by Frank Perry
from the CIA, from Rachael, advising of the suspicions.”
“All right, but this could blow up big time if you’re wrong. The guy’s been in all the media. He’s practically a hero.”
“I can’t help it. Just do it!”
Juan Morales
Hector Cardenas grew up immersed in violence as his father took control of drug trafficking through Mexico. As a child, he never went anywhere without body guards. At first, they had lived in slums and drove old cars, but as time passed and wealth accumulated, his conditions had improved throughout his school years, but he had never enjoyed the freedoms of ordinary children.
His first introduction to the cruelty of the family business occurred off the coast of Baja California opposite Ensenada, cruising north on a fishing boat headed to Oceanside, above San Diego. The boat’s hold was full of marijuana and three petty drug smugglers. Around midnight, the ragged smugglers were made to stand on the stern of the boat where Hector’s father, Alejandro, sat with an old Springfield 1903, .30-06 caliber rifle. Alejandro wanted Hector to witness the execution of the peasants to understand how power was achieved in the drug trade. Without ceremony or emotion, he shot the first man in the stomach, who fell crumpled on the deck. Two crewmen lifted him onto the back rail and threw him overboard. The man probably didn’t swim well and would die by drowning or eaten by sharks if he lived long enough. The two other men cried and pleaded, but Cardenas shot the next one in the head, knocking him over the stern. He then cycled the bolt on the gun and told Hector to take it. While Alejandro supported the gun for Hector, he ordered the child to shoot the last man who was holding his hands out defensively while pleading. Hector cried uncontrollably and couldn’t look along the gun toward the man. He was only nine years old and refused to touch the gun, but his father forced his men to push the boy forward and made him shoot. With his eyes closed, the recoil sent Hector to the deck of the boat. The shot missed, but the panicky victim stumbled and fell off the boat anyway, more than fifty miles from shore. The Cardenas gang laughed at Hector on the deck and continued north. The victim would have been better off if killed quickly, rather than the death he now faced.
After that, killing and torture got easier. He was a conflicted youth. He matured to be a sadistic killer, but also well educated in private schools. At eighteen, he enrolled at San Diego State University in California under the name Juan Morales. Following graduation, he joined the U.S. Border Patrol and requested the southern border. With his help at remote crossing points, the Cardenas’ Cartel flourished. Hector was silently accumulating a fortune over the years serving with the USBP, aiding his father and destroying the competition.
When his father was killed, Hector killed Agent Randy Firth and faked his own kidnapping. He took over control of his father’s cartel in Mexico. As an educated man, he had no illusions about life expectancy in the trade, so he’d planned one last mega-shipment of drugs that would triple his hidden wealth. His ally was a CIA operative who had befriended his father years earlier and received large land parcels as compensation for his services. As seen by both Cardenas men, Jamie Montes used his connections with the DEA to manipulate conditions, allowing their shipments to slip through the borders, while targeting other smugglers and anyone trying to lead terrorists north. It had been an unholy alliance that Hector continued. Cardenas had never had a shipment captured.
Hector had begun planning his move back to the States as soon as he’d secured control of the cartel. There had been some minor attempts by other Cardenas gang leaders to take control, but they were quickly and painfully exterminated as an example to others interested in taking his legacy. His father taught him well.
His exit strategy was simply to gather a huge drug shipment, then use Montes to create a diversion so he could get it to his northern distributors. The payments would flow to his secret bank accounts, and he would “escape” back across the border and resume his U.S. identity. He would find the border patrol too stressful after his capture and would resign and fade into obscurity. For compensation, Montes would receive all of the physical assets Hector left behind in Mexico. The plan was brilliant--until it failed.
El Jefe
The Cardenas air-express plane touched down at Juarez Airport after midnight. Jamie had called ahead, and a car with driver was waiting at the airport. It was a tiring four-hour flight even without the security delays of a commercial airliner. The air over the mountains had been turbulent, and he had had to be strapped in tightly for two hours. Small executive jets are great for convenience and prestige, but not always for comfort. His back ached from crouching inside, and the booze was too tempting. He was unstable, stepping down with help from the flight crew. He silently vowed never to drink again on “his” airplane.
