by Marc Cameron
Tonight, Amanda had caught Franco’s eye across the long and narrow dining room as soon as they came through the door. He rushed forward, still carrying a tray of dirty glasses he’d just cleaned off one of the tables, greeting her effusively. She pointed out the area near the bar and begged to sit there.
Like most instances where women preplanned their dealings with men, it was all too easy.
The scouting visit on the previous evening revealed the heating vents were held in place by friction rather than screws. In theory, this should have made it easier to remove. Beatriz kicked off her shoe as soon as they sat down, going straight to work with her toe. The metal louver appeared to be glued in place at first, but she finally got it to budge a little by pushing the face back and forth rather than trying to simply hook it with her nail and pull it out. Eventually, she was able to wiggle it out. She felt the metal and surrounding boxy collar slide free from the wood panel at the same moment Franco chose to visit their table. Beatriz was just able to catch the piece of metal with her bare foot and wedge it against the wall. The waiter smiled at Amanda, paying Beatriz no attention at all, and placed a platter containing their picada on the table. The girls’ accents gave away the fact that they were not from Argentina, and Franco felt it a duty to explain the bits of baked cheese and sliced meat people from his beloved country ate before a main meal. Beatriz balanced the grate in place, keeping her face passive while the arch of her foot began to spasm and cramp. Amanda noted her friend’s discomfort and asked Franco to suggest another wine for them to try. He scurried off to find “something just right” for the beautiful señorita who had chosen to return to his restaurant.
Beatriz sighed with relief when she let the grate slip to the floor and come to rest on top of her foot. Franco was a waiter and therefore not trained in the art of espionage or tradecraft—but surely any man with his pudgy physique and halting demeanor would suspect that two attractive women he’d only just met might have ulterior motives.
One of them might, perhaps, be trying to distract him while her friend placed a bomb inside the wall of his restaurant.
Beatriz gave a whispered scoff, shaking her head at Amanda. “Hope. It is every man’s demise.”
Amanda raised her eyebrows, the facial equivalent of a shrug. “And the downfall of most women,” she said.
The bomb itself was small, made from military-grade RDX. A key component of C-4 was cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine. The name was a mouthful, so the British developers simply called it Research Department eXplosive. This particular batch of RDX was manufactured at a munitions plant outside Islamabad. Pakistani operatives were fond of the stuff and had used it to great effect in bombings against India and the West. Motor oil or some other carbon-based product was often mixed with the explosive to mask the material’s origin. Amanda and Beatriz left it plain. They wanted investigators to know the RDX came from Pakistan. Their briefcase device contained half a kilo of the plasticized material, a bit of PETN, and a blasting cap with a detonator attached to an arming device and then a mobile phone—also from Pakistan.
As the two women talked, Beatriz used her foot to lift and push her briefcase into the space behind the vent cover. It took only a moment, and stooping slightly, she was able to replace the cover before Franco returned with a bottle of Schroeder Merlot from Patagonia.
To his shame, Amanda said she preferred the earlier Malbec, and he slunk away with the open bottle.
Fairly giddy with the success of this portion of their mission, the women dug into the contents of the picada. Beatriz absentmindedly twirled a lock of blond hair over her ear as she began to peruse the menus, getting down to the business of deciding what to have for dinner. It turned out that placing a bomb was very good for one’s appetite.
Neither woman noticed the tall, bearded man with the fit-looking blonde. The well-dressed couple stopped just inside the front door, both scanning the now crowded restaurant as if looking for just the perfect table.
33
Moco almost hit his head on the roof of his S-10 pickup when his mobile phone began to buzz in the front pocket of his jeans. He nearly ran a fat woman in a green minivan off the road. She flipped him off, which would have normally caused him to chase her down, if only to scare her for disrespecting him. Instead, he took a deep breath and imagined the woman’s head sitting on a fence post. Maybe later. That calmed him down some. The phone buzzed again, but Moco let it. He was terrified that it might be Zambrano, checking on the status of the hit. The sicario had felt like he was about to throw up ever since Gusano wasted the wrong dude. Not because he felt any remorse at Aaron Bennet’s death, but because he knew that Zambrano would very literally set him on fire if they didn’t kill the FBI bitch today. This Callahan puta had her federal fingers all over the boss’s North Texas operation—and Zambrano had made it clear. He wanted those fingers floating in a jar of tequila on his mantel by the time he went to bed—pretty nail polish and all.
