Above the Law (8 page)

There was only one problem with this well-oiled plan, which the dopers didn’t know. The Iranian arms dealer was really a federal agent, who’d been playing with federal money in the drug trade, two million so far in smaller buys. Now they were going for the whole enchilada, in one gigantic bite.

Off to the side, one of the agents, an imposing man who had the air of being a leader, talked on a cell phone. He was animated, upset. He listened, made a final comment, shut the phone down in disgust, then strode toward the others.

“Listen up now. This is serious, I shit you not.”

His name was Sterling Jerome. He headed up the DEA’s Western States Task Force. This was his baby—he’d been the money supplier, he was the man behind this entire operation. Now he was ready to move in for the kill.

Dozens of special agents experienced in operations like this one, who had been brought here from all over the country, gathered around him. All were dressed in black, down to black running shoes or hiking boots, black watch caps, and black windbreakers with the letters DEA stenciled on the backs, in Day-Glo orange, over their Kevlar vests. Each was armed with his own weapon—heavy-duty automatics, Sig Sauers, and Glocks.

Miller fieldstripped his smoke and joined his chief deputy, Wayne Bearpaw, a member of the White Horse Nation, the biggest tribe in the area. They stood outside the circle at some distance from the others.

No reporters were present. That the operation hadn’t leaked to the press was a miraculous feat in itself. Afterward, when it was all over and a success, they’d bring in the cameras. They’d been burned too many times with premature expectations.

Jerome was a mean man. Like many of his brother federal agents, he disdained local law enforcement people. His attitude had always been, I’ve got a job to do, so get the hell out of my way, amateur. His file had more reprimands than it should have, given his status in the department. But he got results.

Miller had known Jerome for years. There was no love lost between the two. Jerome was an arrogant prick in Miller’s opinion, an opinion shared by most local cops who have had the misfortune of dealing with him. He had a habit of taking actions in local jurisdictions without checking in first, a normal courtesy. Although this bust had been incubated for over a year, Miller hadn’t known anything about it until a couple hours ago, a bad breach of ethics. Not that Jerome gave a shit, the sheriff knew. Jerome preferred it that way.

“This isn’t Waco or Ruby Ridge, or any so-called Freeman group,” Jerome reminded his charges, some of them veterans of those fiascoes. “There are no women or children inside. This has nothing to do with religion or politics or strongly held cult beliefs or the moon being in Aquarius or any such bullshit. These men we’re about to take down are major criminals. Period.”

He paused, looked around. For a brief moment, he and Miller made eye contact. Jerome broke it off.

“They have a good security system, but they’ve become lax about paying close attention to it. It was shut down earlier tonight, but they don’t know that.” He looked behind him. “Our man here took care of that.”

Standing off to the side, apart from the group, was a rough-looking man who Miller knew was not officially part of the task force. His name was Luis Lopez; he was a member of the drug ring’s inner circle, now turned informant. Lopez had been sitting in a federal pen, awaiting trial on a murder charge that was going to put him away for the rest of his life, when he made Jerome an offer—drop the charge, and I’ll give you the operation. Jerome persuaded his superiors to make the deal (which included a quarter million in cash to Lopez and immunity from prosecution) and got into bed with the devil. They came up with a cover story for Lopez about having to drop the case for insufficient evidence and set him to work.

Lopez was high enough in this operation that he could come and go without arousing suspicion. He’d been on Jerome’s payroll for over a year, providing vital intelligence about the security, the number of men inside, all the information the task force needed to mount a successful attack. Lopez had been inside until late last night, when he’d snuck out, unnoticed, after disabling the alarm system. He had assured Jerome that the time was ripe to strike.

Miller knew of Lopez’s reputation, which was that the man was an unreliable liar. If this was his operation, he wouldn’t be using a scumbag like Lopez.

Jerome blew his nose. “This pollen’s killing me,” he said as an aside. Turning back to business: “They’re heavily armed, we know that, it’s to be expected; but we’re going to catch them flat-footed. They’ve been untouchables for so long they think they’re bulletproof.”

He glanced back at Lopez, who nodded. Then he reached into his briefcase and took out an FBI most-wanted poster.

