Karen Vail 01 - Velocity (40 page)

Robby looked up as the door cracked open. A flashlight sliced inward, fal ing across his face and forcing him to turn away and clamp his eyes closed.

“Up,” Escobar said. “Time to go.”

“Where?” Robby asked, not making any effort to move.

“You’re not in any position to ask questions,
amigo
.”

Robby couldn’t argue with that. Stil , he knew the tenets of safety: when kidnapped, do everything you can to resist at the outset and don’t assume your fortunes wil improve. When they had taken him and had a pistol shoved against his head back in Napa, he figured they were more likely to kil him than pour him a glass of water. Resisting at that point was not wise.

But at the moment, in the darkness at least, Escobar had no visible weapon—not the sparkly handgun nor the blood-tinged knife. While neither was likely far from his reach, it was perhaps far enough away—tucked in a belt or a shoulder holster—

that Robby might have a split second advantage. Escobar likely felt he had weakened Robby to such an extent that he did not have the strength to resist. That was not far from the truth. But when his life depends on it, a determined human being is capable of mustering energy and resources no one knows he has.

So Robby made an effort to appear slow and uncoordinated as he rol ed onto his knees, while positioning himself in such a manner that he could launch himself at Escobar. He’d become a human mass that, hopeful y, would strike his captor forceful y enough to hyperextend his knees and cause debilitating pain.

“Let’s go,” Escobar said.

Now on al fours, Robby glanced to his right at Escobar’s shoe tops. It was time.

68

A
black SUV ferried the task force, minus Vail and Turino, toward Clover Creek.

Meanwhile, in the darkness of a low-income suburban neighborhood devoid of the orange hue of sodium vapor streetlights, Vail joined Turino and the geared-up DEA and SWAT teams in the sal y port of the San Diego Police Department’s Broadway headquarters.

Normal y DEA ran its own raids, but given the potential level of violence, SWAT

had been cal ed in to run the tactical op. As before, once the area was secured, DEA would assume control of the scene and begin its own drug discovery and evidence col ection operation. In this case, due to the presence of the il egal immigrants, Immigration and Customs Enforcement—ICE—was invited to join the raid. However, because of the speed with which the warrant was being executed, ICE would be fol owing a short time after SWAT made entry. The ICE commander was not pleased with the decision to move without their concurrent participation, but understood the urgency.

Vail and Turino, traveling in the SUV they’d picked up at the airport, fol owed SWAT’s Bearcat and rapid deployment vehicle, as wel as DEA’s tactical truck.

Wheels hugged asphalt as the vehicles swerved in tandem around tight corners and traversed the miles in the shortest distance between two points—though their trip didn’t involve a crow and the route it flew.

SWAT pul ed to a stop at a predetermined location in a parking garage one mile from the house, not far off the 805, near Palm Avenue. Vail was familiar with the procedure. The team would check in with undercover operatives to determine if they stil green-lighted the operation—that no unusual activity had been noted—and to confirm that the cartel members they were targeting were stil in the house. If the mission was stil a “go,” the agents would move in with the speed and thirst of a shark in bloody waters.

Turino sat behind the wheel, his knuckles white, leaning forward in his seat.

“You might want to loosen your grip, Guy, or you’l squeeze right through the vacuum sealed plastic steering wheel.”

“There’s a lot at stake here. I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing.”

“Robby could be in there. Your agents have had wiretaps in place. We’re moving a few hours early, is al . What’s the big deal?”

Turino hesitated a moment before answering. “The potential for col ateral damage is very high. These cartels, they couldn’t give a shit who gets caught in the crossfire.” He craned his head around into the darkness, eyes narrow and face taut. “The
halcones
make it very dangerous.”

“
Halcones.
Spanish for . . . ”

Turino’s eyes kept moving. “Cartels rely on a network of street informants. Taxi drivers, bus drivers, storefront owners. Shit, even teenagers. They’re cal ed
halcones
, or falcons. Their job is counterintel igence, to be the lookout for the arrival of law enforcement. Started in Mexico and it’s spil ed onto U.S. streets where the traffickers are operating. If they see us and know we’re headed for their drop house, they’l either jump ship if there’s time—or deploy for a firefight. When we circle around back, they could be in a neighbor’s yard, waiting to ambush us.”

