Posing as recreational birders, a group of former U.S. Special Forces enter Mexico to capture and extract six Mexican fugitives who murdered six innocent citizens in Santa Barbara then fled to Mexico with impunity, untouchable . . . until now. Highly experienced in reconnaissance and stealth the undercover operatives rely on spy craft and cunning to track the FTM fugitives into the most unforgiving locations for challenging extractions, defying all odds of detection. Their modus operandi mantra: If no one knows they were there, then it didn't happen. A conspiracy is uncovered between the Vatican and the Mexican government which threatens U.S. border security resulting in a familial Federal Police Investigator's brutal murder coldly avenged at the highest level of legal authority. Amazing assortments of birds play more than a fly on role in this original, topical, action packed adventure. (This story was inspired by true events.)

FLED TO MEXICO

If No One Knows They Were There Then It Didn't HappenBy Stephen M. Ringler

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Stephen M. Ringler
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4697-3822-2

Contents

1. Professional Chutzpah................................12. Justice on Our Side..................................113. Figment of Your Imagination..........................304. The Mexican Eye of God...............................365. Vatican City Spook...................................466. Wonder Women Action Figures..........................547. Vegas and the Virgin.................................788. Watch the Birdie.....................................1019. Mission Caracara.....................................11310. Mini G I Joe.......................................12511. Caught On Video.....................................13612. Operation Double Snatch.............................16113. Joe Crow is an Amigo of Mine........................18814. The Devil His Due...................................21815. Mask Maker–Mask Maker.........................23216. Spellbound..........................................25417. Cacca Happens.......................................26318. Padre Madre.........................................27819. A Tu Madre..........................................32620. Santa Barbara Bound.................................34621. Confession Meltdown.................................36222. Learn Justice from This Warning.....................381

Chapter One

Professional Chutzpah Santa Barbara, California

The pretty, young woman stepped inside Kings Liquor on South Central Avenue in the Nuestro Barrio area of south Phoenix with her boyfriend two strides behind her. There entry surprised Pedro Luis Sanchez whose attention was on the two store clerks behind the checkout counter three aisles away. He saw the moment of opportunity to exit with a free carton of canned beer when the young couple had entered. He continued for the door when the girl bravely questioned him about shoplifting. A black pistol suddenly appeared from behind the beer held waist high. As the boyfriend leaped in front of the girl with his back to Pedro a .45 caliber bullet penetrated his body and hit the heart with mortal impact. He dropped to the floor pulling the girl down with him, her survivor, him a victim and new Phoenix homicide statistic. The surveillance camera would clock the elapsed time of the tragic incident as 7 seconds.

Unencumbered without the six cans of beer Pedro made it safely to his parent's apartment on the run in under a minute. Taking his father's 2004 Dodge pickup he entered the Maricopa Freeway eastbound in a minute, 30 seconds, to the southbound Interstate-10 in four minutes, arriving in Tucson on Interstate-19 in two hours where he continued to its southern terminus, Nogales in one hour and 15 minutes. Arizona's largest border town, Nogales was known for its ease of crossing the border. Pedro Luis Sanchez certainly thought so 6 minutes later as he stepped into his native Mexico a free man, untouchable from the reach of United States laws and neutered enforcers. He had fled to Mexico in a total elapsed time from Kings Liquor to the border in an easy three hours, 27 minutes and 30 seconds. Pedro looked skyward to thank God and the Mexican government for protecting him from U.S. justice.

Across the northern U.S. border with Canada a private Citation-X jet touched down at the Vancouver International Airport with the towers permission to proceed directly to the private aircraft hangar. The pilot's flight plan requested a stop-over only for refueling and crew change following a 6,500 mile flight from Hong Kong. No passengers were scheduled to depart the plane; scheduled being the operative word.

