Revolution Device

by Don Pendleton

  As Castillo moved away from the airplane, Lopez’s team surrounded him in a diamond formation, one guard in front, one in back and one on each side.

  When they reached the limousine, the guard walking point opened the rear door and gestured for Castillo to climb inside. He did. The door closed behind him and the cooler air enveloped him. A second later the front passenger door opened and Lopez squeezed himself into the front seat.

  “You good, Mr. Castillo?” Lopez asked.

  Castillo answered with a curt nod. Lopez told the driver to get the car moving, which the man did. Turning slightly at the waist, Castillo peered through the back window and saw the rest of Lopez’s team climbing into a shiny black SUV. A matching SUV was idling in front of the limousine.

  “We’ll have you at the ranch in an hour,” Lopez said over his shoulder.

  “Fine,” Castillo said. “How many guys you got here?”

  “Here at the airport? Seven. In total, about a dozen.”

  “About a dozen or a dozen?”

  “A dozen.”

  “Is that enough?”

  “Depends on what you’re expecting, sir.”

  “I expect a goddamn answer.”

  “They’re some of the best we have. You should be fine.”

  Castillo nodded. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver flask. Unscrewing the cap, he brought it to his lips and took a big swallow of whiskey before replacing the cap and slipping the container back inside his coat. Staring out the window, he watched as the limo rolled off the tarmac, glided between a series of hangars and headed for the main gate.

  The whiskey rolled into his stomach, which was balled up like a fist, and burned like the payload from a phosphorus grenade.

  He’d left Mexico City in a rush. They’d suspected for some time that Ortega was a U.S. agent, or at least an informant. His behavior had become increasingly erratic. Most of the guys in Escobar’s organization drank. Some did blow. It was no big deal. Escobar knew he wasn’t running a damn convent. But Ortega had stepped over the edge. He’d drank too much. He’d wrecked a car and gotten into a couple of fights with a couple of Escobar’s other guys. It was as though he’d wanted to call attention to himself.

  Well, he’d gotten it.

  Escobar was a paranoid SOB. Occasionally he drifted into crazy territory. But this time, damn if he hadn’t been right. He’d suspected Ortega long before anyone else and had started digging into things. With all his drinking, Ortega had made himself an easy target, too. He’d accidentally made a couple of contacts to his Washington handlers using the phone Escobar had provided. When he’d met with his handlers, he’d made only cursory attempts to hide his tracks. He’d made it easy for Escobar to put a bullet in his head.

  Fine, he’d played the game and lost. Castillo had no problem per se with Escobar killing the undercover Fed. He’d always considered the guy an insufferable prick. But Escobar had taken a step further and killed his entire team. He’d nabbed another guy who might also be an American agent.

  Along the way, Escobar had ranted something about sending a message. Well, mission accomplished. He’d sent a message that probably had red alerts blaring all over Washington. This was the kind of thing Escobar didn’t need. Sure, they’d already attracted attention; otherwise the U.S. never would have infiltrated the operation. Maybe if Escobar had handled the killing right, they could have made it work. They could have made it look like Ortega’d been killed in an accident, or by a rival gang—something to deflect the attention away from their organization. Escobar had decided against it.

  Castillo heaved a sigh and stared out the window. The anger roiled in his gut, causing it to squeeze harder. He knew why his boss had thrown caution to the wind and had done something so damn dangerous.

  It was the woman. Aside from drinking himself into a stupor and crashing cars, Ortega also had started spending time with Vargas. Castillo guessed the dumb bastard thought he was getting away with something. Maybe he’d really deluded himself into thinking she’d wanted to sleep with him. All he’d really accomplished was the signing of his own death warrant.

  She’d been pumping Ortega for information and taking it back to Escobar. Surprisingly, Ortega never had been stupid enough to tell Vargas he really was a Fed. Escobar never had clued her in on that little fact, either. She was a smart woman and it was conceivable she knew. But Ortega also had been a good undercover agent who’d fooled a lot of people over the years.

