by Mike Maden
Victor Bravo was a few steps above Ali, cresting the top of the temple mount first. None of the tourists or guards had to be told to stay clear of this group of terrifying men, not even the dim-witted gringos fresh off of the cruise-liner buses swarming the compound below. As a precaution, Bravo closed the temple to tourists that day.
When Ali and Bravo’s men reached the top, the escort fanned out in a loose semicircle. The actual temple on top of the pyramid stood behind them. The black shade beneath its stone roof looked cool and inviting, but Ali shuddered. He imagined himself as a captured warrior standing in this very spot five hundred years ago, staring into that same temple mouth, soon to be led to slaughter on the reclining Chac-Mool idol looming in the dark like a demon from hell.
“Do you know why I brought you up here?” Victor asked. He was staring out over the compound through a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. Today he wore his typical uniform: black shirt, black jeans, black cowboy boots with silver tips, and a giant silver belt buckle, topped off with a blazingly white straw cowboy hat, fresh out of the box.
All in all, though, he was modestly dressed for a man of his position. Most narcotraficantes wasted money on the trappings of wealth—expensive clothes, jewelry, palatial homes. Not Bravo. Most of his wealth went to his people. He’d built and maintained dozens of private schools, orphanages, and health clinics all over Mexico.
Bravo had once confided to Ali that he had modeled his organization along Hezbollah lines: a military faction to fight his enemies and a humanitarian faction to win the hearts of his people, whom he genuinely cared for. It was one of the many reasons Ali had secretly allied with Bravo even when he was supposedly working for Castillo.
“No, Señor Bravo. Why have you brought me here?”
Victor wiped his long, dripping face with a handkerchief. He was mostly indio, shorter and darker than the Mexicans up north, with no facial hair. Ali wasn’t sure how old Bravo was. Forties? Fifties? Sixties? No wrinkles in his mahogany-colored flesh or silver strands of hair betrayed his age. He wore his thick black hair long and tucked behind his ears. His melodic Spanish accent was definitely Yucatecan.
“This is the place of my people. Warriors, scientists, poets. We formed a great empire on this continent. We studied the stars, conquered our enemies, contemplated zero.”
Ali understood his pride. He was the son of a great world empire, too, but one far more vast and advanced than anything the Mayans had accomplished, and a thousand years older than the one that had mysteriously vanished from the jungle surrounding them. Iran now stood on the doorstep of greatness again, thanks to its nuclear program. Only the Great Satan stood in their way.
“This place is, indeed, the seventh wonder of the world.”
“You are truly a religious man, Ali?”
“I am an imperfect servant of the Most High, yes.”
“Then you understand me when I say that God has given me a mission and I will fulfill it. You have a mission, too, and you have already fulfilled it by helping me get rid of Castillo and his brood of thieves.”
“I am a humble soldier and I obey my orders, nothing more, jefe. The master does not thank the slave for doing his work.” Ali had said the same thing to César, of course.
“You may be a lot of things, but you are no slave. You set up Castillo’s idiot sons on the El Paso hit and you engineered his family’s slaughter by the Americans. You’re either a magician or a genius, but either way, you’ve handed me Mexico on a sliver platter.”
Bravo snapped his fingers and one of his guards approached with a backpack. “Most of the surviving Castillo captains have already started calling me jefe,” Bravo said.
“Do you trust them?” Ali asked.
“I trust their fear.”
“And Barraza?”
Bravo chuckled. “I spoke with his brother last night. Are you sure you aren’t a white wizard?”
Ali shook his head. “No, jefe. I am neither a jaguar nor a prophet. Only humble flesh and blood, like you.” Ali had provided all of the ELINT security for Bravo’s organization, including his encrypted cell phones. However, Ali’s technicians had put backdoors on all of Bravo’s equipment, so Ali was privy to all of Bravo’s communications. He had listened to the conversation with Hernán just an hour ago.
Bravo reached into the backpack and pulled out a black lacquered wooden box, then opened it. There was a pistol inside, nestled in crushed blue velvet. A .45 caliber 1911 Colt semiauto. It was solid gold with a mother-of-pearl handle. He pulled it out.
Ali’s eyes narrowed. Maybe today he was going to be a sacrifice after all. He calculated strike points on Bravo first, then on the nearest bodyguard. If he could secure the guard’s weapon—
Bravo turned the pistol in his hand and held the butt out toward Ali. He smiled. “Take it. It’s yours.”
Ali frowned. Was this a trick?
He picked up the gun. It was much heavier than an ordinary one made of steel. He clicked the magazine release. The magazine was gold-plated, too. He nicked the top bullet with his thumbnail. The bullets were solid gold, too.
“It belonged to Saddam Hussein. I won’t tell you how I acquired it, or how much it cost, because it is far less valuable to me than our friendship.” Bravo had taken the credit for the destruction of the Castillo Syndicate, and his reputation in the international underworld as an omnipotent force in Mexico had been sealed thanks to the Iranian’s scheme.
