Hunt the Jackal

Chapter Seven

Lisa awoke in the middle of the night, her stomach burning and her body damp with sweat. Reaching for the light switch, she saw the white bandages on her index finger and forearm and remembered the gray-haired man drawing blood.

The lamp cast a hideous shadow on the wall to her left, made by a young man slumped in the chair facing her bed with an automatic pistol tucked in the waistband of his pants.

Unlike on other occasions when Lisa had awakened from drug-induced sleep, this time she immediately understood her situation. Her alert mind darted from subject to subject, image to image. The white grip of the pistol, the slight mustache above the young man’s upper lip, her own throbbing finger, the gnawing feeling in her empty stomach, her husband and son, Olivia, the Jackal, Johnny Depp, the cage filled with jackals, the fact that there were no clocks anywhere so it was almost impossible to keep track of time.

She sat up and focused on the pistol, which leered at her like a challenge as a sliver of moon peeked through the window and a lone bird called plaintively outside.

Do I dare take the pistol, free Olivia, and try to escape? Or should I wait for someone to rescue us?

She knew that Clark would do everything in his power to secure their freedom. He might not be creative and exciting, but he was steadfast and reliable, and she needed him now.

As the guard snored gently, Lisa remembered something Henri Gaudier had told her many years ago: Cowardice is the only sin.

Am I being a coward now for not grabbing the pistol and taking action myself?

She wasn’t sure.

What if I screw up and get us both killed?

Sitting up in bed and chewing the inside of her mouth, Lisa started to argue with herself.

What constituted cowardice, and was it really a sin? Was it, as Henri had said, the only sin that mattered? Or the most important one? What about gluttony, lust, and pride, all of which she had been guilty of, too?

Hadn’t he meant: Don’t be afraid to acknowledge the truth. And when you find the truth, don’t shrink from taking appropriate action.

Part of her reasoned that the reality as far as her husband was concerned was that he couldn’t handle the truth about her past, which was why she hadn’t told him. So why was it wrong to hide things from him in the interest of preserving their marriage and keeping their family together?

A second, deeper part of her said no. The truth wasn’t something you could remodel or change according to the person you were talking to, or the circumstances.

She looked at the rumpled gray sheets, the guard with the pistol, the shadows on the wall, saw her own gaunt face reflected in the glass over the picture of La Santísima Muerte, and came to the conclusion that in some karmic way she had brought this current dilemma on herself.

In her mind’s eye she pictured the Jackal’s strange, scarred, rebuilt face, the fever in his eyes, the potent, almost violent energy he gave off, and its effect on her. And as she did, she recalled a September night more than twenty years ago.

But she didn’t want to go there. Not now. Not ever.

Trying to force her brain to change the subject, Lisa closed her eyes and recalled gentle summer days growing up with her parents and older brother in Virginia-making peach ice cream with her friend Samantha, swimming in Crystal Lake in the summer, and meeting her boyfriend, Adam, after baseball practice. The freckles on his upturned nose, his long legs as he glided across the green field, the way he played guitar and sang to her, then kissed her on the lips.

But even those sweet memories circled back to Henri and the hot, humid night in September she had tried all these years to forget. It was a Sunday, shortly after 9 p.m. The streets of Georgetown were quiet. They had eaten fresh crabs and oysters for dinner at an outdoor table covered with newspaper. She could taste the salty brininess and the German beer.

Afterward they drove in Henri’s white Mercedes to a two-story brick apartment building off MacArthur Boulevard, not far from Georgetown University. She was there to settle a debt she owed to a young drug dealer named Raj.

They parked in the lot behind the building. Henri, who was in a good mood, having won money in a recent backgammon tournament, offered to lend her the five thousand dollars she owed. She said, “No, that’s very generous, but I’ll handle this myself.” She went in alone.

The elevator smelled of dirty laundry. The apartment stank of rotten food and BO. Raj sat on the couch playing Nintendo with one hand and holding a cordless phone with the other. Between phone calls and through the thick brown hair that hung over one side of his dark-skinned face, they negotiated.

He said he would cut the amount owed to two thousand dollars if she agreed to clean his apartment one day a week for the next six months. When she turned that down, he offered to forgive the debt entirely in exchange for Lisa’s performing on him a certain lewd act that he would record with his camcorder.

She was outraged at first. But five thousand dollars was a lot of money. She agreed, with certain stipulations. She’d perform the act three times over the next week but wouldn’t let him record it.

