Against All Enemies

23 BUITRES JUSTICIEROS

Miguel Rojas was awakened at 6:41 a.m. by an aching desire. He rolled over and let his hand move slowly up Sonia’s leg. She stirred and whispered, “Always in the morning with you. Wasn’t last night enough?”

“It’s nature,” he said.

“No, it’s just you.”

“I can’t help it. It’s your fault, really. I can’t stop thinking about, you know …”

“Well, there’s more to life.”

“I know, I know.”

“Good. I understand how men are, and it’s okay, but I worry about you losing respect for me.”

“Never.”

“You say that now.” She draped an arm over her head. “Sometimes I wish …”

He frowned at her. “What?”

“I wish everything in my life had been different.”

“That can’t be true.”

“You might be the perfect man for me. But life is complicated, and I just worry for us. I wish everything had been different before I met you.”

“What was wrong with your life before that? You have great parents who love you very much. You’ve done very well.”

“I don’t know what I’m saying, really.”

“Is it the money? Because—”

“No, it has nothing to do with that.”

He tensed. “Then what is it? Another guy back home? That’s it. You’re still in love with another guy.”

She began to laugh. “No.”

He gently grabbed her by the chin. “Do you love me?”

“Too much.”

“What does that mean?”

She closed her eyes. “It means that sometimes it hurts.”

“Well, it shouldn’t. What can I do?”

“Just kiss me.”

He did, and one thing led to another. He wondered if Corrales and the others in the next room could hear them. She groaned softly, but they tried their best to remain discreet.

They hadn’t done much during their first day in the old city, spending most of their time around the villa and getting accustomed to the area. Miguel had chosen to stay in a new place and to live like a tourist, rather than exploit his father’s connections and stay in the same old boring mansions. He’d found them a quaint, European-run boutique hotel, and their first-floor villa had a kitchen, dining table, sitting area, and bedroom with bath. Murals and Mayan textiles adorned the walls, with a wood-burning fireplace opposite their bed. While the room had no air conditioning, they didn’t need it. Outside was a veranda with chairs, so they could sit and watch people in the lushly landscaped courtyard, where a hammock lay beneath the long limbs of a shade tree. A young couple had been lying on the hammock and kissing deeply. That image had been enough to drive him and Sonia back into their bedroom for a quick round of sex only hours after they’d arrived.

As Miguel rolled off of Sonia, the cockerels began their morning announcements: Indeed, the sun was rising. It felt as though they were on a farm, but Miguel enjoyed their racket. This was semirural Mexico, and it was just he and Sonia and this beautiful little city to explore. The concierge had told them that many writers, artists, academics, and archaeologists stayed at the hotel and spent their days both exploring the city and driving out thirty minutes to the ancient Mayan city known as Palenque, where the ancient temples and palaces with their broad staircases and partially crumbling walls drew thousands of visitors each year. Miguel had been to the ruins only once, as a boy, so he thought he’d like to explore them again.

First, however, they’d go shopping, which he knew would make Sonia very happy. They were only a ten-minute walk down the hill to the louder central streets. Miguel rose and moved to the window, staring out past the courtyard at the highlands, draped in long shadows, the green mountains still dark and forming a moonscape along the horizon.

Farther away, the streets seemed to writhe their way along the hillsides, and the brightly colored houses — some green, purple, and yellow, and all with red tiled roofs — lay in tight clusters along those narrow paths. Beyond them, seated atop a great shoulder of rock, was an ornate cathedral painted in gold, and several mansions whose towering wrought-iron gates lifted to some four meters. Sonia had remarked that the city seemed more like a theme park than a real place because it was so brightly colored and impeccably clean. Miguel had told her that the people here were exceedingly proud of their Mayan heritage, and you could find Mayan influences throughout everything in the city: from the architecture to the food to the interior design. Miguel’s father often said that San Cristóbal reminded him more of Guatemala than of Mexico.

“When is Carnival?” asked Sonia, sitting up in the bed.

He smiled at her. “They’ll start tonight. But we have to go to the village of San Juan Chamula first. I want you to see the church there. Then tomorrow, the ruins.”

A knock came at the door.

Sonia frowned, and Miguel crossed the room and leaned toward the door before opening it. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, sir, Corrales. Is everything all right?”

