Aim and Fire (16 page)

above his heart was a stylized Aztec chief with two feathers in his headdress, signifying his rank—a gang lieutenant.

Everyone else froze when they saw the gringo in the doorway, and the tattooed
indio
frowned when his eyes rose to see Nate across from him. One of the other members moved his hand toward one of the guns on the table, but their leader held up his hand, stilling the movement.

“
Hola, chingado,
you got some balls coming in here.

You looking to get shot or what?” Enrique Lopez had risen from a street soldier to a lieutenant in the gang hierarchy after serving most of a dime sentence for armed robbery.

Nate had met him while investigating a human-smuggling ring across the border a year earlier, and had cultivated him as an informant on the activity going on among the various gangs in El Paso. Lopez had a brain, and preferred to solve problems without resorting to violence, but he was just as cold-blooded as the rest of his
vatos,
and wouldn’t hesitate to cap anyone who crossed him.

“Just need a minute of your time, Lopez, then I’ll be outta your hair,” Nate said.

The wiry gang leader looked at his cards again, then slapped them on the table. “Shit, cards suck tonight anyway. Deal me outta this round, I’ll be right back.” He nodded at Nate to accompany him into a narrow hallway.

“You must have a death wish to stroll in here like you owned the place,” he snarled as soon as they were out of earshot of the others.

“You know I got better things to do that mess with your business right now.” Like most cops, Nate knew cultivat-ing the street was the best way to get the inside score on anything going down. The only problem was that the street always extracted its own price in return.

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“
Sí,
that you do. Hey, any news on that injunction getting renewed?”

A few years earlier, the El Paso Police Department had gotten an injunction taken out on the entire Segundo Barrio neighborhood, making it nearly impossible for gang members to meet, conduct business or even be seen together in public. Although it had been successful during its two-year term, it had been allowed to expire, and the gang had re-consolidated its hold over the barrio afterward. However, there was always talk at city hall and in the police department of renewing it, something the Aztecas worried about as much as the rival gangs they were currently fighting.

“I haven’t heard anything recently. It’s probably stalled in committee right now anyway, so I doubt you got anything to worry about. Look, you hear about that slaughter near the border?” Nate asked.

“Sure, who hasn’t? Everyone’s talkin’ about that mess.”

“Anyone owning up to it? You hear about any of the other gangs with itchy trigger fingers?”

“Shit, homes, you know how this works. I do you a favor—you do me a favor.”

This was the part Nate hated. “What did you have in mind?” he asked.

“Don’t worry, this’ll even make you look good. There’s a house on the edge of the barrio, corner of Overland and Paisano. It’s owned by some Alices, and they’re making cheese for the schools right next to us. We want them gone.”

Nate knew “cheese” was the latest drug variant to hit the streets, a combination of heroin and over-the-counter cold medicines. Popular among middle-school kids, it was all too prevalent in El Paso and other cities throughout the Southwest. The reference to “Alice” was the Aztecas’ de-rogatory term for the Aryan Brotherhood, a neo-Nazi gang 146

they were fighting with for control of several neighborhoods in the area.

“And you know how it rolls, too—I’ll check it out, and if it’s confirmed, we’ll take them down. Now, what you got for me?”

“Well, I haven’t heard about any bangers shooting their mouths or their thumpers off, definitely not any of
chucos
around here. Now the peckerwoods might be a different story, but I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

“Jesus, Lopez, this is what you want me to hit a drug-store for? You gotta do better than that,” Nate said.

“All right, but this is some crazy shit, so you gotta raise the stakes a bit. Those same Alices are going to be getting a shipment from down south in six days. Give me a day or so, and I’ll get you the location.”

Nate smelled a huge rat; this was too easy. “What’s in it for you?”

“While you got the cops and border agents swarming all over them, we might be moving some merchandise at the same time, and don’t need any interference—know what I’m sayin’?”

Nate took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair.

He’d skirted the law to make busts before, like the one yesterday, learned from his contacts in the gang underworld.

