Papal Justice (23 page)

Mexicali, Mexico

5:03pm, March 15
^th

Armando Ruiz took a tentative sip of the glass of tequila. Barachon said it came from an agave farm he’d acquired the year before, the former owners opting to stay on in exchange for a cut of the profits and their lives. His host laughed at that fact. Ruiz joined him.

Killing was easy. Anyone could be killed. What he learned from his years within the Mexican drug world was that killing had to have a purpose. While regular citizens might stare in horror at the television screen as the well-coiffed news anchor relayed the sad tale of twelve more senseless murders, Ruiz looked past the obvious. The deaths weren’t senseless. They served a purpose. Whether a cartel wanted more turf or some upstart was carving his own claim, there was almost always a purpose.

Many pointed the finger at the Cali Cartel in Colombia and their infamous leader, Pablo Escobar. Yes, the man was a murderer, and yes, toward the end of his life he had become paranoid and killed needlessly. But that wasn’t the whole picture. Ruiz had studied Escobar’s rise, marveling at how the kingpin wiped out his enemies while winning the hearts of many Colombians. There were still towns that celebrated his memory, erecting wreaths and crying as if Escobar had only died the day before. The man was a legend, a model, both good and bad, of what a cartel leader should and should not be. So just like billion dollar corporations around the world, rival cartels studied their counterparts.

Ruiz watched as Barachon poured another round. It was the first time he’d spent time with the man and he could see how the man had gained his nickname. The former Green Beret was sure that his host could outdrink a man twice his size. He had the liquor collection to prove it.

“Do you think they will find him?” Barachon asked, making the sign of the cross, as he did every time he made mention of the Pope.

“I pray that they do,” Ruiz answered solemnly.

The two men clinked their glasses together once more, each downing the contents without a wince. Barachon was pouring more as Ruiz set his glass back on the table.

“We should do this again, Armando. I like you. We should be friends.”

Ruiz smiled, and nodded his thanks.

“Nothing would please me more.”

Even though the casual onlooker might think the two men were good friends, what people might not see was the underlying tension. While Ruiz and Barachon might appear courteous and even brotherly, that was only a show. Ruiz had no doubt that the smiling man sitting across from him would not hesitate to put a bullet in his head if he knew it would benefit his business. The man that forgot that fact deserved to die. And as he often reminded himself, dying was part of the drug trade, a necessary evil to support the business.

So as he waited for word from his nephew, Ruiz played guest to his rival, his senses always alert, his weapon and his men always ready. Barachon was trying to get him drunk, but too many had tried that ploy before. Ruiz would not be manipulated.

As Barachon downed a solo drink, Ruiz’s phone buzzed on the table. He looked at it, but didn’t recognize the number. Curious and wanting an excuse to break from the drinking, he pointed to the phone and then to the next room. Barachon nodded, and shooed him out.

“Hello?” Ruiz answered, making his way out the door and into the sunroom.

“Ruiz?” The voice came in a rasp.

“Who is this?”

“Your friend…from…Acapulco.” The voice was gasping now.

“Moreno?”

Ruiz heard coughing, and then the voice returned.

“Yes. I…lost him.”

Ruiz froze.

“What happened?”

El Moreno tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a gurgle followed by a weak cough.

“They took him.”

“Why tell me now?” Ruiz asked, still leery about his rival’s motives.

There was another pause, and then El Moreno said in a whisper, “For the children.”

Ruiz nodded his understanding.

“Tell me everything.”

Less than five minutes later, Ruiz had five sheets of notes filled out in a small pad of paper. Even through his spasms and gasps, El Moreno’s mind was focused. He’d told Ruiz about the buses, along with the names that he remembered. He told him about Felix, the Spaniard, and the video equipment that went unused. He even mentioned something called the three-headed-dragon, although he didn’t know what it was other than some type of weapon.

“I am dying, Armando.” The words were slurred, as if El Moreno had been drinking the same tequila as Barachon.

