by Lou Dobbs
A careful drive through the parking lot, which showed more than a dozen obvious federal law enforcement vehicles, showed him John’s car parked at an odd angle and in a spot not assigned to his apartment.
As Eriksen was about to climb the outdoor stairwell to John’s apartment, his phone rang, and he hesitated when he saw it was Mike Zara. He was already in enough trouble to know he couldn’t ignore a call from this moron.
He popped the phone open and said, “Tom Eriksen.”
His supervisor’s loud, unmistakable voice said, “I just called the Border Security Task Force office and they said you were out.”
“Hey, Mike, I, um, am on my way to an interview.” He didn’t want to mention that the target of the interview had been on the disastrous crossing when the shooting had occurred.
“What time will you be done?”
Now Eriksen knew how to answer. If he came up with a time later than five o’clock, it was likely his supervisor wouldn’t want to speak to him until tomorrow. “It could be a long one and go as late as seven o’clock. Why? Do you need me to meet you?” That was a nice touch.
There was a long pause over the phone. Then his supervisor said, “No, as long as you’re doing what you’re supposed to do over on the task force and not getting mixed up in any of your ex-partner’s crazy ideas, I’m okay.”
After another thirty seconds of small talk, Eriksen was able to get off the phone and knock on John’s door. He waited, but there was no answer. He stepped over to the kitchen window and knocked on that, hoping the different sound might attract John’s attention. Now he was starting to get concerned and moved back to the door, pounding with the palm of his hand.
When he got no response after almost a minute, Eriksen tried the handle and was surprised to find the door unlocked. He opened it slowly and called out immediately, “John, it’s Tom. Are you in there?” He stepped into the dark apartment, comforted by the gun on his hip because something didn’t seem right. He called out again, “John.” He didn’t want to startle an armed, hungover federal agent either.
He stepped all the way into the apartment. It was stuffy, but there was no overwhelming odor. The living room was empty, and the TV was playing ESPN. He eased into the hallway, still calling out to his friend. The bedroom was empty as well.
The door to the bathroom was shut, and it gave Eriksen a chill. He knocked on the door but got no response and immediately turned the handle and pushed the door open. The small bathroom was empty. The whole apartment was empty. He called John’s cell phone one more time and could hear it ring in the kitchen. He walked in and picked up the small Verizon phone from the counter.
This wasn’t like John Houghton at all.
Eriksen wanted to investigate further, maybe call John’s wife and a few friends, but it was getting late and Lila expected him over at the Martinez apartment right now. He glanced at his Timex Ironman watch again and reluctantly shut the door to John’s apartment, considering who he should call first to check on his friend.
* * *
Luis Martinez pulled into the parking spot that always seemed to be open directly in front of his apartment building. He liked parking the leased Toyota Tercel where the guard in the lobby could see it. Not that he thought one of the heavyset, minimum-wage security officers would actually stand up from the stool by the elevator if someone attempted to steal the car, but he felt better parking in that spot. The sun was just at the top of the low ridge of mountains to the west, and the temperature had dropped out of the low nineties for the first time since midmorning.
He still had a hard time comprehending that the Immigration Service trusted him enough to let him travel anywhere in El Paso freely. The caseworker assigned to him and his wife was a very pleasant young woman whose grandparents had come over from Mexico to work the fields in the fifties. He didn’t know if she understood their plight or if she made everyone feel so comfortable. Dr. Martinez realized the sentiment in the United States was turning against immigration, and he could understand it in some circumstances, but the Mexican people had traditionally been a good source of honest labor. He had a hard time understanding why anyone wanted to keep out Mexicans. To work on his English, he had watched a great deal of TV on the small set in their apartment. One commentator, Ted Dempsey, was able to make his points clearly and rationally, unlike many of the partisan pundits who spewed their party’s talking points and little else while appearing on TV. Dempsey’s view, as usual, was straightforward: create a rational, effective, and humane solution for undocumented people already in the country, and end illegal immigration once and for all. Dempsey said the only way the government could reform immigration was to truly secure and control the border, and then and only then would it be possible to reform U.S. immigration laws and rules. Essentially, he wanted business and the federal government to follow the rules and do it in a commonsense way. And for their refusal to follow the law, Dempsey blamed employers of undocumented immigrants, not the people who understandably were fleeing poverty and violence in their own country. Martinez noticed Dempsey also tended to get a little louder and more demonstrative when he took up the issue of so many American companies outsourcing middle-class American jobs to other countries with cheaper labor costs.
