“Go see Agent Vaught out back,” Diego said, seemingly preoccupied with paperwork. “He requested you ride with him tonight.”
“Sí, señor.”
A few minutes later, Robles found Vaught waiting for him in the back of an armored black-and-white pickup truck. The truck bed was enclosed with a roll cage, which allowed officers to stand up during patrol and to rail-mount a light machine gun. He climbed up into the back dressed in his SWAT gear and shook Vaught’s hand. “Thank you for requesting me.”
“Sure,” Vaught said, pulling the black balaclava up over his face. “We’re expecting trouble tonight, and I want a good man with me.” He reached out and took the helmet from Robles’s head. “Better let me trade with you. Your helmet’s marked up.”
“No, it’s okay,” Robles said, reaching for his helmet back. “It fits my head.”
“It’s cool,” Vaught said, strapping the helmet on. “We wear the same size.”
Sergeant Cuevas climbed into the back of the truck, donned his helmet, and pulled up his balaclava. “Better put that helmet on,” he said to Robles. “We’re patrolling the north side.”
The north side of town was the worst, the area where they suspected the gringo sniper to be hiding among Ruvalcaba’s people.
“We’re going to draw the sniper’s fire,” Vaught said with a grin. “Try to flush him out.”
“I’d like to have my helmet back,” Robles said, his good humor beginning to fade. “I don’t like wearing other people’s helmets.”
Vaught laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t have lice.”
“I’m serious,” Robles said, putting his hand out. “Give me my helmet.”
The driver of the truck got out of the cab and stood watching.
“Sorry,” Vaught said. “I’m keeping the helmet.”
Robles looked at Sergeant Cuevas. “Tell him to give me my helmet.”
“Why?” Cuevas asked. “What’s so special about it?”
“It’s mine. I have the right to wear my own equipment.”
“It belongs to the department,” Cuevas said. “I’ve reassigned it to Agent Vaught.” He took the other helmet from Vaught’s hand and thrust it toward Robles. “I’ve reassigned this one to you. Now put it on. We’re patrolling the north side.”
Robles stood looking between the two men, realizing he’d been discovered. “I quit.” He turned to dismount the truck, but Sergeant Cuevas whacked him over the head with the Kevlar helmet, and he went down.
The driver jumped into the back, and the three men wrestled Robles into a pair of handcuffs. Then Sergeant Cuevas produced a roll of duct tape and taped Robles’s mouth shut. They pulled the balaclava over his face and stood him up, shackling his hands to the roll bar behind the machine gun, making him look like the gunner — the first man the sniper would likely shoot. Vaught put the helmet on Robles’s head and pulled the chin strap good and tight.
“It’s you and me tonight, baby!” He turned to Sergeant Cuevas, switching back to Spanish. “You’d better dismount, Sergeant. There’s no sense giving the sniper more than one target to choose from. We’ll let our man Robles here take all the risks.”
Robles shook his head furiously, protesting as best he could with his mouth taped shut.
Vaught drew a razor-sharp folding knife from his harness and pressed the point to Robles’s throat. “You’d better stand up and face this like a man.”
Robles began to cry, shaking his hands, begging to be set free.
Revolted by the traitor’s cowardice, Sergeant Cuevas stepped into him, kneeing him in the groin. Robles sagged against the back of the cab with a groan and threw up in his mouth. They had to peel the tape off fast to prevent him from aspirating: sucking vomit into his lungs.
He retched once more, and they allowed him to cough himself out before applying a new strip of tape. This time Robles made no attempt to protest his fate.
“You earned this,” Vaught said, pulling the balaclava up to hide the younger man’s face. “So accept what you have coming. If you fuck this up, I will stab you, I swear to God.”
Sergeant Cuevas got into a black-and-white Dodge Charger with three other officers, and both vehicles rolled out, with the pickup in the lead.
65
Mariana hadn’t had too much trouble getting Billy Jessup to notice her in the nightclub. The trouble was getting him to un-notice the twins sitting three tables over, where they pretended to be interested in the half dozen inebriated young men vying heavily for their attention.
“Those two seem to be distracting you,” she said, drinking from a bottle of Tecate beer.
“I’m sorry,” Jessup said with a laugh, embarrassed to be called on the carpet for gawking. “I just don’t see that every day.”
His Spanish had turned out to be too poor to carry on a conversation, forcing Mariana to talk to him in accented English, which required a conscious effort on her part to keep from breaking character. “You don’t see what every day?”
He laughed again. “They’re just really hot.”
“And I’m not?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re beautiful. It’s just…” He laughed again, sounding more stupid each time. “There’s just different kinds of pretty, that’s all.”
“So you prefer women who look like putas?” Sluts.
Again the annoying laugh. “I don’t know if that’s what I said.”
“Well, go over and talk to them. That’s obviously where you want to be.”
He turned his back to the far table. “No, this is where I want to be. Your English is very good. Where did you learn?”
“I’ve lived on the border all my life. My whole family speaks English.”
“Do you like the US?”
She nodded. “What are you doing in Mexico?”
“I’ve been doing some consulting.”
“Consulting?” She put on her most interested face. “My brother’s a consultant in DF. What kind of consulting do you do?”
“Well, it’s not…” He hadn’t counted on her knowing a damn thing about consulting. “It’s more like security work — security consulting.”
“For banks and things like that?”
“No, no.” He took a drink from his beer. “More like, um… more like bodyguard-type work.”
“For politicians?”
He chuckled. “Sort of.”
“What do you mean, ‘Sort of’?”
“Well, I don’t know… just sort of.” He laughed again.
She gave his sizeable biceps a squeeze, noting the bottom part of a military tattoo sticking out beneath the sleeve. “You’re a mercenary, aren’t you?”
Jessup knew women well enough to know they didn’t start squeezing on you unless they were at least contemplating taking off their clothes. “Suppose I am?”
She shrugged, offering a flirtatious smile. “Suppose you are?”
“Would that bother you?”
“I guess it depends.”
“On what?”
She sat forward into the table, making the moment more intimate. “If I decide to fuck you at some point in the future, and I find out you’re down here working for the DEA … or the ATF …”—she took a drink, and her expression turned almost vicious—“I’ll cut your fucking balls off in your fucking sleep.”
Jessup felt himself stiffen inside his jeans. “Believe me, the last people on earth I work for is the ATF or the fucking DEA.”
“Because the people I work for,” she went on, “they don’t fucking play. Do you understand?”