by Bill King
“Not me, man, but you just did,” said the man, who lived on the property adjoining the farmhouse where Chucho was living. Both properties were owned by the same real estate investment company based out of San Antonio which, if you scoured deeply enough, you might find that it was owned by a senior Mexican Federal Policeman. “I heard gunfire coming from your place about twenty minutes ago. A lot of it. There are cops all over the property.”
“What about my men?” Chucho asked, worried. He sat up in his bed and reached for a cigarette. “Were any of them taken alive?”
“I don’t know, Chucho,” the neighbor said. In truth, he was more than just a neighbor. He and Chucho had grown up together in Mexico. Chucho had also leased the adjacent property to protect his flank and had positioned a couple of men there to provide him with an alternate escape route, should that eventuality ever become necessary. “I could see three or four ambulances over by the farmhouse, but I didn’t want to risk being caught by trying to get a closer look. We’re monitoring the police scanner online but, so far, nothing.”
“It’s that FBI pendejo, I know it,” said Chucho, cursing under his breath. “Mierda. Here I am in Laredo looking for him and, all the while, he is in Hebbronville looking for me.”
“Well, since the identity of the farm is obviously now burned, I assume you’re going to one of the alternate locations?”
“Yeah,” said Chucho, trying to quickly process the rapidly changing threat dynamic. He was now wide awake. “I’ll text you later with the new location. In the meantime, find out as much as you can about what they know. I’m going to swing back by the Laredo FBI building for the next few hours to see if our FBI guy shows up.”
◆◆◆
The sun had just barely peeked its head up over the horizon as Cortez turned his pickup truck onto westbound highway 359 toward Laredo. The past three hours had been intense, but they had come up empty in terms of their primary objective.
The sound of his ring tone reverberated through the vehicle’s audio system. He glanced down at the dashboard’s digital display, which read JACK GONÇALVES.
“Yeah, boss, what’s up?”
“How did your raid go? Did you wrap up your guy?”
“No, we captured four of his underlings, but Chucho was nowhere to be found,” said Cortez, leaning forward to adjust the air conditioning controls on the dash. Even though it was still only six in the morning, the temperature was already in the low-seventies and warming up by the minute. In an hour, the rising sun would be blinding to motorists traveling eastbound. Fortunately for him, though, he was traveling westbound. “I was planning to look for a McDonalds or something for some coffee and a bite to eat before I head back to Laredo. Then, I guess we’ll probably regroup and see if we can flush Chucho out again.”
“Well, that’s the reason I’m calling,” said Gonçalves. “The investigation into these Federal Reserve bombings is really starting to pick up steam and, even though all of them so far have been in the Midwest, nobody seems to think it will remain that way for long. I need you back here in Houston to work on the task force.”
“What about Chucho?”
“I think Janak and the guys in Laredo can handle that, especially now that you seem to have gotten his attention with your early morning raid. Let’s just hope it rattles him into making a mistake.”
“When do you need me back in Houston?”
“Today, and the earlier, the better.”
“Okay, boss,” said Cortez. “I’ll swing by my hotel room to pick up my bag and check out. I didn’t leave anything at the FBI office in Laredo, so I’ll just call Bobby and let him know that I’m heading straight back to Houston. I’ll see you sometime between one and two this afternoon.”
◆◆◆
Chapter 21
AT THE SAME TIME Pete Cortez was driving eastbound toward Houston, a weather-beaten white delivery truck was pulling up under the front portico of the main house at Rancho Buena Fortuna. The sign on the dusty side panels read SUMINISTROS ELÉCTRICOS MENDOZA, or Mendoza Electrical Supplies.
Mateo Calderón opened the front passenger side door and climbed out, stretching his arms and legs. It had been a week since he and his team had returned from their successful operation in Kansas City and St. Louis. Now he was back for more. Squinting as he looked into the bright morning sun, he shaded his eyes with his right hand. Meanwhile, the driver of the truck had gotten out and walked around to the rear of the vehicle. As he swung open the double doors, the old rusty hinges let out a soulful shriek.
One by one, fifteen people climbed out the rear door, each carrying a backpack. This was the next installment of Venezuelans, this time four teams worth. They had been crammed inside the van, seated on three long wooden benches, one on each side and one running down the middle, like an airplane rigged for parachute jumpers. Much like a newborn deer, they needed a few moments to establish coordinated movement of their legs.
Had they been stopped along the way by local police, they would have appeared, at least at first blush, to be just another truckload of migrants heading north toward the border…except that they had enough firepower with them to hold off at least fifty policemen should the situation warrant. Fortunately for the local police, their trip to the Rancho had been uneventful.
Graciela, wearing a pale-yellow sleeveless sun dress and leather sandals, stood on the front porch, her arms crossed, watching. She said nothing, just nodded her head, a signal for Calderón and his team to follow her as she led them down the hall and through the kitchen to the underground complex. One of her security men led them the rest of the way underground to their temporary living quarters.
