Blood Tide Read online

  Blood Tide

  By

  Graham Spence

  Narco terror knows no borders

  For Terrie, from whom all inspiration flows

  Copyright © 2020 by Graham Spence

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Printing, April 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Unless historical, names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  www.grahamspence.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  THEY CAME ON Friday, midday, in a silver Jeep Wrangler. The driver leaned out of the vehicle’s window, firing several shots from a gold-plated pistol into the air.

  “Who is the owner of this estancia?” he shouted.

  The staff in the house cowered. They knew who the men were. Narcos. The CT logo sprayed on the side of the vehicle indicated which cartel they worked for. Cartel de Tijuana. Or sometimes known as Matamos a los Zetas — We kill Zetas. It was a reference to one of the most brutal narco wars when the Cartel de Tijuana decimated their chief rival in Baja California, Los Zetas.

  A 77-year-old man appeared at the door. Tall, ramrod-straight with a drooping silver moustache. His face was lined, but his dark eyes gleamed as fierce as a falcon. He carried a .300 Win Mag hunting rifle.

  “I am the owner. What do you want?”

  “Are you Almeida?”

  “I am Don Geraldo Francisco de Almeida,” the man corrected. He had been born a campesino but was now master of the sprawling ranch in the wild chaparral country east of Tijuana. He had earned the honorific title ‘Don’ — or Sir — with sweat. Not that Don Geraldo farmed much anymore. With his hard-earned wealth, his estancia on the Mexican-Californian border was now predominantly a hunting and fishing lodge. A vast lake with largemouth and peacock bass was a magnet for American tourists from the north.

  The narco got out of his car. He was wearing black jeans, black silk shirt and knee-high, green alligator-skin boots. Instead of a Stetson to complete the bling cowboy image, he wore a red baseball cap back to front. Three other men got out of the vehicle with him.

  “Old man, we are taking your land. You have twenty-four hours to leave.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says Pancho Guerra.”

  “And who is he?”

  The baseball-capped narco hesitated for an instant. How could this dinosaur not know who Guerra was? The CT may have been defeated by the Sinaloa Cartel in the rest of Mexico — thanks to the interference of the Yanquis — but under Guerra, they had re-established control in the crucial Baja California state. It cost many lives of mainly civilians caught in the crossfire to secure this corridor to the lucrative Californian drug market.

  “Guerra is lord of Baja. You have twenty-four hours to vacate.”

  Don Geraldo lifted his rifle. “Get off my land. Now.”

  The narco in the green boots laughed. “You have a death wish, old man? We will be back tomorrow. You had better be gone. And all your people. Or we will kill you.”

  Don Geraldo tapped the breech of the rifle. “This has five bullets. I see you have three friends. You should bring more.”

  The narco grinned. “I only need one bullet.”

  The Wrangler sped off in a series of wheel spins, churning up gravel and dust. The occupants had their middle fingers in the air.

  Don Geraldo did not like rudeness. He never swore in front of women or children. Nor did he like people threatening him. And nobody told him to get off his estancia that he had carved out of wild country with his bare hands.

  He walked back into the house. His staff, who had witnessed the exchange, watched silently. The youngest, Eva, had been with him for fifteen years and he was godfather to her eldest son. The oldest, Pablo, with whom he had survived many hunting and fishing adventures, had been born on the estancia.

  Pablo’s wife, Jima, was weeping. Don Geraldo’s people, like all of Mexico, knew the threats were terrifyingly real. Hernandez the chef tried unconvincingly to look fierce as he shook his first in the direction the narcos had left.

  “Do not look so sad,” said Don Geraldo. “I am giving you all the weekend off. Go to your families and your children in Tijuana, or else stay at the Hotel Mexicali, where I have an account. Pablo will take the van and drive you to where you want to go.”

  “Patrón,” said Pablo softly. “I want to be here with you. Where I am needed.”

  Don Geraldo’s forehead creased. “Pablo, I am relying on you to get everyone off the land safely. You are responsible for their welfare. I would trust no one else to do that.”

  Pablo was close to tears. “Patrón, I cannot leave you. I can shoot a gun. You know I am good.” He stretched his arthritic hands, still powerful from a lifetime of toil.

  Don Geraldo gestured to his staff. “They need you more. Please do not question me on this.”

  The staff went to pack. They knew they would not be coming back.

  “Pablo, wait a while,” said Don Geraldo. He poured two shots of whisky. “You know my lawyer, Alejandro Dumas?”

  Pablo nodded silently.

  “Contact him. He will tell you what to do next. Now let’s have a drink before you go, my dearest amigo.”

  Pablo tried to speak, but choked. They clinked glasses.

  Don Geraldo was a formal man, not given to emotion, and to see his staff weeping and hugging him as they got into the van with their belongings would have puzzled most.

  That evening Don Geraldo drank another three fingers of fine single-malt Scotch and listened to his favorite opera, Guatimotzin, a romanticised account of the defense of Mexico by its last Aztec ruler, Cuauhtémoc.

