Shadow of Death

by David M. Salkin

  CHAPTER 39

  CIA HQ

  Dex Murphy and Darren Davis were four coffees past midnight, and were sitting in front of multiple screens watching the team from a satellite as well as a drone they had put on station, without permission, in violation of Mexican airspace.

  Kim Elton rushed into the room, coffee mug in hand as well. “I came as soon as I got your text. They hit the house yet?”

  “Just now,” said Dex.

  Kim Elton was currently the desk chief of their Mexico desk, but hadn’t been brought into the loop until late in the game because she had her own projects going on in Mexico at the moment. She sipped her coffee and watched the green figures on the screen captured by the drone’s night-vision camera. Several people were outside the house, lighting up as they fired their weapons. Light flashes from the edge of the house indicated return fire.

  “When was last communication from the team?”

  “Ten minutes ago, right before they began the assault. Hey—there’s the Mexican convoy.”

  Dex pointed to the satellite image, which was a larger field of vision, although not quite as clear. Four vehicles could be seen snaking their way up the hill toward the house. Dex grabbed his sat-phone and tried to reach Moose.

  “Sierra One, you copy?”

  “Good copy, in contact.” Gunfire popped off in the background as he spoke.

  “Marines arriving on station. ETA less than two minutes.”

  “Roger. Out.”

  Moose was a little too busy to chat. The team had blown out the back of the house and was taking heavy, although not well-aimed, suppressing fire from the mansion. Unlike the team outside, the guards inside had no night vision. They fired in the general direction of the muzzle flashes, but it was ineffective. Meanwhile, Eric Hodges was twelve for twelve with his sniper rifle, and was acquiring new targets every few seconds.

  “Any confirmation on El Gato?” asked Kim.

  “Apo’s in the house, Gato’s in the house—that’s all we know. Something else, Kim. They knew we were coming.” He let that hang out there.

  “You were dealing directly with General Ortega, right?”

  “Ortega and President Pena Nieto. Directly. Ortega’s been helpful in the past, always trustworthy. The president is too new to make an assessment, but it was his idea to go after El Gato. Not sure how word leaked.”

  “Mexico,” said Kim, sounding exasperated. “Operation FUBAR. About the only thing you can count on down there.”

  She took a seat next to Dex and Darren and watched on the monitors as the firefight continued. Strange, to sit and sip hot coffee while your team fought for their lives. Or maybe, just typical.

  CHAPTER 40

  Alex and Apo

  Apo ran after El Gato, down a descending hallway that seemed to go on forever. They were getting deeper and deeper below the house, reminiscent of an ancient castle. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all made of stone. He turned a corner and found El Gato dialing the combination to a giant vault door that sealed off the end of the hallway.

  El Gato looked up from the dial with surprise. “Alex! Where’s Ramon and Cesare?”

  “They’ll be here in a second. They’re just making sure no one was following us. Why are you bothering with a safe now? The cops are shooting at us!”

  “This isn’t a safe. This door opens to a passage. No one gets in from the outside through here, even with dynamite. I had this door made in Germany. Once we get through here, there’s a car on the other side. Takes us out through a tunnel on the other side of the hill. We can get out of here and find out what the fuck’s going on. Those aren’t cops or Sinaloa shooting at us.”

  He went back to dialing the door’s combination, and then spun the large wheel in the center when the combination was entered. The massive steel door unlocked, and El Gato began pulling it open. Apo walked up behind El Gato and, using the blade of his hand, chopped the side of his neck. El Gato’s forehead bounced off the steel door, and he dropped like a stone to the floor.

  Apo pulled the plastic zip ties from his pocket and dropped his knee into El Gato’s back. He quickly zip-tied Gato’s wrists behind his back, then snapped on a second one to make it impossible to break out of. He hoisted the dazed man to his feet and pushed his back against the stone wall.

