“There’s a water tower half a mile away, and we’ve already got a two man team in position, dressed as maintenance workers. They’ve positioned remote cameras with zoom lenses on the tank and are about done. We’ll be able to keep the target under surveillance all day. If anything looks like it contradicts the informant’s testimony, which was highly detailed, by the way, right down to an accurate description of the building locations and their functions…we’ll hold off. But for now let’s assume that this is a go. I need everyone to calculate how much time we’ll need to mobilize the required resources. Let’s plan another meeting today at three, and have your recommendations and requirements for me then. I’ve already put out feelers to the marines and army, and they can be ready to go on six hours notice…but of course they would prefer twenty-four if possible.”
“Are we in any hurry?” Ricardo asked.
“The snitch’s absence will be noted. He was taken in yesterday, so the clock is ticking. A guy disappears for a day, that’s not the end of the world. Two, people start worrying. If we can do this tonight, we’ll stand the best chance,” Cruz finished.
“Tonight? That’s not much time.”
“Agreed, but sometimes you have to play the cards you’re dealt, and that’s what we have.” Cruz looked at his watch. “Let’s regroup at three. That gives you five hours to study the satellite imagery and the feed from the site, which is now live in media room three. I’d encourage everyone to go there and take a look at what we have. I’ll see everyone this afternoon.”
Cruz stood and left the officers in hushed discussions among themselves. They preferred carefully-planned assaults with days, if not weeks, of planning. The one positive was that the factory was only thirteen miles from headquarters, so they could put their best men on point.
One thing was for sure. The rest of the day wouldn’t be boring. Cruz mentally noted that the judge still hadn’t returned his call and then banished the thought in favor of the crisis at hand.
Chapter 9
Serafiel’s massive bow sliced through the pristine waters thirty miles south-east of the Leeward Antilles island of Curaçao, moving at a steady twenty-two knots. Flying fish sailed above the surface, their fins keeping them aloft as they piloted a parallel course to the super-yacht. The sun’s early-afternoon rays made the large ship seem to glow, the white of its gleaming hull and superstructure dazzling against the turquoise sea.
At just under three hundred feet, Serafiel was the largest of Don Aranas’ three boats, which he rotated bi-annually, preferring to sell them in favor of newer acquisitions – an epically wasteful approach, but his multi-billion dollar annual personal take from the Sinaloa cartel’s operations made it pocket change. Serafiel’s annual maintenance and operations budget was thirty-seven million dollars, including staff of eighteen and sufficient fuel to power her round the world three times. She lacked for nothing, sporting a full complement of jet skis and tenders, a thirty-eight foot express fishing boat for shallow water exploration, a six-person helicopter, and guest quarters featuring eight lavish staterooms finished in the finest exotic woods – burled walnut, zebra, Honduran mahogany, and teak polished to a mirror finish.
The Don had been aboard for a day and a half, having flown into Caracas, Venezuela, on a chartered Citation X. He liked Venezuela because customs was never a problem, plus, he was treated like visiting royalty by the local honchos. In a world that held constant menace for him, it was a relief to retreat to safe havens where he could let his hair down.
At the far end of the massive salon, he was sitting at a handmade dining table that comfortably seated sixteen, surrounded by his most trusted captains – five men who ran his vast drug trafficking network, who had flown in late the previous evening.
This was the inner circle of the Sinaloa cartel, and all had been with Aranas from the time he’d taken over from the founder, who had created the original cartel scheme in the Eighties by carving up the country into territories, each controlled by its de-centralized local group. The structure had been modeled after the Italian Mafia, where families had specific regions, and each cell had its own management structure. That approach had made it almost impossible to eradicate the mafia in the U.S., resulting in a perfect structure for the Mexican cartels.
The Tijuana cartel ran northern Baja and the lucrative border traffic into California and Arizona; the Sinaloa cartel ran southern Baja and much of mainland’s Pacific coast; Los Zetas cartel controlled the eastern seaboard and much of the Texas border, and so on.
