by Tom Clancy
Even more notable was their ability to exercise great reserve. They dressed like civilians, carried only pistols, and had kept their operation simple thus far. But that wouldn’t last, Moore assumed. Not now, when they were ready to negotiate and expected retaliation. That thought chilled Moore as he considered Sonia being touched, abused, and tortured by them. He shuddered.
Moore tugged out his smartphone, and within a minute he was studying a satellite image of the town with Sonia’s GPS beacon marked as a slowly shifting blue dot superimposed over the road.
“You looking at maps now?” asked Torres, leaning over Moore’s shoulder.
“No, porn.”
“Why do you have to be such a wiseass?”
Moore snorted. “Don’t make me answer that.” The fat man was already taxing his patience.
Another data screen on the town indicated that Chamula had its own police force and that no outside military or law enforcement were allowed inside; moreover, tourists were, for the most part, forbidden to take pictures while visiting. Very strict rules indeed, but what if the Vultures had a deal with the local police? What if they’d planned this capture all along and now had a perfect safe house from which to conduct their kidnapping negotiations? That they were not driving back toward Guatemala made that even more probable.
Fitzpatrick guided them along a poorly paved road that snaked its way up near the church of San Juan, a modest structure of dusty white walls, green parapets, and an ornate tile archway. Moore told Fitzpatrick to park along a row of tourist cars and taxis opposite fifty or more booths shaded by colorful umbrellas. Overhead flapped long lines of pennons that swooped down from the church’s steeples. This was the marketplace, and several hundred people were weaving their way through the maze of tables. Here much of the fruit was stacked on blankets spread across the grassy field, with piles of citrus lined up like bowling pins.
“We can’t park now,” barked Torres, pointing at the fleeing cars. “We’ll lose them!”
“I’m tracking the car, asshole,” said Moore, showing him the smartphone. “GPS beacon. I planted it on them.”
“When did you do that?”
“Before you got to me,” Moore lied. “Now shut up. Let’s get out. Behind the church is a graveyard. We’re going into the hills out back.” Moore used his thumb and index finger to zoom in on the touch screen. The kidnappers came to a stop outside a small cluster of houses just west of the graveyard. The hills would make for a perfect observation post.
“Hey, why you go along with him so easy?” Torres asked Fitzpatrick.
“Because he’s good. He tracked them. Did you? Without him, we would’ve lost them already.”
Torres muttered a string of epithets, then heaved himself out of the car. He lifted his camera, thinking he’d pretend to do the tourist thing, when Moore slapped down his hands.
“What the hell?”
“No pictures here—I told you. They don’t like it. Let’s move.”
From the trunk they retrieved three heavy backpacks bulging with gear that included three sniper rifles disassembled and stowed in their cases.
They hiked up a narrow rocky trail with deep cuts from the summer rains. Torres tripped twice over these cuts as they began to take in the graveyard with its white, blue, and black wooden crosses flanked by lanky pines and the T-shaped power and phone lines. Below lay the ruins of San Sebastián Church, whose steeples were long gone and whose yellowed and crumbling walls were spanned by deep cracks like veins. The upper edges near the rooftops were draped in moss and mold.
Once they reached the summit of the tallest hill, Moore led them to a cluster of pines, where they crouched down. He activated his smartphone’s camera and thumbed on the ARS (augmented reality system) app that would turn the phone into a computer-enhanced imaging device by superimposing wire frames over the images and displaying data boxes that indicated the size and range of various structures and targets within his field of view. Additionally, the system tapped into real-time streaming data on the house where they’d taken Sonia and Miguel. Moore knew the geeks back home were all focusing on that house as well, and within thirty seconds he’d have that imagery. He clipped a Bluetooth receiver into his ear, then switched it on.
“Torres, you see that blue house down there, the one right next to the taller beige one?” Moore asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s where they have Miguel and Sonia. Looks like they’re trying to do the same thing we planned, so we don’t have much time. They might be on the phone with Rojas right now.”
“Then it’s over. How can we say we’ve taken his son hostage when these guys have already done it?”
Moore grinned crookedly. “I guess we shouldn’t worry about that until we rescue the hostages—so we can kidnap them ourselves.”
“Why don’t we just wait for Rojas to show up?” asked Fitzpatrick.
“There’s no guarantee he will. Our negotiations are contingent upon him making a personal appearance, but who knows what these guys want,” Moore pointed out. “Could just want the money and don’t care who brings it.” He looked to Torres. “You got the binoculars in your pack? Just keep an eye on that house for now. Flexxx?”
Fitzpatrick hoisted his brows at the sound of his nickname.
“I want to set you up on the east side over there so you can keep an eye on their little police station. I’ll show you a good spot.”
Moore waved over the man, and they hiked between the trees for a minute until they were out of Torres’s earshot.
In a rapid-fire report, Moore told the DEA agent everything.
“Holy shit,” Fitzpatrick said through a gasp.
“My words exactly.”
“So this really is a rescue operation.”
Moore nodded. “And now I’m not sure what to do with Torres.”
