by Brad Taylor
He made his decision, pulling the journalist with him to the car and circling around to the exit for the rental lot. When the three men appeared in a yellow Toyota, he waited. Soon enough, he saw Carlos drive up in a dented, beat-up American sedan like he was accustomed to using in Juárez. He let them get a few cars away before beginning to follow, knowing the traffic would keep them from eluding him.
After winding through Zona Rosa they pulled over at Chapultepec park and exited, walking toward the lake that fronted Paseo de la Reforma Avenue. The sicario parked as well, pulling out the directional microphone and saying, “Do as I say and you may yet live through the day.”
When the journalist didn’t respond, he said, “Do the right thing. Follow me.”
The park itself was very large, with paths intertwining throughout and food vendors hawking their products, giving the sicario plenty of options to approach without being seen. He passed the lake without finding his quarry and looped around a strip of food vendors, searching the tables. He came up empty. He was preparing to go deeper into the park, away from the lake, when the journalist said, “There. At the paddleboats, on the bench. Are those the guys you were following?”
The sicario looked at him curiously and the journalist said, “Please remember that when we talk to the leader again.”
They settled onto a bench screened by a row of shrubs and the sicario placed the headphones on his ears as if he were listening to music. The microphone looked like a black tube with a pistol grip on the bottom, connected to a small box with two dials. He laid it alongside his leg and angled it toward his target.
He fiddled with the gain on the box for a second, then adjusted the volume. Satisfied, he began to listen, turning on the digital recorder.
Within seconds, he knew he had made the right choice.
32
I was driving as fast as I could in the traffic, weaving in and out, trying to get a handle on our target. And a handle on our authority.
Jennifer was on the phone, talking to our pilots, getting them to feed the number the father had sent into the embedded collection capability hidden in the aircraft, and Knuckles was working the trace of the cell phone for the cop.
I jerked the wheel to swerve around a jackass who had decided to stop in the middle of the street, causing Jennifer to slap her hand against the door and me to start cursing. The only good thing about the dumb-ass drivers in the Federal District was the fact that I couldn’t do anything bad enough to get pulled over, because everyone here treated all traffic rules as advice only. Lanes, red lights, whatever, it was only a guide and not something to be followed if you didn’t feel like it.
I heard Jennifer talking to the pilots and wanted to snatch the phone away from her. “Yes, that’s the number. We need you to suck that thing in. . . . No, it’s not a blanket. We aren’t trying to prevent it from talking. We need to draw in an SMS text. . . . No, we’re not conducting unauthorized surveillance. It’s sending a code. We need the code. What do you mean you don’t have the capability? I know you have it. . . .”
I finally had heard enough. I snatched the phone. “Hello? Who the hell is this?”
“Jim Beam.”
Dumb-ass pilot call sign. “Jim, did you hear what was just said? Do you have an issue with it? Because I’m on a road that leads to the airport and I could be there just as quickly as I could execute this mission.”
“Hey, I heard everything she said, but I can’t start affecting the cell network in a foreign country just because you guys called. I need authorization. We diverted to Mexico for transport only.”
“This is my mission, and I’m Pike Logan. I say again, Pike Logan. I’m authorizing the operation. Do you understand?”
“Uhh . . . no . . .”
What the hell? Another new guy?
I saw Jennifer roll her eyes and wave her hand for the phone back, but that insult was too much to let go. I took a breath and said, “Okay. Well, clearly, you haven’t heard about me. But we did meet, right? You remember what I look like?”
I heard him talking to someone next to him, then, “Uhh . . . yeah. Brown crew cut, scar on your face? You had the hot chick with you, right?”
Now I really wanted to throw the phone. “Yes. That’s me. I was running Taskforce collection operations before you got your pilot’s license. Now put that number into the collection device and turn it on with the largest gain you can. We’re trying to get an SMS text that is out of range of the nearest tower.”
I heard nothing for a moment, then, “The package in the plane isn’t authorized for Grolier Recovery Services. All you are authorized for is transport. I need someone from headquarters to release.”
Jesus Christ. The Taskforce actually separated the individual capabilities of the aircraft? I should have known, because I’d seen it a hundred different times in other scenarios where I was authorized but others weren’t. This was a first for me, though. As a civilian, I wasn’t supposed to be read on to what was in the aircraft, but I was, and now I needed it and I had no time to work through the bureaucracy.
A car appeared out of nowhere, playing NASCAR and causing me to slap my hands on the steering wheel, swerving around him. I put the phone on speaker so I could use both hands to drive and tossed it onto the seat. Jennifer locked eyes with me and put a finger to her lips. She said, “Just got authorization from Kurt Hale. Code four-seven-four-Alpha-Zulu. Authenticate.”
The pilot said, “Code what? What the hell are you talking about?”
She said, “I just gave you the authorization! Come on. Authenticate or find another job.”
“I can’t authenticate . . . I . . . I have no idea how to authenticate.”
“When did you leave CONUS? Did you get the new procedures?”
“We haven’t been home since we left for Turkmenistan. What procedures?”
“Well, welcome to the new world. Get in the air, or start calling Southwest Airlines for employment.”
