Shadow of Death (11 page)

CHAPTER 33

Arista

The truck belched black diesel smoke from its stack and shuddered as it groaned up a small incline. Felix gripped the wheel tightly with both hands, ignoring the four men yelling at him. The Arabs were beyond annoying, with their nonstop screaming that he couldn’t decipher. Although they couldn’t understand each other, the Arabs knew that something had gone terribly wrong. The other men must have been the ones in the shootout, and this man Felix was the only one who had escaped—but now what? They needed to get to their ship, but that wasn’t supposed to arrive until the next morning.

Felix drove as fast as he could through the narrow streets. Dozens of locals were all running away from the sound of gunfire, occasionally making him slam on the brakes when they ran out in front of his truck. He cursed and screamed at the fleeing pedestrians, driving as fast as he could. He slowed down to take a hard corner and went wide-eyed as he came around the turn. Three pickup trucks had stopped in the middle of the road and a dozen Sinaloa soldiers were waiting for them. The Arabs began screaming again, and Felix just screamed back at them.

“
Shoot them! Shoot them!
” he roared as he stepped on the gas.

The truck picked up speed as Hamid leaned out the passenger window with his rifle. Everything happened in an instant.

As the men in back tried to get their weapons up, the windshield exploded. All twelve of the Sinaloa gangbangers opened up on full auto, and hundreds of rounds went through the glass and metal of the truck cab. Both Felix and Hamid were killed instantly by multiple bullet wounds to their heads and upper torsos. The men in the back were all hit by bullets and ricocheted bullet fragments, and screamed as they tried to shield themselves with each other’s bodies.

The truck slowed with the engine smoking from multiple holes through hoses and the radiator up front. After a few more yards, the truck’s engine died with a wheeze and came to a complete halt. The torrent of bullets continued for a full minute after the truck had stopped.

Out in the street, the locals had sprinted away screaming. Inside the cab, four of the men were dead. Only Mustafa was alive, but he’d been hit three times—twice in his upper left arm and once through his left kneecap by a ricochet. He was on the floor of the cab, with Mohammed’s dead body leaking blood all over him. He was crying out in pain, horrified by the blood that was pouring all over him, not knowing how much was his and how much was that of his friends. He called out to them quietly, but there was only the ringing deafness in his ears, the smoke in his nose, and the iron taste of blood. He sobbed quietly, waiting for death.

The Sinaloas began running toward the cab and pulling at the doors. Hamid’s body fell out into the street, where one of the Sinaloas put another two rounds through his face. The man was quite obviously already dead, but the shooter was high on meth and out of his mind on adrenaline. Adding a few more holes to the man’s face just added to his excitement.

The men began pulling the bodies out of the truck one at a time, the blood flowing everywhere. Mustafa screamed when they pulled his broken arm. The Sinaloa that grabbed him pulled harder and yanked him partly out of the cab, where his friends helped pull him out until he fell all the way down to the street below. He hit the asphalt and screamed, bleeding heavily from his broken arm and knee. One of the men pulled out a huge knife and leaned in for the kill.

One of the crew’s leaders yelled at him. “Wait! Don’t kill him. Joaquin wants him. Keep him alive.”

The man was obviously disappointed. He tore off the bleeding man’s shirt and tied it tightly around his upper arm to slow the bleeding, the wounded man screaming in pain the entire time he tied off the makeshift tourniquet.

“What the fuck’s he saying?” asked the man who had tied the tourniquet.

A few of the others screamed at him in Spanish, but the blubbering man’s speech was unintelligible.

The crew’s leader walked to the back of the truck and opened the double doors. Inside, there was a large engine sitting on a wooden pallet so it could be taken on and off by forklift. The man stared at it, cocking his head in confusion. He took out his phone and took a picture of it, which he sent directly to Joaquin Salazar. He texted a message after the picture:

No drugs. No cash. Just this. Whatever it is.

