Grace looked at Quintana. “What if you threatened Calderon with exposure?”

“I can attack a known traficante like Hector Rivas and survive. There is an element of public theater in my coverage that ROG understands and often enjoys.” Quintana smiled thinly. “But even my armored car and my dozen bodyguards cannot guarantee my safety or that of my family and employees if I attack the Calderon family. I am sorry.”

Grace looked to Steele. “Aren’t there any politicians here or in Mexico who would be willing to help?”

“That was my first thought,” Steele said.

“And?” she asked.

“I rejected it.”

“Not enough time,” Faroe said. “Not enough secrecy. That’s why you came to St. Kilda, Grace.”

Steele nodded. “Sometimes the only swift, sure way to untie a knot is with a sword.”

“However…” Faroe said. He looked at Quintana. “Do you know where Hector’s family is in the U.S.?”

“One. A daughter. Yes.”

“We should explore that,” Faroe said quietly.

For a moment there wasn’t any sound but that of the diesel generator powering the vehicle’s lights.

“No.” Grace’s voice was emphatic. “Joe always thinks in straight lines. Isn’t there some indirect way? Doesn’t Hector Rivas have an enemy who wants to get even, someone who would help us?”

“Hector has killed all his enemies and many of his friends,” Quintana said.

“You’re saying that there isn’t a single person in northern Mexico who wants Hector and his gang stopped and could help us do just that?” Grace said.

Quintana thought for a moment. “Perhaps, yes, perhaps. Ascencio Beltran.”

“Beltran?” Faroe asked. “El Tiburon?”

The Shark.

“You know him?” Quintana asked.

“He was a major marijuana smuggler sixteen years ago. Then he dropped out of sight. Some say he was killed. Some say he was in jail.”

“He is alive,” Quintana said. “He is living in the only place in Tijuana that Hector Rivas does not control. It is the place no one controls. La Ciudadita.”

Faroe smiled oddly. “The little city within the city. I’ll be damned.”

“What is La Ciudadita?” Steele asked.

“The street name for the federal prison at La Mesa, in south Tijuana.”

“Will El Tiberon help us?” Faroe asked.

Quintana’s shoulders shifted in a shrug. “He might, but first you must convince Sister Maude.”

“Who is she?” Grace asked.

“The unsainted saint of La Mesa,” Faroe said. “Will she see me?”

“Us,” Grace said instantly.

“You don’t want to see La Mesa Prison,” he said, his voice flat.

“Haven’t we had this conversation before? What does want have to do with any of this? Sister Maude might feel better about your intentions if you have a woman with you.”

“She’s right,” Steele said. “There are times and places where men alone just can’t get the job done.”

Quintana said, “I will call Sister Maude.”

What Faroe said made Grace wince.

55

BROWN FIELD

MONDAY, 6:10 A.M.


IMAGES POURED INTO STEELE’S computer, bounced from the helicopter to the satellite and back down to San Diego. Steele took one look at the photos and reached for the scrambled cell phone.

Grace answered it on the first ring. “Joe’s driving fast and needs both hands to flip off people who get in the way. Can I help?”

Steele smiled. The more he saw of Grace, the better he liked her. Balls and brains were a tough combination to beat.

“Tell Faroe that the situation has changed at All Saints,” Steele said.

“Lane?” she asked, her voice raw.

“Not directly.”

At the other end of the call, Grace sagged with relief.

“What?” Faroe shouted so Steele could hear him.

Grace held the phone to Faroe’s ear.

“Wood is sending me digital photos from the helicopter,” Steele said. “Overnight, the soccer field grew a full crop of tents. Armed personnel are all over the place like ants on honey.”

“So Hector owns the army, too?”

“Do you believe in coincidences?” Steele asked dryly.

“Not that one. How many soldiers?”

“Too many. Any extraction of Lane would have to be extremely quiet. Softly, softly, catchee monkey, and mind the fangs and claws.”

“The chopper is too loud,” Faroe said. “We might fake an emergency landing, but we’d have to shoot our way out. The Aerospatiale isn’t built for that.”

“Wood and Murchison are examining water extractions. Jarrett and you could infiltrate wearing the uniform of the day. We would provide sniper coverage, of course, but if we used it…”

“It would all go from sugar to dog shit real quick,” Faroe finished.

He braked, hit the horn, and swerved around an idiot doing fifty in the fast lane while shaving and flossing his teeth.