He swung around, faced Sonia, and nearly burst out laughing, as did she.

“Yes, Corrales, we’re okay. Go back to bed. We’ll be having breakfast at eight a.m., thank you.”

“Okay, sir. Just checking.”

Miguel rushed back toward the bed and took a flying leap onto it, nearly knocking Sonia off the other side. She began giggling as he swung her around and kissed her deeply.

From the balcony of a hotel room around the corner, Moore watched Rojas’s son kiss his girlfriend. The kid had pushed open the curtains and given him a clear view of their naked forms splayed across the bed.

Moore lowered his binoculars and turned back to Fitzpatrick and Torres. The fat man was lying in his bed, fast asleep. Fitzpatrick was typing fiercely on his laptop computer, sending an e-mail to Zúñiga.

“Must be nice to be young,” Moore said, sighing over his own lost years.

“They’re pretty horny, huh?” said Fitzpatrick. “So what do we got in the way of security? Corrales and his two flunkies? That’s it?”

“I don’t see anyone else. He’ll stay close and leave the other two to trail. We need to take them out first. I want Corrales alive — and there’s no negotiation there. We have to take him alive.”

“Agreed.” Then Fitzpatrick cocked a thumb over his shoulder at Torres. “What about him?” he whispered.

“Be cool. He’s the least of our worries right now …”

Moore’s smartphone vibrated with a text message from Gloria Vega:

He thumbed in a reply: I’m on it.

Then he shared the news with Fitzpatrick, who shook his head. “No way. We would’ve known about that hit.”

“Let me call Zúñiga.”

Torres stirred and looked up at them. “Why are you two bastards up this early?”

Moore chuckled. “Because, fat boy, we’re on a mission to do more than puke in a bag.”

Torres made a face. “My stomach still hurts. But when I feel better, I’m going to sit on you.”

“Hey, dude,” called Fitzpatrick, gaining Torres’s attention. “We need to make our move today. Let them settle in, get comfortable, get complacent, then bam. So you’d better get going.”

“Exactly,” said Moore. “I think we’ll do it at their villa. Nice controlled environment. We track ’em throughout the day, and then when they get back home, all tired and ready to bang, we take Miguel and the girl — but we need to get Corrales and his boys first.”

“Listen to me, gringo,” said Torres. “I’m in charge here. But I like your plan. However, once we get the boy and his girl, we will kill the girl in front of him. This way he knows we mean business.”

Moore looked to Fitzpatrick, who said, “We might get more money if we have both of them. And we can negotiate with Rojas to open up the tunnels.”

“We’re here to kill Rojas and everyone around him. Señor Zúñiga made this very clear to me — and I’m making it very clear to you …”

Fitzpatrick glared at him.

“No,” said Moore. “We keep the girl for extra leverage. Now what about the other guys? Are they coming down?”

Torres cleared his throat. “They should be in Guadalajara by this afternoon.”

“Good.” Moore dialed Zúñiga but was sent straight to voice mail. “Call me back, señor.”

“Hey, let’s get cleaned up and get outside,” said Fitzpatrick. “They might be leaving soon.”

Corrales sat at the breakfast table with Raúl, Pablo, Miguel, and Sonia, and he couldn’t take his eyes off of the woman. She was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen, much more so than his Maria, and while he knew that staring would get him in trouble once again, he no longer cared. It was clear that the two of them had been loud for his benefit, and so he wouldn’t make it easy for them.

“Thank you for checking on us this morning,” said Miguel, between bites of his cereal. “It’s good to know you’re providing such good security.”

“Gracias. That’s our job.”

“Is it your job to stare at my girlfriend’s tits?”

“Miguel,” Sonia said, and gasped.

“Well, look at him. He’s drooling like a fucking thug over there.” Miguel rose from the table, crossed around it, then came up behind Corrales and growled in his ear, “You better keep your distance today. I don’t want to see you once. Not once. You protect us; that’s fine. But I don’t want to know you are there. Do you understand me, you fucking pig?”

Corrales tensed and shook with the desire to reach for his pistol and cap this spoiled bitch. But he sat there and took it. “Yes, señor. You won’t see us, but we’ll be there …”

“You like your job, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then do what I say and you’ll keep it.”

Miguel moved back to his seat. “I’m so sorry, Sonia. I didn’t want you to see that.”

