Caught in the Act Page 10

  Kari’s stomach twisted. She might not make it to Adam’s station. They could detain her before she got there.

  Her attention was fractured by the threats from all sides; her vision closed in on her. There were dogs and camera equipment and law enforcement personnel everywhere, watching her every move. She was so distracted that she failed to notice her lane clearing. The driver behind her honked a warning, and she pulled forward, searching for Adam. It was almost her turn. Maybe when she saw him, she’d feel safe.

  He’d wave her on. He had to.

  The next two minutes felt like hours. She stared straight ahead, focusing on the Baja California license plate on the car in front of her, afraid to blink. Afraid to glance in the rearview mirror. Finally it was showtime.

  She could do this.

  Legs shaking, she tapped the gas pedal. As soon as she met Adam’s steady gaze, she’d calm down. His presence would soothe her.

  In what seemed like slow motion, she stopped the van and turned to look inside the booth. A man in a midnight-blue uniform asked for her paperwork. He had short black hair, a serious face, and a dark complexion, but … he wasn’t Adam.

  He wasn’t Adam.

  Kari’s throat went dry. Struggling not to show her panic, she fumbled for her travel documents, handing them over. “Is Officer Cortez available?” she asked. Her voice sounded shaky and high-pitched.

  He flipped through her passport. “Available for what?”

  She was too nervous to think. “Um …”

  “If you need to file a complaint with a lane supervisor, I can give you a form—”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I just wanted to say hi to Adam.”

  The CBP officer gave her a closer study, and he didn’t miss the exposed flesh at the neckline of her tank top. Kari thanked God for making men predictable. Then he said, “We’re not allowed visitors while on duty.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” She let out a nervous giggle, splaying a hand over her décolletage. “Never mind. I wouldn’t want to get him in trouble.”

  The officer ignored her cleavage in favor of inspecting her paperwork. She nibbled at her lower lip, hoping he’d think she was Adam’s girlfriend and let her through. After a long, agonizing moment he disappeared into his booth.

  Kari wondered how far she’d get if she made a run for it. She pictured a group of officers tackling her to the ground, German shepherds gnashing at her sandals.

  “You need to report to the secondary inspection area,” the officer said when he came back.

  She blinked a few times. “What?”

  He pointed to her immediate right, indicating a large section in the carport. It looked like an auto repair shop, only the car wash was really a giant X-ray machine. “Pull over and stay inside your vehicle. An officer will be with you shortly.”

  Kari’s heart plummeted. She was done for.

  Adam didn’t always work the lanes.

  For security reasons, CBP officers rotated stations, dividing their time between pedestrian booths and vehicle lanes, working primary and secondary inspection. Due to his work experience, education level, and bilingual status, Adam enjoyed a higher rank than most of his fellow officers. He was authorized to cover any area of the land port, and often took on a supervisory role.

  Today he was in secondary, his choice location. Most of the good shit happened in secondary. The really big loads were discovered here, along with the ever-changing methods of hiding them. Illegal cargo was stopped every day. High-profile smugglers had been apprehended here, and thousands of pounds of drugs seized.

  Adam loved being a part of that.

  He didn’t love the idea of adding Kari to his list of arrest assists. He’d been monitoring the tracking device he’d attached to her van, and although service was spotty south of the border, he knew she was coming.

  About twenty minutes ago he’d done a visual sweep of the lanes. Her van was waiting in line sixteen, where they’d met. He didn’t think that was a coincidence. “Detain the white Dodge,” he ordered Officer Sandoval via CB radio.

  “She’s on her way,” Sandoval radioed back later. “Friend of yours?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She asked for you.”

  Adam broke radio contact, starting to sweat. An attack of conscience had caused him to make the inspection request. He should have sent her to secondary last week. If she told anyone he’d been pursuing her, he’d have some serious explaining to do.

  She’d already mentioned him to Sandoval. Fuck!

