Indian Country

By John T Young

The past comes back to Wayne Kincaid with a vengeance.

Iraq war veteran and DEA agent Wayne Kincaid is going undercover. The assignment—infiltrate a dangerous biker
gang with Mexican drug cartel connections. But, the mission takes a drastic turn when he discovers a twisted plot that has devastating, glo

• Language: English
• Publisher: IngramElliott
• Release date: Sep 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998165950

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

An FBI report links the Los Zetas Mexican drug cartel to the Bandidos outlaw motorcycle gang.

—FBI National Gang Intelligence Center, 2013

Interstate 25

May 21, 2016

Wayne Kincaid downshifted and throttled back his Harley Street Glide as he took the exit off Interstate 25 to Pecos, New Mexico. He crossed the bridge over I-25, then headed north on Route 50 for a hundred yards before stopping on the right side of the narrow two-lane highway, near a historical marker. Early afternoon on a Saturday, and the road was busy with pickups and campers headed up the Pecos River for the weekend.

Kincaid lowered the kickstand with his boot and got off his motorcycle. He took off his leather jacket, wiped the sweat from his brow, and ran his hand around the edge of his black doo-rag. Kincaid stretched his six-foot-two frame as he walked toward the historical marker. He placed his right foot on a post near the sign, leaned over, and pulled up his jeans to check the top of his boot.

Inside was a Kahr 9mm, seven-round compact semi-automatic he carried in a concealed holster. Keeping his back to the road, he took out the Kahr and pulled the slide back, injecting a round into the chamber. He put the weapon back into its holster and felt in his right pocket for his Emerson 3.25-inch knife. The textured fiberglass handle had a thumb disc mounted on the blade spine for easy opening. He flipped it open to examine it, then closed it and put it back in his pocket.

Kincaid scratched the stubble of his month-old beard and looked at the sign for Glorieta Pass, known as the Gettysburg of the West, where in 1862 a Confederate army regiment fought the Union army in a futile attempt to break the Union hold on the West. One of his Texas ancestors, Joshua Kincaid, had fought and died in that fight. And now, he mused, another Kincaid was ready for battle in New Mexico.

At 195 pounds, Kincaid was lean and fit. He had left the army more than a decade earlier, following his last tour in Iraq, but he’d stayed in shape. He had a black belt in karate and was trained in the Israeli defensive art of Krav Maga. As an agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency, however, he knew that his most powerful weapon was his mind. If he had to use the Kahr or his knife, he would likely have already lost the battle. It was his ability to think on his feet that had kept him alive through DEA tours in Mexico and South Asia.

Staring across the valley, Kincaid reviewed his cover, which he had rehearsed for the past month. Much of it was based on the truth. He had been a soldier in the Eighty-Second Airborne, but only for three years after he joined the army. He then served in the US Army Special Forces for seven years—including four years in the elite Delta Force—before joining the DEA. His story, however, was that he’d recently retired from the army after serving twenty years in the Eighty-Second. If anyone checked, he had a DD-214, the official army discharge paper, backing up his story. The army records repository in St. Louis, Missouri, would also verify his cover, and the sergeant major of the 504th Parachute Regiment at Fort Bragg had been briefed.

A cover, however, was only as good as the agent selling it. He had to believe in his story and live it. As Kincaid got back on his Harley and headed west on Route 50 toward Pecos to meet the Bandidos, a rush of adrenaline sent his heart racing. Very few undercover agents had infiltrated the motorcycle gang and lived to tell about it.

Route 50 was a narrow, winding two-lane highway bordered by pine, cedar, and juniper trees, mixed with patches of piñon. To the north, he could see the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, home of the Pecos Wilderness. In the distance, Pecos Baldy rose 12,559 feet above sea level. With a population of 1,440, Pecos was home to mostly Hispanic families, whose modest homes lined the highway for the five-mile ride into the village. He rode past Griego’s Market and Liquors, which featured the best half-pound burger west of the Pecos. Farther down the road he passed the Dairy Queen and a Family Dollar store.

At the intersection of Routes 50 and 63, Kincaid turned right and rode a few blocks to Buck’s Tavern, an adobe one-story building with a red Coors sign on top of a ten-foot pole. About two dozen Harleys were lined up on the east side of the building, all backed in and parked forward for a fast exit. Several Bandidos were hanging out front on the two wooden benches flanking the entrance, which consisted of battered oak double doors.

