by J. T. Patten
Lars had recalled asking about a similar figurine when he was in Mesa, Arizona for a bachelor baseball vacation to watch Cubs spring training. He had felt compelled to pay a visit to a law enforcement friend in the Nogales-Tucson area. His buddy had a similar statuette on the desk and said it was the Mexican saint of Sinaloa’s narco-state.
“Hey, Chief, you coming?” the officer persisted while hovering over Lars in the rear entryway.
“Yeah, can you step back so your pecker sack isn’t hanging over my head while I am looking at things down here. Get one of my guys to snap this and bag it for the lab. I want it documented. Have them put me in for discovery chain of custody notes. I want this whole back area captured. Document any of the details that could potentially change with time.”
Lars was pissed now that he may have tainted some trace evidence, impressions, or any other physical forms that would have aided in recreating the crime or identifying the perp—or maybe perps, given the management of killing so many people.
On the other hand, could one person herd all of them in the room jumping around from one to another like a crazed maniac? No. Impossible. Lars feared regretting his careless crime scene actions later. Shit. I come out here to play Forensic Yoda and end up throwing off the case myself.
One o’clock baseball game today. Crap. Won’t make it.
The officer stepped back to give the investigator space but couldn’t contain himself any longer.
“They found a shitload of drugs in the basement. Heroin. Coke. Methamphetamines. Scales. Bags. Another vic with a head severed. Unbelievable.”
Six.
“Head was lopped off and propped on the table with a penny taped to her mouth. Pretty fuckin’ weird, if you ask me. Like voodoo shit. Looks like mama and this other lady were payin’ the bills distributing while daddy was away in the sand. Maybe the dad was shipping heroin from the sandbox. Maybe it’s like that Haitian voodoo Santa Ria Santa Rita stuff. I think that’s what it’s called. Is that Haitian?” He stopped when he realized he was talking only to himself. Nevertheless, contained himself for only a moment.
“What’s that, Chief? Is it paper you’re looking at?”
Lars tilted his head, gazing at the officer. His patience was long gone but his outward temperament remained direct, yet controlled. “I have a million and ten smart ass responses to all your questions. Get one of my guys, get out of the way, and shut the hell up.”
Lars stepped through the door and realized he didn’t know where he was supposed to go or what he was supposed to see.
Some crime scene Jedi I am today.
He turned around to see the officer with one arm crossed over his protruding belly tucked in an armpit and the other arm half cocked extended with a finger pointing to a door.
“Thanks. Sorry,” Lars said sheepishly. The man pissed him off, but Lars had a job to do. It was about the job. Most importantly, it was about answers and about making evidence stick when his ass was on the line.
“Dick,” the officer said matter-of-factly under his breath.
Lars gave a final look back towards the living room before going downstairs. His probe sought the cluttered tchotchke table and the little ceramic man sitting upon it. Plain as day, that little mustachioed bust was Malverde. And among the other items was a tribute drawing of Juan Soldado, the patron saint of illegal aliens, as well as the boy pilgrim Santo Nino de Atocha, saint of prisoners and travelers. Also on the table was a candle of St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes.
Damn five and dime criminal shrine. Gotta be drug cartel.
Although not fully surprised at his own deduction, the reality of an apparent drug-related massacre of this magnitude being in Chicago was still astonishing, even for an investigator with as many years under his belt as Bjorklund.
And this homeowner was a soldier too? Sweet Jesus.
“Hey, Chief! FBI is here. They want to know who lead investigator is.”
Shit.
Part I
“Certainly there is no hunting like the hunting of man and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never really care for anything else thereafter. You will meet them doing various things with resolve, but their interest rarely holds because after the other thing, ordinary life is as flat as the taste of wine when the taste buds have been burned off your tongue.”
—Ernest Hemingway, “On the Blue Water,” Esquire
Chapter 1
TWO YEARS LATER.
With head low and dark eyes darting in all directions Sean Havens fought through the early morning market crowd.
