Family Matters

by Robert Ullrich

  “Well, LJ,” said Lazarus. “It’s a good idea, but I really hope that old red-neck pulls it off. Stephanie Salerno would not take the news of Mr. Johnson’s demise well. Not well at all, LJ.”

  LJ nodded. “She does like the old coot, that’s for sure.”

  With that, LJ settled back and closed his eyes, satisfied for the moment he had done what he could to get Lazarus to at least take some precautionary steps. Would it last? He highly doubted it. When all was said and done, LJ knew Lazarus was moving too fast; driven by his desire for revenge. He knew the old saying. Something to the effect, “If you’re going after someone for revenge, you better dig two graves.” He hoped he was wrong.

  November 14

  9:21 AM – EST

  Special Agent Weaver was starting to get worried. He’d gotten updates through CIA channels regarding the rescue of Agent Grimsrud, and the subsequent attack in Key West. That was all he knew. Section Chief Ayala was keeping Weaver in the dark regarding the elimination of the four Zapatos in Key West, as well as the assassination of Esperanza, Miami head of the Cartel operations.

  Weaver hadn’t been treated as a suspect in any way. Regardless, he wasn’t comfortable feeling he was on a short leash, considering all that was going on. His relationship with Camacho was known; as to the depths of his involvement, as far as Weaver knew, Ayala was unaware. Ayala wanted it kept that way, so he gave Weaver just enough information to mollify him, keeping the traitor in the loop enough to instill a false sense of security. No one else at the Embassy knew about Weaver’s treachery, only Ayala. He’d been surprised when it turned out to be Ricardo Spencer delivering the agent to Mexico City. Spencer was a well-known Zapatos member, yet for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint, Ayala didn’t see him as a threat. Maybe it was something General Fischer had told him – he couldn’t recall exactly what, but it made a subconscious impression.

  Ayala had his orders from General Fischer to keep Weaver in the Embassy, so Weaver wasn’t going anywhere for now. He had sold the reason to Weaver it was for his own protection. With the apparent Cartel war looming on the horizon, which was the ‘official’ story to provide cover for the Chameleon’s operation. It bothered Ayala to a degree. He was spending a lot of resources aiding and abetting a criminal who was wanted seemingly everywhere. He wouldn’t buck the Director on it, but he wasn’t as comfortable with the operational support as he led General Fischer to believe.

  November 14

  11:13 AM – EST

  Jose Castro stood by the door, watching Camacho pace the floor. He felt a measure of contempt for the nervousness and fear he saw in Camacho.

  Castro was no fool. He had no doubts the Chameleon was coming. He also had little doubt the man would succeed in destroying the compound. He wasn’t afraid, but he was curious. Castro had heard the stories about this Chameleon for years, always taking them with a grain of salt. That grain had become a five-pound bag with news of the slaughter in Key West. Then, all his doubts were swept away when Esperanza was taken out, along with most of the Miami operations the night before.

  “Have you made all the preparations, Jose?” demanded Camacho.

  Castro stared at his boss with thinly veiled contempt. “Of course, Hefe. Where do you think I’ve been for the last 12 hours, fishing?”

  Camacho spun around, virtually livid with anger. “You dare talk to me this way? I am El Hefe, pendejo, and you will show me respect!” Camacho stormed half-way across the room while shouting his displeasure.

  Castro didn’t react, nor did he speak; staring coldly at Camacho as he approached. It didn’t take long for the desired effect to sink in. Camacho was face to face with a cold-blooded killer – one that he considered almost as good as the Chameleon. He stopped in front of the man he called the Annihilator, clenching his jaws to hold back what was on the tip of his tongue. He stared at Castro for a full minute before turning away to resume pacing. Castro’s contempt for the man grew exponentially, he was making little effort to hide it.

  “Your men are ready, at least as ready as they will ever be,” he said sarcastically. “Here and in Chihuahua. If this Chameleon is coming, he will most likely come through there.” Castro didn’t put much faith his own words. For all he knew the Chameleon would come up from the South, through the mountains. It would be one hell of a job to do it, but it could be done. With a helicopter, it was conceivable as a primary approach.

  “Have you heard from Clark?” asked Camacho.

  “The pilot?” asked Castro. “Si, I spoke with him two hours ago. What do you want him to do?”

