The Falcon’s Shadow

By Brian Sanders

The world’s most infamous drug trafficker, Carlos Falcon, has hidden his identity for decades. He has now hatched a nefarious plan which had been years in the making. He wants to cripple the industry that has made him wealthy and to put the man of his choosing in the White House. As his first step, Falcon has taken hostage the niece of the ambitious U.S. Senator Justin Winfield and twelve other members of a medical mission team working in rural Mexico. With the Senator and his family in the grip of paralyzing fear and his presidential dreams threatened, the Senator places all his worldly hopes on the ability of a connected associate, Jack Delaney, to help fulfill Falcon’s bizarre and murderous demands.

Once a high-flying entrepreneur, Jack’s idyllic oceanside life is unraveling due to a series of financial misfortunes. Desperate to hide his financial demise from his supportive wife, Jack accepts the Senator’s request for his help simply for the money. However, once he discovers that one of the hostages is a lifelong friend, missionary Charlie Jacobs, this mission becomes personal for Jack. Very personal. With the clock ticking and the lives of thirteen people hanging in the balance, Jack hurls himself into this dark underworld to save the hostages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9781663216472

Brian Sanders

Brian Sanders is a graduate of the University of Oklahoma with a BA in Political Science and a MA in International Affairs. Brian lives in Oklahoma City with his wife, Kristine.

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THE FALCON’S SHADOW

Copyright © 2023 Brian Sanders.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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.

iUniverse

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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 Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1648-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1647-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023920306

iUniverse rev. date: 01/30/2024

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

South Carolina, Steinberg Airfield

Sydney Prescott, an attractive, fashionably dressed woman in her late forties, sat on a bench outside the holding area of Steinberg Airfield, sunglasses tucked into her blond hair. Her daughter, Angelina Winfield, a college senior just a few weeks shy of her twenty-first birthday, sat next to her, sipping from a bottle of Perrier water. At nine thirty on this late May morning, the heat was already gathering on the asphalt of the private airfield, where corporate titans and hedge fund managers kept their aircraft to shuttle off to Bermuda and the Florida Keys on long weekends. But this didn’t compare to the heat they’d feel once they landed in remote Mexico, where temperatures were already in the mid-nineties, with no relief in the forecast.

You nervous? Sydney asked, brushing a strand of Angelina’s brown hair back over her ear, just as she had when Angelina was a child.

Angelina laughed. Why should I be nervous? She cocked her head and waited for her mom’s reply.

Sydney gave her daughter the look: head tilted down, eyes up. Honey, this is Mexico. Parts of it are crazy dangerous. You know Joe and I have stressed over this. Your uncle fretted for weeks when you told him about this trip. She reached into her purse to retrieve her compact and began to reapply lipstick and check her makeup.

Thank God for Kristina, Angelina said with a smile.

Sydney took a sip of her latte and said, You wouldn’t be going on this trip if it weren’t for her. I can tell you that much.

Angelina shook her head.

While she still looked like a child to her mother, Sydney could see that her daughter’s youthful glow was giving way to an undeniable womanly beauty. Angelina came from good stock. Sydney was a woman who’d weathered some intense storms. Early in her marriage, when Angelina’s father was killed in a car accident, Sydney was left to raise her and her sixteen-year-old brother, Andrew, all alone. With considerable help from family, they’d persevered, and Angelina’s future was bright.

The sound of a jet engine coming from the north suddenly drew their attention. A few minutes later, they watched as a large private jet landed and taxied up onto the tarmac. It seemed luxurious, like the kind of plane you would expect a pop star to climb into after a concert to shuttle her off to her next sold-out show. Across the side was printed, Van Doren Foundation.

I think that’s your ride.

A smile spread across Angelina’s face.

Sydney shook her head. This is a mission trip, right?

Angelina put her hand over her mouth, unable to suppress her laughter.

Now, how did you …? Sydney asked with a suspicious tone that suggested her daughter was getting away with something. Again.

Uncle J knew somebody who knew somebody. You know how it goes with him.

