LA CUEVA
Ciudad Juarez
The keys are still in the Impala’s ignition. I shut the engine off and take the keys. Unlock the trunk. No spare. They would have been in some fix had they blown a tire. A nylon tarp has been spread across the bottom of the trunk. There is a large brown spot on the sheet. This is how Keller was transported from the hilltop to the staged murder scene.
A quick inspection of the Impala’s tracks confirms the story. The tires on the right side are worn.
I go to Keller’s truck. I stuff the two driver’s licenses in my hip pocket. Lay the Glocks on the bench seat. They are both nine millimeters. One at a time, I eject their magazines, check their chambers, and reload them. Both mags are full. Neither pistol has been fired.
Neither weapon was used to murder Keller. These men were involved. They transported Keller’s body. They transported other killers to the Lazy K to kill Mary and Donnie. But—they did not shoot Keller.
I place one of the Glocks, the rangefinder, and the stripper clips in the glove compartment. The second Glock, I stuff into my waistband. Pull my shirt over it. I take three loose rounds of Mauser ammunition, top up the rifle’s magazine, and replace it in the rack.
Alejandro Ruiz turns his head to look at me. I guess his optic nerves are still firing, transmitting images to his brain. His lips move.
The wounded soldado, I leave to die. I hope it takes a long time. I hope the animals get him.
I need to trace a phone number.
25
Salem, 1800 Hrs Wednesday
Garrick’s Jeep is parked in front of the sheriff’s station. I drive past and continue to the hotel. At the far end of the lot, Mirasol’s Camaro occupies its usual spot.
I park next to Stein’s Civic. Go inside, greet the pleasant blond girl at the front desk. She smiles.
Maybe, when this is over.
“May I take one of those?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says. “As many as you like.”
The girl pushes a small stack of hotel business cards toward me. I take one and copy the phone number from the napkin onto it.
“Thank you.” I pocket the card.
The girl tries to hide her disappointment. “Anything I can do to help,” she says. “Anything at all.”
Stein is in the lounge, staring at a laptop. She wears reading glasses. Probably the pair she wore through Harvard Law. She looks up at me. “Where have you been?”
Can’t blame her for wondering. I left before them, but she and Garrick beat me back. I’m dusty and sweaty. Like I’ve been on a month-long hike.
“Killing people,” I tell her.
“Be serious.”
“I need your help with this.” I hand her the phone number. “We need to trace it.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“The man on the other end of that number,” I tell her, “could be the murderer.”
“Have you tried calling it?”
“Why would I tip him off?”
Stein takes the number and types furiously. “There.”
“There, what?”
“I messaged my team in DC to run the number.”
“What about the shell casing?”
“We lifted good prints.” Stein looks satisfied. “If there are matches in our database, I’ll know tonight.”
“What are you up to.”
“Preparing a presentation.”
I’m not surprised. The military and intelligence agencies are no different from any corporate bureaucracy. The government spends two million dollars a head teaching Deltas to kill. Management makes them piss around for hours harmonizing fonts in PowerPoint.
Stein is ambitious, but she is not your run-of-the-mill careerist. She’s single-minded. On the ground, doing the work. I wonder how long she’ll last before her fire winds down. I hope it doesn’t.
“The plant.”
“Yes,” Stein admits. “We still don’t have enough to get a warrant, but the clock is ticking. Monday afternoon, the United States will kill the nuclear deal. We don’t know exactly what the Quds have in mind. The New York City subway attack was only a taster.”
“Why can’t the Border Patrol search for a tunnel?”
“I’ve briefed the Border Patrol. They search private property all the time. But those are usually range land, culverts, or rights of way. Not inside a factory. The owners are happy to cooperate. In this case, Bledsoe’s lawyers will resist.”
“This is a case of national security.”
Stein shrugs. “Can’t fight city hall.”
Annoying phrase.
“What’s going on there?” I jerk my head toward the lounge widescreen.
The image is an overhead shot of a large warehouse. The building is surrounded by dozens of vehicles with flashing lights. Police cars, ambulances, fire trucks.
Stein gasps. “Oh no.”
Silent, I read the captions scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
This hour, terrorists struck a Los Angeles nightclub. Three gunmen armed with automatic rifles, wearing explosive vests, entered and opened fire. For thirty minutes, they shot people indiscriminately. When police attempted to break into the club, the gunmen resisted. There are reports of police casualties. Moments ago, the three men detonated their suicide vests. As yet, there has been no official statement, but we expect loss of life to be high.
“It takes eleven hours to drive from El Paso to Los Angeles,” I say. “Those were the three I saw get on the truck last night.”
Stein’s laptop and mobile phone ding. Again and again.
“Your people are going crazy,” I observe.
“Wouldn’t you? This is the second attack in two weeks.” Stein frowns. “Every station is vying for attention. The whole board is flashing red.”
“Yet you have the only real piece of evidence,” I say. “The battery.”
“Mexico City station reports Faisal Hamza has been sighted in Chihuahua. He’s the number one Quds Force operator in Latin America.”
“Chihuahua’s not far from the border, is it.”
