"Excuse me?" Dana said.

  "I am still a Capitan in the Policia Federale," Reyes said.

  "Of course," Dana said and met the man on the monitor's eyes even though she knew that the screen on his side showed no more than a screensaver image of the United States Diplomatic Corps bullet.

  "Capitan, I would like to emphasize our gratitude," Dana began again.

  "I do not need your assurances," Reyes said in lightly accented English. "I only want your guarantee that my family will be safe from harm."

  "You have the guarantee of the government of the United States."

  "You understand that I need more than that. American promises are like the peso. They have an uncertain value. I understand that you will treating my cooperation to you as a highly classified matter. But it will be exposed eventually and I have to know for certain my family is protected."

  Dana felt for him. His eyes betrayed the fear behind his mask of bravado. She knew, from the foot thick file they had on German Luis Reyes, that he was a man of reckless courage in pursuit of drug thugs in one of the most dangerous narco landscapes on the planet. The sweat clearly visible on his upper lip in the high def image of the monitor wasn't for himself. It was for his wife and children.

  "I do understand," Dana went on. "Your family is safe at the American consulate less than a mile from where you're sitting and being transferred tonight under the protection of US Marshals to a safe house in the United States."

  "I will be allowed to speak to them before they leave?" he said.

  "Yes. But as grateful as we are and as much as we share your concerns for your own and your family's safety, there is a great deal of urgency to this situation and we need your full cooperation now."

  "Yes."

  "You were right to bring us the cold remedy packet, Capitan. If it was discovered in a shipment of the size you describe it does indicate a growing cooperation between the cartels and some source of drugs in the Middle East. Your cop instincts were dead on there. Do you understand?"

  "I do." Reyes looked visibly relieved. The power of another's faith is a powerful thing. The power of the faith of the American intelligence community is unstoppable.

  "What you found may very well tie in, in a very substantial way, to an investigation we have already begun. No bullshit here. Your find is key. It might just be invaluable and we will honor our commitment to you. You understand, Capitan?"

  "No bullshit. Yes."

  "We need to know everything you can tell us about the Pecadores Diez. We need to get up to speed on them before we can begin a field investigation."

  "They are not a cartel, Miss," Reyes began. "They are what we call a plaza. It is like a franchise. It can be purchased from a local caique or godfather or sometimes given as a gift."

  "They work like a McDonald's," this from Grignola seated by Reyes. A gruff Texas twang betrayed itself.

  "Exactly," Reyes nodded. "The drug cartels are not like the movies, not like Scarface with one man at the top and all orders coming from him. They are smaller gangs who control portions of the trade. Growing, drying, processing, transport and smuggling. Each takes a piece of the money and each pays a portion back to the man on top."

  Like terror cells, Dana thought to herself, each a separate entity tied to higher authority by a single cause. In the case of the plazas, the cause was money.

  "The Pecadores Diez is run by some cousins of Manuel Matos, a Sinaloan caique or jefe who operates from Concordia in the south of the state," Reyes said. "They make the crystal meth in trailers they have all over the arroyos above Mazatlan. That is their plaza; their portion of the trade. They pay tribute to Matos and they are free to operate."

  "This may be a stupid question, but they call themselves the Sinners Ten," Dana said.

  "Yes."

  "Are there ten of them?"

  "No," Reyes smiled fleetingly. "It is a macho thing. They claim they only have sex relations with the most beautiful women."

  "Tens."

  "Yes," Reyes said. "I wish it meant there were only ten of them."

  "Ma'am?" Agent Grignola said and leaned in to be seen on the monitor. "We don't have a census on the Pecadores. There's damn sure more than ten of them. Capitan Reyes' PF unit killed at least that many in the raid where he seized the cold tabs."

  "And we can expect no cooperation from the local police on this?" Dana said.

  "Not unless you want the Pecadores to vanish into the hills," Reyes insisted. "They are a meth gang. They are not tied to the land or any villas. They could move and set up their operation anywhere that is protected by the Sinaloa cartels. Even across the border."