Vail’s son Jonathan flashed through her mind. She suddenly wondered if she’d made the wrong choice—going to the reservation would’ve been vastly safer. And the DEA team certainly could’ve handled this op without her, as Turino had suggested.
Still, if Robby is being held here . . .

Turino tapped the wheel. He leaned forward, spied his col eagues in the truck.

“C’mon, guys,” he whispered. “Make a decision.”

A crackle over his radio. “Green. Repeat, green. Ready to execute.”

Turino lifted the two-way from his belt. “Roger that.” He dropped the radio to the seat between his thighs, threw the SUV into drive, and glanced at Vail. “You ready?”

She pul ed her Glock and held the cold metal in both hands, gaining strength and comfort from its stopping power. “You heard the man. Ready to execute.”

69

R
obby took a deep breath and pushed his left bare foot against the wal of the shed and sprung his body to the right, into Escobar’s thigh. But he lacked strength and there wasn’t sufficient distance to build enough momentum to do any damage. He glanced off the man’s lower leg and fel pathetical y behind his captor. Robby was about to reach out and grab, swing, knock—anything rather than be subjected to another boot in the face.

But before he could get hold, the sound of nearby machine gun fire snatched Escobar’s attention. He bolted outside, leaving the wood door swinging on its hinges, unlocked.

Unlocked. Robby crawled forward on his elbows, fought to bring himself to his knees and then to al fours. He moved to the door and lifted his head. The glare from a halogen spotlight blasted his eyes and brought an instant headache. Best he could see—his night vision was now virtual y destroyed by the intensity of the radiant beam—he was in the backyard of a house. Homes al around him—a development of some sort.

His internal voice told him to get up, get out, get away.

Machine gun fire, mixed with the rapid staccato of automatic pistols, blared in the near vicinity.

He saw Escobar off to the far left, in shadow. In retreat.

And twenty feet away, two men toting heavy metal weapons moved confidently into the yard, firing from their shoulders.

Robby stumbled forward, out of the shed and onto concrete. The unmistakable odor of cordite stung his nose. He slammed his face against the side of the structure, scraping his skin against the rough grain of the wood siding, his fingers crawling along its edge, trying to keep himself steady, his body erect . . . hoping the rounds zipping by would somehow miss him.

Then the gunfire stopped. But Robby kept moving—until four hands grabbed his clothing, his shoulders, and yanked him back, away from the shed.

“No,” he said feebly. “No—”

70

S
hots fired!” the voice blurted over the radio.

Vail grabbed the two-way off Turino’s seat. “Gunfire? From us?” “Negative,”

came the filtered, rushed reply.

As they approached the drop house, Vail heard the unmistakable rhythmic drumming of a submachine gun. The SWAT RDV screeched to a stop at the curb.

Turino’s SUV fol owed a second later, its headlights splashing across the tactical van’s sparse white backside. The doors flung apart and officers leaped out, planted, and pivoted toward the house.

Their deployment was far quicker than their mission plans had outlined. Vail was sure their strategies were now being rewritten on the fly.

She was out of the SUV before it stopped moving. The momentum threw her balance off, and she fel back against the car. She quickly regained her footing, then ran toward the fray.

“Karen!” Turino said.

Vail pul ed up to the two-story chocolate brown and cream-trimmed stucco house as the mission leader was running a light over the doorframe, checking for signs of booby traps.

“Clear,” he yel ed.

Glock in front of her, Vail nudged the man aside and kicked open the door. She was inside before he could stop her.

The interior was nearly dark, but white beady eyes blinked at her from al directions.

“FBI!” she said, her pistol swinging left to right, pointed at the long, drawn faces staring back at her.