As originally conceived, it was a good plan but it quickly devolved into rivalries and then bloody wars over profits and territories. By the early Nineties, the problems were evident when brutal skirmishes escalated into a dangerously normal occurrence as the regional warlords vied for supremacy. When the Mexican government launched its anti-cartel agenda in 2000, it poured fuel on the flames, and what had been a relatively orderly drug smuggling business erupted into a full-scale armed conflict, with cartels battling one another, as well as the police and the armed forces. Twelve years later, for all the hyperbole about prevailing against the criminal syndicates, the cartels were richer than ever, with more narcotics moving north to the U.S. than at any other point in history.
The decade of conflict had caused its share of problems for Aranas, a veteran and extremely shrewd businessman. Since the new administration had come into power, his cartel had been singled out for persecution – a direct violation of the agreement he’d struck with the president when he was still only a candidate on the campaign trail with an uncertain future.
The deal had been simple. Aranas would exert his considerable influence to make the man a star and get him elected, and provide whatever funding was required to achieve that end. In return, Sinaloa would continue to be largely ignored by the government, which would instead focus on his rivals.
It had been the same deal that had withstood the test of time with the last two presidents, so it was a complete surprise to Aranas when, once their candidate was elected, Sinaloa began experiencing escalating problems with law enforcement. Shipments were intercepted, normally pliant police wouldn’t return phone calls, and the army seemed to have singled out Aranas’ operations for particularly unwelcome scrutiny. Perhaps worst of all, his pipeline to the president was abruptly cut off, and his sources within the administration had whispered that several other cartels had cut a different deal, which included the same sort of leniency for their operations, along with a push to eradicate Sinaloa. Since then, Aranas had lost a significant portion of his territory, mainly to Los Zetas cartel – the most brutal group in Mexico.
Los Zetas had started as the armed enforcement arm of the Gulf cartel, when a group of forty GAFE special forces commandos deserted and formed a private army for that cartel leader’s protection. Over time, the armed division had grown increasingly powerful, eventually dwarfing the Gulf cartel and ultimately competing with it for prized trafficking routes. The pet army had outgrown its master, and the rift was a bloody and deciding one. Los Zetas’ vastly superior combat training, coupled with a scorched earth savagery shocking by even cartel standards, had quickly overwhelmed the Gulf cartel resistance, effectively gutting that organization’s power.
Los Zetas cartel was now Aranas’ number one problem in life. It was taking his most valuable territories, attacking his strongholds and butchering his personnel, and worst of all, had somehow struck an arrangement with the president that guaranteed Sinaloa would be ground into dust over time using the full weight of the nation’s armed forces and police, while Los Zetas celebrated and enjoyed a kind of immunity.
That couldn’t stand.
One of the bevy of Russian prostitutes that Aranas’ group favored opened the sliding door from the rear deck to see if her services were needed, but Aranas waved her off. She spun in her fluorescent pink G-string, ensuring the men got a full view of what they were being offered, and then sashayed back to her colleagues, who were drinking champagne in the outdo
or twelve-person hot tub.
Paolo, the man who ran operations in Culiacán and Mazatlán, said, “This was a bold move, Jefe. I don’t see how the president can ignore his promises to you now. But aren’t you concerned about retribution? That he’ll throw everything he has at us?”
“You mean like he hasn’t since taking office? Come on. He’s already got the army, navy and Federales breathing down our necks. I think we’ve seen the worst he can do, so how would we even notice if he increased the pressure? No, we’ve been forced into this predicament by his treachery. I’m hopeful that now we have leverage, he decides to honor our agreement.” Don Aranas sipped a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice fortified with a splash of Veuve Clicquot champagne. “I can’t see how he wouldn’t. I’m being extremely reasonable.”