“Tell me where you are. I’ll have them send help.”

Another gurgled chuckle.

“No. They will find me when I am dead.”

“But —“

“No.” The retort was clipped but firm. “Leave me. It is time to see if this hell is real. Maybe I will see you there?”

“You may have to wait,” Ruiz replied, not necessarily upset that man was dying, but still respectful.

“Yes. Goodbye, Armando.”

The call disconnected and Ruiz exhaled. Now to see if the man was lying or not.

+++

El Moreno looked up at the sky as he dropped his phone to the pavement. He was lying on his back and the position offered a perfect view of the clouds rolling by. The blue looked so blue, like someone had taken one of those fancy camera editing tricks and made it so only he could see through the lens. It reminded him of his first memory of the ocean, dark in some places, but azure in most. A tiny cloud floated by, for some reason its outline colored indigo.

He tried to move his legs again, but there was nothing. The pain was a dull throbbing, like his body was giving him a last ounce of peace, hiding the burn in his useless legs and toes. A breath in and a breath out. He noticed that he couldn’t taste the blood in his mouth anymore, and wondered if that was because there was none left, or because he could no longer taste.

The thought flew from his mind as another puff of cloud meandered lazily by, this one looking darker than the others. For a moment he thought it would stop and hover down around him. Is that what death felt like, a dense darkness claiming you for heaven or hell? But the cloud passed on, once again revealing the startling blue. El Moreno looked at it one last time, closed his eyes, and then let himself go.

+++

MCAS Yuma

5:20pm

Once he realized what his uncle was telling him, Gaucho asked if he could hold on a second so that he could put him on speaker phone. It only took a minute to round everyone up, including the whole TJG team, the monks and Father Pietro. President Zimmer stood with the rest of them, eager for news. Their low-level alert hadn’t turned up a thing, and the deadline was drawing near.

“Okay, we’re all here,” Gaucho said, turning up the volume on his phone.

Ruiz rattled off everything he knew, including the two names on the buses that El Moreno had remembered.

“He wouldn’t tell me where he was, but I’m sure your people can use this number and trace it back to him,” Ruiz said.

“That should be easy,” Gaucho answered, along with nods from Travis and the President. “Did he tell you what he thought they were going to do?”

“He didn’t know.”

“And you believe him?” Gaucho asked.

“I know it’s hard to trust, but I do. Unless he’s one of the best actors I’ve ever heard, that man is either dead or dying.”

Gaucho looked up at Cal.

“Kids and supplies loaded on Catholic school buses. What the hell is that about?”

Cal shook his head, then pointed at the phone and made a cutting sign.

Gaucho nodded and said, “We need to get our assets in place. I’ll call you when we have more.”

“Okay,” Ruiz replied. “Be careful. I didn’t like that little bastard, but if these guys took him by surprise…”

“I know. Thanks again for the help,” Gaucho said, ending the call.

There was silence for a moment and then Cal spoke.

“What did the Marines say they could give us?”

MSgt Trent was playing liaison with the Marine staff and said, “They’ve got four Ospreys and a few Predators on standby.”

They already decided that traditional fixed-wing aircraft wouldn’t do them much good. It wasn’t like they could take out a target in the middle of California using smart-bombs. The long-range capabilities of the Ospreys and the intel gathering skills of the Predators would work for what they’d need.

“I figured we could go in one of the Ospreys, and they already have enough grunts to fill two more Ospreys. The colonel says they might be able to get their hands on some Marine Raiders.”

That was good. Cal didn’t have anything against the common Marine grunt, hell he had been one himself, but he’d rather have special operations trained troops for what they were about to do.

“Have them scramble all the Predators and give the pilots descriptions of the four buses,” Cal ordered. “Daniel, call Neil and have him track down El Moreno’s phone and then he can fan out from there with traffic cameras and his usual tricks.”

Trent and Daniel left to complete their tasks, and the rest of the audience left the cramped room to head to the aircraft.

