Traynor soon lost all sense of time; he had no idea how long they were crawling toward the mountain summit, but they finally reached it. Breathing in the howling wind and whipping rain was near impossible. Even though the storm was no longer a category five, it was still a raging bull. Traynor believed the wind was still in excess of one hundred miles an hour, and their bodies acted like sails as they stood fully exposed to its force. It pushed them off the summit and down the leeward side.
As difficult as climbing had been, the descent was infinitely worse, albeit faster. One by one, they lost their footing and went sliding and careening downhill. Traynor was the first to lose his footing, and he slid down until he collided with Toledo. Toledo and Traynor then crashed into Manuel and the trio began a ride down the slope that would make the designers of an amusement park flush with envy.
Manuel rolled to the right, leaving them to continue down like a two-man bobsled team. Traynor grabbed onto Toledo’s shirt, hoping that their combined weight would slow them. It did not help—if anything, they accelerated. Toledo must have been of a like mind, because he spread his legs wide, in a futile effort to regain some control of their slide. Thus far in their adventure, Traynor had felt no sympathy or compassion for him whatsoever, but when their combined weight and momentum slammed Toledo’s groin into a Saguaro cactus hard enough to demolish the prickly plant, even Traynor winced. No sooner had they stopped than Toledo rolled onto his side and grabbed his crotch, which served only to push the sharp spines in deeper. He was in such pain that he could not speak. His mouth was wide open, yet no sound came from it. Traynor fought back the impulse to laugh at his agony.
Manuel slid about twenty feet beyond them, stopped, and scrambled back. He saw Toledo writhing and quickly assessed the situation. “Now, we’re having fun,” he said with a sadistic grin. Adding: “I’ll bet right about now he wishes he had a couple grams of the shit he pushes.”
After the first contact, the undercover investigator is immediately faced with the problem of avoiding suspicion.
—FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations
59
McMahon picked up his cell phone and hit speed dial number two. Deborah answered on the second ring. “Hey,” she said.
“You gotta love that caller ID, huh?”
She ignored his attempt at humor. “How you making out?” she asked.
“Great, just great.”
“You make contact with Jabłoński?”
“Sort of.”
“You want to explain what that means?”
“I got a part in his movie.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Not in the least.”
“Have you ever acted before?”
He thought about some of the acts that he had put on when meeting women in clubs and bars and decided they did not count. “No.”
“So he gave you a bit part?”
“The male lead.”
“You’re shitting me!”
“Not at all.” He leaned back in his recliner and studied the interior of the trailer he had inherited from Rock Stone. He grinned as he recalled the look on the ham’s face when Jabłoński informed him that his role had been changed Stone was now playing the corpse—and because of his change in status, he would have to give up his trailer to the new leading man: McMahon.
“When you try to get close to someone, you don’t fool around, do you?” Deborah said. He thought he heard a new level of respect in her voice—or was it possibly something stronger?
“I gotta be truthful … I was just checking around and they offered me the part.”
Deborah chuckled. “How much longer will you be up there?”
“The shooting schedule originally called for three weeks—one of which has already passed. Now, however, we’ll have to reshoot the scenes in which my predecessor had my part. We should be done with the location shoot and back in LA in two and a half to three weeks.”
Deborah chuckled again. “Damn,” she said, “you even got the talk down already.”
“I guess I’m just a born star.”
“More like a shooting star.”
Deborah turned serious. “Jack, watch your ass—something about this stinks.”
His voice was grim when he said, “I thought so too. No way in hell am I a Lana Turner.”
“Who’s that?”
“Actress from the forties. The legend is that she was discovered working at the soda counter at Schwab’s drug store.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, only she had better legs than me.”
Deborah took it upon herself to keep tabs on Celia Doerr and Lawrence Provost. She went to great lengths to remain undetected. She even went so far as to rent a different car each day. Neither of her subjects did anything out of the ordinary, although Doerr’s continued meetings with Provost concerned her. As she sat in the early-morning light, sipping takeout coffee, she mentally processed Doerr’s actions. Was Doerr a good enough actress to hide from Provost the fact that she was willing to sell him out to save her own neck?
Thinking of Doerr as an actress made her think of McMahon. The way in which he had fallen in with Jabłoński so quickly amazed her—and at the same time—alarmed her. It wouldn’t surprise her if he turned out to be a halfway decent actor—stranger things had happened.
Her reverie was interrupted when Provost left Doerr’s house and climbed into his Jaguar without as much as a cursory inspection of the area. He backed out of the drive and turned toward Los Angeles. Maybe, Deborah mused, McMahon is not the only actor involved in this. Doerr certainly seemed to be holding her own. The woman seemed content to remain secluded in her house, so Deborah followed Provost.
McMahon stepped from his trailer and grunted. He did not like this early morning shit. He walked toward the house, knowing that Jabłoński would already be there. As he stepped onto the deck that spread toward Howe Sound, the day was calm and the water so smooth it looked like a glass floor he could walk across.
Abigail Allen saw him through the sliding glass door and walked out onto the deck. She handed him a cup of steaming coffee and asked, “So, you all set for your big moment?”
“I was up most of the night studying the script.”
