Hellfire, page 16
They were very good at their job when they were allowed to do it.
The CBP Special Operations Group occupied a collection of high-end office trailers that might have been airdropped into the middle of nowhere. Jonathan had heard a lot of good things about the Border Patrol Tactical Unit (BORTAC), whose existence flew far under most radars. Gifted tactical operators with all the skills of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, BORTAC operators were the nation’s very best trackers, able to follow just about anyone just about anywhere, using tactics as old as the Indians and as new as the latest technology.
“Park anywhere, I guess,” Jonathan said as Boxers pulled the Suburban into a spot among randomly parked vehicles.
“I can’t say I’m terribly impressed by the physical security,” Gail observed from the backseat.
“They’ve got eyes in the sky, as far as I know,” Jonathan replied.
Boxers added, “I don’t see much, either, but I’ll bet it’s a mistake to rush the place.”
“What are we supposed to do from here?” Gail asked. “How do we find Harry Dawkins?”
Jonathan pulled his phone from the pocket of his 5.11 Tactical cargo-style pants. They’d all selected a tacti-cool ensemble to sell the illusion of being Feebs. It helped that this was how Jonathan and Boxers dressed pretty much every day. On a normal day, Gail’s style of dress was efficient yet feminine—more slacks than skirts and almost always with some kind of jacket to cover her Glock. Today, though, she was dressed like the boys.
Jonathan was halfway through punching the number Venice had given him into his phone when he saw a six-passenger golf cart approaching from behind the farthest office trailer. It was empty, except for the driver, and Jonathan recognized him right away.
“Here he comes,” Boxers said, pointing.
“I guess that resolves the question of whether we’re being appropriately watched,” Gail said.
They all climbed out of the rental and formed a ragged line in front of the grill. The cart driver swung a wide circle as he approached, pulled to a stop, and set the brake.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the driver said. “I hurt just looking at you guys.”
“You clean up good,” Jonathan said. He extended his hand. “Nice to see you again, Harry.”
“And Big Guy,” Dawkins said, craning his neck to look Boxers in the eye as they shook hands.
“Allow me to introduce another colleague,” Jonathan said. “Harry Dawkins, this is Gail Bonneville, a member of my team. You may call her Special Agent Gerarda Culp of the FBI.”
Dawkins coughed out a laugh. “Wow, now, that’s a name.” Then he added, “Harry Dawkins.” They shook hands. “I know we haven’t met, but weren’t you on the other side of some radio traffic while your boss and I were wading out of Mexico?”
“I was one of several,” Gail said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“What are you doing down in Buttscratch, Texas?” Boxers asked.
“TDY,” Dawkins said. Temporary duty. “I’m attached to Task Force Five, keeping the revolving doors of justice spinning. Catch and release used to be a clever phrase until so many of our guys started getting hurt.”
“Part of the price of being expendable,” Jonathan said. “It’s a shame your guys aren’t snail darters or kitty cats. The Twitterverse would demand action.”
“Makes you sick, doesn’t it? We’re guarding the walls, and the network news makes us the bad guys.”
Dawkins clapped his hands together once, then planted his fists on his hips. “Mother Hen was a little short on details when she called. In fact, she gave me nothing. So, what can I do for you?”
“You’re still DEA, right?” Jonathan asked.
“As far as I know. Unless you’re bringing me bad news. By the way, are you a secret agent, too?”
“Special Agent,” Jonathan corrected, knowing that Dawkins had been joking. “Yes, I’m Neil Bonner, and Big Guy is—”
“Don’t,” Boxers said.
Jonathan laughed. “This one’s good.”
“I swear to God I’ll kick your ass.”
“Xavier Contata,” Jonathan said.
Dawkins gaped for a second and then roared with laughter. “Perfect!”
“I liked you better when you were afraid of me,” Boxers said.
“Oh, I’m still afraid of you,” Dawkins said. “But as long as I’ve got witnesses, I figure I’m okay.” He turned serious. Well, mostly. “So, do I introduce you as your aliases if we run into people?”
