by Joe Nobody
Everyone turned to peer at one of the large monitors. An overhead view of the River Walk area was displayed, and as the rangers watched, a series of several small dots was overlaid on the image.
Another of the military contingency described what was being shown. “The red dots are from a Glock 18 being fired. The blue and white are from Ranger Bass and Temple, respectively.”
The demonstration continued, Zach able to follow the action as it led from the restaurant’s front door back into the alley. He could see BB and Gus’s shots, as well as the cartel henchmen firing back. One of the weapons being used only fired one small burst. That dot pattern, with an orange hue, was blinking.”
Zach looked at Sam and mumbled, “Vincent made it back to Mexico. He was crossing that night the trooper was killed, not some random smuggler.”
The general stood, “I hope you’ll find this information useful in your investigation, Rangers. I’m sorry to put you into a position where you can’t divulge how or where you acquired this knowledge. Given the circumstances and serious nature of recent events, President Simmons felt this clandestine brief was the best course of action.”
The two lawmen sensed the meeting was over, whether they were ready or not. About then, their escort appeared, this time holding a copy of their signed agreements in his hand. He started to lead the two rangers out when the general interjected, “Just one moment, Captain. Ranger Bass, if you please?”
Zach stepped aside with the senior officer. The general leaned in close and said, “Of course, you understand that our neighbors to the south would be furious if they had even a hint that we were using our capabilities to monitor their country.”
“Of course – who wouldn’t be pissed?” Zach answered, still wondering if the general’s staff had been monitoring Sam’s bedroom.
“So given that, you should also be informed that I am strictly forbidden from monitoring Mexico.”
Zach nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Good. I’m glad that is clear. I would be risking everything, including my career, our program here, and perhaps even my freedom if I were to mention a city in Mexico by the name of Tampico, more specifically, the private marina located there.”
It dawned on Zach what the general was doing. What he couldn’t understand was why. He decided to ask.
“My son was a Republic of Texas Marine,” the officer stated with a tone as cold as the north wind. “He was murdered in Langtry. I violated orders when I put two and two together and tasked some of our assets to follow a certain SUV – the same one that picked up a passenger along the river the night the trooper was killed. I will say it again, Tampico. I can only pray that information helps you bring the men responsible for murdering my son to justice. Good day, Ranger.”
Zach returned to a curious Sam, but his partner didn’t ask until they had left the base.
“His son was one of the murdered Marines,” he informed her. “He was begging me to bring the killers to justice.” For some reason, Zach didn’t tell his partner the rest.
Sam frowned, “That sucks. It sounds like they’re out of our reach now. What do you think Colonel Bowmark will do?”
“Other than invade a foreign country, I don’t know what they can do. Nobody wants a war right now, so I imagine we will let our Mexican neighbors know what is going on and hope they catch Vincent and recover the germs before anybody else gets hurt.”
Zach could tell from the expression on his partner’s face that she didn’t have much faith that was going to happen. To be honest, he didn’t either.
Vincent scanned the facility, nodding slightly in approval. It was the last place the authorities would search for a meth lab, and that was one of the primary reasons why it was so special.
Funerales Crematorio Colon was a family owned funeral home that had served Monterrey, Mexico since the early 1900s, and the perfect front for one of the Gulf Cartel’s most productive “kitchens.”
On one side of the well-kept stucco and brick facility was the area’s largest Catholic Church. On the other was the regional police station. “The Americans have a saying,” Vincent explained to Ghost. “Location, location, location.”
“Jefe?”
“Never mind,” El General said, waving off the always-curious man.
Even if the local law enforcement hadn’t been on the cartel’s payroll, El General didn’t think the cops would have noticed anything unusual. Funeral homes, and the grisly preparations that took place inside, were typically places avoided by the average citizen, as well as the nosiest of policea.
Such services required hefty doses of chemicals, masks, gloves, and other materials used in the trade. In fact, some of the substances utilized by Vincent’s cooks were the same items used to prepare the dead for burial. Caskets were excellent containers to hide and ship product. Who would dare to look inside?
El General had selected the Colon site for other reasons as well. Cooking meth was one thing, manufacturing large quantities of plague was quite another.
Of all the tens of thousands of meth kitchens, cocaine refining facilities, marijuana-processing factories, and other assets under the control of the cartels, it was the morgue at Colon that had both the security and the equipment to safely accomplish the task.
When the 1918 Flu Pandemic had ravished this part of Mexico with influenza, the hospitals and city morgues had been overwhelmed. The government in Mexico City had licensed and equipped Colon and a handful of other private businesses with the necessary equipment to handle any diseases that might be carried, transmitted, or transferred from the dead. That capacity was still maintained to this day.
With a small security entourage and an oversized briefcase under his arm, Vincent entered the air-conditioned lobby and headed immediately for a non-descript door that led to one of several small, private chapels.
The sanctuary was furnished with two rows of padded pews. Sparingly decorated with religious artwork, it was equipped with an ornate bookcase filled with various titles advising how to cope with grieving, death, and dying.
