He tapped the screen. “Both these guys work for a private security firm called Ground Effects Services. What’s interesting is they have an office in the same building as a private equity fund called Manhattan Ventures.”
“And how do they fit in?”
“They’re the ones bankrolling the mine Christina is investigating in Mexico.”
“It’s obvious they’re trying to intimidate her. Stop her from investigating further.”
“That’s exactly why we need to check them out.”
“Before we go any further, Bish, I’ve got to ask one question.”
“Shoot.”
“Is this journalist attractive?”
Bishop laughed. “She’s not ugly, mate, but it’s not like that.”
“Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen in love in the six hours you’ve been in New York.”
“That’s not even funny.” He frowned. “Why does everyone think I run around with my heart on my sleeve?”
“Because you do, but that’s part of your charm. Now what’s your plan for getting inside? Manhattan Ventures or the security guys?”
He shook his head. “Too much risk. I want to go in through the guys running the mine. They’re called Resources and Environmental Development, or RED. It’ll be much easier. They’ll always be looking for new opportunities.” He ordered a gin and tonic from a waiter along with a lemonade for Mirza.
“It’s simple. We get Flash to build an online back story that makes me out to be an investor with links to the PNG government. We make it look like I have access to the rights for the Bougainville Copper mine.” Bishop referred to a massive copper and gold deposit located on a Papua New Guinean island. Thought to be the largest in the world, it had been shut down in the nineties due to civil unrest.
“Good plan, Bish, there’s only one problem.”
“What’s that?”
Mirza gestured to the photo on the screen. “The thugs you snapped might recognize you. I’m going to have to be the one that visits RED.”
“Damn, you’re right. That’ll work, there’s a lot of Indian money in PNG. You’ll have to get a suit though and put on a few pounds.”
“A shiny watch might be in order.”
“And a hotel more suited to a man of your stature.” Bishop grinned. “Throw it on the company plastic, that’s what it’s for.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll get Flash onto it. In the meantime, I’m going to take Christina out for dinner.”
Mirza rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that, mate,” he said mimicking Bishop’s Australian accent.
“Bugger off and find yourself a hotel.”
CHAPTER 5
CHIHUAHUA
Pershing lowered his SUV’s armored glass. “Anyone still at home?” he asked through the window.
Burro was watching the ranch through a pair of binoculars. It was the same one they’d visited the day before, except this time there was no sign of movement, let alone gunfire. “No, Mr. Pershing. They’ve run away.”
He opened the door and stepped out onto the dusty track. “That’s a pity. I really wanted them to see this. Still, I’m sure someone’s watching.”
He thought the ranch looked quaint in the soft afternoon sun. A little like the bed and breakfast places his parents liked to visit.
“Tell your boys to attack. Remember to do it exactly how I showed you.” Pershing reached into the back of the SUV and took out a thermos. He unscrewed the top and poured himself a black coffee as Burro issued orders to his men.
The Black Jackets, as Pershing liked to call them, lined up on the barren slope above the farm. They were kneeling or lying down with their assault rifles, as he had instructed. Every second man also had a long green tube with black rubber end-caps slung over his shoulder. Supplied by Pershing’s boss, the SMAW-D bunker-busting rockets were surplus from the American war in Afghanistan.
Pershing raised his coffee and used it to gesture to Burro. “Let’s get this rodeo started.”
Gunfire cracked and dust kicked up around the little farmhouse as they began to attack. The men moved forward in odds and evens, every second man taking turns to fire their rifles as the others walked forward half a dozen yards then kneeled. Pershing sipped his coffee as he watched. The line was a little uneven but it was a start. At least they’d stopped shooting randomly and running around like madmen.
The ranch house was soon pockmarked with bullet holes, the windows shot out, and the woodwork splintered. The Black Jackets stopped bounding forward and started unloading long bursts into the building. One of them unslung a green tube, knelt, and aimed it from the shoulder. The rocket left its tube with a thump, screamed over the building, and disappeared into the distance.
The gunfire stopped and was replaced by heckling as the gunmen screamed obscenities at the man who missed. Pershing chuckled. Boys would be boys.
The next rocket did not miss. It slammed into the front of the house and the thermobaric warhead detonated with a chest-shuddering explosion. Spurred on, they fired off the remaining rockets in a few seconds. The roof collapsed and soon the little house was a burning wreck.
Everything went quiet. Burro’s men had expended all of their ammunition. Fire discipline would have to be the next lesson. Pershing finished his coffee and waved a bulldozer off the low loader parked behind his Chevy.
The dozer rumbled down the track as the Black Jackets gathered around their trucks. They cheered as the D7 lowered its blade and demolished the mortally wounded structure in a single pass.
Pershing knew the locals would come out to look at the devastation and word would spread. He smiled. When it came time to clear the next farm, he didn’t expect any resistance.
