The Breakout

by Ryan David Jahn

“Give me the car key,” he said to the man behind the wheel—Gael Castillo Jimenez—while keeping his pistol trained on him. Ignoring the thumping from the trunk, the calls for release. The man behind the wheel pulled the key from the ignition and handed it back to him.

  “Now just sit here.”

  Coop pushed out of the car and into the hot day, sweat immediately beading on his face and body. He kept the pistol aimed at Gael while, with his other hand, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He thumbed through his contacts, dialed Normal. The phone rang four full times, and he started to think Normal wouldn’t pick up, when the fifth ring was cut off.

  “Coop.”

  “Normal, I need you and Bogart to get down here.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “The old church on Hidalgo and El Tule.”

  “What about Pilar?”

  “Don’t tell her anything. Just get down here.”

  “What’s going on? I thought you guys were going for a drive.”

  “Things change. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  “Okay, we’re on our way.”

  The line went dead. Coop put the phone back into his pocket.

  He glanced from the car and the man inside it to the church and saw James walking back toward him, his shirt damp with sweat.

  “Who were you just talking to?”

  “Normal.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I told him to come down here—he and Bogart might be useful.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking this is a tense situation and we don’t know what’s gonna happen. I want them perched on buildings with a view of the church in case anything goes bad. Better to have them here and ready, even if we don’t end up needing them, than to find ourselves in trouble with no way out. We’ve got the guns in the car.”

  James nodded. “Okay. Let’s get these fuckers into the church.”

  * * *

  James and Coop led Rocha and Gael into the church at gunpoint. In the main room, he told Coop to keep Gael there while he interrogated Rocha. He then led Rocha into the back office and tied him to the desk chair using the electrical cords from the lamps.

  “Tell me about Mulligan Shoibli.”

  Rocha looked up at him from the chair, his wrists bound to its arms, his legs pulled back under the chair and tied to its hydraulic center post. His hair hung down in his face, damp and sweaty. He looked pathetic and James almost allowed himself to feel sorry for the motherfucker. But he pushed that feeling aside. This man was either responsible for ordering Layla’s death or was part of the chain of command that had gotten her killed. Either way, Layla was dead in part or fully because of the man’s actions. So fuck him straight to hell.

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” Rocha said.

  “I told you I wasn’t going to die today.”

  “The day isn’t over.”

  “Tell me about Mulligan Shoibli.”

  “I don’t know much about him. He works for the DEA. It’s how I’ve been able to stay in business. He keeps up to date on what’s going on with the investigation and he tells me what I need to do. I stay visible as the front of the operation in order to keep him in shadows. Because I do this, because I take all the risks, I get forty percent of the take, which is more than enough to keep me in the lifestyle I want.”

  “How do you contact him?”

  “He contacts me.”

  “How?”

  “He calls me. Every week we get new cell phones in order to talk to one another. Prepaid burners. Either Diego Blanco or Gael Morales—Gael Castillo Jimenez, the motherfucker—pick up a new phone from a locker at a bus station in Juarez every week and bring it to me. Only Mulligan Shoibli has the number. If it rings, it’s him. Different number every time.”

  “Have you ever met in person?”

  “No.”

  “Why did he want Layla dead?”

  “I already told you, she was gonna talk to the DEA.”

  “You said he works for the DEA.”

  “He does—which is how he’s been able to kill witnesses before they can testify. You have to understand, he can get information, he can manipulate information, but he also has to maintain his anonymity. He can’t do anything overtly suspicious.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “I’m a pragmatic man, Mr. Murphy. I have no loyalty to Mulligan Shoibli. The simple truth is that I’d rather you kill him than me. I’m more than willing to help make that happen, provided I can walk away from this.”

  “Do you have the cell phone on you now?”

  “In my coat pocket.”

  James reached into the pocket and removed the prepaid cell phone. He slipped it into the pocket of his cutoff sweatpants.

  * * *

  James opened the office door and looked out at the main room. Coop and Gael were sitting on opposite ends of the same pew, Coop with his pistol trained on the son of a bitch. James called to him. Coop got to his feet and walked over.

  “What’s up?”

  “Watch Rocha while I talk to Jimenez.”

  Coop nodded and stepped past him, heading into the office where Rocha was tied to the chair. James pulled the door shut and made his way to the pew on which Gael was sitting. James settled in at the opposite end. He kept his pistol in hand, resting it casually on his thigh, but he made certain it was aimed at the man to whom he was speaking. Gael Castillo Jimenez might well be DEA—it seemed likely he was—but James was in a situation where he could trust nobody but his closest friends.

  “Let’s talk.”

  “Okay,” Gael said.

  “You tell me you’re DEA.”

  “I am. I’ve been undercover with the Rocha cartel for six months.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  Gael was silent for a long moment as he thought over the situation. His eyes looked troubled. Finally he said, “Fuck it—yeah. Let me call my stateside man in El Paso and he can confirm it.”

  “You have your phone?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “Go ahead and grab it—but no sudden moves.”

