QUETZALTCOATL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, MEXICO
31 OCTOBER 2008
1100 LOCAL HOURS
They stepped off the US government Gulfstream jet onto the tarmac in a secluded part of the airport. The day was gradually warming up. At this time of the year, the inviting weather lured tourists from all over the United States to the still-welcoming parts of Mexico, the parts that hadn’t been corrupted by the extreme violence of the drug cartels.
Logan figured it had to be in the midsixties as the sun provided an additional layer of heat. White wisps of clouds crept lethargically across the sky.
Minus the violent cartels, corrupt law enforcement, and horrible economy, not a bad place to visit, Logan thought.
All thoughts of weather vanished from his mind as his attention was drawn to the sight laid out before him one hundred yards away inside the nearest hangar. The large rolling doors were slightly ajar, just enough to provide Logan a glimpse of movement inside. A Mexican man in his late thirties or early forties stood outside the opening, beckoning for them to join him.
John said, “Must be the welcoming committee. I expected a red carpet and champagne—not for you, of course, Logan.”
Logan mumbled, “Asshole.”
John grinned and said, “Trained by the best, my friend—again, that not being you.”
Mike was still amazed, even after all the time he’d spent with both men, at how pointed the jibes between the two continued to be. It was relentless. Must be a Marine thing, he thought, not realizing how correct he was.
“Let’s go see what they’ve got for us,” Mike said.
As the men crossed the tarmac, they heard the propellers from another plane grow louder in the distance. All three men looked around and spotted the US government C-130 begin its final approach from two miles away at low altitude.
“Here comes the backup,” Logan said, referring to the thirteen-man FBI Hostage Rescue Team Mike had requested through his uncle.
“As good as you are, Logan, those guys aren’t too shabby themselves. Don’t forget it,” Mike said.
“A bit sensitive today, Mike? Wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?” John asked.
“Fair enough. Guess all this world-class travel is getting to me in my old age.” He turned back to the hangar and kept walking. “Let’s go see who our new friend is.”
It was immediately apparent that the man designated to greet them wasn’t a member of the FES. His demeanor wasn’t that of a hardened professional soldier, but more along the lines of a bureaucrat or politician. His hair was jet black and combed back perfectly, and he wore a pair of wireless square glasses. When he spoke, it was with a haughty tone of superiority.
“Special Agent Benson, I presume?” he said to Mike, sticking out his right hand formally.
Mike shook the man’s hand. “Please call me ‘Mike.’ ” He turned his head to acknowledge the presence of Logan and John. “And this is—”
But before he could finish, the man interrupted—not impolitely—saying, “Señors Logan West and John Quick.”
He spoke in quick bursts, pausing every few sentences, as if he’d prepared each statement in his head before uttering it.
“I know. I am Hector Ortega, senior special advisor to the president of Mexico. He called me personally this morning after your president called him. He informed me of everything, and his instructions to me were extremely direct and specific. I am to afford you anything you need to capture this man who is using a Los Toros compound as sanctuary. I understand you’ve been briefed on our FES, who will be assisting in the operation.”
He paused momentarily, again producing the impression he chose his words carefully.
“You’re in charge, and our men have been ordered to follow your instructions; however, I must warn you. This is a prideful group of elite men. When I told them they’d be taking orders from an American FBI agent and two former United States Marines? Well . . . let’s just say the response was less than enthusiastic from a few of them. Having said that, they are consummate professionals and will do what is necessary.”
“Mr. Ortega, it sounds like your president picked the right men for the job,” Mike said after a thoughtful moment. “I can relate to their mentality and appreciate their concerns. I promise you, for this mission to be successful, we’re all going to have to work together. This is what we call a ‘combined operation.’ All that matters is capturing Juan Black alive. Whoever he’s working for has been one step ahead of us the entire time, and unless we catch up, the intel we have tells us a lot of innocent people are going to die. As ominous and frankly ridiculous as it may sound, the world will be changed forever. Do we have a mutual understanding?”
