“Jack Mahanani?” he asked in a pleasant voice without a trace of Mexican accent.
“That’s right. I understand we’re to take a ride.”
“Sí, amigo. I am Hernando. We take a trip to Imperial Beach.” This time the Mexican accent was solid and sure. He grinned. “Sometimes I do undercover work along the border,” he said without the accent. “I can play it either way. Maybe I should have been an actor.”
Mahanani locked his front door and they went down the steps to a four-year-old Ford.
“Company car,” Hernando said. “I drive one of the new VW Beetles.”
They drove in silence past the Hotel Del Coronado, out the Strand, and past the SEALs’ headquarters. Hernando waved at the complex. “Seems like they keep you guys busy over there,” he said.
“Some days we work, some days we train,” Mahanani said. He sat there trying to figure his odds of living through the night. If the raid went down without a hitch, and if they nailed at least five bodies at the casino, he would have a chance. He had decided not to call in and tell Harley that he was home but bushed and couldn’t make a run tonight. Maybe he’d give him a call tomorrow afternoon.
Not calling tonight might be enough to throw suspicion on him, and they might not make a run tonight. But he often didn’t call in for four or five days. He’d leave it like that. Taking down the guys at the casino would be the hairy part.
They waited near a McDonald’s in Imperial Beach for ten minutes before a Mercury Grand Prix pulled up in back of them. Two men got out and crawled into the Ford.
“We wanted a car that wouldn’t be conspicuous,” the taller of the two agents said. “I’m Daniels and this is Ronkowski. Now what casino and who are we looking for?”
“The Casa Grande Casino, out from El Cajon a ways. The man who first contacted me is Harley. He’s a member of the tribe out there. I don’t know his last name. Seems like he’s always near the front doors. The office man is Martillo.”
Hernando looked over at him. “Hammer? They call him the Hammer?”
“Right. He’s the guy who sent three of his thugs to pound me around.”
“We have heard of Martillo. Rojo Martillo, he’s sometimes called. The rojo probably comes from the color of blood, which he spills quite often. We know him and three or four of the men he runs with. I wonder how he got a job at the casino.”
“He had strong Indian contacts last I knew,” Hernando said. He looked at Mahanani. “We ready to drive?”
“Are those the only names you have for us?” Daniels asked.
“Yes. Let’s drive. Sometimes the cars take off from San Ysidro before seven o’clock.”
“It’s only six-fifteen, Mahanani,” Daniels said. “You left all of your guns at work and at home, I hope.”
“Right. If it comes to a shoot-out, I don’t want any part of it.”
“From what I hear, your special Platoon Three of Seventh does quite a bit of shooting,” Ronkowski said.
“We’re professionals doing a job,” Mahanani said. “We don’t like to mix with amateur drug smugglers.” He scowled. “You guys must also know what kind of toothpaste I use and when I go to the john.”
“Just about,” Daniels said. “We like to know who we’re dealing with. We didn’t compromise you in any way with the Navy or the SEALs. We know how to gather information without the people knowing they are helping us.”
“San Ysidro just ahead,” Hernando said.
“Take the off-ramp, then go down two blocks and turn left into Pismo Street,” Mahanani said. “The little garage has a rusted-out sign, a fence around it, and a wide driveway.”
“Yeah, I see it,” Hernando said.
“Just ease past it and go down to the end of the block,” Daniels said. “Park so we can see the driveway.” They had just parked, facing back toward the garage in front of a taco shop, when Mahanani pointed.
“Okay, that Pontiac just eased into the lot and parked where he’s supposed to,” Mahanani said. “The driver’s getting out of the car.”
The SEAL then saw that both backseat riders had out large field glasses and were tracking the man. He walked young, but Mahanani had no idea how old he was.
“Male, Caucasian, maybe thirty, wears glasses,” Daniels said. “Blue pants, light blue shirt, might have a tie on. He’s just going into the Triple A Auto Repair shop on Pismo Street. This is in the San Ysidro section of San Diego, about three miles from the Mexican/U.S. border.”
Mahanani looked back and saw Daniels lower a small tape recorder. “Helps my memory,” he said.
“When do you call the men to the casino?”
“We’ve had undercover people there for two days.”
“How did you know which one?”
“We talked to your cleaning lady. She said she was sure that was the one where you spent a lot of time and money. She showed us napkins and matchbooks and a flyer from the casino.”
“Fucking sneaky,” Mahanani said.
“Like you SEALs, we do whatever works. We go after the bad guys whole-bore with all our flags flying. Which is why you’re here.”
“The paper with my pardon on it,” Mahanani said. He figured the DEA wouldn’t give it up unless they had to. Daniels reached in his jacket pocket and took out an envelope. Mahanani opened the envelope, saw the stationery, and read the letter. He nodded, put in his pocket, and watched the kid walk into the garage door. The big door the cars drove into was closed.
“Don’t try to tail him when he drives out,” Mahanani said. “Yeah, I know you’re experts, but with one or two cars you don’t have a chance. There might be two hundred cars all trying to get into Mexico at the same time. The smugglers give the drivers tips on what to watch for in case they think somebody is following them. It’s a good ten-minute course and they say it works.”
“Somebody is coming out,” Hernando said. One of the Mexican men from inside came out the regular door and pretended to pick up trash around the lot, but what he really did was check out the street both ways. The DEA men dropped below the level of the rear seat, and Hernando and Mahanani bent down as well when the man looked their way. After a good check around, the man went back inside the garage.
A moment later the drive-in door lifted and a six-year-old Plymouth eased out of the building and angled toward the driveway and the street.
“Same guy we saw leave the Pontiac,” Daniels said. “We may have a go here.” Mahanani realized that Daniels had switched to a foot-long handheld radio.
“We’re on duty here at Gamble One,” the radio speaker said. “I asked somebody where Harley was and she pointed him out to me. Told them I was trying to sell them a new type of soap for their rest rooms. He usually hangs out around the front doors. Once I saw him turn around a guy who looked like a street person. Another time he greeted a well-dressed woman and escorted her through a door marked employees only. Not sure where it goes. We’re loose. So far I’ve lost only about ten dollars on the slots. I’ve got one with a good view of Harley.”
“Stay with it. Could be two or three hours. We can’t strike too fast. See what you can find out about three big guys who are used for punishment purposes.”
“Roger that, Rover. Will do.”
While the radio chattered, Mahanani watched the faded Plymouth sedan drive down the street a block and turn the corner toward Interstate 5.
“How long will he be gone?” Daniels asked, looking at his watch.
“They tell their mules to stay in TJ for at least three hours. The inspectors don’t like over-and-back trips, cars that they can remember.”
“But the inspectors on the U.S. side don’t see the U.S. cars going in on the Mexican border,” Ronkowski said.