by Tom Clancy
“Now, Jeff,” Rojas whispered as they neared Somoza’s office near the back of the shop, “he’s going to have a little fun with us, and you need to play along.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, don’t insult him. Just do whatever he says. Okay?”
“You’re the boss, Jorge.”
Campbell had no idea what was about to happen, and Rojas chuckled inwardly.
Somoza was already at the door as they reached it. Barely fifty, with a thick shock of black hair dappled with a few patches of gray, he was an imposing figure of six-foot-two with broad shoulders and a belly that betrayed his addiction to sweets. In fact, four glass candy jars the size of one-pound coffee cans were lined up on his broad mahogany desk, standing in sharp juxtaposition with a large placard hanging on the back wall. This was the company’s logo—a pair of crossed swords behind a black shield with a superimposed silver bullet that suggested a combination of medieval armor and modern-day technology.
Somoza trundled forward in a pair of tight designer jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that offered a light level of protection against long-range fire. He always wore his own products: nothing but …
“Buenos días, Felipe,” Rojas cried as he embraced the man. “This is my friend, Jeff Campbell.”
“Hola, Jeff. Very nice to meet you.”
Jeff shook hands with Somoza. “It’s an honor to meet the famous bulletproof tailor.”
“Famous? No,” said Somoza. “Busy? Yes, yes! Come inside, gentlemen. Come inside.”
Rojas and Campbell sank into plush leather chairs opposite Somoza’s desk, while he slipped outside for a second, calling after Lucille to bring him the present. Off to their left hung dozens of pictures of Somoza with movie stars and dignitaries, all wearing his clothing. Rojas pointed to the photos, and Campbell’s mouth began to open. “This is quite an operation he’s got here. Look at all the movie stars.”
Rojas nodded. “I’ll show you the warehouse before we leave. It’s a very ambitious business. I’m very proud of him. I remember when he was just starting up.”
“Well, it’s a much more dangerous world.”
“Yes, the one we leave our children.” Rojas sighed deeply, then turned his head as Somoza entered the room carrying a black leather trench coat.
“For you, Jorge!”
Rojas stood and took the coat. “Are you kidding me? This is not bulletproof.” He ran his fingers across the material and the flexible plates behind it. “It’s much too light and thin.”
“I know, right?” agreed Somoza. “It’s our latest design, and I want you to have it. It’s your size, of course.”
“Thank you very much.”
“We just finished showing it at our annual fashion show in New York.”
“Wow, a fashion show in New York for bulletproof clothes?” asked Campbell.
“It’s very popular,” said Somoza.
Jorge glanced at Campbell, then faced Somoza and winked. “Are you sure it’ll stop a bullet?”
Somoza reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a .45-caliber revolver, which he placed on the desk.
“Wow,” cried Campbell. “What’re we doing now?”
“We need to test it out,” said Somoza, his eyes growing devilishly wide. “Jeff, I want you to know that I give all of my employees the test. You can’t work here unless you’re willing to put on the product and take a bullet. You need to know what that feels like, and you need to trust in the product and in your work. This is why my quality control is so good: I shoot all of my employees.”
Somoza said this so matter-of-factly, so coolly, that Rojas couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Rojas then handed the jacket to Campbell. “Put it on.”
“Are you serious?”
“It’s no problem,” said Somoza. “Please …”
Campbell’s eyes glassed up, and he sat there, perched on a cliff between offending Somoza and obeying Rojas’s warning about playing along. Rojas had known the man for a long time, known him to be a risk-taker, so he was surprised when Campbell said, “I’m sorry, I’m just, uh, I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Lucille?” called Somoza.
The woman arrived in the doorway just a few seconds later.
“Did I shoot you?” asked Somoza.
“Yes, señor. Twice.”
Somoza faced Campbell. “You see? The lady gets shot? You are too afraid?”
“All right,” Campbell said, struggling to his feet and wrenching the jacket away from Rojas. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you can shoot me.”
“Excellent!” cried Somoza, who whirled around in his chair and reached into a cabinet to produce three sets of earphones.
Once Campbell had wormed his way into the trench coat, Somoza carefully buttoned it up and placed a round sticker on the jacket’s left side, near the abdomen.
“So that’s your target,” said Campbell.
“Yes, I need this because I am not a very good shot,” Somoza said in a deadpan.
Rojas chuckled again.
“Go ahead and laugh,” said Campbell. “You’re not getting shot!”
“He takes the bullet all the time,” said Somoza. “Jorge? How many times have I shot you?”
“Five, I think.”
“Look at that. Five times,” said Somoza. “Surely you can take one bullet.”
Campbell nodded. “My hands are shaking. Look.” He held them up, and yes, he was involuntarily trembling.
“It’s okay; you’re going to feel fine,” said Somoza, sliding a pair of earphones over Campbell’s head.
Rojas donned his own pair, as did Somoza, who then produced a bullet from the drawer and loaded the gun. He moved Campbell to a position away from the desk and held up the pistol point-blank to Campbell’s chest.
“That close? Are you nuts?” asked Campbell.
