by Don Mann
“Why the fuck is that relevant?” Jenson snarled.
“Because it’s not well monitored,” Gomez explained. “Bandits and hustlers use big rafts with inflated truck-tire inner tubes to transport drugs and contraband across it day and night. And nobody stops them, because they’re working with the Zetas, MS-13, or one of several Guatemalan gangs.”
Jenson slapped his big hands together and, looking at Crocker, asked, “What do you think?”
Crocker glanced at his watch. They were eighty-three minutes away from the deadline. “How many guards and how are they armed?” he asked.
Gomez looked at the masked man, who held up ten fingers.
“Expect ten to a dozen with automatic weapons. The last time we looked, which was about an hour ago, they were stationed around the house. Four or five at the front gate, a few in back. I would expect more inside the house itself.”
“Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
Crocker looked at Mancini, who shook his head.
“All right, let’s get these guys geared up,” said Jenson as he set a hand on Crocker’s shoulder. “Come with me.”
Outside, the night air was still and thick. Hundreds of male cicadas and spittlebugs clicked around them in unison, announcing to the females that they were ready to mate. Jenson strode to the corner of the aluminum building and lit a cigarette as Crocker watched a falling star streak across the sky and fade.
“We got a problem,” Jenson said, drawing on the Camel Light, his forehead furrowed. “A big fucking headache.”
“What?”
“Washington hasn’t given us authorization. They’re waiting for permission from the Peña Nieto government, and I can tell you that the Mexicans want to execute the raid themselves. The problem is they don’t know what we know in terms of intel, and I don’t plan to tell ’em.”
“Don’t,” Crocker answered, more aware than ever of the minutes ticking by. “We can’t trust them. We both know that.”
“But I also know this White House, and they don’t want to risk their relationship with the new Mexican president, so they’re not giving us the green light.”
Crocker grimaced.
“It’s a goddamn mess, and it’s been dumped in our laps.”
“You think the Jackal will carry out his threat and execute the Clark women?” Crocker asked.
“Based on everything I’ve heard about him, I believe he will.”
Crocker slapped Jenson on the shoulder. “Then let’s go!”
“We could both lose our jobs for this, if we’re not shot by the Mexicans first.”
“Right is right.”
“I won’t argue with that.” Jenson stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I don’t trust these sons-a-bitches guarding us, either. They probably got orders to follow you to the ranch.”
“We’ll use deception. Let’s go.”
Lisa sat in the chair with her hands folded in her lap, sweating. For some reason, the air conditioner had been turned off, which caused her to become increasingly uncomfortable.
Ten minutes grew to twenty, then thirty. She prayed silently, God, if you get my daughter and me out of here alive, I’ll dedicate myself to being a better person. I realize I’ve made mistakes in the past, and I understand now that politics and seeking power are not the right path for me. All I want to do in the future is love and nurture my family and help people in need.
She looked up at Nelson and a third armed guard who stood near the camera, whispering. This one seemed rougher than the others and had black tears tattooed down the side of his wide face. He whispered something to Nelson, slapped him in the chest with the back of his right hand, and chuckled cruelly like someone who had just twisted the head off a cat. Then he turned to Lisa with a look that sent a chill through her body.
“¿Lista, Señora?” the guard asked leeringly.
She looked away, pretending not to understand and wishing she could turn invisible. If only one of us survives this, let it be my daughter, she prayed silently. She’s a good, decent girl with a big heart. Please spare her.
A cell phone rang to a hip-hop rhythm. The guard beside Nelson answered, “Sí, Jefe…”
She had hoped to hear footsteps and watch El Chacal and Olivia enter through one of the doors. But she realized now that wasn’t going to happen.
As the guard whispered into the phone, he looked at her and nodded. The unease she felt was almost unbearable. “Lord God, I place all my trust in you,” she said, closing her eyes. “I love you more than I ever could have imagined.”
The guard slipped the phone back in his pocket, then nodded at Nelson, who flipped on the umbrella lights again. They startled her.
Suddenly he seemed to be in a hurry. He said, “We only have fifteen minutes, Señora, so you have to talk fast.”
“Okay, but what about my daughter?” she asked nervously, sweat dripping down her face and ruining her makeup.
“I don’t know about her, Señora. I don’t know anything. My job is to record your statement.”
“Does he?” Lisa asked, pointing to the guard.
“Chamale? No.”
“What happens after I record my statement?”
“You will go with Chamale. Stop asking questions.”
Chapter Fourteen
Knowing is not enough, we must apply. Willing is not enough, we must do.
—Bruce Lee
Crocker and the three other SEALs made a big show of saying goodbye and wishing good luck to Becker, Max Jenson, and the masked Mexican, who climbed into the dark-blue Suburban, armed and wearing black helmets, then drove off.
They waited five minutes until the Mexican soldiers guarding the building jumped into their jeeps and followed them, then exited out the back door, through thick foliage, to an old Ford Explorer parked by an equipment shed. Gomez flicked on the yellow parking lights, and they climbed inside.
Gomez, who resembled a young Edward James Olmos, said, “The weapons and ammo are in back. Grab what you need.”
