SEAL Team Six: Hunt the Jackal

by Don Mann

  The exchange between animals and human continued for several minutes. Then the Jackal leaned close to Lisa and whispered, “You’re an animal, too, Señora. We’re all animals underneath, living with the law of the jungle. The strong prey on the weak. The weak wait for a moment to strike back.”

  Some impulse in her caused her to shake her head and say, “No. There’s more to us humans. You should know that.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her tight to his chest. So tight that her breasts were smashed against him and she could feel the beating of his heart.

  “Of course you’re right, Señora,” he whispered so that his hot breath brushed her lips. “You’re a sophisticated woman. Which is why I can see in your eyes that we understand each other. Maybe I’m a black plague to you, something you look on with disgust, but we’ve met before on the plains of Analocha and the altars of Teoni. I might seem insane to you, but even my disease has a purpose, which your body and blood will cure.”

  Lyrics to the Buck Owens classic echoed in his head as Crocker parked his bike near the curb and moved closer past some maple trees to try to peer through one of the windows of the ground-floor apartment just east of Wilson Boulevard in Arlington.

  “There’s no fool like an old fool, that’s loved and lost at least a hundred times.”

  He didn’t want to interfere in his dad’s life, but he couldn’t allow him to be played, either.

  Through a sheer pale-yellow curtain he saw a dim light inside beyond the kitchen but couldn’t make out anyone inside. So he circled the block. Light rain fell as he walked and remembered all the people he’d known who’d fallen victims to drugs—numerous friends growing up, a girlfriend, his brother, and his stepson, Carl (Holly’s son), who got involved with drugs as a teenager and was gunned down on the street by a drug dealer.

  Crocker hated what drugs did to people—destroying their wills and draining their self-respect. His brother was the only person he knew who had escaped more or less intact.

  The third time he passed the window, the kitchen light was on. Moving closer, he saw a dark-haired woman standing with her back to him. A tall man entered the room behind her. Crocker saw her reach into a drawer and tear off a piece of aluminum foil. The man pulled something out of his pocket and squeezed her butt.

  When she turned, Crocker recognized Carla from the photo his dad had shown him. She looked harder and more haggard in the stark kitchen light, but still attractive, with straight bangs and big brown eyes.

  So much for her being in rehab, he said to himself.

  Standing in the rain, his muscular body buzzing, he considered his options.

  First he thought of circling to the front and ringing her buzzer. Then he saw the two of them exit the kitchen and noticed that the window was partially open.

  He scanned the yard and parking lot behind him to make sure no one was watching, then climbed up to the sill, pushed the window open, and pulled out the screen. He set it down gently on the kitchen counter and climbed in over the aluminum sink, taking care not to touch the bowls and plates piled inside.

  It resembled other post–World War II brick apartments he’d been in. A galley kitchen with gray linoleum floor.

  Marvin Gaye asked, “What’s going on?” from a stereo inside as Crocker squeezed his body around the corner into the living room. Opposite a sloppy brown leather couch, the TV was tuned to Fox News, but the sound was off. A little Christmas tree with white lights sat in the corner, even though it was the second week of April.

  He heard a man’s gruff voice in a room to his right off a narrow hallway. The door stood partially opened and a light burned inside.

  “Mother, mother; there’s too many of you cryin’…”

  He stood in the strange, sour-smelling space and waited. Water dripped from a sink in the bathroom behind him. He sniffed something that reminded him of a burning plastic shower curtain, pushed the bedroom door open, and entered.

  Carla sat on the edge of the bed, sucking crystal meth vapor through a three-inch glass pipe. The man knelt beside her, cooking it with a lighter on a piece of aluminum foil.

  He had a sharp profile and coarse straw-colored hair that stood up straight. He turned, saw Crocker, and asked, “Where the fuck did you come from?”

  Crocker let the situation sink in and the anger settle inside him.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the man demanded.

  “A friend of a friend,” Crocker answered, his arms at his sides.

  “How’d you get in?” the man asked. He had hard blue eyes and a rough confidence.

  “I slid down the chimney.”

  This guy didn’t appear to be the sharpest knife in the set, or maybe his perception was warped by the meth. Blinking several times in succession, he asked, “What’d you say?”

  Carla sat with her head craned back and her eyes closed, enjoying the buzz. So she didn’t witness any of this. Nor did she notice when the man beside her set the cooked meth on the floor and stood to confront Crocker.

  “You a friend of Carla’s?” the tall man asked.

  “No.”

  “You work in the building?”

  The scene struck Crocker as absurd, so he said with a straight face, “Santa Claus sent me. I came to tell both of you that Christmas is over.”

  “What?”

  “Hi, Carla,” Crocker said.

  Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t fully open.

