Family Matters Page 4

  “Well, General Fischer, I was thinking that since his team is on leave, there shouldn’t be any issue with them going on a trip to Cancun together. They all have passports and are available to travel today.”

  General Fischer laughed aloud. “Damn, son, you do have a way of getting around things don’t you.” He laughed a bit more and added, “I’ll make the call and have them gear up for Mexico, and speaking of gear, they won’t be able to travel with the proper equipment under this timeline.”

  “That won’t be a problem, sir,” said Lazarus with a laugh of his own. “This will be an all-expense paid vacation courtesy of an anonymous donor from the Cayman Islands. All the hotel bills, airplane tickets, rentals, etc. will be paid within the hour.”

  “You must have some pretty good resources, Mr. Chameleon,” said General Fischer.

  “Yes, sir, I do, and it will be my honor and privilege to use said resources to bring Mr. Black home.” Lazarus waited a moment and added, “I will be paying a visit to the afore-mentioned Andres Camacho after Mr. Black is secure. I hope that won’t reflect poorly on our relationship, General.”

  General Fischer laughed, “Not a chance, son. Not one single chance in hell. You do what you need to do. I have no jurisdiction in Mexico, and no knowledge of any potential criminal activity against Mr. Camacho’s person.

  “In fact, if the crew would like to extend their vacation with you after recovering Mr. Black, you have my blessing. I will let Gunny know the same.”

  “Thank you, General. I am honored by your generosity,” said Lazarus with a grin.

  “Think nothing of it, son. Consider this a family matter and we’ll let it go at that.”

  Lazarus ended the call and quickly dialed up Stephanie Salerno. When she answered he spoke with the North Texas drawl of Cooper Johnson. “Hey, darlin’, there’s been a change of plans. Now, I totally understand if’n you can’t put this together.”

  Stephanie chuckled at the man she only knew as Cooper. “Cooper, how bad can it be?”

  “Well, to tell ya truth, it’s a sorta major logistics move,” answered a sheepish sounding Lazarus.

  “Where do you need the merchandise, Cooper?” asked Stephanie.

  “Uhm, well, err… Costa Rica actually if ya can,” answered Lazarus.

  “Costa Rica; I see what you mean Coop,” said Stephanie as the wheels started spinning. “Don’t hang up, Cooper, I need to put you on hold, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Stephanie, whatever you need.”

  It seemed like forever, but 4 minutes later Stephanie was back on the line. “I took the liberty of assuming your private air strip north of Liberia is still operational.”

  Lazarus let out a sigh of relief. “Liberia is perfect for what I need, darlin’. It’s like you was reading my mind. I really ‘preciate this.”

  “This one is going to cost you, cowboy. Dallas was one thing, this is another. It’s going to take at least 5 hours to move everything into your hangar in Costa Rica.”

  “Whatever you need darlin’, you just let me know and the boss’ll hook you up.” Lazarus went on. “There’ll be a Cuban guy at the hangar. Good kid by the name of Encarnación. I’ll be sure he knows your comin’. You got any idea what sort of plane?” asked Lazarus.

  “It’s an old Boeing 707. Your strip is long enough isn’t it?” she asked as an afterthought.

  “Shouldn’t be no problem for a good pilot. It ain’t the longest strip in the world, but it’ll handle a 707 as long as he gets the wheels down quick.”

  “I’ll let my pilot know,” said Stephanie. “Good luck, Coop.”

  “Thanks, darlin, and I do owe you for this one. How’s Ruth’s Chris sound?

  “You have yourself a deal, Mr. Johnson. Ruth’s Chris it is.” Stephanie loved a good steak, and when it came to good, there weren’t many on par with Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse.

  *****

  Lazarus made two more quick calls. One to General Fischer to confirm the team was headed to Cancun, which they were. The second call to his man, Encarnación about the rendezvous in Costa Rica.

  Encarnación was Leonard’s cousin; smuggled out of Cuba by Lazarus when the boy’s father was arrested by Castro and thrown in prison. His father had been a tobacco man and spoke a little too loudly against the communist regime. Encarnación lived on the airfield in Costa Rica, maintaining the AC-130 located there and keeping up with the maintenance.

