Chapter 13 - The Purge of the Sierra Syndicate
The private executive airfield at Broomfield was eerily quiet under the pale pink dawn.
Inside Hangar Seven, a twin-engine Gulfstream private jet sat on the polished epoxy floor with its jet turbine engines idling in a high-pitched whine.
Four armed security guards in civilian windbreakers stood around the boarding stairs, loading heavy aluminum travel trunks into the cargo bay.
Inside the aircraft cabin sat Hector Salazar.
He was fifty-five years old, thick-necked, wearing a custom leather jacket and diamond rings on three fingers of his right hand.
On the table before him sat a glass of vintage tequila, two burner phones, and a passport issued by the Republic of Panama.
He checked his gold Rolex for the fifth time in ten minutes.
"Where is Miller?" Salazar growled in Spanish to his lieutenant sitting across the aisle.
"He was supposed to confirm the hit on Vale House forty minutes ago."
"The mountain pass is completely dead on the radios, boss," the lieutenant replied nervously.
"There was a report of a mudslide or an accident near Red Rocks."
"We cannot wait," Salazar snapped, slamming his drink onto the polished burled-wood table.
"Tell the pilot to request taxi clearance immediately."
"We are flying to Monterrey."
Before the lieutenant could reach for the intercom, the massive motorized hangar doors behind the jet began to screech open.
A dark armored utility truck drove through the opening, parking directly across the hangar threshold and blocking the jet's exit path to the runway.
The truck's high-intensity floodlights snapped on, blinding the guards standing on the tarmac.
"Federal agents!" one of the guards screamed, reaching for his machine pistol.
He never managed to shoulder the weapon.
From the shadow of the truck's rear doors, three sniper rounds cracked simultaneously through the cold hangar air.
The three guards guarding the stairs dropped to the epoxy floor instantly, their weapons clattering away across the polished concrete.
The remaining guard threw his hands into the air and fell to his knees in total submission.
Adrien Vale stepped out from behind the armored truck, dressed in his dark wool overcoat, his face carved from cold stone.
Caleb walked beside him, flanked by four Denver police tactical officers whose badges gleamed in the harsh floodlights.
Adrien had not come as an underworld outlaw.
He had come accompanied by the internal affairs division of the Colorado State Patrol and the honest detectives of the Denver homicide squad, all armed with federal warrants unsealed ten minutes earlier by the United States District Court.
Adrien walked up the retractable stairs of the Gulfstream with slow, deliberate steps.
Hector Salazar jumped out of his leather seat, drawing a gold-plated nine-millimeter pistol from beneath his armpit.
"Stay back!" Salazar roared, his voice cracking with desperation.
"Do you know who I am?"
"I own half the judges between here and the border!"
Adrien didn't draw a gun.
He simply reached into his coat pocket and tossed a heavy manila folder onto the leather seat beside Salazar.
The folder slid open, revealing dozens of bank statements, wire transfers, and color photographs of Salazar handing cash envelopes to Special Agent Miller outside a suburban steakhouse.
"The judges are all under federal subpoena, Hector," Adrien said softly.
"Miller sang like a canary the moment the state troopers put the tourniquet on his wrist."
"He gave up every stash house, every trucking route, and every corrupt customs officer in the state."
Salazar’s hand trembled so violently that the gold barrel wavered between Adrien's forehead and his chest.
"I have forty million dollars in a numbered vault in Zurich," Salazar whispered, his voice shrinking into a desperate whine.
"Take half, Vale."
"Take thirty million."
"Just let this plane get off the tarmac."
Adrien looked at the man who had ordered the hit on Mateo Torres six years ago.
He looked at the monster who had sent poison into the kitchen of a three-year-old girl.
"You tried to murder Elena Torres in her kitchen, Hector," Adrien said, his voice dropping into a register of icy, absolute finality.
"You sent a man to steal Mateo's baby girl while she slept."
"There isn't enough gold on this earth to buy your life today."
Salazar’s eyes snapped with manic terror, and his finger began to squeeze the gold trigger.
Adrien lunged forward like a striking viper.
He caught Salazar's wrist in an iron grip, twisting the joint backward until the tendon snapped with a sickening pop.
The gun fell onto the thick carpet.
Adrien drove his right fist into Salazar's jaw, shattering the cartel boss's teeth and driving his head back against the cabin bulkhead.
Salazar slid down onto the plush carpet, spitting blood and whimpering like an injured dog.
Two state troopers burst into the cabin, pinning Salazar to the floor and wrapping heavy zip-ties around his ankles and wrists.
Adrien stepped over the broken cartel leader and looked out the oval aircraft window at the rising sun.
May you like
The sky over the Rocky Mountains was turning from slate gray into brilliant, fiery gold.
The long, bloody night was finally over.
