by David Spell
“Whoa, you see that, Colonel?” the pilot asked.
An orange glow was directly in front of the helicopter, the GPS indicating that they were a mile from the extraction point. A large house was on fire, illuminating the surrounding area.
Hollywood had driven the van, following the GPS east out of the city towards Vincente’s ranch. Raul was hunched over in the front passenger seat, still in a lot of pain from the gunshot. His soft body armor had stopped the 9mm round, but the CIA agent might have a broken a rib or two.
The highway was long and straight once they left Matamoros, allowing them to see miles down the road. When they were two miles away, Estrada saw the orange sky ahead of them.
“Damn, bros! Look at that!”
The rest of the team leaned forward from the back of the van, wondering what was on fire. When the GPS notified them that they had arrived, Hollywood stopped at the closed gate of a long driveway, the blaze now evident over the trees. The gate was locked but unmanned, so Norris made quick work of the padlock with his bolt cutters.
A minute later, the two teams were reunited. Sirens could be heard in the distance as units responded to the fire. Gray grabbed Jones and the two Marines drove the two abandoned vans up to the end of the driveway, parking them end-to-end in front of the gate, blocking the entrance. They double-timed back to their teammates.
“Anything we need to do before we leave?” McCain asked Fleming.
“Let’s move everyone to the rear of the house and then have a couple of guys check that barn. I haven’t had time or the manpower to do it.”
Everyone moved to the extraction point, Jones and Estrada dragging Villarreal and dropping him face down in the grass, the black hood still covering his head. During the drive over, McCain and Norris had removed the hood momentarily so that noise-cancelling headphones could be slipped onto his ears. The hood was then slid back into place. Chuck did not want the gangster to learn anything else about who had snatched him.
Scotty, the team’s medic, took a moment to poke and prod Raul’s side as they waited for their ride. It appeared that Gonzalez did, indeed, have a broken rib. The CIA agent had enough contacts and felt that he could get it taken care of without raising any questions.
“You going to be OK with the Agency?” Clark asked.
“I think so. I’ll just say I had already left Matamoros before everything went to hell and the gangsters started shooting each other.”
“Is that your van?” McCain asked, pointing at the Econoline. “We blocked off the driveway. You can’t get out.”
“I rented it with a cover ID. No problem.”
Hector stood with the Americans for a moment, looking down at the captured cartel leader. The flames of the mansion illuminated the area, allowing the younger man to see his companions’ faces. Ruiz wiped tears from his eyes, conflicting emotions bubbling to the surface. He was happy because his parents’ killer was going to face justice, but was sad because he hated to say goodbye to his new friends.
“Muchas gracias, amigos. I very happy to help you.”
Gonzalez looked at the asset who had become a friend. “This was your operation, amigo. You helped make all this possible. You ready to go?”
The CIA agent’s words filled the young man’s chest with pride. He gave a shy smile, shaking the Americans’ hands. Scotty placed a meaty hand on Hector’s shoulder.
“You did good, amigo. Really good.”
“Gracias, Scotty,” Ruiz nodded, wiping his eyes again.
“Until next time, amigos!” Raul laughed as they turned to hurry to where Hector had hidden the car, the CIA agent moving gingerly because of his injury.
Walker, Norris, and Estrada were designated to search the barn before their ride arrived. The warriors jogged the hundred yards over to the large structure. A few minutes later, the sound of rotors filled the air.
“Charlie One to units, our ETA is two. Where are we putting down?”
“Alpha One to Charlie One,” McCain transmitted, “strobes are coming on now behind the house. Put it down between them. You’ve got a wide field with no obstructions.”
Gray and Jones activated their lights, showing the pilot where he should set down. The aircraft flared, went into a hover as the pilot acquired his bearings, and then gently touched down on the grass. Across the field, Chuck saw his teammates rush out of the barn towards the waiting aircraft. The eastern sky was just starting to lighten.
