Aztec Treasure
Rendition

CIA Senior Agent Al Perkin’s POV

Sons of Tezcatlipoca Task Force, Los Angeles

The Commander’s meeting broke up a half-hour later, and we all had our marching orders. The entire task force was re-examining all of the evidence we’d gathered based on the revelation that there were Werecats among them. Sofia was going back to watch that border crossing area in the time after the airstrike, looking for anyone who might have escaped. I was watching the Mexican Reaper drone video again, this time looking for four-legged targets.

The drone was too high to make out identities, but it did show a figure in the parking area who survived the blast. It also showed something I discounted before as a dog or cat, running from the car into the jungle. It was a smudge on the screen compared to the person by the car, but it was an animal. I took some screenshots and moved on.

The drone flew off, losing sight of the compound as the person moved to search the rubble.

It didn’t matter after what Sofia found an hour later. “Take a look at this,” she said as she projected her screen onto one of the wall monitors. It was the same camera we’d seen the men crossing into Mexico from, but this was two nights after the drone strike based on the time stamp at the bottom. “Watch the right side.” The night-vision camera picked up a large cat as it picked its way around the rocks leading towards the border. If I had to guess, it was four to five feet long and over a hundred pounds; it looked every part a fearsome predator. It leaped across between rocks a dozen or more feet apart, clearing large gullies and dropoffs with ease. It took less than ten seconds for it to disappear from view on the United States side.

“Run that back to the beginning,” I asked. Sofia backed the video file up and played it in slow motion until I asked her to stop. “What’s that at its neck?”

I wasn’t the only one walking close to the monitor to get a better look. Commander Lindstrom traced the outline of a strap. “It looks like a bag,” she said.

“It’s hotter than the surroundings,” I said. There was a bright dot at the top of it, looking like a bump coming out of the animal’s chest. “Shit. It’s a baby!” The others looked closer at it but ended up agreeing. The werecat had a cub with it.

“It has to be Maria Meztli,” I said. “She’s the only one not accounted for that was known to be at or near the target. Her mother died in the strike, and her father’s head got hung on the fence. The baby would be Maritza Coreirra, also missing. The Reaper footage showed someone out by the cars just before the strike. Maybe Maria was getting something or changing Maritza’s diaper?”

I didn’t mention that I saw a small animal run away from the car into the jungle was Maritza in jaguar form. “How old is Maria,” Commander Lindstrom asked.

“Seventeen,” Frank Donovan said. “She’s clean, as far as we can tell. She’s an average student in high school, no known boyfriend, no disciplinary or police problems. Maria spent a lot of time at the Clubhouse, but that is normal for a Club Princess. None of the evidence we’ve collected in Denver points to her.”

“Has she turned up in the States?”

“We’ve seen nothing, but we haven’t been looking that hard because she’s not the subject of our investigation.”

“We should replace out if she’s made contact with anyone back in Denver or elsewhere,” the Commander ordered. “She’s not a suspect, but we can bring her in as a material witness to what was going on in Mexico.”

“I’ll get people looking at her,” Frank agreed.

She turned to Claire Bennington, the FBI Forensic Accountant heading our financial group. “Put out a net for Maria Meztli. If she’s been in the States for three months and has a baby to take care of, she has to be getting money from someone or somewhere. Check the Club accounts, family accounts, whoever has probate on her parent’s will, everything.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Our conversation was cut short by a breaking news bulletin on the televisions. “PRESIDENT TO SPEAK ABOUT WEREWOLVES AMONG US,” the crawl said.

The Commander called for quiet as we watched the press conference with President Kettering and Werewolf Council President Colletta Grimes. It answered some questions and raised a bunch more. When it was over, I shook my head. “Anyone else here think Washington knew about this long before we did?”

“Not your problem, Agent Perkins,” the Commander said. “Yes, the President knew before the hostage incident, but that information was classified to prevent a panic. The President has an alliance with the werewolves, and we know the Sons are werecats. Get over it. You all have work to do, now get to it.” She walked back to her office as we all looked around.

