Extreme Faction

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Extreme Faction Page 12

by Trevor Scott


  The sun was inching up toward the horizon to the east, as the four men stood at the southern bank of the Rio Grande, staring across to the other side. They would have to cross in daylight now.

  With binoculars, Baskale could finally see movement and then three quick flashes of light from a flashlight. He looked at one of his men and slapped him across the head when he didn’t return the signal. The man finally flashed back twice.

  In a moment they could hear a boat motor. Then, in the increasing light, a tan form headed in a straight line from the other side. As the boat got closer, it slowed and its wake settled down. At the last minute the boat turned upstream and the driver let it drift toward the shore, keeping the sputtering motor just above idle to keep up with the current.

  The boat was a large, deep-hull fishing craft. Black lettering on the side read, ‘Rio Grande Excursions.’ The driver was a Mexican in his late fifties. His unshaven face was weathered with deep crevices; his long, scraggly hair speckled with gray. He had spent most of his adult life running drugs and people across the river. He didn’t ask questions. He just took the jobs for cash. U.S. dollars.

  Two of Baskale’s men held the boat fore and aft, while a third waited back at the Suburban. Insurance.

  Baskale stepped down the bank.

  “I get my money up front,” the Mexican said, his voice echoing across the river and back.

  Baskale reached inside his jacket, felt the 9mm pistol, and then slid an envelope from his inside pocket and tossed it to the Mexican.

  Holding the wheel with his knees, the Mexican flipped through the money quickly. It appeared to be all there. Besides, he would never consider quibbling with dangerous men. It was bad for business, and he knew it could get him killed. He smiled and slipped the money inside his shirt.

  “Let’s cross then,” the Mexican said, grinning through tobacco-stained teeth.

  Baskale nodded his head to his man up the bank. The truck slowly backed down the hill toward the river, its brake lights flashing on and off every few feet. When the truck was six feet from the shore, Baskale halted the truck with a waving hand.

  In just a few minutes, the four men opened the back of the Suburban, hauled the weapon out gently, and set it smoothly into the boat’s flat bottom. The wooden planks creaked as the full weight settled in, and the pilot thought for a moment it would crash through to the metal hull. But it held. They would have to take two trips across the river, though. The boat was too small to handle the weight of the five hundred pound bomb, plus five adults.

  They crossed the river. Baskale, his strongest man, and the Mexican.

  Water sprayed over the bow when the boat hit swirling back currents, and Baskale wondered how deep the river was. He hoped they would not hit a rock and tip over.

  On the other side Baskale had a dilemma. He had only himself and his strongest man to lift the bomb from the boat.

  “You’ll have to help us,” Baskale told the Mexican.

  The Mexican looked at him skeptically. “I don’t know what that is,” he said, barely above the sputtering boat motor. “I don’t want to know. My money was for hauling people and equipment across the Rio Grande. Nothing about lifting. I have a bad back.” The man tried on a grin.

  Baskale quickly pulled out his 9mm and slapped the bolt back, chambering a round. “Your back could get worse. Hollow points do a terrible number on flesh and bone.” He waved the gun for the Mexican to help lift.

  With the boat slamming against the shore from the river’s current, and with only three men lifting, it was difficult to hoist the heavy carton over the side of the boat. The large man on one end stumbled and nearly dropped it. Baskale gasped. He wasn’t sure how stable the bomblets were. They had been extremely careful with it up to this point. On the long ocean trip, he had insisted they pack Styrofoam around the edges to keep it from sliding in heavy seas. In the back of the Suburban, they had laid it on foam rubber and packed sleeping bags and clothes around it. That had done two things. Kept it safe from the bumpy ride, and made it look like American tourists camping their way across northern Mexico. Now, when they were this close, having reached America, he couldn’t allow it to be damaged.

  They set the carton on the soft sand and slid it away from the water.

  The Mexican went back across for the other two men and the gear from the back of the Suburban. In a few minutes, they were back on the Texas side, the gear on the ground next to the bomb.

