The Grace Bay Agreement Read online

  Pete followed, shivering. The raindrops felt like ice pellets on his scalp. Now he wished he had a jacket and hat like Waldo. They approached the river and Waldo turned left, plunging into the undergrowth more than fifty yards from the warehouse. Good cover and concealment. Pete followed the broken plants and caught up with his partner. Waldo cursed in a soft stream, using his big folding knife to cut through some of the thorny vines holding him from advancing.

  In less than ten minutes they were in the back storage yard of the eastern warehouse. Easing between rusted hulks and barrels, they made it to the wall of the first building. Broken windows and open doors convinced Pete that no one would be inside this building. But Waldo looked inside. Seeing a light, he pulled his head back.

  “Someone’s there alright. I saw a light burning and a locked door.”

  “How can we get in and see what’s there?” Pete asked. The rain slacked up and the noise of the drops on the tin roof decreased.

  “Let’s go around the back and see if there’s another way in.” Waldo led the way under the wide eve, staying out of the rain. When he pulled out his Glock, Pete reached into his bag and brought out his .45. At the back, the huge building opened to the river. Pete and Waldo got as close to the ground as they could and peered around the wall.

  Pete saw how they once used the big winches to pull the shrimp boats up and into the shop. This must have been a big operation a few years ago. A new Ford pickup sat parked under the roof, and Pete noticed that the whole area had been swept and cleaned up. Lights glowed in rooms in the back of the shop, and Waldo nodded toward the three doors. The far door had an iron bar across it. The other two were not barred.

  “They’re here. I know it.” Waldo gave a sideways grin and pulled the brim of his hat lower. “We’ll go back to the restaurant. We can set up surveillance and figure out how many there are. Maybe catch Don Humo when he comes next time.”

  “No. We get them out now. They could be tortured or dead by tonight. We hit them now, when no one expects us. Then we’ll escape in this truck.”

  “Too risky.” Waldo shook his head. “We don’t know how many are in there.”

  “Look, if you were captured would you want me to spend a day or two watching the place or would you like me to bust you out before your next torture?”

  “Bust me out.” Waldo paused, weighing their chances. “Okay. We go in. We’ve got to assume they’re separated. That means three to six guards. You stay out here and kill anyone coming out of those two rooms.” Pete nodded and backed into the shadow of a support pillar.

  Waldo walked to the first door. He eased back the dead bolt, got down on the ground and pushed the door open. He dove into the room. Two quick shots. A pause, and then another shot. Then a fourth. A woman screamed.

  Pete waited, and a man came charging out of an office across the shop. Over thirty yards away. Too far to shoot. He waited for the guard to get closer. Meanwhile another man came out of the same office. With two men running toward the first room, Pete remembered that he only had seven bullets in the old auto. The men had not noticed him, concentrating on reaching the scene of the gunfire.

  He placed the slab sided weapon against the pillar and waited until the running man swelled into an unmissable hulk. Pete fired twice from eight feet away. The first man hit the floor and slid, stopping at Pete’s feet. A shot chipped the concrete and Pete felt the sting from the shards ripping his cheek. He realized the second man was shooting at him, rapid fire.

  The second man, fat and dressed in a suit, veered and took cover behind an old desk. He popped up to shoot once more and slid back down. Pete inched down the pillar until he could see the guard’s shoes. He aimed above the shoes, figuring that the bullet would penetrate the wooden desk. He squeezed off his third bullet and saw a hole appear right where he wanted. Nothing. No sound. Only three shots left.

  The man behind the desk moaned and fell out toward the shop floor. He held his face where the bullet had entered his cheek and broken his jaw. Pete moved around the post and picked up the man’s pistol, stuffing it into his belt. Perhaps this one will live.

  He went to the door, and heard some scrabbling noises, so he froze.

  “Waldo, it’s me. Don’t shoot.” No answer. “Waldo…Are you alive?”

  “Yes, barely. Get in here. The guard’s down, but I’m hit.” The simple statement speared into Pete and he felt like vomiting. Forcing himself, he pushed the door open. The big guard lay on his back with two holes in the center of his chest.

