Captivated in Cancun

by KaLyn Cooper

  After a long quiet pause, Ed answered Josh's unasked question. “There is nothing I hate more than a bully, and that’s all cartels are at their core. They are driven by power and money and don’t care who they hurt in the process. I can’t stand to the side and watch innocent families torn apart. Last week one of the new wanna-be-contender gangs posted a video on the fucking Internet as a warning to others who may want to take over their newly-gained territory. They had four women in a field, stripped naked to the waist, and asked them who their families supported. When they said the previous cartel, the fuckers slit their throats and lopped off their heads with machetes. These were wives and mothers they murdered.” The hatred that filled Ed’s voice was a living, breathing entity in the cab of the SUV.

  Josh understood all too well. He felt the same way about Middle Eastern terrorists. Especially the splinter cell in Libya who had killed his brother.

  “Are they trying to mimic ISIS?” Josh asked.

  Ed chuckled. “Not hardly, my friend. The Mayans beheaded their enemies for centuries before Mohamed walked the earth. Maybe they took a lesson from us on in how to instill fear and control the masses.”

  Ed veered left, away from the Hotel Zone, toward the central part of Cancun, the area where over a million people lived an urban life with all the problems of any major city in the world. The area closest to tourists was filled with spas and night clubs that were disgustingly dirty by the light of day, a far cry from the upscale Mayan Nites in the heart of the Hotel Zone. Several young boys and girls slouched against the block buildings, smoking. At first glance, Josh thought they were underdressed teenagers puffing away but realization hit him. They were prostitutes.

  Although the profession was legal in Mexico, these kids looked like they should have been in junior high school rather than selling their bodies on the streets. Ed must have noticed. “That’s a growing problem, sex tourism, especially pedophilia.”

  Josh’s head whipped to the other man. “Is pedophilia legal here?” He was appalled. The pit of his stomach flipped, churning what had been a great breakfast.

  “No, but that doesn’t stop it.” Ed’s lips tightened. “The cartels have always been into human trafficking. It’s just as easy to smuggle people into the States as it is drugs. Same routes, same low life contacts, and they usually get some sex for their troubles.”

  Josh wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this. Human trafficking was a different division. He chased terrorists.

  Ed continued, “We’ve found that most women consider rape the cost of passage. If a coyote takes a real interest in a young woman, he’ll keep her safe, or so she thinks. All too often he’s training her so he can get a higher price for her on the other end. A few years ago, though, the cartels discovered just how much money men will pay for children, and I’m talking both boys and girls. Some want to buy the kids, other just want to rent them for a few hours. There’s some sick motherfuckers out there.”

  Josh had to remind himself that he wasn’t there to stop the constant flow of human beings into the U.S.A. That task belonged to a different division. His job was to find the coyotes moving five terrorists and prevent their entry into the United States, although they might be one and the same.

  Ed pulled into a paved parking lot next to a new glass building.

  “Our tax dollars hard at work.” Ed sneered. “We barely have the budget for bullets and somebody in Mexico City decided a show of presence would help fight off the cartels. Fucking politicians.”

  Josh’s sentiments exactly, but for different reasons.

  Ten minutes later, a rich, aromatic cup of coffee in hand, Josh sat at the head of a polished mahogany conference table, his laptop open and connected to a projector. Ed sat to his left and acted as interpreter, the Cancun division captain, Jorge Guzman, sat to Josh’s right. Members of Ed’s elite cartel and gang task force filled the lower end of the table.

  Just as Josh stood to begin, the door opened and in strode a middle-aged man who wore power the way he did his custom-made suit. He was followed by two armed bruisers who took up positions on either side of the shut door. Everyone stood, the younger men at the far end snapped to attention.

  With a politician’s smile and casual wave, the gentleman said in Spanish, “Seats, men. I’m here for the briefing, same as you.” He strode up to Josh, hand extended. In passable English, he greeted, “Arturo Mendoza, National Security Commissioner. It is a pleasure to have such a distinguished guest. How can we help the American government?”

