by R. A. McGee
“You know it. The man is on edge tonight.”
Clark’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Flores turned up dead in a bathroom.”
“Who?” Clark said, feigning confusion.
“Darren Flores? He was the guy who ran the operation out here. I thought you’d met him before.”
“Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. Any idea who smoked him?”
“Sure. We all know it was one of César’s men. Who else has the pinche cojones to do something like that to one of us?”
“No one would be that dumb,” Clark agreed.
“The boss has everyone out beating the streets right now. It’s just me and that weirdo,” Héctor said, gesturing to the end of the hallway. “Figured I’d post up at the elevator. Stop trouble before it can even get off on this floor.”
“I’m sure the hotel loves that,” Clark said, looking down at the end of the hallway. “Who’s that, anyway?”
Héctor exhaled. “Some freak from DF. Apparently, he goes way back with the boss. I’ve never met him before, and I wish I never did. Weird guy. The boss brought him in yesterday. The big man’s been rambling all morning, saying someone is coming to kill him. Says he knows it’s coming soon. Lighting candles and praying and shit.”
Clark didn’t say anything.
“Go ahead,” Héctor said, waving him down the hallway.
Clark did, walking slowly away. His mind was racing with questions that he had no answers for. Was he burned? Did Pascual know Clark was coming for him? If so, how did he know? Clark fought the instinct to bolt.
Anything could have spooked Pascual. It could have been one of his bad omens or dreams, or maybe the flame of his candle was flickering wrong and made the man wary. Regardless, Clark needed to take care of this, tonight. He was already here, and if Pascual was growing more worried and paranoid, Clark might not get another chance. He could be gone by the morning.
Clark walked to the end of the hallway, to a large double suite. There was another man at the door, thin and hungry-looking. Not hungry for food—this man had the look of a predator, a look Clark had seen many times. “You new?”
“No.” The man had a large tattoo of the Santa Muerte on his neck: the familiar visage of the Virgin Mary, corrupted by a skull for a face. There were many people who looked to the Santa Muerte as their patron saint, a patron of death. The Catholic church had made it clear that the Santa Muerte was not part of their beliefs, but that hadn’t stopped it from being adopted by many cultures and subsets in Mexico and Central America.
The man patted Clark down, retrieving the Glock from his waistband.
“That’s mine,” Clark said.
“Jefe says no weapons,” Tattoo said.
“Really?”
“Really.” Tattoo looked at Clark with dead eyes.
“Keep that handy for me,” Clark said. “I’ll be getting it back real soon.”
Tattoo looked at Clark, leaning past him and opening the door to the suite. It was dark, and there was the faint smell of a burning candle and, a layer deeper than that, struck matches.
Clark closed the door behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were no sounds, and after a few moments, Clark stepped through the entryway to the big suite, past the kitchenette.
The kitchen table was covered with a white tablecloth, and sitting there was a shrine. There were three figures, two Clark didn’t recognize, but the larger one in the middle was a ten-inch Santa Muerte.
A small bowl in front of the figure held several cigars, a pile of cash, and what looked like a grapefruit. Clark looked over the table; sitting on the couch was Pascual.
The man had a towel over his head, the end of his graying beard barely showing in the gloom. It was too dark for Clark to see much else.
“Where have you been?” a gravelly voice called out.
“Working.”
“We got hit again last night,” Pascual said.
“Héctor told me.”
“And?”
“And what?” Clark said. He moved towards the man’s left side, nearer the window.
“This is your fault.”
“My fault?” Clark said. His legs were tense, ready to either move forward or backward if necessary. “How do you figure?”
“You are supposed to tell me about these things. What good does it do me to have a spy in my enemies’ midst if that person doesn’t tell me important things?”
“What do you want me to say? They never told me about your guy getting killed yesterday. Hell, just because they let me into their little club doesn’t mean they tell me everything. If we're being honest, you aren’t telling me everything, either.”
“Oh?”
“Who’s this new guy at the door? Did you bring him in because you got a death threat? If so, who did the threat come from? See, you hired me because I’m good at counterintelligence. You know that’s part of what I did in the Army. I’m the best, but if you don’t give me everything, how am I supposed to analyze a situation and give you good advice?”
Pascual stood. He was nearly Clark’s height but easily outweighed him by fifty pounds. Clark’s hand tightened into a fist.
“You’re right.”
“Am I?”
The man lumbered over to the table, lighting another candle at the makeshift shrine. He pulled a cigar from the bowl, added more fruit, and lit the cigar with the still-burning match. “One of my men got a call from a high-up source in César’s camp. They told him th—”
“Stop right there. Who is the source in César’s camp?”
Pascual moved his head left and right as if he were weighing his words. “It is a man named Sammy. He’s cousins with one of my soldiers. A nothing of a man, really, except he has this information. He tells me his cousin Sammy wanted him to tell me that someone was coming for me. Today.”
Clark barely breathed. “Oh yeah? Who?”
“He said it’s you.” The big man pulled a large handgun from the darkness and leveled it at Clark’s chest.
