Cartel Fire

by Tom Riggs

  Hector turned to the men standing beside him.

  “El Ingles?”

  “Gone, Hector,” said one of them looking off and then up. “He is gone. He flew off the roof, jefe. Like Camazotz.”

  “Como Camazotz,” repeated another.

  Camazotz. The Mayan Bat-God, demon of the black sun, still feared in the darkest jungles of Central America.

  Fucking Indians, thought Hector. Fucking Indian mercenaries.

  “Take the other men and meet me at the back of the building,” he said to them. “Avoid the front, there is trouble there.”

  Hector then turned back to the elevator cabin. There was blood on the walls and a pool of blood on the floor under the cadavers. But there was surprisingly little on the bodies themselves. A little splatter perhaps, but he could tell immediately that most of the shooting had been done by a nine millimetre. Small impact wounds. Two of the men also had .45 wounds. Bigger impact wounds, and probably exit wounds too. That was what was causing the blood on the floor. Hector looked at the bodies. The small Salvadorians, their white vests shredded by gunfire. And Teo. The oaf Teo. He looked down at his new deputy and was surprised to see him still alive. Barely breathing, but he was breathing. A small drool of bloody spittle bubbled from his mouth. Hector looked down more closely. The oaf looked like he was trying to speak. He climbed into the cabin, over the body of one of the Salvadorians, and crouched down next to Teo.

  “Urrghh,” gargled Teo as more bloody drool came out of his mouth.

  “What is that Teo? My hijo?” said Hector tenderly. He cupped Teo’s head in both his hands. With his right hand he smoothed back Teo’s short but ruffled hair.

  “Calme te, Teodoro, calme te.”

  Again Teo tried to speak, but only bloody drool came out.

  “What are you trying to say my hijo?” said Hector, in an almost feminine voice.

  Blood continued to bubble out of his mouth, but eventually Teo managed to form a word.

  “Am..bul..ance…” he spluttered.

  Hector continued to stroke his hair and also his cheek.

  “You want an ambulance my hijo?” he looked at Teo closely, intensely. He looked around him, at the tangle of bodies below him, at the empty corridor, and then turned back to his deputy.

  “I will be your doctor today my hijo.”

  Slowly, Hector raised first one of his hands and then the other to his face. Like a child he sucked first his left thumb, and then his right thumb, removing each one slowly, lasciviously. Teo’s eyes were just able to register absolute panic and fear before Hector’s thumbs went over them. He held them there for a moment and smiled. Then he pushed down, hard. As he pushed his thumbs down into Teo’s eye sockets, he rose his head high above Teo’s at the same time. As he pressed down harder and felt Teo’s eyes begin to pop out of their sockets, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Harder and harder he pressed. As he felt his thumbs go past the eyes and enter the soft brain tissue behind, he groaned and half laughed, his face registering an almost sexual ecstasy.

  35

  “Tea or coffee sir?” said the hostess.

  Munro looked up from his aisle seat at a smiling Mexican lady of about forty.

  “Tea, please.”

  “And the lady?”

  Anna had the window seat. She leaned across Munro and asked for tea as well, milk and sugar.

  They sat back with their drinks and reclined their seats slightly. Munro looked around them, the flight was busy. But few of their fellow passengers seemed to be tourists. Most of them looked Mexican, all well-groomed and smartly dressed, some wearing name badges. No doubt some of the thousands who worked in Mexico’s huge tourist trade, taking the hourly shuttle between its two biggest resorts.

  “Cheers,” said Munro raising his Styrofoam cup, “here’s to getting out of Acapulco in one piece.”

  “Here’s to your friend Eduardo,” said Anna, half raising her cup too.

  “Indeed,” agreed Munro, “here’s to Eduardo.” His advice had been spot on, he thought. No-one had looked twice at them at the tiny domestic terminal. They had managed to buy their way onto a flight to Cancun that was just about to take off. It had been perfect, there were hardly even any police at the domestic terminal. Just a couple of bored airport guards to x-ray their luggage.

