Hunt the Jackal by Don Mann, Ralph Pezzullo Page B

asked.
    Davis answered before Mancini got a chance. “Joey Mancini. He’s as Italian as meatballs and spaghetti.”
    Akil whispered into Suárez’s ear, “Don’t tell anyone, but Mancini’s our secret weapon. We use him to bore people to death.”
    Suárez choked back a laugh.
    “Akil thinks it’s cool to be ignorant,” Mancini responded. “He believes that his boyish insouciance makes him more attractive to the random chicks he picks up in bars and hotel lounges.”
    Akil: “What the fuck does ‘insouciance’ even mean?”
    “Look it up, Akil. Any good psychologist can tell you that you’re compensating for your small dick and latent homosexuality.”
    “You wish, Manny.”
    Crocker always enjoyed Mexico and had visited almost a dozen times. The last was a cave-diving trip that he had taken with Holly to the Yucatán. Not only were the underground air and cave water restorative, but as they swam and looked up at patches of sky through holes in the caves, Crocker felt that they were in the presence of spirits that were thousands of years old.
    There was something deep and mysterious about the country. He wasn’t a big reader, but his interest in military campaigns had drawn him to the incredible True History of the Conquest of New Spain by Bernal Díaz del Castillo—an eyewitness account of the Spanish conquest of Mexico. Crocker had marveled at how the relatively small group of six hundred soldiers, with fifteen horses and fifteen cannons, had prevailed against an Aztec army numbering in the hundreds of thousands.
    Especially interesting was the pivotal role played by La Malinche, the Nahua Indian woman from the Gulf Coast of Mexico who served as Cortés’s guide and interpreter and later bore him a son. Nearly six hundred years later, she was still a controversial figure in Mexico. Crocker had heard that to call someone a malinchista was to accuse that person of being a traitor to their people, or someone who hated Mexicans.
    As they approached the exit, his thoughts were interrupted by a large Hispanic-looking man who stepped into his path. “Tom Crocker?” the man asked.
    “Who wants to know?”
    “Carlos Nieves, FBI. I’ve got a colleague and two SUVs waiting on the curb. You want a lift?”
    “How much?”
    “A round of beer and a plate of nachos.”
    Crocker checked Nieves’s ID and indicated to his men to follow. He’d been told that the man running the joint FBI/DEA task force was named David Lane, so he asked, “Where’s Lane?”
    “He’s waiting at headquarters, which is actually in a compound in the Zapopan part of town,” Nieves answered as he helped load the SEALs’ gear into the back of one of the SUVs. “You’ll be bunking in the same compound, in a separate structure. It’s pretty damn posh, with a barbecue, nice patio, even a pool. You bring a suit?”
    Crocker shook his head. He wasn’t interested in pools or amenities. The little time they had left was ticking past. As they rode into the city, he pictured Lisa Clark’s face and tried to imagine the stress she and her daughter were under. He considered pulling innocent women and children into conflicts and using them as barter to be the lowest form of cowardice.
    Nieves slowed the black Honda Pilot. Looking ahead, Crocker saw a sea of red brake lights covering all four lanes of the expressway.
    “What’s going on?” he asked. The sky was dark purple and charcoal gray.
    “Looks like a roadblock,” Nieves explained, steering the vehicle onto the shoulder and passing a long line of cars and trucks. He was broad with a big square head, stood six foot three, and must have weighed 260 pounds. Like a lot of really big men Crocker had met, there was a gentleness about him.
    “What kind of roadblock?” Crocker asked, looking back to check that the second SUV with Davis and Mancini aboard was behind them.
    “I don’t know what you’ve been told about Guadalajara,” answered Nieves. “It’s always been a sophisticated