by Tom Clancy
“Fucking Zúñiga,” Corrales said through his teeth.
“No, I don’t think it was the Sinaloas,” said Hernando. “I asked around.”
“What’s the note say?”
“Just two words: Buitres Justicieros.”
Corrales tensed. Avenging Vultures. Fucking Guatemalans — who were supposed to be working for the Juárez Cartel, not executing its allies.
However, Corrales knew exactly why they’d killed Johnny.
And it was all his fault.
Taliban Safe House
Near San José
Costa Rica
As instructed by Rahmani, Samad had ordered the Anza MKIII (QW-2), which was considered the Chinese equivalent of the U.S. FIM-92E Stinger missile. Thank Allah he’d also received free shipping — even without an online coupon! His lieutenants had appreciated that joke, and in reality, it wasn’t too far from the truth. Their weapons deal had been finalized through an encrypted website and with electronic payment; moreover, their Chinese allies had been able to smuggle the weapons into Costa Rica via container ship without incident.
Samad and his entourage had left Colombia aboard a small cargo plane and been flown to Costa Rica by an ally who’d delivered them to a Taliban safe house in a canton called Uruca on the outskirts of the country’s capital. It was there, inside the small two-bedroom home that reeked of mothballs and bleach, that they took delivery of the man-portable surface-to-air missile launchers, six in all, packed in Anvil cases fitted with backpack-style harnesses for easier carrying. And it was there that Talwar and Niazi once more questioned the details of their mission.
“When can you tell us what will happen?” asked Niazi.
“When we arrive in the United States.”
“How will we do that without help from the Mexicans?” asked Talwar.
“When you build a plan, you must build three other plans, so as each falls you turn to the next.”
“And when you run out of plans?” asked Talwar.
Samad raised his brows. “You either succeed or die.”
“So what is your plan to get us into the United States?”
“Patience,” Samad told Talwar. “We have to get to Mexico first. And when we arrive there, you’ll see. We have friends who have been keeping a careful watch on the border. We are not alone. Mullah Rahmani has taken very good care of us.”
“Samad, I am worried about some of the others. They are very young and impressionable. I fear that once we reach America, some will leave when they see the kind of life they can have there — McDonald’s and Burger King and Walmart.”
“How can you doubt their faith now?”
Talwar shrugged. “It is one thing to have faith in the valley. It is another to have faith in the palace. I am here as a warrior, but I am concerned.”
Samad put a hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder. “We will shoot any man who deserts us. Do you understand?”
Talwar and Niazi nodded.
“Then we’ve nothing left to discuss. We have the missiles and launchers. Let’s get the trucks loaded and get back to the airport.”
They would lift off from Costa Rica and fly to a private airport with a dirt strip about one thousand miles south of Mexicali and literally in the middle of nowhere. Trucks and drivers were already waiting for them to complete the last leg of the journey northward, toward the border.
Samad’s excitement was beginning to mount. If they could just make that border crossing, the rest of his mission would unfold as precisely as Mullah Rahmani had described it to him. Years’ worth of planning and the dedication of many warriors of Allah would all come to fruition.
Samad could not feel more proud. He carried the will of Allah in his heart, and the fire of jihad in his hands. Those were all he needed.
San Cristóbal de las Casas
Chiapas, Mexico
It wasn’t until now that Moore had been able to get some digital pictures of all three of the “bodyguards” that Miguel and his girlfriend had following them. And when he’d sent back the photos to Towers, the results were impressive. Not only was Corrales a High-Value Target, but so was Pablo Gutiérrez, who’d killed an FBI agent in Calexico. In fact, Agent Ansara from Moore’s own task force had followed a few leads on Pablo that had taken him up into the Sequoia National Forest. Consequently, they could now, as Towers had put it, nab two major scumbags with one stone.
“Three,” Moore had corrected. “Don’t forget about the big dog himself, Rojas …”
“Trust me. I haven’t forgotten about him,” Towers had said. “But let’s be patient.”
