Papal Justice (9 page)

“I understand. What happened next?”

“They started firing at us from the second story. I do not know how we lost so many so quickly, but two got to the front door with grenades. The explosion happened, but nothing slowed. We tried to use the RPG, but that man was killed as well. Everything was chaos. We took cover and tried to return fire. I couldn’t see it, but I knew they were picking us off one by one.”

El Moreno shifted in his chair, and then leaned closer. Ricardo avoided his gaze.

“I can see by the look on your face that this is not the end of your story.” El Moreno still wasn’t shouting. In fact, he seemed calmer than minutes before.

Ricardo shook his head, still trying to come to grips with what he’d seen.

“The firing changed. Whoever was in the house had sent men around the back to attack our flank. I had men posted there, but they must have been killed. I never saw the enemy until the monks appeared on my left, calmly shooting the rest of our men.”

“Did you say monks?”

“I…yes, Jefe. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. There they were, four men in brown robes, firing machine guns moving closer to my position.”

“So what did you do?”

Ricardo’s head snapped up and he looked straight in his boss’s eyes. If he was going to admit his failure, he was going to do it like a man.

“I ran, Jefe. I am ashamed to say it, but I ran.”

“And they didn’t shoot you.”

It wasn’t a question, just an honest observation, like El Moreno had already figured it all out.

“No, Jefe. They did not shoot me.”

El Moreno nodded and was silent for a spell. Ricardo waited, ready to accept his fate. Finally, the cartel leader spoke.

“It seems there is more to this priest than we guessed. Come, Ricardo, I think it’s time to have a word with our guests. There must be something they are not telling us.”

+++

El Moreno didn’t bother calling before they arrived. He didn’t want the Spaniards to concoct a story before he showed up. It would be better to see their candid reactions to his questions. He knew he’d been lied to by his foreign guests, but he didn’t know how deep the deception went.

He wouldn’t fault Ricardo. The man was a loyal soldier, a captain who would’ve taken a knife to his own throat if El Moreno had asked. That would be a waste. In the coming months, the Guerrero Cartel would need every good man it could find. Like any good general, the dark-skinned maestro knew that Ricardo wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Word would trickle through the ranks describing El Moreno’s benevolence. Others might see it as a weakness, but El Moreno had learned that men like Ricardo Lozano would rather brave a hail of bullets than to fail his master again. He would have paid anything to have twenty more of the same.

When they pulled through the warehouse gates and into the loading bay, Ricardo was the first out, still playing his role as protector. El Moreno smiled despite himself. Lesser men would have sulked and followed their master like a sick dog. Not Ricardo. Not the rest of the Guerrero men. It was a fact that made El Moreno proud and bolstered his step as he made his way to where the jihadis were lodged.

They walked up the old stairs to the second level. Ricardo banged on the metal door. It was locked from the inside.

“Who is it?” came the muffled voice from within.

“Open the door,” El Moreno said.

A moment later, he heard the inner latch clank open, and the door swiveled inward.

The smell of rank body odor wafted out as the air shifted. It reminded El Moreno of his days on the street and the stinking beggars with whom he’d competed for food.

The leader, Felix, had opened the door.

“It is late,” he said simply, shielding the rest of the former boardroom from view. His right hand was holding the door and his left was behind his back, no doubt holding a pistol.

“We have a situation,” El Moreno said, watching to see if Felix’s face registered true or feigned surprise. He got neither. Instead, the look of annoyance etched deeper into his ethnic Catalonian features. “We found the priest who killed your men.”

That got the Spaniard’s attention.

“Where is he?”

“
That
is the situation. You never mentioned that he had friends,” El Moreno said.

“What do you mean friends? Do you mean to say that you lost him?” Felix’s nostrils flared. El Moreno was beginning to tire of this one’s bravado.

“I lost twenty men trying to get your priest.”

Silence. Felix’s eyes scrunched in confusion and then his face contorted again.

