Seal team six extra size.., p.53
SEAL Team Six Extra-Sized Holiday Bundle, page 53
"We don't answer to State," Eric said. What a load of crap this was. The Secretary of State was a pure political appointment. She had less to do with the daily workings of diplomacy than the family dog. She did state dinners and junkets while career workhorses like Williams did the heavy lifting. But that didn't give him access to mission details.
"Well, the president is asking."
"With all due respect, he's not asking you," Eric said.
"You are here as a liaison from National Security," Williams said, his voice dropping in tone and volume. "You'd better sure as fuck start liaising."
"Sir, this is a need-to-know operation," Eric said. "I am only required to update Admiral Dorrance, the NSA director and the president himself. This is an ongoing operation. I cannot share details of its progress, units involved, location or even the code name assigned to the operation to anyone outside of those three."
Williams leaned against a desk and absorbed this with a sullen expression. Eric stared at a spot above Williams' head. Eric couldn't meet his basilisk gaze.
"This will not blow back on the president," Williams said finally. "I won't allow some cowboy operation in a friendly nation to negatively affect his chances in the fall."
Eric knew that the undersecretary was really talking about himself. The book on Williams was that he was kicked upstairs when the current administration went on a hiring frenzy in its early days. This position was as high as he was ever going to reach and he would do anything to hang onto his perch.
"No, sir," Eric said forcing his own voice lower and turning to go. "None of us want that. But politics aren't really my thing."
In the hallway, Eric swallowed hard and sipped air to keep himself from hyperventilating. Two staffers walking past eyeballed him as he turned red in the face. He reached automatically into the pocket of his jacket for an inhaler and recalled that he stopped carrying one in the sixth grade.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MAZATLAN
Outside of the tourist and retiree areas were streets few could move on safely after dark.
The broad seaside walkway of the Malecon welcomed all. There were the beachgoers and sun worshippers all day and the spring breakers and party hardy crowd when the sun went down over the Pacific.
But the streets inland and away from the lights and noise of the bars and clubs were lined with densely packed houses united by desperate poverty. They were witness to everything from extended firefights to knife-wielding children to clinging whores and impromptu executions. The bodies dropped and the blood spilled and the police came and swept it all out of sight as quickly as possible. The gringos were to see only happy festive Mexicans. The world of revenge killings and abductions was scrubbed from sight. Forensics was an afterthought.
Hector Vogt lived in a rundown house that was little more than a shack. It was on an unnamed street south of Avenue Valentinos at the heart of one of the most dangerous colonias, or neighborhoods. He told others that he chose this street for his home because it was close to the people and the news he covered. The truth was it was all he could afford. Even at an equivalent of two hundred dollars a month, it strained the salary he earned at La Verdad, the daily paper he worked for.
"What a shithole," Heath said as they pulled up to the curb before the house. It was a one story home made of stacked breezeblocks and set back between houses that might have been nice at one time. It had a rusting steel roof and a postage stamp sized yard choked with weeds. A burst trash bag rested by the door. The front windows were barred and shuttered. A faded old air conditioner sagged where it was set in a wall.
"Maybe writers were meant to suffer," German Reyes said as they stepped from the DEA car; a restored Crown Victoria in primer black.
"Tell that to the chick who writes Harry Potter," Agent Grignola said, climbing from behind the wheel.
"Who?" said Reyes.
"Your kids not into Harry Potter?"
"Is that a cartoon? They like SpongeBob."
Heath kicked some bottles off the cracked walkway and approached the front door. It was reinforced steel with a triple glass viewport at eye level.
"You friend isn't going to be happy to see us," Heath said.
"This is why I did not call ahead," Reyes said and pressed a thumb to the doorbell button.
"What was it today? Ninety degrees?" Heath said as they waited and listened for movement within.
"It probably hit a hundred in the hills," Grignola said.
"So why's the AC off?" Heath said and nodded toward the unit that sat dry and silent in the wall by the door.
Heath placed a shoulder against the door while Grignola wedged the blade of a hooligan into the narrow gap. It was a fireman's tool the agent kept in his service car at all times for moments like this. The two men grunted with their effort and the door popped open at last.
Reyes entered and called Hector's name. His hand found the wall switch and the lights went on revealing a cramped living area with an open kitchenette to one side. Typical bachelor home. A mess of magazines, newspapers and books. A sagging daybed that served double duty as a sofa. A battered wooden dresser. The signature sign of a single man was the television. A 32-inch Sony LED and the only thing of value in the whole place. The kitchen was tidy but not clean and smelled like garlic and stale beer in the stored heat of the house.
There was no answer to Reyes' call. Grignola entered the single rear room with automatic drawn. Heath followed after. It was stacked with piles of magazines and back issues of La Verdad; probably ones that contained articles that Vogt had written. Barely room to move around a twin bed set against the middle of a back wall between two barred windows.
"There's a dozen empty hangers in the wardrobe and he took his toothpaste and toothbrush with him," Grignola said. "No kind of luggage either."
"Top drawers are mostly empty," Heath said as he shoved the drawers of a crooked Ikea dresser back in.
