Cliff Ryder - Aim And Fire

“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. 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.”

“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 redecorated 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 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.”