***
NEW YORK CITY
The Manhattan Ventures and Investments offices were situated on the top floor of the Pulvermach building, one block from Wall Street. The bespoke private equity firm, also known as MVI, had a staff of ten and a board of four consisting of the chairman, Chief Financial Officer, and two additional directors. With over two billion dollars in investments, it wasn’t one of the wealthiest funds in New York, but it was one of the most secretive.
Today, the directors were assembled in the boardroom for an update on their latest investment, a gold mine in Mexico operated by the Resources and Environmental Development Group. At the head of a polished mahogany table sat the chairman and majority stakeholder, Jordan Pollard. A former military officer turned businessman, Pollard had been a Brigade commander in the Second Gulf war before retiring and cashing in on the lucrative security market in war-torn Iraq. But, unlike most, he’d seen the writing on the wall. As the contracts expired, he channeled his funds into MVI using his security expertise to exploit investment opportunities in emerging high threat environments. He gathered a team of ruthless bankers able to pull in enormous amounts of capital, using companies like the RED Group to implement the investment.
The mining operations officer of RED, Brian Kestrel, was briefing the Board from a screen perched over the end of the long table. He used a laser pointer to indicate the graphs on the presentation. “We’re currently producing two thousand tons a month, with an additional five hundred of increased output forecasted by the end of the month.” Kestrel was Canadian, a hulking bear of a man who’d been hired for his ability to establish mining projects at break-neck speed.
The grey-haired chairman clenched his chiseled jaw and fixed him with cold eyes. “Is there any way we can increase it in the subsequent months?”
“Yes we can, and we will, sir. We’ve recently brought two more heavy loaders online and four more dumpers. With these running twenty-four-seven we’ll be able to expand and increase productivity.” He clicked to a map that showed the current mine size and the anticipated areas of expansion. The pit was set to more than double in size.
“So the only thing holding us back is how quickly we can gain access to these areas?” Pollard switched his gaze to the director w
ith a shaved head sitting opposite him. “Charles, is that going to be a problem?”
“Not at all, sir. Pershing has it well in hand.” A former Special Forces officer, Charles King also ran Ground Effects Services, a company owned by Manhattan Ventures.
The miner scratched his beard. “Look, I know it’s not my area of expertise, but some of the methods we’re using to clear ranchers off their land seem a little… excessive.”
King leaned back in his chair. “You were right the first time, it’s not your area of expertise. Let my people worry about security.”
Kestrel glanced at the chairman.
Pollard nodded. “You ensure the mine hits its production outputs and you’ll get your bonus.”
“Yes, sir.” He addressed the other directors. “Are there any other questions?”
The other two board members shook their heads.
“That’s all, thank you.” Pollard gestured for the mining engineer to leave.
Kestrel gathered his notes and left through the opaque glass doors.
Pollard waited until he was gone before turning to MVI’s Chief Financial Officer, a bespectacled accountant in his late thirties. “If we hit three thousand tons a month, how long will it take before we’re cash flow positive?”
The CFO scribbled an equation on his notepad. “A little over six months.”
“Good. Our rate of expansion is spot on.”
Wesley Chambers, the youngest of MVI’s directors, slapped the table with his palm. “What did he mean by excessive? Your man Pershing’s not doing anything that’ll come back to bite us later on is he? I mean, we’ve already had one journalist sniffing around. If we’re burning ranches, and dare I say it, killing people. Well, if that gets out, it could shut us down.”
King glared at him. “The security situation is under control, Wesley. You worry about your job and let my people do theirs.”
“What about the journalist?” the chairman asked. “Has she been dealt with?”
“There’s been a minor setback.”
“Your men had a simple task. Force the woman to drop her investigation. How in God’s name did they mess that up?”
“The woman had help.”
“Who?”
“The man she met with. The UN investigator. When they met–”
Wesley interrupted, “You’re shitting me! She met with a UN investigator? You’re burning farms in Mexico and the woman writing articles about it has already met with someone from the UN?”
“It’ll be taken care of, alright,” King growled.
“Not in New York,” said Pollard. “The woman is tenacious, she’ll return to Mexico.”
“That’s fantastic, maybe she’ll take her UN buddy with her,” said Wesley.
“Mexico is a dangerous place,” said King.
“And what if she decides not to return to Mexico?” the young director continued. “What if the UN decides to send their own investigators? What then?”
King shook his head. “Without evidence, no one’s going to buy her story. She’ll head back to Mexico to chase her story. When she does, the gloves come off.”
“Enough!” Pollard held up his hand. “The woman will be dealt with.” He turned to the CFO. “Where are we with the investment for Venezuela?”
“We have over six hundred million in liquidity on hand. By the end of the week we should reach the required target of eight hundred.”
“Good, and the situation with the government?” he directed the question at King.
“You’re scheduled to fly in at the end of the month to finalize the rights. Team One is fully operational, and from all reports the government appreciates their work. I’m not anticipating any problems.”
“Very good.” Pollard rose from the table. “That concludes the meeting, gentlemen.” He left the room with King in tow.