  He worked and studied hard, becoming a first-rate aircraft technician, electrical and mechanical. The Vietnam era AC-130H Spectre was armed with two 20 mm cannons, one L60 Bofors 40 mm cannon, and one 105 mm M102 howitzer. In 2009, Lazarus had the 20 mm cannons removed. He added a single 25 mm GAU-12 Equalizer cannon in place of the two 20 mm and added an improved fire control system with increased ammunition capacity.

  The AC-130H was unique in attack mode. All the firepower was mounted on the port side of the airship. Rather than strafing runs, like most fighters, the Hercules would circle its target on a pylon turn, keeping the objective in the center of the firing pattern, generally obliterating the target. It was used mainly for close air support and that was exactly what Lazarus had in mind for the second half of his plan; a plan that started with a request to rescue a friend and was now turning into a mission to eradicate or at least permanently cripple the Los Zapatos Cartel. Lazarus had special plans for Andres Camacho, the man who ordered the kidnapping of his friend Derek.

  This wouldn’t be the first time Lazarus carried out vengeance or retribution. His second and third kills were to avenge the damage caused to Katsumi Tanaka. The girl who lived on his compound, handling all his technological, banking and investigation needs. The situation with Derek felt different to Lazarus. It was personal, he admitted that, but didn’t truly understand why. Derek was a professional, a CIA agent. This was nothing that hadn’t happened before and wouldn’t happen again to a member of the Agency. That was the crux of the matter. It wasn’t because Derek was CIA, it was because of Derek’s family, at least that’s what Lazarus kept telling himself. He was doing this for Dan and Mary Jo…or was he?

  ~5~

  November

  12:27 pm - est

  Lazarus grabbed his go bag from the safe in the back of the walk-in closet in the master suite. He tossed a couple changes of clothes in along with his makeup kit. Lazarus had spent years mastering the art of camouflage. He could change his appearance any number of ways in minutes. It was an art that served him well time and time again.

  Angelique was waiting in the living room with Cheyenne and Langston, Lazarus’ 100-pound black German shepherd with dark green eyes. Langston was one of his master’s deadliest weapons when needed. You’d never know it just being around the big shepherd. He’d been trained by professionals and Lazarus had taken their training to a whole new level. Langston responded to commands in French when it came to his attack training. Lazarus grew up in France, so it was a natural thing for him as opposed to German, which so many trainers used; too many in Lazarus’ opinion.

  “All packed and ready to go?” asked Angelique as she stood to meet him. Cheyenne grumbled but stayed put. She wasn’t big on sharing her mistress and wasn’t shy about letting others know.

  Lazarus went to Cheyenne first. “Good girl, Cheyenne. Thank you for letting me have a moment with your mommy.” He winked at Angelique when he said mommy. She stuck out her tongue in response as she slipped into his outstretched arms.

  “Be safe, Lazarus, and don’t worry about calling me. I trust you will do what you need to do and come back to me.”

  Lazarus kissed her by way of response, crushing her to him. When their lips parted, he said in a husky whisper, “I will come back to you, Mon Cheri. You have my word.”

  Katsumi and Rebecca stepped into the room as they released each other.

  Lazarus gave Katsumi a hug and a kiss on the forehead. “You know what I need, baby girl, and I know you will take care of it.”

  “Always,” said Katsumi as she bowed t
o the man, she called Master. “Everything you need will be waiting in Costa Rica.”

  Then, to Rebecca’s surprise, Lazarus grabbed her in a bear hug and lifted her off her feet. He laughed as he said, “Don’t wreck the place while I’m gone, okay?”

  Rebecca laughed and replied, “Damn, Laz, you could bust a rib doing shit like that. I’m fragile you know.” She tossed her hair back and then gave Lazarus a peck on the cheek. “You heard the lady,” as she nodded towards Angelique, “you come back safe and with less than, let’s say two bullet holes, and we’ll call it good.”

  “Rebecca!” yelled Angelique. “You are such a shit!” Rebecca grinned back at her, not the least bit concerned about her comments.

