“All right, we’ll follow your lead. But the clock is ticking, and we’re stuck running in place right now. What about you, Nacho? Anything to report?” Cruz asked, turning to Ignacio.
“It’s weird. Every time I bring up El Rey’s name, even the desperate cases go cold – and these are guys who would sell their mother for a hit of crack. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The fucker has everyone terrified of him,” Ignacio reported.
“Let’s hope that Julio’s channel works, then. I’d stand down on any other overtures now that we’re in play – we don’t want to spook him, and it would seem a little odd if the streets were suddenly buzzing with clients anxious to throw a few million his way,” Cruz observed.
“Which introduces another potential issue. I think we need to make arrangements to be able to transfer a million dollars, minimum, via wire transfer from a clean account. If the contact delivers, the only way we’ll be able to contrive a meeting is if we’ve dropped some earnest money in his lap,” Julio said.
“I’ll get on it. Shouldn’t be too big a problem. Anything else?” Cruz asked.
“Anybody got a cigarette?” Julio asked.
“I’m trying to quit. Go home and get some sleep. You look like you went nine rounds with a gorilla and lost,” Cruz advised.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
~ ~ ~
Batista swaggered into the nightclub he owned at seven p.m., cocky after having cheated death again. His men were making their way in, and two of his main street operatives were already there, drinking Negro Modelo and smoking as they flirted with the cocktail waitresses, who were arriving in preparation for the night’s partying. Cruz had the club swept for surveillance weekly, and disliked cell phones for communications of any note, preferring in-person meetings to lay down the law. Mexican law enforcement was still light years behind the Americans, but they’d started intercepting cell calls, which had become a game-changer for communications.
Batista high-fived the two men, and then bumped fists in a classic Mexican street greeting. Both of the seated gangsters had garish tattoos running down their arms, and their style of dress emulated that of American rappers, with oversized pants and shirts, shaved heads, and flat-brimmed baseball caps perched precariously askance. These were veterans of the trade, having run their own operations on the streets for years. Both had killed multiple adversaries as a normal course of their business.
Three more of his crew wandered in over the next twenty minutes. The men retired to Batista’s sumptuous office at the back of the club. Most of the cartels were big in the club and bar scene, as well as in the hotel trade, such venues offered the perfect mechanisms to explain huge amounts of cash income. Tourist towns were full of massive nightclubs with nobody in them, but they still managed to take in millions of dollars every month. Tougher banking regulations intended to curb the illicit drug trade had little effect on the industry – there were always plenty of ways around the system for the big guys, just as in every country. The rules mainly served as an inconvenience, at best, for the small time hustlers. Just as the cartel wheelers and dealers had no problems buying tractors for their farms or Escalades and Benzes for their girlfriends, likewise, they had no issues laundering billions in cash every year. The economies of many neighboring countries depended on it, including the U.S., where in spite of protests to the contrary, billions still washed through the system every year – the Miami Federal Reserve saw more hundred dollar bills than any other bank in the world, indicating that either geriatric retirees from the East Coast had virtually infinite numbers of C-notes stuffed under their trailer-park mattresses, or the Mexican and South American connections were still flourishing.
Batista filled the assembled men in on the day’s events and ended with a renewed call for vigilance against attacks from his rivals, now reduced to two – Miguel ‘El Chavo’ Herrera and Paolo ‘Poncho’ Gallermo. Both were equally as dangerous as Batista, and it was not a question of whether they’d be coming for him, but rather a question of when and how. The chances that they’d want to reach some sort of an arrangement or division of power were non-existent, just as the likelihood of Batista compromising with them. That wasn’t how the business worked. You either fought, or died. Like dogs or roosters in a ring, all engagements ended in death. That was the life. And the egos involved prevented any intelligent conversation. Young macho males for whom killing was a daily occurrence, who made millions every month and who ruled with absolute power, were not willing candidates for building bridges or mending fences. Throw in all the free stimulants you could handle, and it was a recipe for bloodshed.
Never more so than in Mexico.
Chapter 8
General Alejandro Ortega watched the soldiers as they got into position around the club from his vantage point a safe distance from the action. The major who was directing the tactical team was good, a veteran of many similar assaults against the cartels. While one could never know exactly what to expect, it was usually a safe bet that their adversaries wouldn’t surrender easily, and it was understood that lethal force was going to be used.
Spring evenings in Morelia were generally crisp, and this night was no exception. The soldiers wore gray camouflage, fully decked out in combat gear, replete with Kevlar vests, assault rifles, grenades, pistols and combat knives. The squad the general had assembled for this assault comprised fifty men, most equally seasoned as the major. He didn’t want any mistakes. Morelia had seen enough open warfare in its streets to last a lifetime, and he couldn’t afford a lot of military casualties for the papers to rail about. This had to be surgical and over in minutes, or it would get messy, as they always did when events degenerated into a stand-off situation.
The major’s voice murmured over their closed-channel, encrypted radio. His aide handed the general the microphone so that he could speak.
“Yes, Major. I see you’re in position. I have both sides of the street blocked off a block away, but you’ll need to move quickly in case one of their mob sees the roadblock and warns them.”
