Target Deck - 02 (38 page)

“I'll keep an eye and an ear open for him.”

“Pass on whatever you have and I will let you know if we locate him. Our databases are empty on this guy. If we find him and then you do what you do once I give you his whereabouts, I'll put as many people into witness protection as you want.”

“Good to know. I will have something for you soon.”

“I hope so Deckard. I will uphold my end of the bargain but we can't keep the heat off you forever. You are starting a war in America's backyard after all.”

“We're not starting one Grant, we're finishing one.”

Deckard walked over and hung up the phone.

“Let's take a look inside this communications network Cody.”

The computer expert brought up a window on the projection screen showing thousands of telephones connecting to each other as well as showing the links between them. The infographic looked like a giant spider web.

“Once we identify who the leaders are in the cartel network, we can begin taking them apart faster than the cartel can react. When we get inside their decision making process then we've got them by the balls.”

“But we have no way of knowing who is who,” Cody explained. “This is just raw data. It means nothing by itself.”

“Until now. We had a little talk with our prisoner, Ricky, and hit the jack pot. There is a paymaster for the Jimenez cartel. He's got so much money that it is just stacking up in safe houses and in the villa, he literally doesn't know what to do with it. When he has to pay his men, pay off officials, or hire freelancers he sends the paymaster to deliver the cash. This guy knows everyone and is the closest thing to the drug lord's secretary. He probably knows more about the interconnections between the cartel and Mexican society than even Jimenez does.”

“Do we have his phone number?”

“No.”

“Then how am I supposed to find him in all this mess,” Cody said waving at the projection that displayed thousands upon thousands of numbers.

Someone knocked on the door to the OPCEN, interrupting the conversation.

Deckard opened the door and saw Samantha standing there with the source. Frank was lumbering down the hall behind them.

“We've arranged for safe passage for you and your family,” Deckard told the truck driver.

Cezar suddenly had tears in his eyes.

“Don't thank me just yet, I need a name.”

“What name?”

“Do you know who the paymaster was who paid you and the other drivers?”

“Kenny Rodriguez.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No.”

“Thanks,” Deckard nodded. “Samantha, come inside. You too Frank.”

Once inside the OPCEN, Deckard led her around to where Cody had his computers set up.

“I need to check your cell phone.”

“What for?”

“I want the numbers of each one of the policemen you had under your command before they went rogue.”

“Um, okay. If you think it will help.”

Going through the address book on her phone, she began reading off numbers to Cody.

“Frank?”

“What's up?”

“I want you to go round up Aghassi and tell him to hand pick three guys he wants to take with him for a low-visibility snatch and grab operation. I will fill him in on the details once he gets here.”

“You like your coffee with cream and sugar?”

“Just be glad you still have a job here with that gimp ass leg.”

“Funny,” he grumbled as he headed back out.

Looking over at Cody, he had taken the phone from Samantha and entered the numbers into the computer within seconds. The man was an absolute savant with numbers.

“Cody, find me any phone numbers that Samantha's corrupt cops called.”

Cody blew through the analytical program he used and brought up a phone number once he correlated one between each of the policemen.

“Here is one.”

“That was my father's number,” Samantha commented bitterly.

“What else do we have?”

Pounding out some more commands on the keyboard, Cody used the mouse and brought up a second number.

“This is the only other one that they have in common with each other.”

“Now take that number and see who else that person has been calling.”

“It's all over the map. Definitely Jimenez and Ignacio but also people spread all over Oaxaca City. Some of these numbers he dialed belong to the prisoners we are holding, particularly the leaders of their groups.”

“That's got to be him,” Deckard said. “That's Kenny Rodriguez.”

Kenny Rodriguez was leaned up against the front tire of one of the assault trucks, sitting on the ground with his hands still in restraints. Deckard got down on one knee, grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt and pulled him in. Aghassi had just linked up with the two Samruk patrols where they were pre-positioned in formation and ready to roll into action. Aghassi's teamed had snatched him off the streets just minutes ago.

“This is how it works Kenny,” Deckard growled. “You tell us everything. We want everyone in the city who is in charge of anything. Who runs the networks of spotters and linkmen that call information up to the cartel, who runs the kidnaps rings, who runs the assassination rings, who coordinates drug shipments, who runs the shifts of men who guard cartel assets, who is in charge of keeping the cartel's telecommunication masts up and running, we want them all.”

Kenny's eyes were wide, his pupils dilated.

