Divide & Conquer Page 5

  “You can see me standing here, it’s an error,” offered Sean, half-heartedly. Black had warned him that it might take a few days for his survival to work through the system.

  The assistant shrugged; he was as frustrated as Sean was, having just spent twenty minutes earning two hundred bucks commission that he’d now never see.

  “So what can I buy?” asked Sean resignedly.

  “Everything but the guns!” offered the assistant hopefully, handing back the credit card and license.

  Sean looked down at the selection and pushed to the side everything but the Maglite torch and a cold steel recon scout knife, totaling $200. He handed the credit card back to the assistant.

  The assistant looked at the card and smiled but did not reach out to take it.

  “Sorry,” he said, pointing to the screen.

  Sean couldn’t dispute the assistant’s refusal; he wouldn’t accept the credit card of a guy listed as deceased by the federal government. Despite the fact he knew it would have worked.

  “I don’t have that much cash!” protested Sean. It really wasn’t his day.

  The assistant shrugged in apology and began to look for another customer. Sean was worthless to him.

  It wasn’t just weapons that Sean needed though. “Well, just one more thing?” he asked raising his finger to catch the assistant’s attention.

  “Yes, Sir,” all enthusiasm for dealing with Sean had gone. His voice lacked its earlier bounce.

  Sean ignored the change in demeanor. “Who or what are Los Zetas?”

  The assistant stared at Sean as though he had just asked the stupidest question ever, before cracking a smile. “Shit! You’re not joking,” he said, some of the earlier enthusiasm was back.

  The assistant took Sean by the arm and led him to the far end of the counter, out of anyone else’s earshot.

  “Los Zetas are the meanest cartel in Mexico. Shit, scratch that, the world. They are sick, man!”

  “Cartel, as in drugs?”

  “Drugs, whores, trafficking, kidnapping, corruption, shit anything, where the fuck have you been man, these guys are infamous.”

  “Overseas a lot,” replied Sean. “ And back East.”

  “Forces?”

  “Sort of!”

  “Cool,” replied the assistant nodding his head. He was smart enough to know what that meant and not to ask any more questions. “Anyway, the Los Zetas are ex Mexican Special Forces who quit and started working for the Gulf cartel as their muscle. After a few years, they decided they could do it themselves and started up their own cartel. They’ve kicked off this massive war and they’re cleaning up. Los Zetas are brutal. Tortured corpses without heads turn up to show people what happens if you fuck with them.”

  Sean nodded his head. He had seen some reports about the drug wars in Mexico and of course had seen what they had done to his doppelganger.

  “How many are there?” he asked.

  “Thousands. They’re massive. They pretty much run the whole of the Mexican West coast and they’re still expanding.”

  “All ex-special forces?” Sean didn’t think the Mexicans had thousands of Special Forces, never mind thousands that had quit.

  “No, sorry, the first thirty or so were ex-special forces. They’ve recruited since then, probably some more special forces but mainly just normal guys, maybe some ex-army as well though.”

  “What about the police, can’t they stop them?”

  “Not a chance, they’re out-manned and out-gunned by Los Zetas. Those guys think nothing of launching a full military assault on police stations. The police know what’s good for them, they keep their heads down.”

  Sean’s mind was racing. Los Zetas had kidnapped the boy and were probably the ones who had killed his doppelganger. Certainly the MO fit. Brutalized body, publicly delivered to the wife. That left two unknowns. Who had shot at him from the house and who were the agents in the car parked outside?

  However, before he could tackle either of those unknowns, there was still something he needed.

  Sean eyed the assistant. Middle aged, overweight and single. Sean thought he might still be able to help. He leant in close to the counter and whispered. “I’m having a nightmare of a day, anywhere I can find some female company to cheer me up, if you know what I mean?” he asked conspiratorially.

