by L. D Beyer
Still, as bad as it had become, Richter thought as he flipped through several pages of the report again, it wasn’t as bad as some analysts had predicted. The violence had yet to spill over the border. He sighed as he sat back again. He couldn’t help but wonder. Was this the calm before the storm?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Guerrero looked up at Alberto, his eyes dark.
“Can we get to them?”
Alberto shook his head. “I don’t know, Jefe. They’re being held by the DEA.”
Guerrero considered this. Except for the potential that they could identify members of the Sangre Negras organization who were supplying them, the fact that some local wholesaler had been arrested was inconsequential. Like the gangs that sold the drugs on the street, the wholesalers were not part of his organization. With a little time, he could replace both. But if his distribution operation in Atlanta—the people who supplied the wholesaler—was compromised, that could be an issue.
It was no secret the drugs were coming from Mexico and, with Mendoza and Calzada gone, it was a reasonable guess that Las Sangre Negras was the source. What los gringos didn’t know, he hoped, were the names, addresses and locations of the people who worked for him in Atlanta. What they didn’t know was the logistics of his operation: how he was moving the drugs across the border, where he was storing them and how he moved them to local markets, like Atlanta. But if the wholesalers—operating under the guise of a courier service—were being held by the DEA, it would be difficult to silence them before they told everything they knew. The question was, what did they know?
The Alacránes cartel had a separate operation in Atlanta. He had decided, for the time being, to keep it separate from his own operation. Now he realized how wise that decision had been.
“Shut down our operation,” he instructed Alberto. “We need to break the link.”
Alberto nodded. “And our men?” he asked, referring to the three people who managed the distribution business.
No one else, Guerrero knew, understood how the supply chain worked. The three had been careful about that. He stared at Alberto for a moment before he responded. “Dispose of them.”
After Alberto left, Guerrero sat back, thinking. The three men who ran the Atlanta operation had always been loyal, had always done whatever they had been asked to do. And along the way, they had become wealthy. But they knew the risks.
He stood. A minute later, he found himself in front of the chessboard. Carolina, he noticed, had made her move—last night, he assumed, before she had gone to bed. He studied the board, staring at her pieces, at the knight and the rook that she had deftly positioned, boxing him in. She would force him to sacrifice his queen. He smiled but the smile quickly faded.
The situation was becoming dangerous. After decades of turning a blind eye to the cartels, publically pretending they didn’t exist while secretly sharing in the spoils of their trade, the Mexican government now considered him an enemy of the state. They had leveraged the resources of los gringos and were now waging a full-scale war against him and the other smuggling organizations. Their goal, he knew as he stared at the chess board and his now exposed king, was his destruction.
Sure, los gringos were becoming a problem. They had recently changed their tactics, working closely now with the Mexican government to bring their war here. But that was because the Mexican government was weak. They hadn’t stood up to los gringos. Instead, President Magaña had sold out to the Americans; had become their puppet.
It wasn’t all bad, he realized. In the short term, he would benefit. He had taken over a large portion of the Alacránes operation and now, with Mendoza dead—killed supposedly in a shootout with Mexican soldiers—he would move into Baja territory. But, he knew, that would also make him a bigger target.
He sat back, his hands forming a steeple below his chin. Yes, he thought as he stared at the chessboard, he would have to carefully consider his next move.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
General Diego Salazar dined alone. Normally, when his wife was away, he dined out with one of his aides. Even though the maid at home would have food prepared, he hated an empty house. The children were adults now, living on their own; one in Toronto, and one in Madrid. His wife was in Egypt, her third trip overseas without him in the last year. She was touring the pyramids and the museums; taking the trip they had planned to take together, but with her sister instead of him. It was his own fault, he knew. But, he couldn’t leave, not now, not with the threat his country faced.
He glanced up at the waiter, standing expectantly ten feet away. The general nodded and the waiter hurried over to clear away the dinner plate.
Normally, when his wife was away, the colonel would dine with him. Normally. But the colonel was missing and the general was worried. The colonel’s family was missing too and it was beginning to look like they had fled, hastily, in the middle of the night. Now, he realized, he had been a fool; that the colonel had been playing both sides. At first, it had been difficult to accept; to believe that the colonel had deceived him. The man had been a good soldier, a capable aide, and someone that he had considered a friend. But the colonel would forever remain a colonel, not having the political skills and polish required to receive a star. Maybe that was why, the general thought.
He sipped his coffee and sat back thinking. He was worried. Not about the colonel’s fate. Traitors deserved their justice and if the cartels were after him, then justice would be served. No, he was worried that his operations against the cartels were compromised. Mexico was at a tipping point and the next few months would decide the country’s fate. They had made considerable progress against the cartels: Calzada was dead, Mendoza was dead and, working with the Americans, they had shut down several key distribution routes and destroyed more drugs than he had ever imagined—somewhere now in excess of ten billion dollars according to the report he had read.
