The Devil You Don't Know (American Praetorians Book 4)

by Peter Nealen

  I just stared at him skeptically for a long moment. “You arrested us so that you could ask us for help.” It was half a question, half an incredulous sort of statement. Sort of like when you hear something and have to repeat it back to make sure you actually heard it, and the person talking to you hadn't just suffered a stroke that had fucked up their speech center.

  “You have to understand the situation here,” he said, pouring another drink. The guy wasn't showing any signs that the alcohol was affecting him in the slightest. He either had a cast-iron liver, or he was a functioning alcoholic. Or both. “I am not in a position where I can afford to display either weakness or advantage.

  “I don't know how much you know about the police forces in this country,” he said. “A few years ago, President Peña-Nieto federalized all the municipal police forces. All the local policia were now federales. It was supposed to stop the corruption, stop the police from cooperating with the cartels. But a lot of the police were just the same people wearing different uniforms. So, here, the same police are still affiliated with Los Zetas, or CJNG, or any of the groups coming out of Sinaloa. Many are taking pay from Los Hijos de la Muerte now.”

  I nodded slowly. “So the fighting between the narco groups is also going on among the cops,” I ventured.

  “Exactly. Not all of the policia are corrupt, but there are enough. Assassinations, raids, protecting the narcos, kidnapping...it's just as bad as it was before. I think the President encourages some of it, too.” He slammed back the drink. “No one can prove it, but I am one of those who is sure the PRI has arrangements with many of the narcos. That is the way things have always run with the PRI. Corruption is how they ruled.” The Partido Revolucionario Institucional had ruled Mexico with an iron fist for seventy years, only falling out of power when Vicente Fox became president in 2000. From everything I'd read, the PRI had been one part dictatorship, one part organized crime syndicate. With Peña-Nieto's election in 2012, the PRI had come back into power, along with many conspiracy theories as to their involvement with the very cartels they were supposed to be suppressing.

  I took a sip of my own drink, suppressing a grimace. While it was much better than any tequila I'd had, it still wasn't to my taste. “So whose side are you on?” I asked.

  He leaned forward. “I am on the side of law. Of order. Of the people of Zacatecas.” He punctuated each point with a fist on the table, then leaned back. “I may not trust the government in Mexico city, but I will not side with the narcos, either. They are not the valientes to me. They are bandits and murderers. And the policia who work for them are no better.”

  He reached into his jacket, pulled out a photo, and slid it across the table to me, face-down. When I picked it up, only the fact that I'd become deadened to carnage kept me from losing my lunch.

  It was a little hard to tell what the subject of the photo was, at first. The human mind isn't really programmed to recognize a human being who has been reduced to a limbless torso with head, hands, feet, legs, and arms piled haphazardly on top of it. The corpse's genitals had been crammed into the mouth of the severed head.

  “That was Daniel Somoza,” Jorge said, his voice turning thick. “He was a hero; he had more arrests than anyone else on this beat. He had saved a little girl from the Templarios that her cousin had sold her to. But in the end, he was just that pile of meat and bones, left outside my door. Because neither of us would bend the knee to Los Hijos.”

  I handed back the photo. There was still a possibility that this was an elaborate setup, but if so, Jorge was one hell of an actor. He seemed completely sincere, and his grief wasn't faked, nor was the rage that kindled in his eyes. Or if it was, I had to hand it to him, he was good. “I take it this is the reason you need our help,” I said.

  He nodded. “There is a man named Lazaro Fernandez. He was a federale once; he was in this very unit. He was an excellent officer. But he works for Los Hijos now. He was...he was my friend, and Daniel's too. He was the one who did that.” He stabbed a finger at the photo sitting on the table. “He has become one of Los Hijos' chief enforcers in Zacatecas. And he has come after us. Daniel was only the latest and the worst. Five more of my men have been killed in the last week.

  “I don't know how long Fernandez has been working for the narcos. But it must have been for a long time. When he went over, almost fifty of my men went with him.” He swept a hand to indicate the entire compound we were in. “There are only about thirty of us left; only the most dedicated. He is coming for us. He has made that very clear. There was a note with Daniel's...body.” He had paused, as if unsure whether he could call the remains a “body.” “Daniel's death was to be our last warning. We will submit to Los Hijos or he will kill us all.”

