“But,” Mann said, “she—it—LOWIS has got a lock on that cell, and it’s tracking it. Right?”
“Affirmative.” Clar flung open a flap on his bag. He dug his hand inside and began pulling out black handhelds. “I’ve got two-ways for all of you. They’re set to channel 9. It’s encrypted.”
The task force stepped forward and took their radios—Turino included.
“The Huey’s still hot,” Ruth said. “Another of Agent Clar’s many talents is he’s a certified pilot. Since he’s the only one who knows the intimate workings of LOWIS, he’ll be your escort.”
Gifford waited a beat, then said, “Okay, let’s do it. Let’s bring our man home. And round up the bastards who took him.”
As Vail huddled with Clar, Mann, and DeSantos, Gifford cleared his throat and caught Vail’s attention. She moved over to the huddled suits, who were gathered at the back of the room.
“What’s going on?” Gifford asked.
“Sir?”
“Agent Vail, cut the crap. I know you better than your own father.” He winced, no doubt realizing the insensitivity of his comment and the reference to Vail’s sadistic parent. “Strike that. Point is, I saw the looks you and the task force were exchanging with Agent Turino during the briefing. So I’ll ask you again. What’s going on?”
Vail scanned the faces of Yardley, Ruth, and Gifford. She hesitated a long moment. She did not want to get into this—certainly not now. And she definitely didn’t want Turino leading them on this op. Still, she shook her head and said, “Nothing’s going on, sir.”
“You’re about to embark on a critically important op,” Ruth said. “What the hell is the problem?”
“That’s not a friendly request,” Gifford added. “It’s an order.”
Vail looked off at the wall. Realizing she was losing valuable time, she acquiesced. “Agent Turino.”
“What about him?”
Vail glanced over her shoulder. Sebastian and Turino were huddled in the far corner. Vail turned back and proceeded to outline what she knew. She stressed that they were unfamiliar with DEA policy, and that they were unsure whether or not his actions were above board. When she was done, Gifford, Yardley, and Ruth all wore variations of agitation and disgust.
“DEA policy,” Ruth said firmly, “is that a human life is always priority. Everything we do is based on officer safety. No operation’s worth a life—no amount of drugs is worth a life. It’s not written in any manual, but it’s built into everything we do, every op and takedown we plan.” She turned to Yardley.
Yardley threw a strained look across the room at Turino. “Agent Turino.”
Turino set his jaw and then walked over, gait confident, shoulders back, chin above level. “Yes sir?”
Yardley said, “We’ve been made aware of your actions as leader of the task force.”
Turino threw a hard, cold stare at Vail. “I’m sure you have.”
“Agent Vail was ordered to do so,” Gifford said. “And she did so reluctantly.”
Turino set both hands on his hips. “Whatever.”
Dixon called out from across the room. “Karen, let’s go. We’re ready to roll.”
“The issue,” Yardley said, “is you. Not her. I’m looking forward to sitting down and listening. You’re a decorated, veteran agent and you’ll be afforded all due process. And given the benefit of the doubt. But later. We’ve got a man out there depending on us and some really bad assholes ripe for arrest. That’s where our energies need to be focused. There’s no time to adequately evaluate this—and I don’t even have the authority to put you on administrative leave. But I do have the perfect assignment for you. I want you to rendezvous with SWAT and work out of their command post. I’ll radio the tactical commander and clear it.”
Through a clenched jaw, Turino said, “Yes sir.”
Yardley turned to Vail and said, “Even though this is a DEA task force, I’ve got no one who’s as fully briefed on all aspects of this operation as you are. I’m placing you in charge. Now get the hell out of here and find Hernandez.”
“Yes sir.” Vail stole a look at Gifford. He was uncommonly quiet. More than concerned, she decided. Worried. Not worried because she was now running the task force, but worried like a father who’s dealing with a son who’s gotten himself into a heap of trouble. Vail gave him a slight nod of assurance, then led her team back toward the Huey.
80
Willie Quintero drove around the strip, up and down side streets and back again to Las Vegas Boulevard, watching for a tail. They were clean, best he and Sandiego Ortega could determine in the thick traffic and frequent red lights that choked one of the busiest sections of the strip.