“It isn’t a secret that the politicos back in Washington are getting anxious. They want a feather for their caps. We all do.” He brandished the poster. “And even more than shutting these bastards down, we want this man.” He looked at the poster himself “Reynaldo Juarez, born in Mexico, now naturalized, age approximately forty. He’s one of the worst characters you’re ever going to encounter. He’s also one of the great shadow figures of all time, a Howard Hughes of bad guys. He comes and goes like an ill wind, never sleeping in the same place more than a few days at a time. But he’s in there tonight, right now.” He pointed down to the compound. “We know that for an indisputable fact.”

He looked over his shoulder at Lopez, who nodded that this was so.

Given the source of Jerome’s information, Miller wasn’t convinced.

“We know he’s in there,” Jerome repeated defensively, as if to quell his own concerns that if this got fucked up, it would be the worst snafu in recent history. “If he wasn’t,” he added stoutly, “we wouldn’t be going in tonight.”

Good luck. Miller thought. If Lopez is your primary source, God help the United States of America. He glanced over at his deputy. Bearpaw shook his head—he was thinking the same thing.

“Unfortunately, we’ve just had a major fucking disaster.”

Miller’s ears pricked up.

“The airplanes aren’t coming in. Neither of them, ours or theirs. Everything’s fogged in, from Bakersfield clear to the Mexican border. The deal is off.”

Miller looked around. No one was moving; they were barely even breathing Now what? he thought.

“So here’s what’s going to happen.” Jerome paused. “We’re going to go in and take Juarez anyway. We have a legitimate reason to do so: there’s an outstanding reward on his head from the Mexican government for being involved in the murder of one of their federal agents. He escaped arrest down there, and no one’s been able to lay a glove on him, mainly because no one can pin him down. But we’ve done it. If we don’t take him now, we could lose him forever,
which is not going to happen on my watch!”

Miller could feel the pit growing in his stomach. This was wrong; you do these things the right way, by the book. You don’t cowboy something this important. He was glad, now, that he wasn’t involved in this decision.

Jerome went on, “Here’s the ticklish part. We want him alive. The word’s come down from the powers that be. If he’s captured, he can detail myriad drug-smuggling and arms-running operations, stuff that’s going on all over the country; hell, all over the world. Dozens of operations we’ve been trying to break for years—he’s an important key to our doing that.”

Jerome’s gaze swept the assemblage. “When I say taking him alive is our supreme objective, ladies, that’s from Janet Reno’s mouth to your ears. That’s how serious this man is to the Justice Department. If this guy dies, they’ll hang the tail right on our asses. We’ll be fucking roadkill.”

He paused to let his words sink in. Even though these men were battle-tested veterans of the drug and arms wars, for many of them this would be the most important, blood-pounding encounter they would be involved in in their careers.

Jerome spread out a diagram of their target.

“We’ve gone over this, you have your own copies. The advance team goes in first, takes out any sentries they might have posted. Once they give us the all-clear, the rest of us go in. We overwhelm them—alive, let me once more stress that—and we are heroes to a grateful nation.”

Clenched fists all around. They could feel their blood pulsing harder.

Jerome folded up his diagram and looked at his watch. “Let’s coordinate. I’ve got three forty-one and thirty seconds.”

Sixty other men looked at their watches. They were all digital watches, not an analog among them, except for Miller, who wore the same Longines he’d had since his wife had given it to him as a present upon his graduation from the FBI Academy, fifty years ago.

What a crock, the sheriff thought as he watched this hoary exercise. Almost 2000 and these guys are still setting their watches the way they did back in World War II.

“Eighteen minutes,” Jerome said.

The agents dispersed, spreading around the perimeter. They were an overwhelming force, who would be in the compound and the house before the men inside knew what had hit them.

Miller approached Jerome. “What’s our assignment?” He gestured toward Bearpaw, his deputy, standing a few feet from them.

Jerome looked at him. This was awkward, and annoying. “You observe.”

“From where?”

Jerome looked around. Miller was here as an obligatory courtesy, because he was the local sheriff, a former FBI agent, it’s his county, and he’s not a man you deny—basically, he’d forced his way into this. But this was a federal bust, Miller had no standing, and everyone knew it, including him. If it was up to Jerome, Miller would be home in bed, sound asleep.

