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  Preacher was glad to have the guy flanking him with that deadly rifle in his hands.

  A few moments later, the rear driver-side window rolled down and three weapons were thrown out. A pair of hands extended and then a face peeked out through the opening.

  "Por favor."

  "El otro?" Preacher gestured asking if others were inside.

  "No. Ahora es solo mi." The man answered. He was the only one left alive.

  "Salir." Preacher ordered him out of the vehicle. The guy got out slowly with hands raised. He stepped away from the SUV, leaving the door open. Preacher rose and gestured for the man to get down. The guy dropped to his knees and put his hands behind his head.

  Preacher stepped over to the open door with the AK-47 aimed inside. He confirmed no one else was inside. No one alive, that is. He turned back to the lone survivor.

  "Ingles?" He could have spoken to the man in Spanish, but wanted to see something.

  "Yes."

  "You were at the compound?"

  "No. We were called. We passed you a few miles back and turned around to follow." The man looked from Preacher to Meadows stepping out from behind the disabled lead vehicle with that rifle aimed at his head.

  "Who called you?" Preacher asked.

  Returning his eyes to Preacher, the listless man looked him up and down. "Who are you? Who do you work for?"

  Preacher smiled and stepped up to within a couple of feet of him. He bent down and put his guns on the sandy ground here at the edge of the desert. "You aren't a worker bee. You give orders, don't you? That's why you think you have any authority, any right, to ask me a question." Preacher smiled and like a cobra's strike shot out four pointed fingers on his right hand and struck el jefe, the boss, in his throat. It was a lightning fast surprise of a blow that caused an immediate seizure.

  The human body's reaction to an unexpected shot to the neck and carotid artery structure is to seize up, to convulse. The victim is unable to breath, unable to speak for several seconds and often passes out. It makes one feel that death is imminent.

  And for this particular human, it probably was.

  Preacher let the guy sputter and gasp for 20 seconds before reaching down and pulling him back to his knees by lifting his chin. "I don't care for your name or your questions or your life. I do care to know where the kid is, the young gringo, Felix you call him. Will you tell me?"

  "I don't know." He whispered through strained breath.

  "Last chance. Is he at the castle, el Castillo?" Preacher repeated the name he had learned from Juan at the warehouse compound a half an hour earlier.

  The man's eyes confirmed the answer his mouth would not. Yes.

  "Put your hands up." Preacher ordered and stood up. When the man's hands were raised, fully extended, Preacher put a silenced bullet through each. His victim sucked in breath to scream, but a kick in the right temple brought unconsciousness before the scream escaped. Preacher flipped the guy over and pulled out his wallet. He found the man's ID, photos of wife and kids. Preacher pulled the individual items out and dropped them around the man's head on the ground, except the ID. He kept that. Threat implicit. Identity, address and family members now known. This is how an operative finds and applies leverage to control human assets. This is how Marta taught him to build networks. Start with death and fear of death and then nurture them with wealth and opportunity.

  Meadows watched as Preacher moved to the vehicle, extracted four additional guns and a large cell phone. "Let's go. The Castle it is."

  The pilot followed him back to the Toyota and called out to Preacher. "They'll know we're coming. No element of surprise here."

  "They won't. At this moment, they have no idea that we know where he is. And they haven't had time to call in additional resources yet. Some maybe, but they are only 15, 20 minutes ahead of us."

  Meadows and his long legs caught up to him and stepped in front. "I screwed up. We don't need to do this. I didn't ask you to get into all this mess."

  Preacher looked up at the taller man with that deadly ass rifle resting on his shoulder. The story keeps changing.

  "I agreed to help you. No questions, remember. That's the deal he made with you. We'll finish this mission and go home." Preacher responded, stepping around Meadows. He thought to himself again that it is interesting that he just referred to the Black Angel in the third person. When he and Marta talk about that dark time apart, he often refers to "him" when talking about the actions he took over in Russia. Funny. Strange.

