The Geronimo Breach

by Russell Blake

  He never understood what had gone so wrong at the end of Richard’s final visit to Panama. Richard had folded up his tent a few days after the final call from Al and departed without saying a word. He’d never offered any explanation, nor any guidance. Just left as abruptly as he’d arrived.

  Sam’s relocation orders hit several months later and came as a surprise, to say the least. Not to mention that they resulted in the sudden termination of his marriage. His wife had made it quite clear she’d stuck with him under the expectation that their life would change for the better, not the worse. When he’d told her they had to move within ten days, she’d packed her bags and returned to her family’s home in the States.

  He could see her point.

  This posting was about as far from the power center of the Beltway as he could imagine. But it wasn’t as though he had fifty job opportunities, and he was a company man so he’d toe the company line whether he liked it or not.

  Part of Sam felt he’d been sentenced to purgatory and another argued that if he was able to persevere in his new assignment there’d be a shot at redemption with the Agency for sins he must have committed – even though nothing jumped out at him as obvious. Things had just gone sideways on him for reasons he didn’t comprehend. He suspected that Richard had tanked his career out of spite. But Sam was resilient – he’d outlast the prick.

  An explosion boomed outside on the street, beyond the heavy walls of the fortress-like embassy, and he ducked, more out of habit than anything else. One learned these things quickly. He peered out the heavily fortified window – it was nothing, just a backfire.

  Still, better safe than sorry. The next time it could be real gunfire.

  He tossed his Styrofoam cup of vile instant coffee into the trash, cursing his fate, then took a deep breath, committed to making the best of a miserable start to yet another miserable week.

  The lights flickered, then the wall-mounted air conditioning unit quit with a sorry groan. Sam stabbed at the button of his intercom. Nobody answered.

  As was usually the case when he most needed immediate assistance.

  If there was a worse assignment than assistant station chief in Ndjamena, Chad, Sam had yet to hear of it.

  Chapter 42

  Al fiddled with the top of the grill he’d installed, adjusting the angle so the fat ran down the grooved top pieces and into a channel collector, which in turn angled down into a reservoir. He’d developed the contrivance after dealing with flare-ups from burger grease.

  At first he’d just kept the small palapa-topped open-air bar a beverages only establishment, but then he’d come up with the idea of building a concrete block cooking area off to the side of the large central bar. He’d run electricity to the grill area for a small refrigerator and now offered a menu consisting of cheeseburgers or grilled fish. The local fishermen came by every morning after their catch and provided him with fresh filets, and Al had enlisted the baker in town to make something that at least partially resembled a hamburger bun. He was introducing progress to the region, bit by bit.

  Paradise Cove opened from 11 a.m. to 10 p.m. and was situated mere footsteps from the marina. It featured gorgeous water views and a congenial, relaxed atmosphere with a tropical twist. Al had a decent clientele now and there were usually at least a couple of customers hanging around at any given hour, drinking, laughing and telling stories. He wasn’t going to get rich operating the place but now that the food thing had kicked in he calculated he’d be able to cover all his overhead, including his living expenses, with a little left over every few months. It was all he needed. There was something to be said for having a simple life, where your only concern was ordering more cases of beer or making sure your bartender wasn’t stealing too much.

  He’d lost eighteen pounds since he’d relocated three months earlier, mainly because his diet now consisted almost entirely of fish and rice, and he’d cut back on his boozing to only a few sociable beers. That, and he bicycled from town to the bar, which made for twenty minutes of exercise mornings and nights – a total of forty minutes more per day than he was getting in Panama.

  Al had also quit smoking – mostly. He’d still have a cigarette now and then, but it wasn’t habitual anymore – he’d given up buying them. The bar stocked a few brands but he had a rule for himself that he wouldn’t touch his own supply, just as he had a new rule that he would only sip a few beers each evening with his customers.

  For the first time in his life, Al felt a sense of balance. He supposed that after being almost killed several times in the jungle and having narrowly escaped extermination by the most powerful government in the world, it put the important things into perspective. Just breathing every day was a nice treat – not a right. Viewed in that light, he had a good life.

  The grill-top pinched his index finger. Al muttered a silent oath, then raised his hand to his mouth and sucked on his injured pinky, which failed to do anything to ease the pain. Maybe a little ice?

  At ten-forty in the morning the bar wasn’t open yet, so Al was alone other than his day-shift cleaner, who was scrubbing the wooden table tops and trying to appear busy. Al moved behind the large circular bar and dug a few ice cubes from the holding area below the colorful tile countertop, holding them against his wounded digit.

  A boat in the marina started its engines, and the dull roar startled a group of birds on the periphery of the seating area, spurring them to take flight. It sounded like a big yacht. Al grabbed a pair of old binoculars from below the cash register and looked to see what was making all the racket. His gaze landed on a large custom sports fisher, at least a 90 foot Carolina with sleek lines and a twenty foot beam. They saw a lot of big money boats there – the fishing was considered to be some of the best in the world, and perhaps more importantly, fuel was cents per gallon instead of dollars.

