The Jaguar

by T. Jefferson Parker

  He realized that if he tried to pick a truth and was wrong, it would all be over quickly. He looked at the captain’s scar and he studied the anger in his eyes and decided.

  —Not for the tarpon. For protection from the cartels.

  —You cannot bring such a weapon into Mexico.

  —Maybe the Army should have them. How many good soldiers have been murdered in Mexico since the war on drugs?

  The captain stared morosely at Bradley. Then he turned and barked something at the man behind him, who quickly left the room.

  Bradley heard the voices and scuffling outside. In the headlights he saw a group of four men pushing Cleary and Vega along in front of them. Cleary’s face streamed blood shiny in the light and Vega’s head was down like someone trying to avoid a camera. Another soldier held open the back door of one of the SUVs and they shoved Cleary inside. Vega stepped in after him and the man slammed the door shut, then looked inside as if they might have gotten away already.

  The man who had frisked Bradley now came from the bathroom holding Bradley’s expense wad of roughly forty-nine thousand dollars and his Glock and the AirLite. All of this he dropped to the bed.

  —You killed sixteen Zetas in Campeche yesterday, on the highway.

  —We were attacked.

  —Where are all of your friends?

  —Merida.

  —Who are they?

  —They are Americans. There are ten of them. We work with Baja state police and Baja Sur and others in the north. Our bosses have talked with Calderón himself.

  —I have heard of this weapon you have. It is used by Carlos Herredia and his North Baja Cartel.

  —It’s a very good weapon. Read what it says on the slide.

  The captain picked up the gun.

  —There is a telescoping butt, capitán. Press on the two small buttons and it will appear.

  The captain found the buttons on the rear of the gun, just under the slide, and the end of the butt popped out. He pulled it to its furthest reach and looked at Bradley again.

  —May I step into the bathroom, capitán? I have some things to show you.

  The captain motioned to the first soldier, who then followed Bradley into the bath. He rummaged in the side of his duffel and pulled out the silencer and an extended fifty-shot clip, holding one up in each hand for the man to see. He nodded gravely.

  Back near the bed he handed them to the captain, who screwed the silencer onto the barrel threads. He popped out the nine-shot magazine and snapped home the gracefully curving extended clip. Guns and ammo, thought Bradley: the universal language of cops and bad guys.

  —It will fire all fifty rounds in five seconds. Or you can leave it set on semi. It’s real accurate. Take it. It is a gift from me to you.

  —It must be confiscated.

  —I understand. Confiscate the one on the desk, too. Please.

  One of the soldiers strode to the desk and unveiled the machine pistol waiting under the Merida newspaper.

  —Of course the cash is for the Mexican Army also. It will buy lots of good equipment and hire some more good men. Please leave me the smaller sidearms, captain. It’s not good to be in Mexico without defense. As you know.

  The captain looked at the money, then up at Bradley.

  —All of this will be kept as evidence.

  —Of our friendship?

  —Of your crime.

  —What crime?

  —The murder of sixteen.

  —They were Zetas. We did you a favor.

  The captain looked at the lead soldier, who pulled a pair of old-fashioned metal handcuffs from his belt and cuffed Bradley’s hands behind his back.

  —Capitán? What’s wrong with you? I offer you my friendship and gifts of respect for you and your men. And you do this? I ask you now, man to man, to let me be free in Mexico. I’m not here to fish. I do not like fish or fishing. I’m here to find my wife. She was kidnapped by the Gulf Cartel at gunpoint. From my home in California. Armenta has threatened to skin her the day after tomorrow. I love her as you love your wife. Please, allow me to save her from rape and death. If you can find it in your heart.

  The capitán listened in intent silence. The hairless patch in his right eyebrow gave him a vulnerable look but his eyes were dark and very alert. The scar continued up his forehead and into his hairline. Bradley could almost see the wheels turning inside the man’s brain.

  —Where is she?

