“Have we made the connection?”
“Intel tells us Santi was at the restaurant with some Middle Eastern men. That night, the kid is shot and killed. The pattern of shots indicates a hit. It’s worth a try. Maybe the kid heard something he shouldn’t.”
“A lousy way to lose a loved one. Not that there is a good way.”
Moyer found the restaurant with no trouble, and soon they sat at one of the tables. A man bustled between the kitchen and the dining room. He was older than the other waiters and his eyes seemed empty. Moyer guessed this was their man.
A busboy brought tortilla chips, a bowl of deep-red salsa, and two menus to the table. Ten minutes later one of the waiters approached. Moyer’s first impulse was to ask for the owner—get right to work—but he and Jose had discussed it on the drive in. First they would eat and study their surroundings, search for any indication that they were being watched. They wanted to know how the restaurant “felt” and who sat at the tables. Moyer felt whiter than normal. Many Caucasians visited and lived in Venezuela. Like Los Angeles, New York, Dallas, Atlanta, and other major American cities, Caracas had its share of immigrants. He had seen scores of non-Hispanics at the hotels and on the streets. Here, however, he felt like the lone oak tree in a wide, green pasture. Clearly the eatery was a favorite spot for locals rather than tourists.
“Petróleo?”
“Excuse me?” Moyer said in English and immediately wondered if he had just blown it.
The waiter, who was all of eighteen, pointed at Moyer’s shirt and the emblem, OKLACO.
“Oil company?”
Moyer studied the kid. “You speak English.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s good. I’m afraid my Spanish is not very good. Yes, I work for Oklaco.”
“American company. My uncle works the oil fields. A different company.”
Jose smiled. “Yes, my friend is a consultant. I’m his translator. We heard this is the best food in Caracas.”
The waiter smiled. “No one complains. What can I get for you?”
Moyer glanced at the menu then decided on something safe. “Enchiladas, por favor.”
Jose ordered something Moyer didn’t recognize.
As they gave their order, Moyer noticed the man he assumed to be the owner staring at them. Moyer gave a slight nod. The man frowned and disappeared into the kitchen.
For appearance Moyer and Jose made small talk while studying the dining room. Neither found anything to cause them concern. The food arrived fifteen minutes after they placed their order. Moyer had to admit the food was good. No wonder the place was packed.
The older man worked the tables, stopping by each one and chatting with customers as if they were family. Many of the customers wore expressions of sadness, patted his hand, and spoke softly.
Moyer and Jose drank beer with the meal and ordered another bottle each as the waiter cleared the table. “So how do we chat with the owner?” Jose asked. “I suppose we could just ask to see him.”
“Direct but maybe a tad bold. Unfortunately I don’t have a better—”
Jose turned to follow Moyer’s gaze. “What?”
“Looks like our problem just solved itself.”
The owner moved from the bar to their table. He carried two bottles of beer.
“Gracias,” Jose smiled at the man as he set the bottles on the table. “Está usted el dueño?”
The man answered in English. “I am the owner, yes. I have not seen you here before.” He clipped his words as if biting off the last syllable.
“We’re in Caracas on business,” Jose said. “The front desk at our hotel recommended your restaurant. The food was wonderful. I especially liked—”
“You are here to see me?” Jose glanced at Moyer, who took a moment before answering. “Why would you say that?” The man closed his eyes then slowly opened them as if his eyelids held back a fury ready to erupt. “You are here to see me?” “Yes.” This time Moyer didn’t hesitate. “We would like to talk to you.”
“We close at ten. The employees leave at eleven. Be here at eleven thirty. Come to the back door off the alley.” He didn’t wait for an answer. Turning, he marched to the kitchen.
“That was weird,” Jose said.
“Yeah. Why is my gut uneasy?”
“Maybe it’s the salsa.”
“I hope that’s all it is.”
CHAPTER 32
CARAWAY LED THE WAY and J.J. was happy to let him do so; he had never been comfortable with Caraway at his back. Before leaving the truck, both men had changed into dark shirts and pants. Each man carried only a 9mm handgun strapped to his thigh and a backpack over his shoulder. Radios hung at their belts and lightweight headsets clung to their scalps. The alley they moved through was nearly as dark as a tomb, lit only by a setting moon and one dim bulb near the rear door of one of the buildings.
