“Breed, this is Agent Collins. He’ll take your statement.”
Agent Collins has boyish good looks, a solid jaw, and a cleft chin. He holds his hand out to me.
The agent’s grip is firm. I release his hand. “Can it wait till after breakfast?”
“Afraid not.” Stein treats me to a sweet smile. “Breed, I am going in front of management at ten o’clock. You owe me.”
Stein did save my life. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
“Agent Collins will record your statement and type it up. You can sign it.”
“Fair enough.”
Collins pulls up the seat opposite, sets a digital recorder on the table. He checks the sound level, records the preamble. His name, the date, our location. Then he asks me to state my name, military rank, MOS, and current status.
“Let’s begin with what led you to the hilltop,” he says. “Tell us everything, and what you saw occur at Bledsoe Meats.”
I tell Agent Collins almost everything. He asks a few questions at critical points. How many girls did I see board the truck. How old. How many men.
When we get to the part about La Cueva, he asks me about the premises. “Describe the building.”
“Two floors. Old.”
“Did you see the entrance to the tunnel?”
“No.”
“How do you know it is there?”
“Logical inference. La Cueva is clearly a cartel logistics base. It is the right distance from the Bledsoe plant. Everything fits.”
“Where is the entrance to the tunnel?”
“It will be in the cellar. Accessed from behind the bar. Perhaps from the room I saw the two Quds enter. I did not see them come out.”
“For all you know, those two Quds might have been shipped north.”
“It is possible,” I admit. “Trucks leave Bledsoe every night. They are shipping drugs, women, Quds. Not necessarily at the same time.”
By the time I finish my story, it’s oh-nine-hundred. Collins goes back to Stein’s table. Plugs the recorder into a USB port, adjusts a set of earbuds. Stein gets up and comes to me.
“Do you have enough time?” I ask.
Stein sits with me. “Plenty. Software will automatically transcribe the recording. The software transcription isn’t perfect, so Agent Collins will edit the result. That won’t take long. When he’s finished, he’ll print it out. You can read and sign it.”
The blond girl brings me another pitcher of orange juice. It looks heavy, rattles with ice.
“You’re thirsty, Mr Breed. Let me take that for you.”
The girl takes the empty pitcher and sets the new one on the table. “I put ice in it,” she says.
“That’s sweet.” I peer at the nameplate pinned over her shirt pocket. “Thank you, Tara.”
The girl blushes. “Oh, it’s nothing. You looked so tired this morning.”
“Let me see.” I pour Stein a glass of juice, then serve myself. “Your mother’s favorite movie is Gone With The Wind.”
“It is.” Tara beams. “How did you know?”
“Wild guess.”
“You remind me of Rhett Butler.”
Stein rolls her eyes.
When I look in the mirror, I do not see Rhett Butler. I promise you. “Tara, you are too kind.”
“I’ll leave you to finish breakfast.” Tara bends close and whispers conspiratorially. “The buffet’s closed, but the kitchen leaves food in the warming trays. For another half hour. If you want more, let me know.”
Tara walks away. Stein watches her go with an expression of incredulity. “As though we don’t have enough cradle robbers involved in this case.”
“Oh, please.” I stare at Tara’s retreating bottom. “She’s at least twenty-four. Got breasts and everything.”
Stein grimaces. Opens her leather notebook and takes out the Montblanc. “Okay. Here is how things are going to go down.”
“This is cozy.” An agent stands over us. He looks forty, older than Stein and Collins. Dark hair, face twisted into what looks like a perpetual sneer. “Mind if I join you?”
I know I’m going to hate him. “Yes. I mind.”
The agent does a double take. Stein inserts herself smoothly. “Breed, this is Agent Harris. You’ve met Agent Collins. Over there is Agent Wilson. Agent Harris is the senior at El Paso station.”
“Congratulations.”
“Pull up a chair,” Stein tells the agent. She flashes me a warning look. “Agent Harris needs to know this. He will be involved in the takedown.”