  "But I don't need to finish it. We've done enough." Meadows said with resignation, slumping his shoulders and shaking his head.

  "Nope. You started it. We finish it." Preacher reached the Toyota and threw the guns and cell phone in the backseat.

  When Meadows got in, he looked at Preacher with hesitation all over his face.

  Preacher smiled. "I'm not cavalier. I don't have any personal feelings tied to this job Meadows. But when we finish this and the kid is no longer occupying every moment of your time and every recess of your mind, you will owe me. Our little deal here will flip and one day I will call upon you to assist me in an unpleasant venture like this. You'll do it without hesitation and without question because you will owe me your peace of mind, no matter how haunted that peace is by the actions we're about to take; the actions I'm about to take."

  And Preacher closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He shot up nearly a mile into the sky and looked down at the map of Juarez he had memorized three days ago on the small plane Meadows flew from Telluride, Colorado to El Paso. Juan had given him the address of the Castle back at the compound. Its central location just off of Avenue 16 de Septiembre near the Catedral de Ciudad de Juarez and only a mile or so from the Mexico/U.S. border was interesting. Right there in the middle of the city. Ballsy move by the cartel. It basically said 'here I am, what are you going to do?'

  The information grandpa Juan had shared with him back at the compound flowed through Preacher's mind as he tracked the different routes they could take to reach the inner-city complex. From their current location, Preacher saw the path he wanted to take. He told Meadows to get back on the road and head northwest for another mile and a half. He closed his eyes again and started looking at street-level travel options to the border and back into the U.S.

  He preferred not to use one of the two main crossings from Juarez to El Paso, but that might just be what they need. He noted the small airfield to the southeast of town. A good pilot could whip across the border, land on a dirt road and whip right around and head back south of the border in minutes. Hell, Meadows could pilot any plane they wanted to borrow and they could just leave it behind in a field and catch a ride with a passing local.

  Time to think about escape routes after the action. He told Meadows to turn right on Bulevar Oscar Flores. That would let them approach the Castle from the southwest. Sounded best. As he looked out the car window at the gathering dawn, Preacher tapped his thumb on his thigh to the Stevie Nicks tune playing in his head. Legend had it that Prince was recording in another studio and Stevie called him up to ask if he would help lay down a beat and groove for the song. He obliged and it was magic.

  "You think we can trust the information you obtained from that resource about this location, the Castle?" Meadows asked.

  Preacher turned to him and raised his eyebrows. "Hope so. People say interesting things when they want to live to see their wife and children and grandchildren at least one more time."

  "And this guy told you all about this place?"

  "Correctomundo senór. He held no fond thoughts for your young fella. Said a few choice words about Felix."

  "Felix?"

  "Evidently, that is the kid's nickname down here. He didn't go into detail and I didn't ask, but I believe it has something to do with a cat."

  "Felix."

  "Yep. Of course, it could just as easily be code. Referring to him and his operation as part of a code structure protects it from eavesdroppers and compet
itors."

  "His operation? He was a rich neighborhood kid with connections that brought him into this network. He might have had a small group of punks in Dallas, but we was just a punk himself. A kid with a God complex. Murdering little bastard." Meadows tapped the steering wheel with every word. Preacher had counted the taps and knew the Navy reserve pilot had just spoken 43 words.

  "That's what you believe and part of what you led me to believe when you broke several levels of security and all kinds of protocol to find me on that mountain." Preacher smiled as he spewed a little venom. "But I've been doing some thinking. And I am fairly certain that what I saw when I peeped through that window before you blew everything to hell was a guy sitting and gambling among equals. He was certainly not a hostage. He was no servant." Preacher turned back to the window and Stevie singing the final chorus with her backup singers.

  "I don't see it." Meadows responded after about 30 seconds.

  "You are blinded by a little thing called vengeance. You thought he was just a hothead pothead punk who killed your friend. But you didn't see the real story he was hiding from everyone; including you." Preacher pointed up ahead. "Turn at the second right. And then we'll find a place to pull over so we can get a look at this el Castillo."

