He answered by staring at the floor.
Gloria caught it and leaned forward. She touched his arm to get his attention. “Nando, do you have any idea what he is talking about?”
Nando addressed his next words to Jonathan, as if oblivious to Gloria’s question. “How did you know to come here?”
Jonathan turned to his PC. “You want to take that one, Harry?”
Dawkins seemed startled by the question, as if he didn’t know what to say.
“You’re the one with the firsthand knowledge,” Jonathan said. “Tell them what you told me.”
“Are you sure you want to do that, Boss?” Boxers asked in English. In Big Guy’s world, information was more important than the king’s gold and needed to be guarded accordingly. Jonathan’s view was more practical—more reckless, if you asked Boxers. While he protected the means by which they gathered information, and jealously guarded identities that needed to be guarded, he believed that the more people understood about their situation, the better able they would be to make correct decisions.
“If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have asked,” Jonathan said. The comment bore a silent warning for Boxers to keep his opinions to himself, at least for the time being.
Dawkins bounced his gaze between his two rescuers, but when it became clear that Jonathan had prevailed, he vigorously rubbed his thighs as a warm-up to telling his story. “I’m a sworn agent of the American Drug Enforcement Administration,” he began, and Jonathan noted how those words seemed to have a physical effect on Nando and Gloria. It took the better part of three minutes to recap the relevant details of his interrogation. Jonathan admired the clipped elegance of Dawkins’s presentation. He stuck to the bare essentials, just the details that needed to be shared. And when he was done, he shut up, folded his hands on his lap, and looked to Jonathan.
Gloria looked baffled, while Nando looked terrified.
“What are they afraid of, Nando?” Jonathan asked. “What is going on here that is so important that it trumps the life of a DEA agent and risks all the complications that his death would bring?”
Nando wiped at his eyes, perhaps swiping away tears. He stood and looked to Gloria. “Get the children up,” he said. “We need to leave this place. Now.”
Gloria recoiled and brought her hands to her mouth. She didn’t seem able to form words.
“Sit back down,” Jonathan said. “Either we have time or we don’t. I want to know what is going on, and I want to know it right now.”
“But the children,” Gloria said.
Jonathan sighed. If Nando was correct, and they were going to have to bug out, then every moment could matter. “How bad is this, Nando?” he asked.
Nando’s eyes reddened. “Let her get the children ready,” he said.
Jonathan looked at Gloria and jerked his head a little. “Go,” he said. To Nando: “It sounds to me like you need to explain quickly.”
“I don’t know where to start.” He leaned forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees, and he spoke mostly to the floor. At points, it was hard to hear his words, especially with the language barrier. Jonathan spoke fluent Spanish, as did Boxers, but he often had trouble with the Mexican spin on his second language.
“Do you know where the money comes from to support this school?” Nando asked.
At first, Jonathan thought it was a rhetorical question. “I have my theories,” he said. “But this is your story to tell.”
“The Jungle Tigers,” Nando said. “Alejandro Azul. And do you know why he supports us?”
“For being in a hurry, this is the long way around the barn to tell a story,” Boxers said.
Nando looked up, as if startled that others were still in the room. “He supports it because he created these orphans when he murdered their parents. He makes no secret of this. He pays me to run the House because he trusts me.”
Jonathan wondered silently how much blood Nando had spilled to earn that trust.
“It has been such for over six years. Mr. Azul is not a man to be crossed. He is a very, very dangerous man.”
“As opposed to the cuddly pussycats who run the other cartels,” Boxers said in English.
“I speak your language,” Nando said in Spanish. “I choose not to, but do not mock me.”
“Do not tell me what to do,” Boxers said in perfect Spanish.
“Enough,” Jonathan said. “If he trusts you, then why do you feel you’re in danger?”
“Because you killed his enforcers and then came here.”
“He doesn’t know we killed them,” Jonathan said. “We don’t know that he even knows they’re dead.”
