miles an hour. It was just past midnight.
The vehicle sent a simple, ominous message to the locals as it cruised by: Stay the fuck out of the way.
Everyone assumed the shiny white Suburban was from the Sinaloa cartel, or someone having to do with Sinaloa. The locals feared the psychos who ran the cartel. Gunning down a local was not only possible, it happened all the time, often without provocation or explanation. No one dared even look at the vehicle as it moved along Iguala’s winding roads.
Sinaloa was Mexico’s largest criminal enterprise. It was a drug-trafficking, money-laundering, and organized crime behemoth believed to rival the Moscow mafia in its size and scope. Both groups had tentacles deep inside the United States, Europe, and Asia.
But the Suburban wasn’t from any cartel.
Inside the vehicle, two men sat quietly, one driving, the other in the backseat. They hadn’t spoken since departing Mexico City two hours before.
“We’re five klicks out,” said Pete Bond, glancing in the rearview mirror at Dewey.
Dewey didn’t look up. His eyes were focused on the window and the passing countryside.
“Hey, Dewey?”
Dewey gradually moved his eyes away from the window and toward Bond. He remained silent.
“I need you briefed up,” continued Bond.
“Sure,” said Dewey. “Take me through it.”
Bond was Central Intelligence Agency; a senior officer inside the National Clandestine Service’s Political Activities Division. He was dressed in clothing that could only be described as ostentatious: black Lanvin slacks, white Givenchy button-down, gold chains, Prada shoes. His hair was long, black, and slicked back. He had a mustache. Bond’s get-up was highly planned, in case they were stopped along the way. He looked like a high-level capo inside, or affiliated with, Sinaloa, come to pay a visit to the refinery.
Dewey had on jeans, a black synthetic shirt that clung to his chest, arms, shoulders, and torso, a flak jacket, and a Lycra ski cap. His face was camouflage black.
Across his lap was an unusual-looking assault rifle: HK MR762A1-SD. Dewey had selected the gun based on his experience as a Delta fighting cartel gunmen. It was a stealthy, very powerful piece of killing hardware, a gun that could silently take out a guard from two hundred yards without being seen or heard, then, a minute later, could be used to mow down a dozen of that guard’s colleagues after they discovered the corpse on the ground and went to guns.
The refinery was located in remote territory several hours south of Mexico City, technically part of the sprawling city of Iguala but twenty miles from the city’s decaying urban edge. The roads leading to the refinery were bordered by squalor. Shacks were scattered every hundred feet or so. Old steel oil barrels tossed flames into the sky from gasoline fires. Front yards were overrun by chickens and mongrel dogs.
The refinery was situated at the end of a weed-covered, mile-long dirt road. A hundred years ago, the road led to a sugarcane mill, but the buildings had long since been boarded up, abandoned, then burned to the ground by vandals. Now the site was occupied by a neat-looking corrugated steel warehouse. Inside, a small state-of-the-art cocaine and heroin refinery turned out street-ready narcotics that left in semitrucks bound for the United States.
For the Sinaloa cartel, the refinery was neither important nor valuable. It was one of more than one hundred such coke fabs that dotted the Mexican countryside. Portable, tremendously profitable, totally expendable.
Bond was a highly trained operator, but his true m é tier was in-theater intelligence acquisition, synthesis, analysis, and strategy. The operation was his design.
Dewey was there to execute that design.
“Beneath the seat,” said Bond, “grab the scans.”
Dewey reached down and found a manila folder, placing it on his lap. He took his SOG combat blade from his vest and triggered a small light built into
The vehicle sent a simple, ominous message to the locals as it cruised by: Stay the fuck out of the way.
Everyone assumed the shiny white Suburban was from the Sinaloa cartel, or someone having to do with Sinaloa. The locals feared the psychos who ran the cartel. Gunning down a local was not only possible, it happened all the time, often without provocation or explanation. No one dared even look at the vehicle as it moved along Iguala’s winding roads.
Sinaloa was Mexico’s largest criminal enterprise. It was a drug-trafficking, money-laundering, and organized crime behemoth believed to rival the Moscow mafia in its size and scope. Both groups had tentacles deep inside the United States, Europe, and Asia.
But the Suburban wasn’t from any cartel.
Inside the vehicle, two men sat quietly, one driving, the other in the backseat. They hadn’t spoken since departing Mexico City two hours before.
“We’re five klicks out,” said Pete Bond, glancing in the rearview mirror at Dewey.
Dewey didn’t look up. His eyes were focused on the window and the passing countryside.
“Hey, Dewey?”
Dewey gradually moved his eyes away from the window and toward Bond. He remained silent.
“I need you briefed up,” continued Bond.
“Sure,” said Dewey. “Take me through it.”
Bond was Central Intelligence Agency; a senior officer inside the National Clandestine Service’s Political Activities Division. He was dressed in clothing that could only be described as ostentatious: black Lanvin slacks, white Givenchy button-down, gold chains, Prada shoes. His hair was long, black, and slicked back. He had a mustache. Bond’s get-up was highly planned, in case they were stopped along the way. He looked like a high-level capo inside, or affiliated with, Sinaloa, come to pay a visit to the refinery.
Dewey had on jeans, a black synthetic shirt that clung to his chest, arms, shoulders, and torso, a flak jacket, and a Lycra ski cap. His face was camouflage black.
Across his lap was an unusual-looking assault rifle: HK MR762A1-SD. Dewey had selected the gun based on his experience as a Delta fighting cartel gunmen. It was a stealthy, very powerful piece of killing hardware, a gun that could silently take out a guard from two hundred yards without being seen or heard, then, a minute later, could be used to mow down a dozen of that guard’s colleagues after they discovered the corpse on the ground and went to guns.
The refinery was located in remote territory several hours south of Mexico City, technically part of the sprawling city of Iguala but twenty miles from the city’s decaying urban edge. The roads leading to the refinery were bordered by squalor. Shacks were scattered every hundred feet or so. Old steel oil barrels tossed flames into the sky from gasoline fires. Front yards were overrun by chickens and mongrel dogs.
The refinery was situated at the end of a weed-covered, mile-long dirt road. A hundred years ago, the road led to a sugarcane mill, but the buildings had long since been boarded up, abandoned, then burned to the ground by vandals. Now the site was occupied by a neat-looking corrugated steel warehouse. Inside, a small state-of-the-art cocaine and heroin refinery turned out street-ready narcotics that left in semitrucks bound for the United States.
For the Sinaloa cartel, the refinery was neither important nor valuable. It was one of more than one hundred such coke fabs that dotted the Mexican countryside. Portable, tremendously profitable, totally expendable.
Bond was a highly trained operator, but his true m é tier was in-theater intelligence acquisition, synthesis, analysis, and strategy. The operation was his design.
Dewey was there to execute that design.
“Beneath the seat,” said Bond, “grab the scans.”
Dewey reached down and found a manila folder, placing it on his lap. He took his SOG combat blade from his vest and triggered a small light built into
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