“Very well, gentlemen. Please follow me inside,” Hector said, and gestured behind him. “We’re using the hangar as a mobile command post. Let me introduce you to Commander Vargas so you can get started.”
As they entered the hangar, none of the men turned to watch as the landing gear on the C-130 touched down, the wheels squealing on the tarmac. All were too busy appreciating the level of preparedness the Mexican government had demonstrated in establishing the mobile command post, which included two armed guards with HK machine guns who closed the doors behind them and stepped outside to wait for the arrival of the FBI HRT.
Inside, multiple tables had been hastily set up in the middle of the hangar. They were connected to each other and arranged into one large, rectangular workspace. Positioned around the giant table were several military and ruggedized computers, their containers set aside in one corner. A large portable generator—an amazingly quiet one, Logan thought—powered the entire work space. The computers were operated by men Logan assumed were members of the FES team, all wearing dark-green fatigues with a subtle woodland pattern.
Six black Chevy Suburbans were parked inside the hangar. Logan noticed the expertly crafted upgraded armor modifications.
They’d probably stop an RPG. Hope I don’t have to find out.
Hector guided them to a computer where—in addition to the operator who moved a wireless mouse over a grainy image—an older man in fatigues stood waiting for them.
“Commander Vargas, the Americans are here,” Hector stated. “The FBI team just touched down outside, but please allow me to introduce Special Agent Mike Benson, and Señors Logan West and John Quick. Special Agent Benson, as you know, will be leading the operation.”
There was silence as the FES commander’s calculating gaze scrutinized each of them, finally coming to rest on Logan, who stood before him. The commander’s short hair was mostly gray and shaved into a meticulous flattop. His hard eyes were a dark brown, and a scar ran all the way down his left cheek to his neck.
He’s sizing us up. Must be a machismo thing, Logan thought. I can relate.
The man’s expression was fixed in a seemingly perpetual scowl, but then the commander surprised him and smiled broadly, sticking out his hand toward Logan. He spoke crisp English, with only a faint trace of a Mexican accent.
“Señor West, it looks like we could be twins,” Commander Vargas said, pointing to Logan’s left cheek. “Although I have to say, I think I’m the better-looking one.”
Logan laughed, his skepticism defused by the man’s sense of humor.
“In all sincerity, it’s an honor. It sounds like you’ve been an exceptionally busy man the last few days. We were all briefed on the recent events, and from one warrior to another, I respect what you’ve done. We’re also aware of your time in the famed Force Reconnaissance, and it will be our pleasure to assist you in any way we can.”
Logan noted the sincerity in the man’s voice and chided himself for judging too quickly.
“As you are surely aware, our country has been at war with the cartels for almost two years now. These aren’t gangsters or criminals with some code of honor; they’re murderous, evil men who should be wiped off Mexican soil for bringing such dishonor and disgrace to our country.”
I like this guy already, Logan thought.
“Commander Vargas, I appreciate it, and more importantly, I completely understand it. You know what they say, ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’ ”
Commander Vargas smiled. “Ah, a student as well. Edmund Burke. I’m quite familiar with his words, and they’re absolutely true. Now that I believe we see eye to eye, let me bring all of you up to speed,” he said and turned back to the computer monitor.
He looked back at Logan one more time, smiling as he did so. “And please”—he paused—“call me Cris, short for Crisanto.”
Logan nodded his head. “In that case, please call me Logan.”
He turned to the monitor, realized what he was watching, and looked back at Commander Vargas. “You’ve got a UAV up. Excellent. At what elevation is it flying?”
He watched as the image slowly circled a large two-story villa built at the base of a rugged range of foothills. In addition to the gigantic U-shaped house, there was a building connected to it and a large structure that resembled a garage across the driveway. As the camera swung around, he saw a stable with a barn and a riding area. The entire compound formed an upside-down L, with the entrance at the southern tip of the long end and the buildings contained in the area at the top that jutted out to the east. Logan figured the compound occupied at least forty acres, all of it surrounded by a wall.
