by Tom Clancy
Samad turned away from the dying Mexican and faced his group, gesturing to the floor as his phone began to vibrate. “These backpacks will come with us, but leave them on the floor with the launchers for now.”
Niazi and Talwar began helping the men slip off the backpacks containing the launchers. The man on the other end of the line was an ally from Afghanistan who said only two words in Pashto: “Two minutes.”
“We’re ready.”
Samad had left one of his men down in the tunnel to be sure they weren’t being followed. The man called up to say everything was clear thus far.
His group stood in line, hands clasped behind their backs. They fidgeted nervously, but Samad had faith in their training and in their resolve.
The sirens grew louder, and Samad went to the window and finally spotted the two Calexico police cars, followed by a pair of police vans, lights flashing as they rolled up, and eight officers, weapons drawn, got out and stormed the house.
“Okay, everyone,” he began calmly. “We are all under arrest—in the name of Allah.”
The front door swung open, and in burst two officers, their beards closely cropped and their skin as dark as Samad’s. “All right, listen to me,” the cop said, once more in Pashto. “We wait another minute. Then we march outside with your hands clasped behind your back, as though you are handcuffed. We will take the bags.”
“Excellent,” said Samad. They were putting on a good show for any of the cartel’s spotters, who were most certainly watching the house. Of course, there could be others: enemies of the cartel that included rivals and federal authorities from both countries.
“Moving out now to the vans,” said the officer after two more of his colleagues had entered the home from the rear door.
Samad nodded, called down to his man still in the tunnel, then he and the others left with their hands held tightly behind their backs. They were escorted at gunpoint across the street and were helped into the waiting vans. His gaze scanned the rooflines and shrubs of the neighboring homes, and several people stood near their front doors to shake their heads at the “big arrest” on their street.
Next came the backpacks bulging with drugs, and then the six launchers. Within three minutes they were roaring away from the house, with Samad closing his eyes and balling his hands into fists. They’d made it. The jihad had returned to America.
HE MUST NEVER LEARN ABOUT THE CARTEL
Border Tunnel House
Calexico, California
MOORE AND ANSARA parked their pickup truck around the corner from the tunnel house. Before they headed out, Moore received a call from Towers. “Big bust by local Calexico police at the house. Mules taken out, along with what spotters are saying was a huge shipment of drugs. This confirms Rueben’s reports. Still following up, but local police deny any involvement. Trying to track the vehicles, but they’ve all disappeared. Either the Calexico police are in bed with the cartel or this is some pretty damned elaborate shit to rip off those drugs.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Moore. “But we’re going in after these guys. Just keep everyone away from this place. I’ll call you back.”
He and Ansara stole their way around the rows of shrubs and arrived beside the house across the street from the target home. They crouched behind two palm trees. The cartel truck had been backed into the driveway, and one man remained in the cab while the other two had presumably gone inside.
They’d have to enter the house from the back to avoid detection by the guy in the truck. For now, Moore indicated to Ansara that they’d wait. He continually reminded himself that their job was to follow the guys, follow the money trail, not intercept them, even though he and Ansara were champing at the bit to do so, Ansara more so because they’d lost contact with his informant.
They waited five more minutes before the garage door finally opened and the two men appeared in the dim light of a single bulb. The guy who Moore recognized as the driver worked the lock on the truck’s back door. The man in the cab climbed out and joined the other two as they transferred the Anvil cases into the garage. Once the truck was unloaded, they tugged down the door.
How long should they wait? Those guys couldn’t move all of those weapons in one trip. Five minutes? Ten? It looked as though the blinds had been drawn on the windows.
Ansara signaled to Moore. Let’s move in. Moore hesitated, then finally nodded.
Rojas Mansion
Cuernavaca, Mexico
56 Miles South of Mexico City
Fernando Castillo entered Señor Rojas’s home office, an intimidating monument to the man and his influence, which fell on Mexico like the weather. The people …the government …All they could really do was adapt to him and his decisions, as Castillo had, although he felt a fierce sense of loyalty to the man who had rescued him from poverty, given him a life of unimaginable wealth, and treated him with more dignity and respect than his own family had.
Castillo stole a glance up at the bookshelves rising more than twenty-five feet and spanning the entire forty-foot back wall. In their shadow rose Rojas’s gargantuan mahogany desk, atop which stood no less than four computers whose twenty-seven-inch flat screens formed a half-circle. The desk was, in effect, a cockpit of information flowing in to the man who was leaning back in the plush leather chair he’d bought in Paris and sipping on a glass of Montrachet. Along the left side of the room was a bank of LED TVs permanently tuned to cable financial networks from around the globe. Castillo had recently supervised the installation of those screens, and although that was hardly part of his job as security chief, Rojas had in recent years trusted him with many of his personal tasks and decisions, especially those concerning Miguel.
Rojas raked his fingers through his hair, then finally looked up from one of his screens.
“What can I do for you, Fernando?”
