The Terror of Tijuana

by S. J. Varengo

  Luis chuckled. “I don’t get called smart nearly often enough,” he said with flawless Teutonic inflection. He took a quick glance around himself, then went on, “This place isn’t great.”

  “The food looks amazing,” Nicole said.

  “I mean tactically. The sushi is to die for. I have your friends in my car. We’ll grab a bite then I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”

  “Were you able to do anything with the intel Darlene sent you?”

  As she finished asking the question, two rectangular plates delightfully displaying a variety of sushi arrived, as pleasing to the eye as the palate. Luis delayed his answer until the young waitress left them. “I was, and with far less trouble than I expected. It seems your guy is sort of well-known.”

  “He is?”

  Luis was eating quickly, and he nodded his head while his mouth was full of food. “The name is at least. Finish up, and we’ll talk more in the car.”

  In a very non-Asian manner, Nicole and Luis wolfed their food down. Even though she couldn’t properly savor it, Cole was aware that it was delicious. After a very short stay, which no doubt pleased the waitress, Luis paid the tab and they left.

  Outside, he pointed to a Volkswagen Clásico, a few years old and a little bumped and bruised. As Cole slid into the passenger seat, Luis started the car and switched back to English.

  “I looked for a specific sort of person to ask about him and found that many of the people I expected to know about him had never heard either the alias or his real name. But they were able to point me in the direction of some who had. Most of these were low-wage workers, not outright street people. Those that knew of him didn’t sing his praises. He’s achieved a strange status, kind of a bogeyman, a pesadilla. Someone you tell your kids stories about to make them behave. A lot of ‘En nombre del padre, del hijo y del espíritu santo’ when you talk about him.”

  “How about a location?”

  Luis had pulled the car down a narrow street that ended in a “T.” He took a left and then backed into a small shed made of corrugated metal. As he killed the engine, he produced an iPad from under the driver’s seat. After a few quick taps, he turned it to face her. Nicole looked and was only mildly surprised to see the same apartments she’d noticed earlier now displayed from street level. She figured that telling him her gut was leading her in the same direction might sound a little flakey, and when establishing a rapport with a new handler, it was best not to get too spooky. And she already liked Luis. She could see he was good.

  But the handler had noticed something, despite her poker face. “What is it, Mrs. Porter?” he asked.

  “Jesus, Luis. Nicole, please. And, well, I had a hunch that area might come into play.”

  Luis nodded approvingly. “I’ve heard about your instincts. They’re pretty legendary.”

  She made a loud, dismissive puff. “I’m nothing compared to Darlene. It was her instincts that got me down here. Hell, it was her gut that got the case rolling in the first place.”

  “Never underestimate the importance of that. In Spanish, we call it ‘La mano de Dios.’”

  “’The hand of God,’” Nicole translated, relieved at his openness to the concept.

  “Sí,” he said. “I have felt it guide me more than once.”

  “Me too. Sometimes into bad places.”

  “There are many of those in Tijuana, and these buildings are certainly on that list. They are newer, as you can probably tell from the picture. I couldn’t get confirmation, but I’m pretty sure they belong to the Cartel.”

  “Which one?”

  Luis smiled, a little sadly. “In Tijuana, when someone says ‘the Cartel,’ they are referring to the old guard. When they speak of the new one, they just say ‘El diablo.’ Usually with more of the ‘en el nombre del padre…’”

  “Do the people fear the new or the old more?”

  “The people fear. Period. They have known the Cartel for a long time and may have grown able to steer clear of their operations. Not comfortable but... familiar, I suppose. The new group has proven especially deadly, but they’re loco, making many bold, aggressive moves to establish themselves and to undercut los viejos… the old-timers. They are scary enough to be called by the name of the Enemy.”

  “So anyway, the old guard owns the complex?”

  The handler nodded. “That’s my theory.” He paused, and now Nicole noted his hesitancy.

