Choked Up (27 page)

12:07 a.m. we were back on the bluff overlooking the CEC Intermodal train yard. Everything went as before. Raw Chicken stayed in the car. Kontrolyor manned a night-vision spotter scope, while the rest of us had ATN Night Scout VX night-vision binoculars.

I also had the yips.

Bad.

Gorilla checked in with drivers over burner phones with notebook at hand while Stannis oversaw everything with a laptop on the hood. Kon was at the spotter scope. And angry. “Is too much light and dark to read the container numbers.”

“Read plates.” Stannis unfolded a piece of paper. Kon read off license plates as Stannis read by the light from the computer screen.

I swept the yard with my binoculars, searching for the BOC. They'd had one day and less than a five-hour window to assemble. I scuffed the toe of my boot in the dirt.

Two men in hard hats and reflective jackets pulled up in a golf cart. I recognized one of the BOC's Special Unit Grims.

“Hey!” I said. “Who are the guys in the white hard hats?”

Stannis clicked on the computer bringing up a pair of men who waved the crane that had just loaded Stannis's first trailer onto the boxcar.

I ran over to Stannis and the computer. One man consulted a clipboard while the other walked back to the golf cart and picked up a bolt cutter.

“We are compromised.” Stannis put his phone in my hands. “Get to street. Call
Chyornyj Yastreb
when safe.” He took the binocs from my hand and gave me a shove toward the dirt road.

I took off at a sprint.

Even in the dark, the dirt road was easy to navigate. I kept close to the edge so I could hit cover when the BOC's squad drove up.

Ripped off my feet, a heavy hand clamped over my mouth before I could make a sound.

“Easy, now. Easy,” teased a soft and familiar voice in my ear. “You're okay,” Lee Sharpe said. “Except for the fact that your new boyfriend's a POS Serbian enforcer.”

My blood was pulsing like a water hammer.

“Cool?” he said. I nodded and he let go. I took a shaky step back. Lee was in full SWAT battle rattle, body armor, face blackened with camo paint.

Two human shadows were visible behind Lee. Probably another trio on the other side of the mesa, and a sniper or two.

I didn't know where to start. “Lee—”

“
Tsst!
” He jabbed an index finger at my nose.

The tiniest hum of vibration buzzed no louder than a mosquito. If I hadn't been so hyperaware, I would have missed it.

Lee held up a fist to the men and pressed his finger to the clear plastic piece at his ear. “Copy.” He shook his head, dropped his hand, and made a cutting motion across his throat to the two men.

Mission aborted.

The whites of Lee's eyes gleamed iridescent in the moonlight. “I won't tell your brothers, your father, or the assistant state's attorney you were here if you don't tell Stannislav Renko about us.”

I nodded furiously, not trusting myself to speak.

He caught me by the chin, leaned in, and said in a low voice, “Tell you what, Bae. When you come to the realization that I am the sexiest motherfucker you've ever met, call me. You got my number.”

I turned and he smacked me on the butt.

In three strides I was back on the dirt road, heading down the hill. It took a little less than forty minutes to jog the three miles from the overlook to the bus stop near the exit. Which gave me a tension release and time to think.

Something had gone very, very wrong with the stolen cars.

And Lee.

I cooled my heels for a solid hour. Bus benches suck. The metal plank had no back and two plastic dividers so I couldn't lie down.
Awesome
. Especially since there'd been no bus in over an hour.

I dragged my finger across Stannis's contacts again, waffling back and forth over pressing the Sikorsky helicopter. No way I'd call Black Hawk. Not really. Nor would I have called Kon or Gorilla's burners, even if I could.

Xenon LED headlamps temporarily blinded me. The Range Rover stopped. Kontrolyor got out and opened the rear passenger door for me. He gave an almost-imperceptible shake of his head.

Stannis stared out the window swearing. Not loud, not soft, just a steady, unbroken stream of cusswords in multiple languages.

I slid in next to him and fastened my seat belt. We hit the freeway and Stannislav's phone rang. He hadn't turned from the window or stopped cursing.

I answered it. “Hello?”

“
Vatra Anđeo?
” hummed the familiar electronic voice. “Mr. Renko, please.”

I hit Mute. “It's Black Hawk,” I said to Stannis and hit Speaker.

“Where will we celebrate?” Black Hawk said.

Stannis glared at the phone, but his voice was silky. “Where are the cars?”

“On the way to Juárez,” answered the robotic voice.

“The containers were stopped at the CEC. No cars.”

“Exactly.” Black Hawk laughed, jarring and flat. “We owe
Vatra Anđeo
a debt beyond measure. Her blessing of cunning was too much like Sun Tzu's
The Art of War
. ‘Take advantage of the enemy's unreadiness, make your way by unexpected routes, and attack unguarded spots.' And so I change train.”

Stannislav's face was a twisted amalgamation of wronged relief. “Why did you not tell me?”

“I hear the mafiosos sometimes look to take advantage.”

“Constantino wants no war with Slajic. Too much money to be made.” Stannis's mouth went level with fury. “This is all Veteratti. Eddie Veteratti.”

