The Oshkosh Connection

by Andrew Watts

  Trent pressed the ammo quick-release lever on the grenade launcher and grabbed the other cartridge of ammunition from his bag. This ammunition had the letters “HE” on the sides. High-explosive. He twisted the new ammo cartridge slowly over the cartridge cylinder, like a giant six-shooter from an old western. It fit into place and Trent pressed it in, locking it and snapping it shut.

  Trent crept atop the wall again and aimed the bulky grenade launcher at the mass of narco foot soldiers below. He pulled the trigger in rapid succession.

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  Ricochets of high-explosive rounds ripped through the streets as Trent unloaded his magazine. Metal fragments shot through vehicles and flesh. After the burst of chaos, the only remaining sounds were the faint moans of the injured. A putrid smell hung in the air.

  Trent didn’t wait to evaluate the damage. He dropped the grenade launcher where he stood, then squatted down and heaved the zippered body bag containing his prisoner over his right shoulder. Gritting his teeth under the strain, he grabbed his rifle with his free hand and jogged down the stairs and towards the second-floor bedroom.

  From the pattern-of-life intel reports they had studied, he knew this was where he would find a custom-built passageway connecting to the adjacent townhome.

  Trent found a door behind a standing mattress, which he nudged over with the tip of his rifle. The mattress fell to the floor, and Trent unbolted the door.

  He entered the passageway and closed the door behind him just as he heard the first shouts of men entering the narco home.

  Now in the adjacent townhome, Trent raced down the stairs, still performing a fireman’s carry of his now-squirming prisoner. He ran past a scared-looking family huddled in the kitchen. Two kids behind their mom. A grandma next to them. Trent ignored the family, continuing down to their basement.

  Towards the tunnel.

  The tunnel was one of many that the cartel had created for quick escapes at several safe houses throughout the city. Human intelligence had revealed the existence of this particular tunnel to Trent’s team, and it had been listed in the mission brief as an “alternate extraction route.”

  He flipped the lights of the basement on and looked around. Cobwebs and a leaking pipe in the far corner. And a large piece of plywood that was nailed to the wall. Trent walked up to the plywood, pounding. A dull, hollow sound.

  The tunnel entrance. He pushed it forward and it gave a bit, rotating upward on a ceiling-mounted hinge.

  Shouts and screams from above. The sicarios had entered the home. His shoulder-mounted passenger was now doing his best to give muffled shouts through his well-taped gag.

  Trent kept his rifle slung over his shoulder and repositioned the body bag so that he was holding it in front of him with both hands. He used the man’s squirming, wrapped body as a battering ram as he forced his way into the wooden tunnel entrance, lifting it and moving forward. The wood slammed down once they were through. Rojas would have a few more bruises. Screw him.

  But while the tunnel allowed for a quick escape, he expected the narcos to continue pursuit. Trent grabbed a small device from his waist pack and placed it on the floor, careful to position the shaped charge so that it faced the entrance. He set the motion detector and backed away slowly. Then he once again heaved the body bag over his shoulder and ran down the dark tunnel, carrying Rojas toward a faint bluish light that he prayed was the exit.

  Seconds later he was stepping through a concrete cylinder eight feet in diameter—the kind used in constructing an underground sewer—with the tunnel exit in view. He forced his way through the thin metal screen at the opening and stepped out into the night.

  Trent found himself underneath the highway overpass, a scant few hundred yards from the narco home.

  A detonation behind him shattered the still night.

  The mine had exploded on the other side of the tunnel. Adrenaline still racing through his veins, he ran to the nondescript sedan that had been pre-positioned under the highway overpass earlier that day by Max. Trent removed the key fob from his pocket and clicked the button, hearing the unlocking sound and seeing the lights flash. Trent opened the trunk and stuffed the man inside, then slammed the lid back down.

  He removed his black tactical vest with its heavy SAPI plate and left it on the ground. Then he placed a ball cap on, started the vehicle, and drove. With his spare hand, he reached to his microphone and pulled it to his lips. “I’m moving.”

