PRECIPICE (15 page)

As they pulled into Valles, Chip sat up and took in the familiar sights. Although the physical size of the city would indicate a town of maybe 40,000 residents in the US, Ciudad Valles was home to over 150,000 people. It was the primary base of operations for river runners vacationing in the area, and Chip had been here many times. As agreed upon, Harris took the lead as Chip showed him the way to weave through the town. It felt more foreign but was much more appealing than the border town had been. Trees grew in many places, the colors of the concrete buildings were more subdued, and there was far less litter. Here and there an American fast food restaurant stood out in contrast to the local taco carts that were placed along the sides of the street, adorned with large round pieces of spit-grilled pork suspended from their awnings. Chip’s mouth started to water. It was 5 PM, and dark wasn’t far off. He pointed to one of the stands and indicated that Harris should pull over. This move was welcomed by the entire group, who quickly put the taco man to work and began stuffing their faces with tacos al pastor. Chip loaded his with onions and cilantro and slathered them in hot sauce. It was good to be back in Mexico.

They stood in the street eating as the day began to dim into dusk. The humid air was ripe with urban smells both delicious and foul, which rolled together into a rich, pungent olfactory cityscape. The lights slowly brightened, and people filled the sidewalks in anticipation of a busy Saturday evening in town.

“I don’t think we’re going to be able to tell much tonight,” Chip told Harris through a mouthful of pork. “It’s hard enough to judge the water levels in the daylight here sometimes.”

Harris nodded and thought for a moment. “Where can we stay?” He asked.

“Most kayakers stay a few blocks up on the right. Hotel Aventura Huasteca. I’m not sure they can get both of these vehicles off the street, though. There’s a nice place just back on the other side with lots of secure parking. It’s more expensive, but it should be a good place to leave the boats. Plus, I won’t run into any of the dirtbags that I know in there.”

One of the most challenging parts of this trip for Chip was going to be the chance that he would run into old friends. After ten years as a traveling kayaker and river guide, Chip knew people all over the world. This was the start of the peak season in the area, as kayakers from the U.S. headed south to find warmer temperatures and flowing rivers. He was sure to know some of the travelers. He had also met the owner of the hotel up the street several times, although he had never quite had enough cash to stay there despite the reasonable rates. He usually camped out. With the money he was making for this trip, he would probably be staying there on his next visit.

A few minutes later they pulled the trucks into the shadowy, tree lined courtyard of the Hotel Valles. Carlos went in and rented three air conditioned rooms for the team. After they cleaned up and settled in, they headed out to find another dinner, joining in the local culture which usually dined around 9 or 10 at night. Chip was more reserved than normal, although he was glad to finally have a beer along with his dinner. He feared that they were here too early, and the responsibility was all going to fall on him. Tomorrow they would find out.

10

Monday, November 14th

MOORE THOUGHT A bit of fresh air would do him good, so he decided to walk outside and across the street to the Dirksen Senate Office Building instead of taking the tunnel. The chill was bracing as he strode down the marble stairs outside, and it cooled him enough that he didn’t break a sweat on the climb up to the third floor. The homeland security meeting today was on Mexican border issues, and Ortiz had insisted that Moore be there to speak up if the conversation turned to quashing the international trucking bill. Most of the party hard-liners would use any means necessary to stop Mexican trucks and drivers from freely crossing the border, and the threat of the drug trade was as good a reason as any they had found.

He entered room 342 and eased his large frame into his usual blue leather chair behind the long, semi-circular desk and next to the portly Senator Craig from Texas. It would be a long morning. Craig chaired the committee and was sure to be one of the fiercest opponents of the trucking bill. The two southern senators had traditionally been friends and political allies, and Moore hoped that this issue wouldn’t be the fly in the ointment that soured their friendship. He’d enjoyed a couple of great hunting trips in southwest Texas with Craig and even once shot a nice javelina—a fierce native hog—down there. Its head was mounted on the wall of his house in Alabama, much to the chagrin of his wife on the rare occasion that he could convince her to join him there. She wouldn’t even allow him a photo of any of his kills in the DC house, except in his private bathroom and his study.

