CHAPTER FIVE

      Cortez navigated the car out of the city limits, heading north, higher into the Rocky Mountains. Checking his watch, he smiled. He still had three minutes to reach the rendezvous point. The mission had come about as close to going to hell as one could imagine, with this crazy group of federal agents busting up his play. But he still had time to salvage the whole thing, if he kept his head about him.

      A groan sounded from behind him, and he glanced over the backrest to scan his prisoner. The guy’s skin was pale, and he was shuddering, most likely slipping into shock. Cortez sent a mental prayer heavenward that the guy would make it. If the guy died, if Cortez failed to produce the goods, he knew the consequences of that failure. Miguel Mendoza wasn’t a man you wanted to disappoint under any circumstances, but particularly not when a big payday was involved. Cortez didn’t know all the details, but he definitely knew that the guy in the back seat was worth lots of money to someone. But not if he died.

      Driving with one hand, Cortez torched a cigarette and puffed away, squinting through the blue-gray smoke at the road ahead. As it was, the guy was going to be pissed off at him. After all, the simple snatch-and-grab had turned into a bloodbath with at least two downed cops, a handful of his own guys dead or missing and perhaps even some wounded civilians. So Cortez had no delusions about the warmth of the welcome he’d receive when he returned to Mexico.

      Glancing into the back seat, he eyed the guy again and shook his head.

      “Easy, gringo,” he called over his shoulder. His English was nearly flawless from years of studying criminal justice at UCLA before returning to his homeland. “We’ll fix you up real good. You’re our little cash cow.”

      Two minutes later he pulled onto the side of the road, parked it and exited. Taking out his cellular telephone, he hit the redial button. When the verbal prompt came, he hit three more buttons and terminated the call, tossing the phone back inside the car.

      Grabbing the big man under the shoulders, he dragged him from the back of the vehicle, pulled him about thirty yards from it and laid him out flat on the dirt and sparse grass. Moments later a pair of helicopters crested a nearby mountain peak and knifed toward him. The crew worked quickly, strapping the prisoner onto a stretcher and loading him onto the helicopter. Two more guys, both heavily armed, sprinted for the car.

      Mendoza’s son, Bernardo, appeared in the door of one of the choppers and gave Cortez a questioning look. He replied with a nod and the younger man hopped from the craft, an olive drab duffel bag in his hand, and strode up to Cortez.

      Taking the bag, Cortez ran after the two gunners. Sliding down a small incline next to the car, he ran to the two men, both of whom gave him a questioning look.

      Pulling open the rear passenger’s-side door, he stuffed the bag into the space on the floor between the front and back seats.

      “More ammunition,” he said. “In case you need it. Now go, get out of here.”

      The driver nodded. Cortez slammed the door and dismissed the two men by banging a fist on the roof of the car, watching as the vehicle backed up, then drove back onto the road and roared away. Grinning, he sprinted for the helicopters and boarded the nearer one.

      Moments later, both craft were aloft.

      Cortez pulled out a black box that featured several switches.

      The Mexican stared at the box for a moment. He realized it was only a matter of time before the police caught up with the Hyundai. Most likely, the pigs would force the vehicle from the road and take the men into custody. He’d like to think his people were dead-enders, that they’d sooner take a bullet than sell him out. Sure, he’d like to think that. But he was a realist. If the police applied the right amount of pressure, his men would give him up in a heartbeat. He knew this because he’d do the same to them, in even less time.

      Casually, he flicked a switch and snuffed out both men’s lives. Just the first of many to die this day, he thought.

      MIGUEL MENDOZA FINISHED his morning swim in his Olympic-size pool. He climbed the ladder out of the deep end, water sluicing off his body. A young maid was on hand, a towel in her hand. He snapped his fingers and she unfurled it and wrapped it around his shoulders.

      He strode up from the pool to his terrace. His wife, Rosa, looked up from her newspaper and smiled at him, exposing perfect white teeth. Her wavy hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a long T-shirt over her bikini-clad body as per his instructions, and he was pleased.

      “How was your swim?” she asked, still smiling.

      “It was fine, my love. Thank you.”

      He walked past and admired her, like another man might admire a fast car. She was thirty years his junior, and he considered her his most prized possession, something to be trotted out, shown off and appreciated by others. He guessed that that was how others felt about great art, something he’d never developed a taste for. But like other treasures, he knew others wanted her. And he made sure he tucked her safely away, particularly when he wasn’t around to watch her.

      She chewed on a small piece of grapefruit while he seated himself. He scanned the smooth concrete walls that surrounded the estate and congratulated himself once again on the stronghold he’d created for himself and his family. The maid handed him a short-sleeved cotton shirt and helped him shrug into it. He snatched the newspaper from a second maid’s hands and whisked them both away with a wave of his hand.

      “Darling,” Rosa said, “I want to take the children to town today. We are going shopping. After that I promised them that we’d eat shrimp at the old man’s restaurant on the beach.”

      He nodded. “That’s fine. You’ll take Carlos and his people with you.”

      Carlos was his