Target Deck - 02 (13 page)

Aghassi downed his fifth beer and slammed it down on the bar.

“That is interesting.”

“We're a lot alike,” the music manager said, “We go where the money is.”

“I hear that,” the American signaled the bartender for another round.

“My brother's band is up at the compound every day working on their narcocorrido for Jimenez. He is offering six figures to some of the top names in the industry to write a song about him. He wants it to go viral on the internet.”

“So what's your role in all of it?”

“I just handle the business aspect of it for my brother. My brother was mom's favorite,” he laughed. “He was the talented one.”

“I've got a brother myself,” Aghassi said, keeping his target engaged. “So you've actually been up in Jimenez's compound a few times?”

“Oh, yeah,” the manager said as the bartender brought their beers. Taking a swig, he offered Aghassi a cigarette before lighting up himself. “That place is pimp. He's living the high life for sure.”

“How big is it?”

“Man, it takes up an entire mountaintop. Soccer field, indoor pool, bowling alley, he's got everything up there. It's like a little city,” he paused. “Except clean!”

“How much of the compound have you seen?”

“I don't know,” the manager puffed on his cancer stick. “Most of it I guess. They took us for a tour when we got there but we still haven't met Jimenez. Supposedly he will come and hear the song played when we finish so he can give final approval.”

“Do you think you could draw up the floor plan?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“If you're in it for the money, I can offer money.”

“You must be out of your mind. You know who Jimenez is and what he does?”

“You're almost done with your song for him, you said it yourself. It's easy money.”

“No way.”

“You'll be back in Sonora with a hefty bonus in your pocket and your boss will be none the wiser.”

“You must be crazy.”

“Ten thousand dollars. American.”

The corrido manager took a sip of beer, rolling the idea over in his mind. One thing he loved was money.

“Ten thousand cash,” Aghassi emphasized.

“Deal.”

15

Several pressing issues were exploding in Deckard's face all at the same time.

Their COMSEC obviously needed work since the CIA had broken into their net. Aghassi just called in that he was developing a Recon and Surveillance mission to penetrate Jimenez' compound for purposes of intelligence gathering and wanted a sniper on standby to support his operation. Deckard was himself en route to the airfield to catch a CIA black flight out of the country and then back into Cancun to meet with the cartel's money man. Then Cody told him that their new contractors and gear just arrived at Oaxaca airport.

The convoy was heading back to the airport to meet up with the new Samruk International employees and to drop Deckard off for his Cancun excursion.

By now they were familiar with the airport. Deckard and his recon team had scoped it out before the main element arrived. It was a flat strip just outside the city, long enough for large international aircraft. The airport was surrounded by a chain link fence topped off with barbwire. Swinging around towards the main concourse, Deckard could see a gray colored Gulfstream V jet idling on the tarmac. It sported tail number N44982 but no other markings.

The mercenary grunted to himself. When the airplane wasn't flying assassins like him to do dirty deals for the CIA it was probably flying rendition flights from Yemen and Afghanistan to Poland and Estonia.

Deckard had already paid off the security guards so the front gate hung wide open, allowing the convoy to drive right onto the airfield. A dozen contractors stood milling around two pallets, waiting for their ride. The cargo plane from the States had dropped them off and quickly departed. None of them were armed and he had not dispatched a reception committee to meet them on time to issue out weapons. It was an oversight on his part and another indication that he needed some sleep and some time to gather his thoughts.

The driver of the lead vehicle slowed to a stop and Deckard pushed open the armored passenger door before stepping out into the oppressive night heat.

The silhouette of a powerfully built man walked from the pallets and shook Deckard's hand.

“Never a boring moment with you,” the contractor taunted him with the slightest hint of a German accent in his voice.

“You complaining?”

“Never!” the German laughed.

Kurt Jager was a former German GSG-9 Counter-Terrorist operator that Deckard had sub-contracted from another Private Military Company called GUARD. It wasn't his first collaboration with Samruk international. A skilled linguist, Kurt's grasp of the Russian language had been a huge help in interfacing with the Russian-speaking Kazakh mercenaries that made up the bulk of their troops.

“My boys will help you break down these pallets and pack the gear on the trucks. We're already carrying some dismantled communications equipment we pulled off an objective tonight so we'll radio for a deuce and a half to drive down here from our compound to help carry everything back.”

“Sounds good.”

“Did all the kit I ordered get put on those pallets?”

“Almost, some of the ammunition missed the flight but everything else is there. We also had one guy miss the flight. Some former SEAL named Webb.”

“Typical,” Deckard said shaking his head. “I'm assigning you and several other personnel to our FID cell.”

“We have a FID cell?”

FID, or Foreign Internal Defense, was a usually a mission where an Army Special Forces team would train indigenous guerrillas and lead them in combat operations. Now the mercenaries would perform the same mission working alongside the Zapatista rebels.