  In recent months Escobar had heard rumblings about Ortega from former employers, little things like him accidentally taking critical documents home or disappearing for a day or more with no explanation. Taken individually, the incidents hadn’t seemed like much and most of his former bosses had thought nothing of it until after he was gone. Castillo had dismissed it, but Escobar had heard it enough from different sources that it had spurred him to investigate. While he’d never quite found the proverbial smoking gun, he’d seen enough to convince him something was wrong and he’d killed Ortega without hesitation.

  Even though Castillo had been with him for years, Escobar’s cool detachment and swift hand when it came to dealing death still unnerved Castillo. If Escobar could kill with such cold brutality, Castillo reasoned, how could he be safe working for the guy? When was he going to do the one thing that made Escobar classify him as a liability rather than an asset?

  He tried not to think about it. And when he did think about it, he downed some whiskey from his silver flask, rolled up his sleeves and tried to make Escobar more money. He produced the flask and swigged from it again.

  Maybe money couldn’t buy happiness, he thought, licking traces of whiskey from his lips, but in Escobar’s organization it could buy another day on earth, maybe two.

  For the moment Castillo needed to get off the grid until the storm passed or until Escobar called for help. Kidnapping one Fed and killing the others would bring his boss trouble, Castillo knew. From what he’d gathered, several of Escobar’s men had lost their lives grabbing Perez. The Americans would be pissed. They’d turn every possible agent, satellite and drone on Escobar and his crew. For Castillo, that meant more time spent looking over his shoulder, waiting on the hammer to fall.

  He threw a glance at Lopez. The man-mountain was on his mobile phone, riding some poor bastard back at Castillo’s ranch about last-minute security details. Good. If the Americans came for Castillo, he wanted them to hit something immovable; he wanted to draw blood.

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  BROGNOLA STOOD IN the center of the War Room. Acid bubbled in his stomach. His mouth turned down in a scowl, arms crossed over his chest, he stared at his team as they worked furiously at their computers.

  Barbara Price was pacing in another part of the room while speaking into a headset microphone. The big Fed guessed she was either trying to pry information from one of her old NSA cronies or arranging for some other type of support.

  When he caught snatches of her conversation, her voice sounded cool and professional, though he still could hear an edge of tension, too. Having one or two of their commandoes end up in a local jail was just another day at the office for Price, Brognola and the others. Same went for cleaning up the messes the teams occasionally made in the field. Price handled these situations with a cool detachment and efficiency that never failed to impress. But when one of their people got hurt or went missing, a few hairline cracks in her composure started to show.

  Brognola was no different. Word that Blancanales had been snatched even as a team of federal agents had been killed was like a gut punch for the big Fed. On days like this, he wondered why he’d ever quit smoking.

  “The Escobar file is sealed?” Price was saying. “Maybe you should unseal it. What? Yes, I said unseal it—as in open it and tell me what it says. We have a man missing in Mexico City. Taken by armed criminals. Mortal danger.
Unsealing that file yet?” She paused. “No? Are you waiting for a letter opener?”

  She glanced at Brognola and made a frustrated gesture with her hand. He gave her a tight smile. She forced one of her own before turning her back to him and continuing her phone conversation.

  Screw this, Brognola thought. It was time for him to call Washington, Fort Meade and Langley, and start lighting fires under a few butts. Wheeling around, he took a step toward the door but froze when he heard Kurtzman call his name. He spun toward the cyber wizard.

  “You got something?” Brognola asked.

  “Maybe,” Kurtzman said.

  Brognola rushed over to Kurtzman’s workstation and stared over his shoulder at the computer screen.

  With his index finger, Kurtzman pointed at a spot on the chart displayed on his monitor. “See this?” he asked. “That’s a tail number. It belongs to an export company based in Mexico City.”

  “Okay,” Brognola said, hoping he hadn’t missed the punch line.

  “The company belongs to Escobar,” Kurtzman continued. “It’s what we in the crime-fighting business like to call a front company.”

