The next day, the news is alive with reports of cartel gunmen filling the streets, brazenly driving around in vehicles with mounted machine guns. Fights between the cartel and law enforcement drag through city streets, the police agencies retreating after numerous casualties. Several army vehicles were ambushed and burned when they entered the town. They also withdrew, leaving behind their dead and injured lining the streets.
Several federal government figures were taken hostage, their bodyguards, along with any responding law enforcement, killed. The government clearly lost control of several cities, and possibly a lot more than that considering they pulled out and chose not to fight. But, that’s their problem and not any of my business. I’m pretty sure this is in retaliation for the government allowing us to operate in the country. I feel bad for those slain and injured, but this fight was lost years and years ago. The cartels are too deeply enmeshed in the country, and their bribes prevent the government from being able to do anything about it.
But that fight is behind us. Upon returning to the ship, Lynn began coordinating assets to deliver us to Ortiz. We heard the news en route to the Caribbean, arriving in the middle of the night at the Key West International Airport before being transported to the US Coast Guard Sector Key West where we boarded a cutter, complete with an MH-60R and an inflatable. One additional cutter will join us, along with several high-speed boats. We depart immediately to cover the ten-plus hours around the Bahamas to the target location.
* * * * * *
Sunlight glimmers off the calm seas, nearly blinding at times. The sea flashes past as we speed across the water at over twenty-five knots, the high bow wave loudly splashing back to the surface. Behind, our wake spreads white with churned water. Flanking us on either side, two armed speedboats keep pace, creating white arcs of spray that catch the light. Further off, the superstructure of the second cutter is barely visible as it plows on a parallel course, trailed by two additional speedboats. That group will swing into a flank, if necessary, to cut off any attempt at escape.
Angel Six has our overhead cover and the yacht in sight as it sails south, obviously on the run and trying to make its way into Cuban territorial waters. That won’t do them much good, but it won’t matter either way as we’ll be upon them before they even come close. The cutter already has the yacht on radar, along with three response boats, two in front and one behind.
A white object appears over the horizon ahead. The second cutter swings around into a position to cut off the any turn the yacht may make while the armed response boats with them cut in toward the target. Our two swing wide to the opposite side and we gather aboard the helo, which is spooling up.
The cutter carves through the gentle seas, the bow waves from the armed response boats splashing wide. We lift off as the yacht grows larger in our view, itself leaving a long wake behind. Several boats that were alongside the yacht peel off and make a run for it, the Coast Guard response boats giving chase and quickly narrowing the gap.
From our bird’s-eye view, the vast expanse of the sea is alive with converging wakes. Small chuffs are visible coming from the front of two pursuing response boats. Two of the boats being chased suddenly slow and settle into the water, dark smoke rising from the sterns. The response boats close in and circle, armed coast guard figures poised with their weapons. The machine guns mounted at the fronts are manned, the barrels trained on the crippled boats.
Two response boats chase down a lone boat trying to escape, with the same result. A brief firefight ensues, chunks splashing into the water from rounds tearing into the wood and fiberglass. Figures from the boats being pursued collapse onto the decking or tumble overboard before the remainder toss their weapons aside and raise their hands.
The yacht powers past the wreckage of the smaller boats, the water behind churning as it attempts to escape. The outer cutter leans as it turns at high speed and cuts the angle toward the pleasure craft. The cutter we took off from closes the distance from the rear. We come behind and spin so that we’re side onto the stern, flying sideways and matching the yacht’s pace.
The pilot dials up the loudspeaker to issue a warning to the craft to shut down its engines and prepare to be boarded. There’s no one to be seen on the decks; glasses that had fallen from several tables roll around on the boards. Not heeding the warning, the yacht continues to plow ahead.
The pilot gives the gunner the okay to fire a warning burst alongside. The mini-gun barrel spins as the rounds fire; splashes from rounds hitting the sea race up the side of the yacht. An additional warning is given for the boat to stop, telling those aboard that it will be disabled should they not comply.
