The Devil's Necktie (26 page)

DDA Sager wasn't sure where their relationship was headed, but Jack Bertolino was the first man she had sparked to in a long time. She was a big believer in trusting chemistry. She liked his candor. She liked his line about not falling into bed or love easily. She thought he was engaging; she liked him. Leslie decided to give it a go.

45

Manuel Alvarez paced in his cell like a feral cat. He had pulled his noise-reduction headset off one ear and replaced it with the cell phone.

“No call, no word, no fucking nothing?” he said to Delgado in a threatening tone. “I'm the boss and you decided not to keep me up to speed? I'm not on all yours' radar fucking screens 'cause I'm locked up like a dog in this shit hole? Is that it, Arturo?”

Delgado's voice was calm and serene. “The deal is proceeding as planned. But the news is all good, Manuel. I met with my contact and we have the information that was stolen from you. In fact, I've located your money.”

Alvarez sat down on the edge of his bed. “Are you fucking with me, Arturo?” But the anger in his voice had been replaced by a guarded excitement. “Is it true?”

“You are once again a rich man, Manuel. The trustee has all of the paperwork, the trail of your fortune and everything you need to retrieve it.”

Alvarez turned to face trustee 776325, who was standing guard.

“You have something of mine?” Alvarez asked as he got up from the bunk and moved close to the bars. He was having a hard time controlling the joy that welled up in his chest.

The trustee nodded his head, picking up a Walter Mosley book. As he handed it through the opening of the cell door, the man pulled a jailhouse shank from under the hardcover book, and jammed it into Alvarez's windpipe, twisting as he buried it to the hilt of the makeshift handle.

The cell phone clattered against the hard cell floor.

Alvarez moved his lips, but nothing but blood dripped out. He was not going to die like a chump. In a shocking blur of motion, Manuel ripped the knife out of his throat, and shoved it into the trustee's chest.

Alvarez then fell to his knees, choking on his own blood.

Trustee 776325 called for help, but his heart had stopped beating before the alarm could be sounded. His cries were drowned out by the shouting, banging, and wailing that provided the business-as-usual audio backdrop in the penitentiary.

—

The sun had just dropped below the horizon, leaving behind a dark blue sky, a light powdering of stars, and a thin crescent moon. The sound of the generator buzzed as the spotlights snapped on, flooding the overgrown quarter-acre behind the Lopez house with harsh light.

A damp chill had descended on the technical crew that had nearly finished walking the grid on the property with their ground-penetrating radar device. The GPR used high-frequency radio waves to locate potential burial sites and human remains.

A cadaver dog and his handler had made several alerts over the past hour. The first two had turned up a cache of pig bones. The final alert had occurred on the back of the property near an old orange tree.

Jack and Tompkins watched as the yellow Lab walked around the tree a few times and then sat down, making eye contact with his handler. A strong signal that a body had once been buried at that location.

Most buried bodies give off a rectangular signature pattern below the surface that has been repeated in burial ceremonies since the beginning of time. Jack wasn't sure Hector had performed a ceremony as such, but the signal from the GPR did show reflectors beneath the surface that could be associated with human remains. The printout showed a round pit rather than a coffin shape, but the crew was optimistic.

Jack stood looking over the ruins of Hector's garage. Gallina walked up and handed Tompkins a Starbucks provided by the Ontario PD, and the pair shifted from foot to foot nervously as the retrieval crew continued their painstaking work.

“It's human,” one of the men working with a small trowel next to the orange tree shouted back to the group. He dug a little deeper, and then, using a brush, moved away some loose dirt and pulled out a football-size plastic parcel that looked like it had been chewed open in sections.

“The rats got to it.”

Jack and company walked the length of the field, and in the spotlight they could plainly see what was a moldering human skull, minus the jawbone, with frightening brown hair and holes where eyes used to see. It had been expertly wrapped in a piece of plastic drop cloth and bound with duct tape.

Hector's signature, Jack thought.

