Blood Tide Read online

  The rules of engagement were few, if any: If you saw a rival cartel member, no matter where or when, you shot him — as well as any civilian unlucky to be caught in the ensuing melee. Indeed, hundreds more civilians were killed than narcos.

  In other words, it was more of a series of opportunistic gunfights than an actual war. As a result, there was little tactical combat and the heavily-armed jefe haciendas, which were turned into fortresses, were rarely attacked. The danger was almost exclusively on the streets, which meant that the while the foot soldiers shot all and sundry, the Guerra family and other members of narco royalty stayed behind locked doors. Our job was to keep the barbarians from the gates.

  Predictably, this lead to a stalemate, and we got complacent. Teresa continually begged her father to let her go horse-riding, but he refused in case Sinaloan snipers were skulking on the estancia’s outskirts. But she begged so often and annoyingly that he agreed, but on condition one of the Yanqui bodyguards went with her. He didn’t grasp that was Teresa’s plan.

  Guerra initially chose me, but I said I couldn’t ride a lame donkey, let alone a horse. However, I said Carl was a maestro equestrian, which was not strictly true. But I knew all that was necessary was to ride out of sight of the hacienda, and Carl would probably be able to hang onto his steed and his pants for that long.

  They returned two hours later. How no one could spot that Teresa definitely had been riding, but not a horse, I do not know.

  However, this also set Miguel off, and he told his father than he and the rest of the hijos were planning on surfing at Rosarito beach. Pancho could not stop him as he had allowed Teresa some latitude, but imposed the same condition; a gringo bodyguard must tag along. This time Guerra chose me, mainly because Carl was somewhere out in the chaparral with Teresa earning his spurs, so to speak.

  Miguel also took two sicarios along, whom he made clear were answerable only to him. I was happy with that, as it allowed me to be a free agent. The three of us carried Colt M4 carbines so I was confident it would require some serious Sinaloan firepower to take us out.

  There were about ten hijos waiting for Miguel, and judging by the excited chatter, all were raring to wax up their boards. The sicarios escorted Miguel onto the beach, carbines wrapped in towels, while I waited in the car with a clear view in all directions. If any policeman told me I was illegally parked, I just had to say ‘hijos’.

  I started to relax, as I think the weirdness of it all got to me. It’s hard to take a war seriously when your buddy is ‘horse-riding’ with a gorgeous Mexican heiress, and you’re playing nursemaid to narco billionaires masquerading as endless summer surfers. But even so, something caught my eye and I jerked alert with a jolt. It was a black van with tinted windows, cruising slowly up Sonora Road, a stretch of potholed tarmac covered by wind-blown beach sand running parallel to the ocean.

  The van U-turned at the end of the road and backtracked. Most of the hijos were either emerging from the water, or sitting on the beach, swigging tequila. I saw the tinted windows slide open, and several rifle barrels protrude. I grabbed the M4 on the passenger seat, opened the door, and fired at the same time as the van’s gunmen mowed down the surfers.

  The driver quickly overcame his surprise, revved the vehicle and drove straight for me. I ducked as it sped past. It then reversed, rifles spewing lead as it came for me again.

  Unfortunately for them, the reversing vehicle provided a bullseye shot at the gas tank, which I graciously accepted. The vehicle exploded in a whoosh of flame and blazing metal.

  “Miguel,” I shouted at the top of my voice. “Come! Now!”

  He was already running towards me, followed by three others. For what I could see, the initial fusillade of bullets had killed or injured several of the narco kids and both sicarios.

  I accelerated towards Miguel, slowing briefly as he and his terrified companions jumped into the car, then roared down Sonora Road towards Tijuana.

  “We’re being followed!” one of the hijos screamed, panic in his voice.

  I nodded. There must have been two vehicles. I had only spotted one.

  I jumped the car over several sidewalks lining Tijuana’s main arterial road and soon was on Highway 2.