Ah yes, another glorious, muggy morning in the fine Republic of Yemen. Sea, sweat, and shit.
A slide show of filthy places and unpleasant operations played in his head as he shuffled past merchants hawking their wares.
Kenya. Fucking Kenya. We shouldn’t have staged from the river. Should have just pulled smoke and bailed.
He navigated the dense waves of crowd as a sea captain reads and drives through the chop. His movement flowed gracefully through the sporadic pace and rhythm of pedestrian traffic in the souk, Arabic for market. But while he moved with purpose, he appeared to walk in a benign manner that blended with the surroundings.
Syria. Same thing. What a nightmare that was.
Havens noticed that an approaching souk patron’s eyes appeared locked on something, and then witnessed a very slight nod. Was there something or someone now behind him to worry about? Havens wasn’t sure if the look was a true ‘tell’ or just a misread out of suspicion. Had to be just a case of the jitters. Sean was clean in this country. Regardless, the odds now increased of a tail present. Havens was careful. Beyond careful. That’s why they sent him alone when discretion and precision mattered most to his country.
The Sana’a district souk was full of patrons this Friday morning, which made full motion video tracking a bit more difficult from a satellite. All of the patrons seemed connected as they were eagerly exchanging morning greetings, sharing the latest gossip.
Sean Havens, while walking among the Yemenis and cursing his surroundings, was indeed under watch. His master was also at the souk, albeit virtually through cyber feeds, viewing from somewhere safe as an eye in the sky, high above the city out of view, sitting in a government-purchased faux leather chair, drinking filtered bags of Folgers coffee from a stained ceramic NSA anniversary mug.
Far from such air-conditioned comforts, Havens knew what he had to do today. He was to hunt down someone else’s master. It would be a bad day for that principal target. For that matter, it would be bad for just about anyone who got in the way of the mission.
Havens’ direct orders were not actually to kill. They were never quite that explicit. His commands were to follow his instinct and direct his own missions as appropriate. In this case, he was to create an effect for display as part of a careful orchestration to send this city into strategically planned disarray through a combination of sectarian and tribal civil conflict.
Havens had been unsuccessful in developing a quick turnaround puppet proxy to do the deed in his stead. Unfortunately, the buck stopped with the operator on the ground to make things work. Therefore, Sean was left holding the bag.
In theory, his targeted attack would be enough of a catalyst to cause a surge of social discontent and finger-pointing in the city, which would create opportunities for other follow-up missions, no doubt in the works, but out of Havens’ need-to-know.
Stir the pot and kick it over. Let someone else clean up the mess.
Al Qaeda’s Yemeni membership was among the largest in the region. The ongoing strife in Yemen had specifically provided Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, or AQAP, a safe haven for their base of operations. For AQAP, that meant it could plan, recruit, train, and operate with near impunity. The exploitable Yemeni social differences of sect, tribe, and class, combined with weak central rule and ungoverned spaces had fostered a complex enablement system for both separatists and jihadist rebels.
&nbs
p; Impunity went so far. Now they had an adversary walking on their terrain bidding to do them harm. Sean Havens was good at strategically starting fights.
This trip to Yemen, for Havens, was about smoking out a few of those high priority targets located in the Sana’a, Abyan, Shawba, and Aden provinces. The end state objective was to stoke more requests for the U.S. to re-establish a greater presence in the country. That allowed the U.S. to have more say in the Yemeni government and could increase support for more military staging to monitor regional activities. Politics as usual, but that was the name of the game.
Havens contemplated again how his makeshift plan would go down. He was compartmentalizing his mind to focus on the mission while keeping vigilant of the prospective tail pursuing him.
It’s got to be a superficial wound. Go with a belly slice first. Thin cut. Target grabs his belly instinctively. Shirt soaks with blood fast, stains hands, makes it look worse. That enough?
Havens watched people as they passed, looking them up and down identifying their viable attack points that could be applied to his primary target if he decided to change his mind again on where to strike.
