Craig looked at the team. “We up for this?” he asked.
“Ooh-Rah!” was the response from every member of the team.
“Semper-Fi,” said Craig as he headed out the door to follow Lazarus.
As they walked along, Reichart commented, “Not much of a conversationalist is he.”
Sheffield chuckled. “To be clear my dear Gustaf, I’m quite sure he would be a man of few words. The sort of man who lets his actions speak for him. Might I suggest you mimic his behavior for the time being?”
Reichart glanced at his British friend. “Mimic his behavior, did you say? Well, I’ll give it my best shot. I am certain; however, I shouldn’t mimic his walk or there would be a hoard of men chasing me down the flight line.”
The team groaned as one but didn’t take the bait.
“Spoil sports,” grinned Reichart. “You’re all just too shy to admit the man has a backside to absolutely DIE for.”
“Can it, Reichart,” said Young Bear with a barely contained laugh, “At least until you get to know him,” he added. Reichart was Reichart and there would be no changing the man.
Ten minutes later they were taxing down the ramp towards the north end of the runway. Twenty minutes later they were airborne over the Caribbean, headed for Costa Rica.
November 11
1:55 pm – CST
Derek was getting bored. The van kept rolling along with nothing happening and it was getting to him. He wasn’t one for sitting around waiting for something to happen. If they were going to kill him, he would rather it be sooner than later. He wasn’t in a hurry to die. In fact, he wasn’t planning on it, but he was ready for the potential. By his calculations it had to be midafternoon; somewhere around two or three. There was no way to be sure.
Fifteen minutes later the van pulled off the highway and started down a rougher road. Derek went on full alert. This wasn’t expected. It seemed like only a mile or two passed and the van came to a stop. Derek heard the three men get out and greet someone with a mix of Spanish and English swearing and laughter. He heard footsteps coming his way just before the back doors were jerked open and he was dragged out by his feet. His head hit the bumper and then the ground on the way down. He didn’t lose consciousness, but his bell was rung, and rung well.
The man he knew to be Ben was talking to a tall, slender white man with long thin blond hair and deeply set eyes; brown in the bright sun. Former Warrant Officer, Richard Clark, wore an Air Force flight suit. The insignias for rank were missing, but a patch on the shoulder designated him as a former member of the 101st Airborne Division, aka ‘The Screaming Eagles’. They were among the first units deployed in Vietnam.
Derek spotted an H-1 Bell Huey sitting 100 yards to the south, close to a tank of what was probably fuel. Next to the tank was an old shack that was mostly steel roofing panels and plywood. At one point it had been painted some shade of brown, but most of the paint was now faded and gone. Huey’s went into production in the early 1950’s. There was no telling how old this unit was, but an educated guess put in the Vietnam era. He looked back and forth between the vintage chopper and the gangly pilot and decided he’d rather ride in the van if it was up to him.
It wasn’t an option. Ben had Jesus and Antonio drag Derek to the waiting Huey and put him on the back bench. They chained and cuffed Derek to the seat frame, then the one they called Jesus spit in his face. Derek glared at the man but made no effort to wipe it off.
Jesus exchanged a high-five with Antonio as they strapped themselves in facing Derek. Ben climbed into the co-pilot’s seat and ten minutes later the Huey was airborne. To Derek’s surprise and relief, the engine sounded like a well-tuned guitar and the aircraft seemed solid. ‘I might not die in a chopper crash after-all’, he thought to himself as he looked the two men opposite him in the eyes. His head was pounding but there was no way he would admit to that. He only hoped there was no concussion. It didn’t feel like it, but he couldn’t be sure. Wherever they were taking him, struggling was a waste of energy. Derek closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
~7~
November 11
3:35 pm - cst
One of Camacho’s men entered the office suite; not waiting for a reply after knocking sharply on the door.
Andres looked annoyed as he snapped, “This better be important, Ricardo.”
Ricardo Spencer didn’t blanche under the stare. “I wouldn’t be here is it wasn’t, Hefe.”
