El Cheque replied:
Zetas! Shit! I hope not.
Maybe he just took off?
I thought he could be trusted.
He replied:
Delgado’s phone vibrated with El Cheque’s reply:
Delgado then put the phone in his pocket, reached down and grabbed the tan backpack with the Nike logotype from the passenger-side floorboard, then got out of the Tahoe.
Inside the front door of the Mall of Mexico, Juan Paulo Delgado found that he had to step around two long lines of Latino men and women in order to get deeper in the building. He’d never seen it this busy.
The lines almost wound out the front doors. He started walking, following the lines to the right and down around the corner. He saw that they led to a yellow-and-black Western Union counter.
There were two teller windows there, and next to them a couple dozen yellow fiberglass bucket chairs bolted to an iron rail painted a glossy black. At least half of these were filled with more Latinos, people either waiting for a cell phone call to say that their money had been sent and they could join the queue to collect it, or those who had just sent or collected their funds.
As Delgado continued toward the back of the mall, he noticed that few of these people were making much effort to conceal from anyone the fact that they were handling wads of cash, in some cases hundreds of dollars each.
Might have to get someone to check this out.
Figure out what day and time the line’s the longest.
Why send all that remittance money south when it can go in El Gato’s pockets?
Delgado passed a vendor selling pay-as-you-go, no-long-term-contract cellular telephones featuring inexpensive calling rates to Central America. Then he reached the back of the mall. He stopped at a storefront with a wooden sign etched with TITO’S TORTILLA F?BRICA.
He went inside the “factory,” then to the stand with the register in the right corner.
A teenage Latino perked up when he saw Delgado coming his way. He had a white fiberboard box imprinted with TITO’S TORTILLAS already on the stand when Delgado got there.
“Hola, El Gato,” the teenager said.
“Hola,” he replied as he pulled a bulging FedEx envelope from the outside pocket of the tan backpack.
“Gracias,” the teenager said as he took it.
Delgado nodded once and grabbed the box of corn tortillas.
As he walked purposefully back to the Tahoe, he scanned the mall for anyone who might have an interest in his unleavened pancakes, ones covering U.S. Federal Reserve notes.
He also made one last inspection of the lines for the Western Union.
Got to be an easy way to get a piece of that…
Then he got in the Tahoe, picked up I-95 south, and drove along the Delaware River the five or so miles to the Philadelphia International Airport.
[TWO] Terminal D Philadelphia International Airport Wednesday, September 9, 3:01 P.M.
“Yeah, Jason, I do understand that I’m really to keep a low profile and that this time Coughlin really means it,” Sergeant Matt Payne said into his cell phone. He was walking down the airport’s D/E Connector. “I will bring this Texas Ranger by the Roundhouse, and we will work out of Homicide. I got it.”
Due to construction work at Terminal D, which served United and Continental Airlines and others, Payne had had to park his rental Ford near Terminal E, which served Northwest and Southwest Airlines.
He left the car in one of the three parking spaces at Terminal E that were marked OFFICIAL POLICE USE ONLY, and put one of his business cards on the dash. He realized that the rental Ford easily could be ID’d as such-a simple running of the plates would show the name of its corporate owner, never mind the thumbnail-size tracking sticker with the corporate logo in the corner of the rear window. He further realized that an airport traffic cop could jump to the conclusion that it was a rental by some idiot who thought he could get away with parking in a cop’s spot-Philly wasn’t about to run out of idiots anytime soon-who would then call for a Tow Squad wrecker and have it hauled off.
So Payne had taken a black permanent marker and redacted everything on the business card except SERGEANT M.M. PAYNE, PHILADELPHIA POLICE DEPARTMENT, HOMICIDE UNIT, and his cell phone number. If any airport cop questioned the validity of the vehicle being there, a simple call to the Roundhouse or to Payne-or both-would answer that.
The Philadelphia International Airport’s D/E Connector was a wide mall-like passage that, as its name suggested, linked Terminal D and Terminal E. It was lined with towering white columns flying flags. And it had a marketplace that offered air travelers quite a few of the conveniences of the retail world, everything from newsstands and bookstores to well-known national chains selling clothing, jewelry, computer accessories, and more.
