Tony was speechless.
Suarez again: “Officer? I’m asking. Can you walk? We don’t have a lot of time.”
“Yeah. Need an arm. But—”
The SWAT leader ordered one of his men to help. Another to gather Matt’s and Tony’s clothes and belongings. “You can dress in the vehicle. Gotta move. Now!”
As they stepped into the corridor Suarez asked, “Does it have a slit?”
“What?”
“That robe? That you’re wearing? Does it have a slit up the back?”
“I... Yeah, I guess.”
“Then you follow me out. Some things I don’t get paid to see.”
Eleven
The two SUVs moved forward toward the restaurant, and the syringe man stepped along the sidewalk, coming up at Elena from behind.
The two in charge of transporting her would pull her to the sidewalk. Punch her hard in the solar plexus, a debilitating blow. She’d be injected into oblivion.
Then into the SUV, and razor time, acid time.
Closer...
Ready...
Then Santos noted something odd. While Elena was indeed touching brush to canvas, there was no paint on the stubbly tip of bristles. In fact, the disks of paint on the palette were simply dry splotches, not smears of real paint.
No! My God, no!
His understanding was accompanied by a paroxysm of movement around the restaurant. The dog walker, the window washer, the couple — and their fake daughter! — were all drawing weapons under their jackets and from purses and beneath tables.
Elena herself drew a stubby, black Heckler & Koch submachine gun from a floppy purple velvet purse.
No, no, no!
Demands, simultaneously in English and Spanish, roared from the officers in the street, as well as from those on high — snipers on the surrounding buildings. “Drop the weapons, drop the weapons, lie face down, hands out, drop the weapons or you will be fired on!”
My Lord, there were cops everywhere! US and Mexican.
His men’s heads swiveled, and their eyes flashed in desperation. Some fled, firing as they did so, and officers pursued, returning shots. Most stayed put and dropped the guns, which clattered loudly on the cobblestones, and they pitched forward. The US officers and Federales went to work with zip ties.
Santos then noted that one of his crew did not comply. Felipe, nineteen or so, had dropped his weapon but remained upright, frozen. Not out of defiance but terror.
Santos, too, remained still. His palms up.
The screams and shouts and low-pitched commands continued. He was mentioned by name several times. He was to get down immediately.
This thought edged into his mind: in theory prison might be just up his alley — it being a most dispassionate place to live out your life.
Surrender was logical. It made infinite sense.
But surrender he did not. He stepped directly behind Felipe. Sensing the boy was about to bolt, he flung his arm around his neck, drew the Sig Sauer and fired at the approaching police. They returned shots, hitting Felipe several times. The forehead shot was messy and fatal.
Using the limp body as a shield, he turned his weapon toward a shop behind him, a florist’s. With two bullets he blew out the plate glass window. Because of the silencer the cascading glass made a far louder sound than the gunshots. Santos leapt into the store and sprinted toward the back door, firing a shot into the mirrors, shattering them into shards, to scatter the patrons and clerks. The smell of smokeless powder mingled with that of lilies.
Santos was thinking: hijack a car, escape, call more men from the cartel, engage the enemy. He could have his own dozen men here in five minutes.
They wanted a battle, a battle they would have.
He looked out the back door. No Federales, no American cops.
Move now, fast!
Ah, good. No need for hijacking. Garcia was in the bulletproof SUV, speeding to his rescue.
Santos turned and emptied his magazine — a dozen shots — into the florist store to keep his pursuers hiding in cover. He then reloaded and ran toward the approaching vehicle.
He was going to escape.
Manuel Santos knew this for a certainty. He was indestructible, he was the Stone.
Twelve
With a half-dozen tactical officers, in full battle regalia, protecting them, one brother jogged and the other hobbled to the waiting Humvee, painted in camo, just like the other one, parked under the two flags.
Tony didn’t have a clue what was happening but by now it wasn’t a humongous surprise that they weren’t at Hendrix army base outside of El Paso. He did, however, get a solid jolt to see the sign on the building they’d been in.
Deep in the heart of Chihuahua, Cardozo territory.
He’d have to live with his confusion for the time being, though, because Suarez and the other tactical officers weren’t in any position to answer questions. They were urgently hustling the two brothers into the middle row of the armored vehicle, and swiveling their weapons from side to side as they assessed threats.
What the hell was—
Tony gasped. He’d glanced into the back seat and saw DEA supervisor Jonny Boyd, very much alive. He was smiling.
“Your expression, El Paso. Put that on a velvet painting of a clown and you’d have a QVC bestseller.”
Under other circumstances Tony would have said, “Fuck you.” Now, he only gaped.
Doors slammed, a massive engine roared and, with a jerk, the hard-suspensioned vehicle sped away, other Humvees in front and behind.
Boyd leaned forward and called over the engine and rough road noise, “Any hostiles?”
“No, sir. So far we’re clear.”
Tony bounced up and down in the seat. Felt nauseous again. The seat belts were adjustable. He tightened them. It didn’t help. The road was really atrocious. The seventy miles per hour didn’t help either. This time if he puked, it would be on the floor. He didn’t care.
He said, “Look, I need to call Lucy.”
“Your wife’s been apprised that you’re all right. We’ll have to limit comms to the operation.”
Tony was about to argue but Boyd’s phone hummed. He took a call, listened. He nodded and disconnected. “They’ve got some of them in bags, some’re hog-tied. But there’s still a running gun battle.”
“Santos?”
“No word.”
Matt blew air from his cheeks. His face was worry, a very unusual expression for the tree jumper.
Tony asked, “A firefight? Where? Who?”
“Serrantino. Santos and his men versus a takedown team we put there.”
Tony twisted to the back seat and growled. “Okay. Answers.”
Boyd asked, “You want it like final Jeopardy!? Or Mrs. Williams’s third-grade grammar test? Complicated or simple?”
Tony lifted an eyebrow. He was sure he’d joke with Boyd again at some point. Not now.
The DEA man held up a hand. “Okay, okay. Here’s the story.” He settled back and handed a water to Tony, who opened it and chugged half the pint.
Boyd said, “You know how bad we’ve wanted Santos. EPPD, DEA, FBI. Everybody.” He lifted his palms. “Your brother really wanted him.”
Tony nodded. Thinking of Matt’s murdered partner.
For no reason other than convenience...
Boyd continued, “But he was invisible. Nobody could find him. The best intel and surveillance we’ve got? Zip. We needed to draw him out in public. So Matt took me out to lunch and pitched an idea to me a couple weeks ago. Risky but I liked it.”
That’s what they were doing when Tony had seen them — the meeting Matt had lied to Talbot about: not about the missing drug bust money but about putting together a joint op.