Jerome pointed to a hill that overlooked the compound. “There.”

Miller looked at where the DEA honcho had pointed. He shook his head.

“That’s too far away. I can’t observe anything from there.”

Jerome could feel his gut tightening. This was an incredibly delicate and dangerous undertaking; he needed grief from some eighty-year-old has-been like he needed the Tijuana runs. But he held his tongue—he didn’t have time to get into a personality riff with this old man.

“What do you suggest. Sheriff?”

They’re trapped in there. Hunker down and starve ’em out, Miller wanted to say. But that wasn’t the point of this exercise. If they went that route, establishing a beachhead and digging in for the long haul, it would become a public siege, with all the attendant problems that had befallen those of recent history. Press up the wazoo. Pro and con interest groups. Meddlesome congressmen. The goal here was surprise, overwhelm, get in and get out.

One caution Miller wanted to give Jerome—if Lopez is your only source of information, you could be so far up shit’s creek all the paddles in California won’t save you. His reliability quotient is zero. And never let him out of your sight.

Miller said none of that. The question had been rhetorical. “Where are you going to be?” he asked the honcho.

“First one in the door,” Jerome told him.

Miller nodded. Jerome had to lead the parade, his ego wouldn’t let him do otherwise.

“How’s about I follow you in?” Miller suggested. He gestured toward Bearpaw. “My deputy can stay up here, see the overall picture.”

Jerome had been blindsided—he should have realized this crafty old soldier would try to finagle a way to be in the middle of the action. But he wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

“No.” He shook his head firmly. “This is a federal takedown. We told you that when we briefed you. You’re not part of the game plan,” he added bitingly.

The sheriff didn’t acknowledge the insult. “I’ll find my own spot, then,” he assured Jerome. “Away from the center.”

“Good.” Jerome turned away.

Miller looked at Jerome’s retreating back. Goddamnit, he was uneasy about this raid. Part of his trepidation was historical—government agencies, particularly these agencies, had screwed up too many times. They were too arrogant, cocksure. And they were bulls in a china shop, their instinct was always to charge in, especially if the plan wasn’t working as they’d penciled it.

More ominously, their mission was at cross-purposes with itself. Breaking into an armed citadel and physically destroying a major crime ring was one thing; taking a prisoner alive was entirely different. One was a balls-to-the-wall enterprise, no holds barred, individual consequences be damned. The other was an act of extreme delicacy. The two were antithetical, 180 degrees.

He also felt, in his bones, that Jerome had badly downplayed the possibility of armed resistance. Men like those inside the compound don’t fall asleep at the wheel. They may be sloppy around the edges, but they’re always on the alert. Their survival depends on it.

Hubris. The man’s ego was too damn big. Jerome felt that he was impervious, that he had it knocked.

Miller was a student of the history of war. He’d analyzed the classic battle philosophies, Thucydides, Sun-Tzu, Bismarck, Robert E. Lee, his personal hero. Attacks on an unknown enemy, without having reliable sources of intelligence, often led to crushing defeats: witness Lee’s at Gettysburg, caused by Jeb Stuart’s not being on time with the correct information about the size and scope of the Union Army.

He would not have authorized this raid based on nothing but information provided by a turncoat like Lopez. Snitches are fundamentally unreliable. He would have found a way to get his own mole inside.

But this was not his operation.

He thought about something else, peripheral but related to this action, something no one knew, not even Bearpaw, whom he trusted like a son: he had decided to hang it up. The next election was coming in a year, and he wasn’t going to run again—he was going to retire. Time to pass the torch.

From Bearpaw and resignation, his thoughts turned to his son, James. They had fallen out over Vietnam and had never reconciled. Miller blamed James for the loss of his career with the Bureau and had hardened his heart against him.

He had not heard from James since Dorothy’s funeral. He didn’t know if he ever would again.

He came back to the present. He would be all right—since Jerome had rebuffed him, he wasn’t going to be in any direct line of fire; and he had no need to be a hero and disregard Jerome’s directive. Still, there was always risk in something this dicey, and he was going on eighty. You shouldn’t be doing something this risky, this physical, at his age, even if you’re in great shape and could pass for being a decade and a half younger.