Blood Tide Page 9

  Carl called Alejandro Dumas, the lawyer, who told us Chris had already briefed him and agreed to meet us the next day.

  It was a half-hour drive to Tijuana, and Alejandro had cleared his diary for the morning. With him was Andrea, the journalist we met on our previous trip. Carl and I were delighted to see her as she knew more about the narcos than they did about themselves.

  “What are you here for this time?” she asked.

  “To find out who killed Caysee Miller,” I said.

  “Or maybe to avenge her?” Andrea said.

  “Is there a difference?”

  “One is justice, the other is revenge. You guys look like you are more interested in revenge.”

  “Sometimes the two overlap,” said Carl.

  Andrea nodded. “Don’t get me wrong. I want revenge. Revenge for what the narcos have done to my country. At night I have to stop myself from screaming out aloud for it. For revenge.”

  “Maybe we can help you, if you help us.”

  “How?”

  “Last time we were here, you suggested we ingratiate ourselves with the hijos through surfing,” said Carl. “That nearly worked. And it may have if they hadn’t killed Caysee.”

  Andrea nodded. “I’m not sure if it would have worked. My information is that Che Guerra was killed soon after Miguel ordered the death of Caysee’s surfer boyfriend so he could have her for himself. So your plan, whatever it was, would never have got to the next stage in any event.”

  Carl and I looked at each other. “Your information is better than the police’s. What else do you know?”

  “That the killing went like this — Che and another hijo were carrying the drunk or drugged boyfriend out of the hotel, and two gringos shot Che. Correct?”

  “More or less. I suppose you also know that one of the gringos beat up a sicario’s son called Santiago Veloza,” I said. “Santiago has put a price on his head. So that could cause a problem if the hijos recognized him.”

  “Let’s stop beating about the bush,” said Andrea. “I know that the drugged gringo was Carl, and the gringo who beat up Santiago was you. But you don’t have to worry. Santiago is dead.”

  We both looked at her.

  “Who killed him?” I asked.

  “The Sinaloans.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “They shot him on the beach in broad daylight. They were after Miguel, but Santiago saw them first and opened fire, paying the ultimate price. He killed two Sinaloans though, so everything is on edge at the moment. For example, you won’t find Miguel on the beach anymore.”

  “I thought the Tijuana and Jalisco cartels controlled Baja. Not the Sinaloans,” I said.

  “They do. But the Sinaloa Cartel controls the rest of the country. They lost Baja when the CT beat the Zetas after El Chapo was jailed. The Sinaloans now want Baja back.”

  “Will they get it,” Carl asked.

  “They are well-armed and have more men, but the CT is better organized. Pancho Guerra knows he is outgunned, and that could provide an opportunity.”

  “How so?”

  “The CT is recruiting mercenaries. They desperately need people like you. Guerra will employ you both in a heartbeat. That is how you get into the belly of the beast. You will have to fight on his behalf, of course, but it is the only way that I can see you getting close to Pancho. Once you are accepted in the organization, you may also be able to find out who killed Caysee. But seriously … we all know this is not some pulp fiction murder mystery. No matter who did it, the order came from either Pancho or Miguel. In this case, I think Miguel. So even if they didn’t pull the trigger, they still deserve to die. As does the actual killer.”

  I nodded. “We followed them into the desert off the Tecate road where they dumped her body. We couldn’t see who the driver was, but it was Miguel’s car. The red Ferrari.”

  Andrea laughed mirthlessly. “Only in this country could criminals be so arrogant as to dump a corpse while driving the flashiest car in the world.” Her voice quivered with bitterness.

  “The key question is whether anyone in the CT will recognize us,” I said. “The hijos, in particular.”

  “I doubt it,” said Alejandro. “I barely recognize you with your short hair, and Carl even more so with his dyed black. It will be quite a leap for them to recalibrate their perception of hippie surfers, or perhaps DEA snitches, to elite soldiers. Also, I don’t think the hijos will have much to do with the mercenaries. That’s more the sicario side of the business. So even if you are hired as contractors, you won’t meet the hijos.”