“He could be a huge problem—no pun intended,” said Fitzpatrick.
Moore gave a little snort over the joke. “Well, I guess we need him now. I’m just worried he’ll kill Sonia. He’s already said it. He thinks the boy will be demoralized. He could wind up shooting her when we make our move.”
Fitzpatrick shrugged. “We’ll just stress the point for now—unless you want him to get caught in some crossfire—”
“Or we send him on a suicide mission.”
“Yeah,” said Fitzpatrick, his eyes lighting over the idea. “We just make the fat boy think he’s a hero.”
“Great minds think alike, bro.”
Fitzpatrick nodded. “No problem. I’ve thought of offing the bastard many times, so we’ll come up with something.”
Moore stopped and stared at the marketplace partially obscured by the ruins. “Carnival starts at sundown. Gunfire, fireworks, they all sound the same—and that’s about the only bit of luck we’ve had so far.”
“I’ll take it. So if we manage to get back Miguel and the girl, what do we do with them?”
Moore laughed. “You know what? I never even asked …”
“I mean, if we’ve already got a deep-cover agent close to Rojas and the family, do we still need to hold them hostage? Maybe the original plan has gone to shit. The deep-cover team she’s working with needs to start talking to us.”
The question hung as Moore called back Towers, filled him in, and got the official orders from the Agency: Rescue Sonia Batista but in no way interfere with her mission, which Moore and Towers interpreted as letting them go.
The fat man Torres would not like that. No, he would not like that at all.
In fact, speak of the devil, Torres was calling Moore. “What?” Moore asked.
“Another car just pulled up. They got one of Corrales’s guys. They’re bringing him into the house now.”
“Which guy is it?” Moore asked. “Raúl or Pablo?”
“I think it’s Raúl.”
“You sure they only got one?”
“Positive.”
“I’ll be right up.”
Miguel winced at t
he laundry line they’d used to bind his hands behind his back. Still more of that coarse, weather-beaten twine had been used to bind his legs, and they’d forced him to sit on the old wooden floor in a corner near the back window. Sonia, who’d been bound as well, was sitting on the floor opposite him, leaning forward, staring blankly into space.
There were six of them altogether, and none would answer any of his questions. Both he and Sonia had stopped talking about ten minutes prior, and they listened as the tallest of the group, a man with a gray crew cut and narrow eyes who the others addressed as Captain Salou, spoke in murmurs on his cell phone, both his accent and his fast speech making it very difficult to discern anything.
The depression had already made breathing difficult and had knotted Miguel’s stomach. He had failed his girlfriend and his father, and had disgraced the memory of his dear mother. He had allowed himself to be used as a pawn, and it was quite clear that if these men did not get what they wanted, he and Sonia would be murdered. The only thing they could pray for now was a quick death.
But judging from the salacious looks on their faces, these men would have none of that. Sonia was dinner.
How the hell had this happened? Because his father had hired a bunch of dolts as security men. Then should he blame his father for this? Perhaps Fernando had hired these men. Maybe he was to blame. His incompetence had led to this …
Sonia glanced up at him, her eyes creased in pain.
“Don’t worry,” he said, barely able to speak, his mouth gone dry. “My father will deal with these dogs. He will deal with them swiftly.”
She looked at him, then over at the window, then back toward the small wooden table and chairs, where two men sat, drinking bottles of Coca-Cola. A third man came into the room, carrying several olive-drab backpacks with patches depicting a blazing sword. He dropped the backpacks to the floor and said, “Everyone wears a radio now. Captain’s orders.”
The front door opened, and three more men shuffled into the room. Miguel’s eyes widened on one of Corrales’s stooges, Raúl, who’d also managed to get himself caught. He’d already been tied and gagged, and Salou turned to them and asked, “He is your employee?”
“Yes,” answered Miguel. “My bodyguard. He did a very good job, didn’t he …”
Salou and the others broke into laughter, and then, as Raúl was shoved into the living room, Salou’s expression grew serious. “All we want is our money.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you?”
Salou glanced back at the others, as though looking for some approval. He crinkled his thin nose, as though he didn’t like the stench coming from Raúl, then said, “We are soldiers of justice. And we want you and your lovely companion to understand that. We want you to know that we are men of our word. And we will show you.”
Two men shoved Raúl onto the floor, facedown, between Miguel and Sonia. One man sat on top of Raúl, another pinned his legs to the floor, while a third grabbed Raúl’s head by the hair.
Miguel craned his neck as one of the men from the table disappeared into the kitchen, only to return with a long hatchet.
“No, wait a second, we don’t have to do this,” said Miguel. “My father’s got money. You want money? We’ll give it to you. There’s no need for any of this!”
Salou accepted the hatchet and tested the edge with his thumb.
“We believe you,” said Sonia. “We believe you’ll kill us. You don’t have to show us. We know.”
“This isn’t just for you,” said Salou. “It’s for all the men who’ve deceived us and used us.” He glanced over his shoulder at another of his men, who’d drawn a small HD video camera from one of the backpacks, its LED recording light flashing steadily.