  He placed five hunting rifles at various windows, as he would not have time to reload. Each had five bullets in the magazine, and he reflected briefly on the significance of that number. Tomorrow would be the fifth anniversary of the death of his beloved wife Juliana. It would also be their fiftieth wedding anniversary. If he was alive by sunset, he would back a horse with that number on the fifth race in Tijuana next Saturday.

  Satisfied that the weapons were strategically positioned, he dressed in the suit he had worn to his wife’s funeral. He dozed on the sofa, waiting for dawn.

  The narcos came at sunrise. They were led by the same man who had ordered Don Geraldo off his land the day before. He was wearing the same black jeans and shirt. The same green alligator boots. The same red back-to-front baseball cap.

  This time there were three vehicles, identical silver Jeeps with the letters CT on the sides. Don Geraldo noted grimly that they had heeded his advice to bring more gunfighters. There were sixteen Cartel de Tij
uana sicarios.

  “Old man,” the leader shouted, “you have not listened. You will die.”

  Those were the last words he uttered. A bullet struck him, bullseye in the forehead.

  The rest of the gang opened fire. Two arrogantly remained standing. It was the last time they stood.

  Finally grasping that their adversary was infinitely more than a frail old man, the narcos took cover.

  Don Geraldo fired two more shots, making sure the sicarios kept their heads down as he ran to the next window, where the second Win Mag .300 was primed.

  He saw the slight rustle of a bush. A narco crept on his belly towards the house. Don Geraldo smiled. He had shot more rattlesnakes in the chaparral than he could count. A man slithering on the ground was child’s play to a rifleman of his caliber.

  He was the fourth narco to die.

  The narcos clicked their assault rifles to automatic, riddling the stately hacienda with bullets. The thunder of gunfire reverberated across the valley. Don Geraldo could only pray his neighbors would hear it and phone for help as he kept his head down, waiting for the maelstrom to subside. The thick adobe walls and solid oak beams protected him.

  Then Don Geraldo heard the wail of police sirens. It seemed his prayers had been answered. Help had come.

  There was a lull in the gunfire and Don Geraldo heard shouting. It was not, as one would expect, the police instructing the cartel sicarios to cease and desist. It was instead the narcos ordering the police to leave with immediate effect.

  The police obeyed. At least they had the decency to turn off their sirens as they fled.

  Don Geraldo no longer had illusions. There was no help coming. He was on his own.

  The narcos opened fire again, rifles chattering like jackhammers, glass splintering and ricochets screaming off stone walls. Don Geraldo again kept his head down, waiting for the inevitable storming of the house in a mass rush. Then he would pick them off.

  The gunfire briefly subsided and Don Geraldo peered through a shattered stained-glass window. He noticed two men leopard-crawling towards the house in a pincer movement. One of the right, the other on the left. He triggered off two shots; the first fatal, the second a gut wound.

  He ran to the next window, where his third gun was ready. As he rammed the butt into his shoulder, he saw something that chilled his blood. Two of the narcos were running back from one of the Jeeps. Both carried grenade launchers.

  Don Geraldo rapid-fired, working the bolt-action rifle as fast as he could. If he did not get those men, it was all over. The magazine was soon empty. He ran to his fourth rifle.

  The first grenade sailed over the house. The next hit the window from where Don Geraldo had been firing moments before. The shockwaves of the explosion flung him backwards, stunning him for an instant.

  He scrambled back to the window. The narcos were running towards the house. Five well-placed bullets had them diving for cover as he ran for his fifth and final rifle.

  The next grenade exploded in the living room, setting fire to the velvet curtains and thatched roof. The dried grass flared like tinder, and a patch landed on Don Geraldo’s shoulder. He tried to brush it off, irritated that his favorite suit was now ruined.

  Within minutes the house was a raging inferno. Don Geraldo, himself on fire, picked up his rifle and walked out the gutted front door.

  The first bullet clipped his left arm. Don Geraldo fired back holding the rifle single-handedly, killing the shooter. The narcos paused, awed at the apparition advancing before them — an old man in a flaming suit spitting defiance, shooting one-handed from the hip. The blaze destroying the hacienda was nothing compared to the fire in his eyes.

  The narcos opened up. Don Geraldo stumbled forward, then as another bullet struck, fell backwards. He stared at the sky as blood pumped from his chest, pooling around him. Above he could see Juliana, looking as gorgeous as she had on their wedding day fifty years ago.

  She was smiling.

  ...

  WHEN THE MARINES arrived that afternoon, they were astonished at the destruction. They had been tipped off by a local policeman whose conscience troubled him that an estancia was under attack by Cartel de Tijuana sicarios.