  “But…”

  “But more than one person that has been connected with the Devil are known to live there. The American business term ‘hostile takeover’ comes to mind.”

  “Hmm. Odd. So, if the place is part of a cartel tug-of-war, and if Cara Rota is there, what does that mean about him?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Luis cautioned. “The majority of the residents are just poor people, happy to live in a building constructed in the same century that they’re in. But on the other hand, from what I’ve been able to glean in the short amount of time since Darlene contacted me, he’s just a street punk. A physical oddity to look upon, but unremarkable otherwise. He shouldn’t be able to afford to live there.”

  Nicole considered this. Was Muñoz connected with one of the drug gangs? And if so, was there more to the killings of the American girls than just a homicidal rampage by a social outcast?

  “You’ve learned a lot. Your intel collection skills are noted.”

  “So can I expect a raise, boss?” the handler joked. “But, seriously, even the little bit Emanuel gave us made my job easier.”

  Nicole knew the crack about a raise was in fun, but she planned on authorizing one nonetheless.

  “Guns in the trunk?” she asked after a beat.

  Luis nodded. When Nicole joined him at the rear of the car, she smiled as she watched him pop the button on the trunk with a hammer-like motion. It opened slightly, and he moved to the right-hand corner and placed a second tap there, fully releasing it. The VW’s rear storage area was small, but it had been converted into a very nice mobile armory. She saw a Walther CP88 and quickly grabbed that. She slipped it into her bag along with some small boxes of ammo, then spotted another Walther, a PP series .22 caliber. Next to it was an ankle holster. She yanked up on the leg of her slacks and tightened it around her leg. After making sure there wasn’t a bullet in the chamber, she secured the weapon snugly inside and pulled the pantleg back down and looked up at Luis, who nodded with approval.

  “It’s invisible,” he confirmed.

  “Alright. That’s all I’m taking for now. I may need more later, though,” she said, eyeing the rest of the hardware, including what looked like some long-range pea shooters toward the back of the trunk.

  “Not a problem. I’m staying in Tijuana until… I’m released. God help me.”

  Nicole did not miss the hitch. What Luis hadn’t said was “Until you kill the mark… or join Manny.” Or maybe he was just looking for the right word in English.

  “Alright. Keep your phone on. How close are we to the apartments?”

  Luis smiled and pointed to the east. “Four blocks.”

  She found it odd that the closer she walked toward the white four-story buildings, the quieter it seemed to grow. She was sure that her sensitivity to the area’s energy was mixing with her other senses, although she suspected her imagination might be what was steering the ship. Still, each step closer seemed to increase a feeling of foreboding. She was depending on gut now, just as Darlene had when she called her to tell her she feared for Manny, and it wasn’t telling her anything good. But at least it was tempered with solid intel, so she pressed on.

  The main indication that the apartments were inhabited at all was the mob of kids playing in the mostly empty parking areas. She meandered to the largest collection of laughing, running little monsters, but stopped at a distance, letting a momentary wave of disorientation pass. Fucking residual energy, she thought to herself once she felt better. She laughed at the absurdity of the idea but realized it might be a good idea to
rest for a minute before starting her investigation of the area in earnest. Solid stance, girl, she told herself.

  Looking again to the parking lot full of kids playing beisbol, she walked to its perimeter and brushed off a spot on a concrete barrier, sitting down to gather her thoughts and catch her breath. A moment later, she noticed a young boy break off from the crowd. He’d been playing third base and appeared to need a blow himself. He called back to the group, shouting “Necesito descansar!” The game paused as the other kids groaned and threw their ragged gloves down in disgust.

  Yeah, kid, Nicole thought, I need to rest too.

  The boy sat on a different barrier than Nicole but was close enough that she could hear himself mumbling under his breath. She couldn’t make it out at first, but then she realized he was counting.

  To this point, all Nicole had done was observe the area, and she now felt as though she needed to step things up and decided to ask the kid if he’d ever heard of Danilo… no, wait. She knew that in Mexico if a person had been given a nickname, even one as disturbing as Broken Face, it would likely how most people knew him.

