Shadow of Death

by David M. Salkin

  Moose made a face. “They haven’t met us yet. Don’t you worry about numbers. Sit tight and just wait. We’ll get something set up with your friend Joaquin, and then we’ll clean house for you.”

  Santiago looked at Moose and nodded. “Okay, my new friend. I’ve seen what you and your men can do. We have an expression here in the Mexican Marines. ‘I’ll go to war with you.’ You know what I mean?”

  Moose smacked his shoulder. “Same exact expression in the States, bro. My men are very good at what they do. Trust me, okay? I mean, really trust me.”

  “I just made a call to the general on your behalf, after you killed his son-in-law. Does that earn your trust?”

  “Right on. Talk to your men. Get your weapons and comms checked and good to go. When the shit hits the fan, we need to be ready.”

  “We will be ready, Senior Chief. We want our country back.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Special Delivery

  The sat-phone began blinking and McCoy pulled it out and deployed the antenna. He handed the phone to Moose.

  “Moose here, over,” he said.

  “It’s Dex. You guys staying healthy?”

  “We’re all good to go, boss. Just finished a little meet and greet with some Zetas. They’re all done. Local Mexican Marine lieutenant is a standup guy. He’s trying to get us some birds to Arista where the Sinaloa’s boss has his HQ. Joaquin Salazar. Apparently another sociopathic drug lord. What do we do with El Gato now that he’s useless?”

  “Keep babysitting him for now. The Mexican president wants him extradited to the US for trial and prison. They’ll never be able to hold him in Mexico. That said, POTUS and their president ain’t exactly having a lovefest at the moment.”

  “Yeah, well, did you know that Colonel Lozano was General Ortega’s son-in-law?”

  The silence was deafening.

  “Seriously, boss? You’re the fucking CIA. No one noticed that fact?”

  “Shit. I’ll speak with Kim. But no, we didn’t know. Maybe they hid it for family safety reasons.”

  “You’re the fucking CIA!”

  “Yeah, well, we miss stuff sometimes. Shit. General Ortega is getting you air?”

  “That’s what the local Marine lieutenant said.”

  “And you trust him?”

  “Anything you want to tell me, boss?”

  “General Ortega was beyond pissed, Moose. I just don’t want five hundred Mexican Marines showing up to arrest you and the team.”

  Moose looked up to God. “Shit. Look, Dex, the local LT seems legit. He wants the cartels broken up. He seems like a solid guy.”

  “It’s your call. Listen, I called you to tell you that the drone is almost to your location. Apo’s GPS locator has the drone about ten minutes out from you. Once he gets it, it’s up to you to make contact with this Mustafa character. He has to believe Apo is ISIS. Then Apo cuts a deal with Joaquin Salazar that requires a face-to-face meeting. You’ll be in Sinaloa Central. I’m working on getting you a backup team, but I’m not sure if that’s solid yet.”

  “Roger. We have the Mexican Marines with us. Eight marines. They’re not spec ops, but they seemed to perform well under fire so far. It should help a little. We’ll wait for the phone and hope the incoming birds are for transport and not assault. You watching by satellite?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Well, if you see a few hundred Mexicans try to kill us, feel free to send a Tomahawk or something. In the meantime, we’re here waiting for the Bat Phone. Anything else?”

  “Just my good wishes. And look, El Gato’s value was in getting the package. That value has disappeared. If you need to trade him to the Sinaloas in exchange for the package, I don’t give a shit if they skin him alive on pay-per-view. You keep your team safe. You find that package. If you get El Gato back to the US, great. If he doesn’t make it, no one here is going to cry about it. He has nothing to offer us anymore.”

  “Understood. Out.”

  Moose handed McCoy the phone and sat down in the grass. El Gato was a piece of shit responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of civilians in Mexico and the Unites States, either from executions or the distribution of heroin. And his boss had just green-lighted his death. Just one more piece of an ever-changing operation.

  Moose called Ripper over and briefed him on the conversation. Ripper mulled it over.

