The Debriefing Page 4

  Tony was surprised when Matt returned to El Paso, thinking he’d come, in part, to help with Dorothy. He paid visits, yes, not that she recognized him on most days, but that was about all his brother did. Tony wondered cynically if Matt’s returning home was motivated mostly by the opening of a big glitzy casino just outside of town.

  Probably that was part of it. The other reason: Matt needed a job, and surprised Tony by thinking about policing. Could Tony put in a good word for him at EPPD?

  Which, against his better judgment, he did. He was scooped up, a decorated soldier. First he was on SWAT, the cowboy detail, but then—as the years went by—he did regular detective work.

  But they never worked together.

  Matt and I aren’t partnered . . .

  And rarely socialized together either. Tony tried but Matt had little interest. His crowd was poker, dirt bikes, and the bars along Piedras and in Five Points East.

  Now, in the hospital bed, Tony gave up the fake sleep. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the medical vital signs monitor. The sort you see in movies, where there’s the blip and then there isn’t and a sound goes off, the no-life-function warning, and we tense, thinking the hero is a goner. How did the manufacturer of the equipment decide how loud to make that sound, the pitch? Who selected the tone that meant death?

  It now occurred to Tony that he’d lied twice to Agent Shea Talbot.

  And you followed them. Why?

  Just four officers, in Cardozo territory? Thought they might need backup.

  When the truth was, of course, that as infuriated as he was about his roof-jumping, adrenaline-addicted kid brother, Tony just couldn’t give up on him. As barren as the relationship had become, they were blood and, though he knew M didn’t think about T the same way, Tony simply had to strap on body armor, get into his personal car and drive an hour into Cartelville to look out for him.

  What a fool. What a fucking fool I am. Tony choked a cry. Never should’ve gone. Better not to even suspect what Matt might have done.

  But he had gone and he couldn’t live with the question hanging over him for the rest of his life. He had to know.

  He rehearsed the words: M, did you sell the team out? Are you responsible for Jonny Boyd’s death?

  Blunt. Bare knuckles.

  The Douglas Incident.

  “M?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s something I have to ask you.”

  Matt looked around. “Any booze here?”

  “What?”

  Matt repeated, “Any booze?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a hospital. Of course not. Just shut up and listen.”

  Matt looked toward his brother.

  “I need to know something. I need—”

  But the question went no further. Tony had looked away briefly, glancing out the circling-hawk window. He gasped. Three, no four men, in camo and ski masks, were holding machine guns with suppressors on them. Their guns were up and they were swiveling right to left as they made their way steadily toward the hospital entrance.

  Nine

  Eyes on Elena Velasquez, Manuel Santos received a call. A lieutenant was telling him that the abandoned warehouse outside of town was ready. The tools, the acid.

  The neighborhood in which the building was located was largely deserted but the aide had nonetheless selected a place with thick walls. It was astonishing how loud the human voice could be when screaming. Santos wore his shooting earplugs.

  The man added that it featured a pit that would be a convenient grave. The bags of quick-dry concrete had been delivered. Her body would never be discovered.

  “Thank you,” Santos told him. Although his monotone voice might have detracted from the praise in anyone else, to receive any gratitude from Manual Santos, La Piedra, was a coup indeed. The man thanked him for the thank-you and they disconnected.

  In front of the café, the voluptuous Elena Velasquez was leaning forward, examining her canvas.

  The woman who was such a threat to the Cardozo cartel was dressed like a gypsy, a black lace blouse, cut quite low, and a dramatic red-and-black flowered skirt. Flamenco came immediately to Santos’s mind. She wore a broad-brimmed dark-green hat, sprouting a pretentious feather. Her cowboy boots were scuffed brown leather. Her glasses frames were purple.

  Elena’s face was matte textured and, in places, blotched but in structure it was fashion-model beautiful. Santos could almost imagine making love to her.

