The Covert Element (11 page)

Now would be as good a time as any, if Santos were to have
hope of success. With his right hand, he silently withdrew the
dagger from its hilt. At the same time, he prepared to thumb a
button on the remote detonator with his left. He steadied his
breathing. The villa around him slipped into a slow motion vignette.

A firm press on the detonator set off the claymores with a
deafening explosion. Calderon stood. All others rushed to the rear
balcony to see what had happened. The response was practiced –
not panic. Rifles were at the ready. Security formed a half-circle
around Calderon, defending him from the direction of the claymore
"attack."

As soon as Calderon stood, Santos seized his opportunity. He
jumped down the last few steps before the landing and vaulted the
railing, landing directly behind Calderon. Operating on well-worn
instincts, Santos grabbed Calderon from behind, laying the cold
blade of the dagger across his neck with one hand, while holding his
head still with the other.

As the last chips of slate from the explosion clicked down on
the tile roof of the villa, and before the soldiers could respond,
Santos held Calderon at his mercy.

Calderon cleared his throat loudly. All in attendance turned
toward him. Soldiers aimed their rifles at Santos. But Calderon
made an effective shield. And the stairway gave Santos a decent
defense from the rear . . . at least for now.

The warm night air hung thick in the villa’s great room. Neither
side dared to move.

Then Calderon, cigar still in hand, began to cough. Santos
loosened his grip just enough so as to not inadvertently slit
Calderon’s throat. Calderon coughed again, a phlegmy hack that
worked its way into a laugh. Santos could feel Calderon’s body relax
under his grip.

With Santos still holding the dagger at his throat, Calderon
raised his cigar to his lips, taking a long pull on the
Cubano
. He
exhaled a smoke cloud into the midst of the scene.

"You have gotten yourself into an interesting position."
Calderon had ceased laughing and was now speaking to his captor.

"You can kill me. But how do you plan to escape with your
skin? Eh,
caballero
?"

"It is not my intention to kill you, Señor Calderon. Far from it. I
want to join your party . . . to partake of the fruit only
Los Cinco
can
enjoy." Santos’ voice was steady. "I want to become a
Los Cinco
. But
not just a footman,
Jefe
(hef´- ay). I want your hand to direct my
actions. I would be a captain among your soldiers."

Calderon again laughed . . . a deep smoker’s laugh.

"And tell me,
caballero
, why should I give you such a position,
if I were able? There are many men who have served me long and
well. Why would I not make them my captains instead of you, an
invader of my home?"

"Tell me,
Jefe
, which of your ‘captains’ has saved you this
night? The man who laid your mine field, which I have easily
defeated? One of these soldiers who hold their guns pointing at
your
head? A member of the security who guarded you from a
harmless explosion, while leaving me free to hold you at my
pleasure? You wish to make one of these your captain?"

Santos paused to allow his words to sink in.

"Señor Calderon. I could have killed you with the explosives
which I threw down the mountainside from your very roof.
Your
explosives. Had I chosen to bring a gun, I could have shot you dead
from outside your window. And now, I hold your life a third time,
attacking your fortress with only a dagger as my weapon.

"I ask you,
Jefe
, would not this man who has penetrated your
defenses and three times spared your life . . . would not this man be
a worthy captain among men?"

Cigar smoke continued to sift its way around the room from
Calderon’s
Cubano
. The metallic clicks of rifles meeting shoulder
slings and ammo belts were the only sounds.

"Put down your weapons," Calderon waved to his men. "Put
them down, I say."

Weapons were lowered with reluctance.

Now Santos removed his knife from Calderon’s throat and
gently released him, so he would not lose his balance. The knife
returned to its sheath as Santos stepped out from behind Calderon.

Santos knew this might very well be his death. But he no longer
cared about his own life. Only revenge for his family and freedom
for his people.

Calderon motioned with his hand toward the security forces to
keep their rifles lowered. He turned to face Santos, looking him up
and down. Under the dusty fedora, cotton rags, and cloth–covered
feet, Calderon could see the strength he had felt around his throat
only moments before. But he also saw in Santos’ eyes something he
had not seen in many years – since the death of his brother, Emilio.
He saw the soul of a fighter, a flesh that knew no pain in combat
and a heart that was true to its convictions.

"Take off your sombrero."

Santos complied.

"What is your name,
muchacho
?"

"Raphael Santos,
Jefe
." Santos was careful to return the
studied look of the older man. He stood with his back straight and
shoulders square. There was no sign of a quiver in his gaze or his
hands.

"Raphael Santos." Calderon rolled the name over in his mouth
with another puff of the big cigar.

"Raphael Santos . . . you have one big set of
cojones
!" He
laughed again.

With his shoulders relaxed and head shaking slowly side-to-side, he returned to the high-back chair by the stairs and resumed
his former seated position. All others were still and silent.