The danger of being stopped with the guns inside the plastic gas jug post-shooting scared the shit out of Moco. He’d never wanted a joint so bad in his life. Gusano just sat in the passenger seat of the S-10 and listened to his playlist. Nothing ever bothered him. Stupid bastard.
Special Agent Kelsey Callahan lived alone, but Moco fully expected her to be armed. She was sure to put up a fight, so he couldn’t very well get rid of all the guns if he wanted to get the job done. Still, he left the kid watching her house and did a quick run over to Lake Lavon to dump the TEC-9 so there wouldn’t be any ballistics to match the bullets in Aaron Bennet’s chest. There was a metric shit-ton of work to do if they were going to find their way around Gusano’s mistake. Moco had started saying it that way in his head right after the shooting, throwing the blame to the Worm by calling it “Gusano’s mistake.” Maybe the boss would believe it if he said it enough times.
Moco leaned back from the steering wheel to dig out the phone in the middle of the fourth ring. It was Chueco, the kid who was sitting on Callahan’s house.
“Some guy just drove up and went to her door,” Chueco said. “Tall, dark beard. Looks like a tough dude. She let him in, so I guess she knows him.”
Moco mulled over this new information. A new guy would add a wrinkle to the problem, but it might even help. If he was a boyfriend, maybe his presence would mess with Callahan’s mind, make her easier to take. He had a sudden thought.
“Is this guy a cop?”
“I don’t know about him,” Chueco said. “But about five minutes after he got here, a bunch of cops showed up on the next street over. There must be a dozen marked cars. Must be something bad.”
The kid had no idea.
“Sit tight,” Moco said. “We’ll be parked at the 7-Eleven up the street. Let us know when the cops clear out—or if Callahan leaves.”
“She left already,” Chueco said.
Moco stomped on the gas. There was always the risk of getting pulled over, but he figured every cop within fifteen miles was already at Buttermilk Place.
“What do you mean gone? Did the guy go with her?”
“He did,” the kid said. “They got in her car and followed another cop over to the commotion on the next street. Want me to get closer and see what’s going on?”
“No!” Moco snapped, maybe a little too quickly.
Gusano looked over at him, wires hanging from his ears, head bobbing to his tunes.
“Just stay where you can see her car,” Moco said. “Call me when she moves again.”
“’Tá bueno, bye.” Chueco ended the call now that he had his assignment.
Moco eased off the accelerator, feeling an unseen hand tighten around his gut. This was all coming down too fast for him to process. Damn, he really needed some weed.
• • •
Special Agent Kelsey Callahan stood over the body of the man she’d never met and clenched her fists until she was afraid her nails
might tear through the blue nitrile gloves. Two crime scene technicians from the Garland, Texas, police department busied themselves placing yellow plastic markers on the floor, enumerating the location of three spent shell casings and several boot prints on the polished slate floor around the entry. A uniformed officer photographed the interior of the house while a handful of other officers combed the yard and interviewed the neighbors for any clue as to who had murdered Aaron Bennet.
One of the uniforms, a sergeant named Morris, had served on the Crimes Against Children Task Force for a couple years and knew Callahan lived nearby. He’d snapped to the similar address and taken it upon himself to inform her of the homicide—much to the chagrin of Detective Fran Little, who made it extremely clear that she didn’t want the Feeble Eyes getting their Fed gunk on her homicide case.
Detective Little hitched up the thighs of her 5.11 khakis and squatted on the other side of the body with a digital camera. “You know this guy?” she asked without looking up.
