Twelve minutes after departing the airport, they arrived without incident at the large, new medical facility. The governor of Tampico stood beaming, waiting for his ally, the president, to make his way to the ceremonial ribbon. The city’s mayor and a host of minor dignitaries also stood patiently by, insistent on being proximate to the seat of power. The governor had been a strong supporter of the president’s election campaign, and was an old friend, which accounted for the visit. Chits had to be paid, and it was questionable whether the president could have carried the election had it not been for Tampico. Normally, a hospital opening wouldn’t have rated his time, but the party had developed a strong bed of support in the state, and it never hurt to solidify sentiment. There was always the next election to consider.
The governor shook hands with the president, and then gave him a warm hug. After greetings were exchanged, the speeches began, promising a new era of prosperity and national pride. There were no surprises, and forty minutes after the ceremony had begun, it was over. Ripples of applause followed the waving of the dignitaries as they hastened to depart, their media circus having come to an end.
Cena’s precautions had paid off. The president was still alive and ready for the flight to Guadalajara for his afternoon appearance. The entourage moved back to the cars, and the motorcade prepared for the return trip. Cena radioed ahead to alert the waiting commandos to prepare for their passage back.
Juan Ramon was sweating, even though the temperature was moderate and a breeze blew through his partially open window. He peered at the roofs of the buildings that were forty yards in front of his dingy apartment complex, noting that the soldiers lining the sidewalk had stiffened within the last few minutes, presumably in anticipation of the return of the president’s motorcade. He’d watched as it had made its way down the two lane street on its way to the hospital, noting the number of Suburbans.
A warble interrupted his thoughts — he snatched the cell phone from the table by the window.
“Yes.”
“He left in the second car, but it looked like they switched the order once they were out of the parking lot, so it could now be the fourth,” the voice reported, sounding harried.
“What? How the hell is that supposed to help me? It’s one or the other. Think, man. Which is it? Second or fourth?” Juan Ramon seethed into the phone.
“I don’t know. Like I said, they did some shuffling in the staging area, and I couldn’t see from so far away. Too much of a crowd, and the security looked like it was on unusually high alert.”
“You know what happens if we screw this up.”
“I know. I’d say go with the fourth truck. That’s my best guess. They left exactly ninety seconds ago. Should be within range in three minutes,” the voice advised.
“Your best guess? Fine. It’s your funeral if your guess is wrong,” Juan Ramon warned, then hung up. He checked his watch, then slid the small, black plastic radio transmitter nearer to the window sill. He raised a pair of camouflage binoculars to his eyes and watched for the first motorcycles. The timing would be easy, but the ambiguity over the target’s position within the convoy was a problem.
Cena’s buzz of agitation hadn’t diminished since they’d left the hospital. If anything, it had grown worse. There had been warning indicators that the cartels were unhappy with the president’s aggressive offensive against them since taking office, and this was one of the first expeditions from the capital since he’d been inaugurated. Perhaps it was professional paranoia, but Cena had the sense that something was brewing, and he felt out of control, even though nothing had occurred.
So far.
They rounded a curve onto the primary thoroughfare through town, and Cena studied the myriad buildings along the route. The Suburbans had bulletproof glass and armor plating, so any danger from a sniper was moot. The president was in far more danger when he’d been standing in the open than in the SUV. At least that part of the ordeal had gone off without incident.
The blast as the storefront exploded tore through the line of vehicles — the third and fourth Chevrolets flipped over from the force, their armor providing slim protection against six mounds of Semtex coated in three-quarter inch steel ball-bearings — the claymore mine-like bombs favored by the cartels. Once the orange eruption had done its work and the trucks were immobilized, an anti-tank rocket streaked from an apartment window four hundred yards away, the laser guidance system directing it unerringly to its target. The Suburban exploded in a fireball, and it was several seconds before the surviving detail opened fire on the apartment, directing a barrage of bullets at the already vacated window.
Smoke and fire belched from the devastated truck, and sirens wailed through the downtown as emergency vehicles raced to contend with the effects of the attack.
Juan Ramon was two miles away by the time the special forces commandos stormed his building, motoring towards the edge of town on his motorcycle, the pizza delivery box on the back rendering him anonymous as the army clamped down on the area in a vain attempt at containment.
The evening news reported that thirty-seven lives had been lost in the savage attack, including six reporters, a host of soldiers and police, and four of the president’s elite personal guard. Fortunately, the president had escaped unharmed, the explosion having narrowly missed his vehicle at the front of the motorcade.
All public appearances were cancelled until further notice, pending a full investigation. Cena was out of the hospital within a week, the damage to his left arm and part of his face requiring two additional surgeries over the next three months, but the prognosis for a full recovery good.
Juan Ramon disappeared shortly thereafter, never to be heard from again.
Chapter 3
Spring in Argentina was mild, the days warm and the nights only somewhat chilly, at least in Mendoza. Sometimes the wind would blow from the towering Andes mountains down into the valley and make things unseasonably miserable, but thankfully this year there had been none of these unexpected surprises. Seasons in South America, like in Australia, were the reverse of the northern hemisphere, so April was in reality autumn for the region, which enjoyed a kind of Indian summer during that period, before plunging into a cold and snowing summer.
The young man pulled his pea coat around him as he made his way past the small markets and cafes on one of the main arteries, stopping at his favorite to buy coffee and a breakfast roll. Groups of high school students loitered across the street, smoking and talking loudly as they waited for their classes to begin. Leaves blew down the sidewalks and into the deep storm drains that bordered every street, acting as a kind of informal network of tunnels for the region’s stray dogs. The man paid the smiling cashier and shouldered past the line of waiting patrons, all in a hurry to eat and run, the business day about to start for the offices around the stock exchange building, to be followed a few hours later by the retail shops at the street level.