Highway to Vengeance: A Thomas Highway Thriller (7 page)

The first evolution of Hell Week is called
breakout. It starts at 6PM on Sunday night. Explosions. Gunfire.
Smoke bombs. Running around in the dark, trying to find your way to
the beach. Instructors yelling, spraying you with water, giving
conflicting directions, trying to disrupt class cohesion. It’s
meant as an introduction to combat stress, a shock to the system.
It works perfectly.

Twenty minutes later, 57 of the original 114
of us who haven’t yet quit are collected on the beach, in our boat
crews. But we were too slow, too unorganized. We’re sent to the
ocean for surf torture.

Next thing you know you’re lying on the
beach, arm-in-arm, your body immersed in the 58 degree water,
wearing only a T-shirt and fatigues. Cold, wet sand against your
back. Feet towards the ocean. Each wave that rolls onshore sends
water up your nose, into your mouth, covering your face, freezing
you further. Your teeth are chattering, your body is shivering
uncontrollably. Fifteen minutes later, you’re done. On to rock
portage.

The night is pitch black. The moon hiding
behind the clouds. The only illumination is one hand-held
flashlight and glow sticks tied to your hat. The waves are huge.
Ten feet. At least. You are on a bank of rocks, trying to get your
boat and crew into the water. A wave comes, crashes into your boat,
sending you slamming against the rocks. Instructors screaming to
not let your body get in between the rafts and the rocks. As if
that’s possible. Finally we’re all in the raft. We paddle out,
desperate to not get turned over by the waves. We succeed. But on
the way back in we get flipped. We come in last place. More surf
torture. Then rock portage again.

The next evolution is a four-mile timed run.
In 32 minutes. Nobody makes it. More surf torture.

Then comes raft races. One mile. Winners get
a 30 second break with the raft held above their head. Everyone
else gets 50 pushups and wet and sandy. On to another race. More
pain. More punishment. Then another race. Two hours later and
you’re done with this evolution.

It’s now 6AM. You’ve been at it for twelve
hours straight. Eight men have already quit this morning. It is
only the beginning.

Next comes an ocean swim. One mile long. In
57 degree water. Without wetsuits. Your limbs are frozen, barely
moveable. But you press on and finish the swim.

After an hour break for a shower, medical
evaluation, and a meal of cold field rations and water, it’s almost
noon. Time to go back to work.

Log PT. Two hours.

Surf passage. Two hours.

The grinder. One hour.

Raft races. Two hours.

The sun goes down. Seven more guys quit. The
only thing that sucks more than being soaked and freezing and
miserable is being soaked and freezing and miserable in the dark.
Another rationed meal and it’s back to the ocean.

Rock portage.

Surf torture.

Raft races.

Log PT.

It is now 2AM. Time for something different.
You are told to take off your boots and get into the 54 degree
ocean water barefoot. You wade out until the ocean floor is well
beneath your feet. Then you tread water for twenty minutes. Out of
the water to do more physical activity: push ups, pull ups, sit
ups. Then back to the water. This time stripped down to your
underwear. Twenty minutes in. Twenty minutes out. Over and over.
Each time in the water weighs on your mind more than the last. The
pain is nearly unbearable, but you press on. At this point, it’s
all mental. Your body can take it. Your mind just needs to learn
how to push past the barriers it thinks exist.

Thirty-eight hours after breakout, you get
your first hot meal and 30 minutes to eat. You spend it trying not
to think about what’s to come. Live in the moment. It’s the only
way to survive. You still haven’t slept since Hell Week has
started. Thirty-five men have quit. Only 22 remain.

After the meal, it’s back to the beach.

More of the same evolutions. All night long.
And then all day. Non-stop. Fifty-two hours in and the evolutions
become more simple, but no less intense.

At midnight on Wednesday, 78 hours into Hell
Week, we get to play in the mud. Two hours of rolling around in
mudflats, following the instructors directions. Feet. Back.
Stomach. Face in the mud. Back. Stomach. Somersaults. Face in the
mud.

