Jack smiled, touched her shoulder. “I’ll have the docs check me out after I get back to headquarters. Thank you for your concern.”
She stared up at Jack through long lashes. Then she flashed him a sly smile. “You cops are all alike. You think you’re supermen.”
Jack noticed the wedding band on her finger. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”
“Special Agent Bauer. Over here.”
Jack turned at the call. Agent Brian McConnell didn’t wait for Bauer to follow. He turned on his heels and walked back to the white van parked near the blown-out door to studio nine.
“Excuse me,” Jack told the paramedic.
She nodded. “Better go, Special Agent Bauer.”
Inez Besario joined the other emergency workers administering first aid to Chet Blackburn’s leg. Jack hurried across the parking lot. He spied Agent Avilla, tightening the flex-ties on one of the cholos who’d worked him over the other day. Finally Jack caught up with Angel One at the door to the battered van. McConnell slapped the dirty side panel twice with the palm of his hand.
“Come,” a muffled voice called from inside.
McConnell jerked the handle and slid the door open. Inside the command center, Jason Peltz sat in a chair bolted to the van’s floor. The man was surrounded by computers, flickering monitors and banks of communications equipment. There was even a small chemical lab inside. A technician with gloved hands was working with vials, testing a sample of the narcotic found inside Utopia Studios. Peltz powered down his station, yanked off his headset, and stepped out of the cluttered van.
“Good job, Bauer. And you can pass on my thanks to Agent Blackburn and his people. Through intraagency cooperation, we shut down the largest methamphetamine laboratory on the West Coast and captured those responsible—”
“Wait a minute,” Jack interrupted. “Did you say methamphetamine lab? This lab was supposed to be producing Karma.”
“It appears our intelligence was faulty,” Peltz said. “My forensics people can’t find evidence this lab was used for anything more than the production of high quality crystal meth.”
Peltz frowned. Like his smile, the mask of expression never reached the man’s eyes. “I’m really sorry, Jack.”
Bauer was angry, but he couldn’t show it. He looked at Brian McConnell, but the man would not meet his gaze. Jack didn’t know if Angel One was suffering from disappointment or guilt — which meant that Jack didn’t know if this was just another DEA snafu, or if he and CTU were being played.
Reflexively, Jack massaged his throbbing temple. “That’s a bad break,” he said evenly. “Where does that leave us, Peltz?”
Peltz sighed, slapped his thigh. “Right now, we say goodbye.”
“What?”
“This is a pretty big bust, and my bosses in Sacramento wanted to make some hay out it.” Peltz paused. “The press is being alerted, Jack, even as we speak. The cameras will be here any minute. I’ve already ordered my men out. You’d best get your team out of here if you don’t want to see the faces of your undercover operatives on the network news.”
Seething, Jack turned and crossed the parking lot. He found Chet Blackburn leaning against an ambulance, studying the bandage around his leg.
“Assemble your team and get them out of here. The press is on its way.”
Blackburn blinked. “That was fast.”
Bauer looked at the white van. “Someone tipped them off. I’ll ride back to headquarters with you.”
“Don’t you want to say hello to your old pal first?”
Jack turned. Chet was grinning. Behind him a man leaned against a blue, late-model Lexus. About the same age as Jack, he wore khaki pants and a polo shirt. His arms and face were deeply tanned under light brown, thinning hair.
“Frank! Frank Castalano.” Jack grabbed the man’s hand.
“Good to see you, Jack.” Castalano slapped his arm and Jack winced. “In the shit again, eh?”
“As I recall, Frank, you were never far from the stink yourself.”
Chet sniffed the air. “I don’t smell any stink on him, Jack. He sure isn’t kicking down doors anymore. All this heat and he hasn’t even broken a sweat.”
Jack grinned. “That’s because he’s Detective Frank Castalano of the Los Angeles Homicide Bureau now. So what are you doing here, partner?”
Frank caught Jack’s eye. “Actually, I wish this were a social call, but it’s not.”
“Chet, you can go ahead back to headquarters and file your report,” said Jack. “I’ll find my own way back.”
Blackburn had caught the exchange. Now he was feeling the chill. “Okay then,” he said “It was nice seeing you, Frank. Keep in touch.”
After Chet and the rest of his tactical assault team piled into a black CTU tactical van and drove away, Detective Castalano opened the passenger side door of his Lexus.
“Let’s go for a ride, Jack.”
“Am I under arrest?”
Frank laughed, moved to slap Bauer’s arm again then checked himself. “Thirty minutes of your time, Jack. That’s all I ask. Then I’ll take you home. You still live in Santa Monica, right?”
They’d made it to the border crossing on Route 5 with seconds to spare. Tony eased the van through the second gate from the right, as per his briefing. The border guard recognized the car and Tony’s disguise and waved the van right through the checkpoint.
The area around the border crossing resembled a war zone, with layers of chain link fences topped by curls of barbed wire, blades glinting in the sun. No plants grew in this no-man’s land. The only movement were the tiny tornadoes of dust that swirled over the scorched stretch of rocky desert.
Along the last few miles, they’d seen more and more bilingual signs. Now everything — the road signs, the advertisements, everything — was in Spanish. Tony steered the van to the bridge. They really weren’t in Tijuana until they crossed the Tijuana River Canal. Because of the drought, the “river” more resembled a muddy creek, and the entire town seemed to be coated with a fine, powdery dust.
Tony rolled down the window to pass a slow moving truck. Fumes filled the cab and Fay’s nose curled. “Somebody ought to Midasize it.”
“That’s leaded gasoline. It’s legal down here. Get used to it,” said Tony.
On the other side of the river, Tony drove a few blocks through a market area, then turned onto Revolucion. Though early, some of the bars and restaurants were open for business. Already the food carts were filling the hot dry morning with the smell of burned charcoal and seared meat.
“Is the whole town like this?” Fay asked.
“This is the tourist area.”
She smiled knowingly. “I get it. This is the sleazy part of town.”
“No. This is the nice part.”
Tony stayed on Revolucion, right through Centro — Tijuana’s downtown — until the avenue ended. He turned left at Amacusac, then made another left on winding Murrieta. On Juan Escutia Tony pulled up in front of a three-story brick building with rickety balconies fronting the structure on the second and third floors. The sign above the single door read la hacienda. Tony cut the engine.
“We’re here,” he said. He released his seatbelt. Fay Hubley reached for the door handle. Tony stopped her.
“Remember your instructions. Use first names only, but remember your cover. I’m Tony Navarro. You’re Fay Kelly. Best not to get into any conversations, and don’t look anyone in the eye. And remember, if we get separated or if something happens to me—”
“Go directly to the United States Consulate and tell them who I am.”
Tony nodded. “All right. Let me activate the security system, and we’ll go.”