The side door of the Sikorsky flew open and Josh, Shaun, and Chloe jumped out, greeting their friends. Wilkerson stood by the aircraft, her rifle in a low-ready as she peered into the darkness through her NVGs. Matthews and Taylor grabbed the cartel leader, pulling him to his feet, dragging him towards the helicopter. Villarreal sensed what was happening and tried to pull away from Matthews when the former SWAT officer took hold of his right arm. Josh stepped in with a right uppercut to Vincente’s gut, knocking the breath out of him and buckling his knees. The gangster was tossed unceremoniously onto the floor of the aircraft.
The rest of the team piled into the helicopter as McCain watched closely, making sure no one was left behind. Finally, the big man climbed aboard, giving a thumbs up to Clark and the pilot.
Kevin handed Chuck and Andy a set of headphones so that they could communicate. As they lifted off, the team could see below them several fire engines, their red lights flashing, pulling up to the blocked driveway. Two police cars were also racing up to the scene.
Their pilot wasted no time in getting them across the Rio Grande River into the United States. A collective sigh could be felt by everyone on board. Suddenly, lights flashed behind them, a spotlight illuminating the interior of the Sikorsky. A smaller helicopter was flying at their five-o’clock, less than a hundred yards back
“Unidentified aircraft, this is the United States Border Patrol. You will proceed to the Brownsville International Airport.”
The Border Patrol agent gave Anderson a course to fly.
“Affirmative,” Joey answered. “Proceeding on that course to the Brownsville International Airport.”
The former Army pilot looked over at Clark and smiled, giving a slight shrug. He switched over to intercom.
“At least the food is better in US jails.”
McCain and Andy alerted the group to what was happening. No one seemed fazed by the news, everyone had known the risks when they’d agreed to be part of the mission. The cartel leader lying at their feet and the dead gangsters they had left behind were worth whatever price they were going to have to pay.
A bright flash filled the sky from south of the border, smoke and flame shooting high into the air. Chuck shot a questioning glance at Andy, who was obviously surprised, as well.
Jay leaned over to Chuck, yelling to be heard: “I had some C4 left over and he,” the former SEAL pointed at Villarreal, “had some stuff in that barn that needed to be blown up.”
As they approached the airport, the voice came over their headsets again.
“Unidentified aircraft, proceed to the Northeast corner of the airport. There’s an area there where you will be met by United States Border Patrol Agents.”
Six Border Patrol SUVs were already parked on the tarmac with at least ten heavily armed agents standing beside them. Two Brownsville Police cruisers were pulling in behind the feds to assist if needed.
“There’s our ‘Welcome Home’ committee,” Jimmy quipped.
“You think they brought us any ham biscuits?” Scotty asked. “I could really use a couple of ham biscuits and some coffee.”
Hollywood laughed and elbowed Smith. “I wonder if they make orange jumpsuits big enough to fit you, amigo.”
Chuck flipped over to intercom so he could speak with Kevin, Andy, and the pilot, whom he had not met yet.
“After we land, they’re going to order us all out, felony takedown style. I’m really not feeling that this morning. Let me get out first and have a talk with them. I’ll try to stall and BS them as long as I can. Kevin, g
et on the horn with the general and see what he recommends. I don’t want to give up Señor Scumbag to the Border Patrol.”
Clark nodded as Anderson gently set the helicopter down thirty yards from the Border Patrol officers. Joey cut the engines as Chuck handed his rifle to Scotty, leaving his body armor and sidearm on. After Josh slid the door open, McCain lowered his head, ducking under the still spinning rotors, and started moving slowly towards the police officers, his hands at shoulder level.
Border Patrol Supervisory Agent Floyd Stephens stood with the nine federal police officers whom he led. They had all been looking forward to going home and getting into bed. It had been a quiet night with an even quieter border. The Brownsville Sector usually had a lot more going on with Mexicans and Central Americans attempting to sneak into the United States, many of them smuggling drugs, weapons, or even people.
