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Sinaloa, curiosity was generally bad for your health, and never more so than in the remote hinterlands.
    The trucks wheeled off the tarmac and onto the road, moving east, leaving the city behind within fifteen minutes. The men checked and rechecked their weapons and gear, partially out of habit, and partially to keep busy during the interminable wait while they convoyed towards their destination.
    An occasional hushed phrase would crackle over the radios, but beyond that, the men were quiet. There was no way of knowing who would be walking back up the stairs to board the plane tomorrow morning, and who would be going home in a body bag. The pre-operative tension silenced even the most gregarious, leaving each man alone with his thoughts, attempting to focus on the challenge to come.
     
    ~
     
    Only a few lights were on at the main house, with the surrounding casitas darkened and virtually invisible against the cloudy night sky. The dirt track leading to the ranch forked off the main road three miles away; the string of vehicles crept towards it with lights extinguished. Once they were several hundred yards from the main gate of the perimeter wall, the convoy stopped, and the armed commandos leapt from the vehicles, prepared for massive resistance.
    The information on the ranch had come from one of the top Sinaloa cartel lieutenants who was now serving a life sentence for his role in multiple murders, extortion, assault, drug trafficking and kidnapping. In return for favorable treatment, he’d come forward during questioning and volunteered that the most likely place Aranas would be holding a captive would be at this facility which, while owned by an obscure company that trafficked in fertilizer and farming chemicals, was in reality one of the Sinaloa cartel’s strongholds.
    This had been a major break for the federal police, who had never been able to tie the cartel to any noteworthy properties other than business fronts. The web of underlying corporations that owned cartel assets was ridiculously convoluted, and nothing was ever in any of the kingpins’ names. No doubt by design – the Mexican cartels had access to the most expensive and sophisticated attorneys to handle their holdings, so no matter how many layers of the asset onion were peeled, there were always more to stymie investigators.
    The army’s role in the night’s assault was to provide backup support for the federal strike team and to block the road leading to the ranch to ensure that no reinforcements could come to the aid of the defenders once the battle got underway. Ideally, the federal force would be able to move in stealthily and avoid detection until it was too late for the ranch’s occupants to react effectively. A lightning strike was best if the girl was to have any chance of survival.
    Dense vegetation shielded the federal force from prying eyes and killed any sound traveling from the road. The team moved at a jog, weapons at the ready, wary of any watchers. Sentries would be customary, and their orders would invariably be to shoot first and ask questions later, so the men were prepared to engage at any moment.
    Upon arriving at the entrance, the leader made a hand signal. The men fanned out. The second in command pointed at a security camera mounted atop the gatepost, and an officer quickly ran forward and snipped the feed cable with wire cutters. Another man moved to the gate with bolt cutters and made short work of the heavy padlock securing it in place, before returning the unwieldy tool to his backpack and swinging his rifle back into his grasp. The second in command hastily sprayed the hinges with WD-40 to eliminate any sound when it opened.
    They were ready.
    As the barrier swung open with a low moan, the men surged through the opening and raced the hundred yards from the wall to the main house, the only sound their breathing and the soft clumping of their rubber-soled boots. Groups of three broke off from the central formation and