Before anybody could comment, the man who had made the discovery brought up a second package from the makeshift grave. Larger, with more weight. “There's more down here,” he said.

“Guy's an animal. Killed his own father, cut him up,” Gallina said with disgust.

“They all start somewhere,” Tompkins added. And then, “Could've been you,” he said without judgment and threw a look to Jack.

Jack was done here. He started to walk back toward his Mustang. He'd seen enough of death to last a lifetime.

“Hey, Bertolino.” Jack stopped and waited for Gallina to catch up. “I ran the description of Mia's earring past our beauty queen. Said I found it in Johnny's apartment with her prints all over it and her blood DNA on the clasp. She freaked, said she didn't know where Johnny got it. Her lawyer gave her the eye, and she dummied up again. I got what I needed, though, thanks.”

Jack nodded his head.

“And for the record. I have no issue if the feds offer a deal. I just want the butcher.”

Gallina returned to the burial site, and Jack continued on to his Mustang. As he turned the corner of the house, Mrs. Lopez appeared at the front door and handed him a bag of fresh oranges.

“
Gracias,
” the old woman said.

Jack returned the thank-you with feeling.

“
Muchas gracias
to you, Mrs. Lopez.”

46

Jack liked to run his TAC meetings first thing in the morning, when his men and women were sharp. This was going to be a dangerous mission, and in the old days he would have told his subordinates to be extra careful. The problem was, it wasn't his meeting to run. He was an invited guest.

He knew basically what would be said. The purpose of this tactics and tactical meeting was to lay out the ground rules for the raid on Royce Motors, the arrests of the 18th Street Angels, and the confiscation of the cocaine. Who was responsible for what? What departments, what vehicles, what communication devices, what frequencies, what weapons, where the emergency vehicles would be located, the helicopters, the armored vehicles. Who would lead the initial assault on Royce Motors. Who was backup, who was coordinating. Crowd control, traffic control. The last thing they wanted was to lose any civilians in the crossfire. It had to be specific to the most finite detail or lives could be lost.

The Angels had already given ample proof that they had no respect for human life. And Jack didn't want anyone risking their lives any more than was humanly necessary to take them down.

Kenny Ortega was the government liaison, but since Gene McLennan knew the local players, he would be running the show on the ground. Kenny had called Jack before his plane touched down. Kenny always had the ability to get him pumped for the job at hand. They planned to meet in the conference room and then get caught up after the meeting.

Gene's polished black shoes clicked smartly on the waxed floor of the Federal Building. He stayed a half step in front of Jack, moving with purpose, in an attempt to set the parameters of Jack's participation.

Gene had been dubious when he tried to confiscate Jack's weapon and learned that Hector Lopez was the gun's proud new owner, but he wisely didn't push the point.

McLennan made a sharp left and banged through the double glass doors of the conference room. Two dozen men and women all looked up in unison at the abrupt entrance.

McLennan took his place at the head of a large rectangular table. To his left was a large Lucite screen set up for a PowerPoint presentation. He nodded to the tech in the back of the room. She gave him a thumbs-up, tapped a few keys, and a pyramid of the digital photos Jack had taken on surveillance appeared on one side of the high-tech screen. Jack's computer-generated portrait of Arturo Delgado topped the pyramid and Hector Lopez was two rows down, front and center. On the other side of the screen was a satellite photo of Royce Motors, the lot behind the Royce building, and the surrounding neighborhood.

Jack walked to the back of the room and took a place with the latecomers who had missed getting seats and stood drinking coffee. He nodded to Nick and Kenny, and shifted his focus to McLennan.

“I want to thank the San Bernardino Sheriff's Department, the Riverside Sheriff's Department, and the Riverside Police Department for making the drive into town,” McLennan said, like a college professor. “I'm Gene McLennan, DEA.”

The detectives were an irreverent group who weren't overly impressed by the feds. They wore jeans and T-shirts, a few suits, and some pantsuits on the woman, as well as shoulder holsters, thigh holsters, belt holsters, and ankle rigs. Jack felt right at home.