  “So you need us to help you kill him and his cronies.” It wasn't really a question. I could see that coming from a mile away, as soon as he'd started talking about this Fernandez character.

  He nodded, staring at the tabletop and the gruesome photo. “We are alone, outnumbered, and outgunned. I have tried to send requests for support all the way to Mexico City, but I have heard nothing. If we don't act, they will kill us all.”

  I folded my arms in front of me. We really didn't need this kind of side-show. I couldn't afford to leave Nick and Jack hanging out, under-prepared, watching Ernesto for an uncertain amount of time. They were pros, don't get me wrong. They'd find a way to make it work, but there were already too many motherfuckers who knew about us being down in Mexico. If Jorge here could put together the fact that we were hunting somebody, so could the bad guys. They might not know who or why, but the knowledge that there was a hit team prowling through Mexico was probably going to make our job harder. Delays weren't going to help.

  But being locked up in a Mexican jail, at the mercy of a desperate Mexican federale who figured he was cut off and waiting for the hangman's noose one way or another, wasn't my idea of a strong negotiating position. Still, I had to ask. “And why should we help you? We have our own mission.”

  “A mission you're not going to be able to carry out while locked in here,” he pointed out reasonably, echoing my own thoughts. “If you can help me, and keep these men from killing all of us, then I will do what I can to get you on your way, with all of your gear and equipment, no record of your arrest or even your presence in Zacatecas, and every bit of information I have on Ernesto Valladares.”

  Now it was a negotiation. “So, the arrest was really just to gain leverage, then.”

  He spread his hands. “In part, yes. Also, like I told you, to keep our enemies from getting ideas. There are halcones on every corner in Zacatecas.” The halcones, or “falcons,” were the young kids employed by the cartels as lookouts. “Every cartel and their bought police or informants are watching all the time, looking for an advantage. If we'd met amicably, instead of an arrest, someone would have passed the word to Los Hijos, and Fernandez would already be here, before we were ready. This way, they may have questions, but they will not know, not until it is too late.”

  “Do you have a plan?” I asked.

  “I know where Fernandez' house is,” he said. “We used to be colleagues, after all. I can show you, and we can plan an assault. Then we can attack his house and take him down before he has a chance to come after us here.”

  “I need to discuss this with my men before I can say yes,” I told him.

  “But you are in command,” he said.

  “In a manner of speaking,” I replied. “I am the team lead, but we are a team. I want to hear their ideas before I make a decision.” The truth was, I didn't want to get involved. As sincere as he was about Somoza's murder, I really had no way of knowing for sure that it wasn't over something else, some sort of local dispute that had nothing to do with the mysterious Los Hijos de la Muerte. I'd known of many incidents where American forces got drawn into tribal feuds in the Middle East and Afghanistan. One of the locals would accuse their rival of being an insurgent, and next thing you know, Marines were kicking
in the door and taking people in who had nothing to do with the Taliban, or AQI, or Ansar al Shariah. Or shooting them. Outsiders often make great proxies in these sorts of disputes.

  It was entirely possible that Jorge was totally sincere, that he was in fact one of the good guys. But I hadn't survived Libya, East Africa, and Iraq by being trusting.

  Jorge studied me with hooded eyes. He still didn't look like the three shots of Mezcal had fazed him. I stayed loose, relaxed, my expression carefully neutral, while inside the tension notched up. I was coiled and ready to spring, visualizing how I'd sweep the bottle off the table and hit him with it as I went over the top if this went sideways. I was pretty sure I could have him incapacitated before he could get to the door, and put him between me and anyone coming in after him. If I had to take Jorge hostage to get out of here, I'd do it.

  Finally, he sighed. “Very well.” He waved at the door. “Go. Speak with your men. But do not take too long. I do not think we have a great deal of time. Daniel was murdered three days ago. Fernandez will come soon, if we do not strike first.”

  I pushed my chair back and stepped away from the table. He didn't move, but stayed in his seat, staring at the picture of the murdered man. When I raised my hand to knock on the door, he simply said, “It is open.” It was. I pulled it open and went back down the hall, to where a policeman opened the door to the cell block.

