Ripper (15 page)

“Colonel, I suspect that the president’s going to go with a joint operation, split between the Mexican HRT team
and the FBI. Europa broke into the FBI mainframe and she says they will more than likely go in two hours. I forwarded the plans for the Perdition hacienda to the president who passed them through regular channels to the FBI HRT unit,” Niles said, trying not to look into Jack’s eyes as he did so. “I figured they needed all the advantage they could get.”

Jack waited until the director met his eyes
and then caught the curse before it could escape his mouth. Everett and Mendenhall knew that Niles had done the right thing. Jack just nodded his head, knowing that the odds of Sarah surviving this thing had just dropped by 75%. He knew the country hadn’t learned anything after the failed rescue attempt in the desert of Iran in 1980. Operation Eagle Claw had been an unmitigated disaster because
of a multiservice plan, one that was doomed to fail before it ever happened. And now this rescue wasn’t just split by differing branches of the service, but by two different nations, and one of those nations may have divided loyalties as far as the Anaconda went. Jack knew if he didn’t react to the fluidity of the situation he would never again see Sarah alive.

Niles bit his lip and then nodded
at the two marines at the 707’s door. They understood and then closed it.

“Jack,” he said as he handed Everett the recon photos, “Pete and Europa have something to show you. It’s something I didn’t share with the president or the FBI.”

Collins impatiently waited for the director to explain.

“Pete may have found a way into that compound.”

Suddenly hope appeared in Collins’s cold, blue eyes.

“And,” Compton said as he turned away, “the border’s still open to vehicular traffic, as it seems the local Mexican authorities are a little slow to catch on that there’s a major problem in their own backyard.”

“But you’ll have to find a way past the FBI and do it before their HRT team lifts off in two hours,” Pete said as he joined the group of four men once more.

Everett smiled.

“I never met
a fed I couldn’t ditch.”

“Then, Colonel Collins, you and your men are dismissed. Take some time off while the president figures this out.”

“Yes, sir, maybe Jack, our young lieutenant Mendenhall here, and I will try out the fishing in the Rio Grande,” Everett said with a growing smile. “You know we love our fishing.”

“I know,” Niles answered. “Now I think you better get to tactical and put a
plan together. And gentlemen, make it a good one, because we all may hang for it, even if it works.”

Director Niles Compton was disobeying a direct order as told to him by the president of the United States, his best friend, once again.

HACIENDA PERDITION
NUEVO LAREDO, MEXICO

Henri Farbeaux, still in the guise of Hanover Jones, stood on the rickety floor of the massive basement. There were
tunnels, some new, some very old, winding off the main corridor every fifteen feet. As far as he knew Sarah could be held in any one of the ten branches inside the basement. He felt the eyes of Juan Guzman and six of his henchmen as he waited for his host to take the lead. As he stood there several men and women in casual clothes strolled by on their way to one of the many tunnels. One of these workers
held a scale and the others articles that Farbeaux didn’t recognize. He did notice the fresh-air masks they wore around their necks. Henri looked at Guzman who only smiled.

“I have many employees whose function it is to test shipments of … well, let’s just say they check the purity of certain items supplied to me by countries farther south of Mexico. Please, Señor Jones, what you are seeking
is right over here,” Guzman said as he gestured to a large steel door to the right.

Henri was having a hard time reading the man. One thing
was
clear to him: he didn’t trust the man named Hanover Jones. Farbeaux had noticed that none of the mini AK-47s being used by his bodyguards had their weapons on
safe
. He watched Guzman as he entered a security code for the locking mechanism on the large
door. It opened with a whoosh of escaping air.

“This is just part of my Anasazi collection; the rest I have donated as a peace offering to my brethren in Mexico City. But I believe I have some very interesting pieces for you to view.” Guzman stepped aside and allowed Henri through the door.

Henri knew he could possibly take the six men escorting them, just as long as Guzman was close enough
to be pulled into running as a shield for him. However, he suspected they were not only being watched by the many security cameras he had counted in just the short walk in the basement, but also by many more guards nearby.

“Here are two very nice pieces right here. They have been cleaned and expertly restored.”

