by David Spell
Thankfully, Lonnie’s was as shady-looking as Jennifer had hoped it would be. The sales office was a rundown single-wide trailer and the inventory of ‘luxury’ cars were mostly ten-year or older sedans and pickup trucks. The taxi dropped her off at 5:45pm, just as an older white male appeared to be closing for the day.
“Hello? Are you Lonnie?” Jen asked, striding quickly across the asphalt, pulling her suitcase, the carryon bag slung over her shoulder.
“We’re closed, little lady. Come back in the morning,” he said, moving unsteadily down the four wooden steps to the parking lot.
“Please, sir, I really need a car and I was told to come see you! I’ve got cash.”
Lonnie had pulled the door open on his red Corvette, but paused to stare at the woman who was now standing just a few feet away. She was young, attractive, and had a troubled look on her face. He thought of his own daughter, Lisa.
“I told you, we’re closed for the day,” Lonnie repeated, his resolve wavering, looking into the sad eyes standing a few feet away.
Jennifer noticed that the older man held onto the door of the sports car to steady himself. His eyes were bloodshot and watery the unmistakable smell of alcohol drifted across her nostrils. Looks like Lonnie has been hitting the sauce early, she thought.
“I’m sorry but I’m desperate,” Hughes said, her voice quivering. “I need a car right now! My husband is after me. He left me for my best friend so I cleaned out our bank account. Now he’s threatening to kill me. He sent one of his friends to take my car and now I don’t have anything. I can’t go home because he might be waiting for me. The police told me that they can’t help me because we’re still married.”
Jen turned on the tears and continued. “Please, I just want to buy a car and leave this city! I’ve got family in Miami and I’ll be safe there.”
The tears did it for Lonnie. Even though he was divorced and hated his ex-wife, he loved his daughter and had lunch with her two or three times a month. This woman’s story resonated with him and the Jack Daniels he’d been enjoying all afternoon had lowered his resistance to her sad tale.
In the end, Hughes had purchased a 2009 Toyota Camry for six thousand dollars. Lonnie had balked and almost cancelled the deal when the pretty lady could not produce a driver’s license or any other ID.
“I know,” she said, starting to cry again. “My wallet was in the car that they stole.”
Still sniffling, Jen counted off another five one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the used car salesman. The older man shrugged, pocketed the money and slid the keys across the table. Hughes had filled out the paperwork in the name of ‘Jeanine Hendrix,’ with a fictitious address in Miami.
After leaving the car lot, Jen stopped at the Walmart just down the street, where she bought several prepaid burner phones. From there, Hughes steered her ‘new’ car onto I-95 heading north. A few miles outside the city, a long bridge crossed a tributary of the intracoastal waterway. Jen pulled onto the shoulder, activated her emergency flashers and threw her counterfeit IDs and credit card into the flowing water below. Now, I’ve officially dropped off the grid, she thought, thankful for the influx of cash the late Alfie Nicholson had provided.
Jennifer had chosen Jacksonville as her entry point because it gave her a few more options. She didn’t think that it would happen, but there was always the possibility that Ethan would wake up early, get in touch with Maxwell, and the CIA director would have people waiting for her when she got off of the plane. Distance from the nation’s capital gave her some room to maneuver, at least that was her hope. It was a two-hour drive to Savannah from Jacksonville and the historic Georgia town would be a good place to spend the night.
Before checking into her hotel, Jen had stopped at a Best Buy and purchased a laptop computer and a leather case. She fully expected to be a wanted woman within the next twenty-four hours. Hughes had no doubt that Sterling would have her declared a fugitive, rogue CIA agent, trying to sell the nation’s secrets to the highest bidder. Her freedom and possibly her life hinged on the fact that she possessed what Maxwell wanted. That was why she needed to get the hard drives and other recovered items to the right people as soon as she could. But first, she wanted to have a look for herself.