“He knows,” Nando said. “He has already spoken to me about it. Alejandro Azul knows everything. His network of spies is vast.”
“Wait a second,” Dawkins said.
Jonathan felt heat rise in his face. PCs were to remain silent unless spoken to.
If Dawkins sensed the anger, he didn’t show it. “Why were they torturing me to find out information about this place? Why would they care if the United States government knew that he funded a school or that you ran it? What else does this school do?”
Jonathan wished he had thought of the question himself.
Nando looked away again. “I need protection,” he said.
Jonathan recoiled. “Excuse me?”
“I am a dead man. I need protection if I am going to answer your questions.”
Jonathan shrugged. “Sure, I’ll grant you protection.” He had no idea what that meant, but what the hell?
“Do you have that authority?” Nando asked.
“We have guns,” Jonathan said.
“So do we,” said an unseen voice. It sounded young.
Boxers reacted instantly, bringing his rifle to high ready and leveling it at the shadow where the voice had come from.
“No, don’t!” Nando said. He pivoted in his seat. “Tomás, is that you?”
“Easy, Big Guy,” Jonathan said.
“Don’t step out here if you have a gun in your hand,” Boxers said.
“I don’t have a gun,” the voice said.
A young man, call him fourteen, stepped out from behind a corner Jonathan hadn’t even realized was there, such was the lighting. At once furious and grateful, Jonathan cursed himself for letting his guard down.
The boy wore his black hair long and tied off in the back in a ponytail. Either he’d not yet gone to bed or he’d dressed quickly. He wore the clothes of a cowboy, complete with hat and boots.
“But we have many, many guns downstairs,” he continued.
“Tomás!” Nando barked.
“They belong to the Jungle Tigers,” Tomás continued.
Nando stood abruptly, bringing Jonathan to his feet along with him. “Shut up, Tomás!”
Boxers grabbed a fistful of the back of Nando’s bathrobe and pulled him roughly back into his seat. “Sit the hell down!”
“How many guns, Tomás?” Jonathan said.
“Who are you?”
“Friends.”
The boy cocked his head. “Are you enemies of the Tigers?”
“Oh, yes,” Jonathan said. “We are enemies of all the cartels.”
“You are Americans?”
“Yes.” Jonathan went for the truth but was unsure whether it was the answer the kid wanted to hear.
“The Jungle Tigers killed my whole family,” Tomás said. His expression was serious, his jaw was set, and his eyes were dry. “They made me watch.”
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said.
“The United States let it happen.”
“Tomás, shut your mouth, or I swear to God—”
“Nando, I swear to God that I’ll cut your tongue out and feed it to you if you don’t shut up,” Boxers said. He repositioned himself between Nando and the boy, blocking their sight lines.
“We did not let it happen,” Jonathan said. “I cannot speak for the United States government, but I swear to you that the people in this ro
om have worked very hard to destroy the cartels. How many guns?”
“Dozens,” Tomás said. “Maybe hundreds.”
“Tomás, shut your—”
Boxers launched an open-handed slap that nearly knocked the proprietor out of his seat. If the blow had come with a closed fist, it would have been good night, Nando. “Don’t be a slow learner,” Boxers warned.
Jonathan tried to keep Tomás’s gaze. “Where are they?”
“In the cellar. I will show you.” The boy beckoned with one hand and started back around the corner from which he’d emerged.
Boxers made a growling sound.
Jonathan felt the same unease. It could be a trap. Divide and conquer had been a successful strategy for as long as people had been fighting each other. In English, he said, “Big Guy, you and Harry stay here. Watch Nando and wait for the rest to come down.”
“I don’t like this, Boss.”
“Nor do I. But it’s the job.” He looked toward the boy, but he was gone. “Tomás?”
The kid reappeared. “Are you coming or not?”
Jonathan regarded him with a long stare. “Please don’t do anything stupid,” he said. “I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret that, because you’ll regret it more.”
