Yet trust didn’t mean the lack of pre-op briefing. Ding Chavez was no micromanager—but he was a leader, and he wanted to be certain everyone on his team was on the same page.
He checked his watch again. “We’ll hit the ground about the time Chen leaves the U.S. That gives us roughly eleven hours to set up in our rooms and run the routes between the airport and downtown before he arrives. Our goal is to gather intel, but we don’t yet know if Chen is running a countersurveillance team—or what the hell he’s even up to for sure. Beyond that, street crime in Buenos Aires isn’t exactly unheard of, and we’re working without a net here. We use the handguns to save our lives, but if you’re mugged by some street thug, I’d much rather see you put a boot up the bastard’s fourth point of contact.”
“Copy that,” Midas said. Jack and Adara nodded.
Chavez continued. “Buenos Aires is supposed to be the most European city in South America, but I don’t care to cool my heels in a European jail, either. It goes without saying, but we’ll keep everything in our pants unless they’re absolutely needed.”
The others, including Lisanne, exchanged glances, stifling laughter.
“Of course, boss,” Midas said.
“Righto,” Adara said.
“Shut up,” Chavez said, leaning back in his chair again. “I’m still asleep.”
31
It was just after four p.m. when Moco Goya parked his blue Chevy S-10 pickup nine houses down from the FBI bitch’s house on Buttermilk Circle. Zambrano had sent a kid to watch her, and he said she must have knocked off work early, because she was already home. The kid was born without a right hand. He was eager to get some trigger time, but Zambrano said he should be a lookout for a while. Everyone called the kid Chueco, or “crooked”—what you called a lefty. It was weird that the kid wasn’t parked out front like he was supposed to be. Lucky for him, Zambrano didn’t know he’d abandoned his post. He must have gone for a Coke or something. It didn’t matter. Moco didn’t need him anyway. He had Gusano, the village idiot.
The Worm sat in the passenger seat, gaping at the rows and rows of fancy homes like he’d never seen a nice house before. Moco cursed himself every time he brought the slow-witted sicario along—until the shooting started. Idiot or not, the Worm was a killing machine. In more than a dozen hits, Moco had never seen him hesitate. It was just getting to that point that was tedious.
Gusano turned and blinked like some kind of tree sloth. “?Güey! What do you think these houses cost?”
Moco just shook his head and got out of the truck. Gusano was like a little kid. If you answered one question, he would only come up with another.
The houses were big, though probably not too expensive in the great scheme of things. An FBI agent lived here, after all, and she couldn’t be knocking down enough to buy one of the real McMansions that were springing up all over North Dallas. These brick monstrosities had high roofs and wooden privacy fences to keep the neighbors from snooping on one another, but they were pretty much all the same, with a rock wall here or a wood panel there to give off the illusion that the developer had used more than four different blueprints. A wide concrete walking trail ran behind the houses on this street, winding along a low creek choked with cottonwood trees and impenetrable tangles of mustang grapevines. The developer probably advertised it as a greenbelt and the homeowners got a healthy charge in their yearly association dues for the privilege of living next to a swamp that the developer couldn’t build on anyway.
No, the neighborhood around Buttermilk Circle wasn’t exactly wealthy, but it was rich enough that Moco and Gusano couldn’t just walk around without looking like they had a reason to be there. A couple Mexicans pushing lawn mowers for a bunch of white Texans was stereotypical—but Moco wanted to blend in, not climb up the social ladder.
It was warm, but Moco had fastened the top button on his Western shirt in order to hide most of the Santa Muerte tattoo. Gusano had a similar tattoo, but it was on his back, so a T-shirt was enough to hide his.
Moco opened the dented tailgate and slid out two treated two-by-six pieces of lumber before climbing into the bed and guiding the greasy lawn mower down the makeshift ramps. He wasn’t even sure the old thing would run. Gusano grabbed a Weed Eater and the red gas can that contained their guns. As slow as he was, the Worm had figured out on his own that a five-gallon fuel jug could hold two TEC-9 machine pistols, two Glocks, and a break-open shotgun with both barrels sawed down to ten inches. He’d cut the red plastic with a jigsaw and then used a piano hinge and a couple hasps to keep his new gun vault closed while he carried it. The hasps were visible, but cops wouldn’t even pay attention to a fuel jug.
They’d no sooner left the truck than an old guy with a young blond wife who was way too hot for his fat gut whistled Moco over as he pushed the mower past. The fat guy wanted to know if he had time to take on a new customer. Gusano was already in killing mode and braced beside him, setting the fuel jug on the sidewalk. Moco gave a slight shake of his head, hoping the crazy assassin noticed. In any other circumstance, he would have flipped the guy off—or maybe even beat his ass for disrespecting him with a whistle. But Moco smiled instead and said he’d drop back by when he was done with his present job and set something up. The lady, who obviously had better sense than her asshole husband, kept tugging on his hand to try to get him to follow her inside. The old man finally relented, listening to his wife for a moment, and then said not to worry about it.
Moco watched them walk inside and made a mental note of the address. The couple had gotten a good long look at him. He’d have to think about coming back and tying up that loose end. Moco chuckled to himself as the blonde peeked out a crack in her door one last time to give him the eye. Yeah, he’d come back, all right. It would be fun.
Moco pushed the lawn mower up the sidewalk until they reached the FBI lady’s place. Gusano read the number on the mailbox. It was mottled red brick to match the house. “Twenty-three forty-eight.”
“This is it, then,” Moco said, feeling the tightness in his lungs that he felt before every hit.
A large ceramic frog squatted among neatly trimmed shrubs along the concrete porch. Fresh wood chips covered the manicured area under a newly planted pecan tree in the front yard. This lady cop had obviously already hired another company to take care of her yardwork. Moco felt a pang of professional jealousy, and then remembered he wasn’t there to do her lawn.