Speak of the Devil (30 page)

“Bring me Gato!” Diablo’s eyes gleamed with pleasure as he held the bloody machete above his head.

Gato turned to run, but a dozen hands were on him, grabbing and dragging him forward. “I wish my brother was here!” Gato yelled. “I wish my brother was here!” But everyone else was yelling, too, and he doubted the FBI could hear his voice in the ruckus. He fought and thrashed and tried to escape but couldn’t. Rough hands carried him to the front of the room. They shoved him down to kneeling in front of Diablo, then down farther, until he was lying on his stomach. They pinned his hands and legs. Someone stepped on his head, pressing his cheek onto the blue tarp. He could feel the cold floor beneath it. He stared sideways, and Rooster’s lifeless eyes stared back at him.

He could feel the breath of his homies on the back of his neck, gasping from exertion as they held him down. From the direction of Rooster’s body, he saw a line of blood snaking around the blue plastic. It carried a cigarette butt in its path. Gato watched the butt float past someone’s boot.

“Rape, kill, control,” Diablo shouted. “This is what makes us strong. But to control, you must have discipline. Once discipline breaks down—if we make empty threats—we will not be able to control our own members, much less the community.”

Gato thought about Maria-Rosa. He wondered if he would see her in heaven, if he’d managed to make a place for himself there. Probably not. He had too much blood on his own hands.

“This is for the Mara Salvatrucha,” Diablo said.

But instead of the blade on his neck, Gato felt the floor shaking. Then he heard the boots, dozens of them, and loud voices yelling in English and Spanish. He saw the bright lasers of high-beam flashlights dancing around the room. The hands released him as the homies turned to flee. In the noise and confusion, Gato was alone, unrestrained, lying on the tarp next to Rooster. Gato didn’t move.

As the chaos swirled around him, Gato closed his eyes, let his cheek rest on the bloody tarp, and tried to remember the strawberry scent of Maria-Rosa’s hair.

• • •

McGee burst into the Train Room behind three FBI agents; more MPD officers and FBI agents were behind them. The officers poured into the room, surrounding the group of almost-naked, tattooed men. “Get down!” McGee yelled. “Police, everybody down!”

There was one machete at the front of the room, which was quickly secured by an officer. The gangbangers looked fierce, but they were obviously unarmed. Men in their underwear were no match for law enforcement agents with long guns and bulletproof vests. The thugs put their hands in the air. They got down on the ground. They complied.

Except for one man, who sent a chair flying through a plate-glass window. McGee swung the flashlight mounted on his rifle toward the figure. He was wearing just black boxers and had no weapon in his hands. The man had horns, nonstop tattoos, and nasty sunken nostrils.

“Diablo,” McGee said. “They warned me that you were handsome, but my my, you are absolutely breathtaking. Hands up.
Manos arriba!
”

Diablo looked calmly at McGee, then down the line of officers who had guns pointed at his heart. “Adios,” said Diablo. He smiled, gave a little wave, then leapt through the smashed window. He landed like a cat on the railroad tracks below, and started running down the tracks in his bare feet.

McGee lowered his weapon. “Fuck.”

McGee couldn’t shoot an unarmed man in the back. He peered out the broken glass and contemplated making the jump himself. There was no way his knees would survive. He turned, pushed through the door, and ran out into the night. Several agents followed.

Diablo had disappeared. There was just darkness, bare trees, and empty playground equipment. Riderless swings creaked and swayed on their chains.

• • •

“No!” shouted Samantha. She swatted a box of Chips Ahoy! off the table. Innocent cookies went flying through the command center. Diablo was in the wind. The arrest team was spread out in Wheaton Regional Park, but could find no sign of him. They were calling in dogs, but without Diablo’s base scent, the dogs were unlikely to find him among all the other human smells.

She turned to the MPD sergeant whose men were supposed to have surrounded the building. “There was no perimeter!” she shouted.

“We covered the doors. We didn’t think anyone would go out a window,” he said sheepishly.

Sam wanted to cry, although she would never do that in front of her team. It didn’t matter how many other MS-13 members were arrested tonight. If Diablo got away, her operation was a failure.