Farbeaux made a show of pulling a jeweler’s loupe from his coat pocket and smiling
as he bent low to examine a large eagle that resembled something the Aztecs would have sculpted. It was a beautiful piece, Farbeaux noted as his eyes scanned the ancient work. Then his eyes moved to the next piece that had been placed on a small table. It was a carved stone work taken from a cave wall in Colorado. It depicted a mother and child—the mother sitting on a throne of sorts and the child
feeding at her breast.

“These are very nice.” Henri straightened after a cursory examination.

“Yes, particularly so since the man I relieved them from was a greedy gringo from Los Angeles, one of those so-called brothers of mine who have sold out their heritage. I wouldn’t mind so much if the gentleman had the least bit of knowledge, such as you, as to their real history. I’m sure you can appreciate
that?”

“Yes,” Henri half bowed, “I can, Señor Guzman.” Henri smiled wider and then cleared his throat. “Since you relieved this person of his possessions so readily, you won’t be asking exactly market value for these two pieces,” Farbeaux asked with a small smile.

“Ah, just because I came into possession of them at minimal expense does not mean they are not far more valuable, Señor Jones.”

“I estimate their value as a pair at just shy of two million.”

“Close, señor, but even closer to five million.”

Henri nodded his head. “I’ll take them. Now, I know a good salesman always saves that
one
piece that would guarantee the buyer walks away happy.”

“You are indeed a savvy collector,” Guzman said as he gestured for Henri to follow him out of the small vault. They and Guzman’s bodyguards
stepped into the dim hallway and started moving farther down the long corridor. “Tell me something Señor Jones; does it bother you that I am more than just a collector of antiquities?”

“If you mean your relationship to the recent unpleasantness in Nuevo Laredo, or even your expansion into countries south of your border, no. Whatever a man does for a living never factors into my choices for business
relationships.”

Guzman laughed. It was a hollow sound that gave the ring of untruth to everything the drug kingpin had said thus far. Henri knew the two pieces of Anasazi carvings were absolutely fake, nothing but cheap knockoffs. After all, he had the second of the two pieces sitting in his house in the south of France. He knew he had to say something just in case his cover was still intact.

“Señor Guzman, I sincerely hope the pieces we are on our way to see are a little more authentic that the two we just examined?”

Guzman laughed and gently slapped Farbeaux on the back. “I hope I did not embarrass you with my little test, señor. In my line of work, on both fronts, I can never be too careful.”

“I understand,” Henri said as he chanced a look back at the bodyguards who kept pace with
them down in the carved-out basement.

Guzman stepped ahead and paused by another door. This one had no electronic keypad, and it was far from being the same sort of steel door they had just come from. The hackles on Henri rose again.

“Señor Jones, behind this door I have exactly what you came here to see. Two marvelous pieces I have from north of the border, and many, many more domestic works
of art I prize above even my product from the south.” He smiled and opened the door, gesturing for Henri to step through first.

Henri did as suggested and was assailed by a horrid stench. While his eyes adjusted to the weak lighting inside this larger room, he heard the crying of a child. Then he saw the cells, or more to the point, the cages just to his front. He scanned the nightmare before
him. Women of all ages were strewn about six cold and dank cells. Many more guards were inside this room, as if they had been waiting. Henri’s dire suspicions were proven right.

“These are some of my lesser works, Señor Jones. There are two I am most proud of that I really have not had a chance to examine on a more base level yet, but I am sure you would appreciate their value.” He gestured for
a guard to shove two of the dirty, hurt women out of the way.

Guzman watched as Farbeaux’s jaws clenched. Sitting on the flagstone floor were two women—one blonde, the other with short dark hair. The smaller of the two was tending to a wound the blonde had sustained on the top of her head. With a rag held firmly to the older woman’s head, Sarah McIntire looked up and saw who was standing to her
front, just outside of her cage. Her eyes widened, but she caught herself when Henri closed his eyes tightly shut and gave her an imperceptible shake of his head. He then noticed his pilot and the San Antonio private investigator lying headless on the floor inside the first of the cells.

