by Andrew Watts
“Wait,” was all she said.
Max did as commanded. A terrier, waiting for his master’s command. He took a deep breath. Being in a relationship with a woman who was smart, opinionated, and sexy really hurt a man’s ability to pretend he was in charge.
She stopped typing and looked at him. “Okay, I found what I was looking for. I’m ready to debate.”
Max held his hands up in surrender. “I’ve learned that debating you is never in my best interests. How about you just arm me with your newly acquired knowledge?”
Renee began. “The US uses more opioids than anywhere else.”
“Okay. So what? Isn’t that just because of population?”
“No. This is per capita. The US leads the way, by far. Canada is number two, by the way. So I would be helping your country and mine.”
Max cocked his head. “You keep telling me that you’re an American now.”
“I have dual citizenship. But I still like Canada better.”
“Why?”
“Better beer and prettier lakes.”
“We’re getting better at beer, you know…”
Renee tapped on her trackpad and opened up a window. “This is the DEA’s National Drug Threat Assessment. It’s one of the most comprehensive annual reports on the illegal drug trade and how it affects the United States. It says that Mexico is the biggest source of heroin for the US market.”
“I thought most heroin was grown in Afghanistan.”
Renee said, “You’re right. Most of it is. But there’s a global demand for opium. And most Afghan poppy production ends up sold to European or Asian markets. Cheap Mexican heroin is flooding into the US. And look.” She brought up a color-coded map of the United States. “Do you remember the name of the cartel that Wilkes mentioned?”
“The Sinaloa cartel, I believe.”
“Right. They—according to this document—are the number one producer of heroin sold in North America. They control the region where it grows. Something about the climate in the warm, mountainous regions is conducive to growing poppies. And they have ultra-cheap labor. Women. Kids. Often working under slave-like conditions, growing the crops. Armed men standing watch over them. And you know how Trent was so broken up about the black tar heroin he found in the dealer’s possession? He was right. His brother Josh probably overdosed on Mexican heroin—produced by the same cartels that Trent once went after. I don’t know that you could ever point the finger at one person. But I certainly think that if you wanted to hold someone accountable at a high level, the higher-ups in the Sinaloa cartel would be a great pick.”
Max said, “Point made.”
“There’s something else I found that I wanted to run by you.”
“Hit me.”
“I was trying to find a link between the ISI and the Mexican drug cartels. Specifically, the Sinaloa cartel, where this Blanco is.”
“And?”
“I found this one journalist’s blog—someone who’d been embedded with US troops in Afghanistan. One of his posts mentioned a rumor he overheard—that the Pakistani ISI are covertly running the Afghan opium trade.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “It wouldn’t be the first time an intelligence agency got involved in something like that. The Afghan heroin trade is a multibillion-dollar market. That amount of money would attract all the sharks in the region. And the ISI has a lot of sharks. If you’ve got that much cash, you can fund a whole lot of covert operations to support your cause.”
“But even if the ISI is involved in the Afghan heroin trade, what’s the connection to the Sinaloa cartel?”
Max looked out the window, thinking, then turned back to face her. “Heroin, obviously. You just talked about the rise in heroin use across the world since 2001. And you also said that North America has overindexed. So growth in heroin use here is higher than anywhere else, but Afghanistan still produces ninety percent of the world’s heroin.”
Renee said, “The Mexican cartels can’t keep up. Is that it?”
“Possibly. Maybe the North American demand is outstripping the cartel’s supply. So where can they go to get more heroin to sell in the US?”
“Afghan suppliers.”
“And the ISI is brokering the deal.”
Their jet stopped at a small executive airport on the outskirts of Dallas. They taxied next to a hangar where a small moving truck was waiting. Next to the truck stood a tall, thick man with dark curly hair and a beard. Max shook hands with the man and introduced him to Trent and Renee.
Renee said, “I’m sorry, did you say your name was…?”
“That’s right, Sasquatch.”
The large man’s arms were folded across his chest, a wide smile on his face.
Renee looked at Max with bewilderment, not sure if this was a joke. “Why do you go by Sasquatch?”
The man lifted open the truck trailer door to reveal shelves filled with weapons and gear. “I think they call me that because of my good looks.”
Max whispered, “Men in his line of work usually prefer that we not use their real name.”
Renee nodded.
Trent picked up a large weapon with two hands. It was drab green and had a cylinder-style magazine. “This is nice.”
“What is it?” asked Renee.
Sasquatch answered, “It’s a multi-use weapon. We’ve got several different options for ammunition there, sir. Just take a look at the shelf above it.”
“Excellent. Very nice selection,” said Trent. “These rounds here—any chance you could customize them for close quarters?”
Sasquatch handed him a specially marked crate. “These here don’t have the twenty-five-meter minimum engagement range. They’ll arm after about seven meters. Will that do?”
“Yup.”
Trent and Max inspected their gear options, made their choices, and then loaded everything onto the jet while it refueled.
“Your payment is already in your account,” said Max. “And I gave you a little tip.”
“Always appreciated, Mr. Fend. Just let me know whenever I can be of service.”
