Metal Coffins: The Blood Alliance Cartel

By Michael S. Vigil

“Metal Coffins-- a nail biter novel with the same kinds of twists and turns author Mike S. Vigil had to navigate during his legendary career as a international cartel busting agent. Author Vigil’s first hand experiences dealing with vicious and ultra violent drug traffickers helped frame the exciting plot the reader experiences as you go from page to page of this marvelous novel.”
—Alonso Pena, Deputy Director, Immigration
and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Retired

“Mike Vigil is a legendary shadow warrior who fearlessly penetrated drug cartels. He survived gun battles and outwitted drug lords to write this book that totally captures the narco culture.”
—Ruben Pereira, Multi award winning journalist.

“Mike Vigil has been on the front lines of the drug war for more than 30 years. He provides a keen insight into the violent and treacherous nature of transnational organized crime.”
—Ana Maria Salazar, Former Deputy Assistant
Secretary of Defense for Drug Enforcement

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Oct 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483467306

Michael S. Vigil

Michael S. Vigil, born and raised in Española, New Mexico, earned his degree in Criminology at New Mexico State University where he graduated with Honors. He later joined the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) and became one of its most highly decorated agents. He served in thirteen foreign and domestic posts and rose through the ranks to the highest levels of the Senior Executive Service. He was the Special Agent in Charge of the Caribbean and San Diego Divisions. He further served as the Chief of International Operations in charge of all DEA offices worldwide. Mr. Vigil has received numerous awards during his elite career such as law enforcement’s most prestigious recognition: The National Association of Police Organization’s (NAPO) Top Cop award. This award is only given to ten law enforcement heroes each year from thousands of submissions nationwide. Many foreign governments have honored Mr. Vigil for his extraordinary and courageous efforts in the violent struggle against transnational organized crime. He is the only American to be made an Honorary General by the country of Afghanistan. China bestowed him with the “Key to the City of Shanghai.” The President of the Dominican Republic presented him with an Admiral’s sword at an International Drug Enforcement Conference. He is mentioned in over twenty-five books and appears on worldwide documentaries, and popular television programs such as Gangsters: America’s Most Evil, The Rise and Fall of El Chapo, Manhunt: Kill or Capture, and NETFLIX’S Drug Lords. He is a contributor to CNN, MSNBC, NBC, ABC, CBS, Telemundo, Univision, Chinese Global Television, NPR, TRT, Al Jazeera, BBC, TV Azteca, El Financiero Bloomberg, FOX, NTN 24, Caracol Television, CNN Español, and dozens of internationally syndicated newspapers and radio stations. He is also a contributor to the highly regarded Cipher Brief. His highly acclaimed memoir, DEAL, was released in 2014. Metal Coffins: The Blood Alliance Cartel, Narco Queen, Land of Enchantment Cartel, Afghan Warlord, and the Rise of the Sicario are his five fiction novels. Many of the scenarios, however, are derived from his extensive experience as an undercover agent. He is the only American to have a corrido (ballad) made in his honor by Alberto Angel AKA El Cuervo, a famous recording artist and composer in Mexico. Mr. Vigil was responsible for the largest and most successful operations in the DEA’s history. The most significant one involved thirty-six countries in the Caribbean, Mexico, and Central and South America. After the fall of the Taliban in Afghanistan, he designed and implemented Operation Containment consisting of twenty-five countries, to include the China and the Russia. Prior to this initiative, only a few kilograms of heroin were seized in the region. During the first year of Operation Containment over twenty-four tons were seized in this same region. The U.S. Congress continues to fund the highly successful initiative. He also developed regional intelligence centers allowing foreign countries to exchange information on transnational organized crime. The centers are now operational globally. Mr. Vigil was one of the most intrepid and legendary undercover agents in the history of the DEA. He successfully infiltrated some of the most violent and dangerous cartels in the world.

Book preview

METAL

COFFINS

The Blood Alliance Cartel

Michael S. Vigil

Copyright © 2017 Michael S. Vigil.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6731-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6732-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6730-6 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 08/22/2017

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the loving memory of my parents, Sam and Alice, whose sacrifice, support, and love made me the person I am today.