He screamed at his men to get one of their pickup trucks and back it up to the rear of the truck. With a dozen strong men, they’d be able to drag it out of the back of the tractor-trailer and slide it into the bed of the pickup truck.

One of his men stared at the EMP bomb and made a face. “What is it?”

He shrugged. “No idea. But I bet Joaquin’s going to want it, whatever it is. We find out what language that asshole is speaking and we’ll beat it out of him.”

“Arabic, man. Guy’s definitely an Arab.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Maybe. I guess he could be an Arab.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What the fuck’s an Arab doing here with this thing and some Zetas?”

The guy shrugged. “We got to find us another Arab.”

The boss whistled and his men began hopping up on the tractor-trailer. Whatever the device was, it was a lot heavier than it looked. It took all of them, using all of their strength, to push it from the tractor-trailer into the back of the pickup. As the EMP dropped the three inches into the truck, the pickup creaked and dropped an inch onto its leaf springs. By the time it was sitting in the back of the pickup, all of the men were drenched with sweat.

“Keep that fucker alive,” sneered the boss to his men. “We’re going to need to find out what he knows about this thing. Let’s go . . .”

CHAPTER 34

Touchdown

The first plane touched down at the Ciudad Pemex airport just after midnight. With a smoky chirp and a few bounces, the heavy plane rolled to the very end of the small airport’s longest runway, then taxied into the grass to make room for the second plane that repeated the process for the third. The airport never had activity after eight or so, and there was no one in the tower or terminal.

The ramps lowered and out stormed three hundred Mexican Marines in combat gear, ready for business. They fanned out across the airport and secured the buildings. It was empty and anticlimactic for the assaulting troops. The four trucks drove out of the bellies of the C-130s and roared across the tarmac to where the colonel was waiting with his platoon. The thirty-six troopers piled into the trucks and the colonel snapped a salute to his second in command, Major Garcia, who would be holding the airport and surrounding area. The chances of any Las Zetas seeing armed troops and attacking was slim to none, but they’d be ready for anything.

Colonel Lozano got into the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle and ordered his driver to move out. The four trucks rumbled out of the airport onto the small road that would lead them to Highway 186, which would take them west toward El Gato’s estate. Even driving in the dark on winding roads, they’d arrive well before the planned assault at first light.

CHAPTER 35

Zero Hour

The team fanned out into their assigned positions. They were finally beginning the real mission and they were focused and wired. When not “working,” they were a loose bunch that didn’t follow military formalities. The closest they ever came to referencing a rank was calling their CO “skipper.” Now that it was game time, the smiles disappeared and each man disappeared into his own brain, totally alert with full situational awareness.

Moose, Ripper, and Ryan formed in a small spearhead at the front of the group. The others followed single file, moving in total silence. Unlike moving in Iraq, Afghanistan, or some other full-blown war zone, their chances of hitting an IED, trip wire, or mine were almost zero. Same with getting shot at by snipers or hidden enemy bunkers. Their biggest risk on this march was being seen by anyone—even civilian. If anyone tipped off El Gato that they were on their way, he’d be gone and their mission would fail.

Moose checked his watch. 0300. They moved to the edge of the woods and squatted in the tall grass. It was a hundred yards across open farm field to get to the hedgerow on the other side that would serve as their cover for almost a mile as it meandered around the tilled squares of land. Eric took off on point, slow and low to the ground. When he had gone ten yards, his own men could barely see him in the darkness, even with night vision. When he reached the hedgerow, he spoke quietly into his throat mic.

“All clear.”

The rest of the team went after him, one at a time. Moving quickly and quietly, they covered the hundred yards in about thirty seconds each. They weren’t going to break any records, but they each carried about sixty pounds and were running with night-vision goggles on. Once across the field, they melted into the tall grass and weeds and moved as hastily as they could, heading due north toward the hill in the distance.

