The Polaris Protocol (15 page)

I
was driving as fast as I could in the traffic, weaving in and out, trying to get a handle on our target. And a handle on our authority.

Jennifer was on the phone, talking to our pilots, getting them to feed the number the father had sent into the embedded collection capability hidden in the aircraft, and Knuckles was working the trace of the cell phone for the cop.

I jerked the wheel to swerve around a jackass who had decided to stop in the middle of the street, causing Jennifer to slap her hand against the door and me to start cursing. The only good thing about the dumb-ass drivers in the Federal District was the fact that I couldn’t do anything bad enough to get pulled over, because everyone here treated all traffic rules as advice only. Lanes, red lights, whatever, it was only a guide and not something to be followed if you didn’t feel like it.

I heard Jennifer talking to the pilots and wanted to snatch the phone away from her. “Yes, that’s the number. We need you to suck that thing in. . . . No, it’s not a blanket. We aren’t trying to prevent it from talking. We need to draw in an SMS text. . . .
No,
we’re not conducting unauthorized surveillance. It’s sending a code. We need the code. What do you mean you don’t have the capability? I know you have it. . . .”

I finally had heard enough. I snatched the phone. “Hello? Who the hell is this?”

“Jim Beam.”

Dumb-ass pilot call sign.
“Jim, did you hear what was just said? Do you have an issue with it? Because I’m on a road that leads to the airport and I could be there just as quickly as I could execute this mission.”

“Hey, I heard everything she said, but I can’t start affecting the cell network in a foreign country just because you guys called. I need authorization. We diverted to Mexico for transport only.”

“This is
my
mission, and I’m Pike Logan. I say again, Pike Logan. I’m authorizing the operation. Do you understand?”

“Uhh . . . no . . .”

What the hell? Another new guy?

I saw Jennifer roll her eyes and wave her hand for the phone back, but that insult was too much to let go. I took a breath and said, “Okay. Well, clearly, you haven’t heard about me. But we
did
meet, right? You remember what I look like?”

I heard him talking to someone next to him, then, “Uhh . . . yeah. Brown crew cut, scar on your face? You had the hot chick with you, right?”

Now I really wanted to throw the phone. “Yes. That’s me. I was running Taskforce collection operations before you got your pilot’s license. Now put that number into the collection device and turn it on with the largest gain you can. We’re trying to get an SMS text that is out of range of the nearest tower.”

I heard nothing for a moment, then, “The package in the plane isn’t authorized for Grolier Recovery Services. All you are authorized for is transport. I need someone from headquarters to release.”

Jesus Christ. The Taskforce actually separated the individual capabilities of the aircraft?
I should have known, because I’d seen it a hundred different times in other scenarios where I was authorized but others weren’t. This was a first for me, though. As a civilian, I wasn’t supposed to be read on to what was in the aircraft, but I was, and now I needed it and I had no time to work through the bureaucracy.

A car appeared out of nowhere, playing NASCAR and causing me to slap my hands on the steering wheel, swerving around him. I put the phone on speaker so I could use both hands to drive and tossed it onto the seat. Jennifer locked eyes with me and put a finger to her lips. She said, “Just got authorization from Kurt Hale. Code four-seven-four-Alpha-Zulu. Authenticate.”

The pilot said, “Code what? What the hell are you talking about?”

She said, “I just gave you the authorization! Come on. Authenticate or find another job.”

“I can’t authenticate . . . I . . . I have no idea
how
to authenticate.”

“When did you leave CONUS? Did you get the new procedures?”

“We haven’t been home since we left for Turkmenistan. What procedures?”

“Well, welcome to the new world. Get in the air, or start calling Southwest Airlines for employment.”

The pilot muttered something unintelligible, then spoke to someone beside him. Seconds later, he came back on and finally agreed. Jennifer said, “Fly south. The target is in the south. Suck up every signal you can get, and lock that number.”

She hung up and I said, “What the hell was that?”

“You were getting nowhere with the macho crap. You guys change operational procedures every five seconds, so I figured I’d give him what he wanted. Authorization.”

Weaving through the traffic, I shook my head at how easily she had manipulated the system and said, “Get Knuckles on the phone. Leave it on speaker.” When he came on I said, “You got ’im?”

“Yeah. He’s continuing east, toward Zona Rosa. When he gets there, he’s going to be near a ton of embassies and government buildings.”

“We need to stop him before then.”

I heard nothing for a moment, then, “Pike, you sure about this? He’s a Mexican federal agent. We take him down and we’re wrong, this will be a world of hurt. We have no cover for action here whatsoever.”

Jennifer rolled her hand into the grip above the SUV window and looked at me, knowing what he said was true, but also knowing that her brother’s fate hung in the balance. I had the Oversight Council’s authority to continue, but that was predicated on my judgment. And I wasn’t sure that my judgment here was correct.

