Shadow of Death (21 page)

Jon had been acting as “sous chef,” opening up the packets and handing them to Pete, who was mixing them together and throwing in the small packet of spices he always carried around with him. The other men were taking apart weapons and checking gear. While McCoy mixed and invented some new food product, he randomly asked Jon, “Hey, man, can I ask you something personal?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“You’re like the only Jewish guy I ever knew in the SEALs. How’d you end up in the navy?”

Jon laughed. “I’m not the only Jewish guy
I
ever knew in the navy, but I think they probably always sought me out because my last name’s Cohen, and that made me easy to find. There aren’t a lot of Jewish SEALs because there aren’t a lot of SEALs, period. But to answer your question, it’s a long story.”

McCoy kept cooking up his mess. “We got time to kill, bro.”

“Fine. My mother was the all-time biggest pacifist. She hated violence and fighting, and I grew up in a very mellow, middle-class house where no one ever raised their voice or a hand. Everyone just talked to each other. As a little kid, like second grade, I was about the same size as everyone else, but I was a total geek. More into drawing than sports, and definitely not a tough guy.

“There were these four guys that always hung out together and were the typical class bullies. They took great joy in tormenting me—always just pushing me around. Playground, sidewalk, hallway, wherever. I was taught not to fight back, so for like three years, this little group of assholes just picked on me whenever they felt like it, and I never said anything about it. Some days, I just wanted to cry because I felt helpless and scared. Four on one was intimidating when you came from a home where no one even yelled at you.

“Then one day, maybe fifth grade, I was at this girl’s house that I had my first crush on. And I’m standing there talking to this beautiful little girl and the main asshole shows up. We’re outside her house, just talking, playing, whatever it is fifth graders do, I don’t know, and this asshole picks up a wet newspaper—it had just rained that morning—and whips it at me for no reason. It hit me and exploded with vile wet newspaper shit all over me, which he thought was hilarious. On any other day, I probably would have run home. But on
that
day, Tracy was there watching, and I was humiliated. Something inside the little brain clicked, and my four fingers made a little ball with my thumb covering them up real tight, and I ran to that little prick and punched him square in the nose and knocked him on his ass. I’m not sure which of us was more shocked, really. When he got up, his nose was bleeding all over the place. I remember I was shaking like a leaf, the way we do after combat, you know? And he just got up, started crying, and hopped on his bike and took off. It was maybe one of the finest moments of my entire life. I’d taken a lot of shit from that asshole for years.”

“Nice,” said McCoy, quietly.

“Yeah, well, next day at school, the four of them catch me alone in the hallway and say, ‘Meet us at the park after school.’ And now I know I’m going to get my ass kicked. I tell my best friend, who comes with me to the park around the corner. He was tougher than me and gave me a pep talk the whole way walking over to my certain death. When we get there, asshole number two of the group says something like I sucker-punched his friend and he’s gonna kick my ass. So I asked if it was going to just be me and him, or all four of them against me, and he said he didn’t need his friends. So he steps forward and takes this giant right hook at me—like a totally wild, ‘close your eyes and hope to hit a home run’ swing. And I ducked. And then I stepped forward and did exactly the same thing as I’d done the day before, right in his nose. Knocked
him
on his ass, too.

“He stand up and screams ‘You got a rock in your hand!’ as he’s bleeding all over the place. Like he was trying to justify it to his friends, who were all equally shocked. I opened both hands to show they were empty and said something like, ‘There’s nothing in my hands, but if you ever touch me again, I’m going to keep punching you until your face explodes.’ Some version of that. Anyway, the four of them just left. And that was it. They never said another word to me after that day. Not one of them. We even ended up at the same high school and eventually acknowledged each other’s existence, although we were never friends. They all ended up losers.

“The experience taught me a few things. First, that my mom had been wrong for years. This whole ‘turn the other cheek’ thing was bullshit. You have to stand up for yourself. And second, that if you have the courage and balls to stand up to anyone, anywhere, at any time, no one will ever give you shit. I took karate after that and by the time I got to high school, had very quietly become a lethal weapon. I didn’t talk about it, didn’t look for fights—nothing like that. But anytime any asshole ever made a comment about me being Jewish, I took great joy in taking that muthafucker apart.”

“People gave you shit about being Jewish, huh?” asked McCoy.