They had six miles to cover, which would mean about two hours at walking speed. They walked in total silence, ever alert for any movement. It was a farming community, and the local hardworking people would all be asleep at this hour, waking up right before the sun to start another day. By the time the locals awoke, they’d be in position at the base of the hill.

Two silent hours went without incident, and the team arrived at the woods where the farmland ended and the slope began.

“Cover and take ten,” whispered Moose.

The team spread out in a defensive perimeter and drank some water.

Ray spoke very quietly into his throat mic. “Eighteen. Wait. No. Nineteen.”

The group crouched lower into the vegetation. “You see tangos?” asked Moose.

“Negative. Mosquito bites on my left arm. Confirm, nineteen.”

“
Alpha Hotel
,” whispered Ripper. The men were smiling under their face paint. Alpha Hotel, “
asshole
,” was the official reprimand.

Jon whispered, “If you get Zika, it can affect your baby.”

Ripper put a stop to the jabber. “If the comedy tour is over, move into position at the tree line on top of the hill.”

The team moved through the brush using their night vision. The only noise was the sound of soft ferns grazing their woodland-green BDUs. The hill got steeper as they climbed, but there was still no sign of any protection force. They paused as they neared the top.

“Too quiet?” asked Ripper.

Moose shook his head. “Nah. We’re used to being in combat zones. These guys are just thugs, not special operators. Dex should have sent a few cops, not us.”

“Cops would have to arrest these guys. The boss just wants them dead.”

“Except El Gato.”

“Except El Gato,” repeated Ripper.

Moose looked at his watch. “It’s 0500. The Mexican Marines should be here in thirty mikes. We do this right and there’ll be nothing for them to do.”

Eric had inched forward to the edge of the tree line and looked across to the walled estate fifty meters out. He took out his night-vision binoculars and scanned slowly across lavish landscape. His voice was so quiet it was barely audible. “Two tangos at the front gate. I can’t see anyone else. No K9. No patrols. Nothing. Looks real quiet.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” said Ripper. “What about all this security he was supposed to have?”

Moose made a face. “I don’t like it, either. You know what Murphy says. ‘If your attack is going well, you’ve walked into an ambush.’”

“No shit,” said Ripper. “He also says professionals are predictable; it’s the amateurs you got to watch out for.”

Moose looked out at the horizon. There was perhaps the first hint of blush in the darkness. “If it was up to me, we’d hit them now before sunup.”

“You’re the new CO, Skipper. It
is
up to you.”

“Negative. Dex told me to get into position and wait for the Marines to get closer. We’re supposed to be breach, and they’re supposed to reinforce immediately. We do it all by ourselves, we might offend our hosts and steal their glory.”

CHAPTER 36

Late Night Snack

Apo took the two young women back to his room, where he did an Oscar-winning performance as “the man who drank too much.” The two women pulled at his clothes and kissed him, and they eventually pulled him into bed with them, ready to please him however he requested. He simply rolled over, mumbled that he was too drunk, and faked falling asleep.

The two women laughed, and were quite happy just to sleep in his fine sheets and feather bed with him. Apo lay there without moving for an hour, until he could hear their breathing slow into a gentle rhythm. When he was sure they were asleep, he very carefully extracted himself from the tangle of arms and silky legs.

He checked his watch. 0322. Apo changed into a pair of jeans and pulled on a black shirt. He slid his feet into the black sneakers, which would keep his footsteps quiet, then walked across the room to where his duffle bag was thrown. He looked over at the women, waited for them to continue their breathing pattern to be sure they were asleep, and then opened his bag. He pulled up the canvass inside and revealed the false sidewall. Inside, he had a half-dozen zip ties and a weapon he had adopted from the French Foreign Legion when he had trained with some of them. Their version of the garrote, called
la loupe
, was a double coil of wire cable with small wooden ends for handles. When dropped around a person’s neck and cinched, it would tighten immediately, and even if the person managed to get a few fingers under one of the cables and pull, all they’d do was tighten the other one. Silent and deadly.