One special Chinese passenger on the flight was, however, scheduled 14 hours earlier to be picked up by a private limo from The Peninsula Hong Kong Hotel following a deluxe Cantonese meal in the Shanghainese Spring Moon five-star dining room. His dining guest was his travel planner, a tall, young, beautiful American brunette lady responsible for Li Deng's timely departure and above all, his safe delivery to his special unknown hosts. He thought his destination to be Las Vegas, U.S.A.; she knew it to be Vancouver, Canada.

Accompanying Mr. Li Deng was a fellow deep pocket gambler at the Macau casinos, known as the Monte Carlo of the Orient neighboring Hong Kong. He was a mid-forties American who employed the pretty brunette and flight crew and was known to all only as Taylor. His large athletic physique was casually wrapped in a high-end custom tailored, all white linen suit with a high-roller gold Swiss watch. Li had been invited to Las Vegas by Taylor for the high stakes gaming and purported business opportunity to become a partner with one of the biggest American gaming companies with operations in Macau and Nevada. Li had made his sizable fortune in Canadian real estate neglecting to pay millions in commercial debt, partner shares, and Canadian taxes before fleeing to his native Hong Kong.

The last on-board beverage served to Li by the accommodating young lady caused him to slumber well after touchdown in Vancouver, spoiling his much anticipated night time aerial view of the spectacular Vegas Strip, so the planner had promised. He was instead awoken to an intense flashlight beam shining on his face. The hanger lights were off and the ground crew gone for the night. The plane had been refueled and the new crew now in the cabin readying their bird for flight. Taylor and his travel assistant delivered their special passenger to three agents of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service on the ground. One of them pressed a key on his laptop producing a beeping sound on Taylor's smart phone indicating the successful transfer of funds to his Bahamian account. He and the pretty brunette boarded the Citation-X for a fast flight south to sunny Santa Barbara, California. This destination would be for real, to prepare their most elaborate travel plan ever.

Taylor was the last of seven to board the Conch II, a luxury yacht moored in the Santa Barbara harbor. The face-to-face meeting was a make or break contract concession his new six co-employers had given into. It was a condition of employment he called freedom insurance, a get out of jail free, card. He would accept the risks of arrest, imprisonment, heavy fines, and possible death, but he would not accept the possibility of being hung out to dry or double-crossed by his employers. Their shared risk was his knowing their identities as his financial backers. The days of rich people hiring surrogates to do their dirty work at the risk of death and not being responsible for their own deal gone wrong was long gone. No one in his line of business would do otherwise and they knew it. It's their mission, their money, their responsibility. If not, do it yourself, was now the reply to those asking for absolute anonymity. Taylor's contract Delta team would be no one's fool or fall guy.

The military style black rubber banded watch he wore went with the cut of the man, ramrod straight posture, Popeye forearms, black hair cropped in a West Point crew cut, sculpted jaw and linear nose with a small scare across the bridge. A wireless radio fob was inserted in his right ear. Beneath his Navy blue shirt a radio/cell phone was holstered on a brown canvas belt. At six feet, four inches tall, zero body fat on a pro-athletes physique, the 44-year old Taylor had already convinced his employers that they were getting the real deal in paramilitary personnel.

He referred to the six Champagne status employers as the "Six pack." They had originally insisted on remaining anonymous, operating in the shadows for their own protection or bad publicity at best. The Delta team's insurance was in knowing exactly who every participant was. Beyond Taylor's core group Ops-leaders knowing, he had promised the backers absolute confidentiality. It would be counter-productive anyway for him to divulge the backers' identities. Yet the backers would not know any of Taylor's team members or covert contacts. This was to be a highly classified foreign operation conducted by professional covert operatives trained in stealth. The military communication policy and procedure of, "On a need to know basis," was applied.

They were known in the back channel search and seizure business as a private Delta Force for hire. All were ex-military Special Forces plus one former CIA agent. During their former active military duty they were the ones sent behind enemy lines to bring out a downed pilot, POW, or MIA. Some referred to them as the, "Lost and Found Department." They simply thought of it as a game of hide and go seek, except most often they had to do the hiding and seeking simultaneously. Strategically they operated the same in peacetime where the declared war was against some really bad guys who had killed before and would kill again, possibly them.

