“So, sir, I think you know what I’m asking.”
“We need to be very clever about this. Very clever. It’d be easier if we could use the Sinaloas or the Guatemalans, but we can’t trust those bastards.”
“Can’t trust anyone in Mexico except for the Navy — that’s why I need you to make that call.”
“I know you trained with those guys, and so did I. They’re good people. There’s at least two commandos there who owe me big-time — if they’re still active-duty. I’ll make the call.”
“Thank you, sir.” Moore thumbed off the phone and set down his coffee. He closed his eyes again and asked the universe to grant him a molecule of justice.
Towers returned, still long-faced, and inhaling the steam from his coffee.
“Good news,” Moore said, drawing Towers’s interest. “Slater’s calling in some favors from the Mexican Navy.”
“So what do you have in mind?”
Moore took a deep breath. “Obviously, we can’t get the American or Mexican governments involved in any of this. Our President needs deniability, and Rojas would be tipped off if we tried to negotiate formally with his government. However, we might be able to do some business with the Mexican Navy’s Special Forces guys. Basically, we hire ourselves a platoon or two that won’t tip off their government. Those guys are gungho and would like nothing more than to take down a scumbag drug smuggler. They’ll get onboard so that when word gets out, it appears the Mexican Navy did the job. Our President can stand at the podium and say we had nothing to do with this.”
Towers smiled. “We just turn their Special Forces guys into mercenaries.”
“I’m telling you, they’ll do it. They’ll say they had to act on their own because of corruption in their government. So, we go down there at the invitation of those guys, we set up a raid on Rojas’s mansion, and we get the bastard. We let Slater pay off the Navy and let them confiscate everything else.”
“You’ll need to get Sonia out of there first.”
“Absolutely.”
“What about Rojas? What do we do with him if we actually capture him?”
“What do you mean capture?”
Towers raised his palms. “Hey, slow down. He’s the only guy who knows how all the pieces fit together.”
“Let me ask you something — are we getting enough from Corrales to bring down the cartel?”
Towers squinted to process that. “The little runt knows a lot more than I thought. We’ve got enough to cause major damage.”
“Then fuck Rojas. I’m not worrying about capturing him. My plan is to take him out.”
“He’s more valuable alive, but I’ll concede that keeping him alive would be a security threat and a logistical nightmare. If we turn him over to the Navy, they’ll have to cap him anyway — otherwise, he’ll walk.”
“Don’t overthink it.”
Five minutes later, Moore’s phone rang. Slater. “Good news,” he said. “We just hired some Special Forces from the Mexican Navy. Hooyah.”
38 BY INVITATION ONLY
All the financial news that reached Jorge Rojas’s desk that morning should have lifted his spirits. The Dow, the NASDAQ, and the S&P 500 were all up, and the IPC of the Bolsa Mexicana de Valores, which represented thirty-five stocks and was the broadest indicator of the BMV’s overall performance, was looking excellent. The IPC was especially important, because Rojas’s companies represented forty-three percent of that statistic. Indeed, his investments were earning solid returns and his companies were reporting increased profits for the quarter.
Why, then, was Rojas staring bitterly into his morning cup of coffee?
Because of so many things …because of the lie he’d been telling his son …because of the loss of his wife that pained him every day …because of this new threat to the business that he both loved and loathed …
What had happened to him? He hadn’t built his empire on tears but on sweat. He hadn’t crushed his opponents by weeping when they struck. He always struck back tenfold.
He had the money. He had the guns. But no, he wasn’t any better or different from them, from the scumbags who sold drugs on the playgrounds, from the gangsters who stole from their grandmothers to feed their addictions. He was already a corpse in a bulletproof suit, sitting in a mansion and feeling sorry for the loss of his soul. While he never shared his secrets with Alexsi, she saw his pain and often suggested he seek professional help. Rojas would have none of that. He needed to thrust out his chest and move on, as he always did, even after staring into his brother’s lifeless eyes.
He checked his smartphone once more. Nothing. Rojas had been trying to contact Mullah Rahmani, but the man had not returned his calls. Samad’s number had been disconnected. Castillo had told Rojas that the police cars in Calexico had been driven by Arabs and that a local kid had been hired to paint the cars. Rojas had already concluded that Samad and his entourage had murdered Pedro Romero and gained access to the tunnels. After ordering his men to destroy the tunnel, Castillo said, Romero’s family had been found dead in their home, all shot in the back of the head, execution-style. Corrales was still missing, although Fernando had believed that he’d gone to Zúñiga’s ranch house. A gunfight there had left Zúñiga dead. Spotters reported that a woman’s body had been brought out of the house. She may have been Corrales’s girlfriend, María, but none of the spotters had identified Corrales. Federal agents who may have been acting as spies had fled in a helicopter. The spotters could not get a good look at them. Rojas feared that Corrales had gone to the authorities, either Mexican or American. And worse, Fernando had reported that their best contact with the Federal Police, Inspector Alberto Gómez, had disappeared.
It was time to start closing out accounts, moving money, emptying drawers, and switching locks. He’d become an expert at concealing his ties to the cartel through legitimate businesses and fiercely loyal employees who had never once threatened to expose him. Everything was different now.
His phone rang, and the number caused him to jolt in his chair. “Hello?”
“Hello, Señor Rojas.” The man spoke in Spanish, but Rojas winced over the accent.
“Rahmani, why haven’t you returned my calls?”
“I’ve been traveling, and the cell-phone reception has not been good.”
“I don’t believe you. Where are you now?”
“Back home.”
“Now, before you say another word, you listen to me very carefully. Samad came to me in Bogotá with some long sob story about a sick imam. He was looking for safe passage into the United States. He tried to bribe me with IEDs and pistols.”
“Which I understand you took.”
“Of course, but you know where I draw the line — we must not wake the sleeping dog.”
“Señor, please accept my apology. Samad is a rogue and I’ve lost communication with him. Honestly, I’m not sure if he’s in the United States or not. I specifically instructed him to stay away and never jeopardize our relationship, but he is a brash young man, and I will have to make him pay for his mistakes.”
“If he’s in America, then you and I are finished. I’ll not only stop importing and moving your product, I’ll make sure you can’t move any of it into my country ever again. I will cut you off at the knees. I warned Samad of this, and I tried to warn you earlier when I was in Bogotá, but you never answered my calls. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, I do, but not to worry. I’ll do what I can to eliminate any problems that Samad may pose to you or your business.”