The police sergeant suddenly laughed and yanked the dagger out of the freckled man's eye. The searing pain made him scream again.
Brave's face looked awful, his legs a little weak.
"Who are you? CIA? FBI? DEA?"
"We're just military advisors hired by the traffickers!" Brave came to his senses and shook his head quickly.
The police sergeant stared at him, then suddenly grabbed his collar and dragged him toward a Humvee.
"What are you doing! What are you doing!" Brave cried out in terror.
The sergeant shoved his head under a tire and signaled to the officer in the driver's seat. The engine revved hard.
"I'll ask one more time! Who are you!" the police sergeant roared.
"Advisors, we're just regular advisors!"
The sergeant released his head and slowly stood up. Brave gasped for breath, lying on the ground with his hands tied behind his back, a mouthful of dirt, chest heaving.
"Kill that one. Keep this one."
"Roger!"
Brave froze at the cops' exchange, then snapped his head around just in time to see an officer rip open a submachine gun and rake the freckled man.
Turned him into a sieve.
The freckled man's eyes were wide. His head turned just enough for his gaze to meet Brave's. Brave went ice-cold. These police really killed prisoners?!
The sergeant gave him a glance. Idiot—saying you're not U.S. government personnel is perfect. If you'd said you were, it wouldn't be so "aboveboard" to handle you. Since you're not, you're a trafficker.
Spraying you dead serves you right!
He lifted the shoulder mic. "M4, do you still need support?"
After five minutes of burning, Zolf Sherman led the officers into the valley and keyed his comm: "Negative. Maintain comms. Out."
"Copy!"
White phosphorus can spike to nearly 2,000 degrees in an instant. When they pushed in, the ground was baked black. The air reeked. Officers all pulled on gas masks.
Crunch~
Zolf Sherman didn't watch his step. His boot crushed down on a body. He glanced down and snapped the arm to pieces.
This was… carbonized?
His eyes flashed. He jerked his head up and led the rush on a few houses that hadn't burned. One kick blew a door in. Two men inside threw up their hands and dropped to their knees, babbling slang pleas for mercy.
Rat-tat-tat!~
Zolf Sherman squeezed the trigger and cut them down. "Sorry, gentlemen—Spanish only."
Officers swept the remnants. No prisoners.
"Chief! We've got product!"
Zolf ran over. A dozen officers ringed a small room. A cellar hatch had been pried open. He bent over it.
Stacked bricks of drugs piled like a hill.
"Report to Mr. Victor: Cambra Valley has been wiped out!"
…
Sonora, capital Hermosillo.
In the rich district, a "mansion" worth $700,000.
Armed elites patrolled everywhere.
By the pool.
Guzmán, in a robe, lounged under a sunshade with orange juice, supremely at ease.
"Cousin." Arturo, eldest of the Beltrán Leyva brothers, came in from outside. His eyes slid to the bikini girls in the pool.
Several were Mexican starlets.
On TV they were many men's goddesses. Here, they were the Sinaloa kingpin Guzmán's toys.
"From the look of you, it's not good news." Guzmán turned, smiling.
He was in a fine mood now…
What could be more infuriating than getting beaten by Victor again and again?
"Our Cambra Valley plantation was smashed by Victor's people," Arturo said with a deep breath.
Guzmán's smile froze.
There was one thing worse: getting pinned and beaten by Victor!
"Fuck! That bastard, bastard, bastard!" he raged. The women in the water looked up at him. Maybe he was being sensitive, but Guzmán felt mocked.
He snapped. He grabbed an assault rifle from a bodyguard, racked it, and sprayed the pool.
"Aaahhhh!"
The women scrambled to flee. All were cut down. Two staggered up lucky, only to be booted back by nearby gunmen.
Arturo's eyelids twitched madly.
His cousin's mental illness had worsened lately. He'd grown more violent, even scolding several sons often.
A dozen bodies floated in the pool. Blood dyed the water red.
That was traffickers—utterly lawless.
If they dared hit a presidential candidate, what wouldn't they dare?
Guzmán tossed the rifle into the pool and drew a long breath, voice hoarse. "How much did we lose?"
"Fifteen tons of product, and 2,000 hectares of plantation, plus over 1,300 members and their families."
Guzmán's heart stabbed with pain. That was at least a $6 billion hit!
"Those were orders for several Arizona gangs. They've paid deposits," Arturo said softly, watching his boss's face.
"Pull from elsewhere first."
"Find someone to get this batch back."
Arturo frowned. "Not easy if it's in Victor's hands."
"Thirty million dollars! Whoever recovers it gets $30 million."
Throw money at it—someone will find a way.
From 1985 to 1990, the U.S. and Mexico ran dozens of joint anti-drug ops. Where did the drugs go later? No clear record. Even if recorded, no oversight.
Around 2000, righteous reporters exposed it: traffickers "bought" them back, and Mexico's relevant departments pocketed plenty.
Sometimes Mexico looked downright magical!
Another line: because of low pay, over 90% of kidnappings each year were done by police.
"I'll make contact," Arturo said. Seeing his cousin like this, he knew persuading him was pointless. Those 15 tons alone hurt.
Guzmán looked at the bodies in the pool. "Clean it up." Then he went inside.
Arturo looked at the women and shook his head. "What a waste."
…
"Hahahaha!"
Victor's hearty laughter filled the Mexicali Security Office. Alejandro also looked relieved.
"Victor, that had to hurt Guzmán."
"Hurt? Not enough. Only killing them will feel right. I want to tell him—where I show up, they step back!"
"Find more reporters. We'll hold a press conference. Lay out these drugs and the captured weapons. Make it clear to everyone—compared to this rotten government, I, Victor, am the one who can protect them and this country!" Victor rapped the desk.
He almost said, I'm the legitimate one.
"Should we pull our people out of Cambra Valley?" Alejandro asked.
"I'm sending another 100 officers to garrison there."
Cambra Valley was too good—wedged on the eastern approach. Baja's west and south were ocean. No worries there. Clamp one doorway, and you're practically carving fiefdoms!
"That's Sonora's turf…"
"The traffickers aren't cleansed yet. Their local security is so stupid—let me clean up for them. What they don't dare do, I'll do. I haven't even billed them a cleaning fee."
"Can we bill them?" Alejandro blurted.
Victor looked at him. He gave an awkward grin. "Only a fool refuses money. I think Sonora should pay us protection."
"After all, officer deployment costs plenty."
The phone on the desk rang, rudely cutting off their talk. Alejandro picked up, listened, and his expression shifted slightly.
He handed the receiver over. "Raúl Salinas, the president's brother."
Afraid Victor might miss it, he added a careful explanation.
(End of Chapter)
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