Family Matters

by Robert Ullrich

  “LJ is at the airport, the jet is fueled, and a flight plan to Miami-Opa-lacka Executive Airport. Take-off is scheduled for 9:00 this morning,” said Katsumi. “LJ has all the information on the location of Los Zapatos main operation. It’s located on NW22nd street, near 141st Street, I have forwarded a map to your phone.”

  “Perfect, sweetie,” said Lazarus. “I knew you would have everything I needed. Now, you can drop out of the NSA satellite as promised to General Fischer.”

  “I’ll be out in 5 minutes, sir. I need to scrub one link and add another,” said Katsumi. “You never know when we might need it again.”

  “I know I don’t need to say it, but I will. You make damn sure they can’t trace that back to you, Kat. I would hate to have to break you out of a federal prison. It would take a lot of time and totally wreck my plans for New Year’s.”

  Katsumi laughed. “Well, of course, Sir. I wouldn’t want to interfere with the charity ball. That would be rude.”

  Lazarus laughed in return. “You got that right, baby girl. I’ll call you from the air.”

  “I’ll talk to you then, sir. Oh, and please thank LJ for me. He has all of us feeling as safe as if we were in Fort Knox.”

  “Consider it done. Talk soon.” Lazarus ended the call as he backed a pristine white Mazda Miata out of the garage and headed toward the airport. The car was registered to his foundation, and he’d never been pulled over driving it. He was a perfect citizen as far as his traffic record went. Not one ticket in over 25 years of driving.

  They were wheels up at 9:20; banking out over the Atlantic as he followed the air traffic controller’s directions. Flight time was approximately 45 minutes. Lazarus had a busy day planned.

  ~20~

  November 13

  10:27 am – EST

  The flight took a little over an hour due to air traffic over Miami; not unusual that during the daytime. Lazarus brought the G-4 in from the West, taking the main strip at the northern edge of the airport. He taxied south past Miami Helicopter and the Air One facilities, parking the plane and shutting down the engines next to Boca Aircraft Maintenance.

  Lazarus was greeted by Paul Zieser, owner of Boca Aircraft. Paul had been maintaining Lazarus’ planes for years.

  “Mr. Solaris,” said Paul, extending his hand.

  “Hello, Paul,” replied Lazarus. “The Mr. thing’s a little formal, don’t you think? Hell, I’ve known you for what, 15 years?” He hit Paul with one of his best smiles as LJ brought in two pieces of luggage.

  Paul laughed. “It’s habit, Lazarus. You know me.”

  “Damn straight, Paul.”

  “Are you going to be in town long?” asked Paul.

  “I should be done with my business by tomorrow morning, but it may take a couple days,” answered Lazarus. “If you would, give her a routine service check, top off the fuel and see if I need new rubber. It would be great if you can get it all.”

  “Not a problem, Lazarus. She’ll be ready to go by 9:00 tomorrow morning.”

  “Paul, if she needs tires, put them on; I trust your judgement.”

  “Consider it done. I mean seriously. I can see from here you’re about due,” said Paul. “They aren’t bad, but they are showing some wear. You must have been busy lately.”

  “That’s an understatement,” said LJ. “I can’t stay home long enough to get any good fishing done.”

  Paul laughed and put his arm on LJ’s shoulder. “Such is life, LJ, especially working for a man like Mr. Solaris. I bet he really keeps you running.”

  “That’s no shit,” said LJ with a roll of his eyes.

  “You done whining over there, LJ?” asked Lazarus with a grin. “I’d like to get to the hotel and shower before the meeting.”

  “On my way, boss,” LJ replied as he headed towards a Jeep Wrangler parked near the end of the building.

  Lazarus shook hands with Paul and trotted until he caught up; taking one of the bags as they approached the Jeep.

  With LJ driving, they left through the east gate, heading south on Northwest 42nd street. He took a left on Florida 916 at the south end of the airport and headed east. The area became almost all industrial as they approached their destination. He turned left on Northwest 22nd Avenue, where the Los Zapatos operation filled the entire east side from 139th to 141st streets. It was a large automotive recycling operation; providing the cartel with two-way traffic in and out of Miami, anywhere in the States or Mexico. Incoming vehicles were used to bring in bulk packaging. Outgoing loads were for distribution or shipping cash back to Mexico. It had been operating there for 7 years, untouched by any law enforcement entity. Ramon Torano had paid well for security, and to entice the local police to look the other way.

