by Marc Rainer
"I can vouch for some of what he is saying," Aguilar said.
"And I've collected news reports and photographs from some of the incidents you've described," Trask replied. "There should be plenty to corroborate what he's saying and establish his reliability for our judge once we're back in D.C."
Wisniewski's conversation in Spanish continued for another minute or two. He paused, holding his hand over the phone, and looked up at Trask. "I've got enough for all three of them on the bombing—Lazcano and both of the Dominguez brothers—Lazcano ordered it, Ramón planned it and his little brother Vicente, the one they call 'The Rider,' detonated it. The source says he's heard them all joking about and admitting their roles in it. They were all involved in the heroin conspiracy as well, from harvesting through manufacture to delivery."
Trask smiled. "Great, spend what time he has left with the other incidents."
Wisniewski went back to his conversation.
"You can charge them even though only one pushed the button on the bomb, Jeff ?" Aguilar asked.
"Anyone who directed it, procured it, agreed to it, or otherwise aided or abetted it," Trask said, nodding. "Our federal conspiracy laws are a lot broader than those in your country."
"I see."
Wisniewski was wrapping up his questions. The call had lasted five minutes and forty seconds. He handed the phone back to Aguilar.
"We are once more in your debt," the major said in Spanish. "Be safe my friend."
"Interesting stuff ?" Trask asked.
Wisniewski nodded solemnly. "Enough to make your skin crawl."
"Give me the rest of the year, if you can, Jeff," Aguilar said. "The PRI doesn't take over until December. We will step up our efforts and try to resolve these problems in Mexico first."
"Done," Trask said. "We'll be ready to roll when you need us to."
Progreso, Coahuila, Mexico
October 7, 2012, 4:20 p.m.
"We are in place, Major."
"Excellent, Torres. Hold your position until I give the word. There are hundreds of civilians around the field. We don't want unnecessary casualties." Aguilar surveyed the situation from the window of his vehicle. He and his men had taken helicopters to a field located miles from the little town and had transferred to unmarked cars and trucks so as not to spook their target. They were about 130 miles south of the U.S. border, so the flights had not required any coordination with the Americans. Good, thought Aguilar. One less possible weak link. One less opportunity for a leak. Even our friends to the north have security problems. Tonight they will not be our problems. If my friend's information was correct just one last time, then all our efforts have been worthwhile.
"I have eyes on the target, Major," Torres reported. "Lazcano is here, just as our friend reported he would be."
"Good. Hold until I give the order." Aguilar's blood raced in excitement, but his command instincts, honed by years of fighting the cartels, cautioned him not to give in to any impulse. Acting too rashly might mean throwing his men into the wrong side of an ambush. In addition, the small baseball park was too crowded to storm, and he had too few men to undertake a frontal assault.
"Torres, how many Zetas do you think he has with him?" Aguilar asked, releasing the transmit button on his radio and waiting for the answer.
"There are just a handful in his party, Major. Just five that I can count. They are sitting with him."
It is just as our friend said it would be. El Verdugo has gotten sloppy, too confident. Our friend is elsewhere with El Ratón, so there are some details he could not be sure of, but what he did report was on the mark. "Torres, set up a roadblock on your side. We will do the same here. Search each vehicle leaving the field, and post sentries on each side to watch and stop those on foot. Lazcano is known to drive a gold Dodge Charger, but may have used a different vehicle today."
"Si, Major."
Aguilar motioned the men on his team into position. The baseball game ended, and the slow procession of cars and small pickups began to filter through the checkpoints.
Nothing unusual yet, Aguilar thought. Maybe—Yes! That one.
A dark colored Ford Ranger stood out from the rest of the traffic. It was newer than most of the vehicles in the line approaching the roadblock, and Aguilar saw that the wheels of the Ranger had twice turned as if the truck's driver was contemplating breaking out of line. His eyes locked on the passenger in the front seat. It could be him. Baseball hat and sunglasses, so I can't be sure, but it certainly looks like him.
