by Eric Meyer
Brooks looked away.
"Son of a bitch," Guy murmured. "Are you telling me that we were set up by our own people right from the start?"
"We'll never know," Talley replied. "All I do know for sure is that someone got the idea to mount the biggest smoke and mirrors operation in the history of NATO. It was very clever. Set up the Pasdaran to challenge Ahmadinejad, and send us in to stop them. He had no choice except to support us behind the scenes. So the Pasdaran got a bloody nose, and I’ve no doubt he’s already called for the arrest of their senior people. I’ll bet it’s like the night of the long knives over there. It means Iran doesn’t get nuclear weapons, the Pasdaran is fucked, and Ahmadinejad owes us a few.”
“But the nukes! What if we failed?”
“You remember Anika said Petersen had lied to us about the timer? She was wrong. The timer was already set to explode after thirty minutes, just before the Rostam hit the coast. There was no way those warheads were ever going to reach Iran. It was a win-win. Either we took down Petersen’s alliance with the Revolutionary Guard, or they’d explode anyway and take a few of the bastards with them. It meant a lot of scores could be settled, both on our side and the Iranians. When the dust has died down, I can guarantee the Iranians will start making noises to the West about new trade agreements. That's the way the game is played, isn't it, Admiral?"
Brooks looked at him for long moments and then turned away, but his eyes said it all. At least he had the grace not to lie. Not anymore.
"So who do I kill?" Guy grumbled.
"Right now, I couldn't say," Talley replied, "but as soon as I do know, you'll be the first one I tell. First, I’m going to visit Domenico and Roy at the infirmary. I won’t be able to relax until I know Dom’s okay.
"I'll go with you," Guy nodded. “They may need an incentive to do their best work on Domenico.”
Talley nodded, but he didn't smile. He thought of Anika, of her bleeding and dying in the London gutter.
Once again, I'm alone in this world.
"Hey, Boss, what's the problem? We pulled it off, and we're about to go and celebrate. Where should we go?"
And in that moment he realized he wasn't alone.
I do have a family, a family of the most highly trained and deadliest killers in the world yet they depend on me. Some may call us assassins, true. But we’d give our lives for each other. Isn’t that enough?
"After we’re done at the hospital, and provided Dom is okay, I'll make some calls. We’re going to find the best beer and the best women in this city!" Talley exclaimed.
A chorus of cheers rewarded him. He'd made the right call, and for that night and many nights to come, he wouldn't be alone. So why did he feel the empty hole in the pit of his stomach? Too many deaths, Robert Valois and Anika Frost, and Domenico Rovere may well be on the danger list for a long time to come. Countless civilian and military casualties inside Iran, many of them innocents, men, women and children going about the normal business; all for what? He wasn’t sure, not sure at all.
Talley made an effort to push it all to the back of his mind. Yet there was another huge, gaping hole in his life, his children, Joshua and James. Would he win them back? His thoughts turned once more to the letter, kept safe and hidden in his locker. The lawyer said his wife Kay had asked the court for sole custody of his kids, and would no doubt do everything in her power to justify it. He thought about his wife’s statement.
‘You’re never there, Abe, you’re a stranger to them. And besides, look at the kind of work you do. I don’t want my kids to be brought up by someone who’s little more than a government assassin.’
No, that wasn’t true. Men like him risked their lives to prevent the assassins from turning the West into a bloody warzone. But that was another fight, one he’d give his all to win. There’d be time to worry about that later. Right now, his other family needed him to help heal their wounds.
"The operation is finished. Let’s go.”
