Return of the Assassin (Assassin Series 3) (10 page)

Methamphetamines were on the ascent with the cartels, primarily because of the low cost of manufacturing the product and the consequential economical price for street users. As the economy had turned sour in the U.S., cheaper chemical vacations were in high demand, and meth use had taken off like a rocket, especially in poor and lower middle-class neighborhoods, as well as most larger metropolitan areas throughout the country.

All of the restrictions on purchases of Sudafed had only served to make it hard for small-time dealers to manufacture the drug themselves, effectively eliminating competition for the larger, better-equipped cartels, who never seemed to have any problems getting their hands on the raw materials necessary to produce it. As demand for cocaine had slowed, it had been replaced by increased meth consumption – a natural, given that both drugs were stimulants.

An industrial cleaning supply manufacturing company in Mexico City’s outer reaches had been fingered by the snitch, who had claimed that a huge meth lab was in operation underground, the strong, distinctive odor of the chemicals effectively masked by the legitimate manufacturing operations at street level.

If the information was true, this was gold – not only a distribution hub, but also a factory. It would be simple to verify – the federal police could just go in with a frontal raid; no need for subtlety. The informant had told them that the factory operated round the clock, so there was no point in waiting a month in the hopes that one of the top Zetas brass would stop by. They knew from experience that wouldn’t happen. The upper echelon stayed well away from the daily operations, preferring to allow trusted subordinates to take the lion’s share of the risk.

Cruz had called an all hands meeting and was briefing the section heads on the situation.

“This is a fairly remote industrial area near the La Paz barrio, among junkyards and construction supply yards, so it’s perfect for this kind of manufacturing. If the information is true, the underground lab is producing twenty percent of all the methamphetamine being trafficked to the U.S.. That would make this the largest bust of its kind in our task force’s history,” Cruz said to the gathered men.

“What kind of security does it have?” Ricardo, a lieutenant who headed up the tactical assault group, asked.

“There are ten-foot concrete walls around the entire property, which is located on three and a half acres of land. The visible security is low key, but the informant says that there’s a small army permanently stationed at the underground entrance – at least twenty men, with that area further walled off from the legitimate operation. The cartel stays to itself so as not to attract attention during the day. It’s a compound within a compound.”

“It’s going to be tough to crack,” Briones, who was sitting next to Cruz, commented.

“That’s why we’re not going to try for subtlety. With a target of this size, which by all accounts is well fortified and manned by Los Zetas – the most dangerous of all the cartels – there is no real strategy other than to go in hard and heavy,” Cruz underscored. “I think we bring in air support and throw the kitchen sink at it. Army,
Federales
, marines, special forces…”

“Of course the more outside agency involvement, the greater the likelihood they get tipped,” Briones said. “That’s always the downside to a large operation like this.”

“I don’t see any alternative to doing it this way. Anybody got any other ideas?” Cruz asked.

Nobody volunteered anything.

Ricardo held up a hand. “How about reconnaissance? What can we get so that we’re sure this isn’t all a red herring, and we wind up going scorched earth on an innocent business? That would be a disaster…”

“There’s a water tower half a mile away, and we’ve already got a two man team in position, dressed as maintenance workers. They’ve positioned remote cameras with zoom lenses on the tank and are about done. We’ll be able to keep the target under surveillance all day. If anything looks like it contradicts the informant’s testimony, which was highly detailed, by the way, right down to an accurate description of the building locations and their functions…we’ll hold off. But for now let’s assume that this is a go. I need everyone to calculate how much time we’ll need to mobilize the required resources. Let’s plan another meeting today at three, and have your recommendations and requirements for me then. I’ve already put out feelers to the marines and army, and they can be ready to go on six hours notice…but of course they would prefer twenty-four if possible.”

“Are we in any hurry?” Ricardo asked.

“The snitch’s absence will be noted. He was taken in yesterday, so the clock is ticking. A guy disappears for a day, that’s not the end of the world. Two, people start worrying. If we can do this tonight, we’ll stand the best chance,” Cruz finished.

“Tonight? That’s not much time.”

