The Black Hornet: James Ryker Book 2

by Rob Sinclair

  ‘You want me to kill a US Congressman.’

  The words passed Ryker’s lips a little too easily and he realised the task didn’t seem quite so abhorrent as it had when Powell had first brought it up.

  ‘Yes. Ultimately.’

  ‘Ultimately?’

  ‘There’s a bit more to it than that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Powell smiled and reached down to his side. ‘Déjà vu.’

  He came back up with some papers in his hand. He pushed them across the table. Ryker looked at them. Photos of the man Powell had called Douglas Ashford. Three other men were in the pictures too. Ryker didn’t recognise them, but one was dressed in a US Army uniform and the insignia on his fatigues showed he was a Colonel. Ryker felt himself tense. ‘You want me to kill all of them?’

  ‘No. I’m just giving you some context.’

  ‘You’re going to have to explain that to me.’

  ‘Those pictures were taken a few days ago at Camp Joseph in Louisiana.’

  Ryker racked his brain but came up with nothing. He knew of some of the US’s main military bases, and many of its off-the-grid bases and black sites too, but Camp Joseph was new to him.

  ‘You probably don’t know of it,’ Powell said, ‘because until recently it was used only by the Louisiana National Guard. But now it’s got a much bigger role.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘It’s one of a handful of sites where the US takes war spoils.’

  Ryker digested the words for a few seconds. He could take a guess at what Powell meant by war spoils, but Powell was only too kind to explain anyway.

  ‘Every war and conflict the US Army is involved in, every South American drug bust their special forces helps orchestrate, they come away with spoils; small arms, large arms, explosives, ammunition, drugs, vehicles. Cash. They can’t let the belligerents keep hold of their arsenals, their wealth, so the army takes it. They store it.’

  ‘And someone’s stealing it?’ Ryker asked.

  Powell gave Ryker an impressed look, though it wasn’t a big leap, under the circumstances.

  ‘Everything the army takes gets transported to designated sites,’ Powell said. ‘Usually these are little known or otherwise highly secure military bases in the US. The army uses its own personnel and sometimes contractors to catalogue, store and manage everything. Most of what is taken is, in time, systematically destroyed. Occasionally, goods that are fit for purpose and untainted are re-used by the US armed forces or sold to the police, etc. etc. Some of the goods go through less official channels and into the hands of our... allies.’

  ‘You mean like the CIA secretly sending weapons to armed rebel groups overseas.’

  ‘It’s a world I’m sure you’re as familiar with as I am. But it’s not those deals that are of concern. It seems not everything that’s up for destruction is actually making it to the scrapyard.’

  ‘So Douglas Ashford, together with the help of this Colonel...’ Ryker noticed Powell’s eyes twitch at the mention of the military rank, as though impressed that Ryker had spotted it from the photos alone, ‘... is selling weapons marked for destruction on the black market and taking a tidy profit.’

  ‘In a nutshell, yes. That seems to be what’s happening. I’ve been involved in investigating and helping to curtail the activities of the Mexican drug cartels for years. These goods are now regularly making their way here, to the cartels. Lincoln is certainly involved, though it appears, from our intelligence sources, that he’s not necessarily the leader.’

  ‘You believe a US Congressman is?’

  ‘We believe he’s behind it, yes, but the Mexicans don’t even know the identities of who they’re dealing with. All communication between the parties is heavily restricted. It’s taken months of work to get as far as identifying who’s involved. The Mexicans refer to the top dog as the American.’

  ‘That narrows it down a bit.’

  ‘We believe the American is Douglas Ashford.’

  ‘And you want me to stop him.’

  ‘Stop all of them.’

  ‘So why aren’t the police or the FBI involved in this? Why does it fall to you, or whoever you work for, to sort out this mess?’

  ‘I don’t ask the whys or wherefores. But for one, it’s because of who a lot of these goods are coming to.’

  ‘The cartels?’ Ryker asked.

