By 7:30 a.m., the DEA Laredo Field Office was in chaos. Scott Greene had called in his two investigative assistants an hour early to help. Some of his agents were working the phones, calling their contacts in Mexican law enforcement and trying to find the three missing agents. Another agent was manning the DEA radio, periodically calling for the missing agents by last name and call sign. Scott also had an agent repeatedly dialing the missing agents' cell phones and sending urgent text messages. Still another agent was typing up a flash message to DEA Headquarters about the arrest of Felix Ortiz.
Meanwhile, Scott was processing his prisoner, filling out a personal history form, taking mugshots, and getting three sets of original inked fingerprints: one for the FBI, one for DEA Headquarters, and one for the case file, which would stay in the Laredo office. The mugshots were full face, left profile, and right profile. When Scott was finished he shoved Ortiz into one of the four small, cage-like holding cells and slammed the door. The lock engaged automatically.
Ortiz stood at the door and stared at Scott through the wire mesh. "You're in over your head, amigo."
Scott ignored him.
"Three of your agents are missing."
"You have the right to remain silent," Scott said. "I sug-gest you use it."
"You don't know what you started."
"I know I started you on a one-way trip to the needle."
"You have no idea what's really going on here, do you?" Ortiz said. "You gringos think you understand everything, but you don't. You only see what's right in front of you. You don't see the...how do you say? The large...?"
"The big picture," Scott said.
"Sí, the big picture," Ortiz said. "You don't see the big picture. This isn't about drugs. This is about politics. Politics, power, and money. In my country...and in yours."
"I don't have time to debate politics with you," Scott said. "I have work to do." He pointed to the bench at the back of the holding cell. "Have a seat and wait."
Ortiz smiled, showing that silver tooth again. "I'm going to wait right here for my free lawyer, the one you told me about when you were reading me my rights."
"Sit down and shut up," Scott said. "When I get a chance I'll have somebody run you over to the U.S. marshal's office."
Ortiz looked around the small cage. "No hurry, señor. Take your time. I like it here. You have air conditioning."
Scott walked out of the prisoner processing room and into the long hall that ran the length of the office. Almost immediately he bumped into his boss, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Glenn Peterson. The ASAC was in his mid-fifties and looked like he could still swing a ram and take down a door, unlike a lot of chair warmers in DEA middle management, whose most strenuous exertion of the day was going to lunch. But Peterson was pushing up against the mandatory retirement age of fifty-seven and had less than a year left before he was shown the door.
Still, Scott was surprised to see his boss. Peterson's of-fice, along with that of the special agent in charge, the SAC, was at the division office in Houston. It was rare that the suits came down to Laredo, and when they did, long-standing tradition held that they give the local RAC a heads-up. "I didn't know you were coming down," Scott said.
"The SAC sent me as soon as he heard about the clus-terfuck you ran this morning," Peterson said. He wore a dark blue suit with an American flag lapel pin. "I tried to call, but your phone went straight to voicemail."
Scott reached in his pocket for his cell. Out of habit, he had turned it off while he was booking the prisoner. He switched it back on and saw he had several missed calls, in-cluding two from his wife. "Sorry."
"You got bigger problems than missing my call."
"How big?"
"The SAC is on his way down right now."
"I guess he's pissed," Scott said.
"You think?"
"What about headquarters?"
"He's got them stirred up too."
Scott had nothing to say to that. There wasn't anything he could do about the SAC or the pencil pushers in head-quarters. He had three missing agents to find. That had to be his first-his only-priority.
"I admire your guts," Peterson said. "I always have."
"I'm sensing a but coming."
Peterson nodded. "But you stepped into a huge pile of shit with this one."
"We got him, though," Scott said. "We got the man who set up the hit on Mike Cassidy."
"But three more agents are missing."
"I think the PFs caught up with them and are holding them to make a point."
"You better hope that's true," Peterson said. "Because if they don't show up soon, it's going to get really ugly. The Mexican government is already saying they're going to file a formal protest with the State Department. If they do that, then the White House has to get involved. Eventually, your little stunt could end up forcing the president of the United States to call the president of Mexico and make a personal apology. And I shouldn't have to tell you what your career is going to be worth if that happens."
"It's not going to come to that," Scott said. "The Mexi-cans can't hold them for very long."
"They can hold them as long as they want," Peterson said. "And the reason they can hold them as long as they want is because you invaded a sovereign nation and kid-napped a federal police officer."
"That's not exactly how it-"
"What do you think the United States government would do if a group of Mexican police officers came across the border and kidnapped a DEA agent and took him to Mexico?"
"Ortiz set Mike Cassidy up so the Zetas could snatch him off the street. They tortured him, killed him, and cut off his head. And not necessarily in that order. There's a federal arrest warrant out for Ortiz, and I'm not going to apologize for bringing him in."
"There's a legal process."
"Mexico was never going to extradite him."
"The State Department says they were close to a deal."
"Bullshit," Scott snapped. "State's nothing but a gigan-tic circle jerk. Their idea of a deal would be Ortiz serving six months in a Mexican halfway house and getting to keep his job. My idea is he goes to the federal death house and gets a needle in his arm."
"There's a process, and renditions aren't a part of it."
"Headquarters gives renditions a wink and a nod."
"Only if you don't get caught," Peterson said. "Or lose anyone."
"They'll be back." Scott hoped he sounded more confi-dent than he felt.
"I'm too close to punching out," Peterson said. "And I'm way too old to go looking for another job. I'm sorry, but I can't cover you on this."
"That's why I didn't tell you."
"You didn't tell the SAC either."
"If you were in my place, would you have told Bobby Socks about an off-the-books operation?"
Peterson shook his head. "I guess not."
They stood there for a moment, just looking at each oth-er. Then at the far end of the hall, they heard a commotion. Several voices raised in anger. And a pitiful cry of anguish. Then something hard-maybe a fist?-slammed into a wall.
Garza stepped out of the last office and looked down the hall at Scott and Glenn. His face was red, and even at this distance, Scott could see there were tears in his eyes. "They found them," Garza said. "Miller, Lundy...and Kat. They found all of them. They're dead."