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From the radio speakers, the familiar grating voice of the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security filled the vehicle. It was a news report from Capitol Hill, and Payne heard the DHS head declare in a politician’s dispassionate monotone, “Our borders, sir, are more secure than ever.”

“Bullshit!” Jim Byrth blurted, practically spitting it out.

Payne glanced over and said dryly, “You really should learn to speak your mind, Jim. Holding things inside is not healthy.”

Byrth grunted. “I just get tired of the damn political lies. You know how long the border with Mexico runs, from the Pacific to the Gulf?”

“A couple thousand miles?”

“Right. The reality is there’s no way that’s secure—and certainly not ‘more secure than ever.’ At the San Ysidro entry plaza, the border checkpoint just across from Tijuana, eight million pedestrians cross into the U.S. every year. Another twenty million come in cars. That’s just one border checkpoint. Texas’s busiest, Laredo, has a daily average of five thousand trucks coming in from Nuevo Laredo, which happens to be the main smuggling route of the Gulf Cartel. We don’t know how much contraband gets through our checkpoints—only what we catch—therefore it’s impossible to quantify how much crosses at uncontrolled points. Which is why it’s disingenuous at best to declare the border secure.”

A couple of minutes later the United States attorney general’s voice could be heard over the speakers: “. . . these financial institutions, Senator, have become so enormous that we can only fine them, because we have found that if we in fact brought criminal charges there would be a negative impact on the United States economy, and, to coin a phrase, as goes the U.S. economy so goes the world economy . . .”

“You been following this?” Payne said, pointing at the radio. “Banks caught methodically violating laundering laws? Then fined only a couple billion dollars after moving tens of billions in cartel money?”

Byrth nodded. “Congress should have never done away with the Glass-Steagall Act. Banks in bed with investment brokerages? Banks used to be just banks, and could only operate intrastate. Now we have an alphabet soup of corporate finance giants, some headquartered here, some in other countries, with branches around the world.”

“And laundering money.”

“Laundering money and who the hell knows what else,” Byrth said, reaching over and punching the dash button that turned off the radio.

“And that makes me think of that poor bastard Garvey,” Byrth then said. “What kind of world is it when a guy just doing his job gets busted as a mule moving two lousy keys while worrying that the cartel will kill his family? Meantime, these big boys in their ivory towers, willingly moving cartel money and counting their profits, get a Get Out of Jail Free Card from no less than the AG himself.”

“They’re calling that ‘too big to fail, too big to jail.’ Apparently Garvey’s mistake was he didn’t move enough volume.”

Byrth shook his head. “I fear we are slowly selling our collective soul to the highest bidder.”

“I fear you’re right,” Payne said, then added, “Master is next street after the light.”

Maybe that’s what I need to do to get a response from that bastard—raise the bid.

Payne looked back at his phone and reread the first message he had sent to the number on the grease-stained note. He started typing:

YOU HAVE ONE HOUR TO REPLY TO THE FOLLOWING OFFER . . .

Then his phone began vibrating, the screen showing the call was to his personal phone number. The caller ID read: UNKNOWN.

He sighed, then switched over to that number and answered it.

“Yeah?” he snapped, unintentionally.

“Matt?” a female voice said, clearly distressed.

“What?” he said impatiently. Then, slowly, added, “Wait . . . Maggie?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I need help. Fast. In twenty minutes . . .”

[FOUR]

Lucky Stars Casino & Entertainment

North Beach Street, Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 9:55 P.M.

Dmitri Gurnov walked out of the revolving doors of the casino carrying one of the big black bags. He glanced up, saw the security camera, then looked forward, snugging his fedora lower.

What are the odds Antonov is watching . . . ?