“Chief, I think you are an honest man and a good police officer, and I am offering my assistance to help with a pest problem you have.”
“A pest problem?” he said in a surprised voice.
“Maybe that wasn’t a good choice of words,” I replied.
“You mean like roaches, rats, or…”
“Drug dealers,” I added before he could finish.
The line went silent for what seemed like an eternity, and I wondered if I had made a mistake. Finally, he replied, his voice more hushed and serious.
“And how do you propose you could do that?” he asked.
“Hypothetically speaking,” I said, “what if a concerned citizen came across information that pointed to a prominent citizen of your city being a major drug dealer for the cartels and being a conduit for drugs through Ecuador? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
There was another long silence, and he finally said, “This is most irregular, Senor, but, hypothetically speaking, this citizen should bring the information to the authorities and let them handle it.”
“But what if this citizen knew that not all authorities could be trusted? In fact, they had it on good authority that some of them were on this drug dealer’s payroll.”
Another pause, “Then, that would be problematic and dangerous for the citizen.”
“I understand and agree. Then how would this citizen proceed?”
“I should be contacted directly with the evidence, and, if viable, I would see that the individual, no matter his standing in the community, be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Drug dealers are a scourge that needs to be completely eradicated before they destroy the fabric of our society. To our advantage, right now, we have some judges we can trust who are people of great integrity.”
The emotion in his voice told me that this man was speaking from the heart and could indeed be trusted, or he was a damn good actor, and I was about to be screwed. Roll the dice, Colt.
“Then enough of the hypotheticals, Chief. I have information that implicates Senor Mendez in trafficking in cocaine.”
Another short pause, then, “I have been after that slippery bastard for years and have never been able to get enough proof to bring charges. If you can help with that, you will have my eternal gratitude.”
Once again, his voice underscored his dislike for drug traffickers and Mendez.
“You bring me proof, and you will be a hero in this city,” he said.
“Sorry, Chief, I don’t want to be publicly associated with this operation in any way. This will be your show, but I can guarantee you will have all the covert support and information your team will need to be successful. If we can’t agree to that, then we can end this conversation now.”
A slight pause, “I can agree to that, but your proof will need to be irrefutable.”
“Do you have a QRF that you can deploy, and can they be trusted?”
“I do, and yes, they can be trusted. I have hand-picked these men myself.”
“Then if they can be ready to go by ten a.m. tomorrow to a location that I will communicate to you, you can pick up the evidence you need yourself. The accolades that will come along with this will be yours and your department’s alone, but there is great danger involved, as you can guess. This clean-up will have to be thorough, or many innocents will die.”
“Thank you, Dr. Burnett; let me give you my personal cell number, and my men and I will be waiting for your call tomorrow.”
I added the number to the sat phone and thanked him.
“Oh, by the way, this phone call never happened, and just in case you record your calls, it has been encrypted and will be nothing but static on the recording. Thank you, Chief.”
He laughed, “You are indeed thorough, Dr. Burnett, more than I would expect from a run-of-the-mill adventurer.”
“It’s Colt, Chief, and I’ve never considered myself to be run-of-the-mill.
Till tomorrow.”
As I walked back to join the group, I thought to myself, well, that’s that.
The game is afoot, Watson, the game is afoot…
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The trucks rolled out on time, as always. Once on the road, the lead cartel vehicle pulled in front of the second truck, and the two other SUVs fell in behind. Just another long drive, Juan thought, as he finished his burrito and turned up the radio. The lead truck carrying only wine was about a quarter of a mile ahead. They were making good time, heading for Avenida Ordonez Lazo, one of the main roads out of Cuenca. Juan was thinking about an upcoming soccer game as he passed through the intersection on a green light. He never saw the fully loaded dump truck as it ran the red light and hit him broadside at forty miles an hour.
The wine truck’s cargo area practically disintegrated from the impact. Barrels of wine flew through the air and burst open when they hit the pavement, as the truck big truck flipped on its side, spilling its contents of wine and cocaine in the middle of the intersection. The SUVs behind came to a screeching halt, and the men began jumping out.
The old Army Huey seemed to appear out of nowhere, dropping into the intersection to hover thirty feet over the carnage below. Rita stood in the open doorway, strapped in with a door gunner’s harness, and Uncle Harold manned its controls.
“Would you like a little music, dear?” came loud and clear over the Huey’s intercom.
“Of course,” Rita replied, “I always like a little music with my wine,” and the drum intro to the Rolling Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil filled the air, not only through her headset but through the large speakers mounted on the chopper’s skids, remnants of its Psy Ops missions in Viet Nam. When Mick Jagger belted out… “Please allow me to introduce myself…,” as if on cue, Rita opened up on the men below with the M-60 machine gun hung by its strap in the open door.
The lead SUV had backed up to the overturned truck,