  Carl looked and me. I could see he liked the idea, particularly if we didn’t run into the hijos. Little did we know how wrong we would be.

  “OK. So how would we make contact with the CT recruiters?”

  “That’s the big question. I do not know. But I do know that you will need some form of reference. They’re not going to take your word for it that you are Rambo personified, even if you look the part. But that’s where your contacts come into play. Not mine.”

  Carl nodded. “We’ll think of something. Thank you both for your help.”

  “I would like something in return,” said Andrea.

  “What?”

  “Information — just like last time when we got the story of Don Geraldo out. Stuff on the cartels that I can put into my blog. Anything you may think is interesting.”

  “Sure. But how do we get it to you?”

  She pointed to Alejandro. The lawyer nodded. “I will be the conduit.”

  We returned to the Calafia and Carl phoned Peters.

  “Apparently a new cartel war is about to break out.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “OK, do you know that the CT is hiring mercenaries, mainly former SF guys?”

  “I know that too.”

  “Then I hope you know the answer to this. How do we apply?”

  “I’m not going to tell you that. You guys have got to get out of the country fast. You may not be suspects in the Che Guerra murder, but that could soon change. We don’t want Delta operatives involved.”

  “John, you know that is not going to happen. Caysee’s death is personal, and it should be for you too.”

  “Damn right it’s personal. But you guys are going to hinder, not help.”

  “I disagree. We already have permission from Delta to be here, and as far as we’re concerned, those are orders. Anything we get will be shared with you.”

  There was a long silence. “You still there?” Carl asked.

  “OK, we will try and find a way to get you in. But it’s too risky to do so through my Mexican contacts. The network here is as shaky as a pimp’s promise. Someone who is rock-solid one day, may have the cartels pointing guns at his wife and kids the next. Don’t do anything until you hear from me.”

  To pass the time, Carl and I went surfing at an off-the-beaten-track beach called Mushrooms. It’s a private strip of ocean, so we doubted the hijos would be there. But the fee included safe parking, which is a good idea on many Mexican surf breaks.

  Mushrooms was a bit rocky for my liking and broke in hollow barrels even more powerful than Baja Malibu. That morning the swell regularly crested at ten feet. Carl had now completely recovered from his wounds and for the first time I saw what a superb surfer he was. Almost as good as me, although he disagreed. He said he was better.

  Surfing at Mushrooms not only honed our fitness to Olympic standards, the long sessions in the sun scorched our skins mahogany. With Carl’s shorn hair dyed as coal-black as mine, we could pass for Mexicans. With my Spanish, I usually did. The main thing was that we did not look like hip Hollywood actors from the movie Point Break. Not that I ever did.

  John Peters phoned the following week with an update.

  “There’s an advert in Soldier of Fortune magazine for vets wanting work in Mexico. It has been placed by Pancho Guerra himself, so definitely authentic. You guys fit the bill perfectly. I’ll text you a copy.�
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  A few seconds later Carl’s phone bleeped and we had a photo of the advert. As John said, it was tailor-made for us. The contact number was a Tijuana code.

  Carl dialed it, first activating the ‘Number Conceal’ option. The bored voice on the other end was American, and when Carl told him he was a former Delta operative responding to the Soldier of Fortune advert, the change in tone was instant.

  “Where are you?”

  “San Diego.”

  “Can you come to TJ tomorrow? I’m at the Marriot.”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “As soon as you can. My name’s Brett — I’m in Room 141.”

  “I have a buddy with me. Also ex-Delta.”

  “Bring him.”

  Driving to the TJ Marriot the next morning gave us time to get our stories in sync. But we didn’t really need to. We weren’t going to tell any major whoppers, as we were SF operatives. The only lie was we had left the military — although even that was a technicality as Col. Beckenham had our service records doctored to show we were both honorably discharged six months ago. The reason we would give for our departure was being sick of the rules of warzone engagement, which usually required having to lawyer-up before firing a shot. It’s the most common gripe among enlisted men. Most combatants had a bullet-zinging split second to decide whether the face-covered person in front was a terrorist or not. If you got it wrong, you spent a decade behind bars.