“Sorry to bother you, señor, but I wanted to discuss this in person. Dante’s body has still not been found, and the murder at the hotel failed to draw him out. And if you recall, Pablo is also missing, and so is Dante’s girlfriend, María.”
“Yes, I know, I know—what are you worried about? And why are you bothering me with these trivial details? I pay you very well to handle these things. Find him. He knows he failed to protect my son. He knows the consequences.”
“Yes, señor, but this is important, and you should know. We’ve had trouble at the new tunnel. Another shipment has been stolen.”
Rojas drew back his head and frowned. “We lost another one? Are you kidding me?”
“We lost everything. The mules, the police cars, the entire shipment.”
“Slow down. Police cars? What are you talking about?”
“Our spotters tell me it looked like a raid on the house by Calexico police, but no one ever saw the police vans arrive at the station. They disappeared while en route.”
“That’s ridiculous. They switched cars. Who was in charge of following them? I want him killed.”
Castillo sighed. “It gets worse. Pedro Romero, our chief engineer on the project? His family was killed, and we found him dead inside the house, along with another mule in the tunnel. The weapons shipment from Minnesota arrived there, and it was that team that found them. They’re getting the weapons through the tunnel right now, but the power was cut.”
Rojas rubbed the corners of his eyes, cursed under his breath, then asked, “What do you think?”
Castillo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “When you got back from Colombia, you told me about your meeting with Samad and what he wanted.”
“No, that’s not possible,” Rojas said quickly. “I warned them, and they’d be fools to test us. Either Dante or Zúñiga stole from us.”
“Señor, it’s very possible that this Samad used our tunnel to get into the United States.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Castillo grew more emphatic. “When the police carried out the backpacks, the spotters counted six extra bags. The spotters are
sure they were not the usual packs—and I’m sure those packs weren’t stored in the house by anyone else. They had to come through the tunnel.”
“I’ll call Samad right now.”
“If it’s him, he won’t answer.”
“Then Rahmani must answer for this.”
“And if he denies everything?”
Rojas bolted up from his chair, his voice lifting: “Then everything we’ve built together is in danger.”
Castillo recoiled as a chill struck him.
Rojas winced. “Fernando, I’m sorry for shouting. It’s just …you know I’ve thought of putting an end to all this. Walking away from it all—and if what you’re saying is true …”
“I understand, señor. I would still call Rahmani to let him know that he must pay if Samad has entered the United States. Any threat to the cartel must be neutralized.”
Rojas stood there, his gaze going distant, as though he were imagining mushroom clouds rising over every major American city. “Our Calexico informants are well paid. Lean on them hard. Find the drivers of those police cars. I want to be certain before we act. Am I clear?”
“As always, señor.”
Castillo left the office. He’d planned to share with Rojas one other bit of news, but the man already had enough on his mind. Miguel was doing some probing around the house and on the Internet, and of course this wasn’t the first time that he’d tried to spy on his father. Occasionally a news report would come out that attempted to link Señor Rojas to investment fraud or real estate scams or even vote tampering during several elections, and while Miguel would always openly stand behind his father, Castillo knew that the young man still had his doubts. The recent attempt on his father’s life had probably rekindled his curiosity. Castillo would have a long talk with Miguel to once more allay his suspicions. On this point, Señor Rojas had been adamant.
He must never learn about the cartel.
Border Tunnel House
Calexico, California
Moore’s senses were already reaching into the house as he opened the back door as silently as he could and stepped into a small washroom. Beyond it was a narrow hall with two bedroom doors and a third door farther up. Ansara moved ahead, pistol drawn, and turned left down another hall, toward where the garage door should be. Meanwhile, Moore searched the first two bedrooms for the tunnel entrance. Just some cheap put-together Walmart furniture and old mattresses standing atop stained carpeting. Ansara met him back in the hallway to say, “They’ve only moved half the cases so far. They’ll be coming back for the rest.”
He’d barely finished when the sound of footfalls came from the master bedroom.
They ducked back into one of the smaller rooms and stood there, behind the door, not daring to breathe, as the men shifted across the hallway and back out toward the garage door.
Moore was back in a zone of calm, standing there behind the door, just looking at Ansara, who’d given up on holding his own breath. The man’s chest rose and fell, his breath coming louder. Moore raised a palm, as if to say, Take it easy.
Ansara nodded quickly.
The men lumbered back from the garage with the rest of the cases and crossed into the bedroom. The sound of shuffling feet and metal buckling tightened Moore’s frown.
He held up a finger. Wait …wait … He lifted his smartphone and sent off a text to Towers: In house, about to enter the tunnel. Weapons moving through. Stand by …
A sharp nod to Ansara said it was time to go. They shifted gingerly out of the bedroom and crossed into the master, where, near the closet door, they found a man lying on his back, his shirt soaked in blood. Ansara leaned over him, then drew back his head and whispered, “I know this guy. I mean, I know who he is. Pedro Romero. He was the engineer on this project. He had contact with my mule.” Ansara’s expression grew darker. “Dude, we got some wild-card shit happening here. Sinaloas …who knows …”
Why they’d killed the engineer remained to be seen. While Ansara took pictures of the dead man and messaged them back to Towers, Moore inspected the tunnel entrance set into the closet. They would gain access via an aluminum ladder someone had picked up at the local Home Depot for $89.99 plus tax (the sticker was still affixed to the top).