The pilot muttered something unintelligible, then spoke to someone beside him. Seconds later, he came back on and finally agreed. Jennifer said, “Fly south. The target is in the south. Suck up every signal you can get, and lock that number.”
She hung up and I said, “What the hell was that?”
“You were getting nowhere with the macho crap. You guys change operational procedures every five seconds, so I figured I’d give him what he wanted. Authorization.”
Weaving through the traffic, I shook my head at how easily she had manipulated the system and said, “Get Knuckles on the phone. Leave it on speaker.” When he came on I said, “You got ’im?”
“Yeah. He’s continuing east, toward Zona Rosa. When he gets there, he’s going to be near a ton of embassies and government buildings.”
“We need to stop him before then.”
I heard nothing for a moment, then, “Pike, you sure about this? He’s a Mexican federal agent. We take him down and we’re wrong, this will be a world of hurt. We have no cover for action here whatsoever.”
Jennifer rolled her hand into the grip above the SUV window and looked at me, knowing what he said was true, but also knowing that her brother’s fate hung in the balance. I had the Oversight Council’s authority to continue, but that was predicated on my judgment. And I wasn’t sure that my judgment here was correct.
Every bit of evidence said this guy was doing exactly what he was supposed to do: finding the textile tycoon’s son as a kidnapping investigator. He was a uniformed member of the Mexican Federal Police and had a reason for having the son’s name and face in his house. If I captured him and was wrong, there would be no way to control the repercussions. Everything pointed to his being what he said.
Except for a single phone call from a member of the Sinaloa cartel. And if he was crooked, he was now informing them of our only edge. Informing them of the technological link that would lead to
Jennifer’s brother.
I glanced at Jennifer for support, wanting something more than my instinct to make the call, and got nothing. She knew the same things I did, and I could tell she didn’t want the decision. She wanted her brother.
I said, “Yeah. Get me a grid. Box him in. We’re taking him down.”
33
Booth’s hand hovered over the “complete transaction” button, reluctant to push it and confirm his reservation. Wondering if taking POLARIS to Mexico City was such a hot idea after all, especially after his last conversation with Carlos.
The man had thrown away all pretenses of being a Mexican version of Anonymous, going so far as to pay for the trip down, as if he didn’t care what Booth thought about him. He appeared to only want the protocol. Or maybe Booth himself.
It had been over two years since he’d dug up the corrupt officials working with Los Zetas on behalf of Anonymous, but he knew their memories were long, and their taste for vengeance was legendary. It was nearly impossible to determine the playing field at any given time in Mexico, and Booth now wondered if he was putting too much faith in the hatred Sinaloa had for Los Zetas. Maybe they were allied now. Or maybe, like the hacktivist groups Booth worked with, they were so fragmented that Carlos was working both sides of the fence, taking POLARIS for Sinaloa and selling Booth to Los Zetas.
The investigative work he’d done on behalf of Carlos hadn’t helped his attitude any. Grolier Recovery Services had smoke all around it. On the one hand, it had found a temple in Guatemala that had actually made some press, meaning the discovery had been real. On the other, it had done little since. A trip to Syria on behalf of a university that went nowhere because the country was in a state of turmoil, a trip to Egypt that looked more like a tourist agenda than anything a professional archeological company would conduct, and most recently, a trip to Turkmenistan where the employees did little, if anything.
Digging in deeper, exploring the linkages any company has in the digital age, he’d found a hefty amount of obfuscation and security. The company ISPs redirected off mirrors, making it hard to determine exactly where the host was, and they employed encryption protocols that were something he would expect out of Apple protecting the next-generation iPhone, not a firm doing routine business. Especially a firm of this size. Some of the ISPs crossed paths with other, interesting ones coming out of Washington, DC.
On top of all of that, the company supposedly had over ten employees, but he could find tax records for only two: a Nephilim Logan and Jennifer Cahill. The rest were ghosts, on the books officially but with little else to show for the trouble. A token payment here, an issued credit card there, but nowhere near what should have existed.
The final kicker was a Gulfstream IV aircraft leased to the company. He worked for Boeing, the world’s largest aerospace company, and outside of a handful in the upper echelons, nobody flew around on private jets. How on earth did this company manage to pay for the thing? And why would they?
On the whole, the company stank, and Carlos had brought them into the equation. He didn’t care if it was some DEA front out to destroy whatever Carlos was into, but he wondered greatly if he would be pulled into the net. Wondered how much of Carlos’s blood would splatter on him if an action occurred while he was down in Mexico. No way did he want to end up like Bradley Manning, chained to a bunk at Quantico on suicide watch, or Edward Snowden, running from country to country. And what he was doing would be considered exponentially worse than giving diplomatic cables to WikiLeaks or a top secret slide show to the press.
But at least Manning and Snowden had done something. Created some good in the world at the risk of their well-being. Created transparency in a government that was cloaked in darkness, the worst being the so-called drone program working to keep the fat cats on Wall Street in business. There was no telling how many people were being targeted right this minute, all enriching the oil barons. If he could, he would crack open that vault of information and let it fly free, much like Manning and Snowden had done, and cause the light of day to expose the rot hidden in the darkness. But he couldn’t. Unlike them, he had no access to official databases. No means to expose the destruction being wrought at the hands of his own government. All he had was the ability to stop it, and that was worth the risk.
