The meeting had broken up with glares and angry muffled voices. But Williams had been telling the truth when he’d said he would be watching. A few days later, Martinez and Williams had been given audio evidence that the eldest Vasquez brother was plotting against them. Williams had known that they could not have anyone in the family killed.
But to members of the cartels, there was a fate worse than death.
The treacherous Vasquez brother had been found hog-tied on the DEA’s El Paso office doorstep. The other family members had quickly gotten the message. They might have harbored an inner hatred for Martinez, but they understood the omniscient and omnipotent presence of Williams. No one wanted to be extradited to America.
That wasn’t to say that Martinez wasn’t capable of extreme violence, just like his predecessor. But he was smart about when and how he used violence as a tool. When members of the Tijuana cartel had refused to pledge allegiance to Martinez as the new head of the Sinaloa cartel, he had rightly begun a war. Three hundred Tijuana foot soldiers were dead within the first two weeks. The leader of the Tijuana cartel was found hanging from a streetlight, his eyes gouged out, a fireman’s axe lodged in his chest.
Like a publicly traded company wanting to appear financially healthy to its shareholders, Martinez needed to appear strong to the masses who propped up his empire. The cartels who would join him, and the thousands of employees beneath him. Each of them feared and respected strength. It was that healthy fear that maintained order in a business enforced by violence.
Williams now sat on Martinez’s patio. As the alcohol relaxed his mind, he reveled in his achievements. He was the puppet master, and his puppet was the head of the largest drug cartel in the world.
The world was his oyster.
As Williams waited for Martinez to join him, he considered his empire. It was quiet here on Martinez’s ranch. Meanwhile, the violent machine that Williams had conquered continued to thrum along. Growing. Producing. Transporting. Selling. Killing. Repeat.
Men and women sweating in the fields and jungles, growing the plants. Just miles away from where he now sat, Williams had observed one of the cartel’s many production fields that afternoon. He had watched as peasant farmers slowly drifted through an endless field of poppies, slicing multiple incisions into each one. From these incisions, a liquid would drip down, to be painstakingly collected by the farmers over the next few days. That was the nectar that would be transformed into heroin.
Creating and selling heroin, meth, and cannabis was a business. Williams and Martinez treated it as such. Their bustling transportation network shipped tons of product into the US each day. Williams had taken from his experience in Afghanistan to help the cartel succeed. Working with the suppliers to the south and in Asia. Managing the sales and distribution network in North America. Paying off the police and politicians. And then there was his security and intelligence apparatus. Williams had insisted on improving the latter. Muscle was nothing without knowledge. Williams had hired experts from around the world to improve his security, and to make sure that nothing that could affect his business happened without him knowing about it.
Martinez sat across from him. Williams presented Martinez with a manila envelope. Inside was a news clipping — an article from the Wall Street Journal.
“Two dead?”
Williams nodded.
“Was that really necessary? It seems risky.”
Williams shrugged. “A message needed to be sent.”
Martinez frowned. “What of Rojas?”
“My sources tell me he is in Texas. I should have a location soon.”
“Rojas’s kidnapping wasn’t approved by the Mexican government. I assume our politicians are raising the appropriate objections over this breach of sovereignty?”
“They are.”
“Why would the Americans want Rojas this badly? Is he worth such a breach of protocol? Is this all just to get to me?”
Williams smiled inwardly. While Martinez was a very bright businessman, he was not immune to the paranoia that came from being at the top of a criminal enterprise. “Perhaps. With your permission, I would like to see if we can’t retrieve him.”
“On American soil?”
“It will be carefully planned. Only my best men.”
Martinez frowned but nodded his approval.
Williams took another sip of whiskey, looking off into the now-darkening night sky.
Chapter 14
Max and Renee had landed in Austin, Texas earlier in the day. Max got them a room at the Westin while Renee went to the store to buy phones and gear.
Max had sent a message to his virtual assistant, a high-end private service he used to keep his black book contact list updated and handle anything from transportation to confidential communications. The service had promised to have Max’s beloved Cirrus SR-22 flown to Texas within the next twenty-four hours. The pilot was instructed to land it at the Austin Executive Airport, pay for parking, fill it up with gas, and find his own transportation home.
Renee had come back to the hotel with boxes of Apple products — a MacBook Pro and two iPhones. She had set up Max’s phone, making sure that it had her security software installed, and then they promptly called Trent.
It went to voicemail. They tried several more times throughout the day before he finally called back in the evening.
Trent said, “Where are you guys? Wilkes told me it got a little rough.”
“It did, but we’re good now. Where are you at?”
“Can I talk on this line?”
Hearing this, Renee gave Max a thumbs-up.
“Renee says we’re good.”
“Roger. As soon as we landed, they brought in one of those HIG teams to work the guy over. The interrogation team is doing their thing now.”
The High-Value Detainee Interrogation Group (HIG), formed in 2009 as a way to combat terrorism, was filled with the nation’s most elite interrogators. Members were pooled from the CIA, FBI, and other governmental organizations.
Max found it interesting that Wilkes was able to get permission to use a HIG team in this situation. Was that because of the counterintelligence angle, with the ISI being involved? Or was there something Wilkes wasn’t telling them?
Trent continued, “The dude seems scared shitless. Says his boss will have him and his family killed if he talks. But one of the interrogators made a bet with me after the first session that he’d crack within the first day. So it looks good. Are you guys coming down? Wilkes told me I can get out of here… but we’re in the middle of nowhere and I don’t exactly have a ride. One of the feds is making arrangements for us to stay at a local hotel. They’ve got a mobile unit set up for the interrogations but that’s it. I slept in the hangar last night.”
“What’s your location? I’ll come get you.”
“We’re on the coast, in between Houston and Corpus Christi. Someplace called Calhoun County Airport.”
“We’ll fly in tomorrow morning.”
“Sounds good. This thing should still be going on. You’ll see the eighteen-wheeler with the black SUVs surrounding it. Can’t miss us.”
Max and Renee flew to Calhoun County Airport on the coast of Texas the next morning. Trent was right. The airfield was small and desolate. Just a sheet-metal hangar, a handful of general aviation planes, and farmland in all directions. The Gulf of Mexico was a few miles to the southeast. Greenish-blue waves, the beaches filled with tourists.
They touched down and Max taxied the Cirrus to the flight line. Max threw the chocks under the wheels and walked towards the cordoned-off section at the far end of the airport. Men in black, with sunglasses and semiautomatic rifles. A miniature Area 51, right here in Texas.