Do I ever, Sydney replied, familiar with the workings of her brother-in-law.

Angelina smiled and looked at a text Uncle J had sent twenty minutes prior: "Baby, be safe in Mexico. And get your butt up here when you get back. Your internship starts on June 22. Call if you need anything … I know a few people down there. Te quiero mucho, Uncle J."

Angelina held her phone so her mom could read it. Sydney tried to act exasperated over Uncle J’s doting, but she couldn’t hide the joy it gave her.

That internship is going to be exhausting, with all the shopping and long lunches with Kristina.

Angelina smiled at her mom’s feigned disapproval.

A short, gray-haired, sun-weathered man in his sixties approached Sydney and Angelina. He held a clipboard.

Miss Winfield? he asked.

Angelina nodded.

May I take your luggage? The plane will be leaving in ten minutes. He took her luggage and politely hurried away.

Sydney saw other members of the mission team begin to deplane. She noticed two handsome young men walking toward the holding area. One walked past them with his head down, but the other smiled and said hello.

Sydney did the look again and asked, Who is that?

Angelina grinned. One of the physicians. I think his name is Kelly Bradford.

No Mexico romance, you got me? I don’t care how cute they are.

Angelina stood, smoothed the front of her sundress, and lifted the strap of her leather carry-on over her shoulder. Sydney stood and took her daughter’s hand.

Well, little lamb, give your mom a hug.

Angelina hugged her, and Sydney tucked Angelina’s hair behind her ear one more time.

Oh, I almost forgot. Sydney reached into her purse and pulled out a small gift bag, which she handed to Angelina.

What’s this?

An early birthday gift from Uncle Big Shot.

Angelina opened the package. Her eyes sparkled when she saw what was inside. She held up a small silver cross encrusted with little gems.

This is beautiful! She fastened it around her neck.

Sydney straightened the cross, so it hung perfectly. Do you know what those are? she asked, pointing to the greenish jewels.

Angelina nodded with pride.

It’s Alexandrite. They’re one of my birthstones.

Sydney smiled, Do you know the story behind it?

I do. It’s the gem that changes color by candlelight. Some poet called it an emerald by day and a ruby by night.

Sydney’s face shone with pride over her daughter’s knowledge.

He also wanted me to give you this. Sydney handed her a card, and Angelina opened it immediately.

To my beautiful niece, who was an angel by day and a terror by night. Happy Birthday.

—Uncle J

Angelina laughed as she handed the card to her mom. Sydney laughed too.

When you stayed with him when you were little, he always said you were an angel until it was time to go to bed. Then you pitched a fit.

I was afraid I’d miss something.

Angelina shuffled in place wearing a self-conscious expression.

Anyway, Uncle J told me Aunt Kristina said prayers over it, and she’s sure God will be watching over you because, after all, you’re doing his work in her country.

Angelina hugged her mom again and walked toward the plane. About halfway, she stopped, waved, and blew a kiss. Sydney shot one back to her. Angelina pointed to the cross and mouthed, I love this. Sydney smiled and patted her heart as she watched her daughter climb on board.

CHAPTER 1

June 2, Capitol Hill, Washington, DC

Inside the Senate Foreign Relations Committee meeting room, Hill staffers in starched shirts and colorful ties sipped coffee and stared at a flat-screen, waiting on a much-anticipated news story. An investigative reporter fresh from a tour exploring the burgeoning and increasingly violent Mexican drug operations prepared to expound on the havoc occurring daily in Mexico and at the US border. Roberto Alvarez, through contacts and connections he has yet to divulge, has reportedly returned with interviews and footage that reveal more on the inner workings of cartel life than any previous research to date. No outsider has come this close to the action and lived to tell about it. All eyes in the crowded room fixed on the screen as Roberto Alvarez prepared to tell his exclusive story.