The bow of the yacht noses down and its wake diminishes. We close as the boat slows, the pilot readjusting to maintain our position. Another message over the loudspeaker tells all on board to come to the deck unarmed with their hands in the air. Several men step out from closed doors leading to inner rooms.
The response boats close in to circle the yacht. We move up over the aft deck and drop two lines over the side, making sure the static from the helo is dispelled by the ropes touching the deck, which have static dispensers built in. Covered by the mini-gun from the second chopper, which has arrived on scene, I grab one of the ropes and drop over the side, rappelling down to the deck.
With the rotor wash whipping my clothes, I bring my carbine up and step away to allow room for the others following, motioning for the guards to move to one side. Henderson and Denton cover the doors leading into the ship’s depths while Lynn and I cover the men. Greg and McCafferty proceed to cuff the guards, making them sit along the side. The chopper draws off in a covering position once we’re on the deck.
“Ask them if there’s anyone else inside,” I tell McCafferty.
She proceeds to ask the question. The men look at each other without replying.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I respond.
I ask McCafferty to inquire where Ortiz is and am met with the same nervous looks. McCafferty hands Greg her carbine and pulls out her sidearm. Walking up to one of the men, she jabs the barrel into his forehead. Pushing his head back with the weapon, she asks the question again, this time very quietly but with menace. The man’s eyes go wide and nearly crossed as he tries to stare at the barrel pressing into his head. He says something in Spanish and slowly points inside. With a nod, McCafferty replaces her sidearm and steps back.
“Ortiz is inside—alone,” she says.
With our two snipers keeping the guards company, we edge toward the interior of the yacht. Large windows look out over a covered deck strewn with overturned chairs and spilled glasses. I hope to hell that the kingpin of the cartel isn’t contemplating a last stand, as we need him to return the agents and to quell the insurrection he’s begun in several towns. Although his death may assist with both, it could also give it a push in the wrong direction.
I ease up to one of the windows, peering in through a held mirror. Just past the door is a large multi-level entertainment and dining room. Radiant sunlight spills in, showing it to be empty. Four of us enter as if hostiles could be present. Although the man had said Ortiz was by himself, I can’t afford to just take him at his word.
The cool interior is in direct contrast to the heat outside. At the far end of the room on the lower level is an open door leading to what appears to be an office. A man is seated behind a desk, staring at us through the entryway. He doesn’t seem to be armed, his hands resting on the table.
With my carbine trained on the man, I walk across the large room and down a small hallway, the other three following and watching every nook and cranny. Entering the office, I see no one but the seated man.
“Ortiz, I take it,” I say, standing in front of the desk.
The man nods.
“Keep your hands on the desk where I can see them.”
Ortiz looks out through the large-paned windows. Beyond, the response boats pass by, their front-mounted weapon trained on the yacht. Further out, one of the cutters slowly motors past, and a helo hovers not far from the starboard beam, the muted sound of its rotors drifting into the room. It’s the same view on the other side.
“Well, it seems that I’ve warranted your undivided attention,” Ortiz says, his gaze returning to me.
“No, you haven’t. You couldn’t handle my undivided attention.”
“So, I take it by your accent that you’re American. You’ve damaged my pleasure craft, shot at my men, and boarded in international waters. What brings this uninvited company on open waters?”
“You know very well who and what you are—and why we’re here. So, let’s not bandy about,” I reply.
“What can an honest businessman assist you with?”
“You can try to play that angle all you want if it makes you feel more in control. But the fact of the matter is, as of this minute, you aren’t. There’s two ways you leave this boat. Alive with the US citizens you captured returned unharmed and the rebellion in the streets quelled, or zipped up in plastic.”
Ortiz smiles. “Or arrested where your court system will take years. In the meantime, those poor agents of yours will still be in chains. That would be most unfortunate. I believe there is a better solution for both of us, one that began during a certain meeting.”
Holding my M4 in one hand, I withdraw my sidearm. “You know, the last guy we talked to thought it was a negotiation as well. It didn’t end well.”
With a step toward him, I fire down into his left pinky finger resting on the desk. The bullet smashes through the skin and bone, plunging deep into the heavy wood. Blood drops splatter across the dark, smooth glossy finish, his dismembered finger moving to spin like a fidget spinner.
