by Jordan Dane
The shelf hid a control panel and surveillance monitors. The grounds were wired for high-tech security gear with camera feeds. Even now, Santiago watched his men on video as they explored the estate room by room.
The Jaguar had seen them coming before they hit his front door. He had plenty of time to escape.
“Damn it.” He tensed his jaw until it hurt, but when he heard the sound of muffled cries, he backed out of the hidden room. “What is it? What’s happening?”
A man crawled up the tunnel stairs, yelling.
“Run! There’s no time. It’s gonna blow.”
Two men followed him from the tunnel, covered in dirt. They shoved aside uniformed men and raced from the room, yanking at others to follow.
“The bastard set bombs down there. The whole place is gonna—”
Santiago heard a loud rumble and the ground shook under his feet. Timed explosions went off at a distance, but the blasts grew louder. The estate walls shook and rained dust and debris atop him and his men.
He only had time to grab the wounded officer and race for the fastest way out, hauling the groaning man with him.
“Run! Now!”
Chapter 10
Franklin Mountains
Late afternoon
Santiago leaned against the rear of the ambulance as an EMT patched up the graze in his arm. He remembered feeling a tug on his arm, but hadn’t realized he’d been shot until one of his men saw the blood soaking through his torn shirtsleeve.
His gaze took in the heaping pile of smoldering debris of the once beautiful estate owned by the Galvez cartel and its enigmatic leader. After the bomb squad cleared the premises and allowed his men to resume their duties, he watched as body parts were flagged for removal. Two SWAT members had not been found. Searching the rubble had turned into a grim task.
Before the explosion, Santiago had hoped his crime scene techs could’ve processed the residence and obtained fingerprints and DNA for future comparison. Whenever the Jaguar came up for air in Mexico, he wanted to have evidence to ID him, but the explosives that destroyed the ranch would make that impossible.
It appeared the ruthless crime boss had made good on his escape into a secret tunnel. He’d left resistance behind, a few loyal men who died trying to buy el jefe time to get away.
“You’re all set.” The EMT gave him instructions on how to keep his wound clean and turned to work on someone else.
“Thanks.”
Santiago’s phone rang and when he gazed down at the display, he saw a name he hadn’t expected. He had to take the call.
“What’s up, Rodriguez?”
“You asked me to put a flag on the cartel’s assets, sir.” His man sounded anxious and out of breath. “Well, something is happening. Money is being drained from the banks and it’s not just from the usual customer activity. These transactions aren’t traceable, but the money is disappearing.”
Santiago’s shoulders slumped. What the hell was going on?
***
Near Magoffin Street – El Paso
Mercer listened to Keiko over his com unit as he sat in his SUV and stared through binoculars at a building a block away and down an alley. An armored vehicle idled near an entrance and men wearing U.S. Marshals windbreakers acted as if they were waiting for an important passenger.
“He barely made it out alive.” From the ranch, Keiko reported to Mercer about Santiago and the police raid. “I can’t be certain of what happened. Too far away, but it sounded like timed explosives. The ranch is rubble. People died. They’re recovering bodies now.”
Mercer hated hearing the bad news. Any day law enforcement officers died, doing their jobs, tapped into his raw emotions, but his personal stake in the outcome made things worse. If Santiago had arrested the Jaguar, Mercer would at least know where el jefe was, but now he suspected the deadly cartel boss was in the wind again.
“The Jaguar must’ve been gone,” he speculated. “He expects his money to be waiting and he had a plan. He’s not the suicide type.”
“Destroying his grand hacienda eliminated evidence. I would imagine that is why our detective is unable to contain his anger. He’s on the phone and he doesn’t appear happy. I’ve kept my eyes on him and his reaction. Do you think he blames you?”
“Let’s just say I won’t be getting a fruit basket from him anytime soon.” Mercer lowered his binoculars. He’d have to be patient.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m outside the U.S. Marshalls Office, waiting to see how things work out. If I’m right, Ziffle won’t be happy to see me. It’s a good thing I’m not a sensitive guy.”
