“Mr. Ochoa, I assure you, I would like to cooperate with you, but I’m in the dark as much as you are,” Cass said, flustered and confused. “The U.S. Attorney for the appropriate district is usually notified of any ongoing federal investigations, especially if it involves multidepartment operations. I don’t like being given only half the facts like this, and I’m going to get some answers.” She stood, walked around her desk, and extended a hand apologetically. “Unfortunately, I won’t have any answers for you this afternoon, Mr. Ochoa. I will be sure to notify you as soon as I’ve…”
“¡Esto es indignante! I have never been treated so disrespectfully since…since I was assaulted by those soldiers at Rampart One!” Ochoa said hotly. “You will be hearing from the consul general about this, and so will your State Department! Good day to you, madam!” He ignored her proffered hand, spun on his heel, and left the office.
Annette Cass stood in the center of her office with a blank expression on her face—but only for a moment. “Laura! Get me Director DeLaine on the phone! I want answers, and I want them now!”
It took several minutes, during which time Cass fired off several angry e-mails to the Attorney General, her assistant prosecutors, and several judges who might become involved in this case, complaining about what she had learned that afternoon. Finally: “This is Director DeLaine.”
“Miss DeLaine, this is Annette Cass, U.S. Attorney for the southern California district.”
“How are you, Annette?” Kelsey DeLaine said, her voice businesslike and neutral, not friendly but not yet confrontational.
“I’m angry, that’s how I am, Miss Director. I just learned from the commander of the Border Patrol sector field office in Indio, California, that Richter was there. The indications were that the FBI is conducting an investigation regarding the shootings near Blythe. Why wasn’t I informed of this?”
“It’s an FBI investigation, Annette. You’ll be brought in as soon as we need support from your office.”
“Miss Director, I’m not sure if you’re fully aware of how we do things out here, but it’s customary to bring the U.S. Attorney’s office in right away, at the beginning of any investigation, even if there’s no requirement or…”
“And I’m not sure if you’re aware of how I do things, Miss Cass,” Kelsey interjected. “It’s simple: when I need you, or if the field office in San Diego who’s coordinating this investigation needs you, we’ll call you.” Cass was momentarily flustered into silence—she was not accustomed to being blown off like that. “Anything else for me, Annette?”
Cass quickly decided that confronting the director of the FBI was not going to gain her anything at this point. “What is going on out here, Miss Director?” Cass asked. “I’m asking for a little heads-up, that’s all. If there’s anything I can contribute, I’d be happy to do so, but I need a little background info first.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be annoyed because Richter is out walking around free and clear and still in your district?”
Cass silently swore at DeLaine. “Of course, I’m concerned about his activities, Miss Director,” she admitted. “I’ve still got U.S. marshals in the hospital with serious injuries, and no one is being punished for that. It’s still my opinion that Richter is part of the problem, not the solution. But I also hate surprises; I’m sure you do too. I have sixty prosecutors and a staff of five hundred standing ready to assist and support other local, state, and federal agencies in their work, especially the FBI. I’m accustomed to being asked for support, that’s all. I’m trying to help, Miss Director.”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line; then: “All I can tell you right now, Annette, is that we received information that there are witnesses to the murders at Blythe.”
“Witnesses? That’s great! Who are they? Migrants? Border Patrol?”
“One of the Border Patrol agents on the scene that we reported as killed survived,” Kelsey said, hesitant to talk too much and anxious to end this call. “We debriefed him at our office in San Diego. He reported that there were not one, but two smugglers at the scene of the shooting. The second one, a kid named Flores, is missing. Richter and the surviving agent are going down there to try to find him.”
“Why the Border Patrol and TALON? Why not the FBI?”
DeLaine hesitated again, afraid she was talking too much, but hurried on: “The Border Patrol agent identified one of the men at the shooting scene near Blythe as possibly being Yegor Zakharov.”
“Zakharov! The terrorist? He’s back in the U.S…. ?”
“That’s what we’re looking into,” Kelsey said. “The shooters at Blythe could have been Consortium. If it was Zakharov and the Consortium, Task Force TALON has the authority to go after them anywhere in the world.”
“Well…yes…yes, I agree,” Cass said, mollified. “This is all new information, Miss Director. Thank you for sharing it with me. My office will do anything we can to help. I hope they find Flores.”
“Thank you, Miss Cass. I am the point of contact for all matters dealing with TALON. Don’t hesitate to call if necessary.”
“Yes, Miss Director.”
“This is all confidential information, of course, Annette.”
“Of course.” The phone connection was broken…
…but another connection—a small listening device planted under the front edge of Cass’s desk, directly opposite of where Ochoa had been seated—was still very much alive.
BAKERSFIELD, CALIFORNIA
A SHORT TIME LATER
The streetwalkers were so easy, especially the older ones who thought they knew how to handle their johns. Act macho and smooth during the initial exchange; change to acting indecisive and unsure during negotiations to reel the girl in; then act apprehensive and a little scared as each date began in the hotel room. A few drinks, some tense necking, some clumsy stripping and play-acting to get the john hard, and then let her get on top and have the reins so she might think this was going to be an easy “wham-bang-thank-you-ma’am” date.
Then, when she was ready to wrap it up and leave—turn the tables, quickly and violently. Make her fear for her safety within seconds, and then her life within a minute or two. Delight in watching her transform from an experienced pro to a quivering, whimpering, begging child. Anything goes at that point—she was ready to accept anything, agree to do any perversity or act, as long as she believed she had a chance to survive and get out of that room alive and relatively unhurt.
They were usually gone in the wink of an eye when he was finished, and they didn’t stop for several blocks. They would notice that the money was fake then, but most wouldn’t have the courage to go back for it. A few had their pimps and enforcers go back to try to collect—that’s usually when he would pick up a new gun, maybe some nice jewelry, and some traveling cash before leaving that part of town, before the cops found the badly mutilated bodies he’d leave behind.
Yegor Zakharov had just finished one such encounter—his second of the evening—and was on his way back to the place he had left his car when his satellite phone rang. He read the decryption code on the display, looked up the unlock code on a card in his pocket, entered it, and waited until he heard the electronic chirps and beeps stop. “¿Chto eto?”
“Tell me your men did not enjoy it, Colonel,” the voice of Ernesto Fuerza said.
“Fuck you. My men and I are not your wet-workers.”
“But they did enjoy it, no?”