  The man stepped closer and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He was taller and bigger than Crocker, with steroid-enhanced biceps that bulged from under a gray Georgia Tech T-shirt. He pushed a Fairfax County Police Department badge toward Crocker and snarled, “I’m a cop, so get the fuck out.”

  “I came to talk to Carla,” Crocker countered, the tension between them growing.

  “Well, she’s busy now. So either turn around and get out the way you came, or I arrest you for breaking and entering!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  They were practically nose to nose. So close that Crocker could smell the mildew on the man’s clothes and the cheap vanilla-scented cologne.

  “All right, asshole,” the man growled, his eyes shining with crazy meth energy and belligerence. As relaxed as Crocker appeared, he was completely alert to what was coming. So when the tall man cocked his fist back to clock him, he grabbed the man by the collar and used his momentum to throw him into the lamp on a corner table near the wall. The small table fell over, the lamp shattered, glass went flying, and the man crashed to the floor.

  Carla looked up. She wore a red tank top with no bra. Lank hair hung over her bleary eyes.

  Crocker said, “I guess you’re not in rehab, are you?”

  “What? I mean…what did you…?” She pointed to the man groaning in the corner.

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  “You…you from the center?” she asked.

  “I came here to tell you to stop taking money from my father,” Crocker said.

  She squinted up at him. “Who are you?”

  The man behind him was trying to pull himself up as blood dripped from a cut on his forehead.

  “My dad’s Jim Crocker.”

  He saw the recognition reach her eyes, then watched her make the decision to reach back across the bed toward the dark brown nightstand. He didn’t know if she was going for the phone or something else. But when he saw her slide open the drawer, he sprang forward and slapped her hand away.

  She shouted, “Hey! That hurt!”

  He saw the silver pistol inside the drawer and grabbed it.

  She pushed the pipe and foil with the meth under the bed and said, “I know who you are. I’m calling the police.”

  “I thought your friend was a cop.”

  The man behind Crocker had managed to get to his feet and was leaning against the wall for support. Crocker walked over and kicked his feet out from under him, then turned back in time to fend off the blow from a charging Carla. He twisted her ar
m behind her, spun her around, and threw her onto the bed.

  “You’re asking for it, fuckhead!” she shouted. “You’re messing with the wrong people!”

  He leaned on the bed with one knee, clamped a hand over her mouth, and pointed the pistol at her head. “You want me to end your miserable life right now, Carla? Do you?”

  Part of him wanted to rid the world of a useless parasite. But another reminded him that she had a nine-year-old son who was probably somewhere in the apartment. Carla shook her head vigorously from side to side. “No. No, please!”

  “You take another penny from my dad, and I’ll break every bone in your body. You understand?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  He let go of her and started to back out the door, stopping to give the tall man on the floor another kick in the ribs.

  From the doorway, he said, “Easter is past, Carla. So it’s time to take down your Christmas tree. And get yourself to rehab. You need it.”

  Lisa Clark dreamt that she was at the beach and the sun was in her eyes. Squinting into the bright light, she saw chubby two-year-old Olivia playing happily in the sand like an angel. She wore a pink bathing suit and held a little green shovel in her right hand. Her face shone with pure delight, and her hair was so blond it looked almost white.

  “Look, Mommy,” she squealed as she threw a shovelful of sand in the air. A gust of sea air pulled the sand and tossed it back, so that most of it landed on top of Olivia’s head and got into her mouth and eyes.

  In an instant, the little girl’s expression changed from happiness to distress. She scrunched up her mouth as though she was about to cry.

  Lisa lunged forward to pick her up. But when she tried to locate Olivia, the sun blinded her. So she reached out across the hot sand.

  A stern voice said, “Don’t move, Señora!” Firm hands held her.

  “What?” She squinted into the bright light and saw a man with gray hair looking down at her.

  “This will just take a minute,” he said gently.

  She saw that she was lying on a beige sheet and a heavyset woman was holding her right arm. When a needle entered her finger, she tried to pull away.

  “Who are you? What are you doing?”

  Her head felt swollen, like a big balloon, and her mouth and tongue were dry.

  “Where am I?”

  She watched the glass vial fill with red blood. Then felt another needle enter her arm.

  “Close your eyes, Señora. In another minute we will be finished.”

  She was trying to remember where she was and the last thing she had experienced. But all she could think of was Olivia in her pink bathing suit.

  “Where’s my daughter?” she asked.

  “Your daughter is resting, Señora. Close your eyes.”

  The man’s soothing voice entered her ears and swirled through her brain like a dancer holding a pink veil. She smelled alcohol and knew there was a reason why she was thinking of Olivia, and that it was important, but she couldn’t focus enough to determine what it was.

