CARTEL
by
Chuck Hustmyre
Salvo Press
www.salvopress.com
Published by
Salvo Press
www.salvopress.com
Copyright 2016 by Chuck Hustmyre
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitious-ly. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organiza-tions, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, in-cluding photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-68299-161-9
Credits
Cover Artist: Kelly Martin
Editor: Miranda McLeod
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements/Author's Note
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part Two
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Part Three
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Part Four
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Andy (whose last name must remain undisclosed) for helping me better understand some aspects of DEA's work in Mexico and the sometimes contentious relationship DEA agents have with CIA officers, whom they occasionally bump into south of the border. I would also like to thank Elci Ibarra Schneider for her help with the Spanish. And as always, I would like to thank my lovely wife, Kristie, for her unwaver-ing support.
-Chuck Hustmyre
AUTHOR'S NOTE
The border between the United States and Mexico spans 2,000 miles, from Brownsville, Texas, to San Diego, California. Eighty percent of the illegal drugs smuggled into the United States come across that border. For more than a decade, Mexican drug cartels have waged open warfare with each other and with the Mexican government for control of the border and the "plazas," or smuggling routes, that run through it. So far, that war has claimed the lives of more than 80,000 people and left another 26,000 missing.
To assist the Mexican government in its campaign against the cartels, the U.S. government has spent more than $6 billion to train and equip Mexican police and security forces and has deployed hundreds of U.S. drug agents, mili-tary personnel, and private military contractors to both sides of the border.
Part One
Chapter 1
Three black Chevrolet Tahoes raced down an isolated dirt road thirty miles south of Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, leaving behind a swirling contrail of dust that turned red against the rising sun. DEA Special Agent Scott Greene sat in the pas-senger seat of the lead Tahoe and focused a pair of twelve-power Steiner binoculars on the two-story walled villa a mile and a half ahead. The villa was dark and there did not appear to be any movement inside or out. Scott keyed the microphone clipped to his vest. "X-ray in ninety seconds," he said. "No alerts." A pair of double clicks on the radio confirmed that the agents in the two trailing Tahoes had received the message.
Scott set the binoculars on the console and looked at the driver, a kid named Hitch, not even out of his twenties, with only two years on the job. He was a good agent, hard work-ing and eager, but this was his first cross-border operation and Scott knew he needed to keep an eye on him. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the agent in the back seat. Garza had been with DEA for ten years, the same amount of time as Scott. They had only been two classes apart at Quantico. Garza was a steady, solid, dependable agent. And he knew Mexico.
The three of them were dressed exactly alike, black 5.11 cargo pants, black ballistic vests, over which each wore a black cargo vest with lots of pockets. They had stripped off all of the patches from their vests that identified them as DEA agents. This was an unauthorized and illegal operation. Each agent also wore a black Nomex balaclava rolled up on his head like a skull cap, ready to be pulled down to hide their faces as soon as they reached the villa.
"You guys ready?" Scott asked.
"Fuck yeah," Hitch said, with all the exuberance and in-experience of youth. Hitch assumed that everything would go well and that by this evening they would all be tossing back beer and boasting of their exploits in Old Mexico. Scott knew better. A year in Afghanistan on a counter-drug task force had taught him just how fast things could go bad. He glanced again into the back seat. Garza just nodded. Yeah, Scott thought, he knows.
The two Tahoes trailing them each carried three agents. Nine agents total to snatch one man. The man who had helped orchestrate the abduction and murder of a fellow DEA agent. They were all motivated, all driven to succeed. There was no question about that. The only question Scott had was whether that motivation and drive would be enough to carry the day. He checked his watch. It was 6:00 a.m.
He had briefed his team two hours ago. Standing at the head of the conference table at the DEA Laredo Field Of-fice, Scott had opened a digital photo on the large flat-screen television mounted to the wall. The photo was a he
ad-and-shoulders picture of a Mexican man in his thirties. The top of a police uniform shirt was visible in the photo, in-cluding the brass insignia of his rank pinned to each side of his collar.
"This is our target," Scott had said. "Sergeant Felix Ortiz of the Mexican Policia Federal. You all know him be-cause you've all spent the last three months busting your ass-es to dig up enough evidence to charge this scumbag with Mike Cassidy's murder. Unfortunately, you also know that the indictment we got on him is, for all intents and purposes, the end of this case. Main Justice has requested extradition, and the Mexican government has refused. Even with the death penalty off the table, the Mexicans won't budge. The bottom line is that the government of Mexico will never agree to extradite Ortiz to the United States."
