The Savage Dead (14 page)

Tess checked the control panel. Deck 10. They still had a trek to get back to their cabin on Deck 7.

She ejected the magazine from her pistol and slapped in a fresh one.

The elevator lurched to a stop, and Tess bladed off, ready to fire.

C
H
A
PTER
14

The San Antonio Police Department had an elite group of homicide detectives called the Shooting Team. Their charge was to investigate all incidents where a police officer uses deadly force while in the commission of his official duties. They were the best of the best, with a proven track record of thoroughness and objectivity that had won the recognition and respect of advocacy groups with radically different political agendas, from the National Council of Police Chiefs to the Texas State Bar to the ACLU. With the exception of the Bexar County Sheriff's Office, which had its own version of the Shooting Team and therefore investigated its own incidents, the SAPD team also investigated use of deadly force by all of the thirty-eight other law-enforcement agencies working within the City of San Antonio limits. That statement of purpose was written into their General Manual and Standard Operating Procedures and was, in the main, unchallenged. But Juan's shooting at the Cavazos Meatpacking building was a special circumstance, and from the beginning there were jurisdiction pissing matches.

After the shooting, Juan was put in an unmarked HIDTA vehicle and hustled off to the fourth floor of SAPD Headquarters. They put him in one of the interview rooms and told him he was free to use the phone or his own cell phone, whatever he wished, but he knew not to use either. All the interview rooms had hidden cameras to record anything said or done inside them, and he knew that SAPD was just waiting for an excuse to take over the investigation. And giving them anything on tape would be just that excuse. As a result, he'd sat quietly, drinking a weak cup of black coffee that Detective Rowe had brought him shortly after his arrival.

But the problem wasn't SAPD. Not completely anyway. Tom Parkes of the San Antonio branch of the FBI was furious with him for what he called “showboating” and “reckless fucking police work.” Parkes had been on the phone with Washington most of the morning, and early on he'd stepped in to demand investigative dibs on the shooting. Currently, he and the SAPD were at each other's throats trying to determine who would be the first to eviscerate him. Juan had placed his own call to Mr. Crouch, his point of contact in the White House, but so far the man hadn't called him back. Until he did, Juan sat patiently, drinking his weak coffee and talking to no one.

About forty minutes after being deposited in the interview room, Detective Jason Rowe appeared in the doorway. Behind him, the main floor of the SAPD Homicide Detail was in full swing. They had a hundred and ten detectives at work out there, and the phones wouldn't stop ringing. Rowe, dressed in a red T-shirt and jeans, his shirt pulled up to reveal the gun and badge on his right hip, looked way too stressed out for someone who'd only been at work for a few hours. There were black circles under his eyes and his lips were pale and cracked. He said, “You mind if we talk?”

“Not in here,” Juan said.

Rowe's gaze shifted to a light switch in the wall, where Juan assumed the hidden camera and microphone where located. “It's not on,” Rowe said. “The Feds made us shut it off.”

“I'm not talking in here,” Juan said.

“You really don't trust me, do you? I thought we were supposed to be on the same team.”

“Would you, if you were in my place?”

Rowe stared at him for a second, like a schoolteacher not sure what to do with a brilliant but disobedient child. Then, with a jerk of his head, he motioned Juan to follow him out of the room. There was an open cubicle about twenty feet away, and they stepped in there, but neither man sat down.

Rowe said, “Listen, I think what you did was pretty fucking stupid.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, that's it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

Rowe was getting frustrated. Juan could see it in his eyes. “You can't just go into a warehouse without a warrant and blow the place to fucking kingdom come.”

“I didn't blow anything up.”

“You know what I mean. Don't be smart about it.”

“I thought you said I was dumb to do what I did. Which is it, dumb or smart?”

“Really? Really? You're gonna fucking joke me around? Is that really what you're gonna fucking do?”

Juan didn't take the bait. He folded his arms over his chest and waited.