Tomás’s face darkened. “You said you were a friend.”
“I want to be.”
“Friends don’t threaten each other.”
Jonathan allowed himself a smile. Got me. “It’s been a long night, kid. Lead.”
Tomás turned the corner again, and when Jonathan followed, he found the kid waiting for him in the dark. “Be careful,” the boy said. “There are no lights here.”
Jonathan switched on his NVGs again and tipped them down over his eyes. He could see just fine. He kept his M27 at low ready, his hand draped over its pistol grip. The selector was set on single fire, but he was careful to keep his gloved finger out of the trigger guard.
At the end of the hall, Tomás opened what appeared to be a closet door, exposing stacked linens and bedclothes on shelves. Tomás pulled those shelves out of the way to expose a hidden door. He cast a glance back over his shoulder. “They’re down here.” He scowled. “Are those night-vision goggles?”
“They are.”
“I’ve heard about them and seen pictures, but I’ve never seen them up close.” He pushed on the hidden door, and it swung inward. He pointed. “The stairs are here,” he said. He seemed to be waiting for Jonathan to go first.
“No, I’ll follow you,” Jonathan said.
“I don’t like it down there,” Tomás said.
“All the more reason for you to go first. Please.” He tried a pleasant smile when he spoke, but he was certain it was invisible to the kid.
Tomás’s hesitation to go forward seemed genuine. Jonathan supposed it could be nothing more sinister than a kid’s inherent dislike of dark spaces, but this was not a night for benign assumptions. An unfortunate offshoot of living in these first decades of the twenty-first century was the geometric growth in the number of homicidal teenagers across the globe. From Mexico to Somalia, Ukraine to Turkey—and unfortunately, more and more in the United States—kids barely old enough to shave were taking up arms, either to defend themselves or, more often than not in less civilized corners, to provide cannon fodder for zealots. They made perfect soldiers. Easily swayed and possessing underdeveloped senses of loyalty and morality, they killed without remorse.
Jonathan hoped that Tomás was not one such teenager, but until he’d proved himself worthy of trust, the smart move was to treat him as an enemy lying in wait.
Finally, the kid bowed to the inevitable. He plucked a dime-store flashlight off one of the shelves he’d pulled out, and he flipped it on. The flare of light caused Jonathan to lift his NVGs out of the way again. As a hedge against being thrust into sudden darkness, he switched on his rifle’s muzzle light and dialed it out to its broadest setting.
The steps were steep yet sturdy and made of commercial-grade lumber. From the whiteness of the wood, Jonathan figured that they couldn’t be more than a few years old— certainly a lot newer than the rest of the building. From his angle above Tomás, Jonathan saw the kid’s head in high relief and then mostly just his shadow below. The floor appeared to be made of dirt. The deeper he descended, the more the air smelled stale and wet.
“Not all of the others know about this place,” Tomás said as he approached the bottom. “I found it only by accident. When Nando found out that I knew, he was angry at first, until I promised not to tell anyone. Then he wanted me to start helping him.”
“Helping him do what?” Jonathan had reached the ground. A sweep of his muzzle revealed nothing but an empty space. Small, rectangular windows near the ceiling—ground level from outside—provided the only ventilation. His Spidey sense tingled. Was this a trap, after all?
“This is not where the guns are,” Tomás said, and he turned right, to address what appeared to be a wall. “The wall is not real,” the boy said. To prove his point, he knocked on it. It made a hollow sound, but there was no obvious door. “The opening is hidden.” The kid seemed to enjoy giving his tour. He crossed the room and righted a tipped-over chair, then brought it back to the wall. He stood on it and stretched to find a latch of some sort near the ceiling. He pulled on it, and a part of the wall next to Jonathan dislodged with a soft click.
“You can go in,” Tomás said.
“After you.” He still had not dismissed the possibility of a trap.
“You still don’t trust me, do you?”