  —Here in Quintana Roo.

  —Quintana Roo is very large.

  —North of Kohunlich and east of Bacalar.

  —This is only jungle. You must have coordinates if you are looking for her. Or a map.

  —I have neither. I’m waiting for the information.

  —You can continue your story on the way to our base.

  —I’m a friend. I’m a cop. We are distant brothers. Let me go take care of my wife. You have my gifts.

  —I don’t need your gifts. No gringo comes to Mexico and murders sixteen men.

  —Zetas.

  —So you say. But why is a Zeta not a man?

  —The Zetas are killers and torturers. And who made you God?

  —We go now.

  “Fuck!”

  The captain nodded at the first soldier. A moment later he came from the bedroom with Bradley’s satellite phone clipped to his belt and the bricks of cash in both hands.

  Handcuffed or not Bradley held a third-degree black belt in Hapkido, a pain-based Korean attack system designed to break bones, blind, maim, and kill. When the soldier tried to walk past him Bradley kicked him hard on the chin and put him down. The captain swung his AR-15 too slowly and Bradley cracked the outside of his foot against his head and the stout man rocked to his left. Bradley jumped into the air and launched the same foot the other way, the hard top of the arch catching the captain flush on the cheekbone. The man crashed butt first to the floor with a dazed look on his face.

  Bradley was outside in a flash. He sprinted around the casita and into the jungle and he could hear the bullets flying past him hitting the trees and branches. But the AR-15s threw so much lead at him that he knew he had to hit the ground or take a bullet so he plunged headfirst to the root-knotted jungle floor and lay there with his heart pounding as the bullets cut through the foliage above him and his hope fled.

  Soon they were upon him. He tried to rise and run again but one of the men tackled him and the two others were soon above him, their fists and boots finding their marks. His cheek was smashed into the earth and he felt the grind of mud in his ear then the wallop of a boot to his mouth, then another. But mostly he felt his heart breaking because he knew he had no chance now and Erin would wait at the cenote alone tomorrow. And then what? What would she do? The blows rained down and each one of them felt deserved, a reminder of his spectacular incompetence. Somehow he found his footing and struggled up, but quickly they knocked him back down.

  The gringos were taken not to a Mexican Army base but to a decrepit warehouse somewhere near the village of Ramonal. It was a long low building with a colonnade along the street and a veranda that sagged between each column. The window openings were boarded over with plywood and there were no lights outside or in and Bradley could see no entrance as they drove past.

  The driver pulled around the south side and parked deep in shadowed darkness. Two of the Army vehicles were already there, Bradley saw, and the others were behind them and he could see a faint rectangle of light from the door that stood open above the loading dock.

  —The party house?

  Bradley’s voice sounded roughly unfamiliar, and with his swollen tongue he felt the dangling tooth and the sharp edge of its broken neighbor. His lips burned and felt twice their usual size. His shirt front had a red swath down the button line.

  —Yes. Big parties here, said the captain.

  —Why aren’t guns and money enough to buy mercy in this wretched country? What is wrong with you people?

  —Get out.

  They pus
hed and pulled him out of the Durango and walked him up the loading ramp. Inside bare bulbs hung on a cord from the high ceiling and there were old conveyor belts and rollers scattered, and packing tables and shipping stations long defunct. Near the middle of the large open warehouse Bradley saw three ropes hung from pulleys high in the rafters. Each rope ended in a hook heavy enough to straighten the rope without a load and fitted with a clip to keep its cargo fast. The opposite ends were wrapped around the spools of manual crank winches bolted to the floor.

  There were commercial grade floodlights fixed to the rafters and, when these blasted on, Bradley saw the blood-stained floorboards and the bolted rings and shackles and chains and the chainsaws and the red gas cans arranged in a loose row to one side like an audience. There was a car battery with jumper cables and assorted hand tools thick with rust, lengths of rope and garden hose, pry bars, gloves and folding chairs, all frosted and surreal in the white light.