  Chapter 12

  Max and Renee arrived at the airport just as Trent pulled in. They were on the opposite side of the main terminal, where only a few business jets were on the unlit tarmac, along with a tiny light-sport aircraft.

  “Where’s the plane?” asked Max.

  Renee said, “Wilkes assured me it would be here.”

  Trent got out of his car, the sound of a million police sirens in the distance. They each knew that the cartel would be looking for those who had caused all that carnage and kidnapped their man.

  “What the hell? What are we doing sitting around with our thumbs up our assess? Where’s the CIA plane?”

  Max saw a dim green flash from the cockpit of the light-sport aircraft.

  “Oh crap.”

  Max walked over to the tiny plane and sure enough, the door opened, and a man got out.

  “You Max?” the man said in Mexican-accented English.

  “Yeah.”

  “Wilkes sent me. Said you need transportation.”

  The silence of the still night air was interrupted by accelerating vehicles. Max turned to see two black pickup trucks racing along the perimeter of the road.

  Trent said, “Looks like they’re heading towards the main terminal. We need to get out of here. They’ll check here next.”

  Max nodded, turning back to the pilot. “How many can you carry?”

  The short Hispanic aviator looked between the group. “I only have room for one.”

  Trent, hearing this, carried the squirming body bag with Rojas over to the pilot and dropped it at his feet.

  “What…the hell…is that?”

  “Cargo.”

  “Hey, man, I’m not taking it by myself. It’s going to be a seven-hour flight, with a fuel stop in the middle.”

  Trent removed a nonaerosol tranquilizer gun from his bag, unzipped the body bag to reveal a blindfolded and gagged Rojas, stuck him in the shoulder, and then zipped him back up.

  “That should last him a few hours. He might need another shot before you guys reach your landing spot.”

  Max looked at Trent. “What do you mean ‘you guys’? We won’t be able to fit. Listen, Renee and I have a cover here. And I’m…connected. We’ll go back to the hotel and make a call to Wilkes and get them to get us out of here.”

  Trent frowned. “This is not going to be a good place for you to be. If anyone sees you come back right now—”

  “We’ll be alright. You need to get in and go now, before we get spotted. If Rojas starts squirming, stick him again, but be careful not to give him too big a dose.”

  “I’m familiar.”

  Max turned to Renee. “We need to get out of here and back to the hotel immediately.”

  She looked scared but nodded and got back into the car.

  A moment later, Trent was stuffed into one side of the light-sport aircraft with his sedated prisoner sitting on his lap. The aircraft buzzed away to the north.

  Max and Renee went to a restaurant near their hotel, grabbed a drink, and then came back to the hotel, laughing and hoping that the concierge got a whiff of alcohol as they made their way up to the suite.

  In the room, Max whispered to Wilkes on the secure phone. Their doors and windows were locked, and Renee sat next to Max on the bed, listening in.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Wilkes said, “I was going to ask you the same thing. What did you see?”

  Max went over the events of the evening from their point of view. Every few moments, a police siren sounded o
utside, and flashing lights shone through the cracks in the shutters as vehicles sped down the road.

  Max said, “You’ve got a mole, Caleb.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “We need protection and evac as soon as possible. Do you have any teams here?”

  Wilkes said, “I’m working on it. But you’ll need to stay the night.”

  Max closed his eyes. It wasn’t the news he had wanted to hear. Every moment they remained was another inch closer to someone connecting them to a street filled with dead narcos.

  “Can’t we just use our car and drive to—”

  “No.” Wilkes cut him off. “They’ve got road blocks set up everywhere. No one’s getting out of Mazatlán tonight.”

  Renee cursed under her breath.

  “Did you get the images Renee sent you of Blanco?”

  “I did. We’re running them through facial recognition software now. Good work. Just sit tight, guys. We’ll have a safe transport for you in the morning.”