Vincent placed his hand on top of the bookcase in a very precise spot. There, a fingerprint scanner powered up and quickly verified that the drug lord’s prints were indeed in its database and made the electronic decision to allow him entry.
A metallic click sounded as the steel bolts holding the heavy, wooden structure were released. The well-balanced shelving became a door, swinging outward enough to allow Vincent and his men to pass through so they could descend a flight of stairs.
In reality, there were two basements.
One was used to prepare the deceased for entombment, or if desired, incinerate their remains. This was also the section of the building where the rare government inspector was allowed to visit.
The other subterranean chamber was slightly smaller, far more secure, and the location where Vincent and his security detail now stood.
Two men waited there, both dressed in bright white lab coats. The elder of the two was a recent university professor who had found the intersection of soccer and gambling financially unsustainable. His assistant suffered a similar, more traditional addiction. Amor de las Mujeres, or the love of women, had ruined the man after he was caught romancing a Mexican Army general’s wife. He’d been in hiding ever since, only the protection of the Gulf Cartel able to keep the hombre alive.
Vincent noted a newly opened box of hazardous material suits in the corner. While the lives of the two men facing him were unimportant, having any sort of outbreak or accident might bring unwanted attention to the operation.
“Do you have everything necessary to begin production?” El General inquired.
“Yes, Señor, all of the equipment and supplies have been delivered. We have studied the files on the laptop, and are confident that we can safely accomplish the task.”
“Good,” Vincent responded. “And you’re prepared to remain here for the duration?”
“Yes, Jefe. We have adequate food and comfortable quart
ers prepared. Your order that no one is to leave this facility until 20 kilos have been produced will be followed to the letter.”
Well, of course, my orders will be followed, Vincent thought. The alternative would be most unpleasant.
“I will await your call then. Good luck, gentlemen. I will have your bonus ready in three days.”
The mention of their cash bonus brought a smile to both men’s faces.
Years ago, Vincent knew the cartels would never have honored such an arrangement. Before he had taken over, the two technicians would have been killed and buried in the desert after accomplishing their tasks. Such was the shortsighted, narrow-minded thinking that had so dominated the criminal organizations for years.
El General was sure such dealings had limited the cartel’s growth and expansion. Who wanted to do business with such ruthless men? Who could trust any arrangement? As far as Vincent was concerned, those methods had done nothing but drive up prices, limit opportunities, and inhibit recruitment.
Even today, his inner circle had lobbied to kill the two technicians after they had finished manufacturing the deadly substance. “What if they talk? What if they’re detained and questioned by the authorities?”
“Then even more people will know that the Gulf Cartel honors its commitments. Everyone will realize that we reward good work and pay top wages for skilled labor,” he had informed his team. “Have the money ready when they finish the job. Let them enjoy it and tell everyone in Mexico that we are trustworthy people with whom to do business.”
As he ascended the stairs, Vincent wondered if his men would ever understand. “If we succeed with this operation, then it won’t matter. I’ll be able to engage the best management team in the world. Harvard MBAs and Oxford lawyers will send me their resumes.
Men like Ghost would make the difference in the long run. Brilliant individuals who could think, adapt, and overwhelm competition or negative circumstances. “I won’t have to spend my time surrounded by such dimwitted idiots forever,” he whispered.
Four solemn men carried the casket to the waiting hearse, the pallbearers all dressed in respectful black suits, white shirts, and mundane neckties. Nearby, a grieving widow clutched a handkerchief smeared with eye shadow and tears, firmly supported by a few family members and a man sporting a priest’s collar.
After sliding the elaborate casket into the back of the idling Cadillac, the director of Funerales Crematorio Colon gently closed and locked the swinging rear door and then approached the distraught relatives. “If you’ll accompany me, we’ll proceed to his final resting place.”
Across the street, Vincent sat with his security team in an older model minivan, observing the proceedings through the deeply tinted windows. El General had to chuckle as the funeral procession rolled by. There was a police escort, complete with flashing blue lights, in front of the hearse. “That was a nice touch,” he said to Ghost. “The devil is in the details.”
After the last vehicle carrying mourners had rolled past, Vincent’s driver pulled out to follow. The jefe was taking no chances, personally overseeing the transfer of the ultra-valuable cargo inside the sealed coffin.
They followed the procession to a graveyard well outside of the city, away from prying eyes of the townspeople. The minivan hung back to observe the short ceremony without drawing any unwanted attention.
As soon as the widow and her oldest son had each laid a single rose on the deceased’s casket, the small group of mourners began disbanding.
Thirty minutes later, only the van carrying the drug lord’s entourage and a pickup belonging to the gravediggers remained. “Retrieve the cargo,” El General ordered.
Two of his men exited the van, stepping directly to the casket that remained suspended above the six-foot-deep hole. When they spotted Vincent’s men approaching, the two gravediggers turned and walked away, both knowing not to look behind them.
There was a dead man in the casket, the widow and grieving family all unknowing characters in Vincent’s grand deception. There was also a false bottom in the coffin.
Like so many times before, the two cartel henchmen quickly disconnected the thin layer of wood and began removing the hidden contents.
