Fortress Doctrine (Maelstrom Rising Book 5)

by Peter Nealen

  They kept going straight into town, passing a towering, multi-silo grain elevator. Hank scanned the gas station on the other side of the street, and just about every parking lot or turnoff ahead of them, looking for the telltale blue pickups or Humvees. But there was no sign of any federales, though he did see an up-armored vehicle with “Escudo Internacional” painted on the doors sitting outside the Hotel Santa Fe at the next major intersection. So, private security at least had a presence in Camargo. Given what little he knew about the Mexican government’s attitude toward PMSCs… He wondered.

  They followed the convoy off the 69 and turned onto Mexico 45. The four-lane, divided highway still had a fair bit of traffic, though it all seemed to get out of the way as soon as the openly armed convoy turned onto the road.

  Hank kept scanning. “Oh, shit.” He pointed, and Vega followed his finger. “Just stay cool. Slow roll, but don’t stop.” He keyed the radio. “One-One, Actual. You see that on the left?”

  “Those two gun trucks and a whole lot of armed dudes?” LaForce’s voice was tight, but still under control. “Affirm. What do you want to do?”

  The convoy ahead of them was already starting to make the U-turn to head into the gated industrial park that the cartels appeared to have taken over. “Keep rolling. Stay cool and act like we belong here, but we’re going somewhere else. We don’t have tankers with us, so hopefully they won’t be expecting us to check in, or anything.” It was a long shot, and he knew it. They knew nothing about the cartel presence in Camargo, and for all he knew, that might be the base.

  It’d be just our luck to drive on past and run into the federales another block down.

  As they drove past, he watched the enemy from across the highway. The two Vengadores gun trucks that had been immediately visible were backed up by even more, and he thought he saw movement up on the roofs. There were a lot of gunmen around, and as they rolled past the gates, he thought he saw a lot more tankers back in there, as well.

  Jackpot. I think we’ve found at least a major transshipment center.

  Now what to do about it?

  He thought they were getting some looks from some of the gunmen at the gate as they kept going instead of turning in.

  “I think we might be made, boss.” Vega was half watching the road in front of them, half watching the gate and the gun trucks as the trail vehicle followed the tankers into the industrial park.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Just keep driving and don’t freak out.” Hank tore his eyes away from the cartel stronghold and scanned the streets around them, just in case. No irregular force he’d encountered yet had so centralized their defenses that they didn’t have outposts and lookouts scattered in the vicinity.

  But he didn’t see any. Not yet, anyway. And while it was entirely possible that they did have an OP in the Wim Hotel across the street—he certainly would have—there didn’t appear to be any overt outposts set up.

  As they kept moving, the cartel presence he’d been halfway expecting, given how brazen they’d been so far, did not materialize. He glanced over his shoulder, looking past the men in the bed. They didn’t appear to be followed, but his hackles were going up, nevertheless. They were in overt cartel gun trucks, and getting farther away from any other vehicles that looked like them by the second.

  Ahead, he saw several large stores on the sides of the highway. And there were more of the Escudo Internacional trucks parked around them, too.

  He could almost feel the private security personnel’s eyes on them as they drove past. The atmospherics were not what he might have expected or hoped for—at least, not when they looked like cartel shooters, themselves.

  “Actual, Five. We’ve picked up a tail.” Hank looked back but couldn’t see Spencer’s truck past Lovell’s. “A couple of the PMC vehicles just pulled out behind us and are hanging about a hundred yards back. But they’re definitely following us.”

  “Roger that.” He thought for a moment. “One-One, get us out of town, quickest route you can find.” He squinted in the rearview mirror.

  Well, this didn’t work, though we’ve got more information than we did before.

  ***

  One of the Escudo Internacional SUVs stayed with them as LaForce’s truck led the way out of town, pushing up to the north until they could find a way across the railroad tracks and onto the divided highway that led back toward the 69 and where they’d entered the town. That one peeled off as they left the urban sprawl and headed out into the fields.