  After a sleepless night, Max and Renee walked through the hotel lobby. A car was waiting to take them to the airport. While Wilkes was supposedly working on arranging for someone to come pick them up, Max wasn’t taking any chances. He’d contacted his father’s assistant. A Fend corporate jet, designated for his father’s personal use, was due to arrive in Mazatlán any moment.

  “Hold up.” Max grabbed Renee’s arm as a convoy of SUVs, looking very much like the ones from the night before, pulled up outside the hotel.

  “Oh shit.”

  A group of armed men emerged, holding AR-style rifles. Max and Renee turned around, hoping to find another exit. As Max was about to tell Renee to run, a second team of gunmen came in the back of the lobby.

  “Cell phones and computers, please,” one of them said, holding out an open backpack. Another had his weapon trained on them.

  Max and Renee froze.

  The man repeated the command, louder, and stepped towards them. Max and Renee gave them their cell phones and Renee removed her computer from her bag, handing it over.

  One of the gunmen frisked them both.

  At least a dozen narcos entered the lobby and walked towards the ocean view restaurant in the back of the hotel. Max noticed that the concierge didn’t seem surprised or worried. Probably the one who had contacted the narcos. Everyone was on the payroll.

  A British-accented voice said, “I hope you would consider having breakfast with me. I hear the menu here is excellent.”

  Max turned to see a very tall white man walk in.

  The mystery man. Blanco.

  He wore a tailored two-button blue suit, sans tie. A bright white well-starched collar. Polished brown wingtips. Sunken cheeks and piercing gray eyes.

  He held out his hand. “Ian Williams. I suppose you can provide that to everyone who must be trying to find out my name right now. And you are Max Fend. Maxwell? Maximus?”

  Max shook his hand, keeping his face impassive. “Just Max.”

  “And you must be Renee LaFrancois? Your beauty precedes you.”

  The cartel gunmen spread out around the restaurant, collecting cell phones from startled patrons who were eating their breakfast. Two of the narcos headed back into the kitchen. Max recognized what was going on. Their protectee was a high-value target. They only intended to stay here for a moment and didn’t want anyone giving away the location of Ian Williams.

  “We were actually just leaving,” said Max.

  “No, you weren’t.” Williams’s reply was thick with authority. “You were about to have breakfast with me.”

  His eyes darted between Max and the rest of the room. He licked his lips and scrunched his face when he talked. Some sort of nervous tic. Something’s wrong with this guy’s circuit board. Beware. Max cursed himself for bringing Renee to Mexico.

  Ian Williams led them over to a spot in the covered open-air hotel restaurant with a view of the ocean. The waiter appeared at once, looking jumpy. Williams ordered in Spanish, and the waiter left with an expression of relief.

  Max and Renee sat completely still. Max re-counted the number of sicarios in the room—twelve. They each carried black semiautomatic rifles and watched the crowd for any sign of a problem, with special attention given to Max. The frightened-looking patrons kept their eyes on their plates. Max could hear the distant sound of the waves crashing against the shore, tropical birds chirping outside, and light music playing over the restaurant speakers.

  But no conversation. Everyone was probably too scared they might be slaughtered by whoever this cartel madman was. They knew what happened to those who showed anything but the utmost deference to the cartel kings and knights who traveled the countryside in their armed convoys.

  Williams began, “You know I was made aware of your arrival a few days ago. One of my many reports—notables traveling through our territory.” He smiled, his gaze darting again with the wild eyes, and a pop came from his lips.

  “We’ve been on vacation.”

  Williams began shaking his head with short bursts of motion, his pointer finger slicing Max’s proclamation into shreds. “People don’t vacation here. Not people like you. But I said to myself, Max Fend is a fellow traveler. Let him enjoy the sweet offerings of the Sinaloa beaches. Sip a few piña coladas. Dip his feet in the water. But then last night happens…”

  He paused, peering into both Max and Renee’s eyes, waiting for a reaction. A deafening, uncomfortable silence. But no reaction. Williams said, “It stank of American haughtiness. So, I did what any good investigator does. I thoroughly evaluated all of the information available to me, paying close attention to the details. The devil is in the details, you know, Mr. Fend. We’ve had very little unusual activity in this area, but for your arrival. That, as I said before, was notable. Not exactly what you and I, being from civilized countries, would say meets the burden of proof, if I were to accuse you of a crime. But, Max… Max…I hesitate to inform you and your lovely companion, lest I scare the royal shit out of you both, but my business associates here cut off limbs for much less than the coincidence of timing.”