  “The LT seemed solid. You think it’s a setup?” he asked.

  “Shit, man, I don’t know. Their LT seems legit. But you know the Company didn’t even know the colonel was the general’s son-in-law? How the fuck does that happen? What if General Grandpa decides the guys that whacked the father of his grandkids need to be hosed? I don’t know what to think. I like Santiago. But shit, do we bet our lives on it?”

  “Holy shit,” said Eric from across the road. He had been sitting cleaning his sniper rifle when his eagle eyes spotting the incoming drone. “That’s some crazy shit there, son.”

  A very small, black drone was whizzing across the sky right at them. It slowed and hovered over them, then slowly dropped to the ground where it gently landed in the grass. Apo smiled and walked over to the latest toy in the CIA arsenal. In the center of the black four-rotor drone was a compartment that had been duct-taped. The entire drone was no bigger than a flat-screen TV.

  “Duct tape,” Apo announced. “Probably a six-figure drone designed by some super-genius—and they made sure the phone would be safe with some three-dollar duct tape.”

  Ripper walked over and handed Apo his KA-BAR knife. Apo carefully cut the tape and unsnapped the center compartment, where he found the black iPhone. There was a sticky note on it that read:

  Password: birthday year and day, six numbers

  Apo dialed in 197509, and the phone came to life.

  Jon had been watching. “Hey, man, before you get really busy with that shit, can I play Candy Crush for a while?”

  The team cracked up. Apo shook his head. “I love working with professionals.” He went to the e-mail, which had multiple messages. There was also a voice mail, which he played first. A very shaky voice spoke in Arabic.

  “This is Mustafa. The others are dead. El Gato and Las Zetas are no longer in control of the package. I need you to contact the Sinaloa chief. Joaquin Salazar is waiting to hear from you. This is a new deal. Urgent. Please respond immediately or I’m dead and the package is destroyed.”

  Apo opened the e-mail and read the Arabic message, which was almost identical. It requested immediate response. Apo relayed the information to Moose and Ripper.

  Moose shrugged. “Well, this was the new plan, right? You’re the secret agent James Bond type. My guys just kill bad guys. Your call.”

  Apo thought for a moment. “When I was in Syria, I met this Qassim character. He’s like a colonel or a major, maybe. Not a general, but definitely in a power position. The package to Mexico and the deal with the Las Zetas started with him. I don’t think Mustafa would know his voice, but I’m not sure. I don’t know if they ever met. If we meet face-to-face and he knows I’m not Qassim, we’re blown.”

  Ripper pursed his lips in thought and then came up with an idea off the top of his head. “Hey—we kill those fuckers every day with drone strikes. What if Qassim is dead? You’re the new boss—make up a name. How would he know? You say you’ve replaced Qassim and you need to make a new deal. You can say you’re flying to Mexico to make the deal and demand to meet Salazar in person. Set up the meet, and we grab him.”

  Apo stared at him.

  “What? Bad idea?”

  “No, it’s such a great idea I’m pissed that I didn’t think of it myself. You’re right. We hit those fuckers every day. Of course they have new personnel. Being wary of a new player like Salazar makes sense. Wanting to meet him in person is believable. We might make a CIA operator out of you yet.”

  “So now what?” asked Moose.

  “Now we wait to see if we have a ride to Arista or an air strike on our position,
and then I call the goat fucker and make a deal.”

  Apo was smiling so big that Moose and Ripper stared at each other and then back at Apo.

  “What?” asked Moose.

  He leaned forward and whispered, “I love my job!”

  CHAPTER 53

  First Communication

  Mustafa was sitting in a small bodega that was serving as the acting headquarters of the single most powerful man in western Mexico. With El Gato now captured or dead, Joaquin Salazar would emerge as not only the head of the Sinaloa cartel, but his group would swallow up the Las Zetas almost instantly, followed by the smaller cartels who would quickly fall in line. The sheer size and power of the Sinaloa army would be enough to negotiate any deal, with any person—government or private citizen, anyplace, anytime.

