Cartel (33 page)

Nothing. No sound from the phone other than the faint hum of the open line. "Did you hear me?" Scott said.

"Are you finished?" Jones asked.

"I said if you hurt my family-"

"I heard you, and I asked if you're finished because you have no leverage here, Agent Greene. I'm not threatening to hurt your family...I'm threatening to kill your family."

"My family has nothing to do with this."

But Jones continued as if he hadn't heard Scott. "You have something I want, and I have something you want. It's as simple as that. It only gets complicated if you make it complicated." Jones paused for a moment, but Scott didn't say anything. A wave of exhaustion had swept over him. He felt like he had nothing left. Two days of running and fighting had left him spent. "The obvious solution is a trade," Jones said. "I get what I want. You get what you want."

Scott looked at Benny. Her eyes were wide with fear. There could be only one trade. Either this American got the flash drive or Humberto Larios got it. He could see from her face that she realized the same thing. "When?" Scott said.

Benny shook her head. She opened her mouth to voice her protest. She wasn't going to trade her family for Scott's. He had promised to give the video to Larios in exchange for Rosalita and Rodrigo. Scott pressed a finger to his lips.

"No time like the present," Jones said. "Your children don't seem to like my company very much, and to be perfectly honest, I must say that I feel similarly about theirs. That's why I never had any myself."

"Where are you?" Scott said.

"Nuevo Laredo. Same as you."

"Meet me at San Judas Tadeo Catholic Church."

"I'm afraid I don't know where-"

"Find it," Scott said. "In an hour." Then he cut off the call before Jones could respond.

"What are you doing?" Benny shouted.

"It was all I could think of."

She stared at him, incomprehension on her face.

He grabbed the flash drive hanging around his neck and pushed it toward her until the lanyard was tight. "This is all we have. And two people want it. So this is all that's keeping our families safe right now."

"What are we going to do?"

He hesitated. It was nothing more than a vague idea. Now he had to articulate it, to someone, like him, whose loved ones' lives depended on it working. "Humberto Larios wants the video so he can expose the big secret and show the world that the U.S. government is in bed with the Sinaloas."

Benny nodded.

"And this American who calls himself Jones, he wants it because he's working with El Gordo and trying to protect the Sinaloa cartel, so he doesn't want the secret to get out."

"Of course," Benny said.

"And both sides will kill to get what they want."

"Yes."

"So we get them together...and let them kill each other."

She stared at him for a long time. He felt a drop of sweat run down his back. The inside of the Oldsmobile was hot. She kept staring at him. Finally, she nodded.

The media was going nuts. That was to be expected. But so was DEA Headquarters, and that had Special Agent in Charge Robert Stockwell worried. Three of his agents killed yesterday in Mexico. Then his ASAC murdered today at a hotel in downtown Laredo. If this shit cost Stockwell his chief's job at headquarters, he would kill Greene himself.

Stockwell was sitting at the bar of a decent steak house. As decent as they had in Laredo. The FBI had arrived at the Radisson Hotel like the cavalry that they imagined them-selves to be, taking over the crime scene and running every-one else out, DEA included. The FBI was on the case. Eve-ryone could relax now. Famous But Incompetent was what DEA agents called them. The FBI could fuck up a wet dream.

Naturally, the local cops were first on the scene. The feebs didn't like showing up anywhere there might still be bullets flying. So the local PD bagged the two pistols they had found in the room, both Glock .40s. An hour or so later, the FBI had taken possession of the guns, and Stockwell had confirmed, after getting a call directly from the FBI SAC in Houston, a man Stockwell knew but secretly detested, that the Glocks were, in fact, the primary duty weapons of DEA Assistant Special Agent in Charge Glenn Peterson and DEA Supervisory Special Agent Scott Greene.

There was no way to confirm it without laboratory tests, the FBI SAC had told Stockwell, and those would take at least a week, but since the single gunshot wound in Glenn Peterson's chest was slightly larger in diameter than any of the multiple gunshot wounds in the other man, and since the recovered weapon that matched the serial number of Scott Greene's .40-caliber Glock duty weapon had only one round missing from the magazine, the FBI's working theory was that Scott Greene's weapon, likely with Scott Greene behind it, had been used to kill Glenn Peterson.

