Shadow of Death

by David M. Salkin

  CHAPTER 32

  El Gato’s Estate

  Apo was sitting outside by a large fire pit, listening to music and quietly observing his surroundings for cameras, lights, and guards. El Gato had been distracted with a dozen phone calls and had forgotten about his guest. It was obvious he wasn’t getting the answers he wanted on his calls, and he had several tantrums inside the house that Apo could see and hear from outside the large glass windows and doors. He was hoping not to get thrown out before sunup when the team would be hitting the house.

  Apo remained quiet in the same chair for almost two hours, trying very hard to be invisible. Eventually, El Gato remembered he had a guest and walked back outside.

  “My apologies, Señor Alex. Complications. Always complications.”

  Apo stood up. “It is I who am sorry. I came at a bad time. I’ve enjoyed every minute here at your beautiful estate. It’s very difficult for me to ever get away, you know? I’m always worried about being under the radar. No vacations, no big fun. The last two days here have been a beautiful vacation for me. Thank you for your hospitality. I can go to a motel by the airport if I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He bowed.

  El Gato forced a smile. He wanted the man gone so he could focus on his problem, but he couldn’t offend his honored guest.

  “Señor Alex, I appreciate you being so understanding. I have business this evening that will interrupt our good time, but by all means, you are welcome to stay the night and leave in the morning. I’m afraid I will have a very full day tomorrow and wouldn’t be much of a host.”

  Apo smiled and thought, “You have no idea how full your day’s going to be,” but instead said, “I’ll leave first thing in the morning and let you get back to your business. I look forward to our next visit together.”

  El Gato barked some orders to his people, and two of his beautiful female hostesses appeared with champagne and a silver tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Show my friend a good evening. I’m afraid I have some calls to make.” He shook hands with Apo and disappeared back into the house.

  Apo felt tight in his stomach, worried that El Gato might be leaving without telling him. That would ruin everything. Once El Gato was out of sight, Apo asked the woman with the bottle of champagne, “Will Jefe be leaving the estate?”

  “So late? No, I don’t believe so. But don’t worry, we’ll make sure you enjoy your evening.” She stroked his arm and smiled.

  “Perhaps we can go sit inside? The mosquitos are starting to bother me,” he lied.

  “Whatever you wish, Señor Alex. We’re here to make sure you have a perfect evening.”

  Apo walked inside with a woman on each arm, and allowed them to lead him to a large room that had a fireplace that was probably never used and plush, oversized furniture. He sat on the giant sofa and allowed the women to rub his arms and lie to him about how handsome he was. He listened as hard as he could past their practiced bullshit for El Gato’s voice.

  Where was he?

  He couldn’t leave!

  CHAPTER 33

  Arista

  The truck belched black diesel smoke from its stack and shuddered as it groaned up a small incline. Felix gripped the wheel tightly with both hands, ignoring the four men yelling at him. The Arabs were beyond annoying, with their nonstop screaming that he couldn’t decipher. Although they couldn’t understand each other, the Arabs knew that something had gone terribly wrong. The other men must have been the ones in the shootout, and this man Felix was the only one who had escaped—but now what? They needed to get to their ship, but that wasn’t supposed to arrive until the next morning.

  Felix drove as fast as he could through the narrow streets. Dozens of locals were all running away from the sound of gunfire, occasionally making him slam on the brakes when they ran out in front of his truck. He cursed and screamed at the fleeing pedestrians, driving as fast as he could. He slowed down to take a hard corner and went wide-eyed as he came around the turn. Three pickup trucks had stopped in the middle of the road and a dozen Sinaloa soldiers were waiting for them. The Arabs began screaming again, and Felix just screamed back at them.

  “Shoot them! Shoot them!” he roared as he stepped on the gas.

  The truck picked up speed as Hamid leaned out the passenger window with his rifle. Everything happened in an instant.

