Cartel by Chuck Hustmyre

the phone?"
    "Alvarez wants to meet," Peterson said. "I'm just pass-ing along the message."
    "Why me?"
    "I don't know," Peterson said. "Maybe you should find out." Then the line clicked as he hung up.
    * * * *
    "He just got a call," Cyril said from the back of the Suburban.
    Marcus sat up straight in the driver's seat. He'd been watching Scott Greene's house while Dwayne slouched in the passenger seat and dozed. Now Marcus turned to the partially open hatch that led to the rear compartment. "From who?"
    "They didn't use names." Cyril said. "Definitely DEA, though, from the context. I think he's about to be on the move."
    "What was the gist?" Marcus asked.
    "He's meeting a Mexican cop at ten, at a place called Café Americain."
    "Across the border?" asked Dwayne, who was stretch-ing and yawning after his little nap.
    "Yeah," Cyril said, his fingers clacking away at his key-board. "I'm looking it up now."
    Marcus keyed his headset microphone. "Sierra One, this is Sierra Two. Looks like Tango One is about to head south."
    Gavin's reply was immediate. "Roger that, Sierra Two. We'll be at the Juarez Bridge. Keep me posted. Sierra One, out."
    Marcus clicked his mic button twice to acknowledge. The Juarez-Lincoln International Bridge was centrally locat-ed in downtown Laredo, and it was the bridge Greene had used that morning. It was a good choice, Marcus thought, the logical choice. Which, of course, made him question it.
    "Might not be as boring as I thought," Dwayne said. "I kind of got a thing for Mexican pussy. Maybe we can scare some up while we're down there."
    "Cyril," Marcus said, ignoring Dwayne, "are you sure you can track his phone in Mexico?"
    "Unless he's using a bag phone circa 1989," Cyril said, "I can activate his GPS remotely and track him all the way down to Tierra del Fuego."
    "Good," Marcus said. "Because I don't think he's going to be easy to tail."
    "Why the fuck not?" Dwayne said. "He's just a dumb cop."
    * * * *
    Victoria was propped up in bed using her iPad when Scott walked into the bedroom. He opened his underwear drawer and dug out a flat, gunmetal gray box with a three-dial combination lock. He spun the wheels to the first three digits of his badge number and opened the lid. Inside was a Springfield Armory Model 1911, .45 caliber pistol, and three loaded eight-shot Wilson combat magazines. Scott stared at the pistol. It was just a meeting, he thought. And he was al-ready in enough trouble. He left the gun in the box, closed the lid and relocked it.
    "Are you going somewhere?" Victoria asked.
    Scott shoved the gun box back in place and closed the drawer. He turned to his wife. "I have to meet somebody."
    "And you need a gun?"
    "Habit," he said. "I almost feel naked without one."
    "You're not supposed to carry one while you're suspend-ed, right?"
    "That's why I decided to leave it."
    She stared into his eyes. She'd always been good at reading him. "That's not why," she said.
    "What are you talking about?"
    "This is Texas. Everybody carries a gun. And all the cops know you."
    "Pretty much."
    "So if you think you need a gun, why aren't you taking it?"
    He made a show of looking at his watch.
    "Because you're going to Mexico," Victoria said.
    "I lost three agents today, and their deaths are tied to Mike Cassidy's murder."
    "And this person you're meeting knows something about that?"
    "It's a cop," Scott said. "And yeah, that's what I'm hop-ing."
    She gave him a long look. "Be careful."
    "I will." He walked toward the door. When he reached it he heard her say, "I do love you, you know."
    He turned around. "I love you too."

Chapter 21

    Marcus took some small measure of satisfaction in the fact that he'd been right. Scott Greene was not easy to tail. Greene's Ford F-150 was four-wheel drive and taller than most of the other vehicles on the street, so it was easier to keep track of, which was a plus. The problem was that Greene didn't head straight for the river. He drove a mean-dering route and made