“Mr. Chambers is starting to concern me,” he said as the elevator doors closed and he pressed the button for the top floor. “I’m beginning to think he doesn’t have the stomach for our investment model.”
“Do you want me to take care of it?”
Pollard shook his head. “No, just watch him. We need his access to the capital markets.” The elevator doors opened. The entire level was dedicated the chairman’s office and apartment. “Where are we with Longreach?” He strode past his secretary and pushed open the ornate wooden doors to his office.
“First flights are scheduled for next week.” King stopped at the doors.
“And we have complete deniability?” he asked as he poured himself a tumbler of scotch from a well-stocked cabinet.
“Of course.”
“Good.” He took a sip. “Charles, I don’t want to hear any more about this journalist. Deal with it.”
The former Special Forces officer nodded and spun on his heel.
***
CHIHUAHUA
Emilio glanced around the kitchen at Roberto and his two men, a confused expression on his face. “Is this it? I thought you had more men? This is our autodefensa?” His son Carlos was by his side. “And your guns.” He gestured the rifles leaning against the wall. “They’re old enough to have been used by Pancho Villa.”
They had taken refuge in a house nestled in the urban sprawl of Chihuahua, close to the city’s international airport. The single-story cinder block residence belonged to a distant cousin who had smuggled his family across the border into the US. Unoccupied and inconspicuous, the walled compound offered protection from prying eyes. A sliding back gate gave them access to a maze of narrow laneways that separated dozens of similar dwellings.
Roberto sat at the kitchen table and gestured to his two offsiders. “Miguel and Gerardo are brothers. They have been with me from the beginning. There are others, many who will be at the demonstration. Not everyone can fight, but they want to help.”
Emilio sat at the table and ran his hands through his white hair “Did you hear? The Chaquetas used bazookas to blow up my house! They had bazookas, and you’re talking about a demonstration. What use is a demonstration? We need to hit back at the coyotes, otherwise they’ll think we are lambs.”
“In time, we will, but to do so now would mean certain death. We start small and we build. Tomorrow we’ll find additional supporters and perhaps money.”
“When we have more guns, then we’ll make the cocksuckers pay.”
“That’s the plan, my friend.”
“So, who’s organized the demonstration?”
“Do you remember the man from Mexico City who was testing the water on our ranches?”
Emilio nodded.
“The Chaquetas killed him when they burned down the chapel. The police told his family it was a tragic accident, but his amigos in Chihuahua were not fooled.”
“Will they join our fight?” Emilio asked.
Roberto shook his head. “But they’ve spread the word. Anyone able to help will be at the rally.”
“And so will the policia.”
Roberto shrugged. “They won’t be looking for us.”
He thumped the table with his fist. “We should go to the Sinaloa. They’ll give us guns if we promise to kill Chaquetas.”
Roberto scowled. “You want us in debt to a cartel?”
“It would be better than letting those criminals level our farms and poison our water.”
Roberto considered the old man’s words. “If we cannot do this ourselves, then we’ll discuss it. Let’s see what the demonstration brings tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 6
NEW YORK CITY
Bishop was dining with Christina at a restaurant in New York’s Meatpacking district. He took a sip of wine and admired her new outfit.
She was dressed in thigh-high boots, black leggings, a grey singlet top, and a leather jacket. All newly purchased thanks to Bishop. Her hair was down and she wore a bright shade of lipstick that drew attention to her rosebud mouth.
“You think it’s safe to be out?” she asked.
“New York’s a big cit
y, Christina, I think we’re OK.” He’d left his cap at the hotel and swapped his T-shirt for a white button-down shirt.
Together they appeared to be a good-looking professional couple out on a Friday night dinner date.
A spicy calamari dish was placed on their table and Christina eyed it hungrily. “This place is amazing. How did you know about it?”
The restaurant was outfitted to resemble a 19th century Indian tea warehouse with teak beams crossing the ceiling and raw timber floorboards.
“TripAdvisor. It has great reviews.” He caught the attention of their waiter and ordered another bottle of wine.
Christina spooned some of the calamari onto her plate. “I thought you were going to keep me cooped up in that hotel all night.”
The wine arrived and he sampled it before giving the waiter the OK to fill their glasses.
“So,” Christina said before taking a sip, “are you going to tell me what you found out about RED?”
He tore off a piece of roti bread and used it to mop up the sauce in an empty dish. “Unfortunately, not a lot. I did find out they’ve got links to a security company based here.”
“And you think the goons who chased us work for them?”
“It’s a fair assumption.” He poked the empty bowl with his fork. “I guess you liked the calamari?”
“Sorry,” she said with a laugh. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought.”
“A big appetite is a sign of good health. There’s more on the way.”
She smiled. “Aden, I want to thank you again for what you did this morning.”
“Don’t worry about it, you just owe me a coffee. You can get them tomorrow.”
“I was kind of hoping to go back to my apartment tomorrow.”
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