Andres liked Ricardo; he hadn’t decided if he should trust him completely; after-all he was half gringo. He glared at the well-built Mexican; 5’11” and every bit of 220 pounds. “Speak.”
Ricardo walked over to Andres and whispered in Spanish. Weaver couldn’t pick it up from only 4 feet away. He did notice that as Ricardo spoke, Andres countenance darkened until he could see anger in the eyes of the drug lord.
“Thank you, Ricardo,” said Andres without the tone he began with. “It was good you came straight to me. I won’t forget this,”
Ricardo nodded, did a military quality about-face and left the office as quickly as he had entered.
“Something wrong, Andres? Ah, forgive me – is something wrong Hefe?” the CIA agent asked.
“Business,” said Camacho. “Something I must attend to immediately.”
“Would you like me to wait here?” asked Weaver.
Camacho scratched his chin and gave Weaver a once over. “No, Phillip, now that you mention it, I would like you to join me. After all, we are partners now, are we not?”
Weaver could barely contain the shudder of distaste washing over him. He smiled anyway, “Si, Hefe, we are in business together it would seem.”
“Then it’s settled.” Camacho motioned to the two guards in the room and the four headed out the office door, Camacho in front with Weaver sandwiched behind him between the two thugs.
They stepped off the elevator and three black Yukons were idling by the door. Andres motioned for Weaver to join him in the third SUV.
“Shouldn’t you be in the middle vehicle?” asked Weaver as he settled into his seat.
Camacho smiled. “That is precisely why I am NOT in the middle vehicle, my friend. That is where I am expected to be. More than one of my predecessors has died in the middle vehicle.” He went on. “Certainly, there is risk in being the chase car. Many times, they take out the escorts before the target, but even then, it is usually only the lead vehicle. Being in the third car allows more time for evasive maneuvers.”
Weaver nodded. “It makes sense, Hefe. I’m surprised more leaders haven’t figured that out.”
Camacho shrugged. “I don’t know, nor do I care about other leaders. I only care about keeping myself alive and this increases my odds.”
The three-vehicle procession tore out of the underground garage speeding north like their lives depended on it. It was just one more way they tried to make it difficult to be attacked, that, and the fact until only 5 minutes ago they weren’t even planning on leaving the compound. At least Weaver wasn’t forced to wear a black bag again. It made for a far more comfortable ride.
Weaver was surprised when the vehicles pulled off the road a little more than 20 miles from the compound. He spotted an old ranch house up the rutted drive. Camacho’s men got out and set a perimeter as Andres and Weaver exited their Yukon.
Instead of heading towards the house, they angled south towards an old dilapidated barn, it had been red at one point, but the relentless desert sun had bleached it a pale pink. Weaver wiped his brow as they walked slowly towards the barn. He wondered to himself why they were here and decided it didn’t matter. All Agent Weaver wanted to do was get back in the air-conditioned SUV.
Ricardo, the man that had brought Camacho out of his office, stood by a walk-door. It was made of the same type boards used in the barn and sagging on the hinges to the point the strike side was in the dirt a good inch.
“Hefe,” nodded Ricardo as he opened the door.
The smell was overwhelmi
ng. It was all Weaver could do to not puke. The bile rose in his throat as he searched for the source of the smell. What he found was far worse than the smell.
A man hung by his arms off a barn rafter. The only reason Weaver knew it was a man was his penis was still intact. Other than that – it could have been anything, even something inhuman. Most of the man’s face was peeled off. Whoever was torturing this man must have had medical training, or so Weaver assumed. He was correct. The rest of the body hadn’t fared much better; he couldn’t imagine why the man was still breathing. He spotted the IV bag hanging next to the man and it slowly dawned on the Agent. They were keeping him from bleeding out by adding blood and fluids through two separate IV’s.
Weaver finally lost it; half running to the corner of the barn to puke. Camacho and his men looked on with contempt. Weaver had his uses, but he was no field agent, even the Mexicans could see that from the reaction.
Andres handed the agent a handkerchief when he returned; patted Weaver on the back and asked with unveiled sarcasm, “Would you prefer to wait outside, Phillip?” His men laughed openly.