  A bellhop parked our car and the surreal irony of soldiers like us earning around fifty thousand being interviewed at a gilded five-star hotel was not lost.

  Brett was in his mid-forties, wearing khaki cargo shorts and a black muscle shirt that showed he regularly worked out. He told us he was a former Green Beret who had trod the well-worn route from soldier to private military contractor before going freelance. He now worked for “Mexican investors.”

  He questioned us for close on thirty minutes before deciding that we were indeed what we claimed.

  “Lot of Walter Mittys in this line of work,” he said, half-apologetically. “Everyone who comes here says they are SF, but less than a quarter actually are. I’ve even had cooks who think a spatula is a lethal weapon claiming they’re SEALs.”

  “What actually is the work?”

  “Gun for hire. But at this stage it’s mainly on a need-to-know basis. But what you will want to know is that if accepted you’ll be earning a thousand a day. That’s tax-free to put in your pocket. All other expenses will be paid by the client.”

  I had to stop myself whistling out aloud. In seven weeks I would earn as much as I would in a year. Hopefully, Delta would let us keep the money, although I wasn’t holding my breath about that.

  “OK, without being specific, will we see any action? Or is this a bodyguard gig?”

  “Possibly both. And believe me, you will see action either way. More than you ever saw in Syria or Afghanistan. I shouldn’t be saying this, but there is a war brewing between two rival business interests, and it’s going to get hot. The other side has more firepower, but we have better people like us. As you know, that is what counts. We’re going to win this and you guys will maybe never have to work again in your lives.”

  He pulled out a file. “Now for the paperwork. The boss has top class accountants working for him, so everything will be properly documented. Obviously, we need bank details, and in the event of death, a hundred thousand dollars will be paid to your designated beneficiary.”

  We filled in the forms. Brett then wrote down an address on a piece of paper and gave it to Carl. “Can you report for a final assessment there tomorrow? You will have to undergo a fitness test, and we also need to assess your rifle skills. If you are chosen as a sniper, that’s an extra hundred dollars a day.”

  We shook hands. “Welcome to the new brotherhood, gentleman. A brotherhood where you will be properly compensated for your unique skills.”

  …

  THIS WAS A highly professional outfit. The forms we signed guaranteed us monthly payments, all expenses, all medical bills, and even an increase after a six-month performance review.

  We drove to the address Brett provided. As soon as the road signs said Tecate, Carl and I knew where we were. This was Federal Highway 2; the same road we had taken when looking for Caysee.

  “Seems the mercenary barracks are on Guerra land,” I said.

  “Makes sense. That way he knows he will be well-guarded.”

  At the impressive entrance with wrought-iron lions on the gate posts, armed guards sporting bandito moustaches told us to go to another gate a mile down the road. This was the first flaw in Guerra’s security, I thought. There should only be one entrance, which meant one exit. Much easier to defend.

  At the next gate, another Zapata look-alike checked our passports, matched them with the names on his clipboard, then instructed us to drive to a complex of converted stables a hundred yards away.

  There we were assigned a room with four bunk beds, and told to make ourselves comfortable but not leave our immediate surroundings.

  Brett arrived an hour later in an open-roof Wrangler. With him was a rather frightened-looking man in a grubby white coat who took our blood pressure, checked heartbeats before and after fifty press-ups (Carl, the ultimate show off, did them with one hand behind his back), and then told us to run to a windmill about half a mile away and back. We did so in under six minutes.

  “You are in superb condition,” he said.

  Brett told us to get into the Wrangler. “Let’s see if you can shoot.”

  He took us to a range behind the converted stables/barracks and gave us each an AK-47. The targets were a hundred yards away.

