that it was real and that he was willing to shoot it, he might lead James into the nearest building, and just on the other side of it was the employee parking lot. He’d get the man’s car keys and drive away. He’d have to crash straight through the gates to get off the compound, and as soon as he did, there’d be people after him, maybe people shooting, but that was something he could deal with when it happened. If it happened. The chances of getting even that far were minimal at best.
He was about to make his move—about to begin strolling over casually—when Pedro, the man who’d lost his daughter, leaned against the fence beside him.
“They’re coming for you. I heard talk earlier.”
“Who’s coming?”
Pedro nodded toward the basketball court. James looked and saw a group of five men walking toward him, their pace deliberate. Fulanito—the man with no name—was at the center of the group, clearly leading the others.
It looked like James might not have the opportunity to even attempt his breakout. He might have to use his single bullet on the leader of this group. In fact, he was almost certain of it. His grip on the makeshift pistol in his hand tightened. His heart rate increased, thudded against the wall of his chest. He could feel the pressure of his throbbing veins in his forehead.
“You should walk away, Pedro.”
“I’m not going to do that.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I’m not leaving you here to get murdered. I’m not a coward.” Pedro shook his right arm and when James glanced over, he saw a sharpened toothbrush slide into the man’s waiting palm. He gripped it not like someone would hold a knife, but as one might hold an ice pick, blade jutting from the pinky-side of his grip.
Fulanito and the others continued toward them, spreading out as they did, so that neither he nor Pedro could easily walk away, so that they couldn’t walk away at all without a confrontation. Fulanito smiled as he approached, his Ping-Pong ball eyes alight with dark humor.
“I told you I’d make certain that I was the one to kill you.�
��
“You did—and you were wrong.” James raised the makeshift pistol and aimed it at the nameless motherfucker’s face. He thumbed back his firing pin.
Fulanito actually laughed. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish with—”
James released the firing pin. It snapped forward.
The gun exploded, pieces of the barrel and shreds of paper suddenly falling around them like confetti. The shell shot out the back of the pistol and thwacked against James’s neck, burning it. But a hole appeared in Fulanito’s left cheek, and blood began to ooze from the hole. The smile was gone. The eyes were dazed.
“What—” The word left Fulanito’s mouth plaintively. He dropped to his knees. He collapsed forward. A cloud of dust exploded around him.
* * *
Coop shoved the transmission into gear, released the clutch, and footed the gas. He ground the gears as he shoved his way through them quickly, trying to gain speed. He honked his horn so the people standing in front of the fence would get out of the way. He aimed the truck at a gap between two of the vehicles parked in front of the fence, knowing he would hit them both but hoping they wouldn’t slow him down.
* * *
Bogart watched through his scope as one of the towered guards aimed his rifle at James, who had just—somehow—shot a man in the head with a toy gun that looked like it was made out of paper. He didn’t want to kill anybody today—he only wanted to make sure none of his friends died—so he lined the guard’s right hand up in his crosshairs even as the guard moved his finger from the trigger guard to the trigger.
Bogart fired off a round. For a full second—for what felt like a full second—nothing happened. Finally, the bullet finished its long journey. The hand exploded, a mist of blood hanging in the air. The guard dropped his rifle.
* * *
James looked at the four men coming at both him and Pedro, the four men left alive. Each of them held a shiv, and each of them was ready, body tense with muscle.
The Breakout Page 22