  "You've already told us that the PF is suspect."

  "My immediate officers showed no interest in further investigation. It could be that they are overburdened or simply not curious. But it would be a mistake to underestimate the level of corruption here."

  "They didn't stand in the way of your initial raid on the Pecadores," Dana said. Eric Bivens was furiously typing on his laptop and his texts were appearing on Dana's tablet suggesting more questions.

  "There are no clear lines here, comprende?" Reyes leaned forward, and enumerated his points with an extended finger for each one. "The police are in the pay of the gangs but also in rivalry for power with them and each other. Neither wants the other to be stronger, yes? So, sometimes the PF will raid one plaza or another to reduce their power or to show them who is the boss. Or, they will even perform a raid as a favor or for payment from a rival gang. Sometimes police even raid other police for a share of a plaza. It is caos. You know caos?"

  "Chaos," Dana nodded.

  "Whatever you are looking for, you will never find it if even a hint of what you are after is spoken to the police," Reyes said. "The first cop you speak to might be honest. Or the next. But soon it will be a dirty cop who hears of what you want and they will lead you in circles after your own ass."

  ASK HIM WHAT HE SUGGESTS came up on Dana's iPad. She looked at Eric who shrugged a what-the-hell? Dave Lucking saw the text and gave a sage dip of his chin.

  "So, how do we go about this, Capitan Reyes?" Dana said. "How do you think we can follow up on this lead without help from your own law enforcement agencies and without anyone knowing what we're up to? You know the ground. You know the conditions. We're open to suggestions."

  "You come here and I will lead you to Pecadores Diez," Reyes said in quick response. He was ready for this question, anticipated it. Good man, thought Dana. "It begins there. You are looking for the truth from the tongues of the insurrectos. Only they can tell you what you need to know."

  "We call it human intel," Dana said.

  "So, you will do this?"

  "You understand that this is an unusual situation, Capitan," Dana said. "We are, for the purposes of this discussion, treating the Republic of Mexico as a hostile nation. You will be cooperating in secret with a foreign insertion team against citizens of your own country. In effect, you will be a defector."

  "You said no bullshit, Miss?" Reyes fixed the monitor and his unseen interrogator with a steady gaze.

  "No bullshit."

  "You make sure my family is safe. I will lead you to the Pecadores and see that they tell you what you want to know."

  "That's the deal. That's the plan. The men will be in transit within the next hour."

  Reyes placed his hands on the table and he leaned forward to fill the monitor's image area.

  "Mexico is hell. This place is at war. Send your best, Miss. Send your toughest. That is not bullshit."

  "No bullshit, Capitan Reyes," Dana said. "They're on their way."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IN TRANSIT MEXICO CABO/LA PAZ/MAZATLAN

  The team flew commercial down to Cabo San Lucas.

  As far as any of them knew this might have been the first SEAL insertion ever that went into an AO unarmed.

  At customs they presented passports with false names based on actual MIA personnel: Navy men who were unaccounted for and had no living relatives and generally matched the age and gender of the team members. The cover story for the five-man team was that they were just some slackers down for surfing over spring break. They looked the part in baggy cargo shorts and sandals and tats. SEALs wore their hair beyond regulation length under normal circumstances. They all had deep beach tans. The only giveaway might have been the shrapnel scars most of them bore on their arms and legs. But those could be explained away as coral rash.

  What was harder to hide, for those who were looking, was a hardness in these men that no college student shared. They walked and moved with an assured confidence not seen in many twenty-somethings. Even as they smiled and bullshitted, there was something in their eyes and the set of their mouths that made them seem more than what they claimed to be.

  They were met in Cabo by DEA agent Stanley Grignola in the thin disguise of the loudest Aloha shirt any of them had ever seen—a riot of deep blue and gold in a martini and bikini motif. Hide in plain sight indeed.