Mancini passed an MP7 submachine gun with suppressor and M3X weapons light, a SOG knife, a cylindrical M14 incendiary grenade (which could produce enough heat to melt through an engine block), an MK141 Mod 0 stun grenade, two M68 frag grenades, an HK-45CT handgun, and three extra mags for each of them up to Crocker in the passenger seat.
He stuck the mags into the pouches of the low-profile vest he’d strapped over his black tee and slipped the handgun into the sleeve under his left arm, since he was a right-handed shooter. They had no armor, which meant they didn’t have protective ceramic plates to insert in the vests.
Crocker didn’t mind, because he wanted them to move as fast and as stealthily as possible. Each operator also wore an INVISIO M4 headset with vibration-sensing bone conduction so they could communicate with one another, and NVGs, but no helmets.
“We’re about five minutes away,” Gomez announced as he steered onto a two-lane asphalt road that took them past a movie theater playing Iron Man 3. Among the crowd gathered outside was someone dressed in an Iron Man suit, posing with his arms held triumphantly over his head.
“Fool,” Manicini grumbled.
“Lighten up,” Akil said. “He’s just having fun.”
“Maybe we should recruit him,” Suárez remarked.
“Good idea.”
“How do you want to do this?” Gomez asked Crocker as he glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed.
“Get us as close as you can without being detected,” Crocker replied, screwing a six-inch suppressor into the barrel of his MP7. “You brought bolt cutters, right?”
“Two Porter thirty-six-inchers. Top of the line.”
“Good. We’ll cut through the fence along the river and enter from the back. Once we’re in, Manny, you and Akil deploy into the yard around the near side, to your left. Disable the side door, then secure the front door and front gate. Then clear through the front entrance into the bottom floor.”
“What do you mean by disable?” Mancini asked.
“Bar it, block it, deploy an M14 to melt the lock, whatever,” Crocker answered. “We need to prevent people from escaping the house.”
“Got it.”
“Call Suárez or me if you need help securing the front. And try not to shoot us, because we’ll be entering through the back portico and heading for the stairway.”
“How many enemy should we expect?” asked Akil.
“You said ten, right?” Crocker said, turning to Gomez.
“Anywhere from six to fifteen.”
Akil: “Piece of cake.”
“We don’t want anyone escaping,” Crocker continued. “Look for the hostages and clear them out of there.”
“Two blond babes. Not a problem,” cracked Akil.
“We don’t want them getting hurt.”
Mancini: “No.”
“Suárez, once the first deck is secure, you and I are going to climb up to the balcony and attack the second. While we do that, Mancini and Akil will cover the bottom of the main stairway.”
Akil: “Clever, boss.”
“Don’t fuck around.”
“Floor plan?” asked Mancini.
“You saw what they showed us. You want me to go over it again?”
“Not necessary.”
“What about me?” Gomez asked. “What do you want me to do?”
“You’ll bring the Explorer around and block the front gate. Don’t let anyone escape. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“What about creating a diversion?” Mancini asked.
“No time,” Crocker answered, glancing at his watch. “It looks like we’re going to be hitting them within five or ten minutes of the deadline, maybe less. So they’ll be on alert. Which brings me to another point: This all has to be quick and precise. As soon as we’re compromised, we’ve got to get to the hostages within thirty seconds. Otherwise, they’ll be executed.”
They had passed through the commercial part of town and were climbing through thick foliage, past homes and ranches. A half-moon shone ahead. Crocker’s heart raced like crazy. The problems with this mission were almost too numerous to consider. For one thing, they had no exit strategy, and there was no time to try to cobble one together now.
Gomez pulled to the shoulder just before the road curved right.
“This it?” Crocker asked.
“On the other end of this curve is a dirt road that runs about fifteen hundred yards to the Coatan River. I’ll let you out at the end of that. From there, you’ve got about sixty yards of brush until you reach the fence.”
“How long do you think we have until the Federales arrive?” Crocker asked.
“Good question,” Akil said from the backseat.
“Say, fifteen minutes,” Gomez answered. “Twenty at the most.”
“Maintaining the element of surprise is critical,” Crocker reminded them. “We don’t know for sure, but we expect the hostages are on the second deck.”
“Keep alert for booby traps.”
“Let’s launch this fucker.”
“This one’s for Ritchie!”
“For Ritchie. Go!”
Senator Jesse Clark sat in his Capitol Hill office, sipping from a glass of iced tea and waiting for the live stream to appear on his computer. Accompanying him were three aides, an FBI hostage crisis expert, and two deputies from the White House National Security Council.
A female aide looked at her watch and said, “Should be any minute now.”
An instant later the feed went live with the camera tightly focused on Lisa’s tense face.
“Lord have mercy,” Clark muttered.
“She looks good,” the aide whispered. “Very poised.”
“Always does.”
On the live stream, Lisa looked up, bit her top lip, and started to speak.
“My captor has asked me to record a brief statement about my experience here. He has given me no guidelines, so I’m speaking freely, choosing my own words. First, I want to say that while this ordeal has been difficult and even frightening at times, I have been treated well. I haven’t been threatened. And although I have had very little contact with my daughter, I have no reason to believe that her treatment has been any different from mine.”
