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The long nose of the H-295 Super Courier aircraftstuck out into the night, the propeller a spinning blur asit cut through the darkness. Dressed in gray tacticalNomex flight suits with black balaclavas worn underneaththeir Pro-Tec helmets, the heavily laden grimfacedmen sitting inside the plane were still. Only thepilot at the controls was moving as he shifted his armsand head while flying the aircraft.
There was no talking among them, no joking or conversation.Voices would have been immediately blottedout by the roar of the engine coming in through theopen side of the plane, the right side where the doorwas missing. The cold night air washed in through theopening as the plane continued on its flight.
Late December is not the time of year that SanDiego has the great weather that it's well known for. Atfive o'clock on that Thursday morning, the sun wasn'tdue up for another couple of hours. The overcast clouds blocked the moon and the stars, further darkeningan already black night.
A shrill whistle blast sounded out through the corridor,echoing off the hard walls as the lights along the ceilingcame on. The area was silent after the blast ofsound. Rows of individual six-by-nine-foot cells linedone wall. The facing wall was nothing more than a rowof sealed windows, each one covered with heavy bars.It was the maximum-security segregation area of theFederal Building in downtown San Diego.
The silence was explained by the almost total lackof activity on the floor. In all of the cells, there wasonly one prisoner. As the head of one of the largestdrug cartels in Mexico, Placido Pena was considered avery important prisoner, as well as a high-security risk.He was kept isolated from the rest of the inmates heldin the building while they underwent trial in the federalcourts across the street. Pena was exercised and fedonly in segregated circumstances, especially now thathis trial was drawing to an end.
"Do you have to blow that damned whistle everymorning?" Officer Mitch Stevens said in the securitycontrol room just outside the isolation area.
Sergeant Keith Munson looked up at his shift partner.
"Look," Munson said, "if that damned drug lordwasn't on this floor, we wouldn't have to be here theday after Christmas and we could be having a nice longweekend just like everyone else. They even let his jury go home for the holidays and kept him locked up herein isolation."
"Everyone in the building knows what you think ofthis guy," Stevens said. "It's not like you keep youropinion a great big secret."
"Never forget that six brother officers were shot takingthis guy," Munson said. "Both a DEA agent and aHighway Patrol officer were killed. He's facing multiplecounts of drug trafficking, money laundering, andmurder charges. If he hadn't been suckered across theborder to help his brother, we never would have gottenhim. It's not like the Mexican government ever wouldhave moved against him. He has everyone across theborder either in his pocket or so afraid of him theydon't dare move.
"If I'm not going to be happy about being here, hesure as hell isn't going to be either. That sonofabitchhas more money than God and thinks he can buy hisway out of here with fast-talking lawyers. Well, he'sgoing to learn that money won't buy him a damnedthing here. He's supposed to get a minimum of twoninety-minute exercise periods a week. And he's to bekept segregated from the rest of the population. So Iguess we'll just have to put him out early today."
Leaning forward at the desk where he sat, Munsonkeyed the microphone hanging on its long boom.
"Okay, Pena, rise and shine. You've got fifteen minutesbefore your exercise period. I suggest you dresswarm, it's a bit chilly outside."
Placido Pena's name meant "tranquil," which was anythingbut his nature. He and his brother had risen to thetop of a fiercely competitive business, drug traffickingacross the border from Mexico. They had reached thepinnacle of their professional lives by being more ruthlessthan anyone else in their business, a field notknown for its gentle work ethics. Even the viciousColombian cartels had learned to respect the Penafamily of northern Mexico—those who failed to learnthat lesson died.
Dark, cold eyes gleamed out from a square face—eyes that had seen streams of blood flowing in thestreets at their owner's order. That face had witnessed alot of violence in Pena's thirty-seven years of life.Thick coal-black hair and a full beard surrounded acalm face that could show intelligence, charm, andevil.
In his orange prisoner's clothing, Pena stood facinghis cell door as Munson walked up. Back in the controlroom, Stevens watched through the heavy Lexan windowas Munson approached the cell. Neither officerwas armed, they only had the can of pepper spray andradio on their belts, but they needed little more. Therewas no place for a prisoner to try to escape to on thefloor. The Federal Building was twelve stories tall andthey were on the ninth floor. Below them were securedfloors that were normally filled with officers and otherfederal law-enforcement bureaucrats. Above themwere the general prisoner-holding floors and the exerciseyard on the top of the building.
Excerpted from The Home Team: Hostile Borders by Dennis C. Chalker, Kevin Dockery All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
