Blood Tide Read online

  Carl drove a half mile further, then phoned Peters.

  “We’re just past Guerra’s house,” he said.

  “Stay put. We’re only half an hour away,” Peters replied. “I don’t have a warrant, but we have a top Mexican cop with us, and lawyers are working on a friendly judge. Guerra won’t let us in, but he may think twice about harming an American citizen.”

  As he spoke, I saw a Ferrari speed out of the hacienda gates. I recognized it right away. I had seen it on the beach at Rosarito.

  “That’s Miguel’s car. Let’s follow it.”

  Carl floored the accelerator. There was no way our rent-a-dent could keep up with Miguel’s muscle car, but as it had turned back onto Highway 2 leading directly to Tecate, it seemed unlikely Miguel would be taking many detours.

  We were wrong. Dust billowing into the cloudless sky about a mile ahead indicated the Ferrari had turned into the arid semi-desert scrub.

  “Why would Miguel leave the main road in a Ferrari?” Carl asked.

  We had binoculars in the glove box. I fiddled with the focus, and zoomed in on the red vehicle and two blurred figures pulling something out of the boot

  There was a flurry of activity, the figures scurrying about, then returning to the Ferrari. It reversed back onto the road, turned towards us with spinning wheels, accelerating towards Tijuana. The windows were tinted, so we could not see the driver.

  “I don’t like this,” said Carl. He turned off the road, following the Ferrari’s tracks on the hard-baked shale.

  A turkey buzzard circled above. Then another.

  We found her in a narrow arroyo. She was naked. All her nails had been pulled, the stubs bloodied red like some vampire manicure. Cigarette burns scarred her breasts. She had been raped, repeatedly.

  There had been no attempt to dig a grave. Or even cover her. She had been dumped like trash.

  My fists were clenched so tight I had to coax my fingers loose. I could see Carl’s were as well.

  He was standing dead still. His face impassive, but his eyes wilder than a bushfire.

  Caysee had joined the DEA to avenge her father. Now she had joined him. The same evil virus was responsible for both murders, and her mother as collateral damage.

  “Vengeance,” he said, his voice rasping.

  “Vengeance,” I repeated.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Ten

  CARL AND I returned to the Unit, and I don’t know whether he put in a word for me or not, but we spent the next ten months working together.

  We barely mentioned Mexico, but it was an unspoken agreement that we had unfinished business there. I felt partially responsible as I had not properly disposed of the hijo Nick killed, Miguel’s cousin called Che. I should have at least thrown him into the sea and let the tide wash the body out, as that may have given Caysee more time to make a run for it.

  As for Carl, there was no relief. He believed he had let his guard down, and in so doing signed her death warrant. He was an alpha operative, and the fact some narco loser had slipped him a date rape drug unnoticed cut him to the bone.

  This became an obsession with him. So much so that it put a strain on his relationship with Rachel who, unsurprisingly, became increasingly concerned about his relentless preoccupation with the death of another woman. Carl didn’t speak about it, but I noticed his WhatsApp video chats with Rachel that were once a nightly feature were becoming less and less frequent.

  After one raid on a suspected Taliban-supporting village chieftain, I remarked that Carl, whose dark-gold hair and beard had been dyed pitch black, looked almost Mexican.

  He glanced at me sharply. “That’s how we go back to Baja,” he said. “Looking like Mexicans. Not bullshit Patrick Swayze and Keanu Reeves wannabes this time. We go completely undercover. You do the talking, and I do the killing.”

  I nodded. “Maybe, but if we got in as surfers, we can at least have a load of fun in our downtime. Anyway, I doubt whether the hijos would recognise us. They were too busy ogling Caysee and Caitlin to pay attention to anyone else.”

  “I guess. But one may. Particularly that dude you flattened on the dance floor. The sicario guy.”

  I remembered that night well. It had been a hugely satisfying punch as the narco had been dancing with Caitlin at the time.

  “Santiago. Yeah, he could be a problem.”