Yes, they had made progress, but Pablo Guerrero and Las Sangre Negras were still operating, growing stronger with each passing day. Although there were still a handful of smaller organizations—the Carrillo family in Acapulco, the Campeche cartel in the Yucatan, Los Arquitectos in Michoacán—Guerrero was the worry. He had profited from the attacks as he quickly stepped in and took over rival operations. If they could succeed in capturing or killing Guerrero and dismantling the Sangre Negras operation, the rest would fall. Guerrero was the next target.
President Magaña, while pleased with the progress, was pressuring him for a large-scale push; an assault that would be a decisive blow against Guerrero. The risk, though, was how much of their current plans were compromised? How much did Guerrero know? And if the colonel had been corrupted, who else on his staff had been?
He took another sip of coffee and glanced up at the man hurrying across the room. The man stopped five feet from the table and saluted.
“General.” The military aide said, holding up the briefcase. Salazar nodded toward the empty chair next to him. The aide placed the briefcase on the chair, saluted again, and withdrew. The general sighed as he signaled the waiter. He needed to review the latest intelligence reports but he couldn’t do that here. He would wait until he got home.
___
Outside, the military aide climbed into the car and let out the breath he had been holding for the last five minutes. The man sitting behind the wheel glanced over.
“It is done?”
The aide nodded as the driver put the car in gear. As the driver pulled out into traffic, the aide pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He waited until they were at the end of the block before he dialed the number. He didn’t bother to hold the phone to his ear. He didn’t bother to listen for the ring. He stared ahead and waited. A second later, the car shook from the loud explosion behind them.
___
Richter sat on the examination table and stared at his arm. There was an ugly scar curving around what was left of his bicep from the bullet wound and the surgery that had followed. He shook his head as
he cautiously flexed his muscles, or what was left of them. His arm was now thin and weak, the muscles having atrophied after too many weeks in a cast. The hairs were matted and the skin felt clammy. He cautiously moved his arm slowly up and down and to the side, hoping that his days in a cast were over. Unable to make the trip to New Jersey, he had gone to Walter Reed Medical Center instead.
He looked up as the door opened and the orthopedist stepped in.
“The good news,” the doctor began, “is that everything looks like it healed properly.” She dropped the file on the table beside Richter and took hold of his arm, one hand on his elbow, the other holding his hand. She gently moved Richter’s arm up and down and to the side, watching his face for signs of pain. She lifted his hand above his head—far more than he had done moments earlier—and, despite the pain, he gritted his teeth and said nothing.
The doctor, an army captain, frowned.
“Look, Mr. Richter. I’ve consulted with the surgeons in New Jersey and I’ve seen the films. The bullet did a lot of damage, above and beyond the obvious damage to the bone. There was extensive soft tissue damage as well as some nerve damage.” She searched his face for comprehension.
Richter nodded but said nothing.
“You’ve lost a lot of muscle mass, and that will take time to rebuild, six months or more. And we won’t know whether or not you’ve lost any range of motion until you complete physical therapy.”
“What are you saying, doc?”
“I’m saying that you were lucky. The surgeons who operated on you did a marvelous job. But I don’t want you thinking that you can strap on a Kevlar vest tomorrow and go back to bagging bad guys.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “This is going to take time. There’s no reason to believe that you won’t regain full range of motion”—she held his eyes for a second to make sure he understood—“if you follow the therapist’s orders. But whether you can return to active duty?” She paused again. “I just don’t want you to set your sights too high. Not just yet.”
___
It was late at night when Mexican President Filipe Magaña left his second-floor office in Los Pinos. Located in the center of Mexico City, in the Chapultepec Forest on land that was once ruled by Emperor Maximilian from his castle nearby, Los Pinos was often referred to as the Mexican White House. The name came from the many pine trees that still adorned the sprawling property.
Magaña wasn’t thinking about that as he stepped outside. It was a cool evening, though he hardly noticed. He passed the fountain and followed the cobbled lane through the lush gardens. His security detail trailed close behind. As he passed a statue, he thought of the string of events that brought him here, walking the grounds of Los Pinos, the burden of the presidency weighing heavily on his shoulders. He had never wanted to be president. Three years ago, just four months shy of the national election, Luis Lara, his party’s candidate, had been killed while campaigning. After three days of internal turmoil, the party selected Magaña, a relatively young foreign-educated engineer currently serving as a campaign policy advisor, as their candidate. Although he had initially refused, party elders had eventually persuaded him, convincing him that no one else had the skill, the vision to succeed. They must have been right, he mused later. He had beaten his opponent by a full two-point margin and had been dubbed the accidental president by the press.
Having served in the navy, something unusual for a technocrat, he knew well the burden that commanders carried—a burden that came from having to order troops into harm’s way, knowing, as he did so, that some would never return alive. General Salazar was dead. Investigators suspected that the bomb had been in a briefcase, delivered to the general’s side by an aide who was now missing. While it was obvious that the cartels were behind the attack, he knew that he too was to blame; as he was for the twenty-eight other people—waiters and patrons—who had been killed along with the general.
