Blood Tide

by Graham Spence

  “Your first time in Mexico as well?”

  “No. I have been here before as a tourist. But many years ago.”

  Miguel spoke to his father in Spanish. “Why are you introducing them to me? Shouldn’t they be in the barracks with the other mercenaries?”

  “These men are the most qualified we have so far. By a long way. I want them as bodyguards. But first you must watch to see if they are trustworthy.”

  “They are hired guns. If the Sinaloans pay more, they will leave us. They will never be trustworthy.”

  The woman spoke for the first time. “I agree with Miguel. I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  Pancho sighed, the archetypal dilemma of fathers protecting daughters etched in his eyes. “Not yet Teresa mijita. But you will.”

  She flounced off. I now knew her name and that she was Guerra’s daughter. Fortunately for her, she looked nothing like her father with his coarse pock-marked face. Her amber-flecked eyes, sensuous lips and high cheekbones heightened her sultry Mediterranean looks. Her mother must have been an exceptional beauty.

  Miguel turned to us, smiling. He spoke in English, “Welcome my friends. Can you come around to the house this evening? I am having some people over for cocktails and snacks. We would like you to join us.”

  Carl and I looked at each other uncertainly. Brett interjected, “I will bring them, Miguel.”

  Brett grabbed our arms and steered us out of the house. “When the boss issues an invite, you do not hesitate,” he said as we climbed into the Jeep. “But apart from that, you impressed the old man, which could be a good career move.”

  Carl and I said nothing. Brett glanced at us, genuine surprise in his face. “Have you guys ever heard of Pancho Guerra?”

  We shrugged.

  “OK, have you heard of El Chapo?” he asked.

  “He’s that narco honcho, isn’t he? That one that’s in jail?” I said.

  “Yes. Probably the most famous drug czar after Pablo Escobar. But Guerra rules Baja. And he hates Chapo.”

  “You mean we’ve signed up to fight a drug war?” asked Carl.

  “Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “The only problem is if our checks bounce,” I said.

  Brett laughed as if this was the funniest joke ever. “Guerra is listed by Forbes as one of the planet’s richest men. A private army is chump change.”

  Brett slammed on brakes outside the barracks.

  “I’ll fetch you guys at six. These parties are pretty wild, lots of women, booze and drugs. But I would play it low key if I was you, especially as Guerra likes you both. He’ll be watching you. Closely.”

  As he drove off, I told Carl that the conversation in Spanish had been about Guerra wanting us as family bodyguards, as well as mercenaries. That’s what was behind Miguel’s invite to the party.

  “Insanely good luck,” said Carl. “We need to get that bodyguard gig. We’ll get unrivaled access to the family.”

  Brett arrived at six on the dot. He again warned us against mixing with the hijos. “They think they’re tough and try to provoke the hired guns. Combine that with blow and shots of tequila, and they think they’re superman.”

  “So what do we do if that happens? Allow ourselves to be insulted?” I was still raw from the previous treatment we had from the hijos on the beaches.

  “Basically, yes. To give an example, an American surfer, a beach bum, took out one in a fight and so they put a hit on him.”

  “Did they get him? The American?”

  “No. Miguel told me to track him down, but he disappeared across the border. Sometimes even druggie surfers have moments of sanity. But what pissed the hijos off even more was some journalist blogged about a long-haired hippie handing a top sicario his ass. That had the whole country splitting their sides. The narcos hate being laughed at more than anything else — so don’t beat any of them up.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be careful.”

  Miguel met us at the door. “What are your names again?”

  “Carl and Kelly.” We had no problems using our real names as the hijos on the beach had referred to Carl as Patricio, and me as … well, gringo. Or perhaps asshole. That’s when they deigned to talk to us directly.

  He took us to the pool which was packed with semi-naked bodies and basically told us to make ourselves at home.