As she spoke, the camera slowly pulled back, revealing the chair she was sitting in, her suit, and the black flag behind her.
“What’s that?” asked a male aide in a whisper.
“A strange variation of the Zapatista flag,” the NSC deputy answered.
“Shhh!” said Clark’s female aide.
Lisa continued: “Early in my captivity, the man who had been holding us explained his reasons for kidnapping us, which have to do with what he believes is a pattern of prejudice and unfair treatment of Mexicans by the United States government that he says continues today in the war against drugs. I admit that my understanding of the situation is limited. After I’m released, I plan to dedicate myself to the study of Mexican-U.S. relations and to righting any injustices perpetrated by the United States. Finally, I love my family and my country, and I’m proud to be part of both of them. God bless us all.”
Lisa managed to hold her composure until the last four words, when her voice cracked and her lips started to tremble.
Suddenly, the screen turned black.
“What dignity,” one of Clark’s Senate aides said. “I think she did an amazing job.”
“I agree,” opined the FBI hostage expert.
“Remarkable.”
The six people in the room turned to Clark, who had a stunned, pained look on his face. It was as though seeing his wife and hearing the anguish in her voice had made the crisis more personal and immediate than it ever had been before.
“She said ‘after I’m released,’” the senator announced as he wiped a tear from his eye. “You hear that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“‘After I’m released,’” he repeated. “Does that mean she knows something we don’t?”
“Knows what?” asked the FBI expert.
“Knows that he’s letting her free.”
“Unclear, Senator,” the FBI officer answered. “She’s probably unaware of the deadline and her kidnapper’s demands. That’s usually the way these situations work. As a kidnapper, you don’t tell the hostages anything they don’t need to know.”
“Oh…”
“But I thought she sounded and looked good,” the deputy from the White House NSC offered.
“Me, too,” said the FBI hostage expert.
“What happens now?” Senator Clark asked.
The FBI expert glanced at the ticking Tiffany clock on the corner of his desk, which showed twelve minutes before the deadline. “Well, right about now the commandos from the Mexican GAFE have moved into position and are surrounding the site,” he said in a confident voice. “We should hear something in a matter of minutes. These men are highly trained in hostage rescue. There’s no reason to believe they won’t achieve positive results.”
“I hope so,” Senator Clark said, turning and glancing at the framed photos of his wife and daughter on the wooden credenza behind his desk. “The president is confident?”
“Yes, he is, sir,” the NSC deputy answered.
Senator Clark stood, bowed his head, and extended his arm. “Eleven minutes. Please join hands with me in prayer.”
Crocker, Akil, and Suárez knelt behind thick foliage at the corner of the fence, sweat beading on their faces, even though it was almost midnight, as the Coatan River gurgled in the background. Mancini returned to report that he had disabled the security cameras along the top of the chain-link fence.
“All of them?” Crocker whispered.
“The three that run along this side.”
“Good.”
But they had other problems, which Crocker pointed to past the aluminum fence ahead. Up a graded embankment and approximately fifty yards away stood three armed men near the back o
f the house. One of them held two pit bulls on a leash.
The SEALs had no sniper rifle in their possession. So taking the men and dogs out without alerting the guards inside the house was nearly impossible. Suppressed weapons aren’t completely silent, and even though some of the MP7s featured high-end scopes, none of them had been calibrated, and there was no time to do that now.
“You guys wait here, and I’ll go around from the side and surprise them,” Akil offered.
“No time,” Crocker answered, glancing at his watch. They had eight minutes until the deadline.
“What, then?”
“Hand me the shotgun, some breaching rounds, a couple gas masks, and three CS gas grenades,” Crocker whispered. The shotgun was an M870 single-fire twelve-gauge with a ten-inch barrel.
“We have no gas masks,” said Mancini.
“Then nix the masks.”
“What you gonna do?” Akil asked.
“Secure the hostages.”
“How?”
“Rush the side door, blow the fucker open if I have to, enter the house.”
“Boss—”
“The second you hear me, take out the three guards and the dogs and clear your way to the front gate. Then enter the house. I’ll be on the second deck.”
Mancini nodded. “We’ve got your back.”
Crocker checked his watch again. “Six minutes.” Then to Suárez: “Bring a bolt cutter and come with me.”
Thirty seconds later, they reached a point along the fence parallel to the side door. It took another thirty seconds for Suárez to snip through the aluminum threads and pull them back enough for Crocker to crawl through. The pit bulls started to bark.
Crocker gave Suárez a thumbs-up, then gestured for him to wait at the fence.
Suárez nodded and mouthed the words Good luck.
Crocker dashed in a crouch to the portico and climbed three wooden steps to the side door, only to find it bolted shut. He slammed an M1030 breaching cartridge into the M870, aimed it at the lock, turned his head away, and fired.
Under ideal circumstances he would have been wearing eye protection. But he did the best he could, squinting through the smoke and falling debris and seeing that the wooden door had sprung open. He entered, quickly scanned the large rooms from the hallway, then headed for the stairway.