Stephens had proudly served his country as a United States Marine, leaving as an E-5 after five years to join the Border Patrol. Ten years later, he had established himself as an up-and-coming leader within the organization. He loved his job and believed in what they were doing. The borders of America were worth defending and he preached that to his team every shift. Everyone was welcome to come to the USA— just do it legally.
The muscular African-American ordered his entire squad to converge at the airport after hearing of the inbound helicopter. The Border Patrol’s aircraft had been patrolling the airspace around the Rio Grande River when it had reported an unidentified Sikorsky flying at treetop level with all of its lights off.
Floyd wondered what they were smuggling as the dark-colored, unmarked aircraft made a soft landing on the tarmac in front of he and his six-man, three-woman squad, along with the two City of Brownsville police officers who had just pulled up. He was surprised that the helicopter had even responded to the Border Patrol chopper’s commands. Usually, the smugglers tried to flee and had to be chased down. These guys had immediately complied with the orders they were given.
Erin, one of Stephens’ agents, reached inside her GMC Tahoe to grab the microphone so that she could order the occupants out of the aircraft using her PA system. Before the young woman could issue any commands, the side door of the aircraft slid open, and each of the police officers tensed up, twelve weapons pointed towards the unidentified threat.
A big white guy climbed down to the tarmac with his hands raised. Stephens observed that he was wearing black BDUs, body armor, and a pistol. He smiled, giving a wave to the officers who were all pointing guns at him. Floyd watched the suspect closely as he ducked below the rotors, slowly moving towards the law enforcement officers, his hands still raised.
This guy carries himself like a cop. Or a soldier, the Border Patrol supervisor thought.
“Watch your muzzles, guys,” Floyd warned his team.
Stephens had worked with his squad, helping them hone their tactics. Immediately, his agents lowered their weapons slightly. They could still be brought to bear if the need arose, but the big man in front of them did not appear to be a threat, even if he was armed.
After clearing the spinning blades, the BDU-clad figure walked about twenty-five feet before stopping. Erin was about to yell for him to drop to his knees, but he again beat her to the punch.
“Any chance I could speak to a supervisor?”
Erin looked over at Floyd. He nodded at her.
“Sir, I need you to keep your hands up and drop to your knees. Then I need you to lie face down on the tarmac, your arms out to the side.”
Stephens saw a look of amusement on the suspect’s face. He kept his hands up but made no effort to drop to the tarmac.
“My knees aren’t as good as they used to be,” he replied. “I’d really appreciate it if I could speak with the on-scene supervisor.”
No police officer likes to have their orders ignored. Erin started to reach for her taser, but her boss held up his hand.
“Sir, I’m Supervisory Agent Stephens,” he called out. “If you’ll lock your fingers on top of your head and keep walking this way, you can speak with me.”
The suspect complied, stopping ten feet away from the Border Patrol vehicles.
“Agent Stephens,” the dark-haired man in front of him nodded, “nice to meet you. Any chance of speaking in private?”
Who the hell is this guy? Floyd wondered. He’s a cool customer for a drug smuggler. Although, he’s clearly not Mexican so maybe he’s up to something else. There were no markings on his BDUs or the helicopter. A sudden memory of an operation a couple of years ago flashed into his mind. An American spec ops team had taken out three cartel leaders inside of Mexico. There had also been that pervert Saudi prince who had somehow been kidnapped out of Tijuana while attempting to purchase two teen-age American girls. The rumors had been that a super-secret, elite American unit had been responsible for that.
The Border Patrol supervisor glanced around at his team, knowing they would cover him. He stepped around the open driver’s door of his SUV and walked over to the big man, looking him in the eye.
“You want to tell me who you are?” Stephens asked, his hands on his hips.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. But, I can tell you this,” the man said, lowering his voice. “We’ve got Vincente Villarreal in custody on the helicopter. The FBI is on the way to take him off our hands.”
Floyd took a step backwards, stunned by what he had just heard.
“You have the NG leader in custody?”
“We do.”
“But you can’t tell me who you are?”
“Sorry. Are you a Marine?”
