by Tom Clancy
“Holy shit,” Fitzpatrick said through a gasp.
“My words exactly.”
“So this really is a rescue operation.”
Moore nodded. “And now I’m not sure what to do with Torres.”
“He could be a huge problem — no pun intended,” said Fitzpatrick.
Moore gave a little snort over the joke. “Well, I guess we need him now. I’m just worried he’ll kill Sonia. He’s already said it. He thinks the boy will be demoralized. He could wind up shooting her when we make our move.”
Fitzpatrick shrugged. “We’ll just stress the point for now — unless you want him to get caught in some crossfire—”
“Or we send him on a suicide mission.”
“Yeah,” said Fitzpatrick, his eyes lighting over the idea. “We just make the fat boy think he’s a hero.”
“Great minds think alike, bro.”
Fitzpatrick nodded. “No problem. I’ve thought of offing the bastard many times, so we’ll come up with something.”
Moore stopped and stared at the marketplace partially obscured by the ruins. “Carnival starts at sundown. Gunfire, fireworks, they all sound the same — and that’s about the only bit of luck we’ve had so far.”
“I’ll take it. So if we manage to get back Miguel and the girl, what do we do with them?”
Moore laughed. “You know what? I never even asked …”
“I mean, if we’ve already got a deep-cover agent close to Rojas and the family, do we still need to hold them hostage? Maybe the original plan has gone to shit. The deep-cover team she’s working with needs to start talking to us.”
The question hung as Moore called back Towers, filled him in, and got the official orders from the Agency: Rescue Sonia Batista but in no way interfere with her mission, which Moore and Towers interpreted as letting them go.
The fat man Torres would not like that. No, he would not like that at all.
In fact, speak of the devil, Torres was calling Moore. “What?” Moore asked.
“Another car just pulled up. They got one of Corrales’s guys. They’re bringing him into the house now.”
“Which guy is it?” Moore asked. “Raúl or Pablo?”
“I think it’s Raúl.”
“You sure they only got one?”
“Positive.”
“I’ll be right up.”
Miguel winced at the laundry line they’d used to bind his hands behind his back. Still more of that coarse, weather-beaten twine had been used to bind his legs, and they’d forced him to sit on the old wooden floor in a corner near the back window. Sonia, who’d been bound as well, was sitting on the floor opposite him, leaning forward, staring blankly into space.
There were six of them altogether, and none would answer any of his questions. Both he and Sonia had stopped talking about ten minutes prior, and they listened as the tallest of the group, a man with a gray crew cut and narrow eyes who the others addressed as Captain Salou, spoke in murmurs on his cell phone, both his accent and his fast speech making it very difficult to discern anything.
The depression had already made breathing difficult and had knotted Miguel’s stomach. He had failed his girlfriend and his father, and had disgraced the memory of his dear mother. He had allowed himself to be used as a pawn, and it was quite clear that if these men did not get what they wanted, he and Sonia would be murdered. The only thing they could pray for now was a quick death.
But judging from the salacious looks on their faces, these men would have none of that. Sonia was dinner.
How the hell had this happened? Because his father had hired a bunch of dolts as security men. Then should he blame his father for this? Perhaps Fernando had hired these men. Maybe he was to blame. His incompetence had led to this …
Sonia glanced up at him, her eyes creased in pain.
“Don’t worry,” he said, barely able to speak, his mouth gone dry. “My father will deal with these dogs. He will deal with them swiftly.”
She looked at him, then over at the window, then back toward the small wooden table and chairs, where two men sat, drinking bottles of Coca-Cola. A third man came into the room, carrying several olive-drab backpacks with patches depicting a blazing sword. He dropped the backpacks to the floor and said, “Everyone wears a radio now. Captain’s orders.”
The front door opened, and three more men shuffled into the room. Miguel’s eyes widened on one of Corrales’s stooges, Raúl, who’d also managed to get himself caught. He’d already been tied and gagged, and Salou turned to them and asked, “He is your employee?”
“Yes,” answered Miguel. “My bodyguard. He did a very good job, didn’t he …”
Salou and the others broke into laughter, and then, as Raúl was shoved into the living room, Salou’s expression grew serious. “All we want is our money.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you?”
Salou glanced back at the others, as though looking for some approval. He crinkled his thin nose, as though he didn’t like the stench coming from Raúl, then said, “We are soldiers of justice. And we want you and your lovely companion to understand that. We want you to know that we are men of our word. And we will show you.”
Two men shoved Raúl onto the floor, facedown, between Miguel and Sonia. One man sat on top of Raúl, another pinned his legs to the floor, while a third grabbed Raúl’s head by the hair.
Miguel craned his neck as one of the men from the table disappeared into the kitchen, only to return with a long hatchet.
“No, wait a second, we don’t have to do this,” said Miguel. “My father’s got money. You want money? We’ll give it to you. There’s no need for any of this!”
Salou accepted the hatchet and tested the edge with his thumb.
“We believe you,” said Sonia. “We believe you’ll kill us. You don’t have to show us. We know.”
