Blood Tide Page 11

  “Do you have explosives?” I asked.

  “I can get. What for?”

  “The way I see it, we need to blow the gate and storm the place. Our guys are mainly farm kids or street punks, so any sophisticated assault will not work.”

  “Yeah,” Brett agreed. “We’re not going to win anything by slugging it out. Blasting our way in, shooting the shit out of what we can, then getting the hell out of Dodge may be crude tactics, but possibly most effective under the circumstances. I’ll get some site-plans of the target area and we’ll take it from there.”

  Brett returned to the main house and Carl phoned Col. Beckenham. We would obviously need permission to lead an attack on foreign soil, particularly if we were doing it on behalf on a drug cartel. But Beckenham was not concerned. America may have turned a blind eye to the Sinaloans as the lesser of two evils, but the position now was that the new drug wars included eliminating all cartels. The President wanted Caysee’s killers brought to book, dead or alive. Her killers were from the CT, but the recent attack on American women and children in Sonora had been linked to the Sinaloa Cartel. So the shooting season was open.

  We got the green light. The only condition was that if killed or captured, the government would deny our existence.

  “We’re on our own,” Carl told me.

  “So what else is new?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  TWO DAYS BEFORE the raid Brett surprised us by driving up in a bullet-proofed Humvee.

  “Wow. Where did you get that?” I asked.

  “The CT captured it from the Mexican army six months’ ago. Could come in useful.”

  “You bet. Did you get explosives?”

  He handed me three packages of Semtex and several grenades. “That should do the trick.”

  We left at midnight, arriving at the Sinaloa Cartel safe house belonging to El Chapo’s nephew Enrico Guzman ninety minutes later. The layout was a carbon-copy of Guerra’s hacienda. There were at least six guards at the main gate, but thanks to Brett’s spies, we knew there was a second gate about two hundred yards down the road that was not as tightly guarded. It also was closer to the barracks where the Sinaloa soldiers bunked, just as we did on Guerra’s property. That would be our main target.

  Despite search lights sweeping the area, Carl and I found it relatively easy to crawl up to the building and stick a Semtex pack with a magnet to the iron gates. We could hear men talking and see burning ends of cigarettes brightening. It was obvious no one was expecting an attack, despite the looming war. The flash point was meant to be Tijuana. These guys believed they were just standing by waiting for orders.

  We crept back to the bulletproof Humvee parked out of sight of both gates, where four of the better recruits waited there for us. Behind the Humvee two trucks with fifteen others waited for my instructions.

  Carl drove the Humvee as close to the gate as he could. As soon as I saw the guards grab their weapons, I pressed the detonator.

  The blast ripped through the night, and in the blinding light I saw fragments of gate and bodies fly into the air.

  Carl slammed his foot flat. We opened fire. A tornado of bullets riddled the militia barracks as we sped past. It looked like a war movie where British commandos attack a German airfield in the North African desert, except in this case we were firing at fleeing Sinaloans rather than stationary Messerschmitts. We circled back and attacked again, now also hurling grenades as we raked the area with bullets.

  After the second lap, I shouted into the handheld radio “Retirada.” The trucks followed as we retreated out of the ruined entrance.

  We took some fire from the guards at the main gate as we sped back to Tijuana, but it was too haphazard to do harm. They were too surprised by the suddenness of it all. But to their credit, the Sinaloans recovered quickly, mobilizing some trucks in hot pursuit.

  Suspecting this would happen, I had positioned an ambush Jeep two miles down the road with six recruits behind a tree. Carl tapped the hooter as we sped past, and looking in his rear-view mirror, noted that the chase was on. “Headlights coming up fast,” he said.

  I radioed that to the truck on the side of the road. “Let the Sinaloans pass. They’re in two trucks. We’ll ambush the first, you finish the second.”

  “Si, jefe,” came the reply.

  We pulled off the road. Five minutes later the Sinaloans arrived. “Disparar — shoot!” I yelled, and we riddled their vehicles with lead. One exploded, the other careered of the road, smashing into a ditch and pitchpoling.