  “Nothing for now,” said Camacho, “but I want him ready to pick me up at the lower entrance if necessary. On second thought, tell him to start this way now. I want him within fifteen minutes of the compound.”

  The lower entrance, as it was referred to, was the rabbit hole for the compound. It was a 4-inch steel door covered with stone set in a sheer canyon wall; invisible from the outside. His uncle Ramon had it installed to provide a last resort means of escape. Ramon would be ready if the Federales ever came after him. Only Camacho, Castro, and the pilot, Clark knew how to access it, either from in or out of the compound. A landing area for a helicopter extraction had been carved out of the solid rock. If need be, Camacho would run. He didn’t see it as cowardice, but as pragmatism. If things went poorly, he would use the bolt-hole; living to fight another day. Only time would tell if his plan would work.

  ~23~

  November 15

  9:00AM – CST

  Lazarus, in full Cooper Johnson regalia, set down at Fort Bliss Army Airfield at 9:00 in a twin-engine Cessna; the G-4 left hangered in Lubbock. As he taxied towards the hangars on the east side of the base, he spotted the AC-130 sitting next to the MI-35 he’d left in Costa Rica. Miss Salerno had ferried it up to El Paso with Young Bear at the stick. General Fischer had arranged mid-air refueling along the way.

  LJ dropped the ladder and Lazarus headed down behind him. Cooper’s ever-present Stetson replaced with a Vietnam Veteran cap. The cap would keep the wig in place, the beard was trimmed back to 4 inches and well-secured. Lazarus had 72 hours before the adhesive he used would begin to deteriorate, even when sweating.

  He walked into the hangar and spotted Sheffield and Mumphord sorting gear on a 20-foot long table along the right side of the building. There was quite the collection of arms. Everything from Costa Rica with the addition of two M40A6, USMC scout sniper rifles. Sheffield was in the process of cleaning one, the other looked ready to go.

  Sheffield and Mumphord looked up at the same time; both doing a double-take.

  “Howdy, gentlemen,” said Lazarus offering his hand. “The name’s Cooper, Cooper Johnson. My daddy was a big Gary Cooper fan.” Both men looked puzzled, as they took the offered hand. “I reckon ya’ll are wonderin’ who the hell I am. Don’t blame ya a bit. I know ya’ll was expectin’ my boss, but he’s workin’ a different angle. He’s says he’ll be seein’ us at Camacho’s place for beers.” Lazarus let out a belly laugh. “I just hope he remembers to bring it, ‘cause I sure as hell ain’t got none.”

  Lazarus turned and headed towards the gunship with LJ on his heels. The two men looked each other in the eye and shrugged. “Whatever,” said Mumphord. “I just hope that boy fights better than he looks.”

  “Amen, mate,” said Sheffield. “He looks a bit long in the tooth for this sort of action, Vietnam Vet or not.”

  “Not my problem,” said Mumphord, who returned to working on the weapons and assembling a field-grade first-aid kit with everything he could conceive of.

  Lazarus noted that Eno and Young Bear were nowhere to be seen.

  ****

  While Lazarus was landing at Fort Bliss, Young Bear and Eno were just entering the air-space above Chihuahua. Eno was behind the stick of an old Piper Cub, though you’d never know it by the hum of the finely tuned engine.

  Gunny pulled back the window on his side, nodding at Eno who put the plane into a shallow dive. He leveled out a
t 1000 feet and Gunny started throwing stacks of what looked like brochures out the window. Eno circled the city 4 times, tightening the radius with each pass until Young Bear was out of pamphlets.

  “Let’s get her out of here.”

  “Copy that, Gunny,” replied Eno as he pulled back on the stick and started climbing, banking the Piper north; headed back to Fort Bliss.

  *****

  Most of Camacho’s men had departed for the compound the night before. Well over one hundred remained in Chihuahua, preparing for the Chameleon. The local head of the Zapatos, Ignacio Munoz, was wrapping things up with his lieutenants at a warehouse on the southwest side of the city. Unknown to him, Gustaf Reichart had paid them a visit the night before.

  With the CIA intelligence at his disposal, tracking down Munoz wasn’t much of a challenge. They already knew the location of the warehouse, so finding Munoz was the only issue. Gustaf located his residence a little after midnight. Dressed in black, he slipped by the few guards on the property and quickly picked the lock on the garage door. Ten minutes later, Gustaf slipped out of the garage and under a Suburban parked in front of the house. By the time he finished working his way through the two pickups in the driveway, he was eighty pounds lighter than when he arrived.

