Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  Daniel couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, but he was liking it. “Maybe messing up runs a little in this family,” Daniel said.

  “And maybe I get a son who’s got more sense than his old man. I think I better get to know him better ...”

  The two sat quietly now, savoring something neither had known for years . . . the sense of being father and son . . .

  “So what about the Hammerheads?” Daniel asked. “They say on the news you won’t be around too much longer.”

  Hardcastle shrugged. “It’s all up in the air, Daniel. Right now we’re just trying to get back on our feet.”

  “They went ahead and fired General Elliott?”

  Hardcastle nodded.

  “Why?”

  Hardcastle couldn’t talk about the secret mission to Haiti, couldn’t talk about the ploy cooked up to try to lure the smugglers into the open. “I don’t understand it myself, except sometimes it shakes things up to fire the head honcho. Elliott’s been there for almost three years, that’s about par for the course.”

  “I liked the guy,” Daniel said. “He seems pretty cool on TV. Full of piss and vinegar.”

  “I think the general would like that characterization,” Hardcastle said.

  A beat of silence. Several of them. Finally, Daniel said, “So maybe I should go down and talk to Mom, huh?”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Hardcastle said. “You may want to wait until after Hargrove leaves.”

  “The man’s a wimp,” Daniel said with a smile. “He’s over here every day sniffing after Mom.” At his father’s disapproving glare, he added, “Mom likes having him over, but she doesn’t encourage him. Don’t worry. I think the only meat Mom’s getting from Greg is dinner at Aldo’s.”

  “Where the hell you learn how to talk like that?” Hardcastle said with a short laugh. “Certainly not from your old man.”

  “Nahhh . . .”

  “You talk about getting high or getting stoned? Hargrove is down there right now drinking something or other, and he’ll be off in his Beemer or Jag or whatever he’s driving and be on the highways. But, that’s considered acceptable these days. True, the public tolerance for alcohol is tightening, but guys like Hargrove can get away with driving with a snootful, even if he does get caught. Where’s the lesson here? Some of my officers celebrate after they catch a big drug smuggler by going out and getting shit-faced at some sleazy Miami bars. That doesn’t say much for our society when we reward ourselves with alcohol while trying to stop drugs.” He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Lecture over.”

  Hardcastle nodded, then let himself go and hugged his son. “Well, I better be going.”

  Downstairs he said a quick good-by to Jennifer and went outside. He saw Hargrove leaning on his car hood and walked past him without saying a word. Hargrove and Jennifer exchanged a few words, followed by the sound of the car door closing. The big foreign- make engine revved up and Hargrove peeled down the driveway and out into the street with a roar.

  Hardcastle got into his old station wagon and pulled out into traffic. Well, it had been quite a day—he had gotten his son back, managed to see Jennifer without doing battle . . . now to top it off, one more thing to do . . .

  He pulled the portable radio out of its belt holster. “Aladdin, this is Tiger.”

  “Go ahead, Tiger.”

  “Relay a message to Dade County for me. Ask them to look out for a silver Alfa Romeo, vanity license number hotel-golf-romeo-oscar- victor-echo-november-two, last seen heading eastbound on Taimiami Trail Boulevard. He seems to be weaving in traffic. Ask them to investigate. Over.”

  “Copy all, Tiger.”

  “Thanks. Tiger is ten-six. Out.”

  The end of a damn near perfect day.

  On a Yacht Off the Coast of Belize, Central America

  Several Days Later

  A motor launch pulled up alongside the gleaming white steel sides of Gachez’s yacht and two figures disembarked and stepped up the boarding stairs. They were thoroughly searched after reaching the top of the stairs and escorted below decks into the main salon.

  Agusto Salazar spotted Gachez seated behind an expensive walnut desk in the salon and opened his arms wide. “My old friend,” Salazar said in a loud voice. “Good to see you again. It was very kind of you to invite me on board.” He moved closer to the desk. Gachez had not gotten to his feet but continued puffing on a cigar. Salazar lowered his arms but not his fixed smile. Finally Gachez motioned Salazar to a leather chair in front of the desk. This time Salazar did the ignoring.

