by Marc Rainer
"The whole country is exposed, Torres. I won't hide anymore. If we retreat to the shadows, the civilians will never find the courage to oppose these thugs. What is your report?"
"It looks like a firefight over the last twenty-four hours between Los Zetas and Guzman's men. We've counted thirty-one dead, mostly cartel gunmen, but a couple of bystanders. About forty more in the hospitals with wounds. We've arrested a hundred and ninety-six."
"A good number," Aguilar nodded. "It would have been better if we'd arrived sooner, but I called for the helicopters as soon as my friend inside the Zetas alerted me. Let's hope that some of those we've arrested stay behind bars this time. Any sign of Lazcano?"
"No, Major."
"Keep looking. I feel his eyes on us. He is priority one."
"Some of the civilians have been taking the guns from the dead, Major. Do you want us to disarm them?"
"No. Just make sure they are actually civilians, not cartel men."
"They might join the cartels, or try to sell them the guns, sir."
"Quite correct. Or they might try to defend themselves, Torres. If they can't do that, who will? We've disarmed the police, and we don't have enough men to be everywhere at once."
"What if they form vigilante groups?"
"Even better, as long as they oppose the cartels. You can call them vigilantes if you want. If they start taking care of themselves again, I'll celebrate their courage."
South of Nuevo Laredo
Tamaulipas, Mexico
May 28, 2011, 11:42 a.m.
"A toast, my friends, to our returning hero!" Heriberto Lazcano stood at the head of the table in the dining room of his hacienda. Twenty of his lieutenants stood with him. "Tell us your story, Ramón!"
"Gracias, Lazca." Dominguez bowed slightly, remaining standing while the others took a cue from Lazcano and sat down to await the report. "As you all know, last week El Lazca—Z3—had the foresight to set some traps for the Federation swine who attempted to retake Nuevo Laredo. They failed miserably, but since they had the stupidity to attempt to attack us in our most important plaza, El Lazca brilliantly decided that it was time for us to strike these cowards on their own turf.
"I was sent to Nayarit—just one state south of Sinaloa itself—on the shores of the Pacific. With a number of our men, I struck the Sinaloa Federation where they never expected to be struck. We ambushed one of their convoys outside a town called Ruiz. They never knew what hit them. We killed thirty of those pigs, and returned home yesterday without a single wound!"
The applause and cheers took almost an entire minute to die down.
"Now tell them about our plan for the Americans," Lazcano commanded.
Dominguez nodded. "For years our politicians and the Americans have plotted against us. The Americans released guns which went to El Chapo and his men—at least until we killed them and took the guns for ourselves." He waited for the laughter to stop. "Our own government, like Guzmán and his pussies, fear us more than any other force, so they arrange backdoor deals with the Americans, and we suspect the Americans of striking deals with Guzmán. We killed one of the American agents recently when he tried to travel our roads. Unfortunately, some of our men have paid a price for that attack.
"The Americans demanded arrests after the death of their cop, and Calderón and his puppets gave them our man 'El Toto' in return. El Lazca then directed me to respond, and to hit the Americans themselves. We have prepared a surprise for them, and I have asked my little brother to make sure we have some movies to watch when that surprise unfolds."
The table erupted again with cheers and applause.
"We should not have to wait very long for our entertainment."
Washington, D.C.
June 10, 2011, 12:50 p.m.
"Now that just beat the hell out of FOP food," Dixon Carter said. "Didn't it, Tim? Of course, the scenery might suffer by comparison."
Wisniewski shrugged and nodded, leaning back away from the table.
"Jeff and I found this place a couple of years back," Lynn said. "I know it's way across town, but it's a good change of pace, and it's Friday."
"That it is," Trask agreed. "Georgetown's nice this time of year, and you can't beat the French for food. This place smells so good, I could do another plate, but my belt and my wallet won't stretch that far."
"I'm just glad I had the Escalade today," Doroz said. "It's the only G-car we could all fit in."
"How'd you come by that ride?" Trask asked. "Not normal government issue."
"A doper's car, of course, seized and forfeited to the government for facilitation of drug trafficking. It may have been the last heroin case we had before this one. Instead of giving it to the marshals to auction, we put it in service. It's a good undercover ride when we have to pretend to be high-rollers."
"Maybe we'll get some more good forfeitures out of this case when it's all done," Lynn said. "We've got to be part of the only government department that actually pays its own way."
"By billions to the good," Trask agreed. "I think DOJ as a whole raked in about eleven billion from the bad guys last year—mostly dope money and property bought with dope money—and the department's operating allowance was only two billion. But when it comes time for the new budget—if Congress ever does its job and passes one—we'll probably get cut again."
"They ought to be looking at the border when they do the next budget," Doroz said. He was looking at a priority message on his smart phone.
"What's up, Bear?" Wisniewski asked.
"A big sweep down in Texas. Some of our Bureau folks just helped arrest a hundred and twenty-seven of our own customs and border patrol agents for cooperating with the Mexican cartels."
"No punishment's too heavy for that," Trask said. "They're lucky they got arrested on this side of the border. On the other side, they'd be looked at not just as crooked cops, but as traitors, and for good reason. There are lots of folks dying down there."