“Never met him,” Callahan said. “It’s obvious what happened, though.”
The detective stood, pushing a lock of straw-colored hair off her forehead with the back of her gloved hand. “And how’s that?”
Callahan bit her tongue to keep from saying what she really wanted to say. “I guess there’s a chance this guy has gambling debts or a jilted lover, but there’s a more obvious answer. This is 2348 Buttermilk Place. I live at 2348 Buttermilk Circle.”
Detective Little raised both eyebrows, like Callahan was some kid she was trying to humor. “I’d rather look at the evidence in total, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m pointing out all the evidence,” Callahan said. “If you don’t—”
“Better check yourself,” Detective Little said. “It sounds like you’re about to give me an ultimatum, and I don’t respond well to those.”
Callahan closed her eyes and took a slow breath. “I was going to say, ‘If you don’t see it, I can spell it out for you.’”
Detective Little scoffed. “Well, ain’t that just downright neighborly of you. Makes me feel a lot better.”
“The only motive to kill Aaron Bennet is that he happens to live at an address similar to mine.”
Caruso touched Callahan on the elbow to guide her gently away. The shrinks at Quantico taught that this was one of the most unthreatening places to touch most people, but apparently Callahan was not most people. She jerked away and glared as though she might punch him in the face.
“Look,” Detective Little said. “We will get around to checking with any people who want you dead. I can imagine that list will be a long one. But if I’m not doin’ my job in the order you deem fit, well, I got plenty of more important things to do than stand around here and argue. Be my guest if you want to take over. I’ll have my guys out of here so fast your head will spin, lady.”
Callahan turned as if to walk away, then wheeled. “You listen, Fran. I’m not trying to piss on your leg. I’m merely pointing out that the person who killed this guy was really after me. When you snap to that fact, give me a call.”
• • •
Moco needed weed so bad. But he couldn’t chance it with so many cops swarming all over the place. Luckily, there was enough hash oil hidden in the door panel of his truck for two dabs. Making the hash oil was tricky business, requiring him to boil off the liquid butane he used to extract it from the buds. High heat and butane didn’t go well together, so the process took forever. When he was finished, he had an amber, honeylike substance packed with THC.
Moco liked to put a little dab of the sticky stuff on the end of a nail and smoke it. The buzz helped him think straight. Problem was, that would be almost as noticeable as smoking a joint—and he didn’t want to go there. Dabs tasted like shit if you ate them straight, but he had a plan. A lighter, a metal spoon, and a little bit of coconut oil he kept in the glovebox would help the dab slide down quickly—even if it didn’t do much about the taste.
He wedged the spoon in the crack of the center console to hold it, and then added a dab—about the size of a Tic Tac—with a half-teaspoon of coconut oil. He was just in the middle of mixing the concoction with the point of his pocketknife when his phone began to vibrate again.
“Hold this,” he said, passing the mixture of dab and coconut oil to Gusano, who took his earbuds out and blinked stupidly. “Don’t spill it.”
Gusano promptly stuck the spoon in his mouth and slurped down the whole thing.
Moco wanted to stab the idiot, and would have had he not needed help. He punched him in the shoulder instead.
“What?” the Worm said. “I thought you gave it to me.”
Moco shook his head and answered the phone.
It was Chueco again. “She’s coming your way,” the kid said. “That tough-looking dude with the beard is with her.”
“Follow her,” Moco said. He hung up and then looked across the seat at Gusano, still fuming over the stolen hash oil. He spoke through clenched teeth, hardly able to sit still. “You son of a bitch.”
Gusano nodded at the crumpled piece of plastic wrap in Moco’s lap. “What? You got another one. I’ll help you make some more after we kill the FBI lady.”
“You better,” Moco said, still glaring. He peeled back the plastic and bit off the rest of the hash oil, clenching his teeth at the bitterness. Eating it straight wouldn’t give him nearly as good a high as when it was mixed with oil, but it would have to be enough.