Sex was sex, she told herself. It wasn’t love. She’d get it over with, clear the debt, learn never to get in that situation again, and move on.

But when gaunt, sweaty Raj lowered his pants and grabbed her, she pulled away and ran out the door. She jumped into the Mercedes, telling herself that she was a fool to get hooked on cocaine and an idiot to agree to Raj’s offer.

She shouted at Henri to gun the engine and leave fast.

He turned to her and asked what had happened.

Looking past his shoulder, she saw Raj running toward them, pulling at his gray sweatpants. She thought he looked pathetic, then realized he was running into the path of the car. “Watch out!” she shouted.

In a moment of panic, she grabbed hold of the steering wheel with her left hand and turned it sharply to avoid hitting Raj head-on. The front right fender grazed his left hip and knocked him off his feet and into the side of the building. In the headlights, she saw his head hit the brick wall and shatter.

Two days later, she read in the Washington Post that Raj Malik Gupta had been found dead-“the victim of a suspected drug-related hit-and-run.” The D.C. police never questioned her or Henri and, as far as she knew, never traced the Mercedes.

Henri dismissed it as an accident. But the truth was that they had left Raj bleeding to death in the parking lot and fled the scene. Had they called an ambulance immediately, he might have been saved.

Now she pictured Raj’s bulbous nose and big limpid eyes. He had been young, greedy, and stupid, but he hadn’t deserved to die.

Remembering his sour stench, her stomach clenched like she was going to be sick. She had thought over the years that somehow the past might come back to haunt her. But she had never imagined that it would happen like this.

Even if I deserve this, my daughter doesn’t. I’ve got to save Olivia. She needs me. I’ve got to be strong!

Crocker had suffered pangs of conscience, too. But they weren’t as deep, or as active. Part of that had to do with the role he played, defending his country, and his training.

He worked hard to be an honest man. And during quiet moments like this, he sensed that the lives he had taken in the line of duty had left a dark spot on his soul. When he thought about the young men he had trained and led, and all the young men and women in the armed forces who had killed others in combat, he knew that the emotional scars would stay with them forever.

There was a spiritual price a warrior had to pay, and Crocker saw honor in that, not shame. You had to be brave enough to look the horror of war in the face and acknowledge the shortcomings of mankind. Then suck it up and move on.

He faced forward and straightened his seat as the American Airlines pilot announced that the three-and-a-half-hour flight from Norfolk was about to end at Dallas-Fort Worth airport. After a two-hour layover, he and the other four SEALs would catch another two-and-a-half-hour flight to Guadalajara. They’d arrive around 1900 hours local, less than two days from the kidnappers’ deadline.

Maybe because this was their first mission without Ritchie, the guys on the team seemed uncharacteristically quiet and lost in their own thoughts. Mancini sat behind Crocker reading a book titled What the Dog Saw by Malcolm Gladwell. Davis beside him watched Braveheart on his laptop.

Suárez and Akil, across the aisle, were the only ones talking. Crocker heard Suárez ask Akil if he was Muslim and heard Akil answer, “Yeah. So what?”

“You don’t have a problem fighting the war on terror against Muslim extremists?” Suárez asked.

“No,” Akil answered. “Just like you’re part Mexican, and we’re on our way to that country now to kick the asses of some nasty mofos there.”

“What I’m talking about is different,” Suárez explained.

His skin was browner than Akil’s, and he had brilliant black eyes and a wide face with a scar that ran from his cheekbone to his chin-the result of a diving accident during training.

“You’re talking about nationality,” Suárez said. “I’m talking about religious beliefs.”

“You Christian?” the taller, broader Akil asked.

From across the aisle, Crocker watched Suárez make the sign of the cross. “Yes,” he answered, “the Lord Jesus Christ is my savior.”

“Then how can you be in the business of annihilating our enemies when Jesus told his followers to turn the other cheek?”

It was a good question, Crocker thought. Suárez responded by reciting Matthew 5:39: “‘But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.’”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” argued Akil.

“The Scripture also says in Exodus 22:2, ‘If a thief be found breaking up, and be smitten that he die, there shall no blood be shed for him.’”

“So…”

“To me that means one has the right to defend his home, his family, and his country,” Suárez explained. “Because aren’t the terrorists we fight against the same as thieves who are trying to steal our freedoms and liberties?”

Akil grinned. “Maybe.”

“Or maybe not,” Suárez mused out loud. “I ask myself those questions all the time and pray for an answer.”