  We ordered two Coronas, then positioned ourselves at the far end of the pool. Miguel held court on the opposite side with a group of young men, some of whom I recognized. All were swaggering drunk. They kept looking in our direction, so I guess we were under observation. I knew that Miguel’s father had instructed him to watch us, so I assumed the hijos were being given the same directive. Obviously, neither Carl nor I were comfortable with this. Any form of scrutiny was dangerous.

  We didn’t return their stares, and I was so busy trying to look nonchalant that I didn’t notice Teresa Guerra approach.

  “So you are going to be my bodyguards,” she said.

  I looked suitably surprised. “Excuse me?”

  “My father says you are going to be the family bodyguards.”

  “First I have heard of it.”

  “Oh, he was speaking Spanish. Anyway, I don’t need any gringos to take care of me.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  The party started hotting up with the music provided by a disco with speakers the size of rocket launchers turned to ear-splitting decibels. I saw several of the hijos passing pills around. On the other side of the room, some girls with even smaller bikinis than Teresa’s were cutting lines of coke. I was surprised, as I thought Mexican drug bosses strictly forbade family members or employees indulging in their deadly merchandise. However, Pancho was nowhere to be seen. Maybe that’s why the gathering was becoming increasingly debauched.

  “Does the boss come to these parties?” I asked Brett.

  “No. Nor does the eldest son, Iván, who is the heir. He’s from Pancho’s first marriage.”

  “First??”

  “Yes, he’s had five.”

  “Where does Miguel fit in?”

  “Marriage number three. But he’s the favorite son, mainly because he and Teresa are children from his most beloved wife, a Miss Mexico finalist. She’s now dead, murdered by Chapo’s Sinaloans twenty years ago. Miguel was with her when she was thrown off a bridge and narrowly escaped death himself. I guess that’s why the old man forgives his wild ways. But Miguel will never be boss, he’s too crazy. He is head of security though, so we answer to him.”

  One of the hijos walked over to us. There were traces of white residue on his nostril and eyes stretched so tight they could have popped. I didn’t recognize him, but he was staring at me.

  “Hey gringo, do you surf.”

  I shook my head.

  “You seem familiar. Some Yanqui hippies came here last year and tried to show us how to surf. One even suggested Miguel become a pro. You look like him.”

  “Not me. I’m a soldier not a hippie.”

  “You?” he pointed at Carl.

  Carl shook his head. “I’m from Brooklyn, New York. You can’t surf concrete.”

  Miguel came over. “Hermano. I hope you are not troubling our guests,” he said to the stoned hijo.

  “No. You think this one looks like Patricio, the hombre from Point Break?”

  Miguel scrunched his eyes as he studied Carl. I saw a faint flicker of doubt, maybe even recognition, and tensed. I felt naked as a baby without a weapon.

  Then Miguel laughed. “Patrick Swayze is famous. This dude is just a gunslinger.”

  We laughed with him. “Hey boss, if you could spread the word among the girls that I am the new Patrick Swayze, I would be grateful,” said Carl.

  Miguel’s laughter throttled in his throat. His droopy eyes hardened to slits of steel. “Amigo, do not go near our girls.”

  Then he smiled, “More beers my friends?”

  Carl and I accepted, but Brett declined. Teresa brought them to us.
/>   “You are causing quite a stir among the chicas. Do you want to meet some?”

  Carl took the beer with a smile. “That’s funny. Your brother just warned us not to speak to the girls.”

  Teresa arched an eyebrow. “And you will do as he says?”

  “We work for him.”

  “If you are bodyguards, you also work for me. And if I want to introduce you to my friends, I will.”

  Brett intervened. “Teresa, please do not put them in a situation. You know how angry Miguel gets.”

  Her eyes flared. “I don’t care about him. Why is everyone so scared?”

  She looked directly at Carl, and then stormed off.

  “Interesting family,” I said.

  “You have no idea. Miguel is the one you don’t cross. Teresa hates him, but she does not have a gang of heavily-armed, drug-crazed friends at her disposal. I think we better go.”

  Guerra phoned Brett as he was driving us back to the barracks to ask why we were leaving.