Ali gazed at the weapon in wonder. His uncles had died as young men in the catastrophic war with Iraq thirty years ago. His whole family cheered the day the filthy Sunni dictator was hanged by his own people, and they laughed with pride when they read that he had cursed his Iraqi executioners by calling them “Persians.”
And now I hold the bastard’s golden gun in my hands. Ali was genuinely touched.
“I am honored and humbled by this lavish gift, Señor Bravo.”
“It is offered with my gratitude for the work you have done.”
“But there is still much more to be done. Your newest recruits are being trained even as we speak.”
“How are they doing?”
“Very well. I have my best men preparing them. I’ll be returning to the camp soon to oversee the last three weeks of their training.”
“Excellent. Some of Castillo’s Maras up north are still holding out. I need the new men to put them down like the crazed dogs they are. A final assault and we will consolidate our position in Mexico. Our men, your guns.”
“A match made in heaven, as the Americans like to say,” Ali said. “And what about Castillo’s distribution network in the United States? We should take them out as soon as possible.”
Bravo draped an arm around Ali’s shoulder. “That is the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. This Castillo thing . . .”
“What about it?”
“His whole family wiped out. And for what? Because he killed the wrong kids. Really, just one wrong kid if we’re going to be honest about it.”
“What’s your point, jefe?”
“Do you have a wife? Kids?”
“Yes. Two wives and seven sons.” Ali didn’t think his three daughters were worth mentioning.
Bravo laughed. “Seven sons? That’s good. So you understand. I don’t want anything to happen to my children. Or to me.” Bravo steered him toward the temple.
“You are afraid of Myers? A woman?” Ali was incredulous. “We led her around by the nose. Why worry about a worthless one like that?”
“It’s not her I’m worried about. It’s her guns. Her planes without pilots. You’ve heard the rumors.”
Ali stopped and smiled. “You do not have to be afraid of such things, my friend. I have fought the Americans and their Predator drones before. Do you know why Americans fight with their robots? It is because they are afraid to fight and die like men. That is why
they would not send their soldiers in to deal with Castillo.”
Ali was amazed at how much fear these Mexicans had of the effeminate Americans. First he had to bolster Castillo’s courage, and now Bravo’s.
Bravo shook his head. “You have a short memory, amigo. Remember the Gulf War? Remember the videos? ‘Shock and awe.’ The Americans destroyed Saddam’s army in a few weeks. You fought the Iraqis for almost eight years and couldn’t beat them. How many men did you lose?”
“A million martyrs, counting wounded.”
“You see? And Hussein had only primitive Soviet equipment for you to fight against. You can’t defeat the Americans, Ali. Nobody can. Their technology is too good.”
“The Taliban have a saying. ‘The Americans have the watches, we have the time.’ It has been over eleven years since the Americans invaded Afghanistan. The infidels have their aircraft carriers and supersonic fighters, while the poor Taliban fighters have only their rifles and their guts. The Americans are quitting Afghanistan just like the Russians did, and the Taliban remain. The Great Satan has the will to kill, but not to fight.”
“But the Americans defeated Hussein. He had thousands of tanks and hundreds of thousands of soldiers.”
“They only defeated Saddam because he was stupid. He left his tanks and his men in the desert for weeks and let the Americans bomb them continuously. Many strategic and tactical mistakes were made by that Ba’athist fool, and the Americans exploited those mistakes to the fullest. Do you not see? The Americans could never have fought an all-out war with Iraq for eight years, but we did. Do not let Myers’s actions convince you she is strong when, in fact, she is acting from a position of weakness. She uses drones because she is afraid to fight another real war with soldiers. That should tell you everything you need to know about the Americans.”
The ambient air temperature dropped as they entered the cool of the temple.
“Much better in here, isn’t it?” Victor asked. He pulled off his sunglasses. So did Ali.
“Yes.” Ali’s eyes adjusted to the dark. He saw the reclining stone image of the Chac-Mool lounging in the shadows. The idol’s lifeless eyes chilled him to the bone.
“What happened to the Mayans, Ali? Do you know?”
“No.”
Victor rubbed his hairless chin. “Nobody knows for certain. The best guess is that the ancient Mayans did it to themselves. Perhaps they grew too fast? Or reached too far? Maybe they fought one enemy too many. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that they are gone.”
“And that is the real reason why you brought me out here.”
Victor laughed. “That obvious, eh? Well, you are right. With Castillo out of the picture, everything changes. Before, we fought turf wars with him over production in this country and distribution in the north. Spilled a lot of blood to defend territory or to expand. We had to fight for both ends of the transaction. But not now. We will soon control one hundred percent of the production, so we will double our profits. Maybe more, since we will now control supply and the demand up there is infinite. I guess you could say that the Americans have the noses and we have the coke.”
“That’s good news, is it not?”
“Yes, it is. I need you to wipe out the Maras in Tijuana and Juárez, but I can’t let you cross into the States right now. I can’t afford to piss the Americans off. Do you understand?” It wasn’t really a question.
Ali began to worry. He had his own plans for the Bravo men he was training that Victor was not aware of.
“What are you proposing?” Ali asked.