"The Ranger. Watch it," Aguilar ordered.
His squad of marines split in two, with men advancing down each side of the line toward the crew-cab pickup. Aguilar noticed that the windows on the passenger side of the truck were rolling down. There was a silence for what seemed like several minutes. Suddenly he saw flashes of muzzle fire from inside the vehicle, and three dark objects came flying out of the truck's windows.
"Grenades!" Aguilar heard himself screaming the warning at the same time as some of his men. His marines were instantly diving to the ground, taking cover behind barrels, other vehicles, whatever they could find. Before the smoke from the explosions could clear, Aguilar rushed forward through the confusion and screams of the crowd, firing his .45. The reports from his pistol joined those of his marines' rifles, and he could see through the haze that the Ranger was being riddled in the crossfire. He was about to order his men to cease fire when he felt a smashing blow to his right thigh. He looked down to see the bloodstain forming on the leg of his battle fatigues. Oh hell, not again! His marines, seeing him fall, emptied their weapons in anger at the pickup.
"Cease fire!" Aguilar shouted. A medic was already at his side, ripping the pants leg open and applying pressure to the wound. "How is it?" he asked the corpsman.
"No arteries, Major. We'll need to get the bullet out, and—"
"Then help me up. I'm going over there!" Aguilar ordered.
The medic tied a bandage around the wound and pulled the Captain's right arm over his shoulder. They approached the pickup, and one of the marines pulled open the front passenger door. A body, oozing blood from more than a dozen bullet wounds, spilled out onto the ground at Aguilar's feet. The dead man's head was a mass of blood and torn tissue.
It's him, I'm almost certain, but we must make sure. "Fingerprint the bodies before you take them to a mortuary," Aguilar ordered.
"Yes, Major." Captain Torres was taking over now, barking orders to the men, moving the onlookers away from the area.
Aguilar nodded in satisfaction. Good man. He is doing as he was trained, assuming command. Aguilar nodded to the corpsman. "You can find me a hospital now."
FBI Field Office
Washington, D.C.
October 8, 2012, 9:17 a.m.
"Luis?" Trask nodded to those standing around him in the squad conference room. "I'm going to put you on speakerphone, if that's okay with you. You have some fans in the room." He pushed the button and placed his cell phone on the table.
"Hello, Jeff. Can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear, amigo. We've seen the news about your fight with Lazcano, Luis. It's not every day that someone brings down their nation's public enemy number one. Congratulations, Major." Trask led a round of applause which was joined in by the others in the room.
"Thank you, Jeff, and all my other friends there. I have had the pleasure of meeting Detective Wisniewski, and I have heard many good things about all the rest of you. I hope we can all meet someday."
"How are you, Luis?" Trask asked. "Linda said you'd managed to get yourself shot again."
"A leg wound this time," Aguilar said. "At first we didn't think it was anything too serious, but the doctors who took the bullet out last night tell me there was some nerve damage. They're medically retiring me next week, Jeff."
"I'm sorry and happy to hear that at the same time, Luis," Trask said. "You've fought the good fight. Time for someone else to carry the flag for a while. Your Captain Torres sounds very able, from
what you've told me."
"Very able," Aguilar agreed. "You've just paid him a compliment, which I will translate for him. You're on speakerphone on this end, and Captain Torres is here with me. So is Linda. She flew into Tampico last night."
"Then you're in good hands. I know Linda will be glad to have you home for good."
"You're damned straight," Linda Aguilar said, leaning toward the phone in the hospital room. "And he's flying back with me this time, not driving through Nuevo Laredo like some suicidal maniac. We'll be in Zapata very soon."
"Excellent," Trask replied. "We'll knock the top name off our criminal complaint here, Luis. Any word on the other two?"
"Only that my friend tells me that he thinks El Ratón will be smarter and even more dangerous than Lazcano. Unfortunately, he was not at the baseball game, and neither was his brother."
"We'll only move if we get them on this side of the river, Luis. Tell Torres he still has first shot."
