Blood Tide Read online

  I woke at dawn, the beautiful sunrise glinting off dew-covered shrubs and leaves like streaks of silver.

  There was nothing to do but wait. One of us kept watch, while the other dozed or reconnoitred the grounds. I did the latter, climbing a small hill to get a better vantage point. At the top, I looked down on a beautiful lake. It glistened like polished sapphire, rimmed by organ pipe cactus and chaparral pine; a mirage in the semi-aridness. Rippled concentric dimples spread when a fish took an insect off the surface. This must be the bass lake Chris and Alejandro talked about.

  A coyote burst from bushes and scampered into the hills as I walked towards the shoreline. Barely ten yards later, I came across a clearing with a simple cross made from beams of hewn oak. Above a grave marked with white rocks stood a granite headstone with the names Geraldo and Juliana de Almeida.

  I stopped and bowed my head. I knew I was on sacred ground.

  I walked back to Carl to take the next watch, and told him about the lake and the beautifully simple grave. He set off to see it, returning three hours later. We both were subdued. The final resting place of Don Geraldo and his beloved wife focused us on the fight ahead.

  In the distance a plume of dust rose, wafting in the air. It came from the road. We watched as it curled northwards, indicating the vehicle was turning onto the estancia.

  The Sinaloans.

  Chapter Nineteen

  IT WAS NOT the paramilitary convoy we expected. In fact, it was only one vehicle.

  Four men got out, all carrying AK-47s. They did a cursory check of the premises, then went into the cottage. I could hear them speaking, but not what they were saying. As there was scrub re-growth from the fire sprouting thickly at the back of the cottage, I signalled to Carl I was going to use that to hide and move in closer.

  The narcos were obviously not expecting anyone on the property, so I crept right up to a window and peered in. They had brewed a pot of coffee and were lounging on the furniture, smoking.

  The conversation was how to secure the estancia, and the general consensus was to wait until “the others” arrived. I assumed they were referring to backup, but one asked a question that caught my attention.

  “Will the boss be coming?”

  Another man nodded. “Si, and the girl.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. We just need to check no one is here.” The way he said it indicated they were already sure no one would be stupid enough to trespass on cartel-seized property. But they decided to have a drive around anyway.

  They got into the SUV and headed north down a dirt road towards the hills. We watched the swirl of dust, and several minutes later, the vehicle stopped. It was perhaps two miles away, and as we had nothing better to do, Carl suggested we shadow the narcos.

  It was hard going in the chaparral, but the waist-high scrub provided good cover. At the top of a gentle incline, we saw the vehicle below on the banks of a narrow stretch of river. The shrivelled, barely drifting water, testified to the severity of the drought gripping Mexico. I knew from our map this was the Rio Alamar, a tributary of the Rio Tijuana that flows to the Pacific. It also marked the U.S. border, about fifteen miles from the outskirts of San Diego.

  What was of interest was a mini excavator about twenty yards from the edge of the river. The intention was obviously to dig up the bank.

  Then it dawned. The men had led us to where the new drug tunnel to California would be burrowed. A perfect crossing, on private property, within easy striking distance of all major American trafficking routes. No wonder the narcos considered Don Geraldo’s land so important. This was a massive discovery, which on its own made our trip worthwhile.

  All we now needed was to find Teresa.

  After smoking a couple of cigarettes, the soldados got back into the SUV and drove westwards on their patrol. We followed their progress via dust clouds, and after a few miles, they turned south and headed back to the cottage.

  They had gathered a few hefty logs on their recce around the estancia, and soon had a fire roaring. We heard clinking of bottles, and a crate of Corona beers and two bottles of Tequila appeared.

  Once the flames died, steaks the size of saucers were tossed onto the grid. Jets of saliva squirted in my mouth at the aroma of sizzling meat. The cold can of beans Carl and I would later share was distinctly unappealing.

  One man grabbed a guitar from the back of the SUV, and soon all were singing narcocorridos — the ballads of choice for drug runners. El Chapo’s name appeared in some of the knee-thumping choruses, which gave credence to our belief that these guys were Sinaloans rather than CT.