The trio got back into the jet as Sasquatch drove away. A few hours later, they landed at an airport on the coast of Sinaloa, Mexico.
Cartel territory.
They arrived at a five-star resort on the beaches of Mazatlán. The resort had high cement walls surrounding the property. Men armed with shotguns walked the perimeter, guarding the wealthy patrons. Max wondered how many of those men also worked for the cartels part-time.
“May we take your bags, sir?”
“No, thank you, my assistant will manage fine.” Max looked at Trent, who nodded and carried their luggage up to the rooms. The bags would be moved to a safe house later that night. Until then, Trent wouldn’t let them leave his sight.
Their hotel room was simple, but gorgeous. Clean floors of reddish Saltillo tile, arched ceilings, and an open-air balcony with a view of the turquoise Pacific and towering palm trees.
But beautiful as it was, the hotel would have been one of Max’s last choices if he were vacationing in Mexico. Outside the walls of the resort, the city streets were teeming with prying eyes on the payroll of the cartel, each of them eager to get a bonus for providing a good tip on American law enforcement—or perhaps a prime target for kidnapping.
Their cover story was simple. Max and Renee were on vacation. As many ultra-wealthy travelers do, Mr. Fend had brought along his personal security guard. While Max was well known in the US, due to his father’s fame and his own misadventures, here he was just some rich gringo. This partial anonymity allowed him to assist in reconnaissance without drawing extraordinary notice.
The three travelers spent their evenings together in Max’s room, with the windows closed and electronic countersurveillance equipment humming on the coffee table. Renee had carefully set up their IT network, an encrypted system that made sure no one could tap in to their phones or computers. She also scanned the room for bugs twice per day.
Stil
l, they knew they were probably being watched. The hotel concierge. The cab driver. The airport security officials. Local police. Even some teenage kids Max had caught tailing him during his first morning stroll. One kid watching him and immediately making a call on a cheap cell phone, probably reporting Max’s position to his boss. Max lost the kids during his three-hour surveillance detection route, but the fact that there were so many potential eyeballs on him was a bit unnerving.
Mexico would be harder than he thought.
The group spent the next two days making observations and adjusting plans. Max and Trent took turns walking the streets in and around the operational area. Going over potential getaway routes and choke points, and gaining knowledge of the local pattern of life. Wilkes sent gigabytes of CIA and DEA data to Renee, which the trio studied each night.
Wilkes arrived on the third night to go over the plan.
They ordered room service. Steak and grilled vegetables. Bottled waters. Max wasn’t drinking a drop out of the tap. He’d heard too many stories of Montezuma’s revenge.
After dinner, Wilkes pointed at the map displayed on Renee’s computer screen. On it was a neighborhood block about five miles away.
“So, our break here is that we’ve been able to establish a new routine between Rojas and my agent. About once per month, he makes the three-hour drive from cartel leadership’s headquarters in Durango to the coast here in Mazatlán. Unless something drastically changes, there is a very high probability that Hector Rojas will be in this townhome tomorrow evening, enjoying a night of drinks and carnal familiarity with my agent.”
Renee frowned.
Max nodded. “Based on the pattern-of-life reports Wilkes provided us, Rojas rarely stays in the same place more than a few nights in a row. And this special meeting that Blanco and the Pakistanis are prepping for is supposed to be held within the next few weeks. So, we’ll need tomorrow night to go smoothly, or—”
“Or we’re fucked,” Trent finished.
“Or we’ll lose our opportunity to discover the location, participants, and purpose of a meeting so important that the ISI is killing American citizens on American soil before it occurs.”
Renee said, “Why is the cartel headquarters in the mountains? Why don’t they live here? It’s beautiful.”
Trent said, “It’s safer for them in the villages of the Sierra Madres. The cartels live in fear of each other. If they operated here on the coast, there would be a higher chance that one of the competing cartels might try and assassinate the head family, and then steal their share of the market. There’s enough going on in beach towns like this that the other cartels might be able to send in a few cars full of their sicarios without getting noticed. But not in Durango. That’s flyover country, and everyone knows each other. A single stranger shows up, and they get questioned by the local hired guns.”
Max said, “Doesn’t sound much like a cartel. Cartels are supposed to work together, colluding on price and distribution. Not kill each other off at the first sign of weakness.”
Trent said, “The drug cartels are not real cartels in the literal sense of the word. The Colombians tried to operate that way for a while, but war erupted between them. It’s more like the mafia. Competing factions of organized crime families, each following a common code. They have an understanding, and each cartel’s territory has been carved out through violent battles over the years. But it’s a tumultuous climate. I wouldn’t call it a peaceful partnership. They kill each other as much as they kill anyone else, if not more. It would be great if they really operated as a cartel. I suspect there would be much less violence. Much less chaos.”
Wilkes said, “Let’s talk the schedule of events. My agent will try to slip an incapacitating chemical into his drink. I’ve trained her on technique and risk assessment. If she can do it safely, Rojas should be passed out pretty hard by midnight. You’ll just have his two security guards to handle. Will that be a problem?”