"I understand. You are a man of your word, Jeff. You must bring your wife and come visit us in Zapata. I think I'll be doing a lot of fishing."
Lynn leaned across the table. "It's a date Luis. I think Linda and I might have a lot in common, since she's married to a maniac and my husband is a lunatic."
Aguilar's laughter could be heard through the chuckles in the conference room. "Excellent. As you Norté Americanos say, 'Come on down.' We'd love to have you."
"Rest and heal, Luis. Congratulations again." Trask switched off the speakerphone.
"Thank you, Jeff. I was serious about our invitation. You can't leave me alone with this woman for too long, you know."
"I heard that!" Linda said. Trask could tell that the speaker function on the other end was still engaged.
"It's a good day for both our countries," Trask said. "I know that several families here, and hundreds in Mexico, cheered your victory yesterday. I'll talk to you again soon, Luis."
"Thank you, Jeff."
Hospital Naval de Tampico
Tamaulipas, Mexico
"That was nice of Jeff to call," Linda Aguilar said, taking the phone from her husband. "You need to rest, now, Luis."
Before he could say anything, Aguilar was distracted by another phone ringing, this one in the hands of Captain Torres. He waited until Torres finished the call.
"Bad news, Major. Some Zetas broke into the funeral parlor in Sabinas where we took Lazcano's body. They've stolen it."
"It never ends," Aguilar said. "I'm glad we fingerprinted the bodies before we took them there. Compare the fingerprints with Lazcano's enlistment records. We'll still be able to confirm the kill."
Torres saluted. "It has been an honor serving in your command, Major."
Aguilar returned the salute. "It has been a privilege commanding officers like you Torres. Take care of our men." He pointed at the phone in Torres' hand. "Our friend will be calling you now. Keep it charged, and don't let that out of your sight. Let me know if I can help with anything."
Brooklyn, New York
October 12, 2012, 11:46 p.m.
The broker rolled off the bed in the motel room when he heard the knock on the door. He had not been asleep. In fact, he was fully dressed and well rested. These were, after all, his new business hours. He'd had nowhere else to go but back to the old neighborhood. The money he left the ranch with was running out, and he had turned to the only commercial asset he had left.
He'd cut the heroin, mixing it with a blend of milk sugar and quinine to double the volume of the ten pounds to twenty. The milk sugar was a fairly safe adulterant, and the quinine kept the taste bitter in case any of the junkie customers wanted to taste it first. Too much sugar, they got suspicious.
He'd run the numbers before taking the plunge. Twenty pounds equaled 9,080 grams. At fifty bucks a gram—a competitive street rate—he could turn the white powder into almost half a million dollars, and that was an amount he could live on. He'd already gone through a couple of pounds without any problems. The money was stacking up.
He took the pistol from underneath the pillow and walked to the corner of the window to see who was at the door. He recognized the man as a regular customer, a gram buyer who was good for about three grams per week. It had been two days since the junkie had been by, so everything was on schedule.
"Be right there."
He pulled his shirttail up and stuck the pistol inside his belt. Walking to the dresser, he opened a shaving kit that contained nothing related to shaving. The gram baggies filled the kit, each gram weighed on the digital scales he kept with the main stash of dope in the trunk of the car parked outside. He pulled one of the little baggies from the kit and walked over to the door.
The moment the knob turned, the door flew open and the broker felt himself being lifted off the ground as two large men bull-rushed him, spinning him around and throwing him onto the bed.
"Federal Agents! You're under arrest!" One of the men was yelling in his ear. The other already had a cuff on one of his arms, and was pulling the other arm behind his back. The man's hand brushed against the pistol as he pulled the broker's hand backward.
"GUN!" The second man yelled in his other ear.
He felt himself being thrown to the floor. One of the men had a knee digging into his back while he was patted down. He could hardly breathe.
"He's secure."
The broker felt himself being lifted by his arms. The men put him in the rolling desk chair that came with the room. One was reading him his rights. The other was telling him something about a search warrant for his car. It was over.
