Targets of Revenge

by Jeffrey Stephens

  ————

  Raabe continued to wend his way through the field, staying thirty or forty yards into the corn rows, keeping the main house in sight as he circled across the rear of the home toward the other side.

  It was a bit incongruous, it occurred to him as he picked his way through the dense plantings, that a man like Mateo would be raising corn. It was understandable that he was not going to grow marijuana or coca leaves in plain sight. On the other hand, if an operational farm was a cover for his more nefarious—and profitable—activities, Raabe wondered who the man thought he was fooling.

  He stopped for a moment, perched on one knee. There was nothing he could hear or see that indicated pursuit.

  The night was oddly quiet after the explosions of gunfire.

  Raabe stood a little higher, getting a better view of the house.

  No one appeared to be moving.

  Which was not necessarily a good sign.

  They might be waiting for reinforcements, not to mention the return of Mateo and his henchmen. Why take their chances now when their three-on-one brawl might become ten-on-one? But Raabe had two weapons and limited ammunition. Time was not on his side.

  He began moving again, running faster now, approaching the end of this field. As he came even with the far edge of the house he faced about the same fifty yards of open space he had rushed across to get to the safety of these cornstalks. Off to his right was another open area, unplanted ground with shallow furrows, nothing high enough or deep enough to cover him.

  Well, he told himself, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.

  ————

  Mateo was still with Adina when his man Rico received the call about shootings at the farm. Rico stepped forward, leaned down, and whispered into Mateo’s ear, “We need to talk. Now.”

  Mateo knew his lieutenant well enough to realize that he would not have interrupted his discussion with Rafael Cabello unless it was truly urgent. He made his apologies and followed Rico outside. The two men stood so close their cheeks nearly touched.

  “Trouble at the farm,” Rico murmured.

  “Tell me.”

  Rico related what he had heard.

  Mateo told him to arrange for reinforcements. “And don’t say anything to the others,” he ordered. “Not until we’re in the car. I’ll wrap this up as soon as I can. You stay out here and make the calls.”

  Inside, Adina was waiting patiently to ask, “Everything all right?”

  “Perfecto,” Mateo said. “Just a misunderstanding, which I have rectified.”

  “Good. Now returning to the status of my shipment. Where were we?”

  Mateo gave the appropriate assurances, did his best to seem unhurried, but soon said, “It is very late and I am anxious to attend to my guests in Reynosa.”

  “You will let me know what happens,” Adina said. It was not a question.

  Mateo resented the tone but, under the circumstances, he was in no position to argue. “Of course,” he assured him. “You will be the first to know.”

  A few minutes later, after cordial goodbyes, Mateo and his three men were back in the car, racing for home.

  ————

  Raabe ran as low and fast as he could. To his amazement, there were no shots fired as he reached the back corner of the main house. The lights remained on inside. No one was patrolling this part of the grounds. It was clear they assumed he had simply run through the corn rows in the hope of finding safety and had continued beyond the confines of this farm. They were not in pursuit. It was also clear that these men, regardless of how ruthless, were not disciplined professionals.

  Raabe stayed below the level of the windowsills as he made his way around the far side of the house. He was at the edge of the front porch, but he was not about to risk the noise he might make climbing up the three wooden steps. Instead, he checked behind him, then got on his knees and elbows, the two AK-47s secure in his hands, and crawled around to the front.

  Now he could make out their voices. It sounded like there were only two men sitting on the porch, just above him, discussing what they should do before the others arrived. It was not clear if they were talking about Mateo and his men or reinforcements, but Raabe ignored their banter. Judging as best he could, he figured they were somewhere near the middle of the deck. There was no point in risking discovery by attempting to drag himself any closer. Instead he jumped to his feet and began firing before they knew he was there.

  Raabe had been correct, there were two of them. He aimed for their chests, and neither one was able to get his weapon off his lap before Raabe strafed them with repeating shots from both rifles. Both men were driven backward off their chairs in a mangle of blood, torn flesh, and shattered bones.

  Raabe dropped back down for cover, left to wonder where the third man might be. He did not have to wait long.

  A hail of gunfire was unleashed, but they had no angle on Raabe. The shots seemed to be coming from somewhere on the main floor of the house but Raabe was protected by the front of the portico, which stood more than three feet off the ground. Raabe stayed low, leaving the floorboards to get the worst of it. Rather than retreat back around the side from where he had come, Raabe scampered forward. The firing stopped as he continued ahead, listening for any sound of the shooter.

  All had become quiet again.

  The odds were good that the shooter was repositioning himself, or possibly making a run out back to circle the house. Raabe was in no mood to wait. Having reached the far right corner of the porch, Raabe got to his knees and had a quick look.

  Nothing.

  Then the lights in the front rooms and the veranda went out. That would make it tougher for Raabe to spot his target, but his eyes had already adjusted to the dark. The other man’s had not. He decided to use that momentary edge, rushing silently up the far steps and crouching below the first window.