  “More than that. John Peters tells me he put a price on your head. Not to kill, just to bring to him. He wants to kill you himself.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said.

  A month later, both Carl and I had several weeks’ R&R due. I went to California, and Carl to New York, where he would meet up with Rachel. He said she had a modelling gig and was going to be the “face” of a brand of perfume.

  “What make?” I asked.

  “How the fuck would I know?”

  OK, I thought. Things didn’t look too rosy on that romance front.

  It had been a gruelling tour and I spent most of the first week sleeping or surfing. It restored my karma. Then one morning as I was eyeing the surf and about to purge any lingering Afghanistan combat issues, my mom handed me the phone.

  “It’s your buddy. That gorgeous one who stayed with us when you came back from Mexico.”

  “Hey brother,” said Carl, “can you come to Alaska?”

  “What for? It’s cold there and I’ve just finished freezing my butt off in the Hindu Kush.”

  “Nick’s there with my mom and he’s missing us. I also want to talk about other stuff.”

  I knew he meant Mexico, but couldn’t for the life of me figure out why we had to go to Alaska to do so. I was barely a stone’s throw from the border, so why didn’t everyone come to me?

  However, if truth be told, I was getting bored at home and one thing about Carl, wherever he went excitement followed like gulls slipstreaming a fishing trawler.

  Carl was waiting at Anvik airport. I saw him waving furiously as I stepped out of the Cessna Grand Caravan onto the runway. With him was a blond wearing a white beany whom I presumed to be Rachel, and another guy.

  To my surprise, the blonde was not Rachel. It was Caitlin. With her was a big, good-looking guy called Wayne, whom she introduced as her fiancé.

  Ah well … you win some. Wayne was a Wall Street stockbroker and although barely twenty-seven, was on his way to making his second million. I know this because he told me so before we even got into the SUV. He had that easy confidence of a successful go-getter and I was not in the least surprised when he said he had paid his way through Harvard on a football scholarship. That too, he repeated several times.

  “Where’s Rachel?” I asked.

  Carl shrugged, almost irritably. “Trial separation.” I could tell he didn’t want to say more.

  Wayne asked what I did for a living.

  “Well,” I replied, wondering how much Carl had told him, “let’s just say I haven’t cracked fifty thousand bucks yet, let along two million.”

  The look on his face indicated he was talking to a born loser.

  “Kelly’s in the military. Like Carl,” said Caitlin.

  Wayne’s expression changed fractionally. I was now a double-loser. He then opined that he was against war in general, and in Afghanistan and Syria in particular. No doubt he assumed — correctly — those were the two theaters Carl and I were active in.

  Caitlin quickly changed the subject, asking if we were going to do some fishing with her dad. It appeared Wayne had never fished before, but that did not stop him from giving us some excellent advice. Stuff we never would have guessed, like salmon would soon be coming into the Anvik river system to spawn.

  By the time we reached the lodge, I had seriously misgivings about Caitlin, gorgeous as she was. If Wayne was her idea of Mr. Right, thank the lucky stars she did not choose me.

  I found Chris outside untangling a client’s bird’s nest reel, and put out my hand. He laughed, smacked it aside, and gave me a huge hug.

  “Good to see y
ou. What’s been happening?”

  “Not much. Been making a nuisance of myself in the wilds of Asia, so really good to be here.”

  “Have you met Caitlin’s friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Asshole, huh?”

  “Chris, you know I’m not going to answer that.”

  “You don’t need to. I imagine he’s a far nicer person in the wilds of Manhattan than he is here. But Sandra likes him, and even Debra thinks he’s not so bad.”

  “Sandra and Debs like everyone.”

  “True. I suppose Caitlin also likes him.”

  “Well, I think that’s the idea of marriage. Where are you putting me?”

  “In the guide quarters, out of the way so you don’t scare off the paying guests. Is that OK?”

  “Absolutely. Carl and I have been sharing a hooch for the past ten months so I’m used to his foghorn snores by now.”

