Death's White Horses: A Jeff Trask Crime Drama (Jeff Trask crime drama series Book 3)

by Marc Rainer

  "El Verdugo, El Lazca, wants us to respond quickly and dramatically. We will leave these putas a message they cannot ignore and will not forget."

  "It's done," the visitor said, a satisfied smile crossing his face. "What if the cowards are not to be found? They tend to run to ground after showing their faces for a moment or two."

  "We will find the ones we can, and then use suitable substitutes, as we find them. You know, like we did at San Fernando."

  "Understood," the visitor said, smiling again. He turned and walked briskly from the office.

  Cardereyta Jiménez

  Nuevo Leon, Mexico

  May 13, 2012

  The one they called "The Rider" stepped up to the door of the crowded bus. He waved his pistol back and forth, covering the packed seats and aisle as he spoke.

  "Everyone gets off here. Now."

  "But we paid to go to the border," a woman in the left front seat protested.

  The Rider smiled at her, then quickly raised a pistol and fired. Blood began pouring from the small hole in the center of the woman's head and she slumped forward. Screams erupted from the other passengers, and The Rider fired twice more, ventilating the roof of the bus.

  "As I said before, everyone gets off here, now."

  The terrified passengers poured past him, forming a single file line on the side of the road as directed by several men who were waiting beside the bus with automatic weapons.

  A young man in his early twenties stood holding the girl next to him. "Please, sir," he addressed The Rider, "we are all just trying to find work in the north. We will cooperate with you completely. We are not your enemies. We have no weapons. We pose no threat to you."

  The girl next to him dropped to her knees in front of The Rider.

  "I am pregnant," she said, tears running down her face. "We want to make a home for our child where there is work."

  "Lo siento mucho, little sister," The Rider said, shaking his head, "but today you are all part of a much bigger, more important plan."

  He stepped back, pointed the pistol at the young man's head, and fired. The next shot killed the girl. Taking their cues, the men on either side of him opened fire. The echoes of gunfire did not stop until all those from the bus stopped moving.

  The Rider pulled a machete from a sheath on his belt. "Let's get to it," he shouted. "Quickly. No survivors this time. Make sure of your work."

  Tampico Naval Air Station

  Tamaulipas, Mexico

  May 14, 2012

  Aguilar felt the vibrations of the phone on his belt. It could be only one caller, using the walkie-talkie function that was pre-programmed to dial only Aguilar's phone.

  "How are you, my friend?" Aguilar asked.

  "Well, enough, Major. As well as I can be after helping these vermin dismember about fifty people with machetes." Even though his contact spoke in a whisper, Aguilar could recognize the rage in his voice.

  "You have to maintain your cover. You do what you do to remain safe. Any problems?"

  "No sir."

  "Who ordered the killings this time?"

  "Lazcano again. At least that's what Domínguez told everyone. El Ratón and his little brother—the one they call The Rider—were right in the middle of it. At least I didn't have to kill any of those poor devils myself. I fired some shots into some bodies, pretending to finish them off, but they were already dead."

  "Any idea where you're heading next?"

  "Back toward Nuevo Laredo."

  "Keep me informed when you can."

  "Yes sir."

  Aguilar returned the phone to his belt. He walked out of his office and into a conference room, where he stood in front of his company. On a screen behind him, the first screen of an electronic slideshow displayed two carbines crossed in front of an anchor, the symbol of Mexico's Infanteria de Marina — the Naval Infantry Force, or Marines. Each one of his men was dressed in camouflaged battled dress uniforms, or "bdu's," with the word "Marina" displayed in large white letters across the chest. A black mask designed to be pulled up like a bank robber's bandana rested around each man's neck. Aguilar's uniform included one as well.

  "Have the new men sit up front," Aguilar instructed a sergeant. Six young troops obeyed the NCO's commands and took the center seats in the front row of the room. "For some of you men, this is new information; for others, a refresher course." The major walked to the side of the screen.

