Damage Control

by John Gilstrap

  What could possibly have reordered the world to such a large degree? If Felix’s intelligence was right—and Felix’s intel was always right—Veronica would have no choice but to get her out of the country. Surely, she wouldn’t let Maria just die at Felix’s hand.

  Unless there was a second informant. Was that even possible?

  Of course it was possible. There was no level of betrayal that was impossible within the American intelligence community. But was it reasonable?

  Why not? If Veronica Costanza had engineered an excuse to meet with Maria, could she not have created the same opportunity for all of Felix’s mistresses? Could she not have created it for dozens of people who worked for him?

  As she pulled onto the main road leaving the compound, Maria shook these thoughts out of her mind. They were silly. Veronica would have told her if there were additional agents within Felix’s compound. To deny that kind of information would be to impose that much more danger on her, and Veronica wouldn’t have done that.

  The fact remained that Maria and Maria alone had lost both parents and a brother to Felix’s brutality, and she alone had worked for five years to infiltrate his network for the express purpose of bringing him down.

  She had to be the one that Felix had been talking about in his rant. She had to be. She didn’t know that she could live with the knowledge that it was otherwise. When he ultimately faced his punishment, she needed for her hands to be on the chain of evidence and testimony that put him away. In a perfect world, they would be on the apparatus that executed him in prison, but Veronica had prepared her for the fact that execution was unlikely.

  She’d prepared her, in fact, for the likelihood that Felix would testify his way to a criminal charge that was barely a criminal charge. Instead, he would give up the American coconspirators who underwrote his criminal activities in return for little or no jail time. That, Veronica had warned her, was the state of panic that existed within the administration in Washington. They were willing to let murderers go free in return for information that would allow them to imprison disloyal bureaucrats.

  Maria was a creature of habit. She followed the same route to and from the office every day. For starters, she felt entirely safe doing so—Felix’s enemies knew the faces and names of all of his mistresses, and there was no quicker route to the morgue than to lay a hand on one of them—but also, Maria needed to look for a sign from Veronica that she wanted to meet.

  As she drove past the post box at the corner of Chelsea Street and Frutas Avenue, her heart fell. If they were to meet outside the pharmacy in the 2700 block of Santa Anna Boulevard, there would be a chalk mark on the paint—an X if the meeting was to happen tonight, and a heart if it was to happen tomorrow night. The box was in fact the flat green that it normally was.

  She drove toward the Church of St. Michael the Archangel, hoping to see a bicycle chain on the wrought-iron fence out front. A silver chain would have had them meet in lobby of the Omniplex Theater for the nine o’clock show tonight, a black one for the same show tomorrow. Maria cursed under her breath as she saw no chain at all.

  How could this be? If her cover had been blown this badly, surely Veronica would know about it. And if she knew about it, surely she would want to arrange a meeting.

  A chill crawled up her spine as she considered the alternative: that the FBI was unaware that they had their own informant in their midst. That could be a disaster.

  Maria resolved that when she got back to her house, she would post on Facebook that her tooth was hurting today. That was the signal for Veronica to make contact as soon as possible.

  While she would never reenter Felix Hernandez’s world, she could pretend to be sick tomorrow as the details worked themselves out. Her absence would undoubtedly raise Felix’s suspicions, but there again Maria’s histrionics at the hacienda might serve her well. If she failed to show up, maybe Felix would merely assume that she was angry.

  Maria lived in the Campestre neighborhood, once a lovely place where as a child she never would have dreamed she could afford to live. Now, the drug violence had driven most of the decent people away. Many had just abandoned their homes and their businesses, leaving the streets to the warriors. More than a few of the side streets had been completely blocked off with stacks of boulders in an effort to dissuade kidnappers and extortionists from gaining access to their enclaves.

  Her heart raced as she pulled to the curb in front of her house. She slapped the transmission into neutral, set the brake, and hurried out of her seat. She made no effort to lock the car because locked doors just made the thieves break windows. Let them explore her ashtrays and the center console. If they found a few pesos, let them have them. Anything to take the edge off those poor wretches’ misery.