  The light switches had to be somewhere near the front of the home, which meant the man was going to make his move from there. Seconds later the barrel of an assault rifle appeared out the front door. Raabe remained in a motionless squat as he watched the man burst out into the open and begin firing over the side of the deck, spraying shots to his left and right. Raabe used both weapons, tearing the man to shreds. As the Mexican fell backward he kept his finger on the trigger, sending a series of shots into the air until he stumbled to the wooden floor and his weapon clattered to the ground beside him.

  According to Romero’s count, all of the men Mateo had left behind were dead, but Raabe was not taking any chances. He jumped off the porch and stooped low, waiting a long couple of minutes for another wave of attacks.

  But none came.

  Behind him were five vehicles, including a pickup truck and the two cars that had brought Bergenn and him here. He found the key for the pickup in the ignition and started it up. Then he stopped for a moment.

  He was still not sure who might still be in the house, but he had no intention of leaving anything behind.

  ————

  It did not take Raabe long to fire up the wooden structure, using shirts from two of the dead guards, gasoline from the cars, and matches he found in the truck. He grabbed some replacement magazines for the two assault rifles, then jumped in the pickup and spun to the back of the storage building. There he hoisted Bergenn and Romero in the truck’s cargo bay, then took off.

  There was no telling how soon Mateo and his men would return, or when someone else would spot the growing flames from the old house and come by. He was not even sure where he was going from here, but the first order of business was to get to a safe spot where he could plan his next move.

  He floored the accelerator, racing away from the burning building, but did not get more than a quarter mile past the front gate of the farm when he saw headlights coming directly at him. He pulled the truck off to the side of the road, killed the lights, and took both reloaded AK-47s into a ditch ten feet or so ahead of the truck.

&nbs
p; As soon as the oncoming car was within range he opened fire—this was not the time to wait and see who was at the wheel. The sedan veered off to its right and screeched to a halt. The driver then threw the passenger door open and dove to safety behind the car.

  It appeared the man was alone, but in the darkness Raabe could not be certain. Whoever was there, they were not returning fire.

  “Stand up and put your hands on your head,” Raabe hollered across the road.

  Then a familiar voice called back, “Only if you promise not to shoot me, Craig.”

  It was Sandor.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  REYNOSA, MEXICO

  SANDOR STOOD BESIDE the truck’s cargo bay, staring at the bodies of Felipe Romero and Jim Bergenn.

  “He never had a chance,” Raabe said as he began to explain what had happened since he and Bergenn arrived in Reynosa the previous morning.

  Still looking down, Sandor said, “Tell me as we go, we need to get out of here.”

  Sandor took the wheel of the truck. Raabe slumped beside him in the passenger seat and continued his account of being captured, their escape from the shed, and the shootings. When he was done he said, “Jim . . . ,” as if there were something more he wanted to add.

  “It doesn’t seem real to me.”

  “Me either, and I was there.” Raabe took a deep breath and said, “That’s a star on the wall I never wanted to see.” Then he became quiet.

  Sandor allowed the silence to fall over them as they sped down the road. Then he asked, “What’s the story with the fire?”

  Staring straight ahead, Raabe said, “It seemed the thing to do at the time.”

  Sandor nodded. “Nice touch.”

  After a few more moments Raabe said, “I almost killed you on the road back there.”

  “Not really. I was using the night binoculars,” Sandor explained. “I stopped a couple of times to try and get a look at the place before I came busting in there. I saw the fire start and then you came barreling along.”

  “How the hell could I have . . .”

  “You couldn’t. Anyway, you did the right thing, you had to figure I was one of the bad guys. I thought about stopping, getting out and trying to wave you down, but you might not have seen who it was in the dark. I didn’t want to stand there to find out if you were going to blow my head off. I kept low in the car, figured you would shoot me off the road. Best I could do.”

  Raabe nodded. “How did you find me?”

  “Tracked you to your hotel. Bartender there took a hundred bucks to tell me how you and Jim left with one of the locals, guy who works for this guy Mateo. He watched through the front window when his friends showed up and they stuffed the two of you into a couple of cars.”

  “How did you find your way here?”

  “Another hundred bought me directions to the farm. Said it was the place they were most likely to take you.”

  “He was right,” Raabe said with a slow nod. “So where are we headed now?”

  “Small airfield, about a half hour from here. We have a plane waiting.”

  “What about this guy Mateo?”

  “I’ll handle that with Byrnes. Our problem now is the leak. Only a few of us knew you were coming here. The DD, Bergenn, LaBelle, you, and me. Even Romero didn’t know anything until you arrived.”

  “Which leaves LaBelle.”

  Sandor shook his head. “I’ve known him a long time. Hard to believe, but we need to know. I’ve got a lead on the shipment, but the source is less than credible. I’ll tell you all about it on the plane.”

  “Give me the headline.”

  “Russian drug dealer in New York says this shipment is coming by container ship into Baltimore, then by truck to New York City.”

  “Why would a drug dealer tell you that?”

  “I had a gun to his head.”

  Raabe nodded. “I guess that is a story for the plane. So we’re heading to Baltimore?”

  “No, Byrnes organized a task force to follow up on that. Our problem is the leak. If there’s a hole in the pipeline we’ve got to plug it. Otherwise they’ll keep making adjustments and we’ll be chasing our own tail.”

