Blood Lies - 15

by Richard Marcinko

  Stoneman had shot off the lock on the truck’s door. Inside he found exactly eighty-seven people, packed nearly solid. Most had broken bones or suffered other injuries when the truck turned over. Two were dead.

  They were all Guatemalans. They had been heading for the U.S. border, where they were promised they would be welcomed into the Land of Milk, Honey, and Better Things.

  * * *

  As soon as she saw people were hurt, Trace got on her sat phone and called Junior, asking him to call the legitimate police. She made some calls herself, then went to help Tex and Stoneman treat the wounded.

  They waited until dawn, when finally a lone car came out to see what was going on. Deciding it didn’t make much sense to hang around for what certainly would be a half-assed investigation, they left as soon as they heard the car’s siren in the distance.

  “Good thing he’s going lights and sirens,” said Tex. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think he’s taking his time.”

  VI

  Mongoose gave us a warm SEAL greeting when we arrived at the ranch: he cursed the living crap out of us for having so much fun without him.

  “You suck, you suck, you suck,” he told Shotgun when we drove up.

  He was only a little more civil to me. SEALs—even ones like Mongoose who have been separated from the service for a few years—don’t like to miss out on the action. And I’m sure it was especially galling that he’d had to play babysitter while we were getting shot at. I’m afraid he may have taken out some of his frustrations on de Sarcena; the cartel leader looked a little worse for wear when Veronica and I went in to talk to him.

  He was still doped, but not nearly as badly as earlier. The cartel boss was sitting upright in a wooden chair next to the bed when we came in. He’d been stripped to his underwear, and he had food stains on his T-shirt.

  His eyes lit up when Veronica entered the room, but quickly narrowed. He called her words highly inappropriate for any woman, but especially one as beautiful as she was.

  Veronica handled it very well: she slapped him across the face so hard he spit blood.

  “If you want to live, you will tell me where Mr. and Mrs. Cortina are.” Veronica folded her arms in front of her chest. Her Spanish was sharp and her eyes flashed with anger. “The people you had removed from Angel Hills so you could build your tunnel.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Veronica grabbed de Sarcena so violently I thought she was going to slam him against the wall. Instead, she pulled him up and held him a few inches from her face. The room was small, and hot, claustrophobic even if you weren’t bound hands and feet as de Sarcena was.

  “The Anglos,” she told him. “What did you do with the Americans in the development where you built your tunnel?”

  “I—I—I.”

  “When I worked for you, you said this was very potent.” Veronica reached with her left hand to a spot of great male vulnerability. I felt a twinge myself. “It seems like the snake is only a little mouse.”

  De Sarcena groaned. Veronica pushed him back into the chair. He slipped as he went back, falling onto the bed.

  “You’re pathetic. Tell me what you did with the Americans or you’ll die the worst death imaginable. It will be very slow. Very slow. The worm will be the first to go. Then we’ll seal it off with a tourniquet so you don’t die from it. At first.”

  The mobster shook his head. His face had been pretty pale when we came in; now it was almost translucent.

  “Maybe I should talk to him,” I suggested. “Take a little break.”

  Veronica frowned, then with obvious reluctance left the room.

  “She’s nuts,” I told him in English. “She’s crazy.”

  “You can’t trick me,” he said. “I know you’re as bad as she is. I’ve read all your books.”

  “I’m not trying to trick you. She will kill you. Slowly. And I’ll let her.”

  He pressed his lips together.

  “So where are they?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The Americans who were at Angel Hills. You know where that was. You had a tunnel there.”

  “I don’t know anything about tunnels.”

  “Right.” I turned to go.

  “James handles things like that,” he blurted.

  “James?”

  “James Vincent—he is in charge of the crossings—I have a large enterprise. I don’t see to the details. Don’t let her kill me. Hand me over to the Mexican authorities.”

