Bits, p.12
BITS, page 12
Despite Jenaro’s performance, Esteban knew that his boss had come nowhere near his room-shaking potential of a full-blown tantrum. For Jenaro, anger management meant using anger effectively as a powerful form of communication and enterprise governance. Anger was his most common intonation and brutality its most frequent embodiment. It was well known throughout his organization how quickly and unpredictably he could escalate his emotions from irritation to rage. A transgression one day could earn the offender a mocking rebuke. The same infraction at a different time could bring on a severe beating, or much worse. The uncertainty of his reactions sowed resentment among his troops, but more than that, it evoked fear and it was through fear that Jenaro governed.
“Yes, jefe, I will handle it,” Esteban assured him as he handed Jenaro his computer bag. “There is a storm coming. Vaya con Dios and good luck with the Banker.”
“I don’t need luck to deal with that puto. He’s so eager to please, he paws at my zipper and I have to get him off of his knees every time we meet.” Jenaro’s bodyguards kept pace as the two walked to the door. “After the meeting, I will spend the afternoon at the club. You make sure you sort out the Sacramento crew.”
“Yes, patrón, I will see to it.”
One of the bodyguards, leaning hard against the wind, pushed the door open and scanned the street. The storm’s wordless wailing filled the room. He signaled and Jenaro started to walk through the door, pausing for one last remark. Incapable of bestowing praise without tainting it with condescension, he smiled without mirth. “You’re a good boy, Esteban. Who knows, someday, like me, you may get a chance to lead those who are less gifted.” He turned and, leaning into the gusts, shouldered his way out to the waiting car.
Esteban watched him as he eased his hefty girth into the back of the limousine. The ingratiating smile drained from his face as he murmured under his breath, “Yes, patrón, I will see to it.” He scanned the darkening sky as thunder rumbled in the distance.
****
Jenaro settled into the soft comfort of the stretch Lincoln Continental. It was a corporate asset, owned by MexAm but no one but Jenaro was allowed to use it. It had been upgraded not only with the softest leather and most comfortable seating, but also with armor and bullet-resistant windows. Once the door was shut, the intimidating sounds of the storm became mere whispers and mumbles.
“OK, Victor, vamos.”
Victor had been Jenaro’s driver for several years and was well aware of the routine. Jenaro pressed a button to raise the privacy partition, sealing the passenger compartment from the driver. The one-way glass allowed for a view of the front while preventing the driver from seeing into the passenger area. A press of another button revealed a well-stocked bar. Jenaro pulled a bottle of Fuenteseca Cosetta tequila from the rack and poured himself a drink. It was the third drink of the morning and he knew his doctors would object, but he excused his vices, at least to himself, by his convenient, if somewhat contrived belief, that the pills he took would counter any harm. To that end, he pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket, flipped open the cap, and retrieved two pills, which he washed down with a healthy slug of the liquor. The prescription from the doctor was for one tablet, but he recognized he had already indulged that morning more than was good for him. If one pill was good then today, two would be better.
Growing up in a poorer section of Los Angeles, he had occasionally seen limousines like this one, gliding through the torn neighborhoods, their drivers and passengers oblivious to the hopelessly desperate inhabitants. He thought then how wonderful it would be to look out of those tinted windows while passing through the detritus of pitiful human existence and remain unsoiled by the dirt and the blood. The image made a lasting impression and fed his ambition. From an early age, Jenaro was determined to claw his way out of the gutter. In his youngest years, he developed the guile he needed to avoid the beatings, and then as he grew, a young man’s strength and his growing rage gave him the brutality that became his trademark and the foundation of his success.
They were following one of several pre-planned routes, and today they wound their way through one of the shabbier sections of the city, not unlike that of his childhood. Jenaro knew enough not to be predictable. There were few trees here. Dirt and garbage blew up from the street. The wind wailing through the tenement echoed the sorrows of its inhabitants, and the thunder rumbled itself into a new harmony, a chorus of misery and resentment. Finally, as if the storm were shaking off a great burden, it let go of its hold on the rain. The view through the front windscreen disappeared briefly until the wipers restored the dismal scene.
