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?”