Retribution

by Brent Towns

  With practiced fingers, he pressed the answer button and placed it to his ear. “I hope this is good.”

  “Quite the opposite, Mike,” Ferrero said, his voice grim. “Horton’s gone.”

  Turner sat up in his bed, all vestiges of sleep evaporating. “What happened?”

  “While we were looking one way, Salazar slipped across the border, killed a trooper and three DEA agents. He took Horton with him.”

  “Damn it, Luis. What do you mean you were looking one way?”

  “We had an op going on in Sonora.”

  “What op? Why didn’t I know about it? Christ, Luis, you were meant to keep me in the loop.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry. Horton was here when we discussed it, and he ticked it off.”

  “Rich Horton isn’t in charge, is he? I am. From now on, nothing gets done unless I know about it. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me about the damned op and what happened to Horton.”

  Ferrero gave him a brief description about the airstrip, the cocaine lab, and the sighting of Salazar in Retribution being called in.

  When he finished, Ferrero said, “Sir, I’d like to send Team Reaper back out to raid Montoya’s compound to see if Horton is there.”

  “No. Have your people ready, but that’s all. This needs to go further up the chain.”

  “But, sir –”

  “No, Luis. You don’t even know if he is there. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Turner disconnected and glanced at the bedside clock. One a.m. It was going to be a very long night.

  Washington

  The Oval Office, One Hour Later

  President Jack Carter was used to getting bad news in the middle of the night. Being woken during the small hours always put him in a mood but being woken to bad news did little to improve it.

  The grey-haired, sixty-seven-year-old head of state stabbed a straight finger at the conference button on the phone sitting on the polished desktop.

  “I’m here with Frank Muir, Bill,” Carter growled in his deep voice. “Now, how about you tell me what all the damned fuss is about.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President. I have Mike Turner with me on this end.”

  “Fine, fine,” Carter said dismissively.

  “Mr. President, this is Mike Turner.”

  “Speak, Mike, my patience is growing thin.”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. President, earlier this evening, DEA Administrator Rich Horton was taken from U.S. soil by a man called Cesar Salazar.”

  Carter glanced at Muir and leaned forward in his chair. “What do you mean? Did this Salazar come to Washington and kidnap him?”

  “No, sir. Horton was in Retribution, Arizona, observing an operation we have going there against the Montoya Cartel.”

  There was a spark of anger in Carter’s eyes. “That’s a damned name I know. This Retribution thing is quickly becoming a pain in my ass. How the hell did he manage to do something like this.”

  “Sir, if I may, I’d like Luis Ferrero to join us. He’s the agent in charge on the ground down there. He’ll be able to fill you in.”

  “Go ahead,” Carter grumbled.

  “Luis?”

  “Mr. President, has Secretary of State Muir briefed you on what the task force is trying to accomplish down here?”

  Carter stared at Muir. “He has. I have reservations about it. Especially after the shit storm it has already caused with the Mexican government.”

  “It has also flushed out a rogue senator and pointed us in the direction of a corrupt Mexican official in the current government.”

  Carter was at the end of his patience and snapped, “I’m also aware of that. Get on with it, Mr. Ferrero.”

  “Yes, sir. Early yesterday, we identified what looked to be an airstrip not far from the compound of Juan Montoya. We also became aware of a lone figure in an area that consisted of two apparently abandoned buildings. To us it seemed strange, so we sent a team in to look. It turned out to be a cocaine lab, which our team destroyed.”

  Carter sighed. “Some good news at least, Mr. Ferrero. Now, for the bad.”

  “Yes, sir. While we were doing that, a state trooper pulled over a man in an SUV whom he identified to be Salazar. He called it in for backup, but all that was available was us. Horton volunteered to go because we were in the middle of the op in Sonora. He and three other agents who had come with him answered the call. After the op was complete and I couldn’t raise them, I sent out two of my men to investigate. They found the trooper and the three DEA agents dead in an alley. Horton was missing. It is presumed that Salazar has taken him and that by now he is across the border.”

  Carter ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Are you sure it was Salazar?” Muir asked.

  “We have no reason to believe otherwise,” Ferrero said. Then, “Mr. President, if you give us permission, I have a team close at hand who can take Montoya’s compound, and with some luck, rescue Administrator Horton.”

  “How can you be sure he’s there, Luis?” Muir asked. “Have you seen him?”

  “No, sir.”

  There was a drawn-out silence before the president said, “No. This time we go through the proper channels. I’ll consult directly with the Mexican president, and if he gives us the OK, then I’ll send a team of special forces to do the operation.”

  “Mr. President, the Mexican government is corrupt,” Turner protested. “You can’t trust them.”

  Muir said, “I agree, sir, they are more likely to warn Montoya than help us. I say use Ferrero’s team to do the job. They know the man and how he operates.”

  Carter shook his head. “We do this the right way, gentlemen. I’ll schedule another conference call with you at eleven this morning. Until then you do nothing. Am I clear?”

  “Mr. President?” Ferrero interjected.

  “Yes, Mr. Ferrero?”

  “Sir, I would like to keep our UAV in the air to monitor the compound if that is all right by you?”

