by Marc Rainer
Tampico Naval Air Station
Tamaulipas, Mexico
October 15, 2011, 8:49 a.m.
"Your man on the inside has proven his value once again, Major. His tip was dead on. La Rana, the Zeta who led the attack on the casino in Monterrey, was captured yesterday in Saltillo."
"If anything ever happens to me, Torres, you must take this second phone on my belt," Aguilar said, patting the cell holster. "He is the bravest man I know. We'll have to be careful not to over-utilize his information, or Lazcano may figure out that he has a spy in his camp."
"It's Saturday, Major. You haven't taken a day off in weeks. If you'd like to go home, I can cover the office alert duty today."
"No, you go home, Capitán. You are the one with a family to go home to. I'll stay."
"I'll check back in the morning then, sir."
South of Nuevo Laredo
Tamaulipas, Mexico
10:46 a.m.
"I am sick of losing men to these Gulf bastards, Ramon," Lazcano said, throwing the newspaper to the floor. "I want you to organize another mission. Take as many good men as you need, make sure they are ready, and hit Guzman hard. Keep him off balance. The last raid into Federation territory kept their heads down for weeks. It is time to remind them that they are not safe anywhere."
"It will be a pleasure, Lazca. This time, I suggest that we hit them in Sinaloa itself, not in a neighboring state."
"A good suggestion. Just make sure your raid is a success. If it is not, it will only embolden the enemy, and we will have to fight harder just to defend our own plazas."
"There will be no failure, Lazca. Within a month, we will drive the Federation mice back into their burrows."
Waldorf, Maryland
11:30 a.m.
Trask rolled over and put his arm over Lynn, who was still sleeping soundly. He kissed her cheek and then climbed out of the bed and headed for the den, where three elevated dog bowls of varied sizes awaited, each with a hungry animal sitting patiently beside it.
"Sorry guys, I didn't mean to keep you waiting this long on breakfast."
It looks like the three bears live here, a big bowl for Boo, a medium-sized bowl for Nikki, and a baby bowl for Tasha the perma-puppy. He mixed some of the expensive canned stuff with the expensive dry stuff, and the dogs were soon cleaning their bowls while he sat on an arm of the couch and watched.
"I can't believe you let me sleep this late. It's almost noon." Lynn was standing behind him, an oversized tee shirt serving as her pajamas.
"We both needed it. We haven't been able to relax in weeks with all the pressure from this case."
"Will you be able to take a break now?"
"For a while. We have the sentencing hearings coming up for Briggs and Adipietro. After that we're back to looking for leads on the Heidelberg girl and the truck bomb."
"Anything promising? It seems like we've exhausted everything we have for now."
"That's because we have. I don't have any ideas at the moment. I'm kind of at the mercy of Luis Aguilar. I promised him I wouldn't move on anyone in the cartel until he had his shot at them first."
"How long will you give him?"
He stood and walked over to her, holding her and kissing her neck. "As long as he wants," he said. He grabbed her hand and headed back toward the bedroom.
"Are you still sleepy?" she asked.
"Nope, not a bit."
Tampico Naval Air Station
Tamaulipas, Mexico
November 25, 2011, 11:34 a.m.
"How are you, Jorge? It has been a while since we talked," Aguilar said, pressing the speakerphone button so that Torres could hear the call.
"Not bad, Luis, but I'd be better if you'd keep your Zetas on your side of Mexico. They're stirring up all kinds of trouble for me at the moment."
"Really? Zetas in Sinaloa? That's news to me, Jorge."
"Either that, or someone is doing their dirty work for them and hanging narcomantas to give them credit for it. We found twenty-three bodies in abandoned cars and trucks two days ago. They were all Guzman's men. Sixteen of them had been burned to death."
"That sounds like Lazcano's number two. Ramón Domínguez. They call him 'El Ratón! I've heard that he favors fire as a method of execution."
