Pablo's Ghost (Strike Force X Book 1), page 9
Sandino seemed to choke on that. The Cartel de los Soles—Cartel of the Suns, in English—earned its name because its leaders were commanding officers in the Armed Forces of Venezuela, nicknamed for the golden sunburst emblems pinned onto their epaulets. For years on end they ran their homeland's cocaine trade, protecting shipments, loading trucks and airplanes, killing off the smaller rivals of their partners in the business. Finally, in 2015, DEA agents and prying journalists exposed the syndicate, resulting in disgrace and indictment of various high-ranking officers, including Néstor Reverol, head of the Bolivarian National Guard, and Hugo Carvajal, former head of Venezuelan Military Intelligence.
After a long moment of silence, Brigadier Sandino answered back, “You have no evidence supporting such a charge."
"Are you quite sure of that?" asked Torrenegra. "Absolutely, positively certain in your mind and heart? Would you prefer to call my bluff, as gringos say?"
A long moment of silence followed, then Sandino asked, in a defeated tone, "What is it you require?"
"The names of those attempting to destroy us both, their points of origin, and where they may be found in Medellín. I know that you shall find a way to solve this problem for us, Brigadier. Buenas noches y duerme bien."
In fact, he doubted that Sandino would enjoy a good night or sleep well.
And frankly, Torrenegra didn't give a damn.
20 de Julio District, Medellín
Camilo Román had decided it was time for him to get away from Medellín for good, perhaps to leave Colombia entirely if he could finagle that with the resources at his fingertips.
His handler at the DEA, the ever-solemn Preston Chandler, had discouraged that intention when they spoke by telephone, some ninety minutes earlier. In fact, he had forbidden it explicitly, advising Román that "things might go badly" for him if he tried to cut and run just now, with an important project in the works and secret contractors from the United States in Antioquia, stirring up a real tormenta de mierda.
Storm of shit that was, in English, but Román preferred the lilting language of his birth.
In either tongue, of course, the net result stank to high heaven and beyond.
So he was getting out, despite Chandler's transparent threats, coupled with offers of a further feeble stipend for his efforts if he stayed and saw the mission through. Feigning reluctance, Román had agreed, though he had no intention of complying under pressure when his life was certainly at stake.
Now was the time to leave, and if he waited any longer, it would likely be too late.
The neighborhood in which his small apartment was located bore the name of Colombia's Independence Day, celebrated nationwide on July 20th of each successive year. The actual event dated from 1810, when liberator Simón Bolívar had triumphed in his struggle free both Colombia and Venezuela from rule by the Viceroyalty of New Granada after seven decades of oppressive servitude. The end result, called Gran Colombia had encompassed much of northern South America in 1831, including the territories of present-day Colombia, Ecuador, Panama and Venezuela, plus portions of northern Peru, western Guyana and northwestern Brazil. That was the reason why the Isthmus of Panama still featured prominently on Colombia's national seal, although the nations had been separate now for the better part of 190 years.
Old memories died hard, but they were only ancient history.
Román was more concerned about the future now, specifically his own.
He had no relatives in Medellín, no one for Preston Chandler or the drug cartels to use against him as intimidation, holding him in bondage as their puppet. He had cash enough to buy fake travel papers, and his old used car would get him to the nearest border and beyond. From there…well, he would run until he found a place to rest, then wait and see if anyone came looking for him.
And if so, he would to everything within his power to defend himself.
Failing at that, then he would die, as all men ultimately must.
Román finished packing the few clothes he would carry with him, latched his battered plastic suitcase, slipped on a well-worn bomber jacket he had picked up on the cheap from a used-clothing kiosk in El Hueco, in El Centro, offering the lowest prices readily available in Medellín. He also donned a hat that made him look vaguely like Indiana Jones—a poor man's version, not to be confused with any leading man from Hollywood—and looked around his small apartment one last time, to see if he'd forgotten anything.
Nothing he wished to carry with him into limbo, anyway.
Román crossed to the door and opened it, recoiling as he found a husky stranger in a hooded sweatshirt standing there, blocking his path.