  Munoz, satisfied with the defenses set in place, left the city at 8:30 that morning, headed to the compound.

  *****

  The brightly colored pamphlets didn’t escape the notice of Los Zapatos. Most were picked up by civilians, who were equally confused and suddenly afraid.

  “To the citizens of the great city of Chihuahua. This is a Public Service Announcement, brought to you by the Chameleon. You may not have heard of him, but he is coming to town; today at noon. The purpose of his visit is to destroy as much of Los Zapatos del la Muerte Cartel as possible. Please be off the streets and stay inside until his business is concluded. You will know when it is clear to return.

  Now, a personal message to members of Los Zapatos: You know who I am. You know why I am coming. You know what I intend to do. If you wish to survive this day, you will be out of the city by 11:30; never to return. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to turn your lives around. If you chose to stay, you will die; most of you today. Those who manage to survive, will be hunted down by the Federales in a joint operation with several organizations of the United States.

  You may, of course, leave for the compound in the Sierra Madres. You will have safe passage today; no one will interfere. The reason is simple. Tomorrow I will destroy the compound.

  You have Andres Camacho to thank for this opportunity to die dishonorably in the service of a coward. If you wish to join him, please do. It doesn’t matter how many of you are in the compound – none will survive.

  If you chose to stay here in Chihuahua, then I wish you the best of luck on this, your final day on earth.”

  The tri-fold pamphlet had an image of a Chameleon at the end of the text. It was smiling…

  *****

  “President Villa,” Bernardo said as he poked his head into the inner office. “The man who called before is on your private line.”

  “Thank you, Bernardo,” answered the President, “there will be no need to record anything. I assume the prior conversation never happened?”

  Bernardo nodded as he closed the door.

  “Good morning, Mr. Chameleon,” said President Villa.

  “Good morning to you, sir” replied Lazarus. He was isolated from the rest of the team, speaking without the Cooper accent. “I am on schedule, sir. The civilians have been notified, as have the Cartel members. I am moving at noon.”

  “Why, may I ask, did you inform Los Zapatos of your intent?” inquired President Villa.

  “Two reasons, sir. First, I want them off the streets as much as you do to avoid civilian collateral damage. My source has informed me they have all gathered at the warehouse by the railroad tracks. Second, some are heading out of town. The majority are heading to the mountains, but several vehicles are eastbound out of Chihuahua. They left in a caravan 10 minutes ago. They should be arriving at your perimeter within 5 minutes, maybe ten.”

  “I will give them your regards, Mr. Chameleon, provided they aren’t killed trying to evade the soldiers positioned there. It would seem very unlikely any of them will want to surrender willingly, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Lazarus smiled. “I can’t imagine that scenario at all, Mr. President. They fancy themselves soldiers. It would bring shame upon their families if they did not go down fighting.”

  “That is precisely my thoughts,” said the President. “Perhaps a few will survive to carry a message for me to the other Cartels.”

  “Perhaps, but then again, dead men tell a more convincing story in times such as these.”

  “You bring up an interesting point,” said the President. “I hadn’t looked at it from that perspective. You may very well be correct. I will have Bernardo inform them to handle Los Zapatos accordingly.”

  “Thank you, President Villa,” said Lazarus.

  “Happy hunting, Mr. Chameleon.”

  *****

  Lazarus checked in with Katsumi and General Fischer as he headed towards the waiting AC-130. The General had added 4 men to the crew to assist LJ. Together, they would handle the firing systems. The primary weapon would be the 25-millimeter Gatling gun, capable of firing 1800 rounds per minute. The finishing touches will be from the 105mm howitzer mounted in the rear port area. Lazarus didn’t see the need to utilize the Bofors 40mm gun, capable of 120 rounds per minute. He planned on saving the 12,000 rounds for the mountain compound. Subtle was off the board.

  “All right now, all ya’ll git onboard,” hollered Lazarus to the crew as he approached. “We are cleared to Chihuahua and I want this bird circling the city by 11:45. There ain’t nothing quite like settin’ up on a target in this baby. Best part is, them Zapatos got no idea how we’re comin’.”