“Do you get one?”

“Sometimes.”

Crocker liked Suárez more already. He wanted strong men with consciences who understood the personal and spiritual sacrifices they were making, not stone-cold killers and sociopaths.

And he hoped that Suárez and Akil were getting off on the right foot but wasn’t sure when he exited the plane beside Akil, who described the new team member as “a nice guy with shit for brains.”

Crocker said, “Don’t be so judgmental, and cut the new guy some slack.”

“I’ll try.”

After the dull sameness of the plane cabin and the stale air, the sights and sounds of the Dallas-Fort Worth airport terminal woke him up. Tall, buxom blondes; an old couple holding hands while being pushed in matching wheelchairs; an overweight family sitting around a huge bucket of fries; anxious young men in business suits selling stuff over cell phones; a group of smiling young recruits in camouflage fatigues boarding a flight to North Carolina; a couple of college guys in shorts and flip-flops carrying Mexican sombreros; women in power suits and patent-leather shoes pulling black carry-ons; kids dressed all in black covered with tattoos.

These are the people we’re defending, he said to himself with a smile.

Carrying his Starbucks double espresso and Greek yogurt, he approached Suárez, Davis, and Akil. The last two were sitting near the gate howling with laughter.

“What are you two baboons laughing about?” Crocker asked.

Davis: “Suárez was just telling us that his ex-wife used to ask him to piss on her in the shower.”

“What for?”

“I’m not kidding, chief. She used to wipe it all over her face and body like this. She said it was good for her skin.”

“Where is she now?” Akil asked.

“She’s living outside Albuquerque making jewelry.”

Akil: “Next time I pass through, I’ll look her up.”

Their banter was interrupted by a PA announcement informing them that their flight’s gate was being moved from concourse A to C, which meant gathering their stuff and taking the Skylink. They walked in a group, dressed casually in jeans, polo shirts, and hoodies, looking like athletes.

Aside from Mancini, with his perpetual scowl and numerous tattoos, they seemed like a genial group of guys. Only if you looked carefully would you notice the confidence with which they carried themselves and the intensity in their eyes.

Approximately three hours later, the Boeing 767-200 they rode in cut through the smog and low-lying clouds and landed at Don Miguel Hidalgo y Castilla International Airport in Guadalajara.

As they stood in line at Immigration, Mancini explained that the modern steel-and-glass structure they stood in had been named in honor of Miguel Gregorio Antonio Ignacio Hidalgo y Castilla Gallaga Mandarte Villaseñor, who was a priest born of pure Spanish blood. Father Hidalgo was so shocked by the poverty he saw in his rural Mexican town of Dolores in the early 1800s that he marched throughout the territory preaching revolt against the Spanish and eventually raising an army of a hundred thousand campesinos armed with sticks, stones, and machetes.

When his peasant army ran into a force of six thousand trained and armed Spanish troops, they were slaughtered, and Father Hidalgo was executed by a firing squad. His last words were “Though I may die, I shall be remembered forever.”

His head was cut off in Guanajuato City, east of Guadalajara, where it was displayed for ten years. It was finally taken down and buried when Father Hidalgo’s goal of Mexican independence was achieved in 1821.

“Mexicans seem to have a thing about cutting people’s heads off,” remarked Akil, referring to a recent spate of Ciudad Juárez drug vendettas that had been reported in the U.S. press.

Suárez, whose mother’s family hailed from the colonial city of Puebla, east of Mexico City, turned to Mancini and asked, “Where did you learn all that?”

“I guess nobody told you that Manny’s really an oral encyclopedia,” Davis answered.

“More like a freak who reads constantly and never sleeps,” Akil added.

“But don’t cross him. ’Cause he’s crazy strong. Bench presses three seventy-five like it’s nothing, even though he looks like a puss.”

They had passed through Immigration and were retrieving their bags.

Grabbing Suárez by the shoulder, Mancini said, “You probably know that Mexican independence is celebrated on September sixteenth, which is the day in 1810 when Father Hidalgo gave a speech called the Grito de Dolores during Mass, which was essentially a battle cry for independence. I can quote a few lines from it, if you like.”

“Are you part Mexican?” Suárez asked.

Davis answered before Mancini got a chance. “Joey Mancini. He’s as Italian as meatballs and spaghetti.”

Akil whispered into Suárez’s ear, “Don’t tell anyone, but Mancini’s our secret weapon. We use him to bore people to death.”