  He tugged at his collar, trying not to borrow trouble. If she passed inspection, he had nothing to worry about. If she didn’t, well … he hadn’t crossed the line. She wasn’t his suspect, and he wasn’t investigating her officially. Their meetings were coincidental, as far as anyone else was concerned.

  He went to the control booth, glancing at the video monitors. Kari exited the vehicle and spoke with a female officer about the search procedure. While her van was X-rayed and inspected, she would wait inside. Nodding her understanding, she followed the officer to the detainment area, hugging a sweater to her chest like a security blanket. She was wearing a short denim skirt and leather sandals with ankle straps. Every male in the vicinity watched her walk away.

  Adam felt his jaw tighten with annoyance, although he was just as guilty as the rest. More so.

  An inspector drove the van through X-ray. The process was slow and methodical, scanning the vehicle from top to bottom. It looked clean. The tires, a typical hiding place for illegal contraband, were clear. There was nothing in the cargo but stacks of floor tiles in cardboard boxes. Although drug smugglers were clever and they could make a brick of coke look like a brick of clay, illegal substances fluoresced under radiation.

  Adam advanced the vehicle to a parking area, where a final visual check of the exterior and interior would be completed. The dogs sniffed the van’s perimeter but did not alert. From floorboards to rooftop, it was clean.

  He left the control booth, approaching the van on foot. An officer was shining a flashlight under the back bumper. “There’s an object attached to the chassis.”

  “Let’s see it,” Adam said. The GPS couldn’t be connected to him, and it would look suspicious for him to ignore the detail.

  The other officer stripped the device from the chassis and handed it to him. He gave the GPS a cursory inspection. It wasn’t unheard of for car owners to use tracking devices in case of theft or to keep tabs on a loved one. “Bring her back out.”

  After the necessary release forms were signed, the female officer led Kari to her vehicle and gave her a copy of the paperwork. Adam waited another minute, studying her pale face. She looked terrified.

  Did she think she wouldn’t pass inspection?

  Frowning, he walked up to the driver’s side. She smiled when she saw him, but her gaze revealed darker emotions, an intriguing blend of fear and fatigue.

  “How’s it going?”

  Her smile broke. “Not good.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, tears filling her eyes.

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “Whatever you found—”

  “What do you think I found?” She stared at him in misery.

  Adam lifted the GPS in his hand, ignoring the jab of guilt he felt for attaching it, and the even stronger punch of sympathy he felt for her. Whatever she’d done, he couldn’t believe her to be a bad person. “This was underneath your van.”

  A crease formed between her brows. “What is it?”

  “A tracking device.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you know who put it there?”

  She blinked rapidly, her eyes shifting to the left. “I did.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. I forgot all about it until now.”

  Adam couldn’t call her on the deception. In other circumstances, he might have taken her back to the detainment area and had her questioned in depth. She was on the edge of brea
king, brimming with vulnerability.

  Instead of pressing for details, he decided to release her. They would finish this later. “Okay, then,” he said, giving her the GPS. “You’re all set.”

  Her jaw dropped. “I’m free to go?”

  He nodded, gesturing to the exit lanes. “Pull to the left and merge forward.”

  She stared at him in disbelief.

  “Drive safely,” he said, and walked away.

  9

  Ian hadn’t been to a buy in days.

  He’d taken Chuy’s warning to heart and stayed home, lying low. Nursing his wounds. On Saturday morning, after leaving Adam’s house, he’d reported to his supervisor, claiming that a couple of thugs had accosted him on the street. It was the first time he’d lied to another agent and he wasn’t proud of himself.

  He’d been admonished for breaking procedure. Not only had he failed to call for backup, he’d waited an entire day to check in.

  Ian explained that he’d felt disoriented and fallen asleep after the attack. This false confession led to a litany of physical exams. He was subjected to a round of blood work, piss tests, and mental health checks, all of which he passed with flying colors. Cleared for duty, he was sent back into the field.