  “Fine. While you’re at it, get me some proof that he’s there. But no boots on the ground, understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Carter disconnected the call and looked up at Muir. “What do you think, Frank? No bullshit, give it to me straight.”

  “Sir, we have a chance to get rid of a major player in the drug war. At first, I didn’t agree with this taskforce idea, but shit, they’re getting results, and Montoya is worried. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have taken Horton alive. If we get the chance, sir, I say turn them loose and kill this fucker before he can do any more harm.”

  “Frank, can you say for certain that this wasn’t a retaliatory attack for stealing the son of a bitch’s money?”

  “It most likely was, sir.”

  “Why should I use them instead of our own special operators?”

  “Firstly, sir, you’d be sending our troops onto foreign soil which technically is an act of war –”

  “We are at fucking war!”

  “—and another good reason is that Ferrero’s people aren’t military. In saying that, they are good. Their field team is led by an ex-recon marine named Kane. His second was a deputy sheriff and a marine corps lieutenant. So, while technically they aren’t military, they have been. Another thing is that they have everything they need to complete the mission on hand.”

  Carter scowled. “All right. I want the chairman of the joint chiefs brought up to speed on this. I want to hear what he has to say if we take an off-the-books route. I want this field commander of Ferrero’s at the next conference at eleven. I want to meet him for myself. And I want files on all of those involved in this team Reaper thing. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, get me the president of Mexico.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sonora

  The black SUV came to a stop, its tires crunching on the compound’s gravel. In the back, Horton stirred and opened his eye
s. The headache was still there, a sure sign that he had a concussion from where Salazar had hit him.

  Horton’s hands were cable-tied behind his back while a strip of duct-tape had been placed over his mouth.

  He heard Salazar switch off the engine and open the door. The sound of footsteps on gravel filtered into the rear as the sicario moved alongside the vehicle. Then came the voices. They spoke in Spanish and were muffled so he couldn’t understand them.

  When the back of the vehicle was opened, hot air rushed in. Salazar grasped Horton by the shirt collar and dragged him mercilessly from the SUV and dropped him to the gravel drive.

  Pain shot through his body when he landed awkwardly on his right shoulder. A muffled curse escaped from around the tape.

  He looked up and was blinded by the early morning sunlight. There was movement beside him, and he was momentarily overshadowed by a figure which bent down and tore the tape from his mouth.

  “Stand him up,” the figure ordered.

  Horton was manhandled to his feet and stood before a man in a dirty white suit. The face was unmistakable. Juan Montoya.

  “At last we meet, huh,” Montoya said. “The big American DEA man and the cartel boss. You have been trying to get me for years. Now I have you. Not to worry, though. Over the next few hours, we shall become well acquainted with each other. I for one am looking forward to our conversation.”

  A cold chill ran down Horton’s spine as he realized that the best he could hope for was a quick death. He stared at Montoya and then craned his head all the way back and looked at the cloudless sky above him. “I hope you’re still watching.”

  Retribution, That same time

  “We’ve got him!” Teller burst out. “That’s him, that’s Horton. He knew we were watching. He looked up.”

  Ferrero hurried across to the monitor and saw the group of men huddled together. “Are you sure?”

  “One-hundred percent.”

  “Play it back,” Ferrero snapped at Swift. “How far out is Reaper’s team?”

  “Maybe thirty minutes,” Traynor supplied.

  The large screen went blank and then came up with the recording from the UAV. Ferrero watched it intently and then, right on cue, Horton looked up.

  “It is him,” Ferrero breathed. “Get this to the assistant AG, now. Then get him on the line.”

  “Yes, sir,” Swift said.

  As Ferrero watched, the group moved inside the house. Then he said to no one in particular, “We don’t have much time.”

  But even now, he knew they were already too late.

  “What do we know?” Kane asked as he strode across the room to stare at the picture of Horton on the big-screen monitor.

  Ferrero stepped in beside him, as did Cara. “We know Montoya has him and that the Mexican government isn’t going to allow us to mount a rescue mission with any kind of team that is American.”

  “So, send one anyway.”

  “There is a meeting with the president at eleven when I’m sure such an option will be discussed.”

  “Now isn’t the time to be talking about anything. It’s time to be doing. I can get the team inside there and have Horton out in under five minutes.”

  If it had been anyone other than Kane making the boast, Ferrero would have cried bullshit. But he’d worked with Kane before, and the man sure knew his own capabilities. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Reaper, we’re under direct orders from the president to stand down until a decision is made.”

  “Mr. Horton will be dead by then, sir,” Cara said.

  Ferrero turned and stared at her. His face was grim. “If he isn’t already.”

  “Fuck!” The loud curse came from Swift who sat in front of his monitor.

  “I swear that boy can be overdramatic at times,” Ferrero growled. He called out, “Found a fly in your morning coffee, Mr. Swift?”

  “It’s Horton, sir. They’re streaming him live on the net.”

  Kane said, “This can’t be good.”

  They hurried across to Swift’s workstation, and the picture showed Horton tied to a chair.

  “Christ!” Traynor muttered when he saw the feed.

  “Put it on the big screen,” Ferrero snapped.