  He and the two men in the back seat climbed from his SUV. Santos looked up and down the street. All clear. He nodded to Garcia, who remained behind the wheel, the engine idling. The man called the other vehicle, and three of those occupants got out, two armed and one manning a heavy-duty syringe filled with propofol. The needle was thick, which resulted in a very painful injection, but it was perfect for struggling victims; a broken needle would be inconvenient.

  Elena would be unconscious, hog-tied and in the back of the vehicle within seconds. Then to the warehouse. The men had drawn straws to see who would be lucky enough to carry her to the SUV—the groping, of course.

  The men advanced slowly, as Elena sat back and selected a brush. She squinted then leaned toward the canvas—a landscape—and began to dab. How meticulous she was. In his passionless world, the hunger for art was perhaps the most perplexing to him. Taking pigments, mashing them with oil or plastic and spreading them on a piece of canvas.

  What was the point? At least a photograph was a two-dimensional version of the truth. But painting? It was all a lie. A boring lie.

  He studied the scene. Pedestrians, a dog walker, a window washer, six, no seven lunchers at Margarette, the restaurant in front of which Elena sat. Santos also noted two couples in love, oblivious to the world around them. There was an older husband and wife with a younger woman—all their faces revealed tension. Santos, who had never been married, wondered if the couple was getting divorced because he had found someone younger, and they were breaking the news to the daughter.

  The men split into two groups and advanced. Santos stopped, the general, frozen like a statue, observing his operation.

  La Piedra . . .

  Santos thought of what lay ahead for Elena. He’d start on the fingers first, with the razor and acid. The pain was quite astonishing (he’d tried it on himself, just to see). In her case, though, the idea of destroying the fingers that allowed her to satisfy her passion would possibly be more effective in getting her to give up the names of anybody with the cartel who had willingly or accidentally shared information with her (they would die too, of course).

  He pictured the slices, the burns . . . and was pleased that in his heart, his soul and possibly his dick, he felt a slight stirring at the image of her screaming in pain. Manuel Santos always held out the hope that he wasn’t forever damned.

  Ten

  M!” Tony was on his feet, woozy, ankle screaming. “Men, outside. They’re coming! The Cardozos.”

  His younger brother glanced outside at the men in camo, their heads covered in the balaclavas. They now numbered six.

  He seemed oddly placid.

  Of course, Tony thought with dismay, why should he be worried? They weren’t coming for him. They were after Tony. Matt had sold out to them; they were his buddies.

  Tony lunged toward the door. He’d put all his weight on the bad ankle, and he went down hard.

  “Jesus!” Matt called, rising too.

  A burst of automatic weapons fire from a corridor nearby. Screams.

  “No, no!” Tony cried, as three masked figures burst into the room, their submachine guns ready.

  Tony turned to his brother and was about to shout, “Hope you’re happy, Judas,” or something like that.

  When one of the three gunmen pulled off his balaclava.

  Tony gasped aloud. The man he was looking at was Ronaldo Suarez, the head of El Paso PD’s SWAT team.

  “Hola,” Matt said.

  “Hey,” Suarez responded. He and another
of the trio helped Tony up. “Can you walk?”

  Tony was speechless.

  Suarez again: “Officer? I’m asking. Can you walk? We don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Yeah. Need an arm. But—”

  The SWAT leader ordered one of his men to help. Another to gather Matt’s and Tony’s clothes and belongings. “You can dress in the vehicle. Gotta move. Now!”

  As they stepped into the corridor Suarez asked, “Does it have a slit?”

  “What?”

  “That robe? That you’re wearing? Does it have a slit up the back?”

  “I . . . Yeah, I guess.”

  “Then you follow me out. Some things I don’t get paid to see.”

  Eleven

  The two SUVs moved forward toward the restaurant, and the syringe man stepped along the sidewalk, coming up at Elena from behind.

  The two in charge of transporting her would pull her to the sidewalk. Punch her hard in the solar plexus, a debilitating blow. She’d be injected into oblivion.

  Then into the SUV, and razor time, acid time.

  Closer . . .

  Ready . . .

