Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (21 page)

The whole world will be shaking
, he realized.

Tio handed the phone to the closest security man, a scowl painted on his face. “Is everything okay, boss?” the
burly guard asked.

“I’m not sure,” came the response. “My intuition
warns that something is wrong in Texas.”

His gaze moved across the orchestra of lights and sounds emitting from the swank
nightclub. Despite the early hour, the place was already half full of well-dressed people out for a good time. Scantily clad waitresses moved briskly here and there, trays of libations poised above their shoulders while the high-tech sound system thumped the latest dance music.

But
Tio really wasn’t looking at the crowd or the club. His mind was currently in Laredo, the place that was now to blame for his sudden change of mood.

“I’m not up for partying tonight,” the cartel boss informed his security man. “Let’s head back to the condo. I’ve got some work to do.”

With only a nod, the big man raised his wrist and spoke into a microphone. “We’re leaving,” he informed the rest of his team.

The broadcast initiated several immediate responses. At four other locations scattered around the club, Tio’s significant security force began heading toward the door. A block down the street, two up-armored SUVs revved their engines. A third vehicle would follow
soon after gathering the outer ring of protection scattered about the neighborhood. When Tio moved, he was shielded by a team that rivaled any head of state in numbers, quality, and technology.    

But the world wasn’t the drug lord’s oyster
, and it troubled him deeply.

He would have loved to use the luxury transport’s cell phone during the drive back to the condo, but he couldn’t. He knew American satellites and drones were always overhead. These robotic foes were equipped with digitalized voice recordings that would match his voiceprint just as assuredly as a computer could match a fingerprint.

Every communication, transmission, and spoken sentence required extreme diligence and caution. Today, he was riding in the comfort of his personal vehicles, but that was only possible when traveling in his hometown. Rentals, borrowed cars, and sometimes even stolen units were required when he was on the road.

“I can’t enjoy the fruits of my labor,” Tio complained to his bodyguard. “The Americans are crafty and have unlimited budgets. They hide under every rock and behind every bush, and it sickens me. If this next endeavor pays off, I’m going to turn the table
s on them. They’ll pay… and pay dearly.”

The security man nodded, but didn’t comment. While he’d heard Tio
express his discontent about the American authorities a hundred times before, there was a new vigor in the man’s bitching. Clearly, the boss was excited about something, but that wasn’t any of his business.

“Look at you
, my friend,” the cartel lord continued, gazing out at the passing scenery. “As long as you keep me alive, your family is well taken care of, and you want for little in life. But can you enjoy it? Can you truly relish in your success? No. You’ve never sold an ounce of cocaine. You’ve never smuggled a single person across the border, and yet to the Yankees, you are a criminal. They would throw your ass into a prison to rot just the same as they would me.”

Again, the only response was a nod.

Tio grunted, his anger growing deeper by the minute. “I’m sick of it,” he hissed. “I tire of the constant restrictions, fear, and paranoia. Pull out your cell phone… pull it out right now.”

Confused
, but conditioned to following orders, the bodyguard reached inside his jacket and did as he was told.

Tio pointed at what appeared to be a small package wrapped in common aluminum foil. A harsh, barking laugh filled the SUV’s cabin. “Is that your cell phone or leftovers from dinner?” he teased.

“But sir,” the embarrassed man responded, “you know we must keep our phones wrapped in tin foil. It’s the only way of making sure they can’t be tampered with or tracked.”

The boss nodded and then spread his hands wide. “Don’t you see how absurd it all is? You are employed by one of the world’s wealthiest men, my friend. If our organization
were a company, we would be listed in the Dow Jones industrial average based simply on our profits. Yet, our key employees must wrap their cell phones in common kitchen tin foil like yesterday’s sandwich. I remember the day we discovered that little trick. We were all so happy! We could defeat the Americans and their multi-billion dollar eavesdropping equipment with a peso’s worth of kitchen wrap. But now I’m sick of it. I want to pull out my phone and make a call without worrying about black helicopters appearing overhead.”

After the b
odyguard made sure his boss was finished, he stuffed the phone back into his pocket. Tio had a point. He usually did.

As their driver turned into the
high-rise condo, Tio made a decision. He wasn’t going to lose a moment’s sleep over the true motivations of his man in Laredo, or whether Vega ultimately succeeded or failed. He was going to do things his way, and that meant force. A lot of blunt force.

He had a plan. It had begun as a work of pure self-indulgent fantasy, a mental equalizer to offset the extreme pressure of running one of the world’s most powerful illegal organizations. Just the exercise alone provided Tio a level of comfort.

As time passed, he reworked and refined various scenarios, always with the same basic motivation – to give the Americans payback. He wanted to hurt his foes. Make them suffer. Shake their all-confident, highbrow demeanor to its very foundation.