Suárez choked back a laugh.

“Akil thinks it’s cool to be ignorant,” Mancini responded. “He believes that his boyish insouciance makes him more attractive to the random chicks he picks up in bars and hotel lounges.”

Akil: “What the fuck does ‘insouciance’ even mean?”

“Look it up, Akil. Any good psychologist can tell you that you’re compensating for your small dick and latent homosexuality.”

“You wish, Manny.”

Crocker always enjoyed Mexico and had visited almost a dozen times. The last was a cave-diving trip that he had taken with Holly to the Yucatán. Not only were the underground air and cave water restorative, but as they swam and looked up at patches of sky through holes in the caves, Crocker felt that they were in the presence of spirits that were thousands of years old.

There was something deep and mysterious about the country. He wasn’t a big reader, but his interest in military campaigns had drawn him to the incredible True History of the Conquest of New Spain by Bernal Díaz del Castillo-an eyewitness account of the Spanish conquest of Mexico. Crocker had marveled at how the relatively small group of six hundred soldiers, with fifteen horses and fifteen cannons, had prevailed against an Aztec army numbering in the hundreds of thousands.

Especially interesting was the pivotal role played by La Malinche, the Nahua Indian woman from the Gulf Coast of Mexico who served as Cortés’s guide and interpreter and later bore him a son. Nearly six hundred years later, she was still a controversial figure in Mexico. Crocker had heard that to call someone a malinchista was to accuse that person of being a traitor to their people, or someone who hated Mexicans.

As they approached the exit, his thoughts were interrupted by a large Hispanic-looking man who stepped into his path. “Tom Crocker?” the man asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“Carlos Nieves, FBI. I’ve got a colleague and two SUVs waiting on the curb. You want a lift?”

“How much?”

“A round of beer and a plate of nachos.”

Crocker checked Nieves’s ID and indicated to his men to follow. He’d been told that the man running the joint FBI/DEA task force was named David Lane, so he asked, “Where’s Lane?”

“He’s waiting at headquarters, which is actually in a compound in the Zapopan part of town,” Nieves answered as he helped load the SEALs’ gear into the back of one of the SUVs. “You’ll be bunking in the same compound, in a separate structure. It’s pretty damn posh, with a barbecue, nice patio, even a pool. You bring a suit?”

Crocker shook his head. He wasn’t interested in pools or amenities. The little time they had left was ticking past. As they rode into the city, he pictured Lisa Clark’s face and tried to imagine the stress she and her daughter were under. He considered pulling innocent women and children into conflicts and using them as barter to be the lowest form of cowardice.

Nieves slowed the black Honda Pilot. Looking ahead, Crocker saw a sea of red brake lights covering all four lanes of the expressway.

“What’s going on?” he asked. The sky was dark purple and charcoal gray.

“Looks like a roadblock,” Nieves explained, steering the vehicle onto the shoulder and passing a long line of cars and trucks. He was broad with a big square head, stood six foot three, and must have weighed 260 pounds. Like a lot of really big men Crocker had met, there was a gentleness about him.

“What kind of roadblock?” Crocker asked, looking back to check that the second SUV with Davis and Mancini aboard was behind them.

“I don’t know what you’ve been told about Guadalajara,” answered Nieves. “It’s always been a sophisticated city. Big parks; universities; lots of history, culture, and art; and a real vital tech industry that some people say is a close second to Silicon Valley. Even though it’s the second-largest city in Mexico, it’s been pretty much untouched by the usual drug cartel violence, until last year. Since then the shooting, bombings, and other acts of violence have been virtually nonstop.”

“How do you explain that?” Crocker asked. A billboard to their right advertised The Hangover Part III, showing Ken Jeong parachuting into Las Vegas. The Spanish translation of the title was ¿Qué Pasó Ayer? Parte III (What Happened Yesterday?)

“A war’s raging between the two major cartels for control of the city,” Nieves answered. “The Sinaloans have quietly owned this area for years, buying judges and cops, absorbing local groups, and plying their dirty trade. Their main business, by the way, is crystal meth.”

“Really?” Crocker interjected. “I’m no expert, but I thought it was coke and pot.”

“Crystal meth has the highest profit margin,” Nieves explained, “and the cartels can make it themselves. They don’t have to worry about growing marijuana and poppies, which requires cropland, rainfall, and harvesting. And in terms of cocaine, they don’t have to hassle with producers in Colombia, Ecuador, and Peru, or middlemen in Central America and Haiti.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Meth is not only relatively easy to produce, it’s also cheap and highly addictive, whether smoked, snorted, injected, or swallowed in a pill. Which explains why worldwide consumption has skyrocketed.”