None of the eight agents sitting around the long table spoke. There was no need to. What Scott had said was true and they all knew it.
"That's why we're going to Mexico to get him our-selves," Scott said.
Kat, the one female agent at the table, spoke up. "How do you know where Ortiz is?"
Scott looked across the table at her. Kat was in her thir-ties, half Mexican, half Anglo. She was an attractive, tough, and experienced DEA agent, an asset to his team. And she might or might not be dating Garza. In the six months since Scott had transferred to the Laredo Field Office as the new RAC, the resident agent in charge, he had yet to figure out all of the interpersonal dynamics of the agents under his su-pervision. Some things, he figured, he just didn't need to know.
"I got a call at eleven o'clock last night," Scott said. "The caller said Ortiz is holed up in a villa thirty miles south of Nuevo Laredo."
"Who was the caller?" a black agent named Jackson asked.
"He wouldn't give his name," Scott said. "All I could tell from his voice was that he was Mexican, older, probably fifties or sixties. But he seemed to know what he was talking about. He gave me a detailed description of the house where Ortiz is hiding out, including the GPS coordinates. He also told me that Ortiz is not alone."
"Meaning?" Garza said.
"He's being guarded."
"How many?" Kat asked.
"At least two," Scott said. "Maybe more. And they're with him around the clock."
"Los Zetas?" Garza asked.
Scott nodded. "That'd be my guess.
"No one said anything for a minute.
"You're talking about a rendition," an agent named Mil-ler said. He was in his forties and a little more cautious than the others.
"Yes, I am," Scott confirmed. "For a suspect involved in the murder of a DEA agent."
"Headquarters approved it?" Miller asked.
"No," Scott said. "Because I didn't ask."
Jackson pounded the table. "That's what I'm talking about. Fuck asking. Fuck headquarters. Let's just go get this sad sack son-of-a-bitch."
Scott looked at his team, making sure to make eye con-tact with each agent. "This is strictly unsanctioned. Volun-teers only. If you want to talk about it amongst yourselves for a few minutes..." Scott checked his watch.
"There's nothing to talk about," Kat said. "Felix Ortiz lured Mike Cassidy across the border to a meeting so Los Zetas could kidnap him. Those animals tortured and mur-dered him and cut off his goddamned head. Now we have a chance to get the son of a bitch who set Mike up." She stood. "The only question I have is what the hell are we waiting for?"
Two hours later they were here. Thirty seconds from the target and closing. "Brace yourselves," Scott said. He checked his seatbelt, then pulled down the balaclava to cov-er his face.
Hitch gunned the engine.
Chapter 2
The sprawling two-story villa had a red tile roof and was sur-rounded by a high stucco wall. The Tahoe hit the wooden gate at thirty miles an hour. The gate exploded into a shower of wood. A chunk of it banged across the hood and cracked the Tahoe's windshield.
"Holy shit," Hitch shouted. Then he let out a loud Texas whoop.
The second Tahoe blew through the shattered gate two seconds behind them. An agent named Diego drove, Jackson rode shotgun, and an agent from Lafayette, Louisiana, who went by the nickname Cajun, sat in the back seat. The third Tahoe, with Miller behind the wheel, a twenty-something-year-old agent named Lundy in the passenger seat, and Kat in the back, had already broken off from the column, as per the raid plan, and was circling around to the back of the vil-la.
Hitch braked hard and slid the lead Tahoe to a stop in the courtyard. Two Cadillac Escalades were parked near the villa's extra-wide front door. The house was still dark.
Scott Greene threw his door open and was barely out of his seat when the front door of the villa sprang open and a barefoot man carrying an M-16 stepped onto the porch wear-ing nothing but boxer shorts and a stained wife-beater T-shirt. He looked a little bleary-eyed and unsteady. Which probably saved Scott's life because it gave him the extra few seconds he needed to bring his M-6 carbine up into a combat stance, so when the man on the porch let loose a burst of full-automatic fire in the general direction of the lead Tahoe, Scott was able to squeeze off a three-round burst that hit the man in the chest and dropped him.
Keying his microphone with his left hand, Scott called out, "Contact front. Contact front. One hostile down."
