Against All Enemies mm-1

by Tom Clancy

  As they neared the terminal, they were forced to take cover behind some drainage pipes to watch as three young sicarios left the warehouse’s main door and climbed into an SUV. Romero recognized one of them as the kid El Jefe. Good boy. He didn’t realize it yet, but he’d just saved his own life by following instructions.

  When both groups were in position, Romero opened the access panels with his key and tugged down the main breaker, which thumped, and a few of the parking-lot lights went dark. Simultaneously, Samad gave the orders to take out the men inside the trailer. Then he regarded Romero. “Let’s go.”

  Romero led the Arabs inside via the light from their cell phones, then paused before the maintenance room and looked back at the group. “Wait here.”

  “Why?” asked Samad.

  “Because I need to get the remote.”

  “For what?”

  “To switch off the battery backups for the cameras and the recorders; otherwise they’ll monitor the downloads and see that we’ve been through here.”

  “Very good,” said Samad. “But I come with you.”

  Romero shrugged. “Okay.”

  He took the man inside the room and led him past the heavy pumps they’d been using to remove water from the tunnel and toward the bank of lockers. Meanwhile, Samad’s phone rang, and he spoke quickly to his men, then announced, “Very good. The men in the trailer are gone. No phone calls were placed.”

  Romero used a key from his heavy ring to open the locker, then reached up and snatched the wireless detonator before Samad could get a close look at it. The detonator was about the size of a walkie-talkie, with a small rubber antenna. Very simple, old-school, and effective. He pretended to push several buttons, then shoved the remote in his pocket. He fetched a pair of flashlights from the locker, took one, handed the other to Samad. “Okay, we can go through now. I hope you will keep your promise. When you are on the other side, you will call Felipe and tell him to release my family.”

  Samad grinned. “Of course.”

  The rest of the Arabs arrived, and Romero led them down the staircase, the plywood creaking and covered in dirt. Samad was just behind him, a pistol in hand. They walked about five hundred feet, made the first two ninety-degree turns — a hard left followed by a hard right — and then, far ahead, a tiny light woke in the distance. As the light grew brighter, a silhouette appeared behind it. The figure was coming straight at them.

  “Stop. Who is that?” Samad demanded, halting the entire group.

  “I don’t know,” said Romero. “The tunnel was supposed to be clear. Could be one of the mules.” He lifted his voice. “Who’s that?”

  “Uh, sorry, yeah, it’s me, Rueben! I think the cops are outside. I had to come back down here.”

  Romero hustled forward and reached the kid. “Are you sure about the police?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why are you trembling?”

  Rueben lifted his cell phone, the light playing over the men behind Romero. They were dark-skinned and bearded, but they were definitely not Mexicans. One man in the back barked something to the others behind him. That was not Spanish, and Rueben had killed enough “digital” terrorists in video games to believe these guys were Middle Eastern, maybe even terrorists themselves.

  “Yalla, let’s go,” the man in the back said.

  Now, Rueben knew that word, yalla. That was Arabic.

  With a deep sigh, Romero bit his lip, then turned back to Samad. “He’s one of the cartel’s mules. He got scared, thought he saw something outside. Maybe the police, but he’s not sure …”

  “I don’t think he saw the police,” said Samad, sounding oddly confident about that. “Let me have a word with him.”

  Romero shifted aside and let Samad squeeze by.

  In one moment Samad was speaking softly to the boy, the words almost inaudible, and in the next moment Rueben was flailing at Samad’s face and neck as the man slipped behind him and plunged a blade into the boy’s chest. Rueben fell to the dirt, his face twisted in agony, blood spurting from his chest as he then coughed and reached up to clutch the wound.

  “He was just a boy!” cried Romero.

  “And you’re just a man who will join him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rueben said and gasped. “I didn’t want to do anything wrong. I don’t want to die. Don’t leave me here. Oh my God …Oh my God …” He began to sob.

  Romero couldn’t help himself. He kneeled beside the young man and took his hand. “Lord Jesus, take him into your bosom and protect him from all evil.”

  “Let’s move,” said Samad through his teeth as he handed the boy’s cell phone to one of his men. “Pedro, you lead the way.” He pushed back past Romero, then drove his pistol into the nape of Romero’s neck.

  Swallowing deeply, Romero released Rueben’s hand, then rose and stepped over the dying boy to forge on, his eyes burning. He’d told the kid to get out. He’d tried.

  They reached the little sanctuary, where Samad shook his head at the flickering candles and crucifixes and pictures of the families of the mules and diggers.

  Romero stole another look back over his shoulder. Samad and his Arabs were monsters, and Romero knew now that the time had come. He stopped and dug into his pocket for the detonator. And then he held his breath.

  As Rueben lay there on his side, bleeding to death, something shimmered in the dirt near his hand. He thought it might be an angel, come to life from the dirt to rise up and save him. He reached out toward the tiny sparkle and trapped it between his fingers. It was too dark to see the object clearly, but it felt like a pendant, with smooth curves and a large eyelet. He remembered feeling a chain snap between his fingers as he’d fought against the Arab’s grip. He tucked the pendant deep into his palm, closed his eyes, and asked God to save him.

