Thus encouraged, Serrano eased his way around a post, then paused to adjust his pack, before beginning what promised to be a difficult climb. One foot in front of the other. That’s the secret, Serrano thought. And it was, at first.

  There had been a hand rope in the old days, secured to railroad spikes that were driven into crevices every fifty feet or so. But that amenity had rotted away and never been replaced. Question one had been answered: No, the Corkscrew wasn’t maintained. There was no need. Not with helicopters to call on.

  But an hour in and a couple of hundred feet up the narrow trail, Serrano came to a washout. A place where a section of the path had been carried away by the runoff from successive storms, leaving nothing more than a narrow ledge to stand on.

  There were some hardy-looking shrubs however. And, by grabbing onto them, Serrano thought he might be able to edge along the six-foot-wide gap.

  So, with arms raised, and his face pressed against cold granite, Serrano began to toe his way across. And that worked reasonably well for a while.

  Then Serrano came to a spot where he had to lunge for the next handhold, risking everything. He managed to grab a juniper, then another, and another.

  By side-slipping along, Serrano was able to regain the trail. He chose to pause at that point and celebrate by eating a trail bar. Miserly sips of water were used to wash it down. What would Serrano find up top? A ready source of water? Or a heavily guarded summit, with no access to water? He feared the latter.

  Now, as Serrano edged along the east side of the rockface, he could see the ribbon of road that was still used to bring supplies up to the nest. Was it patrolled? And if so, would someone notice the tiny stick figure high above them? All he could do was hope for the best.

  As Serrano rounded a curve, he was forced to stop in front of an eight-foot gap. Six rusty rods protruded from the cliff face. And, judging from the weather-worn plank that rested on them, they had been part of a bridge at one time.

  What to do? The plank might or might not bear his weight. Serrano considered trying to heave his pack across the gap, but decided that it was too heavy, and would probably fall to the ground hundreds of feet below.

  That left him no choice but to “walk” on the rods while hugging the cliff face, where he could use his right hand to help maintain his balance. It was the most demanding crossing Serrano had faced. And he was scared.

  There were two ways for Serrano to proceed: he could run, or he could walk. Serrano chose to run in order to lighten the load on any one rod and generate the impetus required to carry him across.

  With that in mind Serrano backed away, eyed the rods, and threw himself forward. The first rod was solid. But the second gave way, and threatened to dump Serrano into the abyss below, as he jumped to the third. It held. As did the fourth. And that enabled Serrano to reach solid ground.

  That’s where Serrano fell to his knees, heart pounding, and body trembling. He rolled to one side, so that the pack wasn’t pressing down on him, and closed his eyes.

  A full ten minutes passed before Serrano lurched to his feet. He was tired. Dog tired. And worried that he might be exhausted by the time he arrived.

  But there wasn’t enough room to camp, so Serrano forced himself to continue walking. And, fifteen minutes later, he spotted a radio antenna.

  It was vitally important to conceal his identity. So, Serrano paused to pull a three-hole ski mask on, along with a pair of latex gloves.

  Before creeping ahead, Serrano checked his weapons, which consisted of the .357 and a Ruger Mark IV .22 pistol. Was Yankovic in residence? There was no way to be certain, so Serrano had to assume that he was.

  Instead of barging into the castle immediately, Serrano wanted to gather as much intel as he could. And, to accomplish that, he needed to find a good hide. A spot where he could observe without being noticed.

  Serrano knew from his days as a sniper that it was important to go low, and go slow, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. That meant dropping to the ground and elbowing his way forward.

  Once Serrano had a clear view of the radio antenna, he made use of a pocket monocular to check the tower for cameras. He didn’t see any. There was a bright orange windsock for the helicopter pilots though, plus a weather module that would provide Yankovic and his minions with data regarding wind speed and temperature.

  Part of the castle was visible to the right, and that was where Yankovic was likely to be. So, Serrano belly crawled in that direction.