To my sisters, Anita and Mona

To my niece Ursula, who is my bright, shining star.

To Nicole, who is in heaven with my mom and dad.

To my stepdaughter Lisa Fiocchi. To my grandchildren, Luke Edward, and Sarah Claire that are a complete joy.

To my loving wife, Suzanne, who has always provided me with encouragement and tremendous support.

To Laurel Starkey for her exceptional editing on this book that added so much color and life to the story.

To my friend, Alvan Romero, retired IRS-CI Special Agent, who worked many dangerous undercover assignments during his long, meritorious career. His service, integrity and commitment to the United States is immeasurable. He provided phenomenal input, edits and support in the making of Metal Coffins.

Forward

I am truly honored to contribute the foreword for this fascinating book by retired Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) Special Agent, Michael S. Vigil primarily for three reasons. First, I have known and greatly admired Michael for over 25 years. Second, I have had the privilege to work directly for Mr. Vigil while he was the Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of the Caribbean Field Division of the DEA. Very few DEA special agents are promoted to the Senior Executive Service (SES) rank (less than one percent of the agent population) and not all of them become SACs. Michael Vigil was the SAC of two major DEA Field Divisions and he was also the Chief of International Operations where he led global enforcement, operations, intelligence, and money laundering initiatives. Third, this book, like his last one, is captivating and difficult to put down.

Although fiction, but based on true events, this absorbing book provides a riveting account of the complex world of structured criminal organizations with layered networks of illicit drug manufacturers, wholesale buyers and sellers, facilitators, middlemen, hit men and enforcers, and retail level distributors. The book covers the inevitable corruption, coercion, and intimidation of some; the commitment, courage, and resolve of others; and the horrific violence and incredible danger faced by everyone associated with transnational organized crime and drug law enforcement. This fast-action book graphically describes the danger, excitement and adventure that is the DEA and is written by one of its most celebrated special agents.

I first met Mr. Vigil in 1990, when I was a special agent assigned to the DEA Nassau Bahamas Country Office. The Nassau Country Office reported to the DEA Miami Field Division, which is second only to the DEA New York Field Division in size. Mr. Vigil, who led an enforcement group in the Miami Field Division, was widely known as the most aggressive and tenacious supervisory special agent in the Division. His enforcement group was number one in everything: arrests, seizures, investigations, informants, and intelligence collection. You name it they were always first.

I travelled to the Miami Field Division from the Bahamas to meet with Mr. Vigil and his agents to coordinate and discuss how we could best proceed on an investigation I had been working on in Nassau that was connected to their case. Soon after I began to describe my investigation, I was politely, but firmly, told that Mr. Vigil had already decided they had much better evidence and my investigation would support theirs. It was a short meeting and, given Mr. Vigil’s reputation and his hospitality, I quickly agreed to proceed with the investigation in the manner suggested; my investigation would support theirs. That was the beginning of my association with Mr. Vigil, who became Mike to me in 2003 upon my promotion to the SES ranks. However, I still find myself fondly calling him Jefe, Spanish for boss, and referring to him as the Boss.

As I read this book, I remembered and thought about how Mr. Vigil, through his affable, outgoing but firm personality; comprehensive knowledge of transnational, organized crime; extensive drug law enforcement experience; confidence, determination, and sheer will; would inspire others to join him and work collaboratively on an investigation. In 1992, while assigned to Freeport, Bahamas, I traveled to Buenos Aires, Argentina, to take part in the annual International Drug Enforcement Conference (IDEC), and had the good fortune to observe Mr. Vigil skillfully interact and connect with our foreign counterparts from all over the world.

During our 1992 conference, I spent a great deal of time with Mr. Vigil for two reasons. First, my Spanish language skills were weak, and second, he seemed to know everybody there and he freely shared his vast contacts with me.

I am certain many of the Mexican law enforcement officers I met through Mike Vigil and throughout my career are characters in this spellbinding book. I know that you are going to enjoy meeting some of these officers more than others as you acquire a deeper understanding of the magnitude of the illicit drug trade and its formidable challenge.

