Hunt the Jackal

Chapter Eight

The accommodations were a couple of notches higher than acceptable-an older-looking two-story structure with a garage built into it that sat under lush laurel trees. It reminded Crocker of the kind of vacation house you’d find on a lake in New Hampshire, with living room, dining room, and kitchen downstairs and three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs.

Crocker tossed his kit on one of the beds and hurried downstairs to do a quick survey of the house-access through two doors, one at the front of the house, another side door that led to the garage. The lock on the garage door was broken. All of the windows had simple latches and were easy to punch in.

Security sucked, but they weren’t planning to stay long. The refrigerator was stocked with beer, sodas, milk, and eggs. He popped open a bottle of Bohemía, gulped it down, and looked out the front window to the more modern house that sat on the other side of an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

They’d only been there ten minutes and he was already feeling antsy.

“What do we do now?” Mancini asked as he plopped down on the sofa, picked up a copy of Esquire someone had left behind, and opened it to a photo of a half-naked Lena Headey-one of the stars of Game of Thrones.

“Nieves said he’d come get us,” Crocker responded, understanding that as long as they lacked their own transportation and had no weapons, they were totally dependent on their FBI/DEA hosts.

“I guess that means we wait.”

Sitting at a desk across the room, Davis slipped a CD into his laptop. The theme from The Outer Limits played, followed by the deep voice of a narrator who said, “Through all legends of ancient peoples, Assyrian, Babylonian, Sumerian, Semitic, runs the saga of the Eternal Man, one who never dies, called by various names…The hero who strides through the centuries.”

Crocker waved at Davis to turn down the sound. The SEAL science fiction aficionado complied.

Glancing at his Suunto watch, which had adjusted automatically, Crocker saw that the local time was 1944. He opened the large envelope Nieves had given him and started to leaf through the classified FBI and CIA reports. On the first page of one, he read the highlighted sentences: “Mexican drug cartels have been in operation without much interruption from the Mexican and U.S. government for decades. Their networks are more extensive than any intelligence network in the world.”

The last sentence startled him, so he read it again. Then he saw that the wholesale value of illegal drugs from Mexico sold in the United States was estimated to be about $40 billion.

Crocker was about to repeat this staggering number to Mancini when he heard a knock at the door. Seconds later Nieves entered, carrying a yellow menu. “We’re ordering in,” he announced as if they were a bunch of guys about to watch a football game on TV. “If you’ve never had Oaxacan food, I recommend the chicken mole, which is a rich, spicy chocolate sauce.”

“Screw the mole,” Crocker groaned. “When are we gonna get moving?”

“Relax, dude. Lane’s working on something for you guys now.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Crocker responded, thinking that the best strategy might be to strike fast before the bad guys knew they were in the country. “We didn’t come here to fuck around.”

“I know that. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

Crocker’s head was already spinning. Forty billion was more than eight times the entire CIA budget. Returning to the reports, he read about cartel attacks on parties and drug rehabilitation centers, the firebombing of a Monterrey casino that burned fifty-two people to death, the targeted killings of journalists and media workers, the shootings, kidnappings, and mass graves-seventy-two in Tamaulipas on the southern border, forty-nine in Monterrey, another forty in Nuevo Laredo.

He threw down the reports and started to pace from one end of the room to the other as the rest of the team drank beer and snacked on chips and salsa.

Nieves picked up his exegesis on the drug cartel war where he’d left off. “Some say Chapo Guzmán and the Sinaloans have grown fat and happy. I don’t know about that. Maybe he’s gotten so big and powerful he doesn’t care about what happens in Guadalajara. It’s rumored that about half the ministers in the government are on his payroll. All I know is that about a year ago, Los Zetas, which has traditionally operated along the Gulf Coast, started moving in, and things got ugly. I’m talking gunfights, kidnappings, decapitations, full-scale terror.”

“What’s the difference between the Sinaloa cartel and Los Zetas?” Davis asked.

“Sinaloa is basically a family-run organization that has grown by leaps and bounds and now employs something like two hundred thousand people. Generally they go about their business of dealing drugs and making money and leave other people alone. El Chapo is like a character out of a popular telenovela-a common man with a third-grade education who has built a global empire and continues to evade capture by the government and the U.S. Songs are written about him; journalists are constantly spreading gossip about which beautiful woman he’s been seen with.”