"Our men in Jalisco found twenty-six more bodies yesterday in Guadalahara. All Sinaloa guys again. It seems as if your Zetas are working their way down the west coast."
"Probably in response to Guzmán's raids over here," Aguilar said. "Lazcano couldn't just stand by and defend Nuevo Laredo without pushing back hard. Maybe these raids will actually calm things down a bit for a little while."
"A Christmas lull, Luis?"
"Wishful thinking on my part, I'm sure. We should be so lucky."
"Stay alert and safe, Major."
"You too, Jorge."
E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse
Washington, D.C.
December 22, 2011, 10:00 a.m.
"Your objections to the Presentence Investigation Report are overruled, Mr. Lewis," Judge Edie King said, looking down from her bench. "I have heard the testimony of Mr. Briggs, and while I understand that he is trying to earn the relatively light sentence of thirty years granted to him by the government, I find that he is credible, and substantially corroborated by the government's other evidence, including—but not limited to—the drug ledgers which were found in your client's safe deposit box. The defendant and counsel will rise and come to the lectern."
Here you go, Little Joe, Trask said to himself. Merry Christmas. He made eye contact across the table with Barry Doroz, who was sitting with him as the lead case agent. Doroz nodded. Bear knows it's a done deal. Edie King won't give an inch on this one.
"You and others who distributed this poison on our streets are responsible for a minimum—and I do mean a minimum—of five deaths, Mr. Adipietro. And while Mr. Trask didn't say it, because he can only assert in this court what he can back up with proof, I strongly suspect that other members of your conspiracy are responsible for that hell that erupted near Georgetown and killed so many others. I am not sentencing you for those deaths, however. I am sentencing you for what the proof here has established, and that is this:
"You may not have intended to kill these women who died using your heroin, but you killed them just as if you had put a gun to their heads and pulled the trigger. Even worse, you continued to sell this garbage long after you became aware of the first overdose death, showing me that you have no regard at all for anything other than your own pocketbook.
"The maximum sentence that I am allowed to impose is life imprisonment without the possibility of release, and that is the sentence that you have earned. I am also ordering the forfeiture of the racquet club that you used to facilitate these crimes, as well as the sum of three million dollars, which is a plausible estimate of the street value of the heroin that you sold in this city. You have ten days to file a notice of appeal, should you desire to do so."
The judge rapped her gavel a little louder than Trask was used to hearing.
"We are adjourned."
Zapata, Texas
December 24, 2011, 6:07 a.m.
Aguilar bent over the bed and kissed her. She awoke and threw her arms around his neck, holding him as tightly as she could.
"You made it, Luis." She kissed him hard, then pulled back a little, holding his face in her hands. "Which way did you come this time?"
"Through my home town, as usual."
She sat up in bed, angry at him. "Nuevo Laredo is also the home plaza for Los Zetas. It is the most dangerous city in Mexico, Luis."
"Only for those who do not know it well. If the Zetas were looking for me, they would have a road block on the highway into town from Reynosa. I got off the highway before I got into town and went through the back streets. No problem."
"At least you are here. That's all I need for now."
He kissed her again. "Merry Christmas, my love."
South of Nuevo L
aredo
Tamaulipas, Mexico
January 3, 2012, 3:45 p.m.
"How much money are we losing because of the arrests in our D.C. market?" Lazcano asked.
"It is minor, Lazca. Our friend in Laredo was still able to make his deliveries to New York, but we are down about a third in terms of weight and profits on his run. We still have our other couriers making deliveries into Chicago and elsewhere."
"Instruct him to increase the deliveries to New York or some other place to make up the difference. Tell him if he does not do so, he can be replaced. Leave no doubt in his mind as to what that will mean."
"I understand."
Brooklyn, New York
April 30, 2012, 1:27 a.m.
"Sorry, bud, but I just can't handle this much weight right now. Here's what I owe ya for the seven, and here's the three pounds I couldn't move. You'll just have to take them back with you. You're lucky I'm still dealin' with ya at all, after Joe and his guy got grabbed in D.C. My capo here was hell-bent on tellin' me to pull the plug completely. If it wasn't for the money we're makin' he would have told ya to stay home."
