The Covert Element (8 page)

From Tampico, on Mexico’s east coast,
Los Cinco
spread its
influence and control across east-central Mexico – from the Gulf on
one side, to the
Sierra Madres Oriental
mountains on the other . . .
and from Tampico ever northward to the United States border.

Now, nearly a decade after the demise of the Colombian drug
lords,
Los Cinco
had settled into a comfortable routine. Cocaine
flowed freely through Central America, where refugees were happy
for the chance to carry product in exchange for a chance to escape
their poverty by crossing the U.S – Mexico border.

Marijuana had always grown well in the humidity east of the
Sierra Madres
. And a new product entry – methamphetamine –
was proving to be even more lucrative than cocaine.
Los Cinco
soon
had its own factories making the stuff in quantity from inexpensive
ingredients, once again, for shipment to the drug-craving north.

The single fly in the ointment was that Mexican competition
had seen similar opportunities to enter the drug trade across the
country. There were now at least half a dozen significant Mexican
drug cartels – all eager to expand their influence and territory.

Los Cinco
was the first and largest of the cartels. And it held
the prime location for distribution from South America to Texas
and beyond. For the most part, attacks by the other cartels on
Los
Cinco’s
shipments were minimal. When others dared to interfere in
Los Cinco
territory, retribution was swift and effective.

Then business got more complicated when the new Mexican
President decided the drug cartels were a threat to his power and
had to be eradicated. He sought assistance from the United States.
Soon the Mexican military had the tactics and weaponry to present
a serious threat to
Los Cinco’s
business enterprises.

In the span of a few years, three of the five original cartel
leaders had been killed by raids on well-protected enclaves. And a
fourth now rotted in a Mexico City prison . . . beyond the cartel’s
geographical influence. Gaining his release any time soon was
unlikely at best.

Santos knew the cartels intimately. He had even lost family
members at their hands. An uncle two years ago. A cousin last year.
Another cousin just last month. Until now, he had maintained a low
profile in the hopes that if he didn’t cause the cartels obvious
trouble, they would leave him and his family alone. That strategy
had failed. The cartels were killing his family anyway.

Today was a red letter day for Santos. Today marked the
beginning of all out war between Raphael Santos and the cartels.
The criminals wouldn’t even know the war had begun. But before it
was over, they would regret the day they had murdered his kin and
subjugated "his people."

Buses belched diesel fumes into the swelter as they rumbled
past the bench where he sat. He was waiting. Waiting for the sun to
set, so his plan could begin to unfold.

A stream of sweat trickled off his brow and down the side of his
grizzled face. To passersby, he was just another out-of-work
Mexican, passing the day in idleness. But he knew he was a force to
be reckoned with.

Either that, or a fool. Time would tell which.

CHAPTER NINE

I arrived at the Harbor Bar a few minutes before 7:00 and
seated myself at a knotty pine booth with a view across the water. A
petite, and quite pretty, Jamaican woman took my drink order, then
departed into the dimness toward the carved wooden bar across the
room.

"The Harbor," as the bar and restaurant was known to the
locals, had been an institution of sorts in the Red Wing area for
more than forty years.

Located in Wisconsin on a narrow stretch of the Mississippi’s
main channel, and immediately across the river from Red Wing’s
historic downtown, The Harbor was situated on prime real estate
for entertainment of all sorts. Through the years, The Harbor had
gone through a series of incarnations, taking advantage of various
business opportunities as they had presented.

When I was growing up, The Harbor was strictly a bar . . . and
one that might attract a variety of conflicting personalities. A
bouncer was ever-present. Even so, fist fights, knife fights, and
occasional gunshots at The Harbor made the newspapers with
uncomfortable frequency.

That was many incarnations ago. Today, The Harbor is a place
many people bring their families, or their dates, for a unique menu,
outside dining, and live music. The Harbor’s current owner has
made numerous trips to Jamaica in recent years for the purpose of
recruiting native Jamaicans as cooks and waitresses. The Jamaican
menu items are authentic and a pleasant departure from typical
Midwestern fare. Reggae music emanates from the juke box, and
often, from the outside stage area.

The Harbor has also become a favorite stop-over for
recreational motorcyclists from all around the region. These aren’t
cycle gang members . . . just regular folks who enjoy the wind in
their faces and bugs in their teeth. Like all regular folks, some have
more rough edges than others. For the most part, The Harbor’s
biker patrons are mannerly, fun-loving, and free-spirited.

Tonight there were a few tables of bikers munching burgers
and quaffing beers out back at wooden picnic tables on the concrete
patio overlooking the river. There weren’t many other patrons in
attendance– probably because it was a steamy Wednesday evening
and most people were enjoying their air-conditioned cable TV
version of Twins Baseball. All in all, it was looking like a pretty tame
evening for our meeting.

Turning my head back from the river view, my eyes needed to
adjust to the dimness of the bar interior. I could see just well
enough to make out Bull’s hulking frame angling between the
chainsaw-carved furniture toward me.

