An Eye For An Eye (12 page)

There had to be a spy, Ramón thought. That was the only explanation. How else could the government have learned about his warehouse? How else could they have learned about the shipment? He picked up the pictures again, flipping through them, growing angrier with each one. There had to be a mole.

He glanced up at Eduardo. They had been together for nine years, having worked together for
los Federales
—the Federal Police—before joining the cartel. And when he took over seven years ago? Eduardo had been by his side. It couldn’t be him, Ramón thought. They were like family. And what could the government offer? To be an underpaid federal servant, always struggling to put food on the table. That was the life they had both left. Why would Eduardo want to go back to that?

He glanced at the pictures again. It had to be the DEA. One of their agents had infiltrated his organization. He would find the mole. Of that he was certain. Then he would learn as much as he could from him before he sent the Americans a message. He had seen the videos posted by the Taliban. The tearful American pleading for his life. The three armed men standing behind him, weapons held ready. The tears running down the American’s face as he read from the paper, listing all of America’s sins. The long curved knife. The sickening scream. Then the Taliban fighter holding the severed head for the whole world to see. He smiled for the first time that day. What he planned for the mole would make the Taliban cringe.

His thoughts were interrupted by the phone. He glanced at the number, hesitated a moment, then picked up.

“The Americans are becoming a problem,” he said before Guerrero could speak. “But I will handle it.”

“The key to success in business,” Guerrero stated as if he hadn’t heard a word that Ramón had said, “is to find the opportunities before your competitors do.”

Ramón frowned. He looked up at Eduardo. Eduardo’s face was blank.

“Oftentimes the best opportunities come during adversity,” Guerrero continued.

Ramón frowned again then felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He looked back at Eduardo. Eduardo’s face was still blank but then he suddenly pulled his hand up from below the table. In the half second before the flash, in the half second he had left to live, Ramón realized his mistake.

In the gray light of early morning, the twin white vans turned the corner, the grill lights and taillights flashing. People on the street glanced up nervously as they passed by. An old woman made the sign of the cross then clutched her sweater tightly around her throat as she hurried inside. The vans, with
Unidad Especializada de la Escena del Crimen
—Crime Scene Unit—stenciled on the side, had become a daily sight in Ciudad Juarez. Ominous and foreboding, everyone knew it meant another body had been discovered.

Two miles up the road, the vans turned another corner then signaled again as they approached the entrance to the highway. Several cops held the yellow crime scene tape up, letting them through. As the lead van pulled onto the highway, the investigator sitting in the front passenger seat craned his neck to see the overpass. Eight bodies hung motionless from the pedestrian bridge. The investigator shook his head; it had already been a long night and now eight more.

The van pulled up behind the police truck, and the investigator climbed out. As he walked to the middle of the three lane road, closed now to traffic, he glanced up at the clouds then adjusted the setting on his camera. He took several wide angle shots first to capture the full scene before zooming in. He worked fast. The eight men, their faces bloated in death, their shirts all stained with blood, weren’t going anywhere. Still, he hurried. Several were missing shoes, he noted. All had their hands bound behind their backs. And all, he could see from here, had been shot in the head. He zoomed in on the first man, staring through the viewfinder at the face, at the broken nose, at the black hair matted with blood. Even with the bruising and bloating, it was a face he knew well. Victim number one was
el capitán
, the head of the Los Alacránes operations in Ciudad Juarez. He snapped two pictures then one of the sign around the man’s neck.
Ciudad Juarez belongs to Las Sangre Negras,
the sign proclaimed in Spanish—a stark warning to all that the ever-shifting landscape of narco-trafficking had changed yet again.

Ten minutes later, when the investigator finished taking pictures, he walked back to the van to grab his crime scene kit. As he pulled on a pair of gloves he sighed. The night had started out like most. The first call had come not ten minutes after his shift had begun: a twenty-two, meaning a body had been discovered. That one had been shot inside a small
mercado
. Then an hour later, two more had been gunned down in a car. The driver was dead but the passenger, despite having been shot four times had survived, for a little while at least. The men who shot him found him later, a mile away, where they stopped the ambulance, pulled the wounded man out, and shot him eight more times in the head.

That was followed by three more, killed on a soccer field in front of their families, then another two while drinking beer in a bar. Eight victims in the first three hours. He should have known then that it would be a difficult night, he thought with a sigh as he climbed the steps to the overpass.

Then came the call at midnight. Eight severed heads tossed into a crowded restaurant—one favored by Los Alacránes henchmen—and the banner hung up outside:
Ciudad Juarez belongs to Las Sangre Negras.

