Cartel (5 page)

The ASAC stepped toward him. "Captain...?"

"Capitán Hector Delgado at your service." He made a theatrical little bow.

The ASAC stuck out his hand. "Glenn Peterson, assis-tant special agent in charge, Houston Division, U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration."

"I'm the district commander," the captain said as he shook Peterson's hand, "Policia Federal."

"Captain, I know this is your jurisdiction and your in-vestigation, but it seems obvious to me, judging by the crime scene, that it was federal police officers who killed my agents."

The captain nodded. "Sí. Yes, it certainly was. Four of my officers shot your agents." He pointed to the four swag-gering PF officers. "Those officers right there."

For a moment the captain's admission seemed to stun Peterson into silence. When he got his voice back, the ASAC said, "They admitted it then? They admitted shooting three DEA agents?"

"Yes," the captain said. "And they feel awful about it."

Garza stepped toward the captain. "They feel fucking awful?"

Scott saw his agent reach for a pistol that wasn't there. The Mexican captain saw it too and smiled.

Garza lunged at him, but Jackson wrapped his arms around Garza and pulled him back.

"Then why haven't you taken them into custody?" Scott asked the captain. All four of the Mexican cops still had their pistols holstered on their sides.

"Into custody?" Captain Delgado said. "Why would I take my own men into custody?"

Scott jabbed a finger at the Tahoe. "You just said they admitted murdering three of my agents."

Delgado shook his head. "As I said, señor, it is a terrible thing that happened, but I did not say my men murdered your agents. I said they shot them."

"What's the difference?" Garza said.

Delgado turned to Garza. "Just like your own country, Mexico is a nation of laws. This tragedy, as terrible as it was, was not the fault of my officers. It was-"

"What do you mean it wasn't their fault?" Garza said. "They're the ones who pulled the fucking triggers."

Peterson shot Garza a look that shut him up. Then he turned back to Delgado. "I'm sorry, captain. My men are...upset."

Delgado nodded. "I understand completely, señor. But this is exactly why we have laws that prohibit foreign police officers from carrying firearms in Mexico, to prevent this kind of tragic case of mistaken identity."

"Mistaken identity?" Garza shouted, loud enough to draw three uniformed PF patrolmen to their captain's side.

"Sadly," Delgado said, without any change in tone or demeanor, "that is exactly what happened. My men heard over the radio that a dark American sport utility vehicle was speeding toward the bridge at El Capullo." He pointed to the two PF cruisers blocking the highway. "So they positioned their patrol cars to stop the vehicle." He pointed to the Tahoe. "After the vehicle stopped, my men ordered the people inside to get out. But instead of complying with the orders of my police officers, the occupants of the vehicle opened fire on them with automatic weapons."

"Bullshit!" Garza said as he lunged again at Captain Delgado. This time he slipped away from Jackson and was almost on top of the captain when one of the PF officers pulled a pistol and stuck it in Garza's face.

"Señor, please," Delgado said, "calm yourself."

Garza seemed to deflate. Then he reached out and snatched the pistol from the Mexican cop's hand, turned it around, and pointed it at Captain Delgado. The other two PF officers drew their own pistols and aimed them at Garza. Seeing what was happening, several more PFs rushed over with guns drawn and aimed them at the rest of the DEA agents.

Captain Delgado didn't flinch.

"Agent Garza," Peterson said, "put that goddamned gun down before you get us all killed."

Garza stared at Delgado for a long moment. Then he flipped the pistol around and handed it butt first back to the cop he had taken it from. The rest of the Mexican cops didn't lower their guns. Scott knew they were looking for a reason to shoot.

Finally, Delgado said something to them in Spanish and they lowered their guns. But they didn't reholster them.

"Captain Delgado," Peterson said, "I apologize for my agent's behavior."

Delgado nodded. "I understand he is upset. My men are upset too."

"You said this was a tragic case of mistaken identity," Scott said. "Who exactly did your men think they were shooting?"

"Drug couriers, perhaps. Maybe cartel gunmen."

Scott pointed to the Tahoe. "The two agents up front are Anglos."

"Unlike American police," Delgado said, "in Mexico we do not profile based on race or ethnicity."

