Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
O
VER
T
IJUANA
M
ONDAY, 9:33 A.M.
T
HE HELICOPTER CAME IN
from the north and circled the eastern edge of Tijuana like an American border patrol aircraft slightly off course. The pilot made slow orbits over the hillside slums and shantytowns of Colonia Libertad.
Galindo sat in the front seat, next to the pilot, looking a little dizzy from the circling. Faroe looked over his shoulder, orienting him to the aerial view of reality while Magón translated. Galindo had never been in an aircraft, much less in an aerobatic helicopter. He was having a hard time sorting out perspective.
Finally he spotted a crowded highway intersection.
“There, I remember,” he said over the intercom in rough Spanish. “We travel on that when they bring us to the warehouse.”
Ahead of them lay the patterned ground lights of the Tijuana airport looking sullen beneath a haze of jet exhaust, heat, and humidity from the storm circling over the Pacific. Beyond the airfield was the fenced and plowed border.
Faroe touched the pilot on the shoulder and pointed to the industrial buildings behind the airport perimeter fence.
“Then it has to be in there, right?” Faroe asked in Spanish.
Galindo nodded quickly. “Yes. Yes. I remember the noise. Big jets shake the ground and we dig deep.”
“Let’s have a closer look at those buildings,” Faroe said. “Maybe you’ll remember the shape of a door or windows or something.”
“That’s restricted airspace,” the pilot said in English over the intercom. “Unless you want to dogfight the Mexican air force, we can’t get any closer.”
“I think I see one of your status lights flashing red,” Faroe said.
The pilot looked at the status lights. Green. He ducked his chin, staring at Faroe over the top of his aviator glasses. Then he shrugged. “Sure. Why not? It’s not my bird.”
He fingered the dials of his radio and brought up the airport tower frequency.
While the pilot argued with the air traffic controller about just how urgent a need the helicopter had to land, Galindo stared at the ground, trying to recognize something, anything, that would identify which building might be hiding the entrance to the tunnel.
“Look,” the pilot said to air control. “I have a status light flashing red every time I get above sixty feet. I don’t know if I can make it over the border. I can declare an in-air emergency, land, and then we’ll all spend the rest of the day doing paperwork, or you can just give me clearance to fly straight and low for Brown Field.”
After a supervisor was called in, the pilot got clearance for a shortcut to the border.
“Going down,” the pilot said over the helicopter intercom. “Look sharp. This card can only be played once.”
The helicopter passed over the field, then dropped to about thirty feet above the taxiway that led to the warehouse area.
“Slow down and let Galindo have a good look,” Faroe said. “It’s got to be on this side of the airport, somewhere close to the border fence.”
The pilot slowed.
Magón talked urgently with the miner, who kept shaking his head and staring anxiously at the hangars and industrial buildings. Then Galindo started talking rapidly in creole, pointing to one of the warehouses.
“That’s it,” Magón translated. “He recognized the printing on the roof.”
The helicopter flew slowly over a large sheet-metal hangar with four twin-engine executive jets parked in front. From the look of it, part of the
hangar also served as a warehouse.
Faroe read the sign painted on the roof. “Aeronáutico Grupo Calderón. I’m shocked, dude. Just totally shocked. Who’d a thunk?”
The pilot snickered.
“Is he sure?” Faroe asked.
“They transported him in vans with curtains,” Magón translated, “but he remembers that name on the side of the vans.”
“Gotta love advertising,” Faroe said. “And there’s how they got rid of the dirt.” He pointed to the fake hills and raised landscaping that surrounded the building.
Magón was quiet.
Too quiet.
“You didn’t know about that nasty little alliance between the drug trade and Grupo Calderón?” Faroe asked.
“I knew there was a relationship,” Magón said, his voice thick with disgust. “I didn’t think it was this close.”
“It’s so close that I don’t know who’s pitching and who’s catching. Ask Galindo about the entrance on this side.”
“The tunnel entrance is at the back, on the left, in a big supply closet,” Magón said.
“What about the other end of the tunnel?”
Magón didn’t have to ask Galindo. The miner was already pointing toward another industrial sheet-metal warehouse a quarter mile away, on the other side of the border.
“It must be that building there,” Magón translated. “He can give you distances and compass directions from memory. They had to be very precise to come up in the right place on the other side.”
Faroe touched the pilot on the shoulder and gave him a thumbs-up. “Take us home.”
