One Minute Out Page 41

  With a shrug, I say, “You’ve been around a long time, no offense. Hightower said you know everybody.”

  To this Duvall leans his head back on the sofa. “Hightower. What’s that son of a bitch up to these days?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  He raises an eyebrow. I just tipped him off that Zack was back with the Agency, which is sort of true, but I don’t care. I need this guy’s compliance, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to establish my bona fides.

  “A pilot and a helo. You don’t ask for much, do you?”

  I smile. “You want to pull this op off as much as I do.”

  After a pause he says, “Zack’s right. I know just the guy for you, Violator, and he’s right here in town. As good a helo driver as you’ll find in the area, and he’d probably pay you for the chance to get some action.”

  Cocking my head, I ask, “What’s he doing here in Vegas?”

  “Let’s just say he’s in the sunset of his career. Like me, I guess.”

  Great.

  “But older. A lot older.”

  Jesus Christ.

  Shep looks at his watch. “Rack out here tonight. I’ll call the boys now, call the pilot first thing in the morning.”

  “Why not now?”

  “No use. He takes his hearing aids out when he sleeps.”

  I blow out a long sigh. “Of course he does.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Talyssa Corbu had traveled all over Europe, she’d even been to the Caribbean, but she’d never visited the United States before she deplaned at LAX and went through customs and immigration. Once clear on the other side, she rented a car and drove to a mall, where she began buying clothes, a suitcase, and other items she hadn’t bothered with in her rush to get on a plane for America.

  As soon as she was equipped, she called Gentry and he answered on the first ring. When she told him she was in LA, he begged her to sit tight, not to get a hotel room in her name because she was compromised to the enemy, and he promised to call her back with a plan.

  Thirty minutes later he did so, and he gave her an address in Receda.

  When she got there, a woman let her in and put her in a little guest room. Talyssa called Gentry back and he promised to keep her apprised of everything, but if and only if she stayed away from Rancho Esmerelda.

  She knew where Rancho Esmerelda was, not far away at all; she considered driving there right then. But she did not, because she also knew Roxana’s chances were better with Harry than they were with her. She thought it unlikely that her sister would be able to live up to her promise to call her with information on her location, but if her guess was correct about the ranch east of the San Fernando Valley, then they wouldn’t need Roxana’s help in finding her.

  She wished she could liaise in some way with the police department here, but her experience told her she needed to stay away from them. Further, Gentry had intimated that he’d learned that the U.S. government had an interest in the operation, and while he didn’t think they were actively supporting the sex trafficking ring, he thought it possible, likely even, that they were protecting the Director in exchange for intelligence he was providing them.

  America was just as dirty as the other countries the pipeline ran through.

  Talyssa pushed this depressing fact out of her mind and tried to think optimistically.

  She sat on her bed in her little room and told herself it wouldn’t be long now.

  She’d see her sister again, and then she’d spend the rest of her life putting things right with her.

  * * *

  • • •

  This house is a shit box. I’m in Bakersfield, sitting in a small living room full of car parts, empty beer bottles, and dirty clothes. If the four men sitting across from me now were fresh-faced kids in their early twenties, I would take this for a frat house that lost its house mom.

  But these aren’t kids. Not even close.

  The men are all in their late forties. Rodney and Stu are white, A.J. is Latino, and Kareem is African American. They all have beards, they all wear glasses, and they all look like they could stand to drop thirty pounds.

  They’re younger and fitter than Duvall, true, but that’s not saying much.

  This isn’t exactly the A-Team.

  Duvall isn’t here; he’s on his way from Vegas after arranging the helo he promised to acquire. But he’s called his old team from Southeast Asia and arranged for them to meet me at the home of one of them, and he just texted me to tell me to get started without him.

  He also hooked me up with a place in LA to stash Talyssa: at the home of the sister of one of the guys here with me, although I don’t even know which one.

  There are five surviving members of the Manila team in addition to Duvall, but one of their number told Shep that due to a recent hip replacement, he’d be more hindrance than help.

  The four men with me have agreed to nothing; they don’t even know the target or the mission, but they are here, waiting to hear my spiel, and I take that to be a good sign.

  Kareem, the African American, opens the discussion: “We all talked to Papa.”

  “Papa?”

  “Duvall. His call sign is Papa.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “He tells us you’re legit, your mission is righteous, and it’s time sensitive. But we have some questions.”

  “Fair enough. Shep tells me you four are as good as they come.”

  Rodney, the homeowner, eyes me suspiciously. “Then that makes me wonder if the shit he said about you was BS, too, because we sure as hell ain’t exactly at our peak.”

  A.J., the one I take for Latino, says, “Speak for yourself. I’ve got my shit squared away.”

  But the one calling himself Stu replies, “Rodney’s right. Shep didn’t tell you that.”

  I’ve oversold the platitudes. Dumb. Quickly I backpedal. “Okay, he didn’t say that, exactly, but he said you guys were solid. Together you ran missions in the Third World rescuing kids caught up in human trafficking.”

  “And then what did he tell you?” Kareem asks.

  “I heard about Manila.”

