Читать книгу Birds of a Feather - Don Easton - Страница 4

It was three o’clock in the morning when Special Agent Greg Patton of the United States Customs Service in El Paso, Texas, dropped off his partner at his house. Forty-five minutes later, he arrived home to his own bed.

Even then, Patton couldn’t fall asleep right away. His adrenalin hadn’t settled from the night’s activities. He and his partner had crawled over a fence into a backyard to peer through a window to catch a glimpse of some drug traffickers, only to discover a vicious dog sleeping under a back porch, which awoke and chased them back over the fence.

Would the drug traffickers suspect it was law enforcement agents whose shadows disappeared into the night? Perhaps they would think it was only a couple of the many countless thieves who preferred the cover of darkness.… Another hour passed before Patton fell into a restless sleep.

Patton’s neighbours in the quiet suburb of El Paso, Texas, considered him to be a good neighbour. He was quick to lend a hand and was a man who always had a smile on his face. They knew he worked for customs, but he never wore a uniform. By his ever-changing appearance, from beards to short hair and back to long, they knew his work was likely dangerous.

El Paso is situated directly across the border from Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. Ciudad Juarez, or simply Juarez, as the locals refer to it, is renowned as a hotbed of illegal activity. Drug smuggling by warring drug cartels vying for supremacy over the narco dollar have resulted in a daily body count comprised of criminals and non-criminals alike.

El Paso had become a major point of entry for cocaine smuggled into the United States. Originating in South America, the cocaine was turned over to Mexican drug lords for continued distribution north, including Canada. Along with the drug smuggling came a host of other criminal ventures, such as contract murders of law enforcement officers, gun-running, and human smuggling, to name but a few.

The fact was that Patton’s work was more than dangerous. It was dangerous to the extreme. He worked out of a secret office on a joint task force that included agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation; the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration; Alcohol, Tobacco Firearms, and Explosives; as well as special agents from the U.S. Customs Service.

There was a good reason why their office location was secret, as were their frequent excursions across the border into Mexico. One U.S. DEA investigator, Special Agent Enrique S. Camarena[1], who had been assigned to work in Mexico, was kidnapped and tortured for two days before his eventual murder. A Mexican pilot who had helped him locate a large marijuana grow operation was also murdered.

The subsequent DEA investigation discovered that the murders were orchestrated with the complicity of the brother to the then Mexican president. It was also learned a doctor had been utilized to keep Camarena alive and conscious to endure his torture for as long as possible before dying.

Corruption of the Mexican government, military, judiciary, and law enforcement agencies had reached a new high. One poll estimated 97 percent of policemen in Mexico were corrupt. Despite the high risk, Greg Patton and his partner, Special Agent John Adams, made frequent trips across the border. Today would be Patton’s last trip.

It was noon when Patton awoke, showered, put on his jockey shorts, and padded barefoot into the kitchen to the smell of fresh coffee and bacon. Becky smiled affectionately and he kissed her and gave her a warm embrace.

Stepping back, he gestured to Billy and Samantha, who were yelling and chasing each other in the backyard with a garden hose. “Isn’t today Friday?” he asked.

“Yes, but school is out this week. They only have to go in if they are writing exams.”

“I see.”

“Sorry, I knew you were late coming in. I tried to keep them quiet for as long as I could, but —”

“It’s okay,” he smiled, while giving Becky a pat on her backside. “It was time to get up, anyway. I have to go back to work in an hour. Have they had lunch yet? It would be nice to eat together before I go.”

It was an hour later when Patton started the Honda Civic and backed out of his driveway, pausing only to wave at his family before heading off. His car, which was dented and scraped, did not look like it belonged to a law enforcement agency. In fact, it used to belong to a drug trafficker, but U.S. law allowed forfeiture of seizures by authorities to be used by the law enforcement agencies who seized them. It allowed for a large assortment of covert vehicles to be used by the investigators. The only downside was there was not a budget to go along with each vehicle to keep it properly maintained and repaired.