  Ian Williams paused again, cocking his head. Getting no response, he continued, “So then, the proximity of your arrival to last night’s horrific violence—what am I to make of it?”

  The restaurant was deathly quiet. Ian Williams was the Cheshire cat, licking his lips and in need of a psychological evaluation.

  “Mr. Williams, I’m sorry, but we’re only here on vaca—”

  Williams slammed his fists down on the table, the silverware rattling. Then he whispered, “Where were you last night?”

  “We went for dinner and drinks,” Max answered calmly. He turned to Renee. “What was the name of the—”

  Williams clicked his tongue, his head moving side to side again in rapid tiny shakes, an ugly frown forming on his face. “No. Please. Just stop.”

  Max kept still as an uncomfortable silence resumed. Ian Williams’s gray eyes studying his prey. He took a deep breath. “This would go much better for you if you don’t play dumb. Do you know who I am?”

  Max answered truthfully, “No. Should I?”

  “I know who you are. I know all about you, Max Fend. And you, Miss LaFrancois. Not a ‘Mrs.’ yet? Tsk tsk, Max. Where’s the ring?”

  Max had to admit that while he was prepared for just about anything Williams might say to throw him off balance, he wasn’t expecting that to be a topic of conversation.

  Williams smiled for the first time, revealing a crooked and discolored set of teeth. “Never mind. Excuse the poor manners. But, Renee, should you grow tired of his antics, feel free to come visit. I’ll show you some proper appreciation.”

  Renee’s face went crimson.

  Max shook his head. “Sorry, buddy, but she’d eat you alive. Trust me.”

  Williams laughed, an awkward-sounding guffaw that revealed more bad teeth. “Let’s cut to the chase. An interesting night it was, eh? I must admit that I don’t quite yet know what to make of i
t. I show up and pay a visit to a colleague, Mr. Rojas…”

  He paused to gauge the facial reactions of Max and Renee at the mention of Rojas.

  “And I happen to find a woman with him who I now know was working as an informant against my employer.”

  He paused again, watching their expressions. Max was confident in his own poker face. He wasn’t so sure about Renee’s.

  “Now, several events occurred after I removed Miss Sanchez from the premises, resulting in death, dismemberment, and what I suspect to be Hector Rojas’s kidnapping by you Americans. Perhaps the DEA, but I doubt it. The CIA? Now why would they be involved? And how warm might I be, Max?”

  Max shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Ian Williams said, “But now you tell me that you were out eating and drinking and enjoying this shithole of a country. Okay. Okay. Ah. Here we are. Let us pause…”

  Williams’s eyes lit up as their food came. Hot plates of tortillas, beans, a red ranchero sauce, limes, and two fried eggs, sunny-side up.

  Renee was silent, but Max could feel her unease. She stared at her plate, not wanting to look up.

  Max couldn’t help himself. “I presume that if you plan to kill me, you’ll shoot me, not poison me, right?”

  Renee slowly turned to him, horrified.

  Williams lifted a glass of juice in a toast and winked in response. “Right you are, Max. Right you are. Eat up.”

  Max nodded. Then he took one of the tortillas and made it into a sandwich.

  Renee looked back down to her plate and closed her eyes.

  “Can I also presume that since we’re still here, eating in this restaurant and not at some exclusive private residence of yours, you intend to let us go after this conversation?”

  Williams nodded. “I can see that you’re a man of unmatched deductive reasoning.” He swallowed a forkful of food. “Max, we both understand that it is the nature of my business that there will be the occasional unpleasantries such as what occurred last night.”

  Max could see the two narco gunmen glaring at him, holding their weapons. They were probably friends with the dead.