by J E Higgins
“Tell me about their businesses abroad,” Crane asked, intrigued.
Pizzaro shrugged. “Mexico doesn’t have the environment for growing and cultivating cocaine. Most Mexican cartels rely on producers and growers in the traditional spots of Bolivia, Peru, or Colombia to provide the product. With Black Crow getting into the business of selling American military weapons and equipment, I know they’ve established connections with other Central American countries where the US is trying to develop regional security forces. The US military is training those units and supplying them with modernized weapons.”
“Yeah, good intentions,” Crane stated as he leaned back and let his eyes wander. “The problem is poor countries have a lot of officials looking to cash in on their positions. A few thousand dollars change hands and suddenly some of those weapons start getting diverted somewhere else.”
“Exactly!” Pizzaro exclaimed. “From what I’ve heard, a colonel in the Colombian army is helpful in such matters and provides the Black Crow with the largest supply of weapons stock outside of their Mexican sources.”
“How much does it augment the Black Crow’s overall supply?” The Welshman cocked his eyebrow, obviously interested.
“Hard to say, really,” the Spaniard said, with a deep exhale as he tried to do rough calculations in his head. “The weapons market for western arms is controlled tightly, relying on faulty accounting from the military once it receives said weapons from their US benefactor. When the US military starts asking questions in one country, Black Crow simply looks to another US-supported government to make up the shortage. Colombia just happens to be the easiest because they receive so much and deploy it so quickly that it’s hard to keep an accurate accounting.”
“Tell me more about the drug trafficking,” Crane asked. “You say that Black Crow gets its product outside of Mexico?”
“They do,” Pizzaro replied. “Black Crow obtains their stuff out of the jungle valleys of southern Peru. Their lead supplier is a producer by the name of Santos Guzman. He’s some ex-guerrilla who spent years fighting in that crackpot communist army, the Shining Path. Then sometime in the nineties he got religion and found capitalism. He’s been an ardent profit-driven businessman ever since.”
“The best communists usually are,” Crane laughed.
“True,” Pizzaro concurred. “But he is a major provider to the Black Crow syndicate supplying the bulk of their product.”
“What’s his situation like in Peru?” Crane was probing for information. “Does he have the same arrangement in Peru that Black Crow enjoys in Mexico?”
“No, not at all,” the Spaniard said adamantly. “The Peruvian government is not nearly as badly corrupt as Mexico, and they would like to stay that way. Many of the countries farther south have no wish to become the next home of the narco-state. They’re better about dogging criminal groups in their country, and the police are not at the beck and call of the crime syndicates.”
“Well, about this Guzman?” Crane pressed the issue. “If he’s not a part of Black Crow, he must have his own organization. What do you know about that?”
Pizzaro shrugged. “From the things I’ve heard, he runs an organization that operates largely in the jungles. He keeps a low profile by maintaining his operations in smaller rural communities and staying out of the major cities. As far as his organization goes, he recruits primarily from local villages and some from the Bolivian army who he entices with more money. He runs his organization more like a large plantation with no formal structure.”
Crane nodded as he took in the Spaniard’s words. “How well does Guzman control his territory?”
“Loosely, if I have to guess,” Pizzaro stated, waving his hand from side to side. “He has nowhere near the type of control the cartels have in Mexico. He’s had his run-ins with the law from time to time. Like I’ve said, he tries to keep a low profile and not draw attention to himself and keeps to remote areas where the government has a harder time reaching him. He only steps out of the jungles for important business and stays clear of villages that happen to have a large police presence.”
The mood was quiet as Crane rested his chin on his folded hands. Kusaki and Pizzaro exchanged awkward glances at each other. “Well, I hope that helped you out,” the Spaniard quipped, trying to break the silence.
“It does, very much so,” Crane replied.
The rest of the conversation between the two drifted away from business and was spent talking about old times and sharing war stories. Kusaki only occasionally injected some tales of his own but otherwise remained silent, just listening.
The meeting of friends concluded with Pizzaro taking his leave. Crane and Kusaki decided they had spent enough time in the establishment and walked out into the tropical evening with the idea of getting something to eat. “It’s always nice to catch up with old friends,” the Welshman said happily.
“I guess,” Kusaki replied gruffly as he looked about. He wanted to discuss the business that had just taken place. He presumed it was the reason he had been brought along, but he was waiting until they were in a more private location to actually discuss the finer points. Asking about a group was one thing, talking about the actual plan and mission were another. “I remember a small eatery not far from here,” he said as he led the way.
“Assuming it’s still open,” Crane reminded him, following along.
“Of course, it’s still open,” the Asian snapped. “Nothing in this town changes.”
Deciding it was in his best interest not to press the issue, Crane remained silent as he followed Kusaki. A short trip up the street led them to a small street kitchen. Kusaki made for it as if he were a launched torpedo. The customers who formed a small line in front of it were mostly Legionnaires from the garrison and technicians who were likely from the space station. The two men waited in silence as the line cycled through. When it was their turn, they gave their orders to a chubby man wearing an apron and chef’s cap.
