Rivera draped the serpent over his leg and covered it with a napkin. Then he unwrapped the cell phone from the tin foil. "Let's see who our friends are."
He removed a .22 pistol from an ankle holster and handed it to Stoker. "I need you to find a place where you can shoot out the light above our table." Rivera directed his eyes to the lamp about six feet above their heads.
"You've got it," Stoker said. "You'll need a moment of darkness—some time for their eyes to adjust to the surprise. Now let's see who comes through that door with the wrong body language."
Stoker walked toward the bathrooms and found the perfect spot. He could see the door, he could see Rivera's table, and any shot he took would fly upward into wood paneling or drywall and be highly unlikely to endanger anyone.
As the two men watched the door, groups of people entered. Sometimes a lone person would enter. Everyone's body language was relaxed. People were coming to La Sotolería to have fun. Twelve minutes after Rivera had let the phone be tracked again, two men passed through the door. Their faces were grave, their strides purposeful, and their spines held their shoulders high at alert. These men ignored the hostess and started looking around La Sotolería, heads panning and eyes darting in all directions.
Rivera held up the cell phone. When he caught the attention of one of the men he just put a big exaggerated smile on his face and pointed toward the cell phone in an animated style. The men moved quickly toward his table, closing in on him aggressively. Rivera took two bold strides toward them and elected to speak first in Farsi. "If you value your mission."
One of the men was stunned, and the words in Farsi stopped him in his tracks. Rivera then chose Spanish. "If you value the mission." The second man halted his advance. Rivera held up his own phone displaying a picture of the lab tech he had snapped. The tech's eyes were closed, and the injury to his cheek from Stoker's blow was apparent. "Tell me about the soccer match," Rivera said in Farsi and then Spanish. "Please take a seat and enjoy some soltol with me. Wasn't that some great fútbol?"
The men refused to sit. "Give us the phone!" This man was Iranian. Yet, he chose to speak in Spanish.
"Good Spanish," Rivera said. "You still have some work to do on your accent. Let's practice. Do you know where your lab tech friend is?" Rivera jiggled the phone again for emphasis. The men did not answer. But, they could not hide their surprise. It was apparent nobody had gone to the hospital to check on him. Hence, Rivera could bluff, and pretend the lab tech was his hostage. "This man is not just an expendable soldier. He's key to the biology of your whole operation. I am suggesting an exchange." Rivera paused. "Now sit down if you want to see this mission through and get your man back."
The men stood resolutely. "What do you want?" This time the man from Mexico was taking the initiative. "We have no time for games."
"I want you to sit down right now. My boys have the advantage over you." Then a gunshot rang out and the light bulb above their heads shattered. The Iranian responded by ducking into a partial crouch. The Mexican fell to the ground and reached for his pistol. The other bar patrons went silent. One woman shrieked.
Then Stoker threw six glasses to the floor. "I am so sorry. Oh, lo siento," Stoker proclaimed with a drunken Texas drawl in his voice. That was all my fault. Mia culpa, amigos."
While a gun going off in a Mexican bar was a rarity, a drunk American was all the explanation people needed. La Sotolería eventually roared back to life in a few seconds.
Now the two men were sufficiently frozen by the control and confusion. They felt threatened by the sudden darkness. And, it was apparent their foe was not alone. They had no idea how many men they were up against.
"Now have a seat boys," Rivera snarled. "Do you want to drink, or do you want to talk?" The men slowly slid into the table where Rivera stood. Rivera bellowed out to the bar patrons in Spanish, "I apologize for my crazy American friend. Drinks for everyone!" The crowd roared their approval, and Rivera held up his hand and signaled for the waitress. She approached quickly, and he slid her nine hundred more dollars.
Turning his attention toward his two adversaries, Rivera sized up the Iranian and guessed he was talking to someone who had some authority. He knew more about the grand Mexico Guillain-Barre syndrome plan than the lab tech had. The hair on the Iranian's temples was starting to gray. The man had not overreacted to the gunshot. Rivera concluded he was a trained and experienced operator.
