Swat had surrounded the Kern warehouses in Orlando, Florida where Tammy Jo and T.D. McCann were held by the cartel. Tucker and Daniel Farnsworth had headed to El Mencho’s La Cima Club home in Acapulco, hoping to catch him off guard and put an end to his savagery.

Acapulco, Mexico, known as the "Pearl of the Pacific." Yesteryear’s playground to the rich and famous. Liz Taylor, Errol Flynn, John Wayne, and Johnny Weissmuller (Tarzan) to name a few.

Home to the world-renowned cliff divers, and where Elvis Presley’s “Fun in Acapulco” was filmed at “The Hotel Boca Chica,” with beauties Ursula Andress and Elsa Cárdenas, way back in 1963.

When in town, El Mencho (head of the Jalisco cartel) can be found most nights dining and watching the last-three cliff-diving performances from La Perla restaurant’s sweeping terrace, atop the El Mirador Hotel.

The La Quebrada (meaning gulch or ravine) Cliff Divers perform daily at 1pm, 7:30pm, 8:30pm, 9:30pm, and 10:30pm.

Perfect timing required, divers soar from heights of 135 feet, at speeds of 55 mph, between jagged cliffs, plunging into the narrow channel’s depths of 12 to 19 ft.

Concealed in the protected inlet, and nearly camouflaged from a distance, the cliffside roads weave up to Hotel Mirador and Los Flamingos. Most days a shroud of white mist hangs over the ocean below.

Heavily armed soldiers, police, and crowds of tourists choke the sidewalks. The beautiful paradise plagued by daily robberies and homicides—many on main streets, in broad daylight—the once small, peaceful town, transformed into a violent gang-ravaged drug-war-riddled metropolis.

Once a Heaven for foreign tourists. But since 2014, mostly Mexican nationals and decreasing numbers of expatriates inhabit or visit the area.

At his death, tough-guy movie star and hotelier John Wayne (Marion Robert Morrison) bequeathed the Los Flamingos Resort to his faithful employee, Adolfo “Fito” Santiago.

On his way to La Perla, Tucker stopped off to visit old friend, Fito. And in casual conversation, without raising suspicion, he acquired a predictable log of El Mencho’s regular activities.

___________________

Inside the Kern Orlando warehouse, rifle-scope magnifications verified only two cartel enforcers watched over Tammy and T.D.

On the count-down order, “Three, two, one, GO,” SWAT simultaneously charged through windows and doors in an explosion of shattered glass and splintered wood.

The instant opposing guns were raised, the tactical team opened fire. A hail of bullets riddled the kidnappers' bodies that shimmied and shook appearing to dance. Blood and tissue splattered until shots stopped; then, the lifeless corpses collapsed, likely dead at first impact.  

Ushered to safety without casualties, Tammy and T. D. were immediately flown to a safehouse in Miami and kept under 24-hour protective custody.

Notified by text, Tucker shuddered beneath a rush of relief that washed over him like a tidal wave and streamed down his cheeks. Struggling to gather his emotions, he smiled, and replied to verify he’d received the good news.

_________________  

 

A grungy lounger sprawled in the hotel’s rock-filled flowerbed, back propped against the building.

Clinging crumbs clustered throughout his scraggly chest-length beard—long, stringy black hair draped over his shoulders, halfway down his back—eyes hidden behind mirrored Ray-bans, under a tilted straw sombrero (charro hat). Expensive sunglasses seemed curious on a dirty guttersnipe. Unrecognizable at first glance, the wastrel’s costume couldn’t hide Tucker’s undisguisable grin.

Surrounded by his crew at just short of 8 o’clock, El Mencho meandered in the parking lot toward El Mirador’s entrance.

An assemblage of children huddled around him, hands out, pushing and shoving to be first. El Mencho gifted handfuls of gum and candies to each child and emptied three bulging burlap coffee-sized sacks.

The ghastly beast within hidden by his glowing smile, he worked the crowd like a masterful politician. Little question why locals flocked to his charisma and lied to protect him.

Tucker hustled behind the building. Minutes later, he reappeared, newly disguised. A close-cut beard, wide rimmed black glasses, lenses tinted medium gray. His already tanned skin deeply darkened with a lotion or spray enhancer and accented by a white linen suit over a pastel pink shirt, open at the neck, and sporting a bevy of chains sparkling in multiple thicknesses.

In a quick call to Farnsworth, Tucker asked, “Hey, what’s up?”

“Just like you said, there’s six guards stationed around the house.” Daniel motioned the last of his marine-trained snipers into position. “The sensors and scan equipment we managed to setup inside haven’t picked up heat, movement, or sound, other than an icemaker dropping cubes. So, Tucker . . . want me to take out the guards?”

“No, hell no, Daniel. If they aren’t there when El Mencho returns, he’ll know something’s up.”

“Yeah, so—why don’t you clip him leaving La Perla?”

“Daniel, I’m not a killer. I just want him captured and locked away.”

Jaws clenched, face reddening, Farnsworth grumbled, “For a smart man, sometimes you say the dumbest things. With his connections, he’ll be released by morning. And we’ll never be safe while he’s alive.”

“You’re probably right. But get this . . .  I’m not a murderer.”

“Whatever you say, Tucker—guess I’m along for a bumpy ride.”  

“Good deal . . . glad to have you. Now, hang tough, I’ll be in touch.”

“Gotcha.”

Tucker silenced his phone, slipped it in his pants pocket, and entered the restaurant.

At the reception desk, the hostess confirmed his reservation with a smile and accompanied him to his table, three rows back from El Mencho’s front-row accommodations. A perfect terrace view.