In return, they were able to conduct their own business unmolested, as long as they kept the violence down. Nate was a realist; he knew the so-called war on drugs would never be won, not with America’s insatiable appetites. The best they could ever do was to unofficially regulate it by allying with certain traffickers, and anyone who got out of hand would be taken down, as well. But while he accepted the arrangement as a necessity of the job, he had never liked it, and this blatant overlooking of product entering the U.S.

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really rubbed him the wrong way. However, he reminded himself of the consequences of what might happen if they didn’t find the nuclear material.
Little fish we let go to catch
the big fish,
he thought. “The other shipment better be on the level, or I’ll be coming after yours,” he said.

“Trust me, you’ll be hip deep in
chiva,
no lie.”

“We’d better be. So?”

“So my cousin occasionally connects with these homies that run illegals into the U.S, right? I was chillin’ with him last week, and he mentions that his crew had gotten a line on some salamis that wanted to sneak into the States, and were willing to pay fifty large to a reliable coyote who could guarantee delivery.”

“A reliable coyote? They definitely must have been from out of town,” Nate said.

“Yeah, anyway, their cash backed up the story. They were willing to pay anyone who could get the job done.

Their only request was they wanted a panel van, said they had some stuff they were bringin’ with them. My cuz couldn’t take the job, since he had other things goin’ down, so he passed it on to a couple of friends of his.”

“And?”

“And they’re most likely the two dead
vatos
who got taken down in your little bloodbath yesterday, along with the rest of the illegals and your two agents.”

Nate jerked as if stung. “How’d you know about that?”

“You ain’t the only one who’s got people that know people, homes. Anyway, the two bodies are Miguel Santos and Jesus Calaveras.”

“That’s nothing the crime lab doesn’t already know.

Come on, Lopez, that’s the best you can do?”

“Look, man, that’s all I got, unless you wanna know one of these guys was an Elton John fan.”

148

“What are you talking about?”

“My cuz said they was real secretive about the particulars—they wanted to use their own cell phones when they set up the ride. I mean, they sent him a phone to use, then called it. The ringtone on there was that song ‘Rocket Man,’ you know?”

Nate rubbed his forehead. “I can’t believe I came out here at two in the morning for this. If you want that brotherhood taken down a peg, you better come up with something more solid, you hear?”

“Hey, I gave you all I got. What about that cheese factory?”

“I’ll look into it. Meanwhile, pass the word you’re looking for info on the killings, and let me know what you come up with. Otherwise your competition will be re-stocking their shelves quicker than you’d like.” That last part was a blatant lie. Nate would bust the Aryans in a heartbeat; he actively hated them, whereas he simply disliked the rest of the gangs running around the city. “Get back to me sooner rather than later,” he said.

“I’ll see what I can do, but you need to move on that real estate first, then maybe I can scare up some details,”

Lopez said.

Nate shook his head, disgusted at the games he had to play to simply do his job. “Watch the news. I’m gonna head out the back way.” He eased around the banger and opened the door, walking out into the darkness and circling around the house.

As he approached his Bronco, he heard snickers from the group out front, and when he got closer, he saw why.

They had spray painted a big white 5-0 on the hood and sides of the small SUV.

“Hey, homes, looks like someone came along and redeco-Aim and Fire

149

rated your ride,” the big Mexican called out. Nate heard more laughter, along with the distinctive rattle of a spray can.

“Good luck getting out of the neighborhood,
cabrón.
”

Nate smiled thinly and glanced back at the big guy, fixing his face in his mind, which wasn’t too difficult.

He’d keep an eye out for him in the future. Getting into the Bronco, he started it up, then headed down Ochoa, aiming toward Highway 10. If he could get to the highway unmolested, he should be all right. What’d you expect, calling the SOBs out on their turf? he thought as he navigated the dark streets, not breathing easy until he swung onto the ramp leading to the highway.

Hauling her carry-on bag behind her, Tracy was only slightly bleary-eyed as she navigated the El Paso airport.

So far, everything had gone relatively well. Her early-morning goodbyes to Paul and Jennifer had been subdued, primarily since Jennifer was still half-asleep. Paul had been grim faced, his lips compressed in a tight line as he had extracted a promise from her to call him every day. The American Airlines flight had been more or less on time, passing her through Houston and into El Paso at 1:50 p.m., only five minutes behind schedule.