“Did you find a way to use our money man as bait?”
Mercer thought about her question and found he couldn’t answer it, exactly.
“Not sure, but I’ll let you know. Wolf out.”
***
Franklin Mountains
“Are the banks being hacked?” Santiago asked. “How are these cartel accounts being drained?”
“I can’t find any breaks in the firewalls, but I’m still looking,” Rodriguez said. “I’ve never heard of a hacker being able to do that, not without a trace.”
“But there’s always a first time. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
Santiago didn’t expect an answer. He pictured seeing the money vanishing on a computer screen from the over two hundred million dollars they had identified and he heaved a deep sigh when he connected the dots.
“Do you know anything about international banking laws, Rodriguez?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Federal agencies can seize money if they suspect criminal activity.”
“You think the FBI is behind this?”
“No, I’d bet on the CIA. Ping Mercer Broderick’s cell and locate him,” he ordered. “Call me the minute you find him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Santiago didn’t want to make a false accusation about Mercer in front of a subordinate. He merely asked for the man to be tracked and located, but he had a bad feeling. After he ended the call with Rodriguez, he placed another. He couldn’t wait for his contact within the intelligence community to get back to him about Mercer. He had to press the man for answers before it was too late.
His contact answered on the second ring, without greeting him by name.
“Patience is a virtue, my friend,” the man said, in a gruff voice. “I was about to call you.”
“I’ve already had one short fuse this morning. I don’t need another. Tell me what you know about Mercer Broderick and what he’s working on with the CIA.”
Santiago tensed his jaw and feared the worst.
“I confirmed this with three sources who should know, and I could trust. Broderick is no longer with the agency. He quit after his wife and child were killed and fell off the grid. That’s all I can confirm with certainty. Good luck.”
His contact ended the call and left Santiago seething. He’d trusted Mercer because he believed the man worked with the CIA and had government resources and the backing of federal law enforcement.
If he wasn’t CIA, who did he work for and what was his end game? With the money draining from the cartel’s assets, he had a pretty good idea what Mercer had been after all along—and he’d helped him steal it when he handed over the Jaguar’s list of assets.
With his arm throbbing, Santiago wallowed in the misery of realizing his career was over. Everything he’d worked for and wanted in his future had vanished with the dollars bleeding from the cartel banks.
He’d been played.
***
Outside El Paso
Thirty minutes later
Santiago left one of his men to oversee the crime scene and his CSI techs to wrap up the evidence gathering. It would be a late night and his exhaustion and wounded arm had taken a toll. Behind the wheel of his unmarked police vehicle, he was a few minutes outside El Paso when his phone rang—Rodriguez calling back.
“What do you have for me?” he asked.
“I located Mercer Broderick’s phone. It’s stationary, sir, but it’s odd.”
“What is?”
Rodriguez gave him the physical address where GPS showed Mercer’s cell phone to be located.
“That’s a parking lot, sir.”
“Wait a minute. Isn’t that near the U.S. Marshals Service on Magoffin Street?”
Rodriguez looked it up.
“You’re right. What’s he doing there?”
The detective flashed back to what he’d told Mercer, about Elliot Ziffle being in the hands of the marshals and already under witness protection. That hadn’t been the whole truth. Ziffle was being held by the marshals until they arranged for his relocation and new identity. He was to be shipped out tonight.
“Get a team down there. I don’t have time to explain, but Mercer could be after Ziffle,” Santiago ordered. “I’m ten minutes out. Protect that witness.”
“Yes, sir.”
After he ended the call, he looked for the phone number of the marshal on Elliot Ziffle’s case and thought of Mercer as he searched his cell directory. Had the former CIA agent been the leak? Whenever he got shut out of the investigation, it must’ve ruined whatever plans he had that included Ziffle.