  After several hours, the meat- and alcohol-sated men were fast asleep; two sprawled on the ground by the fire, and two inside the cottage. This was a golden opportunity for Carl and I to see what was in the vehicle.

  Keeping away from the glare of the glowing embers, we crept towards the SUV and I eased open the trunk. There were enough weapons, ammunition and grenades to stage a coup in Africa, so we figured they wouldn’t miss a few rounds. Fortunately, the ammo was standard 5.56 mm, so I grabbed several clips to double our firepower. Carl also lightened their ordnance by four grenades, giving me two. Any more might be noticed.

  The men woke early, cleaning away evidence of the previous night’s festivity, and stoked the still-smoldering fire. A pot of coffee went onto the flames, and they sat around smoking, obviously expecting something to happen soon.

  We discovered what when four trucks ferrying men bristling with weapons arrived a few hours later.

  A short, wide-shouldered man got out of the front vehicle. He looked like someone I knew, so I focused the binoculars. I did not know him, but realized why he looked familiar. He was the spitting image of a young El Chapo. Obviously this guy wasn’t Chapo, who was in the maximum security ADX Florence in Colorado. But he had to be a blood relative. Chapo had several sons, some of whom were high ranking members of the cartel.

  Also interesting was a coffin, which the men heaved off the back of one of the trucks. Once on the ground, it was opened and a person helped out.

  It was a woman, judging by her skirt and blouse. We could see thick cable-ties pulled tight around her hands and legs, and a brown hessian sack covered her face. The men cut the ties and she stood, wobbling from cramped muscles. They then removed the sack.

  Carl nudged me, grinning hugely.

  “She’s alive,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty

  TERESA GUERRA WAS indeed alive. She blinked at the sunlight as the narcos pulled off the sack.

  The Chapo-lookalike grinned and tweaked her breast, saying something to the men. They laughed dutifully. If something didn’t happen soon — such as us freeing her — her immediate future did not look rosy.

  But what could we do? I did a quick head-count. There were twenty men out there. Even with my poor math, the odds were not in our favor.

  However, we had one priceless asset. Surprise.

  A phone rang. A sicario rushed to the lead truck, yanking the door. He emerged with a Satphone and shouted, “El Rapido. It is Ovidio.”

  We now not only had a name for the Chapo-lookalike — Rapido, or Speedy — but also the caller. Ovidio, which had to be Chapo’s son, was almost as famous as his father. He had recently been arrested, but released within hours by timid Mexican police when the Sinaloan Cartel threatened mass retaliation. That standoff and subsequent back down by the authorities provided the starkest snapshot imaginable of who really ruled the country.

  We needed to hear what their plans were, so again I crept up through the shrubbery to the back of the house. It had to be me, as I could speak Spanish. Carl would watch my back from our hideout.

  Rapido was still talking on the phone to Ovidio.

  “We can keep her here as long as you want. She cannot escape. I have men surrounding the house and there is only bush to run into. There are plenty of hungry coyotes and rattlesnakes for her there.”

  I couldn’t hear Ovidio’s reply,
but Rapido’s response was self-explanatory.

  “If Guerra’s cabrónes come here, they will be massacred. We have plenty of firepower, and guards on the road as well as the gates. In fact, you should tell Guerra that his daughter is here. Then we can finish his people off once and for all. Baja will be ours.”

  I crept back to Carl. “They going to keep her here for a while. Rapido even suggested they tip off Guerra and lure him into a trap.”

  Carl thought about that for a while.

  “Why don’t we do that?”

  “What?”

  “Tip Guerra off. He’ll take the bait for sure. Then during the firefight, we grab Teresa and run for the border. The narcos will shoot each other up and we get Teresa. A win-win all round.”

  “Could be risky,” I said. “The Sinaloans may kill Teresa as soon as the CT arrive. Also, how would we tip Guerra off? I doubt there’s any cellphone reception out here.”

  Carl pulled out his phone. No signal.

  “What do you suggest then?”