They walked the half mile in silence, listening for the sounds of a truck, the conversation of late-night workers, or the snores of a wino sleeping off a bottle of red wine. They heard none of those things. To J.J. it seemed he and Caraway were the last two men on Earth. The thought chilled him.
Something crunched under J.J.’s boot. He stopped and directed the thin beam of light from his small flashlight to the ground. “Charming.” The single word carried his disgust.
Caraway directed his light to the same spot. “Cockroaches. Man, they grow them big down here.”
“I’ve seen smaller dogs.”
“You can apologize to the bug’s family later. Let’s get a move on.”
They crossed a street, making sure no one was about to see them do so. The target building was one block down. They continued through the alley until they reached the chain-link fence.
J.J. studied the building, the grounds, and the fence. “I don’t see anything to indicate the fence is electrified.” “We’ll know soon enough. I see no surveillance cameras. These guys are either stupid or overconfident.”
“Or they don’t plan to be here very long.”
Caraway placed his hand near the fence then touched it. “We’re good to go.” He keyed his mike and radioed Rich. “Making entry.”
“Roger that.”
“I’ll go first.”
J.J. nodded to Caraway and unholstered his weapon.
They had considered cutting the chain link to gain access to the property, but that would leave evidence of their presence. The fence stood only eight feet high, with no razor wire at the top. Caraway raised his gloved hands and slipped his fingers through the wire mesh. A few seconds later he pulled himself over the top and dropped to the ground.
The second his boots hit the pavement Caraway drew his handgun.
J.J. holstered his weapon and followed Caraway over the top, doing his best not to jiggle the fence enough to create noise.
In a crouch the men sprinted across the open macadam lot until they reached the windowless wall of concrete. Again they paused and listened for the sounds of human activity. Nothing. Conversation between the men was over; all communication from here on out would be done with hand signals. Caraway pointed at J.J., then to his own eyes. J.J. nodded and took two steps away from the wall, his 9mm at the ready.
Caraway studied the lock that held the hinged plywood barricade that covered the bottom third of the ladder. He shook his head and stepped back. The initial plan had been to force what looked like, on the surveillance camera, a cheap cabinet lock. Apparently Caraway saw something he didn’t like. A second later he turned, pressed his back to the plywood and interlaced his fingers. J.J. needed no explanation.
He returned his weapon to the holster, took a step toward Caraway, and placed his foot in the makeshift stirrup. He pressed down on Caraway’s hands and let the other soldier lift him up until J.J. could take hold of the second free rung above the plywood panel. He pulled himself up and slipped a foot onto a rung. Moving to the side of the ladder, J.J. slipped his left arm around one of the vertical supports and reached his right arm down
to Caraway. Caraway jumped, catching J.J. by the wrist. J.J. pulled himself up, dragging Caraway with him. It was like lifting several bags of concrete with one arm.
He didn’t have to hold the man for long. Caraway seized a rung with his free hand and released his grip on J.J. He now had two hands on a rung but his feet still hung loose, the toe of his boots touching the plywood.
Without a word, J.J. squatted again and reached for Caraway’s belt. One heave later, Caraway stood on the ladder. J.J. held his place to the side and let Caraway scale the rest of the distance to the roof before following.
The decomposed granite over the hot-mopped roof presented a problem. The gravel crunched beneath their boots, forcing them to take measured steps, each stride considered before a boot was moved. Caraway went first, and J.J. waited until his partner had made it to the front of the building before following the same path. Once he reached Caraway’s location, J.J. removed his backpack and set it next to Caraway’s then studied the roof.
J.J. had worked a few of his high school summers in construction. While he didn’t learn enough to pass the contractor’s license exam, he had picked up a few things. He easily identified the HVAC fan unit that helped with the heating and cooling of the building. He also saw a couple of plastic pipes he knew to be vents for restroom plumbing. Before leaving the van they had decided to set up the surveillance first in what they assumed to be the work area of the building, the dark area they had seen when the van brought the woman and children to the concrete tilt-up.