  On the four-lane motorway, the souped-up Sinaloan vehicle started gaining on us, three men leaning out of the windows shooting non-stop. Miguel had a pistol in his backpack, and returned fire from the shattered back window. Cars swerved to get out of the way, hooters blaring and amid the murderous mayhem the van chasing us swerved into the outside lane to overtake. I slammed on brakes. The van sped past, assault rifles spewing blankets of lead. As it did, I opened up with the M4, either catching the driver by surprise or hitting him, as a nano-second later the vehicle careered off the road jumping the barrier into oncoming traffic. With a screech of tearing metal, it ploughed headlong into a bus. No one could survive that, and multiple bus passengers were also likely to be dead. I again understood why so many innocents die in the narco wars.

  “Good work, Yanqui,” said Miguel, relief etched on his face. “We have to get home quickly in case there are others.”

  I nodded, keeping my foot flat until I saw the towering hacienda gates.

  Pancho Guerra was waiting for us. He had heard the news via the narco grapevine.

  He embraced his son, and to my astonishment, then embraced me. He was weeping.

  “They killed Silva and Diego,” he said to Miguel. “And Phillippe. The others are in hospital. Only Luis is unharmed.”

  I went back to the barracks, where Carl was pacing the floor. He also hugged me. I told him what happened, and he cursed that he had not been there.

  We then went for a walk where we could talk freely.

  “This mission is turning weird,” I said. “Instead of avenging Caysee’s murder, we are saving the lives of those who killed her.”

  Carl nodded. “I know. But they now trust us more than ever.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE DEATH OF three top-ranking hijos caused a massive upheaval in the Mexican underworld.

  It also resulted in a country-wide military crackdown with the Marines, the least cartel- infiltrated of the Mexican forces, patrolling city streets around the clock. This was bad for the drug business, and all major narco bosses joined together urging the CT and the Sinaloa Cartel to make peace. Both sides reluctantly agreed to at least talk. But even so, the mood in the Guerra hacienda was anything but conciliatory.

  On one occasion, I was at the main house collecting parcels that had to be taken to the cartel’s depot in Tijuana when I heard Pancho on the phone. Thinking my Spanish was suspect, he made no effort to speak quietly.

  “This is not a truce,” he said. “We make a fake peace, and kill them when the time is right. That will be soon.”

  I passed that on to John Peters, and could tell by the excited tone of his voice that this was good intel. I had to find out more, he said, as it confirmed the situation-report he had recently given to his superiors. Peters was astonished that the CT had agreed to any form of peace talks, fake or otherwise, as it made them extremely vulnerable to other cartels switching sides. Guerra had lost his main drug conduit, three of his henchmen had lost sons, and three others were in hospital. The talk on the street was that the CT was on the run — perhaps fatally. The Sinaloans were winning hands down.

  However, that was not actually the case. The tunnel was a massive blow, but the loss of a few pampered hijos was not likely to cripple the CT. So it was imperative that Carl and I correct that perception as soon as possible. It was not in our interest to be seen to be on the losing team, as we wanted to bring down the Guerra family ourselves.

  I went out into the bush, and unobserved, phoned Alejandro Dumas, the lawyer. “Tell Andrea that although the Sinaloans look to be winning, the CT have won the only major battle of the war so far. Ten days ago there was a strike at Enrico Guzman’s safe house on the road to Tecate, where fifteen men, led by gringo Green Berets, beat the shit out
of at least fifty Sinaloans.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes. I was there.”

  “Why will Andrea want to post that? Seems like CT propaganda.”

  “Of course it is. But it’s the truth. If the word is out that skilled foreigners are fighting in a cartel war, it will give her a major scoop. And us some breathing space. Win-win stuff.”

  It paid off. The Sinaloans already knew the CT were hiring mercenaries, thanks to the advert in Soldier of Fortune, but not that the recent devastating strike against them was a direct consequence. Or that we were Special Forces. Suddenly they were not so cock-a-hoop. The tunnel blast had been thanks to inside information, and the hijo beach slaughter was little more than opportunist luck. But in the sole set piece battle, they’d had their asses handed to them. Big time.

