The northern Mexican border state of Chihuahua and the southwest state of Guerrero tied for highest murder rate in the country in 2012.
—Insightcrime.org
49
They stopped in Janos long enough to refuel and for Manuel to get an update on Hurricane Fredericka’s progress. It was not encouraging. The maelstrom had slammed into Mexico between Matamoros and Tampico, pummeling the coastal towns with an eighteen-foot storm surge. Hundreds of homes were demolished and more than a thousand people were either missing or dead. The forecasts were still undecided about its track. One model said it would take a sharp right and cross into the US near Laredo, Texas; another said it could head west, sending some much needed rain to Chihuahua and the American southwest.
Although it was obvious that the gas station attendant was trying hard not to show any sign that he saw Toledo handcuffed inside the truck, Traynor knew that they had been spotted. If he had any doubts that they were on a major drug trafficking route, the way that the attendant ignored the weapons that were on the backseat and on their hips was all the proof he needed. In north Chihuahua, silence was not only golden, it was a means of survival.
Giving Traynor a break, Manuel drove and they were back on the road in no time, fully aware that if the flashes they had seen earlier were binoculars and the person using them was either one of Toledo’s people or a member of the local cartel, they were about to enter another confrontation. An hour later, the pursuers made their move.
“We got company,” Manuel said, his eyes never leaving the rearview mirror.
Traynor turned and looked through the back window. “Could be anyone, maybe some local farmers?”
“Not in three matching SUVs.”
Traynor picked up his assault rifle and made sure it was in operating condition. He laid the seat back down again; if it came to a running fight, he wanted a clear field of fire. He reached into the wooden crate and removed two additional full magazines and placed them beside his shooting position. He was ready for whatever was about to happen … or so he thought.
The pursuing vehicles were steadily closing the gap between them, and any doubts Traynor harbored about their intentions were removed when one of the trucks pulled abreast of the first, effectively sealing the road behind. Traynor slid through the gap left when he had reclined the seat and prepared to fire as soon as Manuel popped the hatch open. He heard Manuel say, “Sonuvabitch …” and slid back and looked out through the front window. Driving straight at them were two more SUVs, also traveling abreast of each other. They were trapped in between.
“Can we get off the road?” Traynor asked Manuel.
“No. The ground around here is like dry quicksand—we’d bog this thing down as soon as we hit the sand.”
“Any ideas?”
“Yeah, forget about the guys behind us … try to take them out.” He pointed at the trucks bearing down on them from the front.
Traynor rolled down the window directly behind Toledo and said to him, “I’d keep my arms inside if I were you,” and then leaned out. Holding the rifle steady on any single target was more of a chore than he had realized. Although the road surface was relatively smooth, there was still enough vibration and bouncing to make aiming a weapon a tricky situation; still, he did his best. He aimed for the front tire, but the bullet smashed the windshield between the men occupying the front seats. It was doubtful that he had hit anyone, but it startled the driver enough that he yanked the wheel to the left, hitting the vehicle in the next lane. The vehicles bounced off each other, and they both corrected, drifting onto their respective shoulders. Dirt, dust, and rocks flew from their tires and the drivers’ faces were tense as they fought to maintain control of their vehicles.
Manuel took advantage of their plight and moved to the center of the road. When they raced between the SUVs, Traynor tried to shoot the tires out from under the one on his side. He was not successful. In seconds the road ahead of them was open and Traynor felt his body being pulled back as they accelerated away. Through the hatch window, he saw the two trucks skid to a halt. Once the three pursuing vehicles dashed past them, they returned to the pavement and took up the rear.
Manuel glanced at Traynor in the rearview mirror. “We havin’ fun yet?”
“Nope.”
“Well,” he said, with a devil-may-care attitude, “let me know when we start … I never know these things.”
“Just get us the hell away from that motorized army back there—then we’ll worry about having fun.”
