“Targets?” Quinn asked, then mouthed, Houston, Texas, to Aleksandra in an effort to mend fences from his earlier showing of mistrust.
“The Martin Luther King Jr. parade is less than four days out,” Palmer said. “It’s on par with the Rose Bowl parade in size — a juicy target. Listen, a Bone left Abilene two hours ago. I spoke to the pilot personally and told him to put a boot in his bird’s ass. Expect him on the ground in…” He paused, doing the math. “Less than ninety minutes. I want you and the Russian in Houston helping out on the search as soon as possible.”
“Roger that,” Quinn said. “We’ll be ready.”
Officially known as the Lancer, the B-1, or B-One, was often called the Bone. Officially, it could reach speeds of Mach 1.25—over nine hundred miles an hour. At that rate they would make the trip from northern Peru to Houston in three hours and change.
“Call me back when you’re in the air,” Palmer said and ended the call without another word.
Quinn turned to Aleksandra, who tapped her toe on the tarmac beside Fuentes, the A37 pilot.
“May I offer you a place to wash up and something to eat?” Fuentes looked back and forth between the two of them. “We have excellent facilities here on base.”
“That would be welcome.” Quinn nodded. “I wouldn’t mind a glass of water that didn’t come out of a length of bamboo.”
Aleksandra smiled, her freckled nose crinkling in a way that belied her ruthlessness. “I could use a quick shower, even if I have to put these dirty clothes back on.”
“I am sure we can find something for both of you,” Fuentes said.
Quinn glanced at the Aquaracer on his wrist. “Lead the way, sir,” he said. “But we’ll have to hurry. Our ride will be here before we know it.”
CHAPTER 70
Yazid Nazif, his surviving two men, and Matthew Pollard poked their heads out of a two-mile tunnel under the Rio Grande River and into the outskirts of Laredo at approximately the same time the United States attempted to slam the door on the border. Luckily for Nazif, the United States had miles of border to patrol and only so many resources. The problem was they seemed to have brought all of these resources to bear at once. Green and white patrol vehicles threw clouds of dust on every back road. Military jets streaked overhead as if an air show was in town. Helicopters and specialized Predator drones with sophisticated camera pods loitered along a corridor formed by the river and an imaginary line thirty-five miles to the north.
Diego Borregos had remained in Mexico, reasoning that the U.S. Marshals held several warrants for him and his presence would only add to the likelihood of their capture. He sent his nephew, Carlos, to negotiate the crossing. Though Carlos was only in his twenties, Borregos assured Nazif that the young man was extremely loyal and could be trusted above anyone else to always “do the right thing.”
A Suburban with a Halliburton oil company logo was waiting outside the self-storage unit where the tunnel emerged to carry them and the bomb north, along the Interstate 35 frontage road toward San Antonio. Twenty-seven miles northeast of Laredo, the Suburban slowed and turned off the pavement, bouncing down a dirt track. Pump jacks rose and fell on either side of the road like giant, bigheaded ants.
“There is a CBP check station two miles up the Interstate,” Carlos said, punching a number into his cell phone.
Border Patrol aircraft still roared back and forth overhead.
“And you have a plan to get us around it?” Nazif asked, his voice tight in his throat.
“Of course.” The boy put the cell phone to his ear. “It is time,” he said. “Very well. ’Sta bueno.” Ending the call, he turned to look back, smiling broadly.
A minute later and the skies were quiet.
“What happened?” Nazif whispered, craning his head to look out the window.
Carlos snapped his fingers. “The United States government is not the only organization with drone aircraft. You would be surprised at the rapid response when such a thing speeds across the border at low altitude from Mexico. The trip wires and radar alarms near the checkpoint on State Highway 83 ten miles west of us just went crazy. We should have a few minutes of freedom from their increased oversight before they return. If the normal balloons see us, we will just look like oil field workers coming and going about our daily chores.”
Carlos ushered them into a concrete pump house partially hidden by feathery green mesquite trees. Under a piece of greasy plywood on the floor they found a ladder leading down into a second tunnel. The boy waved his hand in a flourish of pride.
“My uncle’s men posed as oil field workers for over a year to dig their way around it.” He smiled. “Our services are well worth any price, no?”
Nazif gave a curt nod. He supposed that being a relative of a drug lord as powerful as Diego Borregos made the boy feel free to act so flippant. He glanced at the Omega on his wrist. It was almost seven. “You will stay with us until we reach my brother?”
“Of course, señor,” Carlos said. “I will accompany you as far as Austin.”
“We won’t be going to Austin,” Yazid said, thinking better of it the moment he did.
Carlos cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps my uncle was mistaken,” he said. “I was told you were going to Austin.”
“Plans change,” Yazid said. “But you will still transport us to San Antonio?”
“We will be there before midnight.” Carlos nodded. “Did not my uncle tell you? I may always be counted on to do the right thing.”
The tunnel, complete with lighting and an electric handcart, emerged inside another well house a mile past the Border Patrol checkpoint. A second Halliburton vehicle, this one a battered white Suburban, idled in the sparse trees. Yazid’s men loaded the footlocker in back and threw a blue tarp over it before piling inside.
Carlos took the front passenger seat.
An F16 fighter screamed overhead, flying west as the dusty Suburban merged into traffic on Interstate 35. A helicopter crossed a quarter mile behind them, skimming the treetops. Two Border Patrol sedans raced south in the oncoming lane, headed for the checkpoint.
“We were lucky,” Nazif whispered, repenting his lack of faith even as he uttered the words. He mouthed a prayer of thanksgiving. “There is no God but Allah… ”
Carlos looked over his shoulder, grinning at all the noise.
He waggled his eyebrows up and down, Groucho Marx style. “My uncle makes his own luck.”
Yazid’s heart leaped when he saw Ibrahim waiting at the wheel of a rented Penske van beyond a row of idling semi trucks. They were so close now. The event held by Sacred Peace Church would have been a decent target with ten thousand spectators, but the blast would be partially contained. Ibrahim’s research showed the parade in Houston would provide for at least double the immediate casualties and an untold number of those exposed to radiation. If Allah willed it, and Baba Yaga was as powerful as they had been told, the death toll could reach a hundred thousand as paradegoers packed along the route.
Yazid climbed out of the Suburban with a full heart at the blessings that had gotten them this far. He’d only gone a step when he realized something was incredibly wrong. Ibrahim stared straight ahead, unmoving. A hiss from the shadows behind a nearby tractor trailer caused Yazid to turn. His mouth fell open when he saw the two men standing there.
He shot an angry glare at Carlos, who’d hung back to wait beside the Suburban. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I am very sorry, señor.” The boy shrugged. “But as it turns out, the ‘right thing’ was to tell him where you planned to meet.”