Miguel began to feel heartsick. “I don’t know.”
“So why don’t we ask him to go down there and just look at the stuff? He can come with us …”
“He won’t agree.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you like me to ask him?” She smiled coyly. “I’m pretty sure he likes me.”
Miguel sighed. “Of course he likes you, but it won’t matter.”
She wriggled her brows like a little girl. “Do you want to sneak down there?”
Miguel snickered. “He’s got a guard standing at the door twenty-four-seven.”
“Maybe he’s got some jewelry down there, too. More expensive stuff he’s really worried about, so he has a guard. I don’t see why any of this is so odd to you. These are dangerous times, and possessions must be protected.”
“I want to tell you something, but I’m afraid.”
She rose and crossed to him, took a seat on the ledge, and dunked her legs in the water. He pushed himself beside her, and she placed a hand on his cheek. “You can tell me anything you want.”
“Do you remember what Raúl said before they killed him?”
She grimaced. “Do we have to talk about that?”
“Please …”
She sighed deeply. “I don’t remember what he said. I only remember the screaming. And …all the blood …” She put a hand to her own cheek, clearly remembering how they’d wiped Raúl’s blood across her face.
“He said the cartel would pay anything. Let me say that again. He said the cartel would pay. Why would he say that?”
“Maybe he was working for a cartel, too, and never told Fernando. Who knows? Maybe that’s why we got into trouble in the first place. Why is that bothering you?”
“It’s just …nothing.”
“You said there’s a guard outside the door to the basement. I haven’t seen him.”
“We haven’t been to that side of the house.”
“Maybe we can bribe him.”
“Won’t work.”
“We don’t know till we try. Come on. It’ll be fun. It’ll take your mind off all of this.”
She picked herself up and turned back toward Fernando, who’d come onto the pool deck and who was lowering his cell phone. “Better get showered and ready,” he said. “We’ll be joining Señor Rojas for dinner soon …”
“We want to go down to the basement first.”
He frowned at her and looked to Miguel. “I’m sorry, but only Señor Rojas is permitted there.”
Sonia softened her tone and edged up to him, thrusting out her chest. “Come on, Fernando. Take us for a little tour.”
“That’s not possible.”
She pouted like a schoolgirl. “Okay, then. We’ll go get ready for dinner. Come on, Miguel. I’m getting burned, anyway …”
She helped him out of the pool, and he accepted a towel from her, then stood there, being scrutinized by Castillo. “Fernando, is something wrong?”
“No, señor.”
The suspicion hung heavy in the bodyguard’s tone.
The cartel truck backed into the driveway of a two-story private home in a suburban neighborhood of southeast Palmdale. The truck sat there in the driveway, just idling, with Ansara and Moore parked about fifteen houses away, down the street, sandwiched between two other cars. Palmdale was a city in the high desert, separated from Los Angeles by the San Gabriel Mountains and exceedingly hot in the summertime. It was a well-planned community of suburbs with the tiled roofs of thousands of houses forming terra-cotta ribbons across the otherwise drab mountains. More than 150,000 people called Palmdale home, and bike trails, parks, theaters, and a new regional medical center attracted young families who deemed the city a great place to raise kids. Moore had been there once before, visiting a SEAL buddy’s parents who worked for the largest employer in the area, Lockheed Martin. The seedy under belly of Palmdale and its neighboring city Lancaster was much more apparent at the hotels and motels that had sprouted up along the freeway, where prostitution and drug deals ran rampant.
While they waited, Moore contacted Towers, who had another bit of news to share. They’d reestablished contact with Sonia, who’d reached one of the many dead drops the Agency had established for her around Rojas’s mansion in case she got into trouble. Hidden at each drop were a pistol and a satellite phone. The dead drop she’d used was at a restaurant not far from Rojas’s mansion. While Miguel waited, she’d gone to the ladies’ room and, once the room was empty, she’d retrieved the phone from a small box tucked deeply beneath the far-right sink and made the encrypted call to her handler. She was demanding to know who’d saved her, and trying to find out why a joint task force had been assigned to her case without her knowledge.
“Did you tell her we had the same question?” Moore asked, chuckling sardonically through his words.
“Are you kidding? I can’t talk to her directly. This comes to me from your bosses.”
“Oh, well, tell them I said she owes me a cup of coffee.”
“Yeah, right, I’ll do that. She does offer some news. Dante Corrales is missing. Off the grid. His girlfriend with him. Vega confirmed that before she was killed. They murdered the desk clerk at Corrales’s hotel. That tells me they’re looking for Corrales.”
“Maybe he screwed over the Guatemalans, and now he’s on the run from them and from his own cartel.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking.”
“Hey, I know where he’d go.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Hang on now. I’ll call you back.” Moore lifted his camera and zoomed in.
Two motorcycles pulled up and parked across the street from the truck. A tall man got off the first one, and a slightly shorter man swung off the second. They wore jeans, leather jackets, and expensive basketball sneakers. They both had athletic builds, and once they removed their helmets, it was clear neither man was over thirty-five. Moore got some good pictures of their faces and immediately uploaded them to the satellite so Langley could begin working on their identities.
They crossed the street and had a conversation with the driver of the truck, who did not get out of his vehicle, and neither did his two accomplices. After two minutes of that, one of the men opened the garage door with a remote, and the men inside the truck climbed out and got to work. What appeared to be the final shipment of marijuana bricks was transferred into the garage and packed into cardboard moving boxes. The weapons remained onboard the truck.
By the time the cartel men were finished unloading and the two men were getting ready to rumble off on their bikes, Towers had called to confirm that the bikers were local sheriff’s deputies. Moore could only shake his head. American law enforcement officers were as susceptible to temptation as the Mexican local and federal authorities. When there was this much money at stake, men barely making $50,000 per year — men who could make that much in a weekend doing the cartel’s bidding — found it excruciatingly difficult to remain honest. While Moore hardly agreed with that, he understood it. And hated it.
“Let’s bust these bastards right now,” he muttered. “They take an oath …and then shit on it.”
“I’d love to,” said Ansara. “But it’s not over yet. There they go.”
The truck pulled out of the driveway and started down the street. Towers had sent over more information on the vehicle’s registration, which Moore had reviewed. The truck was registered to Roberto Guzman of 14818 Archwood Avenue, Van Nuys, California. Guzman owned a produce distribution company in Los Angeles. He’d already been brought in for questioning and claimed he didn’t know anything about his truck being used to pick up, transport, and distribute marijuana. According to him, the driver of the vehicle worked for him and had taken the truck home for the weekend to perform some minor repairs in order to “save the boss some money.” That was bullshit, of course. Guzman had been bought, his truck borrowed, his ass now in a sling for helping the cartel.