Name of the Devil (12 page)

T
HE FIRST GRENADE
blast is so powerful it knocks the door off its hinges, and my refrigerator back a foot. Shards of cinder block sting my cheeks. I feel like I'm inside an oven. My whole body just got punched. I don't hear the second explosion because my ears are ringing. The back door smashes into my kitchen barricade.

These are the critical few seconds that can make all the difference. If I freeze up, they'll be on me in seconds.

Stunned from the blasts, I just want to lay still and recuperate.

That way leads to death.

I force myself to crawl toward the middle of the store.

The smoke is dense, but I can see light coming through the back. However, there's not enough room for a man to climb in. I tense up for the next barrage. Seconds go by that feel like hours.

Something small flies through a gap in the glass and lands inside the front of the store. I flatten myself against the ground behind the counter. The concussion of the flash grenade slams into me, hard.

The first round was to push back the barricades. This one was to catch me off guard. Fortunately, the counter absorbed the blast. If I'd been in the open store I'd be on the ground, unconscious with bleeding eardrums at best.

The refrigerator and freezer are simultaneously pushed
backwards as armored men rush into the store. I jump up and blindly fire two rounds into the swirling smoke toward the front, and two more at the back door.

The barriers stop moving. I've bought myself a few more minutes. I think.

For what?

Right now they're assessing the situation. They were hoping the blasts had knocked me out, and my gunshots proved otherwise. I also don't think they were planning on my fortifications. They won't last, but they got me this far.

If these men really are my only hope of rescue, I'm screwed. I've only got Esteban's gun and my own, plus two extra clips. With four spent rounds already, I'll run out of bullets before they do.

Quitting is death.

I climb out from behind the counters to reposition the freezers at the door.

As I push the refrigerator, through the broken glass and wire of the entrance, I spy the sergeant standing out in the open next to his relocated truck. My defenses took them all by surprise, but he's clearly confident that he has me pinned down and that he'll get me sooner than later.

I angle the muzzle of my gun between the freezer and the open door frame and fire off two rounds. One hits him in the chest and the other takes out his knee. He crumples to the ground, screaming, “
Puta
!”

I guess he was wearing body armor. But that hit to the leg tells me that for him, soccer is only going to be a spectator sport from now on. His men rush to his side and pull him into a truck.

There's a lot of yelling, followed by a burst of vengeful bullets. It's futile on their part. I'm already clear of the door.

Tires squeal in the distance as they drive him off to the hospital. Shooting him was cold-blooded, but I have to be to survive.
With him taken out of the equation, these men aren't going to be making the most rational decisions. They'll either wait for instructions from their superiors or try to get me now.

Other than my own deep breaths and the ringing in my ears, it's silent for a moment. Then I hear vehicles being moved around again. Another truck pulls up.

I wait.

They wait.

I crawl over to the bathroom and open the door to check on Esteban. He's still where I left him. “How many are there?”

He waits a while before gasping, “Eight, maybe ten. They could get reinforcements.”

“Fuck.”

I drop to the floor as gunfire erupts, so loud that it makes the grenade blasts seem like a pleasant memory. They're shooting that truck-mounted .60 caliber machine gun at the front of the bodega. Bullets rip through the concrete walls like it's soft plaster. Dust and debris flies into the air. I lay as flat as I can. The heavy bass of the gunshots sounds like hell ripping apart. The gun sweeps back and forth for a full minute until coming to a stop.

Beams of light stream through the hundreds of holes in the storefront. Eddies of dust swirl around like gray ghosts. Through the bullet holes and cracks, I can see the men's silhouettes race around the building toward the back.

“Make room.” I push myself into the tiny bathroom, leaving the door ajar. Esteban cowers by the broken toilet. I get to my knees and keep an eye on the front and back door through the gap.

“How do you like Tixato so far?” he says dryly.

I put a hand over his mouth. The light is now mostly coming through the back, and it grows brighter. Something slams into the back entrance and the whole store shakes as a truck crashes into the opening.

Three men slide across the hood and land in the middle of the kitchen area, their legs trapped in the shelves. Standing up is difficult because of the motor oil.

From where I'm hiding, I have a clear view of one of them as he tries to raise a leg over the racks. He's got several cylinders strapped to his chest . . .

Some of the other men fire their weapons into the front of the store. I duck behind the bathroom door and wait. They fire again. Bullets hit the wall behind my head like blows from a hammer.

Through the crack in the door, I shoot at the man wearing the flash grenades over his body armor. There's a blinding burst of light, followed by another. The door to the bathroom buckles and slams into me.