Armed with pork sandwiches, Crane and Kusaki retreated to a place near the beach that ensured they had privacy. They chose a couple of benches and sat to enjoy their meals. Kusaki opened the discussion. “I feel it’s time you told me what this is all about.”
“You heard the conversation,” Crane began.
“I was listening,” the Asian said curtly. “You were extremely interested in this Black Crow group.”
The Welshman sighed. “Not so much the group as the leader, Alvaro Gutiérrez. Some powerful people, from what I can tell, want to take this guy out. And, they’re offering a great deal of money to do so. I need some good men for this. Are you interested?”
Kusaki finished swallowing before he answered. “Of course. I’m assuming tonight was about getting some intel and figuring out exactly who we’re dealing with.”
Crane nodded. “Everything Pizzaro said reaffirmed everything I’ve learned doing my own research. And, everything has led me to the same conclusion; I can’t get to Gutiérrez as long as he’s inside Mexico. The Black Crow and their leader are too insulated there. The cartels, in general, have too much control over the country. In addition, there are other interested parties that could prove detrimental ─ the US government and those vigilantes he mentioned.”
“That much is obvious,” Kusaki replied. “However, I couldn’t help but notice you were asking a lot about the Peruvian crew.”
Crane shrugged. “The way I see it, the only way we can reasonably pull this off is if we level the playing field more in our favor by taking Mexico out of the equation.”
“You’re thinking of doing something that would force your target to leave Mexico and come to us,” Kusaki surmised.
The Welshman nodded. “If we want this operation to have any chance of success, that’s the only way I see it happening.”
“We’re going to need to recruit more folks for this job,” Kusaki stated.
Chapter 12
Rainn Darson entered the room with a powerful stride. She had mentally prepared
for this day and her confidence was high. The office provided for this joint task-force was at the FBI building at 1 Justice Park Drive in Houston, Texas. She was a little surprised that the FBI would make accommodations in one of their buildings for a task-force operation that was not being run by them. She figured that the political tension behind her operation had served to curb the traditional inter-agency rivalry that plagued most law enforcement operations. It didn’t hurt that her time in the office was going to be for a limited period ─ just long enough to get the team organized, get up to speed, and formulate a strategy once they were on site in Veracruz.
Dancing through the politics and bureaucratic haggling had taken nearly four months just to get the project off the ground administratively. That they were now in an office with furniture was more like a dream than a reality. She half expected to have someone come through the door and tell her it was all a mistake, and this was for someone else.
The office was a compact rectangular room with dark bland walls that reminded everyone it was a government building. The only furnishings were two long rows of office cubicles that served as individual work stations. Next to the cubicles, was a long folding table meant for team meetings which took up the other half of the room. The chairs to have such meetings, however, had not yet arrived.
Inside the office, she saw two men already sitting at cubicles in the far back corner looking over the documents containing the most recent intelligence. Ward Kenner and Tom Salvaras were longtime colleagues and friends who had volunteered to be part of her team. They were both good additions. Ward had been a graduate of the Annapolis Naval Academy, a commissioned officer in the navy and a former SEAL who had served two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan before joining the DEA.
Salvaras had been a cop with the San Diego Police Department for ten years, before earning a law degree from the University of San Diego. Upon joining the DEA, he had been sent straight into a hornet’s nest when he went to Colombia for a few years to work on a special operations team. He had logged several months combing through jungles trying to track down the likes of Jose Vincent Castano and his criminal group the Aguilas Negras.
Darson was happy to have them for this mission, not just for their tactical backgrounds but also their support. Given the politics she expected to encounter, she was glad to have trusted friends on the team. Catching sight of her, Ward Kenner was the first to acknowledge her presence. “Hi, baby girl,” he hollered cheerfully, his face beaming brightly as his mouth stretched into a big grin. “How’s the first day at the new job?”
“I don’t know yet,” she replied as she walked towards them. “I haven’t met the team yet, so I don’t know what I’m up against.”
“We have an office in the FBI building if that’s any sign that the rivalries and turf setting will be kept to a dull roar,” Salvaras added, his face turned towards the thick binder of documents on his desk.
“It won’t be that easy,” she sighed. “Don’t forget, this task force was formed because of the Black Crow’s weapons trafficking business. The fact that the DEA is taking lead over what, by rights, should be an ATF operation is not going to go down well for some. And, you both know the FBI hates playing second to anyone.”
“Why are we heading this mission anyway?” Kenner asked as if having a sudden revelation.
Darson shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m assuming politics of some sort. We’ve been informally leading the charge on this for a while. Or, just maybe, bringing the British in on this and having the international controversy attached to it has been a serious game changer.”
Gradually, others trickled in. As they did, Darson was quick to direct them to the meeting table. Grabbing chairs from the cubicles, the table quickly filled with somber individuals waiting for the briefing. Having obtained a top-secret disk from the government safe the FBI had equipped her office with, Darson commenced setting up her laptop at the far end of the table.