Ten
Moving more out of instinct than conscious thought, Clark sidestepped the barrel. Once his body was out of the way, he clamped both of his hands around the pistol, holding it tight and locking Pascual’s hands to the gun.
All at once, Clark violently yanked the pistol, with Pascual still attached. The pistol went up, then violently back down to the ground. Pascual followed it all the way, landing on his face.
Clark dropped his knee in Pascual’s neck. “You scream and I’ll kill you. Understand?”
Pascual grunted. Clark torqued the gun more, twisting the man’s fingers with it.
“I understand. I understand.”
“If you knew I was coming for you, why the hell would you even let me in?”
“I had Manolo take your gun, didn’t I? I asked la Santa Muerte for protection. I thought that would be enough.”
“Well, I think you’ll be able to take that up with her real soon if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”
“What do you want to know?”
“You sure it was Sammy that ratted me out?”
“Of course. I already told you, his cousin, Nieto, is one of my men. He thought I’d reward him for the information.”
“I’ll deal with Sammy,” Clark muttered.
“Why?”
“Why what?” Clark said, providing just enough tension to keep the man stationary, but not to break his arm.
“Why did you turn on me? I paid you well.”
“I didn’t turn on you, asshole. I’m the one who started your little war with César. I’ve been playing both sides.”
“It was you?”
“All of your dead men? Me.”
Pascual was breathing fast. “Why?”
“I killed your men because I knew that with enough disruption to your business, you’d eventually have to leave Mexico City and come check things out yourself. It would have taken me a long time to ge
t to you in the capital. Here? I mean, look how sloppy you’ve been.”
“Then who do you really work for? Why bring me all this way?”
Clark took a deep breath. He’d waited for this moment for weeks. “Torres.”
“Who?” the gravelly voice said.
“Juan Javier Torres. Do. You. Remember?”
“Of course I do. He was my best accountant. Someone killed him in the States a few months ago.”
“Right. A couple days after that, a townhouse was firebombed. A young woman was killed. I am going to ask you one time. Did you have anything to do with that?”
“What?”
Clark pulled the towel from where it lay on the floor and stuffed it into Pascual’s mouth with his left hand. Once it was done, he turned the man’s wrist a quarter further than it was meant to turn. Clark felt something in the man’s forearm pop.
The towel muffled his screams perfectly.
“Don’t make me ask you again. Did you have anything to do with it?”
Clark waited for Pascual to stop screaming, then removed the towel.
“I don’t know any woman or explosion.”
“You aren’t lying to me, are you?”
“I don’t know any woman. I definitely didn’t kill some bitch in the States.”
Clark stuffed the towel back into the big man’s mouth. He turned his hand the rest of the way through the rotation.
Again, he waited for the bucking man to calm down before he removed the towel.
“She wasn’t a bitch. She was mine. I need you to convince me that it wasn’t you who ordered her to be killed.”
Pascual looked up at Clark, the light from the candle flickering on his face. “I’ve done a lot of shit in my life. I can barely keep track of it all. If you would have asked me about any number of other things, my answer would be different. But a bombing? In the United States? I swear on the Santísima that I never ordered such a thing. I don’t know what else I can tell you. Believe me or not.”
“I believe you.”
Clark stuffed the towel back into Pascual’s mouth for the last time. He bent the man's entire arm behind his back, tearing everything in his shoulder as he went, rendering it useless.
Then he grabbed Pascual’s head with both hands, and twisted with all his strength. There was some initial resistance, and then an audible snap, and everything was still.
Everything except for the candlelight that danced around the room, adding an eerie feeling to the silence.
Eleven
Clark stood and breathed deeply, steadying his nerves. Outside was the man with the tattoos, whom Pascual had called Manolo, and further beyond that, Héctor with the Avtomat Kalashnikova.
One problem at a time.
He reached down and pulled the pistol from the tangled mess that was Pascual's arm. It was a 1911, and in the candlelight Clark could make out the gaudy gold plating and ivory handle scales that were at home in a drug kingpin’s hands.
Clark made sure the magazine was full and there was a round in the chamber. He flipped the safety off.
Finding the light switch, he lit the room up so he didn’t fumble in the darkness. He went into the bedroom and took two of the pillows from the bed. He stuffed one inside the case of the other, giving him a thick double pillow which he proceeded to stick his arm and the pistol into. He raised his arm, now a massive lump, awkward to move and aim.
Thrown together, but hopefully still effective.
Clark walked to the front and flipped off the lights. He closed his eyes, waiting a few moments for the bulk of his night vision to come back, then cracked the front door open.
“Manolo? Bossman wants to see you.” Clark stepped behind the doorway, opening it for the man.
Manolo walked in and shut the door behind him.
“Jefe? Qué es?” Boss? What is it?
Manolo stopped in the entryway, looking for Pascual.
Clark stepped behind the man. He raised the lump on his arm up to the back of Manolo’s head, careful to angle down just enough that the round would stop in the floor somewhere.