  Although she could not have known it then, she was asking the same child, wearing the same even dirtier striped shirt and even less cream-colored shorts, the identical question Manny had two days prior. “Conoces a Cara Rota?”

  The boy smiled for just a second, then pointed, just as he had for Manny. “Él entra allí.”

  Nicole looked at the building he’d indicated. She stood and prepared to walk away, but noticed the boy hold out his hand. She’d stopped at the front desk of the hotel and exchanged some dollars for pesos, assuming she’d need to lay out some coin once she started asking questions. She offered him five pesos, not knowing it was only about half of what Manny had paid. The boy looked at it for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “Se queda en el sotano,” he said, stuffing the coin into his pocket.

  Obviously, she was unaware of the growing parallels, but she now got the same odd feeling that had struck Manny when he’d heard the boy’s choice of words: “He enters there,” not “lives there” and even more chilling, “It stays in the basement.”

  “It,” not “he.”

  Nicole had been in modern apartment blocks many times, and she knew there were often units located on the basement level, so she didn’t think it was necessarily strange that the boy indicated that was where she’d find the man she was looking for. She did think it was very strange that getting a lead on the man she sought had proven this easy and wondered if the boy might have been paid to lure anyone who looked like they might be gullible enough into a mugging. The cartels weren’t the only thing one had to worry about in Tijuana. Street crime was just as prevalent, and this felt… off.

  Still, she figured it was worth at least taking a look, and she walked toward the building.

  As he watched the American woman walk away, the urchin began counting to himself again. He was calculating the amount of money he’d receive from the man had told him to send anyone looking for Cara Rota to the basement when next he saw him. He didn’t know why the fellow thought people would be asking about the devil-man. But dinero was dinero. The agreed upon amount had been fifty pesos per, and as of right now that meant a hundred, which was more money than he’d ever seen at one time.

  He had sent the man there two days prior. Although the man had been Hispanic, the boy knew he was from los Estados Unidos. You could always tell. So it didn’t bother him that the man had gone into the building but, as far as he knew, had never come out. And if he never saw this pretty lady and her five pesos again, well, that would be no big deal either. No hay bronca, he thought. Not a problem.

  9

  One Man’s Trash…

  Neal and Dan crossed the border into Mexico without incident. Finding the dig site was slightly more challenging. After doing his best to skirt the city of Tijuana by traveling eastward on Mexican Federal Highway 2, Neal drove them through the mountains until reaching Highway 3, which sent them south until just before reaching Valle de Las Palmas, or Palm Valley, as the GPS so Anglocentrically labeled it.

  “Look at that,” he said, nudging Dan and pointing to the screen on the dash. “We Yanks think everything everywhere needs American names.”

  Dan had been looking at his phone to learn what he could about the area. Valle de las Palmas, he learned, was an example of long-term urban planning by the Mexican government, who were hoping to develop the locality into a city with a population of at least a million people by the year 2030. This would put it, they hoped, on par with Tijuana to its northwest and Mexicali to its northeast. At the last federal census in 2010, it weighed in with eighteen hundred and sixty inhabitants, just a tantalizing nine hundred ninety-eight thousand shy of the goal.

  “Well, we should come upon signs of the dig site before we reach Palm Valley. Sorry, Valle de… the thing you said.”

  “Anybody ever tell you you’re really, really white, Dan?”

  Ignoring the good-natured jibe, Dan scanned the roadway. It was only about twenty-five miles from Tijuana to the dig site, but that was as the crow flies, and unfortunately, they did not have a crow at their disposal. He hadn’t seen many roads running off the highway while they drove through the mountains.

  “What are you looking for, all eagle-eyed over there?”

  “I’m looking for a sign that says, ‘Hey, Battery Guy that we don’t even know exists! The dig is right over here!’ Failing that, I’ll settle for a path from the highway to the site.”