With a wide, enthusiastic grin Taylor reached for the black canvas bag he had brought on board. Placing the bag gently on a deck table he spoke with the confidence of a school kid who knew the answer to the teacher's question before it was asked. His posture was erect and proud as he zipped open the bag. Taylor knew that his six financial backers already enjoyed high local and national stature as super successful businessmen. The "Forbes-400" list of the wealthiest Americans noted four of the six as billionaires, and two as mega-millionaires. They all had their own charitable foundations funded with millions of dollars in blue chip assets. In a couple of words, money was not an, 'obstacle,' nor was it an, 'objective.'

Taylor reached into the long bag and handed each 6-pack member a flat, one-inch thick, 9 by 12-inch brown paper wrapped package.

"I came prepared with the answer to the question you've been asking yourselves from the moment Mr. McKinney contacted our team for hire; "are they really capable of entering a foreign country and extracting six nationals wanted in the U.S. for capital felony killings and no one knowing about it from beginning to end?" A preview answer to that question you now have in your hands. Please open your personalized packages now so that you will be satisfied," Taylor tactfully ordered.

On command all six men tore away the paper wrappers with their respective names on them. The responses came all at once in a symphony of gasps, profanity, bewildered groans and astonishment; "What the hell; how in the hell; holy shit; where in the hell," echoed from their mouths with equally amazed looks of disbelief on their wide eyed faces. Like surprised kids on Christmas morning starring at that unexpected gift not on their Santa wish list, they each held a nicely framed photo, each approximately 8-inches by 11-inches.

They instantly recognized their individually posed photograph with their respective wife which hours earlier were exhibited in their respective home.

Taylor broke their stunned trance with, "Gentlemen, as to whether or not my six field operatives are capable of accomplishing your mission, you have before you a dramatic indicator. I gave each Op-leader 12-hours to conduct the necessary reconnaissance on one assigned home per leader among your six secured fenced Santa Barbara estates. The additional and final 12-hours were allowed for planning and executing their individual undetected entry, seizure of the targeted framed photo, and safe, undetected exit. The operatives had to have their framed photos of you with your wife in my hands by 0500 this morning," he said very matter-of-factly.

"You mean to tell us that all six of these photos were stolen from our secured homes last night while we slept?" Mr. Boyer asked incredulously.

"Borrowed Mr. Boyer, not stolen. When you return home today you can count your silverware. It's all there. My team members aren't cat burglars. And yes, they all conducted the six seizures last night in under 15-minutes each," he reported proudly.

Mr. Hilman showed signs of anger and disappointment when he declared, "I'll have you know that I just invested thousands of dollars in what I was told was a state-of-the-art security system that in reality is worthless crap. I even pay the bastards a monthly responder fee. Well they can pull it out and stuff it in," he protested.

"Mr. Hilman. Not to brag, but America's best burglar doesn't know what we know. Besides, the Ops-leader who entered your home was indeed impressed with the security system. But for Mr. Rincon, please tell your cook to quit feeding your Rottweiler's Mexican leftovers. They've become flaccid, fat, and complacent. Last night they became complicit after the Ops-leader treated them to one burrito each."

The group laughed as Mr. Rincon swore, "I'll feed the cook to the damn dogs since they like Mexican food so much. This is embarrassing. I was burglarized by the burrito bandito for Christ sake."

Mr. Carpenter offered, "Good Lord, your men could have walked out of our homes with our wives."

"I can only hope," Heiman commented with mock lament. "If your man can return tonight I'll leave the alarm off," he added with levity. The group was laughing in part because they were definitely unnerved by the impressive but brazen intrusion of their homes. "Professional chutzpah," Mr. Laisum called it.

McKinney broke in saying, "Gentlemen, although this is indeed embarrassing for all of us it also is proof positive that we are working with high caliber professionals," he added sincerely.