  Al returned the glasses to their position beneath the bar, and sipped his lime and mineral water.

  His cleaning woman called his name, trying to get his attention. “Senor Al,” she exclaimed. He could barely hear her over the boat’s engines, and then suddenly the roar diminished into silence, other than Jimmy Buffet playing quietly from the bar speakers.

  “Senor Al,” the woman repeated.

  Al turned to her, curious as to what the latest emergency was.

  Two shimmering figures stood at the edge of the bar’s patio. He couldn’t make out who it was because the sun cast a mirage around them. Squinting at the colorful shapes, recognition hit, and the world tilted, just for a moment; his heart skipped a few beats, then the sensation of being on the deck of a pitching ship receded and he slowly regained full awareness of his surroundings.

  He rounded the bar, marveling at a sight he’d never dared hoped for.

  Mari and Mel waved at him.

  “Hello, Al,” Mari said.

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  Excerpt from King of Swords

  King of Swords

  A THRILLER BY

  Russell Blake

  Copyright © 2011 by Russell Blake

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact Books@RussellBlake.com.

  King of Swords is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters and real people, living or dead, is coincidental. Having said that, the backdrop and historical context of the novel is based in fact. The drug war in Mexico has been an ongoing confrontation between government forces and the ever-strengthening cartels – now the largest illegal drug trafficking networks in the world, whose primary target market is the United States.

  Thousands of police and soldiers have been killed in the last decade, as the war has intensified due
to a crackdown by pro-U.S. administrations. Cartel members slaughter one another by the thousands every year, as well as huge numbers of innocent bystanders. The brutality of the turf wars that are a constant and ongoing facet of the trade is stunning; well over a thousand children have been butchered during Mexico’s ‘lost decade’, as have countless family members of traffickers, killed in retribution or as a deterrent.

  The last two Secretaries of the Interior for Mexico died in suspicious air crashes. The Mexican cartels are now the largest narcotics trafficking networks in the world, with revenues that exceed those of many nation states. Roughly ten thousand people per year die as a direct result of cartel violence in Mexico.

  The Sinaloa cartel is real. The Knights Templar cartel is also real, as is the Gulf cartel, the Tijuana cartel, and the Zeta cartel. New cartels pop up when the heads of the old groups die, and the names change with some frequency. The only constant is the bloodshed; the natural consequence of the economics of trafficking in an illegal substance that generates in excess of fifty billion dollars a year, wholesale, for the cartels in Mexico; a country where the average person makes a hundred and sixty dollars a month.

  A Description of the Tarot Card, ‘The King of Swords’

  In full regalia, the King of Swords sits proudly on his throne – with a long, upward-pointing, double-edged sword clutched in his right hand, and his left hand resting lightly on his lap. A ring adorns his left Saturn finger – representing power and commitment to responsibility. The King’s blue tunic symbolizes a desire for spiritual enlightenment; his purple cape symbolizes empathy, compassion and intellect. The backrest of his throne is embellished with butterflies, signifying transformation, and crescent moons orbit around an angel situated by his left ear, positioned, perhaps, to lend a delicate guidance. The backdrop of the sky has very few clouds, signifying pragmatic mental clarity. The trees dotting the landscape stand still, with not a rustle – reflecting the King of Swords’ stern judgment.

  King of Swords Reversed

  The reversed King of Swords depicts a man who is ruthless or excessively judgmental; when reversed, the King of Swords suggests the misuse of mental power, authority and drive. The reversed King of Swords can represent manipulation and persuasion in order to achieve selfish ends. He is a very intelligent character who likes to demonstrate to others his superiority, either verbally or through actions. It is best to be wary of this type of person because, although he may be charming and intelligent, he is remorseless and can do only harm. He has only his personal interests in mind and will do whatever necessary to achieve those interests, even if it means destroying others.

  Introduction

  Three Years Ago

  Armed men lined the perimeter of the large contemporary home on the secluded stretch of seashore just above Punta Mita, twenty-three miles north of Puerto Vallarta. The stunning single-level example of modern Mexican architecture sat on a cove, where the heavy surf from the Pacific Ocean flattened out over the shallow offshore reef a hundred yards from the beach. Nine foot high concrete walls ringed the compound, protecting the occupants from prying eyes and would-be intruders. Not that any were in evidence. The property and the coastline for a quarter mile in each direction belonged to the house’s secretive owner – Julio Guzman Salazar, the Jalisco cartel’s chief, and the eighth richest man in Mexico, although his name didn’t appear on any roster other than the government’s most wanted list.

  The building’s Ricardo Legorreta design boasted thirty-eight thousand feet of interior space, with nine bedrooms in the main house, separate servant’s quarters adjacent to the twelve car air-conditioned garage, a full sized movie theater with a floating floor, its own solar and wind power generation system, and a full time domestic staff of eleven. An Olympic-sized swimming pool with an infinity edge finished in indigo mirrored glass tile created the illusion of water spilling into the deep blue ocean.

