Family Matters

by Robert Ullrich

  “So, I’m not important enough for the Chameleon? Bullshit. He’s a coward. He knows he can’t take this compound, so he sent you on a suicide mission.” Andres hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt.

  Lazarus let out a laugh followed by a coughing fit. “Damn, Andres, least while ya ain’t lost yer fuckin’ sense of humor. Yeah, that’s it. The boss is plum scared shitless. Especially after all the trouble he had in Key West and Miami; not to mention the terrible beating he took yesterday when he blew yer operation the hell up in Chihuahua. Yep, he’s in a pure fuckin’ panic, right about now.”

  Andres slammed the phone down. “Fucking pendejo, Johnson,” he said to Ricardo and Castro, both standing by the window.

  It was Ricardo who spoke first. “Hefe, we have visitors.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” demanded Camacho.

  “Well, why don’t you walk on over here and see for yourself, Hefe…” said Castro with no effort to hide the contempt for his boss.

  Camacho glared at Castro as he rose from his desk. “I’ll deal with your insolence later,” he snarled.

  “I think you will be too busy running for your life to deal with me.” Castro turned his back on Camacho and walked out of the office.

  “Do you want me to go after him, Hefe?” asked Ricardo.

  Camacho ignored him. He had spotted the AC-130 descending through a turn.

  “So, he thinks he can shoot this place apart?” said Camacho sarcastically. “This isn’t some old fucking warehouse in Chihuahua. This building can withstand anything.”

  Camacho called down to the underground garage.

  “Guzman here,” said a deep voice.

  “Are the men here from Chihuahua?” asked Camacho.

  “Yes, Hefe. They arrived about three hours ago. Twenty vehicles and around 80 men, total.”

  “Good, send them out front.”

  “Hefe,” said Guzman, “they will be shredded by the Chameleon’s airplane.”

  “It’s not an airplane. It’s a fucking C-130 Hercules you fool. Those men deserted their brothers and left them to die. Do what I fucking tell you to do, or it will be you out there.”

  “Understood. I will get them moving,” said Guzman.

  “Make sure they don’t take any of our good weapons with them. Sooner or later the Chameleon will have to come at us from the ground. Then we will destroy him. There is no way he can destroy this fortress. My uncle built it to withstand anything short of a nuclear bomb.” Camacho hung up and turned to Ricardo.

  “Get Clark on the way. I want him ready to pick me up at the north exit. Tell him he’s got thirty minutes.”

  “What about the Chameleon’s plane?”

  “Don’t worry about the plane. The exit is well past the area he is circling, over a mile out. We will be able to drive there in five minutes completely underground.”

  Ricardo took his phone out and hit a number stored on the phone.

  “Clark here,” answered the pilot.

  “El Hefe wants you at the north exit in thirty minutes. Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me it ain’t” said Clark. “How long do I wait?”

  “Until we come out the door,” snapped Ricardo. “Just be there.”

  “Damn, no need to get all worked up. I’ll be there,” said Clark. “You need to be out that door within five minutes of touchdown or I am gone. That goddamn gunship would eat me alive.”

  “Just be there,” said Ricardo.

  “Will do, Ricardo. Just the two of you?”

  “There may be three, but no more,” said Ricardo.

  “No sweat, then. I can run full fuel tanks and put on the two extra pods since weight won’t be an issue. It’ll give me two more hours of flight time, or about 300 miles.”

  “Good, I’ll see you there.” Ricardo turned to Camacho and confirmed the timing.

  “Good, I don’t want to take any chances. No matter what happens today, I’m not dying at the hands of some fucking employee of the Chameleon. If he wants me, he’ll have to come after himself.”

  *****

  Camacho’s men slowly advanced from of the underground garage. They could hear the AC-130 echoing off the canyon walls, though couldn’t see it.

  One of the older men, more gray than black in his unruly thick hair, led his men through the door. Vincent Ortega had been in Los Zapatos since the age of 12. Chihuahua had been his operation, his responsibility. He pressed on slowly, moving from cover to cover, the men following his lead.

  The gunship came into sight. It was banked to the port side; the guns visible from where Vincent stood. He turned and looked at his men. “If this is our day to die, do it with honor. It has been good knowing many of you. Today, we have little if any chance of surviving the Chameleon’s rage. All of you saw what it did in Chihuahua.