Magón kept translating. “The other entrance is in a bathroom in the manager’s office of that building. Galindo was in charge of the calculations. He only missed by one meter over a distance of six hundred meters.”
Faroe’s eyebrows rose. “Then he can find both entrances again, right?”
Galindo nodded eagerly. He understood Spanish a lot better than he spoke it.
Faroe called Steele to tell him they’d caught a break.
No one answered.
Frowning, he tried again.
Still no answer.
The helicopter picked up speed, then dropped off the radar as soon as the terrain allowed. Soon waves were rushing by beneath. Just beneath. The pilot circled back into U.S. airspace at wave-top height and settled onto the sandy RV park north of Imperial Beach.
Faroe started swearing under his breath when he spotted the extra cars through the flying sand caused by the prop wash. He thought about keeping everyone aboard and running for it.
He didn’t.
There was no time to run and no place to hide.
“Everybody out,” Faroe said.
Galindo and Father Magón stumbled to the ground, shielding their eyes from the sand.
“That’s it,” the pilot said as Faroe jumped out. “I’ll get away with that stunt once. But if you don’t start checking in with customs and immigration, there will be F14s from Miramar waiting to shoot you down.”
“Thousands of Mexican peasants make it across the border every night,” Faroe said.
“They aren’t flying helicopters.”
Faroe slammed the cockpit door.
Instantly the chopper lifted off the sand just enough to fly back out to sea, below the radar. Everyone turned their backs on the gale of sand and air. The grit from the prop wash hadn’t even settled before a black Suburban raced up. The two people who jumped out had FBI written all over them.
No wonder Steele wasn’t answering his phone.
S
AN
Y
SIDRO
M
ONDAY, 9:40 A.M.
“N
ICE OF YOU TO
give us a ride to the motor coach,” Faroe said as two agents ran up.
Agent González and Agent Daily didn’t smile.
“ID,” Daily said curtly.
“Last time I checked, this was the United States,” Faroe said to him. “So why don’t you show me some ID first?”
“Read my raid jacket,” Daily retorted.
“Want to read mine?” Faroe asked. “I’ve got quite a collection. Gotta love eBay.”
Magón bit back a smile.
González flipped out her badge holder. “Who are you and where did you come from?”
“You may not know it, but we’re on a real short clock,” Faroe said. He gestured toward the vehicles parked across the exit. “Who’s in charge of all these boys and girls?”
“Agent Talon Cook,” she said.
“Ah, good old Short Order. Take us to him.”
Agent Daily coughed. “Are you Joe Faroe by any chance?”
“Does it matter?” Faroe asked.
González pulled out a two-way. When Cook picked up, she said,
“We’ve got three unidentified males, two probably Mexican nationals—”
“Don’t bet on it,” Magón said, smiling.
“—and one six-foot-plus, dark-haired, green-eyed American with attitude who’s got the moves to back up his smart mouth.”
“Faroe,” Cook said, disgusted.
“Hey, Short Order,” Faroe said loud enough for the radio to pick it up. “Still hangin’ tall?”
Daily coughed again.
“Bring the son of a bitch to Steele’s coach,” Cook said.
“What about the other two men?”
“Pat them down and keep them with you. If you find any weapons, cuff them.”
“What about the chopper?” González asked.
“You see any numbers on it?”
“No.”
“Then what chopper are you talking about?” Cook asked sardonically. “Get Faroe over here.”
“You want him patted down?”
“Oh yeah. I really hope he’s carrying. Then I’ll have his ass in prison.”
“Hold your breath, darlin’,” Faroe called out.
What Cook said was illegal over U.S. airwaves.
Daily coughed again.
“Better take something for that,” Faroe said, holding his arms out and taking a wide stance. “Might be contagious.”
“Smart-ass,” Daily muttered.
Faroe winked.
While Daily patted him down, Faroe congratulated himself on leaving Grace’s Browning in the motor coach with Harley. A lot of times, a weapon was just more trouble than it was worth.
This would have been one outstanding example.
Daily patted down the other two men, found only the antique gold crucifix, and looked at Magón curiously.
“All clean,” Daily said into his two-way.
“Bring Faroe” was all Cook said.
S
AN
Y
SIDRO
M
ONDAY, 9:50 A.M.
A
GENT
C
OOK OPENED THE
door while Faroe was still a step below the doorway, which put the men on a fairly even footing.
“Well, well,” Cook said. “Look who’s going back to prison.”