It was a war started by his predecessor, a war that he had inherited when he took office three years ago. But it was also a war that he had escalated after evidence was uncovered linking the cartels to Lara’s assassination. He had approached the cartels as he had the many challenges facing Mexico: as problems that could be solved only after understanding the root causes. Then, with sufficient resources and the right legal structure, solutions could be applied. The underlying causes for the cartel problem were related to a failed educational system and lack of economic opportunity coupled with widespread corruption in the criminal justice system. That and an almost insatiable appetite for drugs from the neighbor to the north.
While he knew that reforms were sorely needed, he also knew that Mexico was on borrowed time and that the country would not be able to survive for however long it would take before the reforms took effect. He saw the war now for what it was: a war for survival. The social fabric of Mexico was being torn apart and the country was on the verge of collapsing.
The general was—had been, Magaña corrected himself—a capable man in a difficult job. He knew that Salazar was an idealist and had never been tempted by the lure of cartel spoils. Instead, he had committed himself to restoring security within the fragile state. With Salazar leading the charge, they had made great strides, but now the enemy was fighting back. And the general had been killed in the latest battle. Magaña sighed. Like any good commander, he knew, he had to order someone else to take the hill. The war was far from over. He had to appoint someone to take the general’s place.
By the time he returned to his office, he was steeled in his resolve.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The knock finally came at ten in the morning. Terry Fogel had been waiting, ready. He opened the door and found the guard; a new face this time. Behind him, a second guard stood further back, his gun ready. Fogel grinned. They had come prepared. The first guard signaled with his hand and Fogel grinned once more before he turned. He could sense the guard’s nervousness as the hands slid up and down his legs, then onto his waist. Still grinning, Fogel turned and held his arms out. The guard slid his hands up under his arms then back to his waist again.
Finally, the guard stepped back and Fogel dropped his arms.
“Enjoyed yourself now, did you, lad?”
The guard’s dark eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He stepped back and motioned with his head and Fogel followed. He could sense the second guard behind him.
He was led out to the courtyard, to a table in the middle. The guard pulled out a chair.
“Wait here,” he ordered.
Fogel sat. The guard glared at him again, the warning unmistakable. Fogel glanced around the garden, noticing the six men standing along the perimeter. There were two more, he knew, standing behind him by the archway. All were heavily armed, he could see. He remained seated, remembering the guard’s look. He could follow orders when it suited his purpose.
He waited patiently and after a few minutes was rewarded by the sound of footsteps behind him.
“Señor Fogel.” Pablo Guerrero suddenly appeared; his tone was sharp.
Fogel nodded in greeting. “Señor Guerrero. It’s nice to see you again.”
Guerrero scowled. “I wish I could say the same, Señor Fogel.”
Fogel said nothing as Guerrero sat in the chair across from him.
Guerrero considered him for a second then held up his cell phone and passport and slid them across the table.
Fogel bowed his head in acknowledgement.
Guerrero smiled briefly. “If I remember correctly, you drink tea.”
Fogel nodded again. “That would be nice.”
Guerrero snapped his fingers and, moments later, two men appeared with place settings and a tea and coffee service. Not waiters from the hotel, Fogel noticed. Serious, cautious, he knew Guerrero was not a man to be trifled with. Or crossed.
He had met with two of Guerrero’s associates in Mexico City two days earlier. Both he and his luggage had been searched and his passport and cell phone had been confiscated. Then, unexpectedly, there
had been a flurry of phone calls, hushed conversations and a long wait before he was finally shoved into the back of the car. Two hours later, sometime after midnight, they had arrived at a hotel or a house, somewhere outside the city he guessed. With the blindfold on, he wasn’t exactly sure. Although he didn’t speak Spanish, he sensed the tension; he caught the cautious tone, and knew that something had happened. Then, on the TV in his room, he learned of the bombing. No one had to tell him who was behind it.
Late the next morning, he was blindfolded and thrown into the car again. Four hours later, they arrived at a second hotel. The room he was given was small but comfortable. Sometime after he arrived, a meal had been delivered. He had fallen asleep easily—a soldier’s habit—and slept soundly. He woke early and had already showered and dressed when breakfast was delivered at seven. Although he hadn’t left his room, he hadn’t seen or heard any other guests since his arrival. Guerrero, he had concluded, had taken over the entire hotel.
Guerrero took a sip of coffee then sat back. “The loss of the guns was disappointing.”
Fogel nodded, hiding his smirk. Although they had discussed the FBI raid on the militia group in New Jersey months ago—in a short and somewhat cryptic phone call—this was the first time they’d had a chance to meet face to face. Fogel had realized a while back that Guerrero ruled by fear and, therefore, felt the need to occasionally remind Fogel what befell those who displeased him. “An unfortunate occurrence,” he paused, “But this is a dangerous business, Señor Guerrero; not one without risks.”