It takes a brief second for the pain to register, but then the man grimaces and grasps his torn hand with the other. Blood trickles slowly through his clenched hand.
“You see those boats…those men in the boats…surrounding you. Those represent the United States government. I don’t. So while you may be eventually arrested, it won’t be by me—and it certainly won’t be done in this room. With that said, let me reiterate: there’s two ways you leave this room. The only remaining control you have is that you get to choose which one,” I state, leaning over the stricken man.
Ortiz just groans.
“You have ten seconds to decide. After that, I’ll decide for you,” I add, placing my barrel against his hand.
Ortiz raises his head, beads of sweat forming from the pain and trickling down his face. He stares at the weapon and then me. There’s fear in his eyes, but also an uncertainty, as if he can’t believe the situation. He’s been in power for so long that he doesn’t know what the other side looks like. His brain believes he’s still in control, having been accustomed to it for so long, but the destruction of his body tells him otherwise.
I lean closer and whisper. “I believe what you’re looking for is your phone.”
His gaze leaves mine and he starts rummaging through one of the drawers, his pain momentarily forgotten. He takes out a phone and one-handedly begins to dial.
“Speakerphone,” I say.
A voice answers and Ortiz, through clenched jaws, begins speaking Spanish. The man answers and the conversation is short.
I’m looking at McCafferty, who nods. I then pull her aside. “It was fast and I didn’t catch everything, but I think he just told whoever that was to release the agents. Or he asked for syrup on his French toast. It was one of those.”
I give her a little smile. “I guess time will tell. I believe you have a second call to make,” I say, turning to Ortiz.
That call is made and McCafferty again confirms what was said—more or less.
“Devil Six. The calls have been made. We’re going to wait here for confirmation that the agents have been returned and that the assaults have stopped,” I radio.
“Copy, Otter Six. We’ll send the word when we hear of it.”
“Get Denton in here and get him bandaged,” I say to Greg, nodding toward Ortiz.
We float in the midst of the Caribbean for several hours, the sun moving toward the horizon. Water is given to those captured, the Coast Guard personnel remaining off the yacht until we’ve completed our business. Greg and McCafferty search the rest of the boat without finding anyone else, though they do find a stash of weapons, which is gathered and placed on the aft deck. We finally receive a call from Devil Six.
“Otter Six, we received a report that the agents were left near a DEA station. They’re injured, but alive. Indications are that they’ll make it. The gunmen have also left the streets as quickly as they appeared.”
And just like that, our mission has come to a close. It took a lot longer than I anticipated, and one of our own was wounded, but it’s over for now. We get to go home.
Walking over to Ortiz, I lean down on his desk. “Well, they weren’t unharmed, but you’re lucky that they’ll live. You’re being turned over to the authorities, but not without a reminder that we’ll be back should anything further come against citizens or those working for or in conjunction with the US government. Am I clear on this?”
He stares through pained eyes without giving a response. I grab hold of his bandaged hand and squeeze. “Am…I…Clear?”
Ortiz nods, but I don’t let go. “I need to hear it.”
“Yes,” he replies through clenched teeth.
“Very well,” I say, releasing my hold.
“And this is payment for my time…for keeping me down here forever,” I add.
I backhand him with my sidearm, blood spraying from his now broken nose.
“Devil Six, you can now send the Coast Guard on board.”
Response boats close in and armed men clamber aboard. They take the cuffed gunmen and enter for Ortiz. Grabbing hold of the man’s shoulder, I help him rise and pass him off to one of the guardsmen.
“Be careful. He’s clumsy. He shut his hand in a drawer…rather hard, I might add,” I say. “And then managed to somehow hit his head on the tabletop.”
The guardsman looks at the desk, complete with the splintered hole and dried blood, along with the end of a finger resting on the glossy surface. Glancing at the blood streaming from the man’s head, he then nods and takes hold of Ortiz.
We load up and motor back to our cutter, the other one taking the yacht in tow.