Kincaid parked at the far end of the gravel parking lot and sat for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. Like an actor about to go on stage, he was apprehensive. He thought about his discharge from the army at Fort Bragg ten years earlier. He imagined it happening only a month ago. Turning in his rifle. Getting a final medical exam. Driving out the front gate.

As Kincaid walked in, several Bandidos eyed him warily. Kincaid ignored them, hoping to show confidence but not arrogance. He didn’t want to get into a fight, but he had to display just enough swagger to say: I’m not afraid of you, so don’t fuck with me.

Buck’s was a Bandidos hangout, and strangers were not welcome. In the next room, an old jukebox blared the Animals’ We Gotta Get Out of This Place. To the left, every one of the half-dozen tables held Bandidos and their girlfriends. A busy waitress delivered pitchers of beer. An elk head with antlers hung over the bar on the right, where five Bandidos leaned over their drinks.

The Bandidos wore their colors on leather jackets with patches showing a Mexican bandit brandishing a pistol and a machete. The patch read Bandidos Worldwide, with 1% on the side. In 1947, when several biker gangs invaded Hollister, California, and caused a riot, a reporter quoted the American Motorcycle Association as saying that 99 percent of its members were law-abiding citizens, implying that the rest—the 1 percent—were outlaws. With about 2,400 members around the world, the Bandidos gang was viewed by the FBI as an organized crime syndicate, second in size only to the Hells Angels.

Kincaid walked up to the bar, and a woman turned and looked him over. Long black hair fell down her shoulders, nearly to the top of her short black miniskirt, which showed off long, muscular legs tucked into calf-high black boots. She was around thirty, half-white, half-Navajo, with mischievous brown eyes and a smile that suggested an invitation to Kincaid. She turned to the hulking bartender. Hey, Buck, she said. This man needs a beer.

She gently shoved the man next to her to make room for Kincaid, who returned the smile and sat close to her at the bar. The man, only slightly smaller than the massive bartender and a few years older than Kincaid, with black hair down to his shoulders, a full beard, and tattoos covering both arms, glared at Kincaid, who recognized him as John Henry, president of the New Mexico Bandidos. On the other side of Kincaid was Harry Dowdy, whose gray hair hung down his back in a ponytail. On his jacket was a patch that read Expect No Mercy.

Thanks, Kincaid said to the woman. What’s your name?

Linda. Linda Benally. And this big handsome man next to me is John Henry.

Kincaid nodded to Henry, then turned back to Benally. I’m Wayne, said Kincaid.

Henry stared at Kincaid with undisguised attitude. He drained his glass of beer and shoved it across the bar for a refill. If you’re lost, the bartender can give you directions, said Henry.

Just passing through, Kincaid said. What’s going on?

We’re living the dream, Benally said. Drinking beer and riding our motorcycles.

Henry turned to face Kincaid. You a cop? he asked.

Hell no, man, said Kincaid, as he received a draft beer from the bartender. Just retired from the army.

Dowdy, who had been listening, moved closer to Kincaid. What was your unit?

504th, Eighty-Second Airborne, said Kincaid.

So you were over at Fort Campbell? asked Dowdy.

Kincaid looked at him and shook his head. Eighty-Second’s at Fort Bragg.

Dowdy sipped his beer and said, What two things fall from the sky?

Kincaid stared at Dowdy for a few seconds, then grinned. Bird shit and fools, he said. Were you airborne?

Dowdy laughed and slapped Kincaid’s back. I’m Harry. I was in the 101st, back in ’Nam. Just checking. We see a lot of assholes claim they were in the military but never served a day. He looked Henry in the eye and said, Anybody crazy enough to jump out of airplanes can drink a beer with me.

You don’t look old enough to be retired, Benally said.

Joined right out of high school, soon as I turned eighteen, said Kincaid.

So what brings you to Pecos? Henry asked.

I bought a Harley when I got discharged at Bragg. Been riding around the country, Kincaid said. He sipped his beer. No particular place to go. Nothing to do, first time in twenty years. I saw the sign for Pecos, and I thought I’d check it out.

Dowdy smiled at Kincaid. Used to ask myself: Why would a normal person jump out of a perfectly good airplane?

