Covert Warriors (Presidential Agent 7)

One of the Federales, an AR-15A3 slung from his shoulder, stepped into the road and held up his hand, ordering the Suburban to stop.

“There’s a CD plate on this,” Danny said. “Jesus H. Christ!”

A corps diplomatique license plate on a vehicle was usually enough to see the passengers therein waved through roadblocks.

“Make nice, Danny,” Ferris said, “remembering that we are guests here in sunny Meh-hi-co.”

Danny slowed the Suburban to a stop, simultaneously taking from his shirt pocket his diplomatic carnet and holding it up.

Ferris, doing the same, ordered: “Carnet time, guys. Smile at the nice Federales.”

The Federale who had blocked the road approached the car.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” Ferris said in Spanish, holding up his carnet. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Out of the truck, please,” the sergeant said.

“Sergeant, I am Lieutenant Colonel James D. Ferris, an assistant military attaché of the U.S. embassy.”

“Get out of the truck, Colonel.”

“I demand to see the person in charge,” Ferris said as he opened the door and stepped to the ground.

He saw a Federale lieutenant standing with the others.

“Over there,” the Federale said, nodding toward him.

“Thank you,” Ferris said.

“Everybody out,” the Federale said.

Ferris walked toward the teniente.

“Good afternoon, Comandante,” Ferris began.

Ferris knew that a comandante actually was a captain. But he had learned over the years that people are seldom offended by a promotion, even one given in error.

“Comandante, I am Lieutenant Colonel James D. Ferris, an assistant military attaché of the U.S. embassy.”

The tenientes did not reply, but three of his men, two second sergeants and a corporal, walked toward the Suburban.

“This is my carnet,” Ferris said.

There was a burst of 5.56mm fire.

Ferris spun around.

Salazar and Torres were on the ground. Martinez, a surprised look on his face, was on his knees, holding his hands to his bleeding abdomen. Then he fell to one side.

“You murdering sonsofbitches!” Ferris shouted.

Another second sergeant struck Ferris in the back of his head with a pistol.

When Ferris fell to the ground, the second sergeant who had pistol-whipped him quickly pulled Ferris’s wrists behind him, fastened them securely with “plastic handcuffs,” and did the same to his ankles.

The teniente pulled a black plastic garbage bag over Ferris’s head and closed it loosely. Four of the Federales picked up Ferris and loaded him into the rear of the Suburban.

The teniente and one of the second sergeants then got into the Suburban, and with the second sergeant driving, made a U-turn and headed in the direction of Mexico City. The others got into the Ford F-250 and followed the Suburban.