I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Listen close, because you need to hear this.”
Red faced, Harris sits quietly.
“My friends and I are going to leave in a few hours,” I say. “We will not be coming back.”
Harris’s eyes widen.
I smile. “That’s right. We are going to leave you here. If I’m in a good mood, I might drop Stein a note.
“We’ll turn off the air-conditioning. Have you ever walked into a death house? Smelled corpses rotting in the heat? I don’t like you, Harris. I’ll enjoy leaving you to die.”
Fear grows in Harris’s eyes.
“I’m going to take the tape off. I expect you to answer my questions.”
I grab a corner of the duct tape and peel the patch from Harris’s mouth. Leave it hanging from his right cheek.
“All right. You’re not FBI. You carry no government ID. What are you?”
Harris mumbles something.
“I didn’t hear you. Speak up.”
“CIA.”
“Fucking spooks. You’re not supposed to operate inside the United States. What is Stein’s status?”
“CIA. Attached to the Department of Justice. So are we.”
“I believe Stein has been seconded. Not sure about you guys.”
“She called us in.”
“Means exactly nothing. What military training have you had?”
“Collins and I are ex-Marines. All of us have had CIA TAC training.”
“What about Stein?”
Harris shrugs.
“Tell me about Stein, Harris—or I’ll leave you here.”
“Harvard Law, FBI. She transferred to CIA five years ago.”
“How long with the FBI?”
“Five years.”
Stein is thirty-four. Older than she looks.
“Why did she transfer?”
“Ask her. She never told me.”
“She worked for you. You asked at the interview.”
“I didn’t hire her. She was a mediocre case officer.”
“Really. Did you inherit her, or was she assigned to your team?”
“Assigned.”
Someone senior at the CIA wanted Stein to spy on Harris. Maybe he was a fuckup and she was told to babysit him. “What happened two years ago?”
Harris looks miserable. The man’s shoulders slump, his whole frame seems to dissolve into the chair. “Stein was recruited for a counter-terror assignment.”
A plum assignment. The kind you give a superstar. I’m impressed Stein didn’t badmouth Harris earlier. She must find him contemptible. Treats him with respect regardless. A political animal, navigating her bureaucracy.
“Because she was mediocre.” I smile. “Where was she assigned?”
“Breed, we operate on a need-to-know basis. I did not need to know.”
Admitting that had to hurt.
“You kept your ear to the ground, didn’t you.”
“You want me to make stuff up?”
“I want the truth. If I don’t get it, I’ll cut you before we leave.” Harris stares at me with a blank expression. “I’ll open the garage door—enough to let animals in.”
Harris shudders. The weasel’s imagination starts working overtime. I stretch, cross my legs at the ankles. Yawn.
“I heard she worked all over.” Harris’s voice trembles. “She put out fires. Afghanistan, Iraq, Ukraine, Colombia.”
“Go on.”
“Management considers her expendable. If she fucks up, they’ll dump her. It’s her attitude. She’ll do anything to get ahead. Went on patrols with SEALs in Afghanistan. Responded to Troops In Contact when HVTs were involved. Anything for a splash. If you want something done, give it to Stein. Don’t ask how she made it happen.”
“She looks more like an analyst than a field operative.”
“That’s Harvard Law. Don’t let it fool you. That woman is as cold-blooded as they come. A real bitch.”
There’s a recommendation if I ever heard one.
“What do you think Stein will do when she gets back. Finds you and I aren’t there?”
Harris frowns. He has trouble thinking ahead. “Look for us.”
“She might look for you. If she sends up flares looking for me, Hamza will realize I’m not dead.” I smile. “The question is—how hard will she look for you?”
“Hard. This city will be crawling with agents.”
“Because you’re her elite TAC squad. Does that sound like the woman you just described?”
I slap the tape back over Harris’s mouth.
Hood him.
“I don’t think so.”
45
Juarez, 2200 Hrs Thursday
For the second time in twenty-four hours, I approach the Puente Rio Bravo. I wonder if I’ll draw the same border guard. I sit in the passenger seat of Lenson’s SUV. Hancock sits directly behind me. We are sitting on a small arsenal.