Weaver was angry; angry about the humiliation and angry at himself for showing weakness. He knew he’d lost face, something you don’t want to do in the middle of a pack of wolves as it were. “I’m fine,” he snapped back. “It’s from riding in that fucking truck. You know I don’t like sitting in the back. I’ve got a goddamn inner ear problem, you know that. I got my eardrums ruptured in Afghanistan three years ago.” It was all bullshit, and Camacho knew it. Weaver had never set foot in a war-zone.
“Ah, yes, Phillip,” he smiled magnanimously, “I must have forgotten. No matter, I must talk to this man here.” He turned his back on Weaver rolling his eyes at Ricardo who didn’t react.
Andres picked up a maple Louisville slugger lying in the dirt. He turned the battered and beaten subject around to face him. The prisoner was hanging by his arms, the shoulders clearly dislocated, his head hanging in a very unnatural position.
“Hello, my friend, Estevan,” whispered Andres as he looked the man in the eyes. “You seem to be having a rather bad day.” His men, all but Ricardo, laughed. Ricardo remained stoic, unemotional to the untrained eye. Something wasn’t sitting right with that man, but it wasn’t anything Weaver could put his finger on.
Estevan Dominguez was, or had been until today, one of the high-ranking members of Los Zapatos. His only crime was loyalty to Ramon Torano and his dislike for Camacho. He’d gotten drunk in Juarez with the wrong man, and word of his dislike for the new boss traveled quickly. He’d been in hiding for weeks, but his time and luck had run out. The irony was he got snagged by the U.S. Border Patrol and sent back to Mexico, right into Los Zapatos waiting arms.
“You were a good man to my uncle, Estevan,” nodded Camacho. “You served him well. Here is my problem. Ramon is dead; killed by that treacherous Chameleon in Argentina. Yet you acted as though I had no right to take what was mine by birthright. I am Ramon’s only nephew. I killed my own father to prove my loyalty.”
Estevan grunted, interrupting Camacho, “In his sleep, like a fucking woman.”
Camacho stepped back and swung the bat with both hands. He hit Dominguez in the ribs on the man’s left side. Weaver heard the ribs breaking through the sound of the bat landing. Estevan cried out in pain before sagging unconscious.
Andres turned slowly, the bloody baseball bat in his hands. One by one he went around the barn looking every man in the eyes; looking for anything indicating they agreed with Dominguez. He had killed his father while the man was passed out drunk and Torano had never let him forget it. Torano was dead, he was the Hefe now. He wasn’t going to take that shit from anyone ever again.
After several minutes he fixed his eyes on Weaver, motioning him over.
Weaver approached; hoping he didn’t look as scared as he felt. Camacho was unpredictable, he knew it and so did everyone in the building. He stopped three feet in front of the still fuming drug lord. He figured he had about a 50-50 chance of ducking a blow from three feet.
To his surprise, Camacho extended the bat. “Take it, Phillip,” he ordered coldly. “It is time to see what you are made of. You say you are with me. You say you support me. You promise me riches for helping your country. None of that means anything to me, Phillip, unless you’ve got the cajones of a real man.” He poked Weaver in the chest with the bat. “Do it, Phillip, do it or Señor Domínguez won’t be hanging by himself.”
Weaver took the bloody Louisville Slugger without saying a word. There was blind rage in Camacho. He had no doubts the man would kill him if he didn’t act. One thing, perhaps the best thing CIA Senior Agent Phillip Steven Weaver was good at, was self-preservation. Only 15 minutes before he was puking in a corner. That Weaver was gone.
The agent reached down and picked up dirt in his right hand, then rubbed it into his palms. “It makes for a better grip,” he said to Andres like he was coaching little league, “especially when you have a wet bat, so to speak.” He got the desired reaction – two of Camacho’s men were nodding in agreement. One chimed in, “Si, es verdad, Hefe.”
Weaver leaned the bat on the railing; took off his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves slowly – as much for show as it was to buy time. He was going to kill Dominguez, that wasn’t in question. It had been almost 15 years since he’d been in this situation and he needed to clear his mind.