“I’ve known you only a few minutes,” Jonathan said. “But I’m getting there.” He stepped aside to allow the boy easier access to the newly revealed space.
Tomás stepped from the chair to the floor and then moved to Jonathan’s side. He wrapped his hands around the exposed edge of the dislodged wooden panel and pulled. It slid open parallel to the wall, not what Jonathan had been expecting.
Jonathan shifted the muzzle of his rifle to illuminate the black rectangle in the otherwise dark corner. He took care to keep the muzzle pointed over the kid’s head.
“Can you see?” Tomás said. “It’s not very big, and it’s really packed with stuff.”
Jonathan moved in closer and joined his light beam with that of the boy. Really packed with stuff was right. The first items he saw were a box stuffed with chest rigs—non-ballistic vests that operators used to carry extra magazines for whatever firearm they were carrying. Then he shifted his beam and caught a glimpse of the mother lode. Rifles of various designs and calibers, mostly AR-15 clones, with a few AKs thrown in for good measure, were stacked atop one another, some in sealed, marked crates, but most not. Jonathan had neither the time nor the inclination to count, but there had to be a hundred rifles in there, maybe more.
Smaller wooden crates of ammunition stood stacked against the near wall, these marked with orange diamond-shaped international hazmat labels and displaying the number 1.4. (Technically, the labels were not diamond shaped, but rather squares on point, a distinction that was made brilliantly clear to Jonathan by his very first drill sergeant in his early days at Basic.) Among these crates were stout cardboard boxes marked ORM-D in yellow letters on a black background.
Of greater concern were the crates nearest the door that displayed orange squares on point and the number 1.1. Assuming they were properly labeled, these crates contained high explosives—mass-detonating explosives (thank you very much, Sergeant Willis). Without knowing the configuration of the explosives inside, it was impossible to guess at a quantity, but it was more than enough to take a substantial divot out of the world.
Jonathan gave a low whistle. “Where did this come from?”
“Men bring it in trucks,” Tomás said. “And then, later, other men take it out in other trucks.”
Jonathan continued to sweep the area with his light. “You don’t know who the men are?”
“I know the men who take it away. They belong to Alejandro Azul. The
men who bring it, though, are not from here. They are Americans, I think. Their Spanish is not as good as yours.”
Jonathan cocked his head down to look at the kid. “Are you positive they’re Americans?” he said.
Tomás looked up. “Am I positive? No. How could I be? I don’t talk to them, and they don’t talk to me. They hardly even talk to Nando. Just to themselves.”
“How many?”
“How many Americans?”
“Yes. To make a delivery.”
“It is not always the same,” Tomás said. “Usually four, I guess. Sometimes more.”
“Do they wear uniforms?” Jonathan figured that was a stupid question, but one worth asking, anyway.
“No,” Tomás said. “They dress just like anybody.”
“Are they big and strong?”
“Like you? No, sir. They’re just . . . normal. But they seem mean. I don’t like the way they look at me.”
“How do they look at you?”
“Like they want to kill me. Like I’m a bug under their shoe.”
“Like the way Alejandro Azul treats you?” Jonathan asked.
Tomás shook his head vehemently. “No. To the Jungle Tigers, I am a bug under their shoe. They would kill me without worry, but they never treat me that way. The Jungle Tigers smile when they kill. They make you think they are your friend, and then they kill you. These men want you to be scared of them. And I am.”
As they chatted, Jonathan let his rifle fall against its sling, and he fished his phone out of the front pocket of his pants. “Is there a delivery schedule?” he asked. He took a series of flash pictures of the storage room. He’d send them to Venice for analysis later.
Tomás screwed up his face as he thought about that. “No, I don’t think so. Not for deliveries. But once things arrive, it’s not very long before Alejandro’s men come and take them away.”
Jonathan felt a tingle. “How long have these been here?”
“Just today,” Tomás said. “Well, yesterday now.”
“So will Alejandro’s people come later today?”
Final Target Page 6