“Are you implying that I had something to do with their deaths?”

“I am saying that you will now pay us double for the men we lost, for their families, of course.”

Felix brought the pistol from behind his back to the front of his body. Ricardo’s weapon appeared in an instant, supplemented by the three guards who’d been in the SUV with them.

Felix spoke slowly, finally recognizing the threat.

“I am sorry for your loss, but I fail to see how this is my problem.”

El Moreno smiled. “Let me explain how business works. If I incur certain, let’s call them expenses, while engaged in activities that support our agreement, my organization is entitled to compensation for those expenses.”

“That’s not what we agreed. I never—“

“You haven’t told me many things, I’m sure. For instance, what is so important about getting across the American border?”

“That is none of—”

“None of my concern? Oh no, Felix, it is. You see, if our relationship becomes known to the Mexican authorities, or worse, to the Americans, very bad things will happen to you and me. This is not your country and you are not sending mortars into the Gaza Strip. This is Mexico, and this is
my
land.”

The jihadi took his time responding.

“Maybe it is time I found another partner. Perhaps your men are not up to the task.”

El Moreno wanted to punch the man, but laughed instead.

“That would be wonderful. Please, try to find anyone else that could help you. But let me warn you, before you can adjust your plans, I will alert every federal authority I can think of and my fellow cartels to your presence. I assure you that while
I
am quite reasonable in my requests and welcoming to paying customers,
they
will not be so accommodating. So please, tell me what you’ve decided so that we can either conclude or continue our business.”

There was another long pause as the extremist weighed his options, of which only one was viable. El Moreno was telling the truth. In fact, he knew that Felix’s compatriots had attempted to contact two rival organizations, and had been told to stay out of Mexico. The other cartels believed that if terrorists were allowed free passage through their territory, that would in some way affect their business. They were probably right. The Americans could ignore the drug problem as long as the violence stayed south of the border. They wouldn’t take as kindly to terrorists swimming across the Rio Grande.

El Moreno was willing to accept the risk because of the possible reward. Simply put, the Guerrero Cartel was the Spaniard’s best shot.

“We will pay,” Felix said.

El Moreno nodded, but couldn’t let the man off so easy.

“And you’re sure your masters will approve?”

Felix’s chest heaved.

“I told you before, I am in charge,”

The Mexican put up his hands in apology.

“Very well. I’ll take you at your word. We’ll speak again in the morning?”

Felix grunted and shut the large door.

El Moreno turned for the stairs, his insides bubbling with excitement. What had started off as a potentially disastrous night had turned into something quite fruitful. Not only had he just negotiated a doubling of his fees, but he’d also pinned down two important points: 1) if Felix could approve such a large increase in payment, there must be many more funds available, and 2) he now had the jihadis right where he wanted them. It was only a matter of time before he had their money and their weapon.

Chapter 12

Acapulco, Mexico

8:48am, March 14
^th

The phone call the night before had been short. MSgt Trent estimated it was probably under a minute. He couldn’t read Gaucho’s expression when he hung up the phone.

“What did he say?” Trent and Cal had asked simultaneously.

“He gave me directions to a helipad in the city. From there they’ll fly me to wherever he is.”

“I’m coming with you,” Trent said. There wasn’t any way, come heaven or hell, that he was going to let his best friend go it alone.
No way, man
. That wasn’t the way it was done.

“Top, I told you, my uncle has always had a bug up his ass about security. What do you think he’ll do when a seven-foot black guy shows up?”

“First of all, I’m six-foot-ten. And second, if you don’t let me come with you, we’re finding another way to do this.”

Trent had looked at Cal, who could only nod in agreement.

Gaucho didn’t fight it very hard. He knew what was right, and going into a cartel stronghold alone wasn’t the best tactical decision. In the end he’d agreed, and Trent had slapped his friend on the back.

“Come on, man, don’t look so glum. This’ll be fun.”