Robby asked for the cuffs to be removed, a request that Quintero rejected. “Once we get inside, Mr. Villarreal will tell us how he wants us to handle you. Till then, keep your fucking mouth shut. You’ve got us to thank for your life, and I wanna hear some grat-titude, amigo.”
“Thank you,” Robby said. “I appreciate what you did for me.”
“Damn straight. Now keep your head down until we’re ready to get out.”
Following another trip through the Vegas streets, Quintero guided the car into an underground garage. There they waited, Robby still scrunched into the rear seat, until Quintero received a phone call. He listened, then said, in Spanish, “Yes, boss.” He hung up, then told Diego they were to take Robby up to the condo.
After draping a jacket across his handcuffed wrists, they led Robby through the parking lot, up the stairs, across a larger area, then into an elevator bay. The ride up was long and, according to the LCD readout, fifty-seven stories.
Undernourished—and abused—for several days, Robby felt unsteady and had to lean against the elevator wall to keep from falling over. The car finally drew to a stop and the doors slid apart. Quintero gave him a shove, and Robby tripped forward. Diego tightened his grip on Robby’s arm and ushered him into Alejandro Villarreal’s ultramodern condo.
“Steady, hermano,” Diego said in a low voice. “We’ll get you some food in a few minutes.”
“That’d be good,” Robby said, finding it difficult to summon the energy to maintain an erect posture.
Inside, the condo’s clean, edgy lines were augmented by Zebrawood cabinets, teak doors, limestone vanities, and white oak flooring. Ahead of them, expansive picture windows dominated the wall. Bright casino and hotel lights sparkled starkly in black repose against the nightscape below.
In front of the window sat a man in a dark, broad-pinstripe suit. Tan and trim, he possessed the constitution of a wealthy individual whose vast amounts of money were well spent. He rose from the soft, cream-colored leather chair and sauntered up to Robby. “So this is the man all the fuss is being made over.” Villarreal pursed his lips, then nodded. He studied Robby’s face, no doubt taking in the abrasions and bruises, in various stages of healing, and the fresh slice inflicted by Ernesto Escobar. “I am Alejandro Villarreal,” he said with some flair. “I am responsible for saving your life. You know that, don’t you?”
Robby looked down at the man. “I do, sir. Thank you.”
He raised a hand and smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Hernandez. Don’t thank me yet.”
A bowl of mixed nuts sat on a coffee table to Diego’s right. “May I, sir?” Diego asked, wiggling an index finger at the food.
“Yes, of course. Make our guest at home.”
Diego retrieved the dish and held it in front of Robby, who grabbed a fist full of nuts and shoved them into his mouth as a caveman would devour a fresh piece of meat.
Villarreal’s phone rang. He pulled a sleek Sanyo from his pocket and flipped it open with a flick of his thumb. “Yes.” He listened a moment, then said, “I see. No, no, thank you.” Another pause. “I will consider.”
Villarreal snapped the lid closed with one hand and looked up at Robby. “You see, Mr. Hernandez, I am a businessman. That is what I do. It so happens my product
is cocaine, methamphetamine, marijuana, heroin. A little Fentanyl thrown in to round out the product mix. Demand is strong, so I try to keep the supply flowing.” He spread his arms. “And it makes for a very, very comfortable lifestyle. As you can see.” He rotated his torso, taking in the décor of the interior.
Robby, more interested in generating needed energy and strength, threw another handful of nuts into his mouth.
“I’ve been made an offer,” Villarreal said. He turned and walked toward the picture windows. Looking at the lights of Las Vegas below, he appeared to be lost in thought.
Robby shared a look with Diego.
“What kind of offer?” Quintero asked.
Villarreal turned slowly. “A very good one, Willie. Snatching Mr. Hernandez has opened up an opportunity I hadn’t considered.” His eyes narrowed. “That call was from Carlos Cortez. It seems he wants our guest back. And he has made a lucrative offer of exchange. He’s sent men over to formalize the agreement.”