Normally Patton would have been required to drop the car off at the office for the night, but due to the late circumstances … and the fact the Honda Civic wasn’t exactly a prized car in the office, he had driven it home.

He realized he was slightly ahead of schedule to pick up Adams and decided to take a slight detour and drive past the house with the dog. There was little doubt it was being used by drug runners. Intermittent surveillance had shown up to a dozen different muscle cars with jacked-up rear ends and custom-built hood exhausts parked in the driveway. Low-life punks, but who controls them?

Most of the cars had Mexican plates, which made it difficult to identify who was driving. Any inquiries to Mexican authorities would either return as being plates owned by someone else, or, if the dealers were connected to a drug cartel, then the cartel would be notified of the investigator’s interest. Often it was only through the use of surveillance, photographs, and facial recognition that the framework of the drug cartels was identified.

Patton’s excitement grew as he drove past the house. Parked in the driveway was a new Mercedes. It was painted emerald green with dark tinted windows. Tinted windows were common in the area to help keep the heat out, but it also made it difficult to identify who was driving. Patton slowed as he went past. It had a Mexican plate, but it was still worth copying down.

He then drove to the end of the block and parked where he could still see the Mercedes, but wondered if he should risk leaving to go get Adams. Would it still be there when they returned? The decision was made for him when the car backed out of the driveway and headed off in the opposite direction.

Patton followed, trying to keep his distance. Unlike in Hollywood movies, a one-car surveillance seldom went undetected. Today, however, the Mercedes ventured out onto a well-travelled road where the presence of other cars gave him cover. Soon he found himself on the Bridge of the Americas, crossing over into Juarez. His was the second car behind the Mercedes and he was glad the Mexican customs agent treated him like the others, with a lackadaisical wave of his hand to allow him entry.

The afternoon traffic in Juarez was heavy. It slowed the Mercedes while continuing to provide other cars for cover. The only disadvantage was the possibility of being left behind at a red light.

When the Mercedes stopped at a red light, three car lengths in front of him, Patton took the opportunity to call Adams. Unfortunately, like most people on surveillance, his attention was focused on who he was following … and not on who might be following him.

Adams picked up when Patton rang and he quickly updated his partner on the situation. Adams wasn’t overly concerned his partner was in Juarez. They were short-staffed and often ventured into Mexico alone. Sometimes it was even safer. One man in a car looked a lot less like a police officer than two men did. Especially two men who were in their thirties, physically fit, and not looking or acting like gawking tourists who had left their brains at home.

There was something else that marked them as law enforcement officers, although neither was aware of it. They both dressed casually and believed their infrequent shaving routine made them less conspicuous. Perhaps it did, but neither man was a trained undercover operative. Like most officers with police training, they portrayed a degree of self-confidence. Coupled with a strong Alpha-male attitude, it tended to make them stand out for who they really were.

It was one of the first lessons Adams would later learn when he worked with such an operative. There are times to act aggressive and times not to. Instinctively knowing when to do which could be a matter of life or death.

“Okay, we’re moving again and he’s turned down a side street,” said Patton. “I’ll call you back when I’m done and let you know when I can pick you up.”

“Sounds good. Don’t take any —”

“Shit, looks like I got company,” said Patton, his voice going up an octave. “A black-and-white tucked in behind me and one of their crew cab pickups is coming up alongside. The cop driving is really giving me the hairy eyeball.”

“Forget the Mercedes and get the hell out of there!” urged Adams.

“You don’t have to tell — fuck!”

Adams heard the sound of crunching metal and Patton’s high-pitched yell. “I got rammed into a row of parked cars! I … I —”

“Don’t stop!” screamed Adams. “Step on it! Get outta there and run for the border!”

“Can’t! I’m blocked in!” came the frantic reply. “Fuck, here they come. They got their automatics out!”

“Don’t hang up! Can you get one of their plates?”

In response, all Adams heard was the sounds of men shouting, followed by breaking glass and Patton screaming in pain before the phone went dead.

[1] The DEA investigation into the torture and murder of Special Agent Enrique S. Camarena was the most in depth and longest-running investigation in DEA history.