Operation Zulu: Dos Read online

“Told ya, Leeland.”

  “They ain’t so bad,” Ricky agreed as he crumpled up the remains of his taco wrapper and dropped it in a grease-stained paper sack. “Can’t get those at home.”

  “Just all fish and chips, eh?” Leeland finished off the taco and tossed the paper on the floor.

  “Hey!” Baylie protested.

  “Shit.” Leeland grumbled as he scooped the paper up and tossed it in Ricky’s direction to throw away. “Happy?”

  “Extremely.”

  “So, Tommy-boy, what’s next?” Ricky asked.

  Leeland looked up and down the busy city street they’d been parked on. None of the people on the crowded sidewalks seemed to notice the four in the dust covered Impala.

  “Looks like we skirted the cops on that whole pawn shop fuck up. No thanks to you, Ricky. We have enough money for food and gas so I say we drive to Passado and see a man about a place to lie low.”

  “How long a drive, Leeland?” Tanya asked, staring at her flaming red nails.

  “Baylie?”

  “Tomorrow morning?” She shrugged trying to remember the directions in her head.

  “We sleeping in the car?” Tanya asked.

  “Yeah, baby. What are you expecting, a one star hotel?”

  “Five stars,” Baylie said.

  “What?” Leeland looked over at the driver. “What?”

  “Five star hotel. A one–star hotel is a shithole. My car is not a shithole.”

  “Fuck you, Baylie! Number one is always the best.”

  “Not in hotel ratings, and fuck you!” Baylie threw the taco wrapper out her window. She had been the big guy's wheel-man for over two years; Leeland gave her a lot of wiggle room when it came to his temper—more so than Tanya.

  “Let’s get going, Baylie.” He glanced over his shoulder at the dark-haired ‘dancer’ in the back seat. “If we're lucky, baby, just maybe we can get us a one star hotel to lay up in.”

  “Five star!” Baylie growled as the huge four barrel roared to life. “Five star. Fuck.”

  NERO AND THE DEVIL CHICKEN

  CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  “Nero Duran.” Salazar sized the former soldier up as he stood in the Cartel captain’s lavish office. The crisp coolness of the air filling the room felt good on Nero’s face. “Have a seat.”

  “Muchas gracias.” He nodded slightly and sat down in the overstuffed chair across from Salazar, who relaxed behind a big oak desk.

  “Da nada.” He frowned and stroked his mustache. “What brings you here, Señor Duran?”

  “Job. Remiro told me Señor Camacho needed security men,” Duran said coolly.

  “Ah, yes.” Salazar rocked back in his big, comfortable chair. “You a friend of Remiro's?”

  “Si.” Nero smiled and crossed his legs casually. “He is like the creepy uncle no one likes to talk about.”

  “I can see that.” The cartel man chuckled. “I do know who you are, Nero. I remember you from El Abismo.” A smirk appeared on Salazar’s pockmarked face. “I was only there a short time, but I do remember you,”

  “I—” The cartel commander raised a hand at Nero.

  “You were a Narco soldier busted for running guns. Si?”

  “Si.” Nero slowed his breath. He started to mentally map a way out of the office that would include great violence to Salazar and his flunky, Domingo, who stood behind Nero’s chair.

  “Yes. While I was there, it was rumored you beat a few of the Pineda cartel’s men to death.”

  “True.” Nero stared unflinching into the other man's eyes. “They didn’t take too well to Narco soldiers being locked up with them.”

  “Heard it was bad.”

  “Bad things happen to bad people.” He uncrossed his legs and sat up.

  “Si, they do. Generally a Narco soldier or a former soldier such as you, I would put down on the spot. But in you, I see a—how they say—a kindred spirit. You went in El Abismo a good man and came out a bad one. Si?”

  “I came out alive, Señor Salazar. That is all that matters.”

  “Hmm. So now you want to work for El Jefe. Why?"

  “I need money. This town is dying and I can’t make it on the pesos I get. I could give a shit about what goes on here, just as long as I’m paid,” he said, keeping his real intentions to himself. Once he had enough money saved he would flee the compound and see his daughters.

  “Good answer.” Salazar smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Domingo, get Señor Nero here a cerveza.”

