The Surge - 03 (22 page)

Vincent scanned the facility, nodding slightly in approval. It was the last place the authorities would search for a meth lab, and that was one of the primary reasons why it was so special.

Funerales Crematorio Colon was a family owned funeral home that had served Monterrey, Mexico since the early 1900s, and the perfect front for one of the Gulf Cartel’s most productive “kitchens.”

On one side of the well-kept stucco and brick facility was the area’s largest Catholic Church. On the other was the regional police station. “The Americans have a saying,” Vincent explained to Ghost. “Location, location, location.”

“Jefe?”

“Never mind,” El General said, waving off the always-curious man.

Even if the local law enforcement hadn’t been on the cartel’s payroll, El General didn’t think the cops would have noticed anything unusual. Funeral homes, and the grisly preparations that took place inside, were typically places avoided by the average citizen, as well as the nosiest of policea.

Such services required hefty doses of chemicals, masks, gloves, and other materials used in the trade. In fact, some of the substances utilized by Vincent’s cooks were the same items used to prepare the dead for burial. Caskets were excellent containers to hide and ship product. Who would dare to look inside?

El General had selected the Colon site for other reasons as well. Cooking meth was one thing, manufacturing large quantities of plague was quite another.

Of all the tens of thousands of meth kitchens, cocaine refining facilities, marijuana-processing factories, and other assets under the control of the cartels, it was the morgue at Colon that had both the security and the equipment to safely accomplish the task.

When the 1918 Flu Pandemic had ravished this part of Mexico with influenza, the hospitals and city morgues had been overwhelmed. The government in Mexico City had licensed and equipped Colon and a handful of other private businesses with the necessary equipment to handle any diseases that might be carried, transmitted, or transferred from the dead. That capacity was still maintained to this day.

With a small security entourage and an oversized briefcase under his arm, Vincent entered the air-conditioned lobby and headed immediately for a non-descript door that led to one of several small, private chapels.

The sanctuary was furnished with two rows of padded pews. Sparingly decorated with religious artwork, it was equipped with an ornate bookcase filled with various titles advising how to cope with grieving, death, and dying.

Vincent placed his hand on top of the bookcase in a very precise spot. There, a fingerprint scanner powered up and quickly verified that the drug lord’s prints were indeed in its database and made the electronic decision to allow him entry.

A metallic click sounded as the steel bolts holding the heavy, wooden structure were released. The well-balanced shelving became a door, swinging outward enough to allow Vincent and his men to pass through so they could descend a flight of stairs.

In reality, there were two basements.

One was used to prepare the deceased for entombment, or if desired, incinerate their remains. This was also the section of the building where the rare government inspector was allowed to visit.

The other subterranean chamber was slightly smaller, far more secure, and the location where Vincent and his security detail now stood.

Two men waited there, both dressed in bright white lab coats. The elder of the two was a recent university professor who had found the intersection of soccer and gambling financially unsustainable. His assistant suffered a similar, more traditional addiction. Amor de las Mujeres, or the love of women, had ruined the man after he was caught romancing a Mexican Army general’s wife. He’d been in hiding ever since, only the protection of the Gulf Cartel able to keep the hombre alive.

Vincent noted a newly opened box of hazardous material suits in the corner. While the lives of the two men facing him were unimportant, having any sort of outbreak or accident might bring unwanted attention to the operation.

“Do you have everything necessary to begin production?” El General inquired.

“Yes, Señor, all of the equipment and supplies have been delivered. We have studied the files on the laptop, and are confident that we can safely accomplish the task.”

“Good,” Vincent responded. “And you’re prepared to remain here for the duration?”

“Yes, Jefe. We have adequate food and comfortable quarters prepared. Your order that no one is to leave this facility until 20 kilos have been produced will be followed to the letter.”

Well, of course, my orders will be followed,
Vincent thought.
The alternative would be most unpleasant.

“I will await your call then. Good luck, gentlemen. I will have your bonus ready in three days.”

The mention of their cash bonus brought a smile to both men’s faces.

Years ago, Vincent knew the cartels would never have honored such an arrangement. Before he had taken over, the two technicians would have been killed and buried in the desert after accomplishing their tasks. Such was the shortsighted, narrow-minded thinking that had so dominated the criminal organizations for years.

El General was sure such dealings had limited the cartel’s growth and expansion. Who wanted to do business with such ruthless men? Who could trust any arrangement? As far as Vincent was concerned, those methods had done nothing but drive up prices, limit opportunities, and inhibit recruitment.

Even today, his inner circle had lobbied to kill the two technicians after they had finished manufacturing the deadly substance. “What if they talk? What if they’re detained and questioned by the authorities?”

“Then even more people will know that the Gulf Cartel honors its commitments. Everyone will realize that we reward good work and pay top wages for skilled labor,” he had informed his team. “Have the money ready when they finish the job. Let them enjoy it and tell everyone in Mexico that we are trustworthy people with whom to do business.”

As he ascended the stairs, Vincent wondered if his men would ever understand. “If we succeed with this operation, then it won’t matter. I’ll be able to engage the best management team in the world. Harvard MBAs and Oxford lawyers will send me their resumes.