“I'll make a few introductions, and then you can all reach out and handle the rest when we're broken into groups. Kenny Ortega, Miami DEA and the man who sold the government on our case. Nick Aprea, LAPD Narcotics. Some of you remember Aprea from the drug task force and the arrest of the twenty-seven 18th Street Angels on RICO charges back in April. And retired inspector Jack Bertolino, who is the major reason we're here today, and who will be doing a ride-along by invitation of the federal government.”

Nick couldn't help himself and audibly groaned on the ride-along comment. Ortega bit his tongue, while Jack remained nonchalant. He was an observer. The crew, who had already been brought up to speed by Ortega about the origins of the case, hadn't missed the slight.

“I'll give the overview, and then, Kenny, you can bring us up to speed regarding the origins of the drugs and the possibility of a turf war spilling over the border if we don't shut down the 18th Street Angels operation.”

“He earned his place,” Nick finally said. He just couldn't help himself.

“What, Detective Aprea?” McLennan asked tightly.

“Where'd you get the pictures on your wall of shame?”

“Jack Bertolino provided them.”

“Sitting surveillance on his own nickel. Who turned us on to Royce Motors and the entire scheme?” Nick said.

“I'm not questioning the retired inspector's bona fides.”

“Bertolino earned his invitation to the party, is all I'm saying.”

“Point well taken, Nick,” Gene said, and then turned back to the room. “Oh, and Craig Millhouse, IRS Criminal Investigations, will speak to the Angels' laundering operations.”

Gene McLennan was seasoned and smooth and continued without missing a beat.

“We put a GPS on the bus after it landed in Miami and have been tracking it back across the country. Thomas Vegas, whose brother is a member of the Angels, has put in a total of twelve calls to Roman. We're up on Roman's phone, and Royce Motors, thanks to DDA Mike Apke, who expedited our request. Their ETA is fourteen hundred hours, and after they unload the band and luggage at Outlaws Inc., Thomas promised to deliver the suits—as he referred to the drugs—by sixteen hundred hours. Civilian traffic should be thin at that hour, and that's in our favor. I'm estimating their time frame is twenty minutes total, in and out. A minimum of ten cars, the dope gets broken into ten, twelve parcels, and is gone. If we're late, we're lost. We may be light on manpower, but not on talent. If we all stay sharp, we will prevail.”

—

“His TAC plan is sound. My only issue with McLennan,” Jack said, “is in the split of manpower. He's light on the back lot. If it all goes to hell, the rats'll be jumping ship. And they won't be driving out the way they came in.”

Jack sat next to Kenny Ortega and across from Nick Aprea in his favorite booth at Hal's.

“The satellite photo showed a loading dock. What looked to be a five-foot clearance,” Kenny said.

“The damn Google map I pulled off my Mac indicated ramps. There's got to be some other way to move those buses and equipment in and out,” Jack maintained.

“How many warrants have you served?” Nick asked Jack, changing the subject.

“Hundreds.”

“How many have gone without a hitch?”

“We were always careful, to a fault. I'm still here to tell the story.”

“And God willing, we'll be here tomorrow night toasting our good fortune.”

All three men clinked glasses, Nick, his Herradura; Jack, his red wine; and Kenny, his rum and Coke.

Jack felt something hard bang into his knee, and when he reached down he felt cold steel being placed into his hand. Nick didn't blink his eyes; he casually signaled Arsinio for another shot.

Jack slipped the automatic weapon into his side jacket pocket and took a sip of wine. He felt another sharp prod on his right leg. He reached down and felt the carved wooden handle of what felt like a classic Colt .38. Kenny stared off to the right, admiring the art on the wall or the blond woman at the bar standing next to it. Jack leaned forward and snugged the Detective Special in the small of his back.

47

At three thirty the first Angels car drove past the surveillance step van and command center, pulled into the lot at Royce Motors, and disappeared into the recesses of the building. The traffic was thinning, but McLennan had stationed cars in a two-block radius surrounding the complex to stop traffic once the order was given to deploy. The plan was to keep the operation confined on-site, but for contingency's sake the cars had been dispatched.