Trent shook his head. “That should be no problem.”
“Are we sure it’s just two men?” Max said.
Wilkes said, “He’s had the same two bodyguards with him every trip he’s taken for the past three months.”
Trent and Max exchanged glances. Both of them knew how often mission expectations differed from the actual circumstances operators faced.
“We’ve been scouting the city,” Max said. “I’ll be parked down the street. When your agent gives her signal that tells us Rojas is passed out, Trent will take out the guards and I’ll move my vehicle to the curb. Both your agent and Trent will carry Rojas down to my vehicle and we’ll head towards the airport. Caleb, like we discussed, I can’t use my father’s jet for the extraction, so I’ll be relying on one of your air assets. I need you to guarantee me that you’ll have someone at the airport at the appropriate time.”
Wilkes nodded. “I’ll have someone there ready to fly you all back to the States.”
“Where in the States? Fort Bliss?”
“No. This is completely off the books. I can’t have you guys fly in to a military base. I’ll give the pilot a private field to fly into, and the interrogation team will meet you there. You don’t need to know the location yet. What’s your backup?”
Trent said, “If things get hairy, there’s a connection to the townhome next door. Max and I have set up a secondary extraction route through there.”
Max said, “When are you going back to El Paso?”
“My jet’s waiting at the field,” said Wilkes. “I’ll be watching the op from EPIC, and I’ll send you updates if I spot any problems.”
“Won’t the people at EPIC wonder why you’re having them concentrate their aerial surveillance on Mazatlán? You can’t keep this thing from the DEA if they’re—”
Wilkes held up a hand to stop him. “Relax. The DEA is doing recon on Rojas, and they know I have an agent involved. My presence at the EPIC tactical operations center won’t be unusual, although I imagine they’ll begin wetting themselves when they see Trent take out Rojas’s bodyguards and your car roll up. But even if the EPIC folks track you to the airport via satellite, they won’t see where it lands. I’ve made sure all of our airborne tracking tools will lose the evac aircraft.”
Max said, “That sounds complex.”
“It will be. But really, I think hiding this operation from the DEA should be much easier than hiding it from the cartels tomorrow night.”
Max winced.
Renee looked pale.
Trent shrugged. “Easy day.”
Caleb and Trent left, and Max and Renee were alone in their room. He could tell that she was nervous, but also a little excited. He knew this because soon after they were alone, she finished her glass of wine in one gulp, turned out the lights, opened the balcony doors to allow the sea breeze and moonlight in, removed her dress to reveal a sexy black lace number, and began nibbling on his ear.
Latin America was known for being a land of passion. When in Rome…
Afterwards, the two lovers collapsed on top of the sheets, exhausted and covered in sweat.
“Thanks. I think I needed that,” said Renee, kissing him lightly on the shoulder and nuzzling into his chest. Skin on skin, he could feel her heartbeat and heavy breathing as she recovered from exertion. Outside, the waves crashed on the beach, and a pale moon rose over the horizon.
She said, “Do you think tomorrow will go okay?”
“We’ve done our homework and taken precautions. We’ll be alright.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
Max looked at her.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“I can’t put my finger on it.” He sighed. “It’s probably just nerves. We’ll be fine.”
They fell asleep to the sound of the waves.
The next night, Renee sat at the suite’s only desk. A “do not disturb” sign hung on the outer doorknob. Max had placed it there when
he’d left hours earlier. Her laptop was in front of her, connected only through its satellite antenna. A headset hung over her ears.
She spoke into the headset’s boom microphone. “Check in, please.”
“In position.” Trent’s voice.
“Present.” Max sounded like a kindergartener speaking to his teacher.
Renee, Max, and Trent were the only people who would be speaking on the encrypted frequency. If Wilkes needed to contact them, Renee would see his message on her computer. She would then notify the team over their earpieces or via a burner phone that each of them carried.
Renee had contacted one of her trusted former CSE partners—a hacker, like her. Approved by Max, this person would help her to monitor the throngs of data she was being fed and ping her with only the most crucial elements. That would free her up to communicate with Max and Trent, giving them the vital real-time information that could make or break the mission. She was also getting the same overhead satellite and drone feed that EPIC was seeing, courtesy of Caleb Wilkes and his connections at the National Reconnaissance Office.
Trent said, “All parties have arrived. With a few extras.”
“Extras?”
“Yup.”
Renee saw what Trent and Max were talking about. There were four guards outside the townhome, not the expected two. And instead of one woman and one man in the home—Rojas and Wilkes’s agent—the rooftop patio was populated by two men and three women.
Max was right. Things hadn’t even started yet, and they were already off script.
Chapter 9
Hugo stood on the top floor of the seven-story parking garage at Reston Town Center in Northern Virginia. He watched as the BMW sedan crept to a halt just in front of him.
The man shut off his engine and exited the car. Ronald Dicks. The most senior aide to Senator Herbert Becker.
From the streets below came the sound of an urban outdoor luxury shopping center. The bustle of the crowd headed to chic restaurants and clothing stores. The happy hour crowd departing the bars. Young teens heading to the movies.