Men like Ghost would make the difference in the long run. Brilliant individuals who could think, adapt, and overwhelm competition or negative circumstances. “I won’t have to spend my time surrounded by such dimwitted idiots forever,” he whispered.

Four solemn men carried the casket to the waiting hearse, the pallbearers all dressed in respectful black suits, white shirts, and mundane neckties. Nearby, a grieving widow clutched a handkerchief smeared with eye shadow and tears, firmly supported by a few family members and a man sporting a priest’s collar.

After sliding the elaborate casket into the back of the idling Cadillac, the director of Funerales Crematorio Colon gently closed and locked the swinging rear door and then approached the distraught relatives. “If you’ll accompany me, we’ll proceed to his final resting place.”

Across the street, Vincent sat with his security team in an older model minivan, observing the proceedings through the deeply tinted windows. El General had to chuckle as the funeral procession rolled by. There was a police escort, complete with flashing blue lights, in front of the hearse. “That was a nice touch,” he said to Ghost. “The devil is in the details.”

After the last vehicle carrying mourners had rolled past, Vincent’s driver pulled out to follow. The jefe was taking no chances, personally overseeing the transfer of the ultra-valuable cargo inside the sealed coffin.

They followed the procession to a graveyard well outside of the city, away from prying eyes of the townspeople. The minivan hung back to observe the short ceremony without drawing any unwanted attention.

As soon as the widow and her oldest son had each laid a single rose on the deceased’s casket, the small group of mourners began disbanding.

Thirty minutes later, only the van carrying the drug lord’s entourage and a pickup belonging to the gravediggers remained. “Retrieve the cargo,” El General ordered.

Two of his men exited the van, stepping directly to the casket that remained suspended above the six-foot-deep hole. When they spotted Vincent’s men approaching, the two gravediggers turned and walked away, both knowing not to look behind them.

There was a dead man in the casket, the widow and grieving family all unknowing characters in Vincent’s grand deception. There was also a false bottom in the coffin.

Like so many times before, the two cartel henchmen quickly disconnected the thin layer of wood and began removing the hidden contents.

Rather than the typical bundles of crystal meth, they extracted two stainless steel canisters, each slightly larger than a man’s forearm. Less than three minutes passed before the coffin was reassembled and the bodyguards were back with their boss. El General eyed the two containers with only a mild curiosity. If there was any sort of leak or breach, everyone inside the van was already dead.

As the old car headed north, it was joined by two other vehicles, each filled with the cartel’s most skilled soldiers. Vincent was well aware of the dangers involved in the next phase of the operation. He hadn’t risen to the top of the organization by taking unnecessary chances.

The caravan drove for two hours through the Mexican countryside before a sign announced they were approaching the village of Los Arcos, a small hamlet that his men referred to as a border town.                

Los Arcos held the distinction of being located on the imaginary line that divided Los Zetas’ territory from the region controlled by the Gulf Cartel. Unlike so many communities and cities located on similar boundaries, there hadn’t been any battle to decide who “owned” the nondescript huddle of adobe homes and metal barns. There simply wasn’t anything nearby worth fighting for.

As the minivan approached the settlement, Vincent lifted a radio microphone to his lips and broadcast, “Manuel, is all as agreed?”

A few moments later, a familiar voice came back, “Yes, Jefe, all is as agreed. The air is cool at this elevation, and the site has been inspected.”

Vincent nodded, his scout having used the proper keywords to let him know that the Zetas were honoring the pre-negotiated terms. The Z-44 crew and with his own security detachment were waiting for them.

As Vincent’s convoy pulled into the lane leading to a remote villa, apprehension filled the old van. A face-to-face meeting between two leaders of competing cartels was unheard of. Just a few months before, the Zetas and Gulf organizations had been at war, killing as many rivals as possible while yet another wave of violence rocked northern Mexico.

The opportunity to eliminate the top man of a competing organization was tempting. Vincent’s people had pleaded and begged him not to attend personally, but El General had been stubborn. “We must start down a new road. We must establish trust if our plans and dreams are to be fulfilled,” he had vigorously insisted.

The three Gulf vehicles stopped at the entrance to the villa, a single Zeta employee waiting there to verify El General wasn’t arriving with a massive army. Just like Manuel, the soldier lifted a radio to his mouth after counting the number of men in Vincent’s party. They were soon waved through.

The old farmhouse seemed like an unlikely location for two of the world’s most powerful criminals to meet. Humble by even rural Mexican standards, the small adobe home and two dilapidated outbuildings hadn’t been occupied for some time. There would be no unassociated witnesses.

Vincent exited after his men had taken up positions facing the three Zeta vehicles gathered on the far side of what had once been a corral.

After exchanging nods, El General and Z-44 began walking to meet in the middle. They even managed to shake hands, much to the surprise of their anxious security teams.

“This is historical, I suppose,” greeted the Zetas leader. “Somehow I feel as though we should have photographers and reporters recording the event.”

Vincent chuckled, glad his rival had chosen humor to break the ice. “If we succeed, I believe we’ll have plenty of media coverage, as well as a host of historians clamoring for details.”

Z-44 actually smiled. “I suppose you are correct. Did you bring the weapons?”

“Yes.”