  “The plane is too high to hit with anything we have as far as weapons. This will not be a good day for us. Make your peace with God and prepare to die.” Guzman made the sign of the cross. All the men removed their hats as they prayed the Virgin Mary might deliver them.

  The AC-130 went by without firing. Vincent was confused – his men as well.

  “Why did he not shoot, Vincent?” asked a young soldier. He looked every bit the scared sixteen-year-old he was; his weapon rattling in his shaking hands.

  “I do not know,” Said Vincent. “Just be ready when it returns.”

  To Vincent’s surprise the gunship was higher on its next pass; the ramp lowered. As the plane passed over, someone tossed out what looked like a box. “What the hell is this?” he thought. He was expecting an explosion when it hit. There was none.

  He grabbed one of the flyers that flew into the air when crate hit the ground. There was a picture of a chameleon on one side, a note on the other.

  The message read: “Members of Los Zapatos, this is your one chance to live. You have ten minutes before I come back around. If you are on the road heading north, you will be left alone. You need to understand the Federales are waiting for you, three kilometers out. You will be taken into custody. It is unavoidable.

  “Whether or not your stay is your decision. I will judge no man who refuses my offer of safe passage. I will, however, shred him to pieces. Los Zapatos ends today. Andres Camacho will die by nightfall, along with anyone left at the compound. If you have read this fast, you have about six minutes to get going. Drop your weapons where you are, and head north. There will be no hesitation when I return. If you chose to remain there – you die, there. The Chameleon.”

  The sound of the four turbo-prop engines were once again becoming audible; quickly increasing in volume. Vincent didn’t waste a second. He dropped his AK-47 to the ground and took off at a trot. Soon, all but 5 of the 80 men who had come from Chihuahua were headed north, and at a fairly good pace.

  “Well, hell,” said Lazarus.” I was sorta hopin’ they’d all light out. I gotta admit; damn sure looks like most of them are headin’ north, though.”

  LJ keyed his com. “What are your orders?”

  Lazarus answered. “Introduce Los Zapatos to the 105.”

  “Copy that,” said LJ. He turned to the three-man crew in the rear of the aircraft and circled his hand over his head, one finger raised. The crew nodded and seconds later the howitzer belched a ball of white flames as the 105mm projectile was liberated from its casing.

  One second there were five men shooting their rifles in the air. The next second there was nothing, just a 10-foot crater and smoldering body parts scattered randomly throughout the area.

  “Good shot, boys,” said Lazarus. “It’s time to light these fuckers up. On the next pass I want that Gatlin spittin’ fire like a goddamn dragon, focused on the top level. The Bofors is for the intermediate elevations, and I want the 105 barkin’ like hound-dog what cornered a racoon at them blast doors. We clear?”

  “10-4, Cooper,” came a united answer from the firing crew. As the AC-130 came back around from the south side, Puff lived up to h
er reputation. Fire began raining from the sky, all three weapons spitting flames at maximum rates. The sound of the firing was overwhelming. In seconds, the sounds of the guns firing faded away; overwhelmed by the continuous explosions from the Howitzer, Bofors and the impact of the Gatlin’s 20mm rounds.

  The Chameleon was knocking at the door.

  ~26~

  November 16

  NOON – CST

  Deep inside the compound, Camacho heard the 105mm howitzer shell hit in front of the entry doors to the underground. It was muffled, but audible.

  “What the fuck was that?” Camacho asked Ricardo.

  Ricardo keyed the mic on his radio, “Guzman, what’s going on down there?” He got no reply. “Guzman, do you copy?” He looked at Camacho and shrugged.

  His radio came to life. “Ricardo, I hear you. I don’t know what happened out there. There was an explosion. It was like a bomb went off.”

  Ricardo said, “10-4. Hold on.”

  “Apparently they have more than just the Gatlin gun on that plane, Hefe,” he said to Camacho.

  “How long until Clark gets here?” he asked Ricardo.

  “Twenty minutes; more or less. He’s probably keeping low to the ground and might take longer to get here.”

  Camacho nodded. “Tell Castro to meet us in the food storage. The access to the escape tunnel is in there.”