  Over dinner Wayne made a few more comments about American “weaponized” foreign policy. These got more pointed as the level of a bottle of Merlot on the table lowered.

  Carl eventually had to respond, and calmly agreed that America should pull out of the seemingly endless conflicts, but for vastly different reasons than Wayne. “We can’t bring democracy to people who don’t want it,” he said.

  “Maybe they would want democracy if we stopped shooting them,” Wayne retorted.

  “Luckily you don’t have to shoot them then,” I said, a bit more sharply than intended.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Are you saying I’m scared to fight?”

  I definitely was not saying that, but stubbornly remained silent, even though common sense and good manners screamed at me to apologize.

  Wayne stood. At six foot four, he was at least six inches taller than me.

  “Do you want to repeat that outside?”

  Carl quickly intervened. “Wayne, you are welcome to your opinions, and as I said, I agree with some of them. I am now going to ask Kelly to apologize for his bad manners. But make no mistake, if you insist on going outside, it would take Kelly less than a minute to slaughter you.”

  Wayne suddenly looked a little less sure of himself. Anyway I stood and put out my hand. “Really sorry about that, Wayne. Been a rough few months. I apologize.”

  He shook my hand, but was silent for the rest of the meal. He and Caitlin went to their room afterwards.

  “Thanks Carl,” I said. “Sorry about forgetting my manners.”

  Chris laughed. “No, you put him in his place.” To my surprise, Sandra and Debra agreed.

  “The problem is that he reminds me of myself when I was his age. Except I was a preachy hippie, not an investment banker,” said Sandra.

  Carl ordered another bottle of Merlot and filled our glasses.

  “I want to keep you all in the loop with my future plans,” he said. “I’m going back to Mexico to find Caysee’s killers. I’m hoping Kelly’s coming with me.”

  I knew this would happen. For me it was also unfinished business.

  I nodded.

  Nick took a sip of wine. “What about us?”

  “I daren’t ask you as mom won’t speak to me again,” said Carl. “And Chris, you have the fishing season ahead of you.”

  Debra nodded. “We’re fully booked throughout the summer. That’s why you guys are all in yurts with the guides.”

  Chris smiled. “It’s looking to be our best season yet. No doubt my exceptional skills are finally being recognized. Not to mention my modesty.

  “But seriously,” he continued, “you guys are mad. The hijos know you both. Those narco hitmen will shoot you on sight, particularly as they probably think you are undercover agents linked to Caysee.”

  Nick agreed. “They’ll definitely suspect DEA involvement. So what’s your plan?”

  “Something Kelly said to me in Afghanistan put it in perspective,” Carl replied. “We had just come back from a raid, and with my hair jet black and face tanned to a crisp, he said I could pass for a Mexican. I don’t think anyone ever said that about Patrick Swayze.

  “Also, I’m banking on the assumption that the hijos were not overly interested in me. They thought I was a hippie Yanqui surfer and of no consequence. So even if they now suddenly suspect me of being DEA, they’ll barely remember my face. Kelly is the bigger problem, as there’s a price on his head for flooring one of the sicarios. But in any event, we will go in deep undercover. Definitely not as surfers.”

  “When are you going?”

  “We’ll spend a few days here, then head south. Chris, the main thing I want from you is to phone the Tijuana lawyer Dumas and set up a meeting. I have a feeling that guy is a good contact. A lifeline, in fact.”

  “I’ll do that tomorrow.”

  “I’m coming too,” said Nick. He looked at Sandra. “With your permission, of course.”

  Sandra had told me before that Nick would never be able to grow old gracefully. There was no pipe and slippers by the fireside, playing with grandkids and lap dogs, for him. The flame burned too bright. I could imagine that going through her mind.

  “Do you have a strategy?” I asked Carl. “I doubt whether the DEA will help us. In fact, we may even be murder suspects if the Federales put two and two together about that body on the beach.”

