“Sí, that’s what they claimed,” confirmed Miguel. “They intercepted calls between Z and his wife.”
Francisco followed Evan and Mr. Z from the terminal, continuing his phone conversation. “Well, he lied to his wife. He met a big, ugly American who flew in from Baltimore, near Washington, DC.”
“So maybe he is cheating on his wife?” Miguel laughed.
Francisco ignored the comment and paused to put gum in his mouth. “He is an American, no doubt about it. An agent most likely.”
“CIA, DEA, FBI?” asked Miguel.
“Who knows? Pick one. Meet me out front. We’ll follow them.”
Mr. Z and Evan drove the five miles to the hotel in silence. Evan hated to admit that he was excited, but he was. He missed working but had to caution himself. This was going to be smooth. The sights and sounds of the border-town city were apparent. He noticed the busy streets packed with older small cars, half of which probably had been stolen from El Paso or elsewhere in Texas. There were military Hummers and police cars. He saw restaurants, stores, and fountains. Evan knew the landscape was barren. When you drove around in Virginia, you were surrounded by trees and could not see that far. During the daytime he knew he would be able to see a very long distance here—no trees to block or hide anything.
At the hotel, Mr. Z waited in the car while Evan checked in. Neither spoke. The routine was always the same.
The room was typical for a low-priced hotel. It smelled musty and had the air turned on full blast. Evan sneezed and turned off the air.
“Stinks like beer, sex, and smoke.”
He put his bags down and took off his suit jacket and fake glasses. Then he removed a money belt from his waist and counted out three thousand American dollars. He handed it to Mr. Z. Now they could do business.
Mr. Z pocketed the money and opened his duffel bag, revealing its contents. “Everything you asked for,” he said.
Evan first pulled out the pistol, an H&K .40 with four extended ten-round magazines. He had an older model at home with updated sites. He checked the action and tossed the weapon onto the bed. “Good work,” he said.
Next he took out a brand-new H&K FP6 tactical semiautomatic shotgun and an assortment of boxes of ammo. Evan tried to conceal his enthusiasm, but he could not help it. He was a gun nut and had a collection that many would envy. He inspected various nonlethal and lethal rounds, like high-punch beanbag slugs, rubberized buckshot, and twelve-gauge buckshot. “Very good, Mr. Z. I didn’t expect the exact models I asked for, especially new.”
“Señor E,” cautioned Mr. Z, “Juárez is very dangerous. You won’t need the nonlethal rounds.”
“Never know,” said Evan, smiling.
“Don’t be caught by police with guns, Señor. You know they are illegal in Juárez.” Mr. Z smiled at the ridiculousness of the statement. Handguns where illegal in Mexico, yet who did not have one?
Evan ignored him and looked over his tools, which included three smoke grenades and three XM84 stun grenades. They each weighed about thirteen ounces and would blow your eardrums if too close. Evan had really good hearing protection. He picked up a metal, retractable police baton and some pepper spray and unfolded a Federal Police uniform. “This won’t work. I’m too old to be a patrolman,” he said, tossing the uniform aside.
“Sorry, sir. You can be plain clothes…maybe a detective,” suggested Mr. Z.
“I’ll keep it. The jacket will do.” Evan looked through an assortment of flex cuffs and found the stun baton he had asked for. He also had a fake cell phone that he had brought. It also served as a stun gun.
“Juguetes agradable, no?”
Evan nodded and continued looking through the gear. “OK, here it is, but this bulletproof vest looks a little small.”
“Mexicans are not usually your size, amigo,” said Mr. Z. “But I got you extra-extra grande.”
Evan stripped off his shirt and put on the vest; it was a little snug across the chest but would work. A class-three vest; good, Evan thought. This will stop rounds from a nine millimeter up to a forty-four, and even a seven-sixty-two.
Mr. Z seemed to read his thoughts. “The cartels use a lot of high-powered weapons, amigo. The Cuerno de Chivo and other automatic weapons.”
Evan nodded. Cuerno de Chivo, which translated as “goat horn” was the slang term for an AK-47. “Better to have some bruises than be dead,” he said. He’d had his ribs cracked and a lung bruised while wearing a good-quality vest.