William J. Walker

Brigadier General, U.S. Army National Guard

Deputy Assistant Administrator (Retired),

U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration

CHAPTER 1

Metal Coffins

Mexico City, Mexico

I t was an early Saturday morning in Mexico City and John Hawkins pulled open the heavy curtains of his room at the Maria Isabel Sheraton Hotel. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he peered at the U.S. Embassy across the street and its vast array of antennas on its roof. Security was heavy; blue uniformed guards stood everywhere. Old, wooden barricades, with their paint peeling, sealed off the side streets blocking regular traffic from approaching the building. A cacophony of noise assaulted his ears: frustrated drivers honking their horns and sidewalk vendors on the Avenida Reforma loudly hawking their trinkets to gullible tourists. Even the air seemed to be hostile – a thick brownish color. John closed the curtains and mumbled, Goddamn pollution is going to kill me.

John was in Mexico for work – he was sales representative for a company that sold tractors and other farm equipment to wealthy farmers throughout Mexico. Today, however, he had no appointments to keep so he decided to drive to Acapulco. He needed a break. He was so sick of thinking about how his wife of ten years trashed him for some young, tattooed thug in her quest to find herself. She referred to her new boyfriend as artistic and expressive. John referred to him as some kid who looked like a goddamn ex-convict from a Salvadorian jail.

He’d been drinking a lot. He loved to drink, especially single malt scotch. It was his version of therapy through chemistry. He was proudly Irish with red hair and a white pasty complexion. The Irish could rule the world, he thought, except for all that alcoholic therapy they like to participate in. He sure needed to. His last encounter with his wife had ended with her chasing him to his car and attacking the hood with one of his favorite golf clubs. She left scores of large dents before he was finally able to start the motor, put the car in reverse and back out, tires squealing wildly in a cloud of burnt rubber.

You, fucking, crazy bitch! Later, he had a drink. Then another.

Today was a new day. He would drive to Acapulco and enjoy the warm rays from the sun and the soft, white sand at the beach. He loaded his day bag into the rental SUV and started driving. He hated driving in Mexico City with all the crazy, green Volkswagen Beetle taxis and decrepit gray peseros (public buses) whizzing by and around him in complete disregard for the safety of their passengers and other fellow travelers. He hated the feeling of fear that he would be pulled over by a police officer and forced to pay a mordida (bribe) so he could go on his way. Just then, a police car passed in front of him and maneuvered next to a speeding, white sedan, skillfully pulling up beside it and matching its speed. He was incredulous when he saw money exchange hands between the two moving cars.

I’ll be damned, he thought, a drive-through speeding ticket and traffic court all in one. Mexico is truly the land of the triple curse: corruption, conspiracies and cantinas. He smirked.

Finally, he reached the main road to the beach resort and his mind began to fantasize about the beautiful girls he would undoubtedly meet at the local clubs. Even more appetizing would be the girls tanning their voluptuous bodies on the beach. Any of the gorgeous chicas who weren’t his wife would be a treat. His last thought, unfortunately, brought his fantasies all crashing down as he pictured his ex-wife standing there menacingly holding his golf club.

About an hour out from Mexico City, he noticed a barrel alongside the road covered in red paint. Then just a bit further down, he noticed another barrel and then another. He was curious. Who would place three 55-gallon industrial drums, evenly spaced, alongside a busy highway? Had they fallen off a passing truck? It didn’t appear they had. All three were upright and not banged up. Why then, would someone put these barrels there? His curiosity got the better of him and he pulled off the road to investigate. Behind him an old farmer in a flatbed truck pulled over as well and started to watch this strange guero. This crazy gringo looked like the perfect person to make some easy money from.

But for John, he was caught up in the mystery of it. What the hell were in those barrels? He saw the farmer staring at him from the corner of his eye, a small, weather-beaten man with dirty, tattered jeans and huarache sandals. He wore a straw cowboy hat on his head, his eyes never leaving John. It annoyed John but he shrugged it off. A different culture, obviously.