  His heart dropped. The sum of all fears in Mexico, right here in this building. Wrong call. Not the good guys I was hoping for. Armenta’s goons. And now we slowly die.

  —All this is for your interviews?

  —The interviews are long.

  —What do you want to know, capitán?

  —It’s very simple what I want to know.

  Two of the men wrestled Caroline Vega forward and two more brought an unresisting Jack Cleary into the bright wash of the torture lights. Both were handcuffed and Cleary still bled from the nose. The soldiers shackled each of them to the floor by one ankle, then they clipped a ceiling hook through the chain of Bradley’s handcuffs. When one of the men cranked the hand winch, the pulley whinnied far overhead and his arms jerked up behind him and his head dropped forward. Soon there was only an inch of play before the joints of Bradley’s shoulders would give way. He stared at the floor. The pain was sharp but bearable though he could feel that it would grow exponentially with even a twitch of the winch.

  —Capitán? Please tell me what you want.

  —Did you bring the guns to sell to Armenta? Or to kill him?

  —Are you an honest soldier, capitán?

  The pulley squealed and Bradley’s breath caught and he stood on his tiptoes aghast at the pain and the promise of pain.

  —To sell him or to kill him? Why is this difficult to say?

  God my faith is in you, Bradley thought.

  —To kill him.

  —What did you say?

  —Kill him! He kidnapped my wife. I told you. He’s holding her.

  —I don’t believe this. I believe you came to sell the guns.

  —I have no guns but the ones I gave to you.

  —Then where is your wife?

  —I told you. Somewhere above Kohunlich.

  —But where? Why are you south if she is north?

  —I don’t know exactly where.

  The man at the winch moved slightly, the pulley shrieked overhead and the pain jumped through Bradley like a charge. He bellowed and stood on his tiptoes, his head down almost to his knees, his hamstrings burning.

  —If you don’t know where she is then how can you save her?

  —The Yucatán! Between Kohunlich and the Caribbean.

  —This is only jungle. You must have coordinates or a map. Perhaps you are trying to sell weapons to Armenta. Perhaps this is why you slaughtered the Zetas on the highway.

  —We were attacked. If Armenta knew I was here I’d be dead. He has my wife. She’s a performer in the Estados Unidos. Erin and the Inmates, very popular.

  The capitán looked at Bradley then at one of his men, who shook his head.

  —This means nothing to us.

  —She means everything to me. Let me go. Let me try to find her. I’m no friend of Armenta. I swear to you on the name of the one God we know and fear.

  —You must know where she is. You must have coordinates or a map. We can help you if you tell us where she is.

  Bradley pressed up onto his tiptoes. He could feel the impossible angles forced upon his shoulder sockets and the imminent surrender of the joints. No pain in his life had prepared him for this if any pain can.

  —I have the coordinates, he whispered.

  The winch man cranked.

  —I have them! he screamed.

  He felt his feet leave the floor and he dove forward to preserve his shoulders and the next thing he knew the floor had jumped up against his face and the excruciating pain had vanished. In its place was something duller but better and in the center of it he felt the beating of his heart.

  He felt the rough floorboard against his cheek. The overhead lights beat into his eye. There was rope piled on his head. He gasped rhythmically, aware but not aware, suspended between the waking and the other world. The dark shape of a man hovered over him and he understood that this was either the beginning or the end. He called upon all his inner strength to remember the GPS coordinates accurately. He summoned them up through the pain and humiliation and they came. So he shaved the seconds north and west enough to mislead the Mexican Army and he took a deep breath before delivering the most important lie of his life.

  —Eighteen degrees, forty minutes, zero seconds north. Eighty-eight degrees, twenty-two minutes, sixty seconds west. Thirty armed men, at least.

  —You will write this on paper.

  —If my arms will work.