An invitation had been extended to Jack to watch the bust on the multiple screens in the DEA truck with McLennan, Ortega, and a three-man tech crew. With cameras covering the front of Royce Motors and the back lot, this would be the eyes and ears of the operation. All of the feds, cops, and vehicles were linked by a special radio frequency, and the players would be updated as the offensive dictated.

Jack had begged off, however, and was situated down the block in the dark green Plymouth, tucked safely away from incoming eyes. He had a list of the players, his assigned radio, his binoculars, his weapons, three extra-speed loaders for the .38, and extra clips for the nine-millimeter automatic. Jack was hunting big game: Hector Lopez and Arturo Delgado. He had a strong feeling that Hector would be a part of the drug crew, and Delgado would be standing tall at a distance somewhere, high on a ridge, like ancient nobility, watching the action and protecting his investment.

Nick Aprea had been assigned to lead the assault on the back lot with an armored battering truck to break through the fence, three unmarked cars, and ten heavily armed warriors.

Kenny Ortega would exit the DEA step van, and lead the frontal assault. Eight vehicles were secreted in a warehouse a block from Royce Motors and would power through the front entrance, blocking all egress after the arrival of the bus.

McLennan wanted to give the 18th Street Angels a full five minutes to start off-loading the drugs before dropping the hammer. Let the scumbags feel like their deal was going down without a hitch, and then make them feel some pain.

The clock was ticking.

Jack counted a total of nine cars drive onto the lot and into the service bay, but from his angle couldn't make a single positive ID.

McLennan's voice crackled and announced that the ETA of the bus was fifteen and counting. Thomas Vegas had put in a call to Roman, giving him the update.

A cherried-out blue Impala with a white roof drove by, and the hair on the back of Jack's neck stood at attention. He couldn't see a face, but the thickness of the driver screamed Hector.

Instead of making the left onto the lot, the car continued on past Royce Motors, and made the left on the next side street.

McLennan's voice came over the speaker warning Nick and the men covering the back that one of the Angels was doing reconnaissance, headed their way, and to stay low.

Thirty seconds later, the Impala—having circumnavigated the block—swung around the corner, drove past Jack, and made the turn into the building. It was Hector Lopez. Jack forced some deep breaths to slow his heart rate and remain focused.

It was game time.

A large tricked-out bus with colorful graphics on the wide side panels drove slowly up the street. Turn signals flashed, air brakes squealed, and the bus pulled into the Royce Motors parking lot. Roman walked out of the service bay dressed in his sports jacket as if it was business as usual. The dutiful general manager guided the bus inside like a signalman at an airport.

“Five minutes and counting, folks. Let's keep our minds clear and our weapons ready. And let's be safe,” McLennan said.

They would remain under a prearranged radio silence until the call to deploy.

Jack checked his loads.

Nick Aprea hand-signaled his men.

Ortega checked out the images on the twelve video screens, and then glanced at his Remington tactical shotgun with a four-round extension. His hand strayed reflexively to his tactical thigh holster, where he patted the butt of his Beretta M9.

—

The tour bus was hoisted up on the hydraulic lift with the speed of a NASCAR racer during a pit stop. Two men in protective helmets had their welding torches lit. Sparks flew as they made short work of cutting into the bottom panels.

Arturo Delgado stood shoulder to shoulder with Mando and Roman. He looked grimly satisfied with the proceedings.

The men had parked five cars facing the front of Royce Motors for a fast exit, and five cars, including Hector's Impala, faced the expansive showroom with the long row of dazzling buses. They would exit past the buses, down the ramps, and out through the back, per Delgado's game plan.

Each of the Angels' trunks stood open, waiting for their share of the cocaine.

Roman had assigned another fifteen heavily armed gangsters and Lil' Angels for on-site security.

Mando checked his watch, got the go-ahead from Delgado, and addressed the men. “Ten minutes max and you're on the road. No speeding. No tricks. Don't bring down no heat. I want calls from every one of you when you land, and then that number turns to dust.”

