Against All Enemies

by Tom Clancy

  “Roger that,” said Moore. “And you’re sure those are the same weapons that SEAL smuggled out of the ’Stan?”

  “Oh, I’m positive.”

  “Jesus …”

  “Yeah, well, he’ll be going down—because that’s only part of the shipment on that van. The rest of it is still up in Minnesota, and that’s the evidence I’ll be collecting. Glad they weren’t stupid enough to try to smuggle it all in one shipment. Their attempt to be smart works in my favor. We should have him and the weapons in custody by tonight.”

  “Well, thanks for the heads-up,” said Moore, as Ansara pulled into the parking lot of a transmission shop next door to the station. They had a clear, unobstructed view of the truck, which had, in fact, parked out back behind the car wash.

  Moore called up one of Whittaker’s reports on his smartphone and scanned the inventory list of items purportedly stolen and smuggled by that Navy SEAL:

  14 M4A1 rifles with SOPMOD accessory kits

  11 M14 sniper rifles (7.62mm)

  9 MK11 Mod 0 sniper weapon systems

  2 HK MP5 submachine guns

  6 Benelli M4 Super 90 shotguns

  14 M203 grenade launchers

  Moore gave Ansara a description of the Honda, and the words had barely left his mouth when the van pulled into the station, its rear end sagging slightly from the weight of its cargo.

  “You know, at least in Afghanistan the bad guys tried to act like bad guys,” Moore said. “They smuggled opium and weapons at night. They used the caves. They tried to remain out of sight …but these guys …damn …”

  Ansara nodded and lifted his camera. “Act like you’re doing nothing wrong and no one will think you’re doing anything wrong. The thing is, they know we’re looking for them at night. They know we’ll raid their houses in the early morning, when everyone is supposed to be sleeping, so a lot of them do business in the early morning, sleep all afternoon, then stay up all night.”

  Moore nodded. “You’ve seen that inventory list, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you know we can’t let those weapons get into Mexico.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hang on there, cowboy. The money trail’s more important than the guns—you know that.”

  “I know, but I just can’t bear the thought of a gun that once belonged to a SEAL being in the hands of some cartel scumbag.”

  “Maybe they’re all new guns,” said Ansara.

  Moore snorted and began taking pictures himself as a collection of black Anvil cases was hauled from the van and into the back of the truck. The cartel truck’s driver handed a brown-paper shopping bag to the van’s driver, a tall, wiry guy with wispy black hair extending down to his shoulders. He looked more Native American than Mexican.

  The exchange took no more than five minutes, with the men performing their loading operations smoothly, even routinely. The van drove off. The cartel guys climbed into the cab but waited a few moments. Moore zoomed in with his camera. The driver was on the phone.

  Moore’s own phone vibrated. Towers. Just three words to make Moore’s heart sink: “Vega is dead.”

  “How?”

  Towers explained. Then added, “I just got word. After they shot her, they rigged her body with C-4. When EMS and the local police arrived, they detonated the charges. You believe that?”

  “Who rigged her? Gómez or the cartel?”

  “Not sure. We had a feed on the area but lost the signal when we switched from one satellite to another.”

  Moore spoke through clenched teeth: “I’ll bet it was that fucker Gómez. He had her killed, and he set it up to look like the cartel.”

  “She was our best link to him. I’ve got a few spotters of our own out there, and some pretty good civilian informants, but this is still a major setback.”

  Moore closed his eyes. “She didn’t die for nothing. We’ll make sure of that.”

  After he got off the phone with Towers, he and Ansara sat in silence, watching as the cartel truck left the station and got back on the road. They fell in behind them, allowed several cars to get in front, and continued on with a good satellite signal. A message from Langley indicated that they’d identified the cartel truck driver’s cell phone and had hacked into its operating system to turn on its GPS signal—so now they were tracking the truck via visual images from a satellite and by using the GPS signal emitted by the driver’s cell phone. According to the message, signal interruption should not happen again. Moore wasn’t buying that and was looking for any chance he could get to plant a good old-fashioned beacon on the truck, which they could track locally.

