Matt parked the SUV a hundred yards from the house. They were in a rundown residential neighborhood in west Tucson. Most of the front yards blended into each other, just one long stretch of overgrown mesquite trees and dry dirt between patches of dead grass. There were scooters and tricycles resting on their side in random yards, but no kids.
Tommy thought if they built a police station on this street, it wouldn’t stop the flow of crime. Nothing would. You could smell it in the air.
“The Hostage Rescue Team is on the way,” Nick said to Tommy. “We’re going to sit tight until they get here.”
“Place looks like a bomb hit it,” Tommy said.
They sat silent for a minute until Stevie said, “What was Nairobi like?”
“Sad,” Tommy said. “Very sad.”
“You were at some orphanage?”
“Yeah, a buddy of mine has a daughter who runs the place, Susan Walker. She’s a real gem. Most of them are AIDS babies. She treats them like they’re her own children.”
“So what did you do exactly?” Stevie asked.
“Mostly scrounged for food or boiled water. I’d go to the local churches and ask for supplies. But the most important thing I did was hug these little creatures. They need human contact so badly. Did you know if you took a child at birth and kept them in complete darkness for the first four months of childhood, they’d be blind for the rest of their lives?”
“Get out,” Nick said. “Is that true?”
“I’m not shitting you,” Tommy said. “Something about the optic nerve needing to connect with the brain and it only happens in the first four months. After that, it won’t connect anymore. That’s why baby toys are all primary colors. They need to calibrate their eyesight.”
“Geez,” Stevie said. “Where’d you learn all this, in Africa?”
“Yeah, apparently some of these orphanages over there are basically babysitting kids whose parents already died of AIDS, so they just sit there in some kind of a pen, like a baby corral, and they get fed three times a day and that’s it. No one touches them and they don’t receive human affection, so just like the optic nerve, their ability to give and receive love never quite attaches. They grow up like zombies. They don’t smile, they don’t cry, it’s useless, because they’ve been conditioned to be ignored. So we go around and hug these babies all day long.”
“Wow,” Matt said. “Tommy Bracco, baby hugger. Who knew?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said with a smile. “I just wish the pay was better.”
They waited another minute before a slow-moving gray panel truck came up and parked behind them. Nick hopped out of the car and met with an HRT soldier, who seemed to be wrapped in Kevlar. The guy’s entire body was covered with black material all the way up to his black gloves. He pulled off his full-faced helmet to talk with Nick.
Tommy’s phone chirped and when he looked at the caller’s name he immediately became suspicious. Hector Gomez. Someone Tommy had known a long time, but wouldn’t exactly call a friend. The guy was unreliable, shifty, drug-addicted and had wild mood swings. The part which concerned Tommy was the fact that Hector resided in Mexico. Tommy tried to digest the coincidence.
“I’ve got to get this,” Tommy said, jumping out of the SUV and walking briskly away from Nick and the commander of the Hostage Rescue Team.
Tommy pushed the talk button and put the phone to his ear. “Hector, how the heck are you?” he said casually, not raising any red flags.
“Good, my friend. How are you?” Hector said in his thick Mexican accent.
“Great,” Tommy said, walking down the desolate street away from the action behind him. “How are things below the border?”
“Loco,” Hector said. “Too much violence down here. Makes your skin crawl.”
“Hector, you sound sober. What happened, too early to get your buzz on?”
Hector offered a fake laugh. He was trying too hard to seem normal and Tommy had never had a normal conversation with the guy. He was a paranoid, coke-sniffing, wild-eyed maniac with little tolerance for subtlety. Hector didn’t know how to have a normal conversation, so this was obviously difficult to pull off.
Tommy glanced over his shoulder to see the HRT work their way out of the back of their truck and stealthily spread out. They moved like athletes, on their toes, knees bent with their helmets on and laser-guided assault rifles at the ready. Nick and Matt were right there with them, pistols at their side.
“So, Hector, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Huh?”
“Why’d you call?”
“Oh, well, just seeing how things are going. We haven’t spoken for a while.”
Tommy stopped. Something was very wrong and he couldn’t finger it just yet.
“I just got back from Nairobi,” Tommy said.
“Where’s that? Africa?”
“Yeah, in Kenya.”
“I see,” Hector said. Then, casually, with way too much effort trying to be nonchalant, he said, “So where are you now?”
Hostage Rescue had circled the house. Tommy could see them blend into the landscape. Instinctively, he began to walk toward the place, across the street, but parallel.
“I think we both know where I am, Hector,” Tommy said.
There was a pause. Too long.
Tommy began to jog, not knowing yet why, but getting closer to his cousin.
“Uh, why do you say this?” Hector managed.
“Listen, I don’t hold this against you at all, Hector. I’ve got mad love for you, man. But it’s your system down there which causes the problem.”
Tommy’s heart raced too hard, so he slowed his pace searching for Nick, but not seeing him.
“Which system are you speaking about?” Hector said.
It was the strangest conversation he’d ever had with the guy. Hector never spoke for more than thirty seconds before he asked if they were being recorded or the line was tapped.