  Just behind the Sinaloans was our ambush Jeep. The recruits piled out of the back, shot up the overturned truck, then executed survivors.

  I tried to stop them, but Carl grabbed me. The look on his face said it all. What do we do with prisoners? They would be tortured to death by people like Miguel.

  Welcome to the narco wars.

  Tequila flowed like water on the way back, and the men sang a narcocorrido, or drug ballad, which apparently is popular on Mexican radio.

  “Obviously their version of gangsta-rap,” said Carl.

  Brett was waiting for us at the gate. “Great job,” he said. “We picked up some radio chatter a few minutes ago. Seems their casualties were high. Any of our guys hit?”

  “None that we know of.” I leaned out of the Humvee window and shouted to the Jeep driver behind. “Anyone injured?”

  “Just one. Shot in the hand.”

  “Probably friendly fire,” Carl said.

  I looked at the injured man’s hand. A bullet had ripped off the top of his thumb and ruined his rifle, but he only needed a shot of penicillin and a bandage. And a new AK. Nothing else, as he felt no pain after self-medicating with tequila.

  The recruits continued partying, and even if we had wanted to stop the revelry, it would do no good. Despite our God-like status, they were too amped-up on adrenaline and tequila to listen.

  That’s what worried me. The Sinaloans knew the attack came from CT, and if they had any brains, they would counter-attack right away.

  “Do the Sinaloans know about this house?” I asked about Brett.

  “Probably. Just like we knew about theirs.”

  “Then we need more men at the gates. Sober men,” I said, looking at our sorry bunch.

  Brett phoned Guerra and about twenty minutes later a group of sicarios, mainly the good, the bad and the ugly crew that Carl and I had met in the boardroom the previous week, arrived with enough weapons to invade most European countries. Pancho was with them.

  He nodded at us. “You killed many men,” he said.

  “Any idea how many?” asked Brett.

  “No, but on the radio they are saying that they killed “hundreds” of CT. They would only say that if they did not have high casualties themselves.”

  There was no counter attack that night, possibly because the death rate had been too high. Carl and I roused our seriously hungover troops after sunrise and posted two units to reinforce the sicarios at the gate.

  “You realize that having two entrances is madness,” I said to Brett.

  He nodded. “Guerra likes it that way. He wants to keep the peons far from the main house. Maybe he doesn’t want to show them how rich he is, or maybe he doesn’t want them to ogle his daughter in her tiny bikini.”

  I suppose that made sense. The first generation of narcos, stunted and starving but tough as fencing poles, came from absolute poverty, but they certainly weren’t keen on sharing wealth once they had it. I suppose it’s an expensive business buying off police chiefs and politicians, not to mention hiring guys like us to run a private army. But two entrances just to keep the plebs from lusting after your daughter made our job harder.

  “The recruits are now blooded. They acquitted themselves well. What’s our next task?” Carl asked.

  “We wait for the Sinaloa Cartel to come to us.”

  In the lull before what we thought would be the looming storm, Guerra daily summoned me and Carl to the main house for tactical b
rainstorming. He had the architectural plans of the Sinaloan safe house scanned into a computer, and spent hours discussing strikes, sieges and ambushes, as well as the best method of defending his own house.

  We gave bog-standard basic input. We had no intention of giving him any good ideas, but even so, he thought some of our suggestions were genius. For example, mobile roadblocks hidden in the bush that could quickly be rolled onto roads running past the hacienda was a no-brainer to anyone with a modicum of military insight, but Guerra thought we were right up there with Clausewitz and Sun Tzu.

  At Guerra’s insistence, we moved into the main house. It seemed he now trusted us to be the family’s bodyguards, and I was instructed to put one of the recruits in charge of the barracks. I chose a thug named Ortiz, not because I rated him, but because he was the biggest and meanest. I told him five hundred dollars had been put in a bank account in his name, and if anything happened — such as drunkenness, a mutiny, or failure to respond during an attack — he would have to refund the money. I know accepted psychobabble is carrots work better than sticks, but my experience is that a financial stick is far more effective. If Ortiz already had the cash in hand and stood to lose it, he would be more vigilant than if he was merely promised the loot.