Eight, eight, and eight, the investigator thought as he waited for the capitán to be hoisted up to the bridge. He would perform a quick inspection of the body here before it was loaded into the van and driven back to the lab. Twenty-four in total. The first eight were likely a coincidence, he knew, but he couldn’t help but wonder. Eight.
Ocho
.

More would come, he knew as he squatted down by the body. A lot more. El Ocho now owned Ciudad Juarez.

As the colonel read the email again, he felt his stomach lurch.
Be ready at six
, the note said. Just four simple words, but he couldn’t shake the dread that it meant so much more.
Be ready at six.
He had to work tomorrow. El Ocho was aware of that, he knew. How would he explain his absence? He sat back, stared at the ceiling, and wondered. Why would El Ocho want to meet now? Whatever the reason, it wasn’t good.

He stood and began pacing. After a minute he stopped and walked quietly to his son’s room. He stood in the doorway and listened to his son’s breathing. Fourteen years old and already a soccer star, his son led his high school team in goals. He smiled then quietly closed the door. He tiptoed down the hall to his daughter’s room. He gently opened the door and saw that she had left her light on. He turned it off then carefully pulled the covers up to her shoulders. She rolled over and, a moment later, she was breathing peacefully again. He closed the door and stood for a while in the darkened hall. It was all for them, he thought.

After a moment, he hurried back to his computer. Fifteen minutes later, after he had transferred the funds, he began to make a list. That took some time. When he was done, he read it twice to make sure he had considered everything. He added two more items, then read it again before he finally glanced at his watch. He stood abruptly. He had a lot to do and the clock was ticking.

One hundred miles south of San Diego, in a food processing facility on the southwestern edge of Ensenada, the guard inspected the load once again. The two rows of pallets, each stacked with dozens of cases of strawberries, filled the truck. The pallets were double-stacked, just a foot of space between the thick corrugate boxes on top and the ceiling of the refrigerated trailer. He glanced between the two rows and nodded to himself. The strawberries, while expensive and quite profitable, were not the critical items on board.

He closed the door, locked it, then affixed the seal. He checked the manifest once again, signed it, then walked around to the front of the truck. He rapped his knuckles on the window.

“Listo,” he said to the driver.
Ready.

He handed the driver the manifest, the FDA certificates, and customs paperwork required to transport the berries across the border. As the driver closed the window and put the truck in gear, the guard pulled the chain, opening the door to the warehouse. He stepped out of the way as the driver eased the truck forward. The guard waited to close the door. But in mere fractions of a second, before he could pull the chain, his brain registered the burst of light and, in his last moment alive, images of his wife and children flashed through his mind.

“Any more problems?” Guerrero asked.

“No,” Alberto answered. “The city is ours.”

Guerrero merely nodded. That Ciudad Juarez would fall quickly had been expected.

“And the colonel?”

“He disappeared,” Alberto stated, then added, “His family is missing, too.”

“Do you think he’s been arrested?”

“It’s possible. But wouldn’t we have heard about it?”

Perhaps
, Guerrero thought.
Perhaps
. If the colonel had been arrested, there was little he could do to cause Guerrero harm. He had been careful. The colonel had always been blindfolded and had never known the location of their meeting sites. And the colonel would have learned little, if anything, about his operation. Any information exchanged had always flowed in the other direction: from the colonel to him.

He would get rid of the phone. That was easy. The cutout—the man who passed their email messages back and forth—that was the only link. He was no longer useful and now posed a risk. But that problem was easily solved too, he thought. He would get rid of him just like he would get rid of the phone. And if the colonel was in custody, he would easily find out through his other contacts. Then it would be a simple matter of a payment to the right person, and the colonel would be dealt with. And the message to the others would be clear.

He frowned. But if the colonel had run? That he couldn’t let happen.

He locked eyes with Alberto. “Find him.”

Tomas Mendoza didn’t notice the blood on his hand, didn’t feel the pain. He slammed his fist against the desk again.

The man sitting in front of him, across the desk, flinched. He nervously rubbed the scar on his cheek but said nothing. He had learned the hard way to keep his mouth closed when
el jefe
was angry.

Mendoza was oblivious to his aide’s discomfort. Someone would have to pay, he thought. His own government had permitted the Americans to fly their drones and to drop their bombs on Mexican soil, on
his
soil. And now, one of his warehouses was destroyed. Hadn’t he paid enough in bribes to ensure his protection? Yes, someone would have to pay.

He stood, his dark eyes piercing his aide for a moment. Then he stepped to the window and looked out over the city of Ensenada as he decided where to direct his violence.