Lastly, Apo shoved a small earbud into his pants pocket. The device was a miniaturized version of the SEALs comm system, and worked with a bone mic. He patted himself down to make sure everything was hidden and he looked totally normal, and then he slipped out of his room.

Apo walked quietly down the long hallway, listening every few steps for any sign of El Gato or his men. He had two hours before the assault, but it was imperative that he knew where El Gato was when the team hit the house.

Apo moved from the far wing where his bedroom was located, back toward the main part of the mansion. When he walked into the large room in the center of the house, he froze. Twenty of El Gato’s men stood around or sat, armed to the teeth. Apo’s face fell. The room was only dimly lit, and the men were silent. He was totally busted. One of them spotted him and stood up.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. His face didn’t look friendly.

Apo faked a big smile and slurred his response just enough to sound drunk. “Those two girls fucked me until I was ready to
die
. Now I’m
starving
! I was looking for the kitchen!”

The other men in the room laughed and nudged each other.

“You should be in your room,” the man replied coldly.

Apo walked into the room, holding the walls and furniture as he continued his act. “Where’s El Gato? I should have another drink with him.”

The man stepped out in front of him. “You should go back to your room, Señor Alex,” he repeated, this time sounding more threatening.

Apo threw his head back and laughed, then patted the man on his shoulder. “I told you, I’m starving! Where’s El Gato? I need to have a drink with him.”

The man pulled out a .45 and put it under Apo’s chin. “I don’t want to have to tell you again.”

“Hey! That’s no way to treat a guest!” slurred Apo.

El Gato appeared from the shadows and snapped at his guard. “Enough!”

He walked across the room and faced his guest. “Pardon the extra security, it’s been a strange day. I’m afraid I can’t drink with you now, my friend. You’ll need to go back to bed.”

“Is everything okay?” Apo asked. He leaned forward and, with his best scared, drunk expression, he asked, “
Cops
?”

“No. Everything’s fine, Alex. Go back to bed. I’ll see you get a nice breakfast before you head out. It’s only a few hours until sunup—you should get some sleep anyway. Go.”

Apo raised his hands and mumbled, “Okay, okay, sorry. That tequila was too good. I think I drank too much.” He burped and bumped against the wall, then shuffled back toward his room with one of El Gatos’ guards slowly walking behind him. The guard tailed him all the way back to his room and watched Apo slip back inside.

The two young girls were still sleeping in his bed, and Apo stood for a moment to be sure they were both really out. When he was satisfied, he grabbed his sat-phone from his bag and tapped out a message:

Gato on alert. Minimum 20 tangos inside waiting. Abort. Something’s wrong.

Apo hit “send,” deleted the message, and sat in a chair with his phone.

***

Less than a half mile from where Apo sat in his chair, the team was hunkered down in the thick foliage scanning for sentries. Moose’s wrist buzzed and he tapped it for a message.

“Shit.” He looked at Ripper. “We’re compromised. Apo says abort.”

“Abort? We’re practically in his fucking living room!”

“He says Gato has a security force inside. They’re on alert.”

Ripper’s face showed his anger. “I thought only a couple of people at the very top knew about this op?”

“Welcome to Mexico. Now what?”

They sat in silence for a moment, then Ripper called to Pete. “Papa Mike. Bring the sat.”

Pete McCoy moved silently through the woods and squatted next to Moose, handing him the satellite phone. He opened the small umbrella-shaped antenna and aimed it at the heavens.

Moose pressed the number for HQ and hit the “send” button, which rang in Langley. A surprised Dex Murphy picked it up.

“Dex here.”

“Problem. Apo’s inside. He sent a warning. Gato’s expecting us. Has his security force inside waiting. Mexican Marines should arrive soon, which will tip them off. If we hit it now, Gato either escapes or dies in a firefight. We’re also outgunned until the Marines show up. What do you want me to do?”