Now that she had showered, Jenn set up her new laptop and plugged in one of the external hard drives. The screen soon showed a directory of files. Every time she clicked on one, however, a form asking for a password popped up. It took her over an hour to discover that every single file on the hard drives and the memory disks was password protected. Hughes knew her way around a computer, but breaking into these files was going to require someone with more expertise than she possessed.
A sudden wave of exhaustion hit her. She had been going non-stop, fueled by adrenaline for most of the day. Jen knew that she needed to get some sleep but she also needed to reach Shaun. She missed him and even though he had not been an agent during his time with the CIA, she trusted his judgment completely. He would help her to figure out what she should do next. She reached for one of the prepaid cell phones.
Brownsville, Texas, Tuesday, 2030 hours
With one phone call, Alberto Lopez had gotten permission from the owner of the Black Rifle Outdoor Shooting Range, allowing Kevin and the support team to stage at his fifty-acre facility located several miles east of Brownsville. Lopez, a member and frequent shooter, had become close friends with the owner. He was also a vet who didn’t ask Alberto a single question, merely telling him that he would leave the gate unlocked when he shut down for the day at 1800 hours. This was a perfect location for a firing range. It was isolated so as not to disturb anyone, but for Clark’s team, it was also perfect because they were less than a fifteen-minute flight to the extraction point.
Chuck and the two assault teams had boarded Lopez’s specially modified tractor trailer at 1430 hours. The trailer was equipped with a false compartment near the front that was large enough for the eight men to sit, shoulder-to-shoulder around the metal walls with all their equipment stacked on the floor. It would not be a comfortable afternoon and evening but they would survive. Shaun had helped them carry their gear inside and get situated.
The rear of the rig was stacked with boxes of different types of electronics. Mexico imported much of their electronic toys from their neighbor to the north. Alberto had contracts with a number of the smaller retail outlets to supply them with televisions, microwaves, computers, and many other gadgets.
The compartment that housed McCain and the others had a vent that received some of the air conditioning that went to keep the cargo cool. Even with that, though, the eight men were going to be hot in the Texas sun, Taylor thought. Lopez showed them how to operate their exit, a secret hatch in the floor of the trailer that would allow the team to drop to the ground.
Alberto saluted the colonel, climbed into the cab of his rig and headed towards the border. The support team hung out in Lopez’s warehouse until 1800 hours. Clark then ordered everyone into the van, programmed the address for the shooting range into their GPS, and told Taylor to drive.
Now, it was 2030 hours and Kevin, Shaun, Josh, Gabriella, and Chloe waited, knowing that they still had several hours before McCain’s team would be going into action. The colonel had not been specific about exactly what they were waiting for. Clark stepped off to the side and was speaking on his phone. The rest of them sat under the overhang for the one-hundred-yard range, the Texas heat still hanging heavy in the air. Vargas had fired up her computer and was monitoring the police frequencies in Matamoros.
Taylor walked over to where the two women sat.
“You got anything, Gabby?”
“Just a normal Tuesday night in Mexico. A couple of domestic calls, a bar fight, and a report of a drunk guy stumbling down the middle of the road.”
Chloe Wilkerson had been designated as the comms person, listening for radio traffic from McCain and his men. Two walkie-talkies lay in front of her. When Fleming’s team split off for
their mission at Villarreal’s ranch, she would be able to monitor both frequencies. Wilkerson glanced up at Taylor, seeing the concern on his face.
“Nothing new, Shaun. Mr. McCain isn’t due to check in again for another half hour.”
“Thanks, Chloe.”
Shaun hated not being able to do anything. He walked over to the edge of overhang, looking downrange, wishing he could crank off some rounds. His phone buzzed with a number he didn’t recognize. He started to let it go to voice mail but there were very few people who had his cell number so he swiped across the screen to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Shaun! Thank God!”
“Jen? Is that you? I almost didn’t answer. Whose phone are you using? Are you OK?”
Taylor heard her take a deep breath. “No, I need your help. This is a burner phone and isn’t secure but I need to tell you what’s going on.”
