Shadow of Death (22 page)

CHAPTER 57

Tonala

At a little past 1700 hours, the Black Hawks set down in a small valley just north of Tonala. They were far enough away that they couldn’t have been spotted or heard, in a clearing surrounded by thick forest and high mountain walls. With his spotter scope, Hodges could see the outskirts of Tonala due south. El Gato remained handcuffed inside one of the Black Hawks, where he would remain until this whole operation was over.

“Looks like about one and a half klicks to the orchard. I can’t see the airstrip from here, but it should be just on the other side. A quick hump and we’ll be in position,” said Hodges to Moose.

“Roger that. Ruck up. We beat feet, nice and quiet, but we don’t have extra time. Let’s move, people. I want to be at the other end of that orchard in twenty minutes,” said Moose.

That didn’t require a run, but it meant a good pace with the weight of full battle-rattle. His men loaded up their gear as Moose walked over to the general and snapped a salute. “General Ortega, thank you for your assistance. We wouldn’t be able to pull this off without you. We’ll radio in when the time comes, and when that time
does
come, make it fast and have your door gunners hose everything that ain’t us. Most targets will most likely be south of our position. We’ll correct your fire from the ground.”

The general returned the salute. “Good luck, gentlemen.”

With that, Ripper took point, and the team began its fast hike down the valley toward the orchard. McCoy looked up at the mountains on both sides and smiled. “Hey, boys, I can finally say it for real. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil’ . . .”

Every man on the team finished it for him: “. . . because I am the meanest muthafucker in the valley.”

“Very good, ladies, now shut up and keep humpin’,” said Moose from the rear guard position.

The men smiled to themselves, adrenaline now pumping as they each got lost in their own thoughts ranging from weapons checks, to prayers, to singing silently in their heads. The closer they got to the orchard, the faster they moved. The sun had set into the Pacific Ocean, their right flank, behind the town. By the time Apo and his jet arrived, it would be dark. They had thermal sights and night vision if needed, but most likely, the lights around the airstrip would be enough. In any event, as usual, they were prepared for anything.

McCoy, the radio operator, held up a hand and signaled Moose that he had incoming traffic.

“Postman, this is Hunter Six, do you copy?”

“Hunter Six, this is Postman Bravo, good copy.”

“We took the scenic route. Are you in position? Over.”

“Will be in position in five mikes, over.”

“Perfect. Juliet Sierra confirmed by phone that he and the package will be there on time. Touchdown in ten mikes. Happy hunting, Postman. Out.”

Moose had moved up the line to McCoy. As soon as McCoy signed off, he whispered into his throat mic so the entire team could hear him. “Apo is ten minutes out. Salazar confirmed he’ll be there.”

Moose began jogging up to Ripper, who had just entered the orchard. Long neat rows of what looked like apple trees seemed to go on for acres. “Okay, gentlemen, move all the way up to the edge of the orchard. Airstrip is just over there where the lights are. Hodges, you go find your perch. Ray, go with him.” He looked over at Jon. “Boomer, how many grenades you have left?”

“Out of buckshot rounds, but between all of us we’ve got twenty HE rounds. Should be plenty to put a hurting on.”

“Okay, to the edge of the orchard, silent and patient. Hodges, you have green light on Salazar once the package is in sight or Apo makes a move. Until then, nobody makes a move. Move into position.”

The team fanned out to the edge of the orchard, each man picking cover behind trees, boulders, or piles of cut wood as they formed a line of fire twenty-five yards wide. Hodges had moved out to their right flank, at the highest elevation in the field, which gave him a good view of the airstrip below. He took out his sniper rifle and adjusted the scope as he and Ray scanned the field.

Through the spotter scope, Ray saw the line of approaching headlights and whispered into his throat mic. “Inbound vehicles, I count five. Last one looks like a box truck. Could be our package, over.”

The trucks slowly came into view to the rest of the team as they drove slowly along the side of the airplane hangar, which was open to the field. The box truck pulled into the hangar and the other vehicles parked outside, their headlights on, aimed at the airstrip. While the small airfield did have landing lights and some overhead pole lighting, the addition of the headlights made the strip glow like daylight in the surrounding darkness. The team members adjusted their sights and began scanning for vehicle doors to open. With the tinted windows, there was no way to know how many gangbangers were in each SUV.