  One of the men unclipped the hook from Bradley’s handcuffs and rolled him over. Bradley hollered from the pain in his shoulders. He knew the joints were twisted and stretched but not quite dislocated. For a moment he squinted against the lights. Then he sat up, his legs stretched flat out in front of him like an infant. He felt like an infant also, small and helpless and the object of great attention from larger, more powerful beings. He nodded at disbelieving Caroline Vega and the still stunned Jack Cleary, then looked up at the capitán.

  —Pen and paper, please.

  The captain waved one of the soldiers over and the man bent down and handed Bradley a stub of pencil and a tattered, body-warmed notepad open to a clean page. Bradley wrote in the coordinates. He wondered if perhaps the federal troops who protected the Reserva Biosfera de la Kohunlich might prevent these Army troops from entering onto their turf. Sure, he thought: a turf war like the CIA and FBI, or the U.S. Army and Navy might have. Everyone competes. Everyone meddles. Just two days, he thought. Just two days of stalling and posturing, and I can get Erin and be gone.

  —If the numbers are different than the ones you told me I’ll execute you.

  —Check them over, Captain.

  The captain took the notebook and read the numbers and looked at Bradley.

  —Perfecto. You will now come to Quintana Roo Police headquarters. Where you will be safe. The Campeche State Police will travel here to talk to you about the Zetas.

  —Tomorrow is all I have, Captain. I’ve got one day to get her out of Armenta’s compound.

  —I am afraid that you will be occupied for tomorrow. If we discover your wife we will detain and return her to the United States as our constitution requires.

  —I will donate two hundred thousand dollars to the Army if you’ll let me go.

  —Saturnino offered three hundred thousand and I told him to go to hell. I fear not for myself, but for my family.

  —Four hundred thousand. Bring your family to California. I’ll get you on with the LASD. Starting pay is around forty thousand a year, plus benefits.

  The captain stared down at him while he tore out the sheet with the coordinates on it. Then he smiled bitterly.

  —Americanos. You come all the way to the bottom of Mexico to insult me with your bribes?

  Bradley awaited the boot.

  —Tell me what the cost of my wife is.

  —The cost is your business with Benjamin Armenta and the many thousands of men like him.

  The captain tossed the notebook back to the soldier and barked an order and marched heavily toward the door. Suddenly Bradley was up and being pushed along behind Cleary and Vega a
nd he knew that sunrise would find him not at the cenote but in a jail in Chetumal, if sunrise found him at all.

  29

  ERIN LABORED THROUGH THE NIGHT and into morning, fell asleep with the Hummingbird and a notebook beside her on the bed, then awakened after two hours of horrifying dreams.

  In one of the dreams Saturnino came into her room while she slept and she understood, in the strange logic of dreams, that if she awakened he would attack her. So she remained still, watching him through her closed eyelids. He had a perfectly V-shaped divot in the center of his hairline where the flashlight had crashed into him. He prowled the room looking for something on the table, then in the desk, his back to her. When he turned and looked at her from across the suite he was a leopard and in his mouth was a baby doll dressed in a blue jumpsuit as an infant boy might be. The leopard looked at her with the doll dangling, then dropped the doll and sprang through the window, silently gliding through the pane without breaking it, and into the dark. The doll ate a box of cereal, then grew roots and turned into a white poinsettia.

  She was saved by the knock of Atlas, and she called for him to come in as she wrestled herself up from the nightmare. She was so glad to see him. Her life had come down to this day. Sweet Tuesday, she thought. Please be the day this ends. She cried and hid in the bathroom and checked if the gun was still there and it was. When she came out she asked him for coffee and a light breakfast.

  Now she was back in the studio control room, listening to more of the narcocorridos in Armenta’s vast collection of CDs. She had not changed her clothes or showered. She could smell herself. Her hair was pulled back in a lank ponytail and her temples were dotted with perspiration in spite of the coolness of the studio.

  “I’ll come back for you if you want,” said Owens.