  "August 24, 2010." Aguilar pressed a button on the remote in his hand, and the screen behind him changed to a photograph of blood stained corpses piled on top of each other against a wall. "What the press now calls the 'Tamaulipas massacre.' Some of you men were there with me. We recovered 72 bodies from a ranch. The victims had been executed with bullets through their brains. Fifty-eight men and fourteen women, mostly migrants trying to cross the border into the United States. One young man named Freddy survived and was able to tell us his story."

  Aguilar pressed the remote button again. The screen changed to another grisly scene, the bullet-riddled body of an elderly man.

  "November 22, 2010. Ciudad Victoria. This is the body of Don Alfredo Guerrero Torrejon. He refused to give away his ranch when the cartel demanded it, and shot it out with them when they came for him. He actually killed four and wounded two before they killed him." Aguilar turned away from the screen and looked at his men. "Don Alfredo was seventy-seven years old. We defend our heroes as well as the sheep in our herds. I expect each of you to demonstrate the same courage as that shown by Don Alfredo."

  The screen changed again, showing a large prison compound.

  "December 18, 2010. Nuevo Laredo. One-hundred and fifty-one inmates, many of them the very cartel scum we worked very hard to apprehend, walked out the front door of this prison. Let me say that again. They walked out the front door. We fight not only against the gunmen who fire at us, but against their money and the corruption that their illegal wealth spreads, and against those who accept it."

  The screen changed again, showing seven bodies covered with sheets in a prison yard.

  "July 15, 2011," Aguilar said. "The same federal prison in Nuevo Laredo. A new facility director could not be counted on to prevent sixty-six more inmates from escaping. The escapees killed seven of their cartel rivals before they left."

  The screen now showed several corpses hanging from a highway overpass.

  "May 4. Ten days ago. Nuevo Laredo. These nine were hanged for opposing Los Zetas. The Federation Cartel responded by decapitating fourteen others. The Zetas apparently believe in massive retaliation."

  Aguilar pressed the remote button. A gruesome scene of dismembered body parts filled the screen.

  "Yesterday. The reporters still brave enough to write about such things are calling this the Cadereyta Jiménez massacre. We found the beheaded and dismembered bodies of forty-nine people left along Highway 40 in Nuevo Leon, between Monterrey and Reynosa. A narcomanta written on a wall nearby claimed these murders were committed by Los Zetas."

  The screen changed to a photograph of a dark-haired, clean-shaven young man in a coat and tie.

  "At least one common denominator in all of the prior events is this gentleman," Aguilar said, heavily lacing the word "gentleman" with sarcasm. "This is Heriberto Lazcano Lazcano, otherwise known as Z-3, or 'ElVerdugo! He was born on December 25, 1974, Satan's own Christmas present to the Republic.

  "He was once one of us. Like each of us in this room, Lazcano took an oath to defend Mexico, and was even chosen by the Army as one of our Grupo Aeromovil de Fuerzas Especiales, the GAFEs. He and thirty others then deserted from the special forces because the Gulf Cartel needed enforcers to combat their rivals in Sinaloa. They became 'Los Zetas!They call Lazcano 'Z-3' because he was the third Zeta to desert and join the Gulf Cartel. They call him 'El Verdugo' because he executes some of his victims by feeding them to some lions and tigers that he stole from a zoo and keeps on his ranch. He runs Los Zetas in Tamaulipas, and President Calderon has designated him as our Public
Enemy Number One.

  "Los Zetas grew dissatisfied with the financial benefits afforded to them by the Gulf Cartel, so they took over that Cartel from their employers, and now run their own criminal enterprise. I remind you that they are former GAFE operators, trained by the American and Israeli special forces. They have joined with some other former special forces operators—deserters from Guatemala—and now use beheading and dismemberment as part of their techniques of terror.

  "These are, gentlemen, the most dangerous men in Mexico. They are a serious threat to our nation and to our families. They are a threat to each of you. Those masks around your necks are not useless rags. They are to be used any time you are in public and in uniform. Your lives and those of your families—your parents, wives, siblings and children—depend on your using them. We have lost police chiefs, mayors, members of the press, and marines to Los Zetas. That is why some of you new men are sitting in the front row where other marines once sat before you."