“We will make sure you have constant comms with our OPCEN but you'll be working for Commadente Zero.”

“You're kidding,” Kurt blurted. “You know I've have dealings them those guys in the past?”

“Well, let's hope they don't recognize you,” Deckard smirked. “I've got a plane to catch.”

16

Deckard came awake with a start.

“We are on final approach,” the co-pilot said.

“Already?”

“We can do DC to Kabul in twelve hours, baby. You slept right through landing and takeoff at Nassau. We picked up a package from the Agency for you,” the middle aged CIA pilot pointed to the closet built into the fuselage of the aircraft. “Might want to change into something else. You will scare the squares out in this tourist shit hole in that Soldier of Fortune getup.”

“Thanks,” the mercenary replied as he stood and stretched his back. It felt like a dozen joints popped all at the same time. His knees and lower back creaked, he was sore all over, and his quadriceps threatened to seize up due to dehydration. The two mercenaries he had brought along with him remained sleeping in their chairs. The Gulfstream was outfitted to transport fifteen passengers so there was plenty of room for them on the aircraft. Their body armor and weapons lay in a pile on the floor.

The co-pilot disappeared back into the cockpit and Deckard got to work. When you are completely exhausted and going into the drone zone a few hours of sleep feels like you just woke up after hibernating for the winter. Although his body was still recovering from the abuse, his mind was moving a mile a minute.

In the Gulfstream's small bathroom he threw water on his face and then used the squirt bottle of liquid soap to wash his hands, arms, and face. Wetting down his hair he used the same soap to wash the dirt and debris out. Silently, he cursed the CIA agents in Oaxaca. They gave him an out but they sure as hell gave it to him on short notice.

The digital camouflage uniform he wore was stained with streaks of white. It was salt deposited in the fabric from sweating through the uniform several times a day. Stripping out of it he discarded the pants, blouse, and t-shirt the corner of the bathroom and continued wiping himself down as best he could. Somehow, he had to look like an investment banker when he met Bashir.

Ignoring his nudity, Deckard stepped out of the bathroom and went to the closet. Inside a garment bag was a gray Hicky-Freeman suit that had clearly been tailored to his measurements. He knew that the CIA kept an extensive file on him but this much information was ridiculous. Bracing himself against the wall, he felt weightless for a moment as the jet began dumping altitude.

Quickly, he pulled on the pants, threw on the white button down shirt, and shrugged into the suit jacket. He left the fruity colored tie in the bag, leaving the shirt collar open. Sitting back down he began tying the shoes that came with the suit.

In the side pocket of the garment bag was the identity package he had been promised. There was a smart phone with touch screen, a wallet packed full of credit cards and cash, and a US passport with his picture that bore the name Granger Black. The package was professionally done. The phone was pre-loaded with an address book full of phone numbers leading to various CIA front organizations. There were previous phone calls programmed into the call log and bullshit text messages stored in the memory all to make it look like it was used if anyone looked it over. The wallet included various business cards, including Granger Black's. The passport was stamped up from London to Rome to Zurich.

He'd scanned the documents that Grant had given him in Oaxaca and then read them more carefully prior to take off. Bashir traveled with a Personal Security Detachment, or PSD, wherever he went. They were former Lebanese Strike Force members from Beirut, trained by US Special Forces Soldiers. There was no time to plan the logistics of a large scale Direct Action strike with a platoon of Samruk mercenaries. In days, if not hours, the Mexican Marines would be raiding Samruk's compound and hunting them down like dogs if he didn't do something in the meantime.

In order to get close to Bashir he would have to go in undercover. The two mercenaries he brought along were backup and would probably have to wait for him in the Gulfstream. If everything went pear shaped he would be on his own for the foreseeable future. His weapons and equipment would have to be left on the aircraft. Once again he was flying by the seat of his pants and cursed the CIA for it. A bunch of Mormon accountants and Jesuit Lawyers from Harvard, Princeton, and Yale, it was no wonder that a Special Operations soldier like Deckard never got on with them very well.

When the wheels touched down on the tarmac the two mercs shook awake, looking around for a moment before collecting themselves and reaching for Kalashnikovs.

As the Gulfstream taxied onto the parking apron on the airfield, Deckard checked himself over in the mirror one last time. Running a hand through his hair he found it coarse and thick despite the impromptu washing. His face was drawn, he had lost some water weight over the last few days. His eyes were sharp even if his body wasn't back to full capacity. Grabbing a bottle of water from the on board refrigerator, he downed half of it in one gulp.

When the plane halted the co-pilot came forward and dropped the folding stairs down to the ground.

“Good luck bud. We've done of a few of these that turned out to be one way trips for our passenger.”

“Just keep the engines running,” Deckard said dryly. “This shouldn't take long.”