"I don't understand why Rastogi's making the buy," Garrett said.
Matt didn't turn away from the computer screen. "Because Sakura, you, and I smell like bacon so hard nobody would ever sell to any of us, Conor can't act his way out of a paper bag, and Akash looks like a college student. Now hush."
Matt knew the real reason for Garrett's foul mood. The video and audio from the digital camera and parabolic microphone were excellent in all the ways that sweating in a van under the Miami sun wasn't. The drone hovered a hundred feet overhead, at that distance indistinguishable from a dragonfly. An uncommon insect for this time of year, but even if the city-bound Miami drug dealer noticed, he wouldn't know better. Or so Matt hoped.
"In position," Blossom's voice said in his headset. The playground at the end of the block bustled with children playing and hollering in the sprinklers, except for three youths loitering on bicycles, who paid too much attention to everything around them and not enough to each other.
"Hit it," Matt said into the microphone.
Akash rolled past the playground down the hill and pulled the Prius up to the curb, his arm out the window, forty dollars held between his index and middle finger. The dealer, a scrawny African American male in his late teens or early twenties, wandered up to the car and took the cash.
"What you want?"
"Hey there," Akash said, his voice too loud in the microphone. "I'm looking for something green."
"Yeah yeah yeah," the guy said, looking both ways down the street. "But it's sixty."
"Seriously?" Akash produced another twenty. It disappeared with the others.
"Times is hard, brother." The dealer leaned against the car, and the juvenile on the red bike coasted down from the playground, pulling up next to the car with a plastic bag the size of a Splenda packet. Akash took it and pulled away without another word. The dealer went back to his stoop while the kid rode around the block.
"This stuff is shit, eh," Akash said. "It's shit for forty bucks, it's definitely shit for sixty."
"Explain," Matt said.
"It's cloudy, and the crystals aren't even all green. This is low, low grade, probably cut with meth or crack. Or Pop Rocks."
"Or drain cleaner," Garrett said.
"Classic cartel," Matt said. "Get it to the lab so we can trace the chemistry, find out who Dawkins is buying from."
"How do we know that's one of Dawkins's guys?" Garrett asked.
"Miami Metro Vice," Matt said. "They arrested him four times selling Dawkins's product, on that playground, before the Keys bust. He's still there, so whatever's going on, it ain't an escalating turf war."
"So what do you figure?" Akash asked over the radio.
"I figure Dawkins is buying from someone else, someone who sells cheap crap cut with cheaper crap, so he can maintain his supply lines for when he's back in product. Given the volume, we're looking at the Chinese, the Russians, the Mexicans, or all of the above. The specific chemistry should tell us which."
"Based on this crap," Akash said, "I'll bet you anything it's Mexican, eh?"
"Be patient," Matt said. "In a week or so the lab guys can tell us exactly where it came from, and we can move up the chain of command."
"What do we do once we find them?" Garrett asked.
Matt sighed. "We make them an offer they can't refuse."
* * *
"Oh, what now?" Garrett asked as they pulled up to 801 Broadway in Nashville. The massive, blocky Estes Kefauver Federal Building and Courthouse Annex shared a parking lot with the First Lutheran Church, and together they occupied an entire city block. A crowd packed the church lot to standing room only, waving placards and hollering chants.
Red-on-yellow "Humans for Humanity" signs dominated, but "Legalize It," "No GMO Crops," and "Occupy Nashville" peppered the throng as well. Smaller knots of protesters dotted the sidewalk all the way around the buildings.
Matt rolled his eyes. "Apparently our presence at this fine facility has been noticed."
"Brilliant," Conor said. "Only took them what? A month? And us toting this giant sack of black around." He jerked a thumb at Garrett.
Matt parked down the block, but they had no way to avoid notice on the way in. Garrett took point, blazing a path down the sidewalk with his massive frame and impressive scowl. A Bible-waving, disheveled preacher in filthy clothes and a red-and-yellow stole stepped in their way, thought better of it, and stumbled to the side as Garrett stalked past. The crowd boiled out of the parking lot, but not fast enough.
Garrett pulled open the door, let the others through, then followed behind as the edge of the crowd reached the steps, shrieking and bellowing their rage. To their credit, they stopped the court-mandated twenty feet away.