Callahan’s unmarked Expedition rolled by the 7-Eleven and Moco threw the pickup in gear. At least he was starting to get the “dab sweats.” Maybe he’d be thinking straight enough to kill the right person this time.
34
The thing Magdalena Rojas first noticed about Ernie Pacheco was his teeth. This would have pleased him had she mentioned it, because he’d paid a lot of money for them. She remembered that her father had had a nice smile, but this man they called Matarife was different. His perfect smile was starkly mismatched to the rest of his craggy, misshapen face. She’d heard he was injured in a bar fight, but whatever the cause, his flat nose looked like it had been melted and then smeared above his lip. An asterisk-shaped scar puckered the sunken flesh under his left eye. The ear on that same side was a mass of scar tissue. He kept his dark hair pulled back in a thick man bun. He seemed to believe the style anchored him to a more youthful appearance, but Magdalena thought it just called attention to the severity of the mess that he called a face. Oddly, while all those who followed him were adorned with images of La Santa Muerte, Matarife, the self-professed leader of her cult, did not have a single tattoo on his body.
Magdalena had met the man many times, but he never paid for her, even when she’d belonged to Dorian or Parrot. He took her just the same, always pretending like it was all her idea and that she should be happy because he was saving her from the other guys. It pissed off Parrot, but he never said anything. He just chopped her when Matarife left.
He sat across from her now, naked, chewing on a bite of rare steak and gesturing at her with his knife as he spoke. He liked to eat dinner without his clothes. Magdalena didn’t care. Like most things that had to do with sex that didn’t cause her too much pain, she’d grown numb to it. But he hit her if she didn’t giggle and raise her eyebrows up and down and pretend she was impressed. She had seen many naked men, and apart from the black hair that covered his body like a wild ape, there was nothing impressive about him.
He nudged aside a small silver cross and picked a bit of fallen meat from his matted chest hair, looking at it for a moment to see what it was before popping it between his perfect teeth.
He pointed with the steak knife again. “I should tell you of Matarife’s trip to Colombia,” he said. “It was very dangerous.”
He boasted a great deal for someone who didn’t care about impressing her. She supposed he was bragging to himself. He liked to speak of things that
made him seem handsome and tough and smart. Magdalena thought he was none of these things, except perhaps tough, considering the scars on his face. Well, maybe he was a little bit smart, or else he would not have been so rich. He wasn’t smart enough to take her straight to Zambrano’s like he was supposed to, that was for sure. Ernie Pacheco was a cruel man, but Zambrano was crueler, and would kill him for disobedience. Probably.
He looked at her with his narrow pig eyes, the left one even narrower because of the scar. “You not gonna eat? You haven’t touched anything.”
She faked a smile. “I am not hungry. You want another beer?” She hoped he’d eaten so much meat and drunk enough beer that he’d just fall asleep. Guys did that sometimes, so she always asked them if they wanted more.
He pushed back from the table and clapped his hands, rubbing them together like a housefly. The man bun, the strange eyes. He looked a lot like a fly, she thought.
He rubbed his hairy belly and gave a long sigh. “Hey,” he said. “I got an idea that will help us get in the mood.”
Magdalena groaned inside, struggling to keep up the fake smile.
He put his hand behind her back and gave her a shove. It didn’t knock her over, but there was no doubt that she had no choice about going to the bedroom.
“We’ll watch one of my movies,” he said, chuckling a little. He gave her another shove, harder this time. “It’ll be fun. You might even know some of the stars.”
35
Dominic Caruso accelerated Kelsey Callahan’s Bureau-issued Ford Expedition down the on-ramp of the President George Bush Turnpike, heading toward Plano. He’d insisted on driving, despite Callahan’s objections. She already suspected him of being complicit in the murder of a couple cartel members, though she hadn’t said much about it, but the run-in with the Garland PD detective had left her leg bouncing like the needle on a sewing machine. Caruso considered talking to her about the incident but quickly decided that he was in mortal danger of getting his head bitten off.
