by Leland Davis
The space was a bustle of activity. In the back of the building, men in camouflage fatigues were standing guard over a group of civilian men who carried bodies from the shade out into the blistering sun to the pit. The dead-eyed porters were caked in a dark crust of dried blood, most of which didn’t seem to be their own from the way they moved. There were more bodies stacked like cords of firewood along the left wall to the rear, still almost a busload. Someone had become overzealous and made the mistake of killing everyone too soon last time, leaving the bodies to rot in the heat. Another camouflaged group was near the bus, removing all of the luggage and emptying it onto a nearby pile of assorted personal belongings, sorting items of value from the chaff. A group of six dirt-smeared women stood just beyond the flatbed truck, their clothing tattered and their cheeks tear-stained. Most stared vacantly, while two quietly sobbed. One man was watching over them with a cuemo de chivo, or ‘goat’s horn’—the local slang name for the AK-47 rifle—while another man lectured them. He broke off when he noticed Héctor had arrived and walked over to greet him. The sight of the man’s dark blue federal police tactical suit brought back a flood of memories for Héctor, most of them unpleasant. The same suit had been his daily vestment when he’d worked the highway checkpoints and clashed in city streets with the narcos. He thought it might be safer to wear a shirt with a target painted on the back.
“Buenas tardes, Señor,” the policeman greeted formally, coming to attention in the same manner he had when Héctor had been in uniform with him. These monthly visits served little purpose other than letting this lieutenant know that Héctor was still in charge lest he develop any grandiose ambitions.
“Hola, Manuel. How many?”
“Five women and two men from the last bus. Six women and the five new hit-men from this one.” He indicated the men hauling bodies.
“They fought well?”
“Si. Each of them killed two of the others.”
The system Héctor had pioneered had been evolving for years. Until a few months ago, they had waylaid public buses and selected a few people for abduction. This process had become too cumbersome for the number of ‘soldiers’ they needed in the escalating turf war, so now they had their own buses which picked up passengers—mostly migrants—on their way north from Guatemala or Mexico City. When they reached a point about an hour and a half from the border, they detoured onto the dusty spur road and drove about five bumpy miles into the scrub, out of view of any paved roads. The buses were pulled into the metal barn and the passengers offloaded. Men who looked like they couldn’t fight were shot immediately, as were any women who looked frail. Then the entertainment began for his troops. The remaining captive men were tossed into the pit out back in pairs. Armed with hammers and machetes, they were made to fight and cheered on by the troops who made wagers, usually betting with their share of booty from the luggage on the bus. Prisoners who survived two bouts in the pit would be armed and sent to battle with rival gangs wherever the latest hotspot was. Used as front line troops, almost all of them were killed in the fighting. The women provided more entertainment for the troops, and a few were also selected to be dropped near the border to carry loads over. Those who made it were picked up on the other side and driven back to repeat the process until they were caught or killed.
Not for much longer. After four years of preparation, Héctor now had a far more sophisticated plan that would cement his position of power. He was embarrassed by the crudity of this old method in contrast, but he had to follow it through a few more times.
“Nuevo Laredo?” Manuel asked, inquiring about the destination for the newly recruited ‘hit men.’ The border town to the northwest was the site of the majority of clashes with their competition.
“Piedras Negras,” Héctor replied thoughtfully, referring to a town even farther up the river. It was time to move attention away from Nuevo Laredo—the only point in Texas where an interstate ran right into the border.
“Send the usual amount with each of the women?”
“Yes. Spread them out. When does the next bus arrive?”
“Three days. We need some time to finish up and then dig another hole.” They would have to move to another building next month; this was the third hole filled adjacent to this one, and they were running out of room to dig.
“Good. Do you need anything?”
“No gracias, Señor.”
Héctor gave a half-assed salute to the man and turned. He squinted as he walked from stench to sunshine and then relaxed a bit as he took in a lungful of fresh air. He climbed back into the driver’s seat of his Avalanche and turned the vehicle around. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to another metal building isolated in the desert. This one smelled far better, with only a thick vapor of diesel fuel instead of the stench of human decay.
