On the monitor, Renee observed an intense argument between a surprised-looking Rojas and El Blanco. Clearly Rojas was not happy about losing his prize for the evening.
Renee heard Blanco say in English, “Take one of these bitches instead.”
“Sounds like a British accent,” Renee said.
“Who?”
“I just heard him say something to Rojas. Blanco sounds like he’s from the UK.”
Renee dug her fingernails into her palms, feeling horrified and helpless. She watched the Mexican men carry Ines Sanchez down the stairs, kicking and struggling with the bag still covering her head. Max had told Renee what the cartels did to people who cooperated with law enforcement. Their mutilations were usually made public — a message that ensured loyalty from the others.
Ines was pushed into the backseat of the rear SUV. Blanco and his vehicles, including the one parked near Max, peeled out and sped off.
The radios were quiet.
Chapter 11
Max watched as the narco pickup truck that had been parked close to him departed with its men.
“Is Hector Rojas still in the building?”
“Affirm. He looks like he’s gotten over his lost love and is now on to one of the other girls there.”
Max was appalled that this Blanco character had just bagged Wilkes’s agent and was now driving her away. He realized what had been bothering him the night before, when Renee had asked.
The DEA and others at EPIC knew about Wilkes’s agent.
Wilkes had said he was working with the CIA’s counterintelligence division. At first, Max had assumed that was just because a foreign intelligence service — the ISI — was involved. But what if there was more to it than that? What if Wilkes was hunting a mole? Blanco had to have found out about Ines Sanchez somehow.
Max couldn’t do anything about a leak right now. On the other hand, he could do something about Hector Rojas. The senior finance executive of the Sinaloa cartel was still in the townhome, having a good time. As far as Max was concerned, the mission was still on.
Rojas was still on the roof with one of the girls. And there were the remaining four guards on street level, each one carrying an AR-style rifle.
Trent had what he needed. He’d briefed the mission. Knew all the possible options for entry and evacuation.
A buzzing in Max’s pocket. He looked at his phone. It was Wilkes, sending a message to the team. Apparently he had the same idea as Max.
TAKE HIM.
Max said, “Listen up. We’ll need to improvise.”
Wilkes stood on the operations floor of EPIC, feeling pissed and guilty at the loss of his agent.
Unlike Max and team, he hadn’t had the street-level view of the Caucasian man and still had no knowledge of Blanco’s involvement. But he’d seen the beacon in his agent’s phone from the bird’s-eye view of the drone as she was stuffed into the backseat of the narcos’ SUV.
And that definitely wasn’t in the plan.
The tracking beacon was tossed out the window while they were driving on the highway. The drone had kept tracking the SUV into the brightly lit city center. The drone operators did their best to follow the girl as they brought her into a large apartment building. There were so many people and vehicles in the area that it would be almost impossible to monitor all the exits.
Which was why they had taken her there, Caleb knew.
She was blown, and they were escaping into obscurity.
Wilkes’s worst fears were realized. The leak the CIA had suspected was now confirmed. He hadn’t told Max or team about that aspect of the mission, because they’d needed to keep the information as tight as possible in order to catch their mole. But the fact that they’d known about Ines Sanchez drastically narrowed their list of suspects. Someone with access to a high level of intel was responsible for tonight’s epic screwup. Without his agent, Max’s team would have a harder time taking Rojas.
But it could still be done, which was why he’d sent his message. Sanchez was as good as gone, he knew. But right now, they needed to salvage what they could.
Wilkes waited for word of Max’s movement while also thinking about what he would report to his superiors, mourning the loss of his agent, and sifting through possible leakers all at once.
“Oh shit, did you guys just see that?” A DEA agent on the watch floor had stood up, pointing at the front monitor.
The DEA supervisor said, “See what?”
“Quick, look — one of the security guards just went down.”
Wilkes saw what he was talking about. The two security guards who had been standing on the front stairs of the home were now on the ground. The drone feed was back over the townhome, zoomed in and using color video thanks to the bright streetlights. A dark blur was visible on the pavement, expanding away from the head of a dead narco. The doors of the second truck swung open and two more men ran out, holding rifles.
“Those are more security men? Or did they just shoot the first two?”
“I don’t know.”
“They came from the second truck. I think they’re just responding. Doesn’t look like they know where the shots came from.” The men were turning frantically, holding their weapons out, but not firing.
The two men flailed backwards and fell to the ground. The DEA agent placed her headset on and spoke to the drone operator.
“Somebody’s taking them all out. They’re moving on Rojas.”
Wilkes leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk as he stared at the drone feed. A lone figure ran across the screen, past the four bodies of the narco security detail that now lay dead and motionless in the street.
From his second-floor window, Trent had a clear shot of all four men. Less than twenty-five yards. Child’s play for someone with his experience. He fired four shots from his suppressed rifle within a six-second window. The shell casings landed silently on the soft rug at his feet. He scooped them up and placed them in a zippered pocket while he scanned the streets for movement. Nothing. He was satisfied to see that each bullet had been lethal.
“I’m on the move.”
“Copy. I’ll bring my car in front of the house on your word,” replied Max. Trent was glad to see that he was done arguing that point. At first, Max had insisted on entering the home with him. But Trent was worried about the response time of narco reinforcements.
He grabbed the black bag filled with gear and hurried down the stairs, holding his rifle in front of him, finger pointed forward on the trigger guard. Crossing the dark street, he heard the deep bass notes of the beach resort dance clubs a few blocks away, and the distant rumble of summer storms out over the Pacific. Voices echoed from several floors above.
The sounds of drunken laughter and music. A good sign. It was the sound of targets unaware of his imminent approach.
As he moved, he calculated risk and felt the quick ticking of his internal stopwatch. It was only a matter of time before someone saw the dead men on the street. With half the city on the cartel’s payroll, other narcos were sure to come. Trent didn’t want to be here when they did.
He crept past the corpses still bleeding and spasming on the sidewalk, scanning the area for threats. The front door was unlocked, as he had expected. In Sinaloa cartel territory, with sicarios guarding outside, why would they lock it?
A moment later, Trent was up one flight of stairs. He could hear one of the narcos in the bedroom. Trent laid down his bag of gear, placed one hand on the doorknob, and readied his rifle with the other.
With one lightning-fast movement, he opened the door, sent a single suppressed shot through the head of the man, and ran forward to cover the mouth of the shocked half-naked woman on the bed, just as she began to scream. Trent tore off a strip of duct tape hanging from his belt and covered her mouth. Then he hog-tied her and left her on the bed.