"His laptop is not here," Reyes said from the doorway. "And he washed the dishes before leaving but unplugged the refrigerator."
"So, he left on his own but ain't planning on coming back real soon," Grignola said and slid his Taurus 10mm back into the clamshell holster he wore under an untucked camp shirt.
"We have anything to do with that?" Heaths said to Reyes. "Did he leave because he talked to you?"
"He could have disappeared for many reasons," Reyes said. "Hector made enemies. He would not be stupid enough to say to anyone that he talked to us."
"Could be it's us he running from," Heath said. "We stirred up an anthill and the Pecadores are looking to find out who hit them. Your amigo could be worried they'd connect the dots from you to him."
"He damn sure wasn't dragged out of here," Grignola said and looked around at the room. "This place is pigsty but there's no sign of struggle and it's obvious he packed. Is it worth it to find him again?"
"I have other sources," Reyes said. "But we will need to approach them cautiously. Especially after this."
"If the Dutchman's spooked they'll all be spooked," Grignola said with a snort.
"Si," Reyes said and led the way out the front door.
They reached the car without talking. As Grignola tapped the remote to unlock the doors the dark street came alive with a harsh swirl of strobing blue lights.
Heath squinted and saw movement against the lights as he jerked the rear door of the Crown Vic open and reached for the Sig in the pancake holster secured to his back. He never made it inside the car. His hand never reached the gun. He felt sharp points of pain in his back and left side. His head pounded with the boom of gunfire close by. He fought a rising feeling that swept over him like a numbing tide. It was no use. The tide won and he gave up to be carried deeper by its black current.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In the morning, Stan Grignola's body was found where it lay by the unmarked DEA car. Someone called the city police and within fifteen minutes the narrow street was crowded with police vehicles from the nearby station in El Tereo and an ambulance from Hospital Balboa. But they didn't get there before the car had been stripped of its police band radio and the trunk had been popped and contents vanished.
Grignola's body had been turned on his face and his pockets turned out. His shoes were gone. His empty clamshell holster was still strapped to his belt. In the process he'd been rolled away from where he fell when he was shot. The blood soaked into the back of his camp shirt corresponded to a still-sticky pool on the street. Lines of ants streaming to and from it. His skull opened up as he was turned over and brain matter was strewn along the path his body was rolled. There were bloody prints from sandals on the asphalt.
The street was closed and cordoned off. They would not be hustling this carcass away before morning. There was no identification on the body but the presence of the holster and the fact that the victim was a gabacho meant there would be other investigating agencies here soon.
And they arrived in droves.
Agents and forensics from the AFI. Uniformed cops from the city's MPP. Paramilitary units from the PF. Reporters, gawkers and a few brave tourists. They all descended on and choked the street. A gringo was murdered. No one saw anything. No one knew anything.
Within the hour American DEA and FBI arrived. These were field agents assigned to the consulate. Agents higher up the food chain were probably already en route by air from Los Angeles or Dallas. They walked the scene in their windbreakers. They narrated all they saw into SAT phones for their masters in the North.
Video was shot. Measurements taken. Empty shell casings lifted and bagged.
Top level Mexican and Americano authorities conferred.
Grignola didn't get off a shot. There was no spent brass near him and no residue on his hands or clothing. His gun was gone; taken by the shooters or one of the kids who stripped the car and body. There were three empty casings found in the street near the body. They corresponded to two bullet wounds to the agent's chest and a third to the head. This was no amateur drive-by. This was professional gun work.
An FBI agent peppered a PF major with questions but got the usual stalling and deflection. The PF would look into this themselves and parse out only what they thought the gabachos needed to know. The PF major wanted to know what the agent was doing here. What case was he on? Was he alone? The FBI agent promised to look into it. It was all courtesy and grim smiles but each knew the other was lying.
The PF major was covering his own ass. A dead gringo was trouble. A dead gringo cop was worse. There were only rare instances when American law enforcement died at the hands of el narco. But each time it stirred up a shitstorm in political, cop and cartel circles. He'd make life hell for whoever was behind this. The Major was motivated by a thirst for justice for the gringo cop. This killing made the Major look bad. This would ruin his weekend and for that someone would pay.
The United States would demand results. They would want reprisals. They would demand that the lazy Mexicans get off their lazy asses and do their jobs for once. This American president was running for reelection and had a lot to answer for after embarrassing efforts like the Fast and Furious program that put guns in the hands of the narcos with the blessing of the Justice Department. The smuggling gangs were also running wild back and forth over the border and it was an issue with gringo voters. The DEA and FBI would be under pressure to get this case solved, settled and filed away. And that shit would fall on the PF and Mexico City. It would be a hustle to find someone they could hand over to the gringos for trial and the sooner the better.
No one was going to be getting much sleep until there were some answers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
WASHINGTON, DC CASTLE
Dana Morton and Admiral Dorrance sat alone in the basement situation room. It was the same heavily secured room made famous in the photograph where the president, vice president, secretary of state and others on the national security team sat in varying states of concern purportedly watching a live feed of the raid on Abbottabad the previous year.