  “Maybe. But I’ll get the Unit to back us. Delta brass was very interested in our last trip, as there’s no doubt narco-busting is going to be the new war now that ISIL is on the run. I reckon the generals will greenlight this and push for DEA approval.”

  Caitlin appeared and pulled up a chair. She was alone. “Sorry about that. I don’t know what got into Wayne.”

  “No, I should apologize,” I said.

  She sat next to her father and he poured her a glass of wine.

  “Where is Wayne?” Chris asked.

  “Fast asleep. He’d already had a few stiff whiskeys before dinner, which I think was part of the problem. He’s not a good drinker. Anyway,” she looked at me and Carl, “nice to see you both again. The last time we were together was in a car speeding across the Mexican border.”

  “Not to mention dragging you out of a nightclub,” I said.

  “True, and you still owe me more surfing lessons.”

  “I’m sure Wayne will have an opinion on that as well as our foreign policy,” said Chris, giving a rogue smile as the others laughed. It was good to know he was on my side rather than his soon-to-be son-in-law.

  We woke the next morning to find the situation had changed dramatically. TV anchors on every news station told shocked Americans that nine U.S. citizens had been viciously murdered by narco gunmen. The victims, three women and six children, were from a Mormon community in northwestern Mexico. They had been traveling to a wedding when they were attacked in broad daylight less than a hundred miles from the border.

  The second news item was that the U.S. President now threatened an all-out war on drugs and categorizing the cartels as terrorist organisations.

  This was a complete game changer. Carl phoned our boss Col. Beckenham. He then called me over.

  “It’s on,” he said.

  Chapter Eleven

  A QUICK CHECK with John Peters confirmed that neither Carl nor I were “persons of interest” in the shooting of Che Guerra.

  Contacts in the judiciary had shown him the police docket, which stated that according to witnesses Che and another unnamed man had been carrying an unconscious gringo out of the hotel. Police were looking for two other men who had “emerged from the shadows” and killed Che, taking the gringo with them.

  Police said the gringo was said to be a surfer who had befriended the hijos, and was known locally as Patricio. There was an identikit, which looked far more like Swayze than Carl. The hair was fair, falling below his shoulder blades, and the cheeks hollowed out to the point of emaciation, albeit covered by a stubbly beard.

  More ominously, the Cartel de Tijuana was offering a five-million-dol
lar reward for the capture or death of Che’s killers. That was a steep incentive in anyone’s money, but doubly so in Mexico.

  The DEA look after their own, and the murder of Caysee was accorded highest priority. The American President personally summoned the Mexican ambassador in Washington, and in the full glare of international television, demanded her killers be brought to justice. Despite this, the case continued to be listed as “unsolved,” although everyone and his dog knew it was Guerra’s cartel. It was clear that the police and the Mexican government feared a civil war between the cartels and the country’s armed forces far more than an American president’s threats. Arresting Pancho Guerra could result in a bloodbath.

  The fact the case was going nowhere even with Presidential threats strengthened our request to go back to Mexico. Col. Beckenham told us exactly that — and he expected results that perhaps the bureaucratically-hamstrung DEA could not achieve.

  Before crossing the border, Carl and I went to a barber down the road for buzz cuts and shaved our thick beards. I barely recognized myself, let alone Carl who without whiskers looked ten years younger. Which put him at twenty. The last time I wore hair this short was in the Rangers two years ago. Delta operatives are not constricted by uniforms or appearances. In fact, the less we looked like soldiers, the better.

  We decided to stay at Calafia, a not-too-touristy village and somewhere the hijos would be unlikely to congregate. But as it was only ten minutes south of Rosarito Beach, it was within easy striking distance for us to stakeout the narco surfers.

  The older section of the village still had a few quaint wooden shacks, remnants of the days when fishing, particularly for lobsters, was the prime occupation. The rent was eye-watering by Mexican standards, but if you wanted to live simply on the beach these days, you had to pay for it. The main thing was that we would not be disturbed here. Unless by someone wishing to do so.