Dex exhaled slowly. “Fuck.”

“Roger. That’s affirmative.”

“We need Gato, Moose. The package could be anywhere.”

“Roger. We’ll Charlie Mike. Out.”

Moose handed the phone back to Pete, who secured it back in his pack along with the folded-up antenna.

“Okay, team. Surprise is partly blown, but Langley needs that package. We continue mission. Big E. Need you and Ray to find your perch that gives you eyes inside the house. Rear of the house is glass. Start moving around back. I’m deploying the drone. Should have a sit-rep for you by the time you find a spot.”

“Aye, aye,” whispered Eric. He and Ray began moving forward through the thick foliage using their night-vision goggles in the total darkness. Moose unzipped his pack and pulled out the dragonfly that Apo had given him back in Langley. He positioned the legs to the “on” position and turned on his small handheld tablet, marking the rear section of the house for recon. He threw the bug gently into the air, and it miraculously began flying, taking off toward the house.

Moose and Ripper smiled at each other. Moose leaned closer. “I feel like James fucking Bond.”

“Gucci gear. I love it. Maybe we’ll get laid at the end of the movie?” said Ripper.

“If we ain’t dead,” replied Moose. They sat and watched the screen as the mini drone zipped over the rear yard and began scanning with its night vision. In the darkness, bodies began lighting up in green, hidden around the pool and landscaping.

“Son of a bitch, greeting committee is all over the yard.” Moose tapped the house on the screen, and the dragonfly began buzzing closer to the building. It dropped a few feet and began looking inside the rear of the house.

“Shit. Apo wasn’t kidding. They’ve got an army in there all right.”

“Now what?” asked Ripper.

“The only easy day was yesterday,” said Moose with a smile. “Big E, you copy?”

“Five by five, Skipper.”

“A dozen tangos in the rear yard. Mostly in the landscaping around the perimeter. How’s the approach?”

“Approach all clear to the rear yard.”

“Roger. We’re moving up. Keep your eyes open. We’ll get in position and get back to you. We’ll take them nice and quiet, one at a time. Can you see inside the house?”

“Negative. Not close enough yet. Too many trees. Working our way up. When I get eyes on the rear of the house, I’ll let you know.”

While Ray and Eric were working their way to the rear of the house, Moose, Ripper, Pete, Jon, and Ryan fanned out and moved up the wooded slope. The grade wasn’t too steep, and the foliage provided plenty of cover. Moose kept checking the tablet as he moved through the woods. He squatted and, through the dragonfly’s camera, looked through the rear windows at a couple dozen bodies that lit up in the dark. They were moving about slowly and had weapons.

“Listen up. Remember, we need Gato
alive
. Kill everything you see, but we have to capture him alive. Kneecap him if you have to, but keep him breathing. Let’s take the targets outside first, real quiet. When we hit the house, it’s gonna go loud, and the Mexi Marines will be right behind us. When it gets loud, get inside and take this place down fast. Out.”

Moose and his men moved up to the edge of the woods and stopped. They dropped their packs and pulled out only what they needed for the assault. Two guards were seated on a large, decorative boulder near the pool. The team began scanning around the yard for a place to hop the fence. Jon belly-crawled twenty yards along the fence line with Pete right behind him. Jon climbed up Pete’s back at the base of the fence and used cutters to get through the concertina wire. Every snip of the cutters made them freeze, waiting for someone to come running, but they were out of earshot. Once he had a small section cleared, Jon clambered over the top and dropped down into the grass. Pete hoisted himself up the black wrought-iron fence and followed him over, and then the two of them belly-crawled toward the two guards. They pulled their black KA-BARs and moved in for the kill.

Moose looked over at Jon. “When it gets loud, grab the blooper and put some deadly accurate fire on those fuckers, but remember, we need Gato alive.”

“Wilco,” Jon whispered.