by Tom Clancy
He nodded.
About an hour later they reached Bakersfield, where they drove for a few minutes through the city and noted that the truck had pulled into the alley behind José Taco, a well-known Mexican restaurant, according to online reviews. On one side of the alley stood a row of businesses, including the restaurant, and on the other was a long brick wall cordoning off the business district from the six-story buildings of a low-rent apartment complex.
“Shit, this won’t be easy,” said Ansara, driving past the alley and heading farther down the cross street.
“We need to get out,” said Moore, gesturing to a line of empty parking spots to their right.
Ansara agreed, took them into a spot, and they both hustled out of the truck and sprinted toward the apartments.
“This way,” said Moore, running behind the first building and toward a bank of low-lying shrubs planted along the brick wall.
They turned the corner, and directly ahead, no more than thirty meters, was the truck, its rear door open, the men loading blocks of marijuana. Moore saw that if they edged up closer, remaining behind the bushes, they could reach two Dumpsters to the left whose black plastic lids hung open. From behind them they’d have a better view of the exchange.
Hunched over, he led them forward, up to the Dumpster, where they slipped around the side, and there, squatting in the shadows of some palm trees behind them, he began taking his pictures while Ansara did likewise from the other corner. The sour stench emanating from the trash left him with a tight grimace.
The other vehicle was a black BMW 650i two-door sport job whose trunk was being filled with bricks. The driver was a gray-haired Hispanic man in an expensive-looking suit and wearing gold cuff links. In Moore’s estimation, once you got into the world of cuff links, you could be into some serious money for clothes. The frame around the BMW’s tag indicated that the vehicle had come from a dealership in Santa Monica, and there was little doubt as to the destination of his newly acquired precious cargo. Again, he didn’t come in a big truck to pick up his drugs; rather, he took his expensive business machine and would carefully drive the speed limit all the way back to La-la Land so that his shipment could receive white-gloved distribution to Hollywood’s elite, who had the means, the access, and the desire to get higher than the hills on which they’d constructed their mansions.
The driver shook hands with the cartel guys, handed over two thick envelopes to the driver, then climbed into his car and whirred off. Moore and Ansara were prepared to leave when another car rumbled into the alley, sending them crouching even tighter against the Dumpster. The vehicle was a Toyota Tacoma pickup truck, an older model, with a roll-lock cap and tinted windows. Two men climbed out dressed like wannabe Mexican gangsters, with baggy pants, and wallets affixed to chains that dangled from their hips. One guy, the fatter one and driver, shook hands with the cartel guys, and once again, more bricks were loaded into the back of their truck.
When they finished, the cartel guys got in their truck and pulled out. Moore and Ansara were waiting for the two guys in the Toyota to leave, but they just sat there in their idling vehicle. Then one climbed out, banged on the back door of the restaurant, and yelled something about their food taking too long. Moore almost laughed. They’d ordered takeout as part of the drug-buying operation.
The man who answered the door was not Mexican but Chinese, although he wore a José Taco apron. He shouted at the guy in broken English, told him to be patient, then slammed the door in his face.
As the thug whirled back toward his car, he looked over at the Dumpsters.
Moore froze.
“Oh, shit,” Ansara whispered.
The thug frowned, took another step toward them. He suddenly jogged to one side, spotted them.
His eyes bugged out.
He whirled around, screaming at the guy in the Toyota.
Moore had already shoved his camera back into a side pocket and had drawn his suppressed Glock.
He was on his feet as the guy looked over his shoulder and saw Moore sprinting toward him, with Ansara now right behind. The thug reached into his waistband and drew the pistol he’d stored there. He swung the gun back at Moore, who fired two rounds into the guy’s chest before the thug could fire.
The guy in the pickup, seeing what was happening outside, must have slid into the driver’s seat. The engine roared, and the truck began to pull away.
Shots rang out behind Moore — and that was Ansara, firing at the truck’s rear wheels, his aim pinpoint-accurate. The left tire popped and blew out, followed by the right, rubber flapping loudly now against the asphalt. The truck slowed enough for Moore to reach the back and make a flying leap onto the rear bumper. He latched a hand onto the tailgate and held on as the driver tried to steer them out of the alley on two flat tires.
Moore leaned out to the side and fired two rounds into the driver’s-side window, shattering it. He still couldn’t get a direct bead on the driver. In the mirror, he saw the guy bringing his cell phone to his ear.
With a curse, Moore fired a third round into the back window, but the shot must’ve missed the guy, who just ducked and kept on driving.
Now Moore leaned out even farther to his left, getting the angle he needed. He fired once more, a direct headshot, and the truck veered to the right and plowed into the brick wall, just as Moore jumped off, hit the ground, and fought to keep balance. Out of breath, and with Ansara on his heels, he rushed up to the cab and wrenched open the door. The driver leaned over and fell out of the truck. There, on the center console, was a heap of cocaine, a few joints, one of them still burning in the ashtray, and a few more bags of coke sitting inside the open glove compartment.
Moore reached down and grabbed the man’s cell phone, checking to see if he’d made that call. No, the call had never gone through. Thank God.