Tailing Miguel, his girl, and their three bodyguards was a bigger challenge than Moore had thought. They had, of course, packed clothes so they’d resemble tourists, with cameras dangling from their necks, but Torres had a physique and face you didn’t easily forget, and Moore had questioned him thoroughly: “Will Corrales know who you are if he sees you?”
“No, he won’t,” said the fat man. Neither he nor Fitzpatrick had ever had any direct contact with the man, but that didn’t mean Corrales hadn’t seen pictures of them. Corrales’s spotters seemed to be everywhere in Juárez.
With that in mind, Moore argued for Fitzpatrick and Torres to hold even farther back and not take any chances. Torres had protested, saying that Corrales had probably seen pictures of Moore, since he’d stayed in the hotel. While that might be true, Moore could blend in far easier than the others. He was wearing a floral-print shirt, a photographer’s vest, and an awestruck grin on his face: classic dumbass tourist. The vest did a nice job of hiding his pair of suppressed Glocks. Fitzpatrick and Torres would take out Corrales’s two puppies, but Moore was intent on nabbing Corrales himself. Once they dealt with those three, they would move on to Rojas’s son and his girl, and all of them would be flown to a safe house in Guadalajara. From there Zúñiga would take over the negotiations with Rojas. While Torres had wanted the girl killed, Moore told him innocents would be left out of the equation. Period. Torres thought about it, figured an extra hostage wasn’t a bad idea.
With his own two accomplices sifting through the crowded street much farther back, Moore was shadowing Miguel and Sonia. They had stopped at one of the dozens of makeshift booths set up by native women to sell their wares: brightly colored belts and dresses, and children’s dolls made of wood. A few of the dolls surprised Moore, as they’d been fashioned to resemble soldiers with guns and wearing woolen balaclavas. That was an interesting message to send to the children in this city: Your heroes wear masks and carry guns …
Farther down the street lay the more densely packed booths of the market, where a wide variety of fresh fruits and vegetables were stacked neatly in pyramids and sold out of wicker baskets. There were more booths selling rice and fish, others featuring beef and chicken, and even one with a big banner advertising locally grown coffee beans, since the valley was one of Mexico’s premier areas for the crop.
Moore shifted to within a few feet of Miguel’s girlfriend, who was holding up a dress to the light and studying its rich yellow-and-red floral pattern. She was lean and athletic, wearing an oversized pair of black sunglasses.
“What do you think?” she asked her boyfriend.
Miguel glanced up from his smartphone. “Oh, Sonia, that’s much too loud for you. Keep looking.”
She shrugged and handed the dress back to the old lady who owned the booth.
“Men don’t know how to dress women,” said the old lady. “This one is perfect for you. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Sonia (Moore liked that name) smiled. “I agree, but he is a very strong-willed man.”
At that, Moore frowned. He would have told Sonia that the dress was beautiful and that she smelled so very sweet, and that she was so fresh and young and sexy that it was easy to forget that his friends wanted to kill her.
Well, he would have told her some of that.
“Come on, Sonia, let’s keep going,” said Miguel.
Moore pretended to look at a wallet on a table nearby. As they were about to leave, he glanced up, over the rim of his sunglasses, and there he was, the little son of a bitch, Dante Corrales, standing across the street in the alcove of a small building, staring at them, arms folded over his chest.
Watching the boss’s son, huh, buddy? Can’t wait for you and I to sit down and have coffee …I’m hoping you’ll have a lot to talk about.
Moore had barely finished that thought when a hand wrapped around Corrales’s mouth, and suddenly two men were on him, dragging him back into the building. Moore immediately got on his cell phone to Fitzpatrick, and said, “A bunch of guys just grabbed Corrales.”
“No shit. We just lost the other two guys. What the fuck is going on?”
“Get up here. They pulled him into the pink building on my left. I’ll stay with Miguel and the girl.”
But when Moore turned around, both the young man and his lovely companion were gone.