“Myers has satisfied herself with the syndicate’s blood. I don’t want to give her an excuse to kill me and my sons, too, like that idiot Castillo did.”
“Are you not worried that you will lose control of the distribution in the States?”
“Not as worried as I am about those Predators hunting me down. There will be time for that later.”
Ali saw the determination in Bravo’s searching eyes. The unassuming drug lord had little education yet he was smart enough and ruthless enough to build the second most powerful drug cartel in Latin America that, thanks to Myers, was now the most powerful. But Victor Bravo was still possessed by the habitual fear and wariness of a poor rural farmer so he was unable to fully appreciate the strategic opportunity that Ali had just handed to him. Ali knew there was no arguing with him or with the armed loyalists that surrounded him.
“I bow to your wisdom, jefe. I’m leaving for the training camp tonight. When the cycle is finished, I will take the men north and weed out the Maras as you have commanded. When that mission is accomplished, we will return to the training camp and wait for your instructions.”
“Excellent.” Bravo patted Ali on the back and nodded toward the pistol still in Ali’s hands. “I hope you enjoy your new toy.”
Ali flashed the golden weapon in his left hand. “With just one of these golden bullets, I can buy another wife.” He extended his free hand. They shook. Bravo held on.
“Just be careful where you point that gun, hermano. It may be made of gold like a whore’s necklace, but it is still dangerous.”
Ali smiled, nodded. “I understand, jefe.”
Ali carefully set the pistol back in its velvet-lined case and shut the lid, wondering how much damage a golden bullet would do to a high sloping forehead like Bravo’s.
26
Arlington, Virginia
Jackson secured permission from Early to bring Sergio Navarro into the loop. The young analyst had been the one to find the Facebook video that had cracked the Castillo case open, and he wanted to reward him with something far more valuable than just a commendation in his service jacket. Jackson knew that Navarro had a thriving Internet business on the side, providing his own proprietary search engine optimization (SEO) service for online vendors. The DEA could never hope to match the money that Navarro could earn in the private sector, but it could offer him something that a fat paycheck never could: the pride that comes with hunting down the bad guys. By bringing Navarro into the inner circle, Jackson was hoping to convince the brilliant young technician to stay in public service.
After César Castillo’s death, all of the SD cards found in the drug lord’s safe had been downloaded and transcribed. Unfortunately for Navarro, he was the one who had done the downloading and transcribing. It was practically a snuff film marathon: torture, beheadings, gang rapes, people set on fire, and, on rare occasions, a simple gunshot to the head of Castillo’s enemies by Castillo himself with his favorite jewel-encrusted silver pistol. Navarro felt filthy after watching each of the tapes and numb after finishing the last transcription.
Ironically, the very first video he watched was Pearce’s crudely shot phone video of Castillo’s death by nerve agent. Navarro hated it. It was medieval to execute a human being like that. But after watching the snuff tapes, Navarro became angry. He wished that Castillo had suffered more than he had. In fact, he watched Castillo’s death one last time to cleanse his psychic palate before he wrote up his executive summary.
The single most important piece of intelligence Navarro gleaned from the viewing came from the footage of the Marinas, burned alive in the tunnel with napalm. It had been shot by two men speaking Farsi.
Coronado, California
Pearce drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking.
César Castillo was dead and that was all that mattered to Early—and by extension, to his boss—but Pearce hated loose ends. His CIA career began in the Clandestine Service Trainee Program where he was trained to be a Core Collector, i.e., a disciplined intelligence case officer. He’d been taught to run down every clue, every source, every suspicion. On Pearce’s first day at the Farm, the instructor had passed out a sharp, flat-sided object to each student in the classroom. It was a nail, the kind used to shoe horses. Pearce had only seen them before in books.
“For want of a nail,
the shoe was lost,” the instructor had said, and she recited the entire proverb in her thick New Jersey accent. “But maybe that’s too literal for you postmodern, chaos-theory types. So I’ll put it to you another way. You want to keep the tornado from blowing your house down? Then you better go find the friggin’ butterfly and tear its wings off before it starts flappin’.”
Pearce not only couldn’t find the butterfly, he didn’t even know what the butterfly was.
The Feds still hadn’t figured out who had posted the original El Paso video to Facebook that implicated the Castillo twins. Pearce couldn’t stop thinking about the mystery. The working theory that it was a teenage kid at the wrong place at the right time wasn’t making much sense to Pearce anymore. An amateur wouldn’t be able to hide from Fed hackers this long.
Just as troubling for Pearce was Castillo’s last phone call. Who was it made to? Obviously someone connected to the bunker line, which suggested that it was someone connected to Castillo’s security. That probably meant one of the four security guards Pearce had just killed. That would make the most sense. But why was the line scrambled? That seemed like overkill. Maybe an enthusiastic salesman had convinced the paranoid drug lord to add an extra layer of security to the only line of communication out of the bunker in the event of an emergency—after all, he would have been under assault, by definition, so secure communications would make sense. So why didn’t the other end pick up?
If the person on the other end had just had their brains blown out—like one of the four bodyguards whom Pearce had taken down—that would be a pretty good reason. And that probably was the actual reason.