  Probably watching where we went and reporting to any other units in town. I wonder if the Policia have peeled off, and this PMSC has filled the gap? Probably only for the businesses that can pay, I expect. Mexico was still Mexico, after all.

  LaForce and Coffee led the way through the orchards and fields, heading farther out, paralleling a tributary of the Rio Parral, making for the hills and the desert to the northeast of town. The land was pretty flat; there wasn’t a lot of cover to be found. Finally, about four miles outside of town, Hank directed them into a stand of trees down in the curve of the dry riverbed. It took a few minutes to get set in and get security set.

  Hank met Spencer and West at the back of his truck. “Thoughts?”

  Spencer rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure what to think. It looks like they feel secure enough that they’re rolling openly through town in gun trucks and everything, but at the same time, it almost seems like they only really own that single little part of town.”

  “Yeah, it’s weird. Especially since those Escudo Internacional guys don’t look like they’re equipped with enough firepower to issue any kind of real challenge.”

  “Maybe they don’t have the locals cowed as much as they think they should?” West glanced over his shoulder. “Still, I don’t know.”

  “Either way, I don’t think that rolling around Camargo in SdA gun trucks is going to be particularly healthy for the moment.” Hank slapped the side of the vehicle. “Either we look like bad guys to the locals, or we look like rivals to the Vengadores.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s it? It’s not so much that the locals are pushing back, but the Vengadores and the Soldados can’t be in the same place for very long? I mean, it was pretty easy to get them to start shooting at each other back in Lajitas.”

  Spencer looked thoughtful. “Maybe. Either way, I think you’re right. These trucks aren’t going to be the camouflage we hoped they’d be, not in town.”

  “Good thing we brought along some civilian clothes, just in case, huh?” Hank looked around. “We’ll stay put until morning. Then I’m taking Vega, Fernandez, and the Rodriguez brothers, and we’ll go for a walk. See what we can see and hear.”

  “Are you really just taking the guys with Hispanic names, just because they happen to be brown and Spanish speakers? That’s racist, you know.”

  Hank glared at Spencer, who grinned widely.

  “One of these days, Cole…” He walked away, shaking his head, as Spencer laughed.

  Chapter 22

  “Heads up.”

  Fernandez stepped back from the sidewalk and turned away from the street, heading into the park. It took only a moment for Hank to see what he’d seen and follow suit.

  Another convoy of Vengadores trucks were coming up the street, forcing a number of the local cars and pickups out of the way. There was a bit of a traffic jam as several of the locals got stuck trying to clear the street, but it was clearing up fast.

  Hank looked around. He and Fernandez were on their own; he’d had Vega and the Rodriguez brothers split off after they’d bought a couple of burner cell phones from a shop up by the north end of town, shortly after they’d come in out of the fields. It reduced their footprint and allowed them to cover more ground.

  The two of them weren’t the only ones trying to make themselves scarce as the Vengadores rode up the street. He saw a mother hustle her children off the street and into the same park, getting them behind some kind of cover quickly. Several young men looked like they want
ed to stand their ground, but an older man in dark slacks and a light brown jacket immediately urged them off the street. Hank tilted his head slightly, listening.

  “Are you out of your minds?” The old man shoved the tallest young man toward the gazebo in the center of the park. “You know what happened last time.”

  He lost whatever the young man might have said in reply; he could hear the tone of resentment and protest, even though he couldn’t quite make out the words. Turning to Fernandez, he tilted his head toward the group. The big man nodded fractionally, and they started to drift toward the center of the park, even as the Vengadores vehicles rolled forward, nearing the park.

  “…stood up for ourselves! You told us that story!” The boy—and as they got closer, Hank saw that the young man was little more than a boy, maybe Arturo’s age—was still protesting, though he was turned toward the old man, who had his back to Hank and Fernandez. Hank slowed and stepped beneath a tree, keeping most of the trunk between him and the argument.