On the roof of a building, half a mile away, Teniente Ramirez let out a breath.
Finally
, he thought. He had been perched on the rooftop for the last six hours.

He spoke into his radio “Target spotted.”

“Roger. Sniper One has target.”

He watched through his binoculars as the man stood in the window. He wondered for a second whether the glass would deflect the round but quickly put the worry out of his mind. The sniper team on the adjacent building would account for this, as they did for the wind, for the humidity, the distance; the various factors that could affect the rise and fall of the bullet.

“Sniper One has the shot,” he heard in his earbud. “Waiting for authorization.”

Ramirez knew they had a small window of opportunity, before the target stepped away.

“Green light, Sniper One. Take the shot.”

A second later, Ramirez heard the boom and watched through his binoculars as the round punched through the window and slammed into the target’s chest. A split second later, another shot rang out and he watched the target crumple to the ground.

Richter jotted down one final note then read through the page again. There was a lot to talk about today. After years of claiming that their nuclear development program was intended for peaceful purposes, Iran had just conducted a test of a small nuclear warhead. Although they had no intelligence yet to indicate whether the test had been successful and although Iran had yet to develop the missile technology required to deliver the warhead to its enemy—Israel being the most likely target—this was a disturbing piece of news.

More disturbing, North Korea, which had already demonstrated its ability to produce a nuclear device, had conducted missile tests of its own. Ostensibly the launch of a communications satellite, their test had been unsuccessful as the rocket failed to achieve the desired orbit.

Then there was factional fighting in Somalia, civil unrest in Egypt and Syria, Venezuela’s Nicolás Maduro was once again threatening to send troops into neighboring Colombia, while China and Japan were sparring over who owned some barren rocks in the East China Sea. He sighed. Since he had briefed the president on the Ciudad Juarez raid three days ago, the situation continued to deteriorate. Murders had skyrocketed in the city with over sixty killings in seventy-two hours as rival drug factions battled for control. The violence had spread to other cities, particularly along the border.

His phone rang, interrupting his thoughts.

“He’s ready for you,” the president’s secretary said.

“Thanks, Arlene. I’m on my way.”

He stuffed his notes and the folder into his sling—at least it was useful for something, he thought—then grabbed a binder and headed down the hall.

“Next is Mexico, sir.”

The president nodded as Richter filled him in on the latest drone strikes and the resulting violence that had ensued.

“We’ve been able to confirm that Ramón Calzada has been killed,” Richter continued. “We also have unconfirmed reports that Tomas Mendoza is dead.”

The president frowned. “The Mexican government?”

Richter shook his head. “They insist they had nothing to do with Calzada’s death.” Mexican President Filipe Magaña had declared the cartels and their leaders enemies of the state. But so far, that had only served as a newsworthy sound bite.

“Calzada appears to have been killed as part of a turf battle,” Richter continued. “The Sangre Negras cartel is trying to take over Alacránes—that’s Calzada’s—territory.”

The president nodded. “Seizing the opportunity?”

Richter shook his head. “Yes and no, sir. I think it’s a sign that Night Stalker is starting to have an impact. The strike several weeks ago shut down a key Sangre Negras supply route. We think they are trying to replace that by overthrowing the Alacránes cartel.”

“What do we know about the Sangre Negras?”

Richter handed the president a photo. “This is Pablo Guerrero. He’s the head. He’s violent and ruthless but he’s also shrewd and calculating. He’s had no formal education, at least not since elementary school, but he appears to be highly intelligent. Since taking over, he’s quietly grown the Sangre Negras organization, taking over smaller rivals, building his distribution network. He’s managed to avoid drawing attention to himself through a network of informants in the police and the military and by brokering peace deals with his larger rivals, including Ramón Calzada and the Alacránes cartel.”

The president frowned. “Calzada was behind the attempt on Joe Delia’s life, not Guerrero, right?”

“That’s correct, sir. But we think Guerrero is a more formidable enemy. He’s just as brutal but his moves appear to be well thought out.”

The president sat back. “What’s your recommendation?”

Richter had been considering this for some time. “If Guerrero does take over the Alacránes organization, he poses a far greater threat. He would double his resources almost overnight: the size of his private army, the arms at his disposal, the infrastructure he controls. Even though we’ve succeeded in shutting down some of their routes, the combined business would give him a huge war chest,” he paused, “one that would give him a greater ability to wage a war against Mexico’s government.” He hesitated.

“Go on,” the president prodded.

“We can’t give him that opportunity.”