He was big. Six-foot-four, with maybe 250 pounds of barrel-chested muscle. His straight black hair hung over his shoulders on
both sides of his tree-trunk neck.

As usual, I slid the table a little closer to my side of the booth so
Bull could fit in.

He sat down across from me.

"Got beers comin’?" he asked.

"Nice to see you, too."

Bull’s face remained expressionless.

"Yeah," I said, after a moment. "Thought we’d go with Red
Stripes to start the Jamaican theme off right. That work for you?"

"Long as they get here soon."

The waitress’s timing couldn’t have been better. She arrived
just as Bull concluded his bitching, dropping two, sweating Red
Stripes on our heavily lacquered pine tabletop. That was another
convenience about The Harbor experience. Pretty much everything
was beer-proof. No cocktail napkins or coasters necessary.

I pushed one of the short brown bottles toward Bull. He lifted
his my way in an unspoken toast. Our bottles chinked and we each
took a big swallow.

"Good stuff," Bull said, after a second pull. "Where’d them
Jamaicans learn to make beer, anyway?"

"Columbus brought the yeast and Magellan came along with
the wheat and barley. . . . How the hell should I know? And why
would you care? You lookin’ to get into the Indian beer business?"

I smiled.

No word from Bull. And still no discernible facial expression. I
was glad this wasn’t a poker game.

"You hungry?" he said finally.

"I could eat. You need a menu?"

Bull was emptying his first beer and gave his head a small
sideways shake toward the waitress. I took that as a ‘no’ and
summoned our server.

"Oh, Miss?"

Our waitress came over with menus.

I explained that we both already knew what we wanted. I
ordered jerk pork with vegetable rice for both of us. "And two more
Red Stripes, please." I glanced at Bull for approval. He didn’t object.

The waitress departed to relay our orders to the kitchen.

Just then, four bikers in chaps and full colors came through the
front door. They were raucous and foul-mouthed from the get-go.
The top patch read "Fishbein Dukes." Their bottom rockers said
"Indiana." Out-of-towners on a long ride. They sat beside one
another at the far end of the bar and continued cursing at the
barkeep as he unwisely served them more alcohol.

Bull had also noted the bikers’ arrival, but said nothing.

Each of us had finished our first Red Stripe and were waiting
for number two. Bull considered something weighty outside the
window. I followed his eyes, but they led nowhere.

The waitress arrived with our second round, placing the fresh
bottles on the table, but not clearing the empties. There was still
plenty of room on the table after all.

I waited.

Bull had called this meeting. So I spread my arms across the
back of the wooden booth, holding a beer in my right hand, and
waited some more.

Bull continued staring outside, occasionally sucking on his
bottle. I surmised that two more beers were in order. I caught the
waitress’s eye and waved two fingers at her. She nodded, and soon
approached our table with our food and a third Red Stripe for each
of us.

"Thanks very much," I said, as she made the delivery. She
nodded her appreciation.

"And my friend says thanks, too."

I saw Bull glare and grit his teeth at me. Then he turned and
smiled broadly at the waitress. "Yes. Thank you very much. Nice
job." He hoisted his beer in her direction.

"Hear, hear!" I joined in the toast with my own bottle.

The waitress looked uncomfortable. She nodded again, then
backed away from our booth. Bull has that effect on some people . . .
most people, actually.

Bull realigned his grin into . . . into . . . I don’t know what, and
glared at me.

"Well, what the hell! If we’re not gonna talk, we should at least
be polite to the young lady."

Bull dropped the glare and gave me an "I-suppose-so" look – at
least that’s how I chose to interpret it.

"Okay," he said finally. "Here’s the deal."

"All right. Shoot."

"Need to give you some background. So just sit there and shut
up. Yes?"

I made a zipper across my lips, picked up my fork, and leaned
closer to my food. If I couldn’t talk, at least I could eat. I stabbed a
piece of jerk-seasoned white meat with an authentic patch of singed
pigskin still attached.

Bull looked mostly at the table as he told me his story.

"1985. Mexico. Colombian drug cartels just startin’ to move
north along the Mexican coast. Some locals buy-in. Gonna be ‘made
men’ on the backs of Cali and Medellin.

"Drug Czar in D.C. get’s the word. Gonna be a meeting in the
mountains near Tampico. My Ranger Team gets the call to go in."

"Rangers, huh?" I said, without thinking.

Bull reached across the table and flicked my forehead with his
middle finger.

It hurt.

Bull looked at me for a few seconds to make sure I had received
his message. I had. So I resumed eating, fighting the urge to rub my
sore forehead.

He continued his story.

"So my team’s gonna take out this mountain villa. Mexican
drug big shots and some Colombians gonna be there.

"We drop in around midnight and blow the place. Big shots are
dead. Some flunkies still runnin’ around when we left.