Faroe took the last step up.
Cook held his place long enough to give a hard push.
Faroe had been expecting it. He didn’t budge.
The FBI agent smiled. His teeth were perfect and white, his hair curly and black, his body fit and muscular. He would have been pretty if his eyes weren’t like ice.
Faroe knew for a fact that the FBI agent was deadly in unarmed combat.
Too bad Cook can’t get over being short. It makes life hell on everyone over five feet six who gets close to him
.
“You playing doorstop today?” Faroe asked.
Cook turned just enough to let Faroe inside.
Grace got up and came to Faroe with questions in her eyes.
He nodded slightly.
She was so relieved she sagged against him. He put one arm tight around her, tucked her into the banquette, and slid in beside her. He knew Cook would feel better looking down on him.
“Since when do you hang with felons, Judge?” Cook asked.
“They come through her courtroom all the time,” Faroe said. He leaned
close to Grace and breathed in her ear, “We’re in.” Then he looked at Steele. “Any warrants?”
“They’re working on it,” Steele said dryly.
“What are
we
working on?” Faroe asked.
“Oh, you’re all lawyered up,” Cook said. “Your lawyers are talking to ours, and we’re talking to each other. But hey, I don’t have my legal dictionary and I can’t remember the U.S. Code sections that cover interfering with a federal officer, impeding a federal investigation, and—oh yeah, violations of the Neutrality Act. I love that one. Is it a capital felony, Judge?”
“Since I’ve already called corporate counsel,” Steele said, “I was just suggesting that Agent Cook discuss those matters with him.”
“I don’t talk to lawyers,” Cook said. “I leave that to the U.S. Attorney.”
“You don’t talk to lawyers?” Faroe said. “Then how do you cut a deal with the likes of Ted Franklin?”
“Franklin’s not a defendant, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say about you. You’re going down like you did last time, only this time you ain’t coming out.”
“Turn down the volume,” Grace said flatly. “You don’t have any warrants. You don’t have any probable cause. You don’t have anything but a badge that’s so heavy it’s a wonder you can stand up straight.”
Both Faroe and Cook looked at her in surprise.
“I’ve had a gutful of your bullshit,” Grace said evenly, staring at Cook. “We don’t have the time, I don’t have the patience, and you don’t have the authority. Either get back on topic or get out of St. Kilda’s bus and off its property.”
Steele rubbed his mouth and looked bland, but his eyes actually twinkled.
Faroe looked at Grace like he’d never seen her before. And he hadn’t. Not this Grace, the one who would go toe-to-toe with a supervisory special agent and rip his face off.
“And the topic of the day is…?” Faroe asked into the shocked silence.
“The FBI’s fabricated case against St. Kilda,” Grace said, “which we’ve already shot down. We were just opening the topic of Ted’s computer files, without which no one has a case against Hector Rivas Osuna and Carlos Calderón. No files means no one seizes fifty million dollars along with the
kind of headlines that advance careers.”
“Fifty million, huh?” Faroe asked.
Grace nodded.
“A lot of money” was all Faroe said.
Apparently the task force didn’t know there could be twice as much money. Faroe saw no need to point it out.
“Did you get to the part where the task force’s mismanagement of their informant could well cost the life of a U.S. citizen, Lane Franklin, presently a prisoner in Mexico?” Faroe asked.
Cook stared at Faroe without blinking. No surprise there.
“No, we were closing in on that issue when the chopper landed,” Grace said. “But Cook’s expression tells me he already knows and doesn’t give a damn.”
“He will,” Faroe said.
Cook shrugged. “You cooperate with us, get me the files, and I’ll make a call to the school. The kid will be on the next flight home.”
Grace went still. “Let me make sure I heard you correctly. The FBI is willing to use a child as—”
“I didn’t say that,” Cook cut in.
She turned to Steele. “Did you hear Supervisory Special Agent Cook offer to trade Lane’s freedom for the computer files?”
“I do believe I did,” Steele said. “Shocking to think the American government is complicit in the kidnapping of an American child.”
“We didn’t kidnap anyone,” Cook said impatiently. “The Mexicans didn’t kidnap anyone. The kid is a screwup who is in school in Mexico until his father signs him out. That’s not kidnapping, that’s old-fashioned discipline.”
“Nice story,” Faroe said. “Only Lane isn’t at the school anymore. Mexican
federales
dragged him out and took off with him. Want to look at the sat photos?”
