Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (94 page)

 
          
“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.