“Does my nose look big to you?”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Exactly. Except that Jews are supposedly all big-nosed or something. And some asshole in high school tries to be funny at the big lunch table and says, really loud so everyone can hear him, ‘Why do all Jews have big noses? Because air is free!’ Because we’re all cheap, too, apparently. And I wrist-locked him, swept him off his seat, and took him to the floor in about two seconds. Still had his wrist in one hand and his long hair in the other and I whispered into his ear, ‘How about I bounce your face against the floor so many times you never breathe through
your
nose again?’ And then I got back up and quietly ate my lunch. No one said a word for the rest of lunch. Just silence. I felt like fucking Superman.

“Somewhere around that time, I decided that there would always be assholes around the world that needed to be dealt with, and the world needed some folks to stand up and take them on. I know it sounds corny, but it’s the truth. My mom shit when I told her I was joining the navy and wanted to become a SEAL. But once I focused on it, it’s all I worked for every day. And now here I am ten years later, kickin’ ass with my bros all over the world, and loving every minute of it.”

McCoy nodded and gave an approving smile. “You’re one hundred percent bad-ass, Frogman. Most guys are like ninety-five, ninety-six percent,
tops
. You’re one hundred percent.”

Jon laughed. “Every man on this team is one hundred percent. Even that little dude Apo. Maybe
especially
him.”

McCoy laughed. “Yeah, no shit. Little dude’s got big brass ones. I like him. You see him standing there in the road when the Mexis rolled up on him? He was cool as a cucumber, man. I’ll share a foxhole with him. And with you, too, bro.
Any
day.”

Jon and Pete exchanged a complicated fist-bumping, hand-slapping handshake. Jon quietly said, “I miss Jonesy.” Earl Jones was the Harlem-born Marine who had taught them various stylish handshakes, and had been KIA on their last mission. Pete nodded and gave Jones an “Ooo-Rah” up in Heaven.

CHAPTER 55

Operation Mailman

Apo hung up the sat-phone and walked to Moose, who was sitting with Ripper cleaning their weapons and eating McCoy’s newly invented cuisine, which wasn’t actually too bad.

“We have a green light on Operation Mailman.”

“Operation Mailman?” asked Ripper, his mouth full of food.

“Yeah, as in, we go pick up a package. I think the CIA’s secret-code-naming guys were off for the weekend, so this is the best they could come up with. Apo opened a tablet and showed the others a map. Here’s the deal—you’ll grab a ride with the general to this point here. It’s mountainous and if you ride nap-of-the-earth at dusk, you can get to this point here, just north of Tonala. That’s where I’ll be meeting Salazar, if all goes according to plan. There’s a small airstrip there. Not really an airport, just a tiny strip that Salazar and his drug runners use. I’ll tell him to meet me there and have the package and Mustafa with him. If he agrees, we’ll meet face-to-face and Hodges will remove the man’s head from his shoulders before he can kill me. You bring in the cavalry, we grab the weapon, and everyone goes home.”

“Too easy,” said Moose.

“Always is. ‘Til the plan turns to shit. I haven’t gotten Salazar on the horn yet. Not even sure he’ll go along with it. But he knows I’m in Mexico and it makes sense that I’d take a small private jet from Tabasco to Sinaloa territory.”

“Where’s the jet coming from? We stealing that, too?” asked Moose.

“Actually, it’s in the air. Langley was kind enough to send us a wet-work team I’ve been around before. They’re so classified they just have a nickname called the MOP.”

“The MOP? What’s that stand for?” asked Ripper.

“Not the M-O-P. Just the MOP. As in,
they clean up messes
. A very small group of very dangerous men that make me look like a Girl Scout.”

“I find that hard to believe,” replied Moose.

“One of them is fifty-five years old,” said Apo.

“So? He retiring soon or something?”

“No. There’s an old saying: ‘Beware the old man in a profession where most die young.’ Something like that, anyway. Each of these guys has done more missions than they can count. Only reason I know about them is because they saved my ass more than once, and now they better save it again. You’re about to meet them, so it just became ‘need to know.’ Two pilots will be flying in from parts unknown on a fancy Learjet. Carl and Duane. Carl will be flying a Learjet 60XR. It’s a sweet plane owned by the Company that I’ve actually been on before. It’s an eight-passenger luxury jet, and if you’re real good and don’t get me killed, I’ll probably get us all rides home in it. Carl can actually fly; Duane will be faking it as a copilot. I’ll be the rich Arab psychopath in the back. They’re bringing me some appropriate clothing.”

“Hey, the good news is, you smell like you haven’t bathed in a week, so you’ll pass for a goat fucker no problem,” said Ripper.

“
You
, sir, need sensitivity training. What people in foreign countries do with their goats is their business.”

“I was
in
Ass-Crackistan, and I’ve
seen
what they do with their goats,” said Ripper.

“When do these mercs get here? And where?” asked Moose.