“Jefe?”
Clark pulled the trigger. Manolo collapsed as if someone had pressed his off button. The makeshift silencer didn’t muffle the sound nearly as much as Clark had hoped; it sounded like a loud firecracker had gone off in the room. He’d known the pillows wouldn’t do much, but had hoped for better.
To make matters worse, the muzzle flash and the heat had been stifled inside the pillowcase and enveloped his hand, scorching it. He slung the pillows off and fanned his hand, sure it was on fire.
It wasn’t. After a few moments under cold running water, Clark’s hand stopped burning. There was a residual sting, which he’d take care of later. He clicked the lights on and saw the mess that Manolo had left, soiling himself in death.
Holding his breath, Clark went through the man’s waistband and retrieved his own Glock.
“Told you I’d be getting this back.”
He slipped Pascual’s gaudy pistol into his back pocket, checked that his Glock was still loaded, and tucked it into his waistband.
His eyes lingered on the money in the bowl at the shrine, but he decided to leave it. Clark was just superstitious enough not to want to tempt fate by stealing from la Santa Muerte.
He stepped into the hallway, pulling the door behind him. He walked slowly to Héctor, as if he was in no hurry. “The big man said for me to take over for you.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“He wants you out there trying to find the guys who killed Flores. Said he feels safe enough with me and that freakshow Manolo watching his back.”
“Good. I was getting bored out here,” Héctor said.
“I hear you.”
“How is he in there?”
“Not good. He’s all the way down the voodoo rabbit hole. Those two are in there lighting candles and shit. Said not to bother them. I know I’m not going in there again until somebody has some good news for the guy.”
“Shit, me either.” Héctor handed Clark the rifle and pressed the down button on the elevator. “Hopefully I can figure something out. I hate to see him like this.”
“Me too, Héctor. Me too.”
Twelve
It was fully dark by the time Clark got back to the laundromat. His usual countersurveillance techniques made him confident he wasn’t being followed, but he drove an extra circuitous route just to be sure. He walked up and down the street, eyes up, but nothing screamed danger to him.
He felt he had reason to be extra cautious. At some point soon, someone would find Pascual. It wouldn’t take much to figure out who’d killed him. In addition to Sammy backstabbing him, now he needed to watch for Héctor and the rest of Pascual’s men.
Clark made his way through the laundromat and up to his tiny room. Once the sofa was pulled in front of the door, Clark set his Glock, as well as the stolen 1911, on the table.
He pulled out the posterboard, looking over the names and Post-it notes. There was a mass of seemingly random pictures, notes, and names. Clark skipped over them and went straight to the top.
Side by side, the heads of their respective cartels, were pictures of César and Pascual. Clark slowly drew an X over the bearded man, then took a hard look at César’s picture.
If he were inclined to believe Pascual, then the order to bomb his townhome must have come from César.
He’d find out soon enough.
As he looked over the structure of César’s group, there was a small knock at the door. Clark’s hand went to his pistol and he stayed absolutely still, eyes affixed to the front door.
Another knock came, a bit bolder this time. Clark moved the posterboard to its place underneath the bed and stood beside the door.
A third knock, followed by a small voice. “Señor Smith?”
Clark lowered and tucked his Glock into his waistband and pushed the couch out of the way. He put his foot six inches behind the door, to act as a doorsto
p, and cracked it open.
Mateo stood in the dim hallway. From what Clark could see, the boy had a huge smile on his face. Clark opened the door wider, and the illumination from his overhead lightbulb spilled out into the hallway and revealed the boy’s bloody nose.
“Mateo? You okay?”
“Tiene un momentito?” Do you have a minute?
Clark glanced back at the disarray in his room, shrugged, and moved aside, letting the boy in.
Mateo began speaking so quickly that Clark had a tough time keeping up. He’d learned Spanish at the DOD’s Defense Language Institute while he was in the Army, and was considered fluent. But the excited little boy spoke so fast that Clark wasn’t sure he would have understood him in any language.
“Mateo. Más despacio, por favor.” More slowly, please.
The boy dropped onto Clark's couch and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, it was in English, and slower. “After you left, I went to play soccer.”
“Soccer? It’s dark out.”
“They pull old trucks onto the field and use their lights. We can see just enough.”
“That’s old school. I like it,” Clark said, remembering the games of football and basketball he and his childhood friends had, long after the sun went down, their parents’ car lights serving as stadium lighting.
“Enrique pushed me. Then—”
“Enrique is the boy who bothers you?”
“Yes, yes. He pushed me. So I stood up and pushed him back. He didn’t like that, then he punched me.”
“That’s what happened to your nose?”
“Yes, yes. It hurt and my eyes filled up with water and I was scared. Then I remembered what you said about the right hand. He tried to hit me again and I blocked it. I punched him right on his chin!”
Clark smiled but didn’t say anything.
“He yelled real loud, and he tried to hit me again. So I blocked it. I punched him right in his nose and he fell down. He started crying and he ran home. Everyone was laughing at him.”