Rather than the typical bundles of crystal meth, they extracted two stainless steel canisters, each slightly larger than a man’s forearm. Less than three minutes passed before the coffin was reassembled and the bodyguards were back with their boss. El General eyed the two containers with only a mild curiosity. If there was any sort of leak or breach, everyone inside the van was already dead.
As the old car headed north, it was joined by two other vehicles, each filled with the cartel’s most skilled soldiers. Vincent was well aware of the dangers involved in the next phase of the operation. He hadn’t risen to the top of the organization by taking unnecessary chances.
The caravan drove for two hours through the Mexican countryside before a sign announced they were approaching the village of Los Arcos, a small hamlet that his men referred to as a border town.
Los Arcos held the distinction of being located on the imaginary line that divided Los Zetas’ territory from the region controlled by the Gulf Cartel. Unlike so many communities and cities located on similar boundaries, there hadn’t been any battle to decide who “owned” the nondescript huddle of adobe homes and metal barns. There simply wasn’t anything nearby worth fighting for.
As the minivan approached the settlement, Vincent lifted a radio microphone to his lips and broadcast, “Manuel, is all as agreed?”
A few moments later, a familiar voice came back, “Yes, Jefe, all is as agreed. The air is cool at this elevation, and the site has been inspected.”
Vincent nodded, his scout having used the proper keywords to let him know that the Zetas were honoring the pre-negotiated terms. The Z-44 crew and with his own security detachment were waiting for them.
As Vincent’s convoy pulled into the lane leading to a remote villa, apprehension filled the old van. A face-to-face meeting between two leaders of competing cartels was unheard of. Just a few months before, the Zetas and Gulf organizations had been at war, killing as many rivals as possible while yet another wave of violence rocked northern Mexico.
The opportunity to eliminate the top man of a competing organization was tempting. Vincent’s people had pleaded and begged him not to attend personally, but El General had been stubborn. “We must start down a new road. We must establish trust if our plans and dreams are to be fulfilled,” he had vigorously insisted.
The three Gulf vehicles stopped at the entrance to the villa, a single Zeta employee waiting there to verify El General wasn’t arriving with a massive army. Just like Manuel, the soldier lifted a radio to his mouth after counting the number of men in Vincent’s party. They were soon waved through.
The old farmhouse seemed like an unlikely location for two of the world’s most powerful criminals to meet. Humble by even rural Mexican standards, the small adobe home and two dilapidated outbuildings hadn’t been occupied for some time. There would be no unassociated witnesses.
Vincent exited after his men had taken up positions facing the three Zeta vehicles gathered on the far side of what had once been a corral.
After exchanging nods, El General and Z-44 began walking to meet in the middle. They even managed to shake hands, much to the surprise of their anxious security teams.
“This is historical, I suppose,” greeted the Zetas leader. “Somehow I feel as though we should have photographers and reporters recording the event.”
Vincent chuckled, glad his rival had chosen humor to break the ice. “If we succeed, I believe we’ll have plenty of media coverage, as well as a host of historians clamoring for details.”
Z-44 actually smiled. “I suppose you are correct. Did you bring the weapons?”
“Yes.”
“And you trust me with such devices?”
“Yes … as much as our circumstances allow. If you turn the bacteria against my organization, s
urely you know we would react in kind. What was it the Soviets and the Americans used to call it when their thousands of hydrogen warheads threatened each other?”
Z-44 laughed, “They called it MAD or Mutually Assured Destruction.”
Vincent nodded, “Yes. I remember now. Let us hope it doesn’t come to that between us.”
“We have prepared the delivery system as per your instructions. We also agree with your choice of targets, although our friends in the Knights Templar aren’t going to be happy with either of us when they figure out we’ve unleashed the plague in their territory.”
Vincent shrugged, “We gave them every opportunity to join us. Instead of sitting and talking like civilized men, they attacked your people and mine. Perhaps they will listen the next time we make a reasonable proposal.”
“Perhaps,” the Zetas leader responded, his tone making it clear he didn’t believe such a thing could ever occur.
El General turned and waved at his party, the signal sending a single man to the middle of the corral. Z-44 mimicked the motion.
A duffle bag was exchanged, the two steel canisters inside. After verifying the contents were not explosive devices, the Zeta man nodded at his boss.
Vincent extended his hand, which was accepted by the rival crime lord. “Until we speak again.”
“I hope your travels are safe,” Z-44 responded. “We will make the delivery tomorrow morning, just after dawn. We will discuss the next phase after watching the results.”
“Agreed.”
After departing from Los Arcos, Z-44 had ordered the two canisters repackaged. Special fire extinguishers had been prepared, and soon the deadly bacteria were wearing a disguise that would fool even the most vigorous searcher.
Not that such an event was anticipated.
As they drove west across Los Zetas territory, Z-44’s convoy passed through a countryside that his organization controlled with an iron fist. Mayors, police chiefs, politicians, and even federal law enforcement were all on his payroll. The only real threat would be a surprise incursion by some units of the Mexican military, and even then, he would receive several hours warning.