Here it is, here it is … Quiet down, now, one of the senior committee staffers said to his colleagues, who ranged from the young ambitious up-and-comers who had already completed their predawn Insanity workouts, to the pot-bellied veterans who drained a half pot of coffee before nine thirty in the morning to brace themselves for another energy-sapping day of Hill life. The room grew quiet as the camera closed in on the network’s international correspondent, who possessed a smooth, commanding voice that gave him an air of credibility.

It’s lawlessness, isn’t it? the correspondent asked.

A mid-thirties Latino in a black sport coat and white shirt with no tie considered the question thoughtfully and replied, Yes, these are men without conscience. And I mean that literally. They have no conscience, and most are power hungry and ruthless.

The correspondent nodded. And you were able to obtain video footage that some have said is the most shocking they have ever seen.

The young man shifted in his chair and nodded with a somber expression. The correspondent offered a warning to the viewers about the graphic nature of what they were about to see. On the screen appeared ghastly photos of dead, mutilated bodies, some of which were decapitated. Others were burned, disfigured, and dismembered after what must have been sadistic torture. One scene followed another with dead bodies in the same horrific condition, along with men in paramilitary gear wearing AK-47s across their chests, .45s at their waists, and bandanas over the lower half of their faces.

Those are decapitated bodies, aren’t they? the correspondent asked in a low voice.

Yes … It’s often part of each cartel’s effort to intimidate competitors. Or sometimes to punish their own who might have skimmed money or been disloyal in some way.

The room full of garrulous, type A’s in Brooks Brothers suits suddenly fell silent. Men stared wide-eyed at the gruesomeness, and several women placed their hands over their mouths in shock.

How did you get this footage?

The young Latino grinned, Very, very carefully.

The correspondent chuckled politely and looked at him, hoping for more. The young man said nothing.

In the next segment, scruffy Mexican men stood blindfolded in a line. We heard a voice shout something in Spanish and suddenly, from behind, car tires dipped in kerosene were placed over their heads. A short man wearing camouflage pants, a hoodie, and a red bandana wrapped around his face set the tires on fire one by one. The sounds of the men’s screams are brief as the camera cut to another group of men with bandanas covering their faces and high-caliber rifles on their shoulders. They watched the cruelty unfold with shocking detachment.

The correspondent stared in utter bewilderment and said, This footage is unprecedented, is it not?

The young man nodded. I believe so.

It’s pure evil, isn’t it?

He nodded again with the same somber expression, the look of a man who had discovered the full depth of a dark truth.

The Capitol Hill staffers shook their heads in disbelief.

So, Pete, this is the guy who spent four months on this, a middle-aged white male in a crisp blue dress shirt, perfectly accented tie, and designer glasses said to the younger version of himself standing next to him. Only this version looked more like he slept in his dress shirt, and his not-so-perfectly matching tie was loose. At 8:50 a.m., the only insanity he’d partaken of that morning involved two chocolate donuts instead of one.

In his late thirties, Peter Rains, chief of staff to Senator Justin Winfield, head of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, carried himself with the disposition of someone much older. A little under six feet tall, Peter’s thick, unathletic looking body stood out a little among the P90Xers in his age range.

Yeah, Winfield said he’s reporting to our committee next week, Peter said.

You always got the scoop, don’t you, my frumpy friend? the older colleague said to Peter.

Something like that, Peter replied.

The older colleague chuckled and looked at the TV. They say that one cat, the dude no one can identify, may be the brains behind that big cartel.

The interviewer continued, How are these groups organized?

That’s a great question. Splinter groups are developing for sure. With that much money at stake, the temptation to break off and stake your own territory for distribution is powerful. But it can be deadly, too. With that said, still about five major cartels stand above the rest. And maybe the most successful, if you want to call it that, is the Alejandro cartel.

More footage rolled behind the names and faces of alleged bigwigs, kingpins, and shot callers in the Mexican drug world. It was a short list. Followed by a list of those associated with thuggery, murder, and mayhem. It was a much more extensive list.

Is there one man who stands atop this criminal enterprise? the reporter asked.

The young man paused. Yes. It’s believed that one man, quite a mysterious figure, is the driving force behind the Alejandro cartel.

Mysterious, how?