Flash grenades aren't meant to be lethal. They're also not meant to be exploded on your chest. The man's plastic armor catches alight and a fire begins to rage in the kitchen.

Something else explodes, maybe a gas pipe.

I yank Esteban up onto his good leg and press his face near mine, against the small air vent. It's the only way we'll keep from suffocating. He groans again. I cover his mouth with my free hand to silence him.

The men in the burning kitchen scream. Metal crashes as they pull themselves from the blaze. Others holler as they try to help.

This wasn't their plan.

I wait. Minutes go by. Through the vent I hear a truck drive away, presumably taking more men to the hospital. The other vehicles remain. I pull away the bug screen for a better look. My view is limited to a narrow area on the side of the building, but I can see the shadow of a man on the .60 caliber gun. That probably means at least two more men are waiting in back.

They pull back a dozen feet or so, but don't leave.

We're still trapped.

My only hope now is to play dead and pray they give up.

Unfortunately, I'm sure they're not leaving until they see my corpse.

Hours pass. Esteban struggles to stay upright. I keep him pressed against the wall near the vent so he doesn't suffocate in the smoke. I take long, slow breaths and hope nobody sees the air vent.

Sometime later in the night, with dawn still a few hours away and when my legs are stiff from standing so long, I hear gunshots go off near the back of the store.

The smoke has cleared, so I look through the gap in the warped bathroom door. I can't see any movement in the front or the rear.

I wait.

There's the sound of scuffling feet.

More shouts.

Screams.

Silence.

I remain frozen. None of the shots seem directed at me.

Esteban has passed out. I check his pulse to make sure he's alive. He's still there, but he needs a hospital or he risks a fatal infection.

The sun finally crawls over the horizon sending golden rays through the Swiss-cheese front of the store. It's been quiet for over an hour. I finally venture from my hiding place.

Through the broken front door, I see a man slumped over the machine gun mounted to the back of the truck.

I assume it's a man.

It's hard to tell.

He's missing his head.

I push what remains of my barricades out of the way and cautiously walk over the threshold. Two more men lie behind the truck, guns still in their hands. Their necks also end in stumps and puddles of congealing blood.

Dead.

They're all dead.

Esteban somehow finds the energy to drag himself out of the store. I point my gun at him. “Take a seat.”

He falls to the gravel and leans up against the front wall. “I'm not going anywhere.”

I pull out my cell phone and get a signal at last. I've never been happier to see two faint little bars.

“Jessica? Are you all right?” asks Ailes frantically. “Did the rescue team find you?”

Blood is splattered on the trucks and ground all around me.

I try to inhale deeply, but can only manage shallow gasps. The full enormity of what happened is finally hitting me. “Yeah, they found me. The question is, who found them?”

A
SSISTANT
D
IRECTOR
B
REYER
has summoned me into a conference room at DC headquarters, in front of a dozen other people, to explain things
again
. That's what I've been doing for the last three days. I've gone over the events ad nauseam.

It took a miracle to get me out of Mexico. We bypassed Mexican authorities entirely. Ailes sent a DEA unit, escorted by two FBI agents from the Mexico City office, to meet me at the bodega. They arrived just as another police unit was pulling up. We didn't stop to talk.

Our liaison with the Mexico City office took custody of Esteban just outside of Tixato while I was rushed to the airport in an unmarked car and flown back to the US on a DEA jet.

If I'd know the storm that was waiting for me here, I would have stayed in Mexico.

Back in my days as a patrol officer, one of my instructors told me something that has stuck with me. Always tell the truth. When in doubt, you can say you don't recall. If you're afraid you might incriminate yourself, shut up. If you didn't do something wrong, be honest. Even if it makes you look bad. If you want to nail someone to the wall and the evidence is lacking, you use the investigation process to trap them in a lie.

Right now, they want someone to blame for this mess. And the first person to get caught in a lie is going to take the fall.

Everyone is pissed. The Mexican government is embarrassed and wants to pin the debacle on me. The FBI is angry that I let myself get into this situation in the first place.

Convoluting things is the fact that nobody knows what the hell happened, including me. I was involved in an altercation with a Mexican federal agent and got into a shoot-out with their army, who then ended up decapitated. You know, just a normal day.

I try to comfort myself with the fact that, as much as they want me to be at fault, the Mexican government has little evidence that I did anything wrong. The soldier I shot in the knee hasn't been seen since his men presumably drove him to the hospital. And Dr. Moya backs up my account of Esteban's hostile actions. Last I heard, Esteban is in a secure location somewhere in Mexico City and isn't cooperating.

