Chapter 1
This was not going to be like the Navy SEAL Team Six takedown of bin Laden. Rick Yarbrough’s team wasn’t going to be lauded in the news, and there wouldn’t be any movies made. They wouldn’t be hailed as heroes. That was if things went well.
Rick was the first to sign on, no doubt substantiating his nickname: Risk. The boys in his team had followed suit, unwilling to be shown up by the Farm Boy, his other label. They’d all been arrogant enough to take this hit, knowing that if they failed, they’d be thrown under the bus. The official terminology: The U.S. government would disavow any knowledge of the mission. Meant the same damned thing.
So they couldn’t fail. Wouldn’t fail. And now Risk’s team was crouched in the flat desertlike wilderness outside Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, on a warm, moonless night. Surrounding a compound not unlike some they’d raided in Iraq. He checked his suppressed MP7, the perfect weapon for an infiltration like this. Discharging it would alert no one. The mission was simple: Take out Miguel Romero and his four top men execution-style and get out without anyone in the compound the wiser. Make it look like a hit by Los Negros, the most violent and invasive cartel. Let the shit fly afterward, with the U.S.’s nose nice and clean. They’d done it before with success.
And they would do it again.
On the signal, Risk and his teammates moved closer to the concrete wall surrounding the compound. Three guards patrolled the wall, their assault rifles plain as day in their NVGs—night vision goggles.
If the Mexican drug cartels could manufacture adrenaline, they’d have an even bigger customer base. Hot and sweet, it pulsed through Risk as they crept several steps closer. It was the only drug he needed.
The compound held the leaders of an anti-cartel group called El Martillo—the Hammer—that was targeting the growing corruption and bloodshed in Mexico. With cartel activity becoming the biggest organized-crime threat in the U.S., the government was taking public steps to support Mexican officials. They were also secretly funding andtraining members of El Martillo, a private organization that used as much violence as the cartels did.
The covert U.S. liaison, known only as the Wolf, was working closely with Miguel Romero, El Martillo’s leader. The Wolf monitored progress and ascertained how much support the Hammer needed. And he’d found out that it was all a front. They wanted to shut down the cartels, all right—so they could take over the lucrative drug trafficking industry themselves. Using resources and weapons supplied by the U.S.
Sons of bitches.
As soon as the guard passed, they moved to the wall.
Showtime
. Quick as spiders, they scaled the rough concrete and dropped to the ground on the other side. The Wolf had given them specs on the whole compound, right down to each bush. He’d been off by about a foot, and Risk had to lurch to the side midfall to avoid landing in a bush. And making a lot of racket.
Salsa—Salsa Boy when they were ribbing him—landed several yards away, his feet making barely a sound. Julian Cuevas was as quiet as a snake when he moved, though his laugh was as loud as the salsa music he used for a ringtone.
Five other shadows fell in line as they followed the wall toward the door that the Wolf was leaving unlocked. A quick scan showed the guards making their rounds as usual. Still, Risk knew that every time you entered a building, someone could be waiting, armed and ready. He did a visual check of his team—all accounted for—since they hadn’t worn the troop net that allowed them to communicate with each other. If they were caught, they couldn’t look as though they were on official military business.
Cal Gutterson led the way into the dimly lit building. None of Risk’s team had worked with him before, though he’d pulled some missions back when Mexico didn’t want America nosing around in their cartel matters. Cal had been to
This was not going to be like the Navy SEAL Team Six takedown of bin Laden. Rick Yarbrough’s team wasn’t going to be lauded in the news, and there wouldn’t be any movies made. They wouldn’t be hailed as heroes. That was if things went well.
Rick was the first to sign on, no doubt substantiating his nickname: Risk. The boys in his team had followed suit, unwilling to be shown up by the Farm Boy, his other label. They’d all been arrogant enough to take this hit, knowing that if they failed, they’d be thrown under the bus. The official terminology: The U.S. government would disavow any knowledge of the mission. Meant the same damned thing.
So they couldn’t fail. Wouldn’t fail. And now Risk’s team was crouched in the flat desertlike wilderness outside Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, on a warm, moonless night. Surrounding a compound not unlike some they’d raided in Iraq. He checked his suppressed MP7, the perfect weapon for an infiltration like this. Discharging it would alert no one. The mission was simple: Take out Miguel Romero and his four top men execution-style and get out without anyone in the compound the wiser. Make it look like a hit by Los Negros, the most violent and invasive cartel. Let the shit fly afterward, with the U.S.’s nose nice and clean. They’d done it before with success.
And they would do it again.
On the signal, Risk and his teammates moved closer to the concrete wall surrounding the compound. Three guards patrolled the wall, their assault rifles plain as day in their NVGs—night vision goggles.
If the Mexican drug cartels could manufacture adrenaline, they’d have an even bigger customer base. Hot and sweet, it pulsed through Risk as they crept several steps closer. It was the only drug he needed.
The compound held the leaders of an anti-cartel group called El Martillo—the Hammer—that was targeting the growing corruption and bloodshed in Mexico. With cartel activity becoming the biggest organized-crime threat in the U.S., the government was taking public steps to support Mexican officials. They were also secretly funding andtraining members of El Martillo, a private organization that used as much violence as the cartels did.
The covert U.S. liaison, known only as the Wolf, was working closely with Miguel Romero, El Martillo’s leader. The Wolf monitored progress and ascertained how much support the Hammer needed. And he’d found out that it was all a front. They wanted to shut down the cartels, all right—so they could take over the lucrative drug trafficking industry themselves. Using resources and weapons supplied by the U.S.
Sons of bitches.
As soon as the guard passed, they moved to the wall.
Showtime
. Quick as spiders, they scaled the rough concrete and dropped to the ground on the other side. The Wolf had given them specs on the whole compound, right down to each bush. He’d been off by about a foot, and Risk had to lurch to the side midfall to avoid landing in a bush. And making a lot of racket.
Salsa—Salsa Boy when they were ribbing him—landed several yards away, his feet making barely a sound. Julian Cuevas was as quiet as a snake when he moved, though his laugh was as loud as the salsa music he used for a ringtone.
Five other shadows fell in line as they followed the wall toward the door that the Wolf was leaving unlocked. A quick scan showed the guards making their rounds as usual. Still, Risk knew that every time you entered a building, someone could be waiting, armed and ready. He did a visual check of his team—all accounted for—since they hadn’t worn the troop net that allowed them to communicate with each other. If they were caught, they couldn’t look as though they were on official military business.
Cal Gutterson led the way into the dimly lit building. None of Risk’s team had worked with him before, though he’d pulled some missions back when Mexico didn’t want America nosing around in their cartel matters. Cal had been to
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