  They split into two cover cars legally registered in Sinaloa and drove north to La Paz where they boarded the ferry for Mazatlan. Eight hours across the Gulf of California to the ferry slip at Lazaro Cardenas where the big cruise ships put in. Blair Freeman met them there with a tinted window van and they lost themselves in traffic heading away from the piers along Emilio Barragan and into the heart of the city.

  The van pulled down a ramp in a sector of rusting industrial buildings nestled among towering walls of cargo containers. The ramp led to the basement of a building that, on paper, belonged to the engineering firm of Kellogg, Brown and Root but was on temporary loan to the agency.

  It was nothing more than a large, secure empty space intermittently lit by flickering fluorescent lights. In the middle of the space sat a cargo container marked with the Pemex company logo. It looked like it had been sitting here for an age. Only the fresh scrapes in the concrete floor gave evidence of its recent delivery.

  Freeman unlocked the swing doors at the end of the container and snapped on a light inside. The team entered and found their gear just as they'd packed it back at Coronado. Rifles, sidearms, shotguns, explosives, body armor, dive equipment, ammo and fresh BDUs in addition to night vision gear, SAT communications, surveillance gear and grenades.

  A second van arrived and the team divided the goods they'd need immediately into the two vehicles and took off for a second secured Agency building in Bahia Tranquilo, an under-construction active adult community within sight of the water. In six months the place would be home to a lot of rich old gabacho farts. But for now it provided a useable base for the group and the team could blend into the small army of roofers, carpenters, masons and laborers moving in and out of the place all day and night.

  It was here that they met Capitan German Reyes and began mapping out a strategy to find the source of the killer submersible.

  ***********************************************************

  Hector Vogt sat at an uncovered table on the esplanade and nursed a hangover with an espresso.

  He squinted through shades at the tourists moving along the market stalls piled and strung with souvenir crap, fresh fruit, t-shirts and cheap sandals. The crowd was mostly Canadians and Yankees and mostly fat. The blonde babes down from the American colleges were all at the beach or around the hotel pools. But the esplanade was better cover this time of day. Hector hated to admit it but at middle age with graying hair he fit in better here.

  The scuff of metal chair legs on concrete and Hector turned to see German Reyes and a long-haired young gringo in mirrored shades and a black Dos Equis t-shirt slide into the table across from him.

  "You don't look Mexican," the gabacho said in only slightly accented Spanish.

  "I am not," Hector replied. "I am Dutch but have taken Mexican citizenship for reasons of my own."

  "Just making an observation, friend," the gabacho said and flashed a dimpled smile. American. Only Americans had teeth that good.

  "Hector is a journalist who writes about los narcos for a Sinaloa newspaper called La Verdad," German put in.

  "That sounds like a dangerous job," the gabacho said. "Does it pay a lot? You don't dress like it pays a lot."

  "I do it for the truth. You know? La verdad?" Hector sniffed.

  "And some day Hector will write a book," German chuckled. "And they will make a movie of it and Brad Pitt will play him."

  "What can I do for you, Capitan?" Hector said and gestured to a waiter for a second espresso.

  "What do you know of Pecadores Diez?" German said.

  The waiter came with a fresh espresso and the gabacho ordered two bottles of Negra Modelo. In spite of his crappy t-shirt the American knew good beer.

  "What do I get in return?" Hector said.

  "I cannot offer you anything right now," German said.

  "You cannot tell me why you are asking questions like this even though you've been suspended."

  "I am on paid leave from the PF, Hector."

  "In the middle of an investigation?" Hector smirked. "The only honest cop I know is lying to me now?

  "I got close to something, Hector," Reyes said with a glance to the SEAL named Flame. "I got too close for my jefes. I don't know why they wanted me off the investigation. I would tell you if I knew."

  "And you?" Hector turned to Flame. "You do not look like a policia. DEA agents always have silly little mustaches like Magnum PI. You know, Tom Selleck?"

  "I'm just a concerned citizen," Flame said and took a pull of the dark lager.

