“Lucho?”
“Bel? Where are you? Are you okay?”
“The FBI caught me on Sunday. I just got away, I don’t think they know where I’ve gone yet. What’s that noise? Are you in a car?”
“Yeah, on the way to Mexicali, be there in an hour maybe. Are you okay?”
“No, I’m terrified! I’m going south, San Clemente’s coming up in a few minutes. You still want me in Tijuana, right?”
“Yeah. I think we’re done up north. I want you here with me, okay?”
“I want that too. Especially so I can choke the living shit out of you for getting us into this, you big…big…”
“Hey, hey. Don’t cry, it’ll—”
“I’m not crying! How do I do this?”
“When you get to San Ysidro, park at the border-crossing lot and walk in. It’s easier to escape if you’re not tied to a car. They may not have red-flagged you yet, but if they try to stop you, run like hell. They won’t touch you on the other side. Take a taxi to the central bus terminal in La Mesa and stay there until I can get Ray to pick you up. Don’t use your credit cards until you’re over the border. Got all that?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got it.”
“I love you. See you soon.”
“I love you too, you stupid mojado.”
“Ray, it’s me.”
“Hermano! Where are you?”
“On the road. Look, Bel’s on her way to TJ. Can you pick her up?”
“I can send guys—”
“No. You. She’s not getting in a car with someone she doesn’t know, not down here. She’ll be at the La Mesa bus terminal in a couple hours. I need you to bring her to Mexicali.”
“You don’t want much, do you? Why Mexicali?”
“That’s where Nora’s husband and son are, right? I need you to get them hooked up. Beto’s still dark. Come on, Ray, you owe me. My life up north’s done because of all this. I need to get this wrapped up so me and Bel can figure out what to do next.”
“It’s not so easy for me to travel anymore. I’m capo now, remember? It’s like a parade for me to go anywhere, all the security and shit, you know? This takes time.”
“Then stop wasting it. Sorry I’m breaking your balls, but that’s what’s been happening to me over the past few days and I’m sharing the pain. Call me when you’ve got her.”
“Shit. All right, let me work it. I may not make it to Mexicali until tomorrow. I’m not driving the roads at night, that’s just stupid, you know?”
“Whatever. Me and Nora will hole up somewhere. Don’t let me down, compa. This is my wife, mother of my children, love of my life. Protect her.”
“Right, right. Don’t worry, hermano, I’ll get her personally. I’ll take good care of her.”
64
MONDAY, 17 MAY
McGinley might be a country boy, but he wasn’t stupid. If he asked Jorgensen where he got his information, Poster Boy would shut him down like he always did. But that wasn’t the only way to get answers.
An old buddy from FLETC who now worked south Texas said, “Naw, the Bureau hasn’t gone near the Zeta houses we’re sitting on. Haven’t heard they’re doing anything like that down here.”
Casillas had been seeing Esquivel since the 5th, four days after Villalobos headed south. Esquivel made his run for the border yesterday. Did Casillas follow?
McGinley got into an FBI wiki—he had his ways—and checked their intel for Pacifico Norte. Wouldn’t you know, the safe-house addresses for Southern California were right there, dated May 13th. Nine days after the Zetas (supposedly) snatched Villalobos.
The Feebs got their panties in a wad about Ojeda on the 14th. If they’d developed their intel from watching Khaled, Ojeda should’ve popped up over a week before.
In fact, intel on the Nortes had grown like kudzu over the past few days if the dates in the wiki were right, which they ought to be for what the Feebs paid for the damn thing.
He went through the wiki looking for that shot of the Barstow runners’ heads on a Mexicali curb. He couldn’t find it, but he turned up a passel of others just like it—fresh heads, red blood, no watermarks. They all came from unnamed confidential informants.
He leaned back in his chair, crossed his boots at the ankles and swirled what was left of his first post-lunch Dr. Pepper in its can. Maybe the Feebs had gotten smart all of a sudden, or maybe they’d done their homework after their girl ran off to the Nortes.
Or maybe they had a source in the Zetas. CIA’s turf, but those two never played nice.