I still need to go with the head. Rapid slash on the forehead. The brow’s bright red blood flow is best due to shallow blood vessels. Traumatic image for witnesses. That will be good. Blood flow will also blind and confuse the victim. Complete sensory shock. Overwhelm emotions and stage an effect for the crowd. Good, good.
Satisfied with his choices, Havens continued observing his surroundings with all senses alert.
Why must they eat things in the morning that smell like ass? They should fry up some bacon. That would taste sooo good right now.
A wry smile crossed Havens’ lips. Pork here in an overwhelmingly Muslim population was a stupid thought, even for self-talk.
OK, turkey bacon.
He continued along the route that he had reconnoitered the morning before. And the morning before that. He needed to change his route some to see if he was actually being followed. His instincts said he was clear, but his training ordered him to make sure.
Need a crowd opening near a good blocking object so I can spot any bogie on my six.
Most passersby hurried along minding their own business. Havens mirrored the direct smiles and occasional nods of the men walking by.
“Sabah al-khair.” Good morning.
“Sabah an-noor.” Right back atcha Ali.
“Salaam,” a particularly toothless individual greeted, upon a casual but innocent bump in the crowd.
Havens replied back with a smile and a nod bringing his hand to his heart, “Wa alaikum assalaam.”
He wondered if they were greeting him or actually acknowledging his traditional shilan headwear that, by its symbolic design and colors, signified his family lineage to a local. Something as simple as headcover to feign a particular sect, geographical area, and social status coupled with other carefully selected details and mannerisms gained immediate legitimacy with a glance.
Havens had planned for most every contingency in such a manner. Seconds counted, and he would take all the seconds that he could get in order to buy time to act or react.
He noticed fewer of the younger males wearing headwear since the last time he was here four years earlier. Many were now even wearing western hats.
You hate us but want to wear our hats, he said to himself, spotting a Somali immigrant wearing a Detroit Tigers cap. Magnum P.I. Sammy style. Nice.
A group of merchants brushed past, almost knocking Havens into the large vats of spices that lined this area of the souk. He did a casual body check visually and with his hands to see if he had been pickpocketed, shot, or stabbed.
It was instinct.
The flock of jabbering men didn’t apologize for the accidental hip check. They appeared to be arguing, but Sean Havens knew this was typical chatter and debate. It was one of the many cultural intelligence nuances he grasped. It was a necessity to understand people he dwelled among or hunted.
Havens stopped to examine some fresh dates on display. He moved around the stall so he could get a look to his rear. A professional tracking him would already have broken the pursuit to feign an innocuous activity. A thug killer would freeze and stand like a deer in headlights.
It was the same the world over. He scanned his rear. No deer behind him.
Coffee would be good right now. Maybe around the next souk market stall there will be a big green Starbucks sign. Nope. Golden arches perhaps? I’d even drink a foofie latte.
What does Christina drink? Caramel…macchiato…extra syrup, but non-fat. Skinny. Tastes like dessert. His wife and he had opposite tastes. He preferred bitter. Havens slowed his gait for a moment as he turned.
Is that him? Need a better look.
He turned to another row of stalls and vendors just off the cobblestone path.
Qat was just arriving in one of these areas. Bundles of the basil-like plant were sliding down a makeshift human conveyor belt to be distributed in the market and throughout the town for the day’s upcoming social chew.
Havens cut through a line of parked delivery trucks adjacent to the stalls and emerged at a small arms stall displaying Kalashnikovs on the walls. Other obsolete and antiquated Soviet gear, WWII-era British Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifles, German H&K G-3 rifles, and 1970s vintage multinational arms were strewn about the small shop. Boxes of ammunition lay all around. Some weapons were bashed, most scratched, and all seemed to have never been touched in terms of maintenance or serious cleaning by their users.
These guys should clean ‘em up and make a mint on eBay as collectibles. Unbelievable how many weapons still flow here without interdiction. As he passed, he looked around the stall out of amused curiosity to see who may have a laptop for enterprising profit.
No computer. Guess no one feels too entrepreneurial around here.
