Against All Enemies

by Tom Clancy

  “Why are you stopping?” shouted the guy.

  Moore gestured with a hand. “Red light!”

  “Go, go, go!”

  But it was too late. The car behind them rushed up, and the two guys leapt out and began firing.

  “No, no, no!” Moore shouted as he hit the gas and squealed away into the intersection, burning rubber and narrowly avoiding a pickup truck whose tailgate was nearly dragging along the ground.

  The two clowns behind them were intent on emptying their magazines, the shots thumping into Moore’s trunk as the back window shattered, along with the rear driver’s side, and Moore’s passenger released a strangled cry.

  Moore glanced back and wished he hadn’t. The man lay there with gunshot wounds to his head and shoulder.

  The man wasn’t moving. Blood pooled onto the seat. Moore cursed.

  A quick glance to the rearview mirror showed that the guys had rushed back to their car, jumped in, and were continuing after him. They’d bridged the intersection and were weaving around two small sedans.

  Ahead lay another cross street, and farther out, the “better” part of the barrio, with tin roofs held down with nails instead of old truck tires. Moore wasn’t sure where he was now, and had planned to use his smartphone’s GPS to get him to the bar. No time to program that info into the phone now …

  But he tugged out the device anyway and thumbed a direct-dial number to Langley. A familiar man’s voice answered on the speakerphone: “Three-two-seven here. What do you need?”

  “Get me to the V Bar. Update Fitzpatrick.”

  “On it. Hold on …”

  Moore checked his rearview mirror once more, while the two fools chasing him swerved in front of a step van, and the driver floored it toward the next intersection.

  Just as Moore’s car passed through the intersection, the light turned red behind him.

  An old man rode into the street on a bike fitted with baskets fore and aft. The baskets were piled high with blankets and plastic bottles and several backpacks. He was in the crosswalk, along with several pedestrians shifting a few meters behind him.

  The idiots tailing Moore could not stop in time.

  The man and the bike arced up and over their car like toys flung in the air, and their car’s hood folded in like a taco, but they kept on, the man and bike clattering out of sight behind them, the other pedestrians screaming and running back toward him.

  A voice buzzed from the phone’s speaker: “Next left. Make it. Then third light, right turn. I’ll call the local police and see if they can run some interference for you. I’ve got eyes in the sky on your position now. See your tail.”

  “Thanks.” Moore jammed his foot harder onto the accelerator as the next light ahead turned yellow. He’d already noticed that in Juárez, red, yellow, and green lights were mere suggestions to drivers. Many only slowed down for red lights, then just blew on through them—even if they weren’t involved in car chases. He made the left turn as instructed.

  The street sign read Paseo Triunfo de la República, and the bus stops, billboards, and clean sidewalks of this business district made Moore feel a bit more at ease. Pedestrian traffic was fairly heavy, and he thought the rocket scientists behind him might think twice about pulling any stunts in this area.

  He scanned the side streets as he raced by, noting how they were lined on both sides by parked cars. You could travel only in one direction, but there were no signs to indicate that the roads were one-way.

  The knuckleheads behind him were gaining, and the passenger slid out onto the windowsill and leveled his pistol.

  That was it. Third light. “Three-two-seven? I won’t need you anymore, thanks.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Roger that. I’ll check in later.”

  Holding his breath, Moore hung the hard right down the next side street and floored it. He gasped as he rocketed down the alley, turned another hard left, careened off a Dumpster, and kept on moving. He was coming up behind the V Bar, which would be on his left-hand side.

  He checked his six o’clock—clear for now.

  A car shot across the intersection ahead and turned head-on, and with a start he realized it was the punks following him. They’d anticipated his move. They were supposed to be dummies. What was wrong with them? Why had they gone smart? Now they were playing chicken, and Moore had nowhere to go.

  He reached into the backseat, tried to grab one of the guns—the guy’s on the floor or the Glock tucked into the dead man’s waistband—but both were still out of reach.

  Then he slowed, was about to throw it in reverse, when another car raced up behind him, an older Range Rover with a huge Hispanic male at the wheel—big as a sumo wrestler or Samoan warrior—and Moore’s colleague and fellow JTF team member Fitzpatrick was riding shotgun. Were they the cavalry or the execution squad? Either way, Moore was sandwiched between members of rival cartels with a body in his backseat.

  Consequently, he did what his training dictated. He prepared to abandon ship. He threw the car in park, whirled back and seized his Glock, then tossed himself out the door, rolling across the pavement to the cover of two parked cars. The driver’s door turned into a pincushion for small-arms fire.

  God helps those who help themselves. Time for Moore to help Moore.

  He crawled around to the back of the car, stole another look to the street, and saw that the two men following him were dead, their backs peppered with gunshot wounds.

  Since Fitzpatrick was with the rest of the Sinaloas, Moore decided that if he surrendered, his colleague might be able to better control the situation—at least get them all talking instead of shooting. If Moore decided to bolt, he might not only draw their fire but be back to square one: still trying to get a meeting with the boss. Of course, getting the cartel’s attention like this was not what he’d had in mind.

  His name was Scott Howard. What would a solar-panel businessman do, a guy whose most dangerous moments came on the golf course, not the mean streets of Juárez?

  He thought a moment more, then shouted in Spanish to the men from the Range Rover. “I’m an American. Here on business! I was kidnapped!”

  “Yeah, you were kidnapped by us,” answered a man who was definitely not Fitzpatrick. Moore peeked around the car.

  A leather-clad gangster with a hoop in his nose kept tight to the back door of the Range Rover and tugged free an empty magazine from his pistol.

  “Those guys shot at us. Killed the guy in my backseat,” Moore explained.

  Another voice now: “We know. Come out here!”

  As Moore slowly rose with his hands in the air, the gun in his right hand clearly visible, two men with shaved heads broke off from the group near the Range Rover. They carried the bodies of the two punks back into the Toyota with the red panel, then one guy jumped behind the wheel and drove off. Moore watched this as three other men surrounded him, including the tattooed guy with the nose ring. Fitzpatrick was with them and would not meet his gaze. Good. Another guy got in Moore’s car, backed out, and vanished.

  The fat driver of the SUV weighed in at four hundred pounds, Moore estimated, with a belly that shifted in great waves, even as he breathed. Here was the infamous Luis Torres, leader of the Sinaloa Cartel’s enforcer gang and Fitzpatrick’s “boss.” He wore a black baseball cap turned backward, and a lavish pattern of lightning-bolt tattoos seemed to crackle up and down his massive arms. On one biceps he sported the intricate likeness of a skeleton dressed in flowing religious robes. This was Santa Muerte, the saint of death worshipped by drug traffickers. On a stranger note, his eyelids had been tattooed with pictures of another set of eyes, so when he blinked, it still appeared he was staring at you. The image was nearly as unnerving as the man’s face—so thick, so round, so cherubic that he strained to see past the folds of fat framing his eyes. And the teeth …the rotting and yellowed teeth, destroyed by a junk-food diet, no doubt, were enough to make Moore grimace.

  But he didn’t. He sighed …A
t least they’d stopped shooting. For now.

  Okay. He’d been captured by the Sinaloa Cartel. Check.

  Don’t get yourself killed, he thought. And don’t let them see you shaking.

  Torres pursed his lips and frowned at Moore’s gun, the long hairs on his chin sweeping forward like a broom. “What’re you doing with this?” His nostrils flared as he now spoke in English.

  “I told you, I’m an American here on business.”

  “So am I.”

  “Really?”

  Torres snorted. “I was born in South Central L.A.”

  “I’m from Colorado,” Moore said.

  “So you’re on business? What kind of business?”

  “Solar panels.”

  “And you’re carrying a gun?”

  “I took it from the guy in the backseat.”

  Torres’s gaze grew harder, and he snickered. “And you always wear a shoulder holster just in case you find a gun?”

  Moore realized only then that his hoodie was still unzipped.

  “You’re already dead. You know that? You’re already dead.”

  “Look, I don’t know who you are, but you guys saved my life. I’ll pay you for that.”

  Torres shook his head. “You’re full of shit.”

  A couple of blocks over, a police siren resounded. Ah, the local guys Moore’s pal back at Langley had called in, but neither Torres nor his cronies reacted to the sound.

  “I’m sorry you don’t believe me. Maybe I can talk to somebody else?”

  Torres swore under his breath. “Take this prick inside.”

  Moore was ushered into a second-story office over the club’s dance floor, and he sat there in a metal folding chair, frowning at the 1970s brown paneling on the walls and the heavy steel desk positioned near the window. A bookshelf behind the desk buckled from the weight of dozens of binders, and harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The only thing modern about the room was the iPad glowing on the desk. Fitzpatrick, two other thugs, and Torres remained in the room, and Torres lowered himself into the desk chair like an old walrus testing the water before sliding into the surf. In his case, the fat man was making sure said chair did not collapse under his imposing girth.

  “What are we doing now?” Moore asked, drawing the grin of every man in the room.

  “Listen, motherfucker, you start talking, otherwise, el guiso for you. Do you understand?”

  Moore swallowed and nodded.

  El guiso, or “the stew,” was a well-known execution method employed by the cartels. They put you in a fifty-five-gallon drum, poured gasoline or diesel fuel all over you, then burned you alive in a human stew. The drum made the cleanup and disposing of your body nice and tidy.

  Torres folded his arms over his chest. “Are you working with the Federal Police?”

  “No.”

  “Local?”

  “No.”

  “Then why the hell are you poking around those old properties?”

  “I was hoping to meet the owner. So you sent that guy to kidnap me?”

  “Yeah, I did,” said Torres. “Talk about a botched job.”

  “Not really. I still wound up here,” said Moore.

  “Who are you?”

  “All right. Here’s the deal. I’m someone who can help your boss. I need to sit down and talk with him, mano a mano.”

  Torres chuckled under his breath. “Not in your lifetime.”

  “Luis, listen to me very carefully.”

  His gaze tightened. “How do you know my name?”

  “We know a lot more than that, but I’ll cut to the chase. I work for a group of international investors. We’re based in Pakistan, and we were doing some very lucrative opium business with the Juárez Cartel until we were screwed over. My employers want the Juárez Cartel out of business. Period.”

  “So why do we care?”

  “Because I’ve been sent here to assassinate the leaders of that cartel. And you’re going to help me.”

  Torres cracked a huge grin and addressed the others in Spanish: “Do you hear what this gringo is saying? Do you believe it?”

  “They should believe it. Give me my phone. I’ll show you some pictures.”

  Torres turned to Fitzpatrick, who’d been the one to confiscate Moore’s smartphone. He tossed it to Moore, and Torres leaned in toward him.

  “If you make a call or send out some warning,” Torres began, “we’ll shoot you now.”

  “You don’t want to kill me. I’m going to be your new best buddy.” Moore thumbed through screens on the phone and arrived at his photo gallery. He scrolled to a pic of Dante Corrales. “Is this one of the fuckers you want dead?”

  “Corrales …” Torres breathed.

  “I need to talk to your boss. I’ll pay fifty grand for the opportunity.”

  “Fifty grand?” Torres was taken aback. “You’re not here alone, are you?”

  Moore almost looked in Fitzpatrick’s direction. Almost. “We don’t care about you guys. We might even strike up a new deal with you. But first, it’s el guiso for Corrales and all his friends …”

  Torres leaned back, the desk chair creaking loudly. And then, after a tremendous breath, he began to nod. “Where do you have the money? At the hotel?”

  “Electronic transfer.”

  “I’m sorry, gringo. Cash only.”

  “I understand. I’ll get you the cash. You get me the meeting with your boss. And you’re right. I’m not here alone.”

  SOME HAVE MONEY AND GUNS

  Rojas Boeing 777

  En Route to Bogotá, Colombia

  JORGE ROJAS stared absently through the oval-shaped window and sighed. They were at 41,000 feet now and his Boeing 777’s Rolls-Royce Trent 800 engines had been reduced to a purr by the well-insulated cabin. That was quite remarkable, since the 777 had the largest-diameter turbofan engines of any aircraft—and it should have big engines, he mused, given its cost. He had spent nearly $300 million on this VIP airliner, the world’s largest twin jet and often referred to as the “triple seven.” He could fly nearly halfway around the world before they had to land for refueling. If he was in a hurry, his pilot and copilot, veteran and distinguished officers of the Mexican Air Force, could get him there at .89 mach. The jet, like his many homes, was a testament to his success and a magnificent retreat. He’d taken delivery of the plane and had it flown from the Boeing plant in Seattle to the Lufthansa base in Hamburg, where it was furnished with an entirely customized cabin that followed his very specific and ambitious requests. While he could fly up to fifty passengers in a first-class seating area, most of the plane had been converted into his airborne home and office, complete with a master bedroom suite trimmed in knotty, warm tones of black-ash burl. The travertine-stone bathroom had a six-head shower and sauna for up to four, along with a jet tub. The adjoining office had been furnished with antique French pieces secured to the floor. Even his bookcases had little racks that protected the volumes from sliding off. While the furniture was old, the technology was state-of-the-art: printers, scanners, computers, Wi-Fi networks, webcams, and anything else his onboard information-technology expert thought he needed. Opposite his desk was a conference table with a flat-screen television and computer display projector, along with posh, heavily padded leather seats that his guests repeatedly sighed into and admired. Outside the office was a media room with yet another widescreen television and full-size sofas and recliners, along with a full-size wet bar manned by Hans DeVaughn, a World Class–winning international bartending champion that Rojas had recruited while in Spain. The World Class competition was recognized as the Oscars of the bartending industry, and Hans—with his knowledge, skill, and creative flair—had beaten more than six thousand bartenders from more than twenty-four different countries. In fact, all seven of Rojas’s attendants had been found during business trips to Europe, and they had their own modest-sized but functional quarters that included a shower and train-style bunks for much longer trips. Finally, the private
kitchen with convection oven and stove was a spectacular affair that his longtime chef J.C. had helped him design. The man had insisted on having all his accoutrements, no matter where they traveled. A few of Rojas’s very special VIPs liked to remark that were they aboard America’s Air Force One, they’d be “slumming it” when compared to Rojas’s flying palace. The King of Jordan had jokingly said he was disappointed that the jet lacked a private swimming pool.

  “Don’t laugh,” said Rojas. “The Russians had saltwater pools on their Typhoon-class submarines. But rest assured, the next plane I buy will be bigger—and you will have your swimming pool!”

  “No need for that. What you have already is simply spectacular.”

  Rojas was indeed wrapped in a cocoon of expensive leather and wood accents polished to a remarkable shine, J.C. was preparing for them a luscious early-evening dinner, and, admittedly, he had more money than he could ever spend in a thousand lifetimes. Hell, the North and South American indexes were even rallying to five-month highs. Life was spectacular. He should not be feeling so dour.

  Alas, Miguel was growing up too quickly, and while Rojas had helped find for his boy a lovely girlfriend, part of him regretted that, because this girl—who reminded him so much of his precious Sofía—would now become the center of the boy’s life. Rojas smiled inwardly. He was simply feeling the pain of a father coming to terms with his son’s independence. That was all. Logic needed to trump emotions. Easier said than done, though. When he saw them together, looking so young and vibrant and beautiful, he could not help but see himself and Sofía. He was jealous, of course, jealous of his son’s youth and the fact that he’d found someone to love when Rojas had lost the love of his life. Was it right to feel that way? To envy your own son?