  “No problems, Jefe. But Miguel’s friends like to show how tough they are, and I thought we should split before it got that way.”

  Brett only spoke a sprinkling of Spanish, so all the Guerras spoke to him in English, which meant I didn’t have to translate later for Carl’s benefit.

  Brett clicked off the phone. “Tomorrow I’m going back to TJ as we have more contractors to interview. Some good ones — hopefully guys like you. However, the local campaign has also been successful, and you will be in charge of training twenty newbies. How you do it is up to you, but I want those peons to at least shoot in the right direction without hitting each other and obeying orders within a week.”

  “A week? It takes months of hard drilling just to kick a basic soldier into shape,” I said.

  “I know. But time is one thing we don’t have. Latest intel is the Sinaloans are in Tecate and could attack at any minute. So the best we can do is teach these kids how to pull a trigger and not run screaming for mama when bullets start flying. Got it?”

  “Sure,” said Carl.

  “Kelly?”

  “Sounds good, boss.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THEY WERE A sorry looking bunch, hardscrabble peasants who had been press-ganged into fighting for the CT.

  However, Brett mentioned they were getting paid fifty dollars a day, which was substantially higher than the minimum Mexican wage of five dollars. I suppose one could call that an upside. They would take home some serious money by their standards. But that was only if they survived the looming narco war, which as cannon fodder was stretching optimism to its limits.

  Each man got a new uniform consisting of a light blue set of overalls and red beret, which identified them as CT foot soldiers. They also got a pair of rip-off Adidas trainers and an AK-47.

  Carl and I divided the group into two platoons and spent the morning practicing parade drill, teaching them to march, turn and stop in unison. Well ... more or less. This obviously would not do them much good in a firefight, but we wanted them to get used to obeying commands. I told Brett I spoke some Spanish as there had been Mexican kids at the school I attended in San Diego, but deliberately kept it pidgin. Brett’s relief was palpable, as it meant he would not have to find a translator to interpret every barked order.

  That afternoon we taught them how to shoot. All professed expertise with pistolas as this was macho Mexican culture, but few did.

  Within a few days, most of the recruits could handle weapons without endangering themselves or others in the vicinity, and by the end of the week, each man could strip, reassemble and clean his rifle.

  Brett was impressed and brought Guerra to the barracks for an inspection. The men haphazardly saluted him, some dislodging their berets with the effort, then did a march past vaguely in unison as some still impersonated camels, unable to differentiate between right and left. From there, we went to the shooting range where they blasted away, most hitting at least some sections of the targets some of the time. Judging by Guerra’s reaction, this was a vast improvement on previous recruits.

  Guerra then addressed them, saying their families would be looked after in the event of fatalities, and on pay day, the men would get the day off to deliver money personally to their homes. But for security reasons, not all men would be paid on the same day.

  At the end of his speech, on my instructions in pidgin Spanish, the men hurled their berets into the air and shouted, “Viva Generalissimo Guerra! Viva!” This blew the old narco away even more than their barely competent shooting.

  But even so, we all knew these guys were basically target practise for the enemy. The cartel’s top sicarios were among the world’s most proficient assassins, and that’s where the real war would be won. Hitting the bosses. The peons were merely highly expendable foot soldiers. But Guerra grasped that under us, they at least stood more chance of doing some damage.

  After ten days, Carl and I ditched all parade ground drill and concentrated purely on weapon skills. The men learned to shoot systematically both going forward and retreating, and crucially, the difference between firing on command or at will. This may sound rudimentary, but in most press-ganged militias, the default strategy is simply to spray random lead. Then flee or pillage, depending on the fortunes of war.

  Under us, the barely-literate recruits learned discipline. We were the bosses. Our word was not only law — it was sacred. If they listened, they stood a chance of getting out alive. If they didn’t, they would die. It was that simple.

  They learned fast, and soon Carl and I were treated with almost rock star reverence. We encouraged it, as discipline would be the key difference between us and the better-equipped Sinaloans.