"¿Quién eres tú?" he asked. "Who are you looking for?"
"Para ti, creo," the stranger said. "Are you not Claudio Román?"
"You are mistaken," Román lied. "Someone has given you the wrong address, I think." His right hand drifted down and backward toward the knife sheathed on his belt. "There must be some mistake."
"Your lies don't work on me, cobarde."
And as if from nowhere, Román's nameless caller raised a pistol, muzzle-heavy with an oblong sound suppressor. When it fired at point-blank range, the bullet punched through Román's left eye socket, toppling his corpse onto the short-nap, threadbare carpet of his former living room, where he would never live again.
9
Manrique, Medellín
The Guerreros del Camino Trucking Company—"Road Warriors" in translation, likely someone's notion of a joke—was owned by Pablo Escobar reborn, if SFX could trust the word of Camilo Román, but the team checked it out anyway, taking nothing for granted since last night's fiasco at Suds and Bubbles.
"These guys like their fun with names," said Blake Mahoney, as his brother piloted their rented auto on an early morning drive-by past the fenced in lot and warehouse.
Both brothers had learned enough Spanish in high school to get by in basic conversation, but they'd never be mistaken for natives south of the border, either by appearance or their fluency. Deployment to "The Sand" and other hot spots on the far side of the world had prompted hit-and-miss linguistic studies with a greater chance of hoping them survive in the Levant and farther east.
"Simple amusements for a bunch of simple minds," Grant said. "It wouldn't pay to underestimate them, though."
"Or whoever's trying to take their boss man down."
"I'd say that fence is what, ten feet before you hit the razor wire?"
"Sounds right," Grant said. "But no signs claiming its electrified, at least."
"CCTV posted at intervals of thirty yards. Let's hope whoever's in there will be taking a siesta now," Blake countered.
As if in answer to that spoken thought, they saw a rust-speckled garage door rising, rolling back into the cavernous garage, as swarthy men began emerging from the office. All were armed and making no attempt to hide the fact, some carrying assault weapons, all fidgeting with pistols tucked under their belts to make the guns more comfortable.
Grant slowed down and turned a corner, parking in the shadow of a tired-looking Brazil nut tree. With Blake, he watched the early risers—eight in all, with one guy giving orders and gesticulating—break off into teams. Appointed drivers climbed into the cabs of semi-tractor rigs and cranked the diesel engines over, while their partners ducked into the warehouse, out of sight. It took some awkward jockeying, but one by one, the tractor units backed into the warehouse, under pale fluorescent ceiling lights, and rolled back out with trailers hitched onto their fifth wheels, spewing noxious fumes into the morning air from overhead exhaust pipes.
Grant got on the walkie-talkie, gave his scattered teammates the heads-up. "Looks like we've got a convoy rolling out. Could be a bonus."
"Works for me," Reg Hardy answered.
"I'm on top of it," Natalie Karpin chimed in.
"Who's seen the movie Road Games?" Stan Dartnell queried. "Nobody? Stacy Keach and Jamie Lee Curtis tracking a maniac from Adelaide to Perth?"
"Sounds like a classic," Nat replied.
Dartnell snorted and said, "You're all a bunch of Philistines."
"Look sharp and settle down," Grant cautioned all of them. "We don't know where they're headed, so we'll need to take advantage of terrain and minimize the danger to civilians."
"What if they split up?" asked Hardy. "Are we even sure they're carrying?"
"Trusting our informant to a point," Grant told the team. "They aren't packing that hardware to protect a load of microwaves and dishwashers."
"Fair point, mate," Dartnell granted.
"If they run in tandem, we close in and pick them off," Grant said. "If some of them break off, use your best judgment. Stay in touch whichever way it breaks."
Acknowledgements came in from all concerned, before their radios switched off. They'd settled on a frequency Grant deemed unlikely for a trucking outfit's CB radios to monitor but that came down to guesswork in the end. Radio silence was the way to go for safety's sake, with cryptic contact held to a bare minimum.