  Please, God, she prayed silently, deliver me from this place soon. Please make it end.

  Even in the diminishing light, the heat remained oppressive as she scurried across her yard toward the front door. On Felix’s suggestion, she’d long ago taken out all the shrubbery from around the single-story structure, in theory eliminating places for attackers to lie in wait.

  But dusk brought shadows—nature’s own hiding places.

  As was her habit, she had her keys out for the entire walk, the longest of them—the one for the padlock on the security gate—extending between her fisted fingers. In the past few years, attacks against women—once unthinkable in Latin cultures—had skyrocketed. Thousands of rapes and murders, most unsolved because they were never investigated. The police knew who the offenders were, but to investigate would be to confirm those suspicions, thus prompting an arrest that would cost the police officer and his extended family their lives.

  With her key deployed, an attacking rapist would have to sacrifice an eye to earn his prize. And after the first eye, his second one, and then whatever else she could destroy until the attack resolved itself one way or the other.

  The wrought-iron gates over the door and the matching ones over her bulletproof windows had been Felix’s idea, as well. In fact, he’d had his own people install them. That was how much he cared for her. And while they gave her some sense of peace while inside, it always felt like too many locks while she was trying to get in.

  Tonight, as her paranoia spiked beyond desperation, Maria’s hands trembled and made the operation of the keyway that much more difficult. Finally, with the massive padlock freed from its hasp, she pulled the hundred-pound gate away from the solid core door. Two more keys turned two more dead bolts, and then she could finally see into her home. She pulled the gate closed next, and slipped the padlock into a hasp on the inside that was protected from bolt cutters by a heavy steel plate.

  With the door closed and those bolts thrown again, Maria allowed herself to relax just a little. With her hands pressed against the door, she leaned forward and touched her forehead to the cool wood. With her eyes closed, she tried to imagine what the future could be like for her if the FBI would only come to her aid. And how short it would be if they did not.

  She’d given them so much. She’d fulfilled her promises, every one. Yet they always wanted one more. Maybe now—

  Her head jerked up and her eyes shot open as she whirled to confront the darkness of the house.

  “Who’s there?” she shouted.

  “What do you think, Big Guy?” Jonathan whispered. “Is it airworthy?”

  The three of them crouched in the undergrowth just on the edge of the makeshift runway. Ahead about fifty yards and to the left, a high-wing Cessna sat bathed in dim white light under a pole barn. It looked as if it was lighted by a single incandescent lightbulb. The rest of the area shone silver in the light of a nearly full moon.

  “Does airworthiness really matter at this point?” Boxers asked. “One way or another, that’s what we’re flying out on, right?”

  “Way to make the PC feel confident,” Tristan said.

  “Don’t worry about it, kid,” Boxers said. “I’ll be able to get it off the ground.”


  “Yeah, but will you be able to land it?”

  Boxers smiled. “Takeoffs may be optional—”

  “—but landings are mandatory,” Jonathan finished. With his night vision in place, Jonathan could see the look of concern in Tristan’s face, and he slapped his knee. “We’re kidding, Tristan. We’ll be fine.” Say it with enough conviction and maybe it will come true.

  “How do you want to handle it?” Boxers asked.

  “You’re the pilot,” Jonathan said.

  Boxers brought a night vision monocular to his eye and scanned the area more closely. “Well, I see a gas pump,” he said. “That’s a bit of good news. I’m not sure that a thorough preflight makes a lot of sense at this point, but we’ll want to make sure we have gas.”

  “How long will take to fill it up?” Jonathan asked.

  “Kinda depends on how empty the tank is and how fast the pump pumps.” Boxers’ tone said that he thought it was a stupid question.

  For good reason, Jonathan thought. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do,” he said. “We’ll stay in the weeds until we’re even with the aircraft, and then we’ll move in.”

  “Do you want me to stay here?” Tristan asked.

  “No,” Jonathan said. “I want you to stick to me like a shadow. You should be able to see well enough in the moonlight.”