  Guerra arrived one morning, and once again, we put on a show for him. This time the drill was almost in time with only a single out of step camel-marcher, and targets were semi-shredded on the range. El jefe was ecstatic.

  “I want you to meet some people,” he said. “Brett will bring you to the villa this afternoon.”

  We were ushered into a boardroom, and despite the corporate-style furnishing, it was like walking onto the set of a 1960s Clint Eastwood spaghetti-western. There were ten men, seven — including Guerra — wearing ten-gallon Stetsons. Most had Zapata moustaches, but all carried either shotguns or pistols. Or both. Spaghetti-western parody or not, I have seldom seen a meaner looking bunch in my life. This was a snapshot of whatever crime family you wish to name — Mafia, Camorra, Triad, Yakuza — on steroids. The drug war was indeed right up there with terrorism.

  Seated among the hardcore were three other men in fashionably creased linen suits. They were accountants, looking like timid sheep in a lair of wolves. Looks can be deceptive. In corporate life, the sheep are often the clandestine wolves as number-crunchers determine whether a business, drug running or otherwise, lives or dies. You can kill your enemies, but the market has a life of its own.

  “Sit down, amigos,” Pancho said. Carl and I pulled out chairs, but Brett remained standing. He extracted a carefully folded piece of paper from his top pocket.

  “This is Carl, and that is Kelly,” he said, pointing at us while one of the Zapata lookalikes translated. “They are former Green Berets in the American army, and among the best. I have checked them out. They fought terrorists in Afghanistan and Syria. They have killed thousands of jihadists.”

  I looked at Carl with a faint smile. Thousands? I suppose a bit of PR hype couldn’t hurt.

  “They are training up a strike force to use against the Sinaloans. The Jefe has seen their work with his own eyes, and they are now combat-ready.”

  That was news to me. We had men who could adequately fire a gun, but perhaps that was the definition of ‘combat ready’ in cartel-speak. This no doubt accounted for the astronomically-high civilian fatalities in the conflicts.

  “Have you employed more gringo soldiers?” one man asked in thickly-accented English.

  “Yes. We have five more. They are in a safe house at Tecate, where th
e Sinaloa army is gathering at the hacienda of Enrico Guzman, El Chapo’s nephew. At the moment they are just keeping the Sinaloans under surveillance. But they have identified the leaders, and soon there will be targeted assassinations.”

  “Is it true that former Los Zetas and La Resistencia soldiers have joined the Sinaloans?” another man with twin bandoliers across his chest asked, naming two rival cartels.

  “Yes. Even with our allies in Jalisco, we are outnumbered three or four to one. But the CJNG has its own problems with Cartel La Nueva Plaza in Guadalajara, so at the moment we are on our own in Baja. But we have experienced fighters, like Carl and Kelly. The Sinaloans are just street punks.”

  I knew the CJNG stood for Cártel de Jalisco Nueva Generación. The New Generation Jalisco Cartel. The fact a separate drug war was about to break out in that city could be interesting information for the DEA.

  Another man stood. Short, wide and muscular. His high cheek bones and arrow-straight black hair indicated Native Mexican heritage.

  “Jefe, with your permission, this war must be fought to the end. Blood must be answered with blood. There must be no compromise.”

  Guerra nodded. “Your son will be avenged, Juan.”

  Ah ... so this was Santiago’s father Juan Veloza, the feared sicario and chief hitman for the CT.

  Guerra turned and faced us. “Another group of recruits are arriving tomorrow. You have a week to train them. Then we fight.”

  It was obvious we were being dismissed. Carl and I walked out with Brett.

  “You guys will be in charge of the attack,” he said. “It will be on a heavily guarded hacienda that has been turned into a fortress about ten miles this side of Tecate. From what our sources tell us, there are about sixty men inside, all armed with assault weapons. So it’s not going to be a pushover, even with the element of surprise.”

  “How many more men are we getting?”

  “Eight.”

  Hmmm ... not exactly major reinforcement. We had so far only trained — although I use the word lightly — twenty. As Brett warned, demographics were not in our favor.