“Hmmmm, if I’d known you weren’t sleeping, I would have stopped by.”
He looked at her with a new interest. “I thought …”
“That I was in a relationship with someone?”
“Well … yeah. You seem to hover very close to our director.”
She smiled, emphasizing a pair of thin crow’s feet by her eyes. He thought the small marks of years past made her even more alluring. “My job is to be his gofer. Other than that, Kondrat has certain interests … interests that I don’t want any part of.”
“Such as?”
“He’s into pain … only not his.”
“So he’s fond of S and M?”
“More S than M. Besides, what’s the old axiom about only a fool drills for oil in a company well?”
Movement caught his eye, and he turned his attention to the interior. Jabłoński was motioning urgently toward him. Allen also noticed and said, “Looks like you’re on.”
As McMahon reached for the door, she touched his arm. “Maybe if you have another sleepless night, I’ll drop by with a bottle of wine and we can pass the time together …”
“That,” he replied, “sounds like a plan to me.”
The Juárez Cartel is responsible for smuggling tons of narcotics from Mexico into the US throughout its long and turbulent history, and the group’s intense rivalry with the Sinaloa Cartel helped turn Juárez into one of the most violent places in the world.
—Insightcrime.org
60
The storm abated with the arrival of daylight. After a day of heavy, low clouds, the sun seemed brilliant as it crept over the summits of the mountains to the east. After Toledo’s encounter with the Saguaro, they had continued down the slope until Manuel stumbled upon
an abandoned mine. Traynor never thought a hole in the side of a mountain could look so welcoming.
Traynor stood and stretched, wishing he had a cup of coffee to jumpstart his fatigued body. His clothes had dried; however, they had become so stiff, that they weren’t much more comfortable than they’d been while soaked. He took quick stock of their appearance and knew that if they were to walk into a town like this, anyone they encountered would assume they were living out of Dumpsters and sleeping in alleys. The mud that coated his clothes had dried to a concrete-like hardness and broke off in chips when he wiped at it. He had not shaved in three days, and when he touched his face he felt balls of dirt clinging to the bristles. The tightness of his face and scalp suggested that they too were coated with grime.
Manuel came out from the bowels of the mine, and one look at his appearance told Traynor that his assessment had been accurate. “Do I look as bad as you?” Traynor asked.
“Worse.”
“Thanks.”
“Let’s get him up and move on,” Manuel said.
Manuel walked to Toledo’s still form and nudged him with his foot. Holy groaned and sat up. He hissed and inhaled sharply.
“When you pulled the spines out of your balls, you musta missed a few,” Manuel said. “You better find them and pull them out before they get infected.”
Traynor turned and walked to the mouth of the mine. He stared through the entrance of the abandoned mine and thought: There is something about the aftermath of a big storm. God can be unpredictable, angry, and lethal one minute and then calm, serene, and nurturing the next. That morning it was as if God had cleaned the air to make amends for this latest rant. The sky was cloudless and the deepest azure he had ever seen.
He looked over his shoulder and laughed out loud. Toledo had dropped his trousers and undershorts and was delicately inspecting his genitals for any cactus spines he had missed last night. He must have found some because he plucked at something, and from the way his face curled in on itself, it was anchored pretty deep. Traynor couldn’t help thinking, Better him than me.
Manuel walked over and stood beside Traynor. He stared out at the valley that they had to cross.
“Beautiful morning, huh?” Traynor said.
“Yup, gonna be hotter than a brush fire by midday, though.”
“Ain’t you just a breath of fresh air?”
Manuel chuckled, checked on Toledo, and said, “If we’re where I think we are …” He pointed in the direction Traynor took to be north. “The border’s about twenty miles that way.”
“So if all goes well, we should be back in the States by nightfall?”
Manuel turned and walked back toward Toledo. “If all goes well,” he said.
The only thing that bothered Traynor was that thus far not a hell of a lot had gone right. After all, he believed that Murphy was an optimist.
In spite of the storm’s deluge, the desert was fast turning into a huge concrete tarmac. It was almost like walking on crusty snow, their feet breaking through the hardening surface with each step. Looking behind them Traynor saw a line of footprints that anyone could follow.
They had only been on the march for about an hour and Traynor was already soaked—only this time it was with sweat, which had flowed down his body and concentrated in his groin, which was chafed and raw. Each step was becoming agony as his body salt stung the tender flesh. Traynor began to dream of a long, hot shower. If there was any consolation to be had, it was that Toledo was not doing any better. He walked as if he had just spent three days in a saddle that was too wide for his short legs.
Manuel, on the other hand, seemed to be doing fine. Traynor could not help but envy his stamina. He knew that if he was not careful, that envy could turn to resentment. But it never got the chance. Out of nowhere, a pair of helicopters appeared and dropped to the ground, one in front of them and the other behind. When several heavily armed men leaped from them, Traynor knew their trek was over.
“These your people?” Manuel asked Toledo.
Holy sounded like a man who had just learned he was scheduled for a life review at the entrance to heaven when he gasped, “No …”
Knowing that they had no chance, Manuel dropped his weapons and raised his hands, so Traynor did likewise. Toledo, on the other hand, dropped to his knees and hung his head—apparently, his admission through the gates had been denied.