  “Isn’t it a little early to be drinking?” Nero asked as Domingo left the room.

  “Never. Do you have any family?”

  “No, my wife left me after the Federales picked me up. No kids. Nothing,” Nero lied.

  “Muy bien, that’ll make it easier on you. I assume you can shoot and hit what you’re aiming at?”

  “Si.”

  Domingo stepped back into the room carrying three green bottles of beer. He handed one to Salazar and another to Nero. The third was for himself.

  “Gracias.” The ex-soldier raised the bottle in Domingo's direction; the underling returned a sneer as he twisted off the bottle top.

  “So you know your weapons?” Salazar asked.

  “Very well. I was a sniper at one time. I was trained by the American military. I can shoot that earring out of Domingo's right ear at a thousand yards.”

  “Ha!” Salazar laughed as he watched his lieutenant absently touch the diamond stud in his ear. “Better watch your job, Domingo.” Salazar pointed the bottle in the other man’s direction.

  “Once, when we were camped out in the Sierra Madre desert doing survival training, all we had to eat were a few live chickens. All of us on the team were from Mexico City so we didn’t have a clue how to kill a chicken,”—Nero stopped and took a swig from the cool bottle—“so we are all very hungry. Sergeant Alvin tries to wring one of their necks. He ends up stretching this bird's neck to about two feet and it’s still alive. The cursed chicken is running around dragging its head and neck behind it. It started chasing the four of us around the camp, clucking like a demon from hell! Alvin started screaming that it was the Llorona or el Diablo. A couple of the team screamed like a little girls.”

  “So what did you do with this devil chicken?” Salazar asked with genuine interest.

  “The only thing I could think of.” Nero set the bottle down between his legs. “I drew my nine millimeter out and blew its head off. I was about eighty feet away.” He took another swig from the beer. “Shot it right through the eye. Best chicken I ever ate.”

  “We have us a very bad hombre that can shoot a devil chicken in the eye while his partners all ran away.” Salazar fixed Juarez with a knowing stare. “My men would have all shot each other trying to kill this devil chicken, let alone shoot it through the eye. We could use a devil chicken killer on our side. What do you think, Domingo?”

  “We will see,” said the other cartel man, feigning disinterest.

  “Uh huh. Señor Nero, you are now a probationary member of the Camacho Cartel. If you do your job well and are loyal to us, you will become an actual member. I have tried to get El Jefe to hire ex-soldiers but he doesn’t listen. Well, now we have you.” He stepped around the desk and extended a hand to him. Surprised, Nero shook it.

  “Gracias, Señor Salazar.”

  “Listen, Nero,”—the cartel captain still gripped his hand tightly—“the only reason you are here is because I remember you. Those men you killed in El Abismo, they were rival cartel members. I know you are not some kind of rat or spy. I saw what you did to them.” He released his hand and patted him on the side of the arm. “You follow the rules, do your job and you’ll make more money than you can spend. Fuck up and… Well… bad things will happen. Comprender?”

  “Si,” Nero said calmly.

  “Muy buena. We need to give you a name. How about Killer Pollo? We need someone to guard the cock fights.”

  “No, thanks.” Nero shook his head. “And Ne
ro is just fine.”

  “Well, well.” Salazar chuckled. “Nero. I have a good feeling about you. I think you’re the type of soldier we need.” He looked over at Domingo. “Give our new member a tour of compound. When you are finished with that, take him to the armory and let him pick a weapon. Put Señor Nero with Nacho after that.”

  “Si Salazar.” Domingo chugged his beer then tapped Nero on the shoulder with the empty bottle. “Come with me, soldado.”

  Nero knew that Domingo was using the term 'soldier' as disrespect but he held his tongue. Guys like the cartel lieutenant seemed to find they had short life spans; funny how that worked. Nero thanked Salazar again and followed the thin Domingo outside. As he glanced around the sprawling compound grounds, Nero wondered if he had suddenly bitten off more than he could chew.

  THE SAD BALLAD OF DANIEL FLORES

  NEAR CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  Daniel Flores watched in his rearview mirror as Nero disappeared into the open gate of Bob the Butcher's compound. The old farmer was pretty far down the road but he could still make out the scene unfolding behind him. The old man shook his head, and with a well-worn hand, shifted gears on the old pickup as the he made his way back into town.