  From the top of the rise, with a wind-sculptured bush for cover, Serrano could see the helipad. It appeared to be in good condition, and was marked with a huge “H,” surrounded by a red circle. The fact that it was empty didn’t mean much.

  Perhaps Yankovic was inside, relaxing in front of a fire. That would account for the smoke coming out of the Nest’s chimney. Or, maybe the staff was enjoying the castle’s amenities while their boss was away. Anything was possible.

  Serrano was careful to quarter his surroundings with his monocular. And sure enough, there were two sentry stations, both made of concrete and topped with peaked roofs. Plus, there could be more in areas he couldn’t see.

  And that raised an interesting question. Where did the castle’s electricity come from?

  The answer was the banks of motorized solar panels off to Serrano’s right. A rise blocked most of the view, but one end of the installation was visible. And, a person hiding under the panels would not only be invisible from above, but would have an unobstructed view of the inner courtyard.

  The sun was low in the sky by then, the wind was picking up, and the temperature was dropping. Serrano was starting to shiver by the time he crawled in under the solar panels.

  By collecting loose rocks, he was able to fashion a low wall which screened him from the castle, and provided a flat spot to lie upon.

  The next task was to deploy the bivvy-sleeping bag combo and slide inside. Serrano felt warmer within minutes. Unfortunately, he had to use some of his precious water to prepare a dehydrated meal. But he was hungry, and it was important to keep his strength up.

  Then it was time to zip himself in, close his eyes, and sleep. He thought it would be difficult. It wasn’t.

  Serrano awoke to the sound of rain drops pattering on the solar panel above him. It was dark, but he forced himself to leave the comfort of the bags and crawl to the point where he could hold his water bottle under the runoff from a panel. It was cold. And it seemed to take forever to fill the canteen. But finally, when the task was complete, Serrano went back to his hideaway.

  Warmth returned, as did sleep, followed by the start of a brand-new day. Serrano prepared some instant hot chocolate and ate a trail bar.

  Maybe the bastard is in there, Serrano thought. I’ll watch. I’ll wait. And, if necessary, I’ll enter tonight.

  Time seemed to stretch. Clouds crawled across the sky. The sentries were relieved. That suggested six men working three shifts, and possibly more, since he couldn’t see the entire complex.

  Night fell. Lights appeared and disappeared. The sentries were relieved again. Who were they on the lookout for anyway? People like me, Serrano decided.

  Then, just as Serrano was about to eat a candy bar, the lights around the helipad came on. He’s coming! Serrano concluded. And about to receive guests. One of whom will be me.

  The helicopter nav lights appeared, and it made a terrible racket while it circled prior to landing. Pole-mounted lights lit the pad as three figures got out, one of whom shoved another, whose wrists were secured behind them. A prisoner!

  Good, Serrano thought. The focus will be on them.

  Was one of the other passengers Yankovic? He couldn’t tell.

  The logical thing was to use the suppressed .22 to kill the sentries. But Serrano couldn’t bring himself to murder them in cold blood. Instead, under the cover of darkness, he chose to make his way to the castle, find a way in, and hope for the best.

  Serrano couldn’t leave the pack behind. It, and the contents within, were layered with his fingerprints and DNA and would reveal his identity.

  Reaching the castle was a time-consuming process. The first task was to identify an intermediate objective. The second was to scurry over to it and look around. Then it was necessary to start over again.

  Once Serrano was on the walkway that ran along the back of the castle, he saw a light leaking out of a mostly closed door. To the kitchen? Yes, judging from the strong smell of curry, and the whir of a fan.

  He sidled up to the door and peeked inside. A man was standing in front of a range frying something. Serrano slid inside, hoping to pistol whip the domestic and immobilize him. It didn’t work.

  The cook reached for a cleaver and Serrano shot him. Though not a fan of semiautomatic pistols, Serrano had to admit that the purpose-built Ruger was ideal for the job.

  The suppressed pistol produced nothing more than a gentle clack as the .22 slug struck the target’s forehead. The cook slumped to the floor and the cleaver clattered. Serrano waited for a response. There was none.