The second Glock, Peterson's, had been fired several times, apparently at an intruder. Again, the working theory had Peterson firing it, probably in self-defense as Greene en-tered the hotel room. As for the other man, he had been killed by several shots from a 9mm, and no 9mm pistol had been recovered.

It was a confusing situation, the FBI SAC had admitted, but that's where they were in their thinking. Naturally, he would keep the DEA posted on any developments.

No shit, it's a confusing situation, Stockwell had thought, but, of course, had not said. The reason it's so con-fusing is because the CIA staged the entire scene so you FBI numbnuts could formulate a half-assed reasonable scenario to fit it.

Stockwell took his first sip of scotch. It was a decent single malt, the best one the bar had. It tasted like wood smoke and peat. Today had been bad, and tomorrow prom-ised to be worse. He took another sip. Like any experienced scotch drinker, Stockwell drank his whisky neat, no ice, no mixers. Soda was for sissies, and the British.

His cell phone rang. It lay on the bar at his elbow. He looked at the screen, expecting to see a number with a 202 area code. Even though DEA Headquarters was in suburban Virginia, its telephones had been assigned the D.C. area code. Headquarters had been calling all afternoon, since right after the police had found Peterson's body. Now that the FBI had the likely murder weapon and Scott Greene was the prime suspect, the calls would just keep coming.

But this call wasn't from a 202 number. In fact, the call-er ID read BLOCKED. He knew who that had to be. He took another quick hit of scotch and answered the call. "Stockwell."

"Get ready to issue a press release," Jones said.

"About what?"

"Fugitive DEA Special Agent Scott Greene's body was found inside a church in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, last night. Greene was shot to death, along with his wife and two chil-dren. Mexican Federal Police are investigating the killings and suspect that Greene was killed by members of the ultra-violent Los Zetas drug cartel, with whom the suspended DEA agent was alleged to have had close ties."

"His wife and kids?" Stockwell said, then downed the rest of his single malt in one swallow.

"It was a tragedy."

"But you said last night."

"The story will run during tomorrow's news cycle," Jones said. "The bodies will, of course, be discovered to-night. After an anonymous report of gunfire at an old church in a crime-infested neighborhood."

"His wife and kids?" Stockwell repeated.

"How badly do you want that last posting to headquar-ters before you retire?"

Stockwell didn't say anything. Which, he realized, was his answer.

"Wait until eleven o'clock eastern to send out the press release."

"I'll have to clear it through headquarters," Stockwell said.

"You do that," Jones said and hung up.

Stockwell caught the bartender's eye and held up one finger to signal for another round. His hand was shaking.

It was close to dark when Scott Greene bumped the Oldsmobile against the curb three blocks west of the church. The setting sun was behind them. The stuccoed walls of the church looked red in the dying light. Two black SUVs were parked in front.

Scott stuffed the keys under the ragged floor mat. "In case you get back and I don't."

Benny nodded. "So we're just going to walk in?"

"Pretty much."

"And then what?"

"Your uncle said there was an escape tunnel under the church."

"A priest hole."

"Where does it come out?"

"I don't know," Benny said. "I thought it was a wine cellar."

"Where is it?"

"In the rectory, there was a..." She made a square with her hands. "A hatch?"

"A trapdoor?"

"Yes, a trapdoor," Benny said. "Under a rug, in the pan-try."

"Is it still there?"

She shrugged. "I haven't looked for it since I was a girl."

"Maybe we can use it to get away."

"It might not go anywhere."

"It's a tunnel," Scott said. "It has to go somewhere."

"But if it doesn't," Benny said, "we're going to be crawling into our own graves."

"Then let's hope it's a grave with a back door."

Benny closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them she said, "I'm ready."

They climbed out of the Oldsmobile and tucked their pistols into the backs of their pants. "The first thing they're going to do is search us," Benny said.

"I'm sure they will," Scott said, "but I'm not walking in there unarmed. Besides, we might get lucky."

"That's your plan?" she said. "Luck?"

"Works for the Irish."

"Are you Irish?"