“This may be the United States, but we are sitting in the Chihuahuan desert.” Stein takes her phone and taps it. Turns the device’s screen toward me. “This is Faisal Hamza. Made his bones in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq. We have intel he’s been summoned to Venezuela to coordinate Quds operations in the field.”
The photograph is of a swarthy man in his early forties. Close-cropped hair, chocolate-chip camouflage uniform, badges of rank. The three blooms of an Iran Revolutionary Guard Corps colonel. From the screen, his cruel eyes stab the viewer.
It’s the man I saw with Bledsoe.
“He’s not in Chihuahua.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him at the plant last night. He acted like Bledsoe’s boss.”
“Are you sure?”
“He’s grown his hair out—long and wavy. Looks more Latin. It’s him.”
“Would you swear to it?”
“I’m a sniper, a trained observer. I know what I saw.”
Stein shivers with excitement. “Hamza made his name fighting the Islamic State. He outdid them in savagery. He massacred whole villages whose only crime was paying tax to IS. He captured IS fighters. The ones he didn’t behead immediately, he tortured to death. He turned the same tactics on our people.”
“Faisal Hamza is an Arabic name,” I observe. “Not Persian.”
“He’s Shia Lebanese.” Stein stares at the photograph as though hypnotized. “Qasem Soleimani’s most ruthless enforcer. Soleimani personally recruited Hamza as a weapon. A pure killer. He murders for fun.”
“Has he moved up since we took out Soleimani?”
“Apparently so. Soleimani knew how to control Hamza. Without Soleimani, the Quds are starved of leadership. They need to do things to retain the initiative. Hamza is viewed as the answer to their problems.”
“His Quds masters sent him to Venezuela to take the war to the Great Satan
.”
“The Quds and Hezbollah have been active in Latin America for a long time,” Stein says. “But they have been shy of attacking the United States. They did not want to fuck up the nuclear deal. Hamza was sent to shake the box.”
“A maniac.”
Stein’s laptop dings. She scans the email. “We’ve identified the phone,” she says. “A burner, purchased in El Paso. Paid for with cash, topped up with cash. It’s been turned off, so we can’t trace it.”
“Damn.”
“Come on, Breed. Where did you get the number.”
“I can’t tell you, Stein. Not yet.”
“Breed, I cannot work like this. You cannot keep me in the dark.”
“Do you like what I’m bringing you?”
Stein slaps her hands flat on the table. She’s ready to leap to her feet. “Yes, but—”
“Stein.” My voice is hushed. “You have to let me help you—my way.”
“You think this is Hamza’s phone?” Stein settles back in her chair.
“I think it could be Hamza’s phone. Have your people stay on it. The minute it is switched on, they have to tell you where it is.”
Stein stares out the window for a long moment. Turns back to me. “All right, Breed. Let’s trade.”
“Oh hell.” I lean back in my chair. “Trade what.”
“Your little friend.” Stein’s eyes glitter. “You tell me where you got the phone, and I’ll tell you what I know about Mirasol Cruz.”
My stomach hollows. “How do you know anything about Mirasol?”
Stein leans forward, her smile crafty. “She used her real name at the front desk—you knew I’d check. Those cowboys beat the shit out of her for a reason.”
In fact, I didn’t stop to think Stein would check. I was too preoccupied with Bledsoe. “No deal, Stein.”
“The young lady has an interesting past,” Stein teases.
I cannot tell Stein about the men I killed. Not yet. “I said, no deal.”
Stein leans back, disappointed. “Suit yourself.”
The woman is a piece of work. But then, she’s said the same about me. I stare at the widescreen.
The widescreen shows images of stretchers and gurneys being carried from the club. The camera pans over the sidewalk, where corpses are lined up in neat rows. The camera blurs the faces of the dead. Limbs have been blown from bodies along with clothing and shoes. In an explosion, a powerful shock wave expands rapidly, destroying everything in its path. Viewers are witnessing the impact of high-velocity, military-grade explosives.
“Breed, I am going to act on your intel. Your sighting is going in my presentation. If you’re wrong, my career is over.”
“Is that all you care about?”
“Breed, I love my country. I can’t do any good filling out forms in Anchorage.”
Stein means it. I exhale through puffed cheeks. “Okay, what are you asking for?”
“I want to go into Bledsoe with a fucking hit squad.”
“You have to get the timing right, Stein. If you don’t, you will lose Hamza.”
26
Salem, 2000 Hrs Wednesday
I go to my room. Take the Glock from my waistband, lay it on the bed. In the bathroom, I shower and change my shirt.
When I have finished, I close my eyes and gather my thoughts. Wonder what Stein learned about Mirasol. Her interesting past. Do I trust Mirasol? More than most, and now—I need her.
I pick up my phone and call Mirasol. I am surprised how glad I am to hear her voice.
“Breed. Where have you been?”
“Killing people.”
Mirasol hesitates. “Who?”
I smile.
“Dos soldados,” I tell her. “They were involved in the murder of Keller and his family.”
“You said we are in danger.”
