by Bill King
“Even if they decide to cut over to the secondary roads, that’ll probably only add about half an hour or so to the trip,” he said. “That’ll put them down here somewhere between eight-thirty and nine.”
“I think we ought to get a SWAT team together and go out to the barn to meet them,” said Cortez. “I can fly out there and meet you at the Laredo airport in two hours.”
◆◆◆
The white Mercedes van, now blanketed with dead lovebugs smushed all over the front end and windshield, pulled into the Walmart parking lot in Seguin, a city of twenty-eight thousand about forty miles east of San Antonio on Interstate ten.
It was about five-fifteen and the lot was still about half full of cars, as last-minute shoppers stopped by to pick up steaks and beers and other sundry items for their traditional Saturday night backyard barbeques.
“There it is, over there,” said Calderón, pointing in the direction of a black Lincoln MKX that was parked next to a shopping cart return rack. “Pull over next to it so I can confirm the license plates.”
The driver pulled into a parking space next to the MKX. Calderón got out of the Mercedes and, after looking around to make sure no one was watching him, squatted down next to the driver side wheel well. He felt around until his hand bumped against a tiny magnetic box, which he removed. Sliding open the lid on the box, he took out a black key fob and depressed the button twice.
He could hear the clunking sound of the car doors unlocking.
He gave a thumbs up gesture to his compatriots in the van as he walked around to the back of the Lincoln and opened the rear hatch. His three compadres unloaded their duffle bags from the van and tossed them into the Lincoln’s rear storage space. Calderón tossed the key over to the young woman named Rita, who had been driving since Dallas.
The four of them climbed into the MKX. As Rita backed out of the parking space, Calderón made one last visual scan of the lot to make sure they had not attracted any attention.
“How are we fixed for gas?” he asked.
“The gauge says it’s full,” Rita replied, pulling forward and heading for the parking lot exit and state highway one-two-three.
“Perfect. That should easily get us all the way to the Rancho without having to stop for gas.” The old barn was now just under two hundred miles away.
Rita turned right onto southbound state highway one-two-three toward Kenedy, a small highway crossroads town about sixty miles south.
“By the time they find the Mercedes van, we should already be home free.”
◆◆◆
Janak and his team were at the Laredo airport, waiting for Cortez’s plane to land, when his cell phone rang.
“Agent Janak, I’m glad I caught you before you all were airborne,” said the out-of-breath FBI agent calling from the Laredo ops center. “We just received word from San Antonio that the Sequin PD found the white Mercedes van that Calderón was driving. It was parked in the Walmart parking lot just off the east loop.”
“Shit. Do they know how long it’s been there?”
“Yeah. They checked the outside security footage, which shows them on camera pulling into the parking lot at five-fifteen.” Janak looked at his watch. It was now seven.
“Damn, that’s almost two hours ago,” he said. “Did the cameras happen to capture the vehicle they switched to?”
“Black Lincoln MKX. Texas plates X9V 539.” He pronounced it x-ray-niner-victor-five-three-niner.
“Seguin is only about two hundred miles from here, which means that they’re now probably only about an hour or hour-and-a-half from the border.”
“We’ve already started passing the word about the change in vehicle and we’ve got a couple of helicopters and search planes up in the air covering the main routes, looking for them.”
“Alright,” said Janak, glancing at the other members of the FBI SWAT team. “We’re fixing to take off in about ten minutes and should be in position in about thirty.”
Janak tucked the cell phone into his pants pocket and signaled to the eight men standing by the black hawk helicopter. All of them were dressed in black tactical gear and carrying an assortment of weapons.
“Cortez will be here in three minutes,” he said, checking the text message that had just come in. “Get ready to load up.”
◆◆◆
Chapter 36
THE BORDER PATROL’S BLACK Hawk helicopter touched down in an open clearing at the foot of a mid-sized hill. According to the GPS, it was known as Lipan Hill, most likely a reference to the Lipan Apache who once roamed the area.
By now, it was just before eight o’clock, so they still had another twenty minutes or so of daylight. To the west of them, about a hundred yards away, they could see the outline of a building set among a couple of old oak trees. To the south, probably about half a mile away, was the Rio Grande.
“That must be the old barn that Gwen Thompson told us about,” Cortez shouted over the engine noise to the FBI SWAT commander, a short, grizzled-looking guy by the name of George Johannsen, as they climbed out of the helicopter. They were all well-armed, dressed in black and wearing black Kevlar helmets and goggles. Each also wore a Kevlar vest with FBI identification patches on the chest and right shoulder. Everyone except the sniper carried an MP-5 submachine gun, along with a Glock 19M pistol.
The sniper was armed with a custom made G.A. Precision HRT sniper rifle. The San Antonio office had sent him down to Laredo specifically because they wanted to employ the very best for this critical job.
The deafening drone from the engine powering the rotating blades made hearing difficult. Janak raised his fist in the air to signal the ten-man team to rally by a grove of mesquite trees. As the team hustled over to the rally point, the pilot took the helicopter up about forty feet in the air and veered off toward the east, in hopes of locating the Venezuelan vehicles that they believed were headed toward them.