Raúl began screaming against his gag and writhing left and right to free himself. But it was no good. The three men held him to the floor as Salou came around them and began taking practice swings with the hatchet.
“Don’t look,” Sonia said. “Just don’t look.”
Miguel closed his eyes, but then he couldn’t bear that any longer, and the moment he opened them, Salou brought down the ax in one great arc.
Aw, fuck, they killed him,” said Torres, lowering his binoculars.
Moore grabbed the binoculars and watched through the window as the hatchet man, who appeared to be the leader and oldest guy, reached down and lifted up something. That’s when Moore realized what it was, and he recoiled.
A fellow agent was a hatchet stroke away from death, and he and these two guys were all that stood in the way. The weight of that responsibility felt suffocating and familiar, and he didn’t want to believe that history was repeating itself, but it was, and it would again, because the universe had a very dark sense of humor, and he always bore the brunt.
He closed his eyes and listened to the disembodied voices in his head:
“Zodiac’s on the way! Thirty seconds. Getting two right away. Mako One, we need you up top, now!”
“On my way. Mako Two, let’s roll!”
“Negative, negative. Still can’t get to Six.”
“Mako One, this is Raptor. I am taking fire. Can’t hold this bird for much longer. Get your people out of the water and off the platform NOW.”
Another voice now, female, soft, calm: “But you understand that what happened cannot be changed, no matter how many times you remember it? You understand that your memory will not change the outcome. You can’t reimagine what happened.”
“I know.”
“But this is what’s happening. You’re playing it over and over again because deep down you still believe you can change something. But you can’t.”
“No one gets left behind.”
“Do you know who’s been left behind? You. The world’s passing you by because you can’t come to terms with this. So you’re living in Purgatory, and you think that you’re not allowed to be happy because of what happened.”
“How can I be happy? How can I enjoy this life? You’re the shrink. You have all the answers. Tell me how I’m supposed to be fucking happy after what I did! After what I fucking did!”
Moore opened his eyes as Torres tugged the binoculars out of his hands and once more stared down through the window. “I see some military backpacks inside. This is much worse than I thought.”
After a deep breath, Moore gritted his teeth. “We’re getting that kid and his girlfriend out of there. We’re not going to lose them.”
“They got seven guys so far. Just saw two more leave. Who knows how many back at San Cristóbal.”
Moore considered that. “I saw them grab Corrales. He might be already dead, since they didn’t bring him here.”
“Maybe he got away. He’s a slippery little fucker.”
Moore rose and walked away from Torres. He called Towers, told him to keep eyes in the sky on the town for Corrales and Pablo. Then he told Towers about the execution and the military backpacks.
“Well, there you have it. Avenging Vultures double-crossing the Juárez Cartel, and we’re caught in the middle.”
“Listen, I need a lot from you, and I need it fast,” said Moore.
“Talk to me.”
“Looks like they’re going to start communicating by radio. I need a tap in and a translated feed back to me.”
“Not easy.”
“No shit.”
“What else?”
“Can we tap Rojas’s communications?”
“Deep-cover team says they’ve been trying to do that for months, but he’s got electronic countermeasures and hackers who do nothing but sweep for leaks, so our guys have had no luck.”
“What about Corrales’s phones?”
“If we picked up anything good from him, I would’ve come with that a long time ago. Truth is we’ve intercepted his calls from the start, but he’s very good about who he calls and what he says …He knows we’re listening.”
“Well, see if you can confirm now if he’s still alive. And Pablo as well.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Moore said and grunted. “A SEAL team would be nice.”
“I’ll give them a call.”
Moore thumbed off the phone and returned to Torres’s side. “What’s happening now?”
“It was gross, dude. They wiped blood all over the girl’s face.”
“But they didn’t hurt her.”
“Not yet.”
“How many we got?”
“Six or seven. Looks like four guys posted outside. They got a fifth guy sitting in the van down the street. Not sure how many else inside.”
“All right, Luis. If we’re going to make this happen, I need you to take on the toughest job of all.”
“Look at me,” said Torres, his voice filling with bravado. “You think those little pussies scare me?”
Moore grinned. “All right. Listen up.”
ATTEMPTS
La Estancia Apartments
Juárez, Mexico
GLORIA VEGA HAD LEARNED from Towers that the Sinaloas were not responsible for the murder of Johnny Sanchez and his girlfriend. Towers had confirmed via Moore, who was now in southeast Mexico, that members of that Guatemalan death squad, the Avenging Vultures, had killed the journalist.
When Vega had mentioned that she thought the Guatemalans might be responsible for the murder, Inspector Gómez had dismissed her with a flagrant wave. “Johnny was reporting on the cartels, and he paid the price. The Sinaloas did this. There is nothing more to it.”
But the old man’s face had grown pale, and he’d given her a long, troubled look before telling her he was going home and that she should do the same.
After the riot outside the station, Vega had told Gómez that she would trust him, that she was afraid that everyone around her was corrupt, and that all she wanted to do was the right thing.