Murmurs from the gangsters and proud fist pumps. This was a big payday, the beginning of a new era for the 18th Street Angels.

The first panel came off and a cadre of Angels started pulling down kilos of cocaine wrapped in dirty tan cellophane. The first 120 keys went to Hector, who stashed them in his trunk, threw a tarp over the bricks, and carefully lowered the lid.

“Yo, Hector, man, where's Johnny?” David Reyes asked, filled with nervous energy as he sidled up behind Hector.

Hector did a slow turn and just stared. No words. Dead eyes. Reyes quickly moved away, picked at a scab on his face, and waited for his allocation.

Hector got behind the wheel of his Impala, turned over the engine, and waited for the go signal.

The drugs were methodically handed off in a bucket brigade and secured in car trunks. The drivers started their engines, ready to exit as planned.

Arturo Delgado watched as the 18th Street Angels worked with military precision and felt optimistic about the future.

—

Three minutes to go.

Jack pulled up his binoculars and scanned the rooftops surrounding Royce Motors. It was all quiet. And all clear.

Two minutes to deployment.

Jack could feel the ground vibrate before he could see what caused the disturbance.

Two eighteen-wheel tractor-trailer trucks rumbled down the street in his direction. In a surprise move, when they were twenty-five yards from Royce Motors, the rear truck pulled alongside the lead truck, and they drove side by side, filling both lanes of traffic.

The big rigs pulled to a squealing stop, totally blocking the road in both directions plus the entrance to Royce Motors.

The truck driver blocking oncoming traffic powered down his passenger window and waved a manifest, as if asking the other driver for directions.

“What the hell's going on?” Gene McLennan's voice crackled, breaking the radio silence.

Jack watched with growing alarm as McLennan jumped out of the surveillance van and marched toward the big rigs, red faced. When he had covered half the distance, he waved his arms and signaled for the drivers to move on.

The back hatches of the eighteen-wheelers dropped down, creating ramps.

A commando dressed in full military cammo gear stepped out from behind one of the trucks and open fired with a MAC-10 machine gun.

The back of Gene McLennan's head vaporized. His body pulsed as the force of the bullets slammed through him. Red sprayed from his back in a downward pattern, and he fell to the ground, dead before anybody could react.

Los Zetas, Jack thought. The drug cartel was retaliating against the Angels on American soil. The operation was turning into a full-blown cluster fuck.

Two armor-plated narco tanks powered out of the bowels of the trucks and smashed through the wall of Royce Motors with their folding battering rams.

The black steel-plated beasts with gun turrets looked like something out of a
Mad Max
movie.

—

“What the fuck was that?” Mando shouted. To the men whose cocaine was already loaded, he cried, “Go! Go! Go!” He swung around the AK that was strapped to his neck and prepared for the assault.

The second bus panel fell to the service-bay floor.

“It's a fuckin' tank, man,” shouted the Lil' Angels spotter who had run into the service bay white faced. He slapped his AK-47 nervously, fighting to maintain.

The first of the Angels cars sped out of the service bay and was promptly rammed by the lead monster, which pushed it up against the wall of the building, crushing the driver-side door and instantly killing the driver.

“Fuck!” Mando said as he let loose with a deafening chatter of firepower. He was forced to find cover when four guns snaked out of the side portholes of the tank and returned fire. High-velocity bullets ricocheted off the concrete floor and cut down the fifteen-year-old Lil' Angels spotter.

Arturo Delgado picked up the fallen gangster's automatic weapon and squeezed off a few tight bursts. The last time Delgado was this close to an AK, he was staring at the wrong end of the barrel. He was happy to return the favor but didn't plan on staying long enough to see how this shitstorm played out. There would be time for retribution later.

—

“Go! Go! Go!” Kenny Ortega shouted over the radio deploying the team. “Man down! Use extreme caution, there are two Zetas narco tanks heading into Royce Motors. I repeat, there are two monsters headed into the front of Royce.”

