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Never more so than in Mexico.

Chapter 8

General Alejandro Ortega watched the soldiers as they got into position around the club from his vantage point a safe distance from the action. The major who was directing the tactical team was good, a veteran of many similar assaults against the cartels. While one could never know exactly what to expect, it was usually a safe bet that their adversaries wouldn’t surrender easily, and it was understood that lethal force was going to be used.

Spring evenings in Morelia were generally crisp, and this night was no exception. The soldiers wore gray camouflage, fully decked out in combat gear, replete with Kevlar vests, assault rifles, grenades, pistols and combat knives. The squad the general had assembled for this assault comprised fifty men, most equally seasoned as the major. He didn’t want any mistakes. Morelia had seen enough open warfare in its streets to last a lifetime, and he couldn’t afford a lot of military casualties for the papers to rail about. This had to be surgical and over in minutes, or it would get messy, as they always did when events degenerated into a stand-off situation.

The major’s voice murmured over their closed-channel, encrypted radio. His aide handed the general the microphone so that he could speak.

“Yes, Major. I see you’re in position. I have both sides of the street blocked off a block away, but you’ll need to move quickly in case one of their mob sees the roadblock and warns them.”

“Requesting permission to begin the operation, sir.”

“You have a green light, Major. Repeat, you have a green light.”

“Roger that. Commencing assault at twenty-hundred hours on the nose.” The major’s transmission went silent.

A minute later, he watched as the troops moved into the club. He heard the distinctive rapid popping of M-16s, with interspersed small arms fire and the chatter of Kalashnikovs. A grenade sounded, its detonation booming down the street, and then after a few more rounds were fired, quiet returned to the area.

Four minutes went by. Then five. Finally, the major’s voice crackled over the com line again.

“We are in possession of the club. All hostiles are down. We’ve taken fire, and three of our men are dead, two wounded. Nine hostiles terminated. Over.”

“I’ll be in momentarily. Congratulations on a job well done,” Ortega intoned.

The general got out of the command vehicle and strode towards the club, flanked on either side by armed soldiers, weapons brandished lest any unseen assailant decide to pop a few rounds at them; the trio’s heavy combat boots thudded ominously in time on the pavement. Army emergency ambulances screeched to the curb, where they waited as the medics darted in carrying stretchers and triage packs.

The interior of the club was a scene of carnage, with blood pooled where bodies had lain. The cartel members had been left in place for photographs and definitive identification, but the fallen soldiers had been moved to an aid area with their wounded colleagues. It was their blood on the floor and walls. Several of the cocktail waitresses were wounded and two were dead — regrettable yet acceptable collateral damage. This was a war, and sometimes civilians got hurt in wars, especially if they frequented cartel strongholds. That was just the way things rolled.

Battle-frazzled soldiers leaned against the wall and lounged on the red vinyl booth benches, their guns pointed at the floor or resting on the tables. Combat was an odd thing, the general mused. Time compressed and minutes seemed to take an hour to pass. Once the adrenaline rush of being under fire diminished, your body felt like it had run a marathon. He knew the feeling, although it had been over a decade since he’d been in a firefight. A ranking general was far too high-profile and strategically important to take risks of that sort.

Two soldiers stood at attention on either side of the battered office doorway, the walls around which were pocked with bullet holes. He entered the room and the unforgettable smell of blood struck him, along with that of voided bowels. They didn’t feature that in the movies or on TV, but often when a target was gut shot, the bullets tore through the intestines, leaking bowel fluid everywhere. And equally often, a by-product of dying was a complete loss of neuromuscular control, including bowels and bladder. The business of death was a filthy one, he knew.

It was, after all, his chosen career.

Ortega moved to where the major was standing over a little bull of a man, collapsed behind the metal desk, at least six bullet wounds visible. The room was a disaster, the grenade having hurled shrapnel throughout it; the man behind the desk must have taken cover there to escape the explosion. Judging by most of the other bodies in the room, they hadn’t had that foresight.

“It’s the target. Batista,” the major observed. “He was holed up in here with five others, and a group of enforcers. They put up a fight, I’ll give them that, but you saw how long it took to take them down. Stupid fuckers should have surrendered instead of trying to shoot it out with an army unit…”

“When was the last time one of these shit-rats wised up and put a gun down, instead of shooting at us?” General Ortega mused.

“Good point. We’d all be out of jobs if human nature changed that much, eh?” the major countered.

“Not likely. Well done, Major. Carry on,” Ortega said, before taking a photo of the dead Batista with his telephone.

The general inspected the other bodies with scant interest and then motioned to his two armed attendants to move out. He had no intentions of sticking around any longer than he had to. The operation was concluded, the target neutralized, the mission accomplished. The rest was just mop up.

They returned to the command vehicle and the driver started the engine of the military edition Humvee H1 — a throaty diesel that would run the vehicle through raging rivers or up the sides of mountains. Ortega donned his reading glasses and fiddled with the buttons on his phone, struggling to make out the menu options. After a few false starts, he located the e-mail function and pushed send, watching in satisfaction as the photograph of the dead Batista winged its way to his rival, El Chavo, the lieutenant favored by his sponsor in the Sinaloa cartel to run the Knights Templar operation now that Santiago had gone to his reward.

Tomorrow, if Poncho Gallermo was still alive, Ortega would be spearheading a drive to eradicate that parasite from the planet as well.

One had to choose one’s battles carefully. It didn’t pay to buck the system. The world was an imperfect place, and if two dangerous homicidal psychopaths could be taken out with a minimum of fuss, that was good for everyone. Of course they’d just be replaced by other predators, but that was the way of the world. He couldn’t stop it, so might as well make a little retirement money while doing his part to keep the world safe.

The Humvee moved ponderously down the road to the checkpoint, where the sentries waved it through and saluted their commander, a legend in the ongoing battle for the safety of the Mexican people.

Julio’s phone rang at ten-thirty p.m.. He answered it, and was greeted by the blaring sound of house music and Felipe’s voice.