The official theory, at least according to the Mexican media, is that an unnamed FBI agent got caught in a gang turf war. It doesn't fit with the facts, but it's a narrative that supports what everyone wants to believe.

To Americans who have grown accustomed to the narco violence that happens south of the border, it's just one more bizarre, grisly story.

Breyer pushes his copy of my statement away from him across the conference table, as if that will make the matter disappear. “What the hell happened, Blackwood?”

We haven't spoken since I delivered my final report on the Warlock case. He's too senior to be involved in day-to-day investigations. I'm not sure if his presence here is good or bad for me.

I go over my account one more time. “I went to Tixato to source two samples we found at the Hawkton crime scene. I was there only a few hours. When I went to meet Dr. Moya, as previously arranged, to pick up the evidence I'd been asked to return to Quantico, Moya wasn't there. I was approached by a man
presenting himself as an agent of the Mexican Federal Police. After behaving suspiciously, he drew his weapon on me. We had an altercation.”

“An altercation?”

“I stabbed him with a scalpel, then knocked him off a ladder.”

“Is it possible there was a misunderstanding?” Breyer asks.

“Pardon me?”

“Did you misread his intentions?”

“The gun to my head? That was pretty clear.”

Breyer sorts through the other papers in front of him and pulls a sheet to the top. “According to Esteban, he had spoken with you earlier in the day and the two of you, his words, ‘made a date,' to meet later. He said that he was amorous with you, as you had led him to believe it would be welcome.”

Jesus. Christ. “You've got to be goddamn kidding me.”

Breyer shrugs. He confers with one of the Justice Department attorneys by his side. “His words. Made under oath to a Mexican Grand Jury.”

“His oath? Huh. I never met him before he showed up at Dr. Moya's site. His intentions were anything but ‘amorous.'”

“The Mexican government says they have three witnesses who have also sworn to seeing you meeting with him earlier in the day.”

“Of course they do.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Have they found the soldier I wounded? Or the other men?”

“They say they weren't on duty that night.”

“What about Dr. Moya?”

“He can only speak about what happened after you found him. His last memory was leaning into his truck. He says Esteban may have knocked him down the ladder. Esteban says Moya slipped and became disoriented.”

It's not even a full alibi, yet here I am, defending myself.

“Did they explain my reasons for hauling Esteban out of the hole in the ground and trying to get him medical attention?”

“Esteban claims you kidnapped him and held him hostage in an attempt to cover up what had taken place. The army unit was trying to rescue him. Would you like to change anything in your story?” Breyer looks over his glasses at me.

“No.” I'm not taking the bait. They're trying to get me to lose my shit and say something I've been holding back.

God knows I've used the same tactic on dozens of suspects.

It's always different when you're the one whom the fingers are pointed at. I keep my mouth shut and measure my words carefully.

I keep my clenched fists below the table. Slow breaths.

“The Mexican government is indicating they would like to have you extradited to make statements. Are you sure you don't have anything to add or to change in your statement?”

Nothing printable. More deep breaths. Keep calm. “I've given as full of an account as I can. I will answer to anyone I'm legally obliged to. I did my job.” I feel my blood rising, but I'm doing my best to keep my anger to myself. This is the FBI, they're supposed to have my back.

Breyer folds his hands behind his head. He gives a glance to the other people in the room, most of whom are his aides and assistants. “Quite a mess, Jessica.”

Ailes takes a seat at my side. I never noticed him enter the room. “Excuse me, Assistant Director, but what do you think happened?”

Breyer's eyes narrow on Ailes. He wasn't expecting to be put on the spot himself. “I wasn't there.”

Ailes nods. “And the only surviving participant who we have reason to trust is sitting right here. She could have invoked her right to an attorney, but she hasn't. I think that says a lot about her confidence in the facts supporting her version of events.”

“Hiring an attorney isn't a sign of guilt,” replies Breyer.

“Not bringing one is either a sign of hubristic stupidity or a certainty of the process working itself out. So what do we think? Is Jessica stupid or telling the truth because she trusts us and the Bureau?”

“That's what we're trying to determine.”

Ailes reaches down into his briefcase and retrieves a newspaper. The front page is in Spanish, and the lead image is a photo of the market. Bullet-ridden, charred, and surrounded by covered bodies on the ground—it looks like a war zone. “What does this image tell you?”

I have to turn away. The experience is still too vivid.

Breyer gets an uncomfortable expression on his face. “They wanted her dead.”

“They wanted to kill one of your agents. Unfortunately for them, she proved rather tenacious. I think if Agent Blackwood had exercised anything less than optimal judgment during this trip, we'd be discussing the return of her remains. I sent her down there. She did everything exactly as requested.”