"You said they opened fire on your men," Scott said.

"Yes, that is what happened."

"Why would DEA agents shoot at Mexican police offic-ers?"

"I have no idea," Delgado said. "That's what I was hop-ing you could tell me."

"I want to see my agents' weapons," Scott said. "And the shell casings. If they fired from inside their vehicle they'll be shell casings on the seats and on the floorboards."

Delgado said something in Spanish to one of his offic-ers. The man reholstered his pistol and jogged toward the Tahoe. Then Delgado told Scott, "I will be happy to show you the weapons, but unfortunately my crime scene techni-cians have already picked up all the shells from inside the vehicle and taken them to the laboratory for examination."

"When did they do that?" Scott said. "No one's left the scene since we got here."

"Then they must have left before you arrived."

The PF officer returned with one of the DEA M-6 car-bines and handed it to Delgado. Neither was wearing gloves. Delgado sniffed the muzzle. "You can tell it was recently fired." He popped out the thirty-round magazine and shook it to feel its weight. Then he handed the carbine back to his officer and thumbed the remaining rounds out of the maga-zine. He counted each .223 cartridge as it fell onto the highway. "Only thirteen rounds left," he said, "in a clip that holds thirty. I'm told the other weapons have also been fired."

"That doesn't prove they were fired at your officers," Peterson said.

Delgado shook his head. "No, it doesn't. But they were fired at something." He stared hard at Scott. "Do you have an alternate explanation for the missing bullets?"

"No," Scott said, realizing he had stepped right into the Mexican police captain's trap. Of course he had an alternate explanation. He just couldn't tell Delgado, who, Scott real-ized, hadn't even bothered to ask why the agents were in Mexico.

"It's strange," Delgado said.

"What's that?" Peterson asked.

"Early this morning one of my sergeants was abducted from a house near Vallecillo, where he was vacationing with his family. Do you think," he pointed to the Tahoe, "these agents could have been involved in that?"

"No," Peterson said. "Absolutely not."

"I did not think so," Delgado said. "But I had to ask. You understand?"

"Of course," Peterson said.

"So it really was just a tragic case of mistaken identity," Delgado said.

Scott glanced around. Garza seemed ready to explode again, but Jackson stood behind him with a hand on each of Garza's shoulders. His other agents looked shell-shocked.

"Don't you agree?" Captain Delgado pressed.

Peterson glanced at Scott with a face that was hard and angry. Then he turned back to Delgado and nodded. "It looks that way."

Delgado smiled again. "Good. We are agreed. Then if you will excuse me." He nodded back toward the crime sce-ne. "I still have work to do."

"What about the bodies?" Scott asked in a voice he barely recognized.

"Once the autopsies are complete," Delgado said, "we will arrange a time for you to pick them up. It should only take a few days." He paused. "A week at most."

"That long?" Peterson said.

Delgado gave a little shrug. "This is Mexico." Then he turned and walked away, leaving the .223 cartridges on the asphalt where they had fallen. Scott knew that as far as Cap-tain Delgado was concerned, the investigation was over.

The DEA agents walked back to their cars.

A hand grabbed Scott's shoulder and spun him around. Garza shoved him back against one of the Dodges. "It's your fault," Garza said. "I told you it was a bad idea to split us up."

Jackson and Peterson tried to pull Garza off Scott, but the enraged agent wouldn't let go. His face was flushed. There were tears in his eyes.

"Leave him alone," Scott said.

Jackson and Peterson backed away.

"You're right," Scott said. "It is my fault."

After a long moment, Peterson laid a hand on Garza's shoulder, gently, not trying to pull him away. "The federales did this."

Scott shook his head. "We would have stood a better chance if I had kept us all together."

"I don't think so," Peterson said. "Not with two SUVs and a helicopter chasing you. It would have just led to a big-ger firefight. Maybe all of you would be dead right now."

Garza stared at Scott. The tears had spilled over and were running down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Scott said.

After a long moment, Garza nodded. Then he let Scott go.