Caraway pulled a palm-sized handheld drill from the backpack and a six-inch-long bit. He moved to the estimated center of the building, knelt on the gravel and brushed clean as many of the small stones as possible. Caraway removed a hand towel from the backpack and wrapped it around the power tool to muffle the noise of the battery-powered device. The drill came to life and chewed through the tarred paper and into the material beneath. A white, flaky substance traveled up the bit and fell to the roof. Caraway stopped. “Doesn’t look like wood,” he whispered.
J.J. picked up some of the material and rubbed it between hisgloved fingers. “Rigid insulation.”
“You mean like fiberglass?”
J.J. shook his head. “It’s a different material—similar to Styrofoam but more rigid. Some commercial buildings put rigid insulation over the plywood sheeting to save energy. It’s more effective and easier to install.”
“How thick is this stuff?”
“Maybe six inches.”
“That’s longer than the drill.” Caraway stared at the 3/8-inch hole.
J.J. pulled a Benchmade knife from his pocket and began carefully cutting a three-inch wide hole in the material. “The stuff is strong enough to stand on, but it still cuts easily.” He dug until the knife touched the plywood sheeting that made up the structural membrane of the roof. “Unless you drill right into a beam, you should punch through after about three-quarters of an inch.”
Of course, “punch through” was the last thing they wanted. A drill suddenly appearing in the ceiling would be a certain giveaway, as would bits of debris falling to the floor. Caraway activated the drill again and J.J. watched as the man stopped after boring only half an inch. Caraway removed the drill and bit, ejected the battery, then placed the bit back into the hole. For the next few minutes, Caraway twisted the cylindrical power drill by hand. From time to time, he would remove the bit and blow in the hole to dislodge any buildup of sawdust. J.J. had to remind him to move the voice-activated mike away from his mouth.
“Don’t like the sound of my breath, Colt?” Caraway whispered. “I know I don’t.” The voice belonged to Shaq. “Ease up on the sound effects, Billy.” Caraway slipped the bit back into the hole and slowly turned it,
J.J. watching each twist of the wrist. It seemed as if they had been at this for an hour, but patience remained the order of the day.
Caraway’s wrist jerked to the right and he stopped. “I’m through. Clear the debris.”
J.J. moved his mike up, put his face close to the opening and blew a stream of air over the opening and around the bit. A thin beam of light pressed through the narrow opening. Both men remained still, listening for the opening of a door or the shout of warning. They heard nothing.
J.J. took the drill and bit from Caraway, broke it down, and returned it to the backpack.
“Light.”
J.J. switched on his small flashlight and aimed the beam at Caraway’s hand. Caraway held what appeared to be a thin, black snake but was in fact an ingenious fiber-optic device comprising a ¼-inch CCD high-resolution color camera at the end of a thirty-four-inch metal-reinforced neck. The camera offered an eighty-five-degree field of view and delivered video at 380 lines. It could focus on something as close as one inch or be set to infinity.
Caraway bent the neck of the device and slipped it into the hole. “Wire.”
J.J. bent a stiff wire around the neck of the device to keep it from slipping farther through the hole. Caraway plugged the device’s RCA jack into a handheld monitor and turned it on. The color display came to life. Caraway set the monitor on the roof so
J.J. could see. They now had a view of the entire main room.
J.J. studied the image then keyed his mike. “We have eyes. I see three hostiles, all asleep.”
“The woman and kids?” Rich asked.
“Negative. No sign of them.” He paused. “Hold on.” Two men lay on bed rolls near the west wall. Next to each lay an AK-47. One man, however, slept off by himself. He sat in a chair positioned in front of a narrow door, an automatic weapon across his lap. Light oozed from beneath the door. “One unfriendly is perched in front of a door. I can see a light beneath it. Best guess is the family is locked in there.”
“Understood,” Rich said.