Nieves cleared his throat and sang the verse of a song in Spanish. “That one’s called ‘El Regreso del Chapo.’ Translated, it says: ‘Short guys are always fierce.’ That’s how the saying goes. It’s been proved with Chapo Guzmán.”

“Short guys, Suárez,” Akil cracked. “He’s talking about you.”

At five eleven, Suárez was now the shortest guy on the team. Based on the confused expression on his face, he still wasn’t up to speed in terms of the group’s give-and-take humor.

“Nice song,” Davis offered, “but I still prefer Black Crowes or U2.”

Akil: “Why don’t you just say ‘I’m vanilla’?”

“Black Crowes aren’t vanilla.”

“Bullshit.”

“Tell us about the Zetas,” Crocker said, steering the conversation back to business.

“Los Zetas are a whole different story. Their founders are deserters from Mexico’s elite special forces. They’re brutal, efficient, highly organized, and well armed. They don’t care about their popularity. They’re all about power, influence, and money.”

“What does this have to do with the kidnapping of the Clarks?” Crocker asked.

As Nieves opened his mouth to answer, his phone rang to the theme from The Godfather. He held up a hand to Crocker and nodded as he listened to the person on the other end. Putting down the phone and rubbing his big hands together, he said, “That was Lane. He’s ready to see you.”

Crocker slapped the side of the sofa where Mancini, Akil, and Suárez were sitting and said, “Good. Let’s go.”

David Lane was younger than Crocker expected-mid-to-late thirties, medium height, short dark thinning hair, a long face. He wasn’t anyone who would stand out in a crowd, but he projected commitment and intelligence. He also looked harried and tired.

The FBI agent in charge sat at a dining room table covered with papers, the sleeves of his blue-check oxford shirt rolled up to his elbows. He was typing furiously on a laptop and sipping a Diet Coke when Crocker approached.

“Welcome,” Lane said. “I’m finishing a report on the violence today.”

“I hear you have a plan.”

Lane finished typing, leaned forward and reread what he had just written, and pressed Send. Turning to Crocker, he said, “The violence here is shocking to our sensibilities but not unusual for them.”

“I just read a bunch of news reports Nieves gave me. Gruesome stuff.”

“A Mexican academic I know explained that it goes back to the Aztec view of the world, which was frightening, and ruled by gods who were dangerous and demanding. Our God isn’t so demanding, is he, Crocker?”

“I don’t know.”

“Our God wants us to be fair and considerate, but he doesn’t demand our blood in return for simple things like the sun rising in the morning or rainfall,” Lane said, nodding toward a redheaded woman who entered in tight blue pants with a pistol in a holster on her hip.

She smiled back at Lane as if they had made some secret communication.

“No, he doesn’t,” Crocker remarked.

“The Aztecs believed that the gods gave nothing without demanding something in return,” Lane continued. “In the case of the Aztec god of rain, Tlaloc, he required the blood of children ages six and seven to ensure the end of the dry season and a sufficient period of rain. Boys and girls were chosen who had double cowlicks in their hair, which was considered an auspicious sign. He preferred the children of nobles. After they were selected, they were dressed in colorful paper costumes and carried from the city to seven ceremonial sites. Their mothers followed them. If they cried a lot, that was considered a good omen. The quantity of tears the children shed before they were sacrificed was considered a direct correlation to the rain that could be expected in the coming year.”

Lane was obviously thoughtful and well read. But Crocker hadn’t come to hear a lecture on comparative religions, or on the cultural connection between the Aztecs and the modern cartels. “Interesting,” he said. “Now let’s talk about the mission.”

“The more time I spend in this country, the more I appreciate the difference in cultures,” Lane continued, maintaining a composed demeanor. “I don’t think we fully understand the cultural and historical context we’re dealing with here.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“You’re nodding your head like you agree,” Lane said, “but you’re looking at me like I’m full of shit.”

“I was told that a senator’s wife and daughter are scheduled to be executed less than thirty-six hours from now.”

“We’re well aware of that, Crocker,” Lane replied.

“For your information, we’ve been operating without sleep for more than two days, with little in the way of resources,” the redhead announced as she pulled a document out of a printer.