I had to call my boss, and I didn’t want to do it here. I went down to the garage, got in my car, and drove to a nearby park. I had a satellite phone with a scrambler for such times, and I called Headquarters with it. I grabbed a sandwich and waited by the pond until CIA Director Peter Sinclair called me back. He had his Covert Ops and Central American Desk chiefs in the room with him. I gave him a quick brief. “Sir, the Task Force has video of the Presidents crossing the border east of Nogales as large cats, likely jaguars. I’m certain now that the Coreirra extended family, and maybe more of the leadership, are all jaguar shifters and not wolves.”

“That’s good news. You probably saw the President signed a treaty with the Werewolf Council. Werecats aren’t party to that agreement, so they are fair game.”

“You want them captured and extracted?”

“Absolutely. What we know of werewolves is mind-boggling. Super senses, strength, lifespan, and image how much easier infiltration would be as a werecat? Can you imaging leveraging that kind of talent and power in service of America? I want them all in CIA custody before the Department of Defense or Homeland Security gets them. We’ll rendition them to a black site, away from the bleeding hearts and subpoenas, and then we’ll figure out how to properly use their powers and breed more.”

I figured that was it. “Julio Salazar, former Master at Arms for the Dallas chapter and nephew of the San Antonio Chapter President. He was captured in the initial sweeps and lawyered up. He’s at the Federal Prison in Oklahoma City right now, but he’s due to be shipped to the ultra-security Federal Prison in Beaumont, Texas.”

There was a pause. “We’ll take care of Julio. Who else is out there?”

“A few minutes ago, we found Customs video of the border crossing east of Nogales, two days after the drone strike. It was an adult jaguar and cub, believed to be 17-year-old Maria Meztli and six-month-old Maritza Coreirra. Commander Lindstrom directed the Task Force to replace her and bring her in as a material witness since we have nothing to hold her on.”

“Do you know where she is?”

I wanted a better answer than I have. “No, sir. She’s disappeared without a trace.”

“Damn. Hopefully, Chase and his Arrowhead hacker didn’t get her. Find her, and contact me when you do. Nothing is a higher priority for you, Al.”

“I understand, sir.” The Director hung up, and I went back to work.

Federal Transfer Center, Oklahoma City

Unknown POV

I showed my identification and the transfer paperwork at the Administration building. “Prisoner transfer,” I told the guard at the prison as my partners stood behind me.

He looked at my paperwork. “Julio Mark Salazar.” He typed the name into the computer. “He’s not scheduled for transfer today, Marshal.”

“Don’t look at me, Ted. I get my orders, and I pick up my prisoners.”

The guard made a call to get Salazar brought out. The three of us drank coffee and waited on a couch for Julio to get ready. The guard made a copy of the transfer order, then handed everything back. “He’ll be at the loading dock in ten minutes. You can back your van up and wait there.”

“Thank you, Ted.” We walked back out and drove our van around to the dock area. We waited in our US Marshals uniforms, moving forward when the door opened. Julio Salazar was a dangerous-looking man with long black hair and dozens of tattoos. I signed the paperwork, the guards opened the gate, and my partners moved the prisoner into the back and locked his shackles to a ring welded in the floor. One of my men stayed in the secure back area with the prisoner while I sat in the passenger seat.

We drove away, not saying anything as we arrived at the helicopter. I pulled off my uniform, leaving behind the fake US Marshal badge and gear, and left them on the seat. My partners had the hooded and shackled prisoner on the ground when I got to the back. “Where am I,” Julio said as he tried to figure out what was going on.

“Time to take a ride,” I told him. We marched him to the waiting helicopter’s open door. I secured him in one of the back seats, then I went around and sat in the other. The pilot was already spinning the engines up as I closed the door.

I put a set of hearing protectors over the prisoner’s ears, then put a headset over mine. “Ready to go,” the pilot asked.

“Roger that,” I replied. He increased power and took off, heading southeast over the empty farm and ranch lands. We stopped once for fuel in Louisiana, then headed south into the Gulf.

Once we’d landed, the waiting staff took custody of the prisoner. They took the hood off as we took off again, and I got a quick look at the utter confusion on his face as he looked around.

Julio Salazar didn’t exist anymore. He disappeared out of the Federal Prison System and would never hear that name again. The CIA Black Site agents would provide him a codename, an interrogator, a handler, a trainer, and a few doctors to watch over him.

This decommissioned oil platform, a hundred miles from the Louisiana coast in international waters, would be his new home. When he died, the sharks would destroy the evidence.