“They’re not mercenaries. They’re just not regular employees. The big boss keeps them in the closet unless something really messy needs cleaning up. Then he takes out the MOP, you get it?”

“Okay, so where and when?”

“There’s an airfield ten klicks from here to the east. The general will give me a ride in one of the birds and I’ll change to the jet. From there, I fly to Tonala and meet the
jefe
.”

“And how will we coordinate the time to reinforce?” asked Moose. “We coming in by air cavalry or are you thinking we’ve already dismounted and worked our way over to your location?”

“I’m thinking our team gets in early and gets in position to cover me. When the shit hits the fan, we call in the air cav and let the Black Hawk gunners earn their pay.”

Moose pondered the whole plan. “You know this is the second time you’re going to be going in alone, ass in the breeze.”

“
Third
, but who’s counting? You made me stand in the fucking road while the two Humvees almost ran me over.”

“Okay, three. Your lucky number. Let’s talk to the general about logistics and make sure he’s on board.”

Apo asked Moose, “What did you say to him over there? I was pretty sure we were all going to be rounded up to spend a few days or weeks in some Mexican shithole while the State Department
maybe
got around to getting us.”

“That the same State Department that was taking care of Benghazi? Gee,
that’s
a confidence booster,” mumbled Ripper.

Moose ignored Ripper. “He’s all right, actually. Considering we just killed the father of his grandkids, he’s being very level-headed. I think the guy’s one of the few patriots I’ve met outside the US.”

“What, like the jihadists aren’t dedicated enough for you?” asked Ripper.

“I said
patriot
, not psychopath. This guy wants to help rebuild a nation, not destroy civilization—there’s a big difference. Guy’s a fuckin’ four-star general and he talked to me man to man. That counts for something. Plus, he didn’t fire rockets at us.”

“So there’s
that
,” said Ripper.

Apo looked at the two of them. “You guys can get a comedy show or something when you retire. I’ll just assume you trust him. I’ll go talk to the Man.”

CHAPTER 56

Wheels in Motion

It took an hour for Apo to reach Joaquin Salazar and set up the meeting with him at the small town of Tonala, and then explain the plan to General Ortega in detail. Once the details had been worked out, the general instructed one of his Black Hawk pilots to take Apo to the airfield as requested. The rest of them would wait another few hours on location until dusk, and then head south over the mountains to a drop-off point. The team would then work their way into position behind the rendezvous point that Apo would be supplying either by text, phone, or simply with his GPS locator that was implanted in his chest. Once Apo met with the Sinaloa boss, they would wait until they were sure they had the package, at which time Hodges would impress Señor Salazar with his sharpshooting abilities.

Once Salazar was taken out, the plan was to reinforce Apo as quickly as possible, who would be receiving more immediate help from the two fake pilots that brought him in. Carl and Duane would cover Apo’s retreat while the team worked their way up to reinforce, and finally, the general’s gunships would come in like the cavalry and take out as many Sinaloa enforcers as possible. They wouldn’t be treated as criminals being arrested; they were enemy soldiers that were to be killed on the battlefield.

Apo said his quick goodbyes and good lucks, and then gave radio frequencies and sat-phone numbers and IP addresses to contact Duane and Carl. Each man on the team studied Salazar’s face for a few seconds on Apo’s tablet so they’d recognize their target. He was younger than they would have guessed, with thick black hair that was pulled back into a ponytail. A few tattoos were visible on his neck, but unlike most of his goons, his face was free of ink. The jet would be reaching Apo’s location within the hour. As it happened, the MOP team was investigating another suspected Mexican drug trafficker that had nothing to do with their operation, but conveniently had them on location in Mexico City with their jet. It meant a quick hop to grab Apo and get to Tonala, which was about seventeen kilometers away from Arista. The team would only have to cover a couple of kilometers on foot to be in position for the meeting.

Fifteen minutes after he left the team, Apo arrived at the remote airstrip on the Black Hawk. The Mexican commandos were very impressed with his perfect Spanish, and chatted with him the whole ride out. These guys were the real deal, just like his own team. They were hardened professionals who had tangled with the cartels many times before. It was reassuring to Apo to know the teams backing him up were the best of what Mexico had to offer. These men wanted their country back just like their general.

