shook his head. "They're under the delusion that ICAP isn't needed to control the threat. They think regular law enforcement can deal with the likes of, well, us."
Garrett snorted. "Only if they catch us by surprise." He looked at Matt. "And good luck with that on the precogs."
"I'd have to be sleeping," Matt said. "Which is unlikely if I'm committing a crime."
Blossom furrowed her brow. "What's wrong with safe levels of augs? These people don't make sense."
"Of course they don't make sense," Akash said. "They're Americans, eh?"
They got out on the fifth floor, wandered past a maze of cubicles and into Matt's new office. The view of downtown Nashville would make any country fan jealous, and Matt kept the massive wood desk for the most part clutter-free, except for his laptop, a notepad, and a box of blue pens. The six of them made a crowd, and with only two chairs Jeff kept the briefing short and under two minutes.
"You flew all this way to tell us that?" Matt asked.
Jeff shrugged. "Last performance review they dinged me on visibility, buddy."
Garrett sighed. "Tax dollars at work."
* * *
Majestic pines and towering oaks dominated the mountainous skyline as Conor weaved the Jeep down the unpaved forest road. Matt grunted as a chipmunk crossed in front of them. The two-lane tunnel of trees through dappled sunlight smelled of pine and decomposing leaves, and the only man-made sound came from their engine. "This could almost be Tennessee."
"Not bloody likely," Conor said. "It's so hot you work a sweat just having a piss."
That wasn't quite true, but Coahuila's Indian summer spiked well hotter than Tennessee in late September, even halfway up the Sierra Madre Orientals. Still, if he didn't know his location, he'd never have guessed Mexico. They splashed through a puddle twenty feet across as they rounded the next corner. A young man stood in the middle of the road, hand outstretched, fingers splayed, an assault rifle slung across his back. His Mexican military uniform bore no patches or insignia.
He approached at a casual walk as they slid to a stop, asking questions in rapid-fire Spanish. As Conor responded, Matt's infrared vision picked up seven red-and-orange blotches hidden in the foliage. The man spoke into a shoulder mic, patted the hood, then stepped out of the way.
"He told me to go slow," Conor said. "We're almost there."
A half-mile further, the road opened up. A huge, well-manicured yard surrounded a stone-and-mortar, single-story mansion, more porch than house, with a terra-cotta roof and a large in-ground pool. The guards didn't bother to hide themselves, and for the first time Matt missed his combat shotgun and helmet. And Garrett, Blossom, and Akash, who waited at the airport as per the arrangement; two men in, no weapons.
A man watched their approach from the front of the house, leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed. Matt recognized Onofre Garza from the pictures in his file. Five-three, too thin, with a pencil mustache and pale brown skin, he didn't fit the popular image of a cartel overlord. The blue-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts and bare feet didn't help. A firm grip with calloused hands accompanied his welcome in near-perfect English.
"Welcome to my home, gentlemen. Come inside, before the day gets too hot." His gums and tongue were stained red, a vestige of an impoverished childhood spent chewing achiote. He turned his back on them and led the way up the stairs. His shirt bulged at his waistline in the telltale sign of a pistol tucked down the back of his shorts. The spacious interior, teak floors, and sparse mahogany furniture looked more like a gallery than a home. An empty gallery. Aside from dark plum drapes with brass finials, nothing adorned, cluttered, or otherwise occupied the walls.
They sat at a small table. Matt ran his hands over the mahogany, admiring the craftsmanship. A dark-skinned tween girl with long black hair carried in a silver tray.
Garrett snorted. "Only if they catch us by surprise." He looked at Matt. "And good luck with that on the precogs."
"I'd have to be sleeping," Matt said. "Which is unlikely if I'm committing a crime."
Blossom furrowed her brow. "What's wrong with safe levels of augs? These people don't make sense."
"Of course they don't make sense," Akash said. "They're Americans, eh?"
They got out on the fifth floor, wandered past a maze of cubicles and into Matt's new office. The view of downtown Nashville would make any country fan jealous, and Matt kept the massive wood desk for the most part clutter-free, except for his laptop, a notepad, and a box of blue pens. The six of them made a crowd, and with only two chairs Jeff kept the briefing short and under two minutes.
"You flew all this way to tell us that?" Matt asked.
Jeff shrugged. "Last performance review they dinged me on visibility, buddy."
Garrett sighed. "Tax dollars at work."
* * *
Majestic pines and towering oaks dominated the mountainous skyline as Conor weaved the Jeep down the unpaved forest road. Matt grunted as a chipmunk crossed in front of them. The two-lane tunnel of trees through dappled sunlight smelled of pine and decomposing leaves, and the only man-made sound came from their engine. "This could almost be Tennessee."
"Not bloody likely," Conor said. "It's so hot you work a sweat just having a piss."
That wasn't quite true, but Coahuila's Indian summer spiked well hotter than Tennessee in late September, even halfway up the Sierra Madre Orientals. Still, if he didn't know his location, he'd never have guessed Mexico. They splashed through a puddle twenty feet across as they rounded the next corner. A young man stood in the middle of the road, hand outstretched, fingers splayed, an assault rifle slung across his back. His Mexican military uniform bore no patches or insignia.
He approached at a casual walk as they slid to a stop, asking questions in rapid-fire Spanish. As Conor responded, Matt's infrared vision picked up seven red-and-orange blotches hidden in the foliage. The man spoke into a shoulder mic, patted the hood, then stepped out of the way.
"He told me to go slow," Conor said. "We're almost there."
A half-mile further, the road opened up. A huge, well-manicured yard surrounded a stone-and-mortar, single-story mansion, more porch than house, with a terra-cotta roof and a large in-ground pool. The guards didn't bother to hide themselves, and for the first time Matt missed his combat shotgun and helmet. And Garrett, Blossom, and Akash, who waited at the airport as per the arrangement; two men in, no weapons.
A man watched their approach from the front of the house, leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed. Matt recognized Onofre Garza from the pictures in his file. Five-three, too thin, with a pencil mustache and pale brown skin, he didn't fit the popular image of a cartel overlord. The blue-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts and bare feet didn't help. A firm grip with calloused hands accompanied his welcome in near-perfect English.
"Welcome to my home, gentlemen. Come inside, before the day gets too hot." His gums and tongue were stained red, a vestige of an impoverished childhood spent chewing achiote. He turned his back on them and led the way up the stairs. His shirt bulged at his waistline in the telltale sign of a pistol tucked down the back of his shorts. The spacious interior, teak floors, and sparse mahogany furniture looked more like a gallery than a home. An empty gallery. Aside from dark plum drapes with brass finials, nothing adorned, cluttered, or otherwise occupied the walls.
They sat at a small table. Matt ran his hands over the mahogany, admiring the craftsmanship. A dark-skinned tween girl with long black hair carried in a silver tray.
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