Inside this building on one side were two semi trucks with no trailers attached. Along the other side were two giant agricultural water tanks propped on piles of cinderblocks. Nearby was a rolling stand that had been welded onto a fifty-five gallon drum that was cut in half and filled with diesel fuel. There were tables, pumps, machinery, and other assorted equipment scattered all around. Six men were working in the space, all dressed in grease-stained blue coveralls. One of the men came over and greeted Héctor.
“How is it going here?” Héctor asked.
“Very well, Señor. We have gotten the mixture correct.”
The man walked Héctor over to the split fifty-five gallon drum and sunk his hand in the diesel fuel, emerging with a tightly wrapped package. He held it over the tank for several seconds to let the diesel drip away, shook it, and then placed it on a table nearby.
Next, the man picked up a fresh package of drugs and showed Héctor how they had been double wrapped with a commercial grade vacuum sealer. He first demonstrated how the package sank to the bottom of the tank, then he held it near the surface with one hand. With the other hand, he picked up a hose that had a needle on the end which he pierced though the outer layer of wrapping. He depressed a button, and air could be heard hissing into the outer bag. He would stop every few seconds and check the buoyancy. A loud rattling chug sounded as an air compressor sprang to life. The man put one more small burst of air then removed the needle and slapped a piece of duct tape over the hole.
It was an ingenious method. The tank was filled with two different formulas of diesel, each with a different density. They had made one type of fuel right here from vegetable oil, and the other was the commonly available Pemex diesel that you could buy at any gas station in Mexico. By properly packaging the drugs, the density of the package could be set between the densities of the two types of fuel. Thus it neither floated to the top nor sank to the bottom. Looking in from the top would not reveal it as long as the tank was mostly full, and banging on the bottom of the tank would yield no suspicious sound. The fuel hid the smell from dogs. They could fit ten kilos of cocaine into each of the two 140 gallon fuel tanks on a semi truck. All they needed now was the ability to safely and easily get the trucks and drivers across the border. They would need no more buses, no more human mules. It would be clean and easy, and their ability to move product would increase by many times. It was Héctor’s ticket to the big time.
They strolled over to one of the semis where the man invited Héctor to examine the tank. There were ten kilos wrapped inside, and there was absolutely no way to tell. Héctor nodded, praised the man, and headed back for the door. There was only one more piece left in the puzzle.
He climbed back into his Chevy once again. It was only four more hours to his mother’s house, most of it flat and straight. He could make it there tonight. He relished the thought of a couple more days without rain.
*
Chip couldn’t tell if things looked blurry from the moisture in the air or from his fatigue. A giant monolith of granite spiked toward the sky over the road ahead of them. It rose two thousand feet directly from the green waters of the Sound, its apex lost in a mat of billowy grey mois
ture that crawled in tendrils down the surrounding mountains as if yearning for the salty waters below. At least it wasn’t raining right now. Yesterday’s excitement and anticipation had been washed away by waves of fatigue. He certainly didn’t feel like a covert operative; but he had roomed with one at a Holiday Inn Express last night, he thought with a chuckle—for the paltry three hours of sleep that he’d gotten. What was it that these military guys liked about getting up so fucking early in the morning? He rubbed his eyes again. His four companions seemed well rested, alert, and ready for the challenges of the day. Chip’s body and mind were frazzled. Their flight last night hadn’t landed in Seattle until a half hour into this morning Pacific Time, which had felt like 3:30 AM to his body. Five hours later they had loaded into two rented SUVs and headed north toward the border, with Chip too tired to be stoked about the brand new kayak tied to the roof or the brand new top of the line foam core, carbon-fiber Werner paddle sitting in the back. They had been driving for four hours, and he knew he would have to get it together for some paddling in one hour more. He cracked open a RedBull and winced at the wave of bubblegum smell. He poured the sickly sweet liquid down his throat, hoping it would act like gasoline to stoke the few dim sparks that were still burning in the back corners of his brain.