Fósforo and his team of Venezuelan terrorists would most likely be approaching from the east, while any assistance from the Rancho, according to what Thompson had told them, would come from inside the weather-beaten old barn, to the west.
“Let’s get a sniper team up on top of that hill over there,” said Johannsen, pointing to the hill just to their east. “Make sure you cover the approaches from the east. The rest of us will cover the barn.”
The sniper and his spotter headed off on foot toward the hill.
“We have a drone with IR patrolling the three main routes between Seguin and here,” Johannsen said to his team. “They should pick them up well before they reach here. Once we determine their route of entry, we’ll deploy tactically to engage them. Until then, we’ll wait and watch, although it shouldn’t be too long.”
He looked over at his number two and said, “Let’s make sure everybody’s comms work.”
“Radio check,” said his deputy, speaking into the microphone attached to his left shoulder strap of his MOLLE, pronounced Molly, an acronym for Modular Light-weight Load-carrying Equipment. He wore an earpiece in his left ear and the radio transmitter was located in his shoulder pouch.
One by one, each member of his team replied into their microphones with their call sign and the words, “Roger, over.”
The assault net would operate on a separate channel and all the FBI SWAT team would be on that frequency. Cortez and Gonçalves would also operate on a second, separate command net, which would connect them with the JTTF in both the Houston and San Antonio FBI offices. That was also how they would receive information from the drone operator.
“We need to have somebody go check out the barn,” said Johannsen, motioning to one of his sergeants.
“Remind them to be on the lookout for cameras,” said Cortez. “If this place is what we think it is, there’s bound to be an array of surveillance cameras. We don’t want to tip them off before the M-28 folks get here.”
Two men were sent to check out the barn, looking for any signs of life or activity.
Ten mi
nutes later, the sniper team radioed in that they were in position on top of the nearby hill.
“Now we wait,” said Cortez.
◆◆◆
“Look. Over there, beside the barn,” said Graciela, suddenly leaning forward and pointing her right index finger at the big video display monitor on the wall. She was sitting in her regular leather theatre seat in the Bunker, her right foot tucked underneath her. “I saw some movement in the shadows. Zoom in and see if you can get a better look.”
The operator responsible for monitoring that sector, a young woman in her early twenties named Marcela, used her computer mouse to zoom in on the area where Graciela thought she saw movement. Because of the darkness, she was unable to get a good enough view, so she switched over to infrared and there they were. Two figures, slightly stooped, trying to move stealthily around the building.
“There they are, Graciela,” said the young woman. “They both appear to be carrying weapons, most likely an assault rifle or a submachine gun like the Rancho guards carry.”
“Marcela, switch the other barn cameras over to infrared,” said Graciela, turning to look at the young woman. “Let’s see if they’re alone or if there are more of them.”
When the young woman did so, they were able to detect three additional human-like shapes about a hundred feet to the east of the barn. A few seconds later, another shape appeared from behind a tree and looked to be armed, as well.
“Damn,” said Graciela. “Whoever they are, they don’t appear to be casual passersby who just stumbled upon this place. They’re either here for Fósforo or for us…or both.”
Everyone in the Bunker was now looking anxiously at Graciela, waiting for instructions.
“Rafael, launch one of the armed drones, but have it maintain a standoff position on this side of the river, just in case whoever this is also has a drone watching,” she said. “Marcela, bring up the camera views of the inside of the barn. I assume our motion detectors have not detected anyone inside.”
“No, nothing inside, Graciela. No movement at all.” It was pitch black inside the barn, so the young woman switched the camera to infrared, looking for any heat sources. “Nobody is inside the barn.”
“Please deactivate the elevator that goes up to the barn and lock down the elevator doors, top and bottom,” said Graciela. “I want access to our underground facilities closed off completely. Also, let’s not do anything to tip them off that we know that they’re up there.”
“What about Fósforo and the rest of his people?” asked Marcela.
“It looks like he’ll have to find a new way across the river,” said Graciela. “We had better give him a call and let him know that he’s got a welcoming party waiting for him here. In the meantime, I’ll alert Rancho security to be prepared to defend the underground complex in case we need them.”
◆◆◆
Fósforo felt nauseous. They had been traveling on rough gravel roads for the past twenty minutes and he felt as if his entire innards had been put through the wringer. He rolled down the window for some fresh air. What he got, instead, was fine dust from the road, kicked up by the vehicle in front of them.
“Pull over to the side of the road,” he said, rolling the window back up. “I need to take a leak.”
The driver tapped his brakes a couple of times to keep from skidding on the gravel before slowly pulling over to the side of the road. Calderón hopped out and walked back down the road about twenty feet to relieve himself. He was in mid-flow when he heard an ominous rattling sound a few feet away. It was a rattlesnake out enjoying the cool warmth of the evening when Calderón had disturbed its solitude.
“Carajo,” he muttered, trying mightily to stem the flow without getting it all over himself. It was no use, so he slowly began to walk backwards, away from the snake, while he finished with nature’s call.