How high is the wall? he wondered. Because of the angle, Logan couldn’t tell, but he was certain it was definitely taller than a man.
“It’s an Israeli Orbiter we purchased earlier this year. It’s at twenty thousand feet. We’ve had it on station for two hours, but it can last six more,” Commander Vargas said.
Logan looked up in surprise. “A total of eight hours? I thought the Orbiter could only loiter for three to four.”
“We had a very talented aircraft maintenance technician modify it to both increase the flight time and muffle the sound.”
“Very nice,” Logan said, appreciating the craftsmanship. “So what have you seen so far?”
“Between satellite imagery, our Orbiter, and rather forceful interrogations of several midlevel Los Toros members we captured, we believe this compound is actually the home of Ricardo ‘El Fuego’ Ortega,” Commander Vargas said. “He got his name from his predilection for setting his victims on fire—alive. He’s a regional commander and controls everything in and out of Nuevo Laredo. We’ve been hunting him for quite a while, but due to a number of resource issues, we had no idea where he was.”
John was the first to respond. “Wonderful. I love a man with flair—no pun intended. What do we know about his security?”
“Well, Señor Quick, I can tell you one thing. This isn’t going to be easy. He has a private security force that lives on the grounds. I’d estimate twenty to thirty men, if not more. I’m sure he also has high-tech detection and surveillance equipment, probably motion-sensor cameras and microphones.” Commander Vargas wore a serious expression as he added, “El Fuego is extremely dangerous. He’s been at the top of our list for two years now, and he knows it. Like I said, it’s not going to be easy.”
No one spoke. The clatter of typing and the running generator were the only sounds hanging in the air. Finally, Logan stated the obvious. “This isn’t an infiltration. This is going to be an all-out assault. Once we’re inside, it’s going to turn into a shootout. I just hope we can take Juan Black alive, or else we’re screwed.”
The thought of failing to discover who the puppet master was behind this nightmare sent shivers up Logan’s spine.
“Well, then, gentlemen, I suggest we get to it and figure out how we’re going to do it. There are a lot of people who will never even know who we are or what we’re doing, and they’re all depending on us to succeed,” Mike said. He didn’t need to mention the loss of life that would likely result if they failed. They all knew the stakes.
As if on cue, the doors of the hangar slid open, and the thirteen men of the FBI’s HRT Red Team walked in. All activity immediately ceased as each FES member looked at the new additions.
Mike spotted the man in front of the group, a fortyish African American in khaki cargo pants and a white polo. He wore a goatee and was in superb shape, his forearms rippling as he carried his bags.
Mike broke into a smile and said, “I thought I ordered the best, and all I get is you.”
Without even breaking stride, the head of the Red Team said, “Fuck you, Mike. I thought you ordered a pizza.” As if it’d been rehearsed, one of the other team members stepped forward holding a large, flat square box. “Did someone say extra jalapeños?”
Commander Vargas looked at Logan, obviously confused by the inside joke. John just shook his head and said, “I don’t get it either.” Commander Vargas only raised his eyebrows more, and both Mike and the head of the team said, “Fuck you too!” in unison. John let out a short laugh.
Logan smiled at the quick response and said to Commander Vargas, “You know how it is, Cris. We’re almost as lethal with our sarcasm as we are with our weapons. It’s the same in the Marine Corps.”
“Now that, Señor West, I do understand.”
As the men gathered around Mike, he said, “Okay, then. Now that everyone’s here, allow me to introduce Special Agent Lance Foster, commander of the FBI’s HRT Red Team, which specializes in counterterrorism operations and in extremis hostage rescue. Since we’re burning daylight, and like I said before I was rudely interrupted,” he stared straight at Special Agent Foster, “let’s get to it.”