Calderón left Isabela in charge of the Venezuelans while they settled into what would be their living quarters for the next two days. After giving her some final instructions, he climbed into one of the golf carts and, escorted by one of Graciela’s security men, drove back down the long, underground corridor to the service elevator that would take him up to the basement of the main house.
Graciela was waiting for him in the library when he finally arrived back upstairs nearly half an hour later. The burly security man who had accompanied Calderón then left the two of them alone, closing the door behind him and taking up a position just outside the room.
“Are there any changes we need to incorporate?”
“I think we’re good,” he replied. “Isabela is getting everyone settled into their living spaces before she does a complete inventory of the supplies. If we’re missing anything, she will let me know within the next thirty minutes.”
Graciela nodded.
“Your transportation has been set up to all four destinations,” she said, plucking a grape from the bowl of fruit on the table beside her and popping it into her mouth. “This time, you will be flying on private airplanes. We will provide you with information concerning your onsite logistics point of contact before you leave here tomorrow night.”
“Did you have any problems acquiring the explosive materials?”
“No, we have excellent contacts throughout the U.S. and, as long as we have sufficient notice, we can deliver whatever you need, wherever you need it.”
“Do you trust all these people…these logistics contacts, as you call them?”
“Let’s just say that we value loyalty and discretion above all else,” she said, picking up a fruit knife and cutting off a slice of apple. She offered a piece to him, but he declined, shaking his head slightly. “We are very generous with our rewards…and very stern, so to speak, with our admonishments.”
Calderón smiled. He understood exactly what she meant. In fact, that was precisely how he ran the M-28 organization.
◆◆◆
Chucho was not looking forward to this conversation, but he also knew that the longer he waited to tell El Coronel, the worse it would be. However, even worse than late notification would be for El Coronel to find out about the raid on the farmhouse from someone other than Chucho so, reluctantly, he p
ulled his phone from his pocket and pressed the speed dial button.
“Ah, Chucho,” said the federal policeman, who appeared to be in a good mood. “I trust you have good news for me.”
“Not exactly, señor. While I was in Laredo last night lying in wait for the American FBI agent, he was in Hebbronville leading a raid on the farmhouse. Four of my people were taken into custody.”
There was silence on the other end, which made Chucho feel even more nervous.
“Is there a good part to this story?”
“I’m in Laredo right now, watching the entrance to the FBI building,” said Chucho, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “As soon as he shows up for work this morning, I plan to take him out.”
“Are you by yourself?”
“No, I have two men with me. We’ll be in and out before he knows what hit him.”
Again, there was silence on the other end.
“Don’t worry, mi Coronel, we won’t have to worry about this gabacho for much longer. I guarantee it.”
Still, more silence.
“You do understand that they are also looking for you and that they now know what you look like?” the policeman asked finally. He wanted to make sure that Chucho truly understood the gravity of the situation. “Make sure you keep a low profile, Chucho, or you’ll find yourself waiting for this gringo from a cell inside the FBI building.”
“Of course, señor. I am not a complete idiot.”
More silence.
“Call me when it is done,” said El Coronel before terminating the call.
◆◆◆
Chucho looked down at the clock on his dashboard. It read ten o’clock and the morning sun was seriously beginning to make its uncomfortable presence felt. He had dozed off for about an hour, sleeping fitfully in the front seat of the old pickup truck while his cohort kept an eye out for anyone who resembled Cortez.
Someone obviously had ratted him out to the police who had raided the farmhouse. He wracked his brain trying to figure out who might have given him up. It wasn’t that he was lacking in possibilities. In fact, it could have been any of a dozen or more angry competitors whose toes he had stepped on just in the past couple of weeks alone.
Finally, his restlessness got the better of him. He pulled out his cell phone and called his man from the farm next door, the one who had called him after the FBI raid.
“I need you to bring some men here to the FBI building in Laredo. I have some business to take care of, so bring your weapons.”
“Anything you want to tell me about?”
“No, I want to keep this one pretty close hold,” said Chucho. “I’ll tell you all about it when you get here. And bring someone who can stay here with Ramon and watch the building for the FBI gabacho.”
“How many men do we need for your business?”
“You, me, and maybe two more. That should be enough.”
◆◆◆
An hour later, a dusty black crew cab pickup truck with a mangled Texas license plate pulled up in front of a ramshackle white frame house and parked by the curb. Four shabbily dressed young men in ill-fitting clothing got out and, weapons drawn, calmly walked quickly up the cracked and buckled concrete sidewalk to the porch. The window next to the front door had a big, diagonal crack running from the upper left corner to the lower right.
“I have no doubt in my mind that this is the cabrón who ratted us out to the police,” said Chucho quietly to the others. “Now it is time for a little payback.”
The wooden porch creaked under their weight and Chucho raised his index finger to his lips. They immediately froze in place, listening intently for any reaction from the inside. After a few seconds, Chucho nodded his head.
“Now!” he said in a sharp whisper. He was standing two steps behind the others, a pistol in his right hand.
One of the men slammed a heavy steel battering ram into the door handle, causing the wooden door frame to splinter and the door to burst open. The four men rushed inside, their FN-57 pistols drawn, intensely searching for targets to shoot. They needn’t have bothered.