  Then Santos noted something odd. While Elena was indeed touching brush to canvas, there was no paint on the stubbly tip of bristles. In fact, the disks of paint on the palette were simply dry splotches, not smears of real paint.

  No! My God, no!

  His understanding was accompanied by a paroxysm of movement around the restaurant. The dog walker, the window washer, the couple—and their fake daughter!—were all drawing weapons under their jackets and from purses and beneath tables.

  Elena herself drew a stubby, black Heckler & Koch submachine gun from a floppy purple velvet purse.

  No, no, no!

  Demands, simultaneously in English and Spanish, roared from the officers in the street, as well as from those on high—snipers on the surrounding buildings. “Drop the weapons, drop the weapons, lie face down, hands out, drop the weapons or you will be fired on!”

  My Lord, there were cops everywhere! US and Mexican.

  His men’s heads swiveled, and their eyes flashed in desperation. Some fled, firing as they did so, and officers pursued, returning shots. Most stayed put and dropped the guns, which clattered loudly on the cobblestones, and they pitched forward. The US officers and Federales went to work with zip ties.

  Santos then noted that one of his crew did not comply. Felipe, nineteen or so, had dropped his weapon but remained upright, frozen. Not out of defiance but terror.

  Santos, too, remained still. His palms up.

  The screams and shouts and low-pitched commands continued. He was mentioned by name several times. He was to get down immediately.

  This thought edged into his mind: in theory prison might be just up his alley—it being a most dispassionate place to live out your life.

  Surrender was logical. It made infinite sense.

  But surrender he did not. He stepped directly behind Felipe. Sensing the boy was about to bolt, he flung his arm around his neck, drew the Sig Sauer and fired at the approaching police. They returned shots, hitting Felipe several times. The forehead shot was messy and fatal.

  Using the limp body as a shield, he turned his weapon toward a shop behind him, a florist’s. With two bullets he blew out the plate glass window. Because of the silencer the cascading glass made a far louder sound than the gunshots. Santos leapt into the store and sprinted toward the back door, firing a shot into the mirrors, shattering them into shards, to scatter the patrons and clerks. The smell of smokeless powder mingled with that of lilies.

  Santos was thinking: hijack a car, escape, call more men from the cartel, engage the enemy. He could have his own dozen men here in five minutes.

  They wanted a battle, a battle they would have.

  He looked out the back door. No Federales, no American cops.

  Move now, fast!

  Ah, good. No need for hijacking. Garcia was in the bulletproof SUV, speeding to his rescue.

  Santos turned and emptied his magazine—a dozen shots—into the florist store to keep his pursuers hiding in cover. He then reloaded and ran toward the approaching vehicle.

  He was going to escape.

  Manuel Santos knew this for a certainty. He was indestructible, he was the Stone.

  Twelve

  With a half-dozen tactical officers, in full battle regalia, protecting them, one brother jogged and the other hobbled to the waiting Humvee, painted in camo, just like the other one, parked under the two flags.

  Tony didn’t have a clue what was happening but by now it wasn’t a humongous surprise that they weren’t at Hendrix army base outside of El Paso. He did, however, get a solid jolt to see the sign on the building they’d been in.

  HOSPITAL DE SAN BERNARDO

  Deep in the heart of Chihuahua, Cardozo territory.

  He’d have to live with his confusion for the time being, though, because Suarez and the other tactical officers weren’t in any position to answer questions. They were urgently hustling the two brothers into the middle row of the armored vehicle, and swiveling their weapons from side to side as they assessed threats.

  What the hell was—

  Tony gasped. He’d glanced into the back seat and saw DEA supervisor Jonny Boyd, very much alive. He was smiling.

  “Your expression, El Paso. Put that on a velvet painting of a clown and you’d have a QVC bestseller.”

  Under other circumstances Tony would have said, “Fuck you.” Now, he only gaped.

  Doors slammed, a massive engine roared and, with a jerk, the hard-suspensioned vehicle sped away, other Humvees in front and behind.

