Shadow of Death (13 page)

CHAPTER 41

Friendly Fire

“Move it!” screamed the colonel to his driver. Colonel Lozano was in the lead vehicle, nervously chewing an unlit cigar as they headed up toward El Gato’s estate. The four trucks thundered up the road and arrived at the iron gates and small guardhouses at the entrance to the compound’s private driveway.

Two sentries at the gate stood inside their guardhouses, amped up about the shooting and explosions back at the house. They wanted to run back and help, or at least see what was happening, but followed their standing orders and remained at their posts. Their calls to their boss went unanswered. When the Mexican Marines blew through the front gates and sent the large wrought-iron gates flying across the cobblestones, the guards simply ducked down and hid. They were loyal to El Gato, but not suicidal. They remained hidden until the trucks rumbled past, then left their weapons and ran from their posts as fast as their legs would take them.

The Marines pulled up in front of the house where the front doors and stained glass were blown out from the claymore mines. The colonel began shouting orders to attack, and his men leapt from the vehicles, guns out. As soon as they hit the ground, they began emptying magazine after magazine blindly into the estate. Thousands of rounds ricocheted through the house, glass exploding and paintings and artwork shattering and falling off the walls. In the rear of the house, the team dropped and took cover as the house began coming apart all around them.

Moose grabbed his sat-phone and punched in the number for Dex, who picked up right away. “Tell those idiots to cease fire! Cease fire! El Gato is secure!”

Dex Murphy grabbed a different phone, which rang at General Ortega’s office in Mexico City, where he was waiting for news on El Gato. “General! It’s Dex Murphy. Call Colonel Lozano and tell him to cease fire! My men are in there and the building’s secure! Cease fire!”

The general just barked a quick
si
and hung up, then called in to the colonel and repeated the instructions. An annoyed Colonel Lozano said he would comply, and after waiting a full minute, ordered the cease fire. Once his men stopped shooting, they moved in through the front door.

Colonel Lozano shouted inside the house in Spanish. “Mexican Marines! El Gato! Come out with your hands up!”

Moose shook his head. “Hold your fire! United States special operations! Building is secure! Hold your fire!” Jon Cohen, who spoke decent Spanish, did his best to repeat it in Spanish.

Up in the front of the house, the colonel and a squad of his men walked quickly through the rooms, their boots crunching on broken glass and worthless artwork that had been worth hundreds of thousands of dollars a few minutes before.

“We want El Gato!” screamed the colonel. He pulled out his own weapon, an M9 Beretta, and advanced into the house.

Moose and his men cautiously approached the Mexican Marines from across the huge room, guns at the ready. Eric and Ray entered the rear of the house and took up positions behind the team for support. Apo spoke into Moose’s earpiece. “Coming up, hold your fire.”

Apo pushed open a door at the end of another hallway and stuck his Uzi out, scanning the area. He saw the team down the hall in the destroyed main room and called out.

“Moose! Friendlies!”

Apo came through the door with El Gato shuffling along at his side with his hands zip-tied behind his back. The team saw them and moved quickly across the room toward their friend and the target. Colonel Lozano and his men pushed hurriedly from the front of the house at the sound of Apo’s voice as well. As Apo and El Gato made it to the end of the hallway, the team and the Mexican Marines all converged in the same area, guns pointed.

“Relax!” yelled Moose. “We’re all on the same side.”

“Put your guns down,” said the colonel in English. “You’re on Mexican soil. The prisoner is mine. I’m in charge here!”

Moose’s face showed his anger and confusion. “My orders are very specific. They come from
your
general. Get him on the horn and we’ll sort this out right now. El Gato comes with us. He’s going to the US for trial.”

“There has been a change of plans. I spoke with the general already. Put down your weapons. We have the authority of the president of Mexico.”

“Bullshit,” said Moose. “Ripper, get on the horn to Langley.”

The colonel’s face turned red. “That is a direct order.”

El Gato, who had been silent as he watched what was unfolding, finally spoke. “What’s the matter, Rafael? My money isn’t good anymore? Or those Sinaloa pigs pay better than I do?”

“
Oh shit
,” whispered Jon to no one in particular. He pointed his thumper at the colonel.

The colonel barked out some more orders in Spanish, and the house began to fill up with more of his men. The team was slowly moving around the room, trying to put objects between themselves and the Mexicans that might be able to provide cover in case a firefight broke out.

Ripper moved away slowly behind a decorative bureau and spoke quietly into the phone. “Dex, it’s Ripper. We have a situation.”