  "And you drink on duty," Hector went on. "Gringo cops have sticks up their asses. They never break the rules in case someone is watching."

  "Are you going to ask me out?" Flame said setting down the beer with a thud on the tabletop. He switched to southern accented English. "German told me you were the man to talk to. Are you gonna fuck around or do we go somewhere else? This is some hot shit we're into and the first guy to write about it is gonna win whatever shithole award they hand out down here to prize assholes."

  "Okay, okay," Hector switched to English too. For the first time he noted the dense skein of tattoos visible on the young gabacho's forearms. A skull embraced by an octopus. An ace of spades with the letters UBL inscribed across the head of the spade. A crossed dagger and flintlock pistol. A trident. The pattern ended just above the gabacho's expensive wristwatch. A dive watch.

  Hector swallowed hard.

  "Will you help us, Hector?" German said.

  "I have interviewed a few of the Pecadores," the Dutchman said. "I know where some of them call home."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BAHIA TRANQUILO

  It was a compound over three hundred klicks north and west of Mazatlan in rough hilly country outside a flyspeck town called Aguacapas. This place was so far off the track the last tourists were Apaches on horseback.

  Oscar Benitez called it home. He was a second cousin to the Matos family and was one of the caiques of the Pecadores. He called his sprawling estate of block haciendas on sun-baked ground Plaza del Cool because he believed himself to be one cool motherfucker. He lived there with a half dozen chiquitas he shared with some of his cousins. They could expect mercenary gunmen as well. All the gangs hired ex-police and ex-military for muscle.

  They picked Plaza del Cool from three possible locales where Pecadores hung out according to Hector Vogt. The Aguacapas site was the one the SEALs liked best. The other two were in dense urban areas and presented too many problems. Even a quick drive and grab would prove complicated if they got blocked in or law enforcement intervened.

  Any day of the week the place was lousy with narco players living off the crazy cash made in producing the little jewel-like crystals that made so many up North into waking corpses.

  But Oscar would be Target One. Hector provided the team with names of other players in the Pecadores but Oscar's remote locale made him the best candidate for abduction by a team of US Navy SEALs operating without sanction within an ostensibly friendly nation.

  Benitez was nicknamed Atún, the Tuna, and the reason was obvious.

  "He's a fat fucker, isn't he?" Chili said as they reviewed surveillance photos in the family room of their Bahia Tranquilo hideout.

  "Dude never turned down a flauta in his life," Heath agreed and clicked a laptop to bring satellite images of the compound up on a wall.

  "What's that water?" Manny said and stood to point

  "The Mocorito," Blair Freeman said. "It's dry during the hot months except for a muddy stream at the center. At this elevation it's not very deep even during the spring floods."

  "So no narco submarines based there?" Manny said.

  "No. Not possible," Freeman said.

  "Yeah. God forbid it ever be that easy," Pig put in.

  German Reyes and Agent Grignola were here in case any questions came up but so far they only watched as the team of Americans studied terrain maps and weather and worked almost as one man to lay out a strategy of approach, a timeline and discuss what equipment they would need. They were talking about driving three hours north to a town called El Valle as a bunch of gringo adventure tourists. There they'd fake a breakdown and have to spend the night. In the cover of darkness they'd move overland on foot to the compound of El Atún and take him before dawn.

  The game plan was relayed to Langley for approval and suggestions. A very small group of professional game theorists would look it over for flaws and suggestions. They would be told it was a contingency exercise; strictly blue sky. They would never be told and would never know the mission profile they were examining would be put into action in the next few days in a real flesh and blood mission.

  To German it was incomprehensible. How could five men cross close to fifty miles of country unfamiliar to them in the dark and on foot without getting lost, injured or chopped to pieces by the narcos and gummers who called those hills home. Then at the end of this forced march they proposed to fight their way through an unknown number of men into a compound that was certainly a fortress, find and seize their prey, and cross who knew how many more miles of rough land to a rendezvous point despite certain pursuit.