  Chapter 3

  No one on the street.

  Preacher peeked around a corner of a shop near the southeast wall of the Castle. The name fit. The place was not huge, but large enough to be imposing. And the rise of two rooflines did indeed hearken back to the castles of old. The stones used in the exterior walls and in those of the structure were expertly worked and shaped and placed. Looked like it was 150, maybe 175 years old.

  A stroll along the surrounding blocks with openings to see the inner-city fortress showed some upgrades since the 18th century. Motorized double gates, heightened walls in several places, video cameras mounted at every entrance and corner wall. In reading the CIA World Factbook and other public CIA documents available over the wonderful Internet in an El Paso public library, Preacher had learned a few nifty facts about the Juarez Cartel and it's current man at the top - Ernesto Chacon.

  Not much is known about the current "jefe" of this growing drug-trafficking organization. Chacon, like the leaders of the other Mexican drug smuggling networks, including the Gulf, Tijuana, Sinaloa and La Familia cartels, had seized power in the early 1990s as the power and influence of the Columbia and Medellin cartels began to fade due to U.S. government pressure and arrests of leaders.

  Chacon likely had a dozen or so residential locations in and around Juarez and down in Chihuahua. But el Castillo was the physical and spiritual home of the network. And right now, the kid they had tracked to Juarez was inside the stronghold. And just because no one was visible on the street right now, that didn't mean security wasn't sky high after the attack on the cartel's desert distribution center earlier this morning.

  Lights were on all over inside the complex even with the sun almost up. Preacher had spotted two men with flashlights and automatic weapons pass by the smaller back gate when he looked on. Twenty-eight minutes had passed since he had taken out the two SUVs and the passengers inside back on the edge of town. The phone in his pocket he swiped from the boss with new holes in his hands had rung twice in the last three minutes.

  "Digame la verdad." Preacher pushed the button and spoke into his walkie-talkie.

  "What?" Meadows responded with a whisper.

  Preacher cracked up. "Tell me the truth. Did you ever do any time in the field during your early days in the Navy?" He asked.

  "A little bit."

  "I thought so. Kind of like me I'll bet. Which tells me you were probably visited pretty early on in your military career by Papa, right?"

  Meadows didn't respond right away. He obviously didn't want to discuss it. "Yes."

  "Son of a bitch. That guy. I should have killed him." Preacher whispered.

  "He's gone now. You saw to that."

  "Hey, I'm dead. He killed me, remember? You're working with a ghost here Lieutenant." Preacher turned back from looking around the corner and leaned against the wall of the building next to which he was standing. He looked up into a cloudless sky. Black was giving way to blue, stars faded. The half-moon was ducking toward the western horizon.

  He waited, closed his eyes. Images flashed. Marta, Seibel, Baghdad, snow falling on his outstretched hand six days ago standing on a Colorado mountaintop, Braden the mole, Marta again. For four years now, the flashes that come when he closes his eyes and lets his mind wander and wonder and drift for just a few moments, almost always start and end with her. Like now. Just happens, no matter the mission.

  He didn't need to be here. He had nothing invested in this other than a provisional relationship with Meadows. And heck, Meadows was ready to head home. Why go through with any of this? There was obviously something going on here that didn't jibe.

  Felix, the kid, he hadn't killed anyone Preacher knew. Heck, people die all the time, every second of every minute of every hour. We all get 80 years or so above the dirt.

  "Except miners." Lance cracked a funny from up in the air. It was usually Preacher who did that in moments like this. Preacher chuckled.

  "What is it? What's funny?" Meadows asked. Preacher forgot he had his finger on the open mic button on the cheap walkie-talkie in his hand.

  "Just heard something funny."

  "From who?" Meadows whispered over his radio unit.

  "No, just in my head."

  Meadows waited a couple of seconds and responded. "You hear voices in your head quite a bit, don't you?"

