Free Oath to Defend by Scott Matthews

of which they moved down each side of the hallway that ran the length of the second floor. There were doors on both sides. The first two rooms they cleared were empty bedrooms, with unmade beds and clothes on the floor. The third room was a den, complete with a massive flat panel TV, a pool table, and a poker table where men had been sitting, judging from cigars left in the ash trays.
    Next to the den was a larger bedroom with a balcony. The bed was neatly made, but here, too, they saw a cigar left in an ash tray. There were several magazines and a brochure on a mahogany writing desk. Drake picked up the half-smoked cigar, made sure it was cold, then looked at the magazines. The first was titled Mallet , The International Magazine of Polo , the second was Polo America . The brochure announced a charity polo match in Bend, Oregon. Drake didn’t know anything about polo, but he pocketed the brochure just in case. He doubted the cartel guys cared about polo in Oregon, but if Barak had been in the villa there might be a connection he could look into.
    After they finished clearing the second floor, they returned downstairs and found Major Castillo talking to Special Agent Cooper.
    “We were able to have a conversation with one of the sicarios , or cartel hit men,” the major was saying, “before he unfortunately died. I did not think he was so badly injured, but you know…things happen. He told me the one they call El Verdugo, the Executioner, had been here with his bodyguard and two others he did not know but who were not Mexicans. He said they left in a helicopter, after they got a message we were coming.”
    “Damn it!” Cooper said. “I’m so tired of them always being one step ahead of us.”
    Castillo smiled sympathetically. “Until we pay our people as much as the cartels do,” he said, “they will always be ahead. But tonight, not all of them got away. We lost a few, but they lost many more.”
    Drake tapped the major on the arm. “Did the unfortunate sicario describe the ones who weren’t Mexican?” he asked.
    “Only that one was older, maybe sixty, and spoke only English. He said he was only here for several days.”
    That had to be Barak, Drake thought. Where was he headed now?

 
    15
    Barak looked down at the silver sea below reflecting the full moon’s light. The cartel’s Bell 429 helicopter was flying west from the coast of Baja Mexico. Back at the villa, after taking care of the Architect’s brother, he had been treated with respect and served a Mexican feast of green poblano chiles stuffed with meat, fruits and nuts, lamb shank with chiles, tequila and garlic and the favorite of El Verdugo, a brick red mole served with grilled iguana. Unfortunately, the celebration had been interrupted by a phone call warning them that the army was on its way.
    Now, Barak had been informed, they were headed for an island in the Pacific where the cartel sponsored a research station at an abandoned abalone fishing village. Two university students who were sons of his cartel’s familia were doing legitimate research there, studying the shrinking abalone beds. The true purpose of the facility, however, was to serve as a base for the cartel’s helicopters as they retrieved drug shipments from oil tankers from Venezuela headed to Los Angeles. Special shipments like his demolition nuke were also brought in this way.
    He had to admit that he had underestimated the sophistication of the cartel. He knew it was international in its reach, but now he was learning it was also a finely tuned business. Violence was a tool it used with great effect, obviously, but its real power lay in its wealth and growing influence both in Mexico and elsewhere. Investments in real estate, the construction of new resorts, marinas and hotels, and even philanthropic involvement all served as legal means to influence local authorities. When that wasn’t enough, outright bribes were usually successful. When they weren’t, those who refused to