A gunman with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder started rolling back the tall gate in the fence that ringed the Guerreros del Camino property. The eighteen-wheelers started moving out in tandem, following a Peterbilt with two men in the cab, each rig behind the leader with another two sicarios on board. When the last semi was clear, the gate rolled shut again, and those employees left behind trooped back inside the office.
"Party time," said Blake Mahoney, as his brother let the last rig pass, then joined the convoy from two blocks behind.
Around them, out of sight and following or running parallel, the other SFX team members kept pace with the parade, three cars in all. Grant didn't have to warn them about holding back in densely populated neighborhoods where any strike could turn into an all-out massacre.
Trailing the final truck in line, Kenworth, Grant asked Blake, "How's the romantic getaway been treating you?"
Blake snorted. Said, "I've never been a fan of make-believe."
"Cold-shoulder time?"
"We may be in the tropics, bro, but I'm not feeling any heat."
"Just wait," Grant said. "With any luck, we've got some coming up."
From Manrique the procession traveled east, then northward toward Veredas Granizal, although that rural suburb was not meant to be the convoy's destination. If all went to plan, the semis would be stopping sooner, without entering the settlement that had become ground zero between warring bandit clans, recording weekly homicides that rivaled any other part of Medellín.
Victor Giraldo, placed in charge of the delivery hoped the bandidos would be wise enough to give his soldiers a side berth. He did not fear police as much as numskulls who were bold and dumb enough to rob a major shipment with the dual hopes of getting rich and building up a reputation for ferocity.
In either case, if someone tried it, Giraldo was determined eradicate them without giving it a second thought.
He worried over last night's trouble at the laundromat and cutting plant in Las Penitas. While Giraldo was not privy to his jefe's thoughts and schemes, he clearly recognized a major challenge to the growing strength and reputation of the man he knew as Pablo Escobar revived by means beyond his understanding.
Not that perfect understanding was required. Giraldo, like the great majority of his amigos in the drug trade, had been raised on superstition, reverence for orishas who ostensibly controlled all things, despite the chaos found in daily life throughout Colombia. He did not rule out resurrection of the dead, but scarcely cared if it was fact or fiction.
When a leader came along who could command the loyalty of hardened men, put money in their pockets and advance then in a vicious cutthroat trade, wise soldiers followed him and honored him with fealty—at least until another, stronger overlord rose up to take his place.
Survival was the art of looking out for Number One.
The walkie-talkie on Giraldo's hip crackled. He recognized the caller's voice as that of Santiago Betancourt, the last driver in line, his urgency apparent even through the scratchy radio's receiver.
"We have company," Betancourt said.
"¿Que tipo de compañia?" Giraldo asked.
"Two cars, at least," Betancourt answered. "Maybe more. I can't be positive."
"¡Chinga tu madre!" Victor blurted out the curse. "How many people altogether?"
"Two men in the first car," the reply came back. "I can't be sure about the other."
Giraldo's driver, Carlos Obregon, shot him a nervous glance. Asked him, "What should we do, Victor?"
"More men are waiting for us at the airstrip," said Giraldo, reaching for the CB radio mounted above the tractor's useless rearview mirror. "I'll alert them. If these hijos de puta make a move before we get there, then we fight."
With his left hand, Victor snared the CB microphone and pulled it toward his lips, thumbed down the button labeled "SEND" and spoke into it. "Powder Train to Eagle's Nest. ¡Responde de inmediato!"
In his lap, Giraldo's right hand rested on an Uzi submachine gun, full-sized, with its stock folder, loaded with a forty-round box magazine. His backup weapon, nestled in a shoulder holster hidden by hit lightweight jacket, was a Browning Hi-Power pistol chambered for the same 9×19mm Parabellum rounds as the compact Israeli SMG. Beside him, Carlos had an MP5K machine pistol resting on the cab's bench seat, similar in length to Victor's Uzi but with two forty-round magazines taped end-to-end for quick reloading.
Each team in the trucks behind them carried similar hardware—rifles and submachine guns, shotguns, all with pistols in reserve. Each man had proved himself a killer in the past and might again this morning, sometime in the next few minutes.