  Sure, I’ll do that, I thought; you’ll be out of jail inside an hour. But now that I knew what he wanted, dealing with him was child’s play. “If you cooperate, I’ll see what we can do.”

  He managed a weak smile. I doubt he truly believed me; he was only mildly drugged. Still, he must have wanted to grab at any possibility for hope.

  “Who is James Vincent?” I asked. “Is he Mexican?”

  “You promise to turn me over to the Mexican authorities?”

  “Who is James Vincent?”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise to turn you over to a Mexican, yes. Who is James Vincent?”

  * * *

  I didn’t believe what de Sarcena told me, even after I had Junior do more research.

  “He’s definitely the mayor,” said Junior, pointing to the Web site he’d pulled of a small town about ten miles away.

  “You’re sure that’s him?”

  “I had Shunt cross-check his bank accounts against the cartel accounts he’s been looking into. We’ve got him nailed. It’s the same guy. He gets fifty grand wired into this account in Kenya. From there—whoosh.”

  Kenya as in Africa, by the way. In case you were wondering. The banking system there had several things to recommend itself to illegal activities, starting with bank officials desperate to build reserves at any cost.

  The amazing thing wasn’t that a politician was on the take—ha!—or that a government official was actually a member of the cartel payroll—double ha! It was the fact that the town James Vincent was mayor of—Rabbit Hole, Arizona—was in the U.S.

  And did I mention that Mr. James Vincent—the Mr. James Vincent—was in the primary for U.S. Senate? And ahead in the polls?

  Oh, and one of his biggest supporters was Jordan Macleish, the man who had hired me to find Melissa Reynolds and free her from her kidnappers.

  VII

  Melissa Reynolds and Doc had set out the day before for Austin, Texas, to meet Macleish and her dad. Even before they arrived, Ms. Reynolds got cold feet. She didn’t want to see Macleish, she told Doc. She didn’t care for him anymore.

  Very understandable, he told her. But as a business matter, I would greatly appreciate it if you would at least come with me to show him that you’re all right.

  I will, she said, but only after I meet with my dad.

  That seemed fair enough to Doc. Not only was Greenie her father, but he was also a fellow SEAL, and therefore should come first by any measure. Greenie was supposed to be flying in from Somalia the next day, and so waiting didn’t seem like that big a deal.

  But when Doc tried getting information about where he might meet Reynolds, he ran into a brick wall. The number Melissa had for Greenie went unanswered. This wasn’t particularly surprising, given that Greenie was probably in transit. But his other contact information, including an e-mail address, came back unknown or disconnected. Doc tried calling the security firm that Greenie was working for, but got no cooperation; they refused even to confirm that he was an employee, apparently for security reasons.

  Finally, Doc did what all good navy sea dogs would do in that situation: he started calling other chiefs.

  If you’ve been in the navy, then you know that chief petty officer is more than just a rank. Becoming chief confers a certain ageless wisdom to a man, and now a woman as well. A chief—one seldom uses the full title—may not be able to walk on water, but he knows where all the rocks are, generally
because he put them there. No ship in the navy could ever sail without the efforts and energy of its chiefs. You could replace a captain, and the boat would go on. Leave a dozen ensigns—please!—at the dock and no one will notice. But if a single chief has so much as a head cold at the wrong time, the entire ship’s company can be in mortal peril.

  At least that’s their version of reality. And I’m too smart to disagree with it.

  Doc started working the old chiefs’ network, plumbing for information about Greenie and his ship. He tracked down the ship, and even got a satellite phone number for the chief mate. (Aboard the freighter, the chief mate headed the deck department, making him second in command.) At first he had a bit of trouble getting him because of the time difference, but Doc naturally persevered, and eventually he managed to get the chief mate.

  “Dee security team hiss very good,” said the chief mate, who spoke with a heavy Egyptian accent. “You speak to who?”

  “Bill Reynolds.”

  “Do we have one by dat name? I check.”

