To know for sure, my first order of business is to use some of the bribery money to meet with a Vecindario 18 informant and hope to God he’s on the inside enough to know where Greer is being held.
The informant’s name is Frankie Orellana, a first-generation Salvadorian who had emigrated to the United States and found himself in Los Angeles. Hard on his luck, he was recruited into the 18th Street gang there and spent a handful of years committing crimes—mostly drug related—for the betterment of his gang. He also was married and had a young son when he was arrested for an offense that would send him away for a long time.
Instead, he was deported back to El Salvador, forced to leave his American wife and American-born son behind. He was a prime recruit for the US government, offered the chance to be reunited with his family if he worked as an informant. Frankie agreed and insinuated himself into one of the larger gangs under Vecindario 18, where he’s been for the last four years.
His handler set up our meeting, and to be cautious, it’s happening outside the city at an abandoned farm. It takes me thirty minutes to get there from the airport, which is time I hate to waste. Unfortunately, he’s my best opportunity to find Greer. However, I have to take his information with a grain of salt. He’s been the CIA’s lapdog for four years now and still hasn’t been reunited with this family, so he may be more loyal to his gang than to the US government at this point.
When I pull onto a narrow dirt road with high vegetation on either side, I have to travel a good fifty yards to see that Orellana has already arrived. He’s leaning against the side of an old Buick, so rusted I’m surprised the doors are hanging on.
He’s a wiry man, a good foot shorter than I am, I note, as I exit the Jeep provided to me at the airport. Orellana twists his neck, left and right, as if he’s expecting someone to jump out of the bushes at us. He looks cagey and ready to take flight. By the hostility in his eyes, I can tell he’s not happy about this meeting.
I don’t bother offering my hand. Just a curt nod. “Thanks for meeting me, Frankie.”
His eyebrows shoot high in surprise that I speak Spanish. I also speak Russian, but I’m nowhere as good as Greer. She’s one of those people with an aptitude for languages.
Frankie replies in Spanish, but the petulant tone is universal. “I don’t want to be here.”
Not going to waste time trying to assuage his feelings. “I’ve got fifty thousand US dollars for you in that Jeep if you have good information for me.”
Now it doesn’t seem all that off-putting to meet with me. Frankie’s eyes cut to the Jeep, and I can read the shrewd expression on his face as he looks back to me, sizing me up. “Before you even think about reaching for that gun in the back of your pants, I want you to know I’m faster than you are. You’ll be dead before you get your hand on it. Furthermore, if you don’t help me to the best of your ability, and I don’t check in with your handler after this meeting, you’re never going to be reunited with your family. Are we clear?”
Frankie glares at me, but nods. “Clear.”
“Good. Anything you say here stays between you and me. It goes no further, not even to your handler.”
Again, Frankie blinks at me in disbelief.
“I’m not US government,” I explain. “I’m private, so I don’t report to anyone.”
It’s the reassurance the man clearly needs because he relaxes, shoulders lowering a bit. “What do you need to know?”
“Hugo Mejia kidnapped an American woman this morning. The newspaper reported her as a spy, and they’re saying she’s being held in your local jail. We know that’s not true, and I’m positive Hugo has her somewhere else. I need to know where.”
Frankie again looks around the area, and he rubs at the back of his neck.
“Do you know anything?” I ask, a bit harshly to get his attention.
His eyes snap back to mine, and he admits, “I think I know where she’s at. I don’t work directly for Mejia, but some of my friends do, and he’s called in a few to head out to his warehouse, just south of Tonacatepeque.”
“Is that the warehouse where he stores his arms?” I ask for clarification.
Frankie nods. “Guns, munitions, and some explosives. He has another warehouse for the larger stuff, but since he’s ordered some of the Vecindario 18 to go there, I’m guessing that’s where she is.”
“Word is he has more protection around his home, most of it military-trained forces. Any chance she could be there?”