  ***

  Armed with the brothel’s details, Sean headed into the seedier side of Laredo. The assistant had suggested heading across to Nuevo Laredo, the Mexican side of the city which, he assured Sean, offered some of the best entertainment in the world. Sean had insisted he preferred the US side and was told in no uncertain terms that the quality was sub-par and not even on a bad day would the assistant visit the Laredo establishment but gave him the details anyway. He also, much to Sean’s relief, warned him to be careful; it really was a very different part of the city.

  Although Sean had noticed that the ethnicity of Laredo was almost completely Hispanic, it wasn’t until he ventured towards the center that it became apparent just how different Laredo was from most of the US. Sean had been to Miami once and had noticed a lot of Spanish signs. Laredo, however, had a few signs in English. It seemed he had been lucky up until then as Sean’s Spanish was somewhere between beginner and non existent.

  He followed the assistant’s directions and soon noted a significant drop in the wealth of the local inhabitants. Driveways became scrap yards and front yards were refuse tips. The brand new Mustang rental began to look significantly out of place and drew a few discerning stares from groups of young men. Sean felt more out of place here than in Afghanistan. At least there, in local dress and unkempt hair, he passed for a local. Something he’d never manage in Laredo and most definitely not in South Laredo.

  Sean arrived at the address the assistant had given him and really began to regret his rental car choice. He’d have to change it asap. Being white and six foot three was obvious enough without driving a bright yellow Mustang.

  That, however, would have to wait. In the meantime, he just had to work with what he had. He drove past the brothel, a non-descript house on a non-descript residential street and took the first road on the right, parking just out of sight.

  A small group of teenagers approached the car as he stopped; one walked forward with some bravado as Sean opened the door.

  “Hey hombre, what are you…”

  As Sean stepped from the car, the small Latino lost his swagger and changed tack.

  “…you want us to look after your fine car?”

  Sean smiled. Up until he stepped out of the car, he felt sure they were about to mug him. Obviously his size and the 'don’t fuck with me’ look had deserved a re-evaluation by the teenager. Sean towered over the four of them and probably weighed twice what each of them weighed soaking wet.

  “That would be great!”

  The leader held out his hand for some cash which Sean ignored but leaned into the leader and whispered.

  “If I come back and the car’s good, it’ll save me having to kick your ass in front of your little gang.” Sean looked into the leader’s eyes and saw a mixture of anger and fear. “Get me?!” he added with steel, knocking the anger from the eyes.

  A small almost imperceptible nod from the leader ended the interaction.

  As Sean walked towards the end of the street, he could hear the young leader barking out his orders to his gang, all in Spanish. He had absolutely no idea what was being said. Sean was embarrassed. His country had two languages, English and Spanish and he spoke only one. Afghanistan, Iraq and Pakistan had many and he spoke many of them. At times, he felt very un-American.

  As Sean had driven past the brothel, he had spotted two guards, one by the front door and another to the side of the property. As he walked towards the brothel, both pairs of eyes were on him. Obviously, they didn’t get many white American clients. Both seemed particularly uneasy at the sight of Sean and came together, backing each other up as Sean entered the drive. Both stood by the fr
ont door, blocking Sean’s entry.

  “Buenas tardes, Señor!” offered one of the guards. On closer inspection, his clothes were of significantly better quality than his colleague’s. Probably the owner of the establishment, thought Sean. The other guard was definitely taking the lead from him.

  Fortunately, Sean’s non-existent Spanish stretched to 'good evening’, 'good night’, 'one, two or three beers’, 'please’ and 'thank you’.

  “Buenas tardes, Señor,” replied Sean, although he wasn’t sure how long it would remain one. One owner, one guard, neither looked happy to see him, nor did they move aside to let him enter.

  “Perhaps we should take this inside?” suggested Sean, breaking the silence that had settled.

  Neither moved nor responded. Sean stepped forward, thinking they may part to let him through. Neither did. Impasse.

  The guard began to reach for his belt. The message to Sean loud and clear. He wasn’t welcome.