  Aguilar thought of Linda's concerns for them, their paltry salaries, the temptations that they always faced.

  "You men can never appreciate the respect I have for all of you. It is you who remain to loyally serve instead of chasing the dirty money dangled before you by the traitors who seek to turn our nation into a cesspool."

  He turned to the screen for another look at the photograph of Lazcano. He turned back to face his marines.

  "I want this traitor dead or alive, and without losing any more of you in the process. He is trying to turn Nuevo Laredo into his own personal fort. We are going to catch him, and if he resists, as I frankly hope he will, we will return him to hell." He started to leave, then paused and returned to the podium. "One more thing, gentlemen. If any of you finds the cartels' money more attractive than your uniform, and chooses to join Los Zetas, rest assured that the rest of us will hunt you down and kill you."

  Brooklyn, New York

  May 18, 2012, 10:37p.m.

  "Sorry, bud, you'll have to keep those. Got my orders. We're outta the smack business. The guys at the top think you might be hot, anyway."

  The broker stood at the bottom of the loading dock steps, his mouth hanging open. "C'mon, Pete, you can't mean that. What am I supposed to do with ten pounds of this shit? You were the only market I had left!"

  "Sell it, use it yourself. I don't care. We're done, buddy. See ya."

  The big man on the dock closed the door behind him.

  The broker went back to his car and repacked the heroin. He got back into the driver's seat and sat there, staring at the darkness. I can't go home without the money. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, took a deep breath, and exhaled. I've got about fifty g's with me, all the cash I had left. That'll stake me someplace for a while.

  South of Nuevo Laredo

  Tamaulipas, Mexico

  May 22, 2012, 9:29 a.m.

  "Our friend never returned with the money from the last shipment," Dominguez said.

  Lazcano raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "When you find him, kill him. We can always find another mule. On the bright side, Ramon, your raid on the west coast and our little show on the highway seem to be having the desired effect. I think Chapo's boys are going to be keeping their heads down for a while."

  Dominguez nodded. "We will remain alert, anyway."

  Washington, D.C.

  June 3, 2012, 2:51 a.m.

  Officer Randi Rhodes suddenly sat up in bed, shaking, her breathing rapid and shallow.

  Wisniewski shook himself out of his sleep and sat up himself, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "The nightmare again?"

  "Yes," she said quietly. "I don't—can't—cry any more. I just keep hearing those explosions, feeling the heat from the fires, seeing those poor people, or what was left of them, and Sam."

  "We'll get their killers. It'll just take some time."

  She looked at him and shook her head. "How can you so sure, Tim? It's already been months. Sure, Adipietro and Briggs are locked up, but they weren't the ones who blew up that truck. I haven't even seen Jeff Trask around the squad room in weeks. It's like he's forgotten all about the other victims."

  Wisniewski pulled her head to his shoulder. "You can be sure of one thing in this world, even if you doubt everything else. There are four other people on that squad—Bear, Dix, Lynn, and me—who will never forget about that day, and even if we did, Jeffrey Trask wouldn't. I was up in his office on Friday. He wasn't in, but his door was open. There were stacks of papers on a table behind his desk, some a foot high. I looked at 'em. Every page had something to do with the Zetas. He still has his contacts in Mexico. He's working on something, believe me. He'll never forget Sam or the others, or even that stupid little daughter of Heidelberg's. He won't let go of it. That's just who he is."

  He felt her relax a little.

  "Okay. Thanks." There were tears welling up in her eyes.

  "I won't tell anybody if you cry about it, you know."

  She just nodded, and managed a smile.

  "One other thing you should never forget."

  "What's that?"

  "I love you."

  Tampico Naval Air Station

  Tamaulipas, Mexico

  July 1, 2012, 7:39 p.m.

  "How are the election returns, Luis?" Linda Aguilar asked.