  The tension in the room increases a little, but no one blinks.

  Stu says, “Well, if you did, then you know we’ve been blackballed by the community. No one is going to send us back out anywhere.”

  “I’ll send you out.”

  It’s quiet in the room for several seconds. I register the hopeful looks on the men’s faces. Yeah, they want back in the fight just as much as their leader does.

  “So . . .” Rodney says, “you are Agency?”

  “I’m not going to be able to answer that.”

  Kareem mutters, half under his breath. “He’s Agency.”

  A.J. turns to him. “How can you tell?”

  “Look at him.”

  “He doesn’t look CIA to me.”

  “Exactly.”

  It’s a good thing I don’t need Kareem for his grasp of logic.

  They are still sizing me up, despite the fact that Duvall vouched for me. Kareem says, “So you want to lead us into certain death?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. Probable death.”

  “Oh . . . terrific.”

  Rodney speaks up now. “Tell us about your target.”

  “It’s called Rancho Esmerelda. It’s the end of the line of something called the pipeline, a sex trafficking network that brings women and girls over from Eastern Europe and Asia to serve wealthy men here in the States.”

  Kareem says, “Women and . . . and girls. You mean underage girls?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know how many end up in SoCal, but this is a transcontinental organization that makes billions a year.”

  Rodney speaks with a whisper. “T
housands of victims, then.”

  I just nod.

  “Americans do this?” A.J. seems surprised, but Rodney notices this and says what I’m thinking.

  “You don’t think we can be just as big pieces of shit as people from other countries?”

  Stu adds, “We can be worse if we put our minds to it.”

  A.J. nods slowly now. “Yeah, guess so.”

  The men look at one another, and A.J. says, “If you know women and girls are being abused right here, why don’t you just go to the cops?”

  “Because the cops have been tainted everywhere I’ve been along the smuggling pipeline. I can all but guarantee there are some bad ones here, protecting this operation.” I hesitate, then say, “The guy who runs the whole thing . . . I don’t know his identity, but I have been told he enjoys some federal protection, as well.”

  “Shit,” Kareem says; all four stare at me, and the scrutiny makes me uncomfortable. Finally Rodney declares what the others are obviously thinking. “I’m not killing a cop. Not even a dirty cop.”

  A.J. adds, “That’s right. Doesn’t matter how dirty he is. The second he’s killed in the line he turns into Eliot Ness. A hero. White as the driven snow.”

  “That’s right,” echo the others on the sofa.

  “I’m not killing a cop, either.” This is bullshit, and I feel bad about lying to these guys, but I’m not going into detail about all the dirty cops I’ve fragged around this planet. They deserved what was coming to them, and my conscience, such as it is, is clear. I add, “But I’ll expose a dirty one, and we can bring these guys to justice. Shit, if we do this right, we might really make a difference.”

  A.J. stares me down now. “I don’t know you, bro, but I know your type. Don’t start getting too rah-rah, there. You’re here because you want to hurt people and break shit. That you’re doing it for a good cause doesn’t change your underlying motivations.”

  Hurting people and breaking things are both at the top of my to-do list, so there is no sense in arguing with the man, but I’m starting to wonder if either I’m wearing a T-shirt that says “Psycho Killer” or if I’m just that transparent to others, when I myself don’t see it.

  I let it go.

  We hear the sound of a car pulling to a stop out front, and all four men produce handguns from under their shirts. Rodney takes a moment to look down at his phone at a text message. “Papa’s here.”

  Shep Duvall enters a minute later, along with a man who looks every minute of seventy-five years old. He’s short and wiry with a patchwork of silver hair and bald spots all over the top of his head, along with a deep-set tan. He moves surprisingly fast for a guy his age, and he steps around the mess in the filthy room and shakes everyone’s hands, introducing himself as Carl as he does so.

  This is going to be our pilot, obviously, and I am worried that when the other guys here learn that, it will negatively impact the effect of the sales pitch I’m in the middle of delivering.

  Shep and Carl pull rickety aluminum chairs from the kitchenette and drag them ten feet to the living room. Sitting down in front of us, Shep says, “Carl will fly us into the target.”

  A.J. says, “In what? A Sopwith Camel?”

  I fight a smile. Carl, on the other hand, does not.

  “Screw you, kid. I’ve got a Eurocopter AS350 on the ramp at Bakersfield right now. But I can fly anything with wings or rotors, tires, floats, or skids.”

  Stu looks the man over now. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here. You were in Nam.”

  Carl is obviously the right age. Hell, his skin makes it appear he ate Agent Orange on his breakfast cereal for most of his life.

  “Damn right. Two tours flying Huey gunships and transports in Nam and Laos, and then several more years in Air America.”

  Air America was an airline set up by the CIA in Southeast Asia to deliver men and equipment in support of covert operations. It employed the best pilots in the world, in extremely dangerous conditions.

  Despite Carl’s advanced age, the men are impressed now. Kareem says, “Air America. That was some wild shit.”

  “How the fuck would you know?”

  Kareem shrugs. “Movies, I guess.”

