This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2020 by Jeffery Deaver

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

eISBN: 9781542016087

Cover design by Adil Dara

One

Running.

The air broiling up from the desert was easily 120 degrees. His body screamed for water but water would have to wait.

Running.

As a gunshot cracked, fifty yards ahead of him, Tony Wright dropped. Ridiculous. If he heard the sound the bullet was well past him. It was true; you never heard the shot that killed you. That was the story. He had no objective proof.

He was behind a wall or hill—it was really both, it seemed, starting as the first and ending up, hundreds of years later, as the second. He found himself face to face with a Thelocactus bicolor. He knew the name because Lucy cultivated them in their backyard.

Beautiful. Radiant pink flowers atop spiky stalks. Nothing in the desert should be pink, you’d imagine, but much was. This was the first time he had ever had this thought, though he’d lived in and around deserts all his life.

More bullets, shattering on rock, digging graves in the sand behind him. Those boys were crappy shots.

Lean, clean-shaven Tony, in cap and jeans and black T-shirt, was sweating his soul out.

His body armor contributed to the roast but the Kevlar was staying.

Thirty feet away, he saw one of the men he sought. Stocky, with broad shoulders. Beneath the camo baseball cap was a head smooth as an egg.

“It’s me—Tone,” he shouted. “I’m coming up.” Taking breaths. Tensing. Then Tony was moving again. He covered the remaining distance fast and flopped onto the ground beside Boyd, who spun around, eyes wide, raising his Glock.

“No, no, no, it’s me!” Tony squinted away any bullets from the muzzle—a pointless, if not silly, reaction—and instinctively raised his hands. “I just told you!”

Boyd shouted, “The fuck’re you doing here?” The volume explained it. Jonny Boyd was half deaf from firing his gun. “You’re not on this op.”

“Nice to see you too,” Tony called. “Thought I’d follow your asses out here. In case you needed some help. Which you look like you do.”

A flash from a window of the factory fifty yards ahead of them, the bullet zipped by with a snap of fingers. Bullets did that. Breaking the sound barrier, he’d heard.

Boyd nodded toward the low, dust-shrouded buildings fifty yards away. “Bit off more than we bargained for, didn’t we, El Paso? Or bought more than we could chew.” Boyd’s legendary good humor had returned.

Tony had worked Street Crime, then Narcotics, with El Paso PD, for thirteen years. He’d been in a dozen firefights. Nobody ever joked during one. And most DEA agents didn’t joke at all, especially supervisors. He liked working with Jonny Boyd.

Tony asked, “You have any water?”

“Just margaritas. I forgot the salt.” He fired a round.

“Where is everybody?” Tony was shouting now too.

“My guy and gal are over there.” He pointed to a rise on the right, where his two DEA agents were hunkered down behind another ancient wall-hill.

“And Matt?”

Boyd said, “That’s why we’re still here and not the fuck gone.”

A spray of bullets humped the ground in front of them.

The men shuffled deeper into the sand. A scorpion stalked leisurely past, a big one. “He was checking that place out.” Pointing. Ahead and to the left was a low building, a warehouse maybe. Scabby, lopsided, the beige adobe siding sun bleached. It was ringed with weeds. “Then we started taking fire. He’s trapped.”

“He okay?”

“Yeah, just pinned down.” Boyd was then shouting into his microphone attached to an earbud: “Confirm ETA? . . . Well, as fucking soon as you fucking can. They’ve got AKs and M fours . . . Of course they’re full auto. What difference does it make? Get here as . . . soon . . . as . . . you . . . fucking can!”

Turning to Tony. “Twenty-five minutes, they said.”

“That’s specific.”

Boyd grunted a laugh. “Didn’t we sell the Mexicans a half-million helicopters? Can’t they send somebody? I’m pissed and writing my congressman. Yee-ha. Let’s turkey shoot!” He rose and let off a few rounds with his Glock.

Tony shouted, “Hit anything?”

Boyd called, “Don’t care. I’m just trying to keep ’em humble.”

“Cardozistas?”

“Who else, ’round here?”

Tony rose fast and scanned the shooters’ building. He noted a dozen black windows, two dozen shadows in the gaps between the structures. Hundreds of sites for cover, from machinery to tires to pallets to a carton of toilet paper that looked more or less new.

He spotted no targets and dropped back. “Should’ve shot the scorpion.”

“Naw. I like scorpions. Son of a bitch. I’m pissed.”

Tony called, “How many hostiles?”

“Eight hundred and forty-two.”

“How’d you get that number? Count the feet and divide by two?”

“I thought I was the funny man here, El Paso.”

“Why the hell did he go in alone?”

Boyd’s face tightened. “We all know Matt.”

True.

Tony called, “I’m getting him. Cover me.”

“No, you’re not!” Boyd was fierce. “We’re waiting for backup.”

“They could overrun him, come up that arroyo on the side. We couldn’t light ’em up from here.”

“Do not leave, Officer.” Not a gram of humor now.

But Tony Wright didn’t work for the DEA.

He began to sprint.

“Shit!” Boyd shouted. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Scrabbling over the rocky and sandy terrain, Tony ignored the itch and sting from the heat.

A barrage of gunshots from the cartel. But the shooters apparently didn’t see him; they were still aiming in the direction of Boyd and the other two DEA agents.

Encouraged by his invisibility, Tony covered more ground in a hunched-over sprint, then pitched into an arroyo, through which he scrabbled closer to the building Matt was trapped in. Tony paused and after a no-fucking-bullets-nearby moment, he looked up. He could see Matt inside the fifty-by-fifty-foot building, crouching near a window, his gun in his hand.

Matt looked every inch the war-movie hero with his trim blond hair, football quarterback’s shoulders, and six-foot-plus height. He was a portrait of calm.

The man cocked his head, touching his earbud to listen. He frowned. Boyd would be telling him about Tony’s presence. Looking out, he squinted in dismay as their eyes met. Then grimaced. His left arm gave broad sweeping gestures, meaning: Get back. It seemed that he mouthed—or even shouted—those very words.

Tony rolled over the dusty ridge and sprinted, crouched to half height. Then he was rolling through the doorway onto the warped wood flooring of the ancient building.

Matt shouted, “Jesus Christ. This isn’t your op. The hell’re you doing here? Who told you to come?”

A shrug. “Nobody told me not to.”

“Who authorized you?”

Tony raged in return, “The fuck does that mean? You go to Cartelville, only you from EPPD, and nobody tells me? You don’t tell me?”

Tony looked around the dim place, scabby walls, hordes of dust motes floating in the sun. A number of recent footsteps in the dust told him that the factory probably was a way station for the Cardozo cartel, a drug drop.

Matt had stepped away from angry. He was a professional and the pro was now back. He scanned outside, his weapon ready. Still no rounds from the factory were coming their way. The cartel shooters didn’t know they were here. Nodding toward the main buildings, he said, “Place was supposed to be unoccupied. The intel was righteous. I came over here to plant some eyes.” He nodded at a small surveillance camera and Wi-Fi unit on the floor. “Then the supposed-to-be-empty part went to hell.”

“There’re four of you, and you came here by yourself?” Gesturing around the building they were in.

“T, I don’t need interrogation right now.”

“No, you need some sense knocked into you. We’ve gotta get out. They could come up from the south, that arroyo.”

Matt took a fast look out the window. He hadn’t seen the gulley apparently. In his face was a curious look—disappointment. Tony had an idea: retreating meant he wouldn’t have a chance to take out some of the bad guys. That was Matt, all over. “Shit. Okay. You first, I’ll cover. Then you and the Feddies lay down covering fire for me.”

“Fuck that, M. You go first.”

“Excuse me. Who’s the better shot?”

Tony conceded with a nod.

“So, go!”

Tony sighed, spit dust and started for the door, as Matt lifted his Glock and turned toward the window facing the factory.

It was then that two dark objects about the size of apples flew into the room.

“M! Grenades!”

But before either man could move, one detonated with a huge crack and brilliant flash, like lightning striking feet away. Another explosion followed seconds later.

Tony went down hard on the concrete floor, deaf and blind. But he could smell and he was inhaling smoke and fumes. The grenades hadn’t killed them outright but had set the building on fire.

Get up, he raged to himself. Find Matt. Get out!

He tried to rise but couldn’t.

“M! Matt!” Was his voice shouting or whispering? “Out! Now! There’s a . . . fire.” Choking on the smoke, suffocating. Everything going dark. He debated: Fresh air outside. Should get outside . . . But it was so much effort. He lowered his head to the floor. I’ll just rest for a minute. That’s all. Just a minute.

What could be the harm in that?

Two

The headache. The dry throat, searing.

Was he going to puke?

No.

Yes.

The nursing staff had apparently figured this was a likelihood and had left beside him in bed several plastic containers, like something that housewives would buy in triplicate at the Tupperware parties Tony’s mother hosted.