“What’s up? I thought you were on an op for the Agency?”
“I was but then everything went to hell.”
The CIA agent quickly recounted everything that had happened over the last couple of days. She didn’t leave anything out, knowing that at this point, she had bigger things to worry about than the confidentiality agreement that she had signed with the Agency. Taylor listened, surprised by how much information Jennifer was giving him. Taylor’s mind was whirling, processing what he was hearing.
“Sterling knows or will know very soon that you’re back in the US.”
“I know but I didn’t have a choice. I got rid of my electronics in BVI and dumped all my IDs after I landed and bought a car. I’ve got enough cash to last me a while but I don’t know what to do now. Where should I take all the evidence I recovered? Can I come see you? This is bad stuff, Shaun. I can’t access the movie files but I’ve got a whole envelope of stills pulled from the videos. Sterling is one sick bastard.”
“I’m in…well, I’m a long way from DC at the moment, but Colonel Clark is here with me. Let me talk to him and call you right back.”
Less than ten minutes later, Shaun had the girlfriend back on the phone.
“I’m texting you the address of our office in Leesburg. Our boss is a retired Army general, Wallace Perkins. He’s a good guy and you can trust him with all of this. Ms. Dunning is there, too. Listen, there’s more to this than you realize and I can’t talk about it over an unsecured line, but General Perkins and Sandra will take care of you, I promise. I should be back in a few days.”
“Thanks, Shaun. I knew I could count on you. I’ll leave early in the morning and should be there by the afternoon.”
“I’ll let the general and Sandra know to expect you.”
Suddenly, Taylor’s voice was drowned out by the sound of rotor blades as a large helicopter materialized over the support team’s heads. Shaun turned to see Clark and Matthews out in the middle of the range, both waving powerful flashlights as the aircraft settled to the ground. As soon as it had landed, the engines began to shut down.
“Shaun, are you still there?” Jen’s voice came through the phone.
He quickly put the phone back to his ear. “Sorry about that. I need to go, but I’ll check in on you tomorrow. Call me if you need me.”
“Wait, was that a helicopter? What are you doing, Shaun?”
“Uh, it’s a training mission. We’re just doing some training. I gotta go.”
“You’re a bad liar, but thanks for helping me out. I can’t wait to see you,” she said, disconnecting the call.
Matamoros, Mexico, Tuesday, 2120 hours
By the time Lopez got through the border crossing and made his three stops to unload the merchandise in the trailer, it was 2045 hours. Now he needed to drop off his passengers and head back to the US. Clark had given him CIA agent Raul Gonzalez’s number. The trucker had sent Raul several updates, coordinating the location where the agent would pick up the Americans.
Chuck and the shooters were ready to get out of the hot trailer, but had to trust their driver and their contact. Alberto had been loaned a walkie talkie to communicate with the men hidden in his truck.
“Okay, amigo,” Lopez transmitted to McCain, “thirty minutes and I transfer you to your friend. He said he’ll be meeting us in a white van.”
The trucker drove across the city, stopping in a deserted industrial area. The streets were dark and all the businesses closed for the night. A white Ford Econoline pulled out of an alley, its lights off, stopping behind the eighteen-wheeler. Alberto felt the familiar sense of unease that came when establishing contact. Was this who the men in his truck were supposed to meet or had any of their communications been intercepted by the Federales, or worse, by the cartel?
“We’re here. A white van is pulling in behind us. I hope this is your guy,” Alberto said, over the radio.
“10-4,” Chuck answered. “We can ID our contact.”
Hollywood, Scotty, and Jay had worked with Raul on a previous mission in which they had kidnapped a Saudi Prince from his plane as it sat on the tarmac at the airport in Tijuana. Most of the others had met him on their flight back to DC on board one of the Agency’s Lear jets.