  Preacher smiled at that. He'd been playing a few mind games with Meadows. Nothing wrong with keeping em' guessing about your sanity. Made for interesting interactions.

  "Sometimes. Right now, Benito Juarez is arguing with Emiliano Zapata about the best method for making corn masa for tamales. Man, some guys get excited about the craziest things."

  "Preacher. Jesus, come on. Be serious for once. This is serious."

  "You're telling me. Zapata just insulted Juarez by suggesting his mother's recipe was no bueno."

  "Christ."

  Preacher chuckled a little more and peeked back around the corner. The phone in his pocket rang again. He took that as his cue.

  "Be ready." He spoke into the radio and then pulled out the cell phone and pushed the talk button. He left the transmission open on the walkie-talkie so Meadows could hear. "Hola."

  "Who is this?" Came the reply in Spanish.

  "Who is this?" Preacher replied in Spanish.

  "Ramon?" That was the name on the ID card he'd snatched from the guy with holes in his hands.

  "No. Ramon es no aqui. He is beside the road just outside of town. He is alive, or at least he was when I left him half an hour ago. Just shot up a little."

  Silence, a pause at the other end of the line.

  "Are you in el Castillo?" Preacher asked.

  "Where?"

  "The Castle. I'm looking at it now. If you are in there, then you have what we want. We missed him in the desert last night. But by just a little. Many others were not so lucky."

  "Who are you?"

  "I get the distinct feeling you are not the correct person to speak with. I am hanging up. I either want to hear from Chacon or his number two when this phone rings again in five minutes. And when they call, I want to know that the boy, Felix as you call him, is there and that he will be delivered to us outside the front gate in the next 15 minutes. If I do not hear from Chacon or number two with this news, then a second bomb like the one we used earlier this morning will go bang and the Castillo will come tumbling down. Five minutes."

  Now. Here it comes. The reaction. Watch and listen.

  Preacher had walked the perimeter and witnessed little activity. No flexing of big muscles. No machismo. That told him more than he needed to know. Things were not as they appeared on the surface.

  His perusal of the surrounding buildings, houses and other structures told him the
rest. The Castillo was indeed in the center of the city. But it was also in the center of a complex of buildings, a campus. Watching out of windows from these buildings were plenty of eyes. Hidden behind blinds and drapes, a number of humans were looking for anything coming.

  After walking the perimeter to get the lay of the land, Preacher had enough of a mental picture to shoot up and look down on the web of structures. What he saw here completed the image. The main building and surrounding structures were connected. There were tunnels beneath his feet. Had to be.

  As if on cue, a dozen men exited three of the structures and began fanning out on the streets. They went the opposite direction from where he stood in a corner at the rear of one of the smaller houses. Damn.

  "Are you ready?" He raised the walkie-talkie and asked Meadows.

  "Ready. You see the new members of the party?"

  "I see them. Sure more are coming. Just be ready to go."

  The phone in his left hand rang. He pressed the talk button.

  "Si?"

  "So, are you DEA, CIA or FBI?" It was a much younger voice than the previous one. It spoke English. The kid.

  "Come again?" Preacher replied.

  "I assume you are here with or on behalf of the U.S. government. I get a CIA vibe from your voice."

  "How's that?"

  "And if you are CIA, then you are a spy and spies don't live long down here."

  "You have another 90 seconds to confirm our request. You are to supply us the boy within the next 11 minutes."

  "We heard your demands. We are not going to meet them. Blow up your little bomb." The kid was matter of fact.

  Preacher waited a few seconds. "We asked for Chacon or number two. Put them on."

  "You get me. I'm doing the talking."

  Now. Two things raced through Preacher's head. First, this kid had balls, cojones. Serious ones. Second, it sounded like Chacon might be out of the picture along with number two. Could it be that they were out there at the desert warehouse complex and got caught in the explosion? If so, that might just mean that this 19-year-old punk from north Dallas is in charge.