"For now, it's just our junkies biting the dust," Carter nodded. "Some bright side of things, huh?"
A ring tone signaled that Doroz' phone was going off again.
"This is Doroz." A pause. "You're kidding. Where are you now?" Pause. "I'll call Hurst and the surveillance squad. We had to pick today to all ride to lunch together." Pause. "Yeah, but we're in Georgetown. We can sit on him for a minute or two while you guys back off." Pause. "Right. We'll see you in five."
Doroz put the phone back in his shirt pocket. "That was Sam McInnis. Our truck's back in town, stopped at a convenience store about five blocks from here. Sam and Randi are on it now. We'll scramble over there and keep eyes on things while they go change duds and cars, and I'll have the surveillance guys get ready to pick our target up as he goes across town. He's probably heading for our favorite racquet club, so we should have some time to get back to the office and gear up once Hurst takes over." He pitched the keys to Wisniewski. "Tim, you drive. I'll be on the phone. Is our tab paid? No time for change."
They all threw bills to the center of the table, leaving their server what was probably her biggest tip of the day.
1:07 p.m.
Wisniewski pulled the Escalade into a space on the far right of the store, next to a marked Metropolitan Police patrol car. Trask, in the front passenger seat, saw that McInnis and Rhodes were standing on the side of the building. To any casual onlooker, they were two cops just taking a coffee break. Each was holding a cup of something. Good cover. They sure don't look like they're on the job at the moment.
He looked to his left. The ton-and-a-half was parked in a spot just to the left of the front door. The driver must be inside. I don't see him in the cab.
They all bailed out of the Escalade and joined McInnis and Rhodes on the side of the building, a glass front convenience store with concrete block walls on the rear and sides.
"How long's he been inside, Sam?" Carter asked.
"Too damned long. He's in the head and I need to take a leak myself some-thin' fierce."
Wisniewski peaked around the corner of the building. "Short guy climbing back into the cab. You're clear, Sam."
"Yeah, thanks," McInnis said gruffly as he brushed by Wisniewski on his way to the sidewalk.
Trask saw Wisniewski look at Officer Rhodes, and noticed a slight shrug in the detective's shoulders as he walked toward her. One of our campers isn't happy. I think I was right about that jealousy thing.
A loud, deep, booming noise and a roaring rush of air caused them all to duck reflexively. Trask, standing closest to the corner, looked around the edge of the building. The cab of the truck was on fire. He saw a uniformed figure running out the front door. I wonder if Sam had time to—oh, no! No! He pulled back away from the corner, hugging the wall. He looked up and saw a figure rushing at him.
"SAM?!?" Randi Rhodes was sprinting toward the corner of the building, Wisniewski hot on her heels.
Trask threw his right arm around Rhodes, knocking her back into Wisniewski and sending them both to the ground just as a second blast, this one much louder than the first, shook the ground.
"Jeff, what the hell?!" Rhodes was screaming. Trask was barely aware of her protest, his ears still ringing from the noise of the blast.
He got to his feet and staggered to the corner of the building. The scene that greeted him was like one from an apocalyptic horror movie. There were several bodies lying inside what had been the front of the store. The gasoline pumps were burning, and anything and anyone that had been in the front of the store had been blown into the back wall, which was now only partially erect. What was left of the ton-and-a-half was twisted and lying on its side, resting atop the remains of some sort of sedan that had been parked next to it. Trask turned and saw that the Escalade was burning as well. The blocks on the side wall protected us just enough. Without them for cover, we'd all have been blown to hell.
"Get fire and ambulances rolling," he told Doroz, who was getting to his feet. "We need to back up some. Those pumps might blow at any second." He saw the look on Rhodes' face. "I'm sorry, Randi. Sam's gone."
Four blocks away, the driver of a black Mustang tossed one cellphone onto the passenger seat. He got out of the car, and smiling, set another smart phone to video mode, and pointed the lens toward the pillar of black smoke rising into the air.
Laredo, Texas
June 13, 2011, 1:36 p.m.
The broker saw the red Bronco kicking up the dust on the road to the ranch house. What the hell is he doing here today? The truck isn't due hack for days. He stepped out onto the porch and waited.
"Hello, my friend," Dominguez leered from the passenger window as the Bronco stopped in front of the house. He didn't get out of the truck.
"What's going on, Ramón? You know he's not back yet."
The broker stepped back from the door of the Bronco, reading something strange in Domínguez' face. Is this ugly bastard drunk? Something's different.
"Come here, my friend," Dominguez waved him over. "I have something to show you."
The broker stepped closer to the Bronco as Dominguez brought a tablet computer up to the window.
"Remember your friend in the truck—your little driver who stole from us? Watch this!"
The broker looked at the video on the tablet screen. He could make out the silhouette of the ton-and-a-half parked in front of what looked like a convenience store. He thought he saw an orange flash in the cab of the vehicle, and then, seconds later, the entire truck rose into the air in a huge ball of flame before falling back to earth on its side. He jumped back from the Bronco in horror.