  “This is too weird,” said Anna.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” she whispered, “an hour ago you were shooting men in lifts and we were paragliding off roofs, watching world war three below us. Now here we are, sipping afternoon tea, like we don’t have a care in the world.”

  “I know it’s odd, and the adrenalin surges are hard to deal with. Pretty soon it will wear off and you’ll feel exhausted. Don’t fight it. If you need to sleep, sleep. We’ve got at least two hours until we reach Cancun.”

  “And then we get on a flight out of here?”

  “Well, not exactly,” said Munro tapping on his Blackberry. He located the inflight Wifi and waited as his emails started to appear on-screen, painfully slowly.

  “What do you mean? I can’t stay in this country any longer, I really can’t.” She was on the verge of tears. “Please, Jack, I really really want to go home now.”

  “Me too, me too. But look at this,” he said showing her the small phone, “it’s a message from Eduardo. Remember he’s a senior military commander for the entire region.”

  Anna looked at the message:

  ‘Good work getting the plane old friend. My nephew, who is one of my aides, will meet you at the airport. You are still on police lists and I need to be careful getting you out of even Cancun. All private jets flying over Eastern Mexico are obliged to stop at Cancun airport. Tomorrow at 6pm, one is due to stop that is flying from Costa Rica to London. I will put you and Miss Neuberg on that plane. It is the best way, trust me. A commercial flight is too much of a risk. I would put you on a military flight myself, but I cannot spare the aircraft.

  I hope you understand old friend. My nephew will take you to a safe place for the night and will guard you.

  Be good old friend.’

  “I don’t know,” said Anna.

  “I know it’s not ideal,” said Munro. “But as he said, a commercial flight is too risky. If the police at the airport stop us, we may be dead before even Eduardo can do anything about it.”

  “You trust this guy?”

  Munro paused to think about the question. He knew Eduardo well. He knew that he hated Hector and his men more than he ever would. He was at war, and he thought like a man at war. Munro knew that well too.

  “We’ll be ok,” he said eventually. “I trust myself.”

  In what seemed like no time at all they touched down at Cancun. Munro and Anna were last off the plane. That was fine with Munro. Anna had slept most of the flight and he could tell that she needed more. The adrenalin crash had hit her hard. As they walked off the plane and onto the boarding stairs, they were hit by the familiar oven blast of late afternoon tropical heat. The plane had been air conditioned to within an inch of its passengers’ lives, and both of them were relived to breath normal air again. Even if it was scented with diesel and kerosene. Munro looked up. There was not a cloud in the sky, but it was a new sky. A Caribbean sky. They waked down the steps of the boarding ramp, the last off the plane. The other passengers were walking through a cordon of cones, to a small glass and concrete terminal building about thirty metres from the plane. Just as Munro and Anna went to follow them they heard a voice behind them.

  “Captain Munro?” They turned to see a young soldier, a young officer in perfectly tailored combat fatigues. The afternoon sun glinted off his belt buckle and high, perfectly shined boots. He saluted.

  “Captain Munro,” he said at attention, “Lieutenant Santiago de Castillo. Colonel De Castillo sent me.”

  “At ease Lieutenant,” said Munro, “and don’t worry about the captain stuff. I’m not a captain of anything anymore. Call me Jack. What’s your name?”
>
  “Of course,” said the young Lieutenant relaxing immediately and smiling, “I’m Jaime. Please señor, señora, come with me. Señora?” he held out his hand for Anna’s bag, shooting what Munro thought was a look of slight disapproval. Munro shrugged helplessly. He had offered to carry her bag when they got up from their seats, but she had refused him. She gave Jaime her bag with a smile.

  “Thank you Jaime, that’s very kind of you.”

  As they walked behind the plane, Munro saw that they were going towards a small army pick-up. It was a Toyota Tacoma, but painted in a green so dark it could have been black. On the passenger door was a small military insignia. Jaime’s regiment he guessed. Other than that it was unmarked. The cargo bed was covered by a rigid black canvas roof, and it was to this that Jaime led them.