Manuel reached over and punched Toledo in the arm. “How ’bout you, Holy? You havin’ fun yet?”
Toledo winced and glowered.
“You got nothing to say, Holy?”
“I don’t like being called that.”
“Okay,” Manuel said, continuing to aggravate his prisoner. “Would you prefer something else?”
“My name is Giuliano Olivas Toledo. I prefer to be called Señor Toledo.”
“I have a problem with that,” Manuel said in Spanish, without taking his eyes from the road. “Señor is a title of respect and you’re lower than a pile of whale shit on the ocean floor. I think I’ll call you Señor Mierda.”
Toledo’s head snapped to the side, and he gave Manuel another scathing look. He clenched his free hand into a fist, and for a moment Traynor thought he was going to punch Manuel. Traynor was not sure what had been said to piss him off, but he didn’t think it was wise to distract a man driving almost 180 kilometers per hour. He touched the muzzle of his nine millimeter automatic to the back of Toledo’s head. “Holy,” he said, “don’t let a few seconds of pleasure fuck up the rest of your life.”
Toledo relaxed and said, “It is bad enough to be kidnapped and dragged across half my country without being insulted as well.”
“We aren’t asking for much,” Traynor said. “All we want is one little reason to blow the top of your head off. The only thing stopping me from offing you this very minute is that it would be too fast. I want you to suffer like Melinda Hollis did.”
“I have told you that I do not know this woman.”
“Melinda—better known as Mindy—was the star of your latest cinematic venture. A distasteful piece of schlock entitled The Black Orchid … need I say more?”
“I will pay you anything … I will even sign over my ranchero to you, if you set me free.”
Suddenly, Traynor tired of speaking with him. He turned to Manuel instead. “How about we cut our losses, Manuel? I can put a bullet in his skull, and we can roll his corpse onto the road. That might even satisfy the vultures behind us.”
“It might … but not until they run him over a few times to make sure he’s dead.”
Toledo began to perspire profusely, despite the blasting air conditioning. Sweat ran down the side of his face and across his neck, soaking his shirt collar. Traynor tapped him on the back of his head with the pistol muzzle a few times and gave him one last barb. “The only thing that would stop us from capping you is a guarantee that there is a cell waiting for you. You’ll enjoy being a bitch for the Aryan Brotherhood …”
Toledo’s eyes grew to the size of a peso coin, and Traynor sat back in his seat. It was all he could do to keep from laughing.
Guerrero and Chihuahua were also the two most dangerous states in Mexico in 2011, with homicide rates of 70 per 100,000 and 126 per 100,000, respectively.
—Insightcrime.org
50
Traynor, Manuel, and Toledo had gone less than ten kilometers when another wave of vehicles appeared before them. Manuel did not hesitate. He left the pavement and headed for a nearby range of bluffs and mountains. When the big Ford began to bog down in the sand, Manuel said, “We’re gonna have to ditch the truck and make a run for the border on foot.”
Traynor remained mute, staring at the landscape. Hardscrabble sandy soil, cactus, and brush were not his idea of terrain suitable for a standoff against who knew how many armed thugs. But rather than complain, he got busy and
opened the wooden treasure chest that had thus far contained everything they had needed. Whoever had packed it had thought about every possible scenario. Along with the weapons and ammunition, it contained several canteens and water bottles, and a couple of backpacks. But what really amazed him was the inclusion of two pairs of hiking boots—one of which looked to be his size. “What size boot do you wear?” he asked Manuel.
“I wear an eleven in American sizes.”
“What about Mexican?”
“That would be a ten. Why are you asking about shoe sizes?”
The truck bounced and slid on the rough terrain, and it took Traynor several attempts to grab the second pair of boots and check the size. They were a ten. He threw the boots into the front seat between Manuel and Toledo. “Looks as if our benefactors took every contingency into consideration.”
Manuel glanced at the boots and said, “The smallest things are sometimes the biggest miracles. This terrain is not suited for street shoes.”