  “That was the State Police, and it was before you were born.” The old man just sounded tired. “That was entirely different from trying to stand up to El Narco. What will you do? They have all the guns.”

  “They don’t like each other, the Vengadores and the Soldados. We saw that. We don’t have to fight all of them all at once.”

  Fernandez tapped Hank on the shoulder. When Hank turned to look, Fernandez tilted his head toward the street. Hank cursed under his breath.

  The young men and their older admonisher were absorbed in their argument. They hadn’t noticed, sheltered by the trees and the bushes as they were, that the Vengadores en los Sombres vehicles had stopped in the middle of the street. Which meant they also hadn’t noticed that the doors had opened, and four of the cartel gunmen had gotten out, dressed in their camouflage uniforms and black vests, their faces covered, and were walking toward the gazebo, their weapons held casually in their hands. The three in back carried SCAR-16s, while the man in the lead, the only one not wearing a green-and-tan-painted helmet, had some kind of black, compact PDW holstered on his thigh.

  Hank and Fernandez faded back farther into the trees. They hadn’t brought pistols, which may have been an oversight—though such weapons often had turned into little more than extra weight on long-range overland patrols. But it meant they had nothing but knives on them, which weren’t going to help much against men carrying rifles and wearing body armor.

  The four of them stepped through the bushes and stood facing the gazebo, the man with the PDW with his arms folded. “What are you doing, Señor Elizondo? Interfering again? The boy wants to talk to us. Why are you getting in the way? Do we need to teach you a lesson again?”

  The older man stepped back, away from the group of young men, turning toward the Vengadores. He spread his hands, looking down at the ground. Hank’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like to see anyone being submissive to this kind of scum, but under the circumstances, it was probably the smartest move the old man could make.

  Elizondo was still tall and straight, his hair salt-and-pepper rather than fully gray, and his mustache was still black. But he was clearly older than anyone else in the park, and the lines in his face were deeper than his posture might have suggested. Worse, he looked tired. Beaten.

  “I was only offering advice, Señor.” His voice quaked a little.

  The man with the PDW at his hip tilted his head to one side and laughed. “’Advice.’” He turned to one of his lackeys. “What do you think, Retaco?”

  The Vengador he’d called “Shorty” laughed. It was an ugly sound—there was no real mirth or humor in it. “I think he needs to shut his old mouth up before we cut it open wider for him.”

  “I think so, too.” The leader turned back to Elizondo. Even watching through the branches of the trees between them, Hank could see his eyes go even colder. He looked like a snake, watching a mouse. A mouse that had already been mesmerized, paralyzed with fear.

  It was all too apt a comparison to what had been happening in Mexico for a long time, and had been steadily spilling over the border more and more over the last few years. That was, in fact, being pushed across the border as one more offensive in a war that too few people had figured out yet.

  “Go back to your hole and mind your own business, old man. Go on. Vamonos!”

  Elizondo retreated. He’d never once looked any of the Vengadores in the eye.

  The leader turned to the young man and walked up to him. The kid flinched a little, but didn’t back down. He didn’t look the leader in the eyes, either, but he didn’t move.

  “You want to say something to me, pendejo?” The kid didn’t flinch, but he didn’t look up, either. “You don’t like me? You don’t like that your sister likes me, maybe?” He shoved the young man, and he stumbled back a step. “You want to say something, say something. I’m right here.”

  The kid kept his mouth shut and his head down. Again, probably smart, but in this case, it just seemed to piss the Vengador off.

  He punched the kid in the stomach. The young man doubled over, but the Vengador grabbed him by the hair and hauled his head back, forcing him to look him in the eyes. “You think you’re tough, puto? I’ll do things to that little sister of yours you never even imagined, and then I’ll cut your fucking heart out. You want that?” The kid shook his head violently, and the uniformed gangster shoved him even harder, making him fall on his ass. “Good. Then get out of my sight and go hide behind her skirts. Pinche maricon.”