  “And five are now three,” Moore said, breaking the silence in the cab.

  “Yeah,” answered Ansara. “I’ve only lost two close buddies over the years. Even after all my time overseas. Only two. Both FBI agents. All my close buddies in the Army made it through—at least so far. How about you?”

  “We don’t want to go there.”

  “That many, huh?”

  “It’s not a numbers game.”

  “I know you were there with Fitzpatrick. And I agree. He was an ace. I hope you’re not blaming yourself.”

  Moore sighed. “You think about how you could’ve set it up differently and how your buddy might still be alive. I sent him into the house to clear it. He got ambushed and died. I can let myself off the hook, or I can take responsibility for the orders I gave him.”

  “Dude, if you go through life like that, you’ll be miserable.”

  “Yup. I know …”

  For a few seconds Moore closed his eyes and sat down at a table with Frank Carmichael at the head. Beside him were Rana, Colonel Khodai, and Fitzpatrick. Vega sauntered into the restaurant, which turned out to be the Italian place where they’d had Carmichael’s wake. The feisty woman tsked at them, as if to say they were fools for allowing themselves to be killed. Then she faced Moore. “You know what to do.”

  He nodded.

  About an hour later they reached Bakersfield, where they drove for a few minutes through the city and noted that the truck had pulled into the alley behind José Taco, a well-known Mexican restaurant, according to online reviews. On one side of the alley stood a row of businesses, including the restaurant, and on the other was a long brick wall cordoning off the business district from the six-story buildings of a low-rent apartment complex.

  “Shit, this won’t be easy,” said Ansara, driving past the alley and heading farther down the cross street.

  “We need to get out,” said Moore, gesturing to a line of empty parking spots to their right.

  Ansara agreed, took them into a spot, and they both hustled out of the truck and sprinted toward the apartments.

  “This way,” said Moore, running behind the first building and toward a bank of low-lying shrubs planted along the brick wall.

  They turned the corner, and directly ahead, no more than thirty meters, was the truck, its rear door open, the men loading blocks of marijuana. Moore saw that if they edged up closer, remaining behind the bushes, they could reach two Dumpsters to the left whose black plastic lids hung open. From behind them they’d have a better view of the exchange.

  Hunched over, he led them forward, up to the Dumpster, where they slipped around the side, and there, squatting in the shadows of some palm trees behind them, he began taking his pictures while Ansara did likewise from the other corner. The sour stench emanating from the trash left him with a tight grimace.

  The other vehicle was a black BMW 650i two-door sport job whose trunk was being filled with bricks. The driver was a gray-haired Hispanic man in an expensive-looking suit and wearing gold cuff links. In Moore’s estimation, once you got into the world of cuff links, you could be into some serious money for clothes. The frame around the BMW’s tag indicated that the vehicle had come from a dealership in Santa Monica, and there was little doubt as to the destination of his newly acquired precious cargo. Again, he didn’t come in a big truck to pick up his drugs; rather, he took his
expensive business machine and would carefully drive the speed limit all the way back to La-la Land so that his shipment could receive white-gloved distribution to Hollywood’s elite, who had the means, the access, and the desire to get higher than the hills on which they’d constructed their mansions.

  The driver shook hands with the cartel guys, handed over two thick envelopes to the driver, then climbed into his car and whirred off. Moore and Ansara were prepared to leave when another car rumbled into the alley, sending them crouching even tighter against the Dumpster. The vehicle was a Toyota Tacoma pickup truck, an older model, with a roll-lock cap and tinted windows. Two men climbed out dressed like wannabe Mexican gangsters, with baggy pants, and wallets affixed to chains that dangled from their hips. One guy, the fatter one and driver, shook hands with the cartel guys, and once again, more bricks were loaded into the back of their truck.