She collected her larger suitcase from the luggage carousel, then walked out into the blazing summer heat, hailed a cab and directed the driver to take her to the main U.S. Customs and Border Protection Office. Along the way, she called Paul and let him know she had arrived safely, and would talk to him later that evening. Then she freshened up as best as she could for having gotten five hours sleep in the past twenty-four, all the while trying to quell the butterflies in her stomach at the thought of coming into this place and Aim and Fire

151

taking charge of an ongoing investigation. She had the authority and the required documentation to back her up, but actually doing it was another matter entirely.

The cab pulled up in front of the nondescript offices with the Customs and Border Protection sign and the Department of Homeland Security seal out front. She paid the driver, then walked into the air-conditioned building, hauling her luggage behind her. Inside, the building looked like many other properties used for government work—used to the point of shabbiness. The main room was a beehive of activity, with agents working at their desks, making phone calls and handling the constant blizzard of paperwork that accompanied any government job.

Tracy looked around for the chief border agent’s office, but was distracted by a tall, weather-beaten man who brushed by her.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He stopped and turned, regarding her from a pair of pale blue eyes set in a tanned face with crow’s feet radiating out from the corners. Instead of making him appear old, they gave him an aura of competent experience, something Tracy was very aware she lacked at the moment. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“I’m here to see the chief border agent, Roy Robertson,” she said.

“Great, so am I.” He nodded toward a door. “Let’s get his attention.” He knocked on the plate glass.

“Yeah?” came a voice from inside.

The tall agent opened the door. “Roy, it’s Nate. I’ve got your two-thirty here.”

“What the—?”

Tracy heard footsteps from inside, and a stocky man, his white shirtsleeves rolled up and rimless reading glasses perched on his head, appeared in the doorway. “Jesus, 152

Nate, you readin’ my mind again? I was gonna call you in here anyway.” Noticing Tracy, Robertson nodded. “Agent Wentworth, I presume?”

“Correct. Chief Agent Robertson?”

“Please, come inside. You, too, Nate, since you opened this whole can of worms to begin with.”

Tracy couldn’t help staring a bit as the agent known as Nate motioned to the door with his hand. “Ma’am. Can I take those for you?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” She walked in and chose the sturdier of the two chairs in front of the desk, setting her bags down and sitting next to them. Behind her, Nate closed the door and ambled—there really was no other way to describe it—over to the other chair, folding himself down and crossing his legs, revealing a worn black-and-white cowboy boot that looked as if it had walked through hell and back but was still ready for more. Just like its owner, Tracy thought.

“I just got an e-mail this morning regarding you, Agent Wentworth,” Robertson said.

“Then you know why I’m here,” Tracy replied.

“Yes, although—and I’m quite apart from Nate on this—I find the scenario you’re following up on very hard to believe, or that Washington even sent you here to investigate. The idea that a nuclear device would be brought across this border, especially in this time of heightened surveillance, is simply in the minutest realm of possibility.”

Tracy cocked her head. “But that possibility, however unlikely, is exactly why I’m here.”

“Hold on a sec.” The rangy border agent next to her leaned forward. “Are you both sayin’ my e-mail report is what brought you here?”

“Got it in one, Nate. This is Agent Tracy Wentworth, Aim and Fire

153

from the Department of Homeland Security in D.C. Agent Wentworth, this is Customs and Border Protection Agent Nathaniel Spencer, the guy who’s responsible for bringing you down here on this wild-goose chase.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind, Chief Agent,” Tracy said.

A peculiar look crossed Robertson’s face, as if he had bitten into what he thought was an orange and found a lemon between his lips instead. Tracy figured she might have nicked his law-enforcement officer’s pride, but if Agent Spencer was right, the boss would deserve it—the idea of a loose nuke was simply too dangerous to dismiss out of hand. She glanced over to see if Spencer was offended at her jab at his boss since they obviously had a good working relationship. He didn’t move a muscle in her direction, just sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper mustache.