  The man straightened up and looked around the park. For a second, Hank thought he was going to make some kind of speech, warning the locals what the cost of crossing the Vengadores would be. But instead, he turned back toward the vehicles and swaggered off, his lackeys in tow.

  Hank watched carefully, trying not to glower too hard. His hate would all too easily draw attention, which they really couldn’t afford. He caught Fernandez’s glance.

  “I really don’t like this sneaky shit.” Fernandez looked back toward the Vengadores as they climbed back into their armored gun trucks. “Especially not now.”

  “Me either, brother.” Hank started moving through the trees toward the gazebo. He wasn’t as worried about standing out as a gringo after the first hour of walking through Camargo—there were a lot of European and South African expats living there. “But scouting’s scouting.”

  Still, he made a mental note to bring pistols the next time they went deep into hostile territory, for just this sort of eventuality. They’d still have been outgunned, but not by nearly as much.

  The other boys had shrunk back while the one had held his ground, and they didn’t appear to be in a hurry to go help him, at least not while the Vengadores were still within sight. On the one hand, Hank could kind of understand that; on the other, it pissed him off. The first kid had shown guts. His buddies had frozen like scared mice.

  He glanced toward the street as he neared the kid, who was still trying to get his breath back after the punch to the guts. The Vengadores’ vehicles were starting to roll again, but he saw one of the turret gunners looking straight at him as they went, and the man said something down into the cab.

  If he wasn’t mistaken, that was the leader’s truck.

  Well, if we had managed to avoid attention so far, that might have just changed. Good going, Hank.

  Still, he was committed, and he wasn’t going to leave the kid to lie there and gasp while he gawked like some soft-ass tourist. He reached down and picked the young man up off the steps, hauling him to his feet.

  “You all right, mijo?” His Spanish was a little accented, and he knew it, but he was a gringo, so that was probably expected.

  The kid nodded, still not quite ready to talk. Hank helped him around the side of the gazebo. “Let’s get away from those cabrones.”

  The older man, Elizondo, hadn’t gone far. He stood on the other side of the gazebo, wringing his hands. He came over as Hank helped the kid sit on the steps, while Fernandez loomed nearb
y, watching the Vengadores leave. He was making sure that they’d actually left, too.

  “I told you,” Elizondo said quietly. “I told you.”

  Hank couldn’t help but hear the faint echo of his own words after Arturo’s death, and felt his throat tighten. This kid was older than Arturo had been, but nevertheless, once again, the image of the boy’s body, smashed and pulped by .50 caliber bullets, blasted against the hillside, flashed across his eyes.

  “Told him what?” Hank looked up at the older man, then back down at the kid. “What did you think you were going to do? An empty-handed kid against armored vehicles and machineguns?”

  “I would have stood up to them,” the kid coughed. “Showed them we aren’t afraid.”

  “Well, you did that, didn’t you?” The truth was, as much as he was fighting back the memory of what had happened to Arturo, he had to admire the kid’s guts. Still… “And what did that accomplish?”

  The kid just groaned.

  Hank looked up at Elizondo. “I overheard something about standing up to the State Police.”

  “That was years ago.” Elizondo was still looking down at the kid. “It was a demonstration against the gasoline tax. The people were unarmed, and the State Police left.” He wrung his hands again. “It was not the same as this. Even if the narcos would just leave if enough of us spoke out without fighting, there aren’t enough people who would stand up to them here. Not now.”

  Hank looked down at the kid. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Geert Castaneda.” It was a bit of an odd combination, but given the number of Euros he’d seen around town already, it probably shouldn’t have surprised him.

  “Well, Geert, there are more productive ways to resist the narcos than getting yourself publicly curb-stomped.” He helped the boy back to his feet. Castaneda was starting to breathe more easily. Hank looked at Elizondo. “You seem to have some kind of a history with that guy. He knew your name.”