Every bit of evidence said this guy was doing exactly what he was supposed to do: finding the textile tycoon’s son as a kidnapping investigator. He was a uniformed member of the Mexican Federal Police and had a reason for having the son’s name and face in his house. If I captured him and was wrong, there would be no way to control the repercussions.
Everything
pointed to his being what he said.

Except for a single phone call from a member of the Sinaloa cartel. And if he was crooked, he was now informing them of our only edge. Informing them of the technological link that would lead to Jennifer’s brother.

I glanced at Jennifer for support, wanting something more than my instinct to make the call, and got nothing. She knew the same things I did, and I could tell she didn’t want the decision. She wanted her brother.

I said, “Yeah. Get me a grid. Box him in. We’re taking him down.”

B
ooth’s hand hovered over the “complete transaction” button, reluctant to push it and confirm his reservation. Wondering if taking POLARIS to Mexico City was such a hot idea after all, especially after his last conversation with Carlos.

The man had thrown away all pretenses of being a Mexican version of Anonymous, going so far as to pay for the trip down, as if he didn’t care what Booth thought about him. He appeared to only want the protocol. Or maybe Booth himself.

It had been over two years since he’d dug up the corrupt officials working with Los Zetas on behalf of Anonymous, but he knew their memories were long, and their taste for vengeance was legendary. It was nearly impossible to determine the playing field at any given time in Mexico, and Booth now wondered if he was putting too much faith in the hatred Sinaloa had for Los Zetas. Maybe they were allied now. Or maybe, like the hacktivist groups Booth worked with, they were so fragmented that Carlos was working both sides of the fence, taking POLARIS for Sinaloa and selling Booth to Los Zetas.

The investigative work he’d done on behalf of Carlos hadn’t helped his attitude any. Grolier Recovery Services had smoke all around it. On the one hand, it had found a temple in Guatemala that had actually made some press, meaning the discovery had been real. On the other, it had done little since. A trip to Syria on behalf of a university that went nowhere because the country was in a state of turmoil, a trip to Egypt that looked more like a tourist agenda than anything a professional archeological company would conduct, and most recently, a trip to Turkmenistan where the employees did little, if anything.

Digging in deeper, exploring the linkages any company has in the digital age, he’d found a hefty amount of obfuscation and security. The company ISPs redirected off mirrors, making it hard to determine exactly where the host was, and they employed encryption protocols that were something he would expect out of Apple protecting the next-generation iPhone, not a firm doing routine business. Especially a firm of this size. Some of the ISPs crossed paths with other, interesting ones coming out of Washington, DC.

On top of all of that, the company supposedly had over ten employees, but he could find tax records for only two: a Nephilim Logan and Jennifer Cahill. The rest were ghosts, on the books officially but with little else to show for the trouble. A token payment here, an issued credit card there, but nowhere near what should have existed.

The final kicker was a Gulfstream IV aircraft leased to the company. He worked for Boeing, the world’s largest aerospace company, and outside of a handful in the upper echelons, nobody flew around on private jets. How on earth did this company manage to pay for the thing? And why would they?

On the whole, the company stank, and Carlos had brought them into the equation. He didn’t care if it was some DEA front out to destroy whatever Carlos was into, but he wondered greatly if he would be pulled into the net. Wondered how much of Carlos’s blood would splatter on him if an action occurred while he was down in Mexico. No way did he want to end up like Bradley Manning, chained to a bunk at Quantico on suicide watch, or Edward Snowden, running from country to country. And what he was doing would be considered exponentially worse than giving diplomatic cables to WikiLeaks or a top secret slide show to the press.

But at least Manning and Snowden had done something. Created some good in the world at the risk of their well-being. Created transparency in a government that was cloaked in darkness, the worst being the so-called drone program working to keep the fat cats on Wall Street in business. There was no telling how many people were being targeted right this minute, all enriching the oil barons. If he could, he would crack open that vault of information and let it fly free, much like Manning and Snowden had done, and cause the light of day to expose the rot hidden in the darkness. But he couldn’t. Unlike them, he had no access to official databases. No means to expose the destruction being wrought at the hands of his own government. All he had was the ability to stop it, and that was worth the risk.

He punched the transaction button, getting an immediate e-mail back with his flight itinerary. He checked to make sure it was correct, seeing the American Airlines flight would leave in two days, with one stop in Dallas before going on to Mexico City. Two days to figure out what Grolier Recovery Services is really all about.
Not enough time to figure it out alone.

He logged on to a message board and began recruiting.