“Agreed, but sometimes you have to play the cards you’re dealt, and that’s what we have.” Cruz looked at his watch. “Let’s regroup at three. That gives you five hours to study the satellite imagery and the feed from the site, which is now live in media room three. I’d encourage everyone to go there and take a look at what we have. I’ll see everyone this afternoon.”

Cruz stood and left the officers in hushed discussions among themselves. They preferred carefully-planned assaults with days, if not weeks, of planning. The one positive was that the factory was only thirteen miles from headquarters, so they could put their best men on point.

One thing was for sure. The rest of the day wouldn’t be boring. Cruz mentally noted that the judge still hadn’t returned his call and then banished the thought in favor of the crisis at hand.

Serafiel
’s massive bow sliced through the pristine waters thirty miles south-east of the Leeward Antilles island of Curaçao, moving at a steady twenty-two knots. Flying fish sailed above the surface, their fins keeping them aloft as they piloted a parallel course to the super-yacht. The sun’s early-afternoon rays made the large ship seem to glow, the white of its gleaming hull and superstructure dazzling against the turquoise sea.

At just under three hundred feet,
Serafiel
was the largest of
Don
Aranas’ three boats, which he rotated bi-annually, preferring to sell them in favor of newer acquisitions – an epically wasteful approach, but his multi-billion dollar annual personal take from the Sinaloa cartel’s operations made it pocket change.
Serafiel
’s annual maintenance and operations budget was thirty-seven million dollars, including staff of eighteen and sufficient fuel to power her round the world three times. She lacked for nothing, sporting a full complement of jet skis and tenders, a thirty-eight foot express fishing boat for shallow water exploration, a six-person helicopter, and guest quarters featuring eight lavish staterooms finished in the finest exotic woods – burled walnut, zebra, Honduran mahogany, and teak polished to a mirror finish.

The
Don
had been aboard for a day and a half, having flown into Caracas, Venezuela, on a chartered Citation X. He liked Venezuela because customs was never a problem, plus, he was treated like visiting royalty by the local honchos. In a world that held constant menace for him, it was a relief to retreat to safe havens where he could let his hair down.

At the far end of the massive salon, he was sitting at a handmade dining table that comfortably seated sixteen, surrounded by his most trusted captains – five men who ran his vast drug trafficking network, who had flown in late the previous evening.

This was the inner circle of the Sinaloa cartel, and all had been with Aranas from the time he’d taken over from the founder, who had created the original cartel scheme in the Eighties by carving up the country into territories, each controlled by its de-centralized local group. The structure had been modeled after the Italian Mafia, where families had specific regions, and each cell had its own management structure. That approach had made it almost impossible to eradicate the mafia in the U.S., resulting in a perfect structure for the Mexican cartels.

The Tijuana cartel ran northern Baja and the lucrative border traffic into California and Arizona; the Sinaloa cartel ran southern Baja and much of mainland’s Pacific coast; Los Zetas cartel controlled the eastern seaboard and much of the Texas border, and so on.

As originally conceived, it was a good plan but it quickly devolved into rivalries and then bloody wars over profits and territories. By the early Nineties, the problems were evident when brutal skirmishes escalated into a dangerously normal occurrence as the regional warlords vied for supremacy. When the Mexican government launched its anti-cartel agenda in 2000, it poured fuel on the flames, and what had been a relatively orderly drug smuggling business erupted into a full-scale armed conflict, with cartels battling one another, as well as the police and the armed forces. Twelve years later, for all the hyperbole about prevailing against the criminal syndicates, the cartels were richer than ever, with more narcotics moving north to the U.S. than at any other point in history.

The decade of conflict had caused its share of problems for Aranas, a veteran and extremely shrewd businessman. Since the new administration had come into power, his cartel had been singled out for persecution – a direct violation of the agreement he’d struck with the president when he was still only a candidate on the campaign trail with an uncertain future.

The deal had been simple. Aranas would exert his considerable influence to make the man a star and get him elected, and provide whatever funding was required to achieve that end. In return, Sinaloa would continue to be largely ignored by the government, which would instead focus on his rivals.

