The Eye of Moloch (20 page)

Virginia made the turn and pulled to a stop as she was directed, just to the side of a freshly planted government-issued warning sign. She scanned what it said as she unbuckled her seat belt and got her ID and her sidearm in order, and then she paused to read over the sign once again, but slowly. After seven years attached to the Special Activities Division of the CIA she’d made a lot of vivid memories, but if she happened to make it back to the motel alive tonight, this sign would get its own four-star WTF page in her personal journal.

DANGER—PUBLIC WARNING

TRAVEL NOT RECOMMENDED

• Active Drug and Human Smuggling Area

• Visitors May Encounter Armed Criminals and Smuggling Vehicles Traveling at High Rates of Speed

• 
Stay Away from Trash, Clothing, Backpacks, and Abandoned Vehicles

• If You See Suspicious Activity, Do Not Confront! Move Away and Call 911

Then, as though to normalize the unreal content that preceded it, the last bullet included a friendly, official travel tip from the U.S. Bureau of Land Management:

• The Bureau of Land Management Encourages Visitors to Use Public Lands North of Interstate 8

In other words, my fellow Americans, despite those bold lines on the map that you can see with your own eyes, your fretful government strongly recommends a hasty retreat toward the distant lights of Tucson. Turn and run if you know what’s good for you, because past this point it’s every man for himself. Whatever this place is, it isn’t Arizona anymore; you’re no longer standing on the land of the free.

Well, then,
she thought.
I guess we’ll have to see about that.

Virginia pulled her satchel and her cane from behind the passenger seat and pressed a switch on the dashboard to activate an all-band communications jammer in the rear compartment. Then she pocketed the keys, left her hat on the seat, flicked off the headlights, opened her door, and stepped out, good leg first.

In the course of a long and painful rehabilitation she’d come to think of her left leg in that way, as her good one, though of the two it wasn’t the limb she was born with. On the positive side it could be whatever she needed it to be, with nearly all the utility but none of the frailties of mere flesh and bone. Synthetic from mid-thigh to the ground, it was interchangeable with a number of purpose-designed replacements hung in her walk-in closet at home. Most were best suited for any one application, be it running, rock climbing, biking, or barhopping. The
model she’d chosen for that night was on loan from MIT, and it was special—smooth Barbie leg on the outside, bleeding-edge mechanics on the inside.

Not that all its high-tech and titanium imparted any superhuman abilities, but while this leg looked just like a standard, stiff cosmetic prosthesis, it also restored about three-quarters of the practical function she’d had before she lost the original. And as Virginia Ward had proved to all those skeptics behind her at the last Hawaii Ironman, three-quarters of normal is about a thousand percent more than most might expect from a unilateral amputee.

She didn’t mind being underestimated by strangers at first, not at all. In about an hour, in fact, a number of innocent lives—plus her own—would depend upon it.

The nearby sentry was facing her as she approached. The dusk was fully descended by then and with maybe ten feet still between them he held out a flat hand and addressed her by the book, the blue-white glare from his flashlight in her face.

“Halt!” he shouted. “Identify yourself, and let me see your hands!”

In only these few words he’d told her more than he probably imagined. English was not this soldier’s native tongue; his accent indicated a gutter strain of Spanish, Español Mexicano, with the faint but distinctive peculiarities heard in those proud to have been born and raised in the rougher parts of the Distrito Federal.

“Virginia Ward,” she said. “I’m expected. I’m here to see—”

“Advance to be recognized.”

With her patience fading fast she took a moment to bring out her ID and then came forward, the small black leather folder held open at eye level for his review. The large man briefly flicked his bright beam down to the turf in front of him, indicating without further courtesy where she should stop and await his full inspection.

In the spillover light Virginia had spied some details of his uniform. Where a badge or an indication of rank should be, there was only a
nameplate and a sewn-on yellow crest. This chintzy embroidery identified him as an employee of Talion, a mercenary services company she’d been seeing more and more of in her deployments.

