Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

Kurt saw George Wolffe roll his eyes at the back of the room, then rub his forehead. Kurt kept his face neutral but didn’t back down from the president’s glare.

President Warren pressed his lips together, then nodded. “I suppose I had that coming. Pike wants to hit a rival cartel now? Make it a clean sweep down there?”

Kurt smiled and said, “We can only follow the bread crumbs as they fall, but I can’t predict where it leads.”

President Warren said, “Where? We don’t even know what it’s leading to.”

Kurt said, “That’s true, but Jack Cahill might.”

26

Jack’s days and nights had blurred, dreading the stairwell light and the next visit. After his initial conversation about the Sinaloa cartel he had been ignored, and he wondered if he’d been forgotten. He’d seen enough butchering that he certainly wasn’t going to ask about his status. Being ignored was better than the alternative.

He had grown accustomed to the entrance and exit of what he called the “enforcers” and had learned how to keep them happy. The bald sicario was another matter. This morning, he’d been pulled out of the basement by the strange, slight man with the scar on his forehead, and he’d felt mind-numbing fear. The sicario’s actions instilled it. He seemed to float about the room like a frail hummingbird, but his eyes were hypnotic, exposing the lie of frailty. Jack knew he was crazy, but in a different way. A stronger way.

If he’d been in a coffee shop in Dallas, going about his life, Jack would have seen the sicario and laughed, saying, “He’s not all there,” before sipping his four-dollar grande latte. Now, living in this man’s world, he knew that was incorrect. He was beyond all there, like an elemental thing, sensing the very pulse in Jack’s neck. And yet, Jack knew he wasn’t all there.

Put into a car, he’d been told the person he’d seen on the video was coming to Mexico City, and he was to point him out. They’d driven close to an hour, then parked outside the Benito Juárez International Airport. Going into the waiting area of terminal one, the sicario had said nothing at all, treating the entire trip as if they were meeting family. No threats, nothing about what would happen if he tried to escape. He’d simply parked and locked the car, resting his dark eyes on Jack for a second, then had turned his back and entered the airport.

Jack had scurried to keep up, the eyes searing his brain with unquestioned obedience, any thoughts about escaping sinking like a coin tossed in the water, flashing more faintly the farther he walked.

They’d entered the throng of people all waiting outside the exit to customs, the sicario pushing aside illegal taxi vendors and family members waiting on loved ones returning home, all turning in initial anger, then melting back at his stare. They reached the front, separated from the exit by a metal railing, and he spoke for the first time.

“The contact’s plane has landed. He will be coming out soon. Point him out to me.”

Jack nodded and began scanning the flow of people exiting, praying he would recognize the man, bringing forth the memory from the digital recorder. The tension in his body increased with each passing minute, the people exiting in little bursts. They stood for over an hour, Jack beginning to see the contact in everyone who appeared, imagining what he would look like with a haircut and clean-shaven or in a suit. Maybe wearing a sombrero. Perhaps camouflaged in a dress with a wig. Anything to please his crazy captor.

Eventually, the sicario tapped him on the shoulder, causing Jack to jump. He flicked his weird eyes toward the exit and turned without a word. For a brief moment, Jack considered running. Racing through the crowds and shouting his predicament, causing a commotion that would set him free. As if his thoughts were floating on the air between them, the sicario turned back and Jack felt his eyes penetrate. He rushed to catch up.

They’d returned to the mansion and Jack had been led to the same study as before, the mustached leader who had originally questioned Jack waiting behind his desk. The sicario set a directional microphone and digital recorder on the table. When the leader went to pick it up, he said, “El Comandante, I didn’t get a chance to use it. He didn’t show up.”

The leader scowled like a child and said, “Didn’t show, or didn’t get pointed out?”

Jack felt his survival time shrinking to seconds. He said, “I swear, he wasn’t at the airport. Maybe he came earlier or he’s coming later, but he didn’t leave while we were there.”

Indifferent, the sicario said, “I think he’s telling the truth. Your information was ‘within the next couple of days,’ correct? It’s the same flight number each day. He might show tomorrow.”

The leader said, “I might need you back in Juárez. It’s on fire right now and we may have an opportunity.”

“What has happened?”

“I’m not sure. There’s another player on the board, and he’s hitting Sinaloa. I have to think about it. Get more information. I’ll talk to you later with a decision.”

Thrown back into the basement, the first thing Jack noticed was that he had a new neighbor. A boy of about eighteen was sitting in the corner in stylish jeans and an expensive shirt. Looking at Jack with the catatonic stare of someone not yet understanding what had happened to him.

Or maybe understanding completely.

27

“Koko, roger. That’s our target.”

Jennifer rolled her eyes at her call sign, wishing like hell she could change it to something more dignified. She turned to Pike and said, “Well, that pretty much eliminates the capture/interrogation plan.”

“Yeah. I agree. It wouldn’t be too smart to kidnap a Mexican law enforcement guy in the Federal District.”

After exfiltrating Retro across the border, linking up with some doctors read on to Taskforce activities, they’d received the go-ahead to explore from the Oversight Council. Flying from Juárez to Mexico City, otherwise known as the Distrito Federal, or DF, they’d begun to track the phone of the person who had received the call from the Sinaloa traitor.

The primary trace had shown up centered on a tidy row of town houses located in the northeast of the city center, just outside the historic district in a middle-class neighborhood. Since the phone location itself wasn’t down to the meter, but instead had a circle of probable error upwards of the size of a football field, they’d spent most of yesterday locating the specific bed-down site, collating the multiple pings of the phone into layers that allowed them to neck down exactly which house contained it. The research done, they’d begun static surveillance this morning to refine a course of action.

Jennifer had noticed a man in some type of police uniform exit the garage of the town house, followed by a woman carrying a baby, whom he kissed before walking to a car farther up the street. Since the garage serviced all three houses, at best it meant their target lived next to a policeman. At worst it meant the target was a policeman. She’d had Knuckles and Decoy tail the man until he was far enough away to get another ping that wouldn’t be contaminated by their previous traces. And had confirmed the worst.

She said, “You think that phone intel was bogus? They killed a guy for no reason?”

“Maybe, but more than likely it means the cop is bogus. Playing both sides of the fence. Either way, we can’t take him down.”

Jennifer felt the only lead to her brother withering away. “What about a B and E, just to see what he’s got in the house? Might give us something.”

“Yeah, but I just saw his burglar alarm go back in. We can’t do a surreptitious entry with a baby and mother inside.”