  Nobody said anything until the door closed behind me. “Well?” Jim prompted.

  I filled them in on what had happened in the interrogation room. Nobody interrupted, and when I had finished, there weren't any of the expected expressions of disbelief. We'd all been kicking around tribal societies too much; we all knew the score. The same suspicions and analysis that had gone through my mind while Jorge gave me his pitch had also gone through my teammates' minds as I'd spoken.

  “I don't like it,” Jim finally said, a few moments after I had finished. “It sounds too pat. But he does kind of have us over a barrel.” He slapped the bars of the cell. “If we say no, all he's got to do is leave us in here. We won't see daylight for a long, long time.”

  “Unless he's telling the truth, and this Fernandez really is coming, and has him outgunned, in which case they'll probably get massacred,” Ben said.

  “In that case, we still won't see daylight,” I said, “because if Fernandez really is the bad guy Jorge says he is, then he and his cronies will just slaughter us in the cells.”

  Before anyone could add anything more, there was the sound of running feet and muffled yelling in Spanish. The cell block wasn't exactly soundproof. A moment later, the cell block door burst open and Jorge rushed in, with one of his uniformed policemen in tow. “We are out of time,” he gasped. “Fernandez and his men are here, and they are well-armed. Por favor, will you help us? Every bit of information I have on Valladares—it's yours. Just help us!”

  There was a rattle of automatic weapons fire from outside, and a voice over a loudspeaker in Spanish. It sure sounded like things were getting tense out there. I moved suddenly, and had Jorge by his shirtfront. “Fine. We'll help. But if I find out you've played me, I will come back and show you your lungs before you die. Comprende?”

  “Si, si, fine,” he said. He shouted rapid-fire orders in Spanish over his shoulder. The uniformed cop behind him pulled out his key ring and started unlocking cells, while two more lugged the duffel bags full of our kit inside. I dug in and started pulling out vests, belt kits, pistols, and rifles. The team started arming up as they came out of their cells.

  “Fucking cocksucker!” Derek yelled suddenly. Looking up, I saw him looking down at his SOCOM II. He tilted it to show me where a bullet had, somehow, smashed into the receiver, right in line with the bolt. He tried to cycle the bolt, but it was stuck. “That shit's not going to buff out. It was in the back of the Expedition while I was on the pig. FUCK! I fucking loved this rifle!” He turned to Jorge. “Have you got any 7.62 link? I'm almost out for the 60.”

  Jorge shook his head. “We have some, but not enough to spare. Wait a moment.” He yelled back down the hall in Spanish again. Another cop came running after a moment, carrying what looked like a high-end custom AR, and a bandolier of magazines. Jorge took it from him and offered the weapon and the mags to Derek. “We took this off a dead Zeta a couple of weeks ago. I was going to take them home myself, but you can use them.”

  Derek took them, saying, “Gracias,” as he did, but he kept muttering obscenities under his breath as he kitted up. He really had been attached to that M1A.

  By then, most of us had our shit on and were loaded and ready to rock. Harold and his two surviving compatriots were still sitting in their cells, although Jorge's people had unlocked them along with ours. None of them made a move to leave, but I felt somewhat obligated to turn to Harold and say, “You need to stay here, and don't move unless one of us or one of the cops says you need to move. Understood? We can't afford to have you underfoot or getting in the way of a bullet.” When Harold mutely nodded his understanding, I turned and pointed to Jorge. “You're leading the way,” I said. “Let's go.” He nodded and turned to leave the cell block.

  The yelling over the loudspeaker was getting louder as we approached the front of the station. I paused, and grabbed Jorge's arm. “Is there any way onto the roof?” I asked. I didn't remember there being any guard towers or much of any way to see over the wall, and I wanted an elevated position.

  He thought for a second, then nodded. “There is a ladder in the back.”

  “Show me.” I turned back to Jim. “Get that front gate covered. I want anything coming through it filled full of holes.” He just shot me a thumbs-up, and Derek, Little Bob, and I followed Jorge around to the back.