  Boyd leaned forward and called over the engine and rough road noise, “Any hostiles?”

  “No, sir. So far we’re clear.”

  Tony bounced up and down in the seat. Felt nauseous again. The seat belts were adjustable. He tightened them. It didn’t help. The road was really atrocious. The seventy miles per hour didn’t help either. This time if he puked, it would be on the floor. He didn’t care.

  He said, “Look, I need to call Lucy.”

  “Your wife’s been apprised that you’re all right. We’ll have to limit comms to the operation.”

  Tony was about to argue but Boyd’s phone hummed. He took a call, listened. He nodded and disconnected. “They’ve got some of them in bags, some’re hog-tied. But there’s still a running gun battle.”

  “Santos?”

  “No word.”

  Matt blew air from his cheeks. His face was worry, a very unusual expression for the tree jumper.

  Tony asked, “A firefight? Where? Who?”

  “Serrantino. Santos and his men versus a takedown team we put there.”

  Tony twisted to the back seat and growled. “Okay. Answers.”

  Boyd asked, “You want it like final Jeopardy!? Or Mrs. Williams’s third-grade grammar test? Complicated or simple?”

  Tony lifted an eyebrow. He was sure he’d joke with Boyd again at some point. Not now.

  The DEA man held up a hand. “Okay, okay. Here’s the story.” He settled back and handed a water to Tony, who opened it and chugged half the pint.

  Boyd said, “You know how bad we’ve wanted Santos. EPPD, DEA, FBI. Everybody.” He lifted his palms. “Your brother really wanted him.”

  Tony nodded. Thinking of Matt’s murdered partner.

  For no reason other than convenience . . .

  Boyd continued, “But he was invisible. Nobody could find him. The best intel and surveillance we’ve got? Zip. We needed to draw him out in public. So Matt took me out to lunch and pitched an idea to me a couple weeks ago. Risky but I liked it.”

  That’s what they were doing when Tony had seen them—the meeting Matt had lied to Talbot about: not about the missing drug bust money but about putting together a joint op.

  “Matt’s idea was to leak information to the Cardozistas that he was running a spy inside the cartel, giving him totally righteous info. Crap really harmful to th
em. Like what happens to me when I mix serranos and jalapeños and beans . . . Okay, sorry, El Paso. I’ll stick to straight man. Santos, of course, put together an op of his own to find out who it was.”

  “So Elena Velasquez was fictional.”

  “Totally. We got a hot DEA agent out of Brownsville to play her. I know I shouldn’t say that. But she is. She’s also one hell of a shot. Then EPPD got the anonymous call about the factory. We decided it was probably Santos, hoping to lure Matt there and kidnap him.”

  “Hold on. You volunteered to get yourself caught and tortured?” Tony whispered.

  The shrug said, “Sure, why not?”

  Tony recalled his brother on the playground, so very many years ago, after he’d leapt into space on a twenty-dollar bet. The older brother demanding of the younger to know if he was hurt. And then Matt’s amused look as he replied.

  Hurt? I just jumped off a roof. Of course I’m hurt. But what’s that got to do with anything?

  Thirteen

  Tony noted the sign they sped past.

  ESTADOS UNIDOS 60

  That would be kilometers. They’d be back in less than an hour.

  He thought of Lucy. But then concentrated on Matt once more.

  “So we put our plan in operation. Actually we had three. Plan One—”

  Boyd frowned. “No, no, no. You don’t have Plan One. You have Plan A. There’s no such thing as Plan One.”

  I’m the funny man here, El Paso . . .

  “Contingency One was: Santos is at the factory for the snatch, and we get him. Two, his men handle the snatch and take me to a safe house and Santos shows up there, and we get him. Then Plan . . . C: Santos has somebody else torture me and I give up the fake Elena Velasquez and her location . . . Santos goes to snatch and torture her. And we get him.”

  Tony was confused. “But how the hell would he”—a nod toward Boyd—“know whether it was A, B or C? Know when to move in?” He closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “Okay, got it. You’ve been wired.”