El Mencho had a gorgeous babe sitting on each side. A caramel-skinned Latino beauty with bright green eyes, and a natural icy-cool blonde with baby blues. He played smackie-mouth and kissy-face with one, then the other.

His four shiny-suited thug’s eyes scoured the room. Tucker laxly diverted his gaze. Enthusiasm of a ten-year-old, El Mencho applauded wildly, hanging carelessly over the balcony’s edge.

After each exhibition, divers canvassed the room holding out red-lettered white-plastic tip pails. Most patrons deposited pesos or centavos. Tucker pitched in a US$ twenty-dollar bill. El Mencho had a crisp stack of new United States Benjamins on the table and flipped one in every passing bucket. The adoring crowd watched him; almost, ignoring the divers.

Oh, what a breathtaking vista. A perfect picturesque spot to arouse passionate romantic affinities toward dates or mates. Other seemingly lonely diners, hallow-eyed, as if overcome with sorrow, visibly tranced in melancholy moods, pleasurable reminiscences vague.  

Fresh, soft-blowing sea breezes flickered flames of giant table candles. The moistened diver’s skin glistened under the cliff-based floodlights, glaring torpedoed-bodies launched from various perches. Roaring wave’s momentarily silenced by splash landings.

Tucker kept surveillance on the cartel’s clan: His mind drifting back to his troubled youth. Then thoughts of Katie, Tammy’s mom, all the good times, and what ifs. Over twenty memorable on-and-off years with Katie, and for almost eleven years, the closest thing to a dad Tammy would ever know. Oh, how he loved that little girl, and even tried to adopt her, which a jealous aunt and the courts refused to allow. But now, twenty-six-years later, she’s a grown independent 37-year-old woman. Opinions and ideas of her own, with a romantic interest in an old man nearly twice her age. Somehow it doesn’t seem right, but neither does all the times she’s been pushed away with hurt feelings. Only wanting the best, who could ever treat her better or appreciate her more. Having nearly lost her to the blood-thirsty cartel for a second time, nothing but an old fool could live through this and shun her affections again.

Tucker shook off his daze, eased up and walked toward the restroom, his targets engrossed in the show. But within the few short minutes, main lights had come on, and before he could return, El Mencho’s crew had exited and were gone.

Tucker sprinted to his car and punched the start button: greeted by his dead battery’s repeated clicks.

Thinking, what now? He couldn’t call Farnsworth. The flash of a phone’s screen-light or vibrating-ringer’s buzz would likely tip off the enemy to his whereabouts and get him killed.

Uber inaccessible in Acapulco, Tucker summoned an awaiting Taxi (Taxi Nuevo Progreso) to the rescue, jumped in, and offered a hefty bonus for a speedy trip.

The driver reacted and raced like an Andretti wannabe for El Mencho’s La Cima Club residence. Tires squealed around corners racing up the cliffsides, one wrong calculation or miscue meaning sudden death—Thelma and Louise style.

The taxi wheeled to the curb six houses down the street, per instruction. Tucker pitched the driver a wad of bills, jumped out, and ran between houses to get a look up the hill at El Mencho’s.

All was quiet but a barking dog about three streets over. Then, a howling cat’s screeching hiss sounded more like a wailing shriek of pain.

El Mencho’s car sat parked in the driveway. The driver slumped out the open door, buttocks still in the seat, head near the ground.

Tucker inched closer, circling the house. Crumpled bodies lay at each corner, partition, or division, the count totaling six. A dead marksman lying left of the back door, and another in a bloody mass on the front porch.

Inside, there were two dead cartel upstairs, another in the dining room downstairs, and one in the kitchen, which accounted for four. The number supposedly on interior duty. But there weren’t any signs of El Mencho.

In the office, a computer flashed a red warning banner that read: address for the FBI’s Miami safehouse where Tammy and T.D. are located.

Tucker wasted no time calling to dole-out instructions. “T. D., grab Tammy and leave immediately. They have your position. I’ve called Johnny Fields who helped us escape before. He will be waiting, plane ready, at Opa Locka airport, four miles north of Hialeah, and about 16 miles from where you are now. Trust Johnny, he knows what to do.”

__________________

T. D. grabbed Tammy’s hand and yelled, “Let’s go.”

“Okay, wait just a sec—” She hesitated, rummaging in her handbag. T. D. about yanked her shoulder out of socket, clutch flying, its contents scattered.

 “Tammy, hurry, unless you wannabe dead meat?”

Out the side door, they sprinted along-side a drainage ditch to the next alley. Left at the pavement, an old Buick sat running with the driver’s-side door open.

Nearing the car, T. D. nudged Tammy, pointed, and said, “Quick, jump in and scoot to the passenger’s side.”

Tammy plopped in the seat and before she could slide over, T. D. shoved her so hard she slammed against the inner panel of the right-side door.

T. D. slid-in behind the steering wheel, pulled the shifter into gear, and jammed the accelerator to the floor: off they raced, tires squealed, gravel sprayed.  

The car’s owner, some neighborhood-brother in purple pants and a cream-colored porky pie hat accented by a hot-pink band, ran helplessly chasing, arms waving, screaming obscenities.

___________________

Pistol in hand, Tucker eased around the house, slipped up behind and stuck his thump in Farnsworth’s back, and said, “Reach for the sky.”

Farnsworth froze, hands in the air.

Then, Tucker said, “I thought I told you no shooting?”

Daniel dropped his arms and turned toward Tucker. “I followed orders to a T, until they left us no choice.

“Why don’t I believe you—” Eyebrows furrowed, snarled upper lip, Tucker spit. “Where is El Mencho?”

“Uhm, well—” Daniel cowered, avoiding eye contact.