An angry mission leader entered, his MP-5 at the ready—in ful gear. His tactical light scanned the darkness, showing half-naked men packed shoulder to shoulder, seated on the floor.

Vail shoved her nose into the crook of her elbow to mask the fetid odor of human feces and urine that pervaded what passed as air.

“Jesus Christ,” Turino said as he entered. He quickly ducked out the front door.

“Get some lights on in there,” Vail heard him say to an approaching SWAT officer.

“Dondé está el jefe?” Vail yel ed into the darkness.

An overhead stairwel light came on.

A mass of humanity sat packed into the living room to the right, the family room to the left, the hal way ahead of her, the staircase twenty feet away—there was no free space in which to walk.

She tried a different question, in English. “Who’s in charge here?”

The faces stared blankly at her.
Too weak to respond? Or too afraid.
Even though Turino had briefed them on the nature of these drop houses, she hadn’t been prepared for what lay before her.

“Is there anyone here who can answer some questions?” Vail said. Stil no response. “You’re not in any trouble. We’re here to help you find your loved ones, to take you away from these people. But you need to tel me where they are.”

No response.

“Do you know their names? The people holding you.”

“Grunge,” a woman’s voice said.

Vail’s eyes frantical y scanned the faces, hoping to find the person who had answered. “Grunge,” Vail repeated. “Anyone else? Is there only one of them? It’s important you tel me. If you want us to help you, I have to know.”

“Roger that.” Turino came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. “Out back,” he said by her ear. “You need to see this.”

71

V
ail stood in the yard staring at the shed, partial y il uminated by the spotlight. The structure measured no more than twelve feet square, but her mind was already manufacturing what might lie inside.

She cleared her throat. “Robby?”

“Come see,” he said, then grasped her arm and led her forward. Shel casings littered the cement everywhere she stepped.

Off to her right, two bodies lay sprawled across the pavement, expansive red puddles beneath them. Carnage from what was likely a fierce gun battle.

Using the barrel of her pistol, Vail pul ed on the wood door and opened it. The stench of rotten eggs, urine, and feces struck her nose like a first-degree assault.

“Jesus.” She threw her arm up, once again burying her nose in the bend of her elbow. “What is this place?”

Turino handed her a tactical flashlight. “You tel me.”

Vail stepped inside, then swept the bright xenon beam around the interior. An object bal ed up in the corner grabbed her attention. She moved toward it, avoiding the puddles, then knelt down. Droplets of a familiar substance dotted the floor beside it.
Blood. Enough for a wound, but nothing life threatening.

She leaned forward and examined the crumpled mass in front of her. But suddenly she recoiled, threw herself backwards, and landed against Turino. “No . . .

” It would be al she got out—words, that is—because she turned to the left and vomited on the floor. There wasn’t much in her stomach, so it was mostly hot, burning acid.

Vail did not speak. Her mind was blank, al thoughts vacuumed away.

She slowly turned her face toward the bundle, then wiped her mouth on her left arm. Stepped closer, reached out and lifted the heavy mass. Ran the light over it. It was what she thought it was.

A leather jacket.

Robby’s leather jacket, the one he had bought in Napa. The one he had worn the night they went to Bistro Jeanty. No DNA or fingerprints needed.

Vail shook it a couple times to uncoil it, then slowly searched the pockets. She rooted out a spent matchbook splashed with block letters that spel ed “Bistro Jeanty.” It was a painful confirmation that these were the matches Robby had used to light the candles on their last night together.

Vail drew in a deep breath. “He was here. This is his.” She draped the jacket across her left forearm, then spun on her heels and faced Turino. “The shel casings, the gunfire we heard—” She pushed past him, walked outside the shed, and scooped up a handful of the brass skins. “Stil warm.”

Turino grabbed his radio. “This is Turino. TFO Hernandez was here, at our twenty. Searching premises. Two DBs discovered. No sign of Hernandez. I want roadblocks in . . . ” he closed his eyes, deep in thought. “A five-mile radius. Shut everything down. Al arteries. And let me know when ICE gets here.”