Evan was satisfied; he pulled $1,000 more from his money belt and stuffed it in Mr. Z’s hand. He was now down $4,000 of his brother’s deck money. He would have to eat cheap while he was here. “Give me your cell,” he said to Mr. Z. “I am putting you on call for the next forty-eight hours in case I need anything. Do you drive?”
“I usually just get things,” protested Mr. Z.
“You like money, Mr. Z?” asked Evan.
“Sí. But I like to live even better. Would rather not. I do better getting things. That is my job.”
“Safe house?” asked Evan.
Mr. Z smiled and held up the cash Evan had given him.
“I got more. Get me one in a nice area.” Evan peeled off another hundred-dollar bill. “A down payment,” he said. “You got a motorcycle and an SUV like I asked?”
“Sí. Yo la he hecho a ti esta noche,” confirmed Mr. Z, producing two sets of keys and forged registrations for both vehicles. “I give you big discount for old times’ sake.”
Evan smirked and peeled off another $1,000. “Been here an hour and already broke,” he said.
Mr. Z looked at his fistful of dollars and bit his lip. “Gracias, amigo.” He smiled. “I got you some maps, addresses—Gustavo’s Grocery Store. The brother, Armando, he is old and in poor health. Here’s a picture.”
“Perfect,” said Evan, reaching for the packet of information.
“You rescue a kidnap victim? You freelance now?”
“I never told you why I was here, Z.”
Mr. Z shrugged. “I no nosy, amigo; you know that. Only, I go into the store and do some looking around; I comprar a soda, and su hermano tells me about the kidnapping. Says one of the men involved may be a policeman. That is the word on the street. Armando was a well-liked man and respected by many on both sides of the law.”
“Gracias. Buen trabajo,” Evan said flatly.
“No hay problema.”
“And the laptop?” Evan asked.
Mr. Z dropped another bag on the bed. “No charge for that. The agency left it behind. It can only get me in trouble.”
“Cool,” Evan said and smiled. “And I know how to use it. Adios, amigo,” he said as Mr. Z slipped out the door.
Evan organized his toys, hiding them as best he could. While he waited for room service, he showered and reviewed the facts he knew. The seven or so major cartels in Mexico had sliced up the country into territories. Some had formed an alliance known as the Federation. Two cartels in Juárez were in a bitter turf war, and the police and army were trying to intervene. In 2009 alone, Juárez had 1,986 murders. The police had no control. About half the police were corrupt, and the other half were terrified of having their families killed. More often than not, when a cartel hit man was killed or captured, they turned out to be an ex–police officer.
The Mexican Federal Police—the Federales—usually wore black ski masks to protect their identities when in public. Cartel hit men or sicarios had shown up at funerals of fallen police officers or soldiers on more than one occasion and killed the families of the deceased. On the evening news, you could see the latest lineup of drug dealers being posted next to masked police. The victories were a mirage. Mexico was pretty much a narco state.
Evan had read about drug-cartel killings now being posted on YouTube. Recently, a gang member’s face had been melted off with acid and his still-living body dumped across the border. The Mexicans knew that the Americans would provide first-class medical care for free. Evan also knew it was not uncommon
for corrupt police to escort tons of cocaine to the border. Most arrests were the result of a rival cartel ratting out their competition. Drug revenue was estimated around $20 billion a year. The cartels’ gang networks even extended into the United States and were particularly influential in prisons.
It seemed ironic to Evan that an American recreational drug user might unwittingly finance rape, torture, and death perpetrated by cartels while at the same time vehemently professing to be antiwar and anticapitalist to the point of chaining himself or herself to the White House fence, screaming, “No blood for oil!”
Ordinary Mexicans were caught in the middle—family-loving, law-abiding people trying to scratch out a living. The economics of their lives was depressing. You could make $10 a day at a maquiladora. Or you could make $400 a week working for a drug dealer.