  “What about a vehicle?”

  “There’s one already in the tunnel. It will run on batteries or gasoline. It’s one of those hybrid cars. It’s kept fully charged and fueled.”

  “Go on ahead, Hefe,” said Ricardo. “I will get Jose and bring him. I don’t want to broadcast over the radio.”

  “Good idea, Ricardo,” said Camacho. “I don’t need a bunch of people trying to get out with me. You and Castro; no one else.”

  “I understand, Hefe,” said Ricardo.

  Camacho grabbed a wheeled case that was filled with cash and 4 kilos of cocaine. Ricardo took the other case. It was filled with weapons, grenades, flash-bangs, MP5’s and a lot of ammunition. Everything was chambered for 9mm to minimize the numbers of calibers needed.

  *****

  The gunship came around on its second firing run. The sight alone of the gun barrels and the howitzer were enough to make any man take notice. As the plane came around to the two o’clock position, relative to the entrance – fire began raining from the sky. The Gatlin, at 350 rounds per burst sent flames shooting out the front side. The Bofors 40mm gun began firing at a rate of 120 rounds per minute. The howitzer was putting out 60 per minute. The results were beautiful to Lazarus as he watched from the co-pilot seat. It was a continuous pounding that was bringing rocks the size of automobiles down from the upper reaches while blasting a trench ten feet deep at the base of the cliff. The Gatlin obliterated the bullet-proof glass of the main floor – chewing up everything inside.

  The firing ceased as the gunship passed the 10 o’clock position on the compound. The fire team took the five-minute break to clear out shell casings and feed another 350-round belt into the Gatlin.

  The third pass began to bring the upper floor down. As the load bearing walls began to crumble under the onslaught of the 20mm projectiles, the ceilings started to cave. Lazarus doubted anyone was still in the upper reaches, but he wanted it brought to rubble. His countenance was that of stone. No lines marked his face, either of pleasure or anger. He was a mask of calmness wrapped in Copper Johnson’s disguise.

  He pulled the sat-phone out and hit resend.

  Camacho answered. He was confident he would be clear of the compound in twenty minutes, long before the Chameleon could even begin to make headway through the blast doors and the fifteen feet of solid rock that made up the exterior walls. “Is that all you have?” he asked with contempt. Camacho was determined to rile this Cooper Johnson up. Hoping he would act in haste and make a mistake. He knew it to be unlikely, but he wanted the man to know he did not fear him.

  “Well now, Andres; can I call ya Andres? I figure formalities are sorta shot to shit by now, don’t you reckon mi compadre?”

  Camacho laughed with anger. “Your compadre? You must be as stupid as your boss. We are not friends. We will never be friends. You may destroy the compound, though I don’t see how. Those blast doors can withstand anything you have on your plane.”

  “Funny thing, mentionin’ them blast doors, amigo,” said Lazarus. “I got me ahold of them plans of your uncles. He was sorta tight with my boss ya know. See now, Andres, here’s yer problem. Them doors sure as shit can take a pounding. I might in time be able to blast down low-enough to git under them, but I ain’t got the time for that.”

  “So, you are going to just keep wasting your fire on a building you can’t take? Sounds rather futile to me, amigo,” he said derisively.

  “Well, to be honest with ya, Andres. You’re half-right. I can’t blow them doors in. That’s as sure as the sun comin’ up tomorrow. The thing is, they can take damn near anything short of a nuke and stay put.” Lazarus paused.

  “Then what does it matter?” said Camacho. “You can shoot your guns at it all day, and for what? Target practice>?

  Lazarus picked up one of the com-links Stephanie Salerno had supplied. “Gustaf, you copy?”

  “That I do my twangy Texan. What do you need?”

  “I want to execute yer plan when ya see us comin’ round agin. We should be there in about five.”

  “Sie haben lange genug gebraucht, Mr. Cooper,” said Gustaf.

  Sheffield chimed in. “He said it has taken you long enough, Mr. Cooper.”

  Lazarus grinned darkly, his voice not reflecting any emotion. “I figured it was somethin’ a little smart-assed. Jest make sure ya do it before we git to the two o’clock position.”

  “Ja, mein berühmter Kommandant,” said Gustaf. “Enjoy the show.”