“It’s okay. Corrales,” Sonia said, pursing her lips, “I know you’re trying to do your job. I am sorry about all of this.”

He smiled at her: a wolf’s grin.

Within an hour they were walking the streets of San Cristóbal, with Corrales ordering Raúl and Pablo to fan out and keep a half a block away. Pablo called on his cell phone to say, “This is not good. If something happens, we are too far from them.”

“You know what, Pablo? At this point—”

Corrales did not finish his sentence. Another call was coming in from his friend Hernando Chase, who managed the Monarch strip club. “Dante, some very bad news. Johnny was killed. They killed his girlfriend, too. They dumped the bodies outside the club. They must have tortured them, then chopped them up with a saw. They left a note, and I got it before I called the police.”

“Fucking Zúñiga,” Corrales said through his teeth.

“No, I don’t think it was the Sinaloas,” said Hernando. “I asked around.”

“What’s the note say?”

“Just two words: Buitres Justicieros.”

Corrales tensed. Avenging Vultures. Fucking Guatemalans — who were supposed to be working for the Juárez Cartel, not executing its allies.

However, Corrales knew exactly why they’d killed Johnny.

And it was all his fault.

As instructed by Rahmani, Samad had ordered the Anza MKIII (QW-2), which was considered the Chinese equivalent of the U.S. FIM-92E Stinger missile. Thank Allah he’d also received free shipping — even without an online coupon! His lieutenants had appreciated that joke, and in reality, it wasn’t too far from the truth. Their weapons deal had been finalized through an encrypted website and with electronic payment; moreover, their Chinese allies had been able to smuggle the weapons into Costa Rica via container ship without incident.

Samad and his entourage had left Colombia aboard a small cargo plane and been flown to Costa Rica by an ally who’d delivered them to a Taliban safe house in a canton called Uruca on the outskirts of the country’s capital. It was there, inside the small two-bedroom home that reeked of mothballs and bleach, that they took delivery of the man-portable surface-to-air missile launchers, six in all, packed in Anvil cases fitted with backpack-style harnesses for easier carrying. And it was there that Talwar and Niazi once more questioned the details of their mission.

“When can you tell us what will happen?” asked Niazi.

“When we arrive in the United States.”

“How will we do that without help from the Mexicans?” asked Talwar.

“When you build a plan, you must build three other plans, so as each falls you turn to the next.”

“And when you run out of plans?” asked Talwar.

Samad raised his brows. “You either succeed or die.”

“So what is your plan to get us into the United States?”

“Patience,” Samad told Talwar. “We have to get to Mexico first. And when we arrive there, you’ll see. We have friends who have been keeping a careful watch on the border. We are not alone. Mullah Rahmani has taken very good care of us.”

“Samad, I am worried about some of the others. They are very young and impressionable. I fear that once we reach America, some will leave when they see the kind of life they can have there — McDonald’s and Burger King and Walmart.”

“How can you doubt their faith now?”

Talwar shrugged. “It is one thing to have faith in the valley. It is another to have faith in the palace. I am here as a warrior, but I am concerned.”

Samad put a hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder. “We will shoot any man who deserts us. Do you understand?”

Talwar and Niazi nodded.

“Then we’ve nothing left to discuss. We have the missiles and launchers. Let’s get the trucks loaded and get back to the airport.”

They would lift off from Costa Rica and fly to a private airport with a dirt strip about one thousand miles south of Mexicali and literally in the middle of nowhere. Trucks and drivers were already waiting for them to complete the last leg of the journey northward, toward the border.

Samad’s excitement was beginning to mount. If they could just make that border crossing, the rest of his mission would unfold as precisely as Mullah Rahmani had described it to him. Years’ worth of planning and the dedication of many warriors of Allah would all come to fruition.

Samad could not feel more proud. He carried the will of Allah in his heart, and the fire of jihad in his hands. Those were all he needed.

It wasn’t until now that Moore had been able to get some digital pictures of all three of the “bodyguards” that Miguel and his girlfriend had following them. And when he’d sent back the photos to Towers, the results were impressive. Not only was Corrales a High-Value Target, but so was Pablo Gutiérrez, who’d killed an FBI agent in Calexico. In fact, Agent Ansara from Moore’s own task force had followed a few leads on Pablo that had taken him up into the Sequoia National Forest. Consequently, they could now, as Towers had put it, nab two major scumbags with one stone.