  After Andrea’s blog, titled Rambo and the Runts — which even by my non-literary standards was hilarious — the other cartel bosses came together. This time they were far more serious. There had to be peace at all costs. Genuine peace. Andrea told us that even the CT’s allies, the Cartel de Jalisco and Knights Templar, forced Guerra and the heirs of El Chapo to attend peace talks.

  The atmosphere in the hacienda eased considerably after that. Miguel could go and cause havoc at Rosarito Beach with the hijos and their groupies, and Teresa did not have to have a bodyguard when she went horse-riding. I’m sure that went down like a fart under a blanket for her and Carl. In fact, Pancho was noticeably surprised that Teresa did not immediately return to her condo in Tijuana once the cartel truce came into force.

  A week later, Carl and I got ten days off as a bonus for good work, so went back to the beach cottage at Calafia to do some surfing. Coincidentally, I got a call from Chris in Alaska, saying he was coming down to Mexico to speak to Alejandro Dumas. A former business partner of Don Geraldo’s wanted to talk about largemouth bass fishing tourism on the estancia. Could we meet?

  I said I would pick him up at the Tijuana Airport. Carl would join us later, as he was otherwise engaged. I didn’t mention the reason for that was Teresa.

  A beautiful woman was with Chris as he came through customs, and it wasn’t Debra as expected. It was Caitlin. I felt a strange sensation in my belly-pit, but remembered that she would be married by now to that “how-to-win-friends” stockbroker.

  Chris embraced me, and so did Caitlin, saying it was good to see me again. I looked at her left hand. No wedding ring.

  She followed my eyes. “I broke it off,” she said.

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

  “No you’re not. Nor am I. He was a jerk.”

  “But a rich one,” I said smiling. “Anyway, I know Chris is seeing some lawyer about fishing stuff. But what brings you to Mexico?”

  “You owe me a surfing lesson.”

  I reeled back in shock. “Absolutely.” Then my fuddled brain looked for something to say. “Are you guys staying with us?”

  “If you don’t mind,” said Chris.

  Caitlin smiled, enjoying my social ineptitude.

  Both Chris and Caitlin were impressed with the rustic beach cottage, but somewhat taken aback when his “friend.” Chris knew exactly who Teresa Guerra was.

  I quickly took him aside. “We’re undercover,” I said. “I can’t say anymore.”

  Chris burst out laughing. “Or perhaps, under the covers. Never a dull moment with you guys. But anyway, can you and Carl come with me to see the lawyer tomorrow? He specifically asked for you both.”

  “Sure. But we cannot divulge what we are doing. Although I’m sure he will guess what’s happening.”

  Teresa had the good sense to leave before evening. She knew her movements would be reported to her father if she did not return to her apartment, particularly with the fragile narco-peace barely holding.

  Alejandro was waiting for us at the lawyer’s office. Andrea was with him, hopefully with some information for us. With her was another man I did not know; an elderly Mexican with a craggy sun-scorched face the color of Sonoran Desert sand. He wore denim overalls and a faded red shirt. His calloused hands told the story of his life more effectively than words. He greeted Chris effusively.

  Chris turned to us. “This is Pablo Pérez. He worked for Don Geraldo, the man the CT murdered.”

  We shook hands, and Pablo said in surprisingly good but heavily-accented English, “The narcos have their wish. They now own the land. We have been kicked off.”

  “Hang on,” said Chris “I thought the estancia had been sold to a business partner of Don Geraldo? That he planned to set up a bass fishing lodge?”

  “That is true, and it is the reason I called you,” said Alejandro. “Even though the property has been legally sold, the narcos have threatened to kill anyone who puts foot on it. So what we plan to do, with your permissions, is advertise it heavily in America, using your name as a top guide. We won’t accept any bookings, of course. Instead, we will embarrass the government by later placing full page advertisements in magazines like Field and Stream stating that the narcos have now invaded privately-owned land. A public outcry is the only way the legal owner will get back the property.”

  “No problem with me,” said Chris. “I’ll certainly give an endorsement.”

  “We need to move quickly,” said Alejandro. “We all know Don Geraldo was killed because his estancia is on the border. But now the tunnel has been destroyed, the estancia is likely to be Baja California’s new drug route.”