Or maybe they had a piece of grabbing Villalobos. Contracted it out to people who made it look like Zetas. Maybe they were sweating the man in a black site somewhere.
That attack on the El Cajon safe house Wednesday night? Ojeda was convinced it wasn’t the Feebs, that it was a contract job put up by the Zetas. But why would the Zetas want a pain-in-the-ass like Khaled? Was it another false-flag op by the Bureau? If it was, why do it that way?
The only people who’d benefit from the Bureau going jihad on the Nortes were the Zetas, and those evil fuckers were nobody McGinley would wish on anyone, even these Left Coast pinheads. Unless…
Naw, that was stupid.
The Feebs were assholes, but they’d never hook up with the Zetas.
65
A growing number of Americans are turning to an unlikely source for their banking needs: civil war-wracked Mexico…Unlike American financial institutions, Mexican banks impose virtually no fees on account holders, pay interest on even small balances, and due to the influence of the drug cartels, are extremely unlikely ever to go bust or lose depositors’ money…
— “United States: Bank Run for the Border,” Economist.com
MONDAY, 17 MAY
Luis crouched in the shadow of a cinder-block wall, sucking down a cold Coke he’d bought from a burrito truck at the nearby corner. Walking even a few hundred yards in this afternoon heat had burned up most of his remaining energy. Across the street, the fortress-like Public Security Secretariat for Baja loomed over its surrounding rock gardens and cactus, circled by troopers in full combat gear. If anyone traced his phone calls, he hoped they’d scratch their heads when they saw he was a few yards from the state’s top cop shop. The Norte narcomantas he’d seen coming into the central city made him hope the cops still belonged to the right side.
He’d stashed Nora and Hope in the Crowne Plaza a couple blocks away. Nora’s face went orgasmic when she sat on the crisp white linens covering the king-sized bed. No wonder; she’d been sleeping on floors for eight days. Luis gave her the obligatory “don’t leave the room, keep your gun handy” speech and left when she announced she and Hope were going to take a long, hot bath. That was more information than he needed.
Now that they were more-or-less safe, he could use his whole brain to worry about Bel and, if there was any room left, figure out what to do next. Nora’s family was still cut in half; he had to bring it together again before he could call the job done.
He had plenty of time to obsess over that. Now was Bel’s time. He checked his watch; she should be over the border and at the bus station by now. Luis slid the chip he’d used last time into his phone so she’d know who was calling, powered up, then selected her number from his call history. One ring, two, three, four. The default voicemail greeting, an electronic female voice saying to leave a message.
Luis banged the back of his head against the wall. Why didn’t she answer? She should be there by now. If Ray did what he promised, she should be with him. Please, God, don’t let anything happen to her. I need her.
Then his rational brain kicked in. Her phone’s battery might be dead. No reception. It’s on vibrate and she didn’t feel it. Any number of reasons, none he should worry about. But it was way too much like Paul and Peter falling off the edge of the world when they crossed into Los Algodones, still out of touch after more than a day.
Half an hour and three more calls later, Luis’ rational brain couldn’t drown out the scary things
screaming in his head. He swallowed the rock of fear in his throat, called Ray, left a “call me” message.
Fifteen minutes later, his phone buzzed. “Hey, hermano. What’s up?” Ray.
“Did you get Bel?”
“Sure did.” Ray’s voice was more cheerful than it’d been for the past three weeks. “A few minutes ago, she made it okay.”
Dios mío, thank you, thank you… “How is she? She’s not answering her phone.”
“She’s fine. Mad as a wet cat, you know? Say, you don’t sound so great.”
“I’m wiped out, I’m not tracking. Let me talk to her.”
“When she comes back out. She made me stop so she can do some shopping. I guess she didn’t have time to pack much. But I’ll have her call you when she’s done, okay?”
Shopping? Now? Luis felt the fiesta in his brain go still. This didn’t make any sense. She would’ve called the moment she got the chance. “Where are you?”
“At a Walmart not too far from the bus station. Look, we can make it to Mexicali before dark. I’ll meet you there, we can wrap this up. You have the bruja, right?”