It was late afternoon by the time Scott walked into the lobby of the commercial tower that housed DEA's Laredo Field Office. He stepped into the empty elevator and pressed the button for the twelfth floor. Glenn Peterson had taken the other agents to a bar. It was a DEA tradition to mourn the loss of fellow agents over beer and stories. Like an Irish wake. And today there was a lot to mourn. Scott said he would catch up. He had a few questions for Ortiz first.

"Let the marshals pick him up," Peterson had told Scott. "He's more likely to want to talk after a night in jail. Espe-cially since he's a cop."

Scott said he would be there as soon as he could.

Now he was headed up to the DEA office to talk to Sergeant Felix Ortiz. He wanted to know who the two Americans were in the Suburban. He didn't believe for a second that the four federales who murdered his agents had done so on their own initiative. They had been acting on orders, and it was the person who gave those orders that Scott wanted to find.

The elevator opened and Scott stepped out. The DEA office occupied the entire floor. The main entrance was a pair of frosted glass doors just off the elevator lobby. The DEA logo, which Scott had always thought looked very 1970s, decorated one door, and the words DRUG EN-FORCEMENT ADMINISTRATION were etched into the other one.

Scott was halfway to the frosted glass doors when they both opened. Three men stepped out. Two of them wore dark suits and ties with crisp white shirts. The third man, who was walking between the other two, almost like a pris-oner except without the leg irons, handcuffs, and waist chain, was Felix Ortiz. The Mexican police sergeant took one look at Scott and smiled.

Whoever the two suits were, they weren't deputy U.S. marshals. Scott blocked their path to the elevator. "Who are you and where are you going with my prisoner?"

All three men stopped. Ortiz kept smiling. Scott ignored the Mexican and eyed the two suits. One was half a head taller than the other. Forties, a shaved head, trim build. He looked familiar but the context was wrong. Scott was just about to place him when the other one said, "You must be Special Agent Greene."

This one could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five. Height, build, looks-all average. Everything about him was average. The kind of guy you wouldn't be able to describe five minutes after you met him. And you'd forget him after ten.

"Who are you?" Scott asked. He was looking at the man who had spoken, but he meant the question for both of them.

"My name is Jones," Mr. Average said. "We're with the State Department."

Scott understood that in the vastness of the U.S. State Department there might be a few people with law enforce-ment authority, but he'd certainly never heard of anyone from State hijacking a prisoner, especially a high-value DEA target. "He's my prisoner."

"Not anymore," said the man who had identified him-self as Jones. He drew a folded sheet of paper from an inside pocket and handed it to Scott.

Ortiz was still smiling.

Scott unfolded the paper. It was a court order. The words "HABEAS CORPUS" were printed in large letters across the top. Scanning down the page, Scott found a judge's signature scrawled at the bottom. Literally, the words habeas corpus were Latin for you may have the body. Legally, it was an order from a judge commanding someone holding a person in custody to release that person into the hands of someone else. In practical terms, it gave these two clowns the legal right to take his prisoner.

"Sergeant Ortiz is no longer your concern."

Scott handed the court order back. "Bullshit," he said. Then he stepped forward and reached out to grab Ortiz and yank him away from these two assholes.

But the big guy, the one who hadn't given his name or even spoken, grabbed Scott's wrist and twisted it. Scott tried to pull away, but that seemed to be just what the man was waiting for. He stepped in and around and wrenched Scott's hand up between his shoulder blades. The man moved so fast Scott didn't have time to react. Pain shot from his shoul-der to his fingertips. Then the man jammed Scott's face against the wall and clamped a heavy forearm around his throat, squeezing Scott's carotid arteries in the crook of his arm. Scott struggled but had no leverage, and the expertly applied chokehold cut off the oxygen supply to his brain. After just a few seconds he felt dizzy. Then the light began to fade and dark spots swam in his vision.

He heard Ortiz laugh.

"That's enough," Jones said.

The pressure on Scott's neck eased, and he was able to suck down some air. The darkness receded. Still, the big guy pressed him against the wall.

Jones shoved the court order into Scott's back pocket; then he leaned in close to Scott's ear and said, "You might want to keep this so you can explain to your superiors why you no longer have custody of your prisoner."

"Where are you taking him?" Scott croaked.

"That, like Sergeant Ortiz himself," Jones said, "is not your concern, Agent Greene."