Eventually, he’d exposed his musings to some of the professional military men in the employ of the cartel. They had gladly par
ticipated in what they termed “sandbox maneuvers,” helping Tio understand that logistics, organization, and proper intelligence were just as important to military operations as they were to the business conducted by the cartel.

As the head of his security
team opened the door, Tio looked up and demanded, “I want my captains here… tonight. I don’t care what it takes, but I want them all here.”

“Yes, sir,” the
man responded.

After Tio had
been escorted to the private elevator, the team leader turned to one of his men. “Better send someone after coffee. It’s going to be a long, long night.”      

Colonel
Maximillian Zeta set down the cell phone, his gaze fixed on the electronic device. Hatred resonated from the man’s eyes, a fountain of anger spewing from deep inside his core. “The day has finally arrived,” he whispered to the empty office. “And I am ready.”

With extreme effort, the Mexican Army
officer held his emotions in check, professionalism grappling with his rage to an eventual point of control. Slowly, his eyes moved to a framed picture that resided on the corner of his desk. Consuela.

He reached across the
surface and gently lifted the photograph as if it were a newborn infant. He brought it close, studying the details of his sister’s smiling face. She had been lost less than a month after the print had been made.

A passing tourist had snapped the image. A young Lieutenant
Zeta, fresh, shiny, and proud in his newly earned uniform. Consuela had ridden a rickety, old bus to Mexico City to share his first leave after graduation from the academy. They had been sitting in a park eating ice cream, smiling and full of the future. Now, today, almost 18 years later, Zeta could still hear the musical tone of her laughter.

“She was so proud of me,” he said, staring with affection at the young woman’s image. “She kept telling me over and over again.” He would never forget those three days. Not only were they wonderful, they were the last he would share with his sibling.

Zeta had grown up poor. He mused at the phrase “dirt poor,” thinking it was a cruel oxymoron. They had plenty of dirt, but that was about it.

Their mother had died giving birth to the younger child, an event that their hardworking, peasant father never fully recovered from.

Still, he worked the fields, scratching out a meager living and raising the two children with help from the local villagers. Working the family’s small patch of leased land was backbreaking labor. When they were old enough to walk, both of the young ones joined their father in the never-ending toil to put food on the table.

It wasn’t an occupation that enabled long life spans.
S
eño
r Zeta died at the age of 38, leaving his two children behind to fend for themselves.

And they did.

The Catholic Church helped some. Distant relatives contributed what they could. Often their empty stomachs were filled by the random kindness of strangers.

Z
eta managed to get a basic education. After working 10 grueling hours in the fields each day, he reported to the parish priest to study the alphabet and basic mathematics. The secret, he soon discovered, was learning to read. With that capability, he could find books that would open doors to all other knowledge.

Candlelit nights
were spent in their shack, scouring the armloads of books borrowed from any source he could find. Consuela learned too, but her pre-teen mind wasn’t as sharp or hungry for understanding.

One day, a stranger wearing a uniform arrived in the village. He was there to gather the conscripts – young men who had reached the age of 17.

The army initially didn’t see much value in young Zeta. Most of the draftees were given menial tasks, the organization more resembling a nationalized version of the Boy Scouts of America than a military training machine. In reality, the men running the operation were watching and testing – always on the lookout for young men with potential. Maximillian, like his namesake emperor, was soon moved to the head of the class.

A year later, he was enrolled in his country’s military academy.
While this was a rare opportunity for the son of a peasant farmer, Consuela suffered in his absence. She was shipped off to an aunt who didn’t want or need another mouth to feed.

“
She paid a high price for my success,” Zeta explained to the photograph. “She sacrificed as much as I did for these ribbons and rank – maybe more.”

The years
passed quickly for the aspiring soldier. Classes, schools, and field maneuvers filled his days. He sent half of his modest paychecks home, fully aware that the vile aunt was probably taking advantage of his sister’s stipends.

Then, seemingly in a blink, it was graduation time.
Consuela’s letter announcing her trip to the big city had pleased him to no end. They had celebrated, dined, toured, and shared for those three remarkable days.

“I have something I need to tell you, big brother,” she said
on their last day together. “I’m going north into the United States. My best friend’s brother owns a café in Phoenix, and I can get work there.”

“No,
Consuela, please don’t. There is great danger in crossing the border,” he had protested. But it was to no avail.

“I have a life too, my handsome, strong brother. I
can do well for myself in the States. There is nothing for me at home. In America, I can enroll in school and earn a decent wage. There is no dream for me here in Mexico… no future. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days harvesting food and babies. I’ve been saving the money you have so generously sent and have already paid for a guide.”