Gaucho’s typical reply jab never came. All through the rest of the night and into the next morning, he pretty much kept his mouth shut.

So when they showed up at the helipad and faced the armed guard who was with the pilot, Gaucho had explained that he was bringing his friend. After a quick phone call, the two guests were ushered onto the aircraft.

There was more greenery on the ground than Trent had expected. Sure most of it was probably scrub and scraggly trees, since not much could survive in the heat, but at least it wasn’t miles and miles of desert. Gaucho kept to himself as Trent took in the view. It wasn’t long before they’d left the coast behind, and headed northeast away from the city.

There were little pockets of homes tucked into the ravines of the countless hills stretching toward the horizon, but not many. Once they’d left the hub of the city, the terrain below was mostly free of human life.

Sooner than expected, Trent could feel the helicopter banking left. In a move that surprised him and Gaucho, the pilot dove for the deck, the nose of the aircraft pointed into a deep draw. Trent held on as they made their steep descent. Just when he thought the pilot was taking them in for a free fall, he pulled the helo up and they cruised barely ten feet above the treetops, following the terrain higher up the draw.

When they popped up and over a hill, the pilot whipped the bird around 180 degrees and plunged to the deck. There was a sprawling ranch below, ringed with fence lines and dotted with horses and cattle.

It was obvious that the guy knew what he was doing and had probably made the same landing countless times before, because he touched down like a feather floating from the sky.

Trent took a steadying breath (he’d never completely enjoyed the flyboy tricks of helicopter pilots) and looked through the window. The house looked much smaller than it had from the sky, probably because it was only one story.

A man approached the aircraft at a fast walk and opened the hatch.

“Gentlemen, if you will follow me please.”

The guy had a butler’s outfit on, resplendent in his formal black-tailed tux. Trent would’ve laughed if they weren’t walking into the lion’s den.

Trent ducked his way past the still whirling helicopter blades and followed Gaucho and the butler up to the house. The place really did look like something you’d find in Wyoming or Texas. There was even one of those horizontal posts to tie up horses. Trent half expected to see cowboys riding up at any minute.

When they stepped into the house, Trent’s eyes went wide at the decor. The vestibule was probably twenty by twenty, and all up and down the ten foot walls were the mounted heads of jackalopes.

“What the hell is this?” Trent couldn’t help but ask.

“It’s my uncle’s idea of a joke.”

“A joke about what?”

“He says that if man could invent the jackalope and make people believe that the mythical creature exists, then man can do whatever he likes.”

Trent shook his head. He didn’t really get the joke.

“Oh,” Gaucho said, “it’s also his nickname.”

Trent snorted. “Do all these guys have nicknames?”

“Most of them do. It makes them into sort of celebrities down here. Did you know that rappers even write songs about cartel leaders?”

“Seriously?”

Gaucho shrugged as they followed the butler through the expansive kitchen. Trent’s chef-trained eyes went to the enormous gas stovetop and the equally impressive hood. Everything was state of the art, from the chrome appliances to the ultra-thin television screens placed every few feet along the walls.

It was the same in the living room, where lush potted plants accented elegant leather chairs and modern art was mounted in tasteful gray frames. It looked more like something out of an expensive designer’s magazine than a hideout plopped in the middle of Mexico.

The back patio was no less impressive. There was an enormous pool front and center. It looked like it had been carved from the hill itself. In the middle of the water was a large square fountain that held a statue of Jesus, and from his hands poured water like they’d been piped through the holes he’d received when nailed to the cross. Behind the water feature was an amazing view of the surrounding countryside. The only thing that disturbed the view were the armed guards patrolling the well-tended property, each offering a casual glance toward the strangers as they passed.

“Holy shit,” whispered Trent.

Gaucho just stood there with his arms crossed.

“Your uncle will be here soon. May I get you anything?” asked the butler in lightly accented English.

“No, thank you,” said Gaucho.