South Stanton Street is narrow. Compared to the wider avenues that dominate the Bridge of Americas, Zaragoza, and Paseo Del Norte. The Puente Rio Bravo is intended for southbound traffic, the Paseo Del Norte northbound. Both service the center of Ciudad Juarez.
A short line. Two cars in front of us.
Beside the road is a large wooden sign.
WARNING
ILLEGAL TO CARRY
FIREARMS / AMMUNITION
INTO MEXICO
PENALTY — PRISON
Lenson and I exchange glances. Smile.
Guns are getting through. Not long ago, cartel shooters attacked the Mexico City police chief with three Barrett fifty caliber sniper rifles and M16s. The HVT took three hits and lived. Two bodyguards and a woman were killed. All those weapons came from the United States.
The Barrett is a prestige weapon. In Mexico, shooters assume the size of a man’s dick is proportional to the size of his gun. In practice, we use Barretts to take out Scuds and tanks. Not people. For human targets, we prefer .308 Winchester or .338 Lapua rifles.
I remember the slack Mexican border guards. If the Mexicans don’t care, why should we? Maybe they care, but are too corrupt to be effective. The end result is the same.
Guns get through.
“Why do they call it Rio Bravo?” I ask Lenson. Small talk. To keep my stomach from fluttering.
“Don’t know,” Lenson says. “It’s a Mexican thing. This bridge is also called the Friendship Bridge, or the Stanton Street Bridge.”
“Boring.” Hancock twists sideways in the back seat, stretches out his right leg. “Puente Rio Bravo is a great name. Has character.”
Tonight the border guard is a woman. Mexican descent, fortyish. She looks like the kind of person who is proud to be American. Takes her job seriously. Pays her taxes. I hope she does not use us to exercise her diligence.
“How you gentlemen doing tonight?”
“Just fine, ma’am.” Lenson flashes her a charming smile.
The guard’s eyes flick to her screen and back. “Documentation, please.”
We hand over our passports and Department of Defense identification.
“What y’all up to in Juarez tonight?”
“Just a bunch of gringos out for fun, ma’am.”
I pray Lenson doesn’t ham it up too much.
“You guys serve overseas?”
“Yes, ma’am. Afghanistan and Iraq.”
The woman smiles. “I served in Iraq. Oh-three and oh-four.”
“No shit. What outfit was you with?”
“512th Maintenance Company.”
“Hot damn. Nasiriyah. See any action?”
“Not as much as you boys.” The woman passes back our IDs. “You gringos got a designated driver?”
Lenson grins and jerks his head at Hancock. “Our buddy back there likes to keep us honest.”
“Don’t let la vida loca do you in,” the women advises. “You gents have yourself a good time.”
The Mexican border guards are lazy. They check our papers, ask Lens
on to pop the hatchback. One guard opens the toolbox, lifts out the tray, and rummages inside. He doesn’t bother to put everything back. Slams the hatchback and waves us on.
“Do they ever do it right?” I ask.
Lenson laughs. “Are you kidding? They’re terrified they’ll find something. The cartels know where they live. All these guys want to do is take bribes and wave people through.”
The SUV noses out of the border checkpoint. Mirasol turned right to show me the city center. Tonight, we want to get to La Cueva’s neighborhood early. Lenson turns left on Avenue Heroico Colegio Militar. We cruise south by east in the direction of the Zaragoza. Before we reach the bridge, Lenson turns right and we lose ourselves in a maze of maquiladoras.
“It’s like I’ve been here before,” Lenson says.
“It’s the simulation,” I tell him. “In most cases, realistic enough to put you on the ground.”
I guide Lenson to a factory. Surrounded by a chain-link fence, topped with razor wire. The streets are dark, illuminated by the orange glow of sodium lights. The air is thick with dust. I direct him to the back of the factory, the cluttered alleys of an industrial park.
The windows of the factory are brightly lit. There are not many. Most of the buildings are black. I know how the maquilas operate. 24/7. Twelve hour shifts at minimum wage, five dollars an hour. In that building, women and girls toil to assemble vacuum cleaners and electric fans. Toasters and microwave ovens.