This wasn’t a military man, not a law enforcement officer, maybe not even a U.S. citizen. He was nothing more than a dressed-up, spit-shined, testosterone-swollen gun for hire.

“Ma’am,” he said sternly as she continued to approach, “put down your bag for me, extend your arms out to either side—”

The guy stopped talking then, and snapped to stiff attention. Evidently he’d finally caught sight of the three bold letters on the face of her ID folder, the ones that translated to
shut up and stand down
in every allied covert-ops phrase book around the world.

Virginia didn’t bother to pause as she walked past the man, though she did make a mental note of the look in his eyes. He’d just seen a ghost, so it seemed, and that was as close an approach to the truth as someone like him should ever be allowed.

•   •   •

First things first: she began by sending a lieutenant outside so he could direct his men in firing up the electricity. She dismissed another soldier with orders to manage the clueless mercs and, more important, to receive the skilled reinforcements who would be arriving close behind her. Not that these new ground troops and heavy weapons would be of any help to her own solo mission, but if she should fail, this place might rapidly find itself on the southern front of a new war zone and they’d need to be ready for anything.

With those priorities addressed, by the light of battery-powered lanterns she began the mission briefing with the other senior officers in attendance.

What they already knew was this: A week earlier a truckload of heavy automatic rifles and cop-killer ammo had been prepared for passage out of the United States across the Arizona–Mexico border. This shipment was a small part of an ongoing and idiotic ATF gun-walking
operation that for whatever reason was designed to put weapons into the hands of criminal gangs. Meanwhile, a completely separate Drug Enforcement Administration sting was in the process of spiriting five tons of primo Purple Haze and nearly a hundred kilos of nearly pure cocaine toward a distribution center in the same general area. Finally, the FBI (in cooperation with the Joint Terrorism Task Force and an armed subdivision of the Internal Revenue Service) had initiated a crafty setup that involved the delivery of several million dollars in unmarked cash to the nearby hub of a Sinaloa money-laundering enterprise.

All the while none of these agencies had been apprised of the converging actions of the others—but through its network of moles, informants, and double agents, the Los Zetas cartel was totally on top of all three.

As it turned out, a key target of these operations—a fearsome man known in his circles as the Executioner—was running a little sting of his own from his stronghold in Mexico. His planning was impeccable, his intel was frightfully detailed, and his men—an elite band of MS-13 foot soldiers and Sureños defectors, led by an underboss of the Texas Syndicate—proved to be far more organized and prepared than the U.S. attorney general and all the king’s horses at the Justice Department.

The outcome had been a devastating surprise attack. When it was over, three federal agents were dead, six more were missing, and two Border Patrol officers had also lost their lives as the Los Zetas gangsters simultaneously hijacked the southbound trifecta of drugs, money, and guns.

After lying low for a few days at a stateside hole-in-the-wall they’d switched vehicles, consolidated their swag, and then set off toward the safety of their home base in Nuevo Laredo.

Barely sixty miles into the trip their single overloaded truck full of stolen treasures had broken down with a flat tire on the southern acres of some land owned by an Arizona rancher named Harland Dell. As
the hoods were changing their tire Mr. Dell got the drop on them, apparently thinking they were just another pack of everyday smugglers or coyotes. He held the trespassers at gunpoint and called in the authorities.

The resulting bust didn’t sit well at all with the Mexican kingpin, and it was more than just the loss of this unusually valuable shipment that enraged him. The precedent this might set for other brave U.S. citizens couldn’t be allowed to stand, and so the head man announced a vendetta: an example was to be made of this American.

In a sudden move of unprecedented brass the Los Zetas outlaws surged across the border in force and commandeered the Dell property. They were now holding the family hostage, and the ransom they demanded was the release of their men and the return of their truck with all the spoils it contained. That’s where the situation stood at the present moment.

Virginia checked her watch and addressed the post’s young commander. “Do you know how many of them we’re up against?”

