by Marc Rainer
Copyright © 2014 Marc Rainer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1495322335
ISBN 13: 9781495322334
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014901739
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
CONTENTS
Author’s Preface
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Epilogue
Other Books By Marc Rainer
Acknowledgements
About the Author
I have long maintained that the use of a term such as "police action" to describe a war is ill-conceived, and that the use of the term "war" to describe law enforcement operations is similarly misleading. After 28 years in the military and 30 years as a prosecutor, I have seen firsthand the confusion that such carelessly crafted labels cause with respect to both warfare and criminal justice.
We do not seek to bring national enemies "to justice;" we seek to kill them or cause them to unconditionally surrender. Such is the true nature of war. We do not fight "wars" on drugs or on crime, because there is no hope of ever winning such a conflict. These "wars" are usually fictions created by politicians for re-election purposes. Crime is an unfortunate certainty of the human condition, since there will always be a percentage of the population willing to engage in criminal activity. We have never won—nor will we ever win—a "war on burglary" or a "war on theft," for example. We continue to react to such crimes because we are a civilized people, but we know these problems will always be with us. To think we will win a "war on drugs" is therefore naive, but it does not necessarily follow that we should, as a nation, give up that fight. The costs of surrender would be astronomical, even when compared to the cost of the "war."
There is, however, an exception to these distinctions. When a nation's armed forces are actually outnumbered by its criminal elements and armed thugs, and when it is actually fighting for its national survival, then a police action and a war in the traditional sense can merge and become one. Such was the case in Colombia when the nation battled the Medellin and Cali cartels. Fortunately, the law-abiding forces and citizenry ultimately rose up in that country to conquer their national demons.
In today's Mexico, an even more serious conflict is underway. With a body count on the North American mainland second only to the United States' Civil War, the very viability of Mexico as a nation—and the corresponding well-being of America's border states—is being threatened by an actual war with criminals.
I have attempted to make this a contemporary, yet historical novel, incorporating many actual events into the narrative. Many of the scenes set in Mexico and fictionally portrayed in this novel are based in part upon actual events. Even the Texas Highway Patrol's gunboats described in the book are very real. Any reader who doubts the scope of the violence referenced in this novel is invited to plug the word "Zetas"—or the phrases "San Fernando Massacre" or "Cardereyta Jiménez"—into his or her favorite search engine, and become educated. The words taken from the signs posted by the cartels claiming credit for their gory handiwork are quoted. If anything, the violence described in this book is purposefully understated.
Some of the villains in the novel, such as Chapo Guzmán of the Sinaloa or Federation Cartel, and Heriberto Lazcano of the Zetas, are—or were—all too real. Others, such as Ramón and Vicente Dominguez, are fictional composites but are based upon real figures. Our heroes, Aguilar and Trask, are also fictional composites of good men I have known and studied. As always, I salute those on both sides of the border who are fighting the good fight. This book is dedicated to those heroes who continue to perform their duties with integrity, and to those who have already fallen; in short, to all those who protect and serve, regardless of the uniforms they wear.
The jury would be out for a while deliberating. Trask elbowed his way through the crowded hallway, trying to reach the sanctuary of the office space reserved for trial preparation by the United States Attorney. The courthouse was packed with interested spectators, attorneys, and security personnel, and there was the usual crush of reporters clamoring for a statement.
"You folks know that you're supposed to contact our public affairs officer," he said, shoving at least three microphones out of his face with a single sweep of his hand.
"C'mon, Jeff, you know that if the jury comes back with the death penalty, it will be the first capital sentence in this town in decades. Give me a quote."
Trask stopped and looked at the reporter from The Post. He thought about saying something, but thought better of it. I should just shove on past, get to the prep tank. He looked at the man, half-smiled, and shook his head.
"You just asked those people to kill a man, Trask. You can't actually believe that's something civilized people should do. You can't believe that's justice."
Trask froze in his tracks, and turned to face the reporter.
"Now you're questioning my ethics and my own motives and beliefs, Rafferty, so I'll answer you. That defendant in there got his due process of law, more than he was ever actually entitled to. Don't you dare imply that I asked for the death penalty just to put some kind of notch on my gun. I don't need one. Capital punishment should always be the last resort, used only when we are certain as a society that it's appropriate. I'd never ask for it if I didn't think it was justified."
"So you're that sure? You're willing to let your own judgment play judge, jury and executioner?"