Mirasol worked at this maquila. Walked down the road we just passed, on her way to the bus stop. The night she was taken.
I curse my sentimentality. Cannot help myself. Cannot.
Lenson parks on a dark side street.
The first thing we do is remove the door panel in the rear passenger compartment. Extract our knives, pistols and pistol mags. Lenson and Hancock strap on pistol belts with holsters and scabbards. I stuff the Glock into my waistband and cram spare magazines into my hip pocket.
Hancock and Lenson unscrew and pry loose the door panels in the driver’s compartment. I toss them the haversacks folded under the toolbox. Together, they unpack the magazines of five-five-six ammunition and shotgun shells. Strip them of their plastic wrappers and stuff the haversacks.
I drop to the ground and crawl under the SUV. Rip the plastic-wrapped rifles and shotguns from behind the sill. Lenson joins me on the other side. In ten minutes, we have arranged the components of the weapons on the ground and unpacked them. In the darkness, Lenson and Hancock assemble the rifles. They have trained to do this blindfolded.
When we are finished, we replace the panels and shove the trash under the car. Climb back in, load the weapons, breathe.
Lenson stares at the dark streets. The lonely maquila. “Have you done anything to let Stein know where those boys are?”
I shake my head. “We’ll be back. If we’re not, who gives a shit.”
“Stein will find her hit squad someplace else.”
“I don’t think she ever intended to use those clowns.”
Lenson looks puzzled. “Why involve them in the first place?”
“Someone in management wanted their El Paso station involved. Perhaps someone sponsoring Harris. It’s like any company. Stein and Harris. Two peers, each has a mentor. A patron.”
“You think she used you to clean up some office politics?”
I smile. “The thought crossed my mind.”
Hancock raises the lid of a Styrofoam cooler. Inside, packed in ice, two six-packs. He opens three cans and distributes them. “Doesn’t it bother you?”
I accept a can. Drink. “No. Stein has another hit squad lined up. That’s why she didn’t want Harris at the management meeting. She told them his guys were good, but not good enough.”
Lenson grunts. “Crafty bitch.”
“I think her heart is in the right place.” I drain the beer, motion to Hancock for another. “She wants Hamza and Bledsoe as much as we do.”
Lenson switches the engine on. Runs the air-conditioning. “But—she wants them alive.”
I adjust the SUV’s side mirror so I can watch the street. We are used to waiting. Remaining alert. “Stein has to want them alive. Her management wants to preserve plausible deniability.”
“Don’t you hate dealing with bureaucracy.”
I press the cold beer can against the side of my face. Close my eyes.
“That’s why I’m using Stein. She’ll take out the Bledsoe plant.”
46
Juarez, 0300 Hrs Friday
Shotgun clutched to my chest, I roll into the ditch bordering the back lane. The ditch is dusty and carpeted with litter. Flies buzz over half-eaten food. I wrinkle my nose at the smell of rancid fat. Careful to avoid making noise, I crawl the sixty feet to La Cueva. Head to toe in dust, I blink sweat from my eyes.
A shoe crunches on gravel.
The guard is walking toward me. I freeze and try to make myself part of the ditch wall. The footsteps stop and the man unzips his fly. I close my eyes and lower my face.
The sharp stink of ammonia floods my nose.
Piss.
The stream passes over me, gurgles against the far side of the ditch, and runs into a puddle under my belly. The man finishes, and his last drops dribble across my back. He zips his fly and his shoes scuff as he turns away. I count to three and rise to my feet.
The man is six feet away with his back to me. I climb from the ditch and close the distance with one stride. Smash the butt of the Winchester into the back of his skull. His occiput cracks, and he pitches forward onto his face. I whack him again, and his head comes apart. Scallops of bone and brain, held together by loose membranes of flesh.
I kick the body into the ditch. Walk deliberately to the steel fire stairs attached to the back wall of La Cueva. Lenson is there, M4 low-ready. A haversack of M4 magazines and shotgun shells hangs at his left hip. A Benelli automatic riot gun is bungeed on his right.