Seated around the front room, in an odd assortment of old couches and armchairs, were ten men, their mouths wide open, their eyes bulging in surprise. Heavily tattooed, most appeared to be in their twenties or early thirties and each of them almost certainly carried a handgun tucked in the waistband of his trousers.
Apparently, Chucho had interrupted a conclave of local gang leaders who had gotten together to discuss future now that they had taken care of the new threat to their business interests…namely, him.
It was difficult to say who was most surprised, Chucho or the rival gang leaders.
In the second or two before the initial shock had worn off the surprised drug dealers, Chucho had already shot six of the ten and was still firing. His three compadres, who like Chucho were armed with FN-57 handguns with twenty-round magazines, took care of the other four, although there was bound to have been a considerable amount of target overlap.
When the shooting stopped less than ten seconds later, more than eighty rounds had been fired. Not one of the surprised locals had even gotten off a single shot.
“Holy shit, man,” said Chucho, grinning from ear to ear, as he ejected the empty clip in his FN-57 and replaced it with a full one. “This sure saved me a lot of time.”
Not only did the 5.7x28 millimeter ammunition rip through the now-dead bodies of the rival drug dealers, it also destroyed the furniture and the walls in the living room. Light was streaming in through the dozens of new holes in the wall and the upholstery on the furniture was completely shredded.
“Geez, man, it looks like we walked in on some sort of big meeting,” said one of his men, who was wearing a burnt orange t-shirt with a big white silhouette of a longhorn skull spread across his chest. He recognized a few of the men now lying dead on the now blood-soaked furniture but knew them only by reputation.
“Yeah, that really hurts my feelings that they didn’t invite me,” said Chucho, pausing for dramatic effect and feigning mock horror. “You don’t think maybe they were talking about me, do you?”
The other three laughed, understanding intuitively the reaction Chucho expected. It never hurt to suck up to Chucho, especially when he was worried…and, lately, he certainly seemed to be worried. It would get worse before it got better.
◆◆◆
It was just past two-thirty in the afternoon when Cortez pulled his pickup truck into the parking area surrounding the FBI’s emerald green Houston office building. He had made pretty good time until the last five miles, when the traffic virtually ground to a halt due to the never-ending road construction on U.S. highway 290.
Gonçalves was waiting for him when he finally reached the ASAC’s office. Cortez was holding a large orange and white striped Styrofoam cup, filled with Coke and ice, that he had picked up at Whataburger a couple hours earlier during a stop for gas in Victoria. He was still wearing the same faded blue jeans and maroon polo shirt he had on during the raid on Chucho’s farmhouse earlier that morning.
“Come on in, Pete,” he said when he saw Cortez appear in the doorway.
Cortez sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the grey, government-issue desk.
“Okay, give me the down-and-dirty summary of what went on with the raid this morning,” said Gonçalves.
“The sheriff’s department set up an observation post along the main highway just after dark, across the road from the entrance to the farm,” said Cortez. “No one entered or exited the property after that time so, assuming Chucho was there earlier in the evening, he had already left by the time the sheriff’s guys set up shop.”
“Anything unusual happen during the takedown itself?”
“No. There were four guys inside, all sound asleep. We tossed in a couple of flash-bangs to disorient them and the whole thing took maybe thirty seconds, tops. The three men in the front room made a move for their weapons and we had to take them out. They were evacuat
ed to a local hospital with minor flesh wounds.”
“Minor? I suppose everything seems minor if you’re the one who got shot.”
“Well, non-life-threatening, then.”
“What about Chucho? Did any of them have anything to say about his whereabouts?”
“No. In fact, they all claimed they had never heard of anyone by that name.”
“Did you find any drugs or illegal weapons on site?”
“Not yet, but the sheriff’s department is going to conduct a thorough search of the property and the grounds. It’ll probably take a day or two to complete, though.”
Gonçalves frowned, then shrugged his shoulders.
“So, what’s up with the Fed bombings, boss?” asked Cortez, changing the subject.
“The Director wants each of the major JTTFs to set up a task force focusing on attacks on high value federal targets,” said Gonçalves. “Cities with federal reserve buildings, of course, will concentrate on those. Even though the Houston bank is just a branch of the Dallas Fed, the size and importance of the operation here led the director to include it on the high value target list.”
The Houston branch of the Dallas Federal Reserve is located on Allen Parkway, overlooking the miles of greenspace and running trails of Eleanor Tinsley Park on Buffalo Bayou.
“Does that mean I’m out of hot water over the fishing incident?”
“I wouldn’t read anything into this, one way or the other,” said the ASAC. “Keep your head down and your nose clean until I tell you otherwise.”
“Got it. When do we start?”
“We already started this morning,” said Gonçalves, glancing up at the clock on the wall. It was twenty past three. “We have a progress meeting scheduled for four o’clock this afternoon in the SCIF. I’ll see you there…oh, and by the way, farm boy, you might want to check your boots and find the source of whatever that god-awful smell is.”