After yet another puff on the cigar, Calderon motioned Santos
toward a chair nearby.

"Come. Sit with me and we will talk."

Santos bowed as he accepted the chair.

"
Si, Señor Calderon. Gracias. Muchas gracias!"

CHAPTER TWELVE

Present day, in Red Wing.

When I returned home from our post-activity celebration at the
Harbor Bar, it was nearing 11:00 o’clock. I climbed the stairs
silently, only to find Beth reclining in bed, reading.

"Hi, Doll. I’m home."

"Oh, hey, Babe. Have fun at Bull’s dinner?"

She hadn’t lifted her eyes from the book.

"I guess there was some fun. Lots of other interesting stuff,
too."

She closed the book and waved me from the hallway into our
bedroom.

Beth slid over to make room for me, sat up against the
cushioned headboard, and patted the coverlet for me to sit down. I
obliged.

"Based on your breath, I’d say you encountered a couple beers
during your outing. Do I smell onion in there, too?"

"That’d probably be the jerk pork. Sorry about that. Shall I get
cleaned up before we chat?"

"Nah. Just teasing. Fill me in on what Bull had to say."

I gave Beth a complete run down on the events at the Harbor
Bar, saving the mention of Bull’s old Sergeant until last.

"So after the weenies went into the drink, Bull and I pretty
much just sat around visiting with the nice biker gentlemen. You
know . . . talking Harleys, engine modifications, fork extensions,
etcetera, etcetera."

"Well. It sounds like you really enjoyed yourself. Dinner. A bit
of action. You get to help save the damsel in distress. And share a
few beers. Not to mention some manly smart-talk. What could be
better?"

"Actually, I haven’t told you the best part yet."

"Wow! Now that’s hard to believe. What could possibly put the
icing on an evening like that?"

"You’re forgetting the reason Bull asked me to come over in the
first place."

"I hadn’t forgotten. I’d just assumed that his subject turned out
to be trivial compared to the flying beer bottles and the swimming
motorcycles. What did he want?"

I told her the story of Master Sergeant Fuentes, what he’d been
up to since retiring from the service, and that he wanted to come
visit Bull. I didn’t mention that he might be bringing half a Mexican
drug cartel along with him. It didn’t seem necessary to worry Beth
about that circumstance just yet.

"But here’s the thing that’s got me really interested. This
Fuentes guy told Bull that he knew something about a ‘mass
murder’ in Minnesota. The cops have kept a pretty tight lid on that
scene of bucolic country life gone wrong. If Fuentes is talking about
the same murders . . . and how many mass murders are there,
really? But if he’s talking about the crime in Ottawa County, how
does he know about it?"

"I assume you’re asking the easy questions first. There must be
a Mexican connection to the drug killings. Right?"

"Well . . . yeah." Beth has a way of bringing the big picture into
focus more quickly than I do. It irritates me sometimes.

"Yeah. That’s the big point all right. But the next question is,
does he know about it because he knows a victim . . . or a
perpetrator?"

Beth closed her eyes in contemplation.

"That
is
the sixty-four dollar question. Isn’t it?"

"I suppose if you’re Jack Paar, it is. Otherwise, most of us
younger folks would call it the million dollar question."

Beth leaned forward and backhanded me with a book to my
abdomen. I was ready. I deserved it. It didn’t hurt.

"I’m sorry," I offered with complete sincerity . . . at least as
much as I could muster at the moment.

"Keep talking," Beth said. "I want to know more about Bull’s
Sergeant and the Mexican connection."

"I’m not sure there’s more to tell. Fuentes will be here when he
gets here. Probably soon – within a week or so, I suppose. Bull says
I can meet him and then . . . hopefully . . . I’ll know more."

"Bull’s connection with the Rangers certainly explains a lot
about where he learned all that stuff about explosives. Maybe he
was an EOD."

Beth was referring to a specialist in Explosive Ordnance
Disposal. The name was a bit misleading. Most of the time, they
disposed of the ordnance by blowing something up.

"That’s certainly a possibility. I’ll make sure to pump Fuentes
for further info about Bull if I get the chance. That’ll be a lot easier
than going the direct route. I got flicked tonight," I said, rubbing my
forehead. "Twice."

Beth laughed and mussed my hair.

"Okay. Now go get cleaned up. Maybe swallow some
mouthwash to deal with the jerk odor emanating from your
innards."

I had my marching orders. And I was ready for bed anyhow. I
tossed my bar-exposed clothing down the laundry chute and headed
for the shower.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Despite his dramatic entrance into the Calderon villa, Raphael
Santos knew that he would still have much to prove before
El Jefe
would entrust him with the authority he sought. After all, Calderon
did not become one of the wealthiest men in the world by being a
fool. He would suspect Santos to be a government spy . . . or
perhaps, a member of a rival cartel. Santos would have to establish
himself by carrying out cartel business – and most likely, some of
its dirtiest.