Martinez checked his watch, knowing the lovely DEA woman was supposed to meet with him again this evening. He wondered if she had come up with the visas and hoped he didn’t have to give up his friend Enrique. He liked the affable computer engineer but believed the young man should be working for a legitimate computer company, not for the thugs and drug dealers who employed him now. He also wondered if getting locked up wouldn’t be a blessing for the reckless young man before he did something that guaranteed he wouldn’t see his next birthday.
When Martinez was about halfway between the car and the building’s front door, he felt a strong hand around his upper arm. He was startled by the mountain of a man, then recognized Pablo Piña’s captain, Manny, standing next to the unknown giant.
Manny simply said, “Come with us.”
“Where?”
“Does it matter?”
Martinez felt panic rise in his throat and realized he had to buy time. Maybe the DEA agent could help. Finally he blurted, “I have information to trade.” He knew Manny was smart enough to at least consider the statement.
After a moment the older man nodded his head and said, “Like what?”
Martinez tried to think of something of value to these killers from his hometown of Juárez. “I have Enrique’s cellular phone number.” He could see that caught Manny’s attention.
“What is it?”
The direct question threw Martinez for a loop. “I have it upstairs.” As soon as he said it, he realized he’d put his wife in danger as well. But a lot could happen, and they still had to pass the security guard.
Manny considered the offer, looked directly at Martinez, and said, “Get us past the guard or you die in the lobby.”
Now Martinez noticed a third man. He was smaller and wiry, with eyes that darted back and forth. A man used to being followed and evading danger. One look in those eyes told Martinez that he was a man used to killing as well.
* * *
As Lila Tellis waited on the sidewalk next to her car, down the street from Dr. Martinez’s apartment, she grudgingly admitted, at least to herself, that Tom Eriksen didn’t act like a typical whiny FBI agent. She had even purposely scheduled this interview late in the afternoon so it would go into the evening. It didn’t make him complain. She appreciated that. The FBI had a reputation for rarely working out on the street and for leaving the office at the stroke of five every afternoon. There was even a nickname for FBI administrators on Friday afternoon. They were called HBO. Home by one. Lila knew the worst of the stereotypes weren’t completely accurate, and some of the jokes made by other agencies were out of spite or jealousy that the FBI got such positive press coverage, but most of the stereotypes had a grain of truth. Tom Eriksen had managed to avoid th
em all.
This interview with Luis Martinez was important. One of Lila’s best sources inside Mexico said Martinez was friendly with a computer genius who had screwed over Pablo Piña. Not a good plan if someone wanted to live very long. Her overriding curiosity focused on what the computer geek had that Pablo Piña wanted. Maybe Martinez could shed some light on it or, if the price was right, lead her to the computer guy. That might be worth a few visas. She had a special interest in Piña. The so-called Dark Lord of the Desert sometimes put her two jobs in direct conflict, so the more she knew about him the better.
Lila looked up at the spreading dusk as Eriksen pulled his Ford Taurus up behind her Chevy Impala, about a block from the building where Martinez lived. She knew they looked like a couple of cops, but they weren’t trying to hide it.
As Eriksen approached, she said, “Ready to crack the big one?” Lila even threw him a smile just to cheer him up. For some reason he looked like he could use it.
* * *
Manny was patient. He needed answers and was prepared to wait to get them. The doctor had lived up to his part of the bargain so far, getting them all past the uninterested security guard downstairs. The presence of the armed guard made him wonder who exactly was housed in the apartment complex.
