difficult contracts without drama or complications. He smiled to himself at his professional nickname: Der Eisenadler. The Iron Eagle. Indestructible, the ruler of the sky. And now with over fifty hits to his credit over an illustrious career.
Not bad for a simple boy from the Berlin slums and a disgraced ex-cop. A millionaire. Homes in Spain, Germany, and Italy. And a book of business from satisfied customers that ensured he had as much work as he wanted. His neighbors knew him as an import/export executive, always traveling, obviously well-to-do, who kept to himself and never made trouble. Which was close enough to the truth, he supposed. He imported cash into his bank account, and exported death.
A commodity that was in constant demand.
Chapter 3
Present Day, Zacatelco, Mexico
A battered Chevrolet pickup puttered down the dirt road on the outskirts of town, springs creaking from the washboard surface’s pummeling of its suspension, a red plastic bag taped over its one operating brake light as a safety concession. Raw exhaust belched from a rusting tailpipe, the muffler having rotted out long ago, catalytic converters a silly luxury for the idle rich. Its headlights glowed a dull amber, barely penetrating the two a.m. gloom, the driver squinting as he peered through the smeared bug splatters on the grimy windshield.
Dust swirled in the wind as it roared by the oversized bulk of the stationary black command-center van, Policía Federal painted across the side in two-foot-high white letters. From the outside, the vehicle displayed no signs of life, but inside was a hum of activity.
“How much longer until the army gets here?” Lieutenant Briones asked, his voice strained, sitting in front of a flat screen monitor in the rear of the van.
“They said they’ll be in position in five more minutes,” the man next to him murmured, as though raising his voice might alert their target.
“Five minutes! What the hell have they been doing? They were supposed to be here by now,” Briones griped.
“You know how it is. Mas o menos.” More or less.
Briones sat back, considering a response, and then decided to let it go. He did indeed know how it was.
“What about our men?”
“In position and awaiting the signal to breach the compound.”
Briones nodded and then lifted a two-way to his mouth. “Army’s late again. But they say they’ll be here shortly,” he reported.
“Damn. What else can go wrong today? Did they think that showing up was optional? Who’s the commanding officer?” the disgusted voice of Captain Romero Cruz, the head of the Mexico City anti-cartel task force, growled from the speaker.
“Your favorite. General Albacer.”
“That explains a lot. I’m surprised he’s still awake. Do you want me to scream at him?” Cruz asked.
“Can’t see that it will do any good. The compound is dark. Five minutes shouldn’t make any difference if everybody’s asleep,” Briones said.
“Are you ready to go in?”
“Yes, sir. The assault force is standing by.”
“Well, thank heaven for small favors. Let’s see if we can take these scum alive, shall we? I want a shot at interrogating them.”
“I understand, sir. We’ll do everything we can to get at least a few survivors.”
“Does everyone know what El Gato looks like? You circulated the photos?” Cruz asked.
“Of course. If he’s still got the fuzz, he’ll be hard to miss.” El Gato, one of the top captains of the Sinaloa cartel, affected a distinctive beard. He was also known for his shaved head – for which, the rumor was, the facial hair was compensation. He was widely believed to control much of the cartel’s marijuana, meth, and heroin trade in Mexico City. The Federales had received a tip from an informant looking at years of hard time for his role in a drunken bar stabbing a few days earlier, who had alerted them to the location of one of his safe houses. Surveillance had been ongoing since then, and a man who looked suspiciously like El Gato had been seen going into the house from a black Ford Excursion early that evening. That had triggered the late night strike on the house – Cruz had been tracking El Gato for years, but had always been one step behind him.
Not this time.
Their prey was still inside the house, and the lights had gone off at midnight.
The original plan had been to grab him when he was leaving, but then the opportunity to seize not only the drug lord but also the inevitable stash of weapons, drugs, and cash had been too attractive for Cruz, and he’d given