“Requesting permission to begin the operation, sir.”
“You have a green light, Major. Repeat, you have a green light.”
“Roger that. Commencing assault at twenty-hundred hours on the nose.” The major’s transmission went silent.
A minute later, he watched as the troops moved into the club. He heard the distinctive rapid popping of M-16s, with interspersed small arms fire and the chatter of Kalashnikovs. A grenade sounded, its detonation booming down the street, and then after a few more rounds were fired, quiet returned to the area.
Four minutes went by. Then five. Finally, the major’s voice crackled over the com line again.
“We are in possession of the club. All hostiles are down. We’ve taken fire, and three of our men are dead, two wounded. Nine hostiles terminated. Over.”
“I’ll be in momentarily. Congratulations on a job well done,” Ortega intoned.
The general got out of the command vehicle and strode towards the club, flanked on either side by armed soldiers, weapons brandished lest any unseen assailant decide to pop a few rounds at them; the trio’s heavy combat boots thudded ominously in time on the pavement. Army emergency ambulances screeched to the curb, where they waited as the medics darted in carrying stretchers and triage packs.
The interior of the club was a scene of carnage, with blood pooled where bodies had lain. The cartel members had been left in place for photographs and definitive identification, but the fallen soldiers had been moved to an aid area with their wounded colleagues. It was their blood on the floor and walls. Several of the cocktail waitresses were wounded and two were dead – regrettable yet acceptable collateral damage. This was a war, and sometimes civilians got hurt in wars, especially if they frequented cartel strongholds. That was just the way things rolled.
Battle-frazzled soldiers leaned against the wall and lounged on the red vinyl booth benches, their guns pointed at the floor or restin
g on the tables. Combat was an odd thing, the general mused. Time compressed and minutes seemed to take an hour to pass. Once the adrenaline rush of being under fire diminished, your body felt like it had run a marathon. He knew the feeling, although it had been over a decade since he’d been in a firefight. A ranking general was far too high-profile and strategically important to take risks of that sort.
Two soldiers stood at attention on either side of the battered office doorway, the walls around which were pocked with bullet holes. He entered the room and the unforgettable smell of blood struck him, along with that of voided bowels. They didn’t feature that in the movies or on TV, but often when a target was gut shot, the bullets tore through the intestines, leaking bowel fluid everywhere. And equally often, a by-product of dying was a complete loss of neuromuscular control, including bowels and bladder. The business of death was a filthy one, he knew.
It was, after all, his chosen career.
Ortega moved to where the major was standing over a little bull of a man, collapsed behind the metal desk, at least six bullet wounds visible. The room was a disaster, the grenade having hurled shrapnel throughout it; the man behind the desk must have taken cover there to escape the explosion. Judging by most of the other bodies in the room, they hadn’t had that foresight.
“It’s the target. Batista,” the major observed. “He was holed up in here with five others, and a group of enforcers. They put up a fight, I’ll give them that, but you saw how long it took to take them down. Stupid fuckers should have surrendered instead of trying to shoot it out with an army unit…”
“When was the last time one of these shit-rats wised up and put a gun down, instead of shooting at us?” General Ortega mused.
“Good point. We’d all be out of jobs if human nature changed that much, eh?” the major countered.
“Not likely. Well done, Major. Carry on,” Ortega said, before taking a photo of the dead Batista with his telephone.
The general inspected the other bodies with scant interest and then motioned to his two armed attendants to move out. He had no intentions of sticking around any longer than he had to. The operation was concluded, the target neutralized, the mission accomplished. The rest was just mop up.
They returned to the command vehicle and the driver started the engine of the military edition Humvee H1 – a throaty diesel that would run the vehicle through raging rivers or up the sides of mountains. Ortega donned his reading glasses and fiddled with the buttons on his phone, struggling to make out the menu options. After a few false starts, he located the e-mail function and pushed send, watching in satisfaction as the photograph of the dead Batista winged its way to his rival, El Chavo, the lieutenant favored by his sponsor in the Sinaloa cartel to run the Knights Templar operation now that Santiago had gone to his reward.
Tomorrow, if Poncho Gallermo was still alive, Ortega would be spearheading a drive to eradicate that parasite from the planet as well.
One had to choose one’s battles carefully. It didn’t pay to buck the system. The world was an imperfect place, and if two dangerous homicidal psychopaths could be taken out with a minimum of fuss, that was good for everyone. Of course they’d just be replaced by other predators, but that was the way of the world. He couldn’t stop it, so might as well make a little retirement money while doing his part to keep the world safe.
The Humvee moved ponderously down the road to the checkpoint, where the sentries waved it through and saluted their commander, a legend in the ongoing battle for the safety of the Mexican people.
Julio’s phone rang at ten-thirty p.m.. He answered it, and was greeted by the blaring sound of house music and Felipe’s voice.
“Raphael! Hey, man, glad I caught you.”
“Felipe. How are you? What are you up to?” Julio asked, his heart rate increasing twenty beats per minute and booming in his ears.
“You got a pen? Write this down. The guy we were talking about? He agreed to see you. His name’s Jaime Tortora. He’s got a pawn shop near the main cathedral downtown.” Felipe gave him the address. “He says he’ll see you at ten tomorrow morning, at his place.”