Harris borrows a chair from another table and sits between us. I pour orange juice for Stein and myself, set the pitcher down. Far away from the agent.
“All right.” Stein consults her notes. “I’ll meet with management at ten o’clock. I will request approval to go to federal court. Prosecutors from El Paso will be on the call. They have booked time with the judge for thirteen hundred hours. We think we can get a warrant to raid Bledsoe Meats.”
“How specific will the warrant be?” Harris asks.
“Specific enough to target key items of interest. Generic enough to allow us to capture incidental materials. We will be authorized to confiscate desktop computers, laptops, mobile phones, storage devices. We will be authorized to search any vehicles on the premises, vehicles arriving, and vehicles that have left during the period specified. We will open packages of meat that have been palletized. We will be specifically authorized to search the US Department of Agriculture Retain Cage for a tunnel entrance. Once we find that, we can do anything we want.”
Stein’s eyes meet mine. She is gambling everything on my theory.
“The strength of the raiding party will be in the Border Patrol and ATF contingents. They will bring dogs trained to sniff narcotics, firearms, and explosives. BORTAC will have armored vehicles capable of breaching the perimeter fence.”
BORTAC. The Border Patrol’s tactical unit.
“We are authorized to arrest any illegal aliens on the premises. We have Border Patrol officers trained to take charge of underage illegals. We have covered everything.”
Harris folds his arms. “What about the Quds?”
The tunnel, the drugs, the illegals are one thing. Quds Force terrorists are something else. Whoever gets the Quds will have the thickest dick in Washington.
“This unit,” Stein says, “will go in with TAC gear. It will be our job to take the Quds.”
The first flaw in Stein’s plan. I’ve fought jihadists my entire career. Whatever training Stein and Harris have received, they do not have the training to take on Quds fighters.
I say nothing.
“I’d like to attend the meeting,” Harris says.
“No.” Stein’s voice is firm. “I’m gambling on this. If I burn, I’ll burn alone.”
And if she’s right, the greater share of glory.
Harris doesn’t like it. Bites back a protest. The three of us stare at each other in silence.
Without a word, Harris gets up and returns to the window table.
“Isn’t he a ray of sunshine,” I say.
“Harris was my senior back east.” Stein closes her notebook. “He kept one foot on my neck the whole time. Two years ago, I got a counter-terror assignment overseas. Harris got a narcotics assignment in El Paso. On the organization chart, we are now peers, and he doesn’t like it.”
“He feels like he’s being passed over.”
“I give a shit how he feels.”
“How are you going to get the timing right?” I ask her. “You have to strike when the Quds are on the US side or you’ll miss them. Bledsoe may hide out in Mexico, where you can’t touch him.”
Stein smiles. “I’ll have someone on that hill. When Bledsoe and Hamza load up that truck, BORTAC will breach the fence with armored vehicles. Round everybody up, hold them in the yard. Then we’ll go into the plant and search.”
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“No one can think of everything
. I try.”
“Can you get the Federales to take down La Cueva?”
Stein shakes her head. “Impossible to coordinate. The fact is, no one in Mexico can be trusted. If I tried to arrange that, the cartel would be tipped off.”
“Send in a US hit squad.”
“And create an international incident. Absolutely not. The most I can do is send a US team to gather evidence in partnership with a Mexican contingent. But as you pointed out, timing is everything. A joint US-Mexican force can only go in after the major engagement. Otherwise, the bad guys will be tipped off.”
Can’t argue with that. “Where were you assigned overseas?”
Stein smiles. “Everyone has a story, Breed. You’re not ready to hear mine. Ah—Collins has your statement.”
The blond agent borrowed the hotel printer. Sets a thin sheaf of papers on the table. “Here you are, Mr Breed. Please read and sign it. I’ll witness when you’re done.”
Stein gets to her feet. “We’ll leave you alone for a while.”