Formalize the agreement. Robby knew that meant he was going to be returned to Cortez. If Cortez sent lieutenants to retrieve him, how long until they arrived? That depended on when Cortez had first approached Villarreal about striking a deal. Clearly this was not a topic freshly broached in that phone call.
He, or Diego, had to do something—but what? They didn’t have much time, he knew that. These were his best odds since he’d been kidnapped. An armed foe to his left, an armed ally to his right. Was Villarreal packing? Probably—though his slim-fitting suit seemed to indicate otherwise.
Diego stepped forward. “With all due respect, sir. We grabbed Hernandez because we know what Cortez is going to do. And the heat his murder would bring would destroy our busin—”
“Yes, yes. But Mr. Cortez is offering us exclusive rights to a rather large territory. And he’s proposing a new supply chain for us, through one of his key suppliers in Colombia, which will enable us to increase our kilos moved per month by a third.”
Diego rubbed at his forehead. “Sir. None of that matters if the Feds shut us down.”
Villarreal turned back to the windows, his face reflected in the dark glass. “For how long can they do that? Seriously, now, Diego. A month? Two months? Three? The cost will be enormous in a down economy, their government deficits at record levels.” He shook his head. “I should have thought this through better.” He cocked his head. “Then again, it seems to have worked out just fine. Because if we hadn’t taken Mr. Hernandez here, this offer wouldn’t be on the table right now.”
Diego’s right hand reached behind his back—no doubt for his pistol. But if Robby saw it, Quintero could see it too, if he was looking. Diego slipped out a Beretta and had cleared his waist band when Robby leaned left and buried his shoulder into Quintero’s side, slamming both of them into the adjacent wall.
A gunshot rang out.
Robby scuffled with Quintero but in the periphery of his vision, he saw his friend drop to the floor.
“Diego!”
Quintero yanked his Smith & Wesson free and aimed it at the doorway—his immediate threat—but another blast from that direction took care of any danger Quintero posed.
Robby felt Quintero slump against the wall but did not celebrate. Standing fifteen feet away, holding a hulking chrome .45, was a person Robby never expected to see again—hoped never to see again.
Ernesto “Grunge” Escobar.
Escobar stepped across the threshold. “You are lucky I came when I did,” he said to Villarreal. “Looked to me like your own man here was about to shoot you.” With his cannon aimed at Robby, he stepped toward Diego and kicked away his Beretta, sending it skittering out of sight. He then walked toward Robby and, with the .45 pointed at his head, bent down and removed the Smith & Wesson from Quintero’s stilled hand.
Villarreal squared his jaw. “Sandiego was a fool. I don’t know what his problem was. But I have little tolerance for those who cannot follow my wishes.” He shook Escobar’s hand. “Something like this will not be forgotten.”
Robby, still on the floor, peered at Diego. A blood-soaked pulpy exit wound in the center of his friend’s forehead stared back at him.
Villarreal took a few steps closer to Robby. “So, Mr. Hernandez. As I said earlier, it was premature to thank me. I am truly sorry for what I must now do.”
81
Vail felt the familiar thumping rotor vibration in her chest. She repositioned the headset and pushed her hair away from her ears. As the helicopter approached the strip below, bright lights of all colors splashed across the landscape in a dual line along a central roadway. “Las Vegas Boulevard?” Vail asked over her headset.
“Affirmative,” Agent Clar said.
Dixon craned her neck to get a better view. “I haven’t been to Vegas in about twenty years. Looks like a totally different place.”
Mann chuckled. “Glad I don’t have their electric bill.”
“Lots of wind,” Clar said, shaking his head. “I hope that doesn’t give us a problem.”
DeSantos motioned out the window. “The wind’s not our only problem. If SWAT has to lumber in on the armored rig they’ve got, it ain’t gonna happen.” Below, South Las Vegas Boulevard was a tangled mess of vehicles. “I don’t know what the deal is, but no way are they getting through.”
“I’ll let ’em know,” Dixon said as she keyed her radio.