Traynor woke up lying on a hardpan dirt floor. The events of the last few days had left him aching and sore. He groaned as he rolled off his back and sat up. The room’s only light came in through a small opening high up on the wall; it was too small to call it a window and it barely illuminated the chamber to the level of twilight. He saw Manuel sitting in a corner with his back against the adobe wall.
“It’s about time you woke up,” he said.
“Have I been sleeping long?”
“About three hours. Since we were in the helicopter … you nodded off within ten minutes. Our little adventure seems to have exhausted you.”
“But not you.”
“I’m so tired that I could sleep through a tornado.”
Traynor got to his feet, crossed the small room, and dropped back down beside Manuel, assuming a posture similar to his. “You got any idea where we are?” he asked.
“Juárez, maybe Agua Prieta. Or we could be in Chihuahua City itself.”
Traynor studied their less-than-elegant accommodations. “Ain’t exactly five stars, is it?”
“Ain’t even one fifth of a star.”
They sat quietly for several minutes, neither willing to give voice to the question that was on their minds. Finally, Traynor could stand the suspense no longer. “What’s our prognosis?”
“Ain’t good.”
“Toledo’s?”
“Even worse. He might even be dead by now.”
Traynor let his head drop back until it touched the stucco and he looked at the rough-hewn wooden rafters that supported the ceiling. He exhaled with more force than necessary, his breath making a whooshing sound as it escaped his lips. “This is one of those times when I wish I had embarked on a career in the wonderful world of fast food, rather than law enforcement.”
Manuel chuckled. “A burger and fries would be nice about now.”
The levity stopped when they heard a door open and then slam shut.
“Sounds as if we got company,” Manuel announced.
“Yeah.”
Two linebacker-types, led by a nattily dressed man, approached their cell. The clotheshorse reached into his pocket and took out a set of keys. He opened the door and the goons aimed a pair of pistols at them.
The men motioned for them to turn, cuffed their hands behind their backs, and ushered them out of the cell. As soon as they were secured, Traynor felt the unmistakable roundness of a gun barrel shoved into his back, and he walked toward the blazing light that poured in through the door.
The sun was in their eyes and beat down on them like an open flame as they were led from the cool, dimly lit interior of their jail, into a treeless, bare dirt courtyard. On the far side, Traynor made out the forms of several men sitting in the shade of a hacienda. After the gloom of the cell, the sunlight was like looking into a strobe light. He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes so he could identify the men. Traynor was about three-quarters of the way across the courtyard before his vision returned to normal—and then, he wished it hadn’t.
Toledo was sitting to the right of a large, middle-aged man, with two pistols on the table before them. Traynor wondered if this man was to be their judge, the jury, or the executioner—or possibly all three. He had a bushy black mustache, and Traynor thought that he looked almost like Hollywood’s version of a bandito. Their escorts pushed them into chairs that had been placed so that the sun would be in their eyes. They removed the handcuff from one of Traynor’s hands, fastened it around the chair’s arm, and then did the same to Manuel.
The fat man spoke in Spanish and Manuel answered him in English. “Pl
ease speak Inglés, por favor. My compadre has as much right to be a part of this as I.”
The inquisitor nodded. “Of course. He has as much right to plead his case as you.” He turned his attention to Traynor and said, “Please, señor, be so kind as to tell me why I should not kill you?”
“Because,” Traynor said, “we’ve done nothing to you. Hell, I don’t even know your name, let alone anything else about you.”
The big man chuckled and his stomach bounced, reminding Traynor of the usual depiction of Santa Claus. However, this Santa was probably not so much jolly as he was lethal.
“This may be true,” the bandito answered. “But I don’t know you either, so whether you live—or die—is of no consequence to me.”
He then addressed Manuel. “You think I don’t know, eh? Well, I do. I know who you used to work for.” He turned to Toledo and said, “You did not know that he was once DEA?”
Toledo started and it was then that Traynor realized that maybe his earlier worries were misdirected—Toledo was still wearing handcuffs. Rather than being an honored guest, he too was a prisoner of Santa.
“However,” Santa turned his attention back to Traynor and Manuel, “whether by intent or by accident, you have provided me with a great service.” He picked up a ledger and said, “I now control all of the drug traffic from Mexico City to Juárez.” He picked up one of the pistols, turned, and aimed it at Toledo’s head.
Traynor jumped in his chair. As much as he detested Toledo and all that he stood for, they had been companions on this journey and in spite of all the times he had threatened him, the thought of him being so coldly and dispassionately executed enraged him. Santa pulled the trigger. A loud click sounded and Toledo rocked so far to the side that his chair fell over. Traynor heard him sobbing.
Santa smiled at them and said, “I never liked him. He is always whining and complaining, no?” Then a stern look came over his face. He stood, walked around the table, and approached Manuel. Traynor jumped up and, with his free hand, he grabbed the chair and held it poised to strike. Santa said something in Spanish and one of the thugs who were guarding them handed him the largest and no doubt sharpest knife Traynor had ever encountered.
Black Orchid Page 23