  “You went Agency after that?” Rodney asks.

  “None of your goddamned business, meathead.” Carl looks at the men like they are all children, though not one of them is under forty-five.

  A.J. says, “That’s badass and all, gramps, but that was then. How long ago did you retire?”

  The older man shrugs. “I may be retired, but I ain’t expired. I can deliver you boys on a dime in a hurricane if that’s what it takes.”

  Shep speaks up now, looking at his four former teammates across from him. “Carl is solid. Harry is solid. What say you guys?”

  It’s quiet a moment, and then suddenly the man called Stu stands and looks not at me, but instead at his former teammates. “Gentlemen, you know I’d walk through fire with you guys. Shit, we’ve done it enough times, right? But I got a kid on the way, and I can’t end up dead or in some prison. Not even a cushy American one. I’m sorry, but my days of running and gunning are behind me.”

  The other men stand and shake his hand, slap him on the back, and assure him they understand. Personally, I’m pissed; I need every gun I can get. But I get it. If I had something to live for, I probably wouldn’t be slinging myself around like this, either. I shake his hand, too, and then he leaves without another word.

  We all sit back down, and I ask a question that I have to ask, although I know I’m going to get reamed for it.

  Looking at Shep, I say, “That going to be a problem? This guy knows our op and he just walks off?”

  Shep Duvall shakes his head, and the other three men all grumble at me, angry that I’m unaware what an honorable man I had just been in the presence of. I let it go and so do they.

  Rodney next asks, “When are you wanting to do this thing?”

  I look to Shep, then say, “Duvall and I will drive down today, get eyes on the location. We’ll get as much intel as possible. We’ll come back in the morning and meet here and work up a plan together. Then, tomorrow night—say midnight—we hit it.”

  Kareem says, “Thirty-three hours from now. You ain’t messin’ around, are ya, bro?”

  “Every hour we wait . . .” My voice trails off.

  A.J. says, “Yeah. Copy that. If we’d hit that flophouse in Manila an hour earlier . . . who knows?”

  I still don’t want to know what these men saw over there.

  Rodney stands up. “I’m in. Not like I’m doing anything else. Killing some kid-fuckers sounds like time well spent.” Both A.J. and Kareem nod along to this.

  Shep says, “Okay, Harry. You’ve got yourself a crew.”

  “Thanks, guys.”

  Shep added, “So you’ve got a pilot, a small team of shooters, a target, and a timeline. Guess you just need a plan. And weapons. Did you bring any weapons?”

  “We’ll work on the plan together,” I say. “As for weapons . . . I was hoping you guys could bring along your own.”

  This is unprofessional, and the men waste no time in letting me know.

  “What kind of bullshit op is this?” A.J. asks.

  I heave a sigh. If they thought that was unprofessional, they’re about to really flip their lids. “And, do any of you gents have an extra rifle you can lend me?”

  They bitch, but nobody climbs to their feet to leave the room, so I call that a win.

  Rodney, the homeowner, finally says, “I’ve got guns, Harry. You can pick what you want, but only if you promise not to bleed all over them.”

  “I sure promise to try.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Rodney’s house might be a shit box, but he has a gun safe in a back room that looks like it cost more than the propert
y itself. It’s six feet tall and five feet wide, and when he opens it, I see something like a dozen long rifles and shotguns, as well as a dozen more pistols, and several knives.

  There are AKs, ARs, an Israeli X-95, and even a big Belgian FN FAL. He has a pair of sniper rifles; one is a Knight’s Armament SR-25 semiautomatic and the other an old bolt-action Remington 700. Both look useful for tonight’s mission, but I grab an AK with an underfolding wire stock.

  Rodney says, “Got crates of ammo in the storage room out back.”

  “You allowed to own this stuff in California?” I ask as I adjust the rifle’s sling to my frame.

  “Nope. Not allowed to shoot people, either, but I figure that’s probably on the agenda tomorrow night.”

  “Good point.”

  I pull a Walther P22 pistol out of the safe and pick up the .22 caliber silencer lying next to it. “Mind if I grab this one, too?”

  Rodney looks at me quizzically. “Sure. But I’ve got other pistols with threaded barrels. You don’t need to take that little peashooter.”

  I put the Walther and the silencer into my canvas backpack. “You never know when you might need to shoot a pea.”

  He looks at me like I’m nuts, then hooks me up with the rest of the gear I need.

  Seeing the impressive size of his cache, I say, “You guys are supposedly retired. Why are you hanging on to so much weaponry?”

  I expect him to say he’s just a gun collector or a firearms aficionado, but instead he verifies what I have been assuming all along.

  “We’re always looking for the next thing we can’t stay away from. We’re out of the fight after Manila, but we’ve all wanted to get back into it. Even Stu, until his wife got pregnant. The rest of us? The shit we’ve seen? Damn, dude. I’m going to be going out hunting traffickers and abusers till I take my last fucking breath. Same goes for the other boys, Papa included.”

  “Works for me,” I say, and then I head out to the driveway to climb into Duvall’s pickup for the drive down for our recon on Rancho Esmerelda.