He tilted his head as though summoning a thought and remarked, Well, he’s never been positively identified. They have unreliable police sketches, some photographs from a distance, but nothing concrete. No one has ever been more committed to anonymity than this man.

Except for maybe the devil, the reporter said.

That may be a fair comparison, he replied without a trace of humor.

That’s remarkable … and what is his name?

Again, he paused before answering, this time as though the mention of the kingpin’s name might bring evil upon him, Carlos Falcon.

That’s him, the middle-aged staffer says, as he popped Peter on the shoulder with the back of his hand.

Peter took another sip of Red Bull which didn’t seem to be energizing him one bit.

The young Latino continued, It’s common knowledge within their world that Falcon is something of a criminal genius. If a drug runner can be revered, Falcon has something close to reverence in this world.

I’m sure he has his share of enemies, too, the reporter replied.

The young man nodded quickly. Lots of people want what he has, and they would be very willing to kill him to get it.

It was obvious to all that the reporter savored this first-ever interview with the ultimate insider and could scarcely hide his satisfaction. He nodded again in fascination before asking, The violence inflicted among these cartels is horrifying, but are some worse than others?

The most violent ones are those who have branched into other areas.

Such as? the reporter asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Arms running, prostitution, human trafficking, and even organ theft are becoming common practices.

The reporter looked into the camera for effect before the young man continued.

It seems that each new market that is staked out results in more bloodshed, more killing, more savagery. If the cartels want something badly enough, they will stop at nothing to get it.

It’s shocking, this level of depravity, the reporter stated.

The young man nodded with an expression that says, You’re starting to see what I’ve seen.

The reporter continued, The largest cartels, the ones you mentioned, do they work in these additional areas?

I believe most do, but the one exception is the Alejandro cartel.

Falcon’s group?

The young man nodded. That’s right, to my knowledge. They focus exclusively on drug trafficking in the United States and Europe. They have never been associated with anything else.

The interviewer shook his head. Any idea why this group never branched out?

Not specifically, but maybe they don’t need to because Falcon was estimated by Mexico’s attorney general to have generated close to $600 million dollars last year, sticking exclusively to drug trafficking.

Unbelievable. Well, the question on everyone’s mind, especially our friends living close to the border is, what can be done stop them?

The interviewee straightened in his chair, looked directly at the interviewer, shook his head, and with a resigned expression said, Nothing.

CHAPTER 2

June 4, Washington, DC, 9:15 a.m.

Inside the US Senate office building, Peter Raines hurried down a long hallway with an opened FedEx package under his arm. He checked his watch and loosened his tie, which felt like it was growing tighter by the second. Senate staffers stood in clusters outside their respective office doors and watched Peter hurry by.

Hey, Peter. What’s up? A colleague stuck out a hand for a slap, but Peter ignored him. Peter couldn’t hear him or anything else for that matter because a fog of anxiety had invaded his head and muted the outside world.

Listen, you workin’ stiff, the colleague continued, it’s Thursday. I expect to see you after work. The Brewery, five thirty. Don’t be late.

Peter kept moving.

He’s got that look, the colleague said to his group, who all stared at Peter.

Yeah, like he had during Winfield’s last runoff election, one of the group members quipped.

Hey, Peter, did the prez give you the codes for the day or what?

Laughter erupted, but Peter didn’t break stride or alter his stone-faced expression. With singleness of purpose, he continued his march down the hallway.

He entered the well-appointed reception area of Senator Justin Winfield, his boss of eleven years, standing senator from South Carolina, and soon-to-be presidential candidate. The front office’s appearance was clearly senatorial: chocolate-colored leather chairs and a matching mahogany armoire and coffee table adorned with expensive collector’s books on the Civil War, a piece of American history Senator Winfield took personally, as any son of the South would. Peter often wondered if these Senate offices looked any different than the office of a Fortune 500 CEO. So many similarities between the two in this age of big-money politics, Peter had always thought.

He ignored the greeting from the senator’s office manager of twenty-five years as she stepped away from the reception area toward him. He moved toward the senator’s office.