  Gachez watched Salazar move around the salon. After a few moments he motioned to the man beside him. “Leave us.”

  Maxwell Van Nuys looked at both Salazar and Gachez. Ever since the incident at Sunrise Beach, Van Nuys had been under the protection, more or less, of Gachez and the Medellin Cartel, in return shuttling around the Caribbean, and even the United States on occasion, on errands. His latest was to escort Salazar to Gachez for this meeting. “WeVe partners now, Gachez,” Van Nuys protested. “If you’re going to make a deal with this peacock, I want to be in on it.” “This is personal, Van Nuys. You will be involved in any business discussions we might have.”

  “I had better be. I’m taking the big risk here.” Still not satisfied but not wanting to start an argument in front of Salazar, Van Nuys left.

  “I am impressed with your new errand boy, Luiz,” Salazar said. “Impertinent, but that is true for all Americans.”

  “Bypassing customs inspections in Belize is child’s play,” Gachez said. “But he seems to have the Mexican federales on his payroll as well. I used to have police helicopters circling my yacht in Mexico taking pictures—now I have federales calling me sir and flying me to the airport. He has managed to open up new shipment routes and distribution networks all across the region, including the southwest United States, and his holding companies, casinos, banks and real estate ventures make good investment vehicles for the Cartel. We have made new inroads into legitimate enterprises. But Van Nuys can’t provide us with a way to move product in bulk.”

  “Which is why you have called on me.”

  “My associates and I would like to know if the Cuchillos are available for business,” Gachez said. “You have been in hiding for days now. Can we count on you or not?”

  “We are not out of the business. It has taken longer than I had anticipated to recruit replacement pilots and to procure airframes, but now those preparations have been accomplished. We can organize our first full shipment—”

  “My associates will be pleased. Where is your base of operations now?”

  “I must insist on secrecy, Senor Gachez,” Salazar said, “even with you. We are still vulnerable ... I know you will understand—”

  “No. I understand the need for security, but I also insist on knowing all there is about those who work for me. As before, you will tell me the location of your base and allow an inspection by my deputies.”

  “Not possible. Security was compromised and it cost the lives of several of my best pilots and the loss of nearly all my high-performance jet aircraft—”

  “That was not my fault, Salazar. I did not order an attack against the Border Security Force. It was a suicide mission from the start. As for the breach of your security, it is an occupational hazard with an organization your size. You must have known you would be discovered sooner or later. You continued to fly your planes from the United States and the Caribbean directly back to Haiti instead of arranging decoy bases and covers—that was your mistake, not mine. I also don’t understand why you keep jet aircraft in a smuggling organization. The jets carry no drugs, they protect nothing. They are your toys. So be it, but you are responsible for your own fate—”

  “True, I am responsible for my own fate,” Salazar said. “And it is my responsibility to protect my organization as we regroup and consolidate. That includes keeping our location, strength and assets secret—even from the Cartel.”

  “Then
the Cartel will not do business with you. You can’t expect us to hand over millions of dollars worth of product to you without inspecting your facilities and verifying your base of operations—”

  “I refuse.”

  “You cannot extort the Cartel like this. We will shut down your operation. You must pay for those expensive toys you threw away in that raid on the American radar sites—you will find it impossible to pay if you find no customers to haul product for.”

  “I have my aircraft, my unit is operational now. We are the flyers that beat the United States Air Force in their own front yard. You may head the Medellin Cartel, Gachez, but you do not own the entire hemisphere’s trade. With American addicts paying almost a hundred thousand dollars a kilo for street cocaine you’ll find more competition. The Cali and Bogota cartels have already told me they are interested in my services. I believe Senor Sienca in Cali runs a very powerful Colombian drug cartel now, surpassing the Medellin—please, let me finish ... The Mexico City and Guadalajara cartels grow stronger every day, and they export only by land. If they should have an air-delivery system as reliable as the Cuchillos they could force you out—”

  Gachez shook his head. “The Medellin cartel is richer and more powerful than ever.”