Crocker flashed back to the image of Carla smoking meth on the edge of her bed and wondered if it had been imported from Mexico. Ahead, flashing blue lights marked the roadblock.

“If it’s the military, they’ll probably wave us through,” Nieves offered. “But if it’s the police, we might be stuck here for hours.”

“How come?”

“Because almost all the police in this country, whether they’re local, municipal, state, or PFM, are corrupt up to their fucking eyeballs. Locals will tell you they fear them even more than the narcos. The army, on the other hand, conducts raids of labs and warehouses, then disappears back into their barracks. They’re all about seizing drugs and burning them in a big bonfire show. But they rarely make arrests.”

“Doesn’t sound like a winning strategy.”

“It isn’t. Not by a long shot.”

Crocker had a practical question: “How do you tell the difference between the police and the army?”

“The army guys look like soldiers.”

“Meaning?”

“They dress in uniforms, act more professional, and generally don’t stick their hands out asking for bribes.”

Crocker nodded. “Good to know.”

As they inched up to the roadblock, Nieves continued. “The Sinaloa cartel is a family-based enterprise run by a guy named Chapo Guzmán. You might have heard of him. He’s also known as Shorty. The little bastard’s in his late fifties and grew up poor on a little cattle ranch near the U.S. border. Today he’s considered the most powerful drug trafficker on the planet, with a net worth of over a billion. Forbes magazine has him at forty-one in their list of the most powerful people in the world.”

Soldiers armed with automatic weapons and wearing black masks over their faces signaled Carlos to stop and roll down the window. He obliged with an easy smile, flashed an FBI badge, then engaged two of the soldiers in conversation. Though Crocker spoke some Spanish, the men talked too fast for him to understand.

After the soldiers waved them through, he turned to Nieves and asked, “What was that about?”

“It’s a bad situation. Something like forty people were gunned down by guys with AKs this afternoon.”

“Where?” Crocker asked.

“Downtown.”

“Downtown Guadalajara?”

“Yeah.”

“Who did they attack?” Crocker asked.

“According to the soldiers, a bunch of random people-shopkeepers, a couple tourists, a retired professor feeding the pigeons in the park, students. My guess is it’s part of the Los Zetas campaign to scare the living shit out of everyone and gain respect.”

Crocker had read somewhere that Mexican officials estimated there had been as many as thirteen hundred beheadings and public hangings, and tens of thousands of other drug-related killings, in the past year.

Nieves veered off the highway at high speed and drove down modern tree-lined avenues with office buildings that displayed familiar names-Citibank, HSBC, American Express, IBM, General Motors, etc. The handsome city appeared prosperous and offered a few elegant vestiges of its colonial past.

“Usually these streets are crowded,” Nieves remarked. “People are staying inside.”

They passed a large country club and entered an upscale residential area filled with green parks and squares. Many of the houses were hidden behind high concrete walls. At the gates stood armed guards.

Nieves pointed at a newly constructed house and remarked, “The newer ones with palm trees belong to drug traffickers.”

“How do you know?” Crocker asked.

“Apparently, they’ve got a thing for palm trees,” he answered with a shrug. “Palm trees and diamonds. Diamonds around their necks, diamonds in their teeth, big diamonds in their girlfriends’ belly buttons. Beats the shit out of me. You ever try to make love to a babe with a diamond in her belly button?”

“Can’t say I have,” Crocker answered.

“Me, either. But it’s got to be uncomfortable, right?”

They stopped at a red light in a little commercial area with shops. Through the passenger window Crocker watched a group of young people sitting at an outdoor café laughing and acting like happy, normal-if somewhat privileged-teenagers.

He heard an approaching siren. Seconds later a black Ford pickup filled with men wearing black helmets and uniforms skidded through the intersection. Two of the men stood holding on to the roll bar with one hand and AR15 automatic rifles with the other.

“Who are they?” Crocker asked.

“The Federales,” Nieves answered. “Federal police.”

“They looked scared,” Crocker remarked.

Several blocks later, Nieves turned into a driveway with a tall blue gate, stopped, and honked. A very thin, weathered Mexican man with short gray hair and a crooked smile opened it from inside and nodded.

“That’s our man Ramón. He takes care of the pool and grounds.”