“Okay, listen, this is the way it goes. You take a deep breath and hold it. You count one, two, three, and I shoot. There it is again. One, two, three, BOOM! Okay?” Somoza had raised his voice so they could hear him despite the earphones.
Campbell swallowed and glanced over at Rojas, his eyes pleading.
“Look at me,” said Somoza. “Take a deep breath. Ready? One, two—”
BOOM!
Somoza fired after two, and that was how he always did it with new people who would tense up too much during the moment they expected to hear the boom. He fired early, when the participant was still relaxed.
Campbell hunched over slightly and tugged off his earphones, as they all did. “Wow,” he said and gasped. “You tricked me! But it’s okay. I didn’t feel anything, maybe a little pressure.”
Somoza unbuttoned the trench coat and tugged out Campbell’s shirt to prove to him that he’d not been injured. Then he dug into the coat and produced the flattened piece of lead. “Here you go. A souvenir!”
Campbell took the piece of lead and smiled. “This is pretty amazing.”
And then he held his mouth, raced over to the wastebasket, and retched.
At this, Somoza threw back his head and cackled until his ribs probably hurt.
Later, over coffee, Rojas spoke alone with his old friend, while Campbell was given a more in-depth tour of the facility by Lucille. Rojas shared his feelings about his son. Somoza talked about his own sons, who were growing up too fast as well and were destined to work in the business with him.
“Our boys are a lot alike,” said Rojas. “Children of privilege. How do we keep them …I don’t know …normal?”
“This is difficult in a crazy world. We want to protect them, but there is nothing you and I can do except teach them to make the right choices. I want my sons to wear bulletproof suits. Yes, I can protect them from the bullets but not from all the bullshit life is going to hand them.”
Rojas nodded. “You are a wise man, my friend.”
“And good-looking, too!”
They laughed.
But then Rojas sobered. “Now, Ballesteros ha
s been having some problems again, and I want you to take care of him and his people. You send me the bill. Whatever they need.”
“Of course. A pleasure doing business, as always. And I want to get some measurements of your friend, Señor Campbell. We’re going to make him a trench coat like yours—for being such a good sport.”
“I’m sure he’ll really appreciate that.”
“And one more thing, Jorge.” Now it was Somoza’s turn to grow serious, his voice burred with tension. “I have been thinking about this for a long time. We are both at the stage in our life where we no longer need to associate with the trade. My business is legitimate and booming now. Of course I will help our friend Ballesteros, but for me, this has to be the last deal, the last connection. I’m very concerned. The mess in Puerto Rico has us all concerned. I want you to understand that I still work for you, but I must cut connections here, and honestly, Jorge, I think you should pull out. Turn it over to someone else. It’s time. As you said, your boy is moving on. So should you.”
Rojas thought for a long moment. Somoza was indeed speaking to him as a dear friend, and he was talking sense—but his words were born of fear, and Rojas could see that fear etched in the man’s eyes.
“My friend, you should never be scared of anyone. People will try to intimidate you, but no one is better than anyone else. You need to be a fighter in this life.”
“Yes, Jorge, yes. But a man must be wise enough to pick his battles. We are not young anymore. Let the boys fight this battle, not us. We have far too much to lose.”
Rojas got to his feet. “I’ll think about it. You are a good friend, and I know what you are saying.”
TAKING THE FALL
Zúñiga Ranch House
Juárez, Mexico
AT ABOUT ELEVEN A.M. the next morning, Moore, Zúñiga, and six more cartel members assembled in Zúñiga’s four-car garage with the doors cracked half open. Moore delivered the drug shipment he’d seized and watched as Zúñiga’s men inspected the bricks and did not find anything suspicious—notably, the tiny injection holes made by Moore and Towers as they’d planted the GPS beacons. The Sinaloa Cartel was powerful but not quite as sophisticated as the Juárez, who Moore believed would have X-rayed the bricks and possibly found the trackers.
As Moore had hoped, Zúñiga seemed very pleased with the “gift” and most assuredly had plans in motion to move the stuff before nightfall. He nodded over the bricks, then faced Moore. “Your enemy is my enemy, it seems.”
“When one cartel becomes too powerful, it is everyone’s enemy.”
“I agree.”
“All right. I would like to continue to help. Let me take a few of your men. We’ll all go kidnap Rojas’s son. Like I told you, we’re in this together,” said Moore.
“Mr. Howard, maybe I am crazy enough to believe you now. Maybe I’m going to say okay.”
“It’ll take most of the day to fly down there in one of your planes, so maybe we should leave now?”
“Maybe I haven’t made up my mind.”
At this Moore snapped, and he probably shouldn’t have, but he hadn’t gotten much sleep. He raised his voice to a near shout. “Señor Zúñiga, what else do you need? One hundred and fifty in cash, a huge drug shipment stolen from Rojas? What else? My bosses are growing impatient.”
Torres, who’d been standing nearby, waddled up and raised his own voice. “Do not speak to Señor Zúñiga that way! I will twist off your head!”
Moore glared at the man, then faced Zúñiga. “I’m tired of playing games. I’ve made a good offer. Let’s get this done.”
Zúñiga gave Moore one final appraising look, then reached out his hand. “I want you to kill Rojas.”