  As the men in back tried to get their weapons up, the windshield exploded. All twelve of the Sinaloa gangbangers opened up on full auto, and hundreds of rounds went through the glass and metal of the truck cab. Both Felix and Hamid were killed instantly by multiple bullet wounds to their heads and upper torsos. The men in the back were all hit by bullets and ricocheted bullet fragments, and screamed as they tried to shield themselves with each other’s bodies.

  The truck slowed with the engine smoking from multiple holes through hoses and the radiator up front. After a few more yards, the truck’s engine died with a wheeze and came to a complete halt. The torrent of bullets continued for a full minute after the truck had stopped.

  Out in the street, the locals had sprinted away screaming. Inside the cab, four of the men were dead. Only Mustafa was alive, but he’d been hit three times—twice in his upper left arm and once through his left kneecap by a ricochet. He was on the floor of the cab, with Mohammed’s dead body leaking blood all over him. He was crying out in pain, horrified by the blood that was pouring all over him, not knowing how much was his and how much was that of his friends. He called out to them quietly, but there was only the ringing deafness in his ears, the smoke in his nose, and the iron taste of blood. He sobbed quietly, waiting for death.

  The Sinaloas began running toward the cab and pulling at the doors. Hamid’s body fell out into the street, where one of the Sinaloas put another two rounds through his face. The man was quite obviously already dead, but the shooter was high on meth and out of his mind on adrenaline. Adding a few more holes to the man’s face just added to his excitement.

  The men began pulling the bodies out of the truck one at a time, the blood flowing everywhere. Mustafa screamed when they pulled his broken arm. The Sinaloa that grabbed him pulled harder and yanked him partly out of the cab, where his friends helped pull him out until he fell all the way down to the street below. He hit the asphalt and screamed, bleeding heavily from his broken arm and knee. One of the men pulled out a huge knife and leaned in for the kill.

  One of the crew’s leaders yelled at him. “Wait! Don’t kill him. Joaquin wants him. Keep him alive.”

  The man was obviously disappointed. He tore off the bleeding man’s shirt and tied it tightly around his upper arm to slow the bleeding, the wounded man screaming in pain the entire time he tied off the makeshift tourniquet.

  “What the fuck’s he saying?” asked the man who had tied the tourniquet.

  A few of the others screamed at him in Spanish, but the blubbering man’s speech was unintelligible.

  The crew’s leader walked to the back of the truck and opened the double doors. Inside, there was a large engine sitting on a wooden pallet so it could be taken on and off by forklift. The man stared at it, cocking his head in confusion. He took out his phone and took a picture of it, which he sent directly to Joaquin Salazar. He texted a message after the picture:

  No drugs. No cash. Just this. Whatever it is.

  He screamed at his men to get one of their pickup trucks and back it up to the rear of the truck. With a dozen strong men, they’d be able to drag it out of the back of the tractor-trailer and slide it into the bed of the pickup truck.

  One of his men stared at the EMP bomb and made a face. “What is it?”

  He shrugged. “No idea. But I bet Joaquin’s going to want it, whatever it is. We find out what language that asshole is speaking and we’ll beat it out of him.”

  “Arabic, man. Guy’s definitely an Arab.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Maybe. I guess he could be an Arab.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What the fuck’s an Arab doing here with this thing and some Zetas?”<
br />
  The guy shrugged. “We got to find us another Arab.”

  The boss whistled and his men began hopping up on the tractor-trailer. Whatever the device was, it was a lot heavier than it looked. It took all of them, using all of their strength, to push it from the tractor-trailer into the back of the pickup. As the EMP dropped the three inches into the truck, the pickup creaked and dropped an inch onto its leaf springs. By the time it was sitting in the back of the pickup, all of the men were drenched with sweat.

  “Keep that fucker alive,” sneered the boss to his men. “We’re going to need to find out what he knows about this thing. Let’s go . . .”