“Sit-rep?”

“Mexican standoff.”

“Say again?”

“Mexican standoff. Like, a
real
one. This colonel here thinks El Gato is going with him. Looks like they’ve done some business together. Big fucking problem here. Get Ortega on the horn pronto.”

Colonel Lozano pointed his gun at Apo and El Gato. “He’s coming with us.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Jon, his finger on the trigger of the M203.

It was, in fact, a Mexican standoff.

CHAPTER 42

Arista

Mustafa was exhausted and barely coherent. He’d been given a thorough beating, but as the reluctant interpreter Yaseem explained in Spanish, the man had no way of contacting the ISIS leaders in Syria. Hamid, who was full of bullet holes and quite dead, was their leader and was the only one who had direct access to them. His phone might help, if they could find it and it still worked—but only Hamid had the password, and he wasn’t talking to anyone.

Joaquin sent a few of his men back to the warehouse district where the bodies were still in the street as a warning to anyone else who might have thoughts about meddling with the Sinaloa. The instructions were simple: find Hamid’s phone and bring it back with his hands. Just the hands.

Mustafa was given some water and allowed to catch his breath. Yaseem explained to him that Señor Salazar would be bringing him the phone, and it was up to him to figure something out. If he couldn’t get through to ISIS in Syria, they would have no use for him, and his end would come slowly.

Mustafa prayed quietly that his martyrdom would be swift and painless. He wondered to himself if he would still be allowed into Paradise without completing his mission against the infidels.

Joaquin’s soldiers weren’t happy about having to search for the phone among the bodies. When they arrived back at the location of the shootout, the truck and bodies were still all over the otherwise empty street. The locals, including the police, wanted nothing to do with
any
of that. To make things even more complicated, Joaquin’s men didn’t know which one was actually Hamid.

The bodies were a disgusting mess, attracting flies in the hot sun. All of the corpses leaked blood and bodily fluids from just about every orifice, and the smell was intolerable. Having to go through pockets that were wet with leaked urine, feces, and blood was not how any of Joaquin’s men wanted to spend their time.

After fifteen very long minutes, the men had recovered three phones that worked and one that had a bullet hole straight through the center. Then came the grisly task of hacking off the hands of all the men, since there was no way to know which set of hands belonged to Hamid. After much machete and knife work, the hands were thrown into the back of their pickup truck and the men returned to the building where Mustafa was being held. The leader of the search party, a skinny man of maybe twenty-five who was covered from head to toe in gang tats, walked in and handed Joaquin the three phones.

“The hands are outside, Jefe. We, uh . . . we didn’t know which ones were which, so we brought them all.”

“Well don’t just stand there! Bring them in!” he snapped.

The crew went outside to the truck, which was now attracting its own cloud of flies, and returned with the severed hands. Joaquin held up the three phones to Mustafa.

“Which one was Hamid’s?” he demanded.

Mustafa looked at the phones through swollen eyes. He motioned to one of them with his chin. “That one, I think. It was in a case like that.”

Joaquin checked the phone and sure enough, it still had power but was locked. He handed it to one of his men. “Try the index fingers and thumbs of every hand until the phone comes on.” He looked at Mustafa and warned, “You better hope this works or we’ll cut off your hands, too—except you’ll be alive.”

The terrified old grocer translated, and Mustafa’s eyes filled with water.

It took seven hands. Seven hands, seven index fingers, and seven thumbs to be precise, and finally the phone recognized the thumbprint of Hamid’s right hand and unlocked. Joaquin smiled and walked slowly to his prisoner, whom he ordered untied.

Joaquin handed him the phone and spoke slowly and quietly, staring through the dark eyes of Mustafa right into his brain. The old man translated as Joaquin spoke. “You will find an e-mail address or a phone number. You will tell your people in Syria that you are a guest of the Sinaloa cartel in Mexico, and Las Zetas no longer exists.
We
run this country. No one else.
Sinaloa!
And they will deal directly with
me
, Joaquin Salazar. I have their weapon. If they want it used against the Americans, they will ship heroin to me, no one else.”

Mustafa went through Hamid’s phone. There were no phone numbers that he recognized or flagged to appear as their ISIS contacts. It was when he went through e-mails that he found several back and forth between Hamid and an unknown contact addressed simply as “Q” that referenced the package—its location, its security, and a timetable.

Mustafa breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t care who received the heroin; he only wanted to deliver the final blow to the Great Satan and return home as a hero. “This is it,” he said, trying to sound confident. “Q. This is the contact at home.”

