Good Intentions (Samogon 1) (7 page)

Saltillo, Mexico

It wasn’t yet ten in the morning and the heat was already unbearable.
Her ghillie suit was becoming quite uncomfortable under the heat of the morning sun—not to mention from all the sweat and dirt from the night before. Gnats and flies were starting to buzz around her face, irritating her, but DEA Agent Kelly Reed had to remain still and hidden in the sun-burnt grass.

The ambitious Reed was no upstart.
DEA plucked her straight out of the Army Ranger’s 75th Regiment where she was a second lieutenant in intelligence and counter-intelligence. She spoke fluent Spanish and Portuguese. She made her name in painstaking hours of operations, sweating in the field with no complaining, except when higher authorities would bind her hands for political agendas. What impressed the federal agency and made them realize she was their next prodigy for the war on drugs was her success on joint-task-force operations with the military’s SOCOM and DEA for trans-Atlantic intervention of South American cartels shipping cocaine into the ports of Portugal and southern Spain.

Reed had been given a small team to work in conjunction with larger operations in Mexico and Central America.
Being the maverick she was, her team was soon working independently with their eyes on the Ochoa cartel. In just a matter of three months she had established an entire network of human assets in and around Matamoros and Monterrey, and up through Brownsville, Texas—which was still an easy border crossing since the post-9/11 security enhancements. She even had assets in Port Arthur near the Louisiana border, where the Ochoas would occasionally smuggle drugs and guns on oil tankers traveling up the channel from the Gulf of Mexico.

Reports had been coming in at the last minute indicating that Raul Ochoa’s captains would be meeting at a
hacienda
outside of Saltillo this morning. There wasn’t time to put a plan together and assemble a team to capture Raul Ochoa. It was, however, a chance to get these guys on tape, score
mucho
points with her superiors, and maybe add a few more big fish to their catch list.

Raul’s oldest brother and right-hand man, Manuel Ochoa, would be heading the meeting.
Manuel was very good at managing the cartel for his brother and overseeing counter-intelligence. He had an outstanding arrest warrant for the kidnapping of two DEA agents from ten years ago. Both agents were presumed dead after so long of time. Somehow, Manuel always managed to avoid being arrested in America. California, Arizona, Texas—they all failed to grab him. And by the time DEA learned he was stateside, the sonofabitch had already slipped back home to Mexico.

Reed wanted to get some last-minute intel on the Ochoas before she had to fly into Dallas-Ft. Worth.
Earlier intel suggested that Manuel would be traveling with the Ochoa family when they were going to help Raul’s youngest son move to Ohio State University. Her team was planning on grabbing him either in Dallas-Ft. Worth or in Columbus, Ohio.

Reed had arrived in Saltillo the day before.
She and a member of her team had slipped out of town just after dusk. Together they made the eight mile hike to the ranch, crossing through wooded areas, open fields, and dried creek beds.

From the
tree line it was another six hundred yards across open ground to the
hacienda
. She was going to have to crouch and crawl across a grass field that was used for grazing livestock. Fortunately, there were no livestock that would spook and give up her position, and the grass was just tall enough to hide her.

The sun was rising quickly.
Reed hurried to fill the webbing of her ghillie suit with foliage from the field. She had five hours to cover the distance, get into position, and then ...
wait
.

In her hip-holster she carried a Glock model 19 9mm pistol with Winchester hollow-point ammunition. Slung under her shoulder and laying across her back was a Colt .223 assault rifle.
On her utility belt she carried two smoke grenades to provide ground cover if she had to run for it. A tactical bag dragged behind her. In it was a video camera with a high powered mic that could record through thick glass.

Her partner on this op would stay back in the
tree line and cover her with his Remington 700 model .308 caliber sniper rifle. He positioned himself thirty feet inside the tree line where the grass and weeds stood tall. His ghillie suit was already prepped.

While Reed made her way across the field, her partner, Paul Garner
—call sign Blazer—pulled out a video camera with a long-range lens and small tripod. Camouflaged cloth and strips of burlap covered the camera. He positioned the camera just a head of his rifle scope and off to the side. This allowed the former marine sniper to shift his eyes from the scope to the camera monitor with little or no movement. Even from six hundred yards out, Reed felt safe knowing Garner was on the trigger providing cover.

She was within fifty yards of the house and close enough for her camera equipment to
pick up audio. The house had plenty of big windows and glass doors that allowed her to see and hear with no problem. There was no need to crawl closer and chance being seen.

Without warning two sentries appeared from around the
hacienda
. Reed froze, careful not to draw attention to herself. One of the sentries panned the landscape with binoculars. The other continued patrolling around the house. She noticed they both carried M16 assault rifles that were probably stolen from the U.S. military or some security contractor.