  Horton still had his mouth taped over, and there was a line of blood from a gash above his swollen right eye, which ran down the side of his face and stained the white shirt collar at his throat.

  There was movement at the edge of the frame, and a figure walked into view to stand behind the restrained DEA administrator.

  “Fucking Montoya,” Ferrero cursed.

  Montoya looked a fraction to the side and asked, “Is it working?”

  An unseen male voice said, “Sí.”

  The cartel boss stared into the camera. “I have a message for the American special forces who come to my country and steal my money and destroy my property. You deny, your government denies that you have done such things. But, here is the proof.”

  Montoya stabbed a finger at the back of Horton’s head. “This man, the head of your DEA, was caught on my land last night when he and others came onto Mexican soil and destroyed my property, killed some of my men.”

  “Lying sack of shit,” Traynor growled.

  “You can no longer deny it,” the cartel boss continued. “Here is the proof my government wished for. Although I suspect that they are scared of the fascist regime that is run by President Carter, I am not. I will not stand for such acts of war against my country. I will not bow down to their fascist ways. It is time that the gringo dogs finally realize that the world will no longer bow down before them.”

  “The bastard is crazy,” Kane said aloud.

  Suddenly Montoya was distracted. His eyes ventured to the right of shot, and another figure moved into focus. He whispered something in the cartel boss’ ear and withdrew.

  “That was Salazar,” Kane said with surety.

  “What’s going on?” Ferrero wondered.

  “Sir, we have movement outside the compound!” Reynolds cried out. “Six vehicles. All closing in at a great rate. Oh, God –”

  “What is it?” Ferrero snapped.

  “They have to be Policía Federal Preventiva, sir. Federales.”

  Kane cursed. “Damn it, the bastards are raiding the compound.”

  Ferrero reacted instantly and barked an order as he walked across the room to see. “Damn it! Get the assistant AG on the line.”

  “Oh, fuck no!” Traynor blurted out. “Luis, get back over here.”

  With an about-face, Ferrero hurried back. When he saw what had Traynor bent out of shape, he paled. “No way. No, no, no.”

  In his absence, Montoya had produced a wicked-looking knife. He held it up for the camera to see clearly and said, “Let this be a warning to those who think they can steal my money and interfere with my business.”

  The knife lowered, and with one fluid movement, the cartel boss drew it across Horton’s throat. It released a torrent of bright-red blood which cascaded across the white shirt-front and turned it a rich crimson.

  Kane closed his eyes, not wanting to watch until the end. Already the image was burned deep.

  When he opened his eyes, Montoya was gone, and the screen showed the slumped body of the DEA administrator. Then came the sound of gunfire and the picture disappeared.

  “What’s happening?” Ferrero called out.

  “The Federales have breached the front gate and are closing in on the house,” called Teller.

  “Big screen! Now!” Ferrero snapped.

  The picture changed to an aerial view of the compound.

  Swift appeared beside Ferrero, holding a handset. “Sir, I have the AAG on the phone for you.”

  He took it and said, “Ferrero.”

  “What the hell is going on down there, Luis?” came the flustered reply.

  “Montoya just killed Horton on a live internet feed.”

  “My God.”

  “We do have another issue, sir. The Federales are
attacking the compound. We picked them up right before Montoya killed the administrator.”

  “I need to ring the president. Keep an eye on them, and I’ll get back to you.”

  Ferrero looked up at the screen. “Better hurry, sir, I doubt very much that the Federales are going to last long.”

  Sonora

  The incoming team were not Policía Federal Preventiva but wore the same uniforms. They were in fact, a rapid intervention force, part of the Mexican special forces group. They’d been used in the war on drugs ever since the escalation of cartel activity over the past few years.

  Capitán Primero Carlos Arenas braced himself as the armor-plated SUV crashed through the gates of the compound, the reinforced steel barrier pitiful against the vehicles. He gripped the FX-05 in his right hand and spoke into his mic. “Prepare to deploy. No prisoners, kill them all.”

  Every one of the twenty-man team was dressed in a navy-blue uniform. All had decked-out tactical vests, helmets, and balaclavas which covered all except the eyes.

  Most were armed with the FX-05 Xiuhcoatl carbine. A few also had Mossberg 500 pump-action shotguns or H&K MP5s, while all carried a Beretta 92 semi-automatic pistol in a holster on their thigh.

  As soon as the vehicles stopped, he flung his door open, and the ten-year veteran of the Mexican armed forces shouted into his mic, “Go! Go! Go!”

  The rapid intervention force spilled from their SUVs and was immediately hammered by gunfire from the rooftop of the main house. A strong force of cartel bodyguards had gathered there and were now pouring fire down into the ranks of the attackers.

  Alarm ran through Arenas’ mind. Somehow, they were obviously expecting them. It was the only explanation as to how the surprise raid was being turned back on them.

  The special forces men took immediate shelter behind their armored vehicles. Four were already down and hadn’t moved. Another soldier tried valiantly to drag a wounded comrade to cover before he fell victim to a bullet in the head.

  “Clear the roof!” Arenas shouted into his mic. “Snipers, clear the roof! Cruz, rush the house with your men before we all die out here. They knew we were coming.”