  El Gato blinked his eyes repeatedly, trying to focus on Apo’s face. “You? You fucking traitor! You’re a dead man!” El Gato was working himself up into a rage. That ended when Apo kneed him in the crotch hard enough to drop him again. El Gato remained on his knees, coughing and spitting. Apo pulled him back up to his feet and shoved him again.

  “Listen, Cat Boy. You either behave yourself, or you’re going to use up all nine lives right here in your basement.”

  “You’re a fucking dead man,” El Gato hissed. He looked even uglier than usual as he sneered at Apo.

  Apo grabbed him by his arm and began walking back up the long incline. His communication equipment didn’t work so far below ground, surrounded by stone. When he got back to Ramon’s body, he picked up the man’s Uzi. Likewise, he took a .45 ACP from Cesare’s corpse.

  “Ahh, I feel dressed again,” he said with a smile to El Gato. The man didn’t find any humor in his guest’s comments.

  El Gato asked, “Who are you? Sinaloa? Who put you up to this?”

  Apo smiled. “You have a really nice house. I mean that. Really nice. I don’t think you’re going to like your next accommodations nearly as much.”

  “No way. You’re no cop.” El Gato was horrified at the idea of being totally duped by law enforcement. On the other hand, a cop would arrest him. A rival cartel would cut him into little pieces.

  “Move.” Apo gave him a shove and they continued their walk back up to the main part of the house.

  ***

  Jon had moved closer to the rear of the house and then sprinted across the open patio to a large fountain for cover. From his new position he had a better angle on the back of the house. The large glass windows and doors had been blown into the house, and several bodies leaked blood all over Gato’s very expensive pecan hardwood floors, imported marble, and Persian rugs. The sun broke behind Jon as a new day began—the last day for many of the men now faced off against each other.

  Moose called Apo several times, but got no response. He then called out to his team. “We need to get inside. Backup arriving on scene up front. Boomer, give us some cover.”

  Jon pushed an HE grenade into his M203. His first shot exploded inside the room, sending fiery shrapnel all over the house. Jon sprinted forward, followed by the rest of his team except for Hodges, who tried to find targets in the smoke and dust from his concealed position. As soon as Jon stepped into the house, he fired off several shotgun pellet grenades that sent furniture and bodies flying. The SEALs behind him assaulted into the room and killed everything that moved.

  “Clear! Cease fire!” barked Moose.

  The men found cover and went silent, waiting for any enemy movement. It was so smoky they could barely see across the large room. What had recently been a magnificent room full of antiques and fine furniture was now utterly destroyed. The team checked bodies. Twenty-two enemy KIA. The adrenaline in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

  Moose’s earpiece crackled. “Alpha to Moose, you copy?”

  “Copy. All clear. Do you have the package?”

  “Affirmative. Below deck, working back. Out.”

  Moose and the others began slowly moving through the house making sure there were no more enemy soldiers hiding anywhere as they tried to get to Apo.

  Outside, four large military vehicles roared up the winding road to El Gato’s mansion.

  CHAPTER 41

  Friendly Fire

  “Move it!” screamed the colonel to his driver. Colonel Lozano was in the lead vehicle, nervously chewing an unlit cigar as they headed up toward El Gato’s estate. The four trucks thundered up the road and arrived at the iron gates and small guardhouses at t
he entrance to the compound’s private driveway.

  Two sentries at the gate stood inside their guardhouses, amped up about the shooting and explosions back at the house. They wanted to run back and help, or at least see what was happening, but followed their standing orders and remained at their posts. Their calls to their boss went unanswered. When the Mexican Marines blew through the front gates and sent the large wrought-iron gates flying across the cobblestones, the guards simply ducked down and hid. They were loyal to El Gato, but not suicidal. They remained hidden until the trucks rumbled past, then left their weapons and ran from their posts as fast as their legs would take them.