"Let's get right to the point. I want to give you back your lab tech. He's an asset, but not worth all the strings he has attached. I must assign people to guard him. I have to feed him and take care of him. Returning him would be better for everyone."
"What do you want in return?" the Iranian asked.
"Why do twenty or more people have Guillain-Barre syndrome?"
"I know little about this. Yes, I have heard about this concentration of cases from one of my sources. But, this source also tells me Mexico is a place where these little epidemics can arise. One little germ travels fast. This one happens to cause this disease you speak of with the French name.
Rivera leaned over the table and changed his voice to a menacing half whisper. "I don't tolerate lies, half lies, omissions, or deceptions. Then he let slow, sinister grin grace his face. "Don't look down."
The wise Iranian held Rivera's gaze. But, this aspiring Mexican mercenary was not battle hardened. He could not resist looking down, which was precisely what Rivera wanted him to do. The shock of seeing a rattlesnake just inches from his manhood caused the Mexican to flinch and move his chair sideways three inches.
"Now look," Rivera whispered as he glanced downward with his eyes. The Iranian made a situational awareness decision and looked down to understand what had unhinged his amigo. He didn't flinch as he saw the head of a rattlesnake undulating between his legs. Battle and experience had seasoned this man. He kept his cool.
"Say hello to my little friend." Rivera was holding the dead snake with the tongs under the table. With a subtle wave of his wrist, he made the snake undulate. "Who is making these people sick?" Rivera demanded. "I don't know where this snake will strike, but let's hope it's your thighs."
The Iranian's face went ashen. It was too dark in the bar to recognize the serpent was dead. The tell-tale sign of a rattle would have been obscured by the cacophony of dozens of surrounding conversations. A bead of sweat appeared on the Iranians forehead.
Rivera growled. "I have more snakes, I have more guns, and I have more men with me here in this noisy cantina. And by the way, your lab tech feels your pain," Rivera bluffed. He loved fabricating deceptions. "We're holding him, and we're extracting good intel from him. Only complete, truthful answers can save him, amigo. Only complete, truthful answers can save you. Now, who's doing this?"
With all the concentration on the snake, neither the Iranian nor the Mexican had noticed how Stoker had inched his way back toward the table. He was now sitting in a chair almost within earshot.
The Iranian continued. "We are a medical team doing work on Guillain-Barre syndrome."
"With Campylobacter jejuni," Rivera interjected.
The Iranian was stunned. This man sitting before him, threatening him with a rattlesnake, knew more than he could've ever imagined. He was trapped. And, trying to deceive would only entangle and endanger him more. "This group of people. They are test subjects, guinea pigs if you will. They should all survive. We came to an, well, an agreement, with Hospital de Los Santos to admit these patients early and put them on ventilators when they needed it."
"You said when they needed it, not if they needed it," Rivera interjected. But many Guillain-Barre patients never need ventilators. Your statement implied all patients would need ventilators. Why?"
Now the Iranian had many beads of sweat forming on his forehead. How does this man know so much? he thought. "This is a very potent strain of Campylobacter jejuni. From what I understand, the subsequent Guillain-Barre disease is much more likely to occur."
"How did it get
so potent?" Rivera asked.
"You must forgive me." The Iranian's voice trembled a bit. "I’m not a scientist. I’m a soldier. I don’t know the words to explain exactly. I just know our scientists have somehow manipulated Campylobacter jejuni to be stronger and more effective. Most of the people who drink the water we laced with our Campylobacter jejuni end up developing the subsequent Guillain-Barre."
Stoker had moved to an empty table just behind the Iranian and the Mexican. He could pick up bits of the conversation—enough to understand the potency of the germs they were dealing with. He could also see this revelation was angering Rivera to an extreme. He was struggling to control himself from instigating immediate and violent retribution.
“Then tell us, why are nurses and the hospital employees double gloving and wearing such extreme protective equipment?”
“Because they do not know the patients have Guillain-Barre. They only know there is a little epidemic. We’ve coerced the doctors into telling them it is a new syndrome, perhaps yet to be discovered. As a result, many of them are taking extreme precautions.”