  Lush Sabal Mexicana trees ringed the outside perimeter of the white adobe wall. Flores found the thick palm trees ugly compared to the shady pecan trees on his small farm. Camacho’s cartel had moved into the area near the small town of Passado a few years earlier, bringing a plague of drugs and death with it. Many of the townspeople had hopes that it would bring money into their empty pockets; it did not. Bob the Butcher had everything they needed in the compound shipped in; food, alcohol, guns, women. All the three thousand people in the town and surrounding area received from the compound were scraps. Some of the hired guns were from Passado, but they also spent their money elsewhere.

  The old farmer rubbed his eyes and focused his attention back on the road into town. He clicked on the radio and caught the tail end of a ballad by Bando De Gigantico. It was a sad, sad song about love and loss. Flores hummed along, feeling a bit melancholy; the song reminded him of his long dead wife, Mariel. Tapping his hands lightly on the steering wheel, he noticed a body lying in the road.

  “What is this?” Flores said quietly. He pulled the truck over to the side of the road and jammed it into park. With the engine still running, he quickly climbed out of the driver's side and hobbled over to where the body lay. He couldn’t walk two feet without the old leg injury he’d gotten from his days as a paratrooper acting up.

  “Are you okay?” He stopped a few feet from what appeared to be a woman lying on her stomach. She was dressed in old jeans and a work shirt. Her long black hair was splayed all about the hot asphalt.

  “Do you need help?” he asked nervously.

  The woman didn’t answer. On creaky knees, he knelt down beside her and felt her neck for a pulse. Finding none, he rolled the woman over onto her back, exposing a large, bloody tear in her stomach. Flores recoiled at the sight, causing him to almost fall over. Regaining his composure, he tried in vain to find any signs of life. Cursing to himself, he thought now was one of the times he wished he’d caved in to his son’s demands and bought a cell phone. Thinking maybe he could get her to the doctors in time for something to be done, the old man scooped her up in his still strong arms and struggled back to pickup truck.

  When the farmer finally reached the cab, he pulled the door open and poured the unresponsive woman into the passenger's side. Flores slammed the door and quickly hobbled back to the driver's side of the truck. He sat down heavily inside and, in a near panic, shoved the truck in gear.

  “Just hold on, señora!” Flores said, steering with his left hand and propping the pale woman up against the passenger door.

  “I’ll get some help!” he said, knowing deep inside the woman was probably beyond saving. As the older man returned his attention to the road, he barely noticed the radio was playing a fast dance number by El Cochino De Loco. The farmer started to reach for the radio’s dial to click it off when he heard a faint moaning sound coming from the woman. Now, with a little renewed hope, Flores glanced over to the passenger side of the cab.

  “No!”

  The woman's eyes were black and lifeless but wide open. Drool dripped down her chin as she angrily snapped her teeth together. Her hands were formed like claws and she grabbed the farmer's right arm, ripping his sleeve. Cursing, Flores tried to pull his arm away from the crazed female but she had a grip that betrayed her size. The growling woman started to frantically climb on top of him, all the while biting and tearing. As Flores screamed and lost control of the truck, he now knew that Nero had been wrong; the Llorona was real. The old Chevy slid off the road and smashed into a telephone pole, pulling down the adjoining phone lines. Flores' terrified cries were soon drowned out by the reanimated woman’s chewing noises and the sound of El Cochino De Loco’s happy dance song.

  IS THAT A ZIMA HE’S DRINKING?

  CONFERENCE ROOM

  CREECH AFB,

  NEVADA

  “Listen up,” Captain Galvan said to the thirty-seven soldiers that were seated at several tables before him. The officer stepped behind a wooden podium with a remote clicker in his right hand. Sergeant Kurtz stood next to the officer, a thin stack of folders clutched in his weathered left hand. Ramrod straight, the first sergeant looked like he was about ready to bark some ridiculous PT order at the assembled group. “If any of you haven’t heard, at approximately sixteen hundred hours yesterday Vice President Taylor’s daughter was murdered in El Paso, Texas. She was down there helping with some kind of local school charity event when she was caught in the crossfire between two rival drug cartels. Four Secret Service agents were also killed in that mess. Command has given us a real number ten this time.” Galvan let out a breath.