"What the fuck, Ramón?!!" He jumped back toward the window of the Bronco, not stopping to think about where his rage was taking him. "Dammit! I told you I had taken care of—"
Dominguez grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him close. "Do not forget your place, my friend," he snarled. He shoved the broker away from the Bronco.
The broker collected himself. "Where am I supposed to find another driver? Our customers are going to wonder what happened. They won't trust just anybody. I have to find somebody else to learn the routes and locations." He felt his blood rising again. "If we're still in business, Ramón, where the hell do I find that guy on short notice?"
"We're still in business, my friend." The narrow jawline contracted into a hideous grin. "A new load in a new vehicle will be coming soon. Your FBI arrested our friend with the border patrol. I guess he got careless. We'll get the merchandise across at another location, and use different load cars. You'll know your new driver when you see him." The grin widened. "You can find him by looking in your mirror."
Dominguez laughed, and made a motion with his hand to his driver.
The broker stood speechless, watching as the Bronco headed back up the road toward the gate.
Waldorf, Maryland
10:45 p.m.
"I've got seventeen dead here now, Luis." Trask tried to keep from screaming into the phone. "Not just junkies overdosing on heroin. Completely innocent people, doing nothing wrong. One of the police officers on my team, too. A good man. They're all gone now, and your source had no idea this was going to happen?"
"I assure you that he did not, Jeff. I am so very sorry."
"We're beyond sorry, Luis. I'm mad as hell."
There was a sizable pause before Aguilar answered him.
"I gave you my word that I would keep you informed to the extent possible, Jeff. I will keep that promise. You must keep this in perspective."
"Exactly what perspective are you referring to? We don't have bombs going off on our streets that often."
"We do." Aguilar's voice was deliberate and calm. "Listen to me, my friend. You lost seventeen souls. I mourn them. I truly do. I mourn them as much as I mourn the innocents in the more than 75,000 that my country has lost. You lost a good police officer. We have lost thousands. Your victims are getting decent burials. We dig ours out of mass graves. Shall I go on?"
Trask caught himself and took a deep breath. "Point taken. I'm sorry, Luis. I didn't mean to blame you for any of this."
"No offense taken. I know how you feel, Jeff. I take that frustration and those emotions to bed with me every night. I wake up to them every morning."
"How the hell do you deal with that?"
"I told you. I have a tool that is not available to you. When we find the enemy, we shoot them. I estimate that I save twenty lives every time my marines kill a Zeta. I will never say that publicly, because we are supposed to be both the police and the military. We do not summarily execute anyone. But I must confess that I sleep more soundly after a successful operation."
Trask took another deep breath. "Good night, Luis. Keep me informed as you can. And good hunting."
FBI Field Office
Washington, D.C.
June 15, 2011, 2:25 p.m.
"That was as impressive as it was sad," Trask said as he pulled into the parking garage.
"Yes it was," Lynn nodded. "All the dress uniforms, the badges with the black stripes, the pipes at the grave site. Poor Sam's end of watch."
They walked to the elevator and took it up.
"I have to use the ladies' room," she said. "See you in a minute or two."
Trask walked into the squad conference room.
"It was a nice service." Dixon Carter was in his police dress uniform sitting at the table and staring at nothing.
"Yes it was, Dix. I know there are cops, and then there are really good cops. From the number of brothers in blue that showed up today, I'd say you trained another good one." This is the first time I've ever seen Dix in anything other than a suit or sport coat.
"He was a good man." Carter sat silent for a moment, then turned and stared at T
rask. "We've all been shaken up for a few days, Jeff. Seventeen dead at our crime scene, statements to write, all the somber stuff. I haven't had a chance to ask you before now. Just how the hell did you know to expect the second blast?"
"I was reading background files on the Zetas before our lunch that morning, Dix. I remembered something my friend from the Mexican marines told me. The original Zetas—the ones who deserted from the Mexican Army—were all special ops types. They'd been trained by some of our special forces, by some Canadian units, and by some Israeli operators, too. I had heard one of the Israeli security guys give a talk at one of our Air Force Bases before I left active duty. They've learned over the years that when a terrorist detonates a bomb—in Tel Aviv, for example—their first responders have to hang back for a bit.
"As counter-intuitive as it is for them—since they want to rescue the injured—they've learned the hard way that the first bomb is there to attract the police and rescue personnel. It's the second one that's the major charge, and it's designed to kill them as well as any who were injured in the first blast. I saw the cab, and it looked like a smaller bomb had gone off in the front of the ton-and-a-half. Something just clicked and I remembered thinking about the Israeli lecture. If they trained the Zetas, the Zetas could have picked up the dirty tricks from their trainers' experience."
Carter nodded. "Anyone who cleared that corner would have died from the blast force. You saved some lives out there, Jeff."
"Not enough. We can never seem to do enough."
"We can only do what we can." Carter paused again. "I hear that Officer Rhodes still wants to join the squad for the remainder of the investigation, if there is one."
Barry Doroz entered the conference room, followed by Lynn Trask.
"I heard that, Dix," Doroz said. "I'm not sure it's a good idea. Anything she testifies to will be attacked because of her relationship with Sam."
"She won't have to testify to anything if there's a second set of eyes on anything she sees," Carter replied. "She can partner with me."