Mexico, like so many places in the world, had not only tremendous natural resources, but a country of people who knew how to work hard. Like African and South and Central American countries, the people lived in poverty for the simple reason that their governments were so corrupt that the people never seemed to improve their personal situations, no matter how hard they worked. Mexico looked to the United States not only as a place to flee to from despair, violence, and poverty, but also as a model of what a free country was supposed to look like. All these people wanted was an opportunity and a fair shake—and that was hard to come by when your region was run by drug cartels of organized gangsters who had no problem killing men, women, and children. By the time the Black Hawk touched down, Apo was pumped up for his mission, feeling appreciated and prepared to make a contribution to a country that needed some help—not to mention stopping a possible weapon of mass destruction, assuming the Mossad intel was correct.

The Learjet arrived not long after Apo’s Black Hawk, and taxied back from the end of the runway toward the small, unmanned building that acted as both gas station and a place to log your flights. If there were workers that ran the gas station, today was apparently their day off. Upon closer inspection of the pumps, it looked as if they may have been off for a few years. The last log entry, still sitting on the small plywood counter inside, was written in pen from four years earlier. Newark Liberty International Airport this was not.

The jet came to a stop and the door slowly opened downward, where it served as the stairs for disembarking. The engines came to a stop, and after a brief wait, two men walked down dressed as private pilots, complete with tacky blue pants, white shirts with epaulettes, captain’s caps, and black aviator sunglasses. It was as though Duane and Carl had called central casting in Hollywood and asked for pilot costumes.

The two of them walked down the ramp and approached Apo, who they knew, but extended handshakes one at a time and introduced themselves in front of the Mexican commandos.

“We’re ready to take you whenever you’re ready, sir. The jet’s fueled and a flight plan to Tonala is prepared,” said Captain Stone.

Apo smiled at Carl and said thank you, then thanked the commandos for the ride. They took off immediately to rendezvous with the other birds, which would be on the ground by the time they got there, awaiting the signal to assault.

Once inside the jet, the fake copilot, Duane, closed the door and locked it. He pointed to a closet made of burled pecan wood built into the sidewall of the jet. “Good to see you, Apo. Change of clothes is inside the closet and a variety of weapons is under the rear bench seats. The other bench seat has the duffle bag in it. Two million cash, less whatever Carl stole when I wasn’t looking.”

Apo smiled. “Thanks for dropping everything and coming here on a moment’s notice. You know I wouldn’t have pressed the panic button if this wasn’t big.”

“No problem. We were just up the road a piece, being bored to death. Carl’s gonna get soft if he doesn’t get to kill someone with his bare hands soon,” said Duane, only half joking. Like Apo, Carl and Duane spoke several languages and could change demeanor and appearances easily, but unlike Apo, their natural state of being was stone-cold killer.

Carl had the engines back on and spoke over the intercom. “Apo, welcome aboard Kill-’Em-All Airlines. Extra bags are a million dollars each and I see you have two bags. We’ll call it even. Also, there’s no movie on this flight. There are, however, secure comms aboard and Director Holstrum is awaiting your call. I’m taking off in two minutes after my checklist, so buckle up.”

Apo was surprised. Director Holstrum was his boss’s boss’s boss. He didn’t usually deal with him directly. After he thought about it, it dawned on him—it was because he was with the MOP team, and they
only
reported to the director himself, no one else.

Apo sat in the beautiful Italian leather chair and picked up the phone. It rang directly to Holstrum’s secure phone without even dialing. As Apo leaned back in the chair, his body sank into the soft leather, and he wished he could always fly this way.

“Good afternoon, Mister Yessayan,” said Director Holstrum.

“And to you, Mister Director.”

“I understand you’ve made your arrangements with Joaquin Salazar. What’s your confidence that he actually has the package?”

“I’m as certain as I can be under the circumstances. From what El Gato told us, he had paid to have the package delivered safely through Sinaloa and Mazatlecos territories. It’s not business as usual, but they occasionally cut deals with each other. In exchange for moving the package and sending over a few hundred thousand rounds of ammo and some cash, Daesh was going to open the floodgates of snow to Mexico. It all makes sense based on what I heard in Syria. It looks like Colonel Rafael Lozano tipped off the Sinaloas, who grabbed up the package. Then the colonel tried to execute El Gato to cover his ass. His father-in-law, General Ortega, now understands the situation and is on board with our operation.”

“Yes, that lines up with my last conversation with the president, who spoke to the Mexican president maybe an hour ago. Your operation is green-light on ROEs, including Salazar, El Gato, and anyone else shoveling snow.”

“Yes, sir, that was my understanding. I appreciate hearing it directly from you.”

