Age of Blood

11

They waited until morning to pull into port. Holmes had called and asked Billings if the video had been evaluated. Then at three in the morning she’d called him back. Much chastised, the SPG credited whoever made the video with superior talent. They’d done a cursory pixel check when they’d received it, but didn’t determine any pixel shift and believed it to be genuine. Additionally, the fact that it had come from a remote security camera added to their sense that the video was real. They had no protocol for deciding which videos should be evaluated or not, and had instead counted on the tasking element to ask them for evaluations. In this case, it should have come from Triple Six. Because one wasn’t asked for, one wasn’t conducted.

As it turned out, the video was a fake. Color filter array correlations in the area where Emily was supposed to have been taken by the creature were disrupted and showed significant lack of color spectrum pixellation. Bottom line was that although SPG was unable to as yet break through the concealment algorithm, no one could accurately state what had happened to Emily. But what they could say with a high degree of certainty was that she was not taken by a giant sea monster. Which left several questions. Why choose a sea monster? Why manipulate the video in the first place? And why choose as a sea monster an impossibly giant axolotl?

Even without the answers, Billings was able to garner full support from the CIA. Through SPG, she coordinated ground support through the U.S. Embassy in Mexico City. One of their assets would be in contact—ex–Zetas cartel hit man turned U.S. counter-narcoterrorism operative. He was due to meet with them sometime later that morning. Holmes had arranged for them to stay at a hotel downtown, one used by Mexicans rather than moneyed tourists.

Holmes was now certain, as was the rest of the team, including J.J., that Emily was alive. After all, why take so much effort to hide an abduction unless care was going to be made to keep the person alive. That there had been no ransom was worrisome. That someone tried to hide the fact she was even kidnapped was even more worrisome. Triple Six had to get to the bottom of this. Without any solid leads, their only option was to grab as many local bad guys as possible and interrogate them. Someone had to know something. Mexico’s subculture thrived on graft. Money had to pass from one hand to another for someone to have been able to get away with kidnapping in the area and it was Triple Six’s job to discover who it was.

Hotel Boutique Casa Poblito on Hidalgo Avenue was their accommodation of choice. It was a square one-story hotel with a single entry and exit point with a gate that could be locked. Each room had a window air-conditioning unit. The center courtyard had a pool and a large cabana. It had twenty-four rooms, eighteen of which were rented until this morning. By noon, everyone would be out and Triple Six would have the place to themselves.

Holmes also coordinated with an old friend, Major Navarre of the Grupo Aeromóvil de Fuerzas Especiales, or GAFE, which was the Mexican Special Forces. He didn’t require GAFE’s assistance, but he wanted his friend to know that they were in country and that they were conducting a covert operation, in the event local police or even federal police became involved. Navarre would create documentation that they were conducting a joint special-operations exercise, so if needed, the paperwork could be immediately produced. If it turned out they didn’t need the backup, then the documents would be destroyed. Plus it was just good planning to have a team of Mexican Special Forces on standby, even if you were SEAL Team 666.

J.J. took them to a late breakfast, loudly announcing that his companions had been charter fishing with him and had caught their weight in dorado and crevalle. They ate chilaquiles and eggs, which were nothing more than eggs served over tortilla chips, in this case with chorizo, queso fresco, and black beans.

After confirming that the hotel was available, they bag-dragged eight blocks and entered through the central door. Holmes passed a stack of money into the hands of the owner, and with one last glance, the owner hurried into the street. They had the hotel for three days, at which time they could extend their residency if needed. And the owner didn’t mind. After all, he’d been paid three times the rate on every room. A dump like this probably hadn’t been full in years, much less drawing the kind of customers who paid regularly.

“Walker and Yank, clear the rooms,” Holmes commanded. Turning to Laws, he said, “Establish coms and check out the electronics.” To J.J. he handed a placard that read QUARANTINE in Spanish, and a padlock. “Seal the front, then check the businesses around here and find out who the cops are who patrol this area. We want to make friendly with them.” He passed over a smaller stack of Benjamins. “Let me know if you need more.”

It didn’t take long to place the sign on the door, get a worried look from a bum nearby, and lock the gate. Then J.J. was bopping down the street, pretending to own the universe.

Walker and Yank drew their SIG Sauer P229s and began room clearing per SOP. Entering simultaneously through each door, one low, one high, each of them covered a sector of the room to allow for greatest coverage of fire. They’d cleared two rooms when Walker was surprised to hear Holmes’s voice speaking to someone else outside.

“You don’t have a last name?” Holmes demanded.

