The commotion at once commanded everyone’s attention. Heads turned in the direction of the waitress, who struggled to control her anger, and eyes then shifted from her to the couple, a Hispanic male and a Caucasian female, seated there.
Contreras had pushed his chair back, an automatic reaction to prevent the spilled ice water from pouring into his lap. In the process, his legs parted and the miniature microphone positioned in his lap, beneath a napkin, fell to the floor.
Carlo Ibarra’s eyes locked onto the small dish attached to the black handheld grip exposed on the floor. He frowned, and felt his heart skip a beat. He heard Silva’s voice calmly giving orders to his men, but tuned out his words. When Ibarra glanced up, he met Contreras’s gaze staring right back at him. Ibarra watched as Contreras then tilted his head and spoke into his shirt.
In the adjacent bar, before he was able to piece together what had just taken place, Avery heard the yell in his earbud from Contreras that they were compromised.
“What the fuck is going on over there?” Avery thought out loud to Aguilar, fighting to maintain a calm, external face.
Avery saw Ibarra suddenly spring onto his feet and push a nearby waiter out of his way. The waiter fell over into a table, creating a new spectacle for the café’s patrons. Maneuvering around one of the Zetas, who had jumped onto his feet to cover Silva, Ibarra produced his Taurus pistol as he stepped over the low railing and onto the exterior sidewalk between the café and Roots. He looked frantically around, hesitated as he considered which direction to go, and then headed in a sprint for the south parking lot.
Avery and Aguilar bolted out of Roots and took after him, ignoring the shouts from the waiter and hostess calling after them.
Padilla’s voice boomed over the radios, ordering his officers to move in on the subjects.
Silva and his men were now also calmly making their way across the café toward the exit door, hoping to use the chaos and confusion to mask their escape.
Stepping outside, Silva and his entourage found themselves staring down the barrels of MP5 submachine guns in the hands of Padilla and seven other Federal Police officers wearing ski masks, body armor, and Nomex fatigues. The Mexican cops spread out, forming a wide, half circle covering the doors to Café de la Flora.
Before Padilla could bark the order for Silva and his men to put their hands in the air, his eyes caught a blur of movement, a flash of gray as a pistol came up in one of the bodyguard’s hands. Reflexively, Padilla sighted the threat and triggered his MP5, catching the Zeta man three times in the chest. The second bodyguard reached for his own gun, and three cops simultaneously fired into him. He caught nine bullets from two directions before he hit the pavement, and the third and fourth Zetas likewise absorbed a hail of gunfire. The officers then charged ahead, screaming orders, and converged on Silva. They threw him down to the ground, and disarmed and handcuffed him.
In the background, sirens blared, and more police cruisers pulled up, dismounting additional officers, who made their way through the panicked crowds.
Simultaneously, a hundred feet away, sprinting full out, Ibarra reached the south parking lot. When he looked back over his shoulder, he saw Avery and Aguilar coming after him, thirty feet back. Pedestrians were quick to get out of their way, while others ran for cover.
Hearing the gunshots behind him, Ibarra searched the sidewalk and parking lot ahead for a way out. And he found it. He sidestepped and extended his freehand to reach for a startled woman. His left hand clasped her arm, and he pulled her in close. He spun around with her to face his pursuers.
Twenty feet away, weapons drawn, Avery and Aguilar stopped in their tracks.
Ibarra positioned himself behind his hostage and put the Taurus to the side of her head. The expression on his face indicated satisfaction at believing he’d gained the upper hand, even though his mind, in overdrive, was incapable of thinking more than one step ahead.
Tires squealed and sirens screamed as four black Federal Police Dodge Chargers skidded across the parking lot and braked to a stop thirty feet behind Ibarra. Officers dismounted from their vehicles, taking up cover behind the Kevlar doors. They drew their pistols on Ibarra’s back. The Spaniard heard them, but he didn’t turn around, didn’t dare take his eyes off Avery and Aguilar, who he recognized as being something more dangerous than the cops.
Avery held his Glock level in the isosceles stance, with the tiny white dot aligned over Ibarra’s panic-stricken face.
A second later, Avery felt the pain and tension flare in his shoulder where the shrapnel had nicked him in Panama, extending in a line halfway down his arm. His aim wavered, and the hostage’s face entered his target picture. He immediately shifted aim. Knowing that he couldn’t possibly take the shot without endangering the woman, he lowered his weapon.
Aguilar stood two feet away and kept Ibarra covered in his Beretta’s sights, his hands still as rock.
Avery shifted his eyes on Ibarra’s gun hand and saw the index finger tighten around the trigger, taking up first pressure, the knuckle bulging against the flesh.
“Drop the gun and let her go, Ibarra,” Avery commanded. The dossier from Spain’s National Intelligence Center indicated that Ibarra spoke English. “We know about the missiles, and we have agents moving on the Viper right now. It’s over.”
“No! Lower your weapons and clear the area now! The only way you’re taking me is over her dead fucking body!”
From the intensity in Ibarra’s voice and the glare in his eye, Avery knew this was a desperate man who was never going to surrender. He intended to put up a fight, and he’d make sure to kill as many innocent people as possible.
Then Avery heard a new voice through his earpiece: “Slayton for Carnivore. Benning thinks Ibarra’s phone can lead us to the Viper. We only need his phone.”
“Roger that.”
Well, too bad for you, Carlo.
“What did you say?” Ibarra asked, pressing the Taurus’s barrel harder into the woman’s head. “Drop your fucking weapons now!”
To Aguilar, without taking his eyes off Ibarra, Avery said, “Drop him.”
In response, Avery heard the single discharge of the Beretta near his right ear.
Ibarra’s head snapped back. He never knew what him. The hostage screamed as blood spattered her face, and she suddenly supported the weight of Ibarra’s slack body as his legs gave out. She pushed forward, breaking free of his arms, and the body collapsed onto its knees, then slumped forward face first onto the sidewalk as she stepped clear. Blood streamed out of the small hole above his right eyebrow, and the back of his skull was blasted apart.
Aguilar holstered his Beretta and caught the terrified hostage as she ran in his direction while police swarmed on them.
Avery approached Ibarra’s body and crouched near it, taking a wide stance to keep his foot out of the expanding pool of blood. He flipped the body over, padded it down, and searched its pockets until he found the cell phone. They keypad wasn’t locked, and Avery thumbed his way to the recent calls. His lips formed a tight smile when he saw the time and date of the last call; three minutes ago.
“That number has to be the Viper,” Slayton said six minutes later in the back of the Geo Cell’s surveillance van.
Contreras’s Predator drones were standing by, fueled to capacity and prepped for flight, waiting for someone to point them in the right direction.