  Reynolds was eventually found and brought to the chief mate’s cabin, where the sat phone was handed over.

  “What are you doing aboard the ship?” Doc asked, after greeting him with the usual warm regards SEALs show for each other. (It’s a surprise the phones didn’t break with all that cursing.)

  “We’re protecting the tub from Somalian pirates. The damn bastards have been going a couple hundred miles out to sea. This ship’s so old I’d be surprised if they’d even want it. Got more rust on it than paint, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Aren’t you coming back to Texas?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “For Melissa.”

  “What? Why? Is she in trouble? What’s going on?”

  “She’s been kidnapped.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Relax. She’s OK. Dick Marcinko rescued her.”

  “That ol’ son of a bitch? You tell him to keep his hands off her! If he even looks at her crooked, I’m calling up the ex. She’ll come after him with a shotgun and a pitchfork.”

  My reputation preceded me.

  Doc straightened out the confusion, then let Melissa talk to her father. Once they caught up, he got back on the line and tried pumping Reynolds for information about Macleish. Reynolds knew absolutely nothing.

  “But when I get back, I’ll break every bone in his goddamn body,” added Reynolds. “Mother-sucking predator scumbag rich bastard shithead.”

  “Your call,” said Doc.

  “Tell Marcinko I owe him one,” said Reynolds. “Hey, I gotta go. Take care of my kid, all right?”

  “Not a problem, Greenie.”

  “Greenie’s my dad?” said Melissa after Doc hung up. “That’s his nickname? Greenie?”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “My father keeps a lot to himself. What’s it mean?”

  “Who?”

  “Greenie. How did he get it?”

  “Can’t tell you that. He’s got to tell you himself. SEAL code.”

  “What? For real?”

  “Yup.”

  Actually, I think it was Doc’s code, but she let it drop.

  As I understand it, the name was either a flattering reference to Reynolds’s activity level when he first joined the Teams—“greenies” being a slang term for amphetamines back in the day—or a description of his face the first time he went out in an assault boat. We report, you decide.

  * * *

  By this point, nothing surprised me. I told Doc to check in with our Mr. Macleish: find out where he was and what he was up to.

  “But don’t tell him that we have Melissa yet,” I added. “Let’s see how this thing unfolds first.”

  “Smells to you, huh?”

  “Worse than donkey barn on a 120-degree day.”

  “Reminds me of the admiral’s garage on Sicily, was it?”

  “As bad as that.”

  * * *

  Rabbit Hole, Arizona, is located a few miles east of Bisbee. Like Bisbee and a lot of the other settlements nearby, the place was first discovered by miners, and went through the usual boom and bust cycles associated with mining. It never grew anywhere near as big as some of its neighbors, let alone Bisbee, but it did have a brief heyday around 1917. With World War I going strong and the U.S. just about to get involved, the price of copper started going up. A small vein at the edge of the town brought workers and an influx of cash. The copper quickly played out, but enough people had come to the area to establish a stable if small economy.

  Not as well known as Bisbee, its Main Street has a well-polished sleepy town veneer. The out of the way location a few miles off the state highway adds to the hideaway allure for Grade C celebrities who can’t afford to jet off overseas. Their presence entices a somewhat larger circle of hangers-on and wannabes. They, in turn, support the twenty-first century’s standard tourist amenities: nice restaurants, overpriced souvenir stands, and local branches of international banks catering to the obscenely rich.

  If you read the news stories, the record of economic success, campaign fund-raising power, and out-of-state connections made James Vincent a potent comer. But driving toward this burp of a town analyzing the data Junior and Shunt had gathered, I came to a much different conclusion. It was certainly true that James Vincent had connections and was getting donations from the tourists and second-homers who lived in the lavish adobe houses dotting the hills above his town. But those donations were nearly all under a hundred bucks a pop. Vincent had risen in state politics because he could raise big money for his party’s candidates in elections around the state. He sponsored lavish dinners at big ticket prices, with the profits going to the party nominees. The dinners always sold out. He rounded up marks for “Hundred Circles”—a group of donors who each kicked in a hundred thousand dollars to the party. He found groups who could donate in-kind services like telephone banks and billboard space for candidates’ use.