  “We watch for a while, see if a pattern emerges. Then we strike in darkness, taking out guards with knifes and grabbing Teresa. It’s only a couple of miles to the border. We get her across and call in the DEA.”

  “A bit iffy,” said Carl. “How will we get her out of a bolted room?”

  “When I looked through the window, only one door was closed. She must be there. And this is a house, not a jail. I doubt if there are any bolts, only a cheap lock. We kick it open.”

  “Hope you’re right.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Surveillance is usually the most boring work imaginable, but this was interesting as stuff happened all the time. Despite the relaxed atmosphere, the sicario in charge knew what he was doing. First, he instructed the soldados to set up a large canvas shelter strung between trees for protection from the sun and in the unlikely event of rain. Then he divided them into four groups doing six hours’ guard duty each, with one at each side of the house, two in front, and another inside at Teresa’s door. Rapido also slept in the house. Off-duty guards dozed or chain-smoked under the canvas shelter.

  None of the men were sent to the main gate, a mile or so away. But Rapido had said in his conversation with Chapo’s son that a separate group was there, as well as another one manning ambushes on the road. We didn’t bother with those. If we managed to free Teresa, we would be running in the opposite direction. In other words, towards America at full speed.

  Carl and I watched throughout the next day. The schedule did not change. That meant we could strike that night. We knew the routine.

  “Get some sleep,” he said. “We’re going to need it.”

  I usually sleep well before missions, but not this time. I had an uneasy feeling that something would go wrong. So much of our plan hinged on luck, and no amount of preparation could counter that.

  The first problem was the full moon. There was not a cloud in the megawatt sky. In the Sonoran scrubland, that is usually a given so we should not have been surprised. But that did not stop us hoping for the blackout we desperately desired for our escape.

  The second was that we planned to strike just before midnight. The second night shift would by then have been on duty for an hour, so would start relaxing, while the group they replaced would be asleep. However, we could tell by the noise of men chatting and multiple glowing cigarette tips that the replaced group had not gone to bed. We waited … and waited. Eventually, at about one a.m., just as Carl was about to call it all off, the campsite quietened.

  Carl and I slung our carbines on our backs, holstered our pistols, and drew knives —Yarboroughs with seven-inch blades blackened not to glint. The plan was to approach from the back; Carl would take out the left guard and me the right, then jointly the two in front.

  The first guard was facing my direction as I snuck up, so I waited for him to turn. He soon obliged, and a split second later I sliced his carotid. I noticed Carl’s guard was also lying still, and then crept to the front. It seemed the third guard had heard something — perhaps a slight rustle — and had his rifle at the ready. But he was facing the other way, and a simple jerk of my wrist, severing his throat, was all that was needed.

  Carl equally efficiently dispatched the fourth guard.

  I gently scratched the mosquito mesh covering the front verandah door of the cottage. The guard inside looked up. Seeing nothing, he cautiously rose to take a closer look. When he was about a yard away, I opened the door and sprang, stabbing him in the heart with my right hand and jamming my left over his mouth to muffle sound. I lowered him silently as Carl rushed for Teresa’s door, kicking it open.

  “It’s Carl,” he whispered. A figure jumped off the bed and ran to him.

  At that moment, the second door opened and Rapido appeared. He had a pistol in his hand. A quick double-shot from my M4 killed him instantly.

  In the quietness of the night, the gunfire was deafening.

  “Run,” hissed Carl. He grabbed Teresa’s hand and bolted outside.

  The narcos scrambled for their weapons, firing wildly. As I followed Carl, I swiveled and raked the canvas shelter with lead, hoping to drop as many of the sicarios as possible. I then tossed both grenades, adding to the general cacophony and mayhem as shrapnel sprayed like lethal confetti.

  Carl disappeared into the night, but we had our escape route planned. We would head due north, directly through the bush rather than vehicle tracks as we obviously would never outrun a SUV. The rocky, scrub-covered terrain would be too treacherous for any SUV to navigate at night, so they would have to follow us on foot. Carl and I were close to Olympic-standard long distance runners, so even carrying Teresa, we fancied our chances on reaching the border first. Particularly after seeing the amount of liquor the narcos had been consuming over the past two days.