  Sean sighed. This wasn’t really what he had planned. Inside would have been much better but time was an issue and he just didn’t have any. He stepped back and threw his hand out, catching both by surprise. Sean grabbed the guard’s wrist before it reached his belt and as he twisted hard, forced a powerful head butt into the nose of the owner. As both wrist and nose shattered, the owner fell soundlessly to the ground while the guard doubled over, screaming in agony. The scream was short-lived as Sean followed quickly with a knee to the guard’s temple.

  Sean quickly scanned for any reaction in the street. There was none. A female voice shouted from inside and footsteps approached the door but whoever was behind the door wasn’t about to open it. They shouted again. Sean had no idea what they were saying. He was too busy searching the two unconscious bodies. And whoever was shouting wasn’t wishing him good evening or inviting him in for a beer. After a quick search, Sean had exactly what he needed. He thanked the two men, wished them a good evening and returned to his car.

  The gang leader stood next to his car, smiling proudly. His gang numbers had swollen to ten.

  The gang leader held a knife above the fabric roof of the Mustang, ready to stab it. Other gang members held baseball bats at the ready, ready to teach the hombre a lesson, thought Sean. First they’d pound his car and then him.

  Sean shook his head as the gang leader swung his hand up ready to strike down. Sean was still twenty yards away and was helpless to stop him. Except, unfortunately for the young gang leader, Sean swung his hand down to his belt, retrieved the Glock he had just taken from the owner and in one seeping motion, fired three rounds in quick succession.

  The first took the knife cleanly out of the leader’s hand, the second took out one of the baseball bats and the third, a baseball cap off the head of the nearest gang member to Sean.

  As half the gang ran away, the other half stood their ground. One reached for a pistol he had tucked in his trousers. Before he could bring it to bear, Sean sent over another bullet and removed it from the gang member’s hand. He was not as fortunate as his colleagues. As the gun exited his hand, a snap signaled his trigger finger would not be pulling triggers anytime soon.

  The rest of the gang fled.

  Sean climbed into the Mustang and placed the two handguns on the passenger seat, one Glock and one Jimenez Arms. He wasn’t familiar with the make but it felt light and very cheap. The Glock certainly worked and Sean had the gang to thank for the impromptu test firing. It was always good to know your weapon worked before you really needed to know if your weapon worked. Weapons were not hard to get a hold of. You just needed to know who to go to. Pimps were weaker and far less trigger happy than drug dealers. As for the shattered nose, Sean hadn’t met a pimp who didn’t prey on the weak and less fortunate in society; it was the least he probably deserved.

  Chapter 12

  SVR Headquarters

  Moscow

  Mikhail paced nervously outside the Director’s office. He had already been in the office for hours. His wife had kicked him out of bed at 4.00 a.m. due to his tossing and turning and inability to sleep.

  He had spent the last few hours going through old records in an attempt to understand what was going on but there was nothing. At least nothing he was allowed to see without further approval; something he didn’t know was possible. He had access to everything the Science Department had ever been involved in, or so he had thought. One file was inaccessible, the Grebnevo file. No other detail was available. The file was simply labeled Grebnevo. Mikhail had tried an Internet search, inputting the name; nothing showed up other than it was the name of a derelict estate just outside of Moscow. Shortly after his search, Mikhail’s computer stopped working.

  “Come in!” The Director’s voice boomed through the door. His assistant didn’t come in before eight.

  Mikhail puffed out his chest and stood to his full five foot seven as he walked into the Director’s office. Mikhail shrunk an inch as the imposing figure of General Yuri Borodin stood up to greet him. He was Director of the GRU, Russia’s Military Intelligence Directorate. His own Director sat motionless behind his desk, leaving Mikhail alone to face Borodin. Borodin took Mikhail’s hand and shook it before guiding him to one of the two seats in front of the SVR Director’s desk.

  Mikhail sat and surreptitiously wiped the sweat from his hand. He could do nothing about the sweat forming on his brow. He just had to hope the two most powerful Intelligence tsars in Russia did not notice. Mikhail was a scientist. Politics and power games were most definitely beyond him and if he had ever harbored any doubt, the speed at which his heart was currently racing proved it categorically.