Paolo nodded. “No question. It’s interesting that there’s no media coverage of the girl’s abduction. The government has managed to keep it quiet, just as you believed they would. They can’t be seen as vulnerable, unable to protect even their own children. If any hint of the story got out it would destroy the president’s administration, and he’s just gotten started. I think it’s safe to say that you’ve called this perfectly,” he agreed.
“That was predictable. As was the attack on the ranch. A good diversion, my friend, and well played. I didn’t think they’d be so stupid and obvious, but it’s a measure of their desperation…” Don Aranas shrugged. It was unfolding exactly as he’d assured them it would.
He gazed through the salon windows at the ocean around them, enjoying the steady motion of the ship’s progress. There was nothing to compare with being on a boat for relaxation, he’d found.
“What does our timing look like? What’s next?” Rodrigo, the head of the Pacific corridor trafficking route, asked.
“I’ll be giving the president instructions within the next twenty-four hours. A list of Los Zetas strongholds we know about. I want to see the army take them out, and then I’ll believe that our errant lamb has found his way back to the path of the righteous. I’ll give him a week to execute, and if he stalls, or if there’s no action, I’ll start sending him pieces of the girl in a box. That will get his attention. And if he’s willing to sacrifice her so he can keep his backstabbing deal with Los Zetas, then my trump card is to alert the media about the entire scheme – his agreement, my support in getting him elected, the kidnapping, and his allowing his daughter to be butchered in favor of a double-cross that’s all about money.” Aranas paused, savoring the idea. “They’ll run him out of the country on a rail, and the government will have no choice but to be more equitable in which cartels it goes after. We’ll still take hits, but so will everyone else, and it will be a return to business as usual. Then we can focus on crushing Los Zetas once the dust settles.”
“No matter how it plays out, we win,” Paolo echoed.
“Exactly. And more importantly, this will be the beginning of the end for Los Zetas. They’ve become too brazen for their own good, and they forget who the Godfather handed the reins to originally. They didn’t even exist back then. It will be very satisfying to teach them to respect their elders…” Aranas smiled at the thought. “Gentlemen, the reason I asked you to join me for the day is to ensure we have our strategy mapped out, as well as to have a little fun. We’ll put in at Curaçao, have a party, and then you can return to business tomorrow. I’ll get the helicopter to take you to the Caracas airport by noon, so you can be back in Mexico in time for cocktails.”
Rodrigo raised his mimosa and toasted their patriarch. “I’ll drink to that. To the Don!”
The men hoisted their glasses aloft, a sense of triumph lingering in the salon. The head of the Sinaloa cartel had done it again.
It was only a matter of time until they were back on top and navigating tranquil waters.
~
“What have we learned, people? What’s the plan?” Cruz scanned the faces of his subordinates before settling his eyes on Briones.
“There’s obviously something going on at the site besides manufacturing cleaning products. The one building at the far edge of the property does indeed look suspicious. We’ve spotted a few men coming and going in SUVs, but that’s hardly conclusive. At best, it confirms that it’s not just a storage building or equipment repair hub. But I’d be hard pressed to go on the record saying that it’s a meth lab. We just don’t have enough data,” Briones reported.
“I don’t see any way around a frontal assault. We’ve studied the layout, and there’s no other solution. If we had a few more days…” Ricardo cautioned.
Cruz shook his head. “I’ve talked with General Obregon, and he’s preparing a support group as we speak, to go in tonight. We’ll have armored backup, two platoons of soldiers, a company of fifty GAFE commandos and as many Federales as we require. The soldiers will be responsible for surrounding the facility. The GAFE will work with our strike force during the actual assault. Ricardo, how many men do you think we’ll need?” Cruz asked.
Ricardo considered the question carefully. The GAFE, Grupo Aeromovil de Fuerzas Especial de Alta Mando, was the most experienced and lethal special forces group in the Mexican armed forces. Specially trained in counter-terrorism and urban assault, the GAFE was the equivalent of the U.S. Delta Force crossed with the SEALS. A rarified group of less than a hundred men, the commandos were rumored to have a license to kill without question – the legendary ‘white card’. If they were going to be part of the assault it was being taken extremely seriously at the highest level of the government.
