“Move on.”
Gomez separated a satellite surveillance photo from the documents on the table and pointed to the main house.
“The two-story ranch house was built in a German style with a portico that runs all around it. It’s about four thousand square feet, with formal dining room, living room, library, and kitchen downstairs, and four bedrooms, or three bedrooms and a study, and two bathrooms on the second floor.”
Jenson glanced at his watch and grunted, “Hurry up.”
“The whole ranch is enclosed by an eight-foot-high security fence topped with barbed wire and cameras. The front gate is guarded by armed men twenty-four/seven. And we found another interesting thing.”
Gomez located another satellite photo of the ranch. “This one was taken about 1600 today. In an earlier photo, taken at 0940, there was a Learjet on the runway. In the later picture the aircraft is gone.”
“Meaning?”
“Unsure.”
“Are the Clark women still there?” Crocker asked.
Gomez turned to the masked man, who nodded.
“We believe so. Yes.”
“What about the Jackal?”
The masked man nodded again.
“You’ve personally seen him and the women?” Crocker asked.
“No, but he knows someone who has,” Gomez answered.
“And they’re alive?”
“We believe so. Yes.”
It wasn’t a whole lot to go on, but under the circumstances, it would have to do.
“What’s this?” Crocker asked, pointing to a river that snaked behind the ranch.
“That’s the Coatan River,” Gomez answered. “About a half million Central Americans pass over it a year on their way to the States.”
“Why the fuck is that relevant?” Jenson snarled.
“Because it’s not well monitored,” Gomez explained. “Bandits and hustlers use big rafts with inflated truck-tire inner tubes to transport drugs and contraband across it day and night. And nobody stops them, because they’re working with the Zetas, MS-13, or one of several Guatemalan gangs.”
Jenson slapped his big hands together and, looking at Crocker, asked, “What do you think?”
Crocker glanced at his watch. They were eighty-three minutes away from the deadline. “How many guards and how are they armed?” he asked.
Gomez looked at the masked man, who held up ten fingers.
“Expect ten to a dozen with automatic weapons. The last time we looked, which was about an hour ago, they were stationed around the house. Four or five at the front gate, a few in back. I would expect more inside the house itself.”
“Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
Crocker looked at Mancini, who shook his head.
“All right, let’s get these guys geared up,” said Jenson as he set a hand on Crocker’s shoulder. “Come with me.”
Outside, the night air was still and thick. Hundreds of male cicadas and spittlebugs clicked around them in unison, announcing to the females that they were ready to mate. Jenson strode to the corner of the aluminum building and lit a cigarette as Crocker watched a falling star streak across the sky and fade.
“We got a problem,” Jenson said, drawing on the Camel Light, his forehead furrowed. “A big fucking headache.”
“What?”
“Washington hasn’t given us authorization. They’re waiting for permission from the Peña Nieto government, and I can tell you that the Mexicans want to execute the raid themselves. The problem is they don’t know what we know in terms of intel, and I don’t plan to tell ’em.”
“Don’t,” Crocker answered, more aware than ever of the minutes ticking by. “We can’t trust them. We both know that.”
“But I also know this White House, and they don’t want to risk their relationship with the new Mexican president, so they’re not giving us the green light.”
Crocker grimaced.
“It’s a goddamn mess, and it’s been dumped in our laps.”
“You think the Jackal will carry out his threat and execute the Clark women?” Crocker asked.
“Based on everything I’ve heard about him, I believe he will.”
Crocker slapped Jenson on the shoulder. “Then let’s go!”
“We could both lose our jobs for this, if we’re not shot by the Mexicans first.”
“Right is right.”
“I won’t argue with that.” Jenson stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I don’t trust these sons-a-bitches guarding us, either. They probably got orders to follow you to the ranch.”
“We’ll use deception. Let’s go.”
Lisa sat in the chair with her hands folded in her lap, sweating. For some reason, the air conditioner had been turned off, which caused her to become increasingly uncomfortable.
Ten minutes grew to twenty, then thirty. She prayed silently, God, if you get my daughter and me out of here alive, I’ll dedicate myself to being a better person. I realize I’ve made mistakes in the past, and I understand now that politics and seeking power are not the right path for me. All I want to do in the future is love and nurture my family and help people in need.
She looked up at Nelson and a third armed guard who stood near the camera, whispering. This one seemed rougher than the others and had black tears tattooed down the side of his wide face. He whispered something to Nelson, slapped him in the chest with the back of his right hand, and chuckled cruelly like someone who had just twisted the head off a cat. Then he turned to Lisa with a look that sent a chill through her body.
“¿Lista, Señora?” the guard asked leeringly.
She looked away, pretending not to understand and wishing she could turn invisible. If only one of us survives this, let it be my daughter, she prayed silently. She’s a good, decent girl with a big heart. Please spare her.
A cell phone rang to a hip-hop rhythm. The guard beside Nelson answered, “Sí, Jefe…”
She had hoped to hear footsteps and watch El Chacal and Olivia enter through one of the doors. But she realized now that wasn’t going to happen.
As the guard whispered into the phone, he looked at her and nodded. The unease she felt was almost unbearable. “Lord God, I place all my trust in you,” she said, closing her eyes. “I love you more than I ever could have imagined.”
The guard slipped the phone back in his pocket, then nodded at Nelson, who flipped on the umbrella lights again. They startled her.
Suddenly he seemed to be in a hurry. He said, “We only have fifteen minutes, Señora, so you have to talk fast.”
“Okay, but what about my daughter?” she asked nervously, sweat dripping down her face and ruining her makeup.
“I don’t know about her, Señora. I don’t know anything. My job is to record your statement.”
“Does he?” Lisa asked, pointing to the guard.
“Chamale? No.”
“What happens after I record my statement?”
“You will go with Chamale. Stop asking questions.”
Chapter Fourteen
Knowing is not enough, we must apply. Willing is not enough, we must do.
– Bruce Lee
Crocker and the three other SEALs made a big show of saying goodbye and wishing good luck to Becker, Max Jenson, and the masked Mexican, who climbed into the dark-blue Suburban, armed and wearing black helmets, then drove off.
They waited five minutes until the Mexican soldiers guarding the building jumped into their jeeps and followed them, then exited out the back door, through thick foliage, to an old Ford Explorer parked by an equipment shed. Gomez flicked on the yellow parking lights, and they climbed inside.
Gomez, who resembled a young Edward James Olmos, said, “The weapons and ammo are in back. Grab what you need.”
Mancini passed an MP7 submachine gun with suppressor and M3X weapons light, a SOG knife, a cylindrical M14 incendiary grenade (which could produce enough heat to melt through an engine block), an MK141 Mod 0 stun grenade, two M68 frag grenades, an HK-45CT handgun, and three extra mags for each of them up to Crocker in the passenger seat.