From an intelligence-gathering standpoint, what made any operation successful was developing networks and relationships with people who would help your cause. Bribery and payoffs were still the strongest motivators. Evan knew that he could not pass for a native and that he had to assemble a network quickly, which meant taking risks that he would normally never take. But in this situation, he was willing to sacrifice stealth to speed.
As he ate his room-service dinner, he considered what he planned to do and how to go about it. “OK, show time tomorrow,” he said aloud. He caught himself speaking in English and laughed.
CHAPTER 7
Let’s Make a Deal
Mexico City, 2200 Hours
Nathan Rock, founder of Dark Cloud, felt his BlackBerry vibrate. He stepped away from the command center where his team was watching and listening to events unfold. Roger was still posing as bait and waiting for the next contact with the kidnappers. And a second Dark Cloud team was tracking the money as it was moved to a warehouse.
The situation was tense but not out of control. Nathan had turned over supervision to Reo, his second in command. When Nathan mentioned that if Manuel died, it might make Roger more enthusiastic about the Dark Cloud cause, Reo had agreed that both he and Nathan would do nothing but watch as the operation unfolded. Nathan considered Reo a yes-man and an ass-kisser, someone he could manipulate. This made him useful. If Reo weren’t in a secret relationship with the president’s chief of staff, he would have never gotten this close to Dark Cloud. Nathan was not above blackmail in order to get his way.
Standing at the far side of the Rosas’ game room that had been turned into a command center, Nathan looked back at his men. He had to admit that without Reo, Dark Cloud’s money and secret political connections would have never have come to fruition. “Keep your friends close but your enemies closer,” he muttered.
The president’s chief of staff had a beautiful, cold wife, who was a popular TV news anchor. Nathan had met her at several social receptions and found her both off-putting and extremely desirable. He had resolved to have sex with her before he left this miserable country. How could her husband get angry? He was seeing a man.
Nathan’s eyes narrowed as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He was suspicious about every person on his team, but he kept it to himself. He knew every member of his team, yet only a handful of people really knew him. He opened an e-mail from Francisco and waited for the encrypted message to download. Why must they contact me for every freaking thing? he thought as the photo from Juárez came into focus.
“Holy shit!” he yelled, glancing up as soon as he realized he had spoken aloud. Several people rose from their seats or looked at him.
“OK, boss?” asked Reo from across the room. Some people laughed; others kept working.
“Yes, yes. Get back to work. Reo, can I see you a moment?” Nathan stepped into a hallway where the two of them could be alone. He felt his skin flush and took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm.
“Yes, Nathan?” Reo touched his arm the way a concerned woman might.
“You are in command. I have to go to Juárez.”
“What? Nothing’s going on in Juárez, Nathan. The action is here!”
Reo was a little over five feet tall and had thick, perfectly groomed hair. His nails were manicured, and he wore a custom-made suit. Reo reminded Nathan of the pretty-boy lawyers who could be found at any of the restaurants on Capitol Hill. Reo seemed harmless enough, but he was shrewd and ruthless.
“Is something wrong?” Reo asked solicitously.
Nathan turned and placed his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. He smelled like aftershave lotion, and Nathan suppressed a sneeze. “This man.” He showed Reo the photo on his I phone. “I worked with him about eighteen, maybe twenty, years ago. He is in Juárez.”
“And?” asked Reo.
Nathan replied, “And…I can’t get into it right now. You handle this operation as planned. I’ve got to find out why this guy is here.”
“Good guy or bad guy?”
“Not sure, Reo. That’s why I need to find out why he’s in Mexico,” replied Nathan. “If he’s working for the cartels, we have to take him out.”
Reo’s eyes widened. “So he is not a friend?”
Nathan shook his head. “The word friend is relative. Depends on why he is here. The fact that he is meeting with a man we have under surveillance with intentions of recruiting is highly disconcerting.”
“And if he can be used?” Reo asked as he smiled and looked at Nathan.
Nathan turned away, dismissing Reo’s naïve suggestion. Evan was too dangerous to control. He also would ask too many questions.
“Be back in a few days. Tell everyone that we are still meeting at the ranch. No leaks!”