Had Mercer and Ziffle been in on a scheme together that involved the money? Over two hundred million dollars was motive enough. If Mercer had drained the money from cartel accounts, Ziffle would’ve been a loose end that tied him to the theft—otherwise Mercer could’ve let the cartel money man live and get sucked into Witness Protection without having to share what he’d stolen.
The more Santiago worked it over in his mind, the more solid his theory became.
The detective made a sharp turn and grimaced with the pain of his grazed arm. After he hit speed dial, U.S. Marshal Tom Sanderson answered his call and listened as Santiago warned the man and shared what he could—but Sanderson interrupted him.
“It’s too late, Detective. I already processed him out. He’s leaving the building now. I don’t know if I can stop him.”
Shots rang out. When Santiago heard the muffled sounds over his cell phone, he hit the gas with his blood raging. He swore under his breath as he navigated traffic, running Code 3 with lights and siren.
No matter how fast he got there, he knew he’d be too late.
Chapter 11
Near Magoffin Street – El Paso
In the driver’s seat of his SUV, Mercer sat straighter when he saw commotion near the back entrance to the U.S. Marshals Service. He grabbed his binoculars in time to see three armed marshals in uniform windbreakers escorting Elliot Ziffle. Mercer couldn’t let Ziffle disappear into the black hole of the Witness Protection Program—not without playing his hunch to see what the cartel money man would do.
Mercer left his vehicle and walked down the alley with slow and measured steps toward the officers, keeping his eyes on Ziffle. The man wore a Kevlar vest with a marshal helping him into the front passenger seat of the armored vehicle. When he got close enough, Mercer raised his hands and called out to the marshals.
“I can’t let you take him. There’s been a mistake.”
Ziffle glared from his seat and pointed an angry finger at Mercer.
“You took the money. It was you!” He shoved the door open to get out, but the marshal behind the wheel grabbed him.
“That’s my money. I earned every penny.”
Ziffle’s face turned red with anger and exertion. He wrestled with the marshal who’d tried to stop him and yanked his service weapon from its holster. In the murky shadows of the armored truck cab, Mercer saw the struggle for the gun. He reached for his SIG Sauer and raced toward the vehicle, but Elliot shot the marshal three times in the chest and shoved the body out the driver’s door as if he were garbage.
The vehicle engine started and the tires screeched as Ziffle threw it into Reverse, slamming the tailgate against the alley entrance. He’d blocked other marshals from helping. Within seconds Ziffle had Mercer in his sights and he pulled the trigger in a blind rage.
A bullet tore through Mercer’s thigh and dropped him to the asphalt. Mercer rolled toward cover, but he wasn’t going to make it. With his vision blurred, he took aim and fired from where he lay wounded. Ziffle ducked behind the armored vehicle and shot another marshal who’d tried sneaking up on him.
“I want my money, Mercer. You don’t know what I did to earn that.” The man had lost it.
“Drop your weapon. It’s over.” A lone U.S. Marshal stood his ground and aimed his weapon as more of his brethren raced around the corner, ready to risk their lives.
“He took my money!” Ziffle screamed like a madman and turned to fire at the marshal, but a gunshot erupted from behind him and it brought Elliot to his knees, screaming. He writhed in agony on the ground and grabbed his ankle.
Mercer had shot the man, making a target of his legs under the car chassis. It was the only play he had. The marshals raced to Ziffle and grabbed the weapon he’d dropped. Two rolled Ziffle onto his belly and handcuffed him. Elliot cried like a baby.
When car tires screeched down the block, Mercer saw the shadow of a man approaching through the crowd of U.S. Marshals. Santiago shoved through the men and rushed down the alley toward Elliot Ziffle, staring in disbelief at the dead and wounded at the feet of his handcuffed witness.
“What happened?” the detective asked. “Who shot first?”
Mercer rolled his eyes. He knew Santiago suspected him of starting the shootout. Although he couldn’t hear the distant conversation, he knew from the sideways glances that Santiago would have plenty to say. Wincing, Mercer rolled on his side and clutched his bleeding thigh. The detective glared at him as he holstered his weapon and approached, undoing his belt buckle.