  “What a coup,” Brognola said. “Maybe Lyons can beat the plane with a rubber hose until it gives up Rosario’s location.”

  Kurtzman sighed. “Fine,” he said. “The tail number isn’t exciting. I stole that information from a restricted ATF database. But here’s the point—a pilot filed a flight plan.”

  “So Escobar’s on the move,” Brognola said.

  “Escobar or one of his people.”

  “Does the flight plan give a destination?”

  “It does.”

  “Snag it and send it to Lyons.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A pair of Polaris MV850 ATVs rumbled along the desert floor, bouncing and jerking as they rolled over rocks, bushes and other vegetation. The vehicles, driven by Lyons and Schwarz, were carving a path toward Castillo’s sprawling ranch.

  Both men were decked out in camouflage fatigues, boots, ballistic helmets and sunglasses. Lyons’s Colt Python was holstered on his right thigh.

  Apparently, Escobar had put out a contract on one of the detectives in charge of the property room at the jail. When the cop heard that Lyons and Schwarz were planning to wax Escobar, he’d been only too happy to pull some strings and recover Lyons’s prized sidearm, as well as some of their other gear.

  When the cop had handed the pistol to Lyons, his expression had been grim. “You probably won’t live long enough to use it, but here’s your pistol,” he’d said. “Buenas suerte.”

  “Bullshit,” Lyons had replied, snatching it from the detective’s grip. “I don’t need luck. I’ll mail you that bastard’s head in a box.”

  Shrugging, the cop had turned and walked away. “Vaya con Dios,” he’d muttered. “Put some dry ice in the box, too.”

  In addition to the Python, Lyons had picked up a Glock 21, chambered in .45 ACP, along with several 13-round magazines. Strapped on his back was an M-4 outfitted with a cut-down Remington 870 shotgun fixed underneath the assault weapon’s barrel, similar to a grenade launcher. The shotgun was loaded with three 12-gauge breaching rounds.

  Lyons glanced to his right at Schwarz, who acknowledged him with a brief wave of his gloved hand. Schwarz had equipped himself with an M-4 A-1 CQBR, a cut-down version of the assault rifle geared toward close-quarters combat. The M-4 was capable of firing up to 950 rounds per minute and boasted a muzzle velocity of 2,600 feet per second. Additionally, Schwarz had picked up a 15-round Glock 22 for his main sidearm, as well as a subcompact 9 mm Glock 26 as backup.

  Both Lyons and Schwarz also carried grenades, garrotes and knives in the pockets of their fatigues.

  Castillo’s spread was another half mile or so away, according to the coordinates received from the Farm. Kurtzman had also forwarded satellite photos of the property, though he’d noted most were dated because Castillo seldom used the place. Given the urgency, Brognola had made calls to the Pentagon and the CIA, asking them to divert a drone to the ranch to secure additional, updated footage.

  Though the Pentagon had dispatched its closest drone, it was hours away, and Lyons guessed it would be too late. Despite his cynicism about damn near everything, he believed the military wanted to help them find Blancanales. The real question was whether they could put a bird over the site in time.

  He guessed not.

  But, if he had his way, the drone would capture great footage of the place burning to the ground.

  He blamed himself for Blancanales’s predicament. All along, his gut had told him sending Blancanales in undercover was too risky. He’d ignored his judgment and now a team member was missing. In one respect, though, he’d been lucky. Finding Blancanales fit well with Able Team’s goal of taking out Escobar. Good thing. If it had come down to either finding and killing Escobar or tracking down his old friend, Lyons would have faced an awful choice. A stroke of luck.

  As it stood, all they had to do was find their teammate, who was God knew where, and do it before Blancanales ended up with a bullet in his head, and get through maybe a couple dozen well-armed thugs to do it.

  No sweat.

  * * *

  TEN MINUTES LATER the pair stopped their vehicles a couple hundred yards from Castillo’s ranch. The ATVs stood on a stretch of golden poppies, hidden behind a copse of cacti, some of which stretched forty feet or more toward the sky.