He seized the gray plastic, bent forward and evacuated until his gut screamed. He set the container on a metallic tray attached to a set of wheels beside the bed, then pushed the repugnant thing as far as he could. Tony collapsed onto his back, gasping.

White room. A hospital room filled with hospital things, all those gadgets and electronic panels and outlets and machines sprouting wires and armatures—accessories that managed to fill you with dread, even while you knew they were tools of healing. Signs too, with weird capitalization.

PLEASE REFRAIN FROM CELL PHONE USE.

NO SMOKING.

PLEASE TELL YOUR HEALTH CARE PROFESSIONAL IF YOU ARE ON MEDICARE.

Ugly and unsettling but, thank God, cool.

He looked up. He was half surrounded by a beige curtain hanging from a U-shaped rod mounted to the ceiling.

And Matt. Where was Matt?

Was he alive?

Oh, let him be alive. Please.

Tony observed no decorations on the wall. This was a functional place, minimal, matter of fact. He soon understood why. Through the sealed window he could see an army Humvee, painted in desert camo. Just past were two flags on poles: one an American and one with an army unit designation. So, a military hospital, not civilian. Explained the stark room; no government money would be wasted on décor.

He coughed hard.

Which brought back memories of the incident.

The grenades.

Tony kneaded various body parts, in descending order of importance, of course, probing for shrapnel wounds. He was relieved to find none. A bandage on his palm. When he peeked it was only a scrape, Betadined to brown. The worst pain was in his ankle, maybe a sprain, twisted when he face-planted on the warehouse floor. But other than those minor injuries, the pain was minimal. Was he on drugs?

Then he realized in horror that Matt must’ve taken the brunt of the explosion. M was the sort who would be awarded the Medal of Honor—posthumously—after diving on a grenade to save his fellow soldiers. He imagined Matt’s shattered body.

Or had he actually seen it?

No, no . . .

Then he thought: I’m going to puke again.

I won’t.

He did.

Finally he controlled the retching, and set the second Tupperware on the bedside table. He was thinking, Where the hell’s the nurse to get rid of these things, when he heard a voice: “Could you fucking stop that? Makes me want to puke.”

Matt’s voice.

Tony barked a laugh. “Oh, man, Jesus. There you are.” The laughing started a coughing spasm.

With a clatter and rustle, Matt swept the curtain back. The two men were six feet apart.

Matt looked him over. “How are you?” He coughed too.

“Jesus, I thought you got blown up.” More spasms in his lungs. “Damn smoke. You okay?”

Matt, shrugging. His bandages were minimal. Wrist and a patch on his forehead. “Hit the floor hard. That’s all. You?”

“Ankle.”

The men’s eyes swiveled to the door, as a round Latina in blue scrubs decorated with pictures of tiny pandas stepped inside. “You hit the call button?” She looked mildly irritated.

“I wanted to know where he was.” A gesture toward Tony. Often edgy and impatient, Matt was presently polite. In hospitals patients exist at the bottom of the food chain. Best to be nice to those higher up. Even the lower higher up. Maybe especially.

She stared, not sure how to answer. “Someone will be in, see you soon.”

Tony asked, “Could you . . .” He gestured toward the Tupperware containers. Without reaction, she collected them and left.

Matt said, “I’m not leaving a tip.” Then: “Where are we?”

Tony nodded to the window beside him. Matt learned forward and saw the Humvee. “Hendrix. Probably.” The army base closest to El Paso.

Matt did the probing thing, then coughed hard too. When the bout was over he said, “No shrapnel. You?”

“No, just the fucked-up ankle.”

“What the hell kind of grenades were they? Smoke?”

Another voice, from the door: “Incendiary. They wanted to burn the place down.”

The man was big. Bald, six four or so, stocky but muscle bulk, not fat bulk. He wore a suit that he’d have bought for price, not fit. The sort that was in Tony’s closet. Around his neck was a chain lanyard holding a DEA badge.

“Officers . . . I’m Bill Holmes, regional district supervisor from Dallas.”

So, a top gun.

He squinted at Tony. “I think I met you once. While ago. Rio Grande operation.”

“Could’ve been.”

“How are you doing?” Holmes asked.

“The others on the team?” Matt asked bluntly.

Tony was ashamed he hadn’t thought to ask that question, he was so happy to be alive. Matt had a more fatalistic view of life. As if he assumed death was around every corner and didn’t bother to waste any effort describing how he was feeling or doing or getting along. And the way Matt lived, death could very well be waiting.

We all know Matt. . .

Holmes’s face shadowed.

“Who was it?” Tony asked, heart thumping.

“Jonny.”

“Christ,” Tony muttered. He closed his eyes momentarily, as anger and dismay flowed in.

Matt asked, “What happened?”

“Sniper got him.”

Tony fought down another urge to throw up. He seized a covered water glass and sucked from a straw. He noted he had only one plastic pan left.

Matt said grimly, “Anybody ID the shooter?”

“No ID yet. We’re putting the word out. But you know the Cardozos. We’ll never get a name.”

The cartel made the most talkative turn mute.

“Jonny,” Tony muttered.

I thought I was the funny man here, El Paso. . .

“Any other injuries?”

“No. As soon as Jonny was down, they tossed the grenades and got away.”

Tony said, “Yeah. Why the firebombs?”

Holmes nodded. “There was some supply inside. Oxy and fent. They didn’t want it to fall into anybody’s hands. That’s what happened to you two. The fumes, you know. The other agents on site got you just in time.”

Fentanyl . . . That explained the disorientation . . . and giddiness.

And also explained how close he’d come to dying. Gram for gram, fent is the most dangerous drug on the planet.

His face still, Matt said angrily, “The intel was it was unoccupied.”

And a sharp, brave, funny man was now dead, as a result of that error.

“I know,” Holmes said.

Matt continued, “We didn’t just walk in blind. We staged at four hundred yards, then one hundred. No sign of life. Scanned for transmissions. Everything negative. Something’s wrong here . . .”

Holmes gave no response but glanced into the corridor. “Ah, here we go.” A woman of about thirty-five, attractive in a severe, pulled-back-ponytail way, strode into the room, a computer bag over her shoulder. She, too, had a Justice Department shield but she played with a different team. FBI.

Shea Talbot was with the Foreign Narcotics Operations Task Force in Dallas.

A.k.a. the Cartel Busters.

“How are you feeling?” She glanced at both of them.

Tony said, “Not hurt bad. But still groggy.”

Matt said nothing, maybe digesting Boyd’s death.

Talbot unbuttoned her dark-blue blazer, revealing a thick, starched white blouse. Her skirt was gray. “You were lucky. It doesn’t take much fentanyl to . . .” Her eyes swept over their faces and she lifted a hand. “Sure. Sorry. You do this for a living.” Yeah, pretty and with captivating eyes but she had rough edges. Women in this business sometimes got that way . . . because they had to. Tony knew she wouldn’t smile much. On the humor scale Talbot was at one end, Boyd had been on the other.

Tony had been married to his high school sweetheart for nineteen years. Lucy smiled a lot. He’d have to call her. Did she even know he was in the hospital?

Then his thoughts of family vanished and, with a thud in his gut, he thought: FBI? That means only one thing. He thought of Matt’s words.

Something’s wrong here. . .

Tony grimaced. “The team got set up.”

“Hell,” Matt whispered. “Sure.”

Talbot glanced at Holmes, who delivered the bad news straight: “Looks like somebody told the Cardozos you were on your way and that Jonny Boyd was riding point.”

Tony continued, “So they planned to assassinate him. That’s why the sniper.”

Talbot nodded. “Gunning Boyd down on the streets of El Paso—US territory—no way. That’d go all the way to Washington. But a DEA supervisor killed in action at a drug drop on Mexican soil? Just another death in the drug wars.”

“‘Just another death,’” Matt spat out, though the bitterness wasn’t aimed at her, Tony knew. He turned his intense eyes her way. “Was La Piedra behind it?”

Holmes said, “Likely.”

The chief enforcer for the Cardozo cartel. His nickname meant “the Stone.” Manuel Santos was a sociopathic murderer, known for being utterly emotionless. He never got angry, never raised his voice. Never laughed either, was never joyful. They knew for a fact he’d murdered more than three dozen people, often leaving their heads in public places as reminders of where loyalties should lie.

La Piedra was also a ghost. No one in either Mexican or US law enforcement knew where he slept—or whom he slept with, if he shared a bed with anyone. La Piedra remained invisible, even with a $10 million price on his head, offered by the Americans, and a more modest but still sizable sum posted by the United Mexican States. But every man, woman and child in that battered country knew that no one would ever claim the heavenly sum; if they did, they wouldn’t live long enough to spend a single peso.

Tony knew that Matt had a special hatred of Santos. The man had murdered one of Matt’s first partners, in an undercover set that went bad. The cop had been killed for no reason other than convenience—it was less of an effort to murder him and escape down an alleyway than to walk a few blocks around.