  Lazarus decided it was time to go. “Angel,” he said to get Angelique’s attention. “She’s right you know. Less than two bullet holes would be a good thing.” He smiled at the look on her face. “It’s like telling an actor to break a leg before he takes the stage. It’s good luck, not bad.”

  “If you say so,” Angelique relied with an exaggerated sigh, “but she’s still a shit.”

  “Yes, she is; however, she happens to be your shit,” chided Lazarus. “You brought her with you, so you have nobody to blame but yourself.” The distinct sound of a helicopter rose louder as he spoke. “My ride is here,” he said as he kissed Angelique once more.

  “Langston, à l'extérieur,” Lazarus said to the shepherd who immediately fell into step with his master as they went out to meet the descending chopper. The helicopter barely touched the ground as Lazarus and Langston climbed aboard before powering back up and banking to the south, heading to Key West. Angelique and Rebecca stood arm in arm with Katsumi just behind them, watching until it faded into the clouds.

  Katsumi took both the ladies by hand and lead them back into the house. It was her turn to be strong for her Master. “Please don’t worry,” she said with a smile. “Lazarus always comes back…always. Come, I will make us some tea.” Ten minutes later they were sitting on the back deck overlooking the calm Atlantic.

  *****

  While Lazarus was in Key West to pick up his private jet, Derek was making the best of it as the van steadily rolled south towards Mexico City, still a good 12 hours out. He had no clear idea yet regarding the destination. Little snippets of overheard conversation led him to believe they were headed towards Central America; to what purpose he could only speculate. Derek didn’t know about Los Zapatos tradition of the hunt – but he was going to find that out in about 30 hours,

  Lazarus was counting on the tradition to give him the time he needed to prepare for the mission. He was certain Camacho would do the hunt. It was a tradition that would add credence and help solidify his position as the new head of the Cartel.

  November 11

  9:15 am – CST

  Special Agent Phillip Weaver was on his way to meet with Camacho at the Zapatos headquarters. The Zapatos compound was nestled in the Sierra Madre Oriental Range – well hidden in one of the many valleys. Ramon Torano had supervised the construction with more than half the complex underground. Torano used slave labor, with very few exceptions, for the bulk of the work.

  The compound was completed in 2009. Ramon threw an extravagant party for all the workers. Champagne flowed as the workers ate like kings. When the celebration was over, the very happy and very drunk workers were loaded into the work busses, presumably to take them back to their housing. They never made it. The workers were slaughtered; their bodies dumped down a natural shaft 5 miles southwest of the compound.

  Andres asked his uncle why he had spent so much money on the banquet, only to kill the workers.

  “It’s quite simple,” said Ramon. “Even the worst criminal gets a final meal before he is executed. Did not my workers deserve the same for the service they did for me? Also, it is much easier to herd 150 drunken men to their death than 150 who are sober and able to fight back. This way, they went to their deaths happy and well-fed,” he added with a wink.

  Andres remembered the conversation with a smile, now that he ruled the kingdom his uncle had built. The compound was impressive in many ways. Torano spared little expense when it came to security, surveillance, and communications. Yet for all his precautions the CIA had known of his compound since the day they broke ground, thanks to Andres’ connection with Agent Weaver.

  As for Weaver, he was waiting in Chihuahua. Camacho always sent a vehicle to transport him the rest of the way to the compound. This would be a first for the 48-year-old agent. He had plenty of photos and satellite surveillance, but his feet had never touched ground there. With Andres now in charge, the Agent had full access to the compound, though some of the long-time members of the Cartel saw Andres as a snitch to be dealt with harshly. It was only with patience and a cool head that Andres convinced them he never gave up secrets of the Cartel; only those of their competitors, which was enough for the CIA agent. With less competition in the drug trafficking, murders were down, and the CIA believed, though his value could be debated, Andres Camacho was now an asset to the Company.

  The black Yukon arrived 20 minutes late. Agent Weaver climbed into the back seat, joined by one of the Zapatos he knew; Ricardo Spencer. He didn’t believe himself to be in immediate danger, but he did tend to car-sickness and the last thing he needed was to puke in the car.