  Being in the main house brought us into regular contact with Miguel and Teresa. Well, Miguel in my case and Teresa’s in Carl’s. Miguel was a gun fanatic, but had no clue how to use one properly, so wanted me to teach him. Teresa, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy gazing into Carl’s eyes that were bluer than the Sea of Cortez. Strangely, when Teresa was alone without her father and particularly her brother, she was fantastic company; feisty with a sense of humor and as far removed from a spoiled brat imaginable. She had me weeping with hilarity on one occasion, mercilessly lampooning Pancho and wannabe macho Miguel.

  However, I did remind Carl that tampering with Mexican women could have serious downsides. We had already been warned by Miguel about hitting on hijo girlfriends, so one can only imagine what he would say about that happening to his sister — and by a mere mercenary at that.

  “Relax brother, I have no intentions of complicating my life. Also, I have a girlfriend at home, remember?”

  “Rachel?”

  “Well ... technically. I suppose you could argue the fact she’s dating a fashion photographer and is on the society pages of the New Yorker more often than the Kardashians may put that in some doubt.”

  At that moment Teresa walked past. Her face lit up when she saw us. Well, at least when she saw Carl.

  “Coming for a swim?”

  “Sure,” said Carl. But I begged off, saying I was going to check on the barracks.

  In retrospect, I should have gone for that swim.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE AXIOUSLY-ANTICIPATED attack on Guerra’s home did not materialise, which made everyone suspicious.

  The Sinaloans were as bloodthirsty and macho as the CT. It was completely out of character for them not to respond after a humiliating defeat. Something was going on.

  We had our answer a week later. Guerra’s house had never been the main target after all. With his much-vaunted mercenary army — in other words, us — it was considered too heavily guarded.

  It was instead the Cartel de Tijuana’s drug tunnel dug beneath the border that was blown up, killing at least sixteen narco mules.

  For the CT, this was not just an economic crippler, but a paralyzing blow to the cartel’s prestige. The Tijuana tunnel was the most closely-guarded secret in Baja and the CT’s drug lifeline to the infinitely lucrative America market. Guerra had no other large scale smuggling routes in operation. In one fell swoop, not only had Guerra’s artery to California been severed, but he could not rebuild it as the Americans now knew where it was. It could never be restored. The only way to move product was flying it across the border, nowadays almost impossible due to the forest of radars scanning the Californian countryside, or the tedious method of airlifting small packages over the fence with drones. Minimum wage illegal immigrants then backpacked the cocaine many miles to distribution points in San Diego. The detection rate was high; only four in ten consignments got through the U.S. border patrols.

  This prompted an emergency meeting at Guerra’s hacienda, and a lot of flashy cars with blackened windows ferrying shotgun-wielding men in Stetsons arrived. Carl and I took photos on our cellphones whenever we could, but erred on the side of caution. It would be pointless blowing our cover when we were so far ahead.

  But even so, the grainy, long-distance photos were sent to Fort Bragg and we heard via Col. Beckenham that the information was priceless. It was well known that the Jalisco Cartel was also involved in the fight against the Sinaloans, but not that the Chihuahua cartel, based in Juarez, was siding with Pancho Guerra. In one shot I also captured the leader of a former bitter CT rival, Los Caballeros Templarios — Knights Templar — deep in conversation with CT sicarios. This was of particular interest as the Mexican Government claimed they had destroyed The Templars, a vicious group blending narco-violence with religious mumbo-jumbo, seven years ago.

  Most of this intel was above our paygrade to decipher and Beckenham passed it on to the DEA. Our brief was to grab Caysee’s killers. It was not only our brief; it was our sole focus. It was all-consuming.

  With narco royalty arriving in droves, Carl and I were kicked out of our rooms at the hacienda and returned to the mercenary barracks. As soon as we were alone, Carl called me aside.

  “Problem,” he said.

  “Teresa?”

  He nodded. “She came on strong in the pool when you left. Said she loved me and all that stuff. We got kissing and things almost got out of hand.”