“So,” Talbot said, “this debriefing is about trying to find who set the team up. Were they with El Paso PD or DEA or somebody else?”

Tony couldn’t help but give a faint laugh of curiosity. “Well . . .” He lifted his hands.

She frowned. “I’m sorry?”

Matt said, “What he’s asking is how are you so sure that Tony or me didn’t sell the team out?”

Opening her computer bag in a matter-of-fact manner and extracting a notebook and digital recorder, Talbot said, “Oh, we’re not sure about that at all. That’s why I’m here.”

Three

The interviews were conducted in different rooms.

Tony wasn’t troubled by this and he was sure that Matt wasn’t either. Every cop who’d run interrogations knew that it was a waste of time to talk to two suspects or witnesses in the same room. They played off each other, adjusting their words to what the other said. More importantly, though, an interrogator had to focus full attention on the subject’s words and body language; anyone else in the room was a distraction.

“Too many broths spoil the cook,” Tony had said. An expression that he himself had coined. Not many fellow officers seemed to get it but Tony thought it was clever.

Matt was more mobile than Tony, who had the sprained ankle, and so Talbot took him from their room into the hallway; she’d return and talk to Tony when she was done. Holmes asked Tony if he wanted coffee or a soda.

“No. I’m good.” Which he wasn’t; he just wanted to keep his gut empty and not add fuel to the Tupperware fire.

Holmes left and Tony lay back in the complicated, comfortable bed. Although he now understood that no metal splinters had shot his way, he took another inventory of his body with his fingers.

Probe here, there.

In one particular place—for the third time.

No, all good.

Goddamn lucky.

He wanted to call Lucy but his phone would be in his jacket, hanging on the back of the door and he didn’t want to torment his ankle. There was no landline.

Another scan of the room. A limp magazine—Time—sat on a table beside a bedpan. He could reach it but had no interest in news that was six months old.

Outside, two soldiers walked by, joking with each other. Full uniforms, despite the heat. Man, that sucked. At EPPD, detectives like Tony and Matt could wear light jackets and T-shirts if they wanted to when the temperature rose to brutal.

The soldiers disappeared out of sight in the direction pointed out by a sign:

← RESTROOMS

← DINING HALL

He was amused, wondering how far apart the two facilities were. Matt, who’d served in the army, had told him that armed forces planning was not necessarily the smartest.

Tony’s gaze rose and he watched a hawk in the sky. He thought of a line from a play, hawk . . . lazy circles . . . What play was it? He’d have to . . .

Tony woke suddenly from a bizarre and unsettling dream. Heart pounding, disoriented. His flesh was damp.

Where am I?

A moment later he remembered.

And grew sorrowful at the thought of Jonny Boyd’s death.

La Piedra . . .

Tony and Matt would talk to their captain when he got back to the station. Get together a task force, DEA and the Bureau. Maybe army too. Twist the Mexicans’ arms to cough up information about the enforcer’s likely location, his known associates.

And they’d hunt the fucker down.

He grew woozy again, the dry mouth returning. Damn drugs. People took this shit for fun? He groped for his water, found it and sipped four swallows’ worth.

A knock on the door.

“Come in.”

Agent Shea Talbot walked inside. She looked him over, eyes narrowing slightly.

He realized he looked groggy. “Took an involuntary nap,” he said. He was embarrassed. As if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Understandable. You feeling okay enough to talk?”

“Hell yes.”

The FBI agent sat, and Tony heard a rustling. He wondered if she wore a slip. Did women still do that?

She said in a flatlined voice, “Now, Officer Wright, you understand you’re not under arrest. You’re under no obligation to talk to me. You can end the interview at any time. But—”

“It’s a crime to lie to you.”

It wasn’t illegal to lie to him, a municipal police officer. But if you didn’t tell the truth to an FBI agent—even if you weren’t under oath—it could mean prison time.

Tony gestured. “Ask away.”

The woman sat and scooted the chair closer to him. “Can I record this?”

“Sure, yeah.”

She set the recorder beside him on the bed. It was near the empty Tupperware. She looked through her notebook and began, asking him to describe the incident in his own words.

Who else’s words would I use? he thought. But, of course, he kept the wit to himself.

“I wasn’t involved in the operation officially. I overheard our captain, Hannigan, Pete Hannigan, mention that Matt had gone out with some DEA people to plant eyes and ears in an abandoned factory in Chihuahua. I asked him about it. He told me somebody’d made an anonymous call to EPPD that the Cardozos were going to start using it as a drop house.”

“Anonymous. But any thought on who made that call?”

“I guessed it was a rival cartel, fucking . . .” Tony’s eyes dipped to the recorder. “Messing up the competition. But . . . guess it had to be the Cardozos themselves, didn’t it? Getting Jonny out of the country, into a kill zone.”

She said, “If they wanted a DEA agent, though, why call El Paso police?”

Tony thought for a moment. “Maybe to make it look less suspicious. They’ve got good intel. They’d know how close we work with DEA and that Jonny’d go along with Matt or whoever, to check the place out.”

“And you followed them. Why?”

A shrug. “Just four officers, in Cardozo territory? Thought they might need backup.”

She looked over her notes. “The tip about the factory came in from a burner phone?”

“I think so. Again, I got involved later.”

“So the people who knew about the operation were your Captain Hannigan, you, Matt, Jonny Boyd and two of his DEA people.”

“And our dispatch. And theirs, DEA, I mean.”

She jotted.

Tony glanced at the recorder again, this time to make sure it was running. Trying to be helpful.

“Would any family or friends have known about the mission?”

After more than a dozen years doing this kind of work, Tony knew that nobody in the business ever talked to wives, or husbands, about what they did. Not specifics.

“Can’t imagine that. Anyway, from what I heard, Matt and Jonny moved out just after they got the tip.”

“Any private security contractors involved?”

“None that we used at EPPD.”

Tony noted that she was subtly examining his hands, feet, head as he answered.

Kinesics. Body language analysis. Tony Wright knew the practice was sometimes helpful in rooting out deception. He wasn’t a fan. When interviewing suspects, he went on gut instinct.

Talbot said, “Matt told me about a CI he’s running. Elena Velasquez. She’s a street artist by day: you know, doing portraits of tourists in Serrantino. At night she’s a prostitute. She works near Cardozo headquarters, and has access to some of the senior cartel people.”

“I don’t know anything about her. Matt and I aren’t partnered. What about her? Does he think she’s the one who dimed out the team?” That was the problem with confidential informants. If they betrayed a gang or cartel, they could just as easily betray you.

“We’re looking into it.” More jotting. “Do you know anyone who might have an issue with Jonny Boyd?”

“Personally? You’re thinking he might’ve been set up by someone other than the cartel?”

She lifted an eyebrow. Meaning: please answer the question.

Tony looked out the window. “I didn’t know Jonny real well. Never socialized with him. Matt might know better.”

“No,” she said, “he just met Boyd yesterday, he told me. I’m wondering if you heard rumors he’d been involved in anything illegal. Corruption here in Texas, kickbacks?”

“Jonny? Sorry I can’t help you. I don’t know anybody who’d want to take him out.”

A few more notes. Talbot had run out of questions, it seemed, but she continued to interview Tony for ten minutes more. Following the age-old interrogator practice, she rephrased the same questions asked earlier, claiming she wasn’t sure she understood or to ask for clarification. In fact, the point of this technique was to see if the answers would be the same as before.

“Well, Officer, I think that’s enough for now. Appreciate your cooperation.”

“What about the DEA?” Tony asked. “The two other agents at the scene? Or somebody else in their office.”

“My colleagues are looking into that possibility.”

FBI-speak for “I’m not answering that.”

She thanked him and stepped into the hallway, leaving Tony alone to stare once more out the window at the fumy blue sky, now free of hawks and birds of any kind.

The door swung open once more and Matt walked into the room, carrying two cans of sweating Coke. He tossed one to Tony and hopped onto the bed. He fluffed pillows, cracked his can, and drank long. Tony set his on the bedside table, unopened.

Matt sighed in satisfaction at the beverage. “Talbot’s good. Kinda hot too, don’tcha think. I mean, in a cold kind of way.” He laughed at his own meager joke. Then he eyed him. “What’s wrong, T?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Just fucked up, what happened to Jonny. Having trouble letting it go.”

“Yeah.”

A nurse stepped into the doorway and asked, “Officer Wright?”

Matt and Tony answered simultaneously, “Yes?”

She blinked and then nodded knowingly. “Ha, that’s right. I forgot you two were related.” She turned to Matt first to ask if he’d like lunch.

He did but Tony declined. He had no appetite.

What’s wrong. . . ?

Only one thing: it now seemed possible, maybe even likely, that it was his kid brother, Matt, who’d sold out Jonny Boyd to the Cardozo cartel.

Four

Sure you don’t want anything?” Matt’s mouth was half full. He chomped on what looked like a taco salad only made with heart-healthy tofu. “Not bad for a hospital.”

“No.” Tony eyed the Tupperware.