  His apartment was a hovel, but he’d been glad to return to it. Adam had asked if he enjoyed living like a bum. In a sick way, he did. He hated the character but relished the role. The stress of his undercover assignment was like a drug to him. He was addicted to the tension, the risk. Without that rush of adrenaline, he didn’t feel alive.

  Sometimes it was easier to be someone else. To fade in. His fucked-up childhood and drugged-out mom didn’t matter to the dregs of society he kept company with these days. Most of them had similar backgrounds. There were no outcasts on the streets.

  Nothing shocked these people. Nothing even affected them. Ian had spent his formative years trying to act cool and pretend things were normal. Going home at dinnertime, as if there would be food on the table.

  Here in dysfunctionville, there was no normal. There was no dinnertime.

  Although Ian was accepted in this world, it was a difficult, depressing existence. Hauntingly familiar. Everyone was high except him.

  He’d spent the past few days recharging. There was still a dark crescent under his eye, but the swelling had gone down. He felt stronger. Better. More relaxed. Ready to jump back into the fray.

  After donning a pair of cheap sunglasses to hide his bruised eye, he left the apartment. Today marked a turning point in the investigation. If Chuy continued to do business with Ian, they were in good standing. Ian could rebuild trust.

  He picked up the pace as he walked down E Street, glancing at the Zócalo storefront. There was a CLOSED sign in the window. Ian wondered if Adam was tailing Kari Strauss because he wanted Moreno or because he liked her ass.

  Ian hoped it was the second. Adam had been off the rails since Penelope’s death, and he needed to find another hobby. Another woman. Not the kind he met at a bar for a casual, late-night hookup, either.

  Ian didn’t have the mental energy to worry about his best friend right now, so he concentrated on staying calm for the buy. He felt nervous, anxious … excited. Flexing his hands, he approached the Hotel del Oro, visualizing a successful transaction.

  Armando was sitting in the alcove outside Chuy’s office, poker-faced as always. He rose, gesturing for Ian to turn around. Ian complied easily, bracing his hands on the wall while Armando patted him down in the shade of the trellis.

  “How’s it going?” Ian asked over his shoulder.

  “Fine,” Armando answered politely, as if they hadn’t beaten the crap out of each other during their last meeting. After determining that Ian was clean of weapons and listening devices, Armando let him into the office.

  Chuy wasn’t behind his desk. He’d taken a seat on the couch on the opposite side of the room. Lines of white powder were drawn up on the surface of a glass-topped coffee table. Blanca nieves.

  Armando shut the office door behind him. Chuy offered Ian a seat on the couch, directly in front of the white lines.

  His stomach clenched with unease because he couldn’t refuse the hospitality. Not at this juncture. “I’m sorry for what went down last week,” he began, sitting next to Chuy. “I was fucked up. It won’t happen again.”

  Chuy leaned forward, his eyes narrow.

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect,” Ian assured him.

  “My partner says you don’t fight like a junkie.”

  Ian darted a glance at Armando, caught between pride and annoyance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Maybe you aren’t who you appear to be.”

  His throat went dry. “Bullshit,” he said, whipping off his sunglasses. “Look at my fucking eye! He kicked my ass.”

  “He has combat training.”

  Ian swallowed hard. Had his defensive techniques given something away? “I’d smoked a little PCP that day.”

  Chuy looked at Armando, who shrugged. Angel dust wasn’t a commonly used substance, but it circulated from time to time. It made users behave erratically and believe they had superhuman strength.

  “I was totally out of it, and I’m sorry. It was stupid.”

  After a moment’s contemplation, Chuy nodded at the lines on the table. “That’s the Snow White. Try it.”

  Ian rubbed his sweaty hands on his dirty jeans. “I don’t have my rig.”

  “Fuck your rig. Snort it.”

  Ian had been in tight situations with dealers before. Sometimes he had to party with the big boys in order to gain their trust. He knew how to simulate drug use, and ways to decline without giving offense.

  There was no way out here. He couldn’t refuse, and he couldn’t fake it. This was a test he was doomed to fail.