“Uh, yeah.” Luis could barely string words together, his mind was racing so fast. He knew that Walmart. They had great cell coverage. They had flash rechargers that shoppers could use free. This was wrong. “Um…tell Bel I love her and, uh, have her call me. Right away.”
“Will do, hermano. See you soon.”
But she didn’t call. Luis paced the halls of Mexicali’s central bus station for three hours, waiting for Bel or Ray to reach out. He would’ve liked to go back to his expensive hotel room, but the last thing he wanted to do was have a cell phone he’d used broadcasting its location nonstop in a room next to Nora’s. He needed to lose himself among normal people doing normal things. The noise and bustle also helped distract him from thinking about how his wife had been swallowed by Tijuana, and how his best friend might have arranged the swallowing.
His rational brain finally started breaking through the worry-induced static. Even if Bel’s phone was dead, Ray’s wasn’t, plus the senior Cartel guys carried secure satellite phones. Bel would’ve demanded to call Luis as soon as Ray showed up with a working phone, no matter how much she needed to go shopping.
Luis logged into their joint Mexican checking account—still open, the FBI would have to work pretty hard to grab it since the cartels ran the various banking regulators—but couldn’t find a current debit for Walmart or any cash withdrawals since yesterday. Their American Visa account said “contact customer service,” meaning it was already frozen; the Mexican one from their bank had no activity for today.
Unless Ray gave her money, Bel hadn’t gone shopping. Would he do that? Maybe, but Luis doubted Bel would take it. She’d be pissed enough that she had to spend a couple hours in a car with Ray, far less let herself be in his debt in any way.
So what, then?
Something Ray said started echoing in his mind: “You have the bruja, right?” For someone who’d wanted to wash his hands of Nora, lately Ray had been awfully interested in Nora’s status and in “helping” Luis with her. Ray claimed Nora’s husband and son were safe and secure, but had never quite managed to cough up a phone number for them. Then there were the leaks to the FBI. And the ten-million-dollar reward for Nora. And Ray hadn’t seemed all that concerned about McGinley, had he?
Was Ray a snitch for the FBI? An eight-figure payday could turn almost anyone’s head.
Luis sagged onto a bench and rubbed at the pounding in his temples.
What was waiting for him at the end of this road?
66
MONDAY, 17 MAY
“It’s me,” Luis said into his phone. “You called.”
“Hey, hermano, I’m in town.” Ray didn’t sound as cheerful as he had a few hours before. Had Bel been beating on him, or was something screwed up? “We should get together. Bel’s anxious to see you.”
But not enough to phone? “What happened? She didn’t call.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. The coverage is shit between TJ and here, you know? Come on out to the house. You remember where it is, out in San Pedro? I’ll send a car.”
Cell coverage wasn’t that bad out there, and the sat phone worked everywhere. None of this passed the smell test. Luis stared out his hotel-room window at the lights of downtown Mexicali and tried to make a snap decision about whether to trust his oldest friend.
“I think I’d rather do this in public,” he finally said, feeling himself hollow out. “Nothing personal, I’m just jumpy down here. Meet me at the food court in Plaza Chachanilla in an hour.”
Ray didn’t answer for a few seconds, and when he did, his voice was tight. “Is there a problem? You don’t trust me anymore?”
“I don’t trust anyone anymore. Come meet me at the mall, compa. And don’t bring a bazillion guards, you’ll scare all the shoppers away.”
Ray’s end of the line went silent; he’d muted. Luis paced the room, wondering who Ray was talking to. “Okay, for you I’ll do this. We’ll be there in an hour. Why don’t you bring the bruja, too? We can get everyone hooked up at the same time.”
“See you in an hour.” Luis cut the connection before he could say the wrong thing—whatever that was.
What was that he’d heard in Ray’s voice?
After eight on a Monday night wasn’t a high-traffic time for the mall in general or the food court in particular. Shoppers dotted about a dozen tables under the food court’s barrel-vaulted skylights, now black with night. The arches and ceiling coffers were bright with desert candy colors—hot golds and rusty reds and sunset pinks—and sometime in the past two years, someone had set a desert landscape in tile across the width of the floor.