In addition to Kenner and Salvaras, who took seats on both her flanks, there were four other members at the table: Cassandra Holden, who represented the FBI, and Quintin Ross and Joseph Pierce, from the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms. The last person to enter was a tall muscular man with sandy blond hair and the dashing figure of someone who could have been a professional model. Cameron Ashler was the British representative to the team. It hadn’t been explained to her why the British had changed the agent she had been working with for this totally new face to the operation.
Darson walked to the head of the table so she could be seen by everyone. All eyes were coldly staring at her as she faced them. She presented a tough, commanding pose as she returned their looks with the same cold stare. Though everyone was supposedly a volunteer joining the team of their own volition, she knew very well that some of them had made the decision only with strong ‘nudging’ from their superiors. Looking over the table she tried to size up the individuals and assess what she was dealing with. At first glance, some attitudes were readily apparent.
Holden, from the FBI, obviously felt superior when dealing with the common agents from sister agencies. She was already seeing her DEA colleagues as quaint but hardly reaching her caliber as an agent. Darson took an instant dislike to her and resented being eyed with such condescension.
Ross and Pierce were less defined in their feelings. Both men sat with blank expressions that could not be interpreted with any degree of accuracy. The Bureau for Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives was the country’s agency for dealing with illicit firearms and explosives but now were subordinate in what was by all accounts a weapons trafficking case. She figured that couldn’t have gone down well and, though they didn’t show it, she knew they were somewhat disgruntled over the affair. The question now was how disgruntled?
Ashler was the true wild card in her mind. Though he was supposedly from MI-6 intelligence, in the short time she had dealt with him, her feeling was one of suspicion. He was also much different than the intelligence agents she had worked with previously. He came across as friendly, approachable, and having a cheerful manner. However, there was something in his behavior that made her feel this was not his true nature. She believed there was more to him than his appearance suggested.
With the team assembled, Darson began. “Good morning. This interagency task force has been established for the purpose of directing law enforcement actions towards combating the Black Crow criminal organization. For procedural purposes, this campaign will be carried out under the code name Operation Thunderdome.
“We will begin preparing ourselves by going over all available intelligence about the organization and the area in which they operate. During this time, we will develop a strategy to accomplish the mission. This will be done here in this office over the next few weeks. Also, during this time, we will make all the necessary preparations for our transition into Mexico where we’ll be working with our agents and the local police agencies in the country.” Her last statement was met with the low chorus of irritated murmurs. Ignoring them she pressed on with her briefing. “Our objective in the short run is to develop evidence that will help the Justice Department build a case for extradition to the United States against the organization’s current leader, Alvaro Gutiérrez. The longer objective is to combat and eventually break the cartel’s trafficking operation, primarily in one of its growing overseas ventures.”
“You mean guns!” Pierce interrupted loudly in a tone that was just short of a growl. “Isn’t that right?” His southern drawl denoted his Texas upbringing. His harsh interruption signaled the irritation Darson had anticipated.
“Yes, you are right,” she replied with the same curt tone she had maintained throughout her briefing. She stared at him as if daring him to continue with the complaint he was itching to express.
Pierce cocked his head to the side as he geared up to say his piece. “It just seems a little weird that this is our neck of the woods, guns and all. And yet we’re playing second fiddle to the narcotics boys.”
He looked up at her. “I’m just saying, this seems a little strange is all.”
Darson looked back at him and a smug grin emerged. “I guess I should discuss this now. The DEA has been heavily entrenched in South America for decades. The cartels’ primary business is largely narcotics which means of all the agencies in our government arsenal, the DEA has the most experience dealing with these groups on their home turf. I, like my colleagues sitting here, have spent years posted to these countries and months in the roughest areas going head-on against these groups. When have you had a similar experience, Agent Pierce?”
She waited for him to answer. The ATF agent said nothing. He didn’t need to, the blank look on his face told her enough. “It’s unorthodox I know, but this comes at the direction of offices above us. And the current politics surrounding this operation mean things are going to function as they are, which means the DEA is running this operation. Now, since you volunteered to be here, you’re perfectly welcome to leave if this arrangement is not to your liking.”
She watched Pierce waiting for his next move. Her gaze angled slightly towards Ross, who was equally uncomfortable with the situation. Both men eventually sank back in their seats signaling acceptance of her leadership.
Looking briefly at the others, Cassandra Holden and Cameron Ashler appeared indifferent. He simply remained leaning back in his seat. Satisfied she had won the crucial battle, at least for now, she continued with her briefing. Kenner had set up the laptop and inserted a disk. A projection flashed across the wall. Darson began with the history of the cartel, then moved to what was known about their operation to date.
When her briefing hit the area of the group’s organizational makeup and that it was comprised largely of ex-military professionals, Ashler became interested. He asked numerous questions about the men, the particular units they came from, and what training these men had had, and what previous combat experience they might have seen. When he copiously jotted down all her answers in his notebook, her suspicions about him escalated even higher. From his interest in the military aspects and his display of the tactical knowledge he clearly possessed, she concluded he was military and was probably some sort part of Special Forces, presumably SAS. That raised the question in her mind, why was he here?