The cartel heads had gathered around a low table in the conference room. They were surrounded by their security details. The wait staff kept their drinks filled. Cigar smoke hung in the air, stirred into slow-moving eddies by ceiling fans. Beyond the windows, dark storm clouds gathered in the west, blotting out the sun.
Escobedo shook his head. “We avoid the need for technology altogether if we simply buy off more of the U.S. border patrol.”
“That is getting harder to do,” Alonso argued. “Americans are tired of the killing on their southern border. The Norteamericano border patrol are vetting their people better. It’s hurting business.”
“That is why I called this meeting,” Machado told them. The time had come. He had spent decades putting all the pieces in place. It required patience and no small investment of capital but the fruits of his labor had finally ripened. He took a long drag from his cigar and exhaled. “What if I told you, in a few short months the border patrol will no longer be of any concern?”
Alonso snorted.
“I’d say you have been using your own product,” Escobedo muttered.
“I’ve been working on a deal to end America’s war on drugs and allow us open access,” Machado told them.
“Go on,” El Cazador said.
“You talk of buying off the border patrol.” Machado laughed and a cloud of smoke burst from his nostrils. “You think too small, my friends. Why buy the border agents when you can own the president?”
Alonso shook his head. “You’ll never buy off the President of the United States. Even America isn’t that corrupt.” After a pause, he added, “Yet.”
“What if I told you I already had?” Machado said and let the statement sink in. “What if I told you the current frontrunner for the DNC is in my pocket?”
El Cazador leaned forward. “This is incredible news.”
All eyes were on him. He took his time, enjoying the moment. “For decades now, American politicians have been taking campaign contributions from foreign governments, like Iran and Saudi Arabia. I thought to myself, why should the ragheads be the only ones dictating American policy?
“Several years ago, I began financing political campaigns in the calculated gamble that sooner or later one of my investments would pay off. One thing you can always count on, my friends, is greed. Helen Rhodes was all too eager to accept my campaign contributions. It was my money which helped secure her run for Governor of New York and my money is funding her presidential campaign.”
“I have seen her speeches,” Alonso said. “She argues for open borders.”
“Once she is in the White House, we can move product without fear of the border patrol.”
“How can you be sure of this?” Alonso asked. “It’s one thing to give her money. It’s something else entirely to expect she will give us open access.”
“I recorded our conversations and kept a detailed paper trail of the money I funneled into her Swiss account,” Machado told them. “When she is president, I will request she open certain routes for us to move product. If she refuses, I release the recordings.”
Alonso laughed and clapped his hands. “Bravo! No politician wants the voting public to see the skeletons in the closet.”
Machado nodded.
Escobedo champed on the end of a cigar. “You alone will know which routes are safe to use. In fact, if you wished, you could use your connection with America’s president to bring the law down on us.”
Machado offered a friendly smile. “You worry too much, my friend. I will happily provide you safe passage, for a modest fee. Say, twenty percent?”
Escobedo snarled. “You won’t get a single peso out of me!”
Machado leaned back and slung one arm over the back of the sofa. “Then, I am afraid, you will find it very difficult to move product.”
El Cazador spoke through clenched teeth. “You think you can strong-arm us, Machado?”
“You’re looking at this all wrong, my friends. I am making it safer and easier to move product. No more fighting over tunnels in the desert. No more war. No more bloodshed. We provide Norteamericanos with the drugs they need to numb their pointless existence and we make more money than God.”
“But you make more than all of us,” Alonso pointed out.
“The price of doing business—”
A deafening peal of automatic fire cut off his words. The cartel leaders froze where they sat. The lieutenants pulled their weapons. The muscles in Machado’s back tensed, ready for action. Blood pounded in his ears. His worst nightmare was coming true. He stood on the precipice of victory and his plan was being undone by a lone American with a grudge. He cursed the gringo CIA agent and that incompetent fool, Santiago.
The shooting stopped just as suddenly as it began.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Alonso wanted to know.
“The police?” Escobedo said.
All around the conference room, armed men eyed each other. The air felt electrified. They sat on a powder keg. A single spark would set the whole thing off.
A radio crackled. Static broke up the transmission, but a garbled voice came through. “…Los Zetas…attacking…”
Machado felt all eyes on him. The other cartels swiveled their guns in his direction. His enforcers responded in kind. Panic flooded his limbs. He started to stammer out a denial but he was interrupted by more gunfire.
Escobedo jumped up so fast his chair toppled. Everyone in the room was on their feet, pointing guns at each other. The three Los Zetas soldiers with Machado were severely outnumbered. They shifted their focus between the other cartel leaders and rival enforcers.
“Wait!” Machado threw up his hands. “Just wait!”
“Tell your men to put their guns down!” Escobedo ordered.
“Order your men to hold their fire,” Machado growled.
The lights went out, plunging the room into darkness. A pistol barked. The muzzle flash lit the faces of fourteen armed and angry men. Machado felt the bullet sizzle past his ear. He lunged for the door as a hailstorm of lead filled the air.