Three miles and fifteen minutes away from the MexAm office, they were moving at the speed limit on a garbage-strewn street. The follow car with his bodyguards had lagged behind and a garbage truck had pulled in behind the limo. When a white panel truck shot out of a side street and blocked their forward progress, Jenaro’s first thought was that it was another crazy LA driver. Victor slammed on the brakes, throwing Jenaro forward and spilling his drink on his ample stomach. The massive limo skidded to a stop on the wet pavement. As armed men exited the panel truck, his initial irritation melted into a petrifying chill of fear.
“Back up! Back up!”
Even if Victor could hear him through the privacy screen, the driver needed no instruction. He threw the massive vehicle in reverse and the tires screamed as the car tried to reverse course. The garbage truck that had been following them closed the gap and slammed into the rear end of the limo. Victor jerked the car forward again and rammed the panel truck, but there wasn’t enough room to build up the momentum needed to plow through. Jenaro saw Victor on his phone, no doubt calling for help. Jenaro was instantly on his phone as well. Where was the car with his escorts?
Esteban saw who was calling. He was expecting the call and picked up on the first ring. “Jenaro, what’s wrong?”
“Esteban, I am under attack! Send help now!”
“Si, jefe, I can see your phone’s location. I could send help right away, but I’m afraid there is no chance that they would get to you in time.”
Armed men from both trucks approached the limo through the rain, firing automatic weapons as they came.
“Esteban, don’t you understand? Can you hear?” Jenaro was screaming now, “There are men here shooting at me! They are trying to kill me! Do something!”
“But I have, Jenaro. I have ordered a new office chair. I always hated the noises yours makes. And I have thrown away your filthy ashtray.”
As the bullets struck, spider web patterns appeared in the polycarbonate material of the bullet-resistant windows, diverting the rivulet of rain pouring down the sides of the limo. Jenaro cringed at the first bullet strikes, but took temporary comfort as the windows held.
“What are you talking about, Esteban? I don’t understand!”
“Listen Jenaro, from the sound of it we only have a few seconds and I do want you to understand. It was I who arranged your death. More than that, I will take over your place as el jefe. I will build the organization to a size you could never be capable of. Your violence has no art. Your brutality has no brain. It was always going to end like this for you, that is, unless your heart gave out first.”
Jenaro saw Victor draw a handgun from under his jacket, but he was helpless to put it to use.
“But why, Esteban? I treated you so well!” Jenaro was pleading now. “Please help me!”
Esteban spat out his response, “It’s pathetic but not surprising that you don’t see it, even now. You treated me the way you treated everyone, as an inferior—but I’m not that, Jenaro, as you can see.”
One attacker approached the car, smiled at Victor, and stuck a small device to the driver’s window. He stepped back and a moment later, the window dissolved in a small but effective explosion.
“Dios mío, Esteban!” Jenaro watched through the privacy screen as two men appeared through the smoke and rain and as the stunned Victor raised his weapon, they simultaneously fired short bursts, obliterating Jenaro’s view in a spray of blood and brain. “They have killed Victor!”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Victor was a good driver, but, as you know, corporate change often requires personnel adjustments. I have to go now, Jenaro. There is so much for me to do and I believe you have run out of time. Adios.”
Jenaro heard the phone go dead. He watched helplessly as one of the men, in a replay of the previous action, attached an explosive to the passenger compartment window. He dove for the floor of the car and a moment later, a blast took out the window. The shock wave left Jenaro stunned and dizzy. He fumbled with the door opposite the blown-out window and tumbled out of the limo onto the rough, wet asphalt, into the noise and rain of the storm. He crawled over the garbage in the gutter toward the sidewalk. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the sounds of several sets of feet moving at a leisurely pace, coming closer and closer. He heard the first part of the volley that would take his life. He felt a burning pain in his back. His dying brain displayed a flash of light that quickly faded into darkness. He was unaware of his hands briefly clawing at the curb. With a final few twitches, they too became still.