Jeff met the team as they walked past the guards, hand extended for shakes all around.
"How long have they been here?" Matt asked him.
"Two days. They didn’t seem to realize you guys were out of town." He led them to the elevator.
"Nothing an LRAD and some pepper bullets wouldn't fix," Conor said. "They tried this crap in Ireland and learned to regret it."
"I don't understand," Blossom said. "They don't want protection?"
Akash shook his head. "They're under the delusion that ICAP isn't needed to control the threat. They think regular law enforcement can deal with the likes of, well, us."
Garrett snorted. "Only if they catch us by surprise." He looked at Matt. "And good luck with that on the precogs."
"I'd have to be sleeping," Matt said. "Which is unlikely if I'm committing a crime."
Blossom furrowed her brow. "What's wrong with safe levels of augs? These people don't make sense."
"Of course they don't make sense," Akash said. "They're Americans, eh?"
They got out on the fifth floor, wandered past a maze of cubicles and into Matt's new office. The view of downtown Nashville would make any country fan jealous, and Matt kept the massive wood desk for the most part clutter-free, except for his laptop, a notepad, and a box of blue pens. The six of them made a crowd, and with only two chairs Jeff kept the briefing short and under two minutes.
"You flew all this way to tell us that?" Matt asked.
Jeff shrugged. "Last performance review they dinged me on visibility, buddy."
Garrett sighed. "Tax dollars at work."
* * *
Majestic pines and towering oaks dominated the mountainous skyline as Conor weaved the Jeep down the unpaved forest road. Matt grunted as a chipmunk crossed in front of them. The two-lane tunnel of trees through dappled sunlight smelled of pine and decomposing leaves, and the only man-made sound came from their engine. "This could almost be Tennessee."
"Not bloody likely," Conor said. "It's so hot you work a sweat just having a piss."
That wasn't quite true, but Coahuila's Indian summer spiked well hotter than Tennessee in late September, even halfway up the Sierra Madre Orientals. Still, if he didn't know his location, he'd never have guessed Mexico. They splashed through a puddle twenty feet across as they rounded the next corner. A young man stood in the middle of the road, hand outstretched, fingers splayed, an assault rifle slung across his back. His Mexican military uniform bore no patches or insignia.
He approached at a casual walk as they slid to a stop, asking questions in rapid-fire Spanish. As Conor responded, Matt's infrared vision picked up seven red-and-orange blotches hidden in the foliage. The man spoke into a shoulder mic, patted the hood, then stepped out of the way.
"He told me to go slow," Conor said. "We're almost there."
A half-mile further, the road opened up. A huge, well-manicured yard surrounded a stone-and-mortar, single-story mansion, more porch than house, with a terra-cotta roof and a large in-ground pool. The guards didn't bother to hide themselves, and for the first time Matt missed his combat shotgun and helmet. And Garrett, Blossom, and Akash, who waited at the airport as per the arrangement; two men in, no weapons.
A man watched their approach from the front of the house, leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed. Matt recognized Onofre Garza from the pictures in his file. Five-three, too thin, with a pencil mustache and pale brown skin, he didn't fit the popular image of a cartel overlord. The blue-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts and bare feet didn't help. A firm grip with calloused hands accompanied his welcome in near-perfect English.
"Welcome to my home, gentlemen. Come inside, before the day gets too hot." His gums and tongue were stained red, a vestige of an impoverished childhood spent chewing achiote. He turned his back on them and led the way up the stairs. His shirt bulged at his waistline in the telltale sign of a pistol tucked down the back of his shorts. The spacious interior, teak floors, and sparse mahogany furniture looked more like a gallery than a home. An empty gallery. Aside from dark plum drapes with brass finials, nothing adorned, cluttered, or otherwise occupied the walls.
They sat at a small table. Matt ran his hands over the mahogany, admiring the craftsmanship. A dark-skinned tween girl with long black hair carried in a silver tray. She poured them coffee in delicate china cups, set out sugar cubes and a pitcher of cream, accepted their thanks with a nod, and disappeared through a doorway. Garza toasted in her direction, then took a sip. "My daughter, Aracelia. Beautiful girl, like her mother."
