Hunt the Jackal

by Don Mann

  Crocker had heard of Los Zetas and their brutal reputation. They and the Sinaloa cartel were considered the most powerful in Mexico.

  “Why’d they target Mrs. Clark?” he asked.

  Sutter: “We don’t know the specifics.”

  “If you look at it from their perspective, she’s ideal,” Anders interjected. “I mean, there’s no one in the Senate who is a stronger and more vocal supporter of the war on drugs than her husband. Senator Clark’s also a hard-liner on immigration and has lobbied hard for a heavily guarded border and the arrest and deportation of all illegal immigrants.”

  Crocker was already thinking ahead. He hadn’t spoken to Davis, Akil, and Mancini in a week and a half and had no idea where their heads were at. Nor did he know what they thought of Tino Suárez or how he was likely to blend into the team.

  He asked, “Where do you want us to deploy?”

  Anders reached into his briefcase and handed him an envelope filled with papers. “Guadalajara, Mexico. You’ll use the same cover you used earlier this year in Venezuela, namely that you’re Canadian adventurers working for Balzac Expeditions and you’re planning a trek into the Yucatán jungle.”

  Crocker nodded and said, “Okay.”

  “The FBI and DEA have set up a field office there, in Guadalajara.”

  “Why Guadalajara?”

  “Because someone from the Yavapai County sheriff’s office picked up something that, combined with tips phoned into Crime Stoppers and NSA intercepts, has made the FBI conclude that the kidnappers are operating in and around Guadalajara.”

  “Got it.”

  “You’ll work with the joint FBI/DEA task force but report to me,” stated Anders.

  “What does that mean exactly?” Crocker asked, knowing how sensitive both the FBI and DEA were to anyone stepping on their operational toes.

  “We’re hoping everyone can cooperate, given the gravity of the situation,” Sutter offered.

  “And lack of time,” Anders added.

  It was a nice idea, but in Crocker’s experience interagency ops rarely worked smoothly under any circumstances.

  “What about gear and weapons?” he asked.

  Anders turned to Sutter, who said, “You’re going in as civilian adventurers, so take anything you think is appropriate. But no weapons. Whatever you need will be provided by the FBI field office in Mexico.”

  That was disappointing.

  “Because of Clark’s prominence in the Senate, and the fact that his wife is a personal friend of the First Lady, and because we’re looking at a ticking clock, the White House will be wanting hourly updates,” added Anders. “In other words, they’re highly involved and want quick results. Which means no infighting or pussying around. If Mrs. Clark’s head comes back in a box, the president knows he’ll be facing major political problems.”

  Crocker nodded. “Understood.”

  “So follow whatever leads the joint FBI/DEA task force gives you, but move quickly. And don’t trust the Mexicans. Consider anything involving them a nonstarter. I don’t know what the FBI will tell you, but hear it from me: The whole damn country is corrupt from the president’s office on down.”

  Crocker crossed his arms in front of him and said, “That’s screwed up.”

  “The new Mexican president, Enrique Peña Nieto, is talking about scaling back the violence, and U.S. involvement,” Anders continued. “He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want us there but is making an exception in this case.”

  “What Jim is saying is that the situation is a god-awful, hopeless mess, which is why we’re sending you,” Sutter added.

  “Thanks,” Crocker said, anticipating the challenge.

  Anders said, “You’re booked on an eight a.m. flight to Mexico City. From there it’s a short hop to Guadalajara.”

  “Okay.”

  “Obviously, we need quick results.”

  “You’ll get ’em.”

  Sutter warned, “Don’t start a war in the process.”

  Crocker was up and halfway to the door. “We’ll try not to.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  Chapter Seven

  The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

  —William Faulkner

  Lisa awoke in the middle of the night, her stomach burning and her body damp with sweat. Reaching for the light switch, she saw the white bandages on her index finger and forearm and remembered the gray-haired man drawing blood.