SEAL TEAM BRAVO: BLACK OPS - CARTEL NIGHTMARE
By Eric Meyer
Copyright © 2012-2014 by Eric Meyer
Published by Swordworks Books
Chapter One
They stole through the night; thankful for the cool air and the light drizzle damping down the usual garbage stench that made the cramped side streets of the Mexican border city so noisome. A dog howled and was silenced with a whine. A light briefly showed, then a door slammed shut. In the background could be heard the hum of faint sounds, the strained heartbeat of this broken city. Far away, the sound of a truck engine receded into the distance as it continued its long journey south. A few miles to the north lay the broad sweep of the border that led to paradise, to North America. Norte Americano. But here was no paradise. This was the United Mexican States. Most people knew it as Mexico, a country of billionaires and paupers, and of hard working ‘paisans’, farmers, cooks, cleaners, truck drivers, and autoworkers. And a country of drug shippers, dealers, growers, enforcers, and the vast infrastructure that supported the most powerful, and most feared business in the country. Some economists estimated that illicit drugs constituted more than half of Mexico’s GDP. The men who traveled through the tired streets this night were one tiny link in that industry, although Jaime Morales, a twenty-year veteran, would not see himself as a tiny link in anything. He’d entered the business at age five, when he ran ten peso bags for the older boys, avoiding the gaze of the local police. A brush with the cops meant a bribe, and that hit the profits hard. The Federales were even worse, as they’d want a regular part of the take. Young Jaime had avoided all of that; he was too young and too innocent to fall under suspicion.
He’d risen rapidly through the ranks, making his bones at the age of eleven by killing a rival supplier. Eight years later, he earned the respect and awe of his peers, killing a too-greedy cop. Jaime was tough, fearless and vastly experienced, so much so that he now owned a sizable chunk of the organization, both selling product locally and shipping it across the border. He was in process negotiating for a valuable shipment that had come up from Columbia, packed in innocent cartons of infant formula. Under his crumpled, sweat-stained shirt, he had the greenbacks tucked into a specially constructed vest, a half million dollars US. He looked at his companion, in fact his muscled bodyguard, Enrico, who had paused and was looking behind them. He looked concerned.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, Jefe. I thought I heard something, maybe someone following us.”
They waited, but Morales heard nothing. He playfully punched his man on the arm.
“You’re hearing things, my friend. There’s nothing there. Let’s get going. We don’t want to be late.”
They rounded a corner and stopped. A black Hummer SUV was parked right across the road, so as to block it with its steel immensity. Eight men stood across the road in a line, dressed in a variety of civilian clothing, but alike in a single detail. They were all armed. Jaime started to move a hand toward the pistol in his belt, a Glock 17 he always carried, but stopped. Enrico was swinging his own weapon, an Ingram MAC 10 machine pistol from under his coat, but Jaime stopped him too.
“Wait, not now. There are too many of them. We’ll go back.”
They turned to go back the way they’d come, but four more men stood blocking their escape. Like the ones in front, they were all armed. They carried a variety of weapons, MAC 10s, TEC 9s, and even a futuristic Steyr semi-auto, the military model assault rifle. Jaime was already working out how to make up the loss of the cash, for this was clearly a stickup, plain and simple. He turned back to face the men stood before the Hummer. A man stood next to the heavy vehicle, hands on his hips, smiling, better dressed than the others. He didn’t have a gun in his hands. This person had other men for that purpose, why would a man in his position of power and authority soil his expensive, cream linen pants with gun oil? The elegantly dressed man was the Boss, the Jefe, and the man whose word would determine life to Jaime and Enrico. Or death.
&nbs
p; “What do you want?” Jaime shouted at him. He realized his voice was hoarse, and he made an effort to not sound as if he was afraid. Dogs like these people could scent fear. It was part of their stock in trade. “You’ve made your point! You know dammed well you’ve got us outgunned here. Tell us what you want, and we’ll sort this out. We’re all businessmen, after all. We don’t want a war.”
“That’s very wise,” the man grinned. He wore expensive, designer sunglasses, even though it was dark. “You and your man, put down your weapons.”
“No!” Jaime shouted back. “We do that and you may as well kill us. You want a fight. You can have it! If you want to rob us, you know we can’t stop you. But we’re not putting down our guns.” He spat on the ground. “Fucking hijo de puta, you think we’re loco? Tell us what you want. We’ll finish our business, and we can all go home to our families. Get it over with.”
The man stared at him through eyes hidden by the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Then he shrugged.
“Okay, if that’s what you want.”