  Renee Hedley-Fields, still in her black business dress, held Waldo’s head in her lap. Pete could see that he was dying. Blood pumped out of a chest wound and worse, bubbled out of Waldo’s mouth.

  Pete reconstructed the scene. Waldo must have come in and double-tapped the guard. Somehow the guard got off a shot. Waldo must have fallen over where his hat is, and Renee went to him.

  “It’s been fun, my friend. Get that son of a bitch, Menchaca. Get him for me.” Waldo coughed, and then looked up at Renee. “I always wanted to die in the arms of a beautiful woman. Take my hat. You’ll need it in this rain.” He looked up at Renee, enjoying her face. Then the light went out of his eyes and he exhaled.

  Pete’s mind split into two pieces. Fear and grief played on one side, and he realized that he should mourn. But the other half turned the fear into a prod. The prisoners depended on him to get them out. He must act. He must decide.

  “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here. Are there any other guards?”

  “I don’t know,” Renee said, still cradling her rescuer.

  “Let’s go. Let’s go. We can’t help him now.” Pete wanted to care for Waldo, but he knew that he could weep and grieve later. Now they had to move. Move or die.

  Renee eased Waldo’s head down onto the concrete, brushed herself off, and picked up his Glock. After a hesitation, she searched his coat and got his extra ammo, knife, money, and wallet.

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  They peered out the door. No movement. Pete went to the room with the barred door. He eased up the bar, hid behind the wall and swung it open.

  “There’s just me in here. No guards. It’s me, Tuffy.” Renee went in first while Pete stood guard. Tuffy came out looking dazed and trying to get his bearings.

  “Anybody else?” Pete asked, swiveling his head to see any more guards emerging from the offices.

  “Just Steve Joiner,” Renee said.

  “I think they let him go,” Tuffy said. A muffled cry contradicted his statement. Pete motioned toward the room the two men had come out of. Renee hid behind the door frame and pushed it wide open with her foot. Pete moved into the sound-proofed room with his pistol raised. Just a quarter of the size of the other two rooms, he could tell instantly no one else could be hiding inside. He gagged at the smell of dried blood, urine, and feces.

  Steve Joiner sat slumped in a chair in the middle of the room. Pete couldn’t recognize him. His jaw cocked to the left and the right cheek dipped in, collapsed. Blood and mucus streamed from his mouth. Heavy leather straps held his forearms to the armrests, and both hands were mutilated. His eyes begged for something, but Pete could not bear to look at them.

  “We’ve got to get you to a hospital,” Pete said, noticing the blood splatters on the wall. Even as he started to plan, he knew that stopping at a hospital could mean their deaths.

  “No, we’ll take him to our compound. The medics will see to him.” Renee moved around looking him over. “You’ll live, but the ride won’t be any fun.” She pulled out Waldo’s folding knife and cut the leather straps. Tuffy and Pete helped him toward the truck.

  She ran back to her room and got her mattress and blanket for Joiner. While the men tried to make Joiner comfortable, she searched all three guards, taking their pistols, keys, and everything in their pockets. After she gave the truck keys to Pete, she scanned the rooms for files or briefcases. Nothing.

  Pete and Tuffy loaded Waldo’s body in the back with Steve.r />
  “I need to phone our people so that they can meet us and give us an escort in.” She picked up the phone and dialed. “Phil, we’re coming in. Dark blue Ford F-150. DAG-121 is the tag number. Meet us in front of Carnulla, 21st and Caracas. I want a full escort. Max security. One wounded. One dead.”

  She put down the phone and stood frozen, only her eyes moving, taking in the scene.

  “Get in,” Pete said, holding the door for her.

  “Why does the woman always have to ride in the middle?”

  *****

  As the Ford truck roared out of the parking lot, Alcatraz wrote down all the details he could remember. The owners of the house cowered in the corner as he once again put his eye to the spotter scope mounted on a tripod in the living room. The FARC surveilled the warehouse since yesterday, reporting Don Humo’s whereabouts to headquarters.