The two cops leaned against their car, arms folded across their chests, and watched as the team of agents loaded the boxes into two vans. Despite the fact that February was still a few days away, both cops wore their short sleeved uniform shirts. The mild winter had left the southern states relatively unscathed—so far at least—and in Atlanta the daffodils and crocuses were already starting to bloom. Today, however, neither officer was in the mood to appreciate the early spring.

“Fucking Feds,” one said.

His partner grunted.

Assigned to crowd control—their part in assisting the federal agents with the raid—there was little for them to do but watch. Patrol cars were stationed at both ends of the block, closing it off and, behind them, two other officers kept the half-dozen gawkers behind the yellow crime-scene tape that had been stretched between the telephone poles and street signs. Many more curious onlookers chose, thankfully, to watch from windows. That was fine with the two cops.

“They got the whole damn alphabet out for this one,” the first cop said.

His partner grunted again.

Across the street, in the parking lot of the courier service, agents in different-colored wind breakers and shirts streamed in and out of the building. Mostly DEA, there were one or two FBI and ATF agents as well.

“The idiots are tripping all over each other,” he said as they watched several agents move out of the way of two others carrying computers.

That elicited another grunt.

“Sergeant said they were running drugs out of there. You believe that shit?”

The courier service was a perfect setup, the second cop thought, but he let it go. He shrugged. “I’ve been on the job for fourteen years. Nothing surprises me anymore.”

Their captain stepped out of the building. Both cops grinned. He was still arguing with one of the feds—over being cut out of the operation, they knew. The first cop glanced down the block. Their SWAT team had already packed up and left. They too had been pissed. They had been asked to stand by but ultimately hadn’t been needed. No shots had been fired and the feds had quickly subdued the employees. Now, they were in the process of seizing evidence.

He shook his head. They didn’t know much; the feds hadn’t provided any information. But earlier they had seen five people being led away in handcuffs and a number of boxes and bags being carried out. Likely, they suspected, the feds were in the process of confiscating the cash, the accounting and financial records, and any drugs found on the premises.

They both turned at the noise and glanced down the block as a patrol car was moved to let the tow trucks through. They stood there for the next half hour and watched as the half-dozen courier vans were towed away.

Ah, what the hell, the first cop thought as he glanced back at the crowd which had grown. They were being paid to watch and they had front-row seats.

Richter glanced at the clock. It was almost 8:00 pm and Patty would be home soon. He would call her then. In the meantime, he thought as he glanced down at the report he had just finished reading, something was nagging him. He placed the report on his desk then sat back, thinking. As expected, the violence in Mexico had intensified. A week earlier, a convoy of soldiers had been ambushed just north of Mexico City and twenty-nine had been killed. Then, a police station in Matamoros had been firebombed and when the cops tried to escape, they had been cut down by gunfire. Sixteen had been killed. Three days later, the chief of police in Reynosa, after his child had been kidnapped, had ordered his men to abandon their posts before he himself resigned. Then, yesterday, a grenade had been tossed into a crowded nightclub in Tijuana, killing seven and wounding many more while, outside, a banner bearing a warning fluttered in the breeze. In contrast, though, the violence in Ciudad Juarez had begun to slow. Ciudad Juarez had been taken over by the Sangre Negras cartel. Pablo Guerrero now controlled the city.

Operation Night Stalker was clearly having an impact, Richter thought, as was Mexico’s own campaign. Mexican snipers, he had confirmed, had killed Tomas Mendoza. And the latest intelligence indicated that Guerrero was in the process of moving into the Baja Cartel’s—Mendoza’s—region. Although Mexico had not shared their specific targets with the U.S., Guerrero had to be on the list, he thought. Looking at the remaining major players, Guerrero was the largest one left.

Meanwhile, the incidents and the bodies continued to pile up. In many cities, shootouts had become daily events. Bodies hung from overpasses. Headless corpses lay on the side of the highway. Police investigators would no sooner arrive at one scene when they were called to another. Parents were afraid to send their children to school. Business owners were nervous. The governors and mayors in the states and cities along the border, where the violence was particularly bad, had publicly condemned President Magaña, demanding an end to the carnage. The situation was deteriorating and the Mexican government was struggling to stem the bloodshed. In the U.S., the State Department had issued warnings about travel to Mexico and had suggested that Americans living in Mexico consider leaving for their own safety.

Still, as bad as it had become, Richter thought as he flipped through several pages of the report again, it wasn’t as bad as some analysts had predicted. The violence had yet to spill over the border. He sighed as he sat back again. He couldn’t help but wonder. Was this the calm before the storm?