“It’s not your fault,” Tommy said, finding Nick and Matt along the side of the house taking cover behind a couple of wide palm trees. “You can’t help it. It’s just you surround yourself with idiots who say ‘yes’ to you all day long and your brain goes soft. It doesn’t mean you’re stupid, it means you’re conditioned to make mistakes. It’s more environmental, than genetic.”
Tommy snapped his fingers to get Nick’s attention, but he was focused on the front of the house. A couple of Hostage Rescue guys were at the front door, swinging a battering ram, ready to attack.
“Why do you speak to me like this, my friend?” Hector acted hurt.
Tommy recalled a signal from his youth. A whistle he would use whenever he and Nick were in trouble and needed to run. He held the phone down against his leg and blew a short warning whistle.
Nick turned and saw him.
“I’m not talking to you, Hector,” Tommy said, returning the phone to his ear. “I’m talking to that piece of shit, Garza. The guy who’s forcing you to make this call. The asshole standing right next to you.”
Tommy waved his arms furiously at his cousin.
Nick swiveled his attention between the front door and Tommy.
Tommy pointed down.
Nick hesitated. The battering ram was in its third swing, the last one before it busted the door. He grabbed Matt by the shoulder and pulled him down to the ground.
The battering ram hit the door.
The explosion lit up the sky.
Garza heard the explosion from Hector’s phone, leaning in and feeling the sense of satisfaction as screams turned into cries, then orders barked out by male voices. Garza nodded, then backed away and told Hector he could turn off his phone. They were in Garza’s office with Victor standing by silently awaiting Garza’s instructions.
Garza pointed to a chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, Hector.”
Hector Gomez tried to act brave as he followed instructions.
Garza paced with his hands behind his back. “Hector, you did the right thing by coming to me with this information. This was smart.”
Hector seemed pleased to be hearing the tone of Garza’s voice.
“Tell me, how did you know I was troubled by this Bracco family?”
“Word gets around, El Carnicero.”
“Of course,” Garza said. “However, I’ve known you a long time, Hector. How come this is the first time you come to visit me with information?” Garza withdrew a folding clip knife from his pocket and extended it to its full length of eight inches.
Hector remained still, his eyes darting back and forth between the knife and Garza. “I was at a party last night out in the desert. There was a lot of tequila flowing. A lot of liquid bravery. People trying to be macho. There was a man who said you had killed some FBI agents. He said you were going to kill some more. The man mentioned the name Bracco.”
“And who was this man?” Garza asked, wiping his knife on his pant leg.
“His name was Philippe.”
“Philippe? Philippe who?”
“I didn’t get his last name. We exchanged first names only.”
On a small table next to Hector sat a bowl of fruit. Garza took an apple from the bowl, tossed it in the air and caught it like a baseball. He took his serrated knife and carved a slice of the apple and placed it in his mouth. Hector’s forehead glistened with moisture.
“So only first names?”
“Yes.”
Garza glanced at Victor who stood between Hector and the door. Victor shrugged, seemingly unsure what to think.
Garza sliced a piece of apple, jabbed it with the point of the knife, then extended his arm to offer Hector the slice. The apple was just inches from Hector’s face and he reached for the slice as if reaching for a rattlesnake’s fangs.
Garza snapped back the knife with a quick pull as Hector grabbed the slice.
“Thank you,” Hector said, cautiously taking a bite of the apple slice.
Garza looked out the window overlooking his wilting flowers. A soldier absently stepped on one of his geraniums. Garza opened the window and screamed, “Puta! Watch where you are walking.”
The soldier searched his path and found the damaged flower. He cowered, mumbling apologies.
Garza returned his attention to his visitor who was taking everything in with anxious eyes.
“Hector, is there something else?”
Hector looked at his hands on his lap. “The Zutons are honing in on my piracy business,” Hector explained. “I used to make five hundred dollars a week, but now I’m forced to pay fifty percent of my profit to them. Some weeks they don’t believe my sales figures and I actually lose money.”
Garza stared.
“It’s getting crazy out there,” Hector said. “I say the wrong thing and I could turn up dead. I was wondering if you were needing some. . uh. . help?”
“You want to be on my payroll?”
“Mr. Garza, you are a very powerful man. It would be a comfort to know I was under your umbrella.”
Garza considered the request. Hector was fairly unreliable and mostly paranoid. For him to be sitting here was either an act of desperation or sheer stupidity.
Garza wiped a hand over his face. “Okay, Hector, let me consider your situation.”
Hector sat there for a moment seemingly uncertain what to do. From behind him, Victor slipped a steel wire around his neck and pulled it taut. Hector grabbed franticly at the wire, his eyes shocked open, his legs pushing upward, getting to his feet to alleviate the pressure. But Victor was too strong. The wire dug into Hector’s skin with such force, a red line appeared where the wire was imbedded into his neck. Hector only fought and kicked for a few seconds before the lack of oxygen had him unconscious.
Hector’s head dropped forward, then his entire body slipped to the floor. Victor kept up the pressure until Garza said, “Enough, he is dead.”
Victor let go of the wire, then checked for a pulse. He looked up at Garza and shook his head.
“Good.” Garza pointed to a couple of towels sitting on the counter. “Now, clean it up quick. I don’t want a big mess in here.”