Chapter 10
Colombia
The four-bladed prop feathered to a stop after Fierro killed the Rotax engine. A Land Rover SUV bounded down the hill as he slid the canopy aft and lifted it on its hinges to egress.
The airstrip was part of Fierro’s mountaintop villa nestled on a plateau in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta in northern Colombia.
The vast estate afforded him breathtaking views of both the mountains and the sea, and was surrounded by a working coffee plantation.
He had inherited the property along with the rest of his empire after the murder of his father several years before.
His father, Jerónimo Fierro, ran one of the most violent and profitable drug cartels in Latin America.
The old man had used his vast wealth to purchase the estate and to fill it with museum-quality objets d’art.
He also acquired precious gems, legitimate enterprises, and a healthy stock portfolio.
But Jerónimo’s single best investment had been a Stanford MBA for his brilliant young son.
Graduating at the top of his class, telenovela-handsome Amador steered clear of the cartel’s violent day-to-day operations with his father’s blessing.
He launched into a successful career as a high-tech venture capitalist in Silicon Valley—laundering family drug money.
When his father was murdered, both family honor and boundless potential obligated him to take over the family business.
To avenge his father’s murder and eliminate other vermin, Amador relied on the services of the man driving the Land Rover, Rafael Vargas, one of his father’s closest advisers and his number one enforcer.
Fierro yanked open the door and climbed into the passenger seat.
He was a millennial who shared his generation’s values, eschewing the trappings of ostentatious wealth.
He avoided the tired clichés of his profession like the plague.
Gold-plated AK-47s, diamond-studded crucifixes, and imported African hippos were both poor investments and vulgar.
He donated ten percent of his profits into projects for the destitute in his native Colombia and throughout Latin America, but this was a nod to public relations as much as it was to any humanitarian impulse. He had no religious inclinations.
The phone in the dashboard cradle rang. Fierro didn’t recognize the number.
“It’s Narcisco,” Vargas said as he handed Fierro the encrypted sat phone. The stoic cartel hit man betrayed no emotion, ever. Not even when he killed. His demeanor was cold and undemonstrative, like the smooth steel shell of a hand grenade.
“Thank you.” Fierro noted the faintest whisper of contempt in Vargas’s voice.
No one else would have noticed it, but Amador had known the man for decades.
Vargas was no fan of the Tamacas family, especially Narcisco.
In fact, Vargas cared for seemingly no one except for Amador, whom he protected like a son.
No display of affection was possible, certainly, but Vargas would kill for Amador without hesitation.
“Narcisco? How are you?”
“The line is safe?” Narcisco’s voice was electronically altered by the poor satellite signal.
Vargas punched the gas and headed back for the villa.
“Totally. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Have you been avoiding me?”
“Not at all. I was flying today. Had to clear my head. What’s the problem?”
“You know why I’m calling.”
“Yes, your father, I’m sure. It’s terrible.”
“What do you intend to do about it?” The electronic distortion couldn’t veil Narcisco’s rising anger.
Fierro bit his tongue. Oscar Tamacas had been warned in advance and told to leave the country, but he refused.
The old fool considered himself untouchable and had relied on corrupt government officials still on his payroll for protection.
In the past, judges and witnesses could be intimidated or killed, but now their identities were protected, and trials held remotely via Zoom calls inside CECOT.
Oscar had completely underestimated President Olmedo’s will and determination.
And truth be told, so had he.
Fierro wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“CECOT is a fortress. It will take some time.”
“So what do you intend to do about it?”
Vargas shot a warning glance at Fierro. He’s a threat.
Fierro shook his head. Not to worry.
“We need to get your father released as soon as possible.”
“He’s an old man and he’s in danger.”
“I understand.”
The Land Rover raced along the mountain track with ease. Coffee workers smiled and waved as they passed. Fierro treated them well.
“Are you sure?” Narcisco asked. “Every moment my father rots behind bars shows us as weak and Olmedo strong. The other bosses agree with me. La Liga’s reputation is on the line.”
Fierro sighed. The El Salvadoran had a point.
Narcisco looked and acted the part of an old-school drug lord like his father.
Alligator cowboy boots, garish jewelry, and the worship of skeletal saints proved Narcisco had no taste.
But he was no idiot. And he was an important ally, especially in La Liga affairs.
“You’re right. La Liga is at risk. We must free your father and the others as quickly as possible.”
“And don’t forget, if La Liga fails, so does Project Q.”
Fierro and Vargas exchanged a glance. That wasn’t a threat.
It was simply a statement of fact. A terrible fact.
Because Project Q was their only lasting hope.
★
“What about the Iranians?” Narcisco asked. “Can’t they do something?”
A Quds Force fighting unit had set up a training camp in Panama under La Liga’s paid protection. Fierro wanted to scream. He wondered if his El Salvadoran friend was high on coke or merely bipolar—or maybe both. How could he be both cunning and stupid all at the same time?
