Page 55 of Volt
I glance at the one of Zavala and his wife and can’t help but think the man has done very well for himself. There’s another picture of his kid, a dark-haired boy of maybe seven or eight. Cute kid. And the three of them together make up the perfect American family. If people only knew the truth about this asshole. The thought plants an idea in my head—one I’m going to need to think on a little more.
A pair of wingback chairs sits in front of the desk—smaller than his majesty’s throne, of course. They’re markedly smaller, most likely to remind whoever’s sitting in them who holds all the power. It’s a cheap psychological gimmick, but it’s effective. To my right is a sitting area. A giant Persian rug covers the floor and atop that is a sofa and another pair of wingbacks across from it, separated by an oval-shaped coffee table.
A framed piece of art hangs on the wall directly behind Zavala’s desk. If you can really call it that. It’s a stark white background with four red dots in one corner and slashes of blue, yellow, and purple run diagonally across the canvas. I’m sure it’s supposed to have some deep and profound meaning, but I couldn’t possibly guess what it might be. I really hate modern art. It’s got no soul to it whatsoever as far as I’m concerned.
A pair of bookcases flank the painting, the shelves lined with framed photos, small knickknacks mostly. Nothing overly interesting, but things, I think, are helpful. I snap on a pair of latex gloves and get to work. I take one of the framed photos from his bookcase and attach one of the bugs to the back of it then carefully set it back on the shelf, making sure to put it back exactly how I found it.
After that, I attach one to the underside of one of the chairs in front of Zavala’s desk and one on the back side of that abomination of a painting. It’s always better to be redundant and have several devices going in case one fails or is found. I’d really like to get a camera in here, but I see no smoke detectors and there’s no other place I can hide one very discreetly, so I scrap the idea. Can’t have everything we want.
“You’re out of time, boys. I got a pair of bogies moving in.” Domino’s voice comes through my earpiece. “Looks like Zavala’s security guys. They’re coming around the back. They’ll be in the door in thirty seconds.”
I take out the handheld then buckle my bag and sling it over my shoulder then quickly back out of the office. I turn the alarm on Zavala’s office back on, and by the time I’m heading for the door, Adam’s there waiting for me.
“We good?” I ask.
He nods. “Affirmative. All four devices planted.”
“Good.”
“Twenty seconds,” Domino informs us.
We cross the main showroom and slip out the front door. Adam uses his picks, making sure to lock it up behind us again.
“Ten seconds.”
I flip the switches on the handheld, and a moment later, the red lights start to blink, indicating that the alarm is active. After that, we dart across the street and slip down the alley to the parking lot in the back. By the time we get there, Domino’s already there, the case containing his sniper rifle slung across his back.
“We have ears?” he asks.
I nod. “We have ears.”
“Excellent,” he says. “Now, let’s rattle this prick’s cage and see what happens.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Volt
On a small rise behind one of Zavala’s many warehouses, screened by tall bushes so that I can’t be seen, I watch through my night vision goggles as the van pulls into the lot behind the warehouse. The structure is old and in an out-of-the-way place, and Zavala doesn’t think anybody knows about it. And we wouldn’t have if he hadn’t talked about it on the wire. A black SUV pulls to a stop next to the van. The brake lights flare and then go dark as the drivers shuts off their engines. A moment later, the doors open and men start to climb out. I keep an eye on what’s going on down below and key my mic.
“We’ve got six bogies, boys,” I say quietly. “Four coming out of the SUV, two out of the van.”
Using the information we’ve been gleaning from the bugs we planted in Zavala’s office, we’ve spent the last week hitting him where it hurts most—his bank account. We’ve destroyed four loads of the heroin he’s stockpiling in anticipation of taking over Northern California. He figures once he wipes us out, he’ll flood the streets from here to Sacramento with his H, oxy, fentanyl, and whatever other shit he’s bringing up from Mexico.
I watch as Zavala’s men fan out in a semicircle around the back of the van, providing cover while it’s being unloaded. Even through the green glow of the night vision, I can see that Zavala’s guys are on high alert, just waiting for us to make a move. It’s one of the security improvements Emiliano’s made since we started this guerilla campaign against him.
We’re having an effect on him. On the bugs we planted, we’ve heard him railing about losing his shipments, losing his men, and losing his foothold. I know we can’t win a straight-up war against him. He’s simply got too many men and cutting-edge munitions that we can’t get our hands on. So I suggested we make it too costly for him to do business here. It’s going to be a protracted war of attrition, but if we can interrupt his pipeline and cost him more than he’s making, maybe he’ll eventually give up.
It was a hard sell to Doc and some of the other guys clamoring for open war. It entails taking a lot of risks. But in the long run, it’s a strategy that favors us. Not taking him head-on allows us to be more flexible and pick our spots to do maximum damage. And it keeps us alive—something that wouldn’t be possible if we charged in with guns blazing. Sure, it’s a cinematic and glorious way to go out, but it serves no purpose other than to help Emiliano accomplish his goals of destroying us and taking over Northern California.
I key my mic. “Domino, you’re on.”
“Copy that,” comes his tinny-sounding voice through my earpiece.
I watch the guard on the farthest end of the right side of the line knowing that’s where Domino’s going first. The man’s head snaps back, and he instantly drops. The other three men turn but the second one goes down as well. The other two turn and begin firing in Domino’s general direction, blindly shooting into the darkness.
I key the mic. “Domino, you good?”
“These fuckers couldn’t hit water if they fell out of a boat,” he came back, sounding amused. “Yeah, I’m good.”