Vail studied the packed streets below. DeSantos was right. “Then we’re gonna do this differently. Mann, you stay behind with Clar and be our quarterback. The rest of us are going in from the air.”
Clar quickly glanced back at Vail. “Our orders were to support SWAT, let them do the heavy lifting.”
“We don’t know how long Robby has,” Vail said. “And you see what the traffic’s like. The only way in is by air. Last I checked, we’re the only ones airborne. Now—is there a helipad nearby where you can land and drop us off?”
“Just that tour place a mile down. But—”
“No,” Vail said. “Something closer.”
“A roof would be the closest I can get you. There’s no real clearing where I can set down.”
“So a roof it is.”
Clar reached forward and checked a dial as the Huey was noticeably shoved sideways.
“Karen,” DeSantos said, “give me LOWIS. I want to see if I can triangulate on the cell phone. See if we can tell which roof to land on to get us as close as possible to Robby.”
Vail handed it to him. DeSantos studied the colored LEDs on the otherwise dark display.
Dixon pointed at a dazzling spray of white shooting toward them from the center of a large body of water. “What the hell is that?”
Mann sat forward in his seat and stretched toward Dixon’s window. “That’s the Bellagio, their water show. Every fifteen minutes, miles of pipes shoot water hundreds of feet into the air. It’s all choreographed to light and music that blasts from loudspeakers around the lake.” He watched a moment as they neared, the water spiraling into the night sky beneath the bottom of the craft. “I was stationed here back in ’98 when they opened it. Next time you’re in town, you’ll have to catch it. Nothing like it.”
Vail watched as the plume of water danced left, then right, then straight up toward them.
“Approaching CityCenter,” Clar said. “Vdara’s that flat semicircular high-rise coming up ahead. I’m betting this is where your cell is located. I’m taking us lower. You should see a brown LED on LOWIS.”
The chopper descended abruptly, then came to a stop and hovered above the tall, narrow building.
“Yeah,” DeSantos said, consulting LOWIS’s console. “Vdara’s the ticket. Directly below us. How’d you know?”
“This is where Villarreal’s condo is,” Clar said. “Fifty-seventh floor, number 5711.”
“That roof,” DeSantos said. “It’s so freaking narrow.”
“I can’t stay this low,” Clar said as he struggled with the control stick. “Too much wind. Can’t risk hitting the antenna
s down there. I’m taking us up.”
As the Huey rose, Vail looked down at the CityCenter complex and saw a concentration of oddly shaped, stylish buildings, architecturally angled, twisted, and curved, dramatically lit from above and below. Colors and landscape like nothing she had seen before. “Impressive,” she said.
“Actually,” Clar said, “the impressive part is gonna come from you people.”
“Us?” Vail asked.
“There’s no place to set down,” DeSantos’s voice said in her ears.
“Robby’s in that building directly below us. But the roof’s not large enough for us to land on, and there’s no flat ground that can accommodate us, unless we’re far off the property.”
“No, no. There’s no time. Robby’s down there,” Vail said, thrusting a finger toward the floor. “Get us down there.”
“Only way is to drop one of you in,” Clar said. “Onto the roof.”
Vail looked out the window. Robby was somewhere directly below her. “I’ll go.”
“Have you ever rappelled before?” Clar asked.
Vail pulled her eyes from the airscape and looked at the pilot. “Rappelled? Yeah, from a training tower, lots of times. From a moving helicopter? Twice. But it’s been about six or seven years.”
“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Mann said. “Comes right back to you.” He rapped DeSantos on the shoulder with his artificial hand. “I think she should go Aussie.”
Vail pressed her headset against her ear. “Aussie?”
“Head first,” Mann said. He gave her a thumbs-up. “Big freaking rush.”
Dixon grabbed Vail’s shoulder. “You sure you want to do this?”
“I’ll go,” DeSantos said. “I used to be a jump master with SRT. Last time was a couple months ago in the Ukraine.”
Vail looked at him. The Ukraine? Is he serious? But she knew by now not to ask such questions of Hector DeSantos. “No. I’m the team leader. I’m going.” Did I just say that aloud?
Velocity Page 36