  “Then the Mexicans’ need of the Cuchillos is so great they will pay more, even make me a full partner ...”

  Always the same, Gachez thought. The same problems his brothers encountered years ago—he could trust no one from the outside, always someone wanted more. But Salazar was mistaken if he thought any Mexican cartel was or could be more powerful than the Colombian organizations. Still, their leadership could be threatened if the Mexicans moved product and the Colombians did not . . .

  “I will make it easy for you, Senor Gachez, to avoid any prolonged, fruitless negotiations. The price to deliver a kilo of cocaine from Colombia to anywhere in the United States is thirty thousand dollars. I will receive half up front and the rest upon delivery ...”

  “That’s three times the normal rate—”

  “I beat the Hammerheads and the United States Air Force once, I will do it again. And that is why my terms are not only reasonable but generous—”

  “My employees don’t tell me how to do business—”

  “Bueno, I am no longer one of your employees. It is your choice.” He turned and walked to the salon door.

  “And it is also my choice that you be shark bait.” He buzzed for two of his soldiers, who burst into the salon, one from behind the desk, one from behind Salazar.

  The attack, however, was over before it began. Before Gachez could get to his feet there was a knife slash across one soldier’s stomach, the other was stuck in the left shoulder. Salazar had disarmed both men and taken one of the soldier’s automatic pistols in hand. “Call your guards and tell them to stay out of sight,” Salazar ordered. “If I see one guard or one weapon, I’ll kill you.”

  To his surprise, Gachez, with practiced smoothness in the face of crisis, only smiled and faintly, derisively, applauded. “Excellent, Colonel, excellent. Very good moves for an older man.” Gachez reached down to the intercom on his desk. “Jose. Colonel Salazar is leaving.

  Keep all your men out of sight until he leaves. He will be carrying a gun. Make no moves against him.” Then to Salazar: “I would be interested to learn how you managed to get those knives past my guards, Colonel.”

  Salazar reached down to his right boot, extracted another knife, and hurled it into the leather chair behind the desk, inches from Gachez’s left hip. Gachez yanked it out of the leather and inspected it. “A gift for you, Senor Gachez. My knives are made of ceramic composites, lighter and stronger than steel and undetectable by conventional metal detectors. You should update your security.” He left then and made his way to the boarding ladder to his waiting motor launch.

  Gachez’s smile vanished as Salazar left the salon. He hit the intercom button. “Jose, send two men in here.” He stood at his desk examining the knife as guards came in and helped the two stricken guards out. Chief of security named Jose followed the guards in, a submachine gun drawn. Maxwell Van Nuys came after.

  “What the hell happened?” Van Nuys asked. “Where’s Salazar?”

  “Something you gringos would not understand,” Gachez said. “We were playing a game for men.”

  “A game for men? He cuts two of your men and uses you for target practice. That’s real manly. Where is he? Is he going to take the job?”

  “He asks for thirty thousand a kilo, with half up front.”

  “So you said no and he threw a knife.”

  The chief cartel leader walked quickly to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of vodka.

  “So much for your macho negotiation technique. We can continue to make shipments overland through Mexico, but it takes weeks to get a shipment across the border, and then we have to get it into the hands of the distributors in Florida and California—”

  “Your job is not to worry about where or how the shipments are sent. Your job is to take care of foreign Customs and the money in your banks ...”

  Van Nuys shook his head. “It might end up costing you a lot more if you don’t go with Salazar and his Cuchillos. He gets the job done. It’ll cost you ten thousand a kilo to get it into the United States overland, but then you have to see that it gets from New Mexico and Texas all the way to Florida or Los Angeles. Each shipment spends weeks on the road and you risk interception every day it’s out of your hands. Even if a few shipments are lost or intercepted, you get more product delivered in less time with air deliveries, and you don’t mess with Customs.”

  “You are saying you can’t handle your end of our bargain?”