In the center of the highly polished tile floor were kiosks for smaller vendors. One of the kiosks that Payne approached sold what it called “specialty” pretzels. He thought that they were outrageously priced even if one were traveling on an expense account. Another kiosk was home to an Internet access provider called the Road Warrior Connection. Its signage advertised that it offered PHILLY’S FASTEST, CHEAPEST INTERNET.
Something familiar caught his eye as he passed, and he glanced inside. Then he found it, and shook his head as he kept walking.
Maybe Skipper was onto something.
In the kiosk he had seen a guy working on one of the rental laptop computers. He’d had his back to Payne, but on his back was a black Sudsie’s T-shirt. And just as Chad Nesbitt had said, this guy looked to be about the right demographic for a place like that-a clean-cut, decent-looking Hispanic male in his early twenties.
He got to Terminal D, to the point where the passengers from the airline gates in the secure Concourse D came out to go to Baggage Claim D or, if they hadn’t checked any luggage, simply made a straight exit of the airport.
Payne took a seat so that he had a clear view of the area. He sighed audibly, then realized he was somewhat tired.
And that caused him to begin thinking about all he’d been through in the course of the day.
It’s been surreal… and I’m far from being done.
He looked at his watch. It showed it was quarter after three.
Jesus! In the course of-what?
Chad called me at quarter of five this morning. So that makes it right at eight and a half hours.
And in that time I’ve gone from being on nearly thirty days’ R amp; R and shopping for a Porsche to being back on the cops to a shoot-out with a critter to being put back on ice.
And, now, to whatever happens with this guy from Texas.
Liz Justice-wearing the hat of Houston Chief of Police Justice-said he was tracking some critter who cut off girls’ heads?
He shook his head.
Un-fucking-believable.
Talk about an animal. That’s inhuman…
He watched a clump of people flowing out of Concourse D. He had no idea which flight they had come in on, but not one of them looked like his idea of a Texan, let alone of a Texas Ranger law-enforcement officer. There were only two males in the group, neither close to resembling an active LEO. One wasn’t old enough to shave. The other, in a crouch, walked with a cane.
His mind went on:
And in the course of those same eight and a half hours, five people in Philly-three of whom I more or less crossed paths with-are no longer among the living.
And the fate of another is not looking damn good at all.
An image of a laughing, full-of-life Becca Benjamin flashed in his memory.
Godspeed, Becca…
And what about those two Hispanics killed in the motel?
I’d hoped Skipper would’ve told us something about how that one guy got his throat slit.
But now all the witnesses are dead.
Unless Becca knows something… but that’s a long shot, both (a) on the chance that she knew what was going on in the motel room and (b) if she actually survives and can tell us that she does.
Or doesn’t. Then we’re back to square one.
And that crazy sonofabitch coming into the hospital and pumping thirteen nine-millimeter rounds into Skipper.
What if he came back?
Thank God we beefed up the cops sitting on her.
Jesus! What next?
A big group of air travelers, easily thirty of them, came out from Concourse D. They were mostly teenagers. They had a handful of chaperones. All wore the same bright blue style of T-shirt. Payne could read some part of what had been silk-screened on the shirts, something about a church mission trip.
I do know what I’d like to happen next.
I’d like another shot at that sonofabitch who popped Skipper.
Not a gunshot… just a chance to bring him in.
First, because he doesn’t need to be on the street.
And second, because he damn sure knows something.
That’s obvious because he knows Skipper knew something. Why else target him for assassination? That’s what they were calling it at the scene in the ICU.
And that’s exactly what it was-thirteen rounds’ worth of nine-millimeter assassination.
Which means that the sonofabitch may very well know what went on in that motel room. Or, if not what went on in there in the last few minutes, hours, whatever, then who the players in there were.
And it’s damn sure no coincidence that the guy I shot and the two crispy critters from the motel are all Hispanic males.