I pick up the statement. “The clock is ticking.”
41
Salem, 1015 Hrs Thursday
I sign the statement.
Slide the paper across the table to Stein. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Stein examines my signature. “I have more than enough now to establish probable cause.”
“The fingerprints came back?”
“The prints on the shell casing were Garrick’s—as expected. My team in Washington uncovered tons of circumstantial evidence. In Colorado, Garrick and Bledsoe jointly own the El Diablo. Garrick’s house in El Paso is worth one-point-two million. That’s why he keeps it far removed from prying eyes. Nothing compared to the waterfront property he owns in Corpus Christi. And a boat.”
“For God’s sake. How long has that been going on?”
“Ages. Garrick and Bledsoe have been partners for a long time. Bledsoe leveraged his relationship with Papi. Garrick provided law enforcement cover. In the last two years, events gathered momentum. Bledsoe formed a joint venture with Comida Del Sol, a Mexican food processing company. Comida Del Sol provided financing for extensive renovations to Bledsoe Meats. Upgraded their property, plant, and equipment.”
“Let me guess—Papi owns Comida Del Sol.”
“Yes. The ownership structure of Comida Del Sol is complicated. My team have uncovered evidence Comida Del Sol is involved in money laundering. But—that’s not all. Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, the IRGC, has an ownership interest through a series of Cayman Islands shell companies.”
The scope of the enterprise is breathtaking. “Another joint venture.”
“We gave them one-point-eight billion in cash as part of the nuclear deal. Some of us expected them to finance terrorism. We never thought...”
“We never thought they would invest it,” I finish for her.
“It was a no-brainer,” Stein says. “The IRGC isn’t using the one-point-eight billion to finance terrorism. They’re using the returns on the one-point-eight billion to finance terrorism.”
“How could our government have fallen for Iran’s bullshit.”
“The last administration wanted the nuclear deal for its legacy. That doesn’t matter. We have to stop the Quds.”
Stein slaps her laptop shut. Folds my signed statement, goes to her room. I watch her leave, finish my coffee. Get to my feet.
Harris steps in front of me. “Where are you going, Breed?”
“Back to my room. Stein’s court appointment isn’t till thirteen hundred.”
“You are not to leave the hotel.” Harris stands with his feet spread, hands on hips. “Stein’s instructions.”
“I’m glad those mean so much to you, Harris. Stein’s instructions. You’ll get used to them.”
Harris’s face slowly turns purple.
“I’m going to my room,” I tell him. “Get out of my way.”
I walk away from bar fights. Some asshole pushes me, I buy him a beer. It’s too easy to kill some fuckwit and end up in jail. Especially when the other guy doesn’t know what he’s doing. Truth is, the more killing you’ve done, the less you want to do.
The agent outweighs me by thirty pounds. He’s ready to make a move. I should hit him first, but I won’t. Deflect or absorb the first shot. Incapacitate him. I have a menu of options.
Harris steps aside. “When this is over, Breed.”
I walk out of the dining room. There are at least six Quds fighters going out early tomorrow morning. Hamza intends to hit between three and six targets. High concept, mass casualty attacks.
Stein plans to take Hamza with three men. Harris’s team will be outnumbered and outgunned. The encounter will be a bloodbath. These guys won’t be at breakfast tomorrow.
It’s not about numbers. The end state of any training program is defined by an operator’s mission and likely opposition. If the mission is to neutralize the most committed killers the enemy can field, you select Deltas. If the mission is to arrest narcotics smugglers, FBI training may suffice. If the mission is to arrest gangbangers on inner-city streets, police training is appropriate.
Personnel are not interchangeable.
Stein knows this. She told me she wanted to go in with a hit squad. Harris and his men don’t qualify.
Not my problem. I shut the door behind me and collapse into a chair. Take my phone and dial Lenson. “It’s Breed.”