This time, the nausea wasn’t from the drugs. Or Boyd’s death. Or the food.

It was the possibility of Matt’s betrayal.

His brother had lied to Talbot. He’d told her that he’d met Boyd for the first time yesterday.

But Tony had seen the two men having lunch in a café on Piedras, a block from EPPD a week or so ago.

Tony lay back with eyes closed and for a solid three minutes told himself to cut it the fuck out. But he could think of no good reason Matt would lie to her. He began to tally up the case for his brother’s guilt.

One, the lie to Talbot.

Two, Matt hadn’t told Tony about the surveillance op. And he’d been totally pissed off when Tony had shown up.

Three, as soon as they’d gotten to the factory, Matt had separated from the main team, which would have given him a chance to signal the Cardozos—specifically the sniper—and, at the same time, stay out of the line of fire. Matt’s appearing to be stuck in the warehouse, pinned down, would keep Boyd in the target zone.

Four, Elena Velasquez, the confidential informant. Matt had kept her to himself, which was odd. Detectives always shared their CIs and their information with fellow officers. One reason to keep her out of the picture? He was setting her up to be the perfect fall woman to blame for betraying Boyd.

Five, the grenades should by rights have killed the two officers but didn’t. Had they been tossed by a Cardozista away from Matt—to make sure he wasn’t hurt?

Okay. Those were circumstantial arguments of Matt’s betrayal. But they weren’t particularly damning, absent an answer to why—the number-one question on cops’ minds when they look over the puzzle of a crime.

Was there a why? Did Matt have a motive for betraying the team?

And Tony heard in his mind another question of Agent Shea Talbot’s.

Do you know anyone who might have an issue with Jonny Boyd?

Sorry I can’t help you. I don’t know anybody who’d want to take Jonny out.

Yes, it was a crime to lie to a federal agent.

But lie Tony had.

Because he did know someone who might have a reason to take the DEA agent out. His own brother.

August. Two years ago.

EPPD was running a drug takedown in an empty shopping mall east of the city, Matt being one of the officers on the job. Not the cartels; some scrawny cracker had been cooking up batches of meth like he was going to start distributing through Walmart. He was selling a mother lode to a fat, bearded biker. The bust went fine . . . until a carload of the tweaker’s buddies showed up, armed and eager and stupid.

All to hell.

The gun battle ran for twenty minutes, before all the perps ended up in metal.

It was a good day: More than twenty-two pounds of meth—enough for nearly forty thousand hits—and $600,000 cash. Six assholes off the street and the only injury one of the cracker’s friends, who got a pinkie shot off.

Then somebody in the DEA got to thinking. The going price for meth was $80-plus a gram. That meant the stash was worth nearly $800K. Why the discrepancy? Had $200K been stolen?

Tony wasn’t on the op but he was at the press conference, with all the drugs and cash piled high for the cameras, a typical dog and pony show the brass love. Tony happened to see the chain-of-custody card on the wrapped bags of cash: M. Wright was the first name on the list. His brother was the one who had packed up the money at the scene. If there had been a theft it could have happened anywhere from there to the evidence room, sure, but it’s always easier to pilfer from the scene rather than the vault in the evidence room.

In the profession of policing, it’s called “shrinkage.” It happens some but rarely to the tune of $200K.

Tony had heard that Boyd was getting pressure to find out if the money had in fact been stolen. So he was interviewing everyone who’d been at the scene. This was probably the subject of the meeting between Boyd and his brother that Tony had witnessed a week ago.

The meeting that Matt had lied to the FBI agent about.

Had his brother arranged for Boyd to die because the DEA agent was closing in on the truth?

Ridiculous, of course.

Impossible . . .

Except for the Douglas factor.

Five

Twenty bucks says you don’t jump.”

“Jump?”

“From the roof. I say you don’t. I say you’re a fucking coward.”

Tony mutters to his thirteen-year-old brother, “M, forget it.”

The high schooler turns on Tony. “I know you’re a coward.” The kid looks back to Matt, who cocks his head and looks up at the roof.

The three are on the asphalt playground of Santa Maria Academy in El Paso, which the Wright boys and this asshole, Douglas, attend. Classes are over and Tony has been dawdling, in hopes of a chance to say hi to Sheree Grenner. No such luck. All he and M caught was this guy, who plodded up to give them shit. Douglas is a demibully. (In school Tony just learned about demigods. He likes the word a lot. Demi. Demi. Demi.) Douglas is into football, of course. Kids who play basketball and soccer rarely bully. He has broad shoulders and curly black hair and massive hands, more freckled than his face. He’s a tackle and he tackles very well.

Tony wants to defuse everything. Douglas is dangerous.

So is gravity. The school is four stories high.

Matt: “Let’s see your money.”

“Let’s see yours.”

The bills appear and they give them to another kid to hang on to, Randy, a skinny sciencey sort. “It’s a bet,” Matt says to him. “If I jump off the roof it’s mine. If I don’t, it’s his.”

“The roof?” His eyes go up. “That roof? You sure?”

“Take it,” both Matt and Douglas say.

He does. Fast. Tony can see Randy’s palm glisten with sweat.

Tony is fidgety. “Come on, man. No.”

“Hm.” Matt is examining the challenge: leaping from the roof into a tall pine and grab-falling to the ground. It’s been done three times that Tony can remember. Stan Fredericks will be in a wheelchair forever.

Matt gives a grin to Tony, ignores his imploring eyes and scrabbles up the fire escape. He climbs to the top and then takes a ladder to the roof. He walks to the edge and looks out over the view. El Paso in late spring.

A demidesert, Tony thinks.

Matt’s face seems happy, like he’s seeing something nobody else ever has before.

Tony thinks, as he often has: Are we really related?

He walks to the lip and, fuck, without a moment’s pause he does a swan dive toward the tree. Not what Tony would do—that would be a feet-down, head-up leap, staying vertical and clutching branches to his chest until he worked his way to the trunk and climbed down slowly.

Not Matt. It’s like he’s going off the board at the municipal pool. He disappears into a mass of boughs and branches. All Tony can see is a figure in black—Matt’s totally goth—tumbling and cartwheeling down, down, down, grabbing branches to slow and to steer himself away from the solider limbs. Finally, six feet above the piney earth, he stops and hangs, dangling. Then drops into a heap and lies motionless.

Tony runs to him. “Yo, M? You okay? Say something, dude!”

Jesus. Did he break his neck, after all?

Wheelchair . . .

But then he slowly rises and pats himself up and down, pulls needles out of his thick, now messy hair. “Awesome.”

“You hurt?”

“Hurt? I just jumped off a roof. Of course I’m hurt. But what’s that got to do with anything?”

Exhilaration and balls-out adrenaline have numbed the pain. Matt walks over to Randy and holds his hand out. Just as the boy was offering the bills, another hand snatches them away. Douglas’s. Of course.

Matt looks up, not frowning, not glaring. Just locking eyes with a boy who outweighed him by fifty pounds, most of it muscle. “What?”

“It wasn’t a fair bet. We didn’t shake on it.”

“Give me my money,” Matt says.

“Get the fuck out of my way.”

Matt doesn’t.

There’s not a single hint of what comes next. Matt simply launches himself into the older boy, fists spiraling madly, elbows bashing into the football player’s gut and groin and, when Douglas bent double, his face. They grapple, they tug, they fall to the ground and lose skin on the asphalt. But Matt keeps breaking away, dodging the beefy fists and comic attempts at kicking, and when he sees a chance he lands one slug, then another and another.

It’s a tough sight. Tony moves in—to do what, he has no idea. Matt glares. Tony stops. Matt moves on Douglas again, frenzied.

A crowd has gathered by now. Douglas is a shit and a bully, demi or otherwise, but nobody is rooting for Matt. Tony can see the spectators growing uneasy. Douglas stumbles backward and trips over a curb. He goes down hard on his back and winces as his tailbone hits asphalt. “Fuck.”

Then it was over.

Bloody and crying, Douglas reaches into his jeans and withdraws the forty dollars. Without a flicker of emotion, Matt reaches out and grabs it.

As the brothers leave, Douglas shouts, “Insane prick.”

The boys walk past a foreign cars garage, a Burger King, a nail salon, a massage parlor—which is why the boys aren’t supposed to walk home this way and which is why they always do. The petite, sexy Vietnamese girl at the door looks at them sullenly.

As they near home, Matt seems to realize that his brother is staring at him.

“Yeah?”

In an unsteady voice, Tony asks, “What was that all about? Looked like you were going to kill him.”

Matt’s voice is a verbal shrug. “It was a bet. I won. He lost. End of story.”

Now, lying in the army hospital bed, giving an Oscar-level performance of a man asleep, Tony kept replaying the Douglas Incident.

Which defined his brother. Which nailed exactly who Matt Wright was.

Push, push, push . . . a junkie for risk. On the job. In his relationships.

And . . . with the gambling.