  “Captain?” Duley raised a hand. “Can I have the number one, please?”

  “Johnson!” Kurtz growled. Duley shrunk back in his chair, afraid the senior NCO was going to rip his head off.

  “All right. Any other jokers wanna raise their hands? I’m sure First Sergeant Kurtz is still hungry.” Silence from the others. “I’ll give you a brief sitrep. Sergeant Kurtz has a detailed mission plan for each of you. Let me get through this then you can begin with the questions.” Galvan pointed the clicker at a screen behind him. The five foot image of Bob the Butcher Camacho in all his glory appeared over the captain’s shoulder.

  “That is Robert Camacho, head of the Camacho Cartel in Veracruz, Mexico. He goes by El Jefe. His enemies call him Bob the Butcher.”

  “Looks more like Bob the Builder.” Redwood smiled.

  “Don’t let his soft looks fool you, Sergeant. Camacho and his cartel have been running drugs into the U.S. for three years now. He is known to have killed thousands of Mexican citizens and been responsible for hundreds of murders and abductions of American citizens in many of our cities near the border.”

  “Sounds more like a DEA problem,” Morgan said.

  “You would think so, Sergeant Morgan. Vice President Taylor's daughter became victim number four hundred and six yesterday. POTUS wants some swift revenge.” He glanced around the silent room. “Intel has Camacho with ties to several heavy Mexican politicians and he also has some connections in our Government. Anyway, that issue is someone else's problem. However you slice it, Bob the Butcher is a threat for U.S. security. The CIA has also informed command that Camacho has been in talks with several terrorist groups about smuggling in some of their weapons and members.” Galvan crossed his arms. “The White House is pushing hard to get this guy. We have a snatch and grab order. We go in, grab Camacho, take out his crew, and go home.”

  “So basically this is just in and out?" Hale asked.

  “Yes. Twenty of us go in, twenty of us come out. Command wants it to look like a rival cartel hit.”

  “Captain,” Sergeant Skelton said from the back of the crowded room, “which teams are going in?”

  “I h
aven’t made a determination yet. We will continue training and I will make my decision tomorrow.”

  “How does the Mexican government feel about this?” Hale rubbed his stubbled chin.

  “They refuse to cooperate. Like I said, he has high powered friends. We are going in dark. This is about as black as a black bag operation can get. An unmarked helo will fly us off the deck of the Reagan and we’ll come in across the gulf. All weapons will be scrubbed of any identifying numbers. In fact, we’ll be using mini-14’s and Beretta’s. No U.S. uniforms. Command wants us looking like a bunch of hired guns. Tac vests will all be civilian issue as will be the rest of our gear. This is a total black OP. We get caught; the powers that be will disavow any knowledge of us. This is to look like a rival cartel hit. We take out all his men. Any of us get captured, we’re on our own.”

  “Swell.” Morgan shook his head.

  “Easy, Sergeant Morgan, just don’t get caught. Sergeant Kurtz has all the mission weapons in the armory. We’ll have two days to train on them. OP plans are in the folders the First Sergeant is passing out. Read ‘em them over then we’ll mission plan. Any questions?”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Cross?”

  “Um,”—she pointed at the projected image of Bob the Butcher—“is that a Zima he’s drinking?”

  DANE COOK IS FUNNY

  EN ROUTE TO CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  Ricky squinted as the early morning sun shone through the dirty windshield of the old Impala. Ricky’s head throbbed from his cough medicine hangover. The wiry wannabe tough guy noticed he still clutched the half empty bottle of Nyquil in his right hand. He quickly tightened the lid and dropped it into the plain paper sack between his worn black loafers. He pulled his suit jacket off his chest and laid it down between the passenger seat and the door. Ricky yawned then looked back over at Baylie, who lay half asleep against the driver's side window. The Brit rubbed some sleep from his eyes and wrinkled his nose at the musky smell of his own unwashed pits. “Where in the hell are we, luv? What time is it?”