Tim felt the rush of blood at his ears, in the heat of his face. Reading his reaction, Bear hopped to his feet and came around the table to his shoulder. The others gathered behind him.
Figure 1 showed a sketch of a balloon nestled inside a stomach. The corporate logo was an abstract take on the same image, circles floating within circles. Tim pulled Aaronson's half sketch from his pocket, taken from the ripped shipping label crumpled in the bottom of Diamond Dog's cup of tobacco spit. He folded the piece of paper over where the sketch terminated and held it to the screen. The logo completed the image, filling out the circles. A perfect match.
A few excited murmurs. Someone grabbed Tim's shoulder and shook it. He clicked the "Track Your Shipment" tab. Glancing at his notepad, he typed in the code he'd copied from the shipping labeclass="underline" "TR425."
A clock icon spun and spun. Finally a new screen flashed up.
Your package shipped on September 3 to Funeraria Sueno del Angel, 3328 San Juan Delamonga, San Jose del Cabo, Baja California Sur, 23400, Mexico.
Chapter 46
Navy SEALs with catchy monikers closed in on a compound, spraying fire from automatic weapons. A hostage taker took a head shot, sending out a simulated burst of PlayStation blood. Whelp hooted and raised the cordless control triumphantly in the air, almost spilling the liter of tequila between his legs. Whelp and Toe-Tag wore UBS headsets so they could communicate like soldiers over the action theme blaring from the TV speakers. They sat on the floor, shirtless, backs to the couch, guns within reach. They had on a bizarre smattering of Afghan jewelry-tribal necklaces, coin chokers, sterling cuff bracelets, Gypsy nose rings. After eating their first round of tequila worms, they'd gotten into the shipping crate that had stored Allah's Tears. Whelp sported a beaded veil, looking like Disney's idea of an unsavory belly dancer. Toe-Tag had forsaken his trademark adornment, a lapis teardrop dangling from the pierced nipple.
Behind them on the cushions, Gustavo slept a blissed-out sleep.
Just beyond the darkened windows, an AFI Spec Ops group crept forward in olive drab fatigues. They arranged themselves tactically along the funeral home's wall, M16A1s angled low-ready across their chests. Up ahead a gust rattled the screen door's hook in its eyelet.
The video-game SEALs died gruesomely, and Whelp started up a new game. He and Toe-Tag leaned as they fired, spilling tequila across their thighs.
Outside, the commander inched to one side of the screen door. The column of tightly stacked men behind him halted, boots shoved into the mud. The commander raised his gloved hand for the countdown.
One by one, his fingers descended back into his fist.
Chapter 47
All eyes were on the black octopus of the speaker unit dominating the conference table. A mound of Rich's cigarettes grew from a Styrofoam doughnut plate like an ashen artichoke. Early-morning light filtered through the shades, pale and weak, losing itself in the fluorescents.
At last a clicking issued through the unit as Roberto Garcia returned to the phone on the other end. A liaison from the Mexican attorney general's office, he spoke clear English, unaccented and formal. "Ricardo, are you still there?"
Fingers drumming on his knee, Rich leaned forward over the speaker unit. "Still here, bud."
"The raid was a success. The Special Operations Group killed two Laughing Sinners in a shoot-out. We took the mortician alive."
Whoops and cheers and a smattering of applause.
Garcia said proudly, "My girl is sending the faxes through now."
As if on cue, the machine behind them whirred to life.
"Next time you come, my friend, bring some of that single-malt."
Rich smirked. "That stuff ain't free, compadre."
"I will supply the Cubans. Our customary arrangement."
Guerrera held the fax paper impatiently as it printed, then held up the crime-scene photos of the late Toe-Tag and Whelp to the others. Excited nods and high fives.
Tim slid the speaker unit to his side of the table. "Did you find the bodies?"
"Bodies? No bodies. The funeral home is disused for many months now. But we did find two cadaver tables with fresh fluids."
The celebratory mood dissipated immediately. Bear's shoulders sagged as if he were deflating. Jim swore sharply, his legal pad landing on the table with a slap.
Rich made a ticking noise with his tongue against his teeth. "I need another favor, Roberto. There are two corpses we gotta track down. Is the funeral director talking?"
"Not a word. He's loaded on heroin. He knows enough only to be terrified of the biker network. He will not talk."
In the background Maybeck said, "Even if the bodies shipped, we've got eyes at LAX. We're covered."
"We have to be sure," Rich said, at the same time Tim said, "We've got to question him."
"Can we get him extradited?" Guerrera asked.
"He's a Mexican citizen," Garcia said.
Tim's tone was bitter, discouraged. "They can't deport him, and a Mexican court won't extradite."
"So let's get country clearance from OIA and go interview him," Guerrera said.
The D.C. Office of International Affairs was notoriously bureaucratic. Tim spoke what everyone was thinking: "Won't happen within our time frame. That takes weeks, not hours."
Guerrera pressed on. "Maybe we can reclassify him as an international fugitive."
Garcia's voice came through clearly: "Gringo? Relax."
Wearing a sour face, Guerrera mouthed, "Gringo?"
Garcia said, "We have our own ways of dealing with matters such as this."
Rich's smile came fast, the gleam of his teeth standing out from his scruff. He reached across the table and pulled the speaker unit back in front of him.
"Our usual spot?" he asked.
Chapter 48
They rattled along the desert in Tim's Explorer, Bear riding shotgun, Rich and Guerrera in the back. Yet another Border Patrol jeep drove past, slowing until the flash of Tim's badge hanging from the rearview came visible. The patrol officer lowered his assault rifle and waved.
The sun bleached the ground to a near white and made the border fence gleam. They were east of Tijuana, so the expensive fence had given way to a rougher design-runway metal used in Kuwait during the first Gulf War, stripped and rammed into desert sand. Each post went deep into the ground to discourage burrowing. They were in a desolate stretch-no houses, no bushes, just a floodlight every hundred feet, countless jeeps, and the endless barrier.
Twenty-six times as many CBP inspectors occupied this fence line as the one at the U.S.-Canada border. Since NAFTA and 9/11, the Mexican border had tightened up, the initiative propelled, as always, by a set of nifty designations. Operation Gatekeeper firmed up matters in California; Arizona needed its own Operation Safeguard, whereas Texas required Operation Hold the Line.
It was a few years since Tim had spent time along the southern seam, and the rise of militarism took him by surprise. He studied the dead, cracked land on which so many Mexicans died trying to get to paradise. Looking around, it was difficult to see the appeal of the side north of the fence.
They passed a tanker truck spraying water to keep down the dust along the sandy road. The hum of the power lines remained audible. A few miles back, when a corralled mustang had passed under the swaying lines, the static bleed-off had raised the hair of his mane.
"Right…here," Rich said.
The Explorer skidded off the road, angling for the fence. Rich got out and headed for a three-armed cactus. The deputies followed suit, Tim looking around at the miles and miles of sand.
Though they'd just exited the air-conditioning, Bear was already sweating through his shirt. "You want to tell us what the hell we're doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"