The second tank stopped as Ortega speed-dialed for reinforcements. The top-mounted gun turret rotated in his direction, and Kenny could see, on the video screen, something glint in the afternoon sun.

“The fucking thing's going to fire on us! Out! Out! Out!”

Ortega pushed the three-man crew out of the step van and followed in their wake.

An RPG was launched.

A flash of light and the explosives whistled across the distance, leaving a contrail of death, and slammed into the side of their command center. It exploded on impact, sending debris flying, blacking out all communications. Ortega and his men dove for cover.

Jack Bertolino's jaw tightened. He threw his car into gear. His foot hit the gas pedal, unleashing 426 horses. His tires spun, smoked, engaged, and roared away toward the back lot of Royce Motors. Nick Aprea would need his support, and it was the only way out for Hector and the Angels.

The lead narco tank's turret turned in the direction of the bus.

Mando and the 18th Street Angels unleashed a barrage of automatic-weapons fire. Their bullets pinged off the inch-thick steel plates that protected the men inside.

The Zetas commando stepped from behind the monster and unleashed his own firepower.

Armando “Mando” Barajas's body pulsated in place and then dropped down hard with full-metal-jacket bullets shredding his throat. His Angels gangsters backpedaled.

The men with the welding torches had just completed their job, but stood frozen in place as one of the men's welding helmets was hit by incoming from the interior of the monster, knocking him to the ground and out.

Bullets rained into the cocaine that was left unpacked in the undercarriage of the bus, creating a massive crystal white cloud of dust. Bullets tore into the second welder's shoulder. He spun with the impact, staggered backward, and raised his torch.

The high-intensity flame ignited the cloud of cocaine powder into a flash bomb that enveloped his body. He went running out of the service bay, a human torch. The commando killed him with one short burst of his weapon.

A rocket-propelled grenade was launched from the turret.

It impacted the bus's gas tank and exploded. Instantly the large metal vehicle flung out a wide spray of shrapnel. The ensuing secondary explosion blew out the front of Royce Motors and knocked Roman to the ground.

Delgado reached down a hand, and raised his comrade to his feet. The two warriors backed deeper into the cavernous recesses of Royce Motors, and rapidly made their way past the long line of million-dollar buses. Blood dripped from Roman's ear.

The Zetas commando silently stalked his targets, waiting for a clear shot.

Roman stopped, listened. All he could hear was ringing in his ears. But he detected movement. He leveled his AK and gave a whistle and a hand gesture.

The commando raised up, getting a bead on Delgado. His finger depressed the trigger.

One of Roman's dogs leaped. One hundred and eighty pounds of English mastiff clamped its jaws on the Zetas warrior's neck. The man's MAC-10 fired multiple wild rounds that shattered mirrored bus windows and punctured painted metal, until the weight of the dog pulled them both to the ground. The second dog appeared on the instant, teeth bared, drool flying. His razor-sharp teeth tore into the man's thigh. The commando's screams were overwhelmed by deep guttural growls as the two dogs, in full blood frenzy, ripped the man to shreds.

An Angels driver saw the dogs and panicked. Swerving to avoid them, he lost control and crashed his car into the front of one of the showroom buses. His body was thrown headfirst through the windshield, where he lay slumped on the hood.

—

Jack skidded to a stop just outside the rear gate, which was flapping open and closed. He could hear automatic weapons' fire and peered carefully inside the lot, staying low to the ground.

Nick Aprea was hunkered down behind his assault vehicle, being fired upon by men positioned next to the double-wide, and another crew of 18th Street Angels who used junked cars and buses for cover.

“Lay down some suppressing fire, I'm coming in,” Jack shouted.

Nick got up and raked automatic bullets in an explosive arc.

Jack scrabbled low and slid to safety next to Nick.

“Somebody tipped the Zetas,” he said. “They've got two narco tanks pushing through the front. We've gotta hold down the fort.”

The first of the Angels cars drove out of the back entrance, down the ramp, and powered toward the gate.