  The white cantera stone pool-area deck took on a pale cosmic glow as the last sliver of sun sank into the watery horizon, making way for the dark of a late-November night. The armed men encircling the house were hardened and efficient, exuding a palpable air of menace as they roamed the grounds, alert for threats. The security detail, which traveled with Salazar everywhere he went, consisted of eighteen seasoned mercenaries who were proficient with the Uzis they held with nonchalant ease.

  Motion detectors provided an early warning system outside of the walls, where infrared beams crisscrossed the expanse between the beach and the house, ensuring that nothing could penetrate the elaborate defenses undetected. Salazar could afford the best security money could buy, and his private army comprised not only Mexicans and Nicaraguans and Colombians, but also two South Africans and a Croatian. All had seen more than their share of combat, either of the civilian variety in the ongoing drug skirmishes between rival cartels, or in full-scale armed conflict in the Balkans or Africa.

  At seven p.m. precisely, the bright halogen headlights of expensive vehicles began making their way down the long road from the coastal highway that connected Puerto Vallarta with Mazatlan, and through the enormous gates of the opulent home. Each car was allowed inside to drop off its passengers, after undergoing scrutiny from the men charged with Salazar’s protection, who inspected the SUVs inside and out. During the next hour, seven Humvees and Escalades discharged their loads before pulling back out of the compound and parking in a brightly-lit area designated for the purpose. Two armed guards patrolled the flat expanse, guns loaded and cocked.

  In the constant drug wars that were the norm on mainland Mexico, every minute held the possibility of instant death for those in the trade, and so the men on the security team were in a constant state of readiness for attack. Their vigilance had paid off many times over the past decade, when rival factions had attempted to challenge Salazar’s stranglehold on the Jalisco trafficking corridor. He’d emerged victorious from that series of ever-escalating brutal engagements, the last of which had culminated in nineteen corpses beheaded or shot execution-style in Culiacan over a three month period.

  The Sinaloa cartel was the most powerful one in Mexico, and for some time had nurtured its aspirations of expanding its lethal tentacles into Jalisco, the neighboring state to the south – Salazar’s home turf. The Sinaloa cartel controlled much of the marijuana produced in Mexico and had grown to be the largest cocaine and heroin trafficking entity in the world, handling over seventy percent of all Colombian product that made it into the U.S.. Salazar’s operation was considerably smaller, but the brutality of his tactics made him a difficult adversary to encroach upon; after ten years of unsuccessful attempts to execute him, an uneasy truce now held sway.

  The lush, planted areas of the compound were lavishly appointed. The beachside pool deck’s verdant landscaping was circled with the flicker of tiki torches – placed there for the big event that was just getting underway. An eighteen-piece mariachi band in full regalia had assembled by the massive palapa over the hotel-sized outdoor pool bar. They aired their traditional music for the guests, who were almost exclusively children and their mothers. It was Salazar’s oldest son’s seventh birthday; the party was an important event. Attendees had come from as far as Mexico City to honor Julio junior’s big day. There was a giddy sense of privilege and wealth in the festivities – the boy had been presented with a pony, along with every imaginable video game and technological miracle a young man could wish for.

  Clowns and acrobats japed and tumbled around the sidelines, performing astounding feats of dexterity and contortionism amid long bursts of yellow flame from a troupe of fire-breathers. Peals of adolescent laughter punctuated the melody of strumming guitars and blaring horns and violins, while the women circled the children’s area clutching piña coladas and daiquiris in their lavishly bejeweled hands. All the guests knew one another – Salazar’s social circle was small and exclusive.

  Off to the side, Salazar and a handful of his closest male friends and associates stood beside a fifteen-foot dia
meter fire pit, smoking Cuban cigars and drinking five-hundred dollar tequila from brandy snifters as they discussed business in hushed tones, occasionally glancing a watchful eye over their wives and offspring. Salazar was easily distinguished from the group due to his height and distinctive beard – he was barely five four, and sported a Lincolnic beard in the fashion that his father had affected until he’d died in a car crash when Salazar was nine years old.

  Two female dancers in traditional folk garb approached the specially erected stage with a male dancer in the classic Mexican vaquero outfit, who executed a series of exhibition tricks with a lasso, dancing with the whirling rope to the delight of the assembled children. When he was finished, the trio remained on the stage. A spotlight flicked on. From a newly-pitched tent adjacent to the pool, a man in a black suit emerged, flamboyantly brandishing a large sombrero. He bowed to the arc of enraptured kids before finally placing it onto the head of the birthday boy.

  The crowd laughed and clapped in mutual surprise – this was one of Mexico’s most beloved singers, popular for two decades before Salazar’s son had been born. He swiveled and moved onto the performance area with a practiced ease and began singing one of his most famous ballads, a perennial favorite with young and old alike. The adults sang along and clapped, as did the children, who were captivated by the theatrical production numbers and the pomp of the event.