JET II - Betrayal (JET #2) (34 page)

A hazy cloud followed him as he roared up the ravine, his tires gripping the sandy terrain tenaciously as he goosed the throttle, mind racing over his escape options even as he climbed in altitude. The dry air stung his eyes, grit borne on the wind an ever-present hazard; he squinted, ignoring the discomfort as he raced from his pursuers.

He slowed once he came to the river bed, and cocked his head, listening.

It sounded like at least two ATVs coming after him.

The options weren’t good. He could try to outrun them but had no advantage other than a slim head start, so it would likely come down to whose gas tank contained the most juice. He knew he had a half tank but if one of the pursuers had more, he was toast.

That left him with the option of finding an area of high ground and ambushing them.

The strap of his Kalashnikov bit into his shoulder, as if urging him to allow it to solve the problem. That choice held a lot more appeal than running through the desert mountains in the hopes his pursuers would run dry first.

The rumbling sound of approaching motors decided it for him. If he didn’t ambush them, he was a dead man.

Twisting the handlebars, he gunned the gas and shot for a rise several hundred yards away. With any luck he could reach it before they came into view, and then it would be child’s play to pick them off, even with the questionably-accurate AK-47.

He rolled to a stop next to an outcropping of brown rock, killed the engine, then dropped to a crouch before moving away from his vehicle. No point in telegraphing his position, in the event they caught a glimpse of it. The tan paint job made that unlikely, but his luck wasn’t running strong and he didn’t want to chance it.

The strident protests of the ATV’s motors grew louder. He gripped his rifle, wedging it between two smaller stones for stability. The pursuit was a minor disaster, but one he could recover from.

As the first rider rounded the trail’s dogleg bend, he sighted, waiting for the remainder to come into range before opening fire. The ATV slowed, as if sensing a trap, then another flew into view, skidding on the sandy gravel as the pilot struggled to maintain control.

The Kalashnikov kicked, pounding against his shoulder as he squeezed off three rounds at the first ATV. The shots sounded like grenades detonating in the hills. He watched the rider drop to the ground, his chest pummeled by two of the three bullets, his vehicle skidding askance before crashing into a ledge.

The second rider twisted the throttle and tore for a nearby boulder. Slugs slammed into the sand around the ATV but none found home, and the rider made it to a position of safety behind the huge rock. He cursed to himself as the gunman disappeared from view – he could expect return fire any moment.

As expected, a sharp crack erupted from the boulder almost immediately and a chip of stone sundered from the rocks a few inches from his head.

Great.Just what he needed.
Out of all the possible adversaries he could have drawn, he had to get one that could actually shoot reasonably well. As if confirming his thought, another boom echoed in the canyon and a round slapped into the hill immediately behind him. Too close for comfort.

He fired back, peppering the sides of the boulder with lead, then rolled behind a larger outcropping that would provide better cover.

Barring a miracle, they were at a standoff. Neither man would be able to move without exposing himself to the other.

The sun beat down with relentless fury as they exchanged shots, neither doing any damage. He glanced at his watch after another ineffective volley, wondering how much more time he had. If the man on the sat phone had called in reinforcements, it was all over. There was little doubt in his mind that was what he’d been doing.

The hot breeze became stagnant as he ran options in his head, and then in the distance he heard a faint roar – a rumbling that seemed to shake the ground. He dared a peek to the north and his heart sank as the sky darkened with an ominous brown, the cloud impenetrable as it moved directly at his position. This was the dreaded
Ghobar
– a sandstorm that could be deadly if you were caught in the open.

Experience of the region’s storms had taught him that he would only have a few minutes to prepare. He fired off another three shots to keep his pursuer occupied, then unwound his headdress and wrapped it across his nose and mouth. He was completely exposed except for the scant cover of the rocks, which would do little to cushion the force of nature’s ugly wrath headed his way. His only real hope was to keep his face pressed as close to the rocks as possible while he waited for it to pass. The struggle against his adversary would have to take a back seat until the
Ghobar
passed over.

The air pressure plummeted, and then, with a
whoosh
, the sky overhead darkened as the raging cloud of sand pummeled him at full force. He clenched his eyes tight and focused on keeping the worst of it out of his ears and nose with his head cloth, but could barely draw breath. The barrage of airborne confusion tore at his flesh like fishhooks, and the few areas of exposed skin felt like they were being sandblasted away – which wasn’t far from the truth.

It was all he could do to hold onto his rifle and ride out the relentless battering. The wind noise escalated to a deafening howl as the storm blew by him with locomotive force. It seemed impossible that anything could live through this.

Eventually, the sting of the sand lightened in intensity, and he could breathe a little easier – the worst had passed, leaving him shaking and worn, but alive.

When the roaring in his ears diminished to a tolerable level and the thrashing had subsided, he opened his eyes, squinting against the return of the sun’s blistering rays.

A shadow crossed his line of vision, and then the blurred form of a robed native loomed over him as he fumbled to bring his rifle up, but he was too late. The curved blade of a dagger slashed across his throat, spraying a rubicund shower of blood into the wind as the tail of the sandstorm dragged his life with it, his existence terminated in a sweltering no man’s land at the ass end of the planet by a grinning killer with soulless black eyes and leathery skin the color of jerky.

Excerpt from King of Swords

King of Swords

A THRILLER BY

Russell Blake

Copyright © 2011 by Russell Blake

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact
[email protected]

King of Swords is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters and real people, living or dead, is coincidental. Having said that, the backdrop and historical context of the novel is based in fact. The drug war in Mexico has been an ongoing confrontation between government forces and the ever-strengthening cartels – now the largest illegal drug trafficking networks in the world, whose primary target market is the United States.