Don’t go in there, Peter. He’s talking to a donor, she said.

Peter ignored her demand and walked the hallway to the senator’s closed office door. Heart banging in his chest, he paused, drew in a deep breath, and eased open the door. The senator sat in his big leather chair with his back to Peter, speaking into his cell phone.

I plan on bein’ there for the opening game next fall. I think you’re right. I believe he’s mined gold with this recruiting class, we got a chance to—

Sir, Peter said loud enough for the senator to turn in his chair, a little perturbed.

I’m on the phone, he mouthed and waved Peter off like an annoyed parent would a bothersome child. Peter knew only a few things the senator deemed important enough to interrupt him when he was on the phone: a call from his wife or a major contributor. The news Peter carried didn’t involve love or money, only distress.

Sir, you need to read this. Now.

If Peter’s tone didn’t contain enough angst to catch the senator’s attention, the look of sheer dread he wore did the trick. The senator stared at Peter for a second and caught the waves of anxiety which rolled off his usually unflappable right-hand man. He turned his chair back to his desk.

Let me call you right back. He looked up at Peter and then at the box. Who’s this from?

I don’t know for sure.

Peter handed him the package. The senator took out a letter and a photograph. The same anguish that Peter carried into the room spread across the senator’s face as his eyes darted up and down the page, reading and rereading, making sure he didn’t imagine any of it. He stared at a photograph of his niece, Angelina Winfield, in what looked like the courtyard of an old structure somewhere presumably in Mexico. She huddled with her mission group while machine-gun-toting men stood watch behind them.

The senator’s mouth trembled, and his hands shook. He laid the photograph on his desk. Peter took the chair opposite him. The senator leaned back and closed his eyes.

Peter, is this really happening?

Yes, sir. It appears so.

The senator exhaled loudly. Dear God, I never should have let her go. I knew …

Senator, sir, this is not your fault. This is something no one could control or should have even expected. Peter spoke with force as he tried to talk his boss off the emotional ledge he knew the man was inching toward.

I told her mother and …

No! Peter snapped. No, it was out of your hands, Senator. But we have a problem now.

The senator stood, lifted his six-foot-three inch, 220-pound frame up rather gracefully and walked to the large window behind him.

Should we call the ambassador? Peter asked.

The senator stared out at the traffic below, spread his fingers out and touched the windowpane. He sighed mournfully.

Yes. Call him. Tell him everything you know. Tell him not to tell anyone anything, period. Do it now. And use your cell phone. Give me five minutes, Peter.

Peter exited the room. Winfield took his chair and reached for his phone. He brushed his finger over the picture, touching Angelina’s face. She and her coworkers stared back at him. He punched a number on his phone.

Hello, a woman answered in accented English.

Honey, it’s me. I have some terrible news.

As Winfield explained the story, the sound of a woman’s shriek exploded through the phone. Winfield’s head fell to his desk, his body trembling.

CHAPTER 3

Peter slipped back into the senator’s office and found the senator sitting where he’d left him, looked up at his slowly revolving ceiling fan. With his mouth agape, he looked despondent. Justin Winfield looked more like a mental patient than his party’s likely presidential nominee. The only sound puncturing the silence was the sharp click the fan blades made with each rotation. The senator wore a blank, thousand-yard stare.

Peter took a seat.

I really need to get that fixed, the senator finally said.

Peter watched his unblinking gaze, which was still fixed on the ceiling. Peter had never seen his boss this shaken. This was a man who’d endured ferocious campaign attack ads, constant condescension from the mainstream press, and smear campaigns from radical groups, any of which would have broken lesser men. None of it fazed him. He never backed down, never lost sleep. The man with steel in his spine was suddenly a feather in a hurricane. Peter hated the sight of it.

I’ll get Jacey to call maintenance today. Peter’s cell phone rang. He recognized the caller and handed the phone to the senator.

It’s the ambassador.

The senator, out of instinct, sat up in his chair as his eyes refocused, and took the phone from