The only enemies Taylor had signed on for were six FTM contract targets in Mexico. It came with a guarantee of success in capturing the six felony fugitives from U.S. justice, six Mexican Nationals whom had murdered six innocent citizens in Santa Barbara then fled to Mexico with impunity, a safe haven from extradition. Taylor's contract would commit his Delta team to returning the six FTM fugitives to Santa Barbara to face the law of the land, U.S. Federal law. In return he was guaranteed that the Delta team would not be left to rot in a Mexican prison if the local authorities caught any of them in the commission of trans-border abductions. His field team was mindful of what happened to a group of hot-dog, haphazard bounty hunters in the highly publicized Allen Larsen case. They were arrested in Mexico for kidnapping the U.S. fugitive Larsen, and were sentenced to four years in jail plus fat six figure fines. The Delta team members were not soldiers of fortune, although they charged one.

For that moment only seven individuals knew about the totality of their extraction mission, and they were all aboard the Conch II yacht. The Santa Barbara law enforcement authorities, DA, and court investigators weren't aware of what was to take place. Most understandable, the families of the six murder victims would not know until after the mission was completed. Absolute secrecy was essential to the ultimate success of their mission. Taylor was given assurances that even after the mission's completion not a single word from the six-pack would ever be uttered regarding their role in the plan. During the Iranian hostage crisis 30 years earlier the nation had lauded Texas businessman Ross Perot. He had financed the rescue of his two American employees from an Iranian prison by an elite, private, clandestine para-military team. He was elevated to national hero status because of it. In 2011 the active Special Forces Black Ops team gave the personal walking stick of slain Osama bin Laden to Ross Perot. For the secret six sponsors, mere success in the mission would be sufficient private tribute.

Taylor's employers had a different mission and motivation. They wanted justice on their side, American style. Ironically it was the U.S. Feds they were concerned about. They would want them to play by their diplomatic State Department rules which meant burying the cases under the ineffectual international bureaucracy of the American-Mexican Extradition Treaty. Taylor fully understood law enforcement's frustration with the controversial matter of treaty protection knowing that in reality its legal language expressly provides that extradition of nationals was a matter of discretion. The treaty doesn't explicitly prohibit it, allowing U. S. law enforcement and State and local prosecutors to request it, albeit historically a prolonged exercise in futility.

The six mission patrons were greatly revered for their generous philanthropy and social activism in the Santa Barbara community, known for its charity to all citizens in need, including the ongoing illegal alien population. Taylor knew that the anger these six good men shared was not about revenge. This was about suffering insult to injury from a so-called good neighbor, Mexico, by them telling Americans the laws of their land were meaningless to the Mexican citizens and government.

The yacht's owner and captain, Michael McKinney, told Taylor he would make the formal introductions once they were out of the harbor and underway. "Help yourself to a Bloody Mary or otherwise," McKinney offered, gesturing towards the top deck wet bar.

His 2012 special edition yacht wasn't the largest; 68-feet from stem to stern, or most luxurious boat in the harbor, but it was by far the most high- tech. It had more antennas sticking up than a Coast Guard cutter. Taylor recognized Mr. McKinney from his telephone voice, southern smooth and gentile yet authoritative and sharp. Age 63, and looking considerably younger from his many hours on the tennis court and yacht, McKinney was one of the early innovators and entrepreneurs in the booming cell phone and radiophone industry. The Conch II was outfitted with every leading edge electronic device designed to receive, send, scramble, or block transmitted messages. It was 'wired,' as they say. He had agreed to supply Taylor's team with his latest field telecommunication equipment that would keep the members connected as well as protected from detection. Taylor noted his enthusiasm to have them tested under covert, adverse field conditions. There would be no bragging rights to follow, only pride in 'inventership.'

(Continues...)

Excerpted from FLED TO MEXICOby Stephen M. Ringler Copyright © 2012 by Stephen M. Ringler. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.