“You’ll be moving soon enough,” said Lane. “We’re planning a raid for early tomorrow morning. Isn’t that correct, Karen?”

“Right.”

Crocker quickly glanced at his watch. “You’re talking six to eight hours from now?”

“Yes, Crocker. Is that soon enough for you?”

He didn’t care about their attitude, or whether or not they’d slept. He wanted to make sure that what he had just heard was right. “So you’ve established where Lisa Clark and her daughter are being held?” he asked.

Both Lane and Karen nodded. “That’s correct.”

Crocker’s sense of urgency shot up. “Where are they?”

“Nearby.”

“How’d you find them?”

Lane stood and indicated to Crocker to follow him outside through the double glass doors. Karen grimaced and shot him the middle finger.

Crocker didn’t waste a second worrying about the impression he had made on her, or on Lane, for that matter. He stood facing Lane as a warm breeze blew through the compound, stirring the full trees, and Lane lit a Marlboro. From a distance the lights of the city conveyed only promise and beauty.

Lane’s eyes narrowed as he exhaled a long stream of white smoke through the amber porch light.

“I understand that you and your men are the best at what you do, which is why you’re here. And I totally respect that,” he said in a measured tone of voice. “But I want you to know that my people are incredibly capable and dedicated, too. Karen, Nieves, Marion, Higgins, the others. They’ve worked their butts off and risked their lives to bring us to this point.”

Crocker said, “I don’t mean any disrespect.”

Lane exhaled again. “Not a problem.” He tossed the partially smoked cigarette and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. “This is my operation. My team has spent many hours piecing together shards of information from a myriad of human and electronic sources, analyzing them, and drawing up a plan. In a little while, some people are going to arrive, and we’re going to brief you on everything A to Z.”

“That’s not necessary,” Crocker said. “We trust you.”

“No. You and your men are about to undertake a very dangerous operation and I think we owe you that.”

“All we need to know are the logistics of the operation. How many people we’re going up against, how they’re armed, where the hostages are being held; details like that. How good is your intel?”

Lane pulled an NEC Terrain out of his back pocket and scrolled through his messages. “I’ve been working the border area for years, assisting local police departments, ICE, border patrol, and the DEA. It’s a losing battle. The only way we can be effective is to get inside the cartels and close to the guys calling the shots. And that involves enormous risks.”

“You know someone close to the people who executed the kidnapping?” Crocker asked, stretching the muscles in his lower back.

“Yes, we have a source,” Lane whispered back.

Crocker got excited. This was what he wanted to hear. “Who are they, the kidnappers?”

“Members of a very dangerous narcoterrorist group called Los Zetas.”

“Nieves told me about them. But…why?”

“Why did they kidnap Lisa and Olivia Clark?” Lane asked back.

Crocker nodded. “Yeah.”

“It has to do with a power struggle they’re involved in with the Sinaloa cartel,” Lane answered. “We don’t know if all the Zetas are behind it. But according to our source, this particular leader, the guy who executed this, is trying to show the power and range of his particular cell, while also earning brownie points with the Mexican people by giving the United States a black eye. Senator Clark isn’t a very popular figure here, because of his pronouncements on drug trafficking and immigration.”

“I get that. Where specifically are they being held?”

“Specifically, a house, or estate, two miles northeast.”

Someone was tapping on the glass door behind them. They turned in unison and saw Nieves pointing at his open mouth and waving them inside.

“I think he’s trying to tell us that dinner has arrived,” Lane said.

“Then what?” Crocker asked.

“Then we wait for our asset. She’s scheduled to arrive soon,” Lane said, sliding open the door and waiting for Crocker to enter first. “She knows the entire layout of the estate, numbers of guards, the location of the rooms where the women are being held, everything.”

Crocker stopped halfway. “She?” he asked. “Your source is a woman?”

“That’s correct,” Lane answered. “You have a problem with that?”

Crocker shook his head. “Not at all.”

The truth was that he worried throughout dinner. He’d been burned by a female source several years ago in Algeria, when he was sent to intercept a shipment of weapons to a group of Islamic terrorists. Instead of expressing his concerns, he decided to wait until he could pull Lane aside and ask him if he had other information-like electronic intercepts-that could back up what his source was telling him.

