Sapo had always been one of his favorites. A short, barrel-chested man from Juárez with no neck and stubby legs, who worked tirelessly, never complained, and played the guitar and sang with the voice of an angel.
“Make sure all the funerals are paid for. First class. Flowers, good caskets, food. And take care of the families in the usual way.”
“Yes, Jefe.”
He’d learned the importance of building loyalty as a young recruit in the army and had always been generous to friends, family, the men and women who worked for him, supporters, and even communities of people in areas under his control. He called it “spreading the wealth.” He’d paid for college tuitions, weddings, houses, medical procedures, clinics, schools, homes, farms, cars, motorcycles, horses, birthday parties, and even local beauty pageants.
“Who?”
“Jefe?” the aide asked.
“Who betrayed me?” His arms and head started to shake with anger.
“We don’t know for sure, but the rumor is that Luis Vargas was paid off by the gringos.”
“Who the fuck is Luis Vargas?”
“He’s a sergeant with the Federales, who comes from Mazatlán.”
The Jackal couldn’t remember hearing his name before. “If he wanted money, why didn’t he come to me?”
“I don’t know, Jefe.”
“Find out. Ask him!”
The aide looked confused. “Yes.”
“Where is he now?” Jouma asked.
“No one has seen him, or his wife, or their two sons since the raid.”
“Which means the Americans probably gave him a new identity and are hiding him somewhere.”
“Yes, Jefe.”
“Tell Nacho I want him to launch an investigation and do anything he has to do. We have to find this hijo de puta and make an example.”
Nacho Gutierrez was his chief of security-a man of legendary brutality who recruited, trained, and managed a group of professional hit men (known as sicarios) who operated throughout Mexico, Guatemala, and El Salvador and into the United States. They were sociopaths recruited from the universities, police academies, and army.
“Yes, Jefe. I’ll inform Nacho immediately.”
He glanced at the photo again and the indignity and outrage burning in his father’s dark eyes. When he was a boy he earned a dollar fifty a day picking lettuce, chilies, watermelons, and tomatoes in New Mexico and Arizona. Now he had so much money, he couldn’t count it.
“Who executed the raid?” he asked.
“Gringos.”
“¿Gringos militares?”
“They weren’t wearing uniforms, Jefe. So we don’t know for sure.”
“Did they use helicopters?”
“No helicopters.”
“How many men?”
“Five or six. Maybe more.”
He clenched his jaw. “Are these the same gringos who attacked the house in Puerto del Hiero?”
The young man shrugged. “Maybe, Jefe. We don’t know.”
“Tell Nacho I want his best sicarios on this case. His top men. First, they need to find the identities of these gringos. Second, I want them to kill their wives and children. Third, they have to burn down their houses. Finally, I want the gringos brought to me so I can watch them being skinned alive.”
Captain Sutter wasn’t in a playful mood, which became apparent when he sat in a chair alongside the bed and demanded a full accounting of what had happened in Tapachula.
“The whole thing?” Crocker asked, finishing off the soda and wiping his mouth on a thin paper napkin.
“From conception to completion.”
He, Mancini, and Akil took turns relating the entire operation-the shootout, the recovery of Mrs. Clark, the burning of the house, the arrival of the firefighters and Federales, and their escape.
Sutter frowned at the end, got up, and walked to the window. “Excellent work rescuing Mrs. Clark,” he said somberly.
“Thanks.”
“But you left out the most important part,” Sutter said. “Who authorized the raid?”
“I did,” Crocker answered from the bed, sitting up and adjusting the pillows so his back was more comfortable.
“You alone?” asked Sutter, the veins in his long neck sticking up.
“Jenson was on the phone to someone in Washington waiting for the go-ahead, but the deadline was approaching,” Crocker explained. “It was about fifteen minutes away. So it was a judgment call on my part. I knew that none of us would be able to live with ourselves if we did nothing and let those two women die.”
“I was afraid of that,” groaned Sutter, kicking a chair in the corner.
“Why, sir?” Akil asked. “The mission was a partial success.”
“Why? Because you deployed without White House approval, goddammit. And they’re demanding heads.”
“Tell ’em to chill,” Akil groaned. “A woman’s life was saved.”
“That stupid attitude is not going to help you.”
“Sir-” Crocker jumped in but was immediately cut off.
“It wasn’t your decision to make!”
“But-”
Sutter’s face had turned bright red. “The president was in communication with President Peña Nieto,” he explained. “I understand there was some uncertainty about the location of the woman, because intel was sketchy and everything happened quickly. But once the site in Tapachula was confirmed, the Mexican president assured him that his military was in position to execute the raid.”
“But they didn’t, sir,” said Crocker.
“How the fuck do you know that?”
Crocker had never heard Sutter curse this much.
“Because we got to the ranch several minutes before the deadline and the Mexican military was nowhere in sight.”
“Had they been there, would you guys have stood down?” asked Sutter.
“Maybe, depending on circumstances.”
“Wrong answer!”
“The truth is, they didn’t act, sir,” explained Mancini. “Not in time.”
“If we hadn’t found Mrs. Clark when we did, she’d be dead,” Akil said. “That’s a fact.”
“Gentlemen,” started Sutter, trying to contain his emotion. “I’m on your side. I’ll defend you all the way. But you and I work for the government, led by our commander in chief. What you’re telling me is that you launched a major operation on foreign soil without his approval, and without the go-ahead of the leader of that country. Which means we’ve got a major problem on our hands and need to figure out how the hell we’re going to manage it without losing our jobs.”
“Fuck ’em all,” Akil groaned in disgust.
Mancini: “Akil, don’t talk like an idiot.”
Crocker cleared his throat. “With all due respect, sir, the problem all of us, including the White House, should be focused on is the location of the Clarks’ daughter.”
Sutter shook his head. “That’s not a problem anymore.”
“Why not?” Akil asked aggressively.
“Olivia Clark is dead.”
They all turned silent and looked at one another.
“How do you know?” Crocker asked.
“According to reports out of Tapachula, her remains were found in the burned wreckage of the house. The Mexican pathologists are checking her dental records now.”
For a second Crocker thought he wasn’t hearing right. “They found her remains in the main house?” he asked.
The CO nodded. “They found her. Where exactly, I don’t know.”
“Sir, we searched the house, and thoroughly,” Akil explained.
“The grounds, too,” Mancini added.
“Apparently you didn’t search it thoroughly enough.”
“I strongly doubt that, sir,” declared Crocker.
“It doesn’t matter, Crocker. The Mexicans claim she’s dead.”
He dressed in the black pants and polo Mancini had purchased for him and took the sad news with him down the hall. Outside the room ahead, he saw Senator Clark standing with his wide back to him, talking to a shorter, thinner man.