“Felipe. That’s great. I can’t thank you enough. I won’t forget this.”
“Be careful what you wish for, my friend. Like I said, from this point there’s no going back. You’re on your own,” Felipe reminded him.
“I know. No worry, be happy, right?” Julio said, alluding to a reggae song they had gotten drunk to on their first meeting years ago.
“Isn’t that right! Hey, you want to come down to the club and have a drink? May be the last time I see you…” Felipe teased.
“I don’t know. The last time I had a drink with you, your bartender almost sucked the life out of me,” Julio said.
“She’s here tonight. She’s been asking about you. Apparently, once you taste the God of Love, you’re ruined for all other men. You’re an animal, my friend. I’ve never seen her like this,” Felipe reported.
“Yeah. I’ll just bet. No, I think I’ll stay in tonight. I’m still trying to recover from our last little soirée.” Julio’s mind wandered to their spirited tryst. “Tell her I’ll call her.”
“I will. But will you really? If you don’t, you better not come around here until she quits, because she’ll be looking to even the score,” Felipe advised.
“I swear on a stack of bibles as tall as you are, I’ll call. But I can’t do it tonight. I’m beat,” Julio said, omitting that he would be on the phone with Cruz in a few minutes and likely have to meet him early in the morning to finalize a plan of attack and scope out Tortora’s shop.
“Sure, sure. Hey, I’m not sleeping with you no matter how sweet you talk, so save your breath for Monique,” Felipe concluded. Monique was the bartender’s name. As if Julio could ever forget.
The conversation degraded from there into jousting over each others’ claimed prowess, and before long Julio signed off, impatient to share the good news with Cruz.
~ ~ ~
The next morning at eight-thirty, Briones, Julio and Cruz were at the same Starbucks as the prior meeting, Briones with a laptop in tow. They ordered coffee while Briones got online, taking a few minutes to log onto the server at headquarters. They had run a full profile on Tortora, and he came back squeaky clean. No prior arrests, no suspicious bank filings, a model citizen with a modest but sustainable pawn shop, all licenses current, no violations or problems ever reported. Tortora hadn’t even had a parking ticket in the last five years, which was as far back as the system went. The man seemed the least likely agent for a contract killer imaginable, much less for El Rey. Julio had a momentary fear that maybe this was Felipe’s twisted kind of a joke, then dismissed it. He hadn’t seemed like he was making a funny when he’d agreed that he could put Julio in touch with the most infamous hit man in the world.
Briones tapped out a series of keystrokes and then brought up a window with satellite coverage of downtown Mexico City.
“All right. The red X is the shop. You can see there’s an alley running alongside of it, and it backs onto another building, so there’s only the back emergency entrance on the alley and the front doors to worry about. At street level are single story shops, with apartments above, but they’re accessed from a separate lobby next door to the shop. According to what information we could get, Tortora leases a one bedroom apartment there, and also owns a home in one of the suburbs. Drives a VW Golf, three years old, paid for,” Briones recited, pointing at the screen for emphasis.
“What else do we know about this guy?” Julio asked.
“He’s fifty-eight, been in the same location for twenty years,” Briones said.
“Where is he originally from? Here?” Cruz asked, his skin subtly darker from discreetly applied base, and his hair slicked straight back under a sheen of pomade. The transformation was subtle, but made him unrecognizable – a tribute to the skill of the theatrical makeup woman they’d hired to alter his appearance. A pair of round stainless steel spectacle
s completed the disguise, and Cruz had been truly surprised when he’d inspected his made-over profile in the mirror.
“Hmm, no. Sinaloa. Culiacan,” Briones said, switching screens to access the information.
“Drug capital of Mexico. Coincidence?” Julio wondered.
“Yeah, but population well over a million,” Cruz pointed out. “And fifty-eight years ago, the only thing that was going on in Culiacan was tomatoes and a little marijuana. So inconclusive at best if we’re looking to make him the handmaiden to the cartels.”
“Fair enough. I was just making an observation. It’s all just information,” Julio countered.
“Says he’s divorced, ten years. One daughter. Not exactly the profile I would expect for this line of work.” Briones was tapping away, and finished, sat back. “What do you think an agent for a hit man would make, per job?”
“Probably at least ten percent or more, if he’s getting the jobs. But in this case it would be the other way around. So maybe less. Why?” Cruz asked.
“And he’d probably deal with the payments for him, too, right?” Briones ignored the question, obviously driving at something.
“I’d imagine. Where are you going with this?” Cruz demanded.
“What’s he doing with all the money? Even if he passed most of it on to El Rey, if he’s dragging down, what, two to three million a pop, pardon the pun, Tortora should have millions lying around by now, or at least a couple of million, easy. But look at the neighborhood and the business. It’s a zero. And his house? Maybe worth a hundred thousand, maybe two. Very modest. Says here he has a grand total of eighteen thousand dollars in the bank across all his accounts, which is a lot by Mexican standards but nothing in the scale of what we’re looking at. So where’s he keeping the money?” Briones asked.
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