“Once we have what we want you catch a ride north and get a new name and new career selling used cars in Denver or Cleveland with the witness protection program. If you lie to me or refuse to talk, we still get what we want out of you but you lose your fingernails to a pair of needle nose pliers and then I dump you in the sketchiest part of town and make sure that whatever cartel buddies of yours are left see that you have been working with us.”

“I will tell you whatever you want to know,” Kenny squawked, his voice suddenly going high pitched.

“Load him in my vehicle,” Deckard ordered the three Kazakhs with Aghassi. “Flex cuff him to the vehicle and leave his face uncovered. I want the entire city to see him as we pass by, that way he knows there is no way turning back. The only way forward is my way.”

“Roger,” the Kazakhs confirmed, dragging the cartel paymaster up by his arms and pushing him towards the lead vehicle.

Deckard walked along the convoy, looking up at the men as they squirted lubricating oil into the PKM machine guns in the turrets and assaulters re-checked their breaching equipment. They were all business and all knew that today was game day. They had to go big or go home.

They were pre-positioned just outside of the city. Now that everything was ready to go, he reached into his vehicle and retrieved his Iridium phone. Extending the antenna, Deckard dialed the number for his training cell working with the Zapatistas out in the hinterlands of Oaxaca and into Chiapas.

“Hello?” Kurt said answering the phone on his end.

“Green light any and all operations,” Deckard told him. “Hit the high priority targets and move on down the list.”

“We already have maneuver elements standing by and in position.”

“Good luck.”
“You too.”

Deckard terminated the call and climbed into his truck. Kenny was crammed in the middle of the cab with his hands tethered through a metal roll bar that ran across the roof. Reaching for the radio Deckard keyed the handmic.

“Initiate movement,” he said on the assault net. “We're heading down the main MSR through the city. Standby for targets.”

The driver started down the road, picking up speed as the city lay sprawled out in front of them. Deckard turned in his seat and looked back at Kenny.

“This is what is going to happen Kenny. We are going to start driving around town and you are going to be our oracle and point out the house of every mid-level and above cartel member. Got it?”

Kenny looked away and nodded his head in a state of dejected defeat.

34

The Stewmaker followed a specific recipe.

In his line of work, he found that it helped to develop a consistent schedule, almost turning it into a professional ritual. Some of his fellow cartel members worshiped Santa Muerta, the Black Madonna, Chupacabras and all manner of nonsense. He was raised a strict Catholic without all the added window dressing that the working poor had ingratiated into their religion but these days the Stewmaker didn't have much of anything to believe in other than the six hundred dollars a week that the cartel paid him.

The money was good, but the work was somewhat time consuming, depending on how busy the cartel was. Last summer Jimenez had decided to heat up the plaza and wipe out some rivals. The Stewmaker had to dispose of so many bodies that his family had hardly seen him over the span of a couple months.

With a sigh, he dropped down to his hands and knees and poked the wood fire under the giant metal vat that he had started an hour ago. The recipe called for two hundred liters of water, brought to a slow boil, followed by two entire sacks of sodium hydroxide. Setting the metal poker aside, he swatted at some of the flies buzzing around, giant black fuckers that went straight for his eyes and ears.

It was the corpses that attracted the flies. Two of them lay besides the vat, their skin having gone gray, eyes sunken. Sometimes the bodies came in with obvious signs of torture and mutilation. Sometimes they came in with one clean gunshot wound through the head, sometimes they were riddled with bullets from head to toe. These two had severe cuts across their arms, signs of putting up a defense before they died from deep stab wounds in the abdomen. It looked like they had gotten into a sword fight but it wasn't the Stewmaker's place to ask questions. He worked disposal while someone else worked termination.

Lighting a cigarette, he watched the stew slowly come to a boil. He moved to put on some protective gear before dumping the bodies into the cauldron. First there was an apron, followed by heavy plastic gloves, and finally a face mask and goggles. Safety first.

Rubbing out his cigarette, the Stewmaker lifted the mask in place and hefted the first corpse over his shoulder. Handling dead weight was much more difficult than carrying someone who was still alive. Slowly, he eased the corpse into the bubbling stew. He dreaded what came next. The other corpse was the fat one. Grunting and straining, he managed to slide the second body into the vat.

The stew would cook for eight hours before he would extinguish the fire. He would stir the contents periodically and experience told him that all that would be left by the end was fingernails, toenails, and teeth. The stew would then be poured into 55 gallon drums, hauled out by pickup truck, and the contents burned at some remote location.