“This isn’t just for you,” said Salou. “It’s for all the men who’ve deceived us and used us.” He glanced over his shoulder at another of his men, who’d drawn a small HD video camera from one of the backpacks, its LED recording light flashing steadily.
Raúl began screaming against his gag and writhing left and right to free himself. But it was no good. The three men held him to the floor as Salou came around them and began taking practice swings with the hatchet.
“Don’t look,” Sonia said. “Just don’t look.”
Miguel closed his eyes, but then he couldn’t bear that any longer, and the moment he opened them, Salou brought down the ax in one great arc.
Aw, fuck, they killed him,” said Torres, lowering his binoculars.
Moore grabbed the binoculars and watched through the window as the hatchet man, who appeared to be the leader and oldest guy, reached down and lifted up something. That’s when Moore realized what it was, and he recoiled.
A fellow agent was a hatchet stroke away from death, and he and these two guys were all that stood in the way. The weight of that responsibility felt suffocating and familiar, and he didn’t want to believe that history was repeating itself, but it was, and it would again, because the universe had a very dark sense of humor, and he always bore the brunt.
He closed his eyes and listened to the disembodied voices in his head:
“Zodiac’s on the way! Thirty seconds. Getting two right away. Mako One, we need you up top, now!”
“On my way. Mako Two, let’s roll!”
“Negative, negative. Still can’t get to Six.”
“Mako One, this is Raptor. I am taking fire. Can’t hold this bird for much longer. Get your people out of the water and off the platform NOW.”
Another voice now, female, soft, calm: “But you understand that what happened cannot be changed, no matter how many times you remember it? You understand that your memory will not change the outcome. You can’t reimagine what happened.”
“I know.”
“But this is what’s happening. You’re playing it over and over again because deep down you still believe
you can change something. But you can’t.”
“No one gets left behind.”
“Do you know who’s been left behind? You. The world’s passing you by because you can’t come to terms with this. So you’re living in Purgatory, and you think that you’re not allowed to be happy because of what happened.”
“How can I be happy? How can I enjoy this life? You’re the shrink. You have all the answers. Tell me how I’m supposed to be fucking happy after what I did! After what I fucking did!”
Moore opened his eyes as Torres tugged the binoculars out of his hands and once more stared down through the window. “I see some military backpacks inside. This is much worse than I thought.”
After a deep breath, Moore gritted his teeth. “We’re getting that kid and his girlfriend out of there. We’re not going to lose them.”
“They got seven guys so far. Just saw two more leave. Who knows how many back at San Cristóbal.”
Moore considered that. “I saw them grab Corrales. He might be already dead, since they didn’t bring him here.”
“Maybe he got away. He’s a slippery little fucker.”
Moore rose and walked away from Torres. He called Towers, told him to keep eyes in the sky on the town for Corrales and Pablo. Then he told Towers about the execution and the military backpacks.
“Well, there you have it. Avenging Vultures double-crossing the Juárez Cartel, and we’re caught in the middle.”
“Listen, I need a lot from you, and I need it fast,” said Moore.
“Talk to me.”
“Looks like they’re going to start communicating by radio. I need a tap in and a translated feed back to me.”
“Not easy.”
“No shit.”
“What else?”
“Can we tap Rojas’s communications?”
“Deep-cover team says they’ve been trying to do that for months, but he’s got electronic countermeasures and hackers who do nothing but sweep for leaks, so our guys have had no luck.”
“What about Corrales’s phones?”
“If we picked up anything good from him, I would’ve come with that a long time ago. Truth is we’ve intercepted his calls from the start, but he’s very good about who he calls and what he says …He knows we’re listening.”
“Well, see if you can confirm now if he’s still alive. And Pablo as well.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Moore said and grunted. “A SEAL team would be nice.”
“I’ll give them a call.”
Moore thumbed off the phone and returned to Torres’s side. “What’s happening now?”
“It was gross, dude. They wiped blood all over the girl’s face.”
“But they didn’t hurt her.”
“Not yet.”
“How many we got?”
“Six or seven. Looks like four guys posted outside. They got a fifth guy sitting in the van down the street. Not sure how many else inside.”
“All right, Luis. If we’re going to make this happen, I need you to take on the toughest job of all.”
“Look at me,” said Torres, his voice filling with bravado. “You think those little pussies scare me?”
Moore grinned. “All right. Listen up.”
26 ATTEMPTS
La Estancia Apartments
Juárez, Mexico
Gloria Vega had learned from Towers that the Sinaloas were not responsible for the murder of Johnny Sanchez and his girlfriend. Towers had confirmed via Moore, who was now in southeast Mexico, that members of that Guatemalan death squad, the Avenging Vultures, had killed the journalist.
When Vega had mentioned that she thought the Guatemalans might be responsible for the murder, Inspector Gómez had dismissed her with a flagrant wave. “Johnny was reporting on the cartels, and he paid the price. The Sinaloas did this. There is nothing more to it.”
But the old man’s face had grown pale, and he’d given her a long, troubled look before telling her he was going home and that she should do the same.