Traynor sorted the contents of the crate into two piles—one to take and the other to be left behind. The only things missing were hats to protect them from the desert sun; still there was enough essential equipment to give them a chance of survival. He held up a pair of plastic raincoats and debated whether or not to take them. The truck bounced again and as he threw them into the leave-behind pile, he hoped he was not making a mistake.
“How far are we from the border?” he asked as he replaced his street shoes with hiking boots.
“About twenty-five, maybe as much as thirty miles.”
Traynor tried to calculate how long it would take to walk that distance. He didn’t like the result. On a paved sidewalk, he could walk approximately five miles per hour, which meant somewhere from five to six hours. However, they were going to be doing it in mountainous desert, with a bunch of cutthroats and mercenaries—all of whom probably knew the area—chasing them. He didn’t like their chances.
Traynor looked at their passenger. From the look on his face, he knew that Toledo was not looking forward to the trek. This turn of events had the drug-lord so scared he would probably crap a soft stool.
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Traynor asked him.
“What?”
“Having all that money and realizing it won’t do you any good.” Traynor motioned toward the convoy that chased them across the sunburned, broken land. “In fact,” he added, “I think your chances of survival are less than ours. Those guys will probably let us walk—it’s you they really want.”
“If they are my people, they will kill you.”
“True. But, I think they’ll kill you first … even if they are your people. Surely you’re not naïve enough to believe there isn’t someone in your organization who wants to take your place at the top. On the other hand, if they aren’t your guys … well, I don’t have to go into detail.”
“They will still kill you.”
“At least we’ll go quickly. It wouldn’t surprise me if they take their time with you. I’m sure there’s a lot of information they want. You know, bank account numbers, stuff like that.”
The ground sloped upward, the tires bit into the soft soil, and the truck’s rear end fishtailed as they fought for traction. Traynor took a last look at their pursuers and estimated they were a half, possibly three-quarters of a mile behind. He began getting ready to leave the mechanized cavalry and join the infantry.
Manuel drove down a small ravine and aimed the SUV toward a line of stunted trees on the opposite side. The tires began spinning and Traynor felt the four-by-four’s rear axle dig into the sand. They had gone as far as the truck was going to take them.
They leaped out, and while Traynor unloaded the equipment he had identified as essential, Manuel changed his footgear.
It took only a few minutes for Manuel to finish, and then he and Traynor quickly divided the equipment between them before pulling Toledo from the vehicle. Manuel spun him around and snarled, “I’ll end this the second you try to slow us down. So if you have any plans to do so, remember that.”
Manuel walked to the front of the truck and raised the hood. A few seconds later he reappeared, carrying a handful of rubber cables, which Traynor immediately identified as the spark plug cables.
Toledo made one last chance at sounding tough. He looked at Traynor and said, “This gringo doesn’t have the cojones to shoot me.”
“Maybe not,” Manuel interjected, “but if I was you I wouldn’t push my luck—because I, for one, sure as hell think he does.” He pushed Toledo up the hill.
Traynor took out his cell phone and checked the signal strength—no bars. He shoved it into his pocket and scrambled after them.
“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”
—Allen Saunders
51
Angela Engle joined Deborah and McMahon for dinner. The first fifteen minutes of the conversation consisted of McMahon updating her on what they had learned and done—he omitted the incident with the security guard—thus far.
When they had finished, Engle said, “We still don’t have much on them.”
“What about the cabin?” McMahon asked. “Did the forensics people find anything there?”
“That place had been sterilized. They must have hired someone with experience cleaning up crime scenes.”
“We have Celia Doerr,” Deborah said.
“I’ve met her,” Engle said. “A good defense attorney will eat her alive. All they need to do is play up her relationship with Provost. It shouldn’t be hard to convince a jury that she’s nothing more than a jilted girlfriend who’s trying to get back at him. She saw nothing, which means anything she can testify to will be considered hearsay. Keep in mind, Provost’s connections go to Sacramento and beyond.” She turned to McMahon. “What about Skidgel?”