  The Marines pulled up in front of the house where the front doors and stained glass were blown out from the claymore mines. The colonel began shouting orders to attack, and his men leapt from the vehicles, guns out. As soon as they hit the ground, they began emptying magazine after magazine blindly into the estate. Thousands of rounds ricocheted through the house, glass exploding and paintings and artwork shattering and falling off the walls. In the rear of the house, the team dropped and took cover as the house began coming apart all around them.

  Moose grabbed his sat-phone and punched in the number for Dex, who picked up right away. “Tell those idiots to cease fire! Cease fire! El Gato is secure!”

  Dex Murphy grabbed a different phone, which rang at General Ortega’s office in Mexico City, where he was waiting for news on El Gato. “General! It’s Dex Murphy. Call Colonel Lozano and tell him to cease fire! My men are in there and the building’s secure! Cease fire!”

  The general just barked a quick si and hung up, then called in to the colonel and repeated the instructions. An annoyed Colonel Lozano said he would comply, and after waiting a full minute, ordered the cease fire. Once his men stopped shooting, they moved in through the front door.

  Colonel Lozano shouted inside the house in Spanish. “Mexican Marines! El Gato! Come out with your hands up!”

  Moose shook his head. “Hold your fire! United States special operations! Building is secure! Hold your fire!” Jon Cohen, who spoke decent Spanish, did his best to repeat it in Spanish.

  Up in the front of the house, the colonel and a squad of his men walked quickly through the rooms, their boots crunching on broken glass and worthless artwork that had been worth hundreds of thousands of dollars a few minutes before.

  “We want El Gato!” screamed the colonel. He pulled out his own weapon, an M9 Beretta, and advanced into the house.

  Moose and his men cautiously approached the Mexican Marines from across the huge room, guns at the ready. Eric and Ray entered the rear of the house and took up positions behind the team for support. Apo spoke into Moose’s earpiece. “Coming up, hold your fire.”

  Apo pushed open a door at the end of another hallway and stuck his Uzi out, scanning the area. He saw the team down the hall in the destroyed main room and called out.

  “Moose! Friendlies!”

  Apo came through the door with El Gato shuffling along at his side with his hands zip-tied behind his back. The team saw them and moved quickly across the room toward their friend and the target. Colonel Lozano and his men pushed hurriedly from the front of the house at the sound of Apo’s voice as well. As Apo and El Gato made it to the end of the hallway, the team and the Mexican Marines all converged in the same area, guns pointed.

  “Relax!” yelled Moose. “We’re all on the same side.”

  “Put your guns down,” said the colonel in English. “You’re on Mexican soil. The prisoner is mine. I’m in charge here!”

  Moose’s face showed his anger and confusion. “My orders are very specific. They come from your general. Get him on the horn and we’ll sort this out right now. El Gato comes with us. He’s going to the US for trial.”

  “There has been a change of plans. I spoke with the general already. Put down your weapons. We have the authority of the president of Mexico.”

  “Bullshit,” said Moose. “Ripper, get on the horn to Langley.”

  The colonel’s face turned red. “That is a direct order.”

  El Gato, who had been silent as he watched what was unfolding, finally spoke. “What’s the matter, Rafael? My money isn’t good anymore? Or those Sinaloa pigs pay better than I do?”

  “Oh shit,” whispered Jon to no one in particular. He pointed his thumper at the colonel.

  The colonel barked out some more orders in Spanish, and the house began to fill up with more of his men. The team was slowly moving around the room, trying to put objects between themselves and the Mexicans that might be able to provide cover in case a firefight broke out.

  Ripper moved away slowly behind a decorative bureau and spoke quietly into the phone. “Dex, it’s Ripper. We have a situation.”

  “Sit-rep?”

  “Mexican standoff.”

  “Say again?”

  “Mexican standoff. Like, a real one. This colonel here thinks El Gato is going with him. Looks like they’ve done some business together. Big fucking problem here. Get Ortega on the horn pronto.”

  Colonel Lozano pointed his gun at Apo and El Gato. “He’s coming with us.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” said Jon, his finger on the trigger of the M203.

  It was, in fact, a Mexican standoff.