Ansara motioned that he’d go first. The ladder protested, and Moore winced. He reached the bottom some eight feet below. Moore followed, and together they started down the shaft. Despite the rather crude entry, the shaft itself was an engineering marvel. Using penlights they’d drawn from their breast pockets and keeping their pistols at the ready, they picked up the pace. Moore rapped a knuckle on one of the acoustic panels and grew further impressed. They had strung up LED lights, which were now dark, had hung ventilation and electrical pipes, and what could be a drainage pipe ran along the floor, which was still dirt but swept and leveled with great precision. The tunnel was, Moore speculated, one of the most complex and audacious smuggling operations that had ever been constructed by any cartel.
Flickering light came from ahead, and for a few seconds Ansara froze, believing the light was headed toward them, but they resumed their pace and shifted left to find what Moore interpreted as a makeshift chapel built within a shallow side tunnel that terminated in a wall of wooden trusses bound together by aluminum straps. The candles and crucifixes and photographs stole his attention away from the floor, where Ansara was first to spot the body.
“It’s the kid,” he gasped, just as Moore noted a pair of furrows in the dirt caused by the kid’s heels as he’d been dragged from behind.
Ansara dropped to his knees and directed his light at the boy’s eyes. Damn, the mule was young. Stabbed. His life snuffed out in an instant.
Suddenly, Ansara put his ear to the boy’s mouth. “Shit, he’s still breathing!”
“Yeah, but buddy, we can’t stay,” Moore insisted. “They could be gone already. And all we got is one guy’s cell to track. He turns off that phone, and we’re screwed.”
Ansara nodded, then faced Rueben. “I know, I know, but look, he’s trying to say something. Who did this to you, Rueben? Who did this?”
Moore slid up beside Ansara and watched as the kid, his eyes narrowed to slits, moved his mouth, but he couldn’t muster the words.
“Hang in there, kid,” said Moore. “We’ll come back for you, I promise.”
The kid reached up and grabbed Moore’s wrist.
“Just relax, don’t strain yourself,” said Ansara. “You don’t worry.”
Moore pulled free and started off. A look back told him Ansara was right there, though his eyes were glassy, his breathing even more labored. Ansara wore the guilt on his face, and Moore knew exactly how he felt.
Rueben was screaming in his mind, but he lacked the strength to convert those thoughts to sounds that the FBI agent could understand: They blackmailed Pedro. Arabs came through the tunnel! Terrorists! And they stabbed me! They stabbed me! Now they’re in the United States. They made it. Don’t leave me here. I’m going to die.
The thoughts were too quick, too disorganized, too erratic, for him to dwell on any longer. He heard Ansara telling his mother that he’d been killed.
“I’m so sorry about your son.”
His death would be enough of a shock, but add to that his involvement with a drug cartel and the FBI? He wasn’t sure his mother could survive that news.
And that was all he could think about now, not even realizing that he was no longer breathing and that the candlelight had gone dark.
The man had not identified himself on the phone, but José understood what was happening, and the sudden arrival of four more cars and at least a dozen more sicarios told him that whoever this guy was, he had his connections and that José had best listen to his orders.
“But remember,” José told him. “I am El Jefe. Corrales is gone now.”
“Yeah, okay, kid, fine. Now you do exactly as I ask. You’re inside the trailer, right? Do you see the safe under the desk?”
“Yeah, I see it.”
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br /> “Get down in there. Hit the power button. Type in 43678009, then hit the pound key. Got it?”
Jose did as he was told, screwed up the number, had to ask for it again, then finally got it right and heard a click. The safe opened, and he gasped as the light of his phone revealed its contents. The top shelf was crammed with bound stacks of U.S. dollars in denominations of twenties and fifties. He began stuffing them into the pockets of his leather trench coat, the one he’d bought after seeing how cool Corrales looked in his.
“Are you done stealing the cash yet?”
José shuddered. “I haven’t touched the money.”
“Okay, I believe you,” said the man with a snort. “See the walkie-talkie in there?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not a walkie-talkie. Once the weapons team gets the guns through, you send them back into the tunnel, then you blow it while they’re still inside. Just power on and jam down the big red button. Can you do this for me, José? Are you fucking smart enough? Because if you are, you can keep all the money.”
“I’ll get it done. But who are you?”
“I’m Fernando. I am your boss. I work for Los Caballeros. And you are a gentleman just like me. That’s all.”
A wooden staircase constructed of two-by-fours and plywood lay at the far end of the tunnel, where the sound-dampening panels broke off and the ground rose about two feet. Dim light flickered from above, from either flashlights or something else. Moore thought he heard voices, faint but there, and the sound of a metal door clinking steadily as it was rolled open.