Payne heard the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of hard rubber wheels rolling over an expansion joint in the tile floor. He turned to find a heavy-duty polymer custodial cart moving in his direction. It had two twenty-gallon plastic garbage cans on either end and the handles of a broom and feather dusters poking up between them. Pushing the cart was a hollow-faced Hispanic female. She looked to be maybe thirty. She stopped at a trash receptacle, and there went about her cleaning job quietly and effortlessly and, Payne noted, more or less completely unnoticed by anyone.
Then he was struck by the fact that that had been the exact same response he’d had to the Hispanic “orderly” at the Burn Unit when he saw him pushing the gurney into the corridor.
I didn’t give him a second thought.
Why is that? And is it good or bad?
I have no idea. But I know there’s something there I can’t put my finger on.
Where is that sonofabitch now?
How badly did I wound him?
There hadn’t been hardly any blood at the scene, either where he went down or where he carjacked that Chevy Caprice.
But maybe that one round did enough damage to get the critter to find an ER.
Payne knew that it did not matter which hospital emergency room. As long as it wasn’t, say, ten states away. But even ten states away there was a chance of catching the guy. It just would take longer.
And the hospitals did report, either officially or quietly, someone coming in with a gunshot wound. Even if-for whatever reason, say, some sanctimonious bastard at the intake desk took offense at the release of the scum’s “personal and privileged information” to the cops-not right away. There were others on staff who knew that almost all gunshot wounds were dirty and eventually would leak the info to the authorities. Not to mention the ones working security, who were either once cops or were cops moonlighting; they didn’t have to be convinced that keeping a critter off the street was all-important. They would call it in right then and there, damn any consequences.
Already the Philly Homicide detectives had begun distributing an Armed and Dangerous Alert to all of the hospital ERs within a fifty-mile radius. The single-page alert had a grainy black-and-white snapshot of the doer that had been pulled from the city-owned surveillance camera video on the exterior of the Temple University Hospital wall. (There had been as yet no luck with the hospital’s interior video equipment.) The Armed and Dangerous Alert also contained, of course, a description of the Hispanic male, including the detail that his wound had been inflicted by a.45-caliber bullet to the left leg at a point believed to be somewhere above the knee. And, of course, there was the directive to first call 911 in the event anyone requesting medical attention came even remotely close to the description on the alert. Then the hospital could contact the Philadelphia Police Department Homicide Unit at the Roundhouse via the information provided, or the responding cops could do so.
Payne then thought about Skipper Olde.
When Payne had gone back into the Temple Burn Unit, he had been surprised at his own reaction to the news that the doer had indeed pumped thirteen rounds into Skipper.
It didn’t really bother me one bit.
Knowing his chance of survival, maybe I had already dealt with the fact he probably wasn’t-what did Tony Harris tell me he thought?-that Skipper wasn’t going to make it to lunch.
And he sure as hell didn’t.
But my being unaffected… something weird about that.
I need to call Amy and ask her.
Amy was Amelia A. Payne, MD. His sister was the Joseph L. Otterby Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Pennsylvania.
If she doesn’t have an opinion, which would be the first time that ever happened, then she’ll find me someone who does.
Then another mental image flashed up, and Payne suddenly grinned.
That and see if someone in Amy’s medical circles can give me background on that gorgeous Dr. Amanda Law.
His mind wandered to the Texas Ranger. He checked his wristwatch. It showed three thirty. The airplane had been due in at three twenty-two.
Flight’s late. Nothing new there.
Payne had taken fifteen or so minutes at the Roundhouse to do a fast Internet search on the Rangers. And what little he’d found had been fascinating.
Real Wild Wild West stuff, he’d thought.
He’d copied the information into an e-mail and sent it to himself. Then he’d taken his cellular telephone and used it to check his e-mail, downloading a copy of the file to his phone.
He pulled out his phone now and opened the e-mail:
From: SGT M.M. Payne ‹[email protected]› Date: 09SEPT 1201 To: MMP (Mobile Email) ‹[email protected]› Subject: Tx Rangers Notes Texas Rangers Sergeant Jim Byrth, Continental flight from IAH arriving PHL at 1522 hours, terminal D.