  CHAPTER 34

  Touchdown

  The first plane touched down at the Ciudad Pemex airport just after midnight. With a smoky chirp and a few bounces, the heavy plane rolled to the very end of the small airport’s longest runway, then taxied into the grass to make room for the second plane that repeated the process for the third. The airport never had activity after eight or so, and there was no one in the tower or terminal.

  The ramps lowered and out stormed three hundred Mexican Marines in combat gear, ready for business. They fanned out across the airport and secured the buildings. It was empty and anticlimactic for the assaulting troops. The four trucks drove out of the bellies of the C-130s and roared across the tarmac to where the colonel was waiting with his platoon. The thirty-six troopers piled into the trucks and the colonel snapped a salute to his second in command, Major Garcia, who would be holding the airport and surrounding area. The chances of any Las Zetas seeing armed troops and attacking was slim to none, but they’d be ready for anything.

  Colonel Lozano got into the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle and ordered his driver to move out. The four trucks rumbled out of the airport onto the small road that would lead them to Highway 186, which would take them west toward El Gato’s estate. Even driving in the dark on winding roads, they’d arrive well before the planned assault at first light.

  CHAPTER 35

  Zero Hour

  The team fanned out into their assigned positions. They were finally beginning the real mission and they were focused and wired. When not “working,” they were a loose bunch that didn’t follow military formalities. The closest they ever came to referencing a rank was calling their CO “skipper.” Now that it was game time, the smiles disappeared and each man disappeared into his own brain, totally alert with full situational awareness.

  Moose, Ripper, and Ryan formed in a small spearhead at the front of the group. The others followed single file, moving in total silence. Unlike moving in Iraq, Afghanistan, or some other full-blown war zone, their chances of hitting an IED, trip wire, or mine were almost zero. Same with getting shot at by snipers or hidden enemy bunkers. Their biggest risk on this march was being seen by anyone—even civilian. If anyone tipped off El Gato that they were on their way, he’d be gone and their mission would fail.

  Moose checked his watch. 0300. They moved to the edge of the woods and squatted in the tall grass. It was a hundred yards across open farm field to get to the hedgerow on the other side that would serve as their cover for almost a mile as it meandered around the tilled squares of land. Eric took off on point, slow and low to the ground. When he had gone ten yards, his own men could barely see him in the darkness, even with night vision. When he reached the hedgerow, he spoke quietly into his throat mic.

  “All clear.”

  The rest of the team went after him, one at a time. Moving quickly and quietly, they covered the hundred yards in about thirty seconds each. They weren’t going to break any records, but they each carried about sixty pounds and were running with night-vision goggles on. Once across the field, they melted into the tall grass and weeds and moved as hastily as they could, heading due north toward the hill in the distance.

  They had six miles to cover, which would mean about two hours at walking speed. They walked in total silence, ever alert for any movement. It was a farming community, and the local hardworking people would all be asleep at this hour, waking up right before the sun to start another day. By the time the locals awoke, they’d be in position at the base of the hill.

  Two silent hours went without incident, and the team arrived at the woods where the farmland ended and the slope began.

  “Cover and take ten,” whispered Moose.

  The team spread out in a defensive perimeter and drank some water.

  Ray spoke very quietly into his throat mic. “Eighteen. Wait. No. Nineteen.”

  The group crouched lower into the vegetation. “You see tangos?” asked Moose.

  “Negative. Mosquito bites on my left arm. Confirm, nineteen.”

  “Alpha Hotel,” whispered Ripper. The men were smiling under their face paint. Alpha Hotel, “asshole,” was the official reprimand.

  Jon whispered, “If you get Zika, it can affect your baby.”

  Ripper put a stop to the jabber. “If the comedy tour is over, move into position at the tree line on top of the hill.”

  The team moved through the brush using their night vision. The only noise was the sound of soft ferns grazing their woodland-green BDUs. The hill got steeper as they climbed, but there was still no sign of any protection force. They paused as they neared the top.

  “Too quiet?” asked Ripper.