Night after night would find Matt in the casinos or at private poker tables. Sometimes winning big, sometimes losing as much as a month’s salary.

Was there a why? Did Matt have a motive for betraying the team?

Being a cop, Tony had become an expert in human nature. And he knew that there was nothing like the noxious cocktail of greed, addiction and desperation to turn good to bad, so bad you’d even sell your soul to the man who had killed your partner.

Six

Manuel Santos had the blackest eyes, the smoothest skin and the calmest manner of any man one might ever meet.

He was not good looking, by any means, nor was he tall but these conditions were not troubling to him. Physical flaws were significant only to those with egos.

And Santos—known more commonly by his nickname La Piedra, the Stone—had none.

An ego was in itself a flaw, and he did not tolerate flaws in anyone, himself included.

Santos was walking along a sidewalk from a municipal garage where he’d left his SUV. He wore tight black jeans and a yellow shirt with blue piping and patterned across the chest with images of sailors’ knots. He bought the shirt solely for the splendid knots, though he had been on a boat only twice in his life, and the only knots he’d ever tied were improvised hangman’s nooses and tidy bindings around wrists and ankles.

His outer garment was a white silk jacket, this with gray piping and wide lapels. It had a dandy quality but Santos liked it because the cloth didn’t overheat him and it concealed his weapon efficiently; the Sig Sauer was secreted in a holster inside his back waistband. His boots were marvels of tooling and silver inlay and were sharp enough to puncture skin with a muscled kick. He’d always wanted to try this but never had.

Unless circumstances required otherwise, Santos was of the habit of walking slowly, as today. He would not be hurried. Whether he was painting his murals in the style of Diego Rivera—a hobby from childhood—or grilling steak for himself and Raphael and their cat, Boppo, or torturing a man or woman or child to death, he never rushed. When you hurried, you made mistakes.

Calm, slow.

Not so the man walking beside him. Garcia was far from serene. Tall and broad, with a pocked face, he was constantly looking around, as if with a nervous tic. He would pace, he would flick finger against thumb, he would grind teeth. These habits would have irritated Santos were Garcia not so good at his job.

Garcia also wore a jacket. This one cheap and beige, which was unfortunate because sweat was already darkening the cloth at the pits. The garment was longer than Santos’s because its job was to conceal a submachine gun and three long, heavy magazines of ammunition. Bullets weighed a great deal. Lead and copper, of course. People often forgot that.

Ah, the heat. Santos looked up. His smoky aviator sunglasses were thick and, with a squint, he could actually gaze toward the sun if only for a few seconds.

Garcia, ever aware of his boss, looked up too, perhaps thinking: drone.

But, no, Santos had merely been looking at the sun.

Then he continued calmly on his way and Garcia, twitchily, did too.

They walked into another garage, nodded to one of Santos’s crew and climbed into the back of a vehicle parked inside. Garcia slammed the doors shut, and the two panels, joined, made a word on the back: Ambulancia.

They pulled from the garage and began the five-mile drive to their destination.

Santos’s employer, the Cardozo cartel, was hardly the stuff of Netflix Originals. It was small. Also, the brothers running it—Alfonzo and Juan Carlos—rejected the splashy, lavish lifestyle that seemed appealing but that had gotten so many organized criminals (A) on the radar and then either (B) in jail or (B½) dead. They were working men, more or less good husbands (only one mistress each) and superlative fathers; they helped their children with their homework and stayed through the end of even the most lopsided soccer games. They supported the arts—to the extent there was culture in Serrantino, a pretty if somewhat dull burgh in western Chihuahua.

In short, they kept their heads down. They bought product from China, Honduras and Venezuela. They worked hard devising clever ways of getting the shipments into the United States, losing only two or three percent.

Small time meant long time.

Which wasn’t to say that the cartel’s enforcers—a tough, swarthy crew that Santos wrangled—would hesitate to gut, behead or scorch anyone who threatened their piece of the pie.

Which was his mission at the moment.

As the ambulance drove over the smooth concrete, Santos looked out the small window and noted the camo-painted Humvee, parked near the back entrance to the hospital, which overlooked only desert. Beside it was a sign:

← RESTROOMS

← DINING HALL

Santos hunched and looked up to see the two flags, now limp in the oppressive midday lull: an American Stars and Stripes and another, designating some military unit. He wondered why divisions or platoons or whatever other detachments existed still had flags. Not as if they were going to carry them into battle.

The ambulance turned into the underground entrance to the hospital and Santos and Garcia climbed out, looking around, checking weapons. They continued into the cool, quiet place and up one flight of stairs.

Santos oriented himself and pointed. They walked a bit farther and then pushed through double doors into a small staff lunchroom, where four people sat at two tables. At one was a couple: a tall, balding man wearing a DEA identity badge, and a blonde, on whose chest dangled a badge with an FBI logo. Quite the ample chest it was too, he noted, though without reaction; if he was inclined to romp, which was rare, he’d prefer Raphael. Santos was a man whom passion had largely bypassed.

The other two were men in US Army uniforms.

None of them had seen Santos and Garcia walk inside.

Santos nodded for Garcia to position himself at the door. He did so, his hand disappearing toward the grip of his weapon. He looked outside and nodded.

Santos then walked forward to the couple. “Hola.”

They turned, blinked in surprise.

Then smiles all around, and Eddie Klein—the bald man who’d been pretending to be DEA agent Holmes—rose and shook Santos’s hand. Tiffany Brent—the pseudo FBI agent Talbot—kissed his cheek firmly; Santos’s impression was that she doled out kisses like one would give sweets to children. Maybe she was disappointed he didn’t grip her and pull her in closer. Santos turned to the men in US Army uniforms at the adjoining table and nodded in response to their grins.

“I got your message,” Santos said to Eddie. He was speaking English, of which he had a good command. Eddie and Tiffany were dicey with Spanish. “You were successful.”

Tiffany scoffed. “I’ve gotta tell you, Santos, it was sad. For kick-ass detectives, they didn’t have a clue.”

Seven

The hospital was indeed a hospital but not a military facility and it wasn’t located in the United States but in the small town of San Bernardo, Chihuahua, many kilometers from the border.

One wing had been transformed into a virtual movie set, complete with props like the flags and the Humvee, which was owned by Santos himself. It had been painted in authentic US military camouflage, an easy task, thanks to YouTube. Santos’s production even featured extras: two of his crew were playing the army soldiers.

Headlining the cast were Eddie and Tiffany, a couple with mob connections from—appropriately—Los Angeles. (When they’d met several weeks ago, Tiffany had told him her hot tub overlooked the famous Hollywood sign.)

The point of this elaborate fiction was quite simple: to trick Matt Wright into giving up information vital to the future of the cartel.

A few months ago Juan Carlos Cardozo had come to his chief enforcer with a problem.

Carlos was a soft-spoken, kind-eyed man, a Latino Mr. Rogers. He explained to Santos that he’d learned Matt Wright was running a confidential informant, who was spying on the cartel.

Santos was to remedy the situation.

Santos got to work immediately, with his typically methodical approach. The obvious—kidnapping and torturing Wright for the name—wouldn’t work. He knew it could take time to extract the information, and as soon as Matt Wright went missing, Wright’s superiors would warn the informant, who would flee; Santos would then never learn the extent of the betrayal—and, just as disappointing, would not have a head to leave in the Serrantino town square as a message.

Santos decided to become a magician, an illusionist. He would cleverly get Wright to give up the name voluntarily.

How, how . . .

Sitting in his garden and sipping a glass of goat milk, with Boppo purring at his feet, Santos had slowly crafted a plan.

He would leak information to El Paso PD about a factory in Chihuahua that the cartel was thinking of outfitting as a drug way station. The police would do what they always did: send a team to check it out and install surveillance gear. It was Matt Wright’s territory; he had a personal interest in bringing down the cartel (Santos had killed a partner of his) and would insist on being in the forefront.

When Wright and the other team members arrived at the factory, Santos’s men would open fire—not trying to hit them but to separate them and isolate Wright. As soon as he was alone, one of Santos’s men would pitch stun grenades attached to Remifentanil canisters. This gas—a favorite of the Russian army—would knock the cop out. He’d be driven to the fake army hospital. Eddie and Tiffany—the fake agents—would meet with Wright in his hospital bed and tell him that Boyd was dead, the victim of an assassination. They’d suggest that Wright himself was a suspect in betraying his own team. This would motivate him to give up the name of anyone who might have sold them out.

Matt would naturally mention the CI he’d been running as a possible suspect. And Santos and the Cardozos would have a name.

Then, time for the razor . . .

Santos hadn’t counted on catching a second fish in the operation, of all persons: Wright’s brother, Tony. But no matter, that didn’t affect the outcome. Eddie and Tiffany got the answer: the CI was Elena Velasquez, a street artist and prostitute working outside a restaurant near the Cardozos’ headquarters in downtown Serrantino. Santos was impressed; it was a clever idea. Elena could learn any manner of good information about the cartel, given that profession.