Trask stared hard, burning fires into the reporter's eyes with his own. "Rafferty, I couldn't say this to the jury. It would have been the truth, but not allowed under the law. There are times when the law is an ass, and some of those times the rules still have to be followed. But you're not a juror, and we're not in that room anymore, so make no mistake about it. If the jury comes back with a death verdict, and after all the appeals run out," he lowered his voice to a measured growl, "once they strap that monster to the gurney in a death
chamber, if they ask me to push the plungers, I'll jump at the chance, and never think twice about it afterward. He actually deserves a lot worse. I'm only sorry that we're too civilized to give it to him."
Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico
December 16,2009
Captain Luis Aguilar looked down at the bullet-riddled body lying on the floor of the luxury apartment. Not so high and mighty now, are you? Aguilar thought. The Captain saw a sergeant approaching him. "What's the count, Gonzalez?"
"Five dead, counting their jefe there, Capitán. We got four of them. One shot himself as we were coming in the balcony door. We found about $40,000 in US cash, several thousand in Canadian money, and five assault rifles. Not quite as big a haul as in Ahuatepec. Except for Arturo there, of course."
"Exactly." Aguilar nodded in agreement. Five days ago we just missed him. Another luxury home here in the "Beverly Hills of Mexico." Another party thrown by this scumbag, with the finest food and drink, twenty whores, and everything else dirty money could buy for entertainment. Three cartel gunmen dead, eleven arrested, but no Arturo. Two-hundred and eighty thousand in US currency, sixteen assault rifles, but no Arturo. Now that has changed. This operation is a complete success, at least for the moment. Arturo Beltrán-Leyva is dead, his cartel on the run.
"How about our men? Casualties?" Aguilar asked.
"Just a couple wounded on my squad, Capitán. When we rappelled from the choppers, they started throwing fragmentation grenades at us—about twenty or so."
Another NCO walked in from the front of the room, his helmet in hand.
"I have one dead, sir."
"Who was it?"
"Angulo, sir."
"Thank you. I'll notify his family." My most hated duty. My most necessary duty; one I owe to all of my fallen heroes. "Where is he?"
"Just outside the door, Capitán. He was on point, and they were waiting for us."
Aguilar stepped into the hallway, bending down next to the body. Angulo's hand still held his weapon. A crimson hole in his neck told the story of his final moment. Aguilar held the young man's hand for a moment, still warm to the touch. He looked up at the sergeant.
"Guard him well until we can honor his life."
Mexico City, Distrito Federal, Mexico
December 21, 2009
The hearse carrying the body of fallen marine Melquisedet Angulo Córdova rolled past, flanked by a dozen hatless marines in uniform.
Brave young men. Aguilar shook his head proudly before snapping to attention and saluting the procession. They refuse to hide their heads or faces as a tribute to their fallen friend. I am more proud of them than I have ever been, but I wonder if this is wise. The cartel spies are everywhere, taking photos, taking names.
The funeral proceeded with full military honors. After the casket had been lowered, Aguilar ordered his driver to return him to the hotel, his temporary quarters for the now completed mission. He did not eat well. The image of the young marine's casket stuck in his mind. He showered and tried to sleep, finally drifting off well after midnight.
He had only been asleep for an hour when the phone rang.
"Yes?"
"I am sorry to disturb you, Capitán, but we have very bad news and I knew you would want to be advised," the corporal said. "What is it?"
"The cartel has retaliated. Angulo's home in Tabasco was hit. His mother and three others are dead."
Aguilar's face froze in anger. The cowards hit the helpless. My young hero's family is allowed to mourn him for less than a day before being murdered themselves. Aguilar was awake now.
"Who found them?"
"Some of our men had gone to pay their respects to the family, sir."
"Any information from the scene?"
"Just a 'Z' painted in the victims' blood on a wall."
"Thank you."
Aguilar returned the phone to its cradle. The Zetas. Intelligence had reported that they were aligning themselves with Beltrán-Leyva. We have replaced one enemy with a stronger one.
Washington, D.C.
January 20, 2010, 11:49 a.m.
He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, the usual signal that he was leaving her again. Their "early lunch" was over.
Another vote on the hill, or something else of critical importance. She pretended to be asleep, not wanting to say what she was thinking. There was no point in it at the moment, and she actually wanted him to hurry and go, if he was going.
She opened her eyes just a slit. There it is, she thought, seeing the usual flick of the gray hair about his temples as he checked himself in the hallway mirror before opening the door.
She counted to a hundred. He's in the parking garage by now, ducking under his hat so that his face won't be seen on the security cameras. God forbid he should ever have to acknowledge even knowing me outside the dinner parties. I wonder how he'd act if we ever ended up at the same table again.