Alberto climbed down from the cab of the truck, watching the van closely. His passengers would be vulnerable as they disembarked and he would cover them as best he could. Lopez had a cocked and locked Colt .45 pistol tucked under his shirt. He would go to a Mexican prison for a long time if he was caught with it and sincerely hoped he would not need to pull it. He had built a custom hiding spot for the gun under the driver’s seat.
The van’s driver was now standing next to his vehicle, watching and waiting. Lopez saw a figure drop to the roadway under the trailer, followed by seven more, all of them moving into the shadows on the passenger side of the long truck. A moment later a voice speaking Spanish broke the silence.
“Where’s Gordo?” the voice demanded, tension suddenly filling the night.
“Right here. I’m Gordo,” the man standing next to the van answered. “Or I was. I’ve lost some weight.”
Lopez began to reach for his pistol, not liking the way the conversation was going.
“Step over here, Gordo, around the passenger side of the truck,” the voice ordered in Spanish.
The van’s driver complied, moving slowly to where the Americans were, his empty hands raised to chest level. A moment later, everything was OK.
“Man, you have lost some weight!” the same voice said, now in English. “You look good, man!”
Alberto eased around the truck to see two of the Americans shake Gordo’s hand. A third, the Mexican-American on the team, gave the CIA agent a hug.
“Good to see you, amigos,” Raul said. “After our last op, I started working out. I guess I got tired of being called ‘Gordo,’” he laughed. “Where’s the colonel?”
“He’s on the other side of the border,” Hollywood answered, pointing at McCain. “You remember Chuck? He’s running the op here. The colonel is monitoring things and will make sure we get home after we’re done.”
Raul and Chuck shook hands.
“Can we get out of the open?” McCain asked.
“Of course. Everybody into the back of the van.”
The men hurried to the vehicle, carrying the long bags containing their rifles and equipment. Chuck threw a salute at Alberto, picking up his own gear.
“Thanks for the ride, Sarge.”
Lopez watched them pile into the rear of the other vehicle. A minute later, the van was heading back towards the middle of the city. The tractor-trailer was also soon moving as Alberto steered it back towards the border crossing.
Gonzalez drove for fifteen minutes before stopping.
“Give me a minute to open the gate. I’m working with an asset who’s been supplying me with good intel for a while. His name is Hector and this is his house. Just so you know what his motivation is, Villarreal and some of his thugs paid his parents a visit last year. Hector’s dad was a cop here in the city. A good cop. He turned down a bribe so V
icente showed up and they made him watch as they took turns raping his wife before killing her. Then they tortured and killed him. Hector came home and found his parents dead.”
If Chuck or any of his men had second thoughts about sneaking into Mexico on an illegal operation, those doubts were now gone. No matter what it cost them, they would attempt to right this and some other wrongs in the next several hours. After opening the gate, Raul turned around and backed into the driveway up to the front of the small residence.
Inside, Raul made the introductions. Hector Ruiz was in his mid-twenties with an unsmiling face. After what he had been through, McCain thought, I can’t blame him. Kevin had already spoken with Gonzalez a few days earlier, laying out what they hoped to accomplish.
Chuck explained that he and four others were going to infiltrate the New Generation’s compound in the center of town. They would attempt to sneak into the warehouse to kill or capture Vincente and Juan Guerra. The team wasn’t going in guns blazing but wouldn’t hesitate to shoot if they had to.
The big man then pointed at Fleming, Smith, and Gray.
“At the same time we’re doing our thing, these three will make an appearance at Villarreal’s ranch. The guy with one arm that y’all reported seeing there is probably Damian Sanchez. He’s a former Mexican SF soldier who’s now a sicario. We believe he was the man in charge and one of the primary shooters in the first attempt on Sandra Dunning’s life. He was wounded during the gunfight and evidently lost an arm. When we’re done with him, he’ll have lost more than that.”
Fleming looked over at Hector. “How many people are usually at the ranch? Especially, how many cartel soldiers?”
Raul translated the question for Ruiz, whose English was limited.