“What has changed?”
“Haven’t you heard? Nolan was arrested this morning. The gringos shot up half of Buenaventura to get him. Our sources in Colombia tell us it all has something to do with that plane that was shot down four days ago in Bogotá. Then you show up here, wanting us to get you over the border. Rumor is you plan on doing more planes in America. It’s a big risk for Arturo to get involved in some terrorism bullshit against the norteamericanos.” Carlos paused to let his words sink in. “I don’t know who you are or what’s so special about you, but the price for a one-way trip to United States has just gone way up.”
The Viper was seething. She struggled to contain her anger. She calculated her options, ranging from trying to take out the Mexicans right here and now, to biding her time in hopes of developing a tactical advantage, to swallowing her pride and haggling with the cartel. She reminded herself of why she was here, kept the end goal in sight.
“My cargo is going nowhere. It stays here aboard my plane, with me, and I will send one of my men to meet with Arturo. When a price and terms are negotiated and agreed, I will give you the money here, and we will then proceed directly to the border. You can stay out here with your guns pointed at the plane if you find it necessary. I won’t try to sneak away.”
Carlos kept his eyes on her, clearly taking offense to terms being dictated to him by this woman. For the disrespect she showed to the cartel, he thought his men deserved having a go at her, to put her in her place and remind her where she was. But he had his orders. The woman wasn’t to be touched unless she made threatening moves.
Finally, Carlos stepped out of earshot and made a call on his cell phone, while his men and the Viper’s resumed the staring contest.
The call lasted ninety seconds, and then Carlos returned to Arianna.
“He wasn’t easily convinced, but Arturo agrees to these conditions.”
“When can we speak with him?” the Viper asked.
“Tomorrow afternoon. Arturo prefers to meet with you personally.”
“It’s not going to happen.” The Viper was not about to turn herself over, alone, to the cartel. “I’m going to send one of my people. He will speak for me.”
“Very well then,” Carlos said. “We will drive your representative to the city to see Arturo, and I will stay here with my crew. Your plane doesn’t refuel until after our business is through here, whatever arrangement, if any, you and Arturo reach.”
“Do as you please, but if anyone approaches this plane unannounced or uninvited, they’re dead.”
The Viper turned around. Ibarra and Trujillo remained where they were until she’d climbed the stairs. Then they followed her into the cabin.
Standing with his back against the wall, off the side of the cabin door, Mirsad Sidran lowered his rifle.
As she strode past him, the Viper said, “We’re going to-”
“I heard everything. Send one of the others to deal with the Mexicans. I’m staying here, with you and the missiles.”
The Viper smirked. “You want to keep an eye on me, too? At least you’re straightforward about your intentions.”
“To protect my country’s investment,” Sidran corrected her. “The Mexicans know what you’re transporting. A cartel armed with SA-24 would be the most powerful in the country. Or the weapons could fetch a high price on the black market. The Mexicans are going to ask for significantly more money than you originally agreed upon. They hold the advantage, and you have nothing to bargain with. You need Arturo now more than he wants your money. After all, whatever you pay is pittance compared to the cartel’s daily earnings. We’ll never enter the US without their help, if they don’t stab you in the back.”
Before they’d left Buenaventura, Trujillo had offered to kill Sidran. The Viper had instructed Trujillo to leave him alone, assuming that Sidran sent a regular coded message to his Iranian controller, letting him know he was alive and the mission was on track.
“Money is not a concern,” the Viper said.
“It should be,” Sidran sneered. There was an edge to his voice now, and he leaned in closer to the Viper. He felt like he dealt with a child. “In case you haven’t noticed, we are now stranded here. The Mexicans will not let us out of their sight. There is the possibility they will contact the Americans, and the Americans will offer them more money for you than what we can pay. You can be certain that, as we speak, the cartel is considering this option and weighing the risks and rewards. They will do what is in their best business interests, whether that is raising the price and honoring their agreement with you, or selling you to the Americans.”
EIGHTEEN
Ten hours later, under a late night sky lined with stars, a DEA Learjet landed on the runway outside Tijuana International’s Old Airport Terminal, the terminal reserved for government and military flights, located opposite the airport’s larger and busier general aviation section. The Learjet entered on a blocked flight plan since the cartels kept watchers at the airport to keep track of inbound government flights.
Dismounting from the Learjet, the night air felt cool and breezy; about 55° F. Avery knew that tomorrow the temperature would rise some twenty degrees with the sun out in full force.
They were met on the tarmac by black Dodge Chargers of the Mexican Interior Secretariat’s Federal Police, and two civilian Toyota Forerunners with tinted windows, armored panels, and US Government diplomatic plates.
The armored Forerunner was the vehicle of choice for DEA agents in Mexico, and it had proven its durability. Two years ago, Mexican cops doing side gigs for the cartel ambushed a DEA Forerunner on a highway after it left the American Embassy. The SUV stopped 152 bullets. The agents inside remained completely unscathed.
Avery and the others were greeted by a Hispanic-American with a trim, athletic physique, wavy black hair, relaxed demeanor, and an easy going smile. He already knew Slayton, who introduced him as Special Agent Nick Contreras (DEA Ops Division; Office of Diversion Control). Avery found Contreras at once affable, but knew from the way he spoke and carried himself that he was a seasoned pro who knew his way around this part of the world.
Contreras was accompanied by Captain Hector Padilla from the Federal Police’s Anti-Drug Division. Middle aged with short graying hair, a thick, sturdy build, serious face and intense eyes, not as quick as Contreras to smile or engage in small talk, Avery thought Padilla looked more like a hardened combat soldier than a cop, and he wasn’t far off in that assessment.
Additional Mexican police officers stood nearby, creating a perimeter. Their eyes were alert, taking everything in, and their fingers rested along the trigger guards of their MP5 submachine guns. They wore dark blue uniforms with body armor and tactical helmets, plus black balaclava facemasks that left only their eyes visible through narrow slits, and their names weren’t printed on their uniforms, so that they or their families would not be identified and targeted by the cartels.
Given that the cartels had eyes and ears everywhere, it was best not to linger around, so everyone quickly piled into the Forerunners and got underway.
Avery didn’t know what Slayton had told Contreras, but it was apparent that Padilla was skirting the normal rules. No one from customs had checked Avery’s or Aguilar’s passports. There was no record of their entering the country, and Avery hoped to keep it that way. Their gear wasn’t searched either, which was also just as well since they’d brought assault rifles and full combat kit with them. Avery and Aguilar were in the country totally covert, and that would make it easier for them to do what they needed to do when they caught up with the Viper.
Avery trusted Contreras and the DEA agents, but he had mixed feelings about Padilla’s involvement. Aside from the widespread corruption that plagued Mexican police forces, Avery knew he might have to do something that the Mexican cops might not like.