In his panic, he collided with someone in the dark and they both went to the floor. A fist slammed into the side of Machado’s head. It glanced off his ear, leaving him more surprised than hurt. The man beneath him was a writhing mass of flailing arms and legs. Machado didn’t know if he was wrestling a soldier or one of the other gang lords. He took a punch to the lips and the hot copper taste of blood filled his mouth.
Machado locked his hands around the man’s head and gave a powerful twist. All the gunfire had shorted out his hearing, but he felt vertebra crack. The man’s arms went limp, like someone had pulled the battery from a child’s toy.
Men screamed. The sharp stench of gun powder filled the room. Lead, like a swarm of angry hornets, buzzed overhead. Machado groped for a weapon and latched onto a dead man’s shoe instead. He gave up the search, pushed himself off the floor and ran for the exit. He hit the door with his shoulder. Wood shrieked. The door burst open, spilling him into the long corridor connected to the entryway. The red emergency exit light revealed the bodies of four dead enforcers in front of the elevators.
A bullet zipped past his head. Machado flinched and pulled his shoulders up around his ears. He heard Escobedo scream, “Machado, you traitor!”
Machado ran for the elevator
Chapter Sixty-Five
Noble found the circuit breaker in a library full of books that had never been read; none of the spines were even cracked. A pair of leather armchairs flanked an electric fireplace. The room was an affectation of refinery, someplace the drug dealers could go to make believe they were civilized men instead of petty crooks. A tapestry hid the fuse box. Noble opened the door and tripped the main breakers.
The lights winked out.
From the opposite end of the penthouse, there came the hard rattle of machine guns. The deadly roar lasted a full minute then tapered to a single handgun clapping in the dark. A savage grin turned up one
side of Noble’s mouth. The paranoid cartels had just done his work for him. The upper floor was still crawling with enforcers, but it sounded like the bosses had dusted each other.
He left the library and worked his way through the penthouse—the AK-47 leading the way—clearing rooms one at a time. His pulse hammered in his ears and the darkness played tricks on him. In the distance, he heard deep thunder and, closer to hand, sporadic gunfire.
The billiard hall had been transformed into an Alamo by three of the hired thugs. They had tipped a pair of tables on edge and were using them for cover. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over Mexico City. A dark line of ominous storm clouds had gathered in the west and, below the cloud bank, the sun shimmered on the horizon. Four dead men, the grisly results of a failed attempt to storm the defenders, lay in the middle of the floor. Empty shell casings littered the rug.
Noble took two long strides and launched himself over the bar top.
The hard cases hosed the far end of the room with automatics. Lead splintered the polished bar, shattered bottles, and obliterated the back mirror. Noble landed on a rubber mat. Broken glass and booze rained down on him.
Bullets raked the bar like an angry beast trying to claw its way through. When it finally stopped, the silence was deafening.
A terrified bartender hunkered in the corner where the bar curved to meet the wall. He put both hands up and begged for his life in halting English.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Noble said in Spanish.
The bartender shrank back against the shelves, trying to make himself small. His eyes darted around and his chin trembled.
Noble chanced a peek and almost got his head blown off. More bottles shattered, showering him in bourbon and whiskey.
Noble thought the cartel soldiers were probably putting too much faith in those pool tables. A 9mm round can punch through a wall and Noble’s AK-47 fired a heavy 7.62mm.
He rose to a crouch and triggered three short bursts. The rifle kicked against his shoulder. Brass casings leapt from the breech. The bullets impacted the pool table with heavy splats, ripping holes in the green felt and the wood beneath, but got trapped in the complicated ball return system.
The manufacturer had crafted a quality piece of recreational equipment. Damn it.
The sicarios responded with a hail of lead, dousing Noble in more liquor. It gave him an idea. He grabbed a bottle of tequila, twisted off the cap and took a rag from a shelf. Bullets continued to hammer the bar. The cartel soldiers were taking turns, one shooting while the others reloaded, keeping Noble pinned. He soaked the rag, stuffed one end in the open bottle, then cast about for something to light it.
The barman produced an orange Bic from his breast pocket.
“Gracias,” Noble said.
“De nada, Señor.”
Ghostly blue flame raced up the rag toward the neck of the bottle. Noble tossed it overhand. The bottle turned end over end and shattered against one of the table legs with a hungry whoosh. An orange blaze enveloped the defenders. Their panicked shrieks filled the air. All three ran in a desperate attempt to escape the fire.
Noble popped up from behind the bar and caught the first with a burst from his AK-47. The second man collapsed and rolled around while fire blackened his skin. The third man danced a jig, slapping at his arms and legs. Noble hit him with a short burst. Bullets drove the cartel soldier backwards through the windows. He fell screaming.
There was a distant smack. Tires screeched.
The smell of charred flesh choked Noble’s lungs and brought tears to his eyes. He coughed, waved a hand in front of his nose, and stepped around the bar to the shattered window. The cartel soldier had landed in the street. Traffic was backing up along the boulevard. Several drivers had gotten out of their cars for a better look.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Machado stabbed at the call button. Sweat glistened on his bald head, glowing red under the glare of the emergency exit lights. He watched, on the verge of panic, as the floor indicators blinked to life one by one. The elevator would never reach him in time. He went to a blank section of wall and groped for a hidden switch. The cartels had installed a private stairwell in case they were ever raided by the police. Machado had forgotten all about it, until now. He never expected to actually use it. Like a spare tire in the trunk of the car, it was an added layer of security that you didn’t think about until you needed it. His fingers found the button and a cleverly disguised door swung in on silent hinges.