  Granted, the candidates he backed had often lost, but that just endeared him even more to the hierarchy. Anyone who could raise money for these losers would surely be able to raise money for himself.

  Maybe that wasn’t the exact way they looked at it, but I’d guess it was pretty close.

  So how had he raised this money?

  The records mandated by election law were more confusing than the statements my publisher sends me documenting my book royalties—which is saying quite a lot. The big donations were barely mentioned, generally scraping around the regs because of some loophole inserted by the pols to keep their money suppliers clear. Meanwhile, there were thousands and thousands of pages listing small donations:

  A. Able: $20.

  A. B. Able: $20.

  B. Able: $20.

  You get the picture.

  The mayor seemed extremely adept at passing the hat and picking up small bills.

  “Or laundering money,” commented Veronica, looking over my shoulder in the backseat of the rented Chevy Impala as we drove to Rabbit Hole. “These names appear over and over. They look like they were taken out of a telephone book.”

  “Could be.”

  “A Mexican cartel buying its own U.S. senator?” she asked, putting two and two together.

  “Why not? Doesn’t everyone?”

  We drove on in silence after that, the only sounds the crunch of potato chips in Shotgun’s mouth, and Mongoose’s occasional grunt as he adjusted the cruise control. He found the turnoff for the county road that led into town. We drove past dusty brown hilltops ringed by green, then came up over a rise and looked out on a valley of every shade of yellow and brown, with a few speckles of red thrown in. A blue-tinted stream coursed down the side of a steep rock-faced hill, evidence of copper somewhere beneath the stone.

  “There’s the town,” said Veronica, pointing out the window as we came around the bend. “Lot smaller than I thought.”

  Rabbit Hole’s main street was a stretch of county highway not more than a quarter mile
long. Most of the city’s buildings were on the side streets, poking into the hills that parted in the center of town. We passed a cemetery, and when I saw some fresh mounds at the back, I couldn’t help wondering if that’s where her grandparents really were.

  “Better watch it,” Shotgun told Mongoose between chips. “Little place like this gonna be a speed trap.”

  “I’ll do the drivin’, asshole,” snapped Mongoose.

  Not two seconds later, a police car pulled out from behind a dilapidated building on the other side of the road, lights flashing, siren wailing.

  “Told ya,” said Shotgun.

  Mongoose shot him an evil eye, but said nothing.

  “Best behavior, boys,” I said, settling back in the seat. “We don’t need to boost the fine by being jack-offs.”

  “License and registration,” said the policeman when Mongoose rolled down the window.

  “Mornin’, officer,” answered Mongoose in his sweetest voice. You’d have thought he was asking for a date. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “License and registration,” repeated the cop, this time with attitude. “And it’s well past noon, son.”

  Mongoose dug into his back pocket for his wallet. “This is a rental,” he said, taking out his license.

  “I see.” The cop bent at the waist, getting a better look in the car. “And you’re visitors?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have business in Rabbit Hole?”

  “We’re scouting for a movie,” said Mongoose. It was our preagreed cover.

  The cop wasn’t impressed. He took the license and went back to his cruiser.

  “Good morning,” mocked Shotgun in a soft and saccharine voice.

  “Shut the hell up or I’ll tell him your potato chips are laced with LSD,” countered Mongoose.

  “Hey, no sweat. They use that stuff for religion out here. Not against the law.” Shotgun’s laughter shook the car.

  “How much you figure the fine’s gonna be, Dick?” asked Mongoose.

  “No way of knowing.”

  “Will the company pay?”

  Shotgun’s laughter doubled.

  “I was talkin’ to the boss,” said Mongoose. “Dick?”