The Girl with the Golden Gun

by Ann Major

  Until Angelita he had been going through the motions of living. When he had pulled her out of the gulf and she’d been so white and cold in his bed, whimpering and shivering as she’d slept for long hours in his arms, a tenderness he’d never known before had taken possession of his heart. Even when she’d been weak and defenseless, he’d sensed her strength and fierce independence. When she’d opened her eyes and looked into his, she said, “Shanghai,” and had smiled with an infinite yearning that had melted his heart. Then she’d snuggled closer and clung to him, repeating that name again and again.

  He had wanted to be that man. He wanted her to say his name and look at him that tenderly.

  Estela, his wife, was an easy woman, who got what she wanted through sexual manipulation and feminine wiles. She did as she was told. It had been pleasant living with her until he’d brought Angelita home. Estela had never minded his other girlfriends. She’d understood he was simply a man. But from the first when she’d seen how he was with Angelita, she’d gone crazy with jealousy. Even now she screamed at him on the telephone if he called his sons. He felt bad to cause her so much pain, but he couldn’t help himself.

  Angelita was fate.

  The sound of boots stomping across the hardpacked dirt broke into his thoughts. When he saw it was Chito, he swam for his gun. They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other since their fight and the bust, and he didn’t trust him.

  “I’m sorry about Marco and the plane and the cargo,” Chito said. Then he threw a bunch of newspapers and a videotape onto the ground.

  “What are those?”

  “More articles written by that pendejo, Terence Collins. And a videotape.” Chito lit a cigarette. “She throw you out, no? She’s the reason you’re swimming in a cold pool at night, eh?”

  “Shut up. What’s Collins up to?”

  “Take her. Force her. Get it over with. Break her, like you would a horse. Find out what she knows. If she had a hand in Marco’s death, you must kill her, so the men will respect you again.”

  “She had nothing to do with Marco!” Tavio wished he knew that for sure. “I have heard there are new ways of breaking horses. Gentler ways.”

  “You scare me. Don’t go soft. If we get soft, we die. Don’t let her change you.”

  Live—or die. Kill—or be killed.

  “I came looking for you for another reason,” Chito said. “There’s been a second drug bust on a ranch north of El Paso. We lost Paulo’s plane, too—the crew, the pilot and the load.”

  Tavio let out a stream of obscenities.

  “Juan just flew in with these latest newspapers from Ciudad Juarez. Collins wrote an exposé on you and some of the politicos we pay for protection. He aired this videotape on a local news show in El Paso. There’s some footage of you with Garza in Colombia. And some of you and me paying off Lopez in Chihuahua City. Your brother ran it in Ciudad Juarez on his television station.”

  “Collins got all that on film?”

  Chito nodded grimly. “Something big is going on. Lopez is under house arrest. I called Comandante Gonzales to see what he knows, and he wouldn’t take my calls. Somebody’s feeding the DEA and Collins a hell of a lot of information.”

  Tavio frowned. Federico had always been jealous of him. Was he in the middle of this? “But who is selling me out?”

  “Any one of the bastards. If the price is right.…We must find this traitor and kill him. If you have to kill ten men to get the rotten manzanas, you must do it.”

  Kill—or be killed.

  Tavio was silent for a long time.

  “Maybe we don’t have to kill so many. Maybe just one or two—to set an example.”

  “But—”

  “You’re right.”

  “Who do we go after first?”

  “Angelita knows who helped her. Rape her. Threaten to cut her. Make her tell you!”

  “Bastardo, did you hide her in that plane?” Tavio demanded, knowing the answer.

  Enough pesos would buy almost anything. In the end he had not had to rape Angelita to find out who’d hidden her. He’d simply put up a reward for the information. Three peasants had come forward with different versions of the same story.

  Julio’s thin form shook with fear as he stumbled ahead of Tavio through the brush-studded sand hills at the foot of the red mountains.

  “Tell me, and I’ll spare your life.”

  The boy said nothing.

  “Did she let you fuck her?”

  The boy ran faster. “No! I never have nothing to do with her.”