24 HE THAT DIES PAYS ALL DEBTS
San Cristóbal de las Casas
Chiapas, Mexico
Moore swung around, his gaze probing the throngs of tourists, sweeping from left to right, then farther down the street toward the more crowded market.
Between all the colors worn by the vendors and the shifting about of the pedestrians, Moore realized, in the mere instant he’d taken his eyes off Miguel and Sonia and looked to Corrales he’d lost the couple. That fast. A few heartbeats. They must’ve been approached by gunmen and quietly ushered away.
It wasn’t exactly panic that set in but a kind of electricity that coursed through Moore’s veins, humming in tune to the rapid beating of his heart.
A car engine fired up, the sound originating from the next corner. Moore bolted off, weaving his way through the shoppers and reaching the corner, where at the foot of a steep hill Miguel and Sonia were running across the street to the next alley. They were being pursued by two short men dressed like local farmers, who just happened to be carrying pistols. Maybe they had been led away — but they’d made their break.
The lead guy fired two shots at the couple, but the rounds were clearly warning shots that burrowed into the whitewashed walls behind them as they disappeared into the alley. The guy could have easily killed them both. So these men, whoever they were, wanted prisoners as well.
They weren’t members of the Sinaloa Cartel. The question was, how many other groups had Corrales and his cronies pissed off? Damn, they were probably lining up to take potshots at the punk from the all-powerful Juárez Cartel, and now Moore swore under his breath. The mission was difficult enough without competition.
He fell in behind them but was trying to keep a safe-enough distance to avoid detection. He jogged into the narrow alley, and the rear guy must’ve heard Moore’s footfalls, because he stole a look back, then slowed — turning to fire.
Throwing himself toward the wall and reaching for his pistol, Moore evaded the first round by perhaps a meter before he had his pistol free from its holster, and returned two suppressed rounds, the cap-gun-like pop echoing off the walls.
The guy did likewise, diving for the wall.
Moore’s first shot missed the guy’s head by mere inches, but the second caught him in the shoulder, and with a half-strangled cry he dropped hard to the dirt.
Wishing he had time to call Fitzpatrick and Torres, Moore charged past the fallen guy, kicking his weapon away, turned right at the end of the alley, then found himself on another steep cobblestone road, with cars lining both sides.
Miguel and Sonia were on the sidewalk and struggling up the hill, with the lone guy still behind them. Their pursuer fired another warning round that shattered the rear window of a small pickup truck beside them. Then he screamed in Spanish for them to stop running.
Moore bounded forward as a car engine roared behind him. He craned his neck at the dark blue sedan as it rushed past — a rental car, no doubt, the windows lowered, two men in the front seats, the passenger’s arm hanging over the door with a pistol in his grip. Christ, how many were there? Moore ducked behind two cars as the passenger opened fire on him, and those were not warning shots.
As the car mounted the hill, Moore sprang up and fired another pair of rounds, the first punching the rear window and striking the passenger’s head, the second going wide as the driver cut the wheel hard, out of Moore’s bead.
Miguel and Sonia ducked into an alcove and once more vanished.
The remaining guy on foot steered himself into the same alcove as the car pulled to a stop.
Bad move, guys, Moore thought, because the kid and his girl were going into a three-story hotel, and they would probably be trapped inside.
Miguel kept cursing and trying to keep up with Sonia, who rushed past the hotel’s front desk, where the elderly woman working there gaped at them. They left her calling after them and bounded into the stairwell.
“Where are we going?” he cried.
“Just keep going!”
Where had she found this bravery? He was supposed to be the man and protect her, but she’d spotted Corrales being abducted, had seen the approach of two other men, and had kicked off her heels and gotten them out of there before these idiots could kidnap them. But now there was still at least one bastard on their tail (who knew what happened to the other one), yet Sonia seemed to have a plan.
“We can’t go to the roof,” he shouted back. “We’ll get stuck up there!”