  “Forgive the mode of transport, señor Munro. Colonel de Castillo – Eduardo - gave strict orders that you were both to remain hidden for the journey.”

  “Not a problem,” said Anna jumping into the back of the pick-up. “Hidden is just fine with me.”

  They both followed her in and sat down on each side of the cargo bed, on a low wooden bench that ran along both sides. Jaime pulled up the cargo bed door and pulled down the canvas to cover the remaining gap.

  “It is not the most comfortable transport I am afraid, but you will not be seen.” It was suddenly very dark and Jaime leaned over Anna to turn on a small light by the cabin.

  “Where are we going?” asked Anna.

  “Eduardo did not tell you?” laughed Jamie.

  “He just said we were going somewhere safe,” said Munro.

  “You are in for a treat señor, señora. A real treat. My uncle is putting you up in some style for the night. You wait and see.” The young lieutenant smiled and Munro relaxed. He was a good kid. Munro could tell by looking in his eyes. He was green, but honest.

  After forty-five minutes of fast driving along what felt like smooth roads, the pick-up abruptly slowed before turning sharply to the left. They went down what felt like a high verge onto an un-tarmaced surface. The slow pace continued as they bumped along what Munro guessed was a rocky potholed track.

  “This is where new Mexico meets old,” said Jaime smiling. Munro and Anna looked around their cabin, but could see nothing more than blank canvas.

  “We have just been on highway 307, to look at it you could be in Wisconsin or California, all wide lanes, Dunkin’ Doughnuts and Burger Kings,” continued Jaime, “but very few roads leading off the freeway even have tarmac. If you could look outside now, all you would see is jungle.”

  “Can I have a peek?” asked Anna.

  “I am afraid not,” replied the young officer still smiling, “the Colonel’s orders were very specific.”

  But although they could not see the jungle outside, Munro could feel it. The temperature in the covered cargo bed had gone up at least ten degrees and it was suddenly very humid. Munro felt a thin film of sweat and moisture start to creep around his body. Anna too took a sarong out of her bag and went to mop her brow.

  “Not long now señor, señora,” said Jaime, “I am sorry it’s so hot in here.”

  And it was not long. Five minutes later they slowed even more and turned a sharp right. Suddenly the road was smooth again for a minute or so until the pick-up came to a halt. Jaime opened the hatch and canvas cover and jumped out.

  “Welcome to the Villa Escobar!” he cried opening his arms. Munro and Anna climbed out and looked around them. They were in a huge paved forecourt of what looked like a Beverly Hills mansion. All around them, in front of the house, was what should have been a perfectly manicured green lawn, interspersed by the odd palm tree. But whatever sprinkler system had once been in place was obviously broken. What grass there was left was yellow and dry. Mostly, the grass had given way to the sandy soil. Munro guessed that in a few years, no one would know the grass had ever been there.

  “This will be your home for tonight,” said Jaime taking Anna’s bag once again and walking towards a huge wooden double door. The house looked like a fortress from the outside. It was white adobe with a red tiled roof, the Californian idea of what a Mexican hacienda looked like. But what Munro noticed immediately was that there were hardly any windows on their side. What windows there were had been built into circular buttresses that rose like turrets every few metres. They were small and narrow and would have been more appropriate in a medieval castle.

  Jaime had to put down Anna’s bag to open the doors. They were huge too, and also more suited to a castle from the middle ages.

  “Come on in,” he said, walking into a huge reception hall. In front of him, at the bottom of a wide circular staircase, was an enormous bronze statue of a man on a horse. Anna stopped to stare at it.

  “Don Quijote,” said Jaime. “The previous owner was a big fan.”

  “Who was the previous owner?” asked Munro. “You called this place the Villa Escobar.”

  “That’s just a nickname,” laughed Jaime. “We confiscated this place off of a Colombian narco a few years ago. Not Pablo Escobar, but someone similar. The name just sort of stuck. Now the federal government owns it. We’re about to sell the place to a hotel company. But for now, it is where we put honoured guests.”