"You're a lucky man," Conor said, dropping two sugars and a huge drizzle of cream into his cup.
Matt's black coffee tasted as good as it smelled, strong and just bitter enough.
"Yes," Garza replied. "Forgive me, but I have much to do today, so let us get straight to business. Your superiors said you have an offer for me."
Matt ran his tongue over his front teeth. As an investigator for the Tennessee State Police, he'd cut dozens of deals with criminals for one reason or another, but none of those criminals were drug lords. The man across from him wasn't a two-bit thug selling dime bags on the corner. Busting a syndicate boss like Onofre Garza would make a policeman's career. Hell, it would make the head of the DEA's career. Garza had enough outstanding warrants that the only hard part about arresting him would be dealing with the Mexican authorities, and under UN treaty, ICAP had wide latitude when prosecuting the Jade market.
Matt suppressed the thought and the accompanying sigh. Conor had tagged along just in case he needed a translator en route, but Garza spoke perfect English, so it fell to Matt to make the deal, no matter how slimy it made him feel.
"Senor Garza, thank you for your hospitality." He took another sip. "As you know, ICAP's main goal is the containment of Gerstner technologies, in particular Jade, and above and beyond that we have a vested interest in apprehending and prosecuting Dawkins. We're looking for information: who he is, where he operates, known associates. He's made this personal, and we're inclined to take him up on it."
Garza smiled. "This distinction between business and personal is for the movies, no? Business is livelihood, livelihood is personal." He shook off the thought. "No matter. The real question is why I would do such a thing for you. As they say, what's in it for me?" He smiled his red smile.
Conor folded his hands under his chin. "What do you want?" Matt suppressed an annoyed grunt. Conor wasn't trained in negotiation, and his instructions were to keep his trap shut.
Garza sighed and leaned back in his chair. "What do any of us want? Money? Power? Beautiful women? The freedom to live in a paradise of my own making? I have these things already."
Then why aren't you retired? Conor opened his mouth to ask.
Matt cut him off before he could start. "I'm sure there's something of value to your business interests that we could provide. A foothold in Florida?"
"Senor Dawkins has provided this already. Your adventure in the Keys cost him a great deal of money but has made me more still. Money doesn't disappear, it just goes elsewhere. To me and my associates, for example. This drug war is not a winnable fight for your—"
Conor cut him off. "As soon as he's up and running again, you're out of Florida. The only way that's not true is if—"
Matt grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the entrance, his vision flushing red. Through clenched teeth he said, "If you can't keep your goddamned mouth shut, wait outside." He opened the door, shoved Conor through, and shut it. He walked back to the table, where Garza looked at him with raised eyebrows. "I'm sorry, Senor Garza, for my colleague's behavior. If we may continue?"
Garza gestured to the chair, so Matt sat.
"As I was saying, my organization already has a foothold in Florida because of the supply vacuum you so graciously created. Dawkins will like this territory back, to be sure, but that does not mean we will surrender what we have gained, and he knows it. We have the matter well in hand and are confident that our plans going forward do not require your assistance. Let's not dance around with these petty offerings. What do you have that I want?"
"Hernando," Matt said.
Garza froze. "What about him?"
"Depending on the level of cooperation, we could arrange a transfer from ADX Florence to house arrest somewhere in the United States." A former warden once described the “supermax” prison as a “cleaner version of Hell,” and Hernando Garza had earned his place there as his brother's chief enforcer north of the border. According to his dossier, Onofre had a tendency to murder anyone who reminded him of this fact. "He could see his family, and we'd allow supervised, monitored phone calls."
Garza's shrug revealed nothing. "Prison is prison. Freedom is freedom. I will consider helping you in exchange for my brother's extradition to Mexico."
"I don't think that's going to happen."
Garza slammed his cup onto the table, sloshing scalding coffee over his fingers. "Ask." His killer's eyes bored into Matt's, every hint of hospitality burned away. "Call them, or get out." His eyes flicked to the door, then down to his hand. He picked up a cotton napkin, wiped the table and his fingers, then set it down next to the cup.