They passed the base of the giant spire of rock—the Stawamus Chief—and left the shore of Howe Sound as they entered the town of Squamish and then passed over the swollen Mamquam River on their way out the north side of town. The Sea to Sky Highway then climbed sixteen hundred feet over forty-five minutes and thirty mountainous miles. Finally, they crossed a bridge over a glacial-grey river and turned right over some train tracks, pulling into a Provincial Park campground on the river’s bank. They all got out and stretched. The cleared parking area for the campground was ringed with huge Douglas Fir trees, which shot skyward like arrows at the surly clouds with green fletching all the way to their tips. At this time of year, there was nobody else around.
They began unloading the trucks and changing into their river gear. Each of the commandos donned a thick neoprene wetsuit, while Chip pulled on two layers of form-fitting fleece and then his full drysuit, zipping up the heavy-duty waterproof closure to seal himself in. The suit had built-in waterproof socks for his feet and rubber gaskets at the neck and wrists that kept all water out. The Gore-Tex waterproof/breathable fabric had been designed for the space program but had found much wider use in outdoor apparel. It kept water out while allowing vapor to pass through; so his sweat could escape, and the fleece he was wearing would stay warm and dry even if he was totally immersed. The suit had cost him several weekends’ pay, but it was worth it to be comfortable and safe from hypothermia when he paddled in the winter months or colder climates. Chip used a screwdriver to adjust the fittings inside his new kayak while the others inflated the raft and tied it to the roof of one of the trucks. The kayak was a Pyranha Burn, a model made in Britain that was good for paddling steep creeks and waterfalls. It was made of rigid green plastic, eight feet long and slightly bulbous to keep him floating high on the surface of the water. It had distinct hull lines that made it a high performance ride, allowing for maximum maneuverability in the hands of an expert. An angry fish graphic with a mouthful of spiny teeth winked up at him from the deck as he made the last adjustments.
The kayak was tossed on top of the raft and secured while all of the paddles and other river gear were loaded inside. Dry clothing for after the river was put in the truck that would be left here, where they planned to end their ride. They piled into the truck with the boats on top, returned to the highway, and continued another half-mile toward the ski resort town of Whislter before taking a left onto a dirt road for the ten minute drive up the Callaghan Creek valley. The top end of the valley had been home to the Nordic events for the 2010 Winter Games; the ski jump could still be seen from this road if they were to drive a few minutes further. It was a little-known fact that this valley also held some of the finest basalt bedrock on the continent, a volcanic rock known for its propensity for creating excellent waterfalls. They bounced onto a smaller road and wound their way around to park in a clearing where all of the trees had been removed and sold for timber.
They piled out of the truck and unloaded the boats. All of them shrugged on slim, form-fitting personal floatation devices—lifejackets—designed to provide for maximum freedom of movement. Chip pulled on his neoprene spraydeck—a girdle around his middle that would seal the entire cockpit of his kayak to keep it from filling with water. All of them donned Kevlar composite helmets, which the men found surprisingly similar to those worn in combat. They all grabbed paddles, and Chip shouldered his kayak while the men began maneuvering the unwieldy raft into the tree line and down a steep bank to the river.
Chip sized up the river when he saw it. The milky-looking water was the same grey color as the clouds, surging wildly between the steep banks and roaring furiously through the rapid in front of them. The river flowed from glaciers high above, and the ominous looking water carried fine grey dust that the massive moving mounds of ice had carved from the granite cliffs on the mountainsides. Chip stuck his fingers in the water to feel the temperature and was surprised that it felt a bit warmer than when he had been here before in late summer. At that time of year, all of the flow was created by warm sun thawing the glaciers, so the freshly melted water was freezing cold. The fall rainwater was comparatively warmer; today the river was a balmy forty-eight degrees.
“So the first drop is right down below us,” Chip shouted over the roar of the water. “It’s about eight feet tall. Just stay in the middle and keep your speed up, then hold on tight when you go over.”