  Crocker sat in the dining room of his two-story house in Virginia Beach with his dog, Brando, by his side. Crocker was eating pasta primavera with his wife; his daughter, Jenny; and Jenny’s red-haired friend, Leslie, listening to Leslie talk about the volunteer work she was doing for the Red Cross, when the phone rang in the kitchen. He got up, thinking that he liked Leslie and the positive influence she had on his daughter, turned down the stereo, which was playing Gato Barbieri’s “Europa,” and picked up the phone.

  He heard his XO’s voice on the other end say, “The CO needs to see you.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he answered.

  “Thanks.”

  Returning to the table, he announced, “Sorry, but I’ve got to go in.”

  “Dad,” Jenny said. “I thought we were going to talk about colleges.” She was in the final semester of her junior year at First Colonial High School and had developed an interest in medicine and biology.

  “We will, sweetheart, when I get back.”

  Holly sighed and reached for his plate. “I’ll save the rest of your dinner.”

  He’d planned to spend the weekend with the two most important women in his life. Maybe take them to the movies tomorrow and do some work around the house.

  “See you later,” he said, pushing the chair back under the table and shifting his attention from home to work.

  He turned and walked quickly downstairs to his pickup parked in the garage, removed the HUKI surf ski from the back, set it in its rack, and drove directly to SEAL Team Six compound, passing the spot where he’d hit the buzzard roughly two years earlier.

  He entered the CO’s office with the bitter taste of buzzard feathers in his mouth. Captain Sutter sat in khakis reading something on his desk, with Jim Anders from CIA looking over his shoulder.

  Seeing the look on Crocker’s face, the CO removed his reading glasses and cleared his throat. “You okay, Crocker?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sutter pointed to one of the four high-backed leather chairs that formed a semicircle in front of his desk and said, “Then have a seat.”

  Crocker and the deputy chief of CIA operations shook hands. Anders stood about five foot ten and had the build of an NFL linebacker. His brown hair was neatly parted on the side and Brylcreemed back.

  Sutter drank coffee from his blue DEVGRU mug and said, “I understand that you spoke to Senator Clark.”

  Crocker nodded. “Yes, I called to express my concern and support.”

  “Good,” Sutter said, settling back in his chair.

  The truth was that he had told Clark he wanted Black Cell to be tasked with the recovery of Clark’s wife and daughter, but that the only way he imagined that would happen was if Clark made that request directly to the White House.

  “What do you think of Tino Suárez?” Sutter asked.

  “Tino Suárez?” It took Crocker’s mind a few seconds to shift gears and summon the image of the young SEAL.

  Suárez was a tough young operative from Team Two who had been selected into Team Six three years ago. He’d grown up in the Bronx, the son of a Mexican immigrant mother and Salvadoran father, worked hard, seemed to handle all the challenges that were thrown at him, and didn’t take shit from anyone. Like Ritchie, he was a breacher and explosives expert. And like all the SEALs on Six, he excelled in all aspects of maritime counterterrorism and small-unit tactics. He also spoke Spanish.

  “I like Tino a lot,” Crocker answered. “Why?”

  “Because I’m sending him with you to Mexico,” Sutter answered.

  Crocker sat up. Excellent, he said to himself.

  “I should have asked this first,” Sutter said, adjusting the collar on his shirt. “Are your men ready?”

  Cal certainly wasn’t. Crocker didn’t need to tell his CO that he was in nearby Portsmouth Naval Medical Center recovering from two broken vertebrae and trauma to his liver, stomach, and spleen. It would be a month at least before he was back on his feet.

  That left Davis, Akil, and Mancini, all of whom were technically on standby, which meant they had to remain close to the compound and be ready to deploy in as little as four hours.

  “Yes, sir,” Crocker answered.

  “How many are you?”

  “Five, sir, including Suárez”

  “That works.”

  Sutter grabbed a paper off his desk and handed it to Crocker. “This e-mail arrived today at Senator Clark’s Capitol Hill office.”

  It read: “You started this war, now we’re taking it into your backyard. Your wife will die in three days if the United States doesn’t release the following people, who are being held in U.S. jails.” Following was a list of forty Spanish names that meant nothing to Crocker. At the end it read, “Your enemy, Z-13. P.S. We will send you her head after we cut it off so you will have something to remember.”

  Crocker handed the e-mail back to Sutter and aske
d. “What’s Z-13?”

  Anders shook his head. “We think it’s a cell of one of the major Mexican drug cartels.”

  “Who are the individuals listed at the bottom?”

  “Drug dealers and hit men,” Anders answered. “Mexicans, mostly. Two or three Colombians. The majority of them are associated with the Mexican drug cartel Los Zetas.”

  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.