Five minutes into the chicken mole, black beans, and rice, Lane was summoned upstairs by Karen.

Crocker watched Akil admire her as she climbed the stairs.

“I like the way she wears that pistol,” cracked Akil.

“She can probably kick your ass,” Davis responded.

“She will, too, if you piss her off,” said Nieves as he licked spicy chocolate sauce from the side of his mouth. “Karen’s a black belt in karate and a former female motocross champ.”

Crocker had raced motorcycles as a teenager and had thought about turning pro before he joined the navy.

“Bring it on,” Akil said, washing down the beef tacos he had ordered with bottled water.

Nieves: “She’s not into guys.”

Akil: “She will be when she meets me.”

Nieves laughed loudly.

The flat-screen TV on the wall to the left of where they were seated was tuned to CNN International. When a picture of Lisa Clark appeared on the screen, Mancini grabbed the remote and turned up the sound.

The men grew quiet. A Mexican female correspondent named Carmen Aristegui was being interviewed by Christiane Amanpour. She said the kidnapping was a huge embarrassment to newly elected president Enrique Peña Nieto. One of the Mexican president’s campaign promises had been to prioritize the reduction of violence. He also pledged that he did not support the involvement of armed U.S. agents in Mexico-a practice encouraged by the previous Felipe Calderón administration, which had waged a much-publicized and maligned war on drug traffickers.

“Dumb,” Akil groaned.

Artistegui, who spoke as though she was an expert on Mexico, said that many Mexican political watchers theorized that the kidnapping was the work of President Peña Nieto’s political rivals. She reported that the president was personally heading an all-out effort to locate the kidnappers and their victims. According to an unnamed source close to the president, his security advisors believed that Lisa and Olivia Clark were being held somewhere in the state of Chihuahua, which bordered the United States.

The city of Chihuahua was something like six hundred miles northeast of where they were now.

“Is that correct?” Mancini asked.

Crocker: “No. Her information is wrong.”

“How come journalists never get it right?” Davis asked, lifting a bottle of Dos Equis.

“Because they listen to the experts, and the experts never know what the fuck they’re talking about,” Akil answered.

“And the people who do know generally keep their mouths shut,” Nieves added.

A harried Senator Clark appeared on the screen. He was being interviewed in a Capitol Hill corridor and looked like he hadn’t slept soundly in days. When he was asked about the kidnapper’s demands to release the forty drug cartel associates from U.S. jails, Clark said, “I love my wife and daughter immensely and ask the people holding them to please let them go. They are good, loving people. As far as the kidnapper’s demands, I support our government’s policy.”

It was U.S. policy never to negotiate with or give in to the demands of criminals or terrorists.

Crocker put his plate down on the glass coffee table and pulled Nieves into the kitchen.

“We need to get moving,” he said, looking at his watch, which showed that it was 2100 hours and approximately twenty-seven hours from the kidnappers’ deadline.

Nieves finished chewing and swallowed. “What did Lane tell you?”

“He said we’re going to launch before dawn, and we’re waiting for this Mexican woman who knows where the Clarks are being held. She’s their source, which is fine, but in the meantime, we have some things to take care of, like getting armed.”

Nieves knitted his thick black eyebrows together and said, “I don’t know anything about her. I believe she’s being run by that redhead you met, Karen Steele, and this other guy named Bob Marion. You’ll have to ask Lane about that.”

“You’ve never met her?” Crocker asked.

“The asset? No. It’s not that they don’t trust me. But it’s FBI SOP in a situation like this to keep the circle small.”

“What about gear and weapons?” Crocker continued. “Lane said we’re supposed to move later tonight.”

“I’ve got a shitload of stuff stored in the garage,” Nieves answered. “SIG Sauers, HK45CTs, MP7s, HK416s, M79s, Teflon vests, explosives.”

“All right, listen,” Crocker said, thinking ahead. “I want you to show what you’ve got to my ordnance guy, Mancini. So he can get a sense of what’s available. While you’re doing that, I’ll go upstairs to find out what’s going on.”

Nieves, who was so big and wide he filled a third of the narrow galley kitchen, warned, “No one except for us agents is allowed up there.”

“I have a Level-Seven security clearance,” Crocker said.

“I’ve got to check with Lane first.”

“Screw that.”