There were no White House photographers for this meeting. Dana and the admiral were the highest ranking officials in the loop on the current mission and location of the most secret hunter/killer team. They were also the ones who would get the blame for whatever negative impact came to light. The murder of a DEA agent and the disappearance of a Navy SEAL could be the beginning of a cascading intelligence fuck-up that could turn into an international incident without a lot of luck and a whole lot of damage control.
The coffee in the carafe had gone cold and no staff had returned to refresh it. No one, not even servants, wanted to be in the room when that monitor went live.
They sat before a hi-def monitor that swam with a screensaver featuring the words Winning The Future and the president's personal logo. They were waiting for the boss to patch in for an update. He was on Air Force One and in flight between fundraisers. Dana had to pull every lever and press every button available to her to convince his staff to carve out some time.
It was a thirty minute wait but the admiral was making it seem a lot longer.
"What the hell were they doing down there?" Dorrance growled, eyes locked on the monitor and willing the POTUS to appear. He was referring to the team's operation.
"You signed off on it," Dana said. "They are working with a small circle of DEA agents and a former Policia Federale captain to find the source of the submersible."
"They're gunfighters and you're using them like cops."
"They were told to stay in the AO but not act until we had more intel."
"But they didn't stay put. They had no business following up."
"They were only visiting a contact," Dana sighed. She didn't want to add that these were men who weren't used to sitting on their hands. The admiral knew that. He knew these men. He was as worried about the missing sailor as she was.
"Where was Freeman?" the admiral said. "He's the lead man on this. He's control. Where was he?"
"Enroute from the site in Honduras. He's on the ground in Mazatlan now."
"That's doing a lot of fucking good. Does he have a lead that might bring us to this Arab?"
"Not much more than we already have. We have the identity of the Arab narrowed to twenty three possibles. We're checking on all of their current locations now."
"I want to pull the team," he said and turned to her for the first time.
"That's inadvisable," she said with eyes on the screen. "We may need them on site depending on how this breaks. It is still a national security issue."
"And you'll stand by that?'
"Will you?"
"I have a man missing. I want everything done to find him. I just want to make sure we're both hauling on the same line."
"Yes, Admiral."
"Do you know where the others are?" he said.
"Yes," she lied. Dana had no clue as to their whereabouts but could make a few fair guesses. They'd requested everything she had on Esteban Benitez; currently their only lead to the Arab. She gave them all she had and that was a lot. It included files, profiles, projections, police records and case studies from an alphabet soup of agencies on both sides of the Rio Grande.
"You have a tactic in mind for the C in C?" The admiral fixed her with his eyes.
"I'll be working to convince him to keep his options open," she said and turned to meet his gaze. "The actors holding our man are probably the same ones cooperating with the terror suspect we're looking for. Find our man and we find our target. It's a pressing matter of national security. He won't want a fuck-up like this on his watch."
He studied her for a moment. She held his gaze.
"You break it down to him that way and I'll back you up on it. We may swing by our asses for this but so be it."
The screen before them went live with an interior shot from Air Force One. A familiar figure entered the screen and took a seat while off screen voices gave him updates sotto voce.
This was The Moment. Crunch time. Dana bore down and sold her plan hard. An American's life depended on it.
Perhaps thousands of lives depended on it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE PIG FARM
Heath came around but kept his lids closed, head down and breathing regular.
Bad news? He could feel he was secured in a sitting position. He was on a hard, straight-backed chair with his wrists duct-taped behind him and tape wrapped around his chest under his arm pits and around the chair back to keep him upright. His feet were free. He was naked.
Good news? There was no good news.
He was in enemy hands and had to assume that all contact had been broken and there was no help on the way.
The voices he could hear spoke Mexican Spanish muy rapido. Most SEALs were fluent in Spanish from time spent in jungle warfare schools in Panama and Colombia. Heath's Spanish was strong. There were four speakers and their voices echoed a bit. He was in a large, enclosed area. It was hot. Under his feet he could feel cool, damp concrete. He strained to hear any background noise. No traffic sounds. A diesel generator thumped somewhere. This was a remote location. Someplace rural. He could smell manure. The stink was sharp.
Pigs.
Pigs were never a good thing.
Where was Reyes? Was he here with him or dead in a ditch somewhere? He recalled the gunshots as he lost consciousness. He tried to remember more but it was blank.
They wanted Heath alive. Did they want Reyes still breathing too?
He listened to the conversation between the men while thinking back. The talk wasn't anything to do with him. Chiquitas they'd fucked, dope they'd smoked, a trip to Guatemala last year and idle shuckin' and jivin'. The only time they mentioned him was to remark on his tats. They were impressed. They'd never seen a mallate with ink before.
Using half an ear to keep up with the trash talk, Heath reviewed his injuries. He could remember some of what happened before he blacked out. That meant no major brain trauma like a concussion even though the back of his head hurt like a bitch; probably from striking the street when they tased him. He took three tasings that he could remember. No biggie. He'd been tased before at SERE school (Survival Evasion Resistance and Escape). It was a grueling, weeks-long course of physical and mental torture that every Special Forces soldier had to endure. He'd been starved, water-boarded, sleep deprived and beaten by men who wore the same uniform as his in conditions as close to actual enemy capture as they could make it without killing him.
