Human Intelligence (HUMINT), and that, Moore often mused, had kept him gainfully employed all these years. When the engineers invented an android that could do everything he did, he might be forced to hang up his balaclava and turn in his spy card — because, in his humble opinion, the world would soon be coming to an end as the machines took over. An age-old theme in science fiction would become reality, and Moore would watch it all unfold in the grandstands, with, he prayed, a hot dog in one hand and a beer in the other.
However, he still marveled over all the highly encrypted data he could view on his smartphone. At the moment, he was watching real-time streaming satellite images of the hotel so that he could observe the comings and goings of everyone outside, even while tucked nicely into his bed, feet propped up, the TV morning news humming softly in the background. The spy satellites used to feed him that intelligence were operated by the National Reconnaissance Office (staffed by DoD and CIA personnel) and hung in low-earth orbits to optimize their resolution for several minutes before each handed off the job to the next satellite in line in a sophisticated relay of data transfer.
He was also receiving text alerts from the analysts back home who were watching the same images and could draw his attention to anything they noted. Other windows would show him the GPS locations of all other JTF members, and yet another window displayed more photographs of other targets in the city, such as cartel leader Zuniga’s ranch house. Indeed, it was a complex and aggressive overwatch campaign by geeks sipping on lattes half a world away.
Moore had checked in to the hotel owned by Dante Corrales (noted by Towers as the most senior-ranking member of the cartel that authorities had identified thus far). Like all good drug pushers, Corrales was beginning to surround himself with legitimate businesses, but even so, mistakes would be made, money laundered, and the poor honest folks he did employ would either be implicated in his crimes or simply lose their jobs as his operations were shut down and he was arrested.
However, he would not be apprehended anytime soon. They needed him running wild in order to help identify the lord of the operation himself, and Corrales seemed like just the kind of loose cannon who could do that.
The bio they had on him was fragmentary, gleaned from street informants and personal documents they’d been able to obtain. That his parents had been killed in a hotel fire and he’d turned around and bought one was interesting. His hubris was well appreciated by the Agency and could be exploited. His penchant for showy cars and clothes made him ridiculously easy to spot around town. The guy probably had a
Moore rose, set down the phone, and pulled on a polo shirt and expensive slacks. His hair had been trimmed and pulled back into a ponytail, and his closely cropped beard was a far cry from the lobster bib he’d sported in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He’d donned a fake diamond earring to give him an edge. He picked up a leather briefcase and headed for the door. His Breitling Chronomat read 9:21 a.m.
He took the elevator down from his fourth-floor room to the first floor, and the man at the front desk whose badge read
Standing behind him was an absolutely stunning young woman with long, dark hair and vampire’s eyes. She wore a silver-and-brown dress, and a gold crucifix dangled down into her cleavage. Her perky boobs were enhanced, but they weren’t ridiculous porn-star water balloons, either.
Moore removed his smartphone, paused, pretended to check an e-mail, and snapped a silent if somewhat haphazard photo of the woman.
He frowned once more, thumbed to another page, then glanced up. The woman gave him a perfunctory grin, and he returned the smile and headed outside for his rental car. Once in the car, he forwarded the woman’s photo to the folks at Langley.
Fifteen minutes later, he met the real estate agent on the other side of town, but not before driving past a small tavern where several local police cars were lined up and officers were leading out several men in handcuffs. Early-morning bar bust in Juarez, go figure.
The real estate agent was an obese woman with bright blue eye shadow and whiskers. She’d barely poured herself out of a rusting and dust-covered Kia coupe and shook his hand vigorously. “I have to be honest with you, Mr. Howard, these properties have been on the market for over two years and I haven’t received one call on them.”
Moore, aka Mr. Scott Howard, stood back to take in the view of two old manufacturing plants sitting beside each other on twenty acres of barren, dusty land, the buildings themselves looking as though they’d weathered several tornadoes, their graffiti-laden walls still standing but not much else. Between the stretches of broken glass and the gray haze that had permanently settled around the lots and spilled past the broken chain-link fence, Moore couldn’t help but grimace. He took out his phone and snapped a few pictures. And then he forced a broad grin and said, “Mrs. Garcia, I appreciate you showing them to me. Like I told you on the phone, we’re scouting properties all over Mexico to build assembly plants for our solar panels. Our assembly plants will be here, while our administrative, engineering, and warehouse activities will remain in San Diego and El Paso. I’m looking for land just like this, with excellent access to the highways.”
Moore was simply referring to an operation known as a maquiladora, named after a U.S.-Mexican program allowing low duties on goods assembled in Mexico. Literally thousands of maquiladoras operated on both sides of the border.
In fact, Moore had had dinner with an old SEAL buddy who’d gone to work for GI (General Instruments), a telecom company. His buddy had become the general manager of GI’s maquiladoras, and when it was time to move raw materials from the United States to Mexico, he’d hit a snag. All goods for manufacturing had to originate from Mexico and could not be currently owned by GI. Moore’s buddy had devised a clever solution: He sold the goods to a third-party Mexican trucking firm that drove them into Mexico, and once there, he bought them back at cost plus
As the real estate agent smiled, Moore looked past her at the two punks parked across the street. They were shadowing him, and that was fine. He would not have expected anything less. He only wondered if they were from the Juarez or Sinaloa cartels.
Or worse…they could be Guatemalans. Avenging Vultures …
Moore raised his brows. “I think this land would work out perfectly, and I’d like to meet with the owner to discuss his price.”
The woman winced. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, why?” Moore tempered his curiosity because he already knew why: The land was owned by Zuniga, leader of the Sinaloa Cartel.
“The owner is a very private man, and he travels a lot as well. All of this would be handled through his attorneys.”
Moore made a face. “That’s not the way I like to do business.”
“I understand,” she said. “But he is a very busy man. It is rare when I can get him on the phone.”
“Well, I hope you will try. And I hope he will make an exception in my case. Tell him it’ll be well worth his time and money. Now here …” Moore reached into his briefcase and withdrew a portfolio filled with marketing materials regarding his fictitious company. Embedded in the portfolio was a wafer-thin GPS beacon. Moore hoped she’d actually give the materials to Zuniga and that he would actually follow up and check out his company, only to realize it was fake.
You didn’t just walk up to a cartel leader’s front door, ring the bell, and ask if he’d like to cut a deal. You would never get that meeting. You had to “inspire” his curiosity first, make him become so curious, in fact, that he’d demand to see you. This was a game Moore had played many times with warlords in Afghanistan.
“Here, please share this with the owner.”
“Mr. Howard, I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises. I hope that no matter what happens, you’ll seriously consider this land. Like you said, it’s perfect for your new operation.”
She’d barely finished her sales pitch when automatic-weapons fire echoed in the distance. Another volley split the morning silence, followed by a police siren.
The real estate lady smiled guiltily. “This is, uh, okay, this is, you know, maybe the rougher part of
