OTAY MESA
MONDAY, 12:14 P.M.
BY THE TIME FAROE ran across the parking lot he was well on his way to being wet. He ignored it. He’d be a lot wetter before he got dry again.
Cook, wearing green and brown cammies and carrying a matte-black submachine gun, stepped out of the hedge. Another operator in a ghillie suit lay on the ground, a backpack radio in front of him. He was listening to what was going on in the warehouse.
Grace was saying something to Franklin. Faroe couldn’t make it out, but he knew it was her voice.
“Sounds muddy,” Faroe said to Cook.
“Not on a headset.” Cook pulled a flat combat radio set from the cargo pocket of his cammies. “That Jaime is a real piece of work. For a minute there I thought we’d have to go in before Hector showed.”
“Jaime was just testing. Life would be a lot easier for him if he had the files rather than Hector or Uncle Sam.”
Cook stepped behind Faroe, slid the radio’s clip over his leather belt, and fed the cable and earpiece over his shoulder. Faroe hooked the receiver over his ear and slipped the clear plastic earpiece into place.
“Volume is on your right, squelch in the center on top,” Cook said.
“I know. St. Kilda field-tested these things before they were delivered to the Bureau.”
Faroe turned the volume dial and after a second heard the ragged sound of Ted Franklin breathing quickly, shallowly. His fear came across in each ragged breath.
“Relax,” Grace said. “Joe knows what he’s doing.”
Faroe tapped the earpiece and nodded to Cook. “Good to go. What about the tunnel?”
“You should get reception when you cross over to this side of the fence, but I won’t guarantee anything before that.”
Faroe nodded.
“If we have to blow the doors,” Cook said, “I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety.”
“No shit.”
Counting off seconds in his head, Faroe ran toward the border fence.