He started for the archway and the tunnel beyond.
But at the far end of the room behind him, a soldier appeared, leveling his rifle.
Samad was sitting up in bed, the soft glow of his cell phone casting long shadows across the ceiling. Talwar, Niazi, and the rest of the Los Angeles team were sleeping in the other rooms. Rahmani was supposed to call him at any moment so he could report on their practice run, and Samad wished the old man would make that call because he felt entirely drained, his eyes already narrowed to slits. What they were about to do — the complexity and audacity of it all, the sheer will it took — was a lot to bear. He would never admit openly to feeling any guilt, but the nearer they got to that fateful moment, the sharper, the deeper, his reservations became.
His father was the problem. That old picture spoke to him, told him that this was not what Allah wanted, that killing innocent civilians was not Allah’s will, and that the infidels should be taught the error of their ways, not murdered because of them. That old picture reminded Samad of the day his father had given him a bag filled with chocolate. “Where did you get it?” Samad had asked. “From an American missionary. The Americans want to help us.”
Samad squeezed shut his eyes and balled his hands into fists, digging his nails deeply into his skin, as though he could purge the guilt from his body, sweat it out like a fever. He needed to meditate, to pray more deeply to Allah and ask for his peace. He glanced over to his Qur’an:
O Messenger, rouse the Believers to the fight. If there are twenty amongst you, patient and persevering, they will vanquish two hundred: if a hundred, they will vanquish a thousand of the Unbelievers: for these are a people without understanding.
The phone vibrated, startling him. “Yes, Mullah Rahmani, I am here.”
“And all is well?”
“God is great. Our run went perfectly, and I heard back from the other teams. No problems.”
“Excellent. I have another bit of news I thought I’d share. I made a deal with the Sinaloa Cartel. Even though Zúñiga was killed, his successor, who is also his brother-in-law, has promised me the same arrangement we had with Rojas — but even better, because he’s put us in contact with the Gulf Cartel in order to double our shipments. We don’t need the Juárez Cartel anymore. I never liked Señor Rojas’s attitude.”
“He was not very agreeable when I spoke to him.”
“No matter now. I will talk to you tomorrow, Samad. Rest easy, rest well. Allahu Akbar.”
Moore had chased the figure down the stairs, through the basement, and toward the pair of vaults. But then he’d taken fire from someone behind him, and that had left him pinned down, just behind the open vault door, with no clear way to swing around and get inside the vault.
He chanced a look out, spied the guy across the basement, hunkered down near one of the cars. As the guy lifted his head, revealing the black eye patch beneath his gas mask, Moore opened up on him, a solid three-round burst that drove him scrambling for better cover.
With a chance to move, Moore rose up from his haunches, about to sprint into the vault. Three more of Soto’s men were in the basement with him, as evidenced by the shots they now traded with the one-eyed Castillo, and Moore called to Marina-Two to have those men focus all their attention on that man. “Make sure they know I’m in the vault,” he added.
As Soto’s men sent a barrage of fire in Castillo’s direction, Moore swung around and rushed forward, sweeping the corners, the crevices, every spot near or around a piece of furniture or behind a rug where one of them could be hidden. It was a vault. How far could he go? But then there it was, just ahead, past the racks of carpets, another door with a combination lock, slightly ajar.
His heart raced. To hell with it. He ripped off his gas mask, needing all of his senses now. The air was good, or at least it seemed so for now. He’d trained extensively with various forms of gases, beginning way back in boot camp inside the Confidence Chamber and continuing on through SEAL training. He’d been exposed both with a mask and without. Red eyes and vomiting were often the results of a successful evolution. At least his increased lung capacity gave him an advantage. He took a deep breath, held it, and—
Pulled open and rolled around the door. He swung himself inside, his gaze probing.
It all hit him at once: the racks, the stacks of money, the guns and boxes of ammo at the far end, and the concrete entrance to a tunnel …
Then another image struck like an electrical current that made him gasp — it was Rojas brandishing an AK-47.
Reacting much faster than Moore had anticipated, Rojas threw himself to the floor beside one of the gun racks and got off a full automatic salvo.
Two rounds hammered into Moore’s left breast, knocking him back toward one of the money racks, his breath gone, his return fire going wide and hammering into the wall of cash until he could cease fire.
Rojas hit the ground, one elbow crashing hard, and he lost his grip on the rifle.
Moore caught his balance and hunkered down to squint ahead, where Rojas was about to lift his AK-47, but he stopped, realizing that Moore had him — no time, no chance. He raised one palm, then the other.
“Get up!” Moore ordered.
Rojas rose, leaving his rifle on the floor. With hands still raised, he padded in bare feet toward Moore.
So this was the richest man in all of Mexico, surrounded by the spoils of the war he had waged on Mexico, on the United States, and on the rest of the world. He built hospitals and schools, even as the cancer of his empire spread through those same schoolyards. He was a saint, all right, his white robes now bloody, his pockets lined with the sorrows of millions. And, of course, he was so self-absorbed that he had no idea how many people had died because of him.
But Moore knew at least a few of them, their ghosts at his shoulders, their deaths in vain were it not for this moment, this night.
Rojas began shaking his head and glaring. “Your pathetic little raid? All of this? Do you think it means anything? You’ll arrest me, and I’ll walk away.”
“I know,” said Moore, releasing his rifle and drawing one of his Glocks, a round already chambered. He lifted the gun to Rojas’s head. “I’m not here to arrest you.”
Castillo was lying against one of Rojas’s antique cars, the 1963 Corvette to be precise, dying from a gunshot wound to the neck when he heard a shot go off from inside the vault. He removed his mask and his eye patch and began to pray for God to take his soul. It had been a good life, and he’d suspected that the end would be like this. If you lived by the bullet then you should die by the bullet. He only wished he knew if Señor Rojas had escaped. If he could die knowing that much was true, then he would leave this earth with a grin after he took in his last breath. He owed Jorge Rojas everything.
During the raid, Soto’s men had successfully captured the chef, several other servants, and a woman identified as Alexsi, Rojas’s girlfriend. Once the house had been secured, Towers, who was wearing a sling, joined Moore as they climbed into one of the civilian cars left parked around the corner for their escape. “It’s too bad you had to shoot him …”