  The lamp cast a hideous shadow on the wall to her left, made by a young man slumped in the chair facing her bed with an automatic pistol tucked in the waistband of his pants.

  Unlike on other occasions when Lisa had awakened from drug-induced sleep, this time she immediately understood her situation. Her alert mind darted from subject to subject, image to image. The white grip of the pistol, the slight mustache above the young man’s upper lip, her own throbbing finger, the gnawing feeling in her empty stomach, her husband and son, Olivia, the Jackal, Johnny Depp, the cage filled with jackals, the fact that there were no clocks anywhere so it was almost impossible to keep track of time.

  She sat up and focused on the pistol, which leered at her like a challenge as a sliver of moon peeked through the window and a lone bird called plaintively outside.

  Do I dare I take the pistol, free Olivia, and try to escape? Or should I wait for someone to rescue us?

  She knew that Clark would do everything in his power to secure their freedom. He might not be creative and exciting, but he was steadfast and reliable, and she needed him now.

  As the guard snored gently, Lisa remembered something Henri Gaudier had told her many years ago: Cowardice is the only sin.

  Am I being a coward now for not grabbing the pistol and taking action myself?

  She wasn’t sure.

  What if I screw up and get us both killed?

  Sitting up in bed and chewing the inside of her mouth, Lisa started to argue with herself.

  What constituted cowardice, and was it really a sin? Was it, as Henri had said, the only sin that mattered? Or the most important one? What about gluttony, lust, and pride, all of which she had been guilty of, too?

  Hadn’t he meant: Don’t be afraid to acknowledge the truth? And when you find the truth, don’t shrink from taking appropriate action.

  Part of her reasoned that the reality as far as her husband was concerned was that he couldn’t handle the truth about her past, which was why she hadn’t told him. So why was it wrong to hide things from him in the interest of preserving their marriage and keeping their family together?

  A second, deeper part of her said no. The truth wasn’t something you could remodel or change according to the person you were talking to, or the circumstances.

  She looked at the rumpled gray sheets, the guard with the pistol, the shadows on the wall, saw her own gaunt face reflected in the glass over the picture of La Santísima Muerte, and came to the conclusion that in some karmic way she had brought this current dilemma on herself.

  In her mind’s eye she pictured the Jackal’s strange, scarred, rebuilt face, the fever in his eyes, the potent, almost violent energy he gave off, and its effect on her. And as she did, she recalled a September night more than twenty years ago.

  But she didn’t want to go there. Not now. Not ever.

  Trying to force her brain to change the subject, Lisa closed her eyes and recalled gentle summer days growing up with her parents and older brother in Virginia—making peach ice cream with her friend Samantha, swimming in Crystal Lake in the summer, and meeting her boyfriend, Adam, after baseball practice. The freckles on his upturned nose, his long legs as he glided across the green field, the way he played guitar and sang to her, then kissed her on the lips.

  But even those sweet memories circled back to Henri and the hot, humid night in September she had tried all these years to forget. It was a Sunday, shortly after 9 p.m. The streets of Georgetown were quiet. They had eaten fresh crabs and oys
ters for dinner at an outdoor table covered with newspaper. She could taste the salty brininess and the German beer.

  Afterward they drove in Henri’s white Mercedes to a two-story brick apartment building off MacArthur Boulevard, not far from Georgetown University. She was there to settle a debt she owed to a young drug dealer named Raj.

  They parked in the lot behind the building. Henri, who was in a good mood, having won money in a recent backgammon tournament, offered to lend her the five thousand dollars she owed. She said, “No, that’s very generous, but I’ll handle this myself.” She went in alone.

  The elevator smelled of dirty laundry. The apartment stank of rotten food and BO. Raj sat on the couch playing Nintendo with one hand and holding a cordless phone with the other. Between phone calls and through the thick brown hair that hung over one side of his dark-skinned face, they negotiated.