  Six corpses told the story. The seventh man, wounded but still alive, confirmed it. The cartel wanted the estancia as it was a crucial route for smuggling heroin-based opioids to California. They had instructed the owner to leave his land. He declined. His defiance was so indomitable that the sicarios believed him to be possessed. A ghost from Día de Muertos, the Festival of the Dead. They fled without retrieving the bodies.

  The wounded man, clutching his shredded intestines, pleaded for water.

  The Marine Captain questioning him held a canteen above the man’s lips, but did not open it.

  “Who sent you?” he demanded.

  “Please ... water first.”

  “Answer, and you will get water.”

  The man shook his head. The Captain put his boot on the wound oozing blood and bile and stomped.

  “I have morphine for your pain.”

  “Guerra,” the man gasped. “Pancho Guerra.”

  The marine captain walked over to where Don Geraldo lay and picked up his rifle. There two bullets in the breech. He placed the rifle an inch from the wounded man’s forehead. He squeezed the trigger.

  He then nodded towards Don Geraldo’s ravaged body and saluted.

  “You got seven, hermano.”

  ...

  AS INSTRUCTED, Pablo phoned Don Geraldo’s lawyer once he heard what he knew was inevitable.

  The lawyer told him there was as sizeable inheritance for staff. Their Patrón had loved them all. Pablo did not care. Don Geraldo was dead. Nothing could replace that.

  Pablo and Jima drove to the mortuary to collect the body. The torso was badly burned, but the lined, weather-beaten face with the patrician nose, drooping moustache and immaculately cut silver hair was more or less intact. The eyes were closed, radiating tranquillity.

  They selected a coffin of mesquite wood, plain but dignified, and drove back to the estancia.

  The next day, Pablo dug a grave on the hilltop next to Juliana’s tombstone. It was where Don Geraldo loved to sit and look at his bass lake. It was hard work, digging up the flinty soil, but it was the ultimate labor of love. He didn’t notice a man arrive.

  The man cleared his throat. Pablo looked up from the rectangular hole. The man wore the flowing black cassock of a man of God. His name was Father Raul. He asked if he could conduct the funeral ceremony. It would be his honor.

  Pablo said it would be a small funeral as he was afraid narcos would be watching. Don Geraldo had no children. Juliana had been unable to conceive, and the Don’s only brother was dead.

  The priest shook his head. The angels would be watching.

  Don Geraldo’s neighbor, Enrique Alonso arrived for the funeral at a quarter-to-three. He was an hour early. He said strange things were happening. Every road into the valley thronged with people.

  More than a thousand arrived. They were coming to say goodbye to a man who had done what their government had not. He had stood up to the narcos.

  Pablo, Jima, Eva and Hernandez lowered the coffin into the grave. As Father Raul scattered dust on it, a peon started plucking a guitar.

  The melody was mournful but epic, and the man sang simple words that soon become known as the Ballad of Don Geraldo. There were three chords. The words did not rhyme. But it flared like a chaparral fire.

  You did not retreat

  You did not surrender

  You fought for us

  Oh Don Geraldo

  You fought for Mexico

  But now you are dead

  Yet those who say so are liars

  Oh Don Geraldo

  For you live, you live

  You live in our hearts,

  Our souls, our prayers, our lives

  Oh, Don Geraldo

  For you are not dead

  For you will never die


  You live

  Oh, Don Geraldo.

  You live!

  Mexicans love legends. They are embedded in the landscape, the soil, the soul and the blood of the country. It’s what converts tragic times to inspirational visions. Visions that can change lives.

  Don Geraldo was such a man.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  WE NEVER SAW the shooter. All I remember is a metallic “whoosh” as something whizzed past my head before punching a hole through the Black Hawk’s steel skin.

  There were eleven of us aboard. Two pilots, a crew chief, six Kurds and two ‘others’: Carl Wilson and myself, Corporal Kelly Murdoch.

  I was a Special Forces rookie, albeit seriously battle-tested. I had been with the 75th Ranger Regiment for five years before joining Delta Force six months ago. But as Delta officially doesn’t exist — the closest the government will get to acknowledging us is 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta — most civilians would call us Green Berets. Among ourselves, we say The Unit. And the guy with me, Carl Wilson, was the best of us all.

  Amid dense smoke, confusion and yelling in Arabic, I noticed red mist squirting like aerosol from piping in the roof. Hydraulic fluid. The RPG rocket that flew through the open door and smashed out the other side had severed crucial pressurized pipes.

  The door was open for the simple reason that we were only 10-feet above ground and about to jump. That fact saved our lives. If it had been closed, the ’copter would’ve exploded and I would be writing this on either a cloud or a barbeque. Many would say the latter.

  Carl stood to assess damage, and promptly slipped on the slick oil coating the cabin floor. He tried to hold something to break his momentum as he skated for the gaping door. I instinctively grabbed his boot as he shot past. But Carl is a big guy — six foot and two hundred-plus pounds, not counting the eighty pounds of ammo in his backpack and the M249 Light Machine Gun. There wasn’t a hope in hell of me holding him, but I tried.