What makes you think I’m normal? asked Kincaid, who sipped his beer and looked at Dowdy. Where’d you serve in ’Nam?

Henry answered for him. Harry was on Hamburger Hill. I think that screwed up his head. Harry’s a little bit crazy.

Dowdy laughed and drained his beer. He opened his eyes wide and tilted his head sideways, looking at Kincaid. Not just a little bit, he said. "I am crazy."

Henry raised his beer in a toast to Dowdy. Right on, brother, he said. We’re all crazy here.

Kincaid turned to Benally. How about you? Are you a Bandido?

Benally laughed. Just met these guys a few weeks ago.

You ride a Harley? asked Kincaid.

Yeah, she said, smiling. I love riding my Harley. It has really good vibrations.

Henry and Dowdy laughed and clinked beer glasses with Benally, while Kincaid smiled and raised his glass in a salute.

When I met Linda, I asked her if she wanted to get laid, Henry said. She said she would, but she had the clap. I told her, no problem, I did too.

Lucky for him, I’m a nurse, Benally said. I gave him some penicillin for his clap. But I don’t have a cure for his bullshit.

Benally smiled at Kincaid. In her dark brown eyes, Kincaid saw mischief and defiance. She seemed to be inviting him in, but with a warning that the trip could be dangerous.

How about you, Wayne? Dowdy asked. You got the clap?

Kincaid drained his beer, wiped his mouth, and said, Not lately.

He smiled at Benally. Henry, Dowdy, and Benally laughed, and Dowdy put an arm around Kincaid’s shoulder.

You spend time in combat, brother? asked Dowdy.

Kincaid nodded. Two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan.

Fucking army, Dowdy said. You kill any ragheads? Kincaid looked down into his beer and said, A few.

More than a few, Kincaid thought. More than he could remember. Except for the twelve-year-old boy in Mosul, Iraq. That one he couldn’t forget. It was one of the reasons he had left the army a month later.

Benally drained her beer and said, You shoot pool, Wayne?

He nodded, and she pointed toward the next room, which had two pool tables and a dance floor.

I have twenty bucks says I can take you, she said.

You’re on, Kincaid said.

As Kincaid racked the balls for a game of eight ball, he casually glanced back at Henry and Dowdy, who were talking quietly. Henry briefly looked at Kincaid and scowled, then turned back to Dowdy.

Henry doesn’t seem too friendly, Kincaid said, lifting the rack and moving aside as Benally prepared to shoot.

They don’t trust outsiders, she said, taking aim. Benally fired a straight shot directly into the tip of the triangle of balls, sending them all over the table. The eleven ball fell into a corner pocket.

Looks like you got the odds, Kincaid said, as Benally leaned over for another shot. He tried not to look at her legs when her miniskirt hiked up her thighs.

Was that meant to distract me? Kincaid wondered. Whatever her intent, it was working. He might be able to use Benally to work his way in with the Bandidos, but there was a huge risk. If she was Henry’s woman, she was dangerous territory. But she didn’t act like she was with Henry. So to hell with it. Let it ride.

Benally sunk the three ball in a side pocket, then used a soft touch to nudge the seven ball into a corner pocket.

You didn’t tell me you’re a pool shark, Kincaid said.

Nobody here will take me on anymore, she said. So I have to look for an easy mark, like you. Benally eased the five ball into another corner pocket, then scratched on the one ball.

Nice of you to give me a chance, Kincaid said, as he took aim at the two ball. He dropped it into a side pocket, then punched the ten ball down the table. It bounced off the corner pocket and rolled back.

You hit it too hard, Benally said. A pool ball’s a lot like a woman. You need to go slow, and use a soft touch.

I never thought of it quite like that, Kincaid said as he rubbed a piece of chalk on his cue tip. But thanks for the advice.

Benally smiled as she lined up for another shot. You don’t look the kind of man who needs advice about women. She dropped the nine ball into a corner pocket and moved around the table to set up for the one ball.

As she walked close by Kincaid, he said, There isn’t a man alive who doesn’t need advice about women.

Benally laughed and sank the one ball, then softly dropped the thirteen ball in. She lined up for a final shot at the eight ball.

Corner pocket, she said. She gently dropped the eight ball and turned to Kincaid, holding out her hand. You owe me twenty bucks.