  “I always try a small amount of a new batch—”

  Chuy stood, pulling a 9 mm from the holster at his waist. He pointed the barrel at Ian’s head. “Do it.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  Ian held up his hands and looked straight down at the table, afraid to make any move that might set Chuy off. “Okay, man, just chill out!” There was a short straw next to the lines. Reaching slowly, he picked it up.

  If this was uncut heroin, he’d be dead before it hit the back of his throat.

  Leaning over the surface of the table, he plugged one nostril and lifted the tooter to the other, inhaling deeply. The line disappeared up his nose, flooding his mouth with an acrid taste. He didn’t have a cardiac arrest. Tossing the straw aside, he settled back against the couch, his eyes watering, nasal passages burning.

  “How’s it taste?” Chuy asked.

  “Pretty good,” Ian lied, sniffling. “You gonna sell me some now?”

  Chuy relaxed, putting his piece away. Armando exited the office, claiming he had to run an errand, and they completed the exchange with little fanfare, Chuy accepting money for drugs. Ian put the balloon in his pocket, already feeling woozy. He had about five minutes before it kicked in completely.

  As luck would have it, another customer showed up as Ian was leaving. He didn’t make eye contact with the tattooed gang member on his way out. It was bad form to stare, and he needed to concentrate on walking.

  Ian had to get as far away from Chuy’s apartments as possible. He was in danger of breaking cover. A seasoned addict wouldn’t react strongly to a single line of heroin unless it was 100 percent pure, and this stuff wasn’t. If they saw him fall on his face, they’d know he wasn’t the junkie he appeared to be.

  Instead of crossing the courtyard, which looked sun-bright and difficult to navigate, he took a left, lumbering down the shaded walkway. His legs felt rubbery, his knees ready to buckle. He knew he wasn’t going to make it back to base. Maybe he could stagger through the parking lot and pass out behind a dumpster.

  He tried to walk normally, but his feet refused to cooperate. A pair of vending machines swam into his field of vision, so he focused on moving toward them. It was
like climbing Mount Everest. Or wading through molasses.

  At last he was standing in front of the soda machine, mesmerized by the shiny façade and whirring refrigerator engine. He knew why people liked opiates; he’d never felt so peaceful. This vending machine was fascinating. He contemplated the vibrant design and perfect colors, wallowing in visual nirvana.

  In the corner of his mind, he understood that lingering here was dangerous. Armando might be close by, and he had eyes like a hawk.

  Get out of sight, Ian. Get out of sight.

  He tore his gaze away from the vending machine, searching for an escape. There was a small, nondescript door on his right. Utility closet? He glanced back at Chuy’s apartments and saw nothing but a gray blur.

  Lurching forward, he grabbed the doorknob. Turned it. Open.

  Victorious, he stumbled inside and closed the door behind him, fumbling for the lock. Either there wasn’t one or his clumsy hands couldn’t find it. The closet smelled like pine soap. He reached out for a mop handle, but it wouldn’t hold him upright.

  He fell down, into darkness.

  * * *

  Kari couldn’t believe Adam let her go.

  Had there been a mix-up at Saltillo Mundo? Maybe the shipment hadn’t come in, or they hadn’t loaded it into her van. She didn’t understand what had happened. If she’d been smuggling illegal cargo, surely the inspectors would have detected it.

  Why hadn’t she been charged and arrested?

  Kari drove to downtown San Diego in a daze, too drained to make sense of the situation. She didn’t fool herself into thinking it was over. She’d made it across the border by some kind of miracle, but she could still get caught.

  Investigators could be following her, hoping for a bigger bust.

  No one was there to meet her at Zócalo. She parked behind the store, her pulse racing. Afraid she’d be tackled by law enforcement the instant she left the vehicle, she stayed inside for a few moments, searching her surroundings.

  Everything looked normal.

  A delivery truck passed by, carrying stacks of five-gallon water containers. The liquid sloshed back and forth. Kari was struck by warring discomforts: a full bladder and intense thirst. She squirmed in her seat, glancing in the rearview mirror.