“Please,” Jonathan said. “Is there a place where we can chat privately?”
“Sure.” He gestured to the nearest trailer. “In there. The BORTAC guys are all out practicing their snake-eating techniques.”
As they walked, Jonathan asked, “So, you said you’re with JTF North. What’s your role with them?”
“I can’t talk about all of it,” Dawkins said, “but you might have heard that there’s a bit of a problem with drugs flowing across our southern border.”
“No kidding,” Gail said.
“Right? The best-known crisis that no one wants to talk about. So, that’s what I’m here for. To help put a stop to that.”
“Are the illegals bringing the drugs?” Gail asked.
“Hell, yes, they’re bringing the drugs,” Dawkins snapped. Then he looked sorry. “I’d say a solid twenty, twenty-five percent of the people we detain are muling drugs. The ones with kids are often the worst offenders because they understand the optics of detaining kids.”
“Well, they are kids,” Gail said.
“Yeah, but they’re not the mules’ kids. Half of them have either been kidnapped or sold and are being trafficked in plain sight. The very best thing we can do for them is pull them away from their guardians. Honest to God, it makes you sick if you think too hard about it.”
“That or it makes you want to open fire on them,” Boxers said.
“That, too. But we’re pretty much hamstrung. That asshole in the White House won’t let us detain but a few of them, and of those we do detain, we have to let them go after a minute and a half.” They’d arrived at the base of the stairs to the trailer. “I mean, look at this place. Hundreds of millions of dollars pumped into a day care center with guns. It’s insane.”
The inside of the trailer looked like a collection of college classrooms, four individual classroom setups divided by electric-powered folding walls. In each classroom, rows of tables hosted ergonomic rolling chairs, all of which were oriented toward a front wall that was all erasable white board. The place smelled like new carpet.
“Nice digs,” Jonathan said.
“They treat us well,” Dawkins agreed. “They just don’t let us do our jobs. Nobody wants to recognize the fact that roughly one hundred percent of the illegals who cross have paid the cartels for the right to do so. For goddamn certain sure, every coyote who smuggles them in has paid tribute to the cartels. Then the cartels turn around and take the money to fund mass murders against their rivals.”
Jonathan waited him out.
Dawkins seemed primed for more, but then he raised his hands in surrender. “Sorry,” he said. “This shit really frosts my flakes.”
“I can tell,” Jonathan said.
Dawkins gestured for everyone to help themselves to seats around the nearest table. Jonathan and Gail sat, but Boxers remained standing. “Okay, then, my fictional Feeb friends, what can I do for you?”
Jonathan leaned into the table. “Do the names Craig and Connie Kendall mean anything to you?”
Dawkins sat taller and reflexively shot looks over both shoulders. “Holy shit. That gets right to it, doesn’t it?”
As Jonathan waited for the rest, he saw a cloud cross Dawkins’s face.
“What do the names mean to you?” Dawkins countered.
“A lot of dead people and at least two missing children,” Jonathan said. “All within the last three days.”
“Missing children?”
“Their missing children,” Gail said. “Ryder and Geoffrey Kendall.”
“How did they go missing?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Jonathan said. “All we know is that they were nabbed by people dressed as police officers, who, parenthetically, killed a real police officer and a priest.”
“So, how did you come to be impersonating FBI agents?”
“Focus, Harry,” Boxers said. “The common denominator in all of this is the Kendalls. Now it’s your turn.”
“I thought the Kendalls had been arrested,” Dawkins said.
This wasn’t going anywhere. Jonathan reset the conversation and caught Dawkins up to current knowledge.
“Wow,” Dawkins said when Jonathan was done. “That’s a lot of killing in just one day.”
“So, what’s the deal?” Jonathan asked. “What did the Kendalls know or do that makes everyone want to hurt their kids? It has to be more than just keeping mom and dad quiet. There’s no exit plan for that.”