Santos now withdrew from his pocket four envelopes of cash and distributed the money to the cast.

“Thanks,” Eddie said.

Tiffany gave him another flirty smile as she slipped the money into her briefcase.

“You’ll stay here until we have Elena. We might need some more information out of Wright.”

“We wanted to get out tonight,” Eddie said.

“Oh, it won’t be long. We’re going to pay her a visit right now.”

The town of Serrantino was about an hour from San Bernardo, and Santos and Garcia, with two shooters in the back seat, were nearly there. Accompanying them was a second SUV, with three more of his crew.

They entered the town, a picturesque place two hundred years old, and drove straight to the restaurant where Wright had said Elena Velasquez worked.

Santos pulled to the curb and he looked ahead. Yes, there she was!

Elena was in her thirties, attractive in a harsh way—the look of una puta. She was sitting outside the restaurant and offering to sketch portraits of tourists and lovers walking doe-eyed arm in arm. Surely slipping the solitary men her phone number on a card.

Matt Wright and his brother were no longer needed. Santos could now give the order that his men could kill the cops, and dump their bodies in Sinaloa—blaming that cartel for the men’s deaths. He texted a coded message to one of his lieutenants in San Bernardo to do just this and another to Eddie and Tiffany, thanking them again and telling them that they were free to leave.

Then he instructed his men to check the surrounding streets and sat back, screwing a brushed steel silencer onto his Sig Sauer, while he debated the most efficient way to get Elena Velasquez to tell what she knew. He’d initially thought razors, but several other techniques came immediately to mind. Even more painful. He was just in one of those moods.

Eight

Tony was picturing that spring day so very clearly.

I won. He lost. End of story . . .

The day defined them both, and that definition: they were different in kind.

From that day on, each settled into his own world. Tony went to college, criminology (he liked cop shows, so why not?), and then joined the force. Matt went into the army—special services, of course. Their lives gravitated together some—Matt resisting family reunions but never missing a funeral, which seemed a military thing to do. Then after Dad was gone, Mom grew ill, and Tony and Lucy took her in. Dementia is hard on everyone; it’s the great collateral-damage disease. It took a toll.

Tony was surprised when Matt returned to El Paso, thinking he’d come, in part, to help with Dorothy. He paid visits, yes, not that she recognized him on most days, but that was about all his brother did. Tony wondered cynically if Matt’s returning home was motivated mostly by the opening of a big glitzy casino just outside of town.

Probably that was part of it. The other reason: Matt needed a job, and surprised Tony by thinking about policing. Could Tony put in a good word for him at EPPD?

Which, against his better judgment, he did. He was scooped up, a decorated soldier. First he was on SWAT, the cowboy detail, but then—as the years went by—he did regular detective work.

But they never worked together.

Matt and I aren’t partnered . . .

And rarely socialized together either. Tony tried but Matt had little interest. His crowd was poker, dirt bikes, and the bars along Piedras and in Five Points East.

Now, in the hospital bed, Tony gave up the fake sleep. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the medical vital signs monitor. The sort you see in movies, where there’s the blip and then there isn’t and a sound goes off, the no-life-function warning, and we tense, thinking the hero is a goner. How did the manufacturer of the equipment decide how loud to make that sound, the pitch? Who selected the tone that meant death?

It now occurred to Tony that he’d lied twice to Agent Shea Talbot.

And you followed them. Why?

Just four officers, in Cardozo territory? Thought they might need backup.

When the truth was, of course, that as infuriated as he was about his roof-jumping, adrenaline-addicted kid brother, Tony just couldn’t give up on him. As barren as the relationship had become, they were blood and, though he knew M didn’t think about T the same way, Tony simply had to strap on body armor, get into his personal car and drive an hour into Cartelville to look out for him.

What a fool. What a fucking fool I am. Tony choked a cry. Never should’ve gone. Better not to even suspect what Matt might have done.

But he had gone and he couldn’t live with the question hanging over him for the rest of his life. He had to know.

He rehearsed the words: M, did you sell the team out? Are you responsible for Jonny Boyd’s death?

Blunt. Bare knuckles.

The Douglas Incident.

“M?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I have to ask you.”

Matt looked around. “Any booze here?”

“What?”

Matt repeated, “Any booze?”

“I don’t know. It’s a hospital. Of course not. Just shut up and listen.”

Matt looked toward his brother.

“I need to know something. I need—”

But the question went no further. Tony had looked away briefly, glancing out the circling-hawk window. He gasped. Three, no four men, in camo and ski masks, were holding machine guns with suppressors on them. Their guns were up and they were swiveling right to left as they made their way steadily toward the hospital entrance.

Nine

Eyes on Elena Velasquez, Manuel Santos received a call. A lieutenant was telling him that the abandoned warehouse outside of town was ready. The tools, the acid.

The neighborhood in which the building was located was largely deserted but the aide had nonetheless selected a place with thick walls. It was astonishing how loud the human voice could be when screaming. Santos wore his shooting earplugs.

The man added that it featured a pit that would be a convenient grave. The bags of quick-dry concrete had been delivered. Her body would never be discovered.

“Thank you,” Santos told him. Although his monotone voice might have detracted from the praise in anyone else, to receive any gratitude from Manual Santos, La Piedra, was a coup indeed. The man thanked him for the thank-you and they disconnected.

In front of the café, the voluptuous Elena Velasquez was leaning forward, examining her canvas.

The woman who was such a threat to the Cardozo cartel was dressed like a gypsy, a black lace blouse, cut quite low, and a dramatic red-and-black flowered skirt. Flamenco came immediately to Santos’s mind. She wore a broad-brimmed dark-green hat, sprouting a pretentious feather. Her cowboy boots were scuffed brown leather. Her glasses frames were purple.

Elena’s face was matte textured and, in places, blotched but in structure it was fashion-model beautiful. Santos could almost imagine making love to her.

He and the two men in the back seat climbed from his SUV. Santos looked up and down the street. All clear. He nodded to Garcia, who remained behind the wheel, the engine idling. The man called the other vehicle, and three of those occupants got out, two armed and one manning a heavy-duty syringe filled with propofol. The needle was thick, which resulted in a very painful injection, but it was perfect for struggling victims; a broken needle would be inconvenient.

Elena would be unconscious, hog-tied and in the back of the vehicle within seconds. Then to the warehouse. The men had drawn straws to see who would be lucky enough to carry her to the SUV—the groping, of course.

The men advanced slowly, as Elena sat back and selected a brush. She squinted then leaned toward the canvas—a landscape—and began to dab. How meticulous she was. In his passionless world, the hunger for art was perhaps the most perplexing to him. Taking pigments, mashing them with oil or plastic and spreading them on a piece of canvas.

What was the point? At least a photograph was a two-dimensional version of the truth. But painting? It was all a lie. A boring lie.

He studied the scene. Pedestrians, a dog walker, a window washer, six, no seven lunchers at Margarette, the restaurant in front of which Elena sat. Santos also noted two couples in love, oblivious to the world around them. There was an older husband and wife with a younger woman—all their faces revealed tension. Santos, who had never been married, wondered if the couple was getting divorced because he had found someone younger, and they were breaking the news to the daughter.

The men split into two groups and advanced. Santos stopped, the general, frozen like a statue, observing his operation.

La Piedra . . .

Santos thought of what lay ahead for Elena. He’d start on the fingers first, with the razor and acid. The pain was quite astonishing (he’d tried it on himself, just to see). In her case, though, the idea of destroying the fingers that allowed her to satisfy her passion would possibly be more effective in getting her to give up the names of anybody with the cartel who had willingly or accidentally shared information with her (they would die too, of course).

He pictured the slices, the burns . . . and was pleased that in his heart, his soul and possibly his dick, he felt a slight stirring at the image of her screaming in pain. Manuel Santos always held out the hope that he wasn’t forever damned.

Ten

M!” Tony was on his feet, woozy, ankle screaming. “Men, outside. They’re coming! The Cardozos.”

His younger brother glanced outside at the men in camo, their heads covered in the balaclavas. They now numbered six.

He seemed oddly placid.

Of course, Tony thought with dismay, why should he be worried? They weren’t coming for him. They were after Tony. Matt had sold out to them; they were his buddies.

Tony lunged toward the door. He’d put all his weight on the bad ankle, and he went down hard.

“Jesus!” Matt called, rising too.

A burst of automatic weapons fire from a corridor nearby. Screams.

“No, no!” Tony cried, as three masked figures burst into the room, their submachine guns ready.

Tony turned to his brother and was about to shout, “Hope you’re happy, Judas,” or something like that.

When one of the three gunmen pulled off his balaclava.

Tony gasped aloud. The man he was looking at was Ronaldo Suarez, the head of El Paso PD’s SWAT team.

“Hola,” Matt said.

“Hey,” Suarez responded. He and another of the trio helped Tony up. “Can you walk?”

Tony was speechless.