Zapata, Texas
November 24, 2012, 11:45 a.m.
"How wide is the lake here, Luis?" Lynn asked as they looked southwestward from the deck of the lake house.
"Almost exactly a mile," Aguilar said. He pointed out across the lake. "There's a point right out there on the other side where I used to fish a lot as a boy. A good spot. A stream feeds the lake on the north side, and we could catch a lot of bass feeding on the smaller fish entering the main lake." He smiled. "We could still catch them today, if it were not for the Zetas. They control Nuevo Laredo to the northwest, and their boats often come out trying to retrieve the drugs that their planes drop into the lake."
"How's the fishing been for you?" Trask asked.
"Fair. It slows a bit this time of year. We take the boat out a couple of times a week. I find myself wishing we could go back to that little point on the other side. Perhaps someday we will be able to."
"How's the leg?" Trask asked him.
"Not bad. I honestly think I could have continued to serve. It's a little numb, and slower than the other one when it comes to accepting instructions from my brain. I have to be careful not to move too quickly or I find myself stumbling."
"You're a lucky guy, Luis," Lynn said. "Surviving all those wounds at the hands of those bastards. Jeff's shown me a lot of the research he's done into all their mass killings. Incredible brutality. Now you're here with Linda. It's all good."
"Thank you, Lynn," Linda said. "I think he needs to be reminded of that sometimes."
"I just feel like I left some things unfinished, my love," Aguilar said, patting his wife's knee.
"Captain Torres can handle that for you now," she said. "You did much more than your share."
A timer went off in the kitchen, the bell ringing through the screen doors to the deck.
"Finally," Trask said. "I was gaining weight smelling that, Linda."
"Stay here too long and you will," Aguilar said, pointing to his waist. "I'm up ten pounds since I got here. With this leg slowing me down, it's hard to get much exercise."
South of Nuevo Laredo
Tamaulipas, Mexico
November 25, 2012, 12:27 a.m.
Once he was sure that the others were asleep, he rolled out of the bed in the bunkhouse of the hacienda. He headed down the hallway on what would seem to any of the others to be a trip to the latrine. Instead of entering the bathroom, however, he kept going, wal
king outside into the courtyard. He found his car, a run-down looking Subaru, in the row of vehicles parked outside the bunkhouse. For all the dents and missing paint, the car's engine and drivetrain still functioned well.
He stopped at the gate and smiled at the man with an AK-47 strapped to his shoulder.
"Ah, Miguel," the guard said, smiling back at him. "Off to see that little chiquita of yours again?"
"What can I say? Duty calls."
The guard laughed and waved him on.
A soon as he was out of sight of the hacienda, he turned right. He did not take the road into Nuevo Laredo, but drove eastward toward the lakefront. He checked the mirrors as he drove. No lights. I am not beingfollowed. He found the little park with its picnic tables, and pulled into the parking lot. It was a good spot. He had used it before.
He turned the engine off and pulled out the cell phone.
"Hello?"
"It's me, Capitán."
"How are you, my friend?"
"Well enough. I have something to—"
A movement in his rearview mirror caught his attention. Another car was entering the parking lot, it's headlights off. It's probably nothing. Maybe some amorous teenagers looking for a place to make out. Instead of turning toward another area of the parking lot, however, the other vehicle pulled in directly behind him and stopped. A brief ray of moonlight shining through the clouds provided just enough definition for him to make out the model of the other car. A black Mustang!
The driver of the Mustang climbed out and walked to the driver's side of the Subaru. He had a pistol in his hand.
"I told Ramón it had to be you," Vicente Dominguez said, sneering. "The meeting tonight was to flush out our spy—the one who kept alerting Aguilar about our traps for him, the one who tipped him off about Lazcano being at that baseball game. I told Ramón it had to be you, but he would not believe me. He believes me now. He's bringing one of his little stewpots. We're going to be cooking tonight. Get out."