Hunting El Chapo: Taking down the world’s most-wanted drug-lord. Douglas Century

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СКАЧАТЬ felt sweat drenching the front of my shirt.

      This was the worst scenario for an undercover meet: we had no backup agents inside the restaurant with eyes on the UC, and no armed Panamanian counterparts watching our backs.

      I couldn’t sit for another second. I bolted from the Toyota and headed straight for the entrance of La Rosita.

      What if Mercedes had switched up locations at the last minute?

      What if her people had snatched Diego to pat him down, make sure he wasn’t a cop?

      In the restaurant, the hostess smiled and, in heavily accented English, said, “You have a reservation, sir?”

      I was so focused, scanning for Diego’s gray suit at the restaurant tables, that I barely heard myself answer.

      “No, I’m meeting a friend,” I said. “He’s already seated.”

      I scanned every table hard but didn’t see him anywhere.

       Fuck! Had they grabbed him already?

      I started to feel everyone’s eyes locking on me as I frantically walked through the tables.

       I hope to hell we’re not compromised.

       Where is he, for fuck’s sake?

      I had nowhere to go. I spun in a circle in the center of the restaurant, the walls becoming a blur. I quickly grabbed a busboy by the shoulder.

      “El baño?” I asked, and no sooner had the kid gestured to the left than I saw that I was standing right next to Diego—in fact, I was literally looking down on the crown of my partner’s head.

      Diego was in an intense but muted conversation with Mercedes. And not only Mercedes, but two older Mexican-looking males. They were heavy hitters, I could tell. One appeared to be wearing a pistol, bulging behind the flap of his tan blazer.

      Three targets? The meet was only supposed to be with Mercedes. I knew that Diego would be trying to hold his own, with no backup for his story, but even at a quick glance, I sensed that the sit-down had turned tense. Mercedes and the two henchmen had hard gazes; they weren’t buying Diego’s story.

      Before anyone noticed me looking, I darted for the bathroom. A single trickle of sweat ran from my chest down to my navel. I could hear myself breathing loudly. Right before I reached the bathroom, I noticed a steak knife on a table ready to be cleared.

      Could I grab it without being seen? There was no other option. I needed a weapon and had to take the chance.

      As quickly as I could, I snatched up the knife, placed it flush against my wrist, and slipped it into my pocket.

      In the bathroom, I turned on the sink and splashed cold water on my face, attempting to calm my nerves, hoping one of the bad guys wouldn’t stroll in suddenly to take a piss.

       What the hell can I do if they plan on kidnapping Diego? What if this meet is all a setup to take him as human collateral?

      The door suddenly swung open—I straightened up, my face still dripping with cold water, but it was just a regular restaurant patron. I knew one thing: it was crucial to get photographs of Mercedes and the two heavies so I could identify them if they took Diego by gunpoint. It would also be critical for future indictments, and I couldn’t rely on the key fob Diego was carrying.

      I had the steak knife ready in one pocket; in the other, I had a small Canon digital camera, which I flipped on, to video mode.

       Keep the camera steady in your hand. Don’t make eye contact. They won’t see it’s on—just stroll by naturally...

      I walked slowly past Diego, unable to aim the Canon’s lens, just hoping I’d capture the faces of everyone at the table as I walked toward the door. I knew I couldn’t hang out in the restaurant alone, so I found a discreet place outside where I could watch Diego through the windows of the front door. I sat there, my hands trembling as I waited for Diego to exit.

      AFTER ANOTHER HOUR, Diego got up from the table, shook everyone’s hands, and gave the half-hug—Mexican style—to all three, then walked out of the restaurant.

      I followed him on foot as he walked on into the mall, staying thirty yards behind, making sure we weren’t being followed by any of Mercedes’s people.

      Finally, I looked back over my shoulder three times and met up with him in a back parking lot. We were clean. We jumped in the cab of the Hilux and sped off.

      Diego was silent for a long time, staring out the window and trying to make sense of what had just happened. His expression was trancelike.

      “You all right, brother?” I reached over and grabbed him by the shoulder, attempting to shake him back to reality.

      “What?”

      “Bro, you cool?”

      “That was so fuckin’ intense,” Diego said at last. “A straight-up interrogation. She kept hitting me with question after question. ‘Who’s your company? Who do you work with?’ ”

      “How’d you play it?”

      “Just started making up shit, story after story—how we’re moving millions in tractor-trailers, our fleet of private aircraft. Ships. Told them we transport coke—by the tons.”

      “And?”

      Diego grinned.

      “She bought it, man!” he shouted. “She fuckin’ bought it! I had all three of them eating out of the palm of my hand.”

      “Outstanding! Did she say whose money it is?”

      “Yeah, it’s his,” Diego said.

      “His?”

      “She said it’s his,” Diego repeated.

      Diego went quiet, smiling.

      “His?” I asked again.

      “Chapo.”

      “Chapo.”

      “Yes. She said, ‘It’s all Chapo’s money.’ ”

       TEAM AMERICA

      PHOENIX, ARIZONA

       July 1, 2010

      I FELT LIKE a millionaire. And I was one—for a few hours, at least. I’d been entrusted with $1.2 million in laundered drug proceeds, freshly withdrawn from our undercover account at a local bank in Phoenix. Along with three other Task Force officers, I painstakingly counted and recounted that million in cash and stuffed the bundles into two white FedEx boxes.

      The money seemed fake. It was a sensation I’d become accustomed СКАЧАТЬ