“You’re right, but they still tell their drivers three hours,” Mahanani repeated.
“So,” Hernando said. “We have time for a leisurely dinner in a good steak house.”
The other two DEA men laughed.
“Right, Hernando. You’re our chef. You get to hike to the nearest fast-food place and bring back enough fish sandwiches, burgers, and milk shakes for all four of us. Get a move on. I missed lunch today and I’m starved.”
“I tried,” Hernando said with a grin, and opened the door and closed it silently. He vanished down the street away from the garage to where a strip mall showed.
Three hours and a Big Mac and strawberry shake later, Mahanani saw the six-year-old Plymouth pull up to the driveway and edge in slowly.
“Same license number,” Daniels said, a note of satisfaction creeping into his voice.
“Wait until the rig is inside for at least ten minutes,” Mahanani said. “Let them get it opened up to where the drugs are.”
“The driver?” Ronkowski asked.
“Up to you. Let him walk or take him down, but do it quietly half a block down.”
“Hernando, go now and grab the young man as he drives. We’ll need him as a witness.” The Mexican man left the car quietly and ran down the street and beyond the garage.
Daniels checked his watch. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Remember, there’s that regular door in front and a door in back that’s usually open,” Mahanani said. “I’m staying here. There’s a phone in the small office and probably a radio somewhere. Most men I’ve seen there are three.” He watched the agents get out of the car. “When do you call the casino?”
“After we find the drugs and make the bust. Then we radio for them to close in. They have eight guys in the place and will do it quietly.”
Mahanani nodded at the two DEA men, and they walked quickly down the street the half a block to the garage. He saw one at the front door and the other one vanish. A few moments later the man in front sprang into action.
DEA Agent Daniels took a deep breath, hefted his Glock fourteen-round automatic pistol, pulled the door open, and leaped inside. He heard the back door open at the same time.
Immediately in front of him was the old Plymouth that had been backed in. The rear seat had been taken out and the false floor had been pulled up showing bags of something.
“Hands in the air and don’t move, you’re all under arrest.” One man jolted deeper into the building, which held two other cars being repaired. A second man lifted his hands. The third drew a weapon from his back pocket and snapped a shot at Daniels.
Another pistol barked from the back of the building, and the shooter screeched in pain and anger and crumpled to the floor. He didn’t move again. Ronkowski rushed up and put his foot on the shooter’s outstretched hand, which still held the pistol.
Daniels ducked behind the Plymouth and looked for the third man. He heard him behind the third car, but couldn’t see him. A shot blasted into the sudden stillness of the garage, and Daniels reeled backward with a bullet in his shoulder. He ducked farther behind the car.
“Give yourself up,” Ronkowski roared with a heavy voice. “You’ll only end up wounded or dead. Throw out your weapon and come out with your hands—”
A shot blasted into his sentence. Ronkowski returned fire, six rounds under both cars toward the sound of the other gun. Nothing happened. Daniels held his right shoulder with his left hand to stop the flow of blood. He tried to raise the Glock, and got it up waist high. He aimed it at the third car and put a round through the rear window. Glass shattered as the panel erupted inward, granulating into small squares. He shot out the driver’s-side rear window, and had a flash of the shooter, but he ducked away out of sight.
“No other doors or windows out of this firetrap,” Ronkowski said. “We’re DEA agents and you’re under arrest for narcotics smuggling. Why get yourself dead for the big shots who make all the money? A few years in prison and you’ll still be alive and back with your family.”
Before Daniels could move again, he saw a figure lunge out from the cover of the third car and charge straight at him, a handgun in front firing. Daniels crouched behind the car’s rear fender and after he heard six more shots, he lifted the Glock up and found the shooter four feet away and coming fast. Daniels shot him three times in the chest before he fell against the rear deck of the Plymouth and rolled off on the floor, the pistol sliding out of his hand.
Daniels checked him. “We’ve got a dead body here, Ronkowski. How’s yours?”
“Dead and gone,” Ronkowski said. “I’ve got one smart one here and about a hundred pounds of coke. I’ll go bring up the car. This one is handcuffed to the rear door handle.”
He came around the door and saw Daniels’s bloody shoulder. “I’ll get Mahanani in here. He’s a medical corpsman and can fix up that shoulder until I get you to the hospital. Time to use the radio. What’s the call signal.”
“Casa Grande Takedown. Tell them we’ve got two dead and two prisoners including the driver and the coke. They should pounce on the casino guys.”
Five minutes later, Mahanani had found a first-aid kit in the garage and treated the shoulder wound as best he could. “Not enough medicine or bandages in here to do much good, but I’ve got the blood stopped and your arm tied to your chest. I heard the other guy send in the troops at the casino. Hope to hell they get everyone.”
“Where’s the nearest emergency room?” Ronkowski asked. Mahanani shook his head.
Ronkowski used a cell phone and dialed 911. “Hi, 911, I’m a DEA agent and we have a wounded man. I’m in San Ysidro. Where’s the nearest hospital with an emergency room?”
“Do you wish an ambulance?”
“No, just tell me where I can drive our wounded agent to.”
“Just a moment, sir.”
Ronkowski frowned.
Daniels scowled. “Ronkowski, you stay here and call for some backup to get the prisoners and the coke. Maybe Mahanani can drive me to the hospital.”
“Sir, that would be the Paradise Valley Hospital in National City. That’s at 2400 E. Fourth Street in National City. I have an ambulance driver to tell you how to get there from San Ysidro.”
Ronkowski repeated the directions from the ambulance driver. It was up Interstate 5 and not far off the freeway. Mahanani memorized the route, then took Daniels out to the DEA car and helped him inside. Hernando had driven the smuggler’s car back into the lot, with the driver handcuffed to the steering wheel, and went inside to help Ronkowski.
By the time Mahanani drove to the hospital, there were two DEA men there waiting for them. One took Daniels into Emergency, the other drove Mahanani back to his apartment in Coronado.
“How did it go at the casino?” the SEAL asked on the way back.
The DEA man shook his head. “Can’t say a thing about that officially. But I understand you set up this raid. I’d say we came out pretty well.”
Mahanani stared at his front door. When the DEA car drove away, he walked over to his Buick, slid in, and drove over the bridge and toward the casino. He had to find out just how deep the drug business went in the casino.
In the parking lot he saw no police cars, no yellow crime-scene tape. He parked and went in the front door. Harley did not grab him. He went straight to the floor manager, and then was taken to the night manager. He was an Indian with a ponytail.
“What’s this about,” he said. “I’m Long Bow Anderson, and I’m the boss around here at night.”
“This has to do with Harley and Martillo.”
The manager frowned. “How do you know about that?”
“Check your records. Martillo said I owned the casino six thousand dollars. I want to find out if his records are right.”
“Can’t be. We don’t allow anyone to run a tab here. Against our rules. Cash or nothing. Only way we can do business. We do have a short list of those we have banned from playing here due to behavior. Let me check the computer.”