“Three,” Moore had corrected. “Don’t forget about the big dog himself, Rojas …”

“Trust me. I haven’t forgotten about him,” Towers had said. “But let’s be patient.”

Tailing Miguel, his girl, and their three bodyguards was a bigger challenge than Moore had thought. They had, of course, packed clothes so they’d resemble tourists, with cameras dangling from their necks, but Torres had a physique and face you didn’t easily forget, and Moore had questioned him thoroughly: “Will Corrales know who you are if he sees you?”

“No, he won’t,” said the fat man. Neither he nor Fitzpatrick had ever had any direct contact with the man, but that didn’t mean Corrales hadn’t seen pictures of them. Corrales’s spotters seemed to be everywhere in Juárez.

With that in mind, Moore argued for Fitzpatrick and Torres to hold even farther back and not take any chances. Torres had protested, saying that Corrales had probably seen pictures of Moore, since he’d stayed in the hotel. While that might be true, Moore could blend in far easier than the others. He was wearing a floral-print shirt, a photographer’s vest, and an awestruck grin on his face: classic dumbass tourist. The vest did a nice job of hiding his pair of suppressed Glocks. Fitzpatrick and Torres would take out Corrales’s two puppies, but Moore was intent on nabbing Corrales himself. Once they dealt with those three, they would move on to Rojas’s son and his girl, and all of them would be flown to a safe house in Guadalajara. From there Zúñiga would take over the negotiations with Rojas. While Torres had wanted the girl killed, Moore told him innocents would be left out of the equation. Period. Torres thought about it, figured an extra hostage wasn’t a bad idea.

With his own two accomplices sifting through the crowded street much farther back, Moore was shadowing Miguel and Sonia. They had stopped at one of the dozens of makeshift booths set up by native women to sell their wares: brightly colored belts and dresses, and children’s dolls made of wood. A few of the dolls surprised Moore, as they’d been fashioned to resemble soldiers with guns and wearing woolen balaclavas. That was an interesting message to send to the children in this city: Your heroes wear masks and carry guns …

Farther down the street lay the more densely packed booths of the market, where a wide variety of fresh fruits and vegetables were stacked neatly in pyramids and sold out of wicker baskets. There were more booths selling rice and fish, others featuring beef and chicken, and even one with a big banner advertising locally grown coffee beans, since the valley was one of Mexico’s premier areas for the crop.

Moore shifted to within a few feet of Miguel’s girlfriend, who was holding up a dress to the light and studying its rich yellow-and-red floral pattern. She was lean and athletic, wearing an oversized pair of black sunglasses.

“What do you think?” she asked her boyfriend.

Miguel glanced up from his smartphone. “Oh, Sonia, that’s much too loud for you. Keep looking.”

She shrugged and handed the dress back to the old lady who owned the booth.

“Men don’t know how to dress women,” said the old lady. “This one is perfect for you. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Sonia (Moore liked that name) smiled. “I agree, but he is a very strong-willed man.”

At that, Moore frowned. He would have told Sonia that the dress was beautiful and that she smelled so very sweet, and that she was so fresh and young and sexy that it was easy to forget that his friends wanted to kill her.

Well, he would have told her some of that.

“Come on, Sonia, let’s keep going,” said Miguel.

Moore pretended to look at a wallet on a table nearby. As they were about to leave, he glanced up, over the rim of his sunglasses, and there he was, the little son of a bitch, Dante Corrales, standing across the street in the alcove of a small building, staring at them, arms folded over his chest.

Watching the boss’s son, huh, buddy? Can’t wait for you and I to sit down and have coffee …I’m hoping you’ll have a lot to talk about.

Moore had barely finished that thought when a hand wrapped around Corrales’s mouth, and suddenly two men were on him, dragging him back into the building. Moore immediately got on his cell phone to Fitzpatrick, and said, “A bunch of guys just grabbed Corrales.”

“No shit. We just lost the other two guys. What the fuck is going on?”

“Get up here. They pulled him into the pink building on my left. I’ll stay with Miguel and the girl.”

But when Moore turned around, both the young man and his lovely companion were gone.