“Bring him in, Gunny,” said Lazarus towards the west end of the cabin.
Clark appeared with Young Bear on his six; eyes glued on the 5 men hanging on the porch. Craig had him by the back of his collar, guiding the stunned pilot to Lazarus.
“Do you know who I am?” Lazarus asked curtly.
“No, I don’t. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to,” answered the shaking pilot.
“Good. We’re going to keep it that way,” said Lazarus. “You’re a survivor aren’t you, Clark.”
Clark’s head jerked back. “How do you know my name?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter, any more than the lives of those 5 men mattered,” Lazarus answered coldly. “My only question for you is whether or not you want to keep on living.”
Clark looked around him before nodding a yes. “What do you want me to do?”
“Your job, Clark,” said Lazarus. “You’re going to fly your chopper back to Chihuahua. You’re going to park it where you always do. You’re going to fuel it up and walk away. Matamoras would be a good destination. There’s a restaurant there called El Campochino. Ask for a man by the name of Esteban and tell him the lizard sent you.”
“Camacho will hunt me down and kill me.”
“No, Clark, he won’t,” stated Lazarus. “You do what I tell you, and when I’m finished, you’ll have a new job. One that doesn’t involve drug cartels. You served well in ‘Nam, or so I’ve been told.”
Katsumi had already forwarded a background check on Clark she compiled before they made it to the cabin.
“I’m giving you a second chance – your final chance. You screw this up and you won’t live to see the new year.” Lazarus handed Clark an envelope. Inside was 5 thousand in cash and a set of keys to a Chevrolet.
“What’s this for?” Clark asked suspiciously.
“The money is for flying the chopper to Chihuahua. You work for me now. The keys are to a blue and white 2006 Silverado that will be parked behind the shed.” He watched the surprise on Clark’s face. “You didn’t think I’d actually make you walk to Matamoras, did you?”
“Well, yeah, I did,” said Clark, “and I probably would have. You don’t strike me as the sort who would let that kind of shit go.”
“I believe you would have, that’s why you’re working for me now.” Lazarus put his hand on Clark’s shoulder. “You don’t know me, and you never will. That’s how it works. I’ll contact you through Esteban. Until then, you do whatever Esteban needs you to do. It will be honest work, and you will be paid well.”
“Why?” asked Clark. He looked in the eyes of every member of the team, searching for an answer; trying to decide if this was for real. Derek answered.
“You have his word, Clark. That’s all you need. Besides, if he wanted you dead – well then, dead you would be. You were just doing your job, I understand that. This was Camacho’s doing, and he’s the one that will answer for it. The choice is a simple yes or no.”
“I guess yes is the only smart answer then,” said Clark warily. “I fly the chopper back, go to Matamoras and get a job and all this just disappears?”
“No, Clark, you disappear. The cartel will never find you,” said Lazarus. “As you can see, I have no qualms about killing, nor do I have an issue with leaving these men hanging here to rot. I don’t make offers on a whim. I am gambling on the man you were, not the man that flew down here with a hostage.”
Clark couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He was expecting to die like the others. Ben was nowhere to be seen, so he didn’t know what happened. He assumed he was dead like the rest. After about two minutes he looked Lazarus in the eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said with a salute. “I’m in and you won’t regret it. You have my word.”
Lazarus took his hand in both of his, pulling him close to whisper, “I know I won’t regret it, Clark. I’m a man with no regrets and plan on dying that way.” He leaned back and said louder, “Welcome aboard, Clark.” One by one, the team members stepped up and shook his hand – all but Reichart who firmly kissed Clark on both cheeks and grinned as the man turned beet red.
“What’s the problem, Herr Clark? Never been kissed by a real man before?” asked Reichart.
Young Bear stepped in. “Ignore him, Clark. He’s German, and not quite right in the head. Let’s get you airborne.” He took Clark by the elbow and guided him back to the waiting Huey. “Here,” said Craig, “fuel money from the big guy. You need to stay off the radar so don’t use your regular route. Are we clear?”
“Crystal, Gunny,” said Clark, “although this feels like a dream.”