She whispered into her radio’s headset for Garner.
“Blazer, are you seeing this? Our first movement of the day. Make sure you’re covered, one of them is eying your tree line and outlying parameter. The other is just strolling about.”

“Copy that, Raven.
I can see two more from here on the front drive. None of them are looking down at the grass. They’re oblivious to your presence. Looks like our party is about to start. Better call it in.”

In a low whisper she called it in.
“Nest, Raven. We have activity at our location. Are we recording?” Nest was the call sign for the temporary operating base she setup in Saltillo, where the rest of her team watched and waited.

“Reading you loud and clear
, Raven. We have a clear picture of the house and can hear the sentries talking to one another. We’re receiving a good image on Blazer’s camera as well. We’re good to go.”

An hour later, a procession of SUV’s approached the
hacienda
. Reed saw them approaching on the dirt road and quietly called out to her team. “Here we go, it’s showtime.”

As the procession pulled into the drive, armed guards in tailored suits stepped out of the front and rear SUV’s.
Two more armed guards exited the front of the house and stood post on the long front porch that wrapped around the side of the house.

In the middle of the procession, a man stepped out of an armored Chevy Tahoe
―Manuel Ochoa. Through the bay windows of the house, Reed could see all the other players gathering in the great room for the meeting.

“Raven, it’s looking like the regular faces, except for a few of the soldiers.
New recruits?”

“Yeah, probably so.
Gotta have cannon fodder to replace the fallen.” Trying to keep track of bodyguards and foot soldiers in cartel wars was futile. By the time you could associate a face with a name and have an opportunity to approach them, they were already dead from stupid street battles or assassination attempts on their bosses.

For the next two hours Reed laid under the hot sun recording cartel members.
The topic of conversation at the moment was the truce that had been made with another cartel, and the standing agreement not to target or harm each other’s civilian family members.

Four months ago, an Ochoa soldier had fired on low-level soldiers from a rival cartel in Brownsville, Texas.
In the cross-fire, the sister of the rival cartel boss had been shot along with one of her daughters―both survived. It had been reckless on the part of the Ochoa soldier, who was a
cowboy
wanting to shoot off his guns and show the world how tough he was—seeing rivals was all the excuse he needed. The Ochoas had to make amends to the rival cartel boss for the recklessness of their soldier.

So far, the intel was coming up empty, and most disheartening was hearing that Manuel Ochoa would not be traveling to Ohio with young Damon Ochoa.
Instead, he would be traveling throughout Mexico on cartel business.

The issue of Damon’s safety in America was brought up, but Manuel stressed that Damon was still considered a civilian and was protected by the truce.
Nevertheless, Manuel had arranged for some local security to keep an eye on Damon just in case. Although no cartel members would be staying with Damon in Columbus, it was clear
someone
would be providing security. Cartel truces were always broken by one person or another. But
who
would be providing the security was what Reed wanted to know.

This was the first time they were hearing cartel members talk about Damon Ochoa.
He was eighteen now and heading to America for a college education, no doubt to assist him in taking over daddy’s drug business one day. All of Damon’s older brothers were already in the business in one aspect or another. It would still be a few years for Damon. But the feds would want to keep a watch on him, nonetheless.

For the rest of the meeting Manuel spoke of security issues in and around
Matamoros, and new smuggling techniques that were going to be used along the Texas border.

Reed had been wanting to catch this bastard for some time
, and now she would have to wait a little longer. But at least her boys knew a little more about the shipments and could follow them to their destinations―arrest the dealers on the American side, seize the drugs, and put a good hurt on their operations. Her little intel-op hadn’t been as promising as she hoped, but her team did get good intel on the Ochoa’s new smuggling techniques. And now there was a truce. Maybe the truce would allow her and the boys to move around more freely, approach people a little easier, and recruit them as assets. First, she had to get back to Nest and let her boss know that their fish wasn’t coming stateside.

URGENT COMMUNICATION

Date:
July 25, 2009

To:
Ryan Anderson, DEA Deputy Director

Field Office

Dallas, Texas

From:
Kelly Reed, Agent

Operation Command Post

Monclova, Mexico

Re:
Operation Slipknot

Confirmed.
Ochoa cartel captain, Manuel Ochoa, will not be accompanying his nephew, Damon Ochoa, when he departs for his freshman year at Ohio State University. No known targets or fugitives believed to be accompanying the family when they assist Damon Ochoa with the move to campus. No INTEL on whether any Ochoa cartel members will be staying in Columbus to provide protection for Damon or whether private security contractors have been employed for that capacity. The current state of affairs among the cartels suggests that Damon Ochoa should be safe while attending college in America. Advise grab-teams to stand down and abort.