Lenson cuts to the chase. “We can’t breach this objective from the ground floor—too many civilians.”
“Agreed. There is a metal staircase bolted to the rear wall. We will breach the second floor, clear downward.”
“How do we get weapons across?”
“I have reconnoitered Puente Rio Bravo. We will conceal weapons under a vehicle. M4s, shotguns, handguns. Spare shells and mags. Break everything down, reassemble on the other side.”
“That will not be a problem.”
Lenson has all the weapons we need in his store’s inventory. M4s, which are illegal for civilians to own. The carbine’s 14.5-inch barrel is shorter than the 16-inch legal limit. Civilians often add a flash suppressor to the M4 to legalize the weapon.
Delta gives operators latitude in weapons selection and maintenance. Early in my career, I used an older variant of the M4, with a 10.5-inch barrel. The muzzle flash was blinding, but at close quarters the weapon was lethal. In the end, the short barrel caused reliability to suffer. Delta standardized on 14.5 inches.
“Is Hancock with you?”
“Yes. Good to go.”
“Where are you?”
“My store.”
I remember Stein told me Lenson’s store was close to bankrupt. It’s a converted warehouse off Alameda Avenue. Near the El Paso Skeet and Trap Club. Lenson sells sporting goods, guns, and ammunition. The front room looks like an arsenal. A gun show, with weapons of all types covering the walls. Fifty caliber sniper rifles on display tables. He had a tripod-mounted Ma Deuce. I thought the store would be ideally located to attract business.
Maybe he borrowed too much money to finance the inventory.
Borrowed to finance his hobby rather than a business.
Who knows what Lenson keeps in the back room.
The best thing about the army is its simplicity. You train and you fight. Your food, lodging, expenses are all handled for you. You don’t need to worry about a budget, or paying bills, or anything like that. The army allows you to drop out of the real world.
Six months out and the phone company still has to chase me. Not that I don’t have the money. I don’t have the organization to handle the logistics. Lenson and Hancock are probably not that different.
Keller was the only one of us who ever amounted to anything.
“You’d better close the shop early.”
“I didn’t open.”
“Good. We have one more problem.”
“Tell me.”
I tell him.
42
Salem, 1145 Hrs Thursda
y
Stein walks into the lounge, wearing a triumphant expression. “We’ve got a green light.”
I’ve been sitting at one of the circular tables, chatting with Tara. She’s standing behind the bar, polishing glassware. I’m drinking a beer, enjoying the light conversation, her pleasant company. For the past half hour, I’ve switched off from the darkness that envelops the border.
“Congratulations, Stein.”
Dressed in another all-black pantsuit, Stein flops down across from me. I wonder how many copies of the same outfit she carries.
“All we have to do now,” she says, “is get that warrant.”
“What charges will you bring against Paul Bledsoe?”
“Depends on what we find. Harboring illegal aliens, trafficking illegal aliens, sex trafficking, trafficking minors for the purpose of prostitution, trafficking narcotics. I could go on.”
“Not murder?”
“There is no evidence Paul Bledsoe was involved in any of the killings.”
Bledsoe tortured Mirasol. What punishment does such a man deserve.
“Hamza?”
“Murder, terrorism. We’ll throw the book at him.”
I saw Hamza kill Mirasol. I am not certain justice will be done.
Stein straightens, prepares to leave. “Don’t worry, Breed. We’ll get them.”
I hide my skepticism. “Sure.”
“You mustn’t leave the hotel. So long as Hamza thinks you’re dead, so long as he doesn’t hear from Garrick, they’ll go ahead as planned. Where’s Harris?”
“In the dining room with his team.”
“I’m going to El Paso. He’ll stay here, make sure no one takes a shot at you. Right now, you are the only person who can testify to Hamza’s presence in the United States.”
“I don’t need a babysitter. Especially not that dick.”
“Harris is a good agent.”
“Agent of what? You’re a spook, so is he. None of you are agents.”
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 20
