“We have the final move tonight. By sunrise, every craft will be loaded and ready.”
Hiyoki thought a moment, “Are there any cancellations on their list? We need to be sure.”
“Everyone’s attending. Our man is checking them in, and there are no cancellations.”
“Good. And he knows when to leave the building?”
“He knows the time. If he’s late leaving,” El Segundo shrugged his shoulders, “Well, not something we can help.”
Hiyoki felt his plans coming together. He said, “Have the chef fix something nice for our evening meal, something Italian.”
El Segundo nodded and left. Hiyoki sat at his computer and looked up the five assassins coming tomorrow, seeing what he could find on the internet about them. It wasn’t hard. They all had Facebook accounts, and many photos of them posing alone and with each other, as well as with others, especially women in Culiacán’s red-light district.
They all dressed like the sicarios in Mexican cinema, with colorful western shirts, cowboy hats, big belt buckles and jeans, and cowboy boots with silver caps on the tips. Their weapons, though ornate, with nickel-plated ones for the most part, were impressive. Colt .45 handguns with ivory grips, AK-47’s with collapsible stocks, and a .50 caliber Barrett sniper rifle centered on the table, with the smaller weapons surrounding it.
Rodolfo Sanchez was a tall and rangy thirty-something with a short beard and moustache, and in one picture, he posed hip-cocked with a bikini-wearing young woman, his arm draped lazily over her shoulder.
His brother, Jesus, but showing the nickname Chuy on his Facebook page, was a smaller version of his obviously older brother. Chuy looked to be in his teens, but the rifle he held and the pistol stuffed in his waistband were full grown. He was handsome, with no facial hair.
Antonio Mora, one of the cousins, and about the same age as Rodolfo’s thirties, was shorter, and more stout. He looked to Hiyoki like a twin of Pancho Villa. In one picture he held two large, gold-plated Desert Eagle pistols, one in each hand. The weapons were so large his hands looked like a child’s.
Felix Mora was older than the others, maybe fifty-five, Hiyoki thought. He sported a pencil-thin black moustache and one eye the color of milk where an old scar showed across his face. He favored revolvers and held a Smith and Wesson Model 29, the Dirty Harry style, with the long barrel.
Adan Fierro was the last of the cousins. His eyes were the first things you noticed: black and piercing, even in a Facebook photo. Even in a small picture, you were aware of them. Adan appeared to have more Indian blood than his cousins, with his broad cheekbones and a slit for an unsmiling mouth. In one other photo of him wearing a short-sleeved shirt, it was evident the man lifted weights as his arms appeared heavy with muscle.
Hiyoki leaned back, thinking these five men would do the job. He may just keep them here after that. It would be like having his personal pride of man-eating lions around to handle any problems that arose. Hiyoki smiled. He liked that image. Tomorrow would be an interesting day, he thought, with his drones at the hunting lodge and the five men arriving.
His only regret was that he wouldn’t be at the lodge to personally direct the drones but would instead receive the videos from his on-site operators. It wouldn’t be long before he could control the drones from here and send them anywhere on the continent, but that still needed work on satellite accessibility. Plus, making his satellite access invisible to everyone else was an imperative. It could be done, and he only needed time and money.
The chef discretely caught Hiyoki’s attention and said, “The first course is ready, Sir.”
Hiyoki nodded, then logged off his computer and went to the head of the long table as the chef served the meal. It smelled delicious. He lifted his fork and thought, Yes, tomorrow is going to be a very good day indeed.
~*~
The sun was an hour above the horizon as the expansive breakfast table was readied in the central courtyard of El Cazador, on a shoulder of the Maderas Del Carmen protected reserve. Sitting like a terra cotta-colored adobe fort at seven thousand feet in altitude, the lodge grounds were cool and pine-scented even in the middle of summer. Its hollow square shape enclosed the lush courtyard, and every room had a door that opened into it. No exterior doors were visible on the lodge, as all guests had to enter through the main lobby and pass down the verandas to their rooms.
Hummingbirds by the dozens flitted around the colorful blossoms of columbine, bee balm and honeysuckle along the courtyard’s borders, and doves flew in to drink at the bubbling fountain near the west end, cooing as they rested in the nearby ponderosa pines.
The guests dressed casually, some even walking barefoot on the thick green grass, to take their seats. There were no wives or mistresses present this morning, it was all business today. The lodge’s own personal guards sat in lawn chairs at each corner of the courtyard. They dressed casually, but carried automatic rifles, which they placed barrel-up and leaning against the wall beside their chairs. No one expected trouble, but it gave many a certain peace of mind to see the four guards.
A dozen wait-staff moved quietly among the guests as they took seats, pouring coffee and other drinks while others took individual breakfast orders and hurried to the expansive kitchen located inside near the lobby.
Each of the cartel groups had their own section of table, with an equal number of chairs, and as the places filled, there was little talk.
High-level representatives of the major cartels were present, and each of them was personally worth over 500 million dollars, with several approaching a billion dollars in personal worth. They were all here: The Sinaloa Cartel, The Juarez Cartel, The Knights Templar, The Gulf Cartel, Los Zetas, The Tijuana Cartel, and La Linea.
Leandro Osorio stood near the fountain, out of earshot of the others. He read Hunter Kincaid’s number on the note of paper and dialed it.
Hunter looked at the strange number and let it ring three times before answering. “Hello?”
“Please do not hang up, Ms. Kincaid. My name is Leandro Osorio, and Pasqual was my brother.”
Hunter’s eyes widened. Leandro Osorio was one of the leaders of the newest narcotics group allied with the Juarez Cartel, Los Vaqueros, The Cowboys. She walked into her kitchen to sit on one of the stools at the bar. “I know who you are. Now tell me how you got this number.”
“Pasqual gave it to me. He and I talked before he passed.”
“That must have been some quick conversation because I was with him up till the end.”