Saratov, Russia

The air below deck was stale.
The smell of fish, motor oil, and body order filled the Ukrainian’s nostrils. After years operating the foul ports of the Volga and the ships that navigated the river, the stench no longer bothered him as it did when he was a young man.

He walked through the gangways of the
Antillian,
making his way topside—the Lithuanian cargo ship he was traveling on was nearing port.

The five hundred miles from the Baltic Sea, down through Moscow, and into Saratov was an uneventful trip for the Rimsky-family enforcer.
Three miles out, Aleksandr Sergeyevich watched from the bridge as tug boats tied with the
Antillian
and another boat pulled along her port side to deliver the harbor pilot who would navigate the cargo ship into port.

Aleksandr sipped the strong black coffee as he eyed the midships’ monitors.
He watched as the harbor pilot climbed the gangplank. Four young men emerged from the boat and followed behind the harbor pilot.
Hmm … Wasn’t expecting them to board until we docked
, Aleksandr said to himself.

He sat his coffee cup down, patted the ships’ captain on the shoulder, and spoke to him in Russian.
The captain acknowledged his old friend’s remark with a sinister grin. Aleksandr exited the bridge on the starboard side and made his way aft across the deck of the ship. He stayed in the shadows of the shipment containers, making his way to the yellow container marked 3K331.

A crescent moon hung high in the sky.
Seagulls hovered over the deck of the ship as a light breeze blew across the Volga. There were few crew on deck. Almost all of them were below working or in their quarters sleeping. The Ukrainian found his employer’s containers, then hid from the young thieves who were on their way.

Anyone shipping goods from St. Petersburg to Saratov and wanting protection for their shipment had to deal with the Pistilli crime family.
The Pistilli mob and their thieves guild were too audacious operating in Saratov. Their attitude that they could steal anything from anyone at any time made them reckless. Maybe they refused to believe they were at war with the Yongavich crime family and Kazan gypsies. Maybe they didn’t understand you don’t charge other crime families protection for shipments and then rip them off in transient—at least not the Rimskys.

Young Kven Pistilli’s boldness was about to be his undoing.

The four thieves split into pairs to search for the container. Aleksandr maneuvered along the starboard side of the ship. He eyed one pair of thieves spotlighting the numbers on the containers. Where the other pair disappeared to he didn’t yet know, but he knew where they would be soon enough. He circled around, positioning himself ahead of the two thieves and waited for them to exit the column of containers they were currently searching.

Aleksandr secured the suppressor to the end of his Walther PPK pistol.
It was loaded with subsonic .22 caliber hollow-points—his preferred choice for silent hits. As the two thieves, both barely twenty years of age, walked up to the next set of containers, the fifty-something Ukrainian stayed in their shadows and moved in behind them. Fifteen feet ... ten feet. The PPK raised level.
Pop-pop, pop-pop.
Two bullets each, quick and silent.

Swiftly, he policed his brass and made his way back to the yellow container, leaving the bodies where they fell.
They were mere children who would never get to enjoy life again, but he didn’t care. As he neared his boss’ containers, he could hear one of the remaining thieves calling out to the other that he had found the container. Aleksandr waited  ...

The young Pistilli spotlighted the container and smiled.
Secured inside among construction equipment were one thousand American-made AR-15 assault rifles and twenty-five boxes of Semtex plastic explosives. The young Pistilli would make a hefty profit selling it all to Chechen rebels.

“Open it,” ordered Pistilli.

“What for? We can’t unload it yet, and we sure as hell can’t move it with two containers on top of it.”

Pistilli looked cross at his crew member.
“Open it because I told you to.”

The young Russian pulled his bolt cutters and clipped the padlocks free from the container doors.
He swung one of the doors open and together they spotlighted the inside of the container.

Empty!
Before either one could realize it was a setup and not the wrong container ...
Pop-pop, pop-pop.

Aleksandr stood atop the dead Pistilli and stared down at him as blood poured from his exploded skull.
The Ukrainian slipped his pistol back into his jacket. He dragged the bodies of Pistilli and his crew into the container. "I’m too old to be dragging bodies," he said to one of the corpses.

From inside his jacket he pulled a pair of padlocks and secured the container.
Again, he policed his brass then looked at the two containers stacked above to make sure they were still secured—the real containers that held 192 barrels of American grain alcohol and more than $250,000 in untaxed profit.

Aleksandr then made his way below deck to the sleeping quarters the captain had accommodated him with.
He washed-up and gathered what few belongings he had brought with him and waited for the
Antillian
to dock.

War was coming to the Rimskys for this act.
Kven Pistilli was the youngest of the don’s four sons. It didn’t matter that Pistilli was snaking Rimsky shipments, the don would not let his son’s death go unanswered. The
samogon
wars were about to expand.