  Joaquin sat sipping a coffee, staring at his Arab guest. Mustafa had been allowed to clean up, was fed and given medical attention, and was then given decent, clean clothing. The young man was a low-level jihadist, not some well-educated soldier of ISIS. To be treated as anything better than dirt was a step up for him, and he responded to Joaquin’s sudden change in attitude by acting more like an emissary of ISIS and less like a terrified thug.

  Mustafa had taken the mission to America because it meant better treatment for his family after his martyrdom, as well as the promise of Paradise with his virgins awaiting him. He was now some sort of important person, about to act as an intermediary between ISIS and the most powerful man in Mexico. All it required was a phone call or e-mail, and he would be a new jihadist hero.

  No phone call or e-mail meant a most grisly death and eternal anonymity.

  Joaquin stared at him and then lit a cigar. He held it up and asked if Mustafa would like one. The acting translator, the old grocer who had asked about being allowed to go home many times and was warned not to ask again, translated to Mustafa.

  Mustafa had smoked water pipes before, but somehow this seemed inappropriate to him. To do anything that could cost him eternity in Paradise was terrifying. He declined. Joaquin blew a long stream of blue smoke over Mustafa’s head. There was something about it which seemed terrifyingly threatening.

  And then the phone in the center of the table buzzed and moved from the vibration. Mustafa stared at it, horrified. He looked up at Joaquin who raised his eyebrows, as if to say, “Well?”

  Mustafa picked up the phone and pressed the button to take the call, his hands shaking so badly he almost dropped it. When he tried to speak, a dry croak came out that sounded like a greeting in Arabic, but just barely.

  “Who is this?” asked a voice in Arabic.

  “This is Mustafa. Qassim? Is it you?”

  “Qassim is dead,” said Apo. “This is Ali, his replacement. Where are you and the others? Where is the package?”

  “Qassim is dead? When? How?”

  “Americans drones, the cowards. They still refuse to meet us on the battlefield, but they will have to come soon enough. Tell me where you are and what is happening? We haven’t heard from you. I was ordered to Mexico in person. What’s going on? I’m hearing lots of rumors about El Gato.”

  “Ali, they aren’t rumors. El Gato is no longer in charge of anything here. The Mexican police arrested or killed him. Our entire team is dead except for me. I’m now in a town called Arista with the chief of the Sinaloa cartel. They own the package now. They want a new deal directly with our commanders at home. Same as before—drugs for money and weapons and ammunition, but the drugs come here now, to the Sinaloas in Arista, not to Tabasco and the Zetas.”

  “How do we know we can trust this Sinaloa chief?”

  “He is very powerful. I think maybe more powerful than the Mexican president. When are you coming to Mexico?”

  “I am in Mexico! Do you think the ISIS leaders would allow you and the package to simply disappear without sending more soldiers for our mission?”

  “I’ve been without communication for days! Everyone is dead! I had no idea what was happening.”

  “Well, you tell this Sinaloa chief that I will meet him face-to-face, and I speak for the highest levels of ISIS command. If he wants the heroin, he can have it. But we have a mission to finish.”

  “He is here. Right here with me. They have a translator. You can speak with him yourself if you like.”

  “I don’t need a translator. Put him on the phone.”

  “He only speaks Spanish,” said Mustafa, slightly confused.

  “I’m an ISIS commander! Do you think they assigned me for this mission without me being able to speak Spanish? Get him on the phone!”

  Mustafa handed the phone across the table to Joaquin, who had been getting half of the conversation translated by the grocer. He took the phone warily.

  “This is Joaquin Salazar. Who is this?” he asked in a voice that blended command authority and arrogance.

  “This is Ali bin-Salud, a commander under the direct authority of the Islamic State. I speak your language, and I am authorized to negotiate directly with you on behalf of the leadership of the Islamic State. I have just arrived in Mexico, as a result of the failure of the others to complete their mission.”

  “Your Spanish is excellent, Señor bin-Salud.”

