He was satisfied, not quite impressed, with the operation at El Dorado. Most importantly and revealing, Flight 224 had been an impulsive decision on the woman’s part, executed with little preparation, and that would be unacceptable once they pursued targets within the United States.
Mirsad Sidran failed to understand the Viper’s reputation or the fear and respect men in Venezuela and FARC held for her. Perhaps she had been more disciplined and calculating, not governed by impulse and passion, before the death of her brother.
Sidran’s own biases toward women and non-believers prevented him from recognizing it, but he underestimated the Viper, as others have before, and that was to be a fatal mistake.
The VSS rifle was assembled and rested on the seat beside Arianna, and she still had the big Desert Eagle holstered at her side, along with a knife sheathed around the cargo pants on her opposite leg.
Benito Trujillo had worked with the Mexicans before, and he’d warned Arianna that they couldn’t be trusted. They held loyalty to no one, and their word was worth shit. If someone offered a higher price, the Mexicans would happily betray them. Making a deal with the Americans to turn them over to the DEA or FBI immediately upon landing was not outside the realm of plausibility, and the Viper was prepared for all contingencies.
The Gulfstream descended from the sky and landed on a dusty airstrip in the Mexican desert sixty-five miles south of Tijuana on the Baja Peninsula. The crude, makeshift airstrip was one of many created by the cartel after the Mexican government raided and shut down legitimate airfields used to smuggle drugs. The airfield was sparse, consisting of a narrow, unpaved runway and a couple structures; a small hangar, a four-vehicle garage, and a storage shed. About a mile out from the airfield Los Zetas gunmen ran a checkpoint on the inbound road.
A sedan, truck, and refueling tanker truck were positioned off the side of the unpaved landing strip, waiting for the jet’s arrival. A shimmering heat mirage from the burning afternoon sun hung over the horizon.
As the jet touched down, several men dismounted from the parked truck. Five of them carried rifles or submachine guns. They looked grimy, dirty, and impatient.
Benito Trujillo craned his head to look through the nearest cabin window as the plane rolled toward the gunmen. “It looks like they’re going to pull some shit.” He looked over to Arianna and shook his head. “I told you we shouldn’t trust those fuckers.”
The Viper caught a glimpse of the armed men as the plane rolled past the welcoming committee. She reached onto the neighboring seat for the VSS. Once the plane braked to a complete halt, she stood up and slung the rifle over her shoulder.
The copilot had already emerged from the cockpit. He unsealed the cockpit door and collapsed the foldable stairs.
“Be prepared to leave in a hurry if there’s trouble,” the Viper warned him.
The copilot raised his eyebrows. “With what fuel? Sure, we’ll get in the air, and then we’ll come right back down. If there’s trouble, your guys better be prepared to deal with it, without putting holes in my aircraft.”
Besides, the pilot thought but did not say aloud, he worked for the cartel, not this arrogant woman. And he was confident the Mexicans wouldn’t touch his crew or his aircraft. That would be bad for business with the North Valley Cartel.
Trujillo sprung onto his feet and readied his own weapon, an Uzi, and the Viper shot him a look and warned him not do anything rash. She knew the small Peruvian was temperamental, easily provoked, and highly paranoid, always eager for a fight. These traits had gotten him into trouble before, including a stay in a Bolivian prison.
“Carlo, with us,” the Viper instructed Ibarra. She turned to Mirsad Sidran, who remained in his seat, his posture and demeanor relaxed. “Would you mind staying with the cargo and covering us?”
Ibarra handed Sidran an AKS-74, the compact version of the AK-47. As he took the selector switch off safety and wracked the bolt, Sidran’s mind worked through his own escape. If anything happened out there, he’d stay aboard the plane and leave with the pilots and the missiles. Kashani’s plot would have failed before it ever really got underway, but that would be okay. As long as they’d never be connected to the Viper, and no one would knew of their involvement.
The Viper descended the stairs with Trujillo and Ibarra close behind. She was halfway down when the Mexican gunmen, spotting the weapons, raised their own guns. Reacting instantly, Trujillo and Ibarra did likewise, undeterred by the fact that they were outnumbered.
One of the Mexicans stepped forward and yelled out in Spanish for them to stop and lower their weapons. Trujillo and Ibarra complied with the first part, stopping on the stairs, keeping a gap between them, but they didn’t stand down from their firing positions and kept their sights trained on the Mexicans.
With the VSS hanging from her side, cautious to keep her hands still at her sides, the Viper continued down the stairs and approached the Mexicans. Dust blew in her face, but she did not blink or look away. She stopped twelve feet away from the cartel men and sized them up. She recognized fellow predators when she saw them, and she assessed these men to be Los Zetas, GAFE special operations troops who turned mercenary and went to work for the cartels.
From the cabin of the Learjet, Mirsad Sidran watched the standoff unfold. He stayed near the open door, feeling the heat blaze penetrate the air conditioning of the cabin. He held the AK-74 in front of him, barrel pointed up, finger indexed along the trigger. He had a clear shot at her from here, and the Mexican gunmen below did not see him. If the Mexicans attempted to detain Moreno, he would kill her and end this ridiculous fiasco.
With the Learjet’s engines powered off, Sidran could hear the voices outside speaking Spanish
“What are you people doing?” the Viper demanded. “Where is Arturo?”
“Tell your men to lower their weapons now.”
The Mexican’s voice sounded measured and controlled. That was good. Cartel shooters weren’t known for their discipline and nerves under pressure.
“Why are you pointing guns at our plane?”
“I don’t know you, and we aren’t in the business of trusting others, are we? My men won’t shoot if you don’t do anything too stupid.”
After several seconds, without taking her eyes off the cartel lieutenant, the Viper finally barked an order to Trujillo and Ibarra to lower their weapons. They reluctantly obeyed, and the Mexican likewise instructed his men to stand down.
“You are not Arturo,” the Viper observed.
“Call me Carlos. Arturo sent me.”
“You will transport my men and our cargo across the border?” the Viper asked.
“That was the original arrangement, yes, and maybe it still will be. Anything is possible now, but it’s between you and Arturo.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means a lot has changed over the past several hours. If you don’t like it, you can buy fuel from us now and fly back to where you came from. Otherwise we’ll hold your cargo for you, make sure your plane is secure here, and you’ll need to speak with Arturo to work out the details of the new arrangement.”
Arturo Silva was Sean Nolan’s contact in the Tijuana cartel. He was also one of the most wanted targets of the Mexican Federal Police and of the FBI and the Chicago and Los Angeles police departments in the US.
“The price will need to be re-negotiated.”
The Viper anticipated the reaction of her men behind her. She knew Trujillo would be getting an anxious trigger finger. She raised her hand in a gesture telling him to hold it together. She thought she heard Trujillo scoff and mutter something to Carlo Ibarra.