“So he would buy the drugs from you and resell them.”
“Of course,” Mateo said, as if any other possibility would be absurd.
“Have you discovered anything about the other two men to make you suspicious?”
“They drove into town this morning. Rented car. Not much luggage.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the passports he had taken from Bergenn and Raabe, then tossed them on the table. “These may be real or fake, who knows. But they were armed. Both of them.”
Adina picked up the passports and had a look at the names. “What sort of weapons?”
“Automatics. Could be government issued or not. A Glock and a Walther P-99. The main point is that they didn’t buy those in Reynosa, not within hours of arriving in town. I would have been told, believe me.”
“Which means they were carrying when they came across the border.”
“It would seem that way.”
“So this Pacquito, he actually met them in a bar, that was the contact point?”
“No, that’s the story all three of them are telling. When we got the call we were told they met at an abandoned farmhouse outside of town. Problem is that no one saw them, so we have no way of knowing if it’s true.”
“And I’m sure you were persuasive in questioning your man Pacquito.”
“Extremely.”
“And he still denies knowing these Americans. Beyond what he told you.”
“That’s right. In the face of death.”
Adina rested his elbows on the chair arms and pressed his fingertips together. “Where are they now?”
“We’re holding them at my farm. We put all three of them together.”
Adina could not hide his surprise. “Why?”
“I want to know the truth about Pacquito. If he is a traitor, this will give him the chance to make his move. My men will take care of the rest.”
“But the Americans, they may have value to us. I’d like to question them first.”
Mateo thought that over. “I know your reputation, and I respect that. That is why I waited for our meeting before taking further action against these men. But you are in my world now, and betrayal is something that we must punish quickly and decisively.”
Adina sighed. “Do whatever you like with this Pacquito, but find out what you can from the Americans. We cannot afford to have anything go wrong with our shipment.”
Mateo reached out and grabbed the bottle, then poured each of them another shot. He threw his tequila back and fixed Adina with a look intended to inform everyone in the room who was in charge here. “The shipment is fine,” he assured him. “As to questioning these yanquis, I’ll see what I can do.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
REYNOSA, MEXICO
INSIDE THE SERVICE shed on Mateo’s farm the three Americans had no intention of waiting to see what their host had in store for them. They were huddled together, still speaking in whispers. The walls of their makeshift prison were constructed of wooden planks and, even if there were no electronic bugs, they might easily be heard from the outside, just as the three of them heard Mateo barking commands before he headed south to Mendez.
At one point, when they heard a car start up and drive off, Romero said, “Mateo just left.”
“You’re sure that was Mateo?” Raabe asked.
Romero, who was doing his best to regain his strength as the other two continued to work on his cuts, managed a painful shrug. “You heard him out there. He was giving orders before he took off. And his Escalade is the biggest vehicle here, makes the most noise. It had to be him.”
“Where would he be going?”
“To meet someone. To figure out what to do with us.” Romero closed his eyes for a moment. “He could have killed us already if he wanted to. You two must be right, there must be a shipment in play.”
“Then why wouldn’t he interrogate us before he left, find out what we know?”
Romero shook his head. “Not sure.”
“So he’s going somewhere for instructions.”
“To see the man,” Romero agreed.
“Jaime Rivera?”
“Could be. The good news is that he wouldn’t go anywhere without three of his men.”
“Why is that good news?”
“By my count that only leaves five of my former friends out there, plus the two sentries at the front gate. Of the five, two are probably in the house.”
“So what are you suggesting?” Bergenn asked. “That we bust out of here and rush three armed guards?”
Romero looked up at them, his eyes bloodshot, his face gaunt. “If we wait, I can tell you our fate is certain. When Mateo comes back we will be tortured and then killed. Whether or not we tell them anything, it will not matter. And believe me, what you saw them do to me was nothing compared to the pain they are capable of inflicting. Remember, I have been here for two years. Even if I survive this night, I will never live long enough to forget what I’ve seen during my time here.”
“It’s late,” Raabe said, nodding in agreement. “These guards are probably tired, hopefully a little drunk, and not expecting us to make a move.” He looked to Romero. “What’s your plan?”
————
The three men worked quickly and quietly, piling boxes of supplies and bags of grain, one atop the other in the rear corner of the small building. Romero rallied as best he could, using his energy more to direct the action than to lift anything.
There were various crates and burlap bags on hand, but unfortunately no tools. As Romero explained, Mateo was a sadist, not a fool. The space was loftlike, with a high ceiling, and the only things resembling windows were two openings a dozen or more feet off the ground. They were small, designed for ventilation and light, not for ingress or egress. Yet once the mountain of cartons and sacks was stacked high enough the three men could use them for their escape. They had no glass, just slanted wooden canopies on the outside that kept rain from pouring into the building.
Romero chose the window on the right since the voices they could hear seemed to be coming from the left, in the direction of the main house. This side would be darker and out of sight.