He nodded at the men who blocked their escape. Jaime and Enrico started to turn. They knew instantly how this would go down. They’d done it themselves plenty of times. They started to draw their weapons, simultaneously throwing themselves to one side into the dust to avoid the inevitable gunfire. But the men either side of them had seen it all before too, and they were just as savvy. While their Boss calmly looked on, they dispassionately emptied the clips of their weapons into the two men, shattering the peace of the night with explosions and flashes of gunfire.
Neither Jaime nor Enrico even managed to fully draw their weapons. They went tumbling to the ground to lie in bloody, bullet-torn heaps. The Jefe lifted up his hand, and instantly the firing stopped. He walked forward to inspect the bodies. Enrico was dead, his face unrecognizable from the bullets that had shattered his face. By some miracle, Jaime was still alive, although only just. He stared up at the man who had ordered his death. His chest moved up and down as he tried to suck in his final few breaths. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He waited. The Jefe took off his sunglasses, and Jaime looked into a pair of ice-blue eyes. Strange, he looked Mexican, Hispanic, except for those eyes.
“I guess before you die you’d like to know who is taking over your operation,” he murmured quietly, almost reverently.
Jaime didn’t move, except his eyes, and they trembled a fraction. The man smiled.
“I decided that you and your brother Emilio were an obstacle to my business plans, so you had to go. He will be dead too, before long. I am sorry, but you will understand we could not let him live. Oh, and your families too, wives and kids. All dead. It’s bad business to leave behind someone who could take revenge. But you know that, don’t you, my friend?”
Jaime’s eyelids shivered again, his pupils were wide with agony, and the knowledge that his family was finished.
“I know, I know. It is sad when one’s family members have to be destroyed. But I’m sure you’ll understand. It’s business, nothing more, just business. Oh, yes, my name. It is Alberto Salazar. I’m sure you’ve heard it before.”
The eyes moved slightly. The eyelids closed and then reopened.
“I thought so. My brother, Victor, he sends his regards and his condolences. We will take good care of your business, and it will become a useful part of our empire. You have built a strong organization, too strong. We thank you for that. But, of course, we could not ignore it. We had to take it over. This territory belongs to us.”
He nodded at the man who stood nearby; his gun pointed at Jaime’s head. Alberto Salazar stepped back quickly as the bullet took Jaime Morales between the eyes. He was careful not to splash his expensive linen pants with Morales’ blood, which was slowly soaking into the dust of the unpaved street. He looked around the street, the buildings, the vehicles, checking that everything was as it should be. A curtain moved slightly, and he smiled. These people would see nothing, not if they wanted to avoid the fate of these two men lying in the dust. Alberto Salazar looked around again. He was a careful man. The streets were clear. He nodded to the shooter, and they strode to the Hummer and climbed into the wide rear seats. Two of his men tumbled into the front. One started the engine, and the other held his gun ready in case Jaime had other men in the locality. Protecting the Jefe was a serious business. The rest boarded a pair of Chevrolet Suburbans, and the convoy drove off, leaving the bloody corpses for the local cops to dispose of when they finally decided to come out and ‘investigate’ the murder scene. They would not hurry, and the investigation would be perfunctory. The Salazar brothers paid well for the services of the Ciudad Juarez police.