Suarez again: “Officer? I’m asking. Can you walk? We don’t have a lot of time.”

“Yeah. Need an arm. But—”

The SWAT leader ordered one of his men to help. Another to gather Matt’s and Tony’s clothes and belongings. “You can dress in the vehicle. Gotta move. Now!”

As they stepped into the corridor Suarez asked, “Does it have a slit?”

“What?”

“That robe? That you’re wearing? Does it have a slit up the back?”

“I . . . Yeah, I guess.”

“Then you follow me out. Some things I don’t get paid to see.”

Eleven

The two SUVs moved forward toward the restaurant, and the syringe man stepped along the sidewalk, coming up at Elena from behind.

The two in charge of transporting her would pull her to the sidewalk. Punch her hard in the solar plexus, a debilitating blow. She’d be injected into oblivion.

Then into the SUV, and razor time, acid time.

Closer . . .

Ready . . .

Then Santos noted something odd. While Elena was indeed touching brush to canvas, there was no paint on the stubbly tip of bristles. In fact, the disks of paint on the palette were simply dry splotches, not smears of real paint.

No! My God, no!

His understanding was accompanied by a paroxysm of movement around the restaurant. The dog walker, the window washer, the couple—and their fake daughter!—were all drawing weapons under their jackets and from purses and beneath tables.

Elena herself drew a stubby, black Heckler & Koch submachine gun from a floppy purple velvet purse.

No, no, no!

Demands, simultaneously in English and Spanish, roared from the officers in the street, as well as from those on high—snipers on the surrounding buildings. “Drop the weapons, drop the weapons, lie face down, hands out, drop the weapons or you will be fired on!”

My Lord, there were cops everywhere! US and Mexican.

His men’s heads swiveled, and their eyes flashed in desperation. Some fled, firing as they did so, and officers pursued, returning shots. Most stayed put and dropped the guns, which clattered loudly on the cobblestones, and they pitched forward. The US officers and Federales went to work with zip ties.

Santos then noted that one of his crew did not comply. Felipe, nineteen or so, had dropped his weapon but remained upright, frozen. Not out of defiance but terror.

Santos, too, remained still. His palms up.

The screams and shouts and low-pitched commands continued. He was mentioned by name several times. He was to get down immediately.

This thought edged into his mind: in theory prison might be just up his alley—it being a most dispassionate place to live out your life.

Surrender was logical. It made infinite sense.

But surrender he did not. He stepped directly behind Felipe. Sensing the boy was about to bolt, he flung his arm around his neck, drew the Sig Sauer and fired at the approaching police. They returned shots, hitting Felipe several times. The forehead shot was messy and fatal.

Using the limp body as a shield, he turned his weapon toward a shop behind him, a florist’s. With two bullets he blew out the plate glass window. Because of the silencer the cascading glass made a far louder sound than the gunshots. Santos leapt into the store and sprinted toward the back door, firing a shot into the mirrors, shattering them into shards, to scatter the patrons and clerks. The smell of smokeless powder mingled with that of lilies.

Santos was thinking: hijack a car, escape, call more men from the cartel, engage the enemy. He could have his own dozen men here in five minutes.

They wanted a battle, a battle they would have.

He looked out the back door. No Federales, no American cops.

Move now, fast!

Ah, good. No need for hijacking. Garcia was in the bulletproof SUV, speeding to his rescue.

Santos turned and emptied his magazine—a dozen shots—into the florist store to keep his pursuers hiding in cover. He then reloaded and ran toward the approaching vehicle.

He was going to escape.

Manuel Santos knew this for a certainty. He was indestructible, he was the Stone.

Twelve

With a half-dozen tactical officers, in full battle regalia, protecting them, one brother jogged and the other hobbled to the waiting Humvee, painted in camo, just like the other one, parked under the two flags.

Tony didn’t have a clue what was happening but by now it wasn’t a humongous surprise that they weren’t at Hendrix army base outside of El Paso. He did, however, get a solid jolt to see the sign on the building they’d been in.

HOSPITAL DE SAN BERNARDO

Deep in the heart of Chihuahua, Cardozo territory.

He’d have to live with his confusion for the time being, though, because Suarez and the other tactical officers weren’t in any position to answer questions. They were urgently hustling the two brothers into the middle row of the armored vehicle, and swiveling their weapons from side to side as they assessed threats.

What the hell was—

Tony gasped. He’d glanced into the back seat and saw DEA supervisor Jonny Boyd, very much alive. He was smiling.

“Your expression, El Paso. Put that on a velvet painting of a clown and you’d have a QVC bestseller.”

Under other circumstances Tony would have said, “Fuck you.” Now, he only gaped.

Doors slammed, a massive engine roared and, with a jerk, the hard-suspensioned vehicle sped away, other Humvees in front and behind.

Boyd leaned forward and called over the engine and rough road noise, “Any hostiles?”

“No, sir. So far we’re clear.”

Tony bounced up and down in the seat. Felt nauseous again. The seat belts were adjustable. He tightened them. It didn’t help. The road was really atrocious. The seventy miles per hour didn’t help either. This time if he puked, it would be on the floor. He didn’t care.

He said, “Look, I need to call Lucy.”

“Your wife’s been apprised that you’re all right. We’ll have to limit comms to the operation.”

Tony was about to argue but Boyd’s phone hummed. He took a call, listened. He nodded and disconnected. “They’ve got some of them in bags, some’re hog-tied. But there’s still a running gun battle.”

“Santos?”

“No word.”

Matt blew air from his cheeks. His face was worry, a very unusual expression for the tree jumper.

Tony asked, “A firefight? Where? Who?”

“Serrantino. Santos and his men versus a takedown team we put there.”

Tony twisted to the back seat and growled. “Okay. Answers.”

Boyd asked, “You want it like final Jeopardy!? Or Mrs. Williams’s third-grade grammar test? Complicated or simple?”

Tony lifted an eyebrow. He was sure he’d joke with Boyd again at some point. Not now.

The DEA man held up a hand. “Okay, okay. Here’s the story.” He settled back and handed a water to Tony, who opened it and chugged half the pint.

Boyd said, “You know how bad we’ve wanted Santos. EPPD, DEA, FBI. Everybody.” He lifted his palms. “Your brother really wanted him.”

Tony nodded. Thinking of Matt’s murdered partner.

For no reason other than convenience . . .

Boyd continued, “But he was invisible. Nobody could find him. The best intel and surveillance we’ve got? Zip. We needed to draw him out in public. So Matt took me out to lunch and pitched an idea to me a couple weeks ago. Risky but I liked it.”

That’s what they were doing when Tony had seen them—the meeting Matt had lied to Talbot about: not about the missing drug bust money but about putting together a joint op.

“Matt’s idea was to leak information to the Cardozistas that he was running a spy inside the cartel, giving him totally righteous info. Crap really harmful to them. Like what happens to me when I mix serranos and jalapeños and beans . . . Okay, sorry, El Paso. I’ll stick to straight man. Santos, of course, put together an op of his own to find out who it was.”

“So Elena Velasquez was fictional.”

“Totally. We got a hot DEA agent out of Brownsville to play her. I know I shouldn’t say that. But she is. She’s also one hell of a shot. Then EPPD got the anonymous call about the factory. We decided it was probably Santos, hoping to lure Matt there and kidnap him.”

“Hold on. You volunteered to get yourself caught and tortured?” Tony whispered.

The shrug said, “Sure, why not?”

Tony recalled his brother on the playground, so very many years ago, after he’d leapt into space on a twenty-dollar bet. The older brother demanding of the younger to know if he was hurt. And then Matt’s amused look as he replied.

Hurt? I just jumped off a roof. Of course I’m hurt. But what’s that got to do with anything?

Thirteen

Tony noted the sign they sped past.

ESTADOS UNIDOS 60

That would be kilometers. They’d be back in less than an hour.

He thought of Lucy. But then concentrated on Matt once more.

“So we put our plan in operation. Actually we had three. Plan One—”

Boyd frowned. “No, no, no. You don’t have Plan One. You have Plan A. There’s no such thing as Plan One.”

I’m the funny man here, El Paso . . .

“Contingency One was: Santos is at the factory for the snatch, and we get him. Two, his men handle the snatch and take me to a safe house and Santos shows up there, and we get him. Then Plan . . . C: Santos has somebody else torture me and I give up the fake Elena Velasquez and her location . . . Santos goes to snatch and torture her. And we get him.”

Tony was confused. “But how the hell would he”—a nod toward Boyd—“know whether it was A, B or C? Know when to move in?” He closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “Okay, got it. You’ve been wired.”

Matt tapped behind his ear, where Tony could see a small scar. “Subcutaneous transmitter.”

Boyd said, “Drone upstairs, the whole time. We’ve been listening to every word you guys said.” A glance toward Tony. “Jesus, El Paso, you puke really loud. Imagine that amplified. So, yeah, we’ve had teams at the factory, in San Bernardo and in Serrantino. Whichever way it went, we’d be ready.”