“The problem is the roof,” Romero explained. “This is just a shed and it won’t hold our weight.”
“Not even one of us at a time?”
He shook his head. “Corrugated metal. It’ll make a lot of noise and then you’ll fall through like a dead weight.”
“Bad choice of words,” Raabe said.
Bergenn frowned. “So once we get to the window, we’re going out and then straight down.”
Romero nodded. “The drop will only be four or five feet. Just hang from the edge and then let go. The faster all three of us are on the ground the better.”
Bergenn, who stood several inches taller than Romero, asked, “You going to make it okay?”
The young man forced a smile. “Hell, I’m going first.”
Romero headed up the makeshift ramp and poked his head out through the rectangular opening, having a look around. It appeared he had guessed right, there was no one in sight. Better still, the lights from the main house were on the other side, blocked by the building, so he was in almost total darkness.
He forced himself through the small opening, the pain intense as the wooden frame of the window seemed to tear open every one of the cuts on his chest and back. He fought his way outside, managed to spin around, hung from the ledge for only an instant, then dropped himself to the ground.
The fall was longer than he anticipated and he could not stifle a groan as he collapsed in the dirt. Bergenn and Raabe heard him, which meant some of Mateo’s men might also be on the alert. Raabe had scrambled up right behind Romero. He began working his long, lean frame out the window much faster and with far less effort, twisting into position and ready to make the jump.
Just then one of the guards came charging around the building.
For the next few seconds things seemed to Raabe as if they were happening
in fast foward. Romero had not even gotten to his feet as the sentry was drawing a pistol from the holster on his hip, his full attention on the man on the ground. Romero lashed out with one of his legs, a futile attempt to take the larger man down as the guard began to level his weapon at Romero’s head.
At that moment Raabe pushed off the side of the shed with his feet and let go with his hands at the same time. He plunged downward, landing on his back atop the guard and driving him to the dirt in an unconscious heap. He quickly spun around and, using a reverse choke hold, broke the man’s neck.
Bergenn followed right behind him, engineering his fall closer to the building as Raabe grabbed the sentry’s automatic. The two agents got to their feet but Romero was not moving.
“Go,” Romero urged them in a hoarse whisper. “Go.”
“Bullshit,” Raabe responded, grabbing Romero under the arm and pulling him up. “We’re all going.”
But as Bergenn also lent a hand, two other guards came from around the rear of the building and fired the first shots, one of them hitting Romero in the thigh.
He cried out in pain as the two Americans dragged him around the corner of the building for cover. The fusillade continued, some of the rounds tearing through the wooden slats of the storage shed.
Raabe made a quick lunge back to the edge of the building and fired off two shots in the direction of the muzzle flashes aimed at them, then ducked back for cover. “Had to let them know we’re armed,” he said, and for the moment the onslaught subsided. “I guess there are no heroes on the other side of the wall.”
Bergenn nodded, then ran the short length of the shed, toward the front, to have a look. He turned back to Raabe and said, “They can come at us from either direction. And we’ve only got one gun with limited ammo.”
“No kidding.” Raabe looked down at Romero. “How you doing, man?”
The DEA agent was on the ground beside him. “I’m dead” was his raspy answer.
Even in the darkness, the severe bleeding from his leg was apparent. Romero was trying to put pressure on the wound, but he was losing the battle.
“Damn,” Raabe said. “We need to get a tourniquet on that right now.”
“Forget it,” Romero said. “Femoral artery, man. I’ve seen it before. I’ll bleed to death before you run out of bullets.” His voice told them he was already progressing from shock to a loss of consciousness.
Bergenn and Raabe shared a look, then Raabe said, “Screw it. I’ve got the gun. Jimmy, tie that thing off.”
Bergenn ripped off his shirt, knelt down, and began to apply a tourniquet to Romero’s thigh. He used a stick on the ground to tighten the dressing.
Meanwhile, another barrage of shots began.
“We’re out of time here,” Raabe said. “I’ve got to make a move.”
Bergenn got up and stood beside him. “You took down one man so, by Romero’s count, we have four to go, not to mention two at the gate. That Glock you’re holding probably has a dozen shots left in the magazine, so unless you’re Annie Oakley, you better have one helluva plan.”
Raabe nodded, then dropped to the ground, stuck his head out just beyond the corner of the shed and had a look. Flames were bursting from the heated barrels of the automatics being fired at them. Using those as targets, he squeezed off three quick rounds, then pulled back.
“You hit anything?”
“I didn’t hear anyone scream. You better check the other side again.”
But even as Raabe spoke those words, it was too late. One of Mateo’s men, armed with an AK-47, stepped out from the front side of the building and opened fire.
Bergenn was facing him. He never had a chance. In a matter of seconds his chest was torn apart by a dozen shots. He managed a final act of heroism, willing himself to remain standing for those final seconds of life so he could provide his friend a human shield, giving Raabe time to put two shots in the Mexican’s face.
Both Bergenn and his killer fell to the dirt, dead before they hit the ground.