  Baskale was gone. Then there was the sound of a vehicle approaching through the scrub brush. It was a Suburban, nearly identical to the one they had just abandoned. Only this one was a GMC and light tan, like the Texas sand itself. Backing down the embankment, Baskale stopped a few feet from the weapon. The men hurried to load the truck. They were getting good at this.

  The Mexican, sitting at the boat console, reached for the throttle to crank the motor.

  “Just a moment,” Baskale said, pulling the bow into the sand. “You can have the other truck if you wish.” He nodded across the river.

  “Are you serious?” the Mexican asked, his eyes wide.

  “Of course. It’s worth a lot of money. Low miles. It would be good for your business. The keys are in it. Go take a look.”

  The Mexican was overwhelmed. He powered the boat in reverse, swung the bow around, and pushed the throttle forward to full speed.

  By now the Suburban was full, the men inside ready to leave. Baskale stepped to the driver’s side and one of his men handed him a small transmitter.

  Across the river, the Mexican had driven the boat into the sand, beaching it, and was now climbing into the back end to check it out.

  Baskale got behind the wheel and cranked over the engine. He looked into his rearview mirror and could just make out the man scurrying around inside the truck on the opposite bank. He pointed the transmitter over his shoulder and pressed the button.

  The abandoned truck blew up in a ball of flames.

  As the new GMC Suburban with the four men headed over the ridge, Baskale imagined the Mexican still flying through the air somewhere across the river, floating up toward his fool’s heaven.

  ●

  Leaning against the front of a dirty Ford Ranger 4x4, Steve Nelsen lowered the binoculars and looked across the hood at Ricardo Garcia, his assistant. Officially, they were supposed to be partners, but Nelsen had made it known that he worked with no one. He was in charge.

  Nelsen had gotten the name of a possible contact from Aziz, the Cypriot, after a little persuasion. Aziz had overheard the name while crossing the Pacific. It meant nothing to him, he had said. But it was another story with Garcia, who had worked northern Mexico for three years as a DEA agent. As soon as Aziz said the name, Kukulcan, Garcia knew the man wasn’t talking about the Mayan serpent god of the same name. Kukulcan, alias Miguel Blanca, thought of himself as a big-time drug dealer from northeast Chihuahua. He had a hacienda north of La Perla he had named the Presidio. But the place was nothing like a fortress. It was more like an oasis in a desert. An aberration of the contrasting terrain of cactus and dirt and scrub brush. The man himself, Garcia had said, was nothing more than a puppet for higher-level drug concerns. The old DEA and the Federalis had not been able to stick anything on him, yet they knew they could if they watched more carefully. They were afraid to take him out, knowing someone more powerful would rise in his place. Someone with more brains and more weapons.

  The sun was rising quickly, and Nelsen wondered why there was no movement around the place. Had they been seen moving in? He didn’t think so.

  He stepped back to his driver’s door, reached in, pulled out a small hand-held radio, and whispered into it. “Move in.”

  Garcia hopped into the pickup and checked his gun, a 9mm Beretta. He chambered a round, but left the safety on.

  Nelsen started the truck and they headed down the dirt drive toward the house.

  “Are you ready, Dick?” Nelsen asked Garcia.

  That was all he could take. Garcia
pointed his Beretta at Nelsen. “I think I’m gonna fucking kill you right now,” Garcia said.

  Nelsen didn’t flinch. “Go ahead. Put me out of my misery. Get me out of this hell hole. What the hell’s your problem?”

  “Dick. Nobody calls me Dick. You understand?”

  “Sensitive bastard, aren’t you?”

  Garcia turned the gun toward the dashboard. “Ricardo was my father’s name. He died when I was nine. He... Just call me Garcia.”

  “No problem.”

  Nelsen stopped the truck nearly fifty yards from the front of the house and left the engine running.

  By now the Federalis had worked their way into position surrounding the place, their M-16s with thirty-round magazines, cocked, poised and aimed at the house.