“Jesus,” Rowe said in disgust. “You know, when we got the orders you were assigned down here, I looked you up. Army Special Forces, classified records, the works. I know you were assigned to Bragg, but there's nothing else about you on the books. What were you, Delta Force?”

“If I was, do you think I'd answer you?”

“No, I guess not.” Rowe looked out across the crowded homicide office and shook his head. “You should have waited on us to get there.”

“Are you here to criticize my tactics? Is that what this is about?”

Rowe shrugged in frustration. “You're not Delta Force anymore, man. This is the real world. People get hurt out here when you don't go by the book.”

Juan leaned in and whispered, “Jason, you're a smart guy. And you're former SAPD SWAT. That says a lot. I have friends in the SEALs who have competed—and lost, by the way—against you guys at the Glock SWAT Olympics. So I know you're good. But let me tell you something about the cartels. They don't play by your rules. They don't even play by their own rules. They are animals, and if you believe they hold anything sacred, anything except power that is, then you already have one foot in the grave.”

They stayed that way, staring at each other, for a long moment. Then Rowe looked away.

Finally, he said, “Is it true about that video you took?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Goddamn it, Juan, enough of the fucking spy stuff. Is it true or isn't? They said you fought a bunch of zombies in there.”

“I told you,” Juan said, sounding calmer than he felt. “The cartels don't hold anything sacred.”

Before Rowe could respond Tom Parkes stepped into the cubicle. He looked, as Juan's
abuela
used to say, madder than an old wet hen.

“What the fuck's going on here?” he demanded.

“I was bored,” Juan said. “I needed to stretch my legs.”

“We were talking about the SWAT Olympics,” Rowe said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Rowe said.

“Great,” Parkes answered. “Get the fuck out.”

He stood aside so Rowe could leave. Rowe glanced at Juan, and in that look Juan sensed that Rowe was beginning to understand how serious all of this was. Rowe nodded, and left without another word.

Parkes watched him go, then turned on Juan. “What the fuck, man? You got a lot of nerve playing cowboy in my fucking city. You know that? Where the fuck do you get off?”

Parkes paused, waiting for a reply.

Juan didn't give it to him.

“You've got nothing to say for yourself? Nothing at all? You know when you came here and asked for my help, I gave it to you. You know why? Because we're supposed to be on the same fucking team. That means you keep me informed about what you're doing and where you're going. You can't even show me that basic courtesy. Well, you've pissed off the wrong guy. I'm gonna fucking hang you out to dry on this. I mean it.”

Juan stared up at Parkes without speaking, without blinking. Juan knew guys like Parkes well enough. Clean cut, built tall and lean like an Olympic swimmer, lantern jaw, the whole nine yards. Typical Marine turned FBI. Men like Parkes were good, solid cops, but they were American cops, and the violence with which the cartels conducted their operations was far and away outside their experience. Juan had faced those devils down, and after some of the shit he'd seen in Ciudad Juarez, and Nuevo Laredo, and Guatemala, and Columbia, getting stared down by a six-foot-two ex-Marine was not much of a threat.

Parkes, for his part, seemed surprised his height advantage didn't have more of an effect. Clearly, he was used to dominating other men. The fact that Juan simply stared at him, waiting for him to speak or get out, apparently unnerved him a little, for Juan saw the man's Adam's apple bob up and down.

Finally, Juan said, “Tom, I take my orders from the president, and those orders include gathering information any way I can. Your orders are to help me, not handle me. Is that clear?”

Parkes's face flushed with anger, but he knew where he stood in the grand scheme of things. He didn't like it one little bit, but he understood.

“Yeah, crystal,” he said.

Juan let the hard edge come off his stare, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet and relaxed. The point had been made, and Parkes had his say to save face. No sense in beating the guy up any more than was necessary.

“Did you find out anything about the missing truck?” Juan asked.

“Yeah,” Parkes said. “I just got off the phone with a guy in the DEA. They found it in Galveston. Just outside the cruise ship terminals. It was abandoned.”