“We’re not going to the roof,” she said, arriving on the next landing. She opened the door to the second floor, waved him on. Then they waited there, just panting, taking in the stale air as they listened for the footsteps of the guy chasing them. He arrived on the landing but kept on going up to the third floor.
Miguel breathed the deepest sigh of relief of his life. He glanced over at Sonia, still struggling for breath. He looked down, and in her hand was a small knife whose blade curved into a hook.
“Where’d you get that?”
“From my purse. My father gave it to me. It’s really just a good-luck charm, but my father taught me how to use it.”
“Fernando is very strict about us having weapons.”
“I know. I didn’t want to tell you, but he let me keep it. I have to protect myself.”
Miguel frowned—
Just as the door swung open.
“Don’t move,” said the guy who’d been chasing them, his gun leveled on Miguel. “All you have to do is come along. There’s a car outside.”
Miguel thought he was dreaming as Sonia screamed, reared back, and slashed open the guy’s throat, the blood coming in a great fountain across the wall.
“Get his gun!” she hollered.
He stood there, stunned. Who was this girl he’d fallen in love with? She was remarkable.
With his phone vibrating and yet another car arriving outside the hotel and at least three more guys rushing inside, Moore figured that if he walked in there, he’d be either captured or just shot for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He crouched low behind a car and tugged out the phone: Fitzpatrick’s number had come up while he’d just missed a call from Towers. He answered Fitzpatrick’s call. “Where are you? We still can’t find the other two guys, and no sign of Corrales.”
“Damn, we need to find them,” Moore said. “But yeah, I’m near this hotel a couple of blocks down. The road is real steep. The kid and the girl are inside, but these other guys are coming in to grab them.”
“Who the fuck are they?”
“Don’t know yet. But sure as shit we’ll find out. Get the car and meet me over here!”
“Dude, how the hell did this go south so fast?”
“I don’t know. Just get here.”
That they’d come up from behind him and had managed to drag him into the building was very disappointing to Corrales. He’d prided himself on being very in tune with his senses, with his environment, always aware of any danger, reaching out with an extrasensory perception, as though he could read
the thoughts of his actors before they drew close, feel their body heat from meters away, and know ahead of time what dark intentions lay in their hearts.
But that was bullshit, and he’d fucked up — because he’d let his guard down and forgotten that in this business there were people who wanted to kill you every day.
So these light-footed bastards had managed to drag him into the shop, which had turned out to be an old clothing store under heavy renovation, with construction materials all around them.
While they’d managed to disarm Corrales, they hadn’t been able to get a firm grip on him, and he slithered like a snake out of the first guy’s grip, turned, and took a round point-blank in his shoulder before ripping his gun back from the guy who’d seized it.
Before either of the guys could react, Corrales put a bullet in each of their hearts.
And then he fell onto the floor, gasping, the blood pouring from his shoulder. He cursed and cursed again. He’d been shot before, but only minor flesh wounds, nothing like this.
He fumbled for his cell phone, dialed Miguel, waited. No answer. He called Pablo. Nothing. He sat there, bleeding. He called Raúl. Voice mail. Police sirens rose in the distance, and out behind the dust-caked windows of the shop, the tourists turned their heads as a police car rumbled past them.
Those bastards would no doubt capture Miguel and Sonia. How would he explain this to his boss, Castillo? That one-eyed fool would be outraged, and Corrales’s failure would result in his execution unless he was able to link back up with the boss’s son and the girl.
Castillo would ask, “Why did the Guatemalans attack you? I told you to hire them and have them make some hits on the Sinaloas.”
But Corrales would be unable to answer. He could not tell Castillo that the money he’d been given to pay off the Guatemalans and use them as assassins had actually been used to help finance Corrales’s hotel restoration and that he’d lied to the Guatemalans about payment. He’d given them twenty percent down, they had completed a half-dozen killings, but then Corrales had screwed them out of their money. They were, to put it delicately, fucking pissed. They’d killed Johnny and had followed Corrales here. He hadn’t realized how relentless the little fuckers were, and now everything was falling apart.