Three divisions of U.S. Marines couldn’t take CECOT.
And what did Narcisco think the guards would do if they thought the walls had been breached?
Their first order would be to kill all the prisoners.
The last thing President Olmedo would want was for forty thousand angry gangsters to be released and set loose upon the country to seek their revenge.
“That’s a great idea, Narcisco. But that kind of operation would take a great deal of planning and I’m worried it will take too long. We need something fast.”
“So you do have a plan?”
“Of course. We must be subtle. And careful. Entiendes?”
“Sí.”
“With any luck, your father will be out by the end of the week. Maybe sooner.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Nothing. Just be patient. I’ll handle everything. Have I ever let you down before?”
“Never. But if you fail, I’ll take matters into my own hands. That’s not a threat, jefe. It’s merely a promise. It’s a matter of honor.”
“You have my word. I will take care of it.”
Vargas pulled to a stop in front of the villa. There was no one at the front door. “Too showy,” Fierro had insisted. But armed guards were located in carefully concealed hides around the property. Fierro opened the door for himself. Vargas followed him in. Fierro was still on the phone.
“I need to get on this, so I’ll let you go now.”
“Thank you, Amador. I’m a patient man. But there is a limit.”
Narcisco killed the call.
“He’s a dangerous dog,” Vargas said, his eyes searching for potential threats beyond the great picture window. “You need to let me put him down.”
“He’s my friend.”
“You have no friends. Only allies who fear you, and enemies who fear you more. Didn’t your father teach you that?”
Fierro grinned. “Of course. But you taught him that. Even Machiavelli said it is better to be loved and feared. Besides, even a dog has his uses.”
“Until he rips your throat out. He’s willing to risk Project Q to get that careless viejo out of jail.”
“I know how to handle him. I’ll solve his problem and then he’ll calm down.”
“You are smarter than your father.”
“Better looking, too.”
“If you change your mind…”
★
Fierro poured himself a fine single malt whiskey and took a plush leather chair overlooking his estate. He was lost deep in thought.
La Liga—“the League” in Spanish—was his brainchild.
Fierro had studied history as well as finance at Stanford and had even flirted with the idea of pursuing an academic career in the subject. The primary lesson history taught him was that power was the most important commodity, and that since 1648 the nation-state had the monopoly of raw power.
A few decades ago, it seemed as if non-state entities like terrorist groups and drug cartels had gained the upper hand against the increasingly dysfunctional liberal democracies as they acquired better weapons, communications technology, and access to financial networks.
But the nations of the West began to cooperate, and jointly deployed superior communications technologies and better armed police forces to combat their enemies, including the drug cartels.
Pablo Escobar’s corpse, the fall of FARC, and a dozen other catastrophes proved state power was still supreme.
The only chance Fierro’s cartel had to survive was to acquire more power of its own. Through his towering intellect, force of will, persuasive skills, and the judicious deployment of Vargas against the most recalcitrant, Fierro forged an alliance of Latin America’s largest drug cartels.
Narcisco Tamacas had been his first and most reliable convert.
As head of MS-13, he brought credibility to Fierro’s dream.
Other drug lords saw the wisdom of his vision.
Ultimately, the nine largest cartels and their subsidiaries in Latin America formed La Liga as a countervailing force to the Americans and their allies.
The drug lords pooled their resources, shared intel, and jointly expanded their markets.
Latin America seemed on the verge of falling under their complete control and the rise of a super narco-state was at hand.
But the Western nations pushed back yet again and deployed their vast war on terror instruments against La Liga.
They froze banking assets, launched targeted satellites, and deployed military forces in devastating counterinsurgency operations.
The power of the state seemed as infallible, and the demise of La Liga as inevitable as Caesar’s destruction of the Gauls.
Fierro had spent over a decade among the most brilliant minds in Silicon Valley, investing vast sums of his father’s money—and reaping enormous profits—in the most promising technologies of the day.
Fierro had acquired a great deal of technological expertise and remained in contact with the brightest scientists and engineers. A plan began to form in his mind.
It was clear that power had always determined the course of history, but the nature of power was changing. Technology itself was becoming the primary source of power. Power that was available to anybody with the will and resources to acquire it.
Fierro had both.
And thus Project Q was launched. Fierro had convinced La Liga to invest tens of billions of dollars for the last few years into the project.
And in just ten days it would be unleashed upon the United States.
La Liga would become a superpower, just like the norteamericanos.
Project Q would be a weapon that no nation could resist. Better still, La Liga would dominate the global drug trade, overwhelming its competitors while utterly defeating every prosecutor and police agency around the world.
And all without firing a shot.
But Narcisco Tamacas and his retrograde father could ruin everything. Fierro had to do something now before Narcisco broke his leash.
Fierro threw back the rest of his whiskey, relishing the smooth burn in the back of his throat before heading to his office. He knew just the man who could fix his problem.