Frank followed the F-150 off the freeway and back toward the tan house where Travis had picked up the cousin earlier.
“So we just leave our second C.I. behind,” she said, “bleeding to death inside that shed?”
We pulled to the curb ten or twelve houses down from the cousin’s place, and Frank looked back at her. “Sandoval could have anemployee at that storage facility,” he said. “Someone who might tip them off if a squad of black-and-whites roll in and break that lock.”
Cassie nodded, and I got the impression that she already knew this, and her question was rhetorical.
But it made me determined, more than before.
We had lost two C.I.s. One, we burned after death. This one, we left in a closed space to bleed out.
“Sandoval,” I said, and everyone nodded. The gang’s success was predicated on their ruthlessness. And Sandoval had either been the voice on the other end of that phone call, or he had green-lit the murder via Regnar.
“Dead men tell no tales,” Frank said. Which was one of Frank’s go-to lines.
The cousin backed the F-150 against his garage, and I took binoculars from the center console. Through them, I saw the man grab something from inside the house. He came out and crouched near the back of the U-Haul.
Cassie moved up from the back of the van. “What’s he doing?”
Our view was blocked by the U-Haul. “I can’t tell,” I said.
The big man walked toward the front door with something in his hand, but I couldn’t see what it was. After a minute, he went inside and closed the front door.
I stepped out of the van and called Barry Kemp from ATF. The stars were out, but a wetness hung in the air. South Florida humidity, still fighting the night for attention.
“You got an update?” Kemp asked, his voice hoarse.
I had emailed the ATF deputy director the day before about the house in Foggy Bottom. Now I told him what had happened to our second C.I.
“Jesus,” he said. “So you don’t have an address on where this guy in the U-Haul is headed?”
“No,” I said. “But it’s a thirteen-hour run to D.C. If I’m the driver, I’d get up by four or five a.m.”
“Can you keep eyes on him until sunup?” Kemp asked, his accent ringing strong on the wordeyesas if it had two syllables.
“Sure,” I said.
“I told you I’d have an agent available, right?” Kemp said.
“Yeah.”
“His name is O’Reilly. I’ll have him there by four at the latest.”
“Your agent will take over surveillance?”
“Not on his own, no,” Kemp said. “My guess is that it’ll take Homeland ’til seven to get satellite support up. Until then, you and O’Reilly are gonna have to play leapfrog.”
This meant we’d surveil the F-150, but avoid the driver noticing, with one of our cars in front of the truck and the other in back.
“A lot of these state highways,” I said, “they’re two lanes on each side. Some two lanes total. You pass, and you get seen.”
“Well, you can’t be seen,” Kemp warned. “Too much at stake.”
“This O’Reilly,” I asked, “he’s briefed in?”
“No one’s briefed in, Camden,” Kemp said. “This is all need-to-know. Like you wanted, right?”
“Right,” I said.