* * *
David Lopez felt sick. He’d done well, very well, to infiltrate the Morales brothers’ drug empire. He’d done so well, he was a trusted business associate of Emilio Morales so that he traded for product on a regular basis. Morales shipped it over the border, or under the border, in one of his tunnels, and Lopez took delivery in some anonymous El Paso motel. It was a good arrangement, and the brothers had done well out of him. He’d done well out of them, or his organization had. Lopez was DEA, the United States Drug Enforcement Administration, and one of their more successful agents. The intelligence he’d forwarded to Washington on suppliers, shippers and dealers had made an impact on the US drug trade. Now everything was about to end, and he knew that he had only minutes left to live. He’d been meeting Emilio in the office inside their Ciudad Juarez warehouse, actually an autoparts business that fronted for their dealings. A heavy, yellow dump truck had rammed the doors, and before they recovered from the shock, armed men jumped down and covered them with automatic weapons. At first, he’d thought it was a drug bust and wasn’t unduly worried. Now he knew different. He glanced at Emilio Morales, who lay on the floor after a rifle butt had clubbed him down. A man stood over him, dressed almost like a Mariachi singer, minus the sombrero. But the clothes were only a nod towards the Mexican culture. These had clearly been hand sewn by a designer house a long way from Ciudad Juarez, black jacket and pants, with silver trims that were heavy and ornate. A heavy, pure white silk shirt, with a red silk scarf tied casually at the throat. Hand tooled leather boots and vastly expensive. The man was almost mocking his own culture, as if to say, ‘Hey, I’m a Mexican, just like you. But don’t try and copy the look, it’d take you a lifetime to pay the tailor’s bill. You’re down there, and I’m up here.’ He was a big man, well muscled, shining, coiffed hair, slicked down with expensive pomade. His strong face was hard, cruel and expressionless, and his dark eyes were almost like slits, with uncharacteristic blue eyes. Just like his brother, Alberto. He stood in a relaxed posture, as relaxed as a puma before it makes the final leap to take its prey. His voice was low and cultured.
“You must accept your fate, Emilio. Arguing with me is a waste of time. You’re going to die, and so is every one of your family and associates. Accept it, and die well, like a man.” He gave an icy chuckle, almost like water tumbling down a drain. “Although I guess I don’t really care how you die. Dead is dead, eh, Emilio?”
Morales lifted his head. “Victor, my family, you do not need to kill them. Let them go.”
Victor Salazar smiled with amusement. “Let them go? Are you serious?”
He looked at the others who stood in a group, along with David Lopez, two women, the wives of Emilio and Jaime Morales, and five children.
“I am sorry, real sorry. But I cannot let any of you live. That would be bad business, plain loco. If you want to say a prayer before you die, go ahead, but make it quick.”
“You fucking piece of filth,” one of the women shouted, and she ran towards Salazar, her fingers hooked ready to claw his face. One of his men raised his pistol. There was a flash and a loud explosion, and she fell dead at his feet. He shrugged.
“Stupid to show yourself up in front of your kids,” he nodded to his men. “Kill them, all of them.”
They raised their weapons, and David Lopez made one, last
desperate effort to head off the inevitable.
“Stop, don’t do this. I’m an agent of the DEA! They’ll come after you with everything they’ve got if you kill me.”
Salazar looked bored. “DEA, I eat the fucking DEA for breakfast.” He looked at the man nearest to Lopez. “You can kill Mr. DEA agent first.”
“No…..”
The last sounds Lopez heard were the reports of the three bullets that slammed into his body. He felt a terrible pain, then numbness. There was a roaring in his ears, and his vision began to go fuzzy and fade. Then everything went black.
* * *
Chief Petty Officer Kyle Nolan waited while the physician checked through pages of printouts and graphs. A Navy Seal feared very little; their training kept them at the very peak of physical fitness. As for military skills, the Seals had few peers in the world. They had enemies, plenty of enemies, enemies they’d gone up against and decisively beaten. Enemies who’d learned to fear them. But there were others too, ones you couldn’t see and couldn’t fight, like the enemy within. That was a different matter. How could you fight something you couldn’t take down with a burst of gunfire? Cancers, tumors, leukemia, they couldn’t be fought using the Seals’ fearsome array of martial skills. Instead, it was necessary to rely on people like this short, bespectacled, plump doctor, a man with his own special range of skills, and who was taking his time to give a final verdict. Finally, he looked up at the man in front of him. He saw a tall man, six-one, according to his chart. He was lean, with the kind of features some people called chiseled. The doctor guessed most women would find him handsome, and he felt a twinge of envy. His face was average, yet there was something about him. Something that was anything but average. Maybe it was the strong, determined chin and calm, clear eyes that seemed to focus in the distance, yet remained aware of what lay immediately in front of them. They were the color of a clear blue sky. It was hard to pin it down, but a stranger meeting this man would know that he was anything but normal. His thick, dark brown hair was cut short at the front, so there was no danger of it falling over his eyes while he was shooting, although he had no way of knowing why his patient adopted such an unusual style.