Craig called the meeting to order with a few opening remarks and then kicked it off by inviting the first person to testify. A seemingly endless parade of major and minor players in immigration and law enforcement stepped to the witness table in front of the curved desk one after another to speak and answer questions from the committee. Moore tuned it out. His days were numbered here, and all he really cared about now was anything that specifically pertained to the trucking bill.

An interminable hour-and-a-half later, he was almost dozing during a presentation from the Executive Associate Director for Homeland Security Investigations. The lights were dimmed, and slides were being shown on a large flat panel screen in one corner of the room behind the desk at which he sat. The HSI guy was droning on about the various cartels who were moving drugs across the border, lamenting the fact that the shipments were so broken up when they crossed that they were usually only intercepted by law enforcement one kilo at a time. Furthermore, the poor mules that got caught were innocent immigrant workers—mostly women—who had been severely abused and then forced to carry the drugs. The feds had failed to take out a single serious player in months. It was of no interest to Moore—migrant workers who got busted muling drugs would not be taking precious jobs from the people of his state. The more that got arrested, deported, or killed, the better.

“We have, however,” the EAD continued with more authority and enthusiasm as he reached the highlight of his presentation, “learned the identity of the man who we believe is in charge of one of the largest and most brutal cartels.”

The slide changed to a photo of a fit Latino man in his mid-forties with cropped black hair and a thick moustache sloping down sharply over his mouth. He was flanked by two serious-looking men in shades, walking toward a gold SUV.

“This is Vicente Guerra Cardenas,” the EAD continued, “the man who we believe is the current leader of the Leones del Oriente drug cartel.”

Startled to full alertness by the familiar name, Moore sat up and swiveled his head around sharply for a better view of the screen. Surely it couldn’t be the same Vicente Cardenas. As he examined the slide, a sinking feeling came over him. Aside from a long ponytail, one of the men in shades behind the drug lord bore a striking resemblance to the senator’s chief of staff. Could this be the elusive cousin he had heard so much about?

“We believe his organization is responsible for roughly sixty-five percent of the drugs that cross the border from Mexico into the U.S.,” the EAD continued.

“Not for long,” Senator Craig covered his microphone with his hand and mumbled cryptically under his breath in the direction of his old friend Moore. He’d decided that subtle hints to colleagues from his network was the best way to try to drum up more business for Export Logistics while still maintaining deniability, and Sheldon Moore was definitely a good’ol’boy. If the mission were successful, it wouldn’t hurt to have a few whispers on the Hill that Craig was the man who had gotten it done.

The EAD continued, “This picture was taken two years ago outside of his home in the city of Monterrey. We’ve had the house under surveillance, but he hasn’t been seen there in some time. We’re currently working to ascertain his whereabouts, but we’re not sure where he’s been for almost a year now.”

“Oh, we know,” Craig whispered with a smug wink at Moore in the dimly lit room. “He won’t be a problem
next week
.” Craig couldn’t resist sharing just a little bit of his secret with someone. He’d worked hard and invested a lot to make this happen. The team was already deployed. It would happen any day now.

Moore felt like he was going to be sick. It suddenly made too much sense why he was being paid millions to push through a trucking bill, and the abrupt clarity threatened to overwhelm him. His new patron wasn’t a trucking magnate; he was a drug lord. How could Moore have been such a fool? His first time over the line, and boy had he stepped in something this time. Moore’s precious shortcut to financial security was not a minor snub of his party; it was a complete betrayal of his country and his morals. His heart pounded hard, blood hammering in his ears and making him light-headed as a sweat broke out on his bald pate. This was exactly the kind of stress that his cardiologist had told him to avoid.

As the lights came back up, Moore stood and politely excused himself, wobbling out the door as Craig began to ask a few pro-forma questions about the presentation. He headed down the hallway to the restroom where he splashed cold water on his face and tried to calm himself down. His thoughts were traveling at a frantic pace. Could he still vote for the bill and take the money knowing what he knew? Would Cardenas allow him to back out? What had Craig meant when he said that Cardenas wouldn’t be a problem by next week? Was he going to be killed? Craig certainly had the connections to get that done, if anyone did. Sheldon cupped two more handfuls of water to his face and tried to staunch the avalanche of thoughts. He needed a drink.