  He picked up his cell phone and dialed his supervisor, Father Lazaro.

  “Father, the two Americans I reported earlier entered the building. We heard gunshots. Just now, the black truck drove off with a Gringo driving. I think some prisoners or hostages have escaped. Do you want me to investigate inside the warehouse?”

  “No, our target’s Don Humo. Get your team ready and move out before the police arrive. I’m sure Don Humo’s going to abandon that location now that he’s lost his hostages. Good job, Johnnie.”

  Juan Manuel “Johnnie” Garza, call sign Alcatraz, hung up the receiver and put his cell phone back in his holster. He smiled, recalling the blessing of being in the 43rd Front, one of the few FARC battalions headed by a priest. With the Lord on our side, we can’t be defeated, he thought as he made the sign of the cross.

  He made hand signs to the two guards, and one called for their compadres to pick them up. Alcatraz smiled as his men worked without a word packing up the optics, cameras, and weapons. In less than two minutes they started loading their burlap bags into the back of the Ford Explorer. As he walked out the door, Alcatraz thanked the home owners and threw down two hundred dollar bills.

  Father Lazaro hung up his phone and reviewed the operation again. After he decided to help Maria Elena, almost all the pieces fell into place. Turns out Maria Elena had just returned from a real estate office where she learned Ramon bought a boat repair facility plus several adjoining lots last month in San Isidro. The real estate woman revealed Ramon’s plans to build a resort there. Truly the Lord smiles on his children. Lazaro said a quick prayer of thanks.

  Putting a surveillance team in place, Lazaro hoped that Ramon would show up sometime within the next month. He came that very evening! With the guards and Ramon’s men bringing in food, Lazaro guessed that Don Humo used the old warehouse for a prisoner or hostage holding facility.

  Now his surveillance team of three cars and three motorcycles tracked Ramon. Using an ambulance to move around Santa Marta showed Ramon’s genius, but now that Lazaro knew that secret, it made it so easy to follow him everywhere. They still had the problem of Ramon sleeping in a different apartment every night. It takes time to set up a snatch team in a location. But with him constantly moving, Ramon made for a slippery target.

  Father Lazaro’s two lieutenants wanted to snuff Don Humo for failing to pay his protection tax for the movement of his cocaine through their territory. Lazaro knew that they were correct. Killing Ramon would teach the other drug lords that they must pay their war taxes to the FARC. Following Ramon’s example, two other minor drug cartels found it cheaper to hire their own guards than to pay their taxes.

  But Lazaro wanted to snatch Ramon and hold him for the normal ransom plus all his back taxes. Payments from Ramon would put his battalion on so much better financial footing plus pay his back commissions to the FARC leadership. But several of his men had been killed in skirmishes with Don Humo’s guards. It would be difficult to hold back those hotheads who wanted revenge for the deaths of their brothers and husbands. But his men and women were disciplined. Father Lazaro needed the money, plus Ramon was still his cousin.

  Book

  Three

  Chapter One

  Wednesday

  1405

  15 December, 1999

  Magdalena Boat Repair

  Santa Marta, Colombia

  Don Humo cursed and kicked the corpse of Julian Palermo. The fat body dressed in the black suit barely moved. A sick sweet smell of death burned into Don Humo’s nostrils and fired his frustration.

  “You were supposed to guard my prisoners! Why didn’t you kill the bastards who came after you? What were you doing that they caught you like this?” His anger spent, Don Humo lowered his head and moaned. Margarita, his mistress, pulled him away.

  “Clean this up!” he screamed over his shoulder. A sense of doom hung over him. The DEA men were gone. There must be a team around who broke them out. Killed three of his best men and disappeared.

  “They were watching us and hit the guards right after we left,” he said to Margarita. “If we hadn’t called to check on Joiner’s questioning, they could have had three or four more hours. How could this happen to me?” She stroked his hair, but it could not settle the flock of thoughts hurtling through his brain.

