David Golemon - Ripper

Everett smiled as he took the offered floor plans.

“That, Mr. Director, you can count on.”

The brand-new Sikorsky S-76C++ executive helicopter, painted in magnificent maroon and gold colors, circled the hacienda twice before the pilot saw a man step out onto the heliport at the center of the compound and with two brightly painted paddles, start to wave him down next to the helicopter already there. It had taken three minutes of radio communication with a man who had claimed no English before they were allowed in. The whole time the passenger in the rear compartment knew instinctually they were being tracked by not only one but several heat-seeking missiles.

As the garish executive Sikorsky slowly sat down upon the well-maintained heliport pad, it was immediately surrounded by ten men with menacing-looking automatic weapons. The pilot chanced a look into the back compartment and shook his head.

“It seems we have a welcoming committee, sir,” he said into his microphone.

The tall man in the back didn’t respond; he just removed his headset and then ran his fingers through his blonde hair. As the helicopter sat down gently he leaned into the pilot’s cabin.

“Stay inside and be ready to exit this place on a moment’s notice.”

The pilot didn’t like the sound of the order but nodded his head nonetheless.

A man in a white business suit stepped from the shadows of the hacienda and came out to meet the tall man stepping from the helicopter. The suit he wore was silk, and the blonde man could see he was sweating through it. The white shirt was stained with something at the collar and his face was unshaven.

“Mr. Jones, my employer was surprised to hear from your representative. After the failure of our last negotiation, we thought we would not hear from you again.”

The man going by the name of Hanover Jones was loath to take the man’s offered handshake. His nails were filthy and he had an odor that while not disgusting, was at the very least unpleasant. The helicopter’s rotors wound down and Henri Farbeaux took the man’s hand and shook.

“Speaking of my associate, he was to meet me in Laredo, but he didn’t show up. I just had a text message telling me to come here,” Henri said as he released the man’s hand and fought against the urge to wipe it on his own black trousers.

“Ah, Mr. Guzman insisted that your man accept his hospitality and remain at the compound. Do not fear señor, the man is being well treated.”

Farbeaux saw the lie in the man’s eyes immediately, just a second before he placed a pair of expensive sunglasses on.

“Please, Señor Jones, Jefe is waiting to see you,” the heavyset man said as he gestured toward the hacienda.

Farbeaux buttoned his suit jacket and without turning his head had counted the men in the hacienda’s enclosed court that surrounded the helipad. There were ten men with five more hidden in the shadows. He moved his eyes behind his sunglasses and saw four more tucked away at windows on the upper veranda. He showed no emotion as he ducked his head to enter the villa itself.

Henri removed his sunglasses right away so his eyes could adjust to the darkness inside. He immediately saw an older woman, perhaps in her early fifties. She came forward, wiping her hands on a white apron. She sneered at the man escorting Farbeaux and he backed away.

“Welcome to our home, Señor—?”

“Hanover Jones, Mama,” said a small well-dressed man with a moustache as he stepped out from behind his ample mother. He said something in Spanish, words Farbeaux knew almost as well as the people in the room. He explained that she needed to go to her room and not the kitchen and ignore anything she may hear in the next hour. Henri Farbeaux thought the man before him was either sloppy in his memory, knowing he spoke Spanish, or he had done it intentionally. If it was the latter, he knew he would have to approach his business very carefully.

“Mr. Jones, it is good to see you once again. The last time was in Colombia if memory serves. I was the intelligence liaison for Pablo Escobar at the time. Back then my antiquities trade was purely a hobby with my … rather limited income.”

Henri smiled. “Yes, I believe you were, and yes, it was Colombia. I’m glad to see you moved on after Señor Escobar’s … er, mishap.”

Juan Guzman had not offered his hand to Farbeaux. He did smile at the memory of betraying the world’s largest drug dealer and allowing Colombian and American Special Forces to kill him in December of 1993.

“His time was over, señor. It was time for men with vision to take the lead in affairs that concern the southern regions of the hemisphere.”

Farbeaux knew what that vision was and how it had been put into practice. In eliminating all of his competition in the distribution end in Mexico, along with his takeover of the manufacturing cartels in the south, the Anaconda had murdered no less than eighty of the top drug people in Mexico and South America, but it had been the little people who had suffered the most in this drug civil war with a very conservative estimate of over thirty thousand lower-end hoods and civilians losing their lives before the dust settled just across the border in northern Mexico. Now Juan Guzman was in charge of the largest drug operation in the entire world, and he was now known as the Anaconda for his powerful, suffocating, squeezing grip on anything south of the U.S. border.

“But that is history.” He finally smiled and held out his manicured hand for Henri to shake, which he did. “According to your man you are interested in my Anasazi collection?”

“Yes, my collection is lacking where yours is overflowing. And since the Anasazi lived north of the border, I figured it was something you could part with.” Henri released the man’s small hand and then looked around the well-appointed living room. He saw three men standing close by and their eyes never left him. “I am particularly interested in the piece you purchased in San Diego, a very nice artifact of silver.”

The Anaconda smiled and then looked Farbeaux in his blue eyes. “Ah, yes, the silver serpent. That is a very rare piece, señor. The only Anasazi artifact found that depicted a serpent of such splendor. But I must correct you, that particular piece was not purchased, it was … how do I say? Oh, yes, willed to me by its late owner.”

Henri knew well what that meant. Guzman had murdered the former collector and relieved him of the piece.

“Well, since your investment is minimal, perhaps we can come to an accommodation?” Farbeaux said smiling.

“Perhaps, señor, perhaps,” Guzman said as he gestured with his right hand for Farbeaux to precede him. “Why don’t we examine the piece so you can appreciate its beauty and thus make me an educated offer that would not be too insulting?”

The former French colonel stepped by the smaller Mexican drug lord, noticing that the man’s smile never reached as far as his dark eyes. The nickname Anaconda was well deserved in the Frenchman’s opinion as his eyes were like that of a large predatory snake. He knew the look well, because he was capable of the same thing.

The men in the room fell in behind their boss and followed them toward a large door. As Guzman stepped past Henri, he opened a huge oak door and then used a set of keys to open a steel gate behind that. He clicked on a light switch and Henri could see the descending stairs as they curved deeply into the ground.

“I have yet to have the piece cleaned by my artisans, so if you will follow me Señor Jones, we can view my wares in a far more comfortable setting.”

Henri turned from the stairs and looked at the small man before him. His hackles rose as he knew he was stepping into a trap. His makeshift plan had fooled no one and in his haste to find little Sarah, he had made a large mistake by thinking the drug lord would be greedy enough not to have had him checked out thoroughly. Farbeaux nodded his head and then out of the corner of his eye saw the trailing men watching him. He had no choice but to smile and enter the dark abyss beyond the gate.