Similarly armed, Hancock limps forward.
Single file—first Lenson, then Hancock follow me up the stairs.
We are about to breach the objective.
The paint on the fire exit is cracked and bleeds rust. I point the shotgun with my right hand and test the handle with my left. To my relief, the door is unlocked.
The corridor is deserted. My stomach muscles tighten.
Left and right, the doors lining the corridor are closed. I turn to the first on my left and push the door open. Come face-to-face with a Quds gunman. I push the muzzle of the Winchester against his chest and pull the trigger.
The gunman’s body acts as a silencer. With a thump, the contact shot punches a bloody hole in his sternum. The muzzle blast sets his cotton shirt on fire and throws him on his back. I pump another round into the shotgun and grind my heel into the dead man’s chest. Stamp the flames out.
A bomb factory. Two tables pushed against the wall—stacked with canvas vests. Explosives. On the tabletops sit tools, wires, and makeshift detonators. Contrived from burner cell phones.
Lenson and Hancock cover the corridor. The sound of bedsprings bouncing comes from the room on the right. I turn the knob and push the door open. Paul Bledsoe, buck naked, is sticking it to Nevita. His jeans, western shirt and rodeo belt hang across a chair back. His Stetson lies on the dressing table, his crocodile boots on the floor.
He has a bald spot, a pink circle of flesh in the center of his silver mane.
Nevita’s chin is tucked against Bledsoe’s shoulder. Her cheeks are rosy and flushed with heat. Eyes squeezed shut, she whimpers. Her legs are wrapped around his hips, and her heels are braced against his buttocks. The girl opens her eyes, stares into the muzzle of my shotgun, opens her mouth to scream.
I lift a finger to my lips and the scream dies in her throat. I draw the Glock from my waistband, step close, and bring the butt down on the back of Bledsoe’s head. The skin splits across his bald spot, and blood trickles down his neck. Lenson pulls him off the bed.
Nevita scrabbles at the she
ets to cover herself. Sits in bed with her back to the wall.
I cross the hall to the bomb factory. Select a suicide vest with a mobile phone trigger. The number four has been Scotch taped to the back. A trigger linked to a speed-dial. I turn the phone on, ensure it is charged, slip it into my hip pocket.
A spool of insulated wire sits on one table. I tuck the suicide vest under my arm and grab the roll.
Bledsoe is coming around. Hancock holds him up while Lenson fastens the suicide vest around him. I pick up Nevita’s and Bledsoe’s underwear. Ball them up, stuff them into his mouth. Strap the gag in place with my belt.
I signal Hancock to give me his belt. Bledsoe is wide awake, eyes staring in terror. Lenson draws his Bowie knife and cuts a length of wire from the spool. Binds Bledsoe’s wrists behind his back. I loop Hancock’s belt around Bledsoe’s neck, pass the free end through the buckle, and cinch it right up to his throat.
Now I have a leash with which to lead him.
I hand the leash to Hancock. Nevita is crying softly. I motion for her to stay quiet.
Lenson follows me into the hall. Bledsoe in tow, Hancock brings up the rear.
I approach the next room on the left, motion Lenson to cover the door on the right. My heart pounds like a jackhammer. I turn the handle, push the door open, and go inside.
Three Quds at a table. One in the middle, facing me. Two on either side. Examining bus and train schedules. Rifles and pistols are scattered about the room. The men stare at me and suck breath.
Lunge for their weapons.
I shoot the one facing me in the chest. Twelve pellets of double-ought buckshot blow him apart and rock him back. The chair goes over and he crashes to the floor. The man on the left reaches for a nine millimeter on the table. I point the Winchester at his ear and pull the trigger. The blast rips his head off and the corpse pitches sideways.
The third man goes for an AK47 hanging from a peg. Before he reaches it, I pump a shell into the Winchester and shoot him in the back. A cluster of holes erupt between his shoulder blades. The force of the blast throws him against the wall. Arms flung apart in an attitude of crucifixion, he slides to the floor. Ears ringing, I jack another shell into the chamber.
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 22