“We are. One of the men who beat you up was at the plant and recognized me. The bad guys know who we are, they have connected us. The soldados were sent to kill me. I need your help.”
“What do you want?”
“Do you have a laptop and access to the hotel internet?”
“Yes.”
“We can’t go downstairs. Stein is pulling an all-nighter in the lounge. Your place or mine?”
“Mine.”
I slip the Glock into my waistband and walk barefoot to Room 210. All this time, Mirasol has been right around the corner. I knock on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Breed.”
The door opens and Mirasol lets me in. She is dressed much as I. Blue jeans and a cream shirt untucked at the waist. Barefoot. Her long hair is loose about her shoulders.
She has set up her laptop on a table by the window. I turn off the light, step to one side of the jamb, and peer outside. My room faces onto main street, Mirasol’s faces the back yard and lane. The houses on the other side of the lane are lit.
“We have to stay away from the windows,” I tell her.
Together, in the dark, we rearrange the table and chairs. We will sit in the corner.
When we are done, I turn the lights back on. “Have you had dinner?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll order a sandwich from room service. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“All right,” she says. “I’ll join you for a drink.”
I call downstairs and have them send up a burger, fries, and beer. A young man delivers the food. He bears a striking resemblance to the girl at the front desk. A family business.
We sit together at the laptop, and I open a beer for each of us. I spread the napkin I took from the soldado and show it to Mirasol. I tell her what happened at the plant. How I met Bledsoe and Frank, how I took Garrick and Stein to the hilltop. I tell her how the two soldados tried to kill me, and how I left them in the desert. Everything but the part about Hamza and the Quds terrorists.
“La Cueva,” I say. “We need to find it.”
Mirasol fires up her search engine and types in “La Cueva,”&“ Juarez”.
The search engine spits up a dozen hits on the first page. The top three hits all refer to the same establishment, a nightclub in Ciudad Juarez. One is the club’s website, the other two are travel rating sites. One of the sites rates it four stars, the other gives it one star. Apparently for the same reason. Mescal, drugs, and slutty women.
The website is amateurish, barely finished. It features pictures of men and women drinking together, enjoying live bands. It provides an address.
I need to understand the ground. “Call up Magellan Voyager.”
The Magellan Voyager is an online application that constructs a three-dimensional map of the globe. It uses a combination of satellite imagery, aerial photography, and GPS data. Users can navigate to any location on the planet by searching for place names, street addresses, or latitude and longitude coordinates. In most cases, street views are supplemented with strips of actual photographs. The level of detail varies by location, but it remains an excellent tactical tool.
Mirasol’s fingers fly over the keys. A map fills the screen, with a little arrow pointing to La Cueva. “It’s right on the river.”
“I don’t believe it.” The brazen move stuns me. I expected the tunnel entrance to be located inland. “They’ve put it the first place anyone would look.”
“Wait,” Mirasol says. “This map only shows Mexico. We must see the United States as well.”
Of course. We need to see its location in relation to Bledsoe.
Mirasol zooms out to display both sides of the river. La Cueva is north of the plant, almost at the edge of the eighteen-hundred-yard chord I drew on Keller’s map. It is a thousand-yard tunnel.
“I need to see more,” I tell her. “I need to see the battlefield.”
“There are photographs.”
I scarf down the burger and wash it down with a beer. Open another.
Mirasol zooms in to view the neighborhood around La Cueva. Clicks on a ribbon of images below t
he map. The club occupies the ground floor of a large brick building. Dirty neon signs hang in frames bolted to the walls. Heavy drapes obstruct the second floor windows.
“This is the interior,” Mirasol says.
Color photographs show a dance floor with a tacky crystal globe hanging from the ceiling. Men and women dancing. A long zinc bartop. I like zinc bartops. Tables where customers can drink and dine while they enjoy live performances. A staircase to the second floor.
I reach for the touch pad.
“Let’s see the street outside.”
I navigate to the exterior view, a photograph of the entrance. There is a panel with left and right, up and down arrows at the bottom of the screen. Click the arrow to the right and the pictures show what you would see if you turned right forty-five degrees. Click left to see the opposite. Keep on clicking and you turn in a full circle. If you click high in the middle, it is as though you walk forward. Clicking low in the middle causes you to retreat.
The feature works until I try to ‘walk’ into an alley to see the back of the building. I get hopelessly lost.
“There are no photographs of the back,” Mirasol says. “This is in Mexico. The feature is not as developed as it is in the United States.”
“How old are these photographs?” I ask.
“There is no way to tell unless you have been there before. I would not rely on them being recent.”
“The street and buildings might have changed.”
“That is not unusual.”
I drink deeply and lean back in my chair. I am conscious of Mirasol sitting next to me. Her shoulders are slender, and her breasts swell against the cotton of her shirt. Her right knee brushes against my thigh. She holds it there.
The chemicals are working as nature intended. I clear my throat. “Mirasol, I have no right to ask you this.”
“Ask me,” Mirasol says.
“I am going to Juarez,” I tell her. “I want you to come with me.”
27
Salem, 2130 Hrs Wednesday
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 12