W
aiting on a miracle from our aircraft, I had Jennifer vector me in on the unmarked police car. Luckily for us, the cop hadn’t taken a high-speed avenue of approach from the Gomez residence, but had traveled east up a street called Presidente Masaryk, which appeared to be rich man’s land, with high-end car dealers and jewelry stores lacing the boulevard. It was a four-lane road separated in the middle by a little island of foliage and trees, which meant you weren’t going to assault coming from the wrong way. Not unless you were driving a bulldozer.

Blood, in my only singleton vehicle, was to the north, staged and waiting on instructions. Knuckles and Decoy had circled around and were driving west, coming the wrong way, unfortunately, but that was okay. I didn’t think an assault on this road was terribly smart anyway, given the high-end stores and outward security. I’d already seen two separate black Suburban convoys, traveling security for some rich guy or gal, so my preference would have been for our target to leave this section of the city.

Two things worked against that, though. One, if he kept going east, he would run into the area around Zona Rosa, which I knew contained multiple embassies—along with the Mexican version of the FBI—making the security impossible for an assault, and two, the longer I let him drive around, the longer he had to give his GPS locator information to the cartel.

I didn’t know if he’d phone it in or if he’d just wait, figuring if it hadn’t worked yet it was no threat, but I didn’t like his having the information and running free.

Jennifer said, “He’s one block up. Right in front of the traffic circle.”

I relayed to Knuckles, having him hold up short with eyes on the circle to see which way he went. My traffic began to flow, and I asked for lock-on.

“Same location. He hasn’t moved.”

“Okay, break-break. Blood, come down south. Hit the traffic circle and head west. Give me a visual.”

“Roger all.”

We pulled over and waited, giving me one vehicle short and one long on the road, with the target in between. I was always a stickler for human eyes versus technology because I’d been burned in the past when relying solely on some magic device. In this case, I didn’t know if the target was truly stationary or if he’d dropped his phone in the trash.

Two minutes later, Blood said, “Okay, I have eyes on. He’s out of the vehicle and at some sort of cantina next to a pizza shop. He’s inside, and he’s talking to a bartender. The bartender doesn’t look happy.”

“What are the atmospherics?”

“It’s mostly just outdoor tables. Inside it has a few more seats and a long piece of lumber in the back for the people wanting some booze. Your kind of place. He’s at the bar with a guy polishing glasses on the other side. Nobody outside, and from what I can see, nobody inside. I don’t think they’re open for business yet.”

My mind was running through the potential opportunity when Blood came back on, his voice slightly elevated. “Cop just pulled his gun. The bartender’s got his hands in the air.”

What the hell? More Keyser Söze shit.
“Is he arresting the bartender?”

“Not from what I can see. The bartender is now at the cash register.”

And it became clear.
He’s shaking the guy down for cash. Extorting money out of him.
Which confirmed he was crooked. I put the car in drive and Jennifer said, “What are we doing? What’s the plan?”

I ran through the options and keyed my radio. “Blood, hold what you got and stand by. Knuckles, close through the circle and get eyes on. Wait until you see my car. I’m going to block his in. We’ll then enter together. Get him on the ground, and we’ll get out.”

“You want to take him in the cantina? Really?”

“Yes, really. Go in hard shouting ‘
policía,
’ and get him in our car. It’ll be out front. He’s shaking that guy down for cash, and it’ll look like we rescued him. Blood, you copy?”

“Ahh . . . Roger.”

“You’re our blocker. Anything comes in behind, they’re yours. Decoy, you take the front as lead element on exfil. We’re headed south. Any questions?”

Knuckles said, “Yeah, do you have the number for an attorney in Mexico?”

I said, “I’m sure Mr. Gomez will provide one if we get his kid back.”

I pulled in behind the cop’s unmarked car in front of the cantina, seeing him through an open door at the bar. His weapon now holstered, he was stuffing something into his pants. To Jennifer, I said, “You got the wheel. Get this thing ready to run. Coordinate with Decoy for a route out toward Paseo de la Reforma.”

She looked at me, surprised at how quickly this had erupted, but she nodded. I exited and saw Knuckles to my left, coming down the sidewalk from the pizzeria, a Glock held low by his leg. We paused out of sight of the front door. He nodded, telling me he was ready, and I peeked around the corner. I saw the cop holding his pistol in a two-handed grip, aiming it across the bar.

Shit. Not what I wanted. Now it’s hostage rescue.

I said, “Gun out, gun out,” and entered quickly. I went left, covering the cop, leaving the bartender for Knuckles behind me. I put my front sight post on the cop’s chest, shouting, “
Policía,
policía!
”

And triggered a shit storm.