  Gael reached into his Levi’s and pulled out a cell phone. He slid his thumb across its smooth surface, hit the phone button, hit the keypad button, and dialed a number from memory.

  He put the phone to his ear.

  “No,” James said. “Put it on speaker.”

  Gael nodded, hit the speaker button.

  They waited while it rang.

  * * *

  George Rankin was at his desk watching footage from the security camera downstairs when he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate. He’d been sitting there staring at the screen as almost nothing happened for more than three hours, so he was glad for the interruption. The man at the desk in front of the holding cells wasn’t a DEA agent but a civilian guard. His job mostly involved reading comic books. For hours George had watched as he flipped through a Watchmen omnibus, and then half of the first volume of Art Spiegelman’s Maus (the only comic George had read since he was a teenager), only looking up when a DEA agent emerged from the elevator, signed in, and headed back. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and saw a number he didn’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “George. You’re on speaker phone.”

  He recognized the voice but knew better than to identify him by name when he didn’t know the circumstances under which he was calling. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in La Paz.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m with somebody. I need you to tell him my name.”

  George’s heart was suddenly pounding in his chest. His mouth dry, tongue like a cactus paddle. He had no idea what was going on, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

  “Gael Morales,” George said.

  “No—I want you to tell him my real name. Tell him who I am. It’s fine.”

  George didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t imagine a scenario
in which Gael would need George to corroborate his actual identity while working undercover. But he had to trust that the man knew what he was doing. Gael would have been able to avoid this call if he’d felt he needed to, which meant, whatever the situation was, it was one Gael had under control.

  “George?”

  “Your name is Gael Castillo Jimenez. You’re an undercover special agent for the Drug Enforcement Administration, Intelligence Division. You’ve been investigating the Rocha cartel for the last six months. My name is George Rankin, I’m currently sitting in my office in the DEA building on Fort Bliss, in El Paso, Texas, and I’m your stateside contact on this case. If necessary, I can call from my office phone so the DEA caller identification comes up on your cell phone screen. Is that all the information you need conveyed?”

  George glanced toward his computer screen and saw Lou Billingham, the deputy chief of intelligence, walk by the desk without signing in, watched him disappear into the corridor. He paused the video. He asked himself if Lou Billingham might be behind all this. It was possible. The man had access to same information George himself did. He could have intentionally used a social security number and other information that would circumstantially implicate Horace Ellison. On the other hand, Ellison could have let all of this information reach George so that—

  A new voice, the mouth closer to the speaker: “George Rankin, my name is James Murphy. We’re talking privately now, and I have to tell you, I think we’ve got ourselves a helluva situation.”

  “You’re in jail.”

  “You’ve heard of me then.”

  “I have—and you’re in jail.”

  “I was in jail.”

  George didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “George?”

  “What’s the situation, Mr. Murphy?”

  “The situation is this. I have Alejandro Rocha tied to a chair in an old church in La Paz. I’d planned on killing him, but if I had, we wouldn’t be talking now. The reason I didn’t is because he mentioned a man named Mulligan Shoibli. Is that someone you’ve heard of?”

  “I’m coming down there, don’t do anything stupid.”

  George hung up his cell phone, got to his feet, and slipped it into his pocket.

  * * *

  James handed Gael his cell phone. He looked at the man sitting across from him. He was a DEA agent like he’d said—or else he’d planned ahead for a scenario like this. If it was the latter, the man he’d spoken to might be on his way down here to rescue Rocha or …

  Or any number of things. He didn’t know what.

  But he did know this: he was glad Bogart and Normal were on their way too.

  “Is it all right if I step out and grab a cigarette?” Gael asked.

  “No,” James said. “Wait until my friends get here so they can keep an eye on you, then I don’t care.”

  Gael nodded.

  James had Rocha tied to a chair. He was holding a probable DEA agent at gunpoint. A second DEA agent was on his way down here. Part of him wanted to walk back to the office, put the barrel of his gun against Rocha’s forehead, pull the trigger, and be done with it. He’d broken out of jail. He was wanted for crimes that would get him locked away for thirty years—his life was ruined. Killing the son of a bitch wouldn’t do much to make it worse, even with a DEA agent as a witness.

  But there was that niggling fear that Rocha was telling the truth about Mulligan Shoibli. If James walked to the back office and put a bullet in Rocha’s head, he might be killing the only man who could get him to the person who’d ordered Layla’s death.

  Bogart and Normal pushed through the back door.

  “What the fuck is going on now?” Normal said.

  41

  George decided he needed to have Horace Ellison and Lou Billingham come down to La Paz with him. One of them was Mulligan Shoibli, and since James Murphy had Alejandro Rocha tied to a chair, tied to a chair and talking, he thought they might be able to figure out which one of them it was. The other could offer support if things got ugly—when things got ugly.

  He walked to Horace Ellison’s office first, and knocked on the door.

  “What is it?”

  * * *

  They were in the parking lot when Lou Billingham said, “I’ll catch up with you guys in a minute. I need to call my wife, let her know I’ll be late.”