  “Can we sight them first?” I asked. “This is not my favorite weapon for accuracy.”

  “No need,” said Brett. “I just want to see your grouping.”

  There were ten rounds in the magazine, and Carl and I rattled them off. Brett fetched the targets. He looked without comment at mine. Ten holes, an inch left of the bullseye, were almost all together. Carl’s were even closer.

  Next he took us to an indoor range and gave us two nine-mill Glocks. There were seventeen bullets in the mag, and Carl and I hit the bull every time.

  Brett told us to get back into the car. “I’m not surprised you guys shoot so well. I did some background checks with contacts in the SF. I see you,” he said looking at Carl, “have a Silver Star. That means fuck-all here, so what impresses me even more is that your stepfather is Nick Landry.”

  “You know him?”

  “Not personally. But I’ve heard of him — who hasn’t in the SF? But I’m surprised someone related to Nick would do contract work.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Nick’s hardcore military. He would not fight for anything but his country.”

  “You haven’t heard that Nick was a mercenary in Africa? Or how pissed off he is about how America treated the Montagnards, our most loyal allies in Vietnam?”

  “I know about the Yards. Are you saying that Nick would be interested in a gig like this?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Get him. You’ll get a grand cash on the spot as finder’s fee.”

  I knew Carl would never mention that to Nick. The old warhorse would be here like a shot but the collateral fallout would be Carl’s relationship with his mother. However, having Nick as a reference point, if not actual reference, was a huge bonus in Brett’s mind.

  Brett drove to the main house. A doorman led us to a patio with an Olympic-size swimming pool. Three women and two men were drifting lazily on plastic blowup loungers, oblivious of our entrance. The doorman led us to the far corner where a man lay spread-eagled on a recliner sipping an amber-colored drink choked with ice.

  “Jefe, some men to see you.”

  Pancho Guerra stood. He was considerably shorter than I expected. Even smaller than his archenemy Joaquín Guzmán Loera, better known as El Chapo — the short one — now serving a life sentence. He was b
arely five foot four, but with the shoulders and thick-corded neck of a boxer. Unlike the second generation of cartel royalty — the hijos — this generation had grown up hard.

  He shook hands with Brett, who handed him our shooting range targets.

  He studied them closely, and nodded at Brett. Then he turned to us. “You are Americans?”

  We nodded.

  “Soldiers?”

  Brett quickly interjected. “The best. Better even than SEALs.”

  “When were you last in combat?”

  “About six months ago. In Afghanistan. Before that, Syria,” I said.

  “There is going to be a war here soon. Will you be ready?”

  We nodded. He again looked at the targets. “The guns were unsighted?” he asked Brett.

  The mercenary nodded.

  Guerra turned to us. “This is very good. So I think with your skills you will be wasted as foot-soldiers. You will instead train my men to shoot, and also be my family’s bodyguards.”

  He then turned to the manservant. “Ilama a Miguel.”

  My blood ran cold.

  He was calling for his son Miguel.

  Chapter Twelve

  MIGUEL ENTERED THE courtyard. This was our first true test. Would he recognize us?

  He embraced his father, and one of the women in the pool got out to join us. She was about nineteen, her hair slicked long and wet down her tanned back. Her bikini was miniscule, and without a word being spoken, the manservant handed her a sarong. She wrapped it around her waist, leaving her upper body exposed. She had curves only a classically-skilled sculptor could carve.

  Guerra waved a hand at us. “These two gringos are top soldiers. They have fought the Syrian terrorists and the Taliban. Now they are fighting for us.”

  Miguel put out his hand. Carl shook it, and the hijo stared at him intently.

  “Do I know you?”

  I held my breath. Carl was standing at ease, hands behind his back like a good solider ready to spring to attention. “My first time in Mexico.”

  “Are you from California?”

  “New York. But my colleague is from San Diego.”

  Miguel shifted his gaze to me. Again, there was an uncertain look in his eye. A spark of recognition. Or so I feared.