  There was indeed a bare, rusty metal ladder bolted to the back wall. I tugged on it before trying to climb it; I didn't want it peeling away and dumping me on my head from halfway up the wall. It was solid, so I slung my rifle across my back, put a boot on the bottom rung, and started up. The rungs were narrow and rough, and one of the ones near the top seemed to be a couple hundred pounds of shooter away from breaking, but I got to the top and levered myself onto the roof.

  Zacatecas' resemblance to the Middle East was only reinforced when I got up there; there was about a foot-and-a-half high parapet around the edge, with the roof itself being bare, plastered concrete. I rolled over the parapet and crawled along the roof to the side of the building facing the gate. I heard Derek and Little Bob follow me up and over, as I moved.

  Crawling on concrete has never been fun, but my knees and elbows seem to hate it more and more as I get older. I was wincing as I dragged myself the last few feet to the edge. I shifted over to kind of lie on my side, propped myself up on one elbow, and eased a single eye over the top of the parapet. There was no reason to expose any more of myself than absolutely necessary; both for the sake of staying behind cover and hopefully keeping Fernandez unaware that Jorge and his people had overwatch.

  The outer wall of the compound limited my line of sight; it was high enough that the only real view of anything besides some treetops and roofs was through the gate. And part of that view was obscured by the SCC Suburbans that the policia had left outside the wall. But from what I could see, Fernandez had come with plenty of ass.

  There was a black-painted DN-XI armored 4x4 sitting right in front of the gate, with a remote turret mounting an M60 pointed at the police station's front doors. “Fuck,” I whispered. We didn't have any “can openers.” I was really missing the RPG-27s we'd had in Iraq, but there had only been so much we could cart across the border. That vehicle would shrug off anything we could throw at it. I could just see a couple more mounted machineguns on the backs of vehicles, their muzzles angled skyward. Dirty cops or not, at least their muzzle discipline was holding.

  The passenger door to the DN-XI was open, and a man was standing up in it, bellowing into a megaphone. Again, I couldn't follow the Spanish, and Jorge hadn't given me a description of Fernandez, but from the
bellicose way old boy was yelling into the loudspeaker, I'd have given even odds that this was Fernandez. He wasn't wearing a uniform, though he was in an unmistakably official vehicle. He was slightly pudgy, wearing a red shirt, and sporting a wild, curly tangle of black hair and beard. He looked a little like a fat Che Guevara, which immediately disposed me toward shooting him in the face on general principles.

  There was movement behind me, and I dropped down to see Jorge crawling across the roof, a CZ P-09 in one hand. He had shed his tie and jacket, but was still wearing the suit. The crawl across the concrete wasn't doing it any favors. I motioned for him to stay low, but asked, “The guy on the loudspeaker? Is that Fernandez?”

  “Si,” he replied. “That is him.”

  “What's he saying?” I asked, easing my head up to watch some more. I took the opportunity to scan the courtyard. There were about a half-dozen police vehicles, only two of them armored, parked around the outside wall. Jim, Bryan, and Ben were fanned out among the vehicles, either prone or kneeling, covering the gate from two directions. There was going to be a good cone of fire aimed at anyone coming through that gate. Now, just as long as they didn't decide to drive an armored vehicle through, we should have an initial advantage of fire superiority and surprise.

  “He is calling to me to come out. He says he has been patient, but if we will not cooperate he will offer our blood to La Sanctisima Muerte.” He sounded a little shaken. I suppose being threatened with becoming a human sacrifice would be a little jarring. I couldn't be one hundred percent sure that Jorge was giving it to me straight, but I could pick out enough words in the increasingly furious tirade to suspect he wasn't overstating the situation. The name of Saint Death had definitely stood out.

  I dropped back below the parapet and considered the options. We were facing at least one armored vehicle, and multiple belt-fed weapons. I could just shoot Fernandez mid-rant and see if that did the trick of driving them off, but I wasn't sure enough of the situation. I also couldn't be sure that doing so wouldn't just lead whoever was still inside the DN-XI to open fire with that remote turret and shred the front of the police station, along with anybody near it or immediately inside. But surrendering the initiative to them didn't seem like that good an idea, either.