Illicit arms schemes occurred in and around the Aden complex in the south, al-Hudayda along the Red Sea coast, Al-Mukalla in the east and al-Mukha and al-Salif along the Red Sea. It was a hornet’s nest of activity but the really bad guys had gone quiet. The United States needed to get things cooking again. Citizens back home didn’t understand the world’s threats like arms flow and dangerous nation states or religious alliances unless they could graphically visualize the ramifications on their televisions or iPads. That meant seeing blood, death, and street-filled revolts. If mayhem was not apparent, someone like Havens needed to make it more visible.
Havens turned again.
Someone else passed between the trucks.
That someone walked with less purpose than the other workers near the stalls. To Havens this meant a surveillance asset was on him and it probably was not an assassination attempt. It eased him back into relative comfort for just a moment or two more.
Nope, no McDonalds here either…Not that I really want McDonalds…But pancakes…That could be good…That would be real good…Oh, I wish I hadn’t thought of that…Change thoughts…Smelly ass old man cooking chai and stinking ass breakfast food? Mmmm…sorghum bread…that actually does smell good…Where was that bread smell coming from?
Where is this asshole? Can’t engage my target with a hot tail. No one should be following me. Shit! I don’t need this today.
Now distracted, Havens slipped up on his field tradecraft and lifted his left arm to look down at a watch that wasn’t there. He knew it was almost time but cursed himself for the novice error.
This whole op’s been a shit show from the get-go.
Really? I’m supposed to ID and penetrate the Yemeni underground in a week? Never mind any complex social aspects, personalities, money flow, or ideology not worn on every Yemeni’s shirtsleeve. I’ll just walk right in to the big black bad guy house on the corner labeled ‘No good guys’ on the door. Just knock with a shave and a haircut code and say, “Hi guys, playin’ cards? Can I play?” Boom!
Never mind the fact that military intel or the other spooks couldn’t do it. Just send fuckin’ Havens.
He’s smart. He can do it. He doesn’t matter. He’s got nothing to lose.
Ridiculous. Got your Saudis funding Yemen’s Sunnis, Iran giving cash and guns to Zaydi tribes. Bad horse pick either way you go.
God forbid anyone read what I reported on this over a year ago. We could have actually planned something.
Despite the task in Yemen being against the odds, Sean Havens was a natural at doing it right and getting away with it.
Sean ducked into a dark tight crevice between stacks of boxes and crates to see who was following. He pulled his own engineered device, a half-sized field syringe with a squeeze pump instead of a thumb stick plunger, and a quarter inch needle vice the longer traditional ones of a doctor’s shot. It could be pushed at all angles and still deliver the barbiturate mix of Azaperone and Immobilon tranquilizers.
Lights out.
This calls for a little Dexter Morgan spec ops style.
His concentration was shattered for a moment as the inner ear cavity communication sounded off. “Blackswan 6 we lost your movement on overwatch. How copy?”
Havens reached into his ear and pinched enough of the latex with his fingernails to withdraw the device. He dropped it on the ground and crushed it under his foot. He didn’t care if it was found. It was French-made. Procured for that very purpose.
Fuck overwatch. Screw the French.
Havens worked alone. No babysitters. No distractions. No mess-ups that could not be fixed quickly.
His tail was draped in traditional garb that cloaked what appeared to be a large frame as he passed less than a minute later. Havens couldn’t make much more out without being obvious. Too tough to tell who it could be. As Havens hoped, the tail stopped for a moment to reorient position and target location. The tail started again heading towards Havens’ hidden position. The man would pass right by in seconds with any luck.
I need you off my ass for good. No more cat and mouse games.
Syringe in hand, he swiftly grabbed the tail from behind and drove the needle into the man’s tricep while squeezing the homemade venom into the meaty arm. It wasn’t an ideal injection point but it was close enough for the potent drug cocktail. Havens wrapped his arm under the tail’s chin in a half-sleeper hold and twisted his own hip for leverage while he lowered his center of gravity by bending knees and dropping ass as the knockout drug took its effect on the victim.