  “Ha ha. That’s good material. What about that?” Neal pointed to a strip of dirt that went between a couple of large rocks and into a depression that made it impossible to see if this was a naturally occurring path or the result of moving equipment and personnel to and from a secluded dig. Neal stopped the car and they both got out.

  Some scrub brush appeared to be growing between the boulders, but upon closer inspection, it was clear that it had been dragged into place and crudely affixed to the ground to keep it from blowing away in the substantial mountain breezes.

  “This looks promising,” Neal said.

  “You don’t think it could be a bandito hideout, do you?” Dan asked, semi-seriously.

  Neal stared at him for a minute. “Gee, Dan. I hope not, what with all the helpless señoritas in our party.”

  “Just help me move this scrub,” Dan said.

  “Mmm. Thinking no. Let’s walk in.”

  “Are you sure you want to leave the Rover by the side of the road?”

  Neal looked down the road in both directions. For as far as he could see, there was no sign of life besides the paved strip of roadway and the poorly constructed brush blind. “Doesn’t appear to be rush hour yet. I think we’ll be okay.”

  “Still.”

  “Look, if it makes you feel better, we’ll move the scrub, pull it out of sight, replace the scrub, and walk in.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Dan began to pull the brush free from its ersatz anchor. “Why are you so keen on walking in?”

  “I’m thinking we’ll be able to get closer without them hearing us coming.”

  Now it was Dan’s turn to stare blankly. “Are we here to check out batteries or to ambush them?”

  “Just don’t want to startle them.”

  “Archaeology!” Dan scoffed as he tugged a small section free. “Just digging through ancient garbage, really.”

  “Quit grumbling and close that back up after I pull through.”

  They had cleared the opening and Neal returned to the car. Dan noticed a little patch of wet soil near where the scrub had been, and a faint tire track was encouragingly visible. As Neal pulled the Land Rover behind the larger of the two boulders, Dan dutifully re-anchored the brush.

  “Come on!” Neal called as he locked the car.

  “There’s always time to be a good neighbor,” Dan said as he checked his handiwork.

  From this side of the rocks, the path was clearly defined, although from this close to th
e highway, its terminus was hidden as it dipped then circled around a rise. The two men began walking.

  As they followed the curve around the rock, they saw two things simultaneously.

  The first, still a half-dozen meters in the distance, was clearly an archeological dig. Some people scurried about busily, while others could be seen in various places moving with delicate precision as they carefully removed dirt from embedded items.

  This would have no doubt been very exciting were it not for the second thing they saw. Between them and the excavation were five angry-looking men, four of whom had even angrier-looking automatic weapons pointed at them.

  The only one not aiming a gun called out, “¡No te muevas, hijo de puta!”

  The men instinctively threw their hands in the air. “Fuck! Fuck! What did he say?” Neal asked.

  “How the hell should I know?” Dan asked.

  “Don’t you speak Spanish?” the battery empresario asked, incredulity staining his voice and hiking it up a full octave.

  “No! I thought you did!”

  “Jesus Christ, Daniel! Aw, I knew I should have used the pee jug before we started down the trail!”

  As the two men spoke, the gun-squad burst out laughing. The man who had called out in Spanish (and who appeared to be the leader of the group), now said, “I said, ‘Don’t move, son of a whore.’”

  “Oh, so you were talking to Dan, then,” Neal stammered.

  The men began to laugh even harder, and the captain motioned for them to lower their guns.

  One of the others said in English, but with a heavy Mexican accent, “I don’t think these are cartel strongmen.”

  “No,” Dan said desperately. “Neal’s not any kind of strongman. He’s incredibly weak.”

  “How can I help you gentlemen?” the leader asked as his men nearly doubled over.

  “Well, I saw an article…” Neal began, but the man interrupted.

  “You, uh, can put your arms down now. Rule of thumb: when the guns go down, the arms can too.”