  Serrano paused to turn the range off before proceeding into a shadowy hallway. And from there into a large dining room. Rather than the luxurious interior that he had imagined, boxes were stacked along one wall and the furniture was covered with sheets.

  Serrano could hear voices from beyond the dining room. “It’s very simple,” a man said. “Either you tell me what I want to know, or my men will gang rape you until you do.”

  Was that Yankovic’s voice? Yes, judging from the content, it was.

  But who was the woman Yankovic was threatening? Suddenly, rather than the simple hit that Serrano had envisioned, he was ass deep in something complicated.

  Both pistols were up and ready as Serrano eased his way into the sitting area which opened onto a large living room. And that’s where the half-naked woman was, tied to an ornate chair. Yankovic slapped her. “Speak up, bitch… What’s it going to be?”

  The woman licked her swollen lips. “I’ll take the gangbang. Let’s get on with it.”

  Three men were visible. Serrano shot the one on the left with the .357, and the one on the right with the .22, killing both. Yankovic whirled to face Serrano. “Who the hell are you?”

  “The person who’s going to kill you,” Serrano replied. “Pull if you want to. It won’t make any difference.”

  Light flashed off chrome as Yankovic attempted to draw his sidearm. Two bullets hit him. One in the head and one in the chest. The body produced a thump as it hit the floor.

  “Behind you!” the woman warned.

  Serrano turned as a guard fired. The bullet passed within an inch of Serrano’s head and shattered a mirror in the room.

  Serrano’s aim was a hair off and hit the assailant’s shoulder rather than his chest. The man staggered, tried to remain upright, and fell as a .357 round ripped through his throat.

  Chances were that the guard was from outside, and Serrano knew there were more, so he hurried to free the woman. “Who are you?”

  “You can call me Harper,” she replied. “Hand me that jacket. It’s cold in here. Are there more of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” the woman said, as she hurried to retrieve a nine. “Let’s shoot our way out of here.”

  Serrano watched the professional manner in which Harper ejected the pistol’s magazine, checked to see how many cartridges remained, and reinserted it. “Law enforcement?”

  Harper nodded. “And you?”

  “A man with a grudge.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Remind me not to piss you off. Let’s go.”

  The pack was a weighty encumbrance. But Serrano couldn’t shed it and didn’t. His plan, such as it was, entailed finding a vehicle and driving out. So, he led Harper to the front door, pushed it open, and waited for a reaction. There wasn’t any.

  Stairs led to the drawbridge, which was in the down position. An automatic weapon chattered. Bullets dug divots in the wood as Harper fired at the muzzle flashes. The weapon fell silent.

  Serrano waved her forward, then followed a path to stairs, and down to the parking area. A pole-mounted light shone down onto two vehicles. One started with a roar. Serrano could see a silhouette through the rear window so he fired. The driver slumped forward.

  “Good work,” Harper said. “I’ll drive. You shoot.”

  Harper opened the driver’s side door, pulled the corpse out, and let it fall to the pavement.

  Serrano paused long enough to shoot at the tires on the other vehicle, before throwing the pack into the back seat. Once inside the SUV, he hurried to strap in and reload.

  “So,” Serrano said. “What did Mr. Yankovic do to deserve you attention?”

  “Drugs,” Harper replied. “Among other things.”

  Serrano remembered the boxes stacked inside the castle. Yankovic had been using the Eagle’s Nest as a very difficult-to-access warehouse rather than a vacation home. Well, not anymore.

  “How did you get up there?” Harper inquired, as they rounded another curve.

  “There’s an old trail on the other side of the peak,” Serrano replied. “I walked up.”

  Harper glanced in his direction. “You’re not going to give me a name, are you?”

  “Nope. How ‘bout you? Or is Harper all I’m going to get?”

  “That’s right,” Harper replied. “I’m working undercover.” They laughed.