“Are they not what I described, Señor Jones,” Guzman said as he gestured behind Henri’s back for his men to
move forward. He also stepped back behind a small wall of those men. “Are these not the articles you came to examine, to take, to steal from me … Mr. Farbeaux?”

Henri never hesitated nor did he give any advance indication of what he was going to do. He lashed out before ever turning and caught the man he was hoping was Guzman himself with a palm to the throat, dropping him like a heavy sack of
potatoes. Then he elbowed the next closest man to him, smashing his nose deep into his brainpan. The next man in line stepped forward with the steel stock of the AK-47 raised to strike the Frenchman, but Henri was too fast for the smaller man. He quickly lashed out with his foot and slammed it into the man’s left knee. Just as the guard collapsed Henri caught the mini AK-47 and tried to swing it
around. He heard Guzman somewhere far off as he laughed and started to clap his hands in admiration. That was when a gun barrel slammed into the back of Farbeaux’s head, sending him to one knee and the purloined weapon skittering out of his reach.

“Your reputation and your prowess has been greatly undervalued, Señor Farbeaux,” Guzman said as he advanced farther into the room, still clapping his
hands. “I thought maybe you would get one, possibly two of my men, but three? Outstanding!”

Sarah lowered Professor Stansfield’s head to the filthy floor and stood and ran to the bars. She didn’t understand what was happening or how Henri Farbeaux had found his way into the fix he was in. She saw Henri on one knee, dazed from the blow to his head as the animal Guzman clapped behind him. She watched
as the drug lord grabbed Farbeaux by his blonde hair.

“To think you thought me the fool, señor. I will show you the price many have paid for underestimating me.” Guzman let go of the Frenchman’s hair and then nodded to his men.

Sarah cried out when ten men went to work on the archenemy of the Event Group. Henri tried to defend himself as best he could, even managing to take down three of them
before he succumbed to the brutal kicks and blows to his head and body.

Sarah looked up at the Anaconda as he smiled and leaned against the whitewashed wall of her prison. She was lost on how to feel as Henri had obviously done something very stupid—he had stepped right into hell’s living room just to save her. How and why this came about she was now afraid she would never know.

“Stop it!” she
called out.

Guzman looked over at the cell and directly at the small woman as she held on to the bars with her eyes wide and staring at Henri Farbeaux. His smile never wavered, but still he did not say anything. He did however get a curious look on his face as the grunts from the Frenchman diminished to almost nothing.

“Alto,” he said as he stepped away from the wall. “This man means a lot to
you?” he asked Sarah.

Sarah let go of the cell bars and stepped back away from the Anaconda.

“Well little woman, he will soon die with you.” Guzman gave Farbeaux a final kick to his head and then gestured for his remaining men. “Place him in with those he came to see. Later we will have sport.” He looked at his watch. “I have no more time for this,” he said in Spanish, “Mama will be furious
if I am late for dinner.”

Sarah watched as the small well-dressed man smiled again and, with a last look back at Sarah, stepped from the room.

Sarah saw Henri pulled roughly to his feet. He was bleeding almost everywhere and he was out cold as he was pushed toward her cell.

“You stupid son of a bitch, Henri, what in the hell were you thinking?” she said as Farbeaux moaned his reply and his
eyes fluttered open just as the cell was unlocked.

“I … think … now would be … a … good time … for your boy scout … to make an appearance.” Colonel Henri Farbeaux passed out before he was unceremoniously thrown onto the cold floor at Sarah’s feet.

Sarah went to her knees and pulled a lock of Henri’s hair from his face. She shook her head as she saw how badly beaten he truly was.

“You and Jack
piss me off more than any dozen men, you stupid Frenchman.” She looked up just as the cage door was locked behind the retreating guards. “And yes, I have no doubt Jack will be as dumb as you and try something just as foolish.”

She placed Henri’s head in her lap and smiled at him nonetheless. Farbeaux was still as she wiped some of the blood from his face and head. She was amazed at what he had
done, not understanding the how or the why. Henri never gave a damn about anyone other than his dead wife, and now here he was giving up himself for her.