“Yeah,” Dawkins said. Something in his demeanor changed again. He would not have made the world’s best poker player.
“What?” Gail said. Apparently, she saw it, too.
Dawkins’s face went blank. “Give me a second for this,” he said. “There’s shit I’m not supposed to tell you, and then there’s stuff that I’d need clearance to talk to President Darmond about. This is the latter.”
For the first time since they’d arrived, Boxers became fully engaged. He folded himself into a chair and moved it in close to the table.
“First some background,” Dawkins said.
“Ah, shit,” Boxers said, and he pushed away again.
“Cut him some slack,” Jonathan snapped. To Dawkins: “Go.”
Dawkins cleared his throat. “This all goes back to the flow of shit and bad people across our border. I presume I don’t have to mince my words with PC bullshit while I’m with you. You take a Muslim out of Syria, wrap him in a Juan Valdez outfit, and he looks a lot like a Central American. We’ve caught a few hundred of these asshats over the years—some of them two or three times—but we know that hundreds of others have gotten through. They’re not officially my problem—not professionally—”
“They’re everybody’s problem,” Gail said.
“Exactly. I’ve always wondered if they had anything to do with that business of shooting up the football fields and shit a while back.”
It was Jonathan’s turn to keep a poker face—a skill at which he was highly accomplished. Security Solutions had played a significant role in stopping that carnage. The world thought the FBI had taken the bad guys out. Thus, the faux credentials. He was relieved that Dawkins did not press for confirmation one way or the other.
“So, anyway, we’ve had this stream of bad guys who have established a conduit not just for drugs, but all kinds of other bad shit. Weapons, explosives . . . nerve agents.”
He let that verbal turd float in the punch bowl until it registered with the others.
“Nerve agents?” Boxers repeated it as a question, perhaps wondering if his hearing had faltered.
“VX and GB that we know of,” Dawkins said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Even back in the day, we chased the cheap labor market to make the most hazardous shit on the planet, and now it’s coming back on us.”
“We don’t make chemical weapons anymore,” Gail said. It was hard to tell from her tone if she was being ironic.
Jonathan assumed that she had to be. This wasn’t their first dance with that shit. “Maybe that’s why we sent the contracts down Mexico way,” he said.
“Want to make your head explode?” Dawkins asked with a chuckle. “Try to work out a flow chart that will make our geopolitical decision-making south of the Rio Grande make any sense at all.”
“I’d settle for one that wasn’t flat-out self-destructive,” Boxers said.
“And you know what?” Gail asked. “None of it makes a difference.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Jonathan agreed. “One of the aspects of my work that I’ve always appreciated is the purity that comes from dealing with things as they are. How they got that way isn’t my expertise.” To Dawkins: “How big a problem is it? The chemical weapons?”
“I don’t even know how to approach that question,” Dawkins said. “That’s nasty shit. A little dab’ll do ya.”
“What I’m asking, I guess, is if this is a one-off, or is it a trend?”
“Call it a trend in the early stages,” Dawkins said. “We’ve found canisters on three illegals. Assume that we catch twenty percent, that means we’ve got fifteen containers in circulation somewhere. Obviously, that’s a guess.”
“What kind of containers?” Gail asked. “How is it transported?”
Dawkins held his hands about twelve inches apart. “Most look like stainless steel coffee thermoses. In fact, that was their Achilles’ heel. The stainless steel. What refugee”—he made finger quotes—“brings their coffee across in a hundred-dollar thermos?”
“They’re not stupid,” Jonathan said. “They’ll adapt.”
“We captured one big mother of a container, too,” Dawkins said. “Think beer keg.”
“Holy crap,” Boxers said.
Jonathan asked, “What do the cartels plan to do with nerve agents? Are they opening up a new line in the terror business?”