Joaquin stared at the man for a moment, trying to read him. He nodded. “Okay. You breathe another day. We’ll wait and see what your friends have to say. Give him food and water and let him get dressed. I’ll send a message to these people myself.” Joaquin took the phone from Mustafa and began typing his e-mail.

CHAPTER 43

Blurred Lines

It was a moment frozen in time. Two opposing forces with guns drawn, staring at each other from across one large room. Apo and El Gato were still down the hallway off the main room, inching backwards toward the doorway from which they had just emerged. Twenty-four Mexican Marines, two full squads, were inside the house across the room from the team, while the other squad of twelve Marines secured the outside of the house.

Moose’s earpiece crackled. Eric Hodges’ voice was very calm and quiet. “Say the word and I have that officer.”

“Hold.” Moose’s gun was still aimed at Colonel Lozano. “Colonel, we don’t want to start World War III right here in this house, but that man is our prisoner, and we’re authorized by your government to take him. I’m asking you very respectfully to put your weapons down immediately before someone gets hurt.”

The colonel’s eyes flashed back and forth between Moose and El Gato. “I have three squads of Marines here, soldier. Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m a sailor, not a soldier. Now I’m giving you five seconds to holster your weapon.” Moose knew Hodges had the colonel in the sights of his M40A5, and that the Recon Marine never missed.
Ever
.

“Or what? You’re going to declare war on Mexico? Lieutenant! Take that man’s weapon!”

The young officer in combat gear was wearing a balaclava to cover his face, as was common practice in Mexico in its war on drugs. No one wanted to be recognized in a photo for fear of reprisals against family members, but even with the mask covering his face, Moose could read the fear in the man’s eyes.

“Don’t do it, LT,” Moose said quietly. He tightened his grip on his weapon, the red laser dot now on the colonel’s face.

Jon spoke in Spanish as best he could to the officer who had taken a step toward Moose. “Stop. Put down your weapon before someone gets killed. We’re all on the same side here. Just be calm, okay?”

El Gato screamed from down the hall. “Rafael! Maybe you should tell them about the bank accounts in the Caymans! Or the beach house in Casitas! Or your new Mercedes!”

“Lies! Lies from a drug dealer!” The colonel turned his gun toward Apo and El Gato.

Eric Hodges held the colonel’s eyeball in his scope. Ray, his spotter, watched through his spotter scope as the colonel’s hand tensed around his Beretta. His arm came up and the elbow straightened, one eye narrowing as he took aim at El Gato.

“He’s gonna fire,” whispered Ray.

Hodges took up the slack on his trigger. “Moose?”

“Take him,” said Moose quietly.

The next few seconds happened in slow motion. A 7.62x51mm round left Hodges’ rifle barrel and traveled through the air, where it entered Colonel Rafael Lozano’s left eye and exited out the back of his head, taking most of his skull with it. As soon as the sniper rifle fired, Moose double-tapped the lieutenant in front of him, also in the face, as the man was wearing body armor.

There was a brief pause, perhaps only a second, when the Mexican Marines watched in shock as their two officers were almost decapitated before their eyes. They were all supposed to be on the same side, attacking Las Zetas, not each other—but as soon as the first shots were fired and the Mexican Marines saw their leaders shot dead, they all opened fire.

In a tremendous roar of gunfire, the room filled with smoke, and tracer rounds lit up the gunpowder smog. Jon fired his M203 at the Marines closest to Moose, and the shotgun pellets blew three men off their feet as Moose and the others hit the deck. Ripper began screaming at the top of his lungs, “
Cease fire! Cease fire!
” but it was too late, the battle was on, and no one was going to stop shooting as long as the other side was still firing.

At such close range, the furniture didn’t provide much cover, and bullets went straight through chairs and sofas. The Marines were well trained, but they were no match for the training and weapons of the SEALs. With adrenaline pumping and frantic fear overtaking the surprised Marines, most of them just sprayed their weapons blindly in the general direction across the room. The SEALs were moving quickly, taking controlled shots two at a time, moving, reassessing, firing, moving, and remaining under impossible calm. Eric continued his sniper fire from the rear of the house, dropping one Marine after the other until the amount of gunfire slowed down.

“Cease fire!” yelled Moose at the Mexicans. “Stop shooting! We’re on the same side!” Jon joined him, in Spanish, trying to get the Mexicans to stop shooting, but it was pointless. The noise was deafening, and the Marines had fallen into complete panic.