“We lost him in Tijuana,” Steele said quietly.
“I figured you would,” Faroe said, but his eyes never left the FBI agent.
Cook didn’t want to believe what he was hearing.
“Yeah,” Faroe said, nodding. “Your snitch Ted lied to you. Want a han
kie?”
“Prove it,” Cook said flatly.
Faroe glanced at his watch. “In less than three hours, Hector will kill the boy. How about the kid’s head in a box? That enough proof for you? But, oh, yeah, if that happens, you can kiss the files, your career, and your handsome ass good-bye. Lane is my biological son.”
Cook’s eyes widened. He looked at Grace, at Faroe, and back at Grace.
“Yes,” she said. “Ted is Lane’s legal father. Joe is Lane’s biological father.”
“He knows?” Cook asked.
“Lane? No,” she said. “Ted knows. He has for years.”
“Judas Priest,” Cook said, raking a hand through his black curls. “You mean Ted is lying about that school?”
“He put Lane in All Saints as a hostage to ROG. At the time, I didn’t know it was more than a school.” Grace hoped her tears didn’t show, but knew they did.
So what? I can cry and still get the job done
.
“Man, in two years running this task force, I thought I’d heard it all.” Cook blew out a hard breath. “I have kids of my own. I’d kill anyone who…” His voice dried up.
“But if your kid was in Mexico,” Faroe said, “you couldn’t do shit. How many times have you gone south without ROG knowing exactly what you’re doing and where you’re doing it? For that matter, how many times have you been able to go south of the line with your own pistol on your belt?”
Cook’s mouth flattened. “You know the answer.”
“I sure do. One inch south of the razor wire in Spring Canyon, you lose ninety-five percent of your authority,” Faroe said. “It’s been that way for fifty years. But I have a way to tweak things just long enough to make you a hero.”
“A hero is a dude with his head so far up his butt he can’t see the light of the oncoming train.”
“Spoken like a true FBI bureaucrat,” Faroe said. “You ever heard the saying, ‘Faint heart ne’er fucked the fair maiden’?”
“I’ve heard it from guys who thought they could catch lightning in a
bottle.”
“So you’re not interested in Hector Rivas Osuna?” Faroe said.
“Hell yes, I want to take Hector out of the game,” Cook said roughly. “You see the reward posters wallpapering the port of entry? Five million bucks. No federal agent can collect that reward, but I don’t care. I just want that narco asshole in an American prison.”
“Even if you come up with those files,” Grace said, “you’re still a long way from getting your hands on Hector.”
“We’ll get him,” Cook said.
“Which century?” Faroe asked. “He’s been indicted in the United States for six years. He’s still king of the dunghill down south. What’s one more piece of paper calling him Supercrook? He frames them and hangs them in his bathroom.”
“Realistically,” Grace said, “all Ted can give you is the fifty million dollars in his files, correct?”
“I take the long view,” Cook said.
“My view doesn’t go past twelve-thirty today,” Faroe said coldly. “Work with us and you’ll get the files, the fifty million, and good old Hector
on this side of the line
.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Cook said sardonically. “You’re going to put on a stretchy blue bodysuit and a red cape, grab Hector, and shove him through a hole in the fence.”
“Close enough,” Faroe said.
“When we took custody of the dudes who killed Kiki Camarena that way, the American judges crapped in their robes,” Cook said. “Sorry, Your Honor.”
She shrugged. “I resigned from the federal bench this morning.”
Cook started to ask something, then thought better of it.
“What I’m going to do,” Faroe said, “won’t ruffle the feathers of any except the most irrational of federal judges.”
“What’s your plan?” Cook demanded.
“I’ll grab Hector on this side of the line, where he’ll be caught in the
commission of a federal felony.”
“Superman you might be,” Cook said, “but you ain’t Santa Claus. I know Santa Claus. He’s a fat guy with a big red suit and elves.”
Faroe waited.
“No hole in the fence?” Cook demanded.
“Just a hole in the ground. Hector’s tunnel.”
Cook’s eyes widened. “Who told you about the tunnel? Who was it? I’ll bust his ass right out of the agency.”
“I heard about it south of the line.”
“Where is it?”
“The tunnel?” Faroe asked.
“Shit, yes, the tunnel!”
“Do we have a deal?”
“Deal? What deal?”
“You produce Ted Franklin at the time and place of our choice. We’ll give you Hector Rivas Osuna and his tunnel.”