“Well, it isn’t a dream,” said Craig, “it’s a gift. Don’t fuck it up.” With that Young Bear turned and headed back to the cabin without looking back. Ten minutes later they watched the Huey lift off. Clark did a fly over before heading back north.
“That went well,” said Lafayette to no-one specifically.
“Indeed, it did, my French compatriot,” said Reichart. “This Chameleon is much more than I thought him to be.”
“Oui, Reichart. There is much more than anyone expected from what I can see.” Together they fell in behind the rest of the team as they trekked back towards the waiting MI-35. Each lost in their own thoughts wondering why Lazarus had done what he did with Clark. No one saw it coming. No one could really believe it. It seemed too big a risk to let him fly off that way. There was nothing to stop him from going straight to Camacho. Then again, only Craig, Gustaf and Lazarus knew the Huey was now a flying bomb to be used at their disposal. Worst case scenario; Clark flew straight to the compound with 10 kilos of C-4 molded into the helicopter’s frame.
Lazarus wasn’t concerned either way. He never second guessed himself and wasn’t going to start now. He expected Clark to be in Matamoras in two days. He put Clark in one of his many compartments and mentally began preparing the second phase of the recovery mission.
~12~
November 12
3:05 am - Cst
Camacho and Weaver were sitting in the large office overlooking the Sierra Madres. The night was clear; the same nearly half-moon lighting their sky as it had Derek’s. Andres looked edgy. He fidgeted in his chair; constantly picking at the crease in his slacks while drumming his fingers on the end table by his side.
Weaver wasn’t unhappy with Camacho’s angst. He had no doubt of the outcome in the Jungle. He also doubted Grimsrud would be coming back alive. Weaver new him too well for that. Derek would go down swinging, and Phillip’s best estimate was 3 Los Zapatos weren’t coming back.
At exactly 3:07 am, Camacho’s phone vibrated on the end table. He picked it up with a smile that quickly faded to a face turning purple with rage. He couldn’t even speak, tossing the phone to Weaver as he headed to the liquor cabinet.
Weaver didn’t react the same. He was surprised, but not shocked. He’d known about the beacon, he just didn’t know how the Chameleon knew. One thing was certain, as far as Weaver was concerned, his relationship with Camacho had just become a liability of significant magnitude. He set the phone on the coffee table in from of him and sat back, waiting for Camacho to speak.
Andres downed two quick shots of Patron; wiping his mouth on his silk shirt. “How could this have happened, Weaver?” He shouted as he turned towards the American.
Weaver, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “I have no idea, Hefe. I have heard of this ‘Chameleon’, but I have zero intel on him. For all we’ve gathered over the last 20 years, he might as well be a ghost.”
Camacho turned and threw the cut crystal glass against the fireplace hearth, shattering it to pieces. They shards scattered like hundreds of small diamonds; tiny prisms refracting the light from the fire. “How could you NOT know anything about this man? You’re the fucking CIA, Weaver!”
Weaver still didn’t react, but his heart-rate jumped as he started to sweat. He needed a way out and it had to be now.
He leaned forward and laced his fingers together, speaking calmly. “Yes, Hefe, we are the CIA, and we tak
e care of our own.” He waited for Camacho to turn towards him. “I may not know this Chameleon, but the CIA does. I would bet they have a very nice file on him. I told you he was known by Mr. Black. I even mentioned that if you took him, the Chameleon would come for him.” Weaver decided against mentioning the GPS locator. He was sure it would get him shot, or worse at this point.
“Hefe, Andres,” he said, emphasizing the man’s name. “We are not just partners, we are friends. I have known you for years and have always protected your interests. Let me do my job. I will deal with the Chameleon, and Mr. Black, too.”
Andres stopped pacing and turned to face Weaver. A chrome plated Kimber 1911 .45 caliber semi-automatic in his left hand. Weaver hadn’t seen him pick it up. “How do you propose to ‘fix’ this for me, Phillip? You’re nothing but a glorified paper-pusher. This Mr. Black and the Chameleon, they are warriors, men who have killed.”