He punched the transaction button, getting an immediate e-mail back with his flight itinerary. He checked to make sure it was correct, seeing the American Airlines flight would leave in two days, with one stop in Dallas before going on to Mexico City. Two days to figure out what Grolier Recovery Services is really all about. Not enough time to figure it out alone.
He logged on to a message board and began recruiting.
34
Waiting on a miracle from our aircraft, I had Jennifer vector me in on the unmarked police car. Luckily for us, the cop hadn’t taken a high-speed avenue of approach from the Gomez residence, but had traveled east up a street called Presidente Masaryk, which appeared to be rich man’s land, with high-end car dealers and jewelry stores lacing the boulevard. It was a four-lane road separated in the middle by a little island of foliage and trees, which meant you weren’t going to assault coming from the wrong way. Not unless you were driving a bulldozer.
Blood, in my only singleton vehicle, was to the north, staged and waiting on instructions. Knuckles and Decoy had circled around and were driving west, coming the wrong way, unfortunately, but that was okay. I didn’t think an assault on this road was terribly smart anyway, given the high-end stores and outward security. I’d already seen two separate black Suburban convoys, traveling security for some rich guy or gal, so my preference would have been for our target to leave this section of the city.
Two things worked against that, though. One, if he kept going east, he would run into the area around Zona Rosa, which I knew contained multiple embassies—along with the Mexican version of the FBI—making the security impossible for an assault, and two, the longer I let him drive around, the longer he had to give his GPS locator information to the cartel.
I didn’t know if he’d phone it in or if he’d just wait, figuring if it hadn’t worked yet it was no threat, but I didn’t like his having the information and running free.
Jennifer said, “He’s one block up. Right in front of the traffic circle.”
I relayed to Knuckles, having him hold up short with eyes on the circle to see which way he went. My traffic began to flow, and I asked for lock-on.
“Same location. He hasn’t moved.”
“Okay, break-break. Blood, come down south. Hit the traffic circle and head west. Give me a visual.”
“Roger all.”
We pulled over and waited, giving me one vehicle short and one long on the road, with the target in between. I was always a stickler for human eyes versus technology because I’d been burned in the past when relying solely on some magic device. In this case, I didn’t know if the target was truly stationary or if he’d dropped his phone in the trash.
Two minutes later, Blood said, “Okay, I have eyes on. He’s out of the vehicle and at some sort of cantina next to a pizza shop. He’s inside, and he’s talking to a bartender. The bartender doesn’t look happy.”
“What are the atmospherics?”
“It’s mostly just outdoor tables. Inside it has a few more seats and a long piece of lumber in the back for the people wanting some booze. Your kind of place. He’s at the bar with a guy polishing glasses on the other side. Nobody outside, and from what I can see, nobody inside. I don’t think they’re open for business yet.”
My mind was running through the potential opportunity when Blood came back on, his voice slightly elevated. “Cop just pulled his gun. The bartender’s got his hands in the air.”
What the hell? More Keyser Söze shit. “Is he arresting the bartender?”
“Not from what I can see. The bartender is now at the cash register.”
And
it became clear. He’s shaking the guy down for cash. Extorting money out of him. Which confirmed he was crooked. I put the car in drive and Jennifer said, “What are we doing? What’s the plan?”
I ran through the options and keyed my radio. “Blood, hold what you got and stand by. Knuckles, close through the circle and get eyes on. Wait until you see my car. I’m going to block his in. We’ll then enter together. Get him on the ground, and we’ll get out.”
“You want to take him in the cantina? Really?”
“Yes, really. Go in hard shouting ‘policía,’ and get him in our car. It’ll be out front. He’s shaking that guy down for cash, and it’ll look like we rescued him. Blood, you copy?”
“Ahh . . . Roger.”
“You’re our blocker. Anything comes in behind, they’re yours. Decoy, you take the front as lead element on exfil. We’re headed south. Any questions?”
Knuckles said, “Yeah, do you have the number for an attorney in Mexico?”
I said, “I’m sure Mr. Gomez will provide one if we get his kid back.”
I pulled in behind the cop’s unmarked car in front of the cantina, seeing him through an open door at the bar. His weapon now holstered, he was stuffing something into his pants. To Jennifer, I said, “You got the wheel. Get this thing ready to run. Coordinate with Decoy for a route out toward Paseo de la Reforma.”
She looked at me, surprised at how quickly this had erupted, but she nodded. I exited and saw Knuckles to my left, coming down the sidewalk from the pizzeria, a Glock held low by his leg. We paused out of sight of the front door. He nodded, telling me he was ready, and I peeked around the corner. I saw the cop holding his pistol in a two-handed grip, aiming it across the bar.
Shit. Not what I wanted. Now it’s hostage rescue.
I said, “Gun out, gun out,” and entered quickly. I went left, covering the cop, leaving the bartender for Knuckles behind me. I put my front sight post on the cop’s chest, shouting, “Policía, policía!”