“Fine, fine.” Reo pretended to not care but was clearly hurt that he was not included in this little bit of intrigue.
“Sorry, Reo, really,” said Nathan in a placating tone of voice. “I’ll call you in the morning or once I get in the air. I have to call the airport, get the plane ready. OK? Forgive me? I am just freaking out a little.” He felt like he was talking with his third ex-wife, emotional but dangerous and scornful. He had always changed his prose depending on whom he was talking to.
“Of course!” said Reo sympathetically. “Go, Nathan. We’ll be fine here.”
Nathan smiled and squeezed Reo’s shoulder. “Thanks, pal. I really need you to watch over these clowns.”
It was raining again. Roger looked at his watch. He had been waiting for hours with no place to sit. He was wet, and he was hungry. “OK, we aren’t getting anywhere,” he said.
“Just act natural.” Mia’s tired voice crackled in his ear.
“Act natural? What does that mean, lass? Is that the same as when the doctor tells you to breathe normal?”
“You make no sense, Roger.”
“Stop talking. I got a van slowing down,” he whispered.
A yellow customized van rolled to a stop near Roger, its brakes squeaking and engine idling as if it needed a tune-up. Traffic was still heavy despite rush hour being over.
“Freaking van looks like it was stolen from the ’70s,” Roger said. He spat and stared at the occupants. The city street lights illuminated the area well enough for Roger to see. He was exhausted.
The driver was skinny, and the one who got out of the passenger side was fat.
The passenger was breathing heavily, as if he had just climbed a flight of stairs. Roger sized up him up: Hispanic, in his twenties, about five feet eight and close to 300 pounds. He kept pulling his pants up, but his bulging belly forced them down again. His heavy breathing told Roger two things. One, the kid was too fat, and two, he was not adapted to the altitude, so he was new to the city.
Roger glanced quickly at the driver, who seemed nervous and twitchy and wore mirrored sunglasses, despite it being night.
Roger had another thought. The men who had orchestrated the kidnapping and the attempted hit on him were not bottom-rung amateurs like these punks. The men who had grabbed Manuel were professionals with military or law-enforcement training.
“Get in, gringo!”
said the gangster.
“Piss off, wanker,” snarled Roger. “Shoot me if you got the balls. I want proof of life!”
“Don’t get in the van, Roger!” Mia spoke in his ear.
“Manuel, where is he?” Roger asked.
“He OK, gringo. Get in.”
“I want the real kidnappers—the Scorpions—on the phone, and a proof of life!” Roger said, quickly.
The fat man paused and took a step back. “Screw you! Get in the van. No wait.”
He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and tried to make a call. “Crap, no signal!” he yelled to his driver friend, “Paco, you got a signal?”
“No…wait…Do now,” the driver shouted back. “That’s weird—like all of a sudden.” He laughed crazily.
“OK, we’ll do proof of life,” said Roger. “Then the second money drop. I’ve been out here all evening. My feet are sore, and I am hungry. I am not in the mood for your amateur show!”
The side door of the van slid open, and a skinny, twenty-something white kid with long red dreadlocks wearing a dirty T-shirt and ripped jeans motioned him in. The fat one was breathing heavily, and he had beads of sweat on his forehead. He leaned heavily against a lamppost.
“Where is Manuel?” asked Roger.
“Stall him, Roger. We’re watching you from above. Have to make sure you’re not being watched,” Mia’s smooth, hoarse voice whispered in accented English. In any other situation, he would have thought she had a sexy voice. He could listen to her all night, except right now.
Roger looked up. “I am in a city with twenty million people. Everyone’s watching.” He swore under his breath.
“Get the hell in!”
Roger spoke to himself. “If I’m gonna die, I’ll take them with me.” He got in the van slowly and crouched in the back. The van stank like sweat and weed.
“Here.” The skinny white guy handed Roger a cell phone while the fat one climbed back into the passenger seat. The entire van groaned and creaked as he dropped down. The driver turned on a Mexican rap station and pulled into traffic and drove quickly out of the nice part of town.
Silver Lead and Dead (Evan Hernandez series Book 1) Page 6