  “Who pays you? How does he contact you?”

  The boy fell on his knees, mumbling incoherently.

  “Get up!”

  When they were far enough from the compound so no one could see what he was about, Tavio stopped and raised his golden gun, taking careful aim at the middle of Julio’s thin back.

  Not wanting the details of the boy’s death to get back to his father, Tavio slowly lowered his gun. The kid was too young. His father was a hardworking peasant and devoted to Tavio. The boy hadn’t wanted to work for Tavio, but his father, whose face and body were wrinkled and worn beyond his years, had forced him because the money was good and there were so many mouths to feed. Tavio hated himself for not having the balls to shoot the kid in the back.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Chito screamed. “He’s chota—a cop—he’s been ripping us off. Because of him we lost a load in Del Rio. We lost Paulo. And maybe Marco. He talked to the DEA and to that bastard reporter. Remember the videotape.”

  “Shooting him is too good for him. Let’s put him in the cave. We’ll let him die slowly with the snakes.”

  “Snakes!” the boy moaned, whirling around. “I didn’t do anything! I swear!”

  Chito’s savage, gloating smile was a blur of white and gold that matched his necklace. Tavio wished he was enjoying this half as much as Chito, but he felt sorry for the boy. And even sorrier for his father.

  He thought of Marco. Then he reminded himself that this was business. Killing Julio was but the tiniest piece in their game plan for revenge.

  Four

  Ciudad Juarez, Mexico

  Terence Collins pitched his cigarette into a dank gutter. The squalid backstreet that stank of cheap whores, garbage and sewage wasn’t far from Ciudad Juarez’s Avenida Juarez.

  So far and yet so near.

  Collins’s gaze turned heavenward. Ominous black clouds hung low over El Paso.

  Rain? Not likely. But rain was always welcome in Juarez.

  He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and shook out another cigarette. When a white, bulletproof limousine followed by two armored black SUVs crammed with armed bodyguards whipped past him, he put the cigarette back in his shirt pocket.

  The convoy made a sharp u-turn, and the limo pulled up in a swirl of dust.

  Tinted windows rolled down, and Collins stiffened as a dozen bodyguards inspected him coldly.

  Valdez was on time—as usual. The bastard!

  A burly man in a brown uniform carrying an assault weapon leapt out of the passenger side of the limo to open the door for him.

  When there are no rules at the playground, the bullies rule.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” Terence asked in a mild tone as he pulled his cigarette out again and climbed inside, knowing the answer full well.

  “I’m allergic,” Federico Valdez snapped, his lip curling as he stared at a yellow stain on the cuff of Terence’s shirt. Federico fastened his seatbelt.

  “Thanks for continuing to allow your newspapers over here to translate and publish my pieces on Morales.”

  “My pleasure. After all, you did get yourself nominated for a Pulitzer once.”

  “Ever since Pete Cantú got gunned down last year, my boss, Juan Ramos…You may know him—”

  “I’ve heard of him, yes. Good things.”

  “Well, he’s got less backbone than a squid. A few months back he told us to censor everything we write about the drug carte
ls.”

  “Pete Cantú?” Valdez looked puzzled. “Oh, right,” he murmured. “That journalist in El Paso, who wrote about the Morales-Garza cartel and then got shot in his driveway when he was playing with his kids.”

  “Ramos says we’ve lost the war, so why should we risk our necks—”

  “Smart guy. But you’re too stubborn to stop—like always.”

  “My mother said I was born with a death wish. And you? You’re not one for causes. I’m surprised you give a damn about Morales.”

  Valdez looked bored. “People are full of contradictions. That’s what makes them interesting.”

  “With your factories, you’re exposed. Why risk such an enemy?”

  On the surface Valdez appeared unruffled, and yet there was something hard in his eyes. “It’s personal.”

  Without bothering to fasten his seat belt, Terence sank wearily into the plush leather and stared out the tinted window at the decaying buildings. He fought to ignore the bodyguard leering at the girls, whose smiles were glossy as they waved to him, halving their prices. The baby-faced hookers in their boots and miniskirts were hard up to sell themselves at this hour since the American teenagers, who paid for their services on Friday and Saturday nights, were soundly asleep in their suburban homes in El Paso.