  Jaime led them through another set of double doors into an enormous living room that opened onto a wide veranda, the length of the entire house. Huge deep white sofas were spread around the living room. In one corner was a wide screen television almost as big as a small cinema screen. On each of the sofas was a fake tiger skin rug. There were pictures of tigers on all the walls and two huge bronze tigers guarded the entrance to the veranda. Jaime followed Munro’s gaze.

  “The owner liked tigers as well,” he explained. “They say when agents first came into the place, there was a real tiger locked up in the garden. But that could just be a rumour.”

  “This place is extraordinary,” said Anna. She and Munro looked beyond the terrace to a white sand beach and a totally calm turquoise Caribbean Sea beyond. “Wow,” said Anna. “Eduardo certainly has some style.”

  “Or a sense of humour,” said Munro looking around. The place was luxurious, but gaudy. Perfect for a Colombian drug lord.

  “There is plenty of food and drink in the kitchen over there,” said Jaime pointing to a door in the far corner of the room. “Colonel de Castillo entertained some generals here last week, so it’s well stocked. I will be at the entrance gate with some of my men, no-one will disturb you. I will come back at three tomorrow afternoon to take you to the airport. You will be comfortable and totally safe here, I assure you señor. The beach is private, there is only jungle for miles either side of us.”

  “Sounds good,” said Munro. If Eduardo wanted him to stay in a drug lord’s villa for the night, then so be it.

  “But please, señor Munro,” continued Jaime, “my uncle asks that you stay in the villa grounds. He has given specific orders that you stay here until I return. Do not try and leave. In any event, there is nowhere to go round here.” He paused and took something off his belt. “Take this radio,” he said handing Munro a small handset. “Any problems or questions just call me on this.”

  “Thanks,” replied Munro, “but won’t you be more comfortable up here?”

  “Thank you señor. But my orders are to guard the entrance gate. It is the only way in and out.” He gave Munro and Anna a casual salute. “Hasta la manana señor y señora.”

  After he had left, Anna and Munro split up to explore their new home separately. Munro went out onto the terrace. The villa was extraordinary. The walls were at least a foot thick, bullet proof he guessed. The once-manicured lawns continued around the villa until they gave way to the soft white Caribbean sand. He walked onto the beach and crouched down to pick up some of the sand. Its consistency was perfect, like finely milled flour. Just then his phone rang. He looked at the number, withheld.

  “Jack Munro,” he said answering it.

  “Jack my man, it’s Luke, Luke
Youngman.”

  “Luke,” replied Munro smiling, “how the hell are you?” Luke Youngman. He had known him when they were both young subalterns in Northern Ireland. Luke had been in the Coldstream Guards then. A fourth generation guardsman, Munro knew that he had since, like so many army officers of his generation, joined SIS. After 9/11, they suddenly needed more intelligence officers on the ground, and bright young army officers were the perfect recruits. They clearly weren’t Al Qaeda sympathisers and they usually were more than happy to spend a few years in some pretty nasty places going after some pretty nasty people.

  “I’m very well Jack, very well.” He paused. “Where are you? The line sounds a bit faint. I am actually in London at the moment, thought we might meet up for a quick beer in Mayfair.”

  Munro thought quickly. He knew Luke Youngman and he liked him, he was clever and straight talking. But he had known him for over ten years. He had never once called up and asked him to go for a beer before.

  “Sadly I’m not in London at the moment Luke, maybe next week?” Play along.

  “That’s a shame,” said Luke. “Where are you exactly?”

  “Well,” said Munro stalling for time, “just now I’m on a very nice beach, just about to watch a very nice sunset.”

  Luke paused and sniffed. “Look Jack, let’s cut the shit. This is an encrypted line so you can say what you want. I don’t care where you are, but I’m calling you about something quite important.”

  “Ok,” said Munro, “shoot. I’m all ears.”

  “Ok,” said Luke, “here goes. A few days ago your partner, Charles Rudd, called one of our people asking about one Adrian Hudson. Does that ring any bells?”