"Thanks. See you next trip."
"Yeah, if there is a next trip. I'll keep ya posted."
The broker nodded, and carried the bag back to his car. The alley was dark, so he had time to pull back the ice and meat and bury the bag at the bottom of the cooler. Once the ice was smoothed back over on top, he shut the lid.
How the hell am I gonna unload the other three pounds?
Nuevo Laredo
Tamaulipas, Mexico
May 4, 2012, 12:45 a.m.
The broker pulled his car to the shoulder of Mexican Federal Highway 85D and gazed up in horror and disgust. The bodies of nine people—seven men and two women—were hanging from nooses tied to the overpass above him, next to a large sheet of plastic. The plastic was weighted at the bottom by three ropes tied to stones so that all who passed below could read the message printed on it without interference from any passing breeze. His Spanish was good enough to let him read the hanging banner, the narcomanta.
"Fucking Federation Cartel whores, this is how I'm going to finish off every fucker you send to heat up the turf … here are your guys. The rest went away but I'll get them. Sooner or later. See you around, fuckers."
The broker shuddered. He knew the author of the message. He was on his way to meet "El Ratón" now. He reached for the briefcase under his seat in the Toyota Highlander almost involuntarily. The case was still there. He felt himself sweating, even though the night air was cool and the sun that seared every daylight sky along the border would not rise for hours.
He had been unable to unload the last three pounds of heroin, and had had to make up the difference by pulling cash out of his own stash of money. The total was good for now, but he knew it was a routine he could not sustain. I'll have to ask Ramón for permission to scale it back a little. He drove ahead, his mind racing. What am I gonna do if the guys in Brooklyn cut me off?
The broker exited the highway and navigated the city streets from memory. He approached the entrance to the hacienda, and was waved through by the armed guards at the gate. He parked the SUV and pulled the case from under the seat. When he closed the car door, he turned to see El Ratón smiling at him.
"Welcome, back, my friend!" Ramón Dominguez said, slapping him on the shoulders.
Dominguez took the case and handed it to one of the men standing beside him. The man nodded and carried the case toward the main house.
"Did you see our little exhibit on your way in?" Dominguez asked.
"I don't think I could have missed it," the broker replied.
Dominguez laughed. "Exactly! The whole point! No one could miss it. Especially not those fools from Sinaloa who think they can come into our plazas without consequences."
The broker nodded, and studied Dominguez' face. Is part of this message for me? Have I given him any more reason not to trust me? f I have, I'm a dead man.
"I have something else to show you," Dominguez said. "Another demonstration." He threw his left arm across the broker's shoulders and led him around a corner of the main house into a small courtyard.
The broker stopped involuntarily. Fifty feet in front of him stood a fifty-five gallon drum. His nostrils picked up a strong odor of diesel fuel. Inside the drum a man stood crying pathetically, his arms bloody and bruised. Men with assault rifles stood guard, laughing at him and taunting him.
"He would love to climb out and run, but he cannot, because his arms are both broken," Dominguez explained. "He can't run, and he doesn't splash too much, so the fuel he's standing in won't spill out too fast. He knows what is coming, but can do nothing. He can only stand, and cry and whine like a dog. Excuse me; I have a little speech to make."
El Raton patted the broker on the shoulder and walked to the center of the courtyard. He nodded to one of the men closer to the stack of tires. The recipient of the order wrapped a gag around the mouth of the man inside the drum. El Ratón was not to be interrupted.
"Compadres! You all know our history here, our mission. We are Los Zetas. The Gulf Cartel hired us to protect their business here against the other cartels, but when we asked for fair payment for our services, they tried to sell us out! They actually tried to kill us!"
The men gathered around El Ratón roared with laughter, as if the very idea that they could die was an outrageous farce.
"We discovered their treachery, and killed most of them instead!"