  “I can handle it but it’s dangerous,” Van Nuys said. “We can pay off these officials all we want, but one day someone’s going to come with more money, more booze, a better-looking woman, or a bigger gun—and then these Customs agents belong to someone else . . . Read the newspapers. The Border Security Force is going down the drain. The government may make a big deal about having the military take over drug interdiction duties, but it’s a lot more expensive to run an F-16 than a Sea Lion aircraft or a drone. If you ask me, you have no choice but to go with Salazar. They want people to think the smugglers are laying low, when the Air Force or the Navy can’t find their butts with both hands. Salazar might be greedy, but he did the job. The borders are wide open.”

  Gachez slowly turned Salazar's throwing knife over in his hand, then returned to his desk with his glass of vodka. “Bueno. Then you will handle Colonel Salazar. You will accompany him to his base, inspect his facilities and report to me that he has the resources to do the job. I will decide whether to trust him enough for a major shipment.”

  “Me? Why should I—?”

  “You are an experienced pilot, able to judge the value of his planes and the capabilities of his new facilities. You can chart his base’s location and report on his organization. He will not tolerate one of my people to go along with him. You are less threatening, a compromise he can accept.”

  “It’s because of the leaks in your organization and your own handling of Salazar I was almost busted by the Hammerheads. I’m working with you until I can recoup my losses and then I’m retired,” “You work for me now, Mr. Van Nuys. I could have had you killed or turned you over to the authorities when I discovered your little smuggling operation. I did neither. You traded your life for a longterm employment contract with me. If you really hope to live until this fanciful retirement you speak of, you will do as I say. What I need from you is to verify that Salazar wall not soak us, and will handle our business. The Cartel wishes the main shipment on its way as soon as possible, but not before I have Salazar checked out.”

  Van Nuys hesitated. “Howt big is this main shipment?”

  “I want to know if Salazar can handle fifty thousand kilos.” Gachez said casually.

  “Fifty . . . thousand . . . kilos? Of cocaine?”

  “Maybe more. The C
artel has been shipping only one-tenth its normal volume for the past twelve months, but production has not slowed. We are backlogged with product. At a wholesale price of sixty thousand a kilo we can make a very great profit ...”

  “That’s three billion dollars worth you wTant shipped? All at once?” “Of course, all at once. The Americans are starving for cocaine. This is a major relief effort, like airlifting food to Ethiopia, or gas masks to Bhoupal, or lead undenvear to Chernobyl.” Gachez smiled at his own wit. “Even paying Salazar his exorbitant fee, the Cartel will net over a billion dollars from wholesale and our portion of the retail sales—and all in a few days’ work. As the leading producer for the Cartel, we will get the largest cut—over four hundred million dollars.”

  Van Nuys considered the enormous figures. On the street the stuff was worth twice its wholesale value—over six billion dollars. Once cut and prepared it was enough cocaine to give every man, woman and child in the United States two “lines.” And if it was processed into crack cocaine . . .

  “And the shipment is ready to go immediately,” Gachez was saying. “I want you on the plane with Salazar tonight, back to whatever hole he has dug for himself.”

  The profit potential was huge, Van Nuys told himself. Three billion dollars . . .

  “All right, all right. Just this once. But remember, I’m a lawyer, not one of your damned bean-counters—”

  “You are a greedy bastard like everyone else,” Gachez said, downing the last of his vodka. “You complain, but you came to me. No one cares who you were or what you did before this. Do as you’re told and you get your money. And that makes you no different from the old woman who cleans my toilets every day. Follow Salazar every minute of every day, be ready to report in detail about where he’s hiding and what equipment he has. That’s it.”

  After Van Nuys left, escorted by two soldiers, Gachez turned to Luiz Canseco, the youngster who had volunteered to test the Hammerheads’ defenses and who was now a top lieutenant in Gachez’s most trusted cadre. “Luiz, you go with Van Nuys. Keep a close eye on him. Follow him—charter a plane, buy a boat, bribe local officials, do whatever you must, but follow him everywhere and report back to me. If he is even seen with an American agent or police, an official of any kind, execute him.”