  Lazarus got back on with Camacho. “Apologies for the delay, Andres, I was jest touchin’ base with one of my boys. Ya see, he was in Chihuahua the night before yer boys tucked tail an’ run. Accordin’ to the GPS locaters he stuck on them two Yukons and a couple old pick-ups, them four vehicles is settin’ about ten feet from the blast doors. That sound about right?”

  Camacho glanced at Ricardo.

  “Guzman, where are the two Yukons and two quad-cabs that came in from Chihuahua?”

  “The two Yukons are parked right by the blast doors, the trucks are about 5 feet in front of them. Why,” asked Guzman.

  “It doesn’t matter if what we are being told is true. I would suggest you pull all the men back as far as you can from the door.”

  He looked at Camacho. “I need to get Castro. I have a bad feeling about what is about to happen down there.”

  Camacho waved his hand. “Go get him. Be in the storage room in ten minutes or I leave you.”

  “I’ll be there, Hefe. If I can’t find Jose in five minutes, I’ll leave him behind.”

  “Go,” ordered Camacho.

  “I sorta hate to interrupt, Andres, but ain’tcha ‘bout down jawin’ with yer boy there?” said Lazarus.

  “Fuck you, Johnson. You can’t get in. You know it. You’re bluffing.”

  “Well, I reckon I’d be thinkin’ the same in yer shoes, Andres. Thing is, one of them CIA boys paid a visit to yer head honcho’s house, couple a nights ago. You could say he put a little boost in them trucks. Yer right as rain about one thing, Andres. Them doors is solid as shit and purdy much impossible to blow in. There was a fly in the ointment, like them boys say. Thing is, the boss kinda-sorta fergot to point it out to yer Uncle, how them doors wouldn’t be all that hard to blow open.”

  The AC-130 was approaching 3 o’clock relative to the entrance when Gustaf triggered the 80 pounds of C-4 distributed among the four vehicles.

  The blast doors flew off their hinges – coming to rest twenty yards from the entrance. The explosion, from inside the parking area, with its fireball and shrapnel, shredded the men running for cover. None survived. The concussion alo
ne took out almost half.

  Camacho felt that one. The entire building shuddered, dust falling from the ceilings as interior windows rattled. Several shelving units emptied their holdings onto the floor. Camacho stood for amount, disbelief painting his face a pale white. He keyed the radio. “Ricardo? Are you there?”

  “Si, Hefe, I am. Unfortunately, Jose did not make it.”

  Camacho didn’t miss a beat. “Get to the storage area.”

  Ricardo didn’t answer. He put the radio away and turned around to face Jose Castro, aka the Annihilator. Two men had bound his hands to overhead pipes running through the tunnel. His feet splayed out as far as they could pull them.

  Castro’s face was a roadmap of rage. “How dare you attack me you piece of shit. Andres will have your head!”

  Ricardo stepped closer. His face a mere 6 inches from Castro. There was a strange look in his eyes, one that made Castro take notice. For the first time in decades, the infamous Annihilator of Los Zapatos de la Muerte, was afraid.

  “What do you want from me”? he demanded of Ricardo.

  “You don’t remember me, Castro, I know this. It has taken me eight years to get where I am today. If was fortunate for me, although not for you, when Torano died in Argentina. He never would have let me get this close. Andres, though, is not his Uncle. He was easy to impress; easy to get next to while gaining his trust.”

  Castro stared at the man before him. Straining to put a name with the face.

  It was as though Ricardo read his mind. “You won’t get the name. I changed it to Spencer ten years ago, when I was a boy of fifteen. I grew up in Los Trios. My father ran the truck stop on the highway. You know which one.”

  Castro nodded as a distant memory began to worm its way into his consciousness. It had been eleven years, if not twelve since he had visited the truck stop.

  “Ah, you are beginning to remember,” said Ricardo. “My father’s name was Rudy Garcia. He ran the truck stop for 20 years. Twelve years ago, Los Zapatos began running drugs through Los Trios on the way to Juarez. It wasn’t bad in the beginning. The mules sometimes stopped to eat at the diner in the truck-stop while getting fuel. They weren’t great tippers, according to my father, but they were respectful.