  “Yes,” said Andrea. “I was surprised the Sinaloans blew up the tunnel, as they also used it. Now I think it’s because they were going to dig a new tunnel on Don Geraldo’s land in any event.”

  “But didn’t the CT kill Don Geraldo?” I asked.

  She nodded. “They did. But the Sinaloans are poised to take it over.”

  Pablo agreed. “There are big trucks coming in every day. Also, many guards — more than usual.”

  “Are they CT or Sinaloans?” I asked.

  “CT,” replied Pablo.

  “That sort of disproves your theory,” I said to Andrea.

  She shrugged. “Maybe the Sinaloans will let the CT do all the work, then take the tunnel once it’s dug. One thing is for sure, this is going to be the next flashpoint.”

  “Can you check it out? Get photographic confirmation?” Carl asked.

  Again, Pablo nodded. “Nobody knows the land like me. I will go and check. But,” he turned and looked at Chris, “you promised that if your people caught Guerra, you would let me kill him.”

  Chris frowned. “I know. It is a pledge I hope I can keep.”

  He turned to us. “Pablo has Don Geraldo’s rifle. The one he made his last stand with. There is a bullet still in the breech.

  “I promised that if you caught Guerra, you would bring him to Pablo. To face the last bullet.”

  …

  AFTER LEAVING ANDREA and Alejandro, two of the bravest civilians I have ever met, the four of us went a nearby café, ordering excellent Mexican coffee.

  “Long way for you guys to travel to speak to a Tijuana lawyer,” I said. “You could have just phoned.”

  Chris shook his head. “It wasn’t the lawyer. It was Pablo. He will only speak to people who Don Geraldo trusted, and I, for some reason, am one. Due to the narco threat, he will only do so face-to-face. Anyway, I never turn down an all-expenses-paid week in Mexico.”

  “Then you should be at some five-star outfit, not living with us,” said Carl.

  “Yes — but I’m still owed a surfing lesson,” said Caitlin.

  That afternoon, I took her to the beach. The surf at Mushrooms was more powerful and dangerous than Baja California, so we played around in the waist-high shore break. Despite a year passing from her previous impromptu lesson, she soon got the hang of it again and was riding the foamies with elegance. She had the balance of a ballerina. Surfing is all about grace and equilibrium, and she had that in spades. I told her so. When I adjusted her stance slightly, holding her wetsuit-clad body close,
she didn’t edge away as she had previously. Or perhaps that was my imagination.

  Walking back to the beach cottage, I said, “Maybe this is a question I shouldn’t ask, but why did you break it off with the stockbroker?”

  She shrugged. “It was that Alaskan trip that did it. God forbid I ever get involved with a soldier, but even you made Wayne look boring. Maybe I’ve got too much of my dad in me, but someone who looks sexy in a boardroom often looks pathetic in the woods. That’s what happened to Wayne, and he made it even worse by being such a pain-in-the-ass know-all. When he started telling Dad how to catch salmon, the writing was truly on the wall.”

  She changed the subject. “What about Carl and Teresa?”

  “It’s complicated. Don’t read too much into it as it’ll be over soon.”

  “And Rachel?”

  “That also seems to be over.”

  “Yeah, she visited my dad and Debs last summer as she was on some modelling shoot in Anchorage. She said she loved Carl, and always would, but relationships do not work when a guy is away for eight months at a time.”

  “It’s even worse for her,” I said. “Not only is Carl away, but she’s continuously surrounded by beautiful people, celebrities, hipsters, in-crowd parties — everything Carl hates.”

  Caitlin was silent. “Just proves the point. Stay away from hick soldiers. And in my case, stockbrokers as well.”

  “What about surfers?”

  “Do you know any?”

  “I may have some contacts. There’s this one super good-looking, charming yet modest guy. Oh wait — he’s a soldier.”

  “Dammit! You almost had me fooled.”

  She laughed and took my arm as we climbed the wooden steps to the cottage. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. Or so I hoped.