January 6, 2019 - Estaban Rising
Although United States law enforcement had been aware of Esteban Diego Navarro for more than a decade, its interest became more focused when he moved to California and worked his way up the ladder to a position as a lieutenant for the Sinaloa California region. It was a year after that promotion that his boss, Jenaro Moreno, was murdered.
Although Jenaro’s assassination was not surprising, considering his occupation, what raised eyebrows was the apparent ease with which it was accomplished. Jenaro had been a cautious man. He changed the routes to his regular appointments frequently, so when he was gunned down while on his way to a meeting, the immediate suspicion arose that the killers’ actions must have been informed by someone in Jenaro’s own organization. Esteban quickly stepped forward to lead the investigation into his boss’s death and, just as quickly, uncovered evidence that four of Jenaro’s bodyguards had orchestrated the hit, motivated by visions of a coup and fueled by promises of support from Los Sangre, a much smaller rival gang. Under Esteban’s orders, the execution of the four was swift and gruesome. The subsequent disappearance of several Los Sangre’s leaders swiftly convinced the terrified survivors to swear a new allegiance and continue to operate under the Sinaloa banner. Esteban moved with such speed and efficiency cartel leadership in Mexico promptly confirmed his promotion to el jefe, the boss of the California organization.
Initially, there were whispers that only planted evidence, and planned executions of those loyal to Jenaro could account for such speed and efficiency. However, with the witnesses all gone and Esteban enjoying the strong support of Sinaloa bosses, the whispers rapidly quieted. So it came to be that either by serendipity or conspiracy, Esteban became the prince of a far-ranging criminal organization which he ran skillfully and ruthlessly from his headquarters in Southern California.
As a rising star in the criminal firmament, he could no longer wrap himself in the shadows that hid the activities of his earlier years. While his growing mythos inspired fear and respect in the darker parts of society, it attracted more attention from law enforcement, more entries in databases, more mentions in reports, more questions as to the scope and reach of Esteban’s operation, and more of an interest in crippling its growth. It was out of this convergence that OPERATION SANDCASTLE was born.
CHAPTER EIGHT
2020 The Play’s The Thing
January 6 - Clayton Rhodes - Perfect for the Part
By January 2018, Clayton’s 17-year career with the FBI had brought him to assignments all over the country. Some were purely investigative and several were undercover operations, more exciting and much more dangerous. While Maggie had always accepted that being a field agent with the FBI carried some inherent risks, the birth of their son, Anthony, gave more weight to her concerns for his safety. Clayton respected and shared those concerns. Shortly after Anthony was born, he promised her that he would minimize his exposure and had been true to that promise. As was its policy, the Bureau had never pushed him to take on another high-risk operation, so when he got a call from his sometimes partner, Special Agent Debra O’Donnell, he didn’t expect a recruitment pitch for an undercover operation. For two years, Deb had been working within the FBI’s Organized Crime and Drug program assigned to the Los Angeles field office. It had been a few months since they had spoken, so they spent the first few minutes of the call catching up. Then Deb got to the real point of her call.
“An opportunity has come up for a move against one of the major drug bosses in the California region. I know you’re staying away from undercover work now and for all the right reasons, but there are certain unique attributes of this gig that make you the perfect match. There may be no chance you’d be taking this on, but I promised my boss I’d pass it by you.”
Clayton would not have traded his job for any other. Of course, there were times he was tired or frustrated, but overall, he felt he was making a positive difference in the world. It was a motivation that he shared with Maggie and part of the strong bond between them. There were times, though, when he missed the excitement, the pure adrenaline rush of undercover operations, times when he felt he wasn’t contributing at his full potential. So when Deb opened the question of an undercover operation instead of an immediate, “No thanks,” he heard himself asking, “What makes me so perfect for the assignment?”