As the house filled with smoke, Apo grabbed El Gato and pulled him into the hallway, slamming the door behind him. “Go!” he screamed at his prisoner, and the two of them sprinted back down the long hall from which they’d just emerged. There was a tunnel and an escape route. Apo would bring in El Gato, even if he had to do it by himself.

“Cut me loose!” screamed El Gato as he ran. “You cut me loose and I’ll let you live. If my men don’t get you, the Mexican Marines will. Don’t you get it, gringo? You’re not in the US! You’ll never get out of here alive unless you cut me loose.”

Apo grabbed him by his upper arm and squeezed. “Shut the fuck up and keep moving before I shoot you right here.”

“If you wanted to shoot me, I’d be dead already. You’re in Las Zetas country. My people are everywhere. You won’t get off this hill without my help.”

Apo shoved him against the wall and got in his face. “I told you to shut up. Now keep moving!” He pulled El Gato along, the two men running awkwardly down the stone corridor toward El Gato’s escape tunnel.

Ripper yelled at Moose over the roar of gunfire. “Package went out the door!”

Moose let go a string of profanity that would have made his mother reach for the soap dish to wash out his mouth. He pulled a grenade from his belt and yelled at his men: “End this right now! We need Gato! Frag out!”

Jon pumped another grenade into his M203, also cursing. He was going to be killing men who were supposed to be on the same side, but with rounds impacting over his head every second, it didn’t seem like the right time to try and reason things out.

“Take cover!” he warned, and then rapidly fired three grenades inside the once exquisite room. The explosions were deafening and lethal, and as soon as the walls and ceiling tiles stopped raining down, the room went silent except for the groans of wounded men.

“Ripper!” screamed Moose.

“I’m on it!” he replied. “McCoy! Cohen! On me!” The three of them sprinted across the smoke-filled room and raced after Apo and El Gato. Moose and Ryan moved toward the dead and wounded Marines. Eric shouldered his sniper rifle and moved forward with Ray, coming up behind Moose.

A Mexican Marine was on his back, bleeding from a wound in his thigh and trying to pull his sidearm. Ryan leapt over another body and grabbed the man’s arms. “Stop! Stop! It’s over!” he screamed. He pulled the weapon from its holster and threw it across the room, then pulled a pressure bandage from his own thigh pocket.

“Be cool, okay? Be cool,” he said to the confused Marine. Ryan pulled off the man’s face mask and felt his heart sink. He was a lousy judge of age, but this kid looked sixteen. “Shit—just stay cool. You’re going to be okay.”

A few feet away, a Las Zetas soldier crawled to an MP5 and tried to pick it up. Moose double-tapped him and made everyone jump. “Stay alert! Stay alive!”

Ryan pulled the bandage tight around the kid’s thigh and began loosening his Kevlar vest and collar. “You speak any English, kid?”

The kid’s eyes were filling with tears as adrenaline was slowly replaced with real pain. “A little,” he replied.

“You get on your radio and tell your people that your colonel was in on this with the Zetas. We’re not your enemy, you
comprende
? Same side, okay? Tell your guys outside to stand down. Stop shooting!”

The kid began looking around the room at so many dead bodies and started going into shock. Tears flowed freely down his face. “No
comprendo
,” he whispered, and closed his eyes. Ryan popped a morphine syringe into the kid’s good thigh and patted his hand. Across the room, Moose, Eric, and Ray were moving from man to man trying to help the wounded and making sure no one had access to a weapon.

Moose spoke into his bone mic. “Apo you read?” Nothing. “Apo? Ripper? Anyone? Come in, over.” The descending stone escape tunnel didn’t allow for radio signals, and Moose was getting stressed. He pulled the sat-phone and called Dex in Langley, who picked up right away.

“Dex here, go!”

“Situation FUBARed. We’ve got multiple dead and wounded friendlies who weren’t so friendly. I need to get after the package, but have zero comms. We may be out of comms for a while, but we’re making a move. Try and get the Mexis to stand down. They ain’t too happy with us right now. We need to beat feet. Out.”

“Time to unass this house! Let’s move!” Moose was up and reloading, with his men close behind. Ryan had moved two other wounded Marines next to the first one he had assisted so they could look after each other until more help arrived. The sounds of shouting, occasional shooting, and screaming from outside the house hinted it wouldn’t be long. The four of them sprinted through the haze and began their descent down the stone escape tunnel into the unknown.