  Josh pasted on the smile he reserved for the rare Congressional visitor and with a firm grip, shook the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.” Might as well throw in that dash of respect. “I was about to begin.”

  The right side of the table shifted to accommodate the powerful newcomer as Guzman relinquished his spot to his boss’s boss’s boss. The captain appeared slightly nervous but settled into his new chair.

  Josh slipped into command briefing mode. “As far as anyone in Cancun knows, I’m here to attend the wedding of a former employee.”

  “Jack Girard,” Mendoza interrupted. “A former U.S. Navy SEAL. What is his role in your operation and are his boat captains–more SEALs–also involved?”

  Josh hid his initial shock that Jack and crew were obviously more than a blip on the Policía Federal Ministerial radar. “They are not involved in any way except for providing me a legitimate reason for being here.” It was mostly true, although he’d never blow Jeff “Rock Star” Lennon’s cover.

  He continued as though he’d never been interrupted, clicking through various pictures of a Middle Eastern man in everything from a thawb and keffiyeh, the traditional white robes and head cloth, to a smartly-cut business suit and hand-made Italian loafers. “We have reliable intelligence that Islamic State mid-level leader Abdul-Quddus Mifsud and four other men are expected to cross into the United States through Cancun within the next week. They left their South American training camp four days ago posing as guards for a cocaine shipment. We’re not sure if it’s a regular delivery or payment for their passage into the U.S.A. Once here in Cancun, they are expected to contact the human trafficking side of the Los Zetas. Exactly how they will enter the States is still a mystery but we believe it will be via cruise ships.”

  “Are you sure it’s Los Zetas?” one of the task force members asked from the other end of the table. “They have been supplementing their drug trade with human trafficking for years, but transporting terrorists is a new twist.”

  “No, we’re not sure who their contacts are in Mexico,” Josh admitted. “But since Los Zetas have their fingers into all criminal pockets in this area, our educated guess was that cartel.”

  “Cruise ships?” Captain Guzman asked as though Josh was insane.

  “Yes, cruise ships.” Josh had the same reaction when the idea was brought to him by one of his best agents. “Every day several cruise ships—which most fly under Middle Eastern flags—dock in Mexico and release thousands of tourists. The hundreds of support staff are from seventy different countries around the world. We believe, but haven’t yet proven, that people are being smuggled aboard here in Mexico and simply walk off the docks onto U.S. soil where they meet the next link in their underground railroad.”

  Another task force agent asked, “So you believe these terrorists are being hidden in this area...until their ship comes in?” A smile cracked his sun-darkened face and reached eyes that had seen too much in his young life. His wise crack brought chuckles from the men who were obviously a close team.

  Ed spoke up, “While we have a growing population of Muslims here in Quintana Roo, somewhere around two hundred of them, what we do have are a lot of sympathizers who hate the United States.” With a smile, he added, “Seems your war on drugs is putting a hurt in their lucrative business. Los Zetas seems logical since they are the only ones large enough to have the right international contacts. What do you know about this man?” He nodded toward the large screen behind Josh.

>   “Not enough, to be honest with you.” Josh grimaced. “We’re not sure if Abdul-Quddus Mifsud is even his real name or if he gave it to himself. It’s a bit coincidental if his father actually named him Servant of the Most Holy. What we do know is that he’s extremely high in the ISIS command structure, known for getting the job done, and is supposed to coordinate a multi-city attack crippling the United States.”

  “That now makes perfect sense.” Mendoza’s gaze stopped at every face around the table, assessing each man, before he stared at Josh as if some answer was written in his eyes. The politician blinked. “Nationally, we have noticed a major buildup along the northern borders of everything from people to drugs. Your Border Patrol hasn’t changed its policy or methods, so we couldn’t figure out why they are waiting to cross.”