Two hours later, Moore, Torres, and Fitzpatrick, along with a pilot and copilot, were packed into a twin-prop Piper PA-31 Navajo on a southeast track toward San Cristóbal de las Casas. The weather was clear, the views spectacular, the company miserable, because Torres got airsick and had twice vomited into his little white sack. If it had been a long night, it was going to be an even longer day, and Moore looked across the cabin at Fitzpatrick, who rolled his eyes over the fat man’s inability to handle air travel. Torres apparently had a massive but delicate stomach, and Fitzpatrick had chided him before they’d boarded the plane about them being unable to lift off because of the “added cargo.” Torres’s revenge for that remark was potent, and currently in the form of a foul-smelling bag of vomit seated between his legs.
Moore closed his eyes and tried to steal an hour or two of sleep, allowing the hum of the props to draw him deeper into unconsciousness …
The lights on the oil platform winked out, and suddenly Carmichael cried, “We’ve been spotted!”
Moore shook hard and sat forward in the airplane seat.
Torres looked back at him. “Bad dream?”
“Yes, and you were in it.”
The fat man was about to say something, then put his hand to his mouth.
Border Tunnel Construction Site
Mexicali, Mexico
High school student Rueben Everson had thought that working for the Juárez Cartel and smuggling drugs across the border was at first a pretty scary proposition. But then they had shown him all the money he could make, and over time, he’d grown used to the whole operation, even carrying large shipments while wearing a mask of utter calm. He’d been clever, all right, not making the stupid mistakes that had cost some of the other mules their freedom. He’d always been smooth when talking to the officers, and he never carried statues or cards of all the saints those fools prayed to in order to keep them safe during a run. La Santa Muerte was the most popular among some thugs, who even built shrines to her. Making the skeletal image of the Virgin of Guadalupe seem like some savior when she looked like pure evil was just kind of stupid to him. Then there was Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, and one fool had even tried to stuff thirty pounds of pot inside a statue of Jude and walk across the border with it. What a jackass. One lesser-known saint was Ramón Nonato. The legend said that he had his mouth padlocked shut to prevent him from recruiting new followers. The thugs liked this idea, and prayed to him so that others would keep silent about their crimes.
Some of Rueben’s colleagues relied heavily on other kinds of good-luck charms: sentimental jewelry, watches, pendants, rabbits’ feet, and other types of talismans, as well as Scarface movie posters. The one lucky charm that made Rueben laugh was the yellow bird Tweety from the Looney Tunes cartoons. At first he hadn’t understood why so many mules and other drug traffickers found the bird so popular, but then he’d realized that Tweety never gets caught by Sylvester the cat, so the little bird had become a hero among thugs. The irony, of course, was that they called themselves “mules” while a bird was their mascot.
At the moment, though, no manner of magic or religion could save Rueben. He’d been caught by the FBI, had met a kid who’d had his toes chopped off over a bad run, and was now forced to work for the government if he was going to avoid jail time. The easy-money runs to save up for college were gone forever. Agent Ansara had been very clear about that. They’d injected him with a GPS tracker and had turned his cell phone into a listening device via the Bluetooth earpiece. He was a dog on a leash.
Earlier in the day, he’d been called by his cartel contact and told to report to Mexicali, where a car was being loaded for him, and while he was standing there, inside the warehouse, a middle-aged man with glasses and hair covered in dust walked over to him and asked in Spanish, “Are you the new one?”
“I guess so. But I’m not new. I just haven’t worked over here before. They usually have me pick it up someplace else. What are you guys doing in here? Digging another tunnel?”
“That’s none of your business, young man.”
Rueben thrust his hands into his pockets. “Whatever.”
“How old are you?”
“Why do you care?”
“You’re still in high school, aren’t you?”
> “Are you my new boss?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Rueben frowned. “Why do you care?”
“How are your grades?”
Rueben snorted. “Are you serious?”
“Answer the question.”
“They’re pretty good. Mostly A’s and B’s.”
“Then you need to stop doing this. No more. You will either die or get arrested, and your life will be over. Do you understand me?”
Rueben’s eyes burned. I understand you more than you know, old man. But it’s too fucking late for me. “I’m going to go to college, and this is how I’ll pay for my tuition. As soon as I have enough money, I will quit.”
“They all say the same thing. I need money for this and for that, but next week I will quit.”
“I just want to go now and get this over with.”
“What’s your name?”
“Rueben.”
The man proffered his hand, and Rueben reluctantly took it. “I’m Pedro Romero. I hope I do not see you here again. Okay?”
“Wish I could help you out, but you will see me again. It’s just the way it is.”
“You think about what I told you.”
Rueben shrugged and turned as one of the loaders marched up to him and said, “Ready to go.”
“Think about it,” Romero urged him, sounding very much like Rueben’s father.
I wish I had, old man. I wish I had.
Rueben drove the car across the border and surrendered the car to a team of Ansara’s men without incident. They dropped him off at a rental-car office, and the man there gave him a ride home in the airport bus. A black Escalade was parked across the street from his house, and Rueben climbed into the backseat once the bus had left his street. FBI agent Ansara was at the wheel.