  The Yukon pulled over in San Francisco de Canchos for fuel and cold drinks. When Weaver returned to the truck, Ricardo was waiting with a black hood in his left hand.

  “Senior Weaver,” said Ricardo. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I must insist you wear this hood for the remainder of the journey.”

  Weaver had no issue with wearing the hood. It was to be expected. His only concern was his tendency to get car-sick when unable to see out a window. “I understand, Ricardo, but I must warn you; I tend to get sick when I can’t see in a car. It’s been a problem since I was a child. How long until we arrive?”

  “It will be no more than forty-five minutes, usually only 30,” said Ricardo.

  “I should be okay for that long,” said Weaver with more confidence then he felt.

  “If it becomes an issue, let me know, Senior Weaver. I will make certain we pull over in time.”

  Weaver figured that was the best offer he would get, so he donned the hood, leaving room to see his feet; hoping that might help, and I did.

  Thirty-five minutes later, Weaver stepped down from the Yukon. He shaded his eyes while they adjusted to the LED lighting in the large underground parking area. Several vehicles were lined up against the rock walls. Among them were Camacho’s armor-plated Humvee with desert camo and a BMW 735i, Andres’ personal favorite to drive himself. It had bullet-proof glass, with Kevlar in all the door panels, roof, trunk and surrounding the engine compartment. The modifications added weight to the car. Andres had the suspension beefed up so handling remanded close to factory spec. It wouldn’t get from 0-60 as fast as the factory model, but it rode like a dream and handled like it was on rails.

  The first thing Agent Weaver considered was Camacho wasn’t there to greet him personally; an obvious slight to Weaver, but then again, a lot of things offended him. He was escorted up to the drug lord’s office by two Los Zapatos gunmen.

  Camacho was standing in front of a Lexan picture window, designed to handle up to a .50 caliber round. His back was to the door as a sign of how secure he felt in his own home. “Good morning, Phillip,” he said without looking. “You’re late.”

  Weaver swallowed a retort, responding with a calm voice. “Take it up with your driver,” said Weaver, I sat in Chihuahua a good 20 minutes waiting for him.”

  “Hmm,” was the only response he received. “No matter, you are here now.” He turned to face the CIA agent, “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Phillip.” It wasn’t lost on Weaver that Andres had taken to calling the agent by his first name since taking over the cartel. Another slight as far as Weaver was concerned.

  “I’m here, Andres, because you a
re my informant, and I need information,” answered Agent Weaver with just a touch of edge to his voice; trying to project his authority.

  Camacho laughed. “Phillip, Phillip, Phillip,” he repeated, “I am no longer Andres. You will refer to me as Hefe, for that is who I am now.” The laughter had ended abruptly’ replaced by a look on Camacho’s face which told Phillip he wasn’t joking.

  Weaver stared at the newly crowned drug lord for about a minute, a thinly veiled smirk on his face. “You forget yourself, Andres,” said Weaver as he squared himself to the shorter Camacho. “The only reason you are the so-called Hefe of Los Zapatos is because I didn’t bust your drug-dealing ass to begin with.” Weaver was angry, but he was also afraid. No one knew he was there, and as far as he knew the compound had cell phone and GPS signal blockers in place.

  Camacho turned and poured two glasses of honey-colored whiskey from a decanter and brought one to Weaver. “You need a drink, Phillip,” said Camacho as he sat in one of the plush brown leather chairs arranged around a jaguar pelt. “Sit, please.” He motioned to the chair across from him. Weaver warily took his seat, not ignorant of the Zapatos soldier behind him. He wasn’t about to show fear to this punk, so he accepted the glass, taking a sip as he settled into the chair.

  Weaver heard a click in the cushion. He froze; eyes mixed with anger and fear focused on Camacho who smiled and raised his glass. “Let us toast to friendship, Special Agent Phillip Weaver.”

  Weaver knew he was sitting on a bomb, at least he thought so, and here was Camacho ignoring the look in his eyes and offering a toast. “You offer me a toast of friendship after sitting me down on a bomb trigger?” asked an angry CIA agent.