I cracked it open. A small, robust man, early forties, dark skin, and a heavily wrinkled brow as if he frowned too much, stood with his hat in his hands while he nervously shifted his feet. I grabbed his arm and hauled him inside.
Tyler had contacted an acquaintance of his who lived in Medellin, Colombia. This acquaintance had known Tyler’s father who had been a DEA agent. Tyler’s father spent a lot of time down in Colombia, talked about it to Tyler when he was growing up. It was why Tyler had joined the army.
“Moreno? The kids?” I asked.
“Si. Si.” He nodded several times.
Tyler rose to his feet, walked over and slapped the guy on the back, “Juan. Good to finally meet you. My father speaks well of you.” Tyler switched to Spanish, speaking it fluently. The man responded, although he stammered, obviously either scared of us or scared of what Moreno would do to his family if he found out Juan was being a snitch.
But if he gave us what we needed, then he and his wife and daughter would be looked after. Deck had strings, but they weren’t like mine. They were on the right side of the law and he’d organized to safely get Juan and his family out of Colombia.
Tyler translated what they were talking about. “Juan here delivers food twice a week to one of Moreno’s buildings. He says last week there were sixteen kids and twenty watchdogs with assault rifles. But yesterday Juan was told not to bring food.”
“They’re moving,” I said.
Tyler nodded. “It’s been the same routine for the last three years he has supplied them. Every Tuesday and Friday, never missed a day.”
“Need to make our move now.” Vic started to gather up his gear as did Ernie. Tristan shut down the computer and packed it up.
“He knows we’re coming,” Deck said. “He gets those kids into the jungle, we’ll never find them. No time for sneak and peek. We go in locked and loaded.”
The kids were most important, but Moreno wouldn’t give a shit about losing sixteen kids when he could pick up twenty more. Our plan was to hit it hard and get the kids out while Tristan and Ernie had eyes on Moreno’s house and his movements. Because he’d make a move the second he heard his farm was being taken out.
“We don’t leave Colombia until he’s dead,” I stated.
The men nodded. We were all in agreement on this. Moreno was too dangerous alive knowing we were after him. Vault’s foundation was crumbling, but it hadn’t fallen and Moreno was a building block we had to crush fast before he found others to replace my mother and Dorsey.
I walked over to my knapsack, unzipped it, and then pulled out a wad of cash. Ten grand. It was more than this man probably saw in his lifetime. “Half now. Half when you show us where.” I tossed him the money and his mouth gaped then produced a smile, revealing his crooked teeth.
Tyler translated what I said. He’d show us the location of the building. Then he’d take his family to a disclosed location where Deck’s contact was waiting to get them out.
“Si. Si.”
Tyler spoke to him a little more in Spanish and then slapped him on the back again.
“Let’s roll,” Deck ordered.
I wasn’t used to working with other men on a job. Ernie was it and that had strictly been while searching for London, never anything to do with Vault missions.
Now I had Deck, Vic, Tyler, Ernie, and Tristan, who surprisingly knew how to handle a gun and a knife. But it made sense; he had spent years at the farm before Chess helped him escape.
The Moreno Cartel had a number of ‘jungle labs’ for his cocaine operation, but according to Tyler’s contact, Juan, there was a building owned by Moreno a mile from his extravagant property where he resided.
Juan took us to a rooftop of an abandoned apartment building and pointed to the west across an alley. It was obvious which one he was pointing to as it had barbwire above the eight-foot brick walls. It looked like a fuckin’ prison.
“Fuck.” I strode to the edge of the building, eyes on ‘the farm.’ Hell happened in that place. Darkness for days. Food deprivation. The pit. Torture techniques used to make certain we didn’t break if we were caught during a mission. If we failed or weren’t good enough, we were dead.
And my own mother started it. Sacrificed her kids.
Tyler was speaking quickly in Spanish and Juan nodded frequently. I had no idea what they were saying but I caught the odd word.
Deck and his men didn’t fuck around and, on the flight over in Deck’s plane, which was a cargo plane, we’d discussed all outcomes and who took lead on what. We’d had a blueprint of the building we knew belonged to Moreno, but couldn’t confirm it until Juan. Now, we had confirmation.
Tyler shook Juan’s hand. “Good man, Juan.”
I opened my bag and passed him another ten grand and Juan smiled then took off.
“Not sure which is worse, back in the dry heat of Afghanistan or this sticky, humid shit,” Tyler said as he ran his hand across his damp brow. “Thinking I like sand right about now.”