  ‘Not just the cartels.’

  Powell smiled again as he reached down to his side once more. Ryker stared at the photo of the man that Powell handed to him.

  Comisario Vasquez.

  And there was the game changer.

  ‘Okay,’ Ryker said. ‘I’m in.’

  30

  It was that time of the month: the Araujo cartel was having a purge. The cartel boss had given Vasquez the name of a drug runner who was becoming lazy at his job while at the same time keeping more profit than he was entitled to. It was a classic position that many young and arrogant men eventually found themselves in.

  Those who backed up their lack of respect for rules with drive and ambition and a cutthroat attitude sometimes lived long enough to make themselves a leader one day. They were the exceptions, however. Most of the time, these miscreants got viciously cut down the moment they became too greedy or their insubordination became too tiresome.

  Or, as was the case, when their cartel decided to hand them over to the PF in order to help corrupt officials like Vasquez keep up appearances.

  It was nearly two a.m. and Vasquez was travelling in the second of four armoured personnel carriers. In total there were over thirty armed PF officers ready for the raid. The trucks meandered with purpose through the inner city streets – no sirens or flashing lights needed. The ominous size and speed of the convoy along the quiet roads was enough to send the few night-time pedestrians scarpering and to clear the sporadic traffic from the path ahead.

  They passed through the bowels of the city and out toward the sprawling shanty towns. Their destination was a couple of steps before the worst of the cesspit slums. The roads were still tarmac, some homes had running water, electricity, gardens – or at least what passed as gardens. There were even streetlights still.

  They reached a junction and all four drivers turned off their vehicles’ lights. The front two vehicles then peeled off. One was going around to the street parallel to the target’s house, the other snaking around the opposite, eastern end of the target’s street to where Vasquez and the remaining two vehicles would approach. All angles were covered. There would be no escape.

  Vasquez’s truck and the one remaining truck took a left turn onto a residential street that was crammed with stone and timber constructions in various states of disrepair. Some of the houses were single storey, some two. All had seen better days. Few lights were on at this time of night, but Vasquez knew there would be watchers about still, ready to sound the alarm. Vasquez and his men had to move quickly to maintain the upper hand.

  A few yards onto the street Vasquez’s vehicle swung around and stopped in the road, the large truck blocking the narrow street to any cars. Up ahead, the truck that had moments earlier separated was now blocking the opposite end of the road, with a third truck sandwiched in between. The fourth would be in position too.

  Five houses sat within the small armed cordon, two on one side, three on the other. Two of the houses belonged to the Araujo cartel. The residents of the others were simply unlucky. Best for them that they be asleep or just have a sudden memory lapse for the next few minutes.

  To be safe, some of the PF officers would raid those houses too, rounding up the inhabitants to make sure they were out of sight for what was to follow. Vasquez wanted no witnesses.

  Barely a second after the trucks had come to a stop, the electricity in the street suddenly went out. Vasquez gave the order and the doors to the trucks burst open. The gang of men, all armed with assault rifles, immediately descended on the target properties in their co-ordinated formation, their intention to move qui
ckly but quietly to surround the buildings before springing the raid.

  At least that was the best-case scenario, but they were also well prepped for an immediate counter-attack. Which was exactly what they got: from their homes, the cartel members opened fire on the approaching PF men. Flashes of light burst out from the front windows of the left-hand property. One of the PF officers shouted out and collapsed as others around him crouched down and quickly moved for cover.

  Vasquez, now out of his vehicle, shouted an order into his radio handset, and the PF officers burst into action, the element of surprise lost, but the battle still easily within their hands. Rattling gunfire cascaded through the otherwise still night-time air. The spray of fire from the multiple gun barrels lit up the street almost as well as the overhead streetlights had just moments earlier. There was the sound of breaking glass, the splintering of wood. There was shouting. There was screaming.

  Less than four minutes later though, the street went dark and quiet once more.