  LJ executed a U-turn at 141st and pulled into a hodge-podge industrial complex. The buildings had been added on individually over time. There was no consistency to the depth of the different structures. The only thing they held in common was the 26-gauge corrugated steel they were built of. Every business was painted a different color, but all the roofs were white.

  The second structure had an old commercial sign out front, long gone to seed. At one point it had been a welding-supply company, now vacant for two years. Lazarus owned the property. He’d thought it prudent when he learned of Los Zapatos’ operations across the 4-lane street; the median filled with palm trees. Most approaching 30 feet in height, so they had withstood more than one hurricane in their time.

  LJ pulled the gray Wrangler up to a rust spattered double door. Lazarus got out and pulled them open for LJ to enter. It was a little after noon and traffic was heavy. No one even gave them a second look.

  They took the two bags up the back stairway to the second level. The building was about 24 feet tall at the sidewalls. It was 60 feet deep with a 4/12 roof pitch, putting the peak at 35 feet with the rafters and purlins under the steel roof. They set the bags down by a roof access hatch and started unpacking.

  Lazarus pulled out a bolt-action Remington 700, chambered in .308 caliber. The 700 was accompanied by an Armasight Nemesis 6X-SD night vision scope and a Sound Tech Black Star noise suppressor. The Black Star suppressor, used with Beck Silent Operation Series ammo, 168 grain A-max Hornaday projectiles, spun down a 1 in 12 twist 20” barrel, provided a true “Hollywood” silencer. The round left the muzzle at 990fps, well below the sonic level of 1126fps at sea level. The combination of the Remington 700 and the Beck ammunition resulted in precise accuracy from the sub sonic 168 grain projectile. He assembled the weapon, barely looking at it; adding a quick-mount bi-pod to the front. Lazarus had put together and torn down the set-up hundreds of times. Everything was zeroed in and ready.

  LJ had the more practical bag. It held energy bars, beef jerky, water and plenty of body-wipes. They were handy for an extended stake-out when showers were non-accessible. Lazarus used to give LJ shit about them, until he found himself holed up in the rafters of a church for 5 days in Peru. He never went anywhere without them now.

  “We wait until nightfall,” said Lazarus. “How sure are we that Esperanza is going to be there?”

  “Katsumi put the probability at 80%; better than the damn rain forecast, for sure,” answered LJ with a grin. “She said she I could tell you 90, but I figure why push it. Either he’s there or he isn’t.”

  “True enough,” said Lazarus. “It really doesn’t matter. He would be icing on the cake, but after tonight – Los Zapatos are going to need a new site for their operations.”

  “Yeah, uhm, about that, boss?” asked LJ.

  “It’s a surprise, my man,” said Lazarus with a grin. “I’ve put together some fireworks for the big send-off.”

  “I guess I’ll have to take you at your word. I sure as hell know we ain’t got no explosives with us.”

  Lazarus winked and laid back against the wall, closing his eyes. “Wake me at dark, would you please?” he asked LJ before quickly dozing off.

  *****

  It was shortly after 6:00pm when LJ
rousted his boss. “Sun’s down,” he said as he handed Lazarus a bottled water and a power bar.

  “Good enough,” he replied. “I’m going to head up the roof in 30 minutes. I don’t know how long this will take, obviously, but we need to be ready for egress at a moment’s notice.”

  “Copy that, boss,” said LJ. “I’ve got that covered. We’ll be out of here within 1 minute after you hit the floor. This window,” LJ tapped a square of glass that was covered in grime and dust. “This window opens out over the canal behind us. I know you’ll keep the scope as sure as I know you’ll ditch the rifle. It’s only 8 feet to the water, so from this height it should be an easy toss – even for you, boss.” LJ ducked the swing he knew was coming and back-peddled down the walkway.