As his breathing slowed and his head cleared, he had another troubling thought. Even if he voted for the bill, would he get the rest of the money if Cardenas was killed? Certainly not. He might commit political suicide and have nothing to show for it other than the two million he had already received. Could he even touch the two million for fear of being caught? Worse, if it ever came out that Moore had dealings with this drug lord, there would be a stampede of politicians on both sides of the aisle looking to make a splash by prosecuting him. His head started spinning again. He needed to have a few words with his chief of staff.

Moore turned off the faucet, left the bathroom, and headed for the door, pulling his phone from the inside pocket of his suit coat and turning off the mute which he had activated for the meeting. He hit the speed dial for Ortiz and listened as the phone rang twice and then went to voicemail mid-ring. Apparently his assistant wasn’t taking his calls. That little spic fucker, this was all his fault. This was going to cost Moore millions of dollars, probably his job, and maybe his freedom. Whatever happened, it was definitely time to cut ties with his chief of staff.

There was nothing he could leave a detailed message about.

“Call me as soon as you can,” he said tersely, then disconnected the call as he stumped down the stairs and back across the street toward his office. What a disaster.

*

The pickup truck bounced erratically as it crept down the steep, rugged road with Carlos pressing hard on the brakes to keep them from careening out of control. The surface of the road was made of sharp chunks of limestone, some of which were bigger than grapefruits, and the men feared they would pop a tire any second. With each violent lurch of the truck the three kayaks slid back and forth on the racks where they were precariously tied, threatening to spill over the hood and into the roadway. Chip rode in the passenger seat with Harris sitting behind. There was no conversation. They sat tensed, gripping the oh-shit handles and clenching their teeth together lest they bite their tongues as the truck heaved and rocked on the uneven surface. It had been like this for the last hour, and they were now deep in the middle of nowhere.

Finally, they could see the glint of deep aquamarine water through the jungle ahead of them, and Carlos brought them to a halt. They all hopped out, and Chip led the way out of the woods and onto the exposed rocks below the river’s high-water mark. The jungle had been scoured away in floods during the rainy season exposing a white band of limestone that had been carved into smooth, sweeping sculptures by eons of flowing water. While the river was far below the flood level, it was still roaring strongly over a limestone ledge that created about a three-foot-tall waterfall. There was a strong recirculation at the base of the falls where the water in the pool poured back upstream to fill the void created by the falling water. Aside from being unable to stop in a torrent of whitewater or getting hung up in downed trees or under rocks, being stuck in such a recirculation was the greatest danger of river travel. Generally, the more water in the river, the stronger and more dangerous the recirculations. This one extended a few feet out from the base of the drop with a white froth of champagne bubbles rising from the depths behind it into the glowing blue-green pool.

Chip carefully assessed what he saw. It was just as he had feared. Although the water didn’t look too high for kayaking right here, it would seem like more when it was compressed between the steep canyon walls upstream. Although the rapid where they stood looked to be within the limits of navigability, Chip thought that stopping above the large falls would still be a crapshoot.

Harris noticed Chip’s scowl.

“What do you think?” Harris asked, knowing already what the answer would be. It wasn’t a question of whether they would have to wait; it was a matter of how long.

“It’s still a little bit too high,” Chip reluctantly answered.

Although he was disappointed, Harris was also reassured to see the kid’s judgment. He knew that overconfidence could be a killer, and that making good decisions when it really counted was the best way to stay alive in dangerous situations. He thought again how he’d made the right choice by including the young river-runner on this mission. Aside from his calm head, the weeks of training had also shown Chip to be very fit for someone who didn’t regularly train, a natural at shooting, and a quick-study when it came to many other aspects of the operation. It was a shame he hadn’t joined the SEALs. Harris would have loved to have someone like Chip along on several past missions with DEVGRU.