  CHAPTER 42

  Arista

  Mustafa was exhausted and barely coherent. He’d been given a thorough beating, but as the reluctant interpreter Yaseem explained in Spanish, the man had no way of contacting the ISIS leaders in Syria. Hamid, who was full of bullet holes and quite dead, was their leader and was the only one who had direct access to them. His phone might help, if they could find it and it still worked—but only Hamid had the password, and he wasn’t talking to anyone.

  Joaquin sent a few of his men back to the warehouse district where the bodies were still in the street as a warning to anyone else who might have thoughts about meddling with the Sinaloa. The instructions were simple: find Hamid’s phone and bring it back with his hands. Just the hands.

  Mustafa was given some water and allowed to catch his breath. Yaseem explained to him that Señor Salazar would be bringing him the phone, and it was up to him to figure something out. If he couldn’t get through to ISIS in Syria, they would have no use for him, and his end would come slowly.

  Mustafa prayed quietly that his martyrdom would be swift and painless. He wondered to himself if he would still be allowed into Paradise without completing his mission against the infidels.

  Joaquin’s soldiers weren’t happy about having to search for the phone among the bodies. When they arrived back at the location of the shootout, the truck and bodies were still all over the otherwise empty street. The locals, including the police, wanted nothing to do with any of that. To make things even more complicated, Joaquin’s men didn’t know which one was actually Hamid.

  The bodies were a disgusting mess, attracting flies in the hot sun. All of the corpses leaked blood and bodily fluids from just about every orifice, and the smell was intolerable. Having to go through pockets that were wet with leaked urine, feces, and blood was not how any of Joaquin’s men wanted to spend their time.

  After fifteen very long minutes, the men had recovered three phones that worked and one that had a bullet hole straight through the center. Then came the grisly task of hacking off the hands of all the men, since there was no way to know which set of hands belonged to Hamid. After much machete and knife work, the hands were thrown into the back of their pickup truck and the men returned to the building where Mustafa was being held. The leader of the search party, a skinny man of maybe twenty-five who was covered from head to toe in gang tats, walked in and handed Joaquin the three phones.

  “The hands are outside, Jefe. We, uh . . . we didn’t know which ones were which, so we brought them all.”

  “Well don’t just stand there! Bring them in!” he snapped.

  The crew went outside to the truck, which was now attracting its own cloud of flies, and returned with the
severed hands. Joaquin held up the three phones to Mustafa.

  “Which one was Hamid’s?” he demanded.

  Mustafa looked at the phones through swollen eyes. He motioned to one of them with his chin. “That one, I think. It was in a case like that.”

  Joaquin checked the phone and sure enough, it still had power but was locked. He handed it to one of his men. “Try the index fingers and thumbs of every hand until the phone comes on.” He looked at Mustafa and warned, “You better hope this works or we’ll cut off your hands, too—except you’ll be alive.”

  The terrified old grocer translated, and Mustafa’s eyes filled with water.

  It took seven hands. Seven hands, seven index fingers, and seven thumbs to be precise, and finally the phone recognized the thumbprint of Hamid’s right hand and unlocked. Joaquin smiled and walked slowly to his prisoner, whom he ordered untied.

  Joaquin handed him the phone and spoke slowly and quietly, staring through the dark eyes of Mustafa right into his brain. The old man translated as Joaquin spoke. “You will find an e-mail address or a phone number. You will tell your people in Syria that you are a guest of the Sinaloa cartel in Mexico, and Las Zetas no longer exists. We run this country. No one else. Sinaloa! And they will deal directly with me, Joaquin Salazar. I have their weapon. If they want it used against the Americans, they will ship heroin to me, no one else.”

  Mustafa went through Hamid’s phone. There were no phone numbers that he recognized or flagged to appear as their ISIS contacts. It was when he went through e-mails that he found several back and forth between Hamid and an unknown contact addressed simply as “Q” that referenced the package—its location, its security, and a timetable.