Cal nodded at President Zimmer and then met Travis’s gaze.

“You staying or going?”

Travis grinned. “Race you to the Pope.”

Chapter 32

MCAS Yuma

5:49pm, March 15
^th

Three Ospreys lifted into the sky, the one with the TJG men, the monks, Father Pietro and Travis leading the way. The Predators were launched minutes after they left the command post, and data was already being relayed on the screen in front of Cal. Just as everything came online, a new message came across his screen. It was from Neil Patel back in Charlottesville. Just as they’d known he would, the tech genius had found the location of El Moreno’s phone. Cal clicked on the message and then forwarded the map coordinates to the command and control people handling the Predators.

The plan was to build a web with El Moreno’s last known stop being the center. The Predator crews were pros, and the intelligence team supplying them with routes had years of experience conducting a search. If there was one thing that over a decade of war did, it was hone military output to a gleaming edge.

Two minutes out of Yuma, the call came over his headset that a Blackhawk helicopter full of eager Delta troops, fresh from weapons training on Santa Catalina Island, was heading their way from the coast. Cal told them to divert towards Los Angeles and loiter until they knew more. He received the affirmative and they kept flying north.

Neil’s hacking found the first bus, the blue one. It had just gotten off of Interstate 8 in San Diego, and was now headed onto I-15 North. It was stuck in traffic.

Cal called the Marine first lieutenant on the second Osprey and told him where to go. Every team commander had the same ability to talk to Neil, so Cal was confident that the pared down platoon of Marines would have the intel they needed. With a pair of Predators hot on the new trail, there should be plenty of real-time data to go around soon.

+++

5:57pm

1
^st
Lt. Greg Heron took the news stoically. He’d been surprised when his company commander had ordered him to choose twenty Marines and report to where they’d been training with the Ospreys the day before. Lt. Heron was even more surprised to see the President and his Secret Service detail upon arriving. Heron’s Marines didn’t have to be told to be on their best behavior. The grim faces of the assorted operators on the tarmac silenced them just as well as a screaming gunnery sergeant.

The details of the operation came from a guy in what Heron called “contractor gear.” Basically a mix of kit, web gear and weapons that didn’t match anyone else in the crowd. A lot like the handful of civilian contractors he’d met in Afghanistan. He said his call sign was
Alpha
. The guy didn’t mince words and basically told the Marines that the only people they could kill were the bad guys.

“There are kids on those buses and we are more than likely going into an urban area. I know a lot of you have done this kind of thing before, but this time it’s not Iraqi or Afghani civilians that could get caught in the crossfire, it’s Americans.”

The plan was simple: locate the vehicles, and one Osprey would be tasked to take down each bus. They had no idea how many tangos would be in them, but what mattered was rescuing the children and securing the cargo. There should be enough firepower to do the job.

One of Heron’s Marines raised his hand. The guy in contractor gear pointed at the corporal with an impatient glare.

“Is there anything we should know about the cargo, Sir?”

The guy actually smiled and said, “Didn’t your drill instructor ever tell you that when the Marine Corps has information available, then, and only then, will it give it to you?”

The corporal smiled back. “So you’re saying you don’t know, Sir?”

A grin and shake of the contractor guy’s head. “Now why on God’s green Earth would a Marine staff sergeant ever admit to a Marine corporal that he didn’t know something?”

This had finally broken the tension, and there were chuckles from the team of contractors, the Marines, and even President Zimmer.

The guy continued. “Tell you what, Marine. I’ll give a thousand bucks to the guy who figures out what is in the cargo.”

“And a weekend in Vegas?!” came a call from the other platoon of Marines.

The guy chuckled.

“If the President will sign off on it, I’ll even pay for your date.”

They boarded the Ospreys and took off into the dimming light. Lt. Heron didn’t know why, but for some reason he felt better that there was a Marine somewhere in this hodgepodge command structure. As they turned West and headed for San Diego, he looked down the aircraft at his Marines and thought that they probably felt the same way.