Breyer takes the newspaper from Ailes and shakes his head. “I believe you, Jessica. Although I'm not sure you handled it in the most ideal way. You could have gone straight to our Mexico City office.”

“They had an army unit,” I reply. “There could have been roadblocks. I also have reason to believe they're using drones for countersurveillance.” The simplest explanation is the best right now. No need to embarrass him with all the holes in his suggested course of action.

He drops the paper and waves his hands in the air. “I read that in your report. That still doesn't answer the outstanding questions. Why did they want you dead?”

“I don't know.” I'd been wracking my brain trying to think of a reason. “Dr. Moya didn't tell me anything that I wasn't able to
relay, or that we didn't already suspect. They may have thought I was an undercover narcotics officer. But even then, the response doesn't make sense.”

“If I may interject a little game theory,” Ailes suggests. I like that he's shifted the attention from my actions back onto those of the people who wanted to kill me.

“Please,” replies Breyer.

Ailes adopts a professorial tone. “Either they were acting rationally or irrationally. If they were irrational and just wanted her killed, they would have simply shot her in an ambush. Esteban had ample opportunity. There would be no advantage to making it appear to be a murder. Another agent would have followed up, bringing more scrutiny. Therefore, we have to believe they were trying to act rationally. Either off a valid assumption or an incorrect one.

“The assumption being that Agent Blackwood obtained information they didn't want relayed back to us, even though she says she didn't observe anything that wasn't already communicated.”

“So they made an incorrect assumption?” Breyer asks.

“Not necessarily. She may have seen or heard something that she didn't deem important at the time. A small detail. Perhaps when she took the detour through the barrio.”

“Or somebody just didn't like me,” I reply dryly.

“There is that possibility. Although X-20 isn't known for making irrational choices. The order to kill you was a high-level decision.”

“Which would explain the influence we're seeing from down there,” admits Breyer. “Informally, our contacts within the government are calling bullshit on Esteban's story.”

“You could have mentioned that a few minutes ago,” I snap. After all I've done and sacrificed, he still made me sit through this interrogation.

“I just had to hear you say things to my face.” He pauses for
a moment and casts a glance to the other people sitting around the conference table, then back to me. “We needed to be certain. We'll put a pin in why they wanted you dead for the moment. The next question is, who the hell cut off their heads?”

“What about the rival gang theory?” Ailes asks.

“Their forensics says there was one assailant. We're not aware of any gang making that kind of intrusion into X-20 territory, let alone one capable of taking on a military unit. It may have been internal, X-20 bosses punishing them for not killing you.”

I sigh. Ailes shoots me a look. He should be impressed that this is my only external sign of frustration.

“In the meantime, I'm taking you off the Hawkton case for your own safety,” Breyer declares.

I'm about to protest, but Ailes lays his hand flat on the table, signaling me to keep my mouth shut. I clam up. I owe him that, at the very least, and wait until after the meeting to say my piece.

“
T
HEY CAN'T PULL
me from this,” I exclaim in our own conference room in Quantico an hour later. Gerald is elsewhere, so I don't mind letting him hear the emotion in my voice.

“Blackwood, you were never on the case officially.” Ailes ignores my mild tantrum.

“Yes, but . . .” I don't know where to go with this argument.

“What about the decapitations? Somewhat convenient,” he says, as if implying I know more than I've let on.

“Very. I'm not sure I'd trust their forensic report.”

“Was it him?” he asks, catching my eyes and holding them.

Now we're getting to it. I didn't even want to think about this.

By “him,” he means Damian Knight, my ex-boyfriend-slash-guardian-slash-stalker who can be best described as serial personality disorder. I'm pretty sure Damian has killed to protect me in the past, although I've never been able to prove it. I haven't heard from him in months, not since he sent me flowers when
I was in the hospital. He's vanished out of my life for years at a time. Each time he resurfaces he has a new look and a personality to match. But each time, he lets me know he hasn't forgotten me.

“I don't know. I've told you everything and you
know
I always report it when he contacts me.”

“You didn't mention anything in this report.”

“Because I don't know anything and he didn't contact me! And now I'm being kicked off this.”

Gerald knocks on the conference room door before sticking his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but you guys see the thing on the news about the reverend?”

“Reverend Curtis?” I ask.

“No. This other guy. He just offed himself on live television.”

“What?” I look to Ailes. He shrugs.

“You need to check it out.”

“I don't think I could stomach that right now.” I've got too much murder and death to deal with.

“I'm sorry, but I think he said he was possessed by a demon. The one we haven't named publicly. Your demon . . .”