Matt chimed in. “But for some reason, Santos decided against torturing me. He’d knock me out and make me think I was in an army hospital. Then he’d trick me into giving up Elena’s name.”

Tony: “The grenades. They weren’t incendiary.”

Boyd explained they were Remifentanil, an anesthetic gas used by the Russians.

“And that’s why they were such piss-poor shots at the factory. They were just pinning us down, so they could get to Matt . . . And Holmes and Talbot? The phony agents?”

“Enforcers from LA. They’re part of a crew the Cardozos do business with.”

Matt said, “Santos had really thought this through. It was a good plan: making us think we were suspects in Jonny’s death, so we’d give up the name of anybody who might’ve betrayed the team, my CI.”

Plan C . . .

Tony shook his head. It was all fake. Jesus. They were playing us. And we were playing them.

Matt glanced at Boyd, who was reading a text. “Anything more from Serrantino? Santos?”

“Unfolding. Pretty chaotic.”

Tony had a thought. “Okay, we wake up in a hospital that looks for all the world like a military base. How’d you know it was a setup? Wait, I got it!”

Matt raised an eyebrow.

“The sign outside the window. It gave directions to the quote ‘Restroom’ and to the ‘Dining Hall.’ But in the army those’re called the ‘latrine’ and the ‘mess hall.’ When I came to visit you at Fort Meyer, I remember that.”

Matt was frowning. “Santos put up signs? I didn’t even see them.”

Tony asked, “Then how did you know it was a scam?”

“Because if they’d been real DEA and FBI they would’ve known about the operation and that Elena didn’t exist.”

Oh, right.

Obvious.

Tony snapped, “Why didn’t you tell me about the op—in the hospital room?”

Boyd said, “They’d have it bugged.”

Obvious, the sequel.

Tony sat back in the stiff seat of the vehicle, reflecting on how close he’d come to confronting his brother about the apparent betrayal.

M, did you sell the team out? Are you responsible for Jonny Boyd’s death?

That would have blown up their fragile relationship, the pieces never to be reassembled.

Boyd received a call. He listened, saying only, “Sure . . . Write it up. I’ll be in the office in an hour. K?”

The brothers turned to him.

“Looks like Santos shot his way into a store near the takedown site—a florist shop. Got out the back door.”

“Shit.”

“No, it was cool. We had people on the roof. Snipers acquired target, and a Federale demanded surrender.”

Tony lifted an eyebrow. And?

“And then the Cardozos’ most talented hitman, La Fucking Piedra, got his ass run over by an SUV.”

“What?” From Matt.

“One of his own men, Garcia. Seems like at the takedown, Santos used a kid in his crew as a shield. The boy died. He was Garcia’s nephew.”

“Well, shit.”

Tony asked, “Did he survive? Santos?”

“Dead as an armadillo in Amarillo,” Boyd said cheerfully. “Extradition was going to be a pain in the ass anyway.”

Tony asked, “What about the two from LA? The ones playing Holmes and Talbot?”

“Oh, didn’t you hear the gunshots in the hospital? They made the unwise decision to engage. They’ll be heading back to the States tomorrow—in the cargo hold.”

Tony stretched out, closed his eyes. Jesus, what a time. He patted his pockets. No phone. Of course, they’d have taken it. Couldn’t risk Matt or Tony making a call back to base or home. He’d borrow one. Make a call to Lucy, tell her . . .

And the next thing he knew there was a thump as the Humvee bounded over a speed bump at the border and the vehicles accelerated into the United States.

The vehicle dropped the men off at El Paso PD on North Raynor. The men shook hands, and Boyd started down the sidewalk for his car. Tony limped after him. “Hold on, Jonny. Got a question.”

Out of earshot of Matt, Tony asked, “That meth bust a while ago outside of town? The one where there was a two-hundred-K shortfall?”

“Oh, that? Yeah, I remember. Only there was no shortfall. Turned out the tweakers were just bad negotiators. All the cash was accounted for.”

“Ah.”

“Why’d you ask?”

“Just wondered if we needed to open a file on our end.”

“Nope, it’s as closed as my love life.” Boyd winked and continued on his way.

Tony returned to Matt.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing really. Had a question about another case.”

The brothers nodded to each other, their standard greeting and farewell; they hadn’t shaken hands in years. And hug? Never. They stood squinting against the low sun. It could be brutal here. There were more car accidents from sun glare than alcohol in El Paso.

Time to go their separate ways.

Matt said, “One thing, T. At the hospital, just before the extraction, there was something you started to say. You looked serious. What was that about?”

M, did you sell the team out?

Tony was frowning. “Funny. That gas, the knockout gas? Screwed up my memory. I don’t have a clue.”

Matt looked him over carefully. “Okay. Sure.”

Tony said, “See you.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Matt started for the lot where his Camaro would be parked. Tony headed toward the back door of the station, where he’d see if he could check out a car until his was brought around from the pound. It would have been towed back here after the shootout at the factory.

Tony got ten feet before something struck him in the back, a gentle tap. He heard a pebble clatter to the sidewalk. Another bounced off his shoulder. He turned. Matt had scooped up a handful of small stones from a landscaping bed. He tossed another one, which Tony dodged.

“The fuck?”

“I’ll buy you a beer.”

“I gotta get home. Lucy.”

Another pebble came Tony’s way. Hit his thigh. “Asshole.”

“One beer.”

“I gotta get—”

Matt tossed one more.

Tony bent down and got his own supply of ammunition. He launched some Matt’s way.

One bounced off his brother’s forehead. “Ow, fuck.”

“You started it.”

“One beer.”

Tony dropped the stones, which clattered sharply as they dispersed. “Where were you thinking?”

“I don’t know.” Matt looked around and shrugged. “We’ll find a place.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © Gunner Publications

Jeffery Deaver is a former journalist, folk singer, and attorney whose novels have appeared on bestseller lists around the world, including the New York Times, the Timesof London, Italy’s Corriere della Sera, the Sydney Morning Herald, and the Los Angeles Times. His books are sold in 150 countries and have been translated into twenty-five languages.

The author of forty novels, three collections of short stories, and a nonfiction law book, as well as the lyricist of a country-western album, he’s received or been short-listed for dozens of awards.

Deaver’s book The Bodies Left Behindwas named best novel of the year by the International Thriller Writers association. His Lincoln Rhyme thriller The Broken Windowand stand-alone novel Edge were also nominated for that prize, as was his short story Ninth and Nowhere. He has been awarded the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger and the Short Story Dagger from the British Crime Writers’ Association, and he is a winner of the British Thumping Good Read Award and the Nero Wolfe Award. The Cold Moonwas named the book of the year by the Mystery Writers of Japan. In addition, the Japan Adventure Fiction Association gave The Cold Moonand Carte Blanche its annual Grand Prix award. Deaver’s book The Kill Roomwas awarded the Political Thriller of the Year award by Killer Nashville. And his collection of short stories, Trouble in Mind, was nominated for best anthology by that organization as well.

Deaver has been honored with the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Bouchercon World Mystery Convention and the Raymond Chandler Award for lifetime achievement in Italy. The Strand Magazine also presented him with a Lifetime Achievement Award.

Deaver has been nominated for eight Edgar Awards from the Mystery Writers of America, as well as an Anthony, a Shamus, and a Gumshoe. He served two terms as president of the Mystery Writers of America.

His audiobook The Starling Project, starring Alfred Molina and produced by Audible, won the Audie Award for best original audiobook of the year in 2016. Deaver contributed to the anthologies In the Company of Sherlock Holmesand Books to Die For, which won the Anthony. Books to Die For recently won the Agatha as well.

Deaver’s most recent novels are The Never Game, the first book in his Colter Shaw series; the Lincoln Rhyme novels The Cutting Edge, The Burial Hour, and The Steel Kiss; Solitude Creek, a Kathryn Dance thriller; and The October List, a thriller told in reverse. For the Dance novel XO, Deaver wrote an album of country-western songs, available on iTunes and as a CD; before that, he wrote Carte Blanche, a James Bond continuation novel and a number one international bestseller. Deaver’s most recent short fiction includes Verona,Captivated, which introduced Colter Shaw, Ninth & Nowhere, The Victims’ Club, and Surprise Ending.

Deaver’s book A Maiden’s Gravewas made into an HBO movie starring James Garner and Marlee Matlin, and his novel The Bone Collectorwas a feature release from Universal Pictures starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. Deaver’s Lincoln Rhyme / Amelia Sachs novels are in development as the NBC series Lincoln. Lifetime aired an adaptation of his book The Devil’s Teardrop. And yes, the rumors are true: he did appear as a corrupt reporter on his favorite soap opera, As the World Turns. He was born outside Chicago and has a bachelor of journalism degree from the University of Missouri and a law degree from Fordham University.

Readers can visit his website at www.jefferydeaver.com.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

About the Author