“If the informant is right, and there are at least twenty Los Zetas soldiers there, I’d say fifty Federales, along with the GAFE group, should be sufficient. I’d want to pound the building with the armored division before trying to go in, though. No point in risking men if we’re moving on them frontally. But I want to go on record saying I’m uncomfortable, based on the surveillance feed from the water tower so far. I question whether there’s solid enough evidence to warrant a full blown incursion,” Ricardo concluded.
Cruz frowned and nodded. “Noted. But the decision has been made. I ran it up the chain of command, and everyone agrees that we need to move quickly. We’ve interrogated the informant for hours and his story hangs together. He’s got no reason to feed us lies – he knows it will go far harder on him if the information is spurious. It’s been made clear in unmistakable terms.” Cruz pointed at the white board with a diagram of the target on it. “Consider this an active operation. I want to hit at eleven tonight. Round up the necessary manpower and get me a list of whatever hardware and vehicles we’ll need. I think we plan to ram through the front gates if the security crew doesn’t open up on the first demand, blow the iron gates on the target area, then rush the building, assuming there’s no defensive fire. If anyone starts shooting at us, we let them have it with both barrels from the armored units until there’s no further resistance. Then our men move in. I’ll leave you with Lieutenant Briones to sort out the logistics. But plan on mobilizing in,” Cruz glanced at his watch, “six and a half hours. Refer any questions directly to me.”
The meeting continued once Cruz had left the room, anxious to coordinate the armed forces support. It would be a long remainder of the day – these types of operations demanded at least two more lengthy meetings with the general and his staff, as well as the other armed forces heads. Cruz went to the restroom and rinsed off his face with cool water, trying to rally some adrenaline for the marathon to come. If he was lucky, it would be over by one a.m. and he could be in bed by four. That was assuming no complications.
And there were inevitably complications.
He moved to his office and called Dinah with the bad news. It looked like it would be another all-nighter. She was understanding, but concerned. He assured her that he wasn’t going to be in the firefight, instead running the operation from a safe distance. That mollified her, but Dinah’s parting words were still tense, her tone uneasy.
His personal life attended to, he
punched up the number for the general on his computer. He peered at the digits and nodded.
It was time to go to war.
Chapter 10
El Rey sat patiently waiting for Hector and his nameless helpers to arrive with the weapons. He’d carefully packed the newly-acquired clothes in a duffel they’d provided and had busied himself poring over the files on the kidnapping, the demand call to the president, and all the intelligence on the suspected whereabouts of key Sinaloa cartel figures.
There were hundreds of pages, but in the end, not much of value. And the clock was ticking. By his estimation, he had four and a half days left before he hit the point where he would require the booster shot, and he hadn’t walked out the door yet. Why it was taking so long to gather the materials he needed likely had something to do with securing them in an untraceable manner. His urgent demands for results that morning had been met with assurances that he’d have everything by five, including a plane and anything else he needed. He suspected that the passport had also presented a more substantial hurdle than they’d been prepared for.
Rather than fighting with Hector over the timing, he preferred to use his time productively, but his patience was wearing thin. Nobody knew where Aranas was, and he’d have to work fast to find someone who might actually know where the girl was being held. That would be a tightly guarded secret – there weren’t many the Don would trust with the information – which meant that El Rey’s first priority was to locate one of the inner circle, which was populated by some of the most hunted fugitives in Mexico. Even with his contacts and expertise it would be a tall order on short notice.
He hated rush jobs. They ran against every principle he held dear. Being in a hurry resulted in cutting corners and failing to take the time to accurately evaluate risks, which in turn led to botched operations. As the afternoon faded and his watch read five o’clock, his brow furrowed. The government idiots were burning time he didn’t have.
Return of the Assassin (Assassin Series 3) Page 8