  En Route to Border Tunnel House

  Calexico, California

  The cartel truck was about five or six cars ahead, and Moore estimated they were about twenty minutes away from the house. Towers had just called to say they’d lost contact with Ansara’s mule. The kid might be dead. Towers had five spotters watching the house from all angles, and thus far they’d reported the exit of a mule team but had not seen the boy. The Mexican Federal Police were supposed to have more spotters watching the warehouse in Mexicali, but thus far they had failed to answer any of Towers’s calls, their cooperation suddenly becoming nonexistent. Towers had several civilian spotters in the area who’d reported the arrival of several cars and more men who looked like mules, and that it appeared the construction site had lost power. Unfortunately, the civilians’ observation posts were not close enough to positively identify any of the mules.

  Nevertheless, another group was definitely moving through the tunnel, and Moore assumed they were additional mules come to help transport the weapons.

  Ansara was visibly moved by the news, gritting his teeth and swearing under his breath. “I didn’t think it’d come to this,” he eventually said, his voice cracking. “I was hoping to clean him up, set him back on the straight and narrow. He showed a lot of promise.”

  “We don’t know what happened yet.”

  “He must’ve choked.”

  “He wasn’t wired, was he?”

  “Just his Bluetooth. Nothing they can detect there. He might’ve panicked, said something. I don’t know yet. Towers was on another call when it happened.”

  “Just clear your head, buddy, all right?” Moore asked. “It’s going to get hot real soon.”

  Border Tunnel Site

  Mexicali, Mexico

  “I want you to call Felipe right now and tell him you’re safely across. Tell him to release my family.”

  Romero began to hyperventilate, and he fought to keep his hands from trembling. His thumb rested gently on the detonator’s main button, and a small status light glowed green. The red light would illuminate the moment he pushed the button. And about two seconds later, vengeance would be his.

  “Pedro, what are you
doing?” asked Samad, his gaze focusing on the detonator.

  “I’m saving my family.”

  “And you think this is the way?”

  “I know it’s the way.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Did you think the cartel would build a tunnel like this without a way to destroy it? They don’t want their enemies taking advantage of all their hard work. Let me show you.” Romero shifted over to the wall and removed one of the acoustical panels to reveal several bricks of C-4 explosives. “There are fourteen charges. I supervised their installation myself. They will detonate in succession, sealing the entire tunnel. If we’re not killed in the blast, then we’ll be buried alive and suffocate before we’re rescued.”

  Samad’s eyes widened. “You want to die? You’re ready to meet your God?”

  Romero steeled his voice. “I’m ready — but I know you’re not; that’s why you will release my family.”

  “I thought you would be much wiser than this. You’re a smart man, an engineer.”

  “Call Felipe.”

  “I would have released all of you anyway — did you know that?”

  Romero held up the detonator. “I’m ready to do this.”

  Samad sighed deeply. “You should have trusted us. All we wanted was safe passage into the United States.” He lowered his pistol and slipped his cell phone from his pocket. He dialed a number. “Hello, Felipe? Yes, hold on. I want you to talk to Señor Romero and tell him you are releasing his family. Let him talk to them if he’d like …”

  Samad proffered the phone, and Romero carefully accepted it. “Felipe, please, release my family.”

  “Okay, señor. Okay. Those are my orders.”

  Romero took a few breaths, then heard his wife’s voice, and his shoulders shrank in relief. He kept the phone to his ear.

  Samad pointed to the detonator and gestured for Romero to hand it over.

  Romero looked at him. “What are you going to do when you get to the United States?”

  Samad began to chuckle. “We’re going to eat cheeseburgers and french fries.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t let you go.”

  “Do you think Felipe is the only one I’ve left back at the house? Again, you have to consider the complexity of what I’m doing. Now stop wasting my time. Give it to me.”

  Romero thought for a few seconds more, then complied. Samad found the power switch, slid it off, then pocketed the detonator and gestured for them to continue. Romero stayed on the phone with Felipe and heard the voices of his daughters as well. They were all right but crying, begging him to come back home.

  His wife got on the line. “Pedro? Are you there?”

  “I’ll be home soon. Let me speak to Felipe.” Once the man was on the other end, Romero told him, “You leave my house now. You get out — and take anyone else with you.”

  “If it is okay with Samad.”

  “It’s okay,” said Romero, raising his voice. “Leave now!”

  “All right.”

  Samad raised a pistol to Romero’s head. “My phone.”

  Romero returned the phone and walked on.

  They reached the end of the tunnel, and Romero mounted the ladder and emerged inside the master-bedroom closet. There, he shifted back and waited as the Arabs rose, one by one, into the bedroom.

  Romero was about to tell Samad he was leaving when a hand suddenly wrapped around his mouth and a low voice came in his ear, “Shhh shhh shhh …”

  He didn’t realize a knife was being driven into his heart until it was already too late: A quick punch and the needling hot pain came quickly, radiating out from his chest.

  “Shhh shhh shhh …”

  He was lowered to the ground and released. He stared up at the dark ceiling until Samad leaned over him. “You’ve done Allah’s work, and you will be rewarded for it. Allahu Akbar!”

  Romero closed his eyes. He did not want the last thing he saw in this world to be the face of a monster. He imagined his beautiful wife and daughters, knew that his ailing child would receive all she needed, that there was enough money and that he had provided a better life for them. He cried inwardly over having to leave them and over the pain his death would cause. They were strong women and would continue to fight in this life, as he had. Now he would build himself a new house, engineered using beams of light in the Kingdom of Heaven. And from there, he would wait for them.

  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.

  33 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 continua
lly 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.