Sam looked around the warehouse. There were eight agents and officers from various police agencies manning the command center: running the phones, audio equipment, and computers. She made a quick decision. She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. Everyone looked up.

“I need a skeleton crew to stay here,” she announced. “Bob, Angela, you hold down the fort.” She turned to the other six officers. “We’re going into the park. Maybe Diablo will try coming out on this side, through Georgia Avenue.”

The six blinked—they all thought they had desk duties tonight—but they nodded. They hastily put on tac vests and checked their weapons. Sam pulled on a radio headset. “And I want a radio connection to the eagle, right away.” Sam led them out of the overheated warehouse, into the cold night. The parking lot behind the warehouse was bordered by trees, the back end of Wheaton Regional Park.

She directed her team to spread out—two agents going northward into the woods, two south. “Eagle, what have you got for me?” she asked into the radio.

“Not much is showing up on the thermal imaging,” came the response over her radio. “Maybe—try fifteen degrees south, about five hundred yards ahead of you.”

She and Quisenberry went into the forest ahead of them, heading slightly to the left, adjusting their bearings at the direction of the officer with the thermal imaging equipment in the aircraft. They walked as quietly as possible on the carpet of dead leaves. Their weapons were drawn, their eyes skimmed over tree trunks and brush. With each step, the night got blacker. The sound of traffic on Georgia Avenue faded into a distant hush, replaced by the sounds of the forest. An owl hooted. Night animals scurried around in the canopy. She and Quisenberry kept going, stepping around boulders and downed trees. They’d been partners so long, they moved as a unit without having to speak.

“I’ve lost you under the tree cover,” the officer in the eagle said in Sam’s ear. “But you’re close. Stay alert.”

In the darkness, Sam thought she saw a glimmer of movement behind a tree trunk. She narrowed her eyes, lowered her chin, and focused on it. Human, half naked. Quisenberry saw it, too. Sam nodded at him.

Quisenberry went left, she went right. As they crept closer, the man in the woods darted from the trees and started running leftward. Sam saw his whole body then, the inked flesh, the dark hair flowing behind him, the horns. He wore only dark underwear. Flying through the forest, barefoot and snarling, he looked like a creature from a twisted fairy tale. The agents sprinted after him. Sam jumped over roots and rocks, praying not to trip or fall, but to catch this monster and bring him in.

Quisenberry made a flying leap and tackled him. Diablo fought back. The two men became a thrashing pile of limbs and curses. Sam pointed her gun at them but didn’t dare fire it. She heard Quisenberry shout in agony, and saw Diablo lift his mouth from her partner’s shoulder. Blood dripped from teeth that had been filed to triangular points. Diablo snarled bloodily at Sam.

Fuck it
, she thought.
That qualifies as armed.
“Steve, move!” she shouted. Quisenberry rolled to the side, giving her a clear shot. Diablo tried to scramble to his feet. Sam fired twice. The devil shuddered, then stilled.

46

The FBI arrested eighty-two MS members, eighty-three if you included Gato. Many were in leadership positions in cliques from as far away as New York and New Jersey. The arrests closed out warrants pending in multiple states. The biggest fish of all was Diablo.

He survived the two bullets, although his hip and femur were fractured. He recuperated in a hospital, under heavy guard.

The press loved his mug shot, airing it over and over. The image played on a primal fear. He looked like the monster from children’s nightmares, the one every child suspected was hiding under her bed, whose existence every parent had to deny. “MS-13 Devil” trended on the Internet for days after the arrest.

Anna worked every waking hour for the next ten days, sorting things out. Eighty-two men had to be charged and arraigned, or released. Some were willing to be interviewed. Their information was disseminated among federal and state law enforcement agencies.

Men who were wanted in other jurisdictions, but not chargeable in D.C., were extradited. The U.S. Attorney’s Office in Virginia—which had a formidable reputation for fighting MS-13—got a chunk of prisoners. So did the feds in Maryland, New Jersey, Delaware, and New York. Main Justice’s elite Organized Crime and Gang Section took some of the defendants. State prosecutors in Maryland charged Diablo and a few others with Rooster’s homicide and Gato’s attempted homicide. DOJ’s Office of International Affairs received extradition requests from El Salvador and Guatemala.