  “Almost?”

  “I told her that her father would have me killed, which put a bit of a damper on end-game carnal knowledge. So we stopped. But she’s really coming on strong — the family is going to notice soon.”

  “We must stay here. Let’s not go to the hacienda unless we’re called to a meeting. Then we leave straight afterwards.”

  “That may work. But if she’s thinks I’m shunning her, she could do the scorned girlfriend act, and maybe accuse me of hitting on her. These chicas are used to getting their own way. Particularly when their fathers are the most powerful men in the country.”

  He was right. We had a potential problem.

  “What do you think of her?” I asked.

  “Can’t deny it, man. She’s hot.”

  “Yeah — in more ways than one. Mainly in the sense that she’s trouble. But this may all resolve itself soon. The war is coming to us fast, with the tunnel now blown.”

  An idea suddenly came to me. “Maybe we can use this to our advantage. Next time she comes onto you, repeat how dangerous it is and say you have heard rumors that Miguel killed a gringa last year. See what she says about that. Tape it on your cell for proof when we permanently take out whoever killed Caysee.”

  The opportunity came that afternoon. Seeing we were no longer in the house due to the narco convention, Teresa arrived at the barracks. This, in her opinion, had the added bonus of not having her father or brother around.

  I got up when she entered the room, praying Carl would exercise some self-control. Not much chance of that. I hadn’t even closed the door and they were in an embrace.

  OK. Serious problem.

  For the next hour I anxiously twiddled my thumbs hoping no sicario would suddenly arrived looking for the boss’s daughter, and find her less than fully clothed.

  When she left, I rushed into our room. Carl was still lying on the bed. The sheet covered him, which was good as he had nothing else on.

  “What happened?” I was not referring to the obvious answer, but whether Teresa had talked.

  “Your idea was spot on. I said we should cool it because her brother was too dangerous and had already killed a Yanqui. She didn’t deny it — in fact she confirmed it — but said that was only because the Yanqui was DEA and nothing personal. It seems Ca
ysee must have talked.”

  “I’m not surprised. You saw how she had been tortured. So Teresa thinks that’s not personal?”

  “Only in the sense that narcos will always kill spies or snitches, and as far as she is concerned, I am neither. But Teresa is adamant her father would never let Miguel harm me or you as war is about to break out. He needs us desperately. In any event, she says Miguel’s shit-scared of us as we are hardcore, not pampered playboys like him.”

  “So what happened after that?”

  “I said we could only see each other if her family was either off the ranch, or too far away to catch us. She agreed. The next fifteen minutes were spent ... well, shaking hands on the deal.”

  Despite myself, I laughed. Carl was used to living dangerously. He loved it. When you stare death in the face as often as he has, risk takes on different significance. Threats that would frighten the hell out of most people are often little more than shrugs to combat warriors. I’m not sure how saintly I would have been in the same circumstances. Our training was battlefield orientated, rather than matters more delicate. We were red-blooded soldiers, not backroom-skulking spies.

  Teresa was right about one thing. Guerra considered us indispensable in beating the Sinaloans. We were paraded at every major cartel meeting as being the CT’s secret weapon. So maybe Teresa was right, her father would not allow Miguel to gun for us in the current tinderbox situation. He probably also realized that Miguel, without the benefit of several dozen sicarios, was no match for us.

  More importantly, thanks to that little tryst, Carl and I had the name of Caysee’s killer on tape. Miguel.

  Everyone knew that either he or his father had given the order, or course. But now we knew that Miguel did the bloody deed himself.

  ...

  CARTEL WARS ARE different from any other I have fought. They seemed to consist primarily of random shootouts and macho threats.

  There were no battlefields, demilitarised zones or occupied territories. Instead, gangs of drugged up gunmen drove around the streets in pick-ups looking for opponents to mow down. Although some of the militias were foreign mercenaries or highly-trained former Mexican soldiers, the majority were peons or city boys from the dirt-poor barrios high on crystal-meth. In other words, spaced-out cannon-fodder.