As John got closer to the first barrel, he noticed something sticking out of it. It looked like long, black fur waving in the breeze. That was strange. He peered closer. Oh, my God! His heart almost accelerated out of his chest and he felt weak and nauseous. The fur was actually hair that belonged to a man’s head, whose wide-open eyes that were now visible, were frozen in terror. Next to the head was a dismembered hand, almost posed as if to wave greetings at passers-by. Flies buzzed in and out of the open mouth and maggots crawled in the nose and eyes of the man’s head. John’s knees gave way and he stumbled back in shock. Oh, my God! What the hell is this? What had he found?

He heard the farmer come up behind him and he turned. The farmer too had his eyes fixed on the barrel now. Recognizing the contents, the farmer quickly turned away to return to his truck.

John grabbed the small man by his arm before he could get away. Thank God, at least this man was alive! He was warm and sweaty. The farmer pulled away from his weak grasp. "Policía, he told John, pointing to the cellphone on John’s belt. Llamélos. He put his fingers into a Y" shape and held them up to his ear. John stared at him for a moment, then understood.

He handed the small man his phone, Here, you call. If it weren’t for the dismembered head the little man might have snatched the phone and ran. But instead, he dialed the number for the Federales.

An hour later two black Ford sedans with heavily tinted windows arrived. Seven Mexican Federal Judicial Police agents exited and walked over towards John and the farmer. Their guns, visibly tucked in the waistbands of their pants, caught John’s attention. They all had identical Colt .45’s, gold grips decorated with the Mexican eagle clutching a serpent in its beak. The man who appeared to be their Comandante was a tall man with jet-black hair hanging lazily over his forehead. He wore expensive ostrich cowboy boots and a large, gaudy gold bracelet on his right wrist. On his left wrist, he had a solid gold Rolex watch. His dark sunglasses gave him an almost glamorous appearance.

He walked over to the farmer who pointed to John. John was all but blubbering at this point. The Comandante nodded in greeting, "Hable Español?" John held up his finger and thumb inches apart to indicate he spoke a little. The Comandante switched over to English and introduced himself. "I’m Comandante Florentino Ventura of the Mexican Federal Judicial Police. The man over there said you found these barrels? What did you see? Did you find anything else that could be evidence?"

Evidence! John thought to himself, What the fuck, do you think I am a crime scene specialist? The question brought John back to reality. Sir, I was driving and I saw them so I stopped. Do you know who they are?

Ventura stared at him for a minute before replying with a completely straight face, No! You know Mexicans all look alike so it will take me some time to figure out which ones these are. He turned his back to the American.

"Muchachos, he called to his men, start loading them up. Use that truck over there." He gestured toward the farmer’s large flatbed truck. The little man immediately began to protest but Ventura cut him off.

You can ride with us and get it back as soon as we’ve unloaded them. He told the man. The farmer fidgeted with his hat in his hands and kicked at the dust in frustration but could only manage "Sí Señor."

John couldn’t believe that was it. Aren’t you going to dust for fingerprints? He burst out at Ventura. Aren’t you going to process the crime scene? Take pictures? No wonder crimes went unsolved in Mexico, he thought to himself.

Ventura stopped what he was doing and looked John straight in the eye. Where are you from?

Iowa. John replied. Ventura snorted.

Who the fuck are you to tell us our job? Ventura was clearly enjoying this. "You have been watching police shows on your gringo television and think that things are done that way in Mexico? You are one of those idiots that think everything should be done like in your country. Well this is not your country. Pinche pendejo."

What the … John stammered in disgust. Ventura snarled.

Then Ventura turned serious. Whoever did this meant to leave a message that he is not to be fucked with. It’s dangerous for my men to be out here. We’ll start our investigation at our offices. Is that fine with you?

"Jefe, one of the officers said to Ventura softly in Spanish. It’s not his fault. He’s just a stupid gringo."

Ventura nodded and replied in Spanish, "Yo sé! Probably the first time he’s seen anything like this. Pobre Americanos, they have no fucking clue what their drug consumption causes here in Mexico."

John watched as the men struggled to load the barrels into the bed of the truck. Fifty-five gallons of concrete was not light. The hot sun shone down and only the breeze offered relief. On the busy highway, cars zoomed by them with nary a glance. Not one slowed down to rubberneck. John felt sick but for the first time in a long time he started to think that his own situation wasn’t that bad. He could hear the beach, a hammock, the ladies, and a large bottle of tequila calling his name.