Rivera was a phenomenal interrogator. He could grab onto a single word or phrase and use it to open up a subject like a clam. "You just said, 'our scientists.' Then you said, 'we laced' and ‘we coerced.’ Who is the 'our' and 'we' you speak of?" The Iranian hesitated, so Rivera whispered. "I really hope it's not a testicle this viper nails."
The Iranian grabbed the table, leaped up, and flipped it toward Rivera, fully expecting to be bitten by the snake in the process. Rivera sidestepped the table and swung with a roundhouse punch. The Iranian was more concerned about the rattlesnake, making him inattentive to Rivera's fist. It landed squarely on the Iranian's jaw, stunning him and causing him to spin 180 degrees. Rivera then attacked him from behind and wrestled the Iranian into a sleeper hold.
The Mexican reached for his pistol, but he never had a chance to grasp it before a mighty tackling body blow from Troy Stoker whiplashed his neck and took him to the ground. Stoker rose up into a kneeling position above the man and cocked his fist back. But the Mexican was gasping for breath and would need no additional thrashing thanks to a few broken ribs and a herniated disk in his neck. Stoker and Rivera frisked the men. They were each carrying two pistols. "These are ours now," Stoker said. Then he picked up the dead snake and wrapped it loosely around the dazed Iranian's neck.
Most of the crowd had retreated from the chaos. But, some of the crowd had gathered around to enjoy the short skirmish. Rivera held up his hands to show that the fighting had ceased. In Spanish, he addressed the crowd. "I am sorry you had to see that. We're doctors, and these men followed us from the hospital and attempted to rob us." Rivera slowly turned toward the door, and Stoker followed his lead. "They used that dead snake to threaten us. We're sorry about the commotion and damage. Now, will you please call an ambulance?" La Sotolería's manager emerged from the sea of onlookers. Rivera handed him 500 dollars and instructed the manager to send the Iranian and the Mexican to Hospital de Los Santos. "I will call ahead. I know the emergency room physician on duty. I'll tell him what happened and exactly how to care for these men. I will also arrange for the police to meet them there."
The Iranian was still too dazed to realize he would be going to the hospital that was the epicenter of the Guillain-Barre epidemic. The Mexican understood right away. The pain in his eyes was displaced by the sheer terror of landing in the middle of an epidemic he little understood. "No!" he gasped. While his voice was barely audible, his desperation came through loud and clear. He started pleading to be taken to another hospital, hastily naming almost a dozen alternatives.
Stoker frisked each mans' pockets once again to find car keys. He found them in the Mexican's pocket. Then Stoker picked up the box containing the lab samples. Rivera still had the cell phone they had taken from the lab tech and his survival and tactical backpack. Pushing their way through the crowd, they dashed out the front door into the night and sprinted for the waiting taxi.
"Send the taxi away," Stoker shouted to Rivera as they ran. "I got some keys to a new car."
"Excellent!" Rivera exclaimed. "You are really a natural at all of this tenacious stuff we have to do. And you don't even seem to think of the possibility you're on the verge of committing grand theft auto in Mexico." Rivera smacked the taxi's hood and told the driver he was free to leave.
Stoker smiled as he said, "I wonder how an American psychiatrist would do in a Mexican prison?" He pressed the unlock button on the car key. They didn't hear a horn, chirp, or the sound of a car unlocking. "I'm doing a seemingly wrong thing, but for all the right reasons. I think a Mexican jury may see that even more clearly than an American jury."
"You're right about that, amigo," Rivera responded. "You gringos tend to see things in black and white."
Stoker pushed the unlock button again. They heard the distinct clicking of door releasing, and they turned in the general direction of the sound. He pushed the button another time, and they were able to identify a white Dodge Ram 3500 pickup truck. "Toss me those keys," Rivera said. "I'll drive. This is a great opportunity for you to get some practical experience with some of our cutting-edge weapons."
"Sounds good. Let's see if we have any other tools of the trade here in our new truck." The men jumped inside. Rivera started it, and they drove away. Stoker shook down the cabin. "There are no documents to tell us who this truck belongs to. But, the glove box contains some tire spikes, and a generation two Taurus 24/7 pistol, forty-five caliber."