  The seat felt too good. Terence was glad the windows were tinted. Once this city had inspired him to write prize-winning journalistic pieces. Today he needed blinders against the daily brutalities of Ciudad Juarez. If he closed his eyes, Terence would be asleep and snoring in seconds. With a tight smile, he placed the forbidden cigarette between his lips.

  When Federico frowned at his idiotic show of defiance, Terence scowled back just for good measure. Normally he didn’t give a damn how tired or shaggy he looked. Nor did he worry about making a good impression on assholes like Federico, who were part of a big problem that had millions fleeing from this country to el norte in search of decent jobs.

  For some strange reason Terence felt at a disadvantage today. He yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Maybe he was getting old. Or maybe he felt off balance because Valdez, who’d once been his brother-in-law, had set up this little family reunion.

  Valdez was using him to piss off Morales. Why?

  That Valdez had tracked him down was no easy feat, but then he probably had spies everywhere. For various reasons, Collins moved around a lot. One was money. Another was that he’d made a lot of enemies and didn’t want to be easy to find when his eyes were shut. Right now he was bunking in with three newly divorced guys, who were such slobs they disgusted even him.

  Behind his scowl Collins hoped like hell he didn’t appear as tense and unsure as he really was as they were whisked through the garbage-strewn streets while being tailgated by the black SUVs.

  Rich bastards like Federico, who stank of money, ran the developing world, or at least this dusty stretch of it, and there wasn’t much one loud-mouthed journalist, who was growing old before his time, could do to make things right.

  Leaning back against the leather, Valdez stretched his long legs. Valdez’s short hair was as black as outer space. The bastard probably dyed it. But even without his talented barber and the accoutrements of wealth, he would still have been handsome in that unfair way.

  Terence studied his carved profile and realized he reminded him of somebody he’d seen in a photo recently. Who?

  Valdez was as tall and aristocratic in his gray Armani suit as Collins was rough and unkempt in his wrinkled shirt and khakis that he’d lived and slept in for the past two days on the road in his ancient van with his camera crews, boom mikes and photographers.

  Partly because he hadn’t been able to find his comb or his razor in the debris of his beer-can strewn apartment, Collins hadn’t bothered to shave his craggy jaw or comb his too-long, salt-and-pepper mop, either.

  What the hell? Other than some junk food he’d grabbed at gas stations he hadn’t even been bothering to eat lately. He’d been too busy rushing around with his motley crew filming a low-budget documentary about the contaminants in the Rio Grande.

  At fifty Valdez looked as vibrant and arrogantly full of himself as he had at thirty. Collins was a battle-worn forty-nine. He had lines beneath his eyes and grooves on either side of his mouth. His skin was as dark and leathery as a shrunken head’s. Dora had divorced him long before she’d died, but once, long ago, she’d been the beautiful, younger sister of Valdez’s American-born wife, Anita. Valdez men always went for fair-skinned Americans.

  The border was a hellish place. Smugglers were taking over the border towns at a rapid clip. They bought off the authorities or killed the ones who couldn’t be bribed. Then they trafficked in drugs and people at their will. Corporate bandits like Valdez worked the poor like slaves and polluted without restraint. Thousands of people ate garbage, literally, from the dumps in northern Mexico. Nobody cared that millions of kids got almost no schooling because their parents couldn’t afford books and had to put them to work. Thus, generation after generation grew up to be unskilled and were sentenced to lifetimes of manual labor. There were lots of kidnappings both for money and to make people disappear. Ordinary women were their husbands’ chattel. Most people didn’t think much about these atrocities. They were simply a way of life.

  Still, such a hell attracted its share of saints, who naively set up clinics and soup kitchens and schools and churches on both sides of the border without bothering to buy the proper authorities. When these trusting souls got into trouble—recently there had been a lot of kidnappings for ransom—they would turn to the media and tell their desperate stories about the plight of the poor and the exploitation of those who fought to help them. It made for interesting reading, but nobody did anything.