Here, Ventura handed John his card. He then noted John’s cell phone number on his phone’s contacts just in case the American should remember anything else once the shock wore away.

The farmer hopped up into the bed of his truck with the barrels and one of the officers jumped into the cab and started it up. He pulled out in a cloud of dust. The other cars followed behind. For a few minutes, John stood alone alongside the busy highway watching them go. Then he shook his head and walked back to his abandoned rental car. He got in and pulled back into the fast-moving stream of traffic. His only desire was to return to his life of sanity.

On the highway back to Mexico City, Comandante Ventura was puzzled about the barrels. There was no message and drug traffickers normally left one, a warning to others. Who had dumped them? Why had they been killed and who was responsible? He had no intelligence at the moment about anything like a high-level execution or recent drug feud that pertained to an incident like this. But that didn’t mean anything, traffickers were insanely violent and notoriously impulsive. It was an intriguing situation to say the least.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed his friend from the American Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA), Miguel Villa, who had been assigned to the Embassy in Mexico for the last five years. He personally and professionally liked and trusted Villa. He was very unlike many of the agents that the Americans sent to work in Mexico. They were like brothers from a different mother.

The future Comandante of the Federales, Florentino Ventura, was born into poverty and misery in Badiraguato, Sinaloa. He grew up amongst the small plots of marijuana and opium poppies and the men who sold them to the major traffickers to convert into high grade brown or black tar heroin in rustic, isolated conversion labs. His uncles had bought into the narco dream, and his mother, Imelda, worked very hard to keep young Florentino out of her brothers’ clutches. "La educación is your future, mi hijo," she told him, time and time again. She was a beautiful, olive-skinned woman with dark brown hair and a natural smile that still warmed his soul to this day.

"No seas tonto! his uncles jeered at him as they paraded their fine clothes, gold chains, and fancy weapons in front of him. No one ever got rich going to school. This is your best shot at your future!" Ventura’s uncles only hired family – no one else could be trusted but those who shared the same blood. Ventura wasn’t afraid of the violence – he’d once killed a man who had tried to steal one of their horses that were kept behind the family’s house. But it was the law enforcement side of the narco equation that fascinated him most. It was like an adventure. Who was smarter him or the narco? Who had the most cunning and the biggest cojones? It was all about the win.

After graduating from Preparatoria, he joined the Federales and moved swiftly through the ranks. He was strong, tough, and smart. He soon learned though that he couldn’t actually live on the salary that he was paid, so he fixed that by taking money from anyone who needed political favors. He was a lobbyist of sorts – arranging meetings with high-ranking politicians or expediting long, bureaucratic processes for people. This was a long, honored tradition in a land where the government refused to pay a living wage to its employees. Some civil servants did it only to enrich themselves. Ventura liked to think he was having a positive net effect for his country.

DEA Special Agent Miguel Villa was an American of Hispanic descent born in a small, poor village in northern New Mexico. His first language was Spanish and his first years in school were hard as he struggled to master English and the curriculum. He grew up surrounded by street thugs who built and expanded their professional network through prison time. Miguel understood how they thought but instead of wanting to become like them, he wanted to make his parents proud.

Like Ventura, Villa was smart, cunning, and adaptable. Although his high school hadn’t prepared him well for college, he graduated from New Mexico State University with a degree in criminology with honors. His mother, just like Ventura’s, had preached that education and hard work led to success.

Right after graduation, he joined the DEA and was so excited for the adventure to begin. To fit into Washington, D.C.’s power culture, he bought a couple of suits – one bright blue and one black pinstripe. He also got a bright red sports jacket, the only one they had at the small men’s store in his hometown, and some ostentatious clip-on ties. They were the first suits and sports jacket he had ever bought and he was sure that he was good to go. He was tall, strongly built with dark hair, and a thick mustache. He had an international face that could pass for Italian, Turkish, and Central Asian, Middle Eastern and, of course, Latino. His sleepy, bad boy eyes never failed to impress the ladies. His only regret in constantly working undercover was how difficult it was to actually have a relationship with the beautiful women he met. He ran across a lot of them.