He didn’t realize he was just standing there, looking at all the drugs, until Ansara nudged him aside and said, “Whoa, look at that. But hey, come on, let’s go! We’ll have to call this in. I got the other guy’s cell. Moore? Are you listening to me?”
He faced Ansara, stared through him as though the man were on a movie screen, then blinked and said, “Yeah, come on!” They raced through the alley, and by the time they turned the corner and Moore stole a look back over his shoulder, the Chinese guy with the José Taco apron was coming outside, carrying two bags of takeout.
Within five minutes they were in the pickup, back on the road, and back on track, following the cartel truck, which Ansara predicted was heading down into Palmdale. Moore reported what had happened to Towers, who wasn’t happy, but at least the thugs hadn’t alerted the cartel guys. Local police were en route to the scene.
31 RITES OF PASSAGE
Rojas Mansion
Cuernavaca, Mexico
56 Miles South of Mexico City
Miguel swam down to the deepest part of the pool and remained there, wondering what it might feel like to hold his breath until he lost consciousness. That he was having such morbid thoughts was due in part to his failure to act more bravely during their kidnapping. Sonia had been the strong one, and while he loved her deeply, he found it increasingly hard to accept how scared he’d been and how he’d failed to protect his woman, as any good man should. At one point, he’d even begun to cry, and it’d been Sonia who’d talked him through it. He cursed himself for that.
His father had touched on the subject over breakfast, even suggesting that Miguel should return to practicing the martial arts he’d studied during his preteen years. He’d even said that Fernando could show him a few new moves, and he’d even pay for a trip to Thailand so that Miguel could study with some Muay Thai masters there. Miguel had politely declined. And then he’d excused himself and retired to the pool, where he’d remained for most of the day, with Sonia sprawled across a lounger in her bikini and reading a Spanish soap-opera magazine.
He hadn’t discussed with her what Raúl had said, and he wondered if she’d even noticed it. In
fact, he’d tried to repress it himself but he kept coming back to the poor man’s last words, his pleading to the Guatemalans that the “cartel will pay you anything” and that “Dante will do whatever you ask.”
Over the years, Miguel had overheard many conversations between his father and his father’s associates, and the words cartel and drug dealers and sicarios were often used by them. His father had always emphasized that he was trying to run legitimate businesses in the face of organized crime and police corruption. The cartels were the mortal enemies of the Rojas empire, and at first Miguel had assumed that Raúl might have been a former cartel member employed by his father. That, too, was not uncommon. Over the years, Fernando had rescued and recruited many young men from the slums of Mexico and turned them into security personnel and bodyguards. Dante Corrales was a shining example of that, and had become Fernando’s right-hand man.
So why, then, would Raúl — a man who answered directly to Corrales — call upon the help of “the cartel,” and why, then, would Corrales do “whatever you ask”? Why would the cartel be willing to pay ransom for Raúl if he was not one of them? And if he was, then were Fernando and Miguel’s father aware of that? Was Corrales also involved? How had the kidnappers known where they’d be? Miguel had assumed that their vacation was known by only close family members and bodyguards. There was definitely a rat in the organization, and Miguel assumed his father and Fernando were trying to weed him out.
Miguel didn’t want to believe it, but there had always been — deep down — a gnawing suspicion that something wasn’t exactly truthful about his father’s businesses. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that his father had direct ties to any of the cartels, but perhaps bribes were paid, thugs kept quiet, so that operations could go on. That was understandable and did not make his father a criminal. This was business in modern Mexico. But what if he was wrong about everything? What if his father was in bed with all of them? What if the man who had tried to kill his father wasn’t just some nutjob bent on revenge? What if he’d been a professional assassin hired by a drug cartel?
Miguel swam straight up and exploded out of the water, shook his head, and swam over to the pool’s edge.
“You were down there for a long time,” Sonia said, staring over the rim of her sunglasses.
“There are places in this house that we are not allowed to go,” he said.
“What?”
“Locked doors leading to the basement. No one is allowed behind them.”
“Is that what you were thinking about?”
“My father has secrets.”
“All men do.”
“And not women?”
She feigned innocence. “Of course not.”
“He says the only thing down there are the vaults. He says he has art and other collectibles and doesn’t want anyone damaging those pieces.”
“Sounds like you don’t believe him.”
“I don’t.”
“Why not? What do you think he’s hiding?”
Miguel began to feel heartsick. “I don’t know.”
“So why don’t we ask him to go down there and just look at the stuff? He can come with us …”
“He won’t agree.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you like me to ask him?” She smiled coyly. “I’m pretty sure he likes me.”
Miguel sighed. “Of course he likes you, but it won’t matter.”
She wriggled her brows like a little girl. “Do you want to sneak down there?”
Miguel snickered. “He’s got a guard standing at the door twenty-four-seven.”
“Maybe he’s got some jewelry down there, too. More expensive stuff he’s really worried about, so he has a guard. I don’t see why any of this is so odd to you. These are dangerous times, and possessions must be protected.”
“I want to tell you something, but I’m afraid.”
She rose and crossed to him, took a seat on the ledge, and dunked her legs in the water. He pushed himself beside her, and she placed a hand on his cheek. “You can tell me anything you want.”