  “You can call me Ali. And yes, I was chosen for my ability to speak your language. Do you still have the package that was sent from Syria?”

  “I do.”

  “And you’re willing to negotiate with us?”

  “I am. It’s quite simple. Las Zetas no longer exists. With the capture or death of their leadership—which one we’re not sure of yet—they will fight among themselves to decide who their new leader is. While they fight, we will destroy them all. Every single one of them will either join us or die, it’s that simple. We need the supply of heroin you promised them.”

  “And you can have all of it. Heroin has no value to us, other than as currency for what we need. And what we need is ammunition, weapons, and an ally in Mexico. There will be times ahead when we’ll need help with border crossings. For now, we need that package secured until I can get there and continue the mission with new people.”

  “I can assure you it’s quite safe at the moment, as is your man, Mustafa.”

  “I can be in Arista in a day or two. I need to speak with leadership in Syria. You and I will meet face-to-face, and then we will all move forward with a profitable alliance. Is this agreeable to you?”

  “You have balls coming to Mexico. The authorities have been very aggressive with their attack against Las Zetas.”

  “I fear nothing. God willing, I will carry out my mission and you will have all the heroin you need.”

  “We will meet here in Arista as soon as you can get here. Keep this phone with you. In the meantime, Mustafa and your package safely await your arrival.”

  “Excellent. I will be in touch.”

  ***

  Apo hung up the phone and looked over at Moose, who along with the rest of the team had been providing security in all directions as they listened to their friend speak in Arabic, wondering what was being said. “Assuming the entire Mexican Marine Corps doesn’t arrive here and kill us all in the next few hours, we have a scheduled meeting with Joaquin Salazar, head of the Sinaloa drug cartel and the man in possession of whatever is in that package from Syria.”

  CHAPTER 54

  Who Do You Trust?

  The team and the Mexican Marines had made a secure perimeter and sat waiting for helicopters and further instructions. It was an area of dry, tall grass, and the sun was out, making for a pretty day after a brief massacre.

  Apo called Dex on the sat-phone. “Initial contact with Salazar went well. Awaiting air transport to Arista, but we’ll have to be dropped far enough away to get in unnoticed by his people. Any progress on relations between the boss and General Ortega?”

  Dex was in his office, having just changed one white shirt for a fresh one. His secretary had reminded him earlier that he was getting ripe after not being home in forty-eight hours. H
e had stopped tying his necktie when the sat-phone had rang, and the half-tied neckwear hung ridiculously around his neck at the moment.

  “Hard to assess the relations at the moment. Their president wants a formal apology to General Ortega and Mexico for what they’re calling a ‘friendly fire incident,’ even though he believes that Colonel Rafael Lozano may be dirty after all. They’ve been doing some investigating into Lozano’s banking, with the help of our NSA, and it seems the man is worth a hell of a lot more money than a colonel’s salary would allow. Hard pill for the general to swallow, but I think he swallowed it—bitter or not. The other deaths during the firefight at the house seem to be as much of an issue as the colonel’s.

  “In the meantime, we’re watching six Black Hawks on satellite monitors heading straight for you. Nice, single-file line of US-made birds sold to our southern neighbors. I’m really hoping they don’t use them to kill you.”

  “Gee, thanks, boss. That gives me such confidence. So potentially six squads of Mexicans dropping on our position. Sixty-six troops can fit in six birds and you’re telling me you still don’t know if they’re coming to help us or arrest us?”

  “That would be affirmative. It’s either SERE or UBER.”

  That took Apo a second to comprehend. SERE was the US Navy’s survival, evasion, resistance, and escape training school. But UBER was an acronym he didn’t get at first—then he realized Dex meant the nation’s newest private taxi service. “You’re really hilarious today, boss, thanks. If these guys come in hot, what’s our ROE?”

  The rules of engagement would be an interesting decision made at the White House. An elite team of American special operators had already killed a Mexican colonel and several of his troops, as well as wounded several others. To engage the Mexicans now in open conflict would be an act of war against an ally and neighbor. This was not business as usual.