  “Is your safety on?” Boxers asked. Jonathan heard the teasing in his voice, but Tristan evidently did not.

  “Yes!” the kid hissed. “I’ve got the freaking safety on. I’ve never taken it off.”

  “Just checkin’,” the Big Guy said.

  Jonathan led them forward more quietly now. Clearly, they were in somebody’s yard, and the last thing he needed now was a blown cover. Whatever complication the bright moon threw at them was compensated for by the white light in the pole barn. The light was bright enough, in fact, that Jonathan pulled his NVGs out of the way to surveil the scene unassisted. The area beneath the pole barn looked like any other mechanics’ workshop. Chests of tools served as a surrogate wall on the far side—the western side—and there appeared to be a waste oil drum in the far southwest corner. The gas pump looked like something for a 1980s gas station, but with a long hose to accommodate the fill spout on the upper surface of the wing.

  Jonathan’s stomach fell when he saw that the engine cowling was open. He pressed his mike button. This close, he was less likely to be overheard whispering loudly enough to be picked up by his ear mike than he was whispering loudly enough to be heard through the air. “Looks like they’re in the middle of a repair.”

  “Movement,” Boxers said.

  As the announcement registered in Jonathan’s brain, the Big Guy brought his weapon to his shoulder. Jonathan followed the line of sight and saw a twentysomething young man wandering through the night back toward the pole barn from the direction of the outhouse on the far side. He wore the uniform of kids the world over: T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.

  “I can take him,” Boxers whispered.

  “Negative.”

  The Big Guy’s rifle didn’t move as he turned his head to look at the boss. “Negative?” he said through the air. “Really?”

  Left to his own devices, Boxers would cut a much wider path of destruction than Jonathan. You don’t kill an unarmed mechanic just because you need his airplane.

  “What are we going to do, then?” Boxers asked.

  “We’re going to negotiate.”

  The Big Guy’s shoulders sagged. “Ah, shit. Talk is how little wars get big.”

  Tristan asked, “Suppose he has a gun or something?”

  “Yeah,” Boxers said. “Or something.”

  Jonathan thought it through for a few seconds just to make sure his plan wasn’t stupid, and then he said, “Keep an eye out, and keep your sights on the mechanic. If a weapon appears in his hand, take him out.”

  Tristan raised his own rifle to his shoulder.

  “Put that down,” Boxers said. “And check the safety.”

  “You stay with the Big Guy,” Jonathan instructed. “If there’s any shooting, hide behind him. He’s thicker than any tree.”

  Boxers flipped him off.

  Jonathan stood to his full height and started walking. He kept his NVGs on his head, but tilted up out of the way, and he kept his strides long and even. In a few seconds, the mechanic was going to see him coming, and if Jonathan kept his bearing just so, the kid would know that any aggressive move would be fatal. Those were the kinds of revelations that kept kids like him alive. He also took care to stay out of Boxers’ firing lane. It made no sense to have someone cover you from behind if you put yourself in the way of the covering fire.

  The mechanic had a stepladder in his hand, and as he crossed under the propeller, Jonathan thought for sure that he’d looked right at him. Then he saw the earbud cords hanging down the sides of the kid’s face, and he got it. Apparently the music or podcast or whatever he was listening to was far more relevant to his world than the armed man who approached from the shadows.

  The mechanic placed the ladder on the ground near the nose of the aircraft on the starboard side—the near side—and then climbed four steps to see into the open cowling.

  As Jonathan got closer, he swung a wide arc to the kid’s left, approaching him from the side. As he closed to within ten feet, he became worried that the kid would be so startled when he finally saw Jonathan that he’d fall off the ladder and hurt himself.

  “Excuse me,” Jonathan said.

  Boxers’ voice said in his ear, “Tell me you’re joking. ‘Excuse me’?”

  Jonathan chuckled. As tactical approaches went, this was definitely one of a kind. More loudly this time: “Excuse me!”

  Still nothing.

  “Okay, fine,” Jonathan said. He walked up to the ladder and touched the mechanic’s leg with a gloved hand.