  “Make it quick,” Ellison said.

  “I will.”

  George and Ellison continued to the car, George getting in behind the wheel and Ellison slipping into the shotgun seat.

  * * *

  James was sitting alone in the main room of the church. Normal and Bogart had found perches from which to shoot. Bogart on the roof of the primary school just across Durango. Normal on the roof of El Niño’s Pizza just across Hidalgo. Both of them had a good view of the church’s back door. Gael was standing outside smoking a cigarette. Coop was in the office keeping an eye on Rocha.

  James didn’t like the situation he was in at all.

  Based on George Rankin’s reaction when he mentioned Shoibli, the man had heard of him, and he might be able to help figure out just who the son of a bitch was, but if he did, he’d also arrest the fucker, which would put him out of James’s reach. He didn’t want the son of a bitch in prison. He wanted him dead.

  One of the cell phones in James’s pocket began to ring. He pulled it out. It was Rocha’s burner, which meant it was Mulligan Shoibli calling.

  James’s heart thudded in his chest. The phone in his hand was ringing, and if Rocha had been telling the truth, the man responsible for Layla’s death was on the other end of the line. James exhaled a long, trembling sigh, and then thumbed the green button.

  He put the phone to his ear and said, “Hello?”

  But the person on the other end of the line didn’t say anything.

  “Answer me, motherfucker.”

  The call ended.

  James pulled the phone away from his ear. He stared at it for a long moment and thought about returning the call, but he knew Mulligan Shoibli wouldn’t pick up, so he slipped the phone back into his pocket. He’d wait until George Rankin got here. It was the only thing to do. He only hoped that, if they figured this thing out, he had the chance to kill the motherfucker before he was put back into prison himself—or had to run to avoid prison.

  * * *

  George sat behind the wheel and watched as, across the parking lot, Lou Billingham slid his cell phone back into his pocket and made his way to the car. He slipped into the backseat, apologized, and fasted his seat belt.

  George started the car and backed out of the parking spot.

  While he drove toward La Paz, he thought more about the evidence he had. It was clear to him that Mulligan Shoibli was in this car, but he still didn’t know for sure whether Billingham or Ellison was the man behind all of this.

  The evidence against Ellison was circumstantial. The social security number Shoibli had used belonged to a man Ellison had spent months investigating. The address Shoibli had used was a bar in Chicago only a quarter mile from the DEA offices out of which Ellison had worked for five years before being transferred to El Paso.

  But though these facts might seem to implicate Ellison, they almost did the opposite in George’s mind. A man running a drug cartel from the shadows would be careful to ensure there was no paper trial connecting him to his false identity, and even if he’d created that identity thinking no one would seriously investigate it, once Ellison knew it was being investigated, he could have worked to keep this information out of George’s hands.

  Of course, there was also the question of arrogance. A man who’d been getting away with what Shoibli had been getting away with for years might start to believe he was smarter than everybody else, and a man who thought he was smarter than everybody else often made stupid mistakes, sure that nobody would see through his cleverness.

  On the other hand, Lou Billingham had visited the holding cells without signing in at the front desk. Th
e time stamp on the footage indicated that he’d made this visit only half an hour before Francis Waters hanged himself. The question was what Lou Billingham had said to the man during their conversation.

  It was entirely possible that, knowing it might eventually come out that a DEA man was behind this cartel, Billingham had created Mulligan Shoibli in order to point at Ellison. The evidence was entirely circumstantial, but a grand jury might also find it compelling.

  It made sense in a way. Not only would Ellison take the fall for another man’s crimes, but Billingham would then move up to become chief of intelligence, putting him in an even better position to control things in Mexico.

  They reached the border about a half hour before sunset, but George had a feeling the day was only getting started.

  42

  James heard a car rumble to a stop outside. He drew his pistol and aimed it at the back door. Three men in suits stepped in with their hands raised. One of them, the youngest of the three, stepped forward.

  “James Murphy,” he said.

  “George Rankin—who are the two men with you?”

  Gael, who’d been sitting on the pew across from James, got to his feet and said, “Horace Ellison, chief of intelligence, and Lou Billingham, deputy chief of intelligence.” He walked over to the men. James let him. He shook hands with George and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you. We’ve got a fucking mess on our hands.”

  “I think that’s a bit of an understatement.”

  Gael shook hands with Horace Ellison and Lou Billingham, patting both of them on the shoulder as well. He said, “The man with the gun is James Murphy. Rocha killed his sister. He’s not gonna do anything stupid. He’s just a man grieving a loss. We can clear up the situation with him. He treated me well, despite the stressful circumstances, so I don’t want anything to go bad with him. Rocha’s in an office in back. One of Mr. Murphy’s friends is keeping an eye on him. Two more of Mr. Murphy’s friends are watching the church from nearby. They’re armed. My goal, plain and simple, is to get everybody out of here alive, and I think we can do it.”

  “I think the situation is more complicated than you know,” George said. “Have you heard of a man called Mulligan Shoibli?”