“Another area where we’re not sure,” Dawkins said. “There’s a lot of money to be made selling weapons to the Great Satan’s enemies. We’ve got all kinds of suspected terror cells in the U.S. You know that. Hamas, Al Qaeda, ISIS, Chechens, Russians, MS-13, the whole nine yards. They’re everywhere, but we’re hamstrung against doing anything against them until they do something against us.”
Boxers said, “So, the theory is that the cartels are the distribution network? Like a franchisor?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“How does this involve the Kendalls?” Gail asked.
“It’s in the chatter we’ve picked up,” Dawkins explained. “You know that they were the big-dog enforcers for the C-Squared in the USA, right?”
“Tell me what that means to you,” Jonathan said.
“They were the folks who made sure that distribution channels stayed effective and that disruptions were righted as soon as possible.”
“Been workin’ for the government for too long, Harry,” Boxers said. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that they killed people and broke legs.”
“Allegedly,” Gail added. Again, Jonathan assumed the presence of irony.
“No, they pretty much did it,” Dawkins said. “Yada, yada, jury, and all that, but Connie Kendall has no place to go.”
“Were they killing people with VX agent?” Jonathan asked. “I’m not seeing the nexus between chem weps and two-bit enforcers.”
Dawkins raised a finger. “Ah, be careful. Respect your adversary, remember? There was nothing two-bit about the Kendalls’ operation. They were efficient and very smart. Some very tough dudes were scared shitless of them.”
“Weapons,” Gail prompted.
“Yeah, the weapons. We don’t have anything that connects them to that directly, but there’s a lot of chatter that includes them. We believe their code name within the C-Squared is Blue Bird, and we’ve listened to some intercepts that use that handle in the same sentence with the juice, which we believe to mean the chem weps.”
“This is the big secret?” Boxers asked. He seemed disappointed.
“That’s the root of it,” Dawkins said. “If the Kendalls are who we think they are, we can twist the remaining one to turn on Armand Cortez and expose the distribution network.”
“For the drugs or the weapons?”
“All of it,” Dawkins said. “That Blue Bird link to the juice is a really big deal.”
“So, why is everybody who touched their kids being killed?” Gail asked.
“Maybe they know too much,” Boxers said.
“Who, the kids?” Jonathan said. “No way. If that were the case, why not just kill them? They’re being used as leverage.”
“By us?” Gail asked. “As in, the U.S.?”
Dawkins said nothing.
“Harry?” Jonathan pressed.
“I’d like to think that I lived in a world where that sort of suggestion would be dead on arrival,” Dawkins said.
“We did kidnap them?” Jonathan asked. Man, that was not where he thought this conversation would go.
“I have no way to say one way or the other,” Dawkins said. “I’m DEA, not FBI. The chemical weapons end is all Feebs. And their history of staying in their ethical lanes is not all that stellar in recent years.”
“Jesus,” Boxers said.
“I’m not saying that’s the case,” Dawkins said. “But I can tell you this. The reason why this is all such a big secret is to keep the FBI from finding out about the Blue Bird connection and somehow throwing a stick into our spokes.”
“Why would they do that?” Gail asked. She looked shocked.
“I’m not saying that they would. Just as I’m not saying that Uncle Sam had anything to do with kidnapping those boys. I’m just saying that I would be surprised if they did not.”
“God damn,” Jonathan said. He cocked his head as another thought arrived. “What do you know about Rafael Iglesias?”
Dawkins laughed. “Well, aren’t you by God hitting homers today? He’s a skank lawyer who works for a skank client.”
“Cortez?” Boxers guessed.
“The one and only.”
“Well, here’s a little quid pro quo for you,” Jonathan said. “A thank-you gift for tipping your hand to us. Iglesias is involved with all of this, too.”
“Well, he’s their lawyer—”
“More than that,” Jonathan interrupted. “He arranged the boys’ kidnapping. If the kidnapping is about chemical weapons, then that puts Iglesias squarely in the hot seat.”
Dawkins stewed on that. “Have you paid him a visit yet?”
“We wanted to wait to hear what you had to say,” Gail said.