  Nelsen had parked off to the side of two vehicles, blocking their passage up the driveway. There was an older Mercedes, dented slightly and dirty, and a 4x4 Ford Bronco with tremendous tires.

  The Federalis moved forward, closer, crouched low behind yucca and sage.

  Nelsen and Garcia in the Ford Ranger were to be the decoy, something for those inside to focus their attention on. The two of them waited and watched.

  Four Federalis moved toward the front door. They screamed who they were, and then burst through the front door. When they went inside, others took up closer positions at the door, their weapons aimed and ready to fire, and even more were around back waiting for any movement out the rear doors.

  In a few moments the team leader appeared at the front door and waved for the Americans to approach.

  On their way to the hacienda, Nelsen felt his gun under his left arm, but left it in its holster.

  At the door the team leader smiled, his camo paint cracking at the corners of his eyes. “Someone was here,” he said.

  Nelsen hurried inside. Immediately, he knew the Kurds had been there. One man sat at a table, a bullet hole in his forehead and a shocked look in his open eyes. Further inside, a man lay in his underwear in a bloody pool on a tile bathroom floor. The blood was still wet, but not frothy. In a back bedroom there was a naked woman curled against a window in a heap, a bullet to her temple, one to her left breast, and several holes in the wall behind her.

  Garcia met Nelsen in the bedroom. “You don’t think this was a drug deal gone bad?”

  Nelsen shook his head. “No. Do you?”

  Garcia looked around and then shook his head. “The man in the bathroom. That’s Kukulcan...Miguel Blanca. The man at the table out front is his bodyguard.”

  “Looks like he fucked up in that regard,” Nelsen said.

  “You’re right. I’ve never seen the girl before.”

  “Probably fuck of the week,” Nelsen said. “Let’s check the place over completely. There could be something here saying where the Kurds are going, and why.”

  Garcia agreed with a nod and headed back into the main room.

  Nelsen moved in for a closer look at the woman. He stooped down next to her and moved a piece of hair back away from her eyes. She had been a pretty woman, he was sure. Young. Mid-twenties, perhaps. She exercised. Took care of herself. He liked that. She didn’t deserve to die like this, to cover someone’s tracks. He moved back from the woman and closed his eyes, trying to imagine the Kurds in this room. They wanted something here. But what? He traced their movements from the front room to the bathroom and then to the bedroom. The guy at the table had not known what hit him. Miguel Blanca must have seen it coming, but couldn’t do a thing to stop it. And this woman. She had a scared look on her face. She had died last, scurrying to the farthest corner of the house. What did the Kurds want here? They were close, but where were they going with the weapon? Maybe Kukulcan was their transportation, and they were simply clearing their tracks from the trail behind them.

  20

  ODESSA, UKRAINE

  “Well, Tuck. What do you say?” Jake sat on a park bench along Primorski Boulevard, his eyes focused on Sinclair Tucker sitting next to him. The Brit crossed his long legs and shoved his driving cap to the back of his head. Tucker was clearly thinking it over. Jake had asked him for a safe house to keep Petra Kovarik and her friend Helena until things settled down a bit. Tucker was unusually concerned, as if Jake were asking for more than he was. They both knew that MI-6 had places like this. Apartments or houses used to interrogate or hide agents or suspects for short periods of time. The problem was, the intelligence agencies all liked to keep the places to themselves.

  Tucker smiled and shook his head. “You know, Jake, my boss would have my ass if he knew.”

  “He’s in Kiev,” Jake said. “You’re in charge down here.”

  That was true, but Tucker still didn’t like the idea of giving up his location. That was evident by his stiff jaw and the incertitude in his eyes.

  Jake looked across the street at the front of Tucker’s bogus company, Black Sea Communications. Jake had showed up unexpectedly and hauled him across the street. He knew that Tucker would have had the entire building covered with cameras and sound, so he’d have to talk across the wide street, with cars and trucks zipping by. The noise was more than any recorder could handle.

  “Come on Tuck, I’m not asking you to kill someone,” Jake said. “I just need a safe place.”