She tossed the sheets aside and slid across the bed. She walked across the white marble tiles to the same mirror where he'd checked his hair. She stood in front of it, naked. Her body was good, young and firm. Not bad. Good enough to keep him coming back to me. My hair's a wreck, though. The hell with it; I'll fool with it when I wake up again.
She opened her purse and took out the small nylon bag. The pill bottle with the powder came first, then the spoon, the lighter, and the syringe. It was so good last time, I'll add just a little more. She heated the powder in the spoon and drew the hot liquid back into the needle, smiling in anticipation as she did so. The needle went in between her toes.
She lay back as the first warm waves washed through her veins, moaning in pleasure. She giggled. I think I made that same sound about an hour ago. She walked to a window and stood there still naked, looking out at the river, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but the warmth in her blood. She smiled and took in a deep breath, then returned to her bed and drifted off to sleep—a very deep slumber this time—so deep that she never felt her breathing becoming shallower by the minute, or her lips turning blue from the lack of oxygen.
9:49 p.m.
He was surprised when she didn't meet him at the door to the apartment. He was already irritated. The votes on the Hill hadn't gone his way, and now she was playing games on top of everything else he'd been through. He saw that the bedroom door was ajar, and headed for it.
"Janie, where the hell are you? I left a message on your cell—"
He stopped frozen in the doorway. She was lying on the bed, motionless. He saw the syringe on the nightstand.
"Oh, Jesus, no. NO!"
He checked her neck for a pulse. There was none, and she felt cold. He stood up and waited for a moment, staring at her, trying to will her diaphragm to move, waiting in vain for evidence of a breath taken in or exhaled.
Think, don't panic.
He grabbed the syringe and threw it into the trash can under the sink in the kitchen. It took him nearly an hour to wipe down the place, trying to remove every fingerprint he might have left there in the course of more than a month of trysts. It was almost midnight when he started to leave, but he stopped near the door.
The phone!
He found the purse lying on the floor on the far side of the bed. The cell phone was inside it. He breathed a sigh of relief and stuck it into the side pocket of his jacket as he headed for the door. When the elevator opened into the parking garage, he grabbed his hat and pulled it low over his forehead as he walked to his car.
Instead of heading toward Georgetown and his own condo, he drove west, toward Arlington. As he crossed the bridge he pressed the button and lowered the passenger side window. The cell phone sailed over the guard-rail, falling into the dark waters of the Potomac.
Washington, D.C.
The Dome Racquet Club
January 22, 2010
Joseph Adipietro put his feet up on his desk and thumbed through the morning edition of The Washington Post. As he reached the obituaries he scowled and his feet fell off the corner of his desk w
ith a thud. He stood and pulled a step stool to a corner, directly under the small surveillance camera that was always trained on the center of the office. He pulled the DVD from the back of the camera and replaced it with another, then took the disc he had just removed and put it in his briefcase.
Washington, D.C.
January 23, 2010
Jeffrey Ethan Trask glanced at his name on the plastic strips resting in the brackets on the wall outside his office. Below his name were the words, Senior Litigation Counsel. He gave a slight shake of his head as he unlocked the door.
There were dozens of other prosecutors working in the Office of the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia who were senior in age or years of service to Trask. No one, however, was senior in terms of trial experience. After he'd graduated from the Air Force Academy, the brass had sent him to law school and assigned him to the JAG Corps. He had tried more than two hundred criminal cases in his years as a traveling circuit prosecutor for the Air Force. Trask had made the leap to the Justice Department after serving his commitment time, and soon made a name for himself in the District. In his last two major cases, he had worked with a team of federal and local investigators to bring down a major Jamaican cocaine ring and had also dismantled a very violent chapter of the MS-13, a notorious Salvadoran street gang. The United States Attorney, Ross Eastman, had accordingly rewarded him with a promotion to the office's position of lead trial attorney.
The promotion had come with a couple of other benefits of some considerable value to Trask. The first was a prized parking space in the basement of the building, a major perk since monthly parking for those who drove to work cost well over a hundred dollars.
The second was the support of Eastman in Trask's application—now approved—to carry a firearm to and from the building for self-defense. The United States Marshals Service had initially balked at the request, but after Trask's former supervisor, Robert Lassiter, had been gunned down in the course of the Jamaican case, and after Trask and his wife had been attacked in their own home by the Salvadorans, the red tape had come down. Trask had to carry the same service weapon used by the deputy marshals, a standard-size Glock, but he was also allowed to wear a back-up. His choice was a Sig Sauer P239 compact 9mm, which he concealed in a leg holster. He was not allowed to carry the guns into his office, however. Both weapons had, according to regulation, been secured in a lock box in the lobby, along with the weapons stored there by all the cops and agents visiting the building.