Snippets on Texas Rangers… ››› Began in its first form in 1823. Stephen F. Austin, developing settlements in the Mexican province of Tejas, called for men to “Range” the frontier to protect its people. Officially became Texas Rangers in 1835. ››› Austin recruited settlers from Europe and U.S. with the promise of land. Settlers agreed to become Mexican citizens, join the Catholic faith, speak Spanish. ››› Mexican law authorized Austin to form militia to protect settlements. The Rangers were formed to ward off raids by Tonkawa and Comanche Indians and others, to capture criminals, and to “range” against intruders. ››› “A Ranger is an officer able to handle any given situation without definite instructions from his commanding officer, or higher authority. This ability must be proven before a man becomes a Ranger.” ››› “One Riot, One Ranger”-In 1896, Texas Ranger Captain Bill McDonald sent to Dallas to stop an illegal prize-fight. The Dallas mayor met McDonald at Union Station, and said, “Where?re the other Rangers?”
McDonald replied, “There?s only one fight. Hell, ain?t I enough?” ››› Early Texas Ranger badges hammered out of silver Mexican five-peso coins. Badge is a five-point star within a ring engraved with oak leaves and an olive branch borrowed from the Texas Great Seal to represent strength (oak leaves) and peace (olive branch). ››› Senior Ranger Captain Frank H. Hamer-commissioned as a Texas Highway Patrolman-went after Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker. Tracked Bonnie and Clyde for more than three months before finding them in Louisiana. The outlaws fired-and were killed in the ensuing shoot-out on 23 May 1934. ››› Present Day: Rangers are a division of the Texas Department of Public Safety. The 134 Texas Rangers (as authorized by Texas Legislature) are posted in seven companies: Waco (headquarters), Garland (Dallas/Fort Worth), Houston, Lubbock, Midland, San Antonio, and McAllen. Administrative office in Austin. ››› Has been called one of the most effective investigative law-enforcement agencies in the world. ››› Texas Rangers wear, as living symbols of a unique heritage, boots, white hats, and pistol belts of their predecessors.
Payne noticed movement and looked up from his phone.
There was another group coming out of Concourse D. But all Payne really noticed was a white Stetson cowboy hat seemingly floating down the concourse. It looked to be made of finely woven straw. Its crown was huge. The portion of the round brim over his ears spread out to resemble wide wings.
The Hat, Payne labeled it.
There were, of course, other passengers exiting ahead of and behind The Hat, but all Matt Payne could see of the Texas Ranger was The Hat.
And, boy, does it stand out.
Especially here in the Philly airport.
Should be interesting to see it in Center City…
Payne was standing with five others who were watching the passengers coming out of Concourse D and going their different directions. He saw The Hat make a slow sweep of the terminal as Byrth scanned the area, no doubt looking for him. Then Byrth made eye contact with him and walked purposefully toward him.
With the exception of The Hat and his pointy-toed western boots, James O. Byrth did not look unlike Matthew M. Payne.
Byrth, who appeared to be about thirty years old, stood right at six feet tall and weighed 170 pounds. He was lithely muscled. He had dark, intelligent eyes and kept his dark, thick hair trimmed conservatively short. He wore gray slacks that actually had cuffs and a sharp crease, a stiffly starched white button-down collared shirt, and a single-breasted navy blue blazer with gold buttons.
The Hat stepped up to Matt Payne.
“Marshal Earp, I presume,” Jim Byrth said with utter confidence. His distinct Texas drawl made it only more so.
“That’s interesting,” Payne replied dryly. “I was about to say the same to you. You forget your horse in the plane’s overhead bin?”
Byrth grinned. “No. I checked it. Should be waiting at the baggage claim.”
Wait, Payne thought. How the hell did he pick me out so quickly?
And confidently?
Liz Justice probably gave him a basic description.
But he knew without question that it was me.
“Okay, how’d you make me?” Payne said, holding out his right hand.
