Free Team Omega by Christopher G. Nuttall

he took his seat, one that had been brought in just for him.  All SF units had their own little rituals; Team Omega’s included sending the seats that belonged to operatives killed in the line of duty to the nearest bar, which happened to be tended by a former Delta Force commando.  Apparently, it had been the last wish of the first operative to be killed in action—and had then become a tradition.
     
    “Be seated,” Lane said, briskly.  There had been a dozen alerts since Jackson had joined Team One, but none of them had led to any action.  This one felt different.  “This is Harvard Coombs of the DEA.  He’s here to brief you on a prospective mission.”
     
    Jackson took his seat and pulled a notebook out of his pocket, ready to take notes.  It was better to have a reminder of whatever they were told, just in case his memory failed him at a crucial moment.  Besides, it showed the outsider that he was actually paying attention.  The last briefer had been so nervous around them that she’d stuttered through the briefing and then gone off for a quick drink.  At least it beat the ones from Washington who expected everyone to bow and scrape because their distant relative happened to be the President’s personal pool boy or something like that. 
     
    “Good afternoon,” Coombs said.  He launched straight into the briefing without attempting to flatter or put down the soldiers.  “For the past six months, the Drug Enforcement Agency has been attempting to break open a distribution ring bringing various hard drugs from Latin America up into the United States.  This distribution ring appears to operate on a national scale and includes an alarming number of cut-outs, men and women who can be abandoned to face the law without threatening the big bosses who control the network.  Most of them, naturally, don’t have the slightest idea of the true scale of the operation; very few of those caught realised that it stretched outside their hometown.”
     
    He hesitated, clearly unsure of how much they already knew.  “It isn't common to have a network that operates largely independently of the more...restricted networks in towns and cities,” he continued.  “Crime lords tend to resent someone poking into their territory and generally take steps to throw the intruders out, something that is generally ignored because the criminals are threatening or killing other criminals.  This network, however, seems to be tolerated—as near as we can tell, it is tolerated because it isn't actually competing for business.”
     
    Jackson nodded, very slowly.  Drug distribution might have been illegal in much of the United States, but it operated along similar lines to any legal distribution network.  One drug dealer could set the prices as he liked; a dozen would have to lower their prices to compete with their fellows, a situation that benefited the addicts, but not the drug lords.  The criminal masterminds—although mastermind wasn't a term he would use for most criminals—would either attempt to bring all drug dealers under their control, forcing them to sell at the same rates, or eliminate the competition.  Just like a regular nine to five job, with the added danger of being shot, knifed or arrested by the police.
     
    “I don’t understand,” Ron said, thoughtfully.  “If they’re not selling their drugs, how the fuck are they making money?”
     
    Coombs nodded.  “That was the question that bedevilled the analysts back home,” he said.  “Their first thought was that the network simply supplied users in the Midwest, away from the border with Mexico where shipping drugs across can be quite risky, but it didn't seem to be linked with any of the known distribution networks in the area.  There’s no profit to be had from smuggling drugs into Canada through the United States.  It kept nagging away at us until we finally managed to catch a middle-ranking fish in the organisation.  Carlos Hernandez,