  When they finished, the cartel guys got in their truck and pulled out. Moore and Ansara were waiting for the two guys in the Toyota to leave, but they just sat there in their idling vehicle. Then one climbed out, banged on the back door of the restaurant, and yelled something about their food taking too long. Moore almost laughed. They’d ordered takeout as part of the drug-buying operation.

  The man who answered the door was not Mexican but Chinese, although he wore a José Taco apron. He shouted at the guy in broken English, told him to be patient, then slammed the door in his face.

  As the thug whirled back toward his car, he looked over at the Dumpsters.

  Moore froze.

  “Oh, shit,” Ansara whispered.

  The thug frowned, took another step toward them. He suddenly jogged to one side, spotted them.

  His eyes bugged out.

  He whirled around, screaming at the guy in the Toyota.

  Moore had already shoved his camera back into a side pocket and had drawn his suppressed Glock.

  He was on his feet as the guy looked over his shoulder and saw Moore sprinting toward him, with Ansara now right behind. The thug reached into his waistband and drew the pistol he’d stored there. He swung the gun back at Moore, who fired two rounds into the guy’s chest before the thug could fire.

  The guy in the pickup, seeing what was happening outside, must have slid into the driver’s seat. The engine roared, and the truck began to pull away.

  Shots rang out behind Moore—and that was Ansara, firing at the truck’s rear wheels, his aim pinpoint-accurate. The left tire popped and blew out, followed by the right, rubber flapping loudly now against the asphalt. The truck slowed enough for Moore to reach the back and make a flying leap onto the rear bumper. He latched a hand onto the tailgate and held on as the driver tried to steer them out of the alley on two flat tires.

  Moore leaned out to the side and fired two rounds into the driver’s-side window, shattering it. He still couldn’t get a direct bead on the driver. In the mirror, he saw the guy bringing his cell phone to his ear.

  With a curse, Moore fired a third round into the back window, but the shot must’ve missed the guy, who just ducked and kept on driving.

  Now Moore leaned out even farther to his left, getting the angle he needed. He fired once more, a direct headshot, and the truck veered to the right and plowed into the brick wall, just as Moore jumped off, hit the ground, and fought to keep balance. Out of breath, and with Ansara on his heels, he rushed up to the cab and wrenched open the door. The driver leaned over and fell out of the truck. There, on the center console, was a heap of cocaine, a few joints, one of them still burning in the ashtray, and a few more bags of coke sitting inside the open glove compartment.

  Moore reached down and grabbed the man’s cell phone, checking to see if he’d made that call. No, the call had never gone through. Thank God.

  He didn’t realize he was just standing there, looking at all the drugs, until Ansara nudged him aside and said, “Whoa, look at that. But hey, come on, let’s go! We’ll have to call this in. I got the other guy’s cell. Moore? Are you listening to me?”

  He faced Ansara, stared through him as though the man were on a movie screen, then blinked and said, “Yeah, come on!” They raced through the alley, and by the time they turned the corner and Moore stole a look back over his shoulder, the Chinese guy with the José Taco apron was coming outside, carrying two bags of takeout.

  Within five minutes they were in the pickup, back on the road, and back on track, following the cartel truck, which Ansara predicted was heading down into Palmdale. Moore reported what had happened to Towers, who wasn’t happy, but at least the thugs hadn’t alerted the cartel guys. Local police were en route to the scene.

  RITES OF PASSAGE

  Rojas Mansion

  Cuernavaca, Mexico

  56 Miles South of Mexico City

  MIGUEL SWAM DOWN to the deepest part of the pool and remained there, wondering what it might feel like to hold his breath until he lost consciousness. That he was having such morbid thoughts was due in part to his failure to act more bravely during their kidnapping. Sonia had been the strong one, and while he loved her deeply, he found it increasingly hard to accept how scared he’d been and how he’d failed to protect his woman, as any good man should. At one point, he’d even begun to cry, and it’d been Sonia who’d talked him through it. He cursed himself for that.