The cop gave a small jump when I entered the room, his eyes springing open at my words. He snapped his head at me, then back on a target to his front, seeing something in his mind’s eye that wasn’t there. He began jerking the trigger, getting off two shots before his chest erupted in a spray of blood. I heard the blast from my rear, then a snapping of rounds from a Glock. I whirled in the direction of the shot, seeing the bartender leaning against the wall, two holes in his chest, a double-barreled shotgun hanging limply in his hands. And Knuckles’s smoking barrel.

Holy shit.

He glanced my way, still covering the room, saying everything without speaking. In two steps I was on the bartender, leaving the cop for Knuckles. I grabbed his shirt, rapidly becoming soaked with blood, and yanked him across the bar, slamming him to the floor. I searched, finding no other weapons, then began to triage him, but it was too late.

He was dead.

Knuckles finished with the cop’s destroyed body and found his phone. He looked at the log and said, “One call made.”

In a calm voice, I said, “We need to go before a crowd shows up.”

We left the bodies where they lay, with me wondering how it would have worked out for the bartender if I hadn’t entered.
Why did he go for the shotgun?
The only good thing was we knew for sure the cop was an evil cuss.

Getting to the sidewalk, I saw we were clear. If anyone had heard the shots, they weren’t coming to investigate.
Yet.
We jumped into the back of Jennifer’s car and I called Blood and Decoy for exfil. She hit the gas without saying a word.

With Jennifer weaving through traffic, Knuckles said, “I took the shot. I’m not sure whose bullets hit him.”

I said, “You did the right thing. It was a gunfight. You couldn’t let him continue with a loaded shotgun.”

He said, “It was a double barrel, and I think he fired both. I killed him after he was no threat.”

I saw where this was going and immediately went to damage control. Not for the mission, but for Knuckles. “Bullshit. It was my call to enter. I did it when I saw the cop’s gun. I should’ve looked into the bar to see what he was aiming at. I should’ve pulled back. Screw all that innocents-killed crap. He had a shotgun and was shooting. I only heard one barrel. You probably saved my life.”

Knuckles nodded, but I could see the cost. I said again, “You made a right call. And you aren’t that good of a shot. The cop probably hit him.”

He laughed for the first time, a stilted thing, but a laugh nonetheless. I said, “Check your gun. Let’s get back into the mission.”

He glanced at me, then dropped the magazine and racked the slide of his Glock, clearing the chamber and checking its function before slapping in a new magazine. Making sure it was ready for another fight. Something I knew he would understand.

Jennifer heard the conversation and waited until we were through the traffic circle before talking, concentrating on driving instead of the chaos behind us. When we were back into the regular flow she asked, “What the hell happened? What was the shooting?”

Knuckles said, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. The cop’s dead, and we didn’t shoot him.”

She said, “Then what was that conversation about?”

I said, “It was about a situation I shouldn’t have put us in. The cop’s dead, and we’re clear.”

She looked at me, getting my eyes in the rearview mirror. She saw not to ask. She cut to the chase, which surprised me. “So what do we have? Since he’s dead, they didn’t get the information about the GPS device?”

Knuckles said, “He made a call.”

I saw her face fall, and the look aggravated me a little, given what we’d just gone through to save her brother. Given what I knew Knuckles was now going to question for the rest of his life. But we still had a mission. A way to make the bartender’s death mean something.

I said, “Knuckles, get a trace of the number he called. Jennifer, keep going south, toward the grid Mr. Gomez gave us for the last sighting.”

I got on the phone, calling the pilots. “What have you got?”

“Nothing. We didn’t get anything. The city’s too big. Saying ‘fly south’ didn’t help any.”

“Stand by.”

Knuckles talked into his phone for about a minute, then nodded at me.

I said, “You got a grid on your phone now? From the Taskforce?”

The pilot fiddled around a little bit, then said, “Yeah, I got it.”

“Vector on that, right now.”

“Pike, I can’t do loops in the sky. Air-traffic control is already bugging me about loitering.”

“Come back to the airport on that grid. Tell them you have a maintenance issue and are returning. Fly low and slow. We
need
that ping.”

“How am I going to explain that after I land? When I don’t have an issue?”

“Figure something out.”

“I’m not sure I should jeopardize the cover for this. We don’t do this sort of thing, ripping around by the seat of our pants. I’ll fly out to El Paso first, like my flight plan says.”

After what we’d just been through, and the stakes, I was sick of his posturing behind some bullshit security classification, in no mood to hear some damn pilot at twenty grand second-guess what I was ordering when I was dealing with the blood.

“Screw the cover. You’re jeopardizing someone’s
life
right now.” I took a breath before continuing. When I did, it was cold rage coming through. “You turn that fucking plane around or I can promise you you’re jeopardizing your own life. Do you understand that, or do you need to call the Taskforce for confirmation?”

I heard nothing for a moment, then, “Roger. Turning back now.”

About damn time that guy realized who I am.