"Eagle's Nest to Powder Train. I read you. Over?"
"We have trackers," Victor warned the narcotrafficker in charge of loading and dispatching planes. He had a Cessna CitationJet/M2 on standby, waiting to take on the llello en route from Manrique and ferry it to the Bahamas, once the kilo packages had been removed from cheap TV sets where they lay concealed.
Now all that was in jeopardy.
"What do you need from us?" the airstrip manager inquired.
"Be ready to receive them if they get that far," Giraldo answered. "Have men on standby if they stop us earlier."
"You'll signal us in that event?"
"Voy a. How many can you spare?"
"Seven sicarios, plus twelve men from the loading crew."
"Bueno. Prepare them now."
"Tal como dices. Out!"
The airfield still lay seven or eight miles ahead. Checking his wing mirror, Giraldo finally spotted the first pursuit car, some late-model sedan he could not recognize offhand. It had begun to tailgate the last truck in line, and now it swerved from sight, as if trying to pass.
"It's happening," he cautioned Obregon.
"What if they are la policía, Victor?"
"¡A la mierda! Pigs die, just like anybody else."
Natalie Karpin, riding solo in the second chase car, watched as the Mahoney brothers changed lanes, rocketing along to pass the final truck in line. She wasn't sure precisely what they had in mind but knew that contact was about to happen with all parties traveling at sixty miles per hour, rapidly accelerating.
Karpin didn't need to check the AK-9 carbine riding beside her, knowing it was cocked and locked, only depression of its safety catch required to let her join the coming fight. Exactly what form that would take she couldn't say but hurtling along a rural two-lane highway in pursuit of half a dozen eighteen-wheelers packed with drugs and God knew what else did not boost her confidence.
She wasn't worried, mind you, but wise soldiers—the survivors—always realized they weren't invincible.
As the Mahoney brothers overtook the convoy's final rig, that truck's driver angled a pistol toward them through his open window, fired left-handed, but his shots missed by a yard or more. Before the wheelman could correct his aim, the brothers were running beside the next-to-last big rig, with Blake Mahoney spraying short bursts from his AK-9.
Instead of aiming for the cab, Blake targeted the trailer's rear tires on the driver's side, his 9×39mm rounds fired from a yard or less away punching through rubber, causing an explosive decompression of the ruptured tires. At once, as Grant Mahoney picked up speed and powered clear, the crippled trailer fishtailed, yawing wildly back and forth, before it jackknifed and collapsed onto its left-hand side, trailing a plume of sparks and fragments of torn asphalt.
Natalie accelerated automatically, swung wide across the southbound lane and up onto its shoulder, plowing ruts in grass and dirt there. When she'd cleared the toppled wreckage, she veered back onto the highway proper, chasing SFX's CEO and Veep along what still remained of the drug convoy.
In her rearview mirror, for a fleeting moment, Natalie beheld the final truck as it collided with the toppled trailer, air brakes screaming their mechanical alarm, which made the former mess a two-truck pileup that would call for heavy cranes to clear the road again.
The sabra warrior couldn't stop herself from grinning, but she swallowed an impulse to cheer aloud. Four eighteen-wheelers were still rolling, each manned by at least two narcotraffickers apiece, and no one on the SFX team knew where they were headed yet. If even one got through, their mission would have failed and they would be no closer to the man who posed before the underworld as Pablo Escobar reborn, little the worse for wear.
A clean sweep was required, and preferably with a captive they could grill for answers someplace well removed from what had now become a highway battleground.
And failing that, she thought, the smugglers had to be wiped out, their poison earmarked for the States destroyed before it ruined any further lives.
Grim-faced after her brief elation, Karpin powered down the window on her rental's right-hand side, picked up her AK-9 carbine, and leaned across to prop its muzzle on the padded windowsill. Her turn was coming, and she meant to make it count.
Reg Hardy had to navigate around four jackknifed eighteen-wheelers as he sped to join the other members of the SFX squad.