Now that Manny realized he might get some usable information, he felt better about this assignment. Enrique had stolen information, and no one knew the extent of what was compromised. Piña showed little interest in it, saying it was more a matter for their American partners, but Manny knew it was a potential disaster. He’d lean on Mrs. Martinez to loosen the doctor’s tongue. More accurately, he would let Hector’s cousin do it. The little creep seemed to enjoy that sort of thing.
He let the doctor unlock the door, the key shaking in his hand. Manny was confident the doctor didn’t have the sense to have a gun hidden or have his wife prepared for an armed assault. What he didn’t expect was someone else in the apartment besides Mrs. Martinez.
Especially someone with a gun.
* * *
Cash controlled his anxiety as he sat on the sofa, which felt like it was out of the 1960s, in the little apartment shared by Dr. Martinez and his wife. He didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Martinez, but he was ready to kill Ari. The little Israeli had found a hundred ways to annoy him during the afternoon, and currently he kept twirling his little .380 like a Wild West gunfighter.
Cash didn’t want to scare Mrs. Martinez. He didn’t like it when women were frightened, and that made him think of Carol DiMetti. She was so sweet and pretty; he didn’t want to think what his employer would do to her if he thought she was going to continue with her husband’s stupid plan. He just hoped he didn’t end up sitting in her house with Ari one afternoon.
He had let Mrs. Martinez dictate what was on the TV, and thought she might watch Spanish-language programming, but she showed no interest as she prayed silently to herself, watching Ari from the corner of her eye.
Cash switched between the various news channels and decided Texas stations only covered three topics: immigration, UT football, and politics. Ever since LBJ, Texans had loved politics, and the newest star on their wide horizon was Elizabeth Ramos. Apparently the crazy bitch was speaking in El Paso soon about the growing threat of terrorism and its ties to immigration.
He was surprised when the door handle turned. Usually he was more alert and would’ve heard someone walking down the hallway. It took Ari a second to catch on and stand back in the room with his gun in his right hand. As the door opened Cash thought he heard someone speak, and suddenly he realized there were other people with Martinez. He reached for the .45 under his shirt, but it was too late. A giant man stepped in next to Martinez, holding his own pistol, which had an abnormally long barrel. As Cash heard the first, sputtering sound, he realized it was a silencer.
Ari started squeezing off unaimed rounds from the other end of the room, and Mrs. Martinez let out a shriek that seemed to be an excuse to let chaos erupt.
* * *
Tom Eriksen met his partner on the street near the Martinez apartment and sensed a slight change in Lila’s demeanor from this morning. He wondered if she just relaxed more as the day went by.
Lila said, “We’re not leaving Martinez without some answers tonight.”
Eriksen nodded, but he was thinking that if she weren’t so beautiful, she’d sound a little like Joe Friday.
Lila paused on the sidewalk, touched his arm, and said, “What’s wrong? You look worried.”
Eriksen hesitated, then decided to tell her the truth. “I can’t reach my old partner, and it’s not like him. I checked his apartment, but he wasn’t there, and he left his cell phone on the kitchen counter. I’m going to start calling around after our interview.”
She nodded. “You’re a loyal guy.”
“John inspires loyalty.” She smiled, and it changed her whole persona. Eriksen was amazed.
Lila said, “You ready for a boring interview? It’s not a car chase or whatever you FBI guys usually do every day, but I promise you’ll see how important a job like this is.”
“I believe you.” He paused as he heard something in the distance.
“What is it?”
Eriksen said, “Listen.” He could hear faint pops. “What is it?”
“Gunfire.”
FOURTEEN
Cash reacted instantly as the door opened to the apartment, reaching for the Colt model 1911 he’d carried for the past ten years. He’d taken it from a Dominican guy who’d been sent to kill him in Jersey. That was back before he realized it was better to hire guys to deal with drug mules than do it yourself. The heavy black pistol slipped from his leather inside-the-pants holster and came up toward the front door as he realized there were three men with Dr. Martinez. The only one he could focus on was the big guy with a silenced pistol who was already popping off rounds.