He shook his head. "English and French."

"So you're not very lucky."

"Do I seem lucky to you?"

"Not really."

They walked down the empty street toward the church. Scott had expected the neighborhood to be swarming with gangbangers, but there was no one out. "Where is every-body?" he asked.

After a nervous glance around, Benny said, "I don't know. There's usually a lot more..."

"People," Scott said.

She gave him a tight smile. "Right. People."

They kept walking.

In the red light from the setting sun, the black graffiti on the walls of the church stood out. Lots of skulls and guns and words he didn't understand. One particularly detailed drawing was of a skeleton in a flowing robe, holding a scythe in one hand and carrying a globe in the other. Scott pointed at the image. "What does that mean?"

"Santa Muerte," Benny said. "Saint Death. The Catholic Church has condemned her, but the cartels worship her."

"Why paint her on a church?"

"To show everyone that it's not God who rules this bar-rio," Benny said. "It's Santa Muerte."

The iron gate over the front door was open. Scott pushed on the heavy wooden door and it swung inward on creaking hinges. The inside of the church was dark, lit only by four candles at the far end. Scott stepped over the thresh-old. Benny followed him.

A man appeared out of the darkness and pressed a gun to Scott's neck. "Hands on top of your head." The voice was American. Scott did as he was told. Benny stood beside Scott, and in the dim light he could see a second man hold-ing a gun to her head. The door closed behind them.

The two men searched Scott and Benny and took their pistols. "Move," said the man closest to Scott and gave him a shove.

The church was small, no more than seventy or eighty feet from front to back and about thirty feet across, with a central aisle running between rows of wooden pews. Scott and Benny walked side by side up the aisle, their shoulders touching. The two men followed them.

Jones and his sidekick, the G.I. Joe asshole who had so effortlessly manhandled Scott at the DEA office, stood on a raised platform at the front of the church, on either side of the altar. Both men wore dark suits and held pistols. Scott's wife and children knelt in front of them. Jake and Samantha were both crying.

There was a third man on the platform, standing behind the other two and partially obscured in the shadows cast by the candles so that his face wasn't clearly visible.

Scott and Benny stopped at the first pew. Scott locked eyes with his wife. "Are you hurt?"

She answered him with a slight shake of her head.

"Agent Greene," Jones said, glancing at his watch, "you are very punctual, and, as a man who is somewhat pressed for time, I want you to know I appreciate that."

"Let my family go," Scott said.

Jones held out his left hand. "Give me the flash drive."

"Let them go first."

"You seem to be under the misapprehension that this is a negotiation," Jones said. "Let me assure you that it is not."

"My family has nothing-"

Jones nodded and the man standing behind Scott clubbed him over the head with the pistol. Victoria screamed. Jake shouted, "Dad!" Scott dropped to his knees, his vision blurred, the images in front of him spinning. Ben-ny reached out for him but the man behind her smacked her ear with the barrel of his pistol. She cried out in pain.

Scott struggled back up to his feet. Victoria was sob-bing and squeezing the children close to her. The man behind Scott jammed his gun between Scott's shoulder blades.

"Agent Greene," Jones said, "did you understand me when I said I was somewhat pressed for time?"

"As soon as my family is safe, you'll get what you want," Scott said.

Jones looked at Benny. "Officer Alvarez, can you talk some sense into him?"

Benny's hand was pressed to her ear. A trickle of blood leaked out from under it and ran down her neck. "I doubt it," she said. "He's pretty hard headed."

Scott wasn't sure but he thought he saw Victoria shoot Benny a look. It was amazing, he thought, that in the midst of all this shit-

The third man stepped forward, out of the shadows. He had a wicked sneer on his face and a pistol in his hand. Scott recognized him, Captain Hector Delgado of the Policia Fed-eral, the man who had so casually admitted to Scott and Glenn Peterson that his men had shot and killed Miller, Lun-dy, and Kat at the roadblock. Delgado grabbed a handful of Victoria's hair, twisted her head hard and pressed his pistol against the side of her neck. "Enough of this shit," he said in heavily-accented English. "You give us the fucking video, gringo, or your puta dies, then your children."