Byrth didn’t reply immediately, as if he was considering whether he would.
“Penatekas,” Byrth finally said, powerfully squeezing Payne’s hand as he looked him right in the eyes. He added: “Sergeant Jim Byrth, Texas Rangers, Company A.” He nodded once, and The Hat moved with great drama. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Sergeant Matt Payne, Philadelphia Police Department, Homicide.”
“I know.”
“‘Penatekas’?” Payne repeated, stumbling over the pronunciation.
Byrth nodded again, and again The Hat accentuated the movement.
“One of the warrior bands of the fierce Comanches,” Byrth explained solemnly. “Back when Texas was the Mexican province of Tejas, early Rangers learned from them their various methods of how to tell everything about a person simply by knowing what to look for.”
Payne stared at him.
He’s pulling my chain.
Or is he?
That “Mexican province of Tejas” stuff I read about. And those Comanches were ruthless.
“Fascinating,” Payne said. “What sort of methods?”
“Well,” Byrth began, stone-faced, “they were nomads, and roaming the plains. When they hunted down a buffalo, they had a spiritual ceremony and prayed for its soul. They honored the great animal by letting no part of it go to waste. The flesh they cured for food. The skins became blankets and clothing and other protection. Even the cojones were used for special purposes. The cojones were dried and ground and consumed for the powers to observe. In particular, to observe people, and even more in particular, to observe enemies.”
“Co-what?”
“Co-hone-ees,” Byrth repeated, this time phonetically. “That’s actually the Spanish word. The Indians had their own, which varied from band to band.”
“And that’s how you knew it was me? With these co-hone-ees?”
Still stone-faced, Byrth stared Payne in the eyes. Payne felt that he was reading him. Then Byrth nodded once. The Hat mimicked the motion.
“Co-hone-ees is Spanish?” Payne said. “For what?”
“ ‘Testicles.’ ”
Byrth grinned.
“Actually, it translates closer to ‘balls.’ ”
Then Byrth wordlessly pulled out his cell phone and punched at its touch-screen.
“That, and then there’s this.”
He held it out to Payne, showing him a big bright glass screen that filled the whole face of the device.
There was a digitized photograph on the screen.
Payne grunted.
He immediately recognized it as one that four years before had run on the front page of The Philadelphia Bulletin. It showed a bloody-faced Officer Matthew M. Payne, pistol in hand, standing over a fatally wounded felon in an alleyway. And it had had the screaming headline: “Officer M.M. Payne, 23, The Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Marshal. And, I might add, lives online for all to see.”
Homicide Sergeant Matthew Payne’s eyes went between the phone and Byrth’s face. He shook his head.
Shit. He got me. And good.
Then he burst out laughing.
I think we’re going to get along just fine.
“Nice job, Jim.”
Byrth smiled.
Payne added: “But just remember that payback is hell.”
Now Byrth laughed aloud and said, “Liz Justice said you were a good sport. I’ll deal with the payback.”
[THREE] D/E Connector Philadelphia International Airport Wednesday, September 9, 3:10 P.M.
Juan Paulo Delgado sat at a rental Dell laptop computer inside the Road Warrior Connection kiosk.
He reached into his camo shorts and pulled out the flash drive. He stuck it in a USB slot on the side of the laptop, and simultaneously hit the CONTROL, ALT, and DELETE keys. When the screen went blank, he held the CONTROL and Z keys simultaneously. The computer restarted, loading the secure program from the flash drive that mirrored his laptop in the safe of his converted warehouse loft.
As the computer booted up, he wondered if there actually was something to what Jorge Aguilar had suggested in his text message.
Did Los Zetas have anything to do with the kid’s disappearance?
The Zetas, led by Heriberto “The Executioner” Lazcano, were mercenaries working as the enforcement arm of the narco-trafficking Gulf Cartel. They numbered some five hundred men, and were heavily armed and well-trained. The majority of them had been commandos in the Mexican Army’s Grupo Aerom?vil de Fuerzas Especiales, which, ironically, went after members of the drug cartels. They were ruthless and fearless. And what they could not or would not do-assassinations inside the United States, for example-they hired others, most notably gangbangers, to carry out for them.
