didn’t, don’t. He could call Vincent and have a small army to help within the hour but it would cost him his freedom. Sean began to dial. A boy’s life was at stake but then so was Sean’s. He’d felt more alive in the last eighteen months than the previous twenty years. Sean stopped dialing. He had just single handedly retrieved two American executives from the hands of the most feared terrorist group in the world, in the most lawless and dangerous country on earth. He could certainly get a boy back from a few crazy Mexicans. It was worth a shot before surrendering his soul to the man. He replaced the card in his wallet and dialed a different number. The only difference between Afghanistan and Laredo was that in Afghanistan, Sean had a shit load of weapons. Next stop was a gun store and according to the operator, there was one less than a mile from where he was standing.
Sean thanked God for the second amendment as he entered Kirkpatrick’s Guns amp; Ammo store. Texas had a particular love of the amendment and there wasn’t much he couldn’t walk out of the store with straight away. Sean quickly selected an H amp;K Mark 23, his preferred handgun while in the DIA and a USC. It was the civilian version of his UMP sub machine gun. Including ammo, scope and a knife, the bill came to almost $4,000 dollars.
He handed over his credit card and driver’s license and waited as the assistant ran them through the computer. It didn’t take long for a look of disappointment to register on the assistant’s face. What was going to earn him a rather nice commission had just been foiled by the incredibly lax gun laws of Texas. Laws that quite simply allowed anyone over 18 to own a gun had beaten the officially dead Sean Fox.
The assistant turned the computer to allow Sean to see 'Refused’ stamped across the screen.
“I’ve been here five years and that’s my first refusal!” he added, rather unhelpfully.
“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.