In the silence of the orchard, the sound of the Learjet approaching got everyone’s attention. No one had to be told to pay attention—every nerve fiber was wide awake in each man’s body. The small luxury jet circled around and made its approach, the wheels gently chirping once as the pilot gently put the plane down. It rolled to a stop at the far end of the runway, then turned around and taxied back toward the hanger, where it came to a stop.

Pete McCoy spoke into the radio. “North Star, this is Postman Bravo. Target has landed. Will advise, out.”

The radio transmission was returned in English, with a thick Mexican accent. “Postman, this is North Star, good copy. Birds will be ready for your call. Out.”

The door of the plane opened and gracefully glided down to a few inches over the tarmac. The copilot, Duane, walked down first and stood at attention at the bottom of the stairs, holding a large duffle bag which contained two million dollars in cash. Apo, in his guise as Ali bin-Salud, walked down the steps of the jet and stopped, waiting to be formally greeted.

The doors of the trucks began opening and thumping closed, as Sinaloa strongmen emerged with a wide variety of weapons. Uzis and MP5s seemed to be the weapons of choice, always good for close-quarters “spray and pray.” The MP5 was known as a “room broom” for a reason.

Joaquin Salazar stepped out of the front passenger seat of the second vehicle. He was six feet tall, maybe 180 pounds, with his ponytail tied back over a collared shirt. He wore American designer jeans and rattlesnake cowboy boots. With the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, his Sinaloa tattoos were evident, as were the markings on his neck. His chiseled face looked to be under thirty—young for perhaps the most powerful man in Mexico. He had climbed the ladder to the top in under three years, leaving almost thirty thousand dead Mexican soldiers, policemen, and civilians in his wake. For a sociopath, his face looked calm and businesslike. He didn’t smoke, snort, or shoot the poison he sold. His preference was good tequila, which he allowed himself only on occasions of real partying, which he did sparingly. For the most part, the man was all business.

Joaquin walked out toward the plane with two bodyguards following at a respectful distance. Unlike the boss, his bodyguards were huge and covered in tattoos, including most of their faces and shaved heads. They were nothing short of terrifying to look at, which was their point.

“Welcome to Mexico, Señor bin-Salud,” said Joaquin with a small smile and open arms.

“Thank you,” replied Apo. “And please, call me Ali. We are partners now, yes?”

“I certainly hope so. Come, I will take you to a more comfortable place to chat.”

Apo bowed slightly. “I can’t stay long. This whole trip was an
inconvenience
, you might say. I don’t care that our trading partners have changed, but the timing was bad. There’s the business of that package that needs to be addressed immediately, I’m afraid, with all due respect. Even I have people to answer to, and we are on a strict timeline. I
did
bring you a small token of our appreciation.”

Apo snapped his fingers, and Duane walked briskly up behind his passenger, duffle bag in hand. He handed it to Apo, who in turn handed it to Joaquin. The copilot stepped back a few feet.

“Two million dollars. Our way of saying thank you for babysitting our package, and a beginning to what is hopefully a long business relationship,” said Apo.

“Longer than that
last
one, eh?” said Joaquin, laughing at his own poor joke.

Apo didn’t smile. “I would hope so. As I said, this has been a matter of inconvenience and some risk. Even flying to Mexico, we have to worry about the Americans.”

“You have nothing to worry about here, Ali. I own the police, the judges, the army—you name it. Your two million is a respectable present. I imagine we will be giving it back to you shortly when the snow arrives, eh? When can you ship us the smack, and how much can you get us per month?”

“As much as you want, I would think. There is so much sitting in warehouses now from Afghanistan we’re running out of rooms to keep it in. What we need is ammunition. We have money, we even have decent weapons—mostly from the Iraqis, who got them from the Americans. But what we
don’t
have is bullets. We need ammunition and explosives. But again, I must ask—did you bring the package with you? Is it still safe—undamaged?”

“Come see for yourself. I have to ask you, though: What is it? I looked at it a long time. It doesn’t look like a bomb.” Salazar turned and started to walk into the hangar. “This way.”