  He said he would cut the amount owed to two thousand dollars if she agreed to clean his apartment one day a week for the next six months. When she turned that down, he offered to forgive the debt entirely in exchange for Lisa’s performing on him a certain lewd act that he would record with his camcorder.

  She was outraged at first. But five thousand dollars was a lot of money. She agreed, with certain stipulations. She’d perform the act three times over the next week but wouldn’t let him record it.

  Sex was sex, she told herself. It wasn’t love. She’d get it over with, clear the debt, learn never to get in that situation again, and move on.

  But when gaunt, sweaty Raj lowered his pants and grabbed her, she pulled away and ran out the door. She jumped into the Mercedes, telling herself that she was a fool to get hooked on cocaine and an idiot to agree to Raj’s offer.

  She shouted at Henri to gun the engine and leave fast.

  He turned to her and asked what had happened.

  Looking past his shoulder, she saw Raj running toward them, pulling at his gray sweatpants. She thought he looked pathetic, then realized he was running into the path of the car. “Watch out!” she shouted.

  In a moment of panic, she grabbed hold of the steering wheel with her left hand and turned it sharply to avoid hitting Raj head-on. The front right fender grazed his left hip and knocked him off his feet and into the side of the building. In the headlights, she saw his head hit the brick wall and shatter.

  Two days later, she read in the Washington Post that Raj Malik Gupta had been found dead—“the victim of a suspected drug-related hit-and-run.” The D.C. police never questioned her or Henri and, as far as she knew, never traced the Mercedes.

  Henri dismissed it as an accident. But the truth was that they had left Raj bleeding to death in the parking lot and fled the scene. Had they called an ambulance immediately, he might have been saved.

  Now she pictured Raj’s bulbous nose and big limpid eyes. He had been young, greedy, and stupid, but he hadn’t deserved to die.

  Remembering his sour stench, her stomach clenched like she was going to be sick. She had thought over the years that somehow the past might come back to haunt her. But she had never imagined that it would happen like this.

  Even if I deserve this, my daughter doesn’t. I’ve got to save Olivia. She needs me. I’ve got to be strong!

  Crocker had suffered pangs of conscience, too. But they weren’t as deep, or as active. Part of that had to do with the role he played, defending his country, and his training.

  He worked hard to be an honest man. And during quiet moments like this, he sensed that the lives he had taken in the line of duty had left a dark spot on his soul. When he thought about the young men he had trained and led, and all the young men and women in the armed forces who had killed others in combat, he knew that the emotional scars would stay with them forever.

  There was a spiritual price a warrior had to pay, and Crocker saw honor in that, not shame. You had to be brave enough to look the horror of war in the face and acknowledge the shortcomings of mankind. Then suck it up and move on.

  He faced forward and straightened his seat as the American Airlines pilot announced that the three-and-a-half-hour flight from Norfolk was about to end at Dallas–Fort Worth airport. After a two-hour layover, he and the other four SEALs would catch another two-and-a-half-hour flight to Guadalajara. They’d arrive around 1900 hours local, less than two days from the kidnappers’ deadline.

  Maybe because this was their first mission without Ritchie, the guys on the team seemed uncharacteristically quiet and lost in their own thoughts. Mancini sat behind him reading a book titled What the Dog Saw by Malcolm Gladwell. Davis beside him watched Braveheart on his laptop.

  Suárez and Akil, across the aisle, were the only ones talking. Crocker heard Suárez ask Akil if he was Muslim and heard Akil answer, “Yeah. So what?”

  “You don’t have a problem fighting the war on terror against Muslim extremists?” Suárez asked.

  “No,” Akil answered. “Just like you’re part Mexican, and we’re on our way to that country now to kick the asses of some nasty mofos there.”

  “What I’m talking about is different,” Suárez explained.

  His skin was browner than Akil’s, and he had brilliant black eyes and a wide face with a scar that ran from his cheekbone to his chin—the result of a diving accident during training.