  Vasquez heard a crackling voice on his handset and the welcome words that all threats were neutralised. He walked from his truck and over to the houses just as a line of sorry looking men – most dressed in little more than vests and shorts – were escorted away from the houses, their wrists bound behind them with plastic cable ties. Vasquez received another message on his handset. Two PF officers were down, one already dead, one likely soon would be. Not good. Justice would be swift.

  The PF officers lined up the five prisoners and pushed them down onto their knees. Vasquez took a further update from his second in command who had emerged from one of the houses. Ten men and five women had been shot and killed inside the houses by the PF. Vasquez didn’t know how many had posed a real threat and he didn’t care. The three children found inside would be taken away unharmed. Most importantly, no one had escaped. The five men on their knees in front of Vasquez were the only remaining cartel members alive.

  Vasquez looked over the faces of the prisoners as he listened to the update. All were young men, mid-twenties at most. Four of them looked petrified. One though had a much more resilient look on his face – Perales, the main target. He was glaring at Vasquez as though he were the one in charge. Unfortunately for Perales, it was that attitude that got him into this mess in the first place.

  Vasquez barked an order and two officers came up to him clutching a stash of handguns. Vasquez took a gun and moved over to the first man in the line.

  ‘This one’s for you,’ he said, bending down and placing the gun two feet in front of the man.

  Vasquez went back for another gun. ‘And this one’s for you,’ he said as he repeated the routine with the second man. Then the third, then the fourth.

  Then Vasquez stood back and looked over the men. Perales was still giving him a steely glare but Vasquez betted it wouldn’t last much longer.

  ‘You shouldn’t have fought back,’ Vasquez said to the foursome. ‘My men had no choice. Self defence.’

  Vasquez nodded and two PF officers unleashed a volley of automatic rifle fire. The bodies of the four men pulsed and jumped as the bullets tore into them. Soon they were all crumpled on the ground and the officers set to it, snipping the cable ties and wrapping the dead men’s grips around the four handguns.

  Vasquez stared over at Perales again. Yeah, he was right. Perales wasn’t feeling so big and strong now.

  ‘Sorry, but it’s not going to be quite so easy for you,’ Vasquez said. ‘Take him away.’

  Vasquez turned and walked back to his truck as one of the officers grabbed Perales and hauled him to his feet. Vasquez wouldn’t be witness to what came next for Perales. His fate was now in the hands of the Araujo cartel. They wanted to make an example of Perales. He would be admonished for leaving his crew to the clutches of the PF, while he made an unlikely escape. His cruel and grisly death at the hands of the cartel would serve as a reminder to others to follow the rules laid down by the bosses. That was simply the way of life in this city.

  Perales was no longer of concern to Vasquez. The time was now past two a.m. and Vasquez was done for the night. He wanted to go home and get some sleep before the merry-go-round began in earnest again the following day.

  But before he was even at the truck his phone chirped, and he took it out to see that Hector was calling. Vasquez thought about ignoring it but in the end decided against that.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘The American wants to speak to you.’

  Vasquez squirmed in anger. What the hell was Hector doing mentioning the name on a call? First Nava, now Hector? Of course ‘the American’ wouldn’t mean too much to anyone, but it was against protocol and Hector knew that.

  ‘Hector, I’ll call–’

  ‘Sorry. This can’t wait. He’s already on the line.’

  The call went dead.

  Forty-five minutes later, rather than being asleep under silk sheets in an air-conditioned bedroom, Vasquez was sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair in Hector’s apartment, his host next to him as they stared at the laptop computer on the table in front of them.

  ‘I trust that everything was okay with the last shipment?’ the American said, his voice disguised as ever, his face just a black shadow on the screen.

  ‘You’d have heard if it wasn’t,’ Vasquez said, not bothering to hide the fact he was annoyed at the unexpected call, the purpose of which he still had no idea.

