“Affirmative.” Clar flung open a flap on his bag. He dug his hand inside and began pulling out black handhelds. “I’ve got two-ways for all of you. They’re set to channel 9. It’s encrypted.”
The task force stepped forward and took their radios—Turino included.
“The Huey’s still hot,” Ruth said. “Another of Agent Clar’s many talents is he’s a certified pilot. Since he’s the only one who knows the intimate workings of LOWIS, he’ll be your escort.”
Gifford waited a beat, then said, “Okay, let’s do it. Let’s bring our man home. And round up the bastards who took him.”
As Vail huddled with Clar, Mann, and DeSantos, Gifford cleared his throat and caught Vail’s attention. She moved over to the huddled suits, who were gathered at the back of the room.
“What’s going on?” Gifford asked.
“Sir?”
“Agent Vail, cut the crap. I know you better than your own father.” He winced, no doubt realizing the insensitivity of his comment and the reference to Vail’s sadistic parent. “Strike that. Point is, I saw the looks you and the task force were exchanging with Agent Turino during the briefing. So I’ll ask you again. What’s going on?”
Vail scanned the faces of Yardley, Ruth, and Gifford. She hesitated a long moment. She did not want to get into this—certainly not now. And she definitely didn’t want Turino leading them on this op. Still, she shook her head and said, “Nothing’s going on, sir.”
“You’re about to embark on a critically important op,” Ruth said. “What the hell is the problem?”
“That’s not a friendly request,” Gifford added. “It’s an order.”
Vail looked off at the wall. Realizing she was losing valuable time, she acquiesced. “Agent Turino.”
“What about him?”
Vail glanced over her shoulder. Sebastian and Turino were huddled in the far corner. Vail turned back and proceeded to outline what she knew. She stressed that they were unfamiliar with DEA policy, and that they were unsure whether or not his actions were above board. When she was done, Gifford, Yardley, and Ruth all wore variations of agitation and disgust.
“DEA policy,” Ruth said firmly, “is that a human life is always priority. Everything we do is based on officer safety. No operation’s worth a life—no amount of drugs is worth a life. It’s not written in any manual, but it’s built into everything we do, every op and takedown we plan.” She turned to Yardley.
Yardley threw a strained look across the room at Turino. “Agent Turino.”
Turino set his jaw and then walked over, gait confident, shoulders back, chin above level. “Yes sir?”
Yardley said, “We’ve been made aware of your actions as leader of the task force.”
Turino threw a hard, cold stare at Vail. “I’m sure you have.”
“Agent Vail was ordered to do so,” Gifford said. “And she did so reluctantly.”
Turino set both hands on his hips. “Whatever.”
Dixon called out from across the room. “Karen, let’s go. We’re ready to roll.”
“The issue,” Yardley said, “is you. Not her. I’m looking forward to sitting down and listening. You’re a decorated, veteran agent and you’ll be afforded all due process. And given the benefit of the doubt. But later. We’ve got a man out there depending on us and some really bad assholes ripe for arrest. That’s where our energies need to be focused. There’s no time to adequately evaluate this—and I don’t even have the authority to put you on administrative leave. But I do have the perfect assignment for you. I want you to rendezvous with SWAT and work out of their command post. I’ll radio the tactical commander and clear it.”
Through a clenched jaw, Turino said, “Yes sir.”
Yardley turned to Vail and said, “Even though this is a DEA task force, I’ve got no one who’s as fully briefed on all aspects of this operation as you are. I’m placing you in charge. Now get the hell out of here and find Hernandez.”
“Yes sir.” Vail stole a look at Gifford. He was uncommonly quiet. More than concerned, she decided. Worried. Not worried because she was now running the task force, but worried like a father who’s dealing with a son who’s gotten himself into a heap of trouble. Vail gave him a slight nod of assurance, then led her team back toward the Huey.
80
Willie Quintero drove around the strip, up and down side streets and back again to Las Vegas Boulevard, watching for a tail. They were clean, best he and Sandiego Ortega could determine in the thick traffic and frequent red lights that choked one of the busiest sections of the strip.
Robby asked for the cuffs to be removed, a request that Quintero rejected. “Once we get inside, Mr. Villarreal will tell us how he wants us to handle you. Till then, keep your fucking mouth shut. You’ve got us to thank for your life, and I wanna hear some grat-titude, amigo.”
“Thank you,” Robby said. “I appreciate what you did for me.”
“Damn straight. Now keep your head down until we’re ready to get out.”
Following another trip through the Vegas streets, Quintero guided the car into an underground garage. There they waited, Robby still scrunched into the rear seat, until Quintero received a phone call. He listened, then said, in Spanish, “Yes, boss.” He hung up, then told Diego they were to take Robby up to the condo.
After draping a jacket across his handcuffed wrists, they led Robby through the parking lot, up the stairs, across a larger area, then into an elevator bay. The ride up was long and, according to the LCD readout, fifty-seven stories.
Undernourished—and abused—for several days, Robby felt unsteady and had to lean against the elevator wall to keep from falling over. The car finally drew to a stop and the doors slid apart. Quintero gave him a shove, and Robby tripped forward. Diego tightened his grip on Robby’s arm and ushered him into Alejandro Villarreal’s ultramodern condo.
“Steady, hermano,” Diego said in a low voice. “We’ll get you some food in a few minutes.”
“That’d be good,” Robby said, finding it difficult to summon the energy to maintain an erect posture.
Inside, the condo’s clean, edgy lines were augmented by Zebrawood cabinets, teak doors, limestone vanities, and white oak flooring. Ahead of them, expansive picture windows dominated the wall. Bright casino and hotel lights sparkled starkly in black repose against the nightscape below.
In front of the window sat a man in a dark, broad-pinstripe suit. Tan and trim, he possessed the constitution of a wealthy individual whose vast amounts of money were well spent. He rose from the soft, cream-colored leather chair and sauntered up to Robby. “So this is the man all the fuss is being made over.” Villarreal pursed his lips, then nodded. He studied Robby’s face, no doubt taking in the abrasions and bruises, in various stages of healing, and the fresh slice inflicted by Ernesto Escobar. “I am Alejandro Villarreal,” he said with some flair. “I am responsible for saving your life. You know that, don’t you?”
Robby looked down at the man. “I do, sir. Thank you.”
He raised a hand and smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Hernandez. Don’t thank me yet.”
A bowl of mixed nuts sat on a coffee table to Diego’s right. “May I, sir?” Diego asked, wiggling an index finger at the food.
“Yes, of course. Make our guest at home.”
Diego retrieved the dish and held it in front of Robby, who grabbed a fist full of nuts and shoved them into his mouth as a caveman would devour a fresh piece of meat.
Villarreal’s phone rang. He pulled a sleek Sanyo from his pocket and flipped it open with a flick of his thumb. “Yes.” He listened a moment, then said, “I see. No, no, thank you.” Another pause. “I will consider.”