Cash fired as he fell away into the short hallway that led to the bedroom. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ari, just as startled as he was, bring his little .380 into play. It sounded like a cap gun and barely caught the attention of the men who were in the room now.
The smallest of the three men moved with blazing speed. He was so quick, Cash didn’t realize he had a knife in his hand as he lunged at Ari, who had moved and tried to fire again but had taken a tremendous gash in his right arm. Blood began to pour from his upper bicep.
The little knife-wielding man seemed to dance and move without hesitation as his arm popped out again and Mrs. Martinez made a little gasp. As Cash moved back to cover at the end of the hallway he saw her hands reach for her throat and realized the man had just slashed her deeply across the windpipe, just below her chin. She toppled backward, bouncing off the couch and flopping onto the ground.
Cash raised the Colt again and fired three more rounds, this time hitting the oldest of the men. He couldn’t see where Ari had fled. The whole scene was terrifying and complete chaos. He experienced classic tunnel vision, able to focus only on the man with a silenced pistol who continued to fire at other people in the room, although he was aware that everyone was moving, and now Ari was screaming and firing wildly, also hitting the older man, who now seemed familiar to Cash.
Dr. Martinez went down, but Cash had no idea who’d shot him.
The lead man was now bleeding from his side and hip and stumbled toward the door shouting orders as Ari ran back toward Cash.
The little Israeli screamed out, “What now?” As if he had to be heard above the gunfire, which was no longer a factor.
“Martinez?”
“Both dead.”
Now Cash realized how much blood Ari was losing from the gaping wound in his arm. He looked over his shoulder, then dashed to the window and realized there was a simple escape ladder to the first floor. It wouldn’t be as easy as the fire escape but was a chance to get away. He turned to Ari and said, “We gotta get out of here.”
* * *
The elevator walls seemed to close in on Manny as he to
ok a breath to clear his head. It only made the pain in his side more acute. He’d taken two bullets very close together, and his big concern was whether a bullet had damaged his hip bone. Although it hurt to move, his left leg didn’t feel like it had suffered catastrophic damage. He stemmed the blood flow himself as Hector calmly reloaded his pistol and his cousin moved erratically as if trying to burn off energy. Somehow the elevator felt smaller on the ride down even though they no longer had Dr. Martinez with them.
Manny said, “Was I the only one struck by a bullet?”
Hector mumbled, “I’m fine.”
His cousin held up his loose shirt to show a bullet hole in the fabric, but he was otherwise unharmed. The round had passed to the side off his bony chest and torn through the billowing shirt.
Manny was impressed with how calm Hector was and realized this was his normal profession, whereas it was more of a sideline for Manny. He was a manager, not an assassin.
The bell sounded and the door to the elevator doors slid apart. The guard was standing next to the door and said, “What the hell is going…” He couldn’t finish his sentence because Hector’s cousin jabbed his knife sideways into the man’s throat. The guard made a gurgling sound as he tumbled to the ground clutching at the wound.
Before they had taken three steps toward the front door, a man and a woman darted inside the lobby, holding pistols in their hands. Manny heard the man shout, “Police, don’t move.”
Then it was chaos again.
* * *
Tom Eriksen kept his cool, breathing before he stepped through the door of the apartment building into the small lobby. This was where the gunfire had come from, and now he could see three men by the elevator. The government had spent a small fortune training him to be comfortable with a pistol in his hand, but it was the shooting at the border that had transformed him and made him function so well today. There was no substitute for experience.
As Eriksen looked across the simple lobby, he assessed the three targets by the elevators. One was a big man with a silenced pistol. The man saw Eriksen and Lila rush in the door and raised the pistol. Eriksen dove to one side as three quick, buffered shots struck the wall. The sound was still obviously a gunshot, but it didn’t have the deafening effect of a gun being fired inside a normal-sized room.