After the riot outside the station, Vega had told Gómez that she would trust him, that she was afraid that everyone around her was corrupt, and that all she wanted to do was the right thing.
“What if the right thing is to look the other way?” he’d asked her. “What if you realize that nothing we do will change anything and that sometimes we must fight fire with fire?”
She’d just stared at him.
He’d grabbed her hands. “You’ve seen what I’ve seen. And now you know what I know.” And then he did something that shocked her. He released her hands and gave her a deep hug. When he was through, he pulled back with tears in his eyes. “I am sorry that you’ve come to see the truth of this. It is a bitter truth, but we must accept it.”
She put the key in her apartment door, but something wasn’t right. The key did not slide into the lock as smoothly as it usually did. This was something that the average person might dismiss as an annoying inconvenience, but Vega was keenly aware of her surroundings, especially now, in Juárez, and missing even the slightest detail could result in death. She took a deep breath and wondered if someone had tried to pick the lock.
Drawing her weapon, she opened the door and stepped inside.
A shuffle of feet, and then—
He came at her from behind, a male voice coming in a deep groan as he tried to get the wire around her throat, but her hand was already there, coming up reflexively before the wire could touch her throat. It sliced into her palm as she swung around, dragging him with her.
The foyer was still dark, and she couldn’t turn back to see him, could only bring her arm around her side and fire once, twice, until the wire went slack and she screamed and rushed forward to whirl back and fire again.
A shaft of light came in from the living room window, and she saw him, barely her height, dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt, a balaclava over his face. He lay there with gunshot wounds in his chest.
Despite her heavy breathing, the stench of gunpowder, and the saliva filling her mouth, she still detected movement from the bedroom. A second one? There it was: a window latch thrown, something trying to get out.
“Don’t move!” she screamed, and rushed into the bedroom, in time to see another man dressed similarly to the first trying to slip away through the window. He’d been the backup man but had chickened out, and Vega was so pumped with adrenaline and so fearful that he’d turn back with a weapon that she emptied the rest of her magazine into the punk, who fell back into the bedroom. Reflexively, she ejected the magazine, jammed in a fresh one, then chambered a round, all in a matter of seconds.
She rushed to the light switch, threw it on, then swept the rest of the apartment, the walk-in closet, the bathroom. Clear. They’d sent two punks, thinking it’d be an easy job to off one lady cop. She stood there, just breathing.
And then she cursed. Because in that moment as she tried to regain her breath, she began to cry.
She reached for her cell phone, dialed Towers. “I want off this fucking case. I want out of here. Right now.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down. Talk to me.”
She hung up on him, waited another moment, then dialed the police. I’m not a quitter, she told herself. No matter what comes out of my mouth.
She made the report as a knock came at her front door, probably the landlord or a concerned neighbor.
Her phone rang: Towers calling back. She answered, “Two punks just jumped me in my apartment. I killed them both.”
“Then we’ll pull you out of there.”
“No.”
“But you just said—”
“I know what I said. I’m going to finish this. I’ll arrest Gómez myself.”
“All right, just hang in there. I’ll have some sensors put in place in the apartment. This won’t happen again.”
“I don’t know about that. Gómez sent these bastards to kill me. He knows …”
“You need to hang tight for now, because w
hen we bring him down, the rest will follow. Big bust, just like in Puerto Rico, but we can’t rush into it, not yet …”
“Just hope I live long enough,” she spat. “Now, I have to go. They’re banging on my door, and a couple of units are on the way …”
San Cristóbal de las Casas
Chiapas, Mexico
The image of his father, backlit by the burning hotel, still haunted Dante Corrales as he lay there in the bed, his shoulder heavily bandaged, his left arm in a sling. He dialed the number and listened to the unanswered ring. There was no voice mail, only the endless buzzing.
“He still doesn’t pick up?” Pablo asked, sitting on a chair near the doors leading out to the veranda.
“What if they’re trying to call Miguel? What if they already know something’s wrong?”
“If you call Castillo and you tell him the truth, you know what he’s going to say …”
“He’ll expect me to run. They’ll hunt me down and kill me. I can’t do that.”
“Dante, why are you so scared? I’ve never seen you this way. Come on. We can beat this.”
“Why am I scared? Do you have any fucking idea what’ll happen now?”
“No.”
He swore in his head, then aloud. “Shit. I should’ve just paid that scumbag Salou, but he’s a sloppy bastard, and he’s lucky he got the down payment at all.”
“Do you have the money?”
Corrales shook his head. “Long gone.”
“You didn’t think they’d come after you for the rest?”
Corrales almost smiled. “I knew they would, but I figured by then I’d have a few extra bucks from the shipments. But we got screwed there, too …”
Corrales’s phone rang — a number he didn’t recognize. “Hello?”
“Corrales, my friend, I noticed you’ve been trying to call me. I’m so happy we finally have your attention.”
He stiffened. It was Salou, and the bastard was practically singing with bravado. “Be careful what you say,” Corrales told him. “A word to the wise.”
“I’m disappointed.”
“I know. Let me make it up to you.”
“Three times my original estimate.”