“I can’t be giving you the answer over the phone. You have to see it,” Deb teased. “Why don’t you come into the office for a briefing? You can meet my boss, Edmundo, and make up your mind after we lay out the operation. At the very least, it would be an opportunity for us to catch up over lunch.”
“Okay, Deb. I’ll fly in for the meeting and lunch sounds good, but I’ve got to warn you, I’m going to be a tough sale when it comes to an undercover assignment.” Again, Clayton chided himself for leaving even the slimmest possibility of a successful sale.
Sometimes large organizations can move swiftly if the subject matter is important enough. If speed was any indication of importance, this operation was high on the scale. At 10 a.m. the next day, Clayton was sitting with Deb and her boss in a briefing room at the FBI field office in Los Angeles. The room was larger than necessary for the three occupants, but its projection screen provided a convenient way to share the visuals. The shades were drawn, and the lights were dimmed to provide clarity and full dramatic effect from the images on the screen. Deb’s boss, Special Agent in Charge, Edmundo Zarzyckich ran the meeting.
Edmundo was born to a Mexican mother and a Polish father. Those who knew him called him Edmundo Z or E.Z. which he much preferred to the awkward, wildly unsuccessful attempts to address him by his proper name. Over the years, he found that the uninitiated came in two flavors. The courageous would sail through his first name with ease, only to become hopelessly entangled in his last name’s jumble of consonants. The less courageous would say his first name and then impose a hopeful, expectant silence only broken when E.Z. supplied the missing part. He had long ago stopped being irritated and now viewed these encounters with good-humored amusement. In all of his 56 years, the only people other than his family who could correctly pronounce his name were those with Polish, or at least Slavic, backgrounds. He was known for his good humor and, in most situations, he was quick to laugh—but today he was all business.
“Thanks for coming, Clayton. As you know, the Bureau’s policy regarding undercover ops is that agents participate only on a volunteer basis. If, after you hear what I have to say, you want to walk away, no one will hold it against you. As a matter of fact, if you decide to walk, we’ll record this meeting as cross-training. You came to swap some drug enforcement and cyber crime ideas with Deb. Then you two can have lunch, on me. Are you okay with that?”
Clayton leaned back in his chair. “So far, so good.”
“Okay then. Consider the rest of this meeting as highly confidential. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Edmundo pressed a key on the laptop and the screen sprang to life displaying a one-word title “SANDCASTLE”.
“The code name of the op is SANDCASTLE.” He continued to press the key bringing up illustrated bullet points and images that tracked to his narration.
“Its purpose is to gather intelligence and, if possible, use that intel to disrupt a major portion of the Sinaloa drug cartel operation in North America. The target is its California-based leader, Esteban Diego Navarro.”
Clayton let out a soft whistle. “Big game hunting.”
“The biggest. Navarro has just moved into his new home in Malibu. It’s an estate fit for the prince he views himself to be. He calls it El Mirador, The Overlook. He thinks of himself as sophisticated … cultured … and he is going to spare no expense to trick it out with the lavish trappings that support that persona. Paintings, statues, he even has a greenhouse, a conservatory in which he reportedly grows rare plants and flowers. We have to believe his willingness to spend a fortune on his hobbies is a fair indicator of what he will spend on making his home secure.”
“Makes sense, but what does that have to do with me?”
“We know that Navarro has reached out to his contacts and asked for a recommendation on the best security specialist available. He’s looking for someone to plan and oversee the implementation of the estate’s entire security overlay. It’s a project that we believe would take several weeks. During that time, this person would at the least be in a position to see and hear what goes on at the estate and ideally have access to a lot of intel that lives in the computers.”
“Not likely. It’s not my op—,” Clayton assumed he was not there to just listen, “but Navarro wouldn’t be putting his data on a new system that wasn’t deemed bulletproof. In any case, he wouldn’t trust any expert within spitting distance of his crown jewels, no matter how highly recommended.”