Weaver let anger creep into his voice as he stood. There was a high probability he might be dead soon. He had nothing to lose. “I killed a fucking man for you yesterday, Andres, or have you already forgotten that? I had three men who coveted Los Zapatos killed to ensure your ascent to the throne. I have protected you and paid you very fucking well, too. And now you threaten me with a gun?”
Weaver dramatically stood and spread his arms wide. “If you’re going to kill me, then fucking do it.” He spoke calmly, but his face showed anger. “Mark my words, Andres Camacho. If you do, you better be prepared to die. The Chameleon is coming, especially for you, and he won’t be alone. He’ll have Mr. Black and probably his entire team with him. All ex-military. All specialists in their field. A sniper, an explosives expert, an Army Delta Ranger, an ex-air force pararescue team leader who also happens to be one hell of a surgeon, and two former marines, one of which blew up your fucking men in Los Trios.
“I can’t help you from here. I need access to the CIA databases. I need to undercut Mr. Black; get his team recalled somehow or diverted. I need to know everything they have on this Chameleon. If he has a weakness, believe me, the CIA will know it, and then, so will I.
“Regardless, I can’t do shit from here and you know it. I need to get to my apartment in Mexico City where I can tap into the system without their knowledge. If I do it from anywhere else, they’ll know.” Weaver took a deep breath, letting the anger fade from his voice and posture. “What’s it going to be, Andres, mi Hefe? I want to help you. I simply can’t do it from here.”
Andres had stopped shaking, the Kimber still hanging at his side. Weaver made sense, but could he trust him? He wasn’t so sure about that. He knew Weaver looked out for himself. He did, however, have a ton of dirt on the CIA agent, including video of him killing Estevan the day before. He looked around the room, spotting Ricardo Spencer standing in a corner, his gun out and leveled at Weaver’s head. His hand never wavered. He glanced at Andres and raised one eyebrow as if to ask, “Do I shoot him now, Hefe?” His faith in Ricardo was cemented by the action. He was ready to kill Weaver if he had moved against him. That was loyalty he could trust.
Andres laid the Kimber on the bar and grabbed three glasses, pouring two ounces of Patron into each. He motioned to Ricardo with his head to join them. Spencer lowered his weapon, a Beretta 92FS, but didn’t holster it. It was still cocked and ready to fire.
“That won’t be necessary, Ricardo,” said Andres.
Weaver turned in time to see the barrel-chested Mexican flip the safety on the Berretta and slide it into a shoulder holster. A shiver ran up his spine as reality kicked him in the balls. Ricardo had been ready to kill him, at least it appeared that way. Weaver had no way of knowing if Camacho knew Ricardo was ready to pull the trigger, although there was little room for doubt.
Andres passed a glass to the other two men. “Ricardo, would you please take Phillip to his apartment in Mexico City, then get back here as soon as possible. I need you here by my side.” Camacho asking, rather than telling him spoke volumes to everyone in the room. That was all the proof Ricardo needed. He had earned Camacho’s trust.
“Si, Hefe, I would be honored,” he replied to Andres with his eyes fixed on Weaver. “I swear on my children’s lives, Hefe, if this man doesn’t give us what we need, I will dispose of him.” He turned to Andres, “That is, of course, if it is what you want.”
Camacho smiled. He had chosen well. “Si, Ricardo. If Mr. Weaver doesn’t get what we need, then we won’t need Mr. Weaver, es verdad?”
“Si, Hefe, that is very true.”
“Then let us drink to Mr. Weaver’s success,” said Andres as he lifted his glass and tapped both men’s. “It is time we eliminated this pest, this reptile who interferes where he has no business. I will avenge my uncle at the same time.
“And, Phillip?” he queried.
“Si, Andres, I mean, Hefe,” he added with a nod of apology. He could barely suppress the relief inside. He was getting out, and once he was in Mexico City, and Ricardo would be leaving him there.
“Don’t fail me, Phillip,” Andres said as he put his hand on Weaver’s shoulder. “I underestimated this Mr. Black. You told me he was a Navy Seal and I didn’t inform my men. I should have.” His confession was unexpected. “I should have spoken with you first. Perhaps then he would not still be alive.”