  His father had touched on the subject over breakfast, even suggesting that Miguel should return to practicing the martial arts he’d studied during his preteen years. He’d even said that Fernando could show him a few new moves, and he’d even pay for a trip to Thailand so that Miguel could study with some Muay Thai masters there. Miguel had politely declined. And then he’d excused himself and retired to the pool, where he’d remained for most of the day, with Sonia sprawled across a lounger in her bikini and reading a Spanish soap-opera magazine.

  He hadn’t discussed with her what Raúl had said, and he wondered if she’d even noticed it. In fact, he’d tried to repress it himself but he kept coming back to the poor man’s last words, his pleading to the Guatemalans that the “cartel will pay you anything” and that “Dante will do whatever you ask.”

  Over the years, Miguel had overheard many conversations between his father and his father’s associates, and the words cartel and drug dealers and sicarios were often used by them. His father had always emphasized that he was trying to run legitimate businesses in the face of organized crime and police corruption. The cartels were the mortal enemies of the Rojas empire, and at first Miguel had assumed that Raúl might have been a former cartel member employed by his father. That, too, was not uncommon. Over the years, Fernando had rescued and recruited many young men from the slums of Mexico and turned them into security personnel and bodyguards. Dante Corrales was a shining example of that, and had become Fernando’s right-hand man.

  So why, then, would Raúl—a man who answered directly to Corrales—call upon the help of “the cartel,” and why, then, would Corrales do “whatever you ask”? Why would the cartel be willing to pay ransom for Raúl if he was not one of them? And if he was, then were Fernando and Miguel’s father aware of that? Was Corrales also involved? How had the kidnappers known where they’d be? Miguel had assumed that their vacation was known by only close family members and bodyguards. There was definitely a rat in the organization, and Miguel assumed his father and Fernando were trying to weed him out.

  Miguel didn’t want to believe it, but there had always been—deep down—a gnawing suspicion that something wasn’t exactly truthful about his father’s businesses. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that his father had direct ties to any of the cartels, but perhaps bribes were paid, thugs kept quiet, so that operations could go on. That was understandable and did not make his father a criminal. This was business in modern Mexico. But what if he was wrong about everything? What if his father was in bed with all of them? What if the man who had tried to kill his father wasn’t just some nutjob bent on revenge? What if he’d been a professional assassin hired by a drug cartel?

&nb
sp; Miguel swam straight up and exploded out of the water, shook his head, and swam over to the pool’s edge.

  “You were down there for a long time,” Sonia said, staring over the rim of her sunglasses.

  “There are places in this house that we are not allowed to go,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Locked doors leading to the basement. No one is allowed behind them.”

  “Is that what you were thinking about?”

  “My father has secrets.”

  “All men do.”

  “And not women?”

  She feigned innocence. “Of course not.”

  “He says the only thing down there are the vaults. He says he has art and other collectibles and doesn’t want anyone damaging those pieces.”

  “Sounds like you don’t believe him.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Why not? What do you think he’s hiding?”

  Miguel began to feel heartsick. “I don’t know.”

  “So why don’t we ask him to go down there and just look at the stuff? He can come with us …”

  “He won’t agree.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would you like me to ask him?” She smiled coyly. “I’m pretty sure he likes me.”

  Miguel sighed. “Of course he likes you, but it won’t matter.”

  She wriggled her brows like a little girl. “Do you want to sneak down there?”

  Miguel snickered. “He’s got a guard standing at the door twenty-four-seven.”

  “Maybe he’s got some jewelry down there, too. More expensive stuff he’s really worried about, so he has a guard. I don’t see why any of this is so odd to you. These are dangerous times, and possessions must be protected.”

  “I want to tell you something, but I’m afraid.”

  She rose and crossed to him, took a seat on the ledge, and dunked her legs in the water. He pushed himself beside her, and she placed a hand on his cheek. “You can tell me anything you want.”