"Excuse me a moment." Matt stepped away and pulled out his cell phone. The satellite uplink would work anywhere in the world, but the four bars of local service surprised him. He stared out the window as he talked to Jeff, who in turn had to call someone else in Washington. The forested mountains out the window stood taller and perhaps more majestic than home but were no more beautiful. After a lengthy conversation he returned to the table.
"We'll consider extradition in exchange for Dawkins's whereabouts leading to his capture. We get him, you get Hernando."
"No. Verified whereabouts only, not guarantee of capture. You want Senor Dawkins brought back to the fold, that's up to you. I mean no offense, but recent successes aside, I'll not bet my brother's freedom on your agency's competence."
A dozen replies went through Matt's mind. "Um . . . What do you mean, 'back to the fold?'"
Garza smirked. "Surely your superiors have told you. Senor Dawkins was one of yours. An ICAP agent."
Matt's heart pounded. "Excuse me?"
Garza gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "It doesn't matter. What your superiors choose not to tell you is not my problem. Do we have a deal?" He'd walked halfway to the door by the time Matt replied.
"Yes." The idea of freeing a man like Hernando Garza sickened him, but bagging Dawkins would be worth the price. Maybe.
Garza smiled, one hand on the doorknob. "Excellent. I will be contacting you through a surrogate within the month. Good day, Senor Rowley." He opened the door.
The porch glistened with bright, wet redness, and the air smelled of iron and shit. A red-blue, ropy garland hung between the main columns. Intestines.
Matt reached for a sidearm that wasn't there.
Garza pulled the pistol from his shorts and ducked behind the door. "What is the meaning of this?"
Matt admired the gun, an Obregon .45 ACP, with mother-of-pearl grips and gold etching on the barrel. A seven-shot semi-automatic. At this range a center-of-mass shot would make a mess of him, regenerates or no. A hit to the head or heart would kill him, no question. Matt decided to tell the truth.
"I don't know."
Garza spat out a string of Spanish. Matt caught puta and nothing else. Whispers rejoiced in the muzzle flash the instant before it happened. He dove to the left, and the report followed him through the kitchen door.
Aracelia sat at the counter, mouth agape, a half-sliced apple in one hand, a paring knife in the other. He ducked past her, grabbed a rolling pin from the counter, and grunted in pain. The girl had driven the knife into his kidney. He backhanded her off the stool and hurled the pin toward the door, pulling the throw so the impact would be non-lethal. It took Garza in the forehead just as he peeked around the corner. Aracelia rebounded off a cupboard, and the bodies collapsed together. Grunting, Matt pulled out the knife and dropped it.
His third step pinned Garza's wrist to the floor. He plucked up the .45 and checked the magazine. Six, plus one in the chamber. Garza's eyes lost their glaze, so Matt pointed the gun at his forehead. The wound in his side itched as his kidney knitted together.
"Onofre, I'm not trying to hurt you, but I will if I have to. Can I help you up?" He held out his left hand. Garza looked from the hand to the gun and back, then reached up. Matt pulled him up. He spun the pistol so that it faced Garza grip-first. "You need that more than I do. Don't shoot at me again."
Garza took it, then knelt by his daughter, semi-conscious and babbling in Spanish. "What happened?"
"She'll be okay. She stabbed me. Where the hell are your guards?"
Garza shook his head. "They should be here by now. Dozens of them."
No one moved on the lawn, and he heard no footsteps. "Do you have somewhere to hide?" Garza nodded to a door behind Matt.
Matt yanked it open. Wine cellar. "Get in there. Don't come out until I give the all-clear. Where's your security feed?"
Garza shook his head as he cradled his daughter in his arms. "Off-site. Helicopters will be coming."
Matt ducked into the cellar with them and pulled out his phone. He called Conor. It picked up on the third ring. Conor said nothing, so Matt kept his voice low. "Flynn. What's your status?"
A sloppy gurgle answered him, almost a voice. It sounded like Conor, but low, guttural.
"What the hell is going on?"
The line went dead. He tried Jeff. The phone rang once, and Jeff picked up. "Mexican military choppers are inbound on your position. A lot of them. What's your status?"
Matt hesitated. "I think Flynn bonked out."
"That's ridiculous. He passed his psych screen two days ago, same as the rest of you."