“He’s too scared of the others.”
“Any chance that Provost or Jabłoński will roll on the others?”
“I doubt it,” McMahon answered. “Provost will be too worried about what would happen to his job as the power behind the governor if he admits to being a part of it. As for Jabłoński, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s halfway across the Atlantic by now.”
“I know for a fact that he isn’t,” Engle said. “He’s three weeks into filming a big-budget project for a major producer. If he left them high and dry, it would kill him professionally.”
“Maybe,” McMahon mused, “I should pay him a visit.”
“Won’t be easy,” Engle said, “he’s filming on location in Vancouver.”
McMahon looked at Deborah.
“The corporate jet returned from Mexico today. You can fly to Vancouver in the morning,” Deborah reported.
“I’m not sure that’s wise. If I confront him, he’ll be on the next plane out.”
“I agree with Jack,” Engle said.
“Then,” Deborah amended, “don’t confront him. Keep an eye on him and if he tries to leave North America, take action.”
McMahon turned to Engle. “Can you find out where he’s staying? I doubt they’ll let me just wander onto a movie set.”
“I’ll try. While you’re there, be careful,” Engle said.
McMahon gave her an inquisitive look.
“Whatever you do, don’t let them know you’re from the Boston area. They’re a bit sensitive about that since the Bruins knocked the Canucks off in the Stanley Cup Finals.”
Students must pass a Board approved fitness test at the 40th percentile based on age and gender norms. The following three (3) test items constitute the physical fitness test: Maximum Push-Up test (untimed); One Minute Sit-Up test; and 1.5 mile run.
—Physical Fitness Test, Maine Criminal Justice Academy
52
By the time they reached the trees near the top of the ravine, Traynor was sucking wind. He remembered how easily he had passed the PFT in police academy—then realized that had been more than twenty years ago. He got some consolation when he saw that Tole
do’s face was red, and that he collapsed to the ground and hung his head forward as he gasped for breath. Traynor was not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing that he was in a similar condition, so he avoided him and joined Manuel, who was studying their back trail. Manuel also showed the effects of the climb. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back and he breathed heavily.
Between deep draughts of air, Traynor asked, “What now?”
“We have to slow them down.”
“Okay … how do we do it?”
“One of us stays behind, while the other drags Mary Alice here”—he hooked a thumb over his shoulder in Toledo’s direction—“or we take turns.”
“I’m more inclined to take turns. If you stay behind, I don’t know my way around well enough to get to the border … and assuming I survive, the same holds true if I stay,” Traynor said.
“All right, who covers our rear first?” Manuel asked.
“I will.”
“Okay, give us about five minutes start and then follow. I’ll mark the trail somehow.”
“In this soft soil, I should be able to find your footprints.”
“Yeah, but so will they.”
Manuel didn’t have to tell Traynor who they were. He peered around the brush they were hiding behind, and saw the first of the black Chevrolets stop behind the Ford Excursion they’d abandoned. “What you figure the distance is?”
“About three hundred meters.”
“So”—Traynor raised his AK-47—“they’re within range.”
“Yuh.”
“Okay, you grab shithead and take off. I’ll be along shortly.”
Traynor settled in behind the scrub brush and watched as the remainder of the convoy reached the disabled Ford. It didn’t help his confidence when each of the five vehicles discharged four armed men. They looked up the slope in his direction and then must have agreed on a strategy. The occupants of two of the trucks jumped back in and drove around the abandoned Ford, following the ravine north. Traynor quickly took aim and fired a burst of rounds at them. The first of the two trucks took the brunt of the enfilade, and Traynor knew that he had either hit the driver or startled him enough that he hit the brakes; either way, he swerved into the path of the second Tahoe. They collided with a resounding crash. Both vehicles looked as if they would be out of commission for a while.
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