The Gulf Cartel-if not the biggest of the Mexican drug-trafficking organizations (MDTOs), then one of the richest-was based due south of Brownsville, Texas, on the Gulf of Mexico, thus the source of the cartel’s name. Since the 1970s, the Gulf Cartel had trafficked pot, coke, meth, and smack into the United States. And they taxed anyone who used their “plazas,” or smuggling routes. The Zetas acted as their lethal collection agency for slow- or no-payers.
Thus, Juan Paulo Delgado knew that the Zetas were not to be fucked with.
He also knew that, compared to the gangs to whom the cartel wholesaled drugs for resale in the United States, he was a very, very small player. He operated on the fringes of what to the cartels was a multibillion-dollar-per-year enterprise. As long as he kept paying the plaza taxes that the Gulf Cartel levied on him, and he didn’t step on their toes, and he didn’t try to become a bigger player, he would more or less be left alone with his crumbs.
Which meant that it had been a damned dumb move to pump forty-two rounds-two of 9-millimeter and forty of 5.7-millimeter-into his former business associate in that South Dallas crack house. Not because it was wrong to take out the bastard who owed him for the kilo of black tar smack. But because that property had also been an occasional stash house for the Zetas.
Not long afterward, he’d learned on the street that they were not exactly pleased that El Gato (a) had drawn unwanted attention to the stash/crack house and (b) had made the mess with what once had been their P90 Fabrique Nationale submachine gun.
Like toothpaste from a tube, there of course was no way to put fired bullets back in a gun. The damage was done. But Delgado had a hard time believing that any of that actually warranted the anger of the Zetas.
You never know, though, what sets those fuckers off.
Or whom they’ll hire to pull the trigger.
They could’ve grabbed the kid-or had him grabbed-to send a message.
Or it could be the kid’s just out getting laid…
For two days?
He shook his head, then clicked on the Firefox browser icon to connect to the Internet.
He signed in to his Gmail account. There was nothing new to read except junk mail. He deleted that. He then decided that while he was signed in, he would just send an e-mail to Jorge Aguilar. Typing took less effort than thumbing and, like text messages, the e-mails also went to Jorge’s cellular phone.
He opened a new window and wrote:
From: jjd ‹[email protected]›
Date: 09SEPT 1520
To: jorge ‹[email protected]›
Subject: the kid send someone (maybe Gomez?) to A amp;M to see if he can find out anything. we need to know if something?s happened.
Then he clicked to send it, and logged out of Gmail.
He typed PHILLYBULLETIN.COM and hit the RETURN key.
A second later, the screen loaded.
He saw that the image of the Philly Inn ablaze had moved farther down the screen. Now the main image was that of emergency vehicles at the Reading Terminal Market. And below that was a photograph of the Temple University Hospital surrounded by Philadelphia Police Department squad cars and what looked to Delgado to be very likely unmarked police cars.
The red text of the ticker crawling from right to left across the top of the page read: BREAKING NEWS… Police Investigating Suspicious Burning of 2 Vehicles Parked in West Kensington… BREAKING NEWS…
Delgado saw that under the photograph of Reading Terminal Market there was a caption:
Gunfire killed two people and injured four others this morning at Reading Terminal Market in Center City Philadelphia. Click here for full story. (Photograph by Jimmy Bell / Bulletin Photographer) And under the image of Temple University Hospital was also a caption. It read:
Temple University Hospital on North Broad Street was the scene of a shooting late this morning, Philly’s second of the day. (See related story by clicking here.) Police said that they were withholding details pending the initial investigation. Witnesses, however, stated that police pursued an armed gunman running from a hospital exit. The gunman fired at the officer chasing him. Click here for full story. (Photograph by Phan Hoang / Bulletin Photographer) That gunman was El Gigante.
And so it was a cop who chased him… and shot him.
Delgado clicked on the link to read the story: