by Tom Clancy
As Moore’s uneasiness grew, the icons that adorned the church’s back wall began to morph into images of demons, and now he imagined two men standing at the altar: a bearded man with a black turban, clutching an AK-47, and a shorter Mexican getting ready to pull the pin on a grenade. He closed his eyes, told himself to calm down, that the Agency knew exactly where he was, that Fitzpatrick had his back, and that these Sinaloa thugs were still as wary of him as he was of them. A knot began to twist in his stomach.
Earlier in the day, fat man Luis Torres had accompanied him to the bank, where he’d withdrawn another $50,000 in cash and had delivered it to him on the spot. The thug had been quite impressed, and it was amazing how his attitude changed in the face of bundled cash. The meeting with Sinaloa Cartel leader Zúñiga had been arranged, and Moore had been driven out to the church and told to wait for the man inside.
How many meetings like this had Moore attended? There was that night in Saudi Arabia when he’d spent thirteen hours waiting for an informant. He’d lived in a ditch in the Helmand Province for over a week in order to spend five minutes talking to an Afghan warlord. He’d spent nine days in the Somali jungle waiting for an Islamic militant to return to his jungle hideout. Too much waiting. Too much to ponder. He began thinking about God and the afterlife and Colonel Khodai and his young operative recruit, Rana, and all the other friends he’d lost. He thought of praying for their forgiveness. The mottled carpet in his mind’s eye turned to tile, and the candlelight dissolved into the harsh glare of the old briefing room aboard the aircraft carrier Carl Vinson. American flags and seals of the U.S. Navy rose behind their commander.
“We will engage in a hydrographic recon of the Al Basrah Oil Terminal. The information we gather will be vital in the planning of tomorrow’s attack.”
Moore had become the Officer in Charge (OIC) of a SEAL platoon, with Carmichael as his assistant OIC, despite Carmichael’s identical rank of O-3, superior knowledge, and tenacity. The advantage Moore had in physical ability Carmichael made up for in tactical skills. He could memorize maps, mission plans, anything he viewed or read. He could get you in and out swiftly, safely, without ever consulting a GPS. They’d become a formidable pair, with reputations that preceded them.
“No glory in this one,” Carmichael said. “We go in and take pictures of an Iraqi oil platform. Whoop-dee-do.”
“Frank, I’m counting on you for the usual.”
He frowned. “Dude, you have to ask? I’ve had your back since BUD/S. What’s wrong?”
The knot twisted tighter in Moore’s stomach. “Nothing.”
“Mr. Howard?”
Moore snapped open his eyes and turned toward the church’s center aisle.
Ernesto Zúñiga was much shorter and slighter than his photographs led one to believe. His thinning hair was gelled straight back, and his sideburns were white at the roots. He had an unfortunate complexion, scarred heavily by acne, and the deep line from an old wound ran down from his left cheek and across his jaw. He was missing one earlobe. The file had said he was fifty-two, but Moore would have put him closer to sixty. He’d either dressed down so that he wouldn’t be noticed or simply wore polo shirts and jeans as a course of habit, but Moore grinned inwardly over how he stood in sharp juxtaposition to a narcissist like Dante Corrales from the Juárez Cartel. You could mistake Zúñiga for a guy selling bagged oranges on the street corner—and that might be how he preferred it.
“Señor Zúñiga, I appreciate you coming.”
“Don’t get up.” Zúñiga blessed himself, genuflected, and slid into the pew next to Moore. “The people pray every Sunday for an end to all the violence.”
Moore nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”
“You can answer their prayers?”
“We both can.”
He chuckled under his breath. “Some say I’m the cause of the problem.”
“Not you alone.”
He shrugged. “It’s my understanding that you want to work out a deal.”
“We have the same goal.”
“You paid a lot of money for this meeting, so I suppose I will listen to you …for a few minutes.”
Moore nodded. “The Juárez Cartel is crushing your business. I know what they’ve done to you.”
“You know nothing.”
“They murdered your wife and sons. I know you’ve never gotten revenge for that.”
He grabbed Moore’s wrist and squeezed. “Do not talk about revenge in the house of God.”
“Then I’ll talk about justice.”
“What do you know? Have you ever lost anyone close to you, a young man like yourself? Do you know what real pain feels like?”
Moore braced himself, then finally said, “I’m not that young. And you have to believe when I say I know how you feel.”
Zúñiga made a face, then snorted. “You come here with your bullshit story about buying my property for your solar-panel company, and then you tell Luis you are an assassin, but you are just another scumbag DEA man from California or Texas trying to flip me. I have been doing this my entire life, and you try to play me for a fool? We will mail them your head, and then we’ll be done with this.”
“You’re wrong about me. If we work together, I promise you that neither you nor anyone in your operation will be touched. My group is much more powerful than any of your enemies.”
“There is nothing you can say, Mr. DEA Man, that will get me to help you. And leaving this church alive is going to cost you yet another fifty thousand.”
Moore smiled. “I don’t work for the DEA, but you’re right. I’m not interested in your properties, only your enemies, and I can promise you that the group I work for will not only pay you well, but we can establish a new joint venture for opium transport—just like the Juárez Cartel is doing now. Let’s be honest. People are not lining up in this church, reaching out a hand to help you—and it’s clear to us that you need help.”
“You tempt me with your lies, you really do, but I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, because neither your group nor I will ever bring down the Juárez Cartel.”
Moore frowned deeply. “Why do you say that?”
“I thought your people knew everything.”
“If we did, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Very well.” Zúñiga gathered his breath, and what he said next sounded somewhat rehearsed, as though he’d given this speech to his men to put their actions into perspective. “I’ll tell you a story about a man who grew up very poor, a man who watched his brother die before his eyes, a man who saved up enough money and went to America for his education, then returned to Mexico to start many businesses. This is a man who used drug trafficking to help support and finance those businesses, a man who over the years became one of the richest men in the world. This is the man you want to bring down, the Caesar you want to overthrow, but his resources are endless, and all we can do now is fight small battles in a war we lose.”
“What’s his name?”
Zúñiga began to chuckle. “Are you serious? If your group is so powerful, they should already know.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t.”
Zúñiga made a face. “Jorge Rojas.”
Moore nearly fell out of the pew. He knew the name well. “Rojas is the leader of the Juárez Cartel? He’s always been a person of interest to us, but there’s never been any real evidence to pin on him. How can you be sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure. He’s threatened me personally. And he’s buried himself behind a wall of beautiful lies so that no one can ever touch him. He has the audacity of Pablo Escobar and the resources of Bill Gates. He is the smartest and most powerful drug trafficker in the history of the world.”
“Do your men know this? Are they aware of how powerful their enemy is?”
Zúñiga shook his head. “They don’t need to know that. It’s too depressing to discuss with them, so we don’t talk about it …”
Moore slowly nodded. That explained why Fitzpatrick hadn’
t come to the joint task force earlier with the knowledge that Rojas was the cartel leader. “If he’s got so much money, why would he continue to run a drug cartel?”
Zúñiga’s eyes widened. “Why not? People have questioned why during such tough economic times his businesses never fail. It’s because they are helped by drug money, always helped. This is all Rojas knows, but now he is far removed from the daily operation and his lieutenants do all the work. I really believe he is living in denial now. Truly living in denial. He puts his name on schools and calls himself a saint, while he employs demons to do all his dirty work.”
“Dante Corrales.”
Zúñiga recoiled at the sound of the name. “Yes. How do you know that name?”
“I told you we know a lot—but not everything.”
“What else do you know?”
“We know they control the border tunnels, and they rip off your guys. We’ve heard they disrupt and steal your shipments, and use the Federal Police to kill your men while their boys are left alone. We know the Guatemalans are hunting you now. I can get you access back to the tunnels and get the police and the Guatemalans off your back. We can work together, and we’ll find a way to bring down Rojas.”
Zúñiga’s lips curled in a dubious grin. “A ridiculous dream. I’m sorry, Mr. Howard. Luis is going to take you to the bank. And you’re going to give him another fifty thousand dollars. Then we’ll decide whether you live or die.”
Moore’s voice turned softer, more emphatic. “Ernesto, I didn’t come here alone. You don’t need any more enemies. You have enough already. Let me go, and I will earn your trust. I promise you. Give me a number that you and I can use to talk directly.”
“No.”
“You have nothing to lose. In fact, you’ll have more to lose if you don’t do something soon. Even if you don’t believe who I say I am—and you still think I’m DEA, what’s the difference? I’m telling you, we won’t touch you. We want the Juárez Cartel. We want Rojas.”
“You’re a very persuasive man, Mr. Howard. You seem almost too comfortable, as though you have done this many times before.”
Zúñiga was very observant and certainly correct, although the last time Moore had been in a house of worship it had been a chapel, and he’d dismissed the Navy chaplain with a wave of his hand.
“You cannot abandon your faith,” the chaplain had said. “Not at a time like this, when your faith is what will carry you through. You will overcome.”
“I want to believe that, Father. I really do . . .”
Moore narrowed his gaze on Zúñiga. “I’ll give you the money. You let me go, and while you consider my offer, I’ll see what I can do to help your business. I think you might be very surprised.”
“They’re going to say I’m crazy for trusting you.”
“No need to trust me yet. I told you I will earn it. Will you give me that opportunity?”
Zúñiga frowned. “I didn’t get where I am by taking the easy or the safe road. I told my dear wife to take a chance on me, and she did. And now I know how she feels.”
“Thank you, señor.” Moore proffered his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Zúñiga took it—
And then he squeezed the hand firmly and tugged Moore toward him. “Do the right thing.”
Moore’s voice did not waver. “I will.”
Consulado Inn
Juárez, Mexico
It was nearly ten p.m., and Johnny Sanchez was alone in his hotel room, typing furiously on his notebook computer after having just inhaled two cheeseburgers and a large order of fries, the grease-stained wrappers and containers lying on the desk near his mouse. The city’s lights were gleaming, and the U.S. Consulate was just five hundred yards off and clearly visible through his window. He pushed back his desk chair and reread what he’d just written:
EXT. BURNING HOTEL—NIGHT
As Corrales falls to his knees in the street, the fires raging skyward: an inferno of an old life turning to ashes. The boy looks skyward, the flames reflected in his tear-filled eyes, and he rages aloud against the heavens. We cry with him …
“That is fucking beautiful,” Johnny shouted at the computer screen. “Fucking beautiful! Who’s the man? You the man, Johnny! This bitch is going to sell big-time!”
A slight click came from the hallway, and as Johnny looked up, the front door opened. Johnny bolted from his chair and gasped at a man dressed in dark slacks, a black shirt, and a leather jacket. The man was over six feet, with a closely cropped beard, an earring, and long hair pulled back into a ponytail. He appeared either Arabic or Hispanic, Johnny wasn’t sure, but he felt pretty certain about the make of the pistol in the man’s hand. It was a Glock, all right, most certainly loaded, and pointed at Johnny’s head. Attached silencer. Johnny’s pistol was in the nightstand drawer, out of reach, damn it.
“What the fuck is this?” Johnny asked in Spanish.
The man answered in English. “This is me saying, ‘Hi, Johnny. I read your article. Good stuff. You’re a good writer.’”
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man’s expression twisted. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to respect a man who’s got a gun to your head? These are those little life lessons she should’ve taught you.”
“Are you done with your alpha-male bullshit? What the fuck are you doing here?”
“How long did you think it would take? Did you think you could come down here to Mexico and hang out with a drug cartel and not gain anyone’s attention?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m an investigative journalist. I report on criminal activity. You read my fucking article. You think I’m in bed with them? You’re fucking nuts. And I’m calling the police.”
The man shifted up to him, raising the pistol even higher. His playful tone vanished. “Sit down, motherfucker.”
Johnny returned to his chair. “Jesus Christ …”
“The wheels are spinning now, huh? You’re thinking, Holy shit, what have I gotten myself into? Well, you should’ve thought about that before you started working with Corrales. Blood might be thicker than water, but as I like to say, lead will always get you dead.”
“Look, asshole, all I’m doing is writing. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not taking from anyone.”
“But you’re not helping anyone, either.”
“Bullshit I’m not. I’m taking the American public into the trenches of the drug war here. This is a behind-the-scenes tour into hell, into how screwed up this community has become.”
“That sounds pretty fucking dramatic, and I guess it is, since you’ve got a gun to your head right now. Are you going to put me in an article?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man widened his eyes. “I’m your last friend in the whole wide world. Now show me your hand.”
“What?”
“Show me your hand.”
Johnny extended one palm, and the man used his free hand to grab Johnny’s and turn it backside up.
“Here, hold this,” said the man, offering Johnny the gun.
“What the fuck?” Johnny cried.
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s not loaded.”
The man shoved the gun in Johnny’s free hand, then reached into an inner breast pocket and produced a large syringe that he shoved into the soft tissue between Johnny’s thumb and forefinger. The pain was sharp for a second, and Johnny screamed and demanded to know what was happening. The man released him and said, “Gun?”
“Are you for real?”
The guy made a face. “Gun?”
“What did you do? Poison me?”
“Easy, Shakespeare. It’s just an implant. GPS. So we can keep you safe.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“There are a lot of letters in the alphabet, Johnny, and I’m betting as a writer you can figure that out.”
“DEA?” Johnny asked. “Oh my God.”
“Sorry,” said the man. “I’m afraid you’ve just climbed into
bed with the United States government.”
Johnny’s shoulders shrank. “This cannot be happening.”
“Look, you can’t talk. It’s already too late for that. If you go to Corrales and tell him we’re here, you’ll die. We won’t kill you, he will. Like I said, I’m your last friend. You won’t make it out of Mexico alive without me.”
Johnny’s eyes began to burn, and he was fast running out of breath. “What do you want? What am I supposed to do?”
“The Juárez Cartel is being led by Jorge Rojas.”
Johnny burst out laughing. “Is that what you dumbass Feds think? Oh my God …stupidity run amok!”
“I got that from Zúñiga.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Then you know who he is, and I’m sure Corrales can confirm that Rojas is his boss. I need you to pump Corrales for everything you can get on Rojas.”
“Do I have to wear a wire?”
“Not right now. But we’ll see.”
Johnny stiffened. “I won’t do it. I’m leaving Mexico tonight; you Feds can go fuck yourselves.”
“Yeah, and the moment you step off the plane in California we’ll place you under arrest.”
“For what?”
The man eyed the junk-food wrappers on the desk. “For failing to eat a balanced diet.”
“Dude, you’d better leave now.”
“You are the son of Corrales’s godmother. He trusts you like you were blood. And you feed his ego. That’s very important to us, and you can do the right thing here. You might be afraid now, but I need you to think how many people will be saved because of your help. I can sit you down and spend a week showing you how many families have been ruined by drugs.”
“Spare me the bleeding-heart bullshit. People choose to buy and use drugs. Corrales and the cartel are just the suppliers. You want to talk politics, then let’s talk about the Mexican economy.”
The man waved Johnny off and pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to him. The guy’s name was Scott Howard, and he was president of a solar-energy company. “So you’re Mr. Howard? Yeah, right.”