  “So we’re going to Dallas.”

  “Yes. We’re going to Dallas.”

  ————

  A half hour later, when Mateo returned to his farm, the sun had not yet risen but the sky was alight with the bright flames of his burning house. The enormity of the blaze had already brought some curious onlookers from the neighboring areas but, since everyone knew whose property this was, none of them ventured past the front fence.

  Mateo’s driver pulled the Escalade into the parking area, a safe distance from the scattering embers and falling timber. Mateo and his three men got out, staring in disbelief at the inferno. It was too late to call for a fire truck. By the time they arrived only ashes would remain.

  Mateo, who had not spoken a word as they approached this disaster, now gave voice to every imaginable profanity. His bodyguards raised their weapons and did their best to surround him, but it soon became apparent that whatever threat may have existed was now gone.

  Having spat out the last curse, he led his men to the utility building where his prisoners had been held. They unbarred the front door and pulled it open. The shed was empty.

  “Look at this,” Mateo said, pointing to the pile of boxes and sacks his captives had used to escape.

  None of his men spoke.

  With Mateo in the lead they walked around to the side of the building where the captives had climbed out and dropped to safety. There they discovered the residue of battle—the bodies of three of his guards.

  “Mierda,” he shouted out.

  There was no sign of Pacquito or the two Americans.

  Mateo was in something of a daze as he staggered back to his car, lost in a sense of dread he had not experienced since he was a mere soldier in the organization. He understood that the real damage here was not the destruction of his farmhouse or the death of his men. Even the escape of the three hostages was not critical in and of itself. No, the problem would be the consequence he would suffer for his incompetence. Not only would the cartel itself be outraged, but there might be graver reprisals if this debacle compromised the shipment arranged for Adina.

  Overwhelmed by the realization of the peril he faced, he did not at first hear the noise as the troops approached.

  Trucks and cars were pouring through his front gate and a combat helicopter rose above the horizon. Mateo’s men, seeing that he was in some inexplicable stupor, grabbed him under the arms and began dragging him to the large SUV, but it was too late.

  Several armored trucks in the vanguard of this assault screeched to a stop, blocking the front of the property. Someone with a bullhorn announced that they were federales and ordered Mateo and his men to throw down their weapons, lift their arms in the air, and give themselves up.

  ————

  It was Deputy Director Byrnes who organized this welcoming party for Mateo.

  After Sandor debriefed Raabe on the events at the farm, he grabbed his secure cell and called DD Byrnes. Byrnes agreed that if there was ever a time when the Mexican authorities could do something about the war on drugs—other than pay it tequila-scented lip service as they looked the other way—this was it. Mateo’s traveling retinue was only three men, and he would have no way of knowing that his remaining force at the farm had been completely eliminated. His house was on fire, there would be no place for him to hide, and he was therefore vulnerable to capture.

  When Byrnes placed the appropriate calls he was initially frustrated by the usual pushback—it was the middle of the night, they would need time to mobilize, there was no telling how many men they would require since Mateo may have called in reinforcements, and so forth. Byrnes remained calm, letting the wave of bureaucratic excuses wash over him as he was passed up the chain of command until he was finally patched through to the man in charge. Then he played his trump card. Mateo h
ad just been involved in the kidnapping, torture, and murder of an American DEA operative; the kidnapping and murder of an American agent of undisclosed affiliation; and the kidnapping of yet another American agent whose fate was not being revealed, but who had survived long enough to tell the tale in graphic detail.

  “Failure to take immediate and decisive action,” Byrnes told the head of the local drug enforcement team who was now sitting up in his bed, fully awake, “is going to become a diplomatic shitstorm that’ll land squarely on your head. Are you with me on this, comandante?”

  “Yes,” the man said. “I am.”

  ————

  So, just as Raabe and Sandor took off on the Company plane for Dallas, Mateo and his men were being handcuffed by the Mexican authorities.

  In the moments before the federales arrived, Reynosa’s top drug lord had been contemplating his fate at the hands of his former associates within the Sinaloa Cartel. Not to mention what might be visited upon him by Adina’s people. They would begin with torture and end up using him for shark bait. Yet now, as he was taken into custody, there was a surprising serenity about him.

  Suddenly arrest did not seem all that distasteful.

  Mateo was pleased to be separated from his men and shoved into the back of one of the government SUVs. Looking across the yard at his three underlings, he was certain they would try to prove their machismo, preferring a long jail sentence to a betrayal of the hermandad.

  Mateo, however, had already decided on a less repulsive course of action.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  DALLAS, TEXAS

  THE MEETING WITH Dan LaBelle this morning was not going to be a friendly gathering in a swanky bar. Raabe cleaned up and changed clothes on the short flight to Dallas Love Field, the private airport outside the city. He and Sandor were met there by a local agent assigned to the Directorate of Support, and he drove them to the government building where LaBelle had his office. It was early and, after showing credentials that admitted them to the indoor parking lot, they found a guest spot and waited.

  When LaBelle pulled into his designated space and climbed out of his car, Sandor was behind him, standing against one of the concrete pillars with his arms crossed. “Hello Dan,” he said.