From 150 yards away, Hodges whispered into his throat mic. “Target and Apo are walking into the hangar. If they go inside, I lose my shot.”

“Hold,” said Moose. Apo hadn’t signaled, and they needed to know if the package was indeed inside that truck.

Joaquin led Apo deeper inside the hangar. Duane stayed where he was, halfway between the plane and the hangar. Inside the plane, Carl had his own M4A1 SOPMOD assault rifle. Even with its rather short barrel, its 5.56mm round could penetrate body armor at a fair distance. With the mini night-vision sight mounted, Carl would have an easy shot against anyone inside the hangar or out on the tarmac the minute he moved to the door of the jet. He stayed where he was in the cockpit, looking unassuming with the gun out of sight in his lap.

Duane waited for Apo and the others to walk into the hangar, and then he walked back to the jet, which would be a normal thing for the copilot to do. He wasn’t armed, in case they searched him, and was a sitting duck standing where he was. The moment he was up the stairs, he pressed a panel on the wall, and it popped open revealing the hidden cabinet inside. He pulled out his own M4A1 SOPMOD and stayed to the side of the door talking to Carl quietly.

“Apo went inside the hangar to check out the package. I couldn’t stand around outside. You got eyes on him?”

“Roger that. Let’s keep it cool until he gets back out of there. Anything goes down now, he’s a dead man.”

Inside the hangar, Apo and Joaquin walked toward the box truck. As they got close, one of Salazar’s thugs pushed Mustafa out from behind the truck. Mustafa saw Ali bin-Salud and clasped his hands together in a prayer of thanks.

Mustafa greeted Apo in Arabic, showering him with blessings and thanks. Apo returned the blessings and told him to calm down, but Mustafa talked a hundred miles an hour, telling Apo about the double-cross, the murder of his team, and the beating he took at the hands of these men. Apo raised his hands and told him to be silent, and Mustafa complied.

Apo smiled courteously at Salazar. “Mustafa is a bit afraid, I think.”

Joaquin shrugged. “We didn’t meet under the best circumstances. You still haven’t told me what this thing is, Ali. Is it a bomb? I found no explosives when I looked at it. It looks like an electric generator.”

Apo pointed to the truck. “May I see it?”

Joaquin gave him a hard look. “In my country, when I ask a question, people give me an answer.”

“Does it matter?” asked Apo. “If it makes electricity or purifies water—would it make a difference?”

“If anything you do comes back to cause
me
a problem with the American DEA, FBI, or ICE, then
yes
, it matters.”

“There is nothing about this package that can be traced to you or anyone else in Mexico. It is the work of the Salafi Jihad, from the Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham! Our business together is contingent on this mission against America being carried out. When the Americans are busy fighting in Iraq and Syria, there will be less of them to bother you at the border. Now—I need to see what’s in the truck.”

“We’ll need to take a ride,” replied Joaquin.

Apo spoke in Arabic to Mustafa. “Is the weapon in this truck?”

“I don’t know. We tried to get it to the boat in Arista, but these people killed everyone! They had me in a room until they put me in a car and drove me here. That’s not the truck we used when we brought it from the ship.”

Joaquin didn’t like the two communicating in Arabic. “Enough. We need to go.”

“I told you I need to see the package first,” said Apo firmly. They stared at each other.

“And we’ll take a ride to go see it. It isn’t here. I needed to make sure I could trust you first. This new president went after El Gato in his home. I had to make sure you weren’t here to double-cross me.”

“And where are we going? How am I to know
you
aren’t double-crossing
me
? This is
not
what we agreed to.”

“We’re going to a more secure area. I didn’t know what that thing was, and I still don’t. If it’s a nuclear weapon, the deal is off.”

“Why would you care what it is?” asked Apo.

“I
told
you! I’m
not
getting into a war with the Americans. Now I’m asking you for the last time, what
is
that thing? You’ll tell me or you can get back on that plane and go home. We’ll keep the two million as a fine for wasting my time.”

“Do you know what an electromagnetic pulse weapon is?”

“Explain.”

“The device will cause a large-scale blackout. It will damage computers and phones. It will cause panic and pressure the Americans to fight us in the Middle East.”