A couple minutes by the fire, and then it’s
on to the obstacle course. Then leap frogs and barrel races.
Anything to keep you moving, to keep you awake. At noon comes hydro
recon. Waist-deep in water for thirty minutes. Then more pushups.
Sit-ups. Surf torture. Raft races.

Finally, Thursday afternoon at 2:30PM, we
get to sleep. A four-hour nap. After being awake for nearly 96
hours straight.

We’re woken up by a police siren. Getting
out of the cot is hard, but knowing we’re more than halfway through
Hell week makes it easier.

First evolution after sleep is surf torture.
A shock to the system, but by now you’re numb to the pain. You
begin to react without thinking, to ignore the meager distractions
of pain and discomfort and exhaustion. Some element of weakness has
left your body.

The evolutions continue for another 36
hours. The grinder. Surf torture. Half-mile swims. Log PT. Surf
passage. You’re cold and exhausted and sleepy but you press on
without thinking. Time passes strangely; the seconds drag on
forever but the hours fly. Before you realize it, Friday night is
upon you. Which means you get two hours of sleep on the beach under
the raft. Pure bliss.

You’re woken up by the pounding on the
bottom of the rafts with a paddle and the harsh screech of
whistles. You immediately start on the next set of evolutions. The
usual suspects. Raft races. Push ups. Sit ups. Surf torture.
four-mile runs. Surf passage. The grinder. It’s become routine by
now. You’re on autopilot.

And then, just like that, you’re finished.
120 hours of constant activity interrupted by a mere six hours of
sleep and Hell Week is over. Only 24 more weeks to go until you’re
officially a SEAL.

Welcome to BUD/S. Hooyah.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

I woke up at noon the next day to the sound
of my cell phone chirping. I’d been in bed for the past fifteen
hours, trying to build up my sleep reserves, figuring I might not
have another opportunity to catch any shuteye over the course of
the next couple of days.

I looked at the readout, saw it was Willis,
flipped open the phone.

“What’s up?”

“Not much,” Willis said. “Except, of course,
I’ve got some information that you’d probably be interested to
see.”

I sat up in bed. “Where are you right
now?”

“Dick’s Last Resort.”

I stifled a groan.

Dick’s Last Resort was a restaurant and bar
in the Gaslamp Quarter of downtown San Diego. It was a unique
place, where the waiters and waitresses didn’t bother with niceties
such as ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and sometimes even avoided
greeting you altogether. They simply barked at you until you told
them what you wanted, after which they grudgingly brought you the
food and then proceeded to ignore you unless you grabbed their arm
as they walked by.

Dick’s was loud, obnoxious, and bursting at
the seams from the minute they opened their doors until they kicked
everyone out at the end of the night. It was all part of the charm,
or so they claimed.

I didn’t buy it. I hated the damn place;
just thinking about going there gave me a headache. But Willis
couldn’t get enough of it. And since this was his gig, I told him
I’d meet him there in half an hour.

Forty-five minutes and three pre-emptive
ibuprofen later, I found myself at the front door of Dick’s Last
Resort, preparing myself for the onslaught. I took a deep breath to
steel myself and walked in.

I immediately saw Willis sitting alone at a
booth in the far corner of the restaurant and made my way over,
fighting the urge to plow through the 50 or so people crowded
around the bar, each and every one seemingly yelling at the top of
their lungs.

“What took you so long?” Willis said as soon
as I was within earshot. He had to yell to be heard, yet another
one of Dick’s charms.

“It’s good to see you too,” I said.

I sat down opposite Willis just as a tall,
skinny waiter with black plastic-rimmed glasses, a shaved head and
tattoos covering every exposed centimeter of his body walked
by.

“Hey,” Willis barked at the waiter. “We need
help.”

The waiter glanced at Willis, looked as
though he was going to continue on, then apparently thought better
of it and stopped at our table.

“You guys know what you want?”

“We wouldn’t have stopped you if we didn’t,”
Willis said.

“Then are you going to tell me, or do you
expect me to read your puny little meathead minds?”

Willis laughed. His smile was wide and
absolutely genuine. He loved this shit. “I will take a pint of
Coors Lite.”