Santiago knelt by his injured leg and strapped his belt to Mercer’s thigh to staunch the bleeding with a makeshift tourniquet.
“You’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do, Lucy.”
“Would you mind calling an ambulance first? I’d rather not bleed out just to satisfy your curiosity.”
“EMTs are on their way,” Santiago said. “Is Elliott Ziffle the Jaguar?”
The detective looked anxious to hear his thoughts.
Mercer had no way of being sure, since the cartel boss had never been identified or even photographed. He thought about what he would say, but a rush of emotion swallowed him as he pictured Keara and Braeden. He’d failed them. His gut told him he hadn’t stopped the man he’d come to find.
He may have prevented Ziffle from getting away with murder and embezzlement of cartel funds, but he’d betrayed the memory of his beloved wife and child once again, by not bringing down the Jaguar. He clenched his jaw and fought back the burn of tears.
“No. I don’t think so. My guess is that Ziffle saw an opportunity to steal everything from under the nose of his boss and disappear into Witness Protection. Pretty ballsy for someone who could be Barney Fife’s twin. Not a bad plan on the fly.”
“That marshal told me Ziffle was the first to lose it. He claimed you took the money.”
“I did. I wanted to flush out the Jaguar.”
“You used the bean counter as bait?”
“When you told me Ziffle would vanish in the Witness Protection Program, I couldn’t let that happen. I had to see what el jefe would do if he knew his money was gone, but that’s not exactly what happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“I suspected we had a leak. So did you. You must’ve thought it was me. That’s why you shut me out.”
“So did you figure out who it was?”
He nodded.
“Ziffle. He confirmed my suspicions the minute he yelled at me about the money. The only way he could’ve known about it, is if he had a way to check the accounts on his own. You’d taken his cell phone. That got me thinking how he might’ve leaked information or kept up with the money through the banks.”
“He was in protective custody. How did he do it?”
“
Search him. You’ll find that vintage pocket watch he always wears, the one he uses to take his meds. Bring it to me.”
Santiago ran toward the armored vehicle where Ziffle stood handcuffed beside two U.S. Marshals. Without asking, he tugged at the vintage pocket watch clipped to Ziffle’s vest by a gold chain.
“Hey, that’s mine. I need it for my—”
“Save it, Ziffle. You’re busted.”
Santiago held the gold watch in his hands and played with it as he returned to where Mercer lay wounded on the ground.
“The watch is thicker than it should be for such a thin clock face. There’s gotta be a latch to open the—”
As Mercer spoke, the detective figured it out and the clock face opened with a soft click. Inside a secret compartment were high-tech components for a smart watch.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Ziffle could’ve monitored NovaREAL, sent emails or text messages, or linked to other sites online,” Mercer explained to Santiago. “He didn’t need the phone we confiscated. He had his vintage timepiece modified. All he had to do was flip open the clock. Inside that secret compartment, he had a slick high-tech smart watch that kept him in touch with cartel business. No cell phone needed.”
The detective stared at the components of the altered pocket watch and shook his head in disbelief. Mercer explained how Ziffle had logged into NovaREAL after Nilah and Saxon had set up the meet with Rangel. Elliot had arranged for the hit on the Jaguar’s lieutenant.
On the same chat forum, he’d ordered two of his men to hit the safe house to rescue him—not kill him. Those men had been ordered to kill whoever stood in their way. Nilah and Saxon had backtracked Ziffle’s online visits—could provide times and dates as proof—and used the hidden portal Nilah had created to cover up their activity.
Ziffle never knew he’d been cyber-tracked.
“So where’s the money?” Santiago asked.
“I had one of my men ask Saxon Abbott to hack the banks and hide the money in another account, without leaving a transaction trail. The money never left the banks. I figured having Saxon do it would be cleaner than having one of my team play hide the pea. You might believe a fellow Equalizer before you’d believe me.”