Santiago was in the parking garage, waiting on the elevator, when the radio squawked, “Los Zetas… Attacking…” Two Gulf Cartel members stood ten feet away. Both men turned to stare at him. Santiago’s stomach did a somersault. He saw the accusation in their eyes. The elevator dinged and the doors rolled open.
Instead of trying to reason with them, Santiago drew his service issue Glock, emptied the magazine and retreated into the waiting elevator car. The nearest soldier doubled over. The other enforcer stitched the front of the elevator with rounds from an Uzi. Santiago pressed himself into the corner and jabbed the button for the penthouse.
Machado burst through the door into the parking garage. All hell had broken loose. The cartels were shooting at each other over the roofs of parked cars. Bullets blew out windows and skipped off concrete. A Gulf Cartel soldier lay on his back in front of the elevators. A short-barreled AR-15 lay near his outstretched hand.
Machado started for the rifle, but a swarm of bullets forced him back. Lead chewed through the wall, showering him in dust. He reversed directions and sprinted across the parking garage to his armored convoy.
The Los Zetas soldiers were out of their vehicles, spraying automatic weapons at the Caballeros Templarios. Machado reached the lead SUV and yelled, “Let’s go!”
He shoved the driver out of his way. The man went down on his butt with surprise etched on his face. He opened his mouth, but the side of his head exploded before he could protest. Machado threw himself in the driver’s seat of the SUV, slammed the door, and stamped the gas. Bullets impacted the windshield, scarring the glass. The armor held.
Noble, looking out the shattered window, spotted Machado’s limousine shoot from the underground parking garage like a gleaming white missile launched from the deck of a ship. A pair of SUVs bookended the limo. The lead SUV rammed a Mazda. The driver zig-zagged through traffic, blaring his horn, using the bumper to push other vehicles out of his way. He mounted the sidewalk, swerved around a delivery truck and then back onto the street. The limo driver had a hard time keeping up.
Noble took the burner cell from his pocket and dialed. There was a flash. An orange fireball lifted the back end of the limo off the ground.
The lead SUV never stopped. So much for honor among thieves.
Noble watched long enough to make sure no one escaped the limo, then gave a thumbs-up to Alejandra. Mission accomplished.
She put the Suburban in gear and veered out into traffic, colliding with a sedan. She stamped the gas, ripping off most of the side paneling, then rammed another car out of her way, mounted the curb, and shot past the burning limo in pursuit of the lead SUV.
Noble cursed and ran for the elevator. Sirens wailed in the distance. He needed to escape before the police cordoned off the building. He jabbed the call button and waited. Every second brought the sirens closer. The first thing they would do was set up a perimeter to net anyone coming out.
“Come on,” Noble urged. He heard the lift on the other side of the doors and discarded the AK-47. He couldn’t carry it out of the building. It clattered across the floor. The bell dinged. The doors rolled open and Noble was face to face with Santiago.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The CIA Station Chief in charge of Mexico had put the right people onto the child prostitution ring. Local authorities managed to nab the leader and save a dozen kids. The pimp was sitting behind bars, spilling his guts, and Hunt came off looking like a hero. The only thing he couldn’t figure out was why Noble had tu
rned him onto the whole thing in the first place. Was he trying to help or hinder?
Hunt stared out the window of the embassy at a line of dark clouds massing in the west. The sun was a hot, red crescent on the horizon, dropping fast. He turned from the window and stretched. “Anything?”
“I’m working on it,” Ezra assured him. He was at his computer, slumped so far down in his seat it looked like he might slide right out of the chair onto the floor.
“How long does it take?” Hunt asked.
Gwen was getting annoyed. She said, “It’s called a burner cell for a reason. It’s hard to trace.”
Hunt rubbed at his eyes.
“Finally,” Ezra said, sitting up.
“You got something?” Hunt asked.
“It was purchased seven blocks from the pimp’s apartment.”
Hunt crossed his arms and made a face. It only proved what he already suspected—Noble had sent the text—but it didn’t explain why. “Where is it now?”
“It’s not pinging any towers. He probably disabled it right after he sent the text.”
Noble had surfaced and disappeared again, like those annoying whack-a-mole games. He popped up in one location and by the time Hunt got there, he was gone again, only to turn up someplace completely different. Hunt bared his teeth.
Gwen snapped her fingers. She had a headphone pressed against one ear, monitoring the police band. “There is shooting in a high-rise penthouse. Multiple shots fired. All available units are responding.”
“Where?” Hunt leaned over her shoulder.
She read off the address.
Ezra went to the map. “That’s less than two miles from here.”
The whack-a-mole had popped up within easy reach this time. Hunt holstered the tarnished Soviet-era pistol and hurried down the hall to the elevators. Noble was going down. To hell with the benefit of the doubt. If Sam got pissed, well, she’d get over it.
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