“Do you remember what Raúl said before they killed him?”
She grimaced. “Do we have to talk about that?”
“Please …”
She sighed deeply. “I don’t remember what he said. I only remember the screaming. And …all the blood …” She put a hand to her own cheek, clearly remembering how they’d wiped Raúl’s blood across her face.
“He said the cartel would pay anything. Let me say that again. He said the cartel would pay. Why would he say that?”
“Maybe he was working for a cartel, too, and never told Fernando. Who knows? Maybe that’s why we got into trouble in the first place. Why is that bothering you?”
“It’s just …nothing.”
“You said there’s a guard outside the door to the basement. I haven’t seen him.”
“We haven’t been to that side of the house.”
“Maybe we can bribe him.”
“Won’t work.”
“We don’t know till we try. Come on. It’ll be fun. It’ll take your mind off all of this.”
She picked herself up and turned back toward Fernando, who’d come onto the pool deck and who was lowering his cell phone. “Better get showered and ready,” he said. “We’ll be joining Señor Rojas for dinner soon …”
“We want to go down to the basement first.”
He frowned at her and looked to Miguel. “I’m sorry, but only Señor Rojas is permitted there.”
Sonia softened her tone and edged up to him, thrusting out her chest. “Come on, Fernando. Take us for a little tour.”
“That’s not possible.”
She pouted like a schoolgirl. “Okay, then. We’ll go get ready for dinner. Come on, Miguel. I’m getting burned, anyway …”
She helped him out of the pool, and he accepted a towel from her, then stood there, being scrutinized by Castillo. “Fernando, is something wrong?”
“No, señor.”
The suspicion hung heavy in the bodyguard’s tone.
Private Residence
121 South Broad Street
Palmdale, California
The cartel truck backed into the driveway of a two-story private home in a suburban neighborhood of southeast Palmdale. The truck sat there in the driveway, just idling, with Ansara and Moore parked about fifteen houses away, down the street, sandwiched between two other cars. Palmdale was a city in the high desert, separated from Los Angeles by the San Gabriel Mountains and exceedingly hot in the summertime. It was a well-planned community of suburbs with the tiled roofs of thousands of houses forming terra-cotta ribbons across the otherwise drab mountains. More than 150,000 people called Palmdale home, and bike trails, parks, theaters, and a new regional medical center attracted young families who deemed the city a great place to raise kids. Moore had been there once before, visiting a SEAL buddy’s parents who worked for the largest employer in the area, Lockheed Martin. The seedy under belly of Palmdale and its neighboring city Lancaster was much more apparent at the hotels and motels that had sprouted up along the freeway, where prostitution and drug deals ran rampant.
While they waited, Moore contacted Towers, who had another bit of news to share. They’d reestablished contact with Sonia, who’d reached one of the many dead drops the Agency had established for her around Rojas’s mansion in case she got into trouble. Hidden at each drop were a pistol and a satellite phone. The dead drop she’d used was at a restaurant not far from Rojas’s mansion. While Miguel waited, she’d gone to the ladies’ room and, once the room was empty, she’d retrieved the phone from a small box tucked deeply beneath the far-right sink and made the encrypted call to her handler. She was demanding to know who’d saved her, and trying to find out why a joint task force had been assigned to her case without her knowledge.
“Did you tell her we had the same question?” Moore asked, chuckling sardonically through his words.
; “Are you kidding? I can’t talk to her directly. This comes to me from your bosses.”
“Oh, well, tell them I said she owes me a cup of coffee.”
“Yeah, right, I’ll do that. She does offer some news. Dante Corrales is missing. Off the grid. His girlfriend with him. Vega confirmed that before she was killed. They murdered the desk clerk at Corrales’s hotel. That tells me they’re looking for Corrales.”
“Maybe he screwed over the Guatemalans, and now he’s on the run from them and from his own cartel.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking.”
“Hey, I know where he’d go.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Hang on now. I’ll call you back.” Moore lifted his camera and zoomed in.
Two motorcycles pulled up and parked across the street from the truck. A tall man got off the first one, and a slightly shorter man swung off the second. They wore jeans, leather jackets, and expensive basketball sneakers. They both had athletic builds, and once they removed their helmets, it was clear neither man was over thirty-five. Moore got some good pictures of their faces and immediately uploaded them to the satellite so Langley could begin working on their identities.
They crossed the street and had a conversation with the driver of the truck, who did not get out of his vehicle, and neither did his two accomplices. After two minutes of that, one of the men opened the garage door with a remote, and the men inside the truck climbed out and got to work. What appeared to be the final shipment of marijuana bricks was transferred into the garage and packed into cardboard moving boxes. The weapons remained onboard the truck.
By the time the cartel men were finished unloading and the two men were getting ready to rumble off on their bikes, Towers had called to confirm that the bikers were local sheriff’s deputies. Moore could only shake his head. American law enforcement officers were as susceptible to temptation as the Mexican local and federal authorities. When there was this much money at stake, men barely making $50,000 per year — men who could make that much in a weekend doing the cartel’s bidding — found it excruciatingly difficult to remain honest. While Moore hardly agreed with that, he understood it. And hated it.