  “I believe you needed to speak to me urgently?” offered the SVR Director.

  Mikhail glanced at Borodin before answering. As far as he was aware, although they both worked for Mother Russia, the two tsars were constantly fighting over resource and territory. Discussing confidential SVR business in the GRU Director’s presence was not only unorthodox but unheard of.

  Borodin leaned over and slapped Mikhail’s knee. “It’s OK, young man, you can discuss this in front of me. I know all about Sean Fox!”

  Mikhail breathed a sigh of relief and began to relay the telephone conversations he had received the previous day, informing him that Sean Fox was alive and in America.

  “Obviously,” he concluded. “There has been a miscommunication as I don’t know why my department would be involved with this Sean Fox.”

  “And that’s exactly why I’m here. There was a mistake. You should not have been informed. Sean Fox is an agent of ours whom we had presumed dead. Part of a joint KGB/GRU project in the past. I believe the agent in the US who contacted you yesterday with the information had historic contacts at KGB and GRU. He contacted the modern day equivalents, assuming you would be involved. However, this is old news and we need no longer worry about it.”

  Smiles broke out throughout the meeting as all came to the silent agreement. Mikhail would forget the name Sean Fox ever existed.

  A brief knock at the door preceded the door being opened without pause. Mikhail thought this rude as he watched the First Deputy Director of the SVR cross the office and hand a note directly to his boss, the SVR Director.

  The smile instantly drained from the Director’s face, as did every drop of color. A nod towards Borodin indicated he should see the message too. Borodin’s smile and color also disappeared as he too read the note.

  Mikhail began to shift awkwardly, wondering why the note was causing such a dramatic reaction. Were they at war? Had the President been assassinated? The First Deputy Director left without showing Mikhail the note.

  “Is there anything else, Mikhail?” asked his Director, as the door closed behind the First Deputy Director.

  Mikhail stood up, assuming he had been dismissed.

  “Is there anything you’ve not told us?” clarified his boss.

  Mikhail sat back down and realized he had not told them about his conversation with Agent Pyotr Travkin. As he relayed the conv
ersation, General Borodin stood up and began to pace around the large office. Mikhail became increasingly nervous as the massive General appeared to become more and more agitated the longer Mikhail spoke. On more than a few occasions, the General’s guttural throat clearing interrupted Mikhail’s flow. Borodin was clearly not happy.

  The SVR Director looked at Borodin as Mikhail ended with the revelation that he had changed the agents’ orders. The look on the General’s face was not conducive to continuing the meeting.

  “That will be all Mikhail!” ordered the SVR Director.

  “But…” Mikhail wished to explain his actions.

  “Out!” boomed Borodin, clearly unable to contain his anger any longer.

  As the door closed behind Mikhail, Borodin sat back down.

  “So, what should we do?” asked the SVR Director.

  “We will do nothing. I will sort out this mess,” replied Borodin leaving no room for discussion.

  “Mikhail?” asked the SVR Director.

  “Find out exactly what he knows about Grebnevo,” instructed Borodin, looking again at the note in his hand. “Before you kill him.”

  Chapter 13

  Sean swung by the airport and solved two other issues on the way back to the house. The bright yellow Mustang was swapped for a less conspicuous Toyota Corolla and a prepaid cell phone was acquired for a frustrating $20. Twenty bucks that could have meant the difference between life and death for the boy.

  Sean entered the lakeside estate for only the second time in his life. He listened carefully as the top of the hour news kicked off. The top story, again, was a local zoning issue. No Amber Alert had been issued. It had been almost five hours since the abduction and it seemed nobody, other than Sean, was looking for the boy. None of it bode well. Even when he was alone in Afghanistan, he knew the military were at least looking for his kidnap victims, not actively but they were certainly on the radar. Sean considered calling Black again. The boy deserved more; this was America for God’s sake! Sean was comparing the situation to Afghanistan and Afghanistan was looking more positive.