  This could be the endgame for me. Where is the leak? Have they compromised El Pecador? Did they question his guards before killing them? No, not the way they are laid out. But did they hide and listen first, overhearing some tidbit that could get me killed?

  “I should have started Joiner’s torture earlier,” he said to no one. “I hoped to avoid it. I thought he would be reasonable.”

  He let Margarita sit him in a chair. She stood in front, and then she lowered her face to his. He turned away, looking at his men dragging out the dead bodies.

  “We’ve got to get you out of Santa Marta. Someone has connected Don Humo to Ramon Menchaca.” She grabbed his chin and turned his face back to hers. “Do you understand me? You must go into hiding. We must start ‘King’s Gambit’.” A look of determination swept into Don Humo and he sat up straight.

  Three years ago Margarita asked her love what would happen should he be unmasked as the head of the cartel. That started a discussion that grew into an obsession. They war-gamed several scenarios and ‘King’s Gambit’, a plan named after a chess strategy, was the result. It entailed getting a compromised Don Humo into hiding until the threat could be wiped out.

  During the next few months he sold his businesses to holding companies hidden behind platoons of lawyers and politicians so that his ownership and control could never be traced. Margarita then purchased a hiding place, stocked it, and developed detailed lists of procedures. Most importantly, she kept them secret from all except Don Humo.

  “Yes. You’re right, my love. Our businesses are protected, but I must disappear. Then I’ll plot how to get those who killed my men.”

  Margarita smiled and called to the driver. “Take Don Humo wherever he wants to go.”

  Wednesday

  1800

  15 December, 1999

  Waterwalk Apartments

  El Paso, Texas

  Christopher Monk eased into his door. By moving slowly and taking small steps, he could keep the pain down. Yesterday was the first time that he had gone to the gym in over five years. Every inch of his body ached. But he resolved to lose more weight. Even with the knives stabbing his thighs, a big smile rode on his face.

  An “Atta Boy” letter showed up in his inbox this morning from his boss in DC. Last week he sent a paper analyzing the turf war in the EPIC between Customs, Border Patrol, and the FBI. She read the report and loved it. Then she forwarded it to the next level. That boss thought it good enough to send it up to director level in the NSA. Nothing tasted better to the brass than dirt on other agencies. Fate smiled on his professional life.

  But an even bigger pleasure oozed through his brain like icing on his cinnamon roll. He opened his bag and brought out the new pair of jeans he purchased this afternoon at WalMart. For the first time in his life, he had purchased a smaller size
than the time before. All day, the prospect of buying smaller clothes had overshadowed the pain from yesterday’s workout.

  This combination of almost no drinking, eating less, and walking at least two miles every day performed a miracle on his body. A good set of muscles from left from his Marine Corps days hid under the rolls of fat, and a youthful metabolism burned up the calories. He could actually see he was thinner when he looked in the mirror. And now going to the gym would be the next thing to push him toward a normal weight.

  “I had a girlfriend when I was in the Marines. I can have one again. Maybe that cute Mexican girl behind the counter at the gym,” he said out loud while he picked up some of his dirty clothes and threw them in the corner of his bedroom.

  After he fired up his work station, he checked Don Humo’s email. Activity levels jumped to several underlings. Two hours slipped by unnoticed as he read the messages and the replies, making notes and putting them in a pile. He only stopped when the bathroom called.

  Chris took the notes scribbled on paper stolen from his printer, rewrote them more legibly, and then taped them on the blank wall to the right of his work station. He leaned back in his chair, trying to puzzle through this new blizzard of messages.

  Not only did Don Humo encrypt his emails as normal, he now used code words. “King’s Gambit” appeared several times. As he often did when stumped, Chris started talking to himself.

  “Somebody’s changed the game. Something’s happened. Something big.”

  He worked back through the email contacts of all of Don Humo’s men. There has to be a slip up. Someone will send an email with a key to this lock.

  The bell sounded letting him know that one of his targeted email accounts received a new message. Since he needed a break from this puzzle, he checked the alert. The encrypted email from the Unit sprang open after a few keystrokes. He read it again to make sure there was no mistake.