  Lyons had slipped off his sunglasses and, with a pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes, was studying the land that lay between them and the ranch. Though rough, he judged the terrain was nothing the four-wheeled ATVs couldn’t handle.

  Thanks to Kurtzman and the cyber team, they already knew a chain-link fence topped by razor wire surrounded the property. There was also a guard shack at the main gate. From what they knew, Castillo liked to tell people he owned a ranch, but he kept no cattle or other livestock there. In addition to the big house, which had a stucco exterior and a red-tiled roof, there was also a barn and a large stable on the property. Rumor had it Castillo had won the ranch in a poker game in Mexico City.

  Other details such as the number of guards, their background, the security team’s command structure and the types of weapons they carried were scarce. That didn’t worry Lyons, and he guessed it mattered little to Schwarz. They were used to walking into deadly situations with little or no information; used to making it up as they went.

  He focused on the guard shack for a minute or so. As best he could tell, there was one guard in the shack. An air conditioner jutted from one of the windows. Condensation dripped from the bottom of the AC unit, the water falling into a dark water stain on the concrete. A cobalt-blue SUV, the sunlight glinting off the dark tinted windows, was parked next to the shack. Lyons looked at a tailpipe poking out from beneath the SUV, but saw no signs of heat or exhaust belching from the vehicle.

  Another slow sweep of the binoculars revealed at least two more rifle-toting hardmen walking around the grounds.

  “What do you think?” Schwarz asked.

  Lyons lowered the binoculars a few inches and glanced at his partner.

  “If it’s only three guards,” the Able Team leader said, “this should be easy.”

  “Our track record for walking into easy situations isn’t too hot,” Schwarz replied.

  “Castillo is Escobar’s lieutenant. But Castillo is sitting in the middle of nowhere with three guards?” Lyons shook his head. “Doesn’t play.”

  “He knows someone will come after him,” Schwarz replied. “He just doesn’t know how or when. If anything, he’s taken some steps to protect himself.”

  “Meaning?”

  Schwarz gestured at the big house. “He probably has more gunners in the house with him. He knows why we’re here.”

  Lyons nodde
d in agreement. “Be my guess. Once we start the buzz saw, he may send a few of them out of the house to intercept us. But pushing our way through the house will probably be the worst part. Be a hell of a lot easier if we didn’t have to keep Castillo alive.”

  “At least until we can interrogate him,” Schwarz corrected. “After that, all bets are off.”

  “Yeah,” Lyons growled.

  Schwarz brought around his own binoculars and trained them on the ranch, studying the property for a minute or so.

  “Any ideas on how to get in?”

  Lyons’s lips quirked into a half smile. “Front door, baby.”

  * * *

  SCHWARZ CROUCHED BEHIND one of the towering cacti located thirty or so yards from the security fence. He peered around the big plant and scanned the ranch. The same two guards, each armed with a submachine gun, continued to patrol inside the fence, one buzzing around the property on a three-wheel ATV, the other moving around on foot. The latter guard occasionally would stop and stare out at the acres of scrub brush, rocks and cacti that populated the desert, before readjusting the rifle strapped on his shoulder and moving again. Whether he actually sensed Schwarz watching him or the guy was just breaking up the monotony, Schwarz never would know. After all his years as a soldier, Schwarz and the other Stony Man warriors had developed a keen sense for danger. It stood to reason that Castillo’s gunners also could sense danger. It came with the territory.

  Schwarz pulled back behind the trunk of the cactus. Bringing around the M-4, he broke open the grenade launcher, slipped in an HE round and snapped the launcher closed. His goal was simple; he wanted to make a lot of noise and snag the attention of Castillo’s thugs. Though it was late in the day, the sun still beat down on his back. He could feel heat and sweat collecting beneath his ballistic vest and his kneepads. He’d ditched the ATV a few dozen yards back. Even with the specially adapted mufflers, the ATV wasn’t silent and the people inside the fence were sure to hear the engine’s growl if he’d brought the vehicle much closer.