All of the men listened intently. They had been over this several times on the drive up, but it seemed more real now that they were here. Chip slid his legs into his kayak, tightened the ratchets on two straps which ran behind his lower back to hold him firmly in place, and then pulled his spraydeck over the opening of the boat to seal it. He slid his hands into short neoprene sleeves called ‘pogies’ that were velcroed around the shaft of his paddle. Although they wouldn’t keep all of the water out, they would block the wind and most of the splashes, keeping his hands warm and his grip sure.
He took a slow, deep breath then slid off the rocks into the rushing water. The sudden acceleration and the first splash of cold water brought him totally awake from his morning somnolence. The men leapt into the raft and picked up their paddles, digging in with firm strokes to bring themselves into the flow. Chip could hear Harris calmly shouting commands to his crew over the din of the water. The rapids paused for a moment, then the water sped into a tumult of white before dropping over an eight-foot-tall ledge in front of him. Chip stayed to the right and launched off a rock hidden just under the surface at the lip of the drop, flying out past the dangerous recirculation of water at the base of the falls. His hull made a huge “BOOF” sound as it landed completely flat on the water below the drop. This ski-jump style move was actually called a “boof” after the sound the hollow boat made as it landed on the water’s surface. It was the perfect technique for launching smaller waterfalls like this and landing in control; but on larger ones it could spell disaster—like a belly flop off a high dive. If the drop was tall enough, a flat landing could cause a kayaker’s vertebrae to burst from the compression forces on impact, leaving him floating helplessly downriver with a broken back.
Chip looked over his shoulder just in time to see the raft float over the drop behind him. It went smoothly enough, the men letting go of their paddles with one hand at the last second and grabbing tightly to a strap of nylon webbing that ran around the perimeter of the raft. The mass of the large boat carried it easily through the recirculation at the bottom of the falls. There was no time for celebration as the raft was swept immediately into the next rapid, and the men renewed two-handed grips on their paddles and continued their efforts.
A few rapids later, Chip pulled over to the side and hopped out of his boat
and quickly grabbed the incoming raft to stop it as well. They secured the boats and scrambled along the steep bank, careful not to get stuck by the thorny Devil’s Club—a broad-leafed bush whose stalks were lined with brambles that could embed themselves in the skin and lead to infections. The surface of the creek formed a horizon line just downstream where it disappeared over a cataract. Fine white mist billowed up like translucent cotton balls into the air above the precipice, and the roar was deafening. When they reached a point where they could see the falls, Chip indicated the proper route over the fifteen-foot drop, through the following rapid, and into an eddy visible about a hundred yards downstream through the mist. Just below was another horizon line that appeared to be an even larger falls.
Once confident that the others understood his directions, Chip made his way back to his kayak and climbed in. Five seconds later he was weaving through the currents just above the falls, leaning his hips to carve the edges of his hull across the water first one way and then the other in much the same way that a snowboarder would carve across the snow. He dug in a mighty paddle stroke at the last second, pulling his knees upward towards his chest. Fifteen feet of freefall was still acceptable for a flat landing, and Chip wanted to maintain control instead of diving into the chaos of churning water at the base of the falls. He was rewarded by a loud “boof” as he touched down, and then stroked aggressively as he accelerated into a narrowing fifty-yard-long sluice of head-high waves.
He paddled hard toward the side of the river and carved into the eddy above the next falls. He hopped from his boat, pulled it onto shore, and reached inside for a nylon sack containing seventy-five feet of lightweight, ultra-strong Spectra rope—stronger than steel cable but a fraction of the weight. He opened it and grasped the free end in one hand and the bag in the other. In the event that one of the men toppled from the raft, Chip could hold the end of the rope and throw the bag, the line playing out as it flew. The swimming man could grab onto the rope and be pulled to the side of the river before plummeting over the next falls. He fervently hoped that such a dramatic rescue wouldn’t be necessary. Ever since Daniel’s accident, he’d worn a second, smaller rope bag on his lifejacket that could be used in an emergency—he would never lose time groping for a rope again. If more than two of the men swam, however, there was nothing he could do for the others.