  The kid jumped as if he’d been hit with fifty kilovolts, dropping something into the engine—it sounded like a wrench—and overbalancing the ladder. As the ladder and the mechanic tumbled directly toward him, Jonathan reached out and caught the kid under his arms, breaking his fall before he could hit the ground.

  “God damn it,” the kid said in English. Then he saw Jonathan’s cammies and the weapons, and he switched to Spanish. “Who are you?” He got his feet under him and adjusted his skewed clothing.

  Jonathan stayed with English. “Are you American?”

  The kid’s eyes grew wide as they took in everything. The rifle, the sidearm, the holstered MP7, the sheathed KA-BAR knife. “Holy shit.”

  “Focus, son,” Jonathan said. “What’s your name?”

  “Oscar,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m hoping I’m a friend,” Jonathan said.

  “Dude, with that many guns, I’ll be your friggin’ brother.”

  Jonathan touched the transmit button on his chest. “Okay, come on in.”

  For a second or two, Oscar looked confused. Then he winced. “Aw shit, there’s a bunch of you? Look, man, I just work here. I don’t know anything.”

  Jonathan thought that was an odd reaction. “In my experience,” he said, “people who say they don’t know anything in fact know quite a lot. They at least know enough to lead with the fact that they don’t know anything.”

  Oscar’s features folded into confusion. “Dude, I bet that actually made sense to you. What are you, FBI? CI—holy shit, you brought Sasquatch.” He pointed over Jonathan’s shoulder to his approaching colleagues.

  He leaned in closer to Oscar and affected a conspiratorial tone. “I really wouldn’t make fun of him. He’s cranky on a good day. Today, he’s hungry and tired. I already stopped him from shooting you.”

  The kid recoiled a step, and then glanced back at Boxers. “Um. Thanks?”

  Jonathan winked. “Don’t mention it. Does your airplane work?”

  “Huh?” The world clearly was not yet making sense to Oscar. “Oh, the plane. This plane?”

  “Have you got anothe
r one?”

  “Sure, it works. I don’t know how to fly it, though, so if you’re thinking I can—”

  Boxers and Tristan arrived.

  “What the hell kind of army are you?” Oscar said. He seemed particularly amused by the skinny soldier in the shorts and flip-flops.

  “Do you want me to show you?” Boxers menaced.

  Some color drained from Oscar’s face. “Actually, no.” He looked back to Jonathan. “But like I said, I can’t fly you anywhere.”

  “I don’t need you to fly me,” Jonathan said. “I just want to buy the plane from you.”

  Oscar’s scowl deepened and he looked from face to face. “What, is this some kind of a setup?”

  “Will three hundred thousand dollars cover it?” Jonathan asked.

  “Bullshit. You don’t have three hundred thousand dollars.”

  Jonathan raised his eyebrows and waited.

  “You have three hundred thousand dollars.” Oscar laughed and pushed his fingers into his hair. “Where does anybody get three hundred thousand dollars?” He seemed to like saying the number aloud.

  “I don’t see how that matters,” Jonathan said. “I have it, and it’s yours for the airplane.”

  “But it’s not even my plane.”

  “So much the better,” Jonathan said. “That makes it all cash. You don’t even have a bank note to pay off.”

  Oscar’s mind started whirling at a thousand miles per hour. You could see it in his face as he tried to decipher the deal that lay before him. “How do I sell you something that I don’t own?” he asked.

  Jonathan wondered if the kid was in denial, or if he truly was this dense. “Maybe sale is the wrong word under the circumstances,” he said. “How about three hundred thousand dollars to let me borrow the plane? For an indefinite period.”

  “You mean steal it,” Oscar countered.

  Jonathan made a face. “If I paid for it, I couldn’t be stealing it, right?”

  The comment seemed only to deepen Oscar’s confusion.

  “I’m taking your airplane,” Jonathan said, cutting to the chase. “I can pay you for it, in which case I expect a certain level of silence.” He adjusted his hand on the grip of his M27. “Or, I can assume the worst and just take it away.”