The car pulled up immediately, and a large, surprisingly well-dressed man got out of the front passenger seat and opened his door. So far, his role as drug czar was great. He ordered them to drive to his estate, putting his head back to sleep, turning his cellphone off for the hour-long drive to the foothills. It was a clear night, and he enjoyed looking at the stars between dozing off. When they arrived, the house was alight, inside and out, and there were two uniformed police standing in front. Cardenas senior had used the police for security. When they pulled up onto the circular driveway in front of the entrance, he waited again for the door to be opened.
Stepping from the car, he buttoned his suit coat and walked as ceremoniously as possible past the guards, who didn’t stand at attention. He made a mental note of the insult and continued walking to the door, which was partially opened.
Something seemed abnormal. Cardenas had people falling all over themselves to assist him in everything — or they were buried in the desert behind the house. He wasn’t experiencing the same respect.
Stepping inside, he heard, “Well, hello, Señor Montes.”
Jamie acknowledged the shorter man, “Major Padilla! What a surprise!” He immediately recognized the trap he was in, but was able to mask his anxiety after years of emersion in the violent cartel subculture. There was nowhere to run.
“Indeed, Señor. We have been waiting for you for several hours.”
“Well, I’m grateful for your concern Major, but you should not feel the necessity in the future.”
“Oh, it is not a great matter, Señor. Actually, I am here officially tonight.” Jamie looked at him curiously as Padilla continued, “Yes, we have a new Judge in town who instructed the police to detain you in Juarez.”
“What? Is he insane?”
“Oh, I imagine he is quite insane. The Americans, you know. They want more forceful conformance with the laws. Poor judge, I fear shortly he will be out of office permanently. But alas, I must ask you to come with me to the station tonight, and then you can call one of your expensive lawyers, and we will release you.”
Montes sensed the two uniforms standing behind him. To protest would be useless. He had been with Cardenas several times before for the same excursion. “Oh, well, then. I’ll go peacefully.” He thrust out his wrists in mock submission. “Do you plan to shackle me?”
“Of course not. We are all gentlemen here.” Montes knew of at least one police Captain buried out back who had been less accommodating.
Padilla approached him by the door, signaling with his hand, “Shall we go.”
Jamie bowed his head slightly, “By all means.”
In the car, one of the uniforms sat in the back with Jamie, while Padilla rode in front with the driver.
Jamie asked, “Do you mind if I make a phone call to one of my lawyers?”
“No, by all means.”
“Thank you.” He used the phone number programmed as number 3. Only one side of the conversation could be heard by others in the car. She was sleeping lightly in her townhome in Washington when her mobile phone range. There was no privacy as he spoke, “Oh, Margaretta. I am so sorry to wake you. Will you please wake Paulo and tell
him that I have been arrested.”
After a short pause, “Yes, tell Paulo that I am going to the Police station with Major Padilla.”
“Yes, he knows where the station is located.”
“Oh, I’m disappointed that he cannot come tonight, but please have him come as soon as possible.”
“Yes, yes, have him come tomorrow, as early as possible, please.”
“Thank you. Yes, I will.”
“Buenas Noches.”
He thanked Padilla for allowing the call, who replied, “No pasa nada, Señor.”
The ride to the station was eerily quiet for the next thirty minutes. Jamie stared out of the window. It was pointless to engage in any small talk with Padilla. He knew this was leading to a much direr ending than appeasing some judge. The car passed by the entrance to the station, rounding a corner, heading for the rear of the building. It pulled into the back of the station and both uniformed police escorted Jamie through the back door. It led down a narrow painted adobe hallway with barred interior windows. The walls were freshly painted, as usual, to hide blood spatters and other indications of prisoner maltreatment. The cells were empty this night. At the end, they turned through down a perpendicular hall leading to four isolated cells.
As they turned into the end cellblock, Jamie’s heart stopped