Page 33 of Volt
“Yeah, I got it.”
I drive the stand into the soft dirt then secure the mic, carefully checking that the line of sight remains unobstructed.
“We’re good. Starting recording now,” he reports.
“Good to go,” I reply.
I pull the night vision binoculars down over my eyes and give it a moment for my eyes to adjust to the ghostly green tint. I scan the grounds of his house, looking for his guards and security measures.
“Two walking the perimeter. They’re at the southeast corner of the fence line,” I say. “Time is eleven thirty-two.”
“Eleven thirty-two. Copy that,” he responds from his post in the van. “If the pattern holds, we’ve got an hour before they’re back at that spot.”
“If the pattern holds.”
“It’s been the same for the last four nights,” Adam says.
“Take nothing for granted, man. These guys are pros,” I say. “They could start alternating the rounds just so nobody like us can get a firm bead on their rotation.”
“Fair enough.”
I turn my attention back to the guards at the fence line. After four nights, I don’t think they’re going to alter their rotation, but I don’t like taking chances. The guards pause and both light up cigarettes, the cherries glowing white through my glasses. They’re outfitted in black tactical gear with what looks like Kevlar vests strapped over their chests.
“Guards are armed with what look like Fegyver MP69s,” I say.
“These guys aren’t fucking around.”
“No, they are not.”
The MP69s are a gas-powered assault rifle that can go from semi to fully automatic at the flip of a switch and the 39mm rounds will blow a nasty hole in you if you’re unlucky enough to be caught by one.
“Anything going on in the house?”
“Nothing important. Sounds like they’re watching a soccer game or something.”
Doc had gotten some intel that Zavala has a house up here in the Oakland Hills. It’s a wealthy enclave in the Bay Area filled with large luxurious homes. It’s not surprising to me that a cartel boss like Emiliano Zavala’s got a place up here. Doc tasked us with getting familiar with the place. He wants us to gather all the intel we can get before we take the next step in planning our retaliation. So, I have Adam posted up in the van with the monitoring equipment while I’m positioned down the hill a little way, getting the audio and video sorted out.
Zavala is methodical. He’s not like his brother whose recklessness led to his death. Emiliano is a planner. He’s the kind of guy who not only likes to see the entire board but thinks half a dozen moves ahead. You’re rarely, if ever, going to catch this guy unprepared. That’s why we need to have all the intel on him we can gather before we move on him. If we’re not a step ahead of him, it’s going to be the end for us.
That’s why, for the last four nights, Adam and I have been parked on an access road above Zavala’s place, gathering intel. Directional mics, thermal imaging units, night vision glasses—we’ve used every toy in our box trying to get every scrap of intel we can. And honestly, I don’t feel like we’ve gotten very much. It’s like he knows how vulnerable he is in that house and because of that, he doesn’t discuss business there. Or maybe he just wants to keep his wife and young son out of that side of his world and that’s why he doesn’t talk shop at home.
“Damn,” Adam says in my earpiece. “Look at her. Say what you will, but Zavala picked himself a fine ass wife.”
I turn the night vision on my goggles off then look at the living room of the house. Zavala’s place is modern with lots of stainless steel and glass, giving us a good view of the interior. And a tall leggy blonde who looks like she just stepped out of the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalog walks into the living room—Zavala’s wife. And Adam’s right, she’s smokin’ hot. But I still don’t think she measures up to Fallon.
I give myself a mental slap upside the head as the thought crosses my mind. I really don’t need to be thinking about her right now. I need to focus. We can’t afford to go into this half-cocked with bad information. If there’s any chance we can get something useful, we need to have it. But I just have a feeling he keeps his two worlds separate—at home, he’s a loving family man, but at his office, he’s the brutal drug-running kingpin who murdered Prophet.
“We need to figure out where this guy does his business,” I say, thinking out loud. “Trying to get anything at his home is going to be a bust. The guy compartmentalizes.”
“His peas never touch his carrots,” Adam says.
I chuckle. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Speaking of compartmentalization, when are you going to nut up and talk to Fallon?”
“Yeah, let’s just focus on the task at hand, huh?”
“Don’t tell me you can’t multitask,” he says with a chuckle.