  He was actually surprised with the American’s amenable attitude and the fact he hadn’t once mentioned the beheadings of the three US citizens following the problems with the original shipment. It was unusual for a party to be whipped so quickly into shape. Good for business, of course, but Vasquez couldn’t help but wonder whether there was a retaliation to come further down the line.

  ‘I’m sending a man to meet you,’ the American said.

  The way he said it made it sound like an instruction rather than an offer.

  ‘For what?’ Vasquez asked. ‘Is he expecting me to show him some sights?’

  ‘To help strengthen our relationship,’ the American said. ‘You know we can never meet face to face, you and I, but I’m sending a trusted associate to you. He will speak for me and be my man in Mexico. I want this to be a lasting relationship between us, and he has something very interesting to share with you, which I’m sure will help to further cement our business.’

  ‘If you’re playing games with me... you know what happened last time.’

  ‘No games,’ the American said. ‘I’ll be in touch with further details.’

  The screen went black before Vasquez could say another word and he turned to Hector, his face creased with anger.

  ‘If they’re screwing with us–’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Hector said. ‘We’ll be ready.’

  Vasquez got to his feet to leave. He had no desire to entertain the American’s accomplice, but he’d at least see what the man had to say. Why the sudden call, he had no idea. It felt to Vasquez like he’d just wasted an hour of his night for no reason. Hector could surely have dealt with the American himself if he actually put his brain cells to full use for once.

  ‘Before you go,’ Hector said, getting to his feet too.

  Vasquez stopped and turned. ‘Yes,’ he said, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘About that other thing. The woman.’

  ‘The woman at the prison? Eleanor Willoughby?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve done all we can looking into her. She is what she says she is.’

  Vasquez frowned. ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Just a routine legal assistant at the British Embassy. No more, no less. All her paperwork, identification, is in place.’

  Vasquez was a little surprised at that. He’d expected a more eventful discovery. ‘That still doesn’t explain how she knew about Ryker in the first place, does it. There must be something else.’

  ‘We have no answers. Yet.’

  ‘Then find some.’

  ‘One more thing,’ Hector said just as
Vasquez put his foot forward to resume his exit.

  ‘What?’ Vasquez’s voice and body language exuding growing impatience.

  ‘The other visitor. The man.’

  ‘You’ve found him?’

  ‘No. Nothing. It’s like it didn’t even happen.’

  ‘But it did. He was there. With my prisoner.’

  ‘I know. And what does that tell you?’

  Vasquez immediately understood the likely reasons for Hector having drawn a blank. It appeared Willoughby was little more than a doe-eyed Embassy worker. But this mystery man? Vasquez immediately suspected he was a spy of some sort. Which made Vasquez very unhappy. Not only had the Santos cartel taken over the prison, but now American spies were finding ways into there to speak to prisoners that they shouldn’t even know about. Although he didn’t like to admit it, that made him very nervous.

  ‘Whoever he is,’ Hector said. ‘He’s got connections.’

  ‘Connections?’ Vasquez spat. ‘I’ve got fucking connections, Hector. Find out who he is, track him down, and then do whatever you need to him to get him to talk.’

  ‘I’ll start right away,’ Hector said with a sadistic smile.

  31

  Rarely in his life had Ryker felt such relief as the moment he stepped out of the prison building at Santa Martha and walked toward the outer gates. For the last time, he believed. But then, as he got closer and closer to some sort of freedom, Marcus Powell stepping into stride alongside, doubt wormed into Ryker’s thoughts. Wasn’t it all a bit... easy?

  Having agreed to Powell’s proposition, Ryker had soon been left alone in the interview room. For some two hours he’d paced up and down, not sure who or what would be coming through the door next. Powell to take him out of the prison for good, just like he’d agreed? Or the guards to take Ryker back to solitary? He even wondered whether Benito or one his cronies may come back to finish what they’d started in the showers.

  Thankfully that wasn’t the case, at least not this time, though Ryker wasn’t sure exactly what kind of trouble would be following him around as a result of his run-ins with the Santos cartel. He’d have to just wait and see about that.