  However, as I feared, the paramilitary leader knew what he was doing. He sent one group of men chasing us, while the others piled into a SUV and sped down the dirt tracks to the Rio Alamar. That meant they would get to the border before us, albeit not necessarily at the same spot. They could then spread out and patrol the river bank, knowing that our only hope of escape was to attempt to cross it somewhere.

  It was a muscle-tearing two-mile sprint, spurred on by narcos firing continuously in our direction, which — believe me — is the ultimate athlete-enhancing drug. Their logic seemed to be they only had to be lucky once, while we had to be lucky every time they pulled the trigger.

  What we had not bargained for was that two of their group were exceptional runners. I could hear them crashing in the bush close behind us. Also, Teresa was slowing us down more than we thought, as the rugged terrain was exceptionally difficult to negotiate at night, even when lit by a full moon. This meant running into bushes, then having to reverse if they were too thick.

  “Keep going brother,” I hissed. “I’m going to take out the two just behind.”

  I turned, fell flat on the ground and waited. It seemed a long time, but was perhaps ten seconds before the first pursuer appeared. Then the second. I stood and in one fluid motion, scythed them down.

  I caught up with Carl thirty seconds later. We were now on top of the incline, and I could see the Rio Alamar below glimmering in the moonlight.

  “All downhill now, brother.”

  Carl grunted, then rasped. “Lights.”

  Two headlamps came on, powerful as searchlights. It was the SUV. One group of sicarios were waiting for us at the river, just to the left of where we hoped to cross.

  At the same time, we saw the flashlights of a foot patrol, about half a mile to the right. We had no option but to run straight, as we were now squeezed in a pincer movement. And also from behind.

  Carl and I looked at each other. Our priority was to get Teresa across the border, and it didn’t need to be said that I would stay behind to shoot the way clear.

  “Run for it,” I whispered. “I’ll keep those guys busy.”

  He nodded and I half-jo
gged, half-crawled towards the sicarios at the SUV. Carl and Teresa went straight, the shortest route. It was their only hope.

  As soon as I figured Carl was about fifty yards away, I opened up, smashing the SUV lights.

  Darkness. But soon lit up by instant return fire. I dove to the ground. Shots lashed inches, or fractions thereof, above my head.

  I leopard- crawled forward, deciding offense to be the best form of defense. In fact, the only. I had nowhere else to go, as I also had people closing in from behind at frightening speed.

  I whirled as I heard shouts. They had spotted Carl.

  He returned fire, which proved he was alive, but I had to get them off him quick. I saw several muzzle flares, and rapid-fired in that direction, once again revealing my exact position. Instantly, return shots sped my way as I kept crawling forward to get out of the kill zone.

  I lay low, waiting for more gunfire. There was none. They were either regrouping, or they had got Carl. Or perhaps my distraction fire had given Carl the vital minutes, if not seconds, to cross the border. That didn’t mean he and Teresa were safe, as the Sinaloans could hot-pursue them into America. However, all narcos know that Baja is the world’s most scrutinized border. As most have death penalty convictions in America, crossing the Rio Alamar was not high on a list of options.

  I fired a final burst at where I imagined the narcos to be, then retreated from the river. The narcos would not expect that, believing the three of us would attempt to cross the Yanqui border simultaneously. Or so I hoped.

  I inched back up the incline, and as dawn began to break, started to look for somewhere to hide.

  Suddenly something flapped. I jumped sideways, thinking it was a sicario. Wrong move! A muffled alarm rattle confirmed it was merely an owl — and I tripped heavily. My angle corkscrewed as white-hot pain seared like napalm up my leg. This was no mere sprain. I had shredded ligaments, if not a snapped a bone.

  I tried to stand, but the pain was too severe. Even if I got up, I would barely be able to walk, let alone run. I would never escape even the most pathetic pursuer. I almost wept at the injustice. The bad luck was too much to bear. We had freed Teresa, outrun the narcos, and now I was as good as dead.