Navigating the bureaucratic maze gave Anna a welcome distraction from her even more complicated personal life. Now that Diablo was in custody, she knew Jack wanted Nina to meet Olivia. But he waited patiently while Anna worked to sort everything out. He was supportive, giving her coffee in the morning and advice in the evening. He rubbed her feet and massaged her shoulders—and didn’t mention Nina. For now.

Anna kept her own case, charging Psycho, Diablo, and Gato with a RICO conspiracy predicated on the prostitution and murder of Maria-Rosa Gomez, the extortion of the brothel, the rape of Tierra Guerrero and the murder of the brothel doorman, the murders of Ricardo and the timekeeper, and the murder of Rooster. RICO—the Racketeering Influenced Corrupt Organizations Act—provided extensive criminal penalties for crimes committed to benefit a criminal organization. Even if a member hadn’t committed a particular crime himself, he could be prosecuted if he was a member of the organization and knew about or participated in a pattern of criminal activity on behalf of the organization. Anna had a strong RICO case.

The charges against Gato were just for show—so no one would know he was cooperating, at least for now. She’d already hammered out the plea deal with his lawyer.

George Litz, the AUSA from the Fraud section, wanted back in on the case. Anna forgave him for not telling her who “Julia” was—he’d had a duty to maintain Nina’s cover in Witsec—and happily accepted him on board. She could use the help.

• • •

A week after the
generale
, MPD’s Internal Affairs Branch released their Use of Force report for the brothel raid. IAB concluded that Hector’s shooting had been justified. In addition, his misdemeanor assault case involving “Casper” was dismissed, based on Agent Randazzo’s report that Casper had started the fight. IAB still put a letter of reprimand in Hector’s file, but he was allowed to come back to work. Anna was relieved for him. She also wanted to see whether, despite his thick disciplinary file, he might be a useful witness in her trial.

Hector agreed to meet Anna in her office the following week. When he arrived, he was still pale and thin, but he’d shaved off the lumberjack beard and had a neat button-down shirt tucked into khakis. He took a seat next to McGee. Anna hadn’t invited Sam to the meeting; the presence of the FBI agent who arrested him would make this already-awkward meeting even more awkward.

“Thanks for coming,” Anna said to Hector. “Is your attorney here?”

“I don’t need one.”

“Atta boy,” McGee said. “Screw the lawyers.”

Anna shot McGee a good-natured glare, then focused on Hector. “I’m glad you were cleared.”

She thought Hector would be angry at her. She had suspected him in Nina’s death, and her suspicions led to his arrest. She was prepared for him to gripe at her.

But he said, “I’m sorry, Anna. I was out of control, going around messing with those MS members. I was worried they were still hunting Nina.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do. I should’ve stood down and let you handle it. I wanted you to stop them—but I didn’t know how much I could tell you, with her being in Witsec. The Marshals said I couldn’t tell you anything. I felt like I was the only one in the world who knew the whole truth—and could take care of things. I took it too personally. I was wrong.”

“I understand,” Anna said. “I’m not blaming you or judging. But I could use your help. You probably heard—we made a big MS bust a couple weeks ago.”

Hector nodded.

“If possible, I’d like you to be a witness in the trial. The jury is going to want to hear your testimony. But first I need to know—what is your connection to MS-13?”

McGee looked at him pointedly. Hector shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“I was jumped into the gang when I was fifteen, living in L.A.”

“Are you still a member?”

“No!” He lowered his voice. “No. When my mom found out, she freaked. She sent me to live with my grandmother in D.C. That was ages ago, before MS had any real presence here. At the time, I hated her for moving me. But she was right. It got me away from the gang.”

“Do you know some of the MS members here?’

“A few of the older ones, I met back in the day. Most of them, no. I just found them from asking around.”

“What’s your connection to the gang now?”

“Nothing. Well, maybe I have a chip on my shoulder with them. I take their shit personally.”

“If you testify, you’ll be cross-examined about all of this. And about your shooting and your arrest for assault. It could be embarrassing.”

“It’s all right. It’s the truth. It might actually be a relief to have it all out there.”

He smiled at her. It was the first real smile she’d seen on his face since he’d come to get the warrant signed for the brothel raid.