o’clock, the delivery van the cartel had supplied him pulled up to the loading dock. His two men, dressed in company uniforms, got out of the van and opened the back, where cases of tequila were stacked. He watched as a restaurant employee and cartel guard approached to sign for the delivery. Both were quickly, silently shot and shoved into the van behind the cases of tequila.
When his men raced inside, Barak couldn’t hear the automatic fire from their MP5s, but the guards lingering outside heard. Pulling out their weapons, they rushed in, and Barak saw muzzle flashes flickering in the restaurant’s front windows. Then there was no movement, not even on the street outside. Tijuana was used to cartel violence. He was not surprised no one rushed up to help.
Five minutes later, however, Barak felt a cold chill of apprehension as he watched two cartel men stumble out the restaurant’s front door and collapse on the sidewalk. If they had survived, then the Architect’s brother might also have survived. That was something he could not let happen.
He grabbed his tactical weapons bag and ran to the elevator. If he could get across the street fast enough, before the survivors could regroup, then he might have enough time to finish the job.
When he stepped out of the elevator in the lobby, it seemed to him that no one had noticed the destruction taking place in the restaurant across the street. He crossed the lobby at a fast walk. As he crossed the street, he heard moaning coming from the two men he had seen from his room. He shot them both in the head as he walked by.
Inside the restaurant, he smelled death even before he saw the first group of bloody bodies on the floor outside the banquet room. The cartel’s men had been shot as they tried to enter, and blood splatter covered the walls around the door. He went inside the private room. Pools of blood were everywhere, like mud puddles on a rainy day. Shards of crystal and china covered the bodies of men who tried to crawl under the tables, but most of the bodies were still slumped in the chairs and booths where they’d been shot.
Barak saw the bodies of his two men lying in front of the head table. There was a pile of bodies just beyond them. Stepping around the dead on his way through the room, he looked for the Architect’s brother.
Lying on his back next to an overdressed, bloody woman, the man once thought to be one of the smartest drug smugglers in Mexico had a line of bleeding bullet holes across his chest. His eyes were open, and his mouth still moved in a silent plea for help.
Barak leaned down and shot him twice in the head. The Architect’s brother was no better, no worse, than the man who ordered his death. He didn’t deserve to suffer any more than any other person who wasn’t an American. Americans deserved to suffer, Barak told himself, but not this man.
He walked quickly out of the banquet room and through the kitchen, where he saw that the restaurant staff had died at their work stations. When he reached the loading dock, he heard the police sirens. He had planned to leave by taxi from the hotel, but now he thought better of it. His men had been told to leave the delivery van’s keys in the ignition. He was pleased to see they had obeyed. He stepped up into the cab and started the engine. Driving carefully down the alley to the Avenue of the Heroes half a block away, he pulled into southbound traffic. He opened the cell phone he’d been given.
“I’m leaving now, Felipe. Tell your boss the good news. He alone is El Supremo in Tijuana. See you in five minutes.”
“And your men, señor?”
“They are in Paradise, as Allah promised. Tell Saleem it’s time for him to keep his promise.”
“You can tell him yourself,” Calderon replied. “We celebrate tonight. My boss wants to meet you. You have done him a great favor.”
“Get me out of here safely, and you will have done me a great favor.”
“No problem. The police here are our
When his men raced inside, Barak couldn’t hear the automatic fire from their MP5s, but the guards lingering outside heard. Pulling out their weapons, they rushed in, and Barak saw muzzle flashes flickering in the restaurant’s front windows. Then there was no movement, not even on the street outside. Tijuana was used to cartel violence. He was not surprised no one rushed up to help.
Five minutes later, however, Barak felt a cold chill of apprehension as he watched two cartel men stumble out the restaurant’s front door and collapse on the sidewalk. If they had survived, then the Architect’s brother might also have survived. That was something he could not let happen.
He grabbed his tactical weapons bag and ran to the elevator. If he could get across the street fast enough, before the survivors could regroup, then he might have enough time to finish the job.
When he stepped out of the elevator in the lobby, it seemed to him that no one had noticed the destruction taking place in the restaurant across the street. He crossed the lobby at a fast walk. As he crossed the street, he heard moaning coming from the two men he had seen from his room. He shot them both in the head as he walked by.
Inside the restaurant, he smelled death even before he saw the first group of bloody bodies on the floor outside the banquet room. The cartel’s men had been shot as they tried to enter, and blood splatter covered the walls around the door. He went inside the private room. Pools of blood were everywhere, like mud puddles on a rainy day. Shards of crystal and china covered the bodies of men who tried to crawl under the tables, but most of the bodies were still slumped in the chairs and booths where they’d been shot.
Barak saw the bodies of his two men lying in front of the head table. There was a pile of bodies just beyond them. Stepping around the dead on his way through the room, he looked for the Architect’s brother.
Lying on his back next to an overdressed, bloody woman, the man once thought to be one of the smartest drug smugglers in Mexico had a line of bleeding bullet holes across his chest. His eyes were open, and his mouth still moved in a silent plea for help.
Barak leaned down and shot him twice in the head. The Architect’s brother was no better, no worse, than the man who ordered his death. He didn’t deserve to suffer any more than any other person who wasn’t an American. Americans deserved to suffer, Barak told himself, but not this man.
He walked quickly out of the banquet room and through the kitchen, where he saw that the restaurant staff had died at their work stations. When he reached the loading dock, he heard the police sirens. He had planned to leave by taxi from the hotel, but now he thought better of it. His men had been told to leave the delivery van’s keys in the ignition. He was pleased to see they had obeyed. He stepped up into the cab and started the engine. Driving carefully down the alley to the Avenue of the Heroes half a block away, he pulled into southbound traffic. He opened the cell phone he’d been given.
“I’m leaving now, Felipe. Tell your boss the good news. He alone is El Supremo in Tijuana. See you in five minutes.”
“And your men, señor?”
“They are in Paradise, as Allah promised. Tell Saleem it’s time for him to keep his promise.”
“You can tell him yourself,” Calderon replied. “We celebrate tonight. My boss wants to meet you. You have done him a great favor.”
“Get me out of here safely, and you will have done me a great favor.”
“No problem. The police here are our
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