"That's a beautiful gun, Troy. But amigo, I suspect my pistol and that pistola will be—"
Stoker finished his thought. "A lot less firepower than our next wave of attackers will have. We need to get creative. I love getting creative. What's in that bag of yours?"
The truck rapidly accelerated onto a highway heading out of town to the northwest. "Behind door number one? Open up my goody bag and check out the magnetic grenade."
Stoker opened the bag and removed it. He started to examine it closely.
"When the perfect moment comes, pull the safety pin, slam down the fuse, and toss it at your enemy's automobile." Rivera handed his phone to Stoker. "Text the helicopter crew. Have them get that bird in the air. We just need them to follow us and provide intel."
Stoker sent a message to the crew. The response was almost immediate.
Turn on your radio.
"Is there a radio in your mega backpack?"
"Side pocket. It should already be tuned to the correct channel."
Stoker took out the radio and powered it up.
"This is Medic Alpha Six," Stoker said. Do you copy?"
"Yes. Medic Alpha Six." The helicopter pilot responded. He reported the crew was already in the air. People at the airport had started coming around and asking questions about the Russian gunship. The helicopter had stuck out like a sore thumb in Mexico. With it getting dark, they started to sense vulnerability. So, they decided to get in the air.
"Are you ready to be our eye in the sky?" Stoker asked.
"Copy that," came the reply. "What's the plan?"
"We are headed out past the airport in a white Dodge Ram pickup truck. We're pretty sure we'll pick up a tail. We have the cell phone we lifted from a tango. We're pretty sure his friends are tracking us through that phone. We want to draw out the enemy. We need to figure out who they are."
"And you want us to watch your tail," said the pilot, "and tell you who shows up to this party?"
"Exactly. But, do not engage. We'll take care of confrontations here on the ground. And once we've dispensed of these radical thugs, we'll have you pick us up. It's time for us to get to a lab in Texas and work on unraveling a mystery."
"Sounds good. We're watching your six."
Stoker set the radio between him and Rivera and the two men drove down the highway toward the airport. Stoker studied a map of the area on Rivera's phone. "I'm looking for a secluded area, where it will be easy to see who follows us." As they passed th
e airport, Stoker made a recommendation. "In about three miles, let's turn off this highway to the left. That takes us up a road that goes into some farmlands. At night it should work great."
"You've got it."
Just before they made the turn, Rivera started to formulate a plan with Stoker. "We don't know how many people are coming, but they will have guns. I'm thinking AK-47s or Uzis. And, we must stay out of their range. But, we have to get close enough to somehow attach that magnetic grenade."
"If you're close enough to use the grenade, you're close enough to get shot a few dozen times," Stoker said. "I've got an idea. Let's allow these goons to close in on us. I know how we can work this." Stoker shared the plan. Rivera responded with a deviant smile. "I love it."
Stoker and Rivera turned off from the highway onto a dark paved road that passed through some green, irrigated farmlands. Rivera slowed the truck to twenty-five miles per hour. Then he radioed the helicopter team with his position.
"We see you on infrared," the pilot said. "We're seven thousand feet above you."
Five minutes later the helicopter pilot radioed back. "There's a motorcycle bogey who turned off the highway. He's about two miles behind you."
Rivera slowed to fifteen miles per hour.
Three minutes later the pilot radioed in again. "The motorcycle stopped. And there are two more pickup trucks about four clicks behind the motorcycle. Each with two men in the truck bed. They turned down your same road. Let's see if they rendezvous with the motorcycle."
After Stoker and Rivera had traveled another few minutes, Stoker instructed Rivera. "Pull over about halfway through the next curve. It's a bit of a tight corner. Turn the truck perpendicular to the road. Instant roadblock a few meters into a blind turn."
The pilot's voice came over the radio. "The motorcycle and two trucks are coming your way. They're all on the same team of tangos, and they're moving fast. Those guys in the truck beds have some big guns propped on top of the roof of the pickup truck. There's some serious firepower."
Silent Strike Page 9
