Agent Mike Ortega of the CIA arrived at ten sharp the next morning. He was a big guy with broad shoulders, dark brown eyes, and a thin mustache. The Mexican American carried himself with an arrogance that annoyed Crosswhite the moment he opened the door. Agent Mendoza, the PFM agent who had saved Vaught’s life, stood just behind him, dressed in regular clothes now, his face turned to watch the door to the enclosed carport, his oversized Adam’s apple protruding.
“You’re Crosswhite?” Ortega asked.
“Right.”
Ortega offered his hand. He was one of those guys who felt it necessary to half crush the other guy’s hand during a handshake, but he realized at once that Crosswhite’s grip was at least as strong as his own. This surprised him, given that Crosswhite stood a head shorter and was built on a lighter frame. “I understand you’ve already met Agent Mendoza.”
“I have.” Crosswhite shook his hand as well. “Bienvenido.” Welcome.
“Is Vaught still here?” Ortega asked.
“In the living room.” Crosswhite motioned the two inside.
Vaught stood waiting in the center of the room and shook hands with both men. There was a moment of mild tension between him and Mendoza, but it seemed to pass quickly enough.
“Sorry I couldn’t make it over here last night,” Ortega said. “This is my first time at bat in this kind of operation, and it’s taken some time to get the kinks ironed out. They’re still not ironed out completely, but I’m afraid there’s going to be a lot of OJT for everyone involved.”
Paolina came out of the bedroom with Valencia in her arms, crossing the living room to take a seat on the sofa and set Valencia down beside her.
Ortega watched her for a moment, looking at Crosswhite. “Okay, look, we can’t have indigenous personnel sitting in on this conversation, so she’s going to have to step out for a while.”
Paolina didn’t understand what had been said, but she knew from her husband’s face that she had been insulted in some way, and she prepared for him to lose his temper.
“First of all,” Crosswhite said, “she’s not indigenous. She’s Cuban. And second of all, she’s my wife. You got that, asshole?”
Ortega took offense immediately. “Hey, we’re all on the same side here, fella.”
Crosswhite stared back at him.
Vaught glanced at Paolina, who sat watching passively, almost as though she knew what was about to happen.
“Well, suit yourself,” Ortega said, openly annoyed. “If you don’t mind endangering her life, I don’t see why I should.”
Crosswhite struck him with a closed fist just above the right eye to send Ortega reeling backward across the room. The CIA agent stumbled over the recliner and crashed heavily to the floor against the wall.
Vaught and Mendoza looked at each other in shock, eyes wide as Crosswhite stepped between them to stand over the bigger man lying on the floor between the wall and the overturned chair. “Either you apologize right now, or I kill you.”
Ortega’s impulse was to get up and pound Crosswhite into the floor, but there was a fury in the smaller man’s eyes that told him he’d better not even try it. “You’re fucking crazy. Do you know that?”
“I’m not gonna tell you again,” Crosswhite said. “And you’d better hurry, because Fields is about ten seconds away from needing to find another goddamn station chief.”
“Okay, I apologize!” Ortega snapped, rubbing his forehead, where a slight goose egg was already beginning to form. “I meant no offense. I was only trying to protect her.”
Vaught glanced again at Paolina, who hadn’t taken her eyes off of Crosswhite the entire time.
Crosswhite pointed at the overturned recliner, saying to Ortega, “That’s your chair.” He turned to Mendoza, calming himself and indicating the far end of the sofa. “Por favor, siéntese,” he said easily. “Nuestra casa es su casa.” Please sit down. Our house is your house.
Mendoza smiled at him, saying, “Gracias” and moved to take a seat.
Crosswhite sat down in the center of the sofa between Mendoza and Paolina as Vaught gave Ortega a hand, hauling the big man to his feet and helping to right the overturned recliner.
Vaught turned to Crosswhite. “Can I bring a chair from the kitchen?”
Crosswhite nodded, and Vaught went into the kitchen. Paolina followed him. Vaught returned with a chair made of leather and split tree branches called an equipal. Paolina returned a minute later with a plastic bag of ice, which she gave to the embarrassed Ortega.
“Gracias,” he said quietly, putting the bag against the swelling over his eye.
“You’re welcome,” she said in heavily accented English, sitting back down beside Crosswhite and pulling Valencia into her lap.
Crosswhite wasn’t the slightest bit apologetic or uncomfortable. Fields had said to him the night before: “It’s important that you impress upon Ortega from the start that this is not his operation. It is my operation, and nothing less than his one hundred percent cooperation will be acceptable.”
Crosswhite felt he had done a fair job of establishing the hierarchy of who shit where in the woods, while at the same time making it clear to everyone present that Paolina wasn’t to be regarded as anything less than the lady of the house.
“So where were we?” Ortega said timidly, understanding Crosswhite’s utter lack of respect for him must have meant that he was well protected from on high — very probably by Pope himself. He switched to Spanish for Mendoza’s benefit, addressing Vaught: “I’m the one who requested the Operational Immediate putting you under the aegis of the CIA.”
“Oh, then fuck you very much!” Vaught retorted in English.
Mendoza chuckled, apparently knowing enough English to understand that much.
“I’m sorry,” Ortega said, “but I believed then, as I do now, that it’s extremely important. Lazaro Serrano is simply too high up in the Mexican government to let this opportunity pass — not to mention, he’s very probably the one who ordered the assassination of Alice Downly. If he didn’t order it, then he certainly made it possible. What I don’t understand, however, is why Langley doesn’t want this handled by Mexico station. My people are more than capable of handling the logistics of such an op and providing you a safe place to stay.”
Vaught cleared his throat, glancing at Crosswhite. “Well, my new friend here has already explained the reasoning behind that — at least he has to me.”
Ortega wasn’t interested in making eye contact with Crosswhite. “Then Mr. Crosswhite is privy to information that hasn’t been made available to me.” Crosswhite offered no explanation because Ortega wasn’t cleared to know about the ATRU. Ortega turned his gaze on Mendoza. “Agent Mendoza?”
Mendoza leaned forward, pressing his palms together. “The PFM agrees this is very, very important,” he began in Spanish. “We’ve suspected Serrano for some time, but there’s never been any evidence against him before now.” He looked up at Vaught. “The PFM is pleased with what you’ve done. You’ve helped to shed light on the corruption inside the Federal Police, and you’ve given us our first real evidence against Lazaro Serrano.”
Vaught always knew when his balls were being buttered. “Yesterday you were pissed I’d blown your cover. What’s changed?”
Mendoza sat back. “My point of view. Yesterday I had just killed five men. I had never killed anyone before, and I was very affected by it. The true purpose of a deep-cover operation is to obtain information, to obtain evidence, and had you not taken action yesterday, I never would have been in a position to witness Serrano order a murder with my own eyes. That action alone proves he is far more than complicit — he is an actual decision maker within the cartels. This is very significant information. Also, if not for you, I would not have been there to confirm the existence of the gringo sniper. Until now, this man has only been a ghost — always rumored, never seen. So today it is obvious to me and to my superiors that you have done Mexico a service.