“About a dozen that we could see, and probably more by now. We commissioned a flyover yesterday by a Cessna 206 from the Highway Patrol. They got a fairly good view before they started taking small-arms fire and had to back off. Then this morning we got as close as we could and put up a blimp with a camera system, and the Kestrel got some even more detailed images before the bastards shot it down.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“They shot it down with a SAM, probably a Stinger.”

“They shot down a recon blimp with a guided missile.”

“A U.S.-made guided missile. Overkill, I know. I guess they really didn’t want to get their pictures taken.” He slid across a small stack of photographs. “Have a look at what we got while the bird was up.”

Though the photos were chilling they didn’t tell her much she hadn’t already suspected. The place was obviously fully occupied and well
guarded. Corpses were strewn all about, probably left where they’d fallen after what must have been a short and futile defense of the property against a merciless, overwhelming invasion.

“You’ve cut the power and the landlines to the place.”

“Right.”

“Has anyone spoken to them?”

“We’ve harvested some cell numbers that they’re using”—he passed her a sheet with the information—“but listen, these guys aren’t negotiating. The last they told us was, midnight tonight they start kicking more bodies out the front door.”

No surprise there, either. Virginia Ward was a fixer, not a negotiator. By the time she was called into service the opportunity for bargaining had always long passed.

“Okay,” she said, as she stood. “Now I need to make a call, and I’ll need some privacy for that.”

“I’m sorry, our comms are down here right now. It’s inexcusable, I know, it must be sunspots or something—”

“Your comms are down because I took them down.” She stowed her pistol and her ID and then removed a special-purpose satellite phone from her satchel. “This one should punch through just fine, though. The next thing you’re going to do is collect all the radios and phones from your men, and make your orders very clear. I’ve got people coming in specifically to enforce the communications blackout. If anyone’s seen trying to get a message out of here to anyone, I don’t care if they’re telling their grandchildren good night, they won’t get a warning, they’re going to get shot. Not a word gets in or out except my own traffic and any calls coming from the perpetrators. You’ll know I’m coming back when you see me.”

The man nodded, and then he said, “Don’t tell me you’re going down there all alone.”

“That’s right.”

“Unarmed?”

“Whatever weapons I bring they’ll just take away. Don’t worry, there won’t be any shortage of guns available in that place, I’m sure.”

“Can you at least tell me what you think you’re going to do when you get there?”

“Sure,” Virginia replied. “If anyone in that family is still alive, I’m going to bring them out. And if I can I’m going to kill every last one of the savages that took them hostage.”

While she was outside making her call she heard the generator roaring to life and saw scattered lights fade on. During the briefing more equipment and a company of soldiers had arrived. Her own men were among them, and these exchanged a discreet acknowledgment with her as they started their work. Others began the task of positioning and raising four heavily armed mobile VIPR watchtowers along the base perimeter.

Off in the distance another vehicle approached; this would be her ride to the besieged home of Harland Dell and his wife and kids. In this midsized mover’s truck was loaded all the loot and the bound prisoners that the kidnappers had demanded be returned to them immediately, or else.

And returned to them it would be.

•   •   •

By the time she’d driven to the final stretch of her route, the highway had become completely deserted. The roadblocks that accomplished this were disguised as drunk-driving checkpoints, and undercover teams posing as night-shift pavement crews rounded out the travel barricades. This layer of secrecy was mostly to aid in controlling the story, and as such it was probably a wasted effort. For whatever reason the American press had long since proven their bias to ignore the ever-widening, bloody war being fought along these southern borderlands.

Virginia made the turn onto private property and drove slowly down the long gravel drive. The entrance to the ranch was a hand-hewn wooden arch with the family cattle brand displayed at its central apex.
Soon after she passed it, from the pitch dark of the moonless desert night the first visible signs of the Dell ranch emerged in the distance.

The place and its grounds were lit only by firelight, but it wasn’t an inviting radiance of the hearth or a peaceful evening glow in the windows that she saw.