Kincaid opened his wallet and paid her. You’re ruthless, he said, smiling. Want to have dinner with me sometime?

I guess I should take pity on you, she said, since you’re not a very good pool player.

Benally casually ran her hand down the pool stick as she put it into a rack, then took Kincaid’s cell phone and entered her name and number. Kincaid took it and moved toward the exit. As he walked past the bar, he overheard Henry talking to Dowdy.

Gotta head over to the Pecos Casino tomorrow, Henry said. After Sanchez gets here.

It wasn’t much, but it was a lead. Kincaid quietly left the tavern and got on his Harley.

CHAPTER 2

Samson Cowboy, director of the [Navajo] Division of Public Safety . . . reported there are about 225 documented gangs on the Navajo Reservation. . . . The total number of gang members on the reservation is between 1,500 and 2,000.

—Navajo Times, Aug. 6, 2009

Navajo Reservation, New Mexico

May 22, 2016

Arturo Sanchez gripped the armrest on the passenger door of the Cessna 182 and fought to control his nausea as the pilot sharply banked the airplane into the west wind blowing across northern New Mexico. Sanchez tried to focus on the horizon to calm his stomach and quietly prayed that he would not humiliate himself by throwing up.

Over the Navajo reservation, the first light of dawn illuminated the Bisti Badlands. The white rock formations sculpted by the wind for millions of years stood like sentries over what was once the floor of an ocean. Just above the badlands lay Chaco Canyon, where the ancient Anasazi had developed a thriving civilization until they migrated nearly a thousand years ago. The pilot veered south, located Highway 197, just east of Torreon, and dropped abruptly for a landing on the narrow two-lane strip of asphalt. The area was sparsely populated, with only a few scattered Navajo homes contiguous to the highway. No cars were visible in either direction.

Sanchez was arriving in New Mexico after a harrowing trip that had begun on a private airstrip near Juarez, Mexico, and crossed the border into the state halfway between Deming and Lordsburg. The pilot had flown up narrow valleys that skirted Silver City and passed through the Mogollon Mountains of southwestern New Mexico. A full moon allowed the pilot to fly a few hundred feet above the ground to escape radar detection. US Customs and Border Protection deployed its unmanned aircraft system surveillance along the New Mexico border, but it often failed to detect low-flying small aircraft. For Sanchez, the flight had been like riding a roller coaster in the dark for three hours while being buffeted by high winds.

A young Navajo flashed the headlights of his old Ford F-150 and backed up the truck next to the Cessna. As Sanchez got out to greet him, he unsnapped the tab on the holster carrying the Glock 9mm that he wore on his belt, concealed under his black leather sport coat. At forty, Sanchez was still physically fit, a legacy of his time with the Mexican Army Special Forces—a time before he joined the Los Zetas drug cartel. He wore faded Wranglers and lizard-skin cowboy boots, and with his styled haircut and trimmed mustache, he had assumed the entirely convincing look of a successful middle-class New Mexican.

Sanchez had to make sure the Navajo was his contact and not some local trying to rip him off. He stood with his back to the east, presenting a shadow to the Navajo as the sun appeared over the horizon.

Sanchez looked the driver over, then relaxed; he recognized Danny Haskie. In his faded blue jeans, Nikes, western shirt, and backward baseball cap, Haskie looked like a college kid but was really one of the Manhunters, a drug-dealing Navajo gang. He also freelanced as a distributor for the Zetas.

Sanchez looked at Haskie’s eyes, searching for the dull glaze of too much crystal meth. Although he made his living selling drugs, Sanchez was too smart to use them and did not trust those who did. He was relieved that Haskie seemed clean. As he often did, Sanchez reflected on the irony of his trade. If Americans didn’t buy and use drugs, the Zetas and the other cartels would go out of business. While the American government and news media frequently—and accurately—accused Mexicans of corruption, the drug trade could not flourish without the endemic corruption that existed throughout American society. Many of the Zetas’ customers were wealthy Americans who bankrolled the purchase of drugs, using middlemen who took the risks involved in distributing the narcotics. People like Haskie.

The product’s in cardboard boxes, Sanchez said. Get them loaded quickly.

Okay, boss, Haskie said.

Haskie packed half a dozen cardboard boxes into the back of the double-cab