He stepped up until he was about 4 feet from the hanging and unconscious man. He started warming up, tapping the head of the bat on the floor and taking practice swings.
“Somebody; wake that mother-fucker up,” he said evenly.
One of them threw water over Dominguez who sputtered back to consciousness. He eyes slowly focused on the gringo who looked like he was playing baseball. Through the drug and pain-induced fog – that’s what Estevan saw; a baseball player warming up. Then the batter swung for the fences. The front 6 inches landed square on the side of Dominguez’ head. The impact broke the man’s orbital socket and his jaw shattered. Several teeth were knocked out; leaving bloody splotches as they bounced and skittered across the dirt.
Weaver’s next swing would have made a lumberjack proud. He brought the 36-ounce bat straight down on the dying man with all his 245 pounds behind the swing. Dominguez’ head caved in like an over-ripe cantaloupe. Blood and brain matter arced across the room, hitting three Zapatos’ foot-soldiers in the face, one of whom immediately vomited. Weaver left the now half-splintered Slugger embedded in the dead man’s skull; glaring at the man who’d just thrown up while he retrieved his jacket from a nearby stall door. The silence gave way to an unexpected sound; the slow steady clapping of one man, Camacho. He looked at his men and one by one they added to the applause.
Beaming with what looked like pride or perhaps glee, Andres put an arm around Weaver. “Now that is the way to swing a bat, amigo; truly impressive. I didn’t think you had it in you.” He said the last without sarcasm; more with a bit of awe in his voice.
“I do what needs to be done, Andres,” said Weaver, intentionally calling the man by name and not by title. If Andres noticed, he didn’t react.
“So, Phillip, this is something I should keep in mind or I might end up as batting practice for the CIA, verdad?”
Weaver saw his opening. “Hefe, there’s not one fucking chance in in a million that will ever happen. Not in any future I can envision.”
Camacho took the words as a pledge of loyalty, though it was not spoken as such. “This is good to know,” he replied. “It is good to know I have the support of someone as important as Phillip Weaver inside the CIA.”
Phillip nodded. “You know I have to support you, Hefe, our futures are linked together as one.”
Andres slapped Weaver on the back as they headed towards the door. “Burn it all,” he said to Ricardo as they left the old barn, “and the house, too.” It wouldn’t have been necessary. No one would ever come looking for the dead Estevan Dominguez. Andres had already dispatched
three teams to find and kill the rest of Dominguez’ family out to his third cousins, if they could be identified. His wife and children would be in their home; the fools.
Camacho was quiet the entire trip back to the compound. Weaver used bottled water to dab at the blood stains on his trousers. There wasn’t much, but it was something he wouldn’t be caught walking around with him; evidence. He decided to burn all the clothes he was wearing when he got back home, IF he got back. He had plenty of suits. He didn’t need one with DNA from a dead man on it.
~8~
November 11
3:25 pm – est
Lazarus boarded the team one member at a time to greet Langston. Each operative stood calmly by the door while the 110-pound black shepherd gave him or her the once over. As soon as Langston sat, they displayed the same greeting; right hand up and palm out before bringing the fingers down. “Guten Tag, Herr Langston,” followed by way of introduction. Langston would then stand and move to the side. As soon as one member passed, he took up his position in the middle of the aisle. It added 10 minutes to the boarding time, but no one bitched.
A very large and intimidating midnight black German shepherd with emerald green eyes tends to give one pause. That would be for all except Gustaf Reichart, the German explosives expert. After the introductions, he tackled Langston and rolled around on the cabin floor shouting “Guter Hund” and laughing. Lazarus smiled to himself. He wasn’t the least bit surprised Langston didn’t rip the man apart. Langston’s instincts were something Lazarus trusted implicitly. Gustaf Reichart had just earned a life-time free pass from the assassin.
Once everyone was seated, there were just enough to go around, Lazarus addressed the team.
“I’m not going to insult your intelligence,” he said to the six stoic faces before him. “I’m the one they call the Chameleon. Is anyone not familiar with who I am or what I do?”
Reichart raised a tentative hand, like he was in grade school.
Family Matters Page 6