"Fire the goddamned shrink. And get me an evac." He hung up the phone and turned to Garza, who sat on the floor with his daughter's head in his lap, stroking her hair. "Do you have any weapons down here?"
Garza patted the pistol, on the floor next to him. "Just this."
"Keep it," Matt said. He stepped out the door and closed it behind him with as much stealth as he could manage. Crouching low, he peered through the dining room. Outside in the grass, a uniformed man lay on his back, but with his head face down. He saw no sign of the other guards he'd seen on the way in—the heat of the day obscured Matt's infra-red vision, and even with UV augmentation he couldn't see more than a few feet into the foliage.
He grabbed a pair of chef's knives from the kitchen, each one a nine-inch blade of razor-sharp steel, and crept from room to room, searching the house for any sign of Conor. Chunks of meat lay scattered across the side veranda in an ocean of steaming blood, with only a single hand to identify it as human. Or humans. He closed his eyes.
Breathing in the next room, sharp and frantic. The scent of jasmine mingled with blood and sweat and urine, and under that, aftershave. Conor always used classic Old Spice.
Matt opened his eyes. Muscles taut, he turned the corner.
Conor crouched naked over a crying woman, one hand on her shoulder, the other easing a ropy coil of intestine from her abdomen. Words Matt didn't understand crisscrossed Conor's body in a red-brown tattoo, a jumble of runes and letters—Roman, Gaelic, Cyrillic, Sanskrit, Chinese, Arabic . . . .
For the moment, the woman lived, her entrails intact. If he could stop Conor, she might survive.
"Conor," he said. "Can we talk?"
The woman continued her sharp, short breaths as Conor pulled another foot of bowel from her stomach. She would have been pretty, with chocolate skin and stunning eyes the same tan as her silk sundress. Instead she looked broken, covered in blood, face bathed in terror and pain. Her eyes rose at his voice but looked through him.
"It was an ambush," Conor said. "They were going to kill us." He didn't let go, and Matt couldn't risk violence while he still held her. His neck twitched. "Try. They were going to try."
"Fair enough. But you got them. It's over."
Conor didn't move.
"You want to get going?"
"No," he said. "I'm busy." He turned to smile at Matt, his face dripping with blood and offal. "There are three left." He let go of the woman, and Matt lunged.
The whispers clawed through his mind, pushing him to rejoice in murder but warning him of every strike before it came. He stepped over Conor's sweep, blocked the heart strike with his left hand, and slashed his right across the naked man's throat. Conor's blood drenched Matt in sticky, salty heat. The impact of Conor's fist carried him through the wall, his ribs on fire. He hit the ground and rolled to his feet, then dove sideways without looking, striking out with his left hand.
Conor sailed past, into a table. The knife ripped out of Matt's grip, the hilt buried between Conor's ribs.
Matt winced as he caught the blade an inch from his face, all four fingers cut to the bone. His left foot crunched into Conor's throat, and the man stumbled back, no longer bleeding. The blade slid out of Matt's hand and clattered to the floor. He flexed his fingers. Stiff and unresponsive—the nerves would need another moment.
"You can't win," Matt said, buying time. Conor's augmented reflexes were no match for precognition, but he out-muscled Matt by a good ten percent and healed just a shred faster.
"No," Conor said, his naked, tattooed, blood-drenched body whole and unblemished. Matt wasn't sure if Conor was agreeing with him or not.
The window shattered as he carried Conor through it, jamming a shard of glass past his eye and into his brain. Conor's fist broke his jaw even as Matt brought the second knife down. The steel split Conor's skull. He twisted it sideways, pulled it halfway out, and jammed it in again.
Conor bit through his sleeve and tore a chunk of his bicep off with his teeth. Matt grunted as Conor grabbed his left thigh, crushed his femur with a punch, and tore his leg off above the knee. Everything went numb.
Conor laughed and spit a chuck of meat into Matt's face.
Matt dug his fingers into either side of the knife, then pulled. Conor's skull came apart, revealing pink-gray jelly glistening with blood and cerebral fluid. Conor jammed his fingers into Matt's stomach and tore out a chunk of viscera. Matt brought his palms together, pulping Conor's brain between them.
The world faded to red, then black.