“Abandoned? What about the cargo?”

“It's the truck all right,” Parkes said. “They matched up registration. It was empty. No barrels or anything.”

“Please tell they did a full scrub down of it.”

“Of course, they did. Once we told them what we are dealing with, they brought in a CDC team. They won't have the official results for a few days, but right now it looks like the truck tested positive for the bacteria.”

There was a chair to his left and Juan fell down into it heavily.

“What's going on, Juan? I'm sick of being in the fucking dark.”

“I need my phone,” Juan said.

“Your phone?”

“It's in the interview room.”

“Oh. Oh, okay, sure.”

Parkes went and got his phone and brought it back to him. Juan started dialing Tess's number.

“Who are you calling?”

“A friend,” Juan said.

The call went immediately to voice mail.

Juan tried again, but got the same result.

“Crap,” he said, and put the phone down on the desk in front of him.

“What is it?” Parkes asked. “Nobody's given us any information on this bacteria. What are we dealing with here, Juan? How bad is this?”

Before Juan could answer, Rowe appeared in the doorway to the cubicle. He had his cell phone in his hand.

“Hey, Juan, I need a word.”

“We're busy,” Parkes said.

“Fuck off,” Rowe said, obviously enjoying the chance to stick it to Parkes. “Juan, they're saying it's the White House.”

He held the phone out to Juan.

Juan took it from him and said, “Where can I go? I need to take this privately.”

“Uh, sure,” Rowe said. “Out in the hall, I guess.”

“Thanks.” Juan put the phone to his ear and said, “Mr. Crouch? Just a second, sir. Let me get to a private area.”

Juan walked past the interview room, past the main lobby of the homicide office, where the lieutenant in charge of the unit was talking with an SAPD deputy chief, and out into the hall.

A pair of uniformed SAPD patrolman recognized him and tried to stop him.

“Sir,” the older of the two men said, putting his palm up to Juan like a traffic cop. “You need to go back inside.”

“Get out of the way,” Juan said. He stared at the cop, not looking away, not saying anything more.

The younger of the two cops stepped forward. He was in his mid-twenties, about Juan's height, with his uniform tailored to show off his biceps. Juan didn't give him a second look. He was the typical tough Hispanic kid the West Side of San Antonio produced in such profusion. They made good cops, but the kid was out of his league here.

Behind Juan, the SAPD lieutenant and the deputy chief stepped into the hallway. And behind them came Tom Parkes.

Parkes whispered something in the lieutenant's ear and the man said, “Let him go.”

Reluctantly, the uniforms stood aside.

“I need the hallway cleared,” Juan said.

There was a moment's hesitation, but then the lieutenant told everyone to clear out.

Parkes shot him an indignant look, but Juan turned his back on him.

When the hallway was clear, Juan put the phone to his ear and said, “Go ahead, Mr. Crouch.”

“Why did you ask me to look into Ms. Monica Rivas's background?”

“Because of the picture I showed you.”

“That's it?”

“Yes.”

There was a moment's hesitation before Mr. Crouch spoke again. “Well, your instincts are good.”

“Tell me.”

“According to her passport records she left for San Antonio three days ago. We have no records of her movements since then, but I've had her apartment searched.”

Juan figured he knew what that meant. If Crouch was moving pieces around the game board, that meant the NSA was involved, the National Security Agency, the experts on international intelligence and counterintelligence.

Juan knew enough not to speak, and just wait for the information.

“We have her official bio, the one your agency supplied after the attempted assassination on Senator Sutton. While it is true that she did go to Harvard, most of the rest of her bio appears to be false.”

“Do you know who she really is?”

“You mean is she the girl in the photo? Yeah, it looks like she is. Facial recognition software shows a high probability. High enough for me to accept anyway. But we still don't know who she is.”

“But it's logical that she's part of the Porra Cartel, right?”

There was a pause, and then Mr. Crouch said, “Yes, that sounds reasonable.”