  “You know, LJ,” said Lazarus. “If I really wanted to hit you, you’d be hit.”

  “Shit, yeah, boss. Tell me something I don’t know!” Laughed LJ as he continued to keep his distance. “I may be a smart-ass, but I ain’t stupid. You could probably kill me with one of them fancy moves of yours.”

  “I wouldn’t kill you, LJ, it would be a waste of a good man. Now, put you in a wheel-chair for a couple of months, I can live with that.” Lazarus delivered the comment with a sober face. Five seconds later, he winked. “The problem is Katsumi. She’d kick my ass clear to Georgia if I hurt her hero.”

  LJ was thankful it was dark. He wasn’t sure if Lazarus could tell when a black man was blushing – and he didn’t want to find out. He said, “I don’t know about that boss, but I do know that girlie is more dangerous than me.”

  “Both of us, LJ – both. Don’t ever forget that,” said Lazarus with a genuine smile. “Oh, by the way? I can tell when a black man is blushing, even in this light.” With that, he turned back to his power bar and water, leaving LJ shaking his head.

  Twenty minutes later, Lazarus slid open the hatch and pulled himself up on the roof. He wore off-white coveralls that were a close match to the dirty white roof of the building. With the rifle wrapped in a white cover, you had to be looking right at him when he moved, or you’d miss it. There was nothing behind him but a canal and the backs of several warehouses over 200 yards to the west. He stopped just below the peak and tapped his ear twice.

  “I’m here, Sir,” Katsumi whispered.

  “I knew you would be,” whispered Lazarus back. There was plenty of ambient noise from traffic in the industrial area, but Lazarus did everything by his book, which meant silence was golden – and safer. “What will I be looking at?” he asked.

  “The main office is in the front upper left corner of the northern building. It has windows on two sides. You will have a 30-degree angle to your right and 10-degrees down for your shot. That is based on your current location. You can move south 30 feet and reduce the distance and virtually level out the trajectory.”

  Lazarus tapped his ear twice and began moving south. The three-foot sections of roof steel made the distance an easy calculation. He raised the rifle over the peak, the bipod holding the weapon almost level. Using the scope, Lazarus identified the office and several other rooms, including the break area, a conference room and three other offices facing the street. The distance for the shot would be around 205 to 210 yards, depending on where he located Esperanza.

  He pulled out a granola bar and munched silently as he waited for traffic to thin out and regular employees to leave from the auto recycling center. Lazarus knew many of them were just doing a job; unrelated to the Cartel business. He had the distinct advantage of knowing all the key Zapatos personnel on sight. He’d spent years working with Camacho’s predecessor and uncle, Ramon Torano. Ramon was over-confident, just like young Andres when it came to the Chameleon. He never thought the day would come Los Zapatos would be the target of the assassin’s vendetta. Lazarus had met Esperanza twice in Miami, both times as Cooper Johnson. The minutes dragged out into hours. Lazarus didn’t seem affected. He’s trained himself as a teenager to remain motionless for up to two hours at a time. Here, he could flex his legs and arms, keeping loose in the cooling night air.

  Reynaldo Esperanza made a quick appearance at 9:45 in the break room. Lazarus focused his attention on the office and waited.

  The glass could be an issue with deflection, but doubtful if it was typical 1/8” commercial single strength. Lazarus knew and was prepared for it. The Hornady rounds were modified by Lazarus. The bullet could fragment when hitting the glass; a slim possibility. If it did, the lead was infused with a poisonous compound. The chemical would spread quickly, thinning the blood until pressure was too low to sustain life. The result would be death for anyone that caught even 5 grams of the projectile. The bullet became a sort of shotgun shell if it fragmented. If Esperanza was within 5 feet of the impact point, he would be hit multiple times by various sized fragments. He would die more slowly but die he would.

  Lazarus tapped his earpiece again.

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “Are the additional assets in place?”

  “Yes, Sir. They are two blocks to the north, east and south of your location.”

  “Copy that,” whispered Lazarus. “Give them the go next time I tap.”

  “Understood.”