Walker tapped Yank on the shoulder and both of them slid from the room. Holmes stood with his hands at his sides. To anyone else he might have appeared relaxed, but Walker recognized the tension in his boss. Holmes was addressing someone in the shade of the cabana near the pool in the central courtyard.

“I have had many last names. Since one is as good as the other, if you wish me to have a last name, then choose for me.”

“Or I just call you Ramon?”

“This is good, too.”

Walker peered around the corner. He saw a man seated in a chair beneath the cabana. He wore linen slacks and a linen jacket over a white shirt. The shoes on his feet were perforated to let air in. Gold dangled from his wrists and a large necklace hung around his neck. He appeared to be about fifty, had a solid head of hair, and was handsome in the way older Mexican men often seemed to be.

But there was something else, too. Something different about this man that made Walker’s skin buzz. The other SEALs called it his supernatural early-warning radar. He’d called it a pain in the ass until he learned to control it. He still remembered the first time on his first mission, falling to the ground and doing the kicking chicken as a seizure completely took him over. It was one reason he’d been selected: his past history of being possessed by a Malaysian grave demon was reason to elevate him above all the other candidates. He’d since come to terms with his sensitivity and used it for the team’s benefit. So now that he felt the buzz, he had to wonder who—or what—was speaking to Holmes.

He moved out in a combat crouch, training his pistol on the man. “Chief, step back.”

Holmes did as he was told, taking several quick steps backward as he drew his own pistol. “What’s going on, Walker? You feel something?”

“Yes, sir. Closer I get. Yank, to me,” Walker yelled.

Yank appeared on the other side of the cabana, his pistol in a two-handed grip, his face a mask of serenity.

Ramon hadn’t moved. He sat, acting as if three SEALs weren’t pointing their weapons at him. He turned to look at Walker.

“So… you’ve been involved with such things before.”

“Yeah, I’ve been around. So what is it? Are you demon or a man?”

Ramon laughed. “I’ve been called both quite frequently of late. One man’s man is another man’s demon.”

“I think you better explain yourself,” Holmes said, tightening his grip on his pistol. “Tell us what’s going on.”

The former Zeta hit man smiled sadly, much as he probably did with his targets right before he murdered them, thought Walker.

“Doesn’t a man have his privacy?”

“We operate as a team. We have no privacy. We’re brothers.”

“And if I tell you, then I’ll instantly be a brother,” Ramon said, snapping his fingers.

“Well.” Holmes seemed to consider it. “Maybe a stepbrother.”

“Once removed,” Laws added, coming up behind them.

“But you need me. The embassy sent me.”

Walker detected a strange tone in the man’s speech, as if he was really upset about not being brought into the fold but hiding it well.

“You’d probably help us, but we’ll move on without you,” Holmes said.

“And what happens to me then?” Ramon shifted his eyes toward where Yank had him covered.

Holmes shrugged. “I guess that’s up to you.”

It was a real Mexican standoff for almost a full minute. The silence in the courtyard was disrupted only by the sound of the pool filter, Walker shifting his feet to get a better line, and cars rumbling past outside. Finally the man in white held his hands out to his sides and slowly got to his feet.

“I was a hit man for the Zetas cartel and could get at any target, regardless of where they were,” he began, making eye contact with each and every member of Triple Six. “No one could figure it out. They’d watch for me. They’d plan for me. On occasion I’d have the audacity to tell them I was coming. Once I even gave them the time.” He shook his head sharply. “Didn’t matter. Was nothing they could do. If the Zetas wanted you dead and they called me in, it was a done deal.”

“I thought you said the embassy sent you,” Laws noted.

“Alas, I did my job too well. My former employers tried to get rid of me. I had to—how do you say it—change teams.”

“How’d you do it?” Holmes asked. “I mean, you told that story for a reason. How’d you get away with killing so many people?”

“Let me show you.” He held up his right hand. His lips peeled back slightly as he concentrated on it. The fingers grew long, talons sprung from the nails, and sand-colored hair shot forth from the skin.

“Skinwalker,” Laws said.

Ramon smiled.

“Now I see why the cartel wanted you dead,” Holmes said.

Ramon flexed his hand and it returned to human form. “Yes. A sad thing when you can’t trust those you work for.”

“You said it before. The problem with being the best is who’s out there who can stop you?”

“I would think you know that problem very well, Lieutenant Commander Holmes.” Ramon sat back down. “Can we begin now or is your man going to have another feeling?”

For a second it looked like Holmes was going to carry the situation to the next step; then he dropped his weapon and shoved it into the waistband behind his back. “Nah. I think we’re ready to get to work.”

The other SEALs followed Holmes’s lead. Walker felt a little relief, but not too much. He was still in the presence of a skinwalker, or what legends generally referred to as a werewolf.