  The head of national security scanned the room once again. “It is now my belief that while your country is in crisis, the trucks will roll like an army invasion across every checkpoint. Your streets will be flooded with drugs as transportation comes to a standstill. Hiding new people will be so much easier in the chaos that will follow another attack on your country, especially if it’s larger than 9/11.” He glanced away and sighed. Visually sweeping the room filled with hardened soldiers sworn to protect their country, he admitted, “But such an event could crush Mexico.”

  Josh’s brows drew together. “How so?”

  “Tourism was a twelve-billion dollar industry last year, the fourth largest influx of international money into our nation,” Mendoza explained. “Seven million people would instantly be without jobs.”

  Jack’s boat business. It would be demolished. And then Josh remembered the unguarded conversation the Girard family had at breakfast yesterday. Their fledgling cruise line would sink before the first ship departed Miami.

  Josh had never thought about the grassroots effect of a national disaster before that very minute. On 9/11, he’d stood encased in emotional steel in the confined command center aboard a ship in the Mediterranean Sea. He’d been worried more about the five small teams of SEALs he had deployed in bad guy countries than what had happened half a world away in New York City and Washington, D.C.

  Unceasing talk aboard the aircraft carrier in the days that followed had been about the military response to the terrorists’ actions rather than its effect on a nation that hadn’t been attacked in centuries. Senior officers speculated their best position to guarantee the next promotion while everyone aboard took turns and called home to assure themselves their families were safe.

  As a recently promoted Lieutenant, Josh had been tapped to take over command of SEAL Team Four, a promotion that had been delayed for two months afterwards as he floated in the Med awaiting official orders. In a December Change of Command ceremony, he had become responsible for over one-hundred men who put their lives on the line at the direction of those so far up his chain of command he didn’t even know their names. Or care. He had been in his element.

  War seemed inevitable. Secretly, Josh had been excited about the idea. All through his childhood, as he’d moved from one Navy base to another, suppers had been filled with battle stories recounted from his father, uncles, and grandfather. Tactics had been unconsciously taught until he’d followed generations of Madden men into the U.S. Naval Academy where he’d taken classes in the technicalities of war. He’d craved the adrenaline rush of bullets flying, shit getting blown up, lives depending on his actions. He’d trained for war all his life.

  That’s why he’d chosen to join the SEALs. They were out there doing something to make a better world. During the first six years of his career, the rest of the Navy practiced and trained for a war that most civilians didn’t believe would ever come. The military had been lulled by peace after Vietnam, interrupted by a few skirmishes, most often in the Middle East. The brass had bold confidence that no one would ever dare attack the continental United States.

  On 9/11, that changed.

  But not everything. It had been late in the afternoon of September thirteenth by the time Josh had reached his father in the Florida retirement community. The recently retired vice admiral had watched the twin towers collapse on TV, a thousand miles from danger. He’d gotten up the next morning and played golf with his buddies in their regular Wednesday league as though nothing had happened. Everywhere other than New York City and Washington, D.C., the world moved on relatively unaffected. Commercial airplanes had been grounded and thousands were inconvenienced, but the majority of working men and women arrived ready to do their jobs all across the United States. The world moved on without a hitch on September twelfth and every day since.

  Mendoza’s words brought Josh out of his thoughts. “The ripple effect of another terrorist attack on the United States would be disastrous to Mexico.” Heads bobbed in agreement.

  The scope of what Abdul-Quddus Mifsud could do hit Josh on a very personal level. It wouldn’t be two major cities attacked by some unknown terrorist action. No. Several sources had reported that the Islamic State planned to attack several, yes several, cities simultaneously, crippling the entire U.S.A....and the world.

  Josh had to stop this man from entering the United States.

  Now.

  Chapter 9

  Lilly unfurled the silk jewelry roll she carried when she traveled, a birthday gift from Jack while he was still in the Navy. These were her favorite pieces and ones she’d selected to wear with the clothes she’d brought.