Raabe’s instinct was to reach out for Bergenn, but that urge was trumped by his years as a professional. He charged past his fallen partner and grabbed hold of the dead guard’s AK-47, just as a second man emerged from the shadows at the front corner of the building. Raabe, on one knee, took the man out with a four-shot burst.
He jumped up and raced to the rear corner again. It appeared quiet on that side. Spinning around he was confronted by another attacker making a flank move. Raabe opened fire with a series of shots aimed at the man’s head. The guard fell onto his back, the assault rifle still in his hands as he shuddered, then gasped his last breath.
“Four down, three to go,” Raabe said, assuming the men at the front gate had joined the assault.
He gathered up the second AK-47 assault rifle. After checking both sides of the shed again, he turned to Romero, prepared to hand him one of the weapons.
But the young man was dead. Somehow, in the crossfire, he had been hit again. In the darkness, Raabe could not tell if he had died from the first shot or the last. What does it matter? Raabe asked himself as he stood there, his back to the building, an AK-47 in each hand.
He took a moment to bend down and turn Bergenn onto his back. His friend’s chest had been riddled with shots and he was covered in blood. He felt his neck for a pulse, knowing what he would find. “Shit,” Raabe said aloud. He found himself wishing he could take dog tags from the necks of his two fallen comrades.
Then he stood tall again and checked the magazines in the two rifles, confirming he had plenty of ammunition.
All he needed now was a strategy.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
REYNOSA, MEXICO
CRAIG RAABE HAD to make some quick decisions, and none of them was going to be easy. He was tormented at the prospect of leaving Bergenn and Romero behind. Good soldiers never abandon their fallen teammates to be desecrated by the enemy, and the thought of what Mateo and his men would do to these bodies made Raabe shudder. Sadly, he realized there was nothing to be done about that right now.
He had not learned much since arriving in Reynosa, but his responsibility was to escape from here, chase down Mateo and, more importantly, find whoever it was Mateo had gone off to see.
At the moment, Raabe had two basic choices. The first would be a frontal assault, trying to take out the remaining guards. On the plus side of that option, he was now fully armed and, even facing a three-to-one disadvantage, he was undoubtedly far more skilled than the men he would have to take down. Unfortunately, there were many negatives. The guards knew the layout of this property and he did not. They probably had called for reinforcements by now. And, despite the fact that he had two assault rifles, there was no way of knowing the size or scope of the arsenal he would be facing once he left the cover of this building.
His other alternative was to simply disappear into the night. That would give him a chance to make his way to safety or, even better, circle back and outflank his prey. The night was cloudy and dark and for the moment he was still behind the far side of the building, away from the lights at the main house. The field that stretched out directly behind him appeared to be planted with corn, and that would provide decent cover. Before he got there, however, there was unprotected ground he would have to cross, fifty yards or more, before he would reach the stalks. Obviously, the farther he got from the safety of the shed, the more visible he would become from angles to his left and right, assuming Mateo’s men had positioned themselves on the points.
He concluded that the other play, coming out from behind the shed and rushing headlong at three invisible targets, was too reckless. Having made his choice he took a moment to discreetly check each corner of the building.
No one seemed to be coming.
Heading back to the center of the wall he had another look at Bergenn. He shook his head, drew a deep breath, and broke into a run dead ahead.
Raabe kept low and moved fast. Even in the darkness he knew his shadowy figure woul
d eventually be spotted. And it was. Less than ten yards from the nearest line of crops he heard gunfire erupt from behind.
He veered off to the right, farther from the main house, then dove to safety as shots whizzed around him, some of them low and spitting dirt into the air. He clambered to his feet and, still in a crouch, headed deeper into the field, doing his best to become invisible, trying not to rustle the tall stalks as he ran. He was moving as quickly as he could, cutting left on a vector that would take him around the back of the main house.
Whether or not they were coming after him, he was not going away.
————
Just as Craig Raabe had said to Jim Bergenn minutes earlier, there were no heroes on the other side of the wall. Once the three remaining guards saw Raabe dive into the cornfield, none of them ventured forward. Instead they fell back to the relative safety of the front porch of the main house. There they took cover, watching for any sign of the American.
“He has one of the AK-47s,” one of the men said.
“At least one.”
“And maybe extra magazines.”
“But he didn’t return fire just now.”
“Would you? Why waste the ammunition?”
“He’s making a run for it.”
All three nodded.
“What do you think we should do?”
“Maybe we should check to be sure the other two are dead.”
They all looked at the distance between the main house and the storage shed, which appeared to have grown considerably now that there was an armed man out there in the darkness.
“They’re dead. If they weren’t, they would have taken off with that one.”
The others nodded.
“What did Rico say? They sending anyone from Reynosa?”
The guard who had spoken with Rico nodded. “At least four men. He was calling them.”
One of the others shook his head. “By the time they get here, that maricon will be long gone.”
“Maybe,” the guard said.
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