After the daring assault and the multiple assassinations to come, the defeats of the past would be forgotten. With their honor and respect fully restored, the other cartels would clamor to join a new alliance forged and ruled by the Rojas clan. Soon his family would control all of the cocaine production and distribution in the Northern Hemisphere, just as the Saudi Arabian sheiks controlled the oil flowing out of the Middle East. Even America, with all of her military might, would be paralyzed with the dread of another cartel attack. Their leaders would make speeches, promise to wage yet another war against drugs, while sitting on their pristine, perfectly-manicured hands and doing nothing.
For nearly an hour, Curtis Manning saw no one enter or leave the multiple-block compound of Bix Automotive, though the mysterious activity inside the garage clearly continued. Occasionally Curtis would see the flash of a welder’s torch visible behind the garage’s oily windows, or someone would step outside for a smoke or a breath of fresh air, only to be ordered back into the enormous garage by Roman Vine, Bix’s strong-arm man. Manning noted that today Vine was carrying an illegal sawed-off shotgun, and he wasn’t shy about flashing it.
Curtis was about to report in when he observed a Saturn minivan roll up to the garage door. Roman Vine spied the car and waved it forward. Curtis quickly counted four men inside the car before they drove into the garage. He didn’t get a good look at the faces, though he did notice that one man wore reflecting sunglasses. Curtis noticed this because the man stared directly at the abandoned Tool and Die factory as if he were looking right at Curtis.
Dutifully, Curtis snapped a digital image of the men with his PDA, then forwarded it to Morris O’Brian at the Cha-Cha Lounge. While he performed that task, another SUV — this one a Chrysler — pulled onto the Bix lot. Curtis had no time to snap digital pictures of the men inside that vehicle. They all appeared to be Hispanic males in their late twenties or early thirties. Curtis counted six men in the car.
Curtis had just pulled the cell phone out of his pocket when his PDA sounded. He checked the display and discovered his data drop to Morris had not gone through.
Suddenly alarmed, Curtis then checked his cell phone and found he could not get a signal, no matter how hard he tried. That should have been impossible, because he’d used the cell phone when he last checked in with Morris, less than thirty minutes before.
Someone was jamming the signals in the area, which meant that Bix or his men probably suspected someone was in the vicinity, spying on them. Curtis tucked the devices into his pocket, then reached for his jacket. It was time to go.
Carlos Boca looked up from the liquid crystal display screen. “You were correct, Pizarro. There was someone in that building across the street. I believe they are still there.”
Pizarro stood in the middle of the crowded garage. Hugo Bix had come down from his tattered office to greet the Colombian brothers and their Cuban allies, only to be silenced by an angry Pizarro Rojas. Chewing his lip, Pizarro waited for the results of Boca’s transmission scan.
“You’re certain there is a watcher?” Balboa asked, glancing at his brother, then at the Cubans.
“You’re the jamming expert, Balboa. What do you think?” Carlos stared at the Rojas brother. Balboa nodded.
“Whoever’s spying, they have attempted to send a data transmission, either from a PDA or a laptop computer. Then, just now, the observer also tried to make a phone call. I blocked both signals with the jamming system,” Carlos explained.
Pizarro Rojas faced Hugo Bix. The American cowboy was over a head taller than the squat, wide Colombian. “Have your men checked that abandoned building across the street?” Pizarro demanded.
Bix pursed his lips and scratched his stubbled chin under the handlebar moustache. Then he glanced at his partner. “I reckon Roman here will know,” Bix replied.
“No one’s been in there, man. What’s the point. Not even bums will sleep there ’cause the building’s full of rattlers,” Roman told the Colombian.
Pizarro frowned. “There are more than snakes around. My man says you are being watched, which means that someone is inside that building across the street.”
“If that’s true, then Roman here can deal with the situation,” Bix replied smoothly.
Roman nervously wiped his upper lips. He hated snakes.
Carlos Boca set the black box on the hood of a car. “My brother and I will take care of this.”
“No,” Pizarro Rojas countered. “I need you both here, to examine the quality of the American’s work. We can’t afford any mistakes.”
Carlos nodded, gestured to three men from the other SUV. He gave them terse instructions in Spanish, and the men retrieved AK–47s from their vehicle. Then they headed for the back door of the garage.
“What if the intruder gets away?” Bix asked. “Out of range of that do-hickey of yours?”
Carlos watched as the trio slipped outside, then split up. “Don’t worry. He won’t,” Boca vowed.
Inside the garage, Pizarro Rojas peered at the sprinters lined up in a neat row. “The trucks are prepared, I see.”
“Six of them, just like you ordered,” Bix replied. “They’ve all been stolen hundreds of miles from here, and we’ve supplied phony license plates and electronic key cards with the proper vendor codes. Each of these trucks has been customized to breeze right through the Babylon’s security without arousing suspicion.
“Behind the wheels of these babies—” Bix thumped the hood with the flat of his callused hand, “—you and your boys can roll right into the underground delivery area and park where you want.”
Bix’s homespun smile broadened. “Best of all. every one of those damn trucks is loaded for bear.”
The bell rang and the doors opened. Lilly Sheridan’s daughter Pamela looked up, blinking with astonishment at the man stepping into the elevator.
The new passenger was perhaps the largest man Lilly had ever seen. Not only tall — this man’s shoulders were as wide as the refrigerator back at her crummy rent-a-house. He wore a tailored suit that Lilly just knew cost more than she earned in a month, even counting her tips.
He must be a pro-basketball star, she concluded. Or maybe a football player. But a closer inspection changed her mind. He’s too old to be a pro anything.
The man’s face was a mask of concentration. Brows furrowed, he rubbed his chin. Suddenly, he seemed to realize she was there. The man’s face relaxed, his brown eyes met hers.
“Hi,” Lilly said shyly.
“Hello.”
The man’s voice was deep, almost a rumble. He noticed Pamela then, and his smile became dazzling. “Do you like the ride?” he asked.
Pamela nodded. “Makes me queasy, though.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
The elevator slowed. “Have a good evening,” the man said. “Enjoy your stay at the Babylon,” Lilly replied. He turned and smiled. “Thank you,” he said, and the doors closed again.
“Mom, who was that man?”
“I don’t know,” Lilly replied, distracted. She was worried the banquet manager would be waiting at the entrance to the ball room. Evelyn did that sometimes, to make sure everyone had dressed properly. She didn’t want the woman to see Pamela. Too much to explain, and Evelyn would figure out her scam.
“No babysitter, no job,” she’d say, sending Lilly home rather than letting her stash her daughter in the dressing room for a couple of hours, where the child wouldn’t do any harm.