  “Listen, Grudge,” Harper said. “One of Yankovic’s competitors knows about the Eagle’s Nest. They may or may not be coming up this road. Assuming they are, it’s gonna get real hairy.”

  Serrano reached back to grab the submachinegun he’d seen on the back seat. He put it between them. “This is for you. Your nine will run out of ammo in no time.”

  “Damn,” Harper replied. “I’m in love. Are you available?”

  “No, but thanks for asking.”

  “Can she shoot?”

  “Yes, she can.”

  “Then I’m happy for you,” Harper said. “I see headlights. Three sets. I plan to push the first vehicle into the second without triggering the airbags. We’ll improvise after that.”

  “Make it happen,” Serrano replied, as they swerved onto a short stretch of straightaway.

  Harper’s reply was lost as the vehicles collided. The SUV was bigger than the sedan and shoved it back. Serrano was thrown against his harness. Metal screeched, the windshield shattered, and the hood popped up.

  Harper threw herself out and Serrano did likewise. He saw muzzle flashes, fired at them, and a man fell.

  Harper fired three-round bursts as she came level with the sedan’s passenger side. A man was waving a pistol and trying to release his harness at the same time. The last thing he saw were flashes of light.

  Serrano was on the ground, elbowing his way forward when he came face-to-face with a man headed in the other direction. He was encumbered with an SMG. Serrano wasn’t. He fired both pistols. One missed and one didn’t.

  Silence settled over the scene. “Grudge?” Harper inquired. “Are you okay?”

  “Never better,” Serrano said, as he stood. “And you?”

  “My face hurts,” Harper replied. “And I’ll bet it looks like raw hamburger. But some lipstick will fix that. Our limo awaits. I’ll drop you off, find a phone, and call for the cavalry. Does that sound good?”

  “Yes, it does,” Serrano lied, as he returned to the SUV.

  “Grudge?” Harper inquired as she arrived next to car three. “Where are you?”

  There was no answer. Just the slam of a door, and the rattle of rocks, as Serrano made his way downslope.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the Sierra Madre Oriental Mountains

  The Sierra Madre Oriental Mountains ran from a point near the Rio Grande River south to Mexico City and were made up of limestone and shale.

  Some of the Sierra Madre Oriental peaks rose to more than 12,000 feet, and were part of the 4,000-mile-long American Cordillera, or backbone, that ran the length of North, Central, and South America.

  All of which was lost on Captain García and the men of army Unit 777. A special forces outfit made famous by its run-ins with Las Patriotas, and the by the way it had been able to disrupt the flow of narcotics out west.

  Now, as García led his men up a narrow trail, the late afternoon sun threw long shadows across the ground, and the thin air made it difficult to breathe. Other tracks branched to the left and right making it difficult to navigate as well.

  How did the narcos do it? They had guides. Men and women who’d had been born in remote mountain villages, and like fleas on a dog, fed off the cartels.

  As for the cartel leaders, they came and went in planes small enough to land on dirt runways, few of which were known to the authorities.

  And that’s where Unit 777 was headed. To a godforsaken strip called El Jorobado, thus named due to a hump halfway down the runway.

  The site was, according to an informer, going to be the location of a massive transaction involving a ton of “product,” and bales of American currency. And García planned to capture both.

  Major García had a ring to it, and his parents would be proud. The thought put some pep in his step as he the thumbed the radio. “¡Apurase!”

  The pace quickened as the company of one hundred two soldiers followed their commanding officer through a confluence of trails, across a fast-moving stream, and toward a path that zigzagged up a steep slope. Scouts preceded the rest of the soldiers and had disappeared around a bend. Would they come under fire? Quite possibly. And García’s nerves were wired tight.

  But, when the report came in, it was unexpectedly positive. “The area is clear. Over.”

  García was able to confirm that when he rounded a bend and entered an open area. A tattered wind sock drooped from a rough-hewn pole, and the runway called El Jorobado was there before him. The strip ran north and south, and was flanked by rocks, raggedy tents and drifts of windblown trash.