“Obviously a connoisseur of fine beers,” the
waiter said. He raised his eyebrows and slowly turned his head
until he was looking in my general direction. “And for you?”

“Just ice water,” I said.

“Water? Are you freaking serious?”

Biting down on the urge to break his nose, I
simply looked at him and nodded.

“If you get any balls later on today, let me
know,” the waiter said. “What about food?”

“Nothing for right now,” Willis said.

“You’re joking right?”

“Does it look like I’m joking?”

The waiter dropped his arms to his side. “So
you’re telling me that you two goons are gonna take up one of my
prime tables during the busiest time of the day and just get one
single pint of domestic beer between the two of you?”

“And a glass of ice water,” Willis said.
“Don’t forget the ice water.”

The waiter rolled his eyes and shook his
head.

“Just shut your pie-hole and bring the
goddamned beer,” Willis said, the tone of his voice contradicting
the harshness of his words.

The waiter mumbled something under his
breath, then turned and headed towards the bar.

By now Willis’s smile was threatening to
split his face in half. He smacked his hands face down on the
table, practically breaking it in half. “I love this fucking place!
It’s not so much being treated like shit as it is the opportunity
to treat someone else like shit.”

“Plus you get to pay them twice as much as a
normal restaurant for the pleasure,” I said.

“Yeah, but it’s worth every penny.”

The waiter brought Willis’s beer over and
dropped it on the table and hurried away. Not surprisingly, he
didn’t even bother bringing my glass of water.

“If you want anything else, please hesitate
to ask,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.

I shook my head, chuckled under my breath. I
truly didn’t understand why people came to this place.

“So where were we?” Willis said.

“We hadn’t even started yet.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Willis
pulled out his notebook and flipped through it until he came to the
right page. “Well, it was a byzantine path, but the number you gave
me eventually tracked back to a man named Carlos Alvarez.
Forty-eight years old. Born in Tijuana, went to school at San Diego
State and law school at Loyola. After graduating in the top ten of
his class, he headed back to Mexico, where he opened a private
practice. Spent a couple of years down there, where his practice
took off amidst allegations of connections to—”

“Get the point,” I said. “I’m not interested
in his life story.”

“Actually, you are,” Willis said. “You just
don’t know it yet.”

“Why? Who is he?”

“I’ll get to it, just hold on.”

“I’m not in the mood for a freaking book,” I
said. “Just give me the cliff notes version.”

“All right, all right,” Willis said, clearly
disappointed. “Long story short, he’s the brother-in-law of a
certain Ferdinand Montoya.”

“And who’s that?”

“The man who was in charge of the Ciudad De
Tijuana drug cartel.”

I frowned. “I thought I read that the CDT
got shut down last year?”

“You did and they did,” Willis said. “Hence
the use of the past tense. But even though most of the top-ranking
members are now in prison, Montoya was able to use his connections
to avoid extradition. And from what I can gather, he’s trying to
lift his organization back up from the depths.”

“And the brother-in-law?”

“Carlos Alvarez was never even brought up on
charges. There was no evidence to tie him to the activities of the
cartel. In fact, right before the CDT got shut down, Alvarez came
back to the States and opened up a new practice in La Jolla.”

“So he’s legit?”

“On paper, he is,” Willis said. “But get
this; through a source I have down in Mexico, I was able to get a
list of Alvarez’s land holdings down there. In addition to a house
in Baja, he owns a number of properties in Mexico, one of which
happens to be an unoccupied warehouse near the Tijuana airport,
located less than three hundred yards south of the border.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “His warehouse is
directly south of Russo’s.”

“It’s practically a straight line,” Willis
said. “If they weren’t in different countries, they’d be neighbors.
The only thing separating them is that flimsy little border
fence.”

I scoffed and shook my head.
“Un-freaking-believable.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What about Alvarez’s property on the
American side of the border? Were you able to get anything on
him?”

Willis opened his arms and gave me a look of
mock disappointment. “Come on, Highway. What do you think?”

“I think you wouldn’t have called me if you
hadn’t,” I said. “Sorry to doubt you, my friend. I should know
better by now.”