Fortunately for him, the snake maintained its position, rattling occasionally until Calderón was safely out of range. As he was shaking the dew off the lily, he felt the vibration from satellite phone, followed by the sound of his ringtone.
“Mateo, I have some bad news for you,” said Graciela, who was calling him on his sat phone because there was no cell service in that remote area. “What is your estimated arrival time at the barn?”
“We should be there in about half an hour,” he replied. “What is the bad news?”
Graciela paused briefly and exhaled slowly.
“We have infrared images of at least six men, all armed, in the vicinity of the old barn,” she said finally. “I’m certain they are waiting for you.”
“How would they know about us? Do we have a security leak?”
“Rhonda went home to her apartment last night and hasn’t returned. I sent someone across the border to check out her place and he reported seeing no sign of her. He went inside her apartment and says there’s no sign of a struggle.”
“Do you think she had second thoughts and skipped out on us?”
“I don’t think so but, then again, you never truly know someone.”
“Are her clothes still there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you check the hospitals?”
“Of course, we did. We’ve also checked with our inside man at Laredo PD. Nothing. It’s like she’s just disappeared into the wind.”
“Mierda,” he said. “Well, whatever happened, we have to assume the police have her…and that she talked.”
Calderón said nothing for a few moments, thinking about his options.
“Well, I don’t see any point in running headlong into an ambush,” he said finally. “We’ll just turn south and head straight for the river. We can’t be more than about twenty miles from it. Can you send a couple of vehicles to pick us up on the other side?”
“We’ll track you through your phone,” she said. “I’ll have a vehicle on the road within the next few minutes.”
“Excellent.”
“Then it’s agreed,” she said. “We’ll start shutting off all access down into the tunnels.”
She figured there was no point in upsetting him by telling him she had already sealed the place off before even talking to him.
“I hope you can swim,” she said.
Once she had disconnected the phone call, she turned toward Marcela.
“Keep a close eye on the intruders. We want to be sure they stay right where they are for at least the next thirty minutes.”
She turned her head around to talk to one of the drone operators.
“Have the drone make a pass over Lipan Hill to see if we can locate any snipers or observers on top,” she said. “Don’t shoot. Just identify and locate.”
◆◆◆
“Six-seven-Charlie, this is six-seven-Romeo, over,” said the crackling voice over the radio. Six-seven-Romeo was the helicopter pilot.
“This is six-seven-Charlie,” replied Pete Cortez, who standing in a group of trees next to the SWAT commander.
“We’ve been following a black Lincoln crossover for the past five minutes that has been heading across country toward your location,” said the pilot. Cortez would hear the dull drone of the helicopter engine in the background, despite the fact the pilot was speaking into a helmet microphone. “The vehicle stopped for a couple of minutes and then switched direction, heading southbound toward the Rio Grande. I am sending you the geo coordinates now. Over.”
Cortez looked at the location on his Iridium 9555 satellite phone. Cell service along this stretch of the Rio Grande was spotty at best.
“I know that area,” he said. “That’s where my fishing incident occurred two months ago. The old cabin nearby there has been vacant for years and there’s nothing else around. Over.”
“I’m about two minutes from your location,” said the pilot. “What do you want me to do? Over.”
“Are you sure it’s them? Over.”
“Well, if this isn’t them, then nobody’s coming your way. There’s not a heck of a lot of vehicle traffic out here
, especially this time of night, and what there is, is usually up to no good. Over.”
“Pick us up ASAP. Out.”
Cortez looked over at the FBI SWAT commander. “They turned south toward the river. They’re not coming here.”
“Damn. So, are we going or staying?” asked Johansen.
“My gut says to go,” said Cortez, patting his body to check that he had all his gear.
“Makes sense to me,” said the SWAT commander. “Unless you object, I plan to pick up the sniper team and leave two other men on the hilltop just to keep an eye on things here.”
Cortez nodded his head in the affirmative and reached down for his wristwatch, pulling back the Velcro strap that covered the luminescent face.
“The chopper should be here in less than two minutes to take us to the new location.”
◆◆◆
“The drone made a pass over Lipan Hill a couple of minutes ago and detected two figures near the summit, on the eastern slope,” said Marcela, projecting the video image onto the big screen on the wall. “It looks like they’re monitoring the approach from the east, where Fósforo and his team would be coming from.”
“Have it pass between the hill and the old barn and give me a count of how many bodies are out there,” said Graciela.
The drone operator brought the drone around and made a pass from the hill and over the barn. Sixty seconds later, he said to Graciela, “I don’t detect any man-sized heat sources.”
“That can’t be right. We just saw them about ten minutes ago. Make another pass, this time from the west.”
The drone operator did as he was instructed.
“Nothing,” said the operator about forty seconds later. “Not a soul.”
Graciela pushed the red button on the console that doubled as an arm rest. A gruff voice answered in Spanish. He was the shift leader of the ready response force that was stationed about thirty feet down the corridor from the Bunker.
“Pablo, send a team of five men up the manhole to physically check out the barn and surrounding area. We saw at least six armed men outside about ten minutes ago and now they’re gone. Report back to me immediately.”