More laughter.
"We now own the business, the trade routes, the profits of what used to be the Gulf Cartel!"
The men cheered and pumped their fists and weapons in the air in agreement with El Raton.
"Those who remain loyal to those Gulf Cartel whores have run to join forces with the Sinaloa bastards," Dominguez continued. "And unfortunately, hollow promises and money can sometimes persuade the weak to stab their friends in the back, something a true Zeta would never think of doing."
There were more cheers, and a few of the men fired their guns into the air.
"Someone who would sell out his friends is not a soldier. He is not a Zeta!" Dominguez shouted. "He is scum. We found this scum's telephone number in one of the phones taken from one of the putas whose body now dangles from the end of a rope on the highway." Dominguez pointed at the man in the barrel who was now frantically shaking his head back and forth. "And in his pockets, we found this!"
Dominguez reached into his vest and pulled out a roll of American cash, then held it high, turning so that all in the courtyard could see it. The men shouted angrily, and several more shots were fired skyward. Dominguez nodded again toward one of the men closest to the wretch in the drum, and the man removed the gag. He then grabbed a five gallon can, and poured more diesel fuel into the barrel. The man inside cried pitifully.
"As you can see, we have topped off his drink!" Dominguez shouted.
The men circled around the drum again roared in laughter.
"Let's cook our little stew!" Dominguez ordered.
The man who had poured the diesel fuel pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket and tossed it into the barrel. The flames jumped quickly around the helpless victim inside the tires. He screamed in agony for a few minutes, and then slumped silently across the upper edge of the fuel drum as the blaze consumed him.
The broker stood frozen in shock. He was jolted by another pat on the shoulder from Dominguez. The man who had taken the case had returned, and had returned the case—now empty—to Dominguez.
"Gracias, Miguel." Dominguez nodded. "The count was good," he said, turning to the broker. "You can go now. We will see you again soon."
Driving in a daze, the broker retraced his route, crossing the border back into Laredo, Texas. I couldn't ask for lighter loads with that going on. I've gotta find another market, now and fast. I don't have the cash to keep buying three pounds of every load myself.
"Anything to declare, sir?" the agent at the customs station asked him
.
The broker stared blankly at him before snapping back to the moment. He handed his driver's license and passport to the agent. "Sorry. No, nothing to declare. Just visiting some business contacts."
"Have a nice day, sir."
"Thanks. You, too."
He drove through the empty streets as the sun came up over Laredo, involuntarily staring at every overpass he approached to make sure there were no bodies dangling from them.
Nuevo Laredo
Tamaulipas, Mexico
7:48 a.m.
Mexican police officers found fourteen decapitated bodies inside a vehicle parked in front of the Customs Agency in Nuevo Laredo. The heads were found in ice coolers left in front of the city's Municipal Palace. Along with the bodies, the police found a message from the head of the Federation Cartel, demanding that the mayor of Nuevo Laredo publicly acknowledge the presence of the Federation Cartel in their city, and claiming that the Federation would deliver and soon display the heads of all of Los Zetas.
South of Nuevo Laredo
Tamaulipas, Mexico
May 5, 2012, 9:30 a.m.
Ramón Dominguez looked up from his newspaper with a sneer of contempt that contorted his already repulsive face. "Miguel!" he barked.
After a knock seeking permission to enter, the summoned subordinate appeared in the office doorway.
"Yes, Ramón?"
"Tell The Rider I want to see him—immediately!"
Miguel nodded deferentially and scurried off.
So the Federation wants to play in our backyard, to flex their muscles in our plaza, Dominguez thought. They attack us in our homes, assassinate our men. We will see who can play the roughest now.
A voice from the doorway interrupted his thoughts. There had been no knock this time.
"You wanted to see me?"
"Have you seen the morning paper?" Dominguez asked, tossing the folded daily across his desk toward the other man.
"Of course," his visitor responded, not bothering to pick up the paper. "What should we do to respond?"