Thousands of police and soldiers have been killed in the last decade, as the war has intensified due to a crackdown by pro-U.S. administrations. Cartel members slaughter one another by the thousands every year, as well as huge numbers of innocent bystanders. The brutality of the turf wars that are a constant and ongoing facet of the trade is stunning; well over a thousand children have been butchered during Mexico’s ‘lost decade’, as have countless family members of traffickers, killed in retribution or as a deterrent.

The last two Secretaries of the Interior for Mexico died in suspicious air crashes. The Mexican cartels are now the largest narcotics trafficking networks in the world, with revenues that exceed those of many nation states. Roughly ten thousand people per year die as a direct result of cartel violence in Mexico.

The Sinaloa cartel is real. The Knights Templar cartel is also real, as is the Gulf cartel, the Tijuana cartel, and the Zeta cartel. New cartels pop up when the heads of the old groups die, and the names change with some frequency. The only constant is the bloodshed; the natural consequence of the economics of trafficking in an illegal substance that generates in excess of fifty billion dollars a year, wholesale, for the cartels in Mexico; a country where the average person makes a hundred and sixty dollars a month.

A Description of the Tarot Card, ‘The King of Swords’

In full regalia, the King of Swords sits proudly on his throne – with a long, upward-pointing, double-edged sword clutched in his right hand, and his left hand resting lightly on his lap. A ring adorns his left Saturn finger – representing power and commitment to responsibility. The King’s blue tunic symbolizes a desire for spiritual enlightenment; his purple cape symbolizes empathy, compassion and intellect. The backrest of his throne is embellished with butterflies, signifying transformation, and crescent moons orbit around an angel situated by his left ear, positioned, perhaps, to lend a delicate guidance. The backdrop of the sky has very few clouds, signifying pragmatic mental clarity. The trees dotting the landscape stand still, with not a rustle – reflecting the King of Swords’ stern judgment.

King of Swords Reversed

The reversed King of Swords depicts a man who is ruthless or excessively judgmental; when reversed, the King of Swords suggests the misuse of mental power, authority and drive. The reversed King of Swords can represent manipulation and persuasion in order to achieve selfish ends. He is a very intelligent character who likes to demonstrate to others his superiority, either verbally or through actions. It is best to be wary of this type of person because, although he may be charming and intelligent, he is remorseless and can do only harm. He has only his personal interests in mind and will do whatever necessary to achieve those interests, even if it means destroying others.

Introduction

Three Years Ago

Armed men lined the perimeter of the large contemporary home on the secluded stretch of seashore just above Punta Mita, twenty-three miles north of Puerto Vallarta. The stunning single-level example of modern Mexican architecture sat on a cove, where the heavy surf from the Pacific Ocean flattened out over the shallow offshore reef a hundred yards from the beach. Nine foot high concrete walls ringed the compound, protecting the occupants from prying eyes and would-be intruders. Not that any were in evidence. The property and the coastline for a quarter mile in each direction belonged to the house’s secretive owner – Julio Guzman Salazar, the Jalisco cartel’s chief, and the eighth richest man in Mexico, although his name didn’t appear on any roster other than the government’s most wanted list.

The building’s Ricardo Legorreta design boasted thirty-eight thousand feet of interior space, with nine bedrooms in the main house, separate servant’s quarters adjacent to the twelve car air-conditioned garage, a full sized movie theater with a floating floor, its own solar and wind power generation system, and a full time domestic staff of eleven. An Olympic-sized swimming pool with an infinity edge finished in indigo mirrored glass tile created the illusion of water spilling into the deep blue ocean.

The white cantera stone pool-area deck took on a pale cosmic glow as the last sliver of sun sank into the watery horizon, making way for the dark of a late-November night. The armed men encircling the house were hardened and efficient, exuding a palpable air of menace as they roamed the grounds, alert for threats. The security detail, which traveled with Salazar everywhere he went, consisted of eighteen seasoned mercenaries who were proficient with the Uzis they held with nonchalant ease.

Motion detectors provided an early warning system outside of the walls, where infrared beams crisscrossed the expanse between the beach and the house, ensuring that nothing could penetrate the elaborate defenses undetected. Salazar could afford the best security money could buy, and his private army comprised not only Mexicans and Nicaraguans and Colombians, but also two South Africans and a Croatian. All had seen more than their share of combat, either of the civilian variety in the ongoing drug skirmishes between rival cartels, or in full-scale armed conflict in the Balkans or Africa.

At seven p.m. precisely, the bright halogen headlights of expensive vehicles began making their way down the long road from the coastal highway that connected Puerto Vallarta with Mazatlan, and through the enormous gates of the opulent home. Each car was allowed inside to drop off its passengers, after undergoing scrutiny from the men charged with Salazar’s protection, who inspected the SUVs inside and out. During the next hour, seven Humvees and Escalades discharged their loads before pulling back out of the compound and parking in a brightly-lit area designated for the purpose. Two armed guards patrolled the flat expanse, guns loaded and cocked.

In the constant drug wars that were the norm on mainland Mexico, every minute held the possibility of instant death for those in the trade, and so the men on the security team were in a constant state of readiness for attack. Their vigilance had paid off many times over the past decade, when rival factions had attempted to challenge Salazar’s stranglehold on the Jalisco trafficking corridor. He’d emerged victorious from that series of ever-escalating brutal engagements, the last of which had culminated in nineteen corpses beheaded or shot execution-style in Culiacan over a three month period.