The big man was staring at the small eagle, globe, and anchor pin that Stephens wore on his uniform.
“I was. I’ve been with the Border Patrol for ten years now.”
“I’ve got two MARSOC guys on my team. Plus, another Marine who was an infantry captain.”
Floyd’s eyebrows rose. “MARSOC? Those guys are legit. Who are you people?”
“Hey, sir?” a voice yelled from the helicopter, a head poking out the open door. “The President is on the phone.”
“Can he bring you the phone?” the big man asked.
“Did he just say that the President is on the phone?”
“Yeah…it’d probably be a good idea to take that call.”
Stephens locked eyes with the man in front of him, seeing confidence and sincerity.
“Sure,” the Border Patrol Agent yelled towards the aircraft. “Bring me the phone, but keep your hands where I can see them.”
A clean-cut young white guy, also wearing black fatigues with a holstered pistol, climbed out of the Sikorsky and walked over, hands raised, one of them holding a cell phone.
“The President is on the line,” he said, handing Floyd the phone as if that were a daily occurrence.
“This is Supervisory Special Agent Stephens with the United States Border Patrol. To whom am I speaking?”
“This is President Asher, Agent Stephens. Do you recognize my voice?”
Floyd caught himself popping to attention. “Yes sir, I think so, sir.”
“Agent Stephens, this is an awkward situation and I apologize for that. We were operating on a tight schedule and weren’t able to make all the notifications we needed to. The gentleman with whom you’re speaking and the people with him are acting under my orders. The cartel leader that they have in custody was behind the vicious attack on the CIA’s Director of Operations several months ago, along with a host of other crimes. Vincente Villarreal will stand trial here in the United States and will hopefully never see the light of day again.”
“Ooh-rah, sir!” Floyd answered.
“Are you a Marine, Agent Stephens?”
“I was, sir, but I’ve been with the Border Patrol for ten years.”
“Well, I feel much better now knowing a fellow Devil Dog is handling this delicate situation. Obviously, we need to keep this under wraps. No one needs to know that we have Villarreal in custody until his arraignment.
Can I trust you to help me with this?”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“Thank you very much, Agent Stephens. I’ll make sure that your director hears how much you’ve helped your country today. I apologize again for putting you in an awkward position. I’ll let you go. You and your agents are free to leave.”
“I understand, sir. Thank you, Mr. President.”
Two gray Durangos pulled in behind the assorted law enforcement vehicles. Four federal agents made their way to where Stephens stood with McCain. They were identified by their dark windbreakers emblazoned with ‘FBI’ on the back.
“Well, that was interesting,” Floyd commented, handing the phone back to the younger man who retreated to the aircraft.
Chuck smiled sympathetically. “Agent Stephens, I apologize for not being able to tell you more. I’m a former cop myself and I appreciate your understanding. If you monitor the news over the next couple of days, you’ll at least get a version of what’s going on.”
The two men shook hands, Floyd’s head still full of questions that would probably never be answered. The Border Patrol supervisor made a circling motion with his right hand indicating to his team that it was time to leave.
After the Border Patrol and the Brownsville PD units exited the scene, the FBI agents pulled their Durangos over to the helicopter, blocking anyone from seeing the transfer of Villarreal into their custody. Before placing him into their vehicle, a young female agent attached a portable fingerprint scanner to Vincente’s right index finger. Within seconds, the machine had positively identified the cartel leader.
Gabby Vargas arrived with the team’s rental van as the feds drove away with Villarreal. The close call with the authorities had everyone standing around, laughing and blowing off some steam. Kevin broke the mood.
“Time to saddle up. We’re probably being videoed even as we speak by the airport’s CCT system.”
That was all it took to get everyone and their equipment loaded into the van. Clark and McCain shook Anderson’s hand and the colonel slipped the former major an envelope. Joey tucked it into the pocket of his flight suit without bothering to count the money. Five minutes later he was airborne, heading back to Dallas. The van was soon pointed north on the first leg of their long journey home.
