Horns of the Devil - Jeff Trask [02] Read Online Free PDF Page A

rendition of what any Texan would have recognized as a tribute to the University in Austin. “Think hook ’em horns, but held down or sideways. They call this the Horns of the Devil. The 18ers use similar numerical tats and tags: 666, XVIII, or just eighteen. They wear black mostly, sometimes black and blue.”
    “We need to start concentrating on potential charges,” Trask said. “Tell everyone what the gangs are into.”
    “Drugs, prostitution, extortion, and most of all, violence.” Crawford hit the button on the remote. “Some examples.”
    The screen changed to a photograph of the bodies of two young men and two young women who had been shot in the head, execution style. The women had also been slashed in the face with a machete.
    “Newark, New Jersey, 2007. One of the girls actually survived. There’s a MySpace entry we took off the web from a sixteen-year-old MS-13 gangbanger bragging about his role in this.
    “They’ve got absolutely no respect for authority,” Crawford continued. “In 1997, the son of Ricardo Maduro was kidnapped and beheaded after the government of Honduras started a crackdown on the gang. Ricardo Maduro is a former president of Honduras.”
    “Sound familiar?” Doroz looked at Carter, who nodded. It was evident now why the Bureau had the case. Assassinations, even if drug-related, were federal business, not local.
    The screen changed again, revealing an incredible scene of carnage. A mass of bodies, including several women and small children, lay strewn about a shattered bus.
    “Honduras again, 2002. Some MS-13 members stopped this bus on the outskirts of Tegucigalpa and sprayed it with AK-47s. Killed twenty-eight, including seven little kids, then left graffiti tags on the hood of the bus bragging about it.”
    “Assholes.” Lynn Trask had no tolerance for those who abused the helpless.
    “That they are,” Sivella agreed. “How many of these assholes are we dealing with?”
    “Not that they faithfully return their census forms, but we estimate at least twenty thousand nationally, with as many as ten thousand in the metro DC area.”
    “Shit!” exclaimed Sivella. “Have you guys had any luck penetrating this bunch, Bear?”
    “Only occasionally,” Doroz said. “They have the same code as the mafia. MS por vida. Once you’re in, you’re in for life. The Mara kills cooperators, so they’re hard to recruit. We had a seventeen-year-old female give us some info back in 2003. Four of her high-school classmates stabbed her to death and left her body on the banks of the Shenandoah River. They even whack their own just for trying to leave the gang.”
    On cue, Crawford clicked the remote again. A photograph of a single blood-soaked corpse filled the screen.
    “This is the body of Ernesto Miranda. They called him Smoky. He was actually one of the Mara founders. They murdered him at his home in El Salvador after he refused to attend a gang party. He’d decided to go straight, was attending law school, and was trying to keep kids from joining the gang.”
    “Thanks, Puddin’.” Doroz stood and switched the lights back on. “I just wanted everyone to go into this with their eyes wide open. This is not going to be a normal investigation. We aren’t going to find every street dealer tied to this organization wanting to sing to us in order to avoid a five-spot at Lorton or in some federal pen. They’ll probably want to go down swinging.”
    “That being the case,” Trask said, “let’s look for the hangouts, businesses, wherever they do their dirty work. Without informants, we’ve got to think T3’s.” Title III was the short name given to that section of the federal code covering electronic surveillance: wiretaps and hidden microphones.
    “I agree,” Doroz said. “Willie, I’d like to deputize any of your people working with us on this, so we can cross state lines without having to make a phone call every five minutes. They’ll be our TFOs.” Doroz used the