“Can you cover the place from real-time satellite photos?” Faroe asked.

“If you don’t mind spending thousands of-”

“Spend it,” he cut in. “It’s on me. Can you get enough resolution for individual ID?”

“Not unless they look up and wave on command.”

“Is Lane’s sat tracker still working?”

“Yes,” Steele said. “He hasn’t moved.”

“Let me know if that changes. Anything else?”

“Your final option isn’t much of an option anymore.”

56

LA MESA PRISON

MONDAY, 6:15 A.M.


THE GUARD IN THE visitors’ parking lot carried a pistol and charged Grace and Faroe ten dollars because they arrived in a Mercedes. The guard at the visitors’ gate carried a pump shotgun and charged them another twenty dollars because they were gringos.

The courier waiting for them inside the gate was unarmed and he refused a tip altogether.

“Por El Senor,” he said.

For the grace of God.

The courier was wearing an Oakland Raiders cap and a Metallica T-shirt, and had the shy dignity of an altar boy.

He ushered them down a long, narrow alley lined with doors made from steel bars. From inside, hidden by the shadows, prisoners stared at them with glittering eyes. Several of them made smooching and sucking noises when they saw Grace.

She ignored them.

“Muy peligroso,” the courier warned them.

Very dangerous.

“Only if you let them out,” Faroe said.

An inmate hissed at him.

The air smelled of raw sewage.

“Breathe through your mouth,” Faroe said in a low voice to Grace.

“So I can savor the taste? This makes Terminal Island and Lompoc look like day spas.”

“You asked for it.”

She walked around a cloudy puddle that had gathered on the ground near what must have been a cracked septic line. “It’s a learning experience.”

“Only the first time. Whatever happens, eyes front and just keep walking like you’ve seen it all a dozen times before and weren’t impressed.”

“Like you?”

“Just like me.”

The courier led them out of the alley and into the main prison yard. It was as big as a large city block. Even this early in the morning, the space was crowded. Groups of men leaned against walls or gathered near the ratty palm trees, smoking and talking and waiting for something to happen. Anything.

The concrete walls around the courtyard were three stories high. Guards with shotguns and assault rifles prowled the catwalks wearing tan uniforms, sunglasses, and baseball caps.

There weren’t any guards in the main yard. The inmates were on their own.

A group of children were choosing sides for a schoolyard game, but there was no school inside La Mesa Prison. The tallest of the children proudly held a soccer ball. It was so scuffed and worn that its leather covering was the same color as the soil of the courtyard.

One of the kids spotted the outsiders and whistled an alarm. The entire group broke and ran toward the gringos, shouldering and elbowing to get close. They shouted in Spanish and thrust out their hands, palms up, demanding or pleading for money.

Grace hesitated.

“No,” Faroe said, taking her arm. “Nothing.”

“But-”

“Remember,” he cut in. “You’ve seen it all.”

“They’re children,” she said in a low voice, keeping her eyes front. “Why are they in prison?”

“They were born here.”

The courier looked over his shoulder at them.

“Hurry up,” Faroe said.

They walked quickly toward a small building huddled on one side of the main yard. The makeshift church was built of unpainted concrete blocks. A rusty cross made out of rebar was wired to the wooden front door.

When they reached the little church, Faroe loosened his grip on Grace’s arm and spoke in a voice only she could hear. “Remember, amada, you’re inside the prison but outside the pale. Tijuana is San Diego’s Indian country. La Mesa is Tijuana’s Indian country.”

“Odd place for a church.”

“Wait until you see the mother superior.”

The courier knocked softly on the wooden door, pushed it open, and gestured for them to enter. Inside, rows of battered wooden benches faced an altar dominated by a dark-skinned plaster Christ with indio features, a massive crown of thorns, and a blood-drenched torso. To one side a serene, unusually beautiful Virgin Mary smiled her blessing down from a niche in the concrete-block wall. The niche was crowded with burning candles. The air was thick with their sooty smoke.

A white-haired woman in an ankle-length straight skirt and a blue zippered sweatshirt knelt at the altar rail. After a few moments, she rose and turned toward Grace and Faroe. Tall, very well built beneath the modest clothes, the woman was striking. She had the high cheekbones and large, almond-shaped eyes of a cover model. Those eyes were blue, very dark against the frame of white hair that once had been blond.