  Moose shook his head. “Nah. We’re used to being in combat zones. These guys are just thugs, not special operators. Dex should have sent a few cops, not us.”

  “Cops would have to arrest these guys. The boss just wants them dead.”

  “Except El Gato.”

  “Except El Gato,” repeated Ripper.

  Moose looked at his watch. “It’s 0500. The Mexican Marines should be here in thirty mikes. We do this right and there’ll be nothing for them to do.”

  Eric had inched forward to the edge of the tree line and looked across to the walled estate fifty meters out. He took out his night-vision binoculars and scanned slowly across lavish landscape. His voice was so quiet it was barely audible. “Two tangos at the front gate. I can’t see anyone else. No K9. No patrols. Nothing. Looks real quiet.”

  “Doesn’t seem right,” said Ripper. “What about all this security he was supposed to have?”

  Moose made a face. “I don’t like it, either. You know what Murphy says. ‘If your attack is going well, you’ve walked into an ambush.’”

  “No shit,” said Ripper. “He also says professionals are predictable; it’s the amateurs you got to watch out for.”

  Moose looked out at the horizon. There was perhaps the first hint of blush in the darkness. “If it was up to me, we’d hit them now before sunup.”

  “You’re the new CO, Skipper. It is up to you.”

  “Negative. Dex told me to get into position and wait for the Marines to get closer. We’re supposed to be breach, and they’re supposed to reinforce immediately. We do it all by ourselves, we might offend our hosts and steal their glory.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Late Night Snack

  Apo took the two young women back to his room, where he did an Oscar-winning performance as “the man who drank too much.” The two women pulled at his clothes and kissed him, and they eventually pulled him into bed with them, ready to please him however he requested. He simply rolled over, mumbled that he was too drunk, and faked falling asleep.

  The two women laughed, and were quite happy just to sleep in his fine sheets and feather bed with him. Apo lay there without moving for an hour, until he could hear their breathing slow into a gentle rhythm. When he was sure they were asleep, he very carefully extracted himself from the tangle of arms and silky legs.

  He checked his watch. 0322. Apo changed into a pair of jeans and pulled on a black shirt. He slid his feet into the black sneakers, which would keep his footsteps quiet, then walked across the room to where his duffle bag was thrown. He looked over at the women, waited for them to continue their breathing pattern to be sure they were asleep, and then opened his bag. He
pulled up the canvass inside and revealed the false sidewall. Inside, he had a half-dozen zip ties and a weapon he had adopted from the French Foreign Legion when he had trained with some of them. Their version of the garrote, called la loupe, was a double coil of wire cable with small wooden ends for handles. When dropped around a person’s neck and cinched, it would tighten immediately, and even if the person managed to get a few fingers under one of the cables and pull, all they’d do was tighten the other one. Silent and deadly.

  Lastly, Apo shoved a small earbud into his pants pocket. The device was a miniaturized version of the SEALs comm system, and worked with a bone mic. He patted himself down to make sure everything was hidden and he looked totally normal, and then he slipped out of his room.

  Apo walked quietly down the long hallway, listening every few steps for any sign of El Gato or his men. He had two hours before the assault, but it was imperative that he knew where El Gato was when the team hit the house.

  Apo moved from the far wing where his bedroom was located, back toward the main part of the mansion. When he walked into the large room in the center of the house, he froze. Twenty of El Gato’s men stood around or sat, armed to the teeth. Apo’s face fell. The room was only dimly lit, and the men were silent. He was totally busted. One of them spotted him and stood up.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. His face didn’t look friendly.

  Apo faked a big smile and slurred his response just enough to sound drunk. “Those two girls fucked me until I was ready to die. Now I’m starving! I was looking for the kitchen!”

  The other men in the room laughed and nudged each other.

  “You should be in your room,” the man replied coldly.

  Apo walked into the room, holding the walls and furniture as he continued his act. “Where’s El Gato? I should have another drink with him.”