  The silver cross with a blood red ruby in the middle went with the simple silver dress and its detailed red bolero jacket. She loved the intricate silver edging that combined Mayan glyphs with straight stitches that created starbursts in a very modern Mexican design. He-who-hated-everything-Mayan had bitched when she wore anything representative of her heritage. She planned to wear the ensemble to the rehearsal and supper following it. Slowly, she was embracing the complex woman within her.

  In the middle of the jewelry roll was a tube of the same silk adorned with a few rings. The ruby surrounded by diamonds would complete the rehearsal ensemble, a birthstone gift from her father on her sixteenth birthday.

  Next was a solid silver, diamond-shaped ring engraved with swirls she often wore on her middle finger, an antique given to the first daughter of the first daughter for generations. She’d most likely have to give that one to Addison, since it was extremely doubtful she would ever have another baby, say nothing of a girl.

  The last ring was Lilly’s favorite. She slid the red-orange fire opal from the soft cylinder and examined it up close. Pride flowed through her body. She was half Mayan. A Chel. Great-great-granddaughter of a priestess who had guarded the secret of the golden goddesses. Her brother, Jimmy, had been murdered for those damned statues. Her brother, Jack, had nearly lost his life fighting for them. Now the foot-tall sculptures stood in the Mayan museum in Cancun, never to be stolen by the Conquistadores, but shared with the world under the care of her sister-in-law, Jillian.

  Lilly was proud of her heritage. For years, he-who-no-longer-had-a-say-in-her-wardrobe had berated her whenever she appeared more Mexican than white-bred American. He’d sneered at her clothes with a Central American flair that had drawn her attention since childhood.

  He’d gone so far as to suggest she cut her long, perfectly straight black hair into a short, albeit classic, bob.

  And she’d complied.

  That would never happen again!

  Lilly slid the fire opal onto her left hand ring finger and smiled down at it. She had replaced his wedding ring, an overstated diamond, with this proud family heirloom. Inch by inch she promised herself. Her inner power was reinforced by the confidence in her personal decisions. Yes. She was becoming her own woman...a force to be reckoned with.

  Thank God she’d finally come to her senses.

  “Mom, do we have to go shopping?” Greyson whined at her bedroom door pulling at the hem of his wrinkled t-shirt over faded board shorts. She had brought better clothing for her youngest child, but he’d selected
the outfit and dressed himself. She would support his decision in a pick-your-battles resolution.

  “Sorry.” She tried to smooth out the child’s unruly hair. “We have to buy you a pink dress shirt and pick up some brown shoes.”

  Preston, perfectly turned out, his polo shirt tucked smartly into pleated khaki shorts, approached and stood by his brother. “We have to match for the wedding pictures,” he explained to his younger brother. “It’s important to Dad. He wants us to be there with him.”

  A pang of sadness shot through Lilly as she wondered if her ex hadn’t set up their oldest son for disappointment. “Let’s go, boys, and get this done.” She interjected some excitement into her voice as she said, “When we get back, we’ll take the speed boat out for a ride.”

  “Awesome.” Greyson punched his fist into the air and did a crazy four-year-old dance.

  “That will be fun.” Preston’s broad smile was the only outward indication he was excited about the idea. Lilly feared the boy’s reserved demeanor was more of an act to please his father than a reflection of his true personality.

  As she walked into the garage, she eyed the sleek Spyder. Not appropriate for a mother to drive, but damn if she didn’t want to. Just once. Feel the wind in her hair and all that power at her fingertips. Maybe she’d ask Jack if she could take it for a spin before he sold it.

  She and the boys hopped into the Mercedes sedan she usually drove while in Mexico. On the way into Cancun, she made a few business calls before her ex-mother-in-law phoned.

  “Hello, Betsy,” Lilly greeted. “You’re on speaker phone and the boys are in the car with me.” She’d learned years ago to warn people when the conversation wasn’t private.

  “Hello to all of you.” Cheer radiated through the connection.

  “Hi, Gramma B,” the boys called from the back seat where Greyson played with a GI Joe and Preston read a book on his tablet.

  “Are you boys excited about the wedding tomorrow?” their grandmother asked.