When he was assigned to the U.S. Embassy in Mexico – he discovered a whole new world dominated by Good-Old-Boy-Politics and ambitious bureaucrats. He discovered that Washington frequently sent agents down to Mexico to do investigative and undercover work who didn’t speak a word of Spanish. How could you cultivate confidential sources if you couldn’t speak to them? The DEA didn’t employ interpreters for Christ’s sake. How could you get a feel for the players in the narco world if you were terrified to leave your office and head into the countryside? Instead, these agents developed a chronic case of culture shock and as a result barricaded themselves in the office and at home for the three to six years that they were assigned to Mexico. To assign them to Mexico was ridiculous and totally counter-productive.

No, for Villa, the job was about building relationships in order to develop successful operations and investigations. He spent a lot of nights breaking bread and drinking tequila with his counterparts in the Federales. From their stories and their joint investigations, he learned the reality that for them it was not an eight-to-five job either. But Villa loved it. It was the ultimate chess game of life and death. Only the most cunning and ruthless minds prevailed. He was addicted to the adrenaline rush that only extreme danger generated. He had stopped counting the number of gun battles with drug traffickers he’d been in and the number of kills he’d taken in close quarter shootouts. He didn’t feel any remorse. It was a sort of social cleansing. It was self-defense pure and simple.

So, it was natural, now, on the highway back to Mexico City dragging these barrels, that Ventura needed Villa’s help. Villa listened carefully after answering Ventura’s call. He dropped whatever he was working on and told his secretary he was heading out for a bit and headed over to meet up with Comandante Ventura at the offices of the Federales. Body parts in barrels. Challenge accepted.

CHAPTER 2

Dismembered Bodies

Mexico City, Mexico

B y the time that Ventura and his men pulled into the parking lot of the offices of the Federales , Villa was waiting for them. The flatbed truck pulled in, tires crunching on gravel, barrels and farmer in the back.

Ventura jumped out of the SUV and gave Villa a traditional, Mexican abrazo. "Señores, he yelled to his men. Unload the truck and let this hombre go on his way." The little farmer had already jumped out of the back and was now standing by the door of the truck. He was more than anxious to leave.

Marco, Ventura yelled at one of the agents standing near the door, "Tell the Ministerio Publico that we’re here and we’ve got a present for him."

"Si, mi Comandante." The short, dark-skinned man, dressed in dusty jeans with a red western shirt, smiled broadly revealing several sparkling, gold-capped teeth. He ran to the nearby building to notify one of the two federal prosecutors who had their offices there. Villa noted, with some irony, that cases began and died here. Mexican law required that federal prosecutors examine the remains of anyone either killed by the Federales or killed in a homicide investigated by them. The prosecutors were as famous for their detailed reports as they were famous for their lack of standardized filing system that made finding these detailed reports all but impossible.

"Qué chingados? What in the Hell is in those barrels?" One of the prosecutors, Javier, a tall, gaunt man in his seventies with patches of gray hair, shuffled slowly over to Ventura. Ventura could see that Javier was already beginning to calculate the risk to himself that this investigation could impose. Some traffickers did not take successful investigations kindly and this man had his family to think about.

Don’t worry, Javier, Ventura assured him, It’s probably just some poor fool who made a pass at the wrong man’s girlfriend. It could be nothing to worry about. Now let’s see what we got.

Ventura brought him up to speed. As he could see, at least one of the barrels contained the remains of a human body. Once the barrels were rolled off the truck and stood upright in the parking lot, the two of them circled them with a clipboard in hand. Villa pulled out his notebook. A cursory check revealed the name ChemCon, Stuttgart, Germany, stamped on the bottom of each barrel. Each had a sequential, unique six-digit serial number on it. Villa, with his cell phone, took several photographs for evidence. He retrieved a fingerprint kit from his car and pulled some latent prints from the barrels although sadly, it was clear that the evidence had already been tainted.

Well, that’s a start, Villa said thoughtfully. We at least can see who originally owned the barrels. Ventura nodded.

Now, it was time to open them. Ventura assigned the strongest of his men. Six burly agents began to chip away with hammers and chisels. First, the metal casings came apart leaving the concrete mold.

The hammering sounded