  "Not good," he said, dropping his eyes from the television in his office to check the cell phone's battery indicator. He had a couple of bars left. "Peña Nieto will be the new president of Mexico. His PRI will sweep back into power in December. President Calderón did all he could, but the country has lost its stomach for the killing."

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. "What does that mean for us now, Luis?"

  "I will keep my promise to you, my love, as soon as I am sure that I have kept my promises to Mexico. I have to give the new administration a chance. If the campaign promises are kept, there will be no quarter for any of the cartels, just some sort of change in strategy. I have to wait and see what that means. Do you understand?"

  "I'm not sure anymore, Luis." She didn't say anything for a moment. "Daddy has offered me a job with his company in San Antonio. I'm going to take it. It's just office work, but I can't just sit around and wait and worry and do nothing anymore."

  "I understand."

  "I hope so. I can be at the lake house in Zapata anytime you can get leave."

  "I know. I'll try to take some time off very soon."

  "I'd like that. Please be careful."

  The dial tone told him the call was over.

  555 4th Street N.W

  Washington, D.C.

  July 2, 2012, 9:29 a.m.

  "Hello, Luis. How are you?" Trask leaned back and threw one foot up on his desk.

  "I have been better, my friend. I think I know how your military felt when they saw the helicopters leaving Saigon."

  "I saw your election returns. What does that mean for you?"

  "I'm not sure yet. There will almost certainly be a reduction in our enforcement efforts against the cartels, or at least some of them."

  "Some of them?"

  "There have always been rumors about links between the new president elect and Chapo Guzmán, Jeff. The PRI—the party returning to power—may concentrate on Guzmán's enemies and leave the control of the entire drug trade to Chapo."

  "Yeah, I know. I've been doing a lot of reading."

  "I thought you might. You have probably seen, then, that the Federation Cartel brings in billions of your dollars each year."

  "Yep, and politicians love their money, wherever they are."

  "That they do, my friend, and the PRI has always been rumored to love cartel money. I hope I am mistaken in my assessment, but I don't know what to think at this point. At any rate, I do not know how long I can continue to make an effective contribution, or more accurately, I do not know how long I will be allowed to make such a contribution. As long as I can, I will, but I think we should talk about a contingency plan."

  "I'm liste
ning, Luis."

  "If you were to indict those responsible for the bomb in your city, would that be a matter of public knowledge?"

  "Not if I don't want it to be. We can get either a criminal complaint or an indictment, and hold it under seal—that means a court secret which can't be released to anyone without a judge's order—until an arrest is made. We don't even have to enter the indictment in any national system until we're ready to do so."

  "Would anyone have to be there to testify?"

  "Not necessarily. If we file a complaint, the information just has to establish probable cause for the charge and arrests; we can use what we call hearsay—what someone told someone else. A federal agent just has to satisfy the judge that the source of his information is reliable."

  "I see." Aguilar paused. "I think it is time that Linda and I invited you back to Zapata, and I think you should bring one of your agent friends. If you know one who speaks Spanish, that would be even better. It would eliminate the need for a translator, and time might be crucial."

  "I know just the guy."

  Zapata, Texas

  July 9, 2012, 1:48 a.m.

  "He should be calling any minute now," Aguilar said. "I am sorry about the hour, but I'm sure you understand that he has to be extremely careful about the times he chooses to use the phone."

  "We understand," Trask said. He pushed his mug forward as Linda Aguilar brought the coffee pot out from the kitchen. Next to him, Wisniewski did the same.

  "How many is that?" Trask asked, yawning.

  "Apparently, not enough," Linda said. "I'll put some more on."

  Trask was stirring the sugar into his coffee when the phone rang on the table in front of Aguilar.

  "Hello, my friend," Aguilar said. "Yes, I'm going to hand the phone to another friend of ours, as we discussed. Tell him everything you know about the truck explosion in Washington first. Then, if you have time and it is safe, tell him about the other matters we discussed." Aguilar handed the phone to Wisniewski, who immediately began speaking in Spanish and taking notes on a legal pad that Trask shoved in front of him.