  He stopped briefly to speak to one of the soldiers assigned ground crew duties. “Did them boys of ours head out?” he asked the Corporal.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Corporal Johansson, according to his name-tag. “They were out before sun-up. The German guy seemed particularly in a hurry to get going. He was practically dragging the Frenchman by the collar.”

  Lazarus nodded knowingly. “Sounds like Gustaf. He’s got some extra fireworks planned for them boys in the Cartel. Only problem is, he might not get to use them. Now that would be a goddamn shame, pardner.” Lazarus shook Johansson’s hand and headed to the waiting gunship.

  “Mornin’, Eno,” said Lazarus as he took the co-pilot’s seat. “You ready to rock and roll?”

  Eno glanced up from the gauges, switches and controls to give Lazarus a quick nod. His face was tight with tension. Eno had been with the Chameleon for years. This was his first time in action.

  “Don’t you sweat this, Eno,” said Lazarus as he put his hand on Eno’s shoulder. “You got this, son. What we’re doin’ here today is takin’ out the trash for President Villa. It’s kinda like doin’ community service.”

  Eno nodded again, his mouth a grim line in his face. “I understand, Senior Cooper,” he said to Lazarus. Eno didn’t know Cooper was one of his boss’s aliases. “I am ready. I will not let El Chameleon down today. I owe him everything.” With that he went back to his pre-flight checklist.

  Ten minutes later the AC-130 was rolling down the runway gathering speed. Chihuahua was 317 air miles from El Paso. The Hercules would be on station in less than an hour, 5 minutes ahead of schedule. With a range of over 2200 miles, fuel wasn’t an issue. They would top off the tanks and re-supply the gunship this evening in preparation for tomorrow’s flight to the mountains.

  The compound was located just over one hundred air miles south of Chihuahua, near the Rio Conchos. Getting there by vehicle was a challenge. There were no named roads within 20 kilometers of the compound. San Francisco de Conchos was the closest municipality, and that was 35 kilometers south and east, with t
he river between the locations. Isolated was one way of putting it, though it made for a two-edged sword; hard to get to, yet even harder to escape from. A lesson Ramon Torano never had to learn. Andres Camacho wouldn’t share his ignorance.

  *****

  Agent Weaver was reluctant to answer the call. He knew it was Camacho. He was fairly certain the Agency didn’t know about his burner, but fairly certain wasn’t reassuring. He answered the third time it rang. Obviously, Camacho wasn’t going to give up.

  “Yes,” said Weaver.

  “Why did you take so long?” asked Camacho, his voice raspy from yelling all day.

  “You do know where I am, don’t you?” asked Weaver with thinly veiled sarcasm.

  “I don’t care if you’re in the fucking White House, you answer when I call.” Camacho was close to shouting again; his voice broke in the middle of the sentence, the end barely audible.

  “Get to the point,” ordered Weaver.

  Camacho almost lost it when Weaver told him what to do. He would have said something, but time was short. Camacho knew it. Weaver knew it, too.

  “What is planned, and when for the little dog?” asked Camacho. The little dog was Chihuahua; not very imaginative but effective.

  “I don’t know,” said Weaver. “The Director is here, so I expect to get info later this morning. He’s called a meeting for 11:45.”

  “Find out what you can,” said Camacho. “If I go down, you go with me.”

  “Don’t threaten me,” growled Weaver, surprising Camacho. “I’m not the one on the lizard’s radar. You should have left it alone in Key West.”

  “Fuck you,” said Camacho, “I have video of you killing a defenseless man.”

  Weaver laughed, something Camacho wasn’t expecting. “Big fucking deal. You have a video of a man doing his job; infiltrating the inner circle of a drug Cartel. Hell, send me a copy. It will look good in my files.” Not waiting for an answer, Weaver ended the call and broke the cheap flip-phone apart. He was wearing gloves; he was no fool. The pieces ended up going down five different toilets as he wound his way through the embassy to the conference room. The meeting would be starting in ten minutes. Despite his treachery, Weaver felt good. The Chameleon was taking care of Camacho. Anything the drug lord had on him could be easily spun. He was supposed to get close to Camacho, gain his confidence and work him. It’s what the Agency did; it’s what he had done and done well. He was starting to believe he would make it through this after all.