J.J. looked around the roof. His spotted a galvanized metal vent with a small matching metal hood over its opening. “I see the bathroom vent, Shaq. I think we can create another peephole and see what’s in the bathroom.”
“Do it.”
Twenty minutes later they had dug another hole through insulation and bored through the plywood. Caraway worked his magic with the electronics and again turned on the monitor. A second later J.J. and Caraway were staring at a woman sitting on the floor, a child beneath each arm. The children seemed to be asleep. The woman, however, remained wide awake. She laid her head back against the dirty tile and looked at the ceiling. For a moment he thought she had spotted the business end of the camera. If she had, she gave no indication. Her lips were moving.
“Who’s she talking to?” Caraway asked.
J.J. knew. “God.”
CHAPTER 33
MOYER PARKED ON THE street near the alley that ran behind the Estevez restaurant. His watch showed 2330 hours on the dot. He and Jose walked the alley without speaking. From their briefing they knew the owner’s son had been gunned down on this very lane. Moyer thought of his own son and family then forced their faces from his mind. He needed to remain focused.
The light that poured from the window seemed paler than when they had dined there a short time before. Nothing unusual in that, Moyer decided. Business hours were over. He and Jose stepped up the stairs that led to the exterior stoop and knocked on the door.
The door opened and Moyer caught a glimpse of Reuben Estevez. He had his back turned to them. The hair on the back of Moyer’s neck stood, though he didn’t know why. Cautiously he stepped into the kitchen area. Only half of the overhead fluorescent lights were on, casting a dim light on metal tables, an old commercial stove, pots, pans, and a dozen resident objects in the kitchen.
“Señor Estevez.” When the man didn’t turn, Moyer whispered to Jose. “Heads up. Something doesn’t feel right.”
Estevez moved through the kitchen and into the dining room. Moyer and Jose followed.
The restaurant, which had been a cacophony of conversation a short time ago, held no noises other than the footfalls of three men and the gentle roar of a water heater firin
g up. Estevez moved slowly and like a man with purpose. He hung his head and barely moved his arms as he walked, which struck Moyer as odd.
The restaurant owner stepped to a table in the middle of the dining area. Moyer studied it. It looked like every other table in the place: red tablecloth, two bottles of hot sauce, a tall napkin dispenser, and a thin vase with two long-stem flowers. Nothing struck him as dangerous.
Estevez rounded the table and stood behind a chair. Moyer eyed him then closed the distance between them. When Moyer and Jose were five feet from the table, Estevez reached for something behind the napkin dispenser. Moyer tensed. Estevez stood with a gun in his hand, its barrel pointed at Moyer’s sternum. Moyer stopped midstep. Jose did the same.
Moyer kept his tone calm. “What’s this about?”
“You work for Santi.” Estevez’s hand shook, which made Moyer all the more nervous. “Do not deny it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Estevez, but that isn’t true.”
“He and his foreign friends come to my restaurant then kill my son. I will avenge my boy.”
“By killing two innocent men?”
He raised the gun toward Jose. “There are no innocent men.” He extended his arm as if he were on a practice range.
“Even if we did work for Santi, killing me wouldn’t bring your son back.”
Pain-filled eyes fixed on Moyer. “No, it will not, but it will keep you and your kind from killing again.”
“How can we convince you that we are here to help?” Moyer moved his eyes to the man’s trigger finger. The gun was old and not well kept, not that it mattered. An old, ugly pistol could kill as well as a shiny new one.
“You can’t.”
Instinct said run; training said attack. Moyer chose the latter. Running only made a man a bigger target. When Moyer saw Estevez’s finger twitch, he ducked and moved to the side as the gun went off. He ignored the loud report, ignored the acrid smell of spent gunpowder. It might have been his imagination, but he felt something caress his hair.
Before Estevez could reacquire his target, Moyer took a step forward and launched himself over the table, hitting the man square in the chest with his shoulder. Both went down. Before Moyer could take hold of Estevez’s arm, something landed on top of him—Jose, landing on Moyer hard. With two men on top of him, Estevez was going nowhere. Moyer reached for the man’s gun hand and found Jose had beaten him to it.
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