  “You’re talking about nationality,” Suárez said. “I’m talking about religious beliefs.”

  “You Christian?” the taller, broader Akil asked.

  From across the aisle, Crocker watched Suárez make the sign of the cross. “Yes,” he answered, “the Lord Jesus Christ is my savior.”

  “Then how can you be in the business of annihilating our enemies when Jesus told his followers to turn the other cheek?”

  It was a good question, Crocker thought. Suárez responded by reciting Matthew 5:39: “‘But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.’”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” argued Akil.

  “The Scripture also says in Exodus 22:2, ‘If a thief be found breaking up, and be smitten that he die, there shall no blood be shed for him.’”

  “So…”

  “To me that means one has the right to defend his home, his family, and his country,” Suárez explained. “Because aren’t the terrorists we fight against the same as thieves who are trying to steal our freedoms and liberties?”

  Akil grinned. “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe not,” Suárez mused out loud. “I ask myself those questions all the time and pray for an answer.”

  “Do you get one?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Crocker liked Suárez more already. He wanted strong men with consciences who understood the personal and spiritual sacrifices they were making, not stone-cold killers and sociopaths.

  And he hoped that Suárez and Akil were getting off on the right foot but wasn’t sure when he exited the plane beside Akil, who described the new team member as “a nice guy with shit for brains.”

  Crocker said, “Don’t be so judgmental, and cut the new guy some slack.”

  “I’ll try.”

  After the dull sameness of the plane cabin and the stale air, the sights and sounds of the Dallas–Fort Worth airport terminal woke him up. Tall, buxom blondes; an old couple holding hands while being pushed in matching wheelchairs; an overweight family sitting around a huge bucket of fries; anxious young men in business suits selling stuff over cell phones; a group of smiling young recruits in camouflage fatigues boarding a flight to North Carolina; a couple of college guys in shorts and flip-flops carrying Mexican sombreros; women in power suits and patent-leather shoes pulling black carry-ons; kids dressed all in black covered with tattoos.

  These are the people we’re defending, he said to himself with a smile.

  Carrying his Starbucks double espresso and Greek yogurt, he approached Suárez, Davis, and Akil. The last two were sitting near the gate howling with laughter.

  “W
hat are you two baboons laughing about?” Crocker asked.

  Davis: “Suárez was just telling us that his ex-wife used to ask him to piss on her in the shower.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m not kidding, chief. She used to wipe it all over her face and body like this. She said it was good for her skin.”

  “Where is she now?” Akil asked.

  “She’s living outside Albuquerque making jewelry.”

  Akil: “Next time I pass through, I’ll look her up.”

  Their banter was interrupted by a PA announcement informing them that their fight’s gate was being moved from concourse A to C, which meant gathering their stuff and taking the Skylink. They walked in a group, dressed casually in jeans, polo shirts, and hoodies, looking like athletes.

  Aside from Mancini, with his perpetual scowl and numerous tattoos, they seemed like a genial group of guys. Only if you looked carefully would you notice the confidence with which they carried themselves and the intensity in their eyes.

  Approximately three hours later, the Boeing 767-200 they rode in cut through the smog and low-lying clouds and landed at Don Miguel Hidalgo y Castilla International Airport in Guadalajara.

  As they stood in line at Immigration, Mancini explained that the modern steel-and-glass structure they stood in had been named in honor of Miguel Gregorio Antonio Ignacio Hidalgo y Castilla Gallaga Mandarte Villaseñor, who was a priest born of pure Spanish blood. Father Hidalgo was so shocked by the poverty he saw in his rural Mexican town of Dolores in the early 1800s that he marched throughout the territory preaching revolt against the Spanish and eventually raising an army of a hundred thousand campesinos armed with sticks, stones, and machetes.

  When his peasant army ran into a force of six thousand trained and armed Spanish troops, they were slaughtered, and Father Hidalgo was executed by a firing squad. His last words were “Though I may die, I shall be remembered forever.”