It had been the same deal that had withstood the test of time with the last two presidents, so it was a complete surprise to Aranas when, once their candidate was elected, Sinaloa began experiencing escalating problems with law enforcement. Shipments were intercepted, normally pliant police wouldn’t return phone calls, and the army seemed to have singled out Aranas’ operations for particularly unwelcome scrutiny. Perhaps worst of all, his pipeline to the president was abruptly cut off, and his sources within the administration had whispered that several other cartels had cut a different deal, which included the same sort of leniency for their operations, along with a push to eradicate Sinaloa. Since then, Aranas had lost a significant portion of his territory, mainly to Los Zetas cartel – the most brutal group in Mexico.

Los Zetas had started as the armed enforcement arm of the Gulf cartel, when a group of forty GAFE special forces commandos deserted and formed a private army for that cartel leader’s protection. Over time, the armed division had grown increasingly powerful, eventually dwarfing the Gulf cartel and ultimately competing with it for prized trafficking routes. The pet army had outgrown its master, and the rift was a bloody and deciding one. Los Zetas’ vastly superior combat training, coupled with a scorched earth savagery shocking by even cartel standards, had quickly overwhelmed the Gulf cartel resistance, effectively gutting that organization’s power.

Los Zetas cartel was now Aranas’ number one problem in life. It was taking his most valuable territories, attacking his strongholds and butchering his personnel, and worst of all, had somehow struck an arrangement with the president that guaranteed Sinaloa would be ground into dust over time using the full weight of the nation’s armed forces and police, while Los Zetas celebrated and enjoyed a kind of immunity.

That couldn’t stand.

One of the bevy of Russian prostitutes that Aranas’ group favored opened the sliding door from the rear deck to see if her services were needed, but Aranas waved her off. She spun in her fluorescent pink G-string, ensuring the men got a full view of what they were being offered, and then sashayed back to her colleagues, who were drinking champagne in the outdoor twelve-person hot tub.

Paolo, the man who ran operations in Culiacán and Mazatlán, said, “This was a bold move,
Jefe
. I don’t see how the president can ignore his promises to you now. But aren’t you concerned about retribution? That he’ll throw everything he has at us?”

“You mean like he hasn’t since taking office? Come on. He’s already got the army, navy and
Federales
breathing down our necks. I think we’ve seen the worst he can do, so how would we even notice if he increased the pressure? No, we’ve been forced into this predicament by his treachery. I’m hopeful that now we have leverage, he decides to honor our agreement.”
Don
Aranas sipped a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice fortified with a splash of Veuve Clicquot champagne. “I can’t see how he wouldn’t. I’m being extremely reasonable.”

Paolo nodded. “No question. It’s interesting that there’s no media coverage of the girl’s abduction. The government has managed to keep it quiet, just as you believed they would. They can’t be seen as vulnerable, unable to protect even their own children. If any hint of the story got out it would destroy the president’s administration, and he’s just gotten started. I think it’s safe to say that you’ve called this perfectly,” he agreed.

“That was predictable. As was the attack on the ranch. A good diversion, my friend, and well played. I didn’t think they’d be so stupid and obvious, but it’s a measure of their desperation…”
Don
Aranas shrugged. It was unfolding exactly as he’d assured them it would.

He gazed through the salon windows at the ocean around them, enjoying the steady motion of the ship’s progress. There was nothing to compare with being on a boat for relaxation, he’d found.

“What does our timing look like? What’s next?” Rodrigo, the head of the Pacific corridor trafficking route, asked.

“I’ll be giving the president instructions within the next twenty-four hours. A list of Los Zetas strongholds we know about. I want to see the army take them out, and then I’ll believe that our errant lamb has found his way back to the path of the righteous. I’ll give him a week to execute, and if he stalls, or if there’s no action, I’ll start sending him pieces of the girl in a box. That will get his attention. And if he’s willing to sacrifice her so he can keep his backstabbing deal with Los Zetas, then my trump card is to alert the media about the entire scheme – his agreement, my support in getting him elected, the kidnapping, and his allowing his daughter to be butchered in favor of a double-cross that’s all about money.” Aranas paused, savoring the idea. “They’ll run him out of the country on a rail, and the government will have no choice but to be more equitable in which cartels it goes after. We’ll still take hits, but so will everyone else, and it will be a return to business as usual. Then we can focus on crushing Los Zetas once the dust settles.”