“Inspectors are government,” Black Hawk cautioned. “Police informant?”

I jerked upright as if someone had slipped an ice cube down my shirt.

“No,” Stannis said. “But anyone can give tip-off.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “How did you switch?”

An electric hiss sounded. “When your drivers returned, I sent them to an alternate site. They picked up the wrong containers and delivered them to CEC. My men moved the containers out of salt storage building. New drivers, unaware of cargo, took the cars to JLB Intermodal.”

Black Hawk gave an eerie bark of electronic laughter. “We made money from CEC delivery. Twelve hundred dollars under table.”

Stannis chuckled. “Your bonus.”

“Already spent.” He laughed again. “I used it to attach to Z-train, nonstop to Juárez. Containers will be in Tampico soon. I call with update. When is the party?”

“We celebrate when they are on boat to Lebanon.” Stannis's smile was thin and vicious. “At The Storkling.”

When I thought things couldn't get any worse, I hadn't meant it as a karmic challenge.

I spent the next forty-eight hours working out, playing backgammon, and watching Netflix from Stannislav's pocket. The signal tracker was on, the penthouse littered with his men, and he had no inclination to go anywhere.

For some reason known only to him, Kontrolyor thought that sharing yet another tragic Russian breakfast recipe would alleviate my cabin fever. He set a plate in front of me that held a pinkish white slab heavily peppered on coarse rye bread. “
Salo,
” he said.

Gorilla and the two other men lounging in the kitchen and eating donuts thought this was hilarious.

“What it is?” I asked.

“Sliced pig lard. Delicious.”

“Do not eat,” Stannis whisper-warned in my ear, before saying in a voice everyone could hear, “We leave in an hour.”

I sat at the counter until Kon turned his back, wrapped a sizeable chunk of the
salo
in my napkin, and hid it in the pocket of my robe. “Thanks for breakfast, Kon.”

Gorilla leered at me.

“What's that?” I pointed across the room. He turned. I swiped the donut off his plate and trotted down the hall to my room.

I flushed the
salo
down the toilet, took a shower, and got ready. When I came out of the bathroom, a present—my outfit for the day—hung on the closet door hook. A St. John Milano pique-knit fitted blazer and scoop-neck dress in caviar black.

Two thousand dollars of clothes from a brand I thought was too old for me.

I looked like a million bucks in it.

I added a Stephen Webster black diamond bracelet and the Cartier earrings and went out to meet Stannislav Renko.

There is nothing quite as wonderful as flying via private jet. No lines, no security, just a drive right up to the tarmac and a dropoff at the plane.

The Lear 60XR belonged to cartel boss Carlos Grieco. Peerless didn't come close to describing the spacious, stand-up cabin, ebony wood veneers, supple ivory leather seats, Wi-Fi, and every electronic accoutrement known to man.

The flight attendant served us diet Schweppes Tonic Water with lime.

“Eat little. Drink less,” Stannis said. “Cartel men are like roosters and mad dogs together.”

Even with Gorilla and Kontrolyor in tow, we weren't exactly going in heavily armed. The apprehension must have showed on my face.

“I deal with Alfonso Javier Rodriguez,” Stannis said. “The bastard son they call ‘El Cid.' He is like me. Levelheaded.”

Exactly how I think of you, sweet pea.
“That's reassuring.”

“He is up-and-coming
capo
. Do not trust him.”

The lack of alcohol in the tonic water must have gone straight to my head because I blurted, “Aren't you worried about getting the cars through customs?”

His chin dipped in amusement. “There are no customs for things to leave the United States. Only to come in.” He smiled. “Again, train cars are mere packages. Not for anyone except sender and receiver.”

Stannis set a familiar red box on the table between us.

Cartier.

I opened it. A diamond engagement ring.

The Tank de Cartier. A thick white-gold band with a square-cut princess diamond sunk in the center. Designed as the antithesis of showy oversized stones, it could hold no stone larger than 1.15 carats.

“Gee . . .” I breathed.

“You like, yes?” Stannis said, nodding. “Is not good to be only girlfriend in Mexico.” He took the ring out and put it on the finger of my left hand. A size six, it fit perfectly.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good.” He sat back in his seat and opened a magazine.

I held my hand out and waggled my fingers, admiring the whiter-than-white sparkler.

The Lear landed in Tampico in less than six hours. El Cid and his crew met us at the hangar of the private airfield.

Stannis and I descended the stairs to a guy in his late twenties, ringed by a squad of four heavily armed men. Standard Cartel projection—power and muscle. Each wore ballistic vests, Sig P226 handguns, and Ingram MAC 11 spray-and-pray submachine guns.

El Cid was a couple inches shy of six feet. Lean-jawed and hungry-looking, shaved head with reflective sunglasses and an unlit Cubano in his mouth. He was ripped as rock in cargo pants and a black T-shirt.

He gave Stannis a bear hug, then offered his hand to me and said in perfect English, “I am Alfonso Javier Rodriguez. But everyone around here calls me El Cid. And you are?”