  Terence had been as young and idealistic as the most naïve of them when he’d arrived here in his twenties. Dora, his wife, had been just as inspired as he’d been, but after she’d lost the babies and they’d adopted the twins, she’d wanted more than poverty and chaos and struggle. She’d wanted him to make money. Then they’d lost Becky, too, and been left with only Abigail. Dora had blamed him for Becky and had demanded that they leave the border.

  “It isn’t fun anymore,” she’d said. “It’s become dangerous.”

  The day he’d been nominated for a Pulitzer for doing what he believed in, Dora had sucked up to Daddy and gone back east to resume the upper-class lifestyle to which they’d both been born and had grown up hating. He’d stayed on, growing wearier with the same old battles and lonelier as the years had passed.

  When Dora had died Abby had returned to Texas. She was grown now, and he rarely found time to see her. Strangely she loved him, and was proud of his work.

  Thus, he’d never had a life of his own. Like a lot of people in their fifties, he gave his life a grade. Lately he’d begun to wonder what difference anything he’d ever done had made. The border was a worse pit than ever, and it was still ruled by slick creeps like Valdez. And by drug lords far more vicious than Valdez. He had a neglected daughter, who barely knew him.

  He stared at Valdez’s aquiline nose. Who the hell did the arrogant jerk remind him of? Who?

  The limo and its convoy slipped through the dirty streets like stealthy sharks slicing through dark waters.

  “So, why did you call and invite me to Mexico to interview you?” Collins said at last, his voice cold.

  “For once you and I are on the same side.”

  “Will miracles never cease?”

  Valdez pressed his mouth together.

  This was a setup. Collins could smell an agenda a mile away. Still, being able to talk face-to-face with Valdez, the CEO of Dalton-Ross Chemicals, a major polluter in the area was a rare opportunity he could ill afford to miss.

  When the limo approached a clump of people standing in front of a stunted tree in someone’s front yard, Terence leaned forward and told Valdez’s chauffeur to slow down. Terence rolled down his window and smiled fai
ntly at the crowd of people, who were kneeling and crossing themselves and placing cards and photos in front of the leafless tree.

  “They’re transforming that pitiful trunk into a shrine because the lady who lives there found the image of the Virgin de Guadalupe in its bark,” Collins said, breathing in the stifling dust and heat that smelled faintly of sewage.

  “I know. I read your story on the miracle yesterday.” Valdez stifled a yawn. “At least it gives the poor something to read about besides the constant murders on our streets.”

  “So why did you call me?”

  “To discuss our dangerous enemy, old friend.”

  Terence started at the real concern in Valdez’s voice. Despite the air-conditioning that was all but blasting ice from every vent, Terence began to sweat a little under his rank collar.

  Valdez’s black gaze sharpened. “Octavio Morales has a price on your head. That’s nothing new. But he’ll pay ten times more if he gets you—alive. The sicko wants to play with you before you die. His men are already in your city.”

  “So? I lived through Mexico’s thuggish Interior Ministry investigating me.”

  “This is different.”

  “Why do you give a damn?” Terence said, making his voice blander than he felt.

  “Let’s just say Morales is a hobby of mine.”

  “Why?”

  Valdez’s eyes turned hard and cold. A nerve ticked along his jawline. “If I reveal a family secret, will you promise never to write about it?”

  Collins hesitated. Suddenly he knew who Valdez’s carved features resembled. “All right.”

  Lowering his voice, Valdez leaned toward him. “Octavio Morales is the son of a puta who once slept with my father.”

  “He’s your brother?”

  “No!” The denial held ferocious hatred. “I have five brothers. He is my father’s bastard. Several years back Tavio sucked a favorite cousin of mine into the drug trade. The DEA busted him, and he was forced to sell Morales his beautiful rancho at a very cheap price in the Chihuahua Desert…to make up for the drugs and the money he owed Morales. Then Morales accused him of sleeping with one of his girlfriends. My cousin never made it to prison. Morales shot him and dragged his body all the way from this city to his rancho.”