“Apo, you understand, when I take out the MOP, you are dealing directly with me now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And your team now deals directly with me as well. You’ll keep Murphy and Davis in the loop, as per usual, but your operation is now under my direct supervision. You know SOUTHCOM usually runs these ops when we’re headed south of the border, but when I take out the MOP, the mission becomes compartmentalized to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Duane and Carl aren’t as discreet as you are, if you get my meaning. I don’t care. The Mexican president wants to make a bold statement to every cartel. If he can bag El Gato and Joaquin Salazar in the same week, his country can make some real changes. Going after Salazar is going to be real warfare, as I discussed with both presidents. The MOP and your team have full authorization for the use of all weapons at your disposal, but remember that finding that package remains the central part of the mission. Let the Mexican commandos duke it out with the Sinaloas.
Your
job is to get to Mustafa and the package. If you can keep Mustafa alive, he may be able to help us defuse the thing, depending on what it is. If not, then you waste him, get the package out to sea, and we’ll get an EOD team to you ASAP. We already have one underway towards your location by Coast Guard cutter. The Joint Interagency Task Force South has been
partly
in the loop. They were the closest and fastest. I can also call in air support if you need it. I’m watching from the satellite, but we’re afraid to use drones. They get spotted and you’re cooked. Anything else you need from me?”

“Negative, sir. We’ll be as ready as we can. I’ll be in touch. Out.”

Apo hung up and waited for the plane to level off. Then he washed up in the luxurious bathroom. He didn’t shave, as beards were common in the Middle East, but he washed off a few days of grime and changed into a cream-colored silk shirt and black slacks with Armani shoes that had been provided for him by the MOP. The Rolex band was a little big on him, but a lot of rich guys liked them dangling to make sure you saw them. He slipped on the 22K rings made in Saudi Arabia to complete his look. To anyone on the planet, he looked like a fairly wealthy Middle Eastern businessman. While Daesh operators in the Middle East would be wearing traditional robes and head coverings, or, more likely, military fatigues, no Arab on a secret mission would dress like they were directly from an ISIS training video. In this outfit, Mustafa would view him as a man of importance, and that’s all that mattered. Joaquin Salazar wouldn’t know a Qatari from a Yemeni, and Apo was less concerned about him looking him over.

When he was finished dressing, he took his old clothes and put them in a bag that was secured in a locked hidden compartment inside the wall of the aircraft. Should the plane be searched, the Mexican drug lord would find nothing unless they literally took the jet apart, which was very unlikely. The jet banked hard and headed for Tabasco, where it would touch down briefly, then take off after filing a flight plan to the small airport in Tonala. If any of the Sinaloas were smart enough to check out the jet, they’d see it coming from a small airport in Las Zetas–controlled territory. It would also kill some time and allow the team to get into position before Apo arrived.

Meanwhile, as the Learjet headed north, the line of Black Hawks flew south, fast and low through the scarcely populated mountainous regions of the Sierra Madre de Chiapas. The view from the helicopters was nothing short of magnificent as they blew over the jungles, rivers, waterfalls, and mountain ravines at 150 knots. As they crossed over the crest of the mountains, they slowed down a bit and kept low. Ahead of them, less than eight kilometers away, lay the city of Tonala, home to almost 375,000 people, where the Sinaloa army would be waiting to make their new deal.

Fortunately for the team, Apo had gotten Joaquin Salazar to agree to meet him at the northern end of the city where the airstrip was. This made it a much shorter trip for the team, and easier for them to get into position without being spotted. They’d have to move at night to the edge of the city where the airstrip was and use a neighboring orchard for cover when the meeting went down. The orchard ran almost to the edge of the airport, and it had a high point at the east side where Hodges would set up to cover Apo and possibly take out the drug lord.

According to the deal Apo has made with Salazar, Salazar would bring the truck and Mustafa, and Apo would bring a two million dollar deposit in cash, the same deal that had been offered to El Gato.

Carl’s headset, which was tuned into a previously set channel with the team, came to life. It was Moose’s voice, a man whose dossier Carl had read, but had never actually met.

“Hunter, this is Postman One Actual for comms check, over.”

“Postman One, good copy. This is Hunter Six. We have you five by five. Alpha Yankee is heading south to pick up the mail. Estimated time to arrival is 1800 hours for meet and greet with Juliet Sierra and his flying monkeys, over.”

Moose smiled. At least the guy had some sense of humor. Juliet Sierra was Joaquin Salazar. The flying monkeys was just some bullshit name for his army of henchmen. “It’s the flying monkeys we’ll be worrying about. My Mike One will have eyes on Juliet Sierra, but the number of monkeys is unknown, over.”

“We are tasked for backup with the locals. All we need is for that package to be there. Will advise when we are on station. Good hunting, Postman One. Out.”

The wheels were in motion, and the plan was set. And a plan was always a plan until it started and something went wrong.