A window on the second floor broke outward. A rifle muzzle appeared and spit out a stream of gunfire. Garza, ten feet to Scott's right, tapped out a quick pair of three-round bursts. The gunman on the second floor tumbled headfirst through the window, taking the rest of the glass with him. He hit the sloped porch awning, slid off the edge, and landed on the flagstone courtyard with a bone-snapping thud.
"Hitch, Diego, cover the front," Scott shouted over his shoulder to the two drivers. Then he led the other three agents in a charge through the open front door.
* * * *
Kat bailed out of the back seat of the Tahoe before Mil-ler brought the truck to a full stop. Lundy, not quite two years out of Quantico, was right behind her carrying a sledgehammer. A narrow iron gate was set in the stucco wall behind the house, secured with a chain and padlock. Kat stood at the edge of the gate and covered the back of the villa with her M-6 while Lundy attacked the padlock with the sledgehammer.
It took him three whacks to spring the lock.
"You should spend more time in the gym," Kat said. "I could have popped that lock with one hit."
Lundy tossed the sledgehammer aside and brought up his M-6, which hung across his chest on a combat sling. "I missed with my first shot."
Kat smiled. "If I had a dollar for every time I heard a man say that."
"Children," Miller said, "let's go."
They ran through the gate and across the back courtyard toward the rear of the villa.
A blast of automatic fire shredded a ground-floor win-dow. Lundy went down but his momentum drove him skid-ding across the courtyard for several more feet. Kat glanced down and saw a smear of blood on the paving stones. She dropped to one knee and raised her M-6. Behind the shat-tered window stood the vague outline of a man holding the unmistakable silhouette of an M-16. Kat fired off half a magazine in return. When the smoke and debris cleared, the man was gone.
Lundy was holding his right shin and howling in pain. From Kat's admittedly inexpert perspective, the bone didn't look broken, so she doubted it had been a direct hit. A straight-on shot from a .223 at that range would have snapped Lundy's leg in half. So the blow must have been a glancing one that missed the bone, or maybe the bullet had ricocheted off a paving stone.
Kat laid a hand on the kid's shoulder. "You're going to be all right, Lundy. We'll be out of here in five minutes. By ten o'clock you'll be in a private room with your own person-al nurse."
He didn't answer, just gritted his teeth and nodded.
Kat glanced at Miller. "Can you get him back to the truck?"
Miller nodded. "What about you?"
"I'm going see how the guys are doing inside." Then she sprang up and ran toward the back of the villa.
Chapter 3
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Inside the big front door, Scott and Garza peeled right, while behind them Jackson and Cajun broke left. All four agents moved in the slightly-stooped, quick-paced walk that the SWAT types liked to call tactical advancement: elbows tucked in, M-6 carbines wedged tight into their shoulders, barrels angled down so they could look through the slits in their balaclavas and see over the tops of their four-power ACOG gunsights.
Moving in tandem, Scott and Garza threaded their way through the plush furnishings of a sunken den and up two steps to a large dining room. They slipped around a massive dinner table and its high-backed leather chairs, heading wordlessly toward a double-hinged kitchen door against the far wall. Without pausing, Scott smashed his way through the door and turned right. Garza turned left, the two agents running the walls in opposite directions, clearing the far cor-ners first, then sweeping their weapons toward the center of the room, expecting hostiles but finding none. The kitchen was clear.
Gunfire erupted upstairs.
Scott and Garza ran toward the staircase.
* * * *
Outside the villa, Kat pressed her back against the wall beside the shattered window from which Lundy had been shot. She heard movement just inside the window. The sound of boots walking on broken glass.
Above her someone else was firing from a window. Across the rear courtyard, she saw Miller dragging Lundy toward the back gate. They were almost there, but bullets were tearing up the flagstones all around them.
Another burst of gunshots exploded three feet from Kat's head, rattling her teeth and stabbing her eardrums. Chunks of stucco blew off the wall near Miller and Lundy. Kat was too close to use her M-6, so she snatched the Glock .40-caliber pistol from the drop-down holster on her hip and spun toward the shattered window, shoved the muzzle into the opening and snapped off half a dozen shots. The re-sponse was a guttural cry of pain followed by the thud of a heavy body hitting the floor. She stepped through the win-dow. A Mexican man, wearing just pants and boots, his up-per body covered in tattoos, lay dead on the tile floor, his brown eyes already going glassy.
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