Luis sat with his back to the trickling old-school hacienda fountain, nursing a jamaica. He should’ve bought something to coat his stomach, which was doing aerobatics, but doubted even that would help.
He kept his eyes moving, searching the crowd for a glimpse of Bel and Ray. At the same time, he made a note of every military-age man he saw, every set of camos, every Anglo, every dark suit and short haircut. Who would come with Ray? Nortes…or Feds?
A few shoppers stared past Luis, then quietly melted away. He glanced over his shoulder. A half-dozen sicarios marched toward him in a hexagonal group. Desert camo; Nortes. In the middle, two men: Ray, wearing expensive-looking slacks and an iridescent green shirt, and a smaller, skinnier guy in dark-blue caballero clothes and a black cowboy hat. No Bel.
The lead bodyguard approached Luis from behind, ordered “Stand up” in Spanish, then frisked him with a force and attitude Luis had last run across in a Newport Beach cop. Apparently satisfied, the gunman stepped back. Ray and the cowboy circled the table, Ray smiling, the cowboy’s face closed and unreadable.
Ray stuck out his hand. “God damn, hermano. What happened to your hair?”
Luis didn’t hide his reluctance to reach out and take Ray’s hand. “Where’s Bel?”
“She’s here, don’t worry. We’re just checking things out first.”
Meaning Ray had her under guard someplace. Protection, or as a hostage? Luis fought to keep his rising anger and alarm under wraps. He nodded toward the cowboy. “Who’s this guy?”
“This is Jorge Casillas. We talked about him, remember?”
Casillas didn’t offer to shake hands, which was just as well since Luis probably wouldn’t have anyway. They spent some time measuring each other with their eyes. “Why’s he here?”
Ray tapped his palms on the back of the swiveling metal chair before him. “He’s part of this now. Let’s sit.” He waited for the other two men to take their seats around the square table before he settled in.
Luis had rehearsed this while he waited. Ray would expect him to be his usual trusting self. It was time to change things up. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the bodyguard, still just a couple feet behind him. “Lose the gorillas, Ray. This is our business, not theirs.”
Ray narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like how you’re demanding things all of a sudden.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you ‘like.’ Lose the gorillas or I walk.”
After a moment of thin-lipped glaring, Ray waved away his sicarios. They spread out in a loose circle around the table, the closest about twenty feet away and watching the rapidly thinning crowd.
Now Luis could pull back a little, keep things unbalanced. “Good. Where’s Bel?”
“Like I said, she’s close, we’ve got her.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
Ray leaned back, crossed his legs, smoothed down his slacks. “You have the bruja?”
“Yeah. Answer my question.”
“She’s here?”
“No. What happened to her husband and son? What happened to Beto?”
“Her people are…secure. Beto…well…” Ray turned his eyes down to the table.
“Jesus. You killed him. You killed Beto. You son-of-a-bitch.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Luis swiveled to face Casillas. “You did it?” Casillas shrugged. “Ray, tell me something. Who’s running the Cartel? You, or him?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Bullshit. One-word answer. You or Casillas?” But the answer was right there in Casillas’ thin, empty smile. What it meant for all of them turned his insides as cold as his iced hibiscus tea. “Is he part of the ‘we’ who has Bel?”
Ray tried on a reassuring smile that didn’t quite take. “Look. Things have changed. We…had to change along with them or we’d get run over, you know? We…we were losing the war. You know what the other takeovers were like. All the leadership dies, their families, their maids, their…pets, hundreds of people, you know? And there was no point. They knew they were beat, but they had to do the whole macho thing and go down in flames.”
Chingado. You sold us out. “So you’re a hero.”
Ray shook his head. He even looked apologetic, but Luis couldn’t bring himself to forgive him. “No, not a hero. I just saw reality. Tavo was going to take us all down with him, hermano, he was going to get us all killed. I had to stop the craziness.”
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