“There was no need to confer with me, Hefe,” said Phillip. “This is your business, your empire, you don’t need my permission or input for anything.” Weaver gave the drug lord a bow. “But, thank you for your kind words. I appreciate that you value my input.” Weaver had been right all along. Camacho was no match for his uncle and stood little chance of holding Los Zapatos together, unless he was able to kill the Chameleon and Mr. Black.
“Tell me, Phillip, does the Chameleon know of the compound?” asked Camacho.
“Not to my knowledge, Hefe. Few know of its existence. To be completely honest though, I have no way of knowing. For all we know Torano could have had him here for business. I do know this much; your uncle went to great lengths to keep the location in the family.”
Andres thought back to the night of the huge banquet and subsequent slaughter of all the men who worked on the construction. “Si, Phillip, that he did.”
“Then let’s drink and get down to business.” The three men tossed back their drinks in one swallow and set the glasses down.
“Ricardo,” said Andres, “send in Jose Castro on your way out. I need to replace Ben.”
Ricardo nodded and headed for the door, not waiting for Weaver.
Weaver put out his hand, Andres took it. “We will handle this, Hefe. We will take care of this pest and you will become the greatest leader of all the cartels.”
Andres took the proffered hand in his, “Thank you, Philip, that is all I want.”
He watched Weaver walk out behind Ricardo; his hands entwined behind his back. His eyes flicked to the Kimber and back. A small shake of his head told the story of temptation overcome by greed. He considered his compound impenetrable. With 100 men always on guard duty, and another 100 for the 12-hour rotations, he wasn’t concerned about being taken in his own home.
It is written somewhere, “Pride cometh before the fall.” It’s not just pride; it’s arrogance at its purest form. It is also written that every man is born to die – something Camacho seemed ignorant of now. He nodded towards one of his guards and took a seat behind a large mahogany desk in the northeast corner of the room.
The guard opened the door and Jose Castro entered the room. Jose Christopher Ybarra de Castro was the most ruthless of Los Zapatos. He spent 15 years in the Mexican Special Forces. He was a soldier first and last who rose to the rank of Colonel before he was dishonorably discharged. He punched a General in the mouth during a bar fight over a woman. Castro hurt three police officers severely enough they landed in the hospital. It took seven officers to restrain him long enough to cuff him.
Castro was slight of build, but sinewy. He stood only 5’3” tall and weighed barely 110 pounds. He wore a pair o
f Rayban reflective Aviator sunglasses, day or night, adding another layer to his intimidating appearance. Castro’s head was shaved; his body covered in tattoos from the neck down. Only his hands and the soles of his feet were lacking. His crown jewel, as it were; a tattoo of Christ, the crown of thorns on His brow, carrying the cross covered Jose’s head; the arms of the cross terminating on his cheeks.
He had planned it all. Jose was Ramon Torano’s god-child. He’d been a member of Los Zapatos since he was 6, when he killed a prostitute for his god-father. He didn’t ask why she needed to be killed, he just did it and disposed of the body. He was small. The only way to move the body was in sections, Jose had no issue with cutting the woman into pieces. He carried her body parts in a rusty old Radio Flyer wagon down to the rail yards where he fed her body to the packs of dogs that roamed the area. No one ever gave the boy a second look as he pulled the wagon half-way through the city of Chihuahua to dispose of the body.
“Buenas tardes, Hefe,” said Castro, coming to attention in front of Camacho’s desk.
“Thank you for coming, El Aniquilador,” replied Andres, referring to Castro as ‘The Annihilator’. “We have much to discuss and preparations to make for some unexpected guests. They will be arriving in two to three days.”
Andres stepped out from behind the desk, leading the way through a thick oak door. Inside was a room filled with computers, banks of monitors and a large server. It was the heart of the security systems in the compound; completely self-contained. The only way to hack it was from the control console in the center of what was, essentially, a very large bank vault. He closed the door behind them as two heavily armed guards took up positions outside the room.
~13~
November 12
4:45 am – EST
General Fischer’s private line vibrated to life. He glanced at the screen and saw Young Bear’s number. “Give me good news, Gunny,” he answered.
“Well, General, if you’d rather talk to Gunny, I’ll pass him the phone.”
Family Matters Page 10