I put my hand in his. “Maisie Mc—”

“She is
Vatra Anđeo,
” Stannis interrupted. “My fiancée.”

El Cid's mouth smirked around his cigar. “Nice to meet you, Vatra. Shall we?”

They escorted us out to two armor-plated Lincoln Navigators, drivers waiting behind the wheel. Gorilla and Kontrolyor rode in the lead car, while Stannis and El Cid and I were in the tail SUV.

We passed through miles of
colonias
—Tamaulipas slum housing—that seemed to stretch forever. El Cid said, “I was surprised to get your call, Renko. Your reluctance to do business with us is well-known. You do not trust Mexicans?”

Stannis burst into laughter and smacked El Cid in the chest. “You attend American college, yes?”

“An MBA from UCLA.” El Cid rolled the cigar in his mouth. “What of it?”

“Only college man tries to influence by calling racist.”

“Busted.” El Cid flashed his palms and chuckled. “So what's your holdup?”

“Drugs.”

“That's not the only area we operate in.”

Stannis shook his head. “Interests too often migrate. No drugs in my shipment. No drugs used by people working for me.”

“And if I can guarantee that?” El Cid asked.

Stannis cocked his head. “We wait and see.”

The Puerto de Tampico was one of Mexico's busiest and most important east coast seaports. A small city unto itself, it was the future of modern port works.

“The Puerto de Tampico is one of the few ports served by double-railway,” El Cid said as we drove into one of the public terminals. “Your containers are unloaded from the train and directly onto the container ship.”

“With correct port-side supervision, yes?” Stannis said.

“It's extremely difficult for any port to ensure one-hundred-percent accuracy when transporting over nine million tons of cargo annually.” El Cid sighed. “The services Mr. Grieco provides are unparalleled.”

“
Numero cuatro
.” The driver announced our destination as he put the Navigator in Park.

We got out and walked two city blocks to watch the intermodal crane lift the containers from the Juárez train onto the container ship, while the stink of tar, salt spray, and diesel fuel wafted over us.

“Not that one.” Stannis pointed at the twenty-foot rusty red container several containers behind the one the crane had just picked up. “That is gift from Goran Slajic to Carlos Grieco.”

El Cid waved over one of his men and rattled off some orders in Spanish. The man took off at a jog to the men working the cranes. El Cid turned to me. “May I inquire?”

Stannis gave me the nod, and I took the key fob out of my purse. “It's a bronze LS 460 TMG Sports 650 sedan. Twin-turbo V8, mind-blowing body kit, fender flares, and stacked exhaust pipes.”

“A pretty woman who likes cars.” He tipped down his sunglasses, flashing velvety brown eyes. “Hubba-hubba.”

That cracked me up. “Get a lot of girls that way?”

“More than I know what to do with.” He slid the glasses back up. “What's your story? You a mechanic or a car dealer in your spare time?”

“Neither. With five gearhead older brothers, it was either man up or shut up.”

“What rims you rollin' in?”

“Dodge Challenger,” I said, not even trying to stop the grin from spreading across my face. “SRT Hellcat.”

“No shit?” El Cid tagged me in the shoulder.

God, I miss Hank.
“Hey, a girl never knows when she's gonna need to unleash an ungodly hell storm of speed.”

“You get that bitch on the track?”

“Not yet.” I shook my head. “What do you drive?”

“Aside from being trapped in the Navigator like some prep-school prig?” He spat on the ground. “Only time will tell. I just lost my baby in a race. A '68 Road Runner. I was haulin' the mail, cut a tire, and that was that.”

Seriously?
“Where are you racing?”

“Autódromo Potosino. Tequila and gasoline,
chica.
Ohhh yeah.”

“Don't they run a NASCAR there?”

“A minor one. The track belongs to Carlos Grieco now. My boss is obsessed with Richard Petty and Banjo Matthews. He prefers to settle disputes on the track.”

“In hard-to-corner classic muscle cars,” I said, shaking my head.
Crazy cartel bastards.
“Talk about nerves of steel.”

“That's me.” El Cid smiled. “I race myself. Unlike the other lieutenants, who race by proxy. And you're gonna love this—you can race your own or bid to ‘rent' one of his, which, if you wreck it, you bought it.”

“Wow.” I glanced at Stannis, who gave me the frown-shrug of “
are you okay?
”

El Cid caught it. “Tell me, how'd a sweet thing like you hook up with a badass like Renko?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” I squinted at him. “You're awfully charming when you don't need to be. What are you after?”

“You.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, I'm your huckleberry.”

He waved his finger at me and quoted
Tombstone
right back. “Oh, you're no daisy. You're no daisy at all.” He laughed and stomped his feet in a mini-dance.

“That's right.” I smiled.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who knows shit worth knowing around here?” El Cid ran a hand over his shaved head. “You're one cool kitty.”

“Back at you,” I said.

One of his men approached and said something.

El Cid reached into his pocket. “Time to head back to the airfield.” He held out his hand to shake and palmed me his business card. “My private number.”

“Gee, thanks, Hef.”

El Cid grinned around his cigar. “You slay me,
Maisie
.”