  Lazarus watched as the office began to blaze with light. He turned down the night vision on the scope. He wouldn’t be needing it now. Due to the height of Esperanza’s office, he was almost dead level with Lazarus. Four other men entered the office and scattered about the room.

  Careless. That’s the word that came to Lazarus. Careless. By now they must have known about Key West, yet there they were, no extra security, no additional precautions. A dark smile danced across his lips as he flipped the safety off and nestled the Remington into his shoulder. There would be almost no kick from the shot; another advantage of subsonic rounds. Lazarus could cycle the bolt on the 700 in less than a second. He had 5 more rounds in the magazine. He’d never had to shoot twice before, he didn’t expect to now.

  Esperanza sat with his back to the window behind the large corner desk. “Okay, I want everyone to settle down,” he barked to his men. “We have three loads to get out tonight, and I don’t want to hear none of this bullshit about the fucking Chameleon. He got lucky in Key West. Moses was drunk; all his men were drunk. We aren’t, We’re ready for this mother…”

  His words were cut short when the mostly intact round hit slightly left of dead center in the back of Esperanza’s head. The projectile came apart as designed, leaving an exit wound larger than the orbital socket in his left eye; which was obliterated. Brain matter, bone fragments and a fine red mist marked the exit of the .308. Two men, both sitting in front of Esperanza and to his left, caught large fragments of the spent round in their necks and upper torsos. Neither of them made it through the night.

  Lazarus tapped his earpiece as he crawled back down to the hatch. Thirty seconds later he heard sirens coming from three directions as the DEA and the Sheriff’s department swarmed the compound. Lazarus heard gunfire, but it didn’t last very long. By the time he’d removed the scope and silencer and tossed the rifle into the canal, LJ had the Jeep ready to go out a back door. There was only the 8 feet between the building and the canal, plenty for the Jeep. Lazarus glanced back once as they pulled out at the end of the row of warehouses.

  A man standing behind a palm tree gave Lazarus a thumb’s up and a nod, before turning to join the rest of the deputies and agents involved in the raid.

  “Who was that?” asked LJ without thinking.

  Lazarus smiled at LJ, then turned his head back to front. LJ knew he wasn’t getting an answer. Then again, he never should have asked.

  ~21~

  November 14

  8:17 am – EST

  Lazarus called General Fischer from the air. Fischer had been apprised of the situation by an agent on the ground in Miami. He thanked Lazarus for the call and updated him on Derek’s condition. “Derek is in intensive care, after an 8-hour surgery. According to the bone-cutter, it went very well; his wor
ds.”

  “Thank you, General, for the update. I can’t call myself, or I would, `” said Lazarus. “Please pass along my thoughts to Dan.”

  “Can do,” answered the General. “I’m going to ask with no expectation of an answer; do you have a plan worked out for your, shall we say, mission?”

  Lazarus chuckled into the mic, “Well, you asked so nicely I might just have to share a little.” The joking tone of his voice threw the General off a bit, but he didn’t respond. “To answer your question, General, yes I have a plan for my so-called mission. To be frank, it’s a work-in-progress. Basically, I’m winging this one, making changes on the fly. Not my typical M.O. to say the fucking least.” That got Lazarus laughing to himself. “It’s one hell of a way to run a business, isn’t it?”

  General Fischer wasn’t sure what to say. He had expected something different from the famous Chameleon; anger; coldness; laser-like focus with every step worked out to the finest minutia. Jokes and laughing, not so much. He was getting a better understanding of the assassin yet didn’t realize it. Lazarus’ seeming lack of focus was indicative of just how angry and filled with violent intentions he was.

  Lazarus was in his element in a way he’d never experienced. The Chameleon had always researched and planned in intimate detail every action taken; looking at multiple variables for outcome, egress or even aborting the plan. He was aware, semi-consciously anyway, that he wasn’t being as “careful” as usual. He was reacting to Derek being kidnapped, the ambush in Key West that sent his friend to the hospital and Ben to the morgue. He was taking risks he never had, or ever would for a contract. Lazarus didn’t understand it; he couldn’t see it. The tumblers had started falling in place with his conversation with Stephanie Salerno, but the combination was still incomplete.