  Tucker didn’t budge. He watched the people pass on the sidewalk in front of him. An older man. A woman with a young child in a rickety stroller. Two young men walking arm in arm.

  “We’re working together here,” Jake pleaded. “I can do it without you, but I’d like to work with you. Remember, you asked me for cooperation.”

  That seemed to work. Tucker turned toward Jake. “Share what you find out from the women?”

  Jake thought about that. He hadn’t been told not to share information, and it was a common practice. A professional courtesy. “Sure. You’ll know what I know.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Tucker said. “It appears like you had a jump on us with this one. With the scientist’s assistant and all.”

  “What do you know?” Jake asked.

  Tucker smiled. “That’s a bit premature, Jake.”

  “Not really. You tell me what you know up to this point, and I’ll give you what I know. Then we’ll fill in the blanks as they happen.”

  “That’s fair,” Tucker said. He told Jake everything he knew. About Tvchenko’s contacts with certain foreigners, that they still had not identified. How he had his men checking all known GRU agents in Odessa, to see if they had been pushing Tvchenko into developing new weapons. The jury was still out on that. He mentioned how they even had one of the agents working for them, but he couldn’t give Jake the name.

  When Tucker was done, Jake explained everything he knew, from the tiny note Tvchenko had planted in his hand, to his employers, MacCarty and Swanson getting poisoned, and finally to the point where he and Quinn had found Petra at the friend’s apartment. He even speculated on the theft of the chemical nerve agent from Johnston Atoll being related to this case in some way. Only time would tell if he was correct.

  “What are the Kurds up to?” Tucker asked.

  “I don’t know for sure,” Jake said. “They’ve been pushed and shoved so many times they probably don’t know for sure themselves. Their biggest problem traditionally has been their inability to agree on anything. Maybe the various factions and tribal leaders have finally united in a great effort for autonomy and a free Kurdistan homeland. If that’s the case, watch out. That’s twenty million pissed off mountain people. I’ve seen them fight. They don’t understand the word surrender.”

  Sinclair Tucker rose from the bench and planted his hands deep into his pants pockets. “I’ll tell you what, Jake. I’ll contact our people in Turkey and see what they’ve heard.”

  “I’ll do the same.” Jake reached his hand out to shake, and received a key in his palm from Tucker. Jake folded it in his fist. “And?”

  Tucker whispered the address and then immediately skirted across the street between traffic and into his o
ffice building.

  Jake slid his hands into his pockets, dropping the key among his own. He quickly memorized the address by repeating it over and over in his head, while strolling down the sidewalk toward Tully’s Volga.

  21

  SOUTHWEST TEXAS

  Steve Nelsen was flipping through the gears, barely keeping the Ford Ranger on the winding dirt road. Without the four-wheel drive, the truck would have careened off the road miles back.

  Nelsen had heard over the radio about the Suburban blown to pieces on the bank of the Rio Grande, knew exactly what had happened, had quickly inspected the smoldering shell of a truck, and hurried to the nearest bridge to cross into Texas. He had had to drive five miles through scrub brush and then along a bumpy dirt cow path to reach a rickety old wooden bridge that had looked safe enough for a single walker, perhaps a young boy on a bicycle, but surely not a Ford 4x4 pickup cruising at high speed, followed closely by two Jeep Cherokees with four Agency officers. A lone Mexican customs agent had stopped them before they crossed the bridge, and Nelsen had nearly ripped his throat out while pointing his gun at the man’s head, before Garcia had stopped him and explained calmly in Spanish that they were in hot pursuit of international terrorists and every second counted.

  They were waved through on the U.S. side, after calling ahead on the radio first.

  It was just after nine in the morning, and Nelsen suspected the terrorists had a few hours head start. His only advantage, he thought, was they would be driving the speed limit, maybe even slower, so they wouldn’t attract the local cops. They couldn’t afford to be stopped. Also, if they had crossed the river across from the bombed truck, then they would have had to drive across extremely rough Texas outback, so they would have been driving slow to keep the bomblets from breaking open.

 

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