PRECIPICE

by Leland Davis

  THE PHONE ON Moore’s desk beeped, and Candace’s whiny, high-pitched voice stabbed out of the speaker like an icepick into his ear.

  “Mr. Sullivan’s on the line.”

  This was the moment of truth. Jim Sullivan was the Majority Whip, and he’d been riding Moore hard over the International Trucking Bill. Although the bulk of their conversations in past years had been simple confirmations that Moore would vote, as usual, along party lines, this issue had driven a wedge between the two men. With the vote scheduled for later this week before the Thanksgiving recess, he knew he could expect to hear from Sullivan every day to try and change his mind.

  Sheldon could feel the whiskey oozing through the pores of his clammy skin, and he smelled his own acrid sweat. At least he’d kept a clean shirt at work. He’d been up late last night and had finally drunk himself unconscious on his stiff leather office couch in the wee hours of the morning. Sunrise had brought a pounding headache and a dose of clarity. There was no way he could go through with the deal. His conscience wouldn’t allow it. Despite his gut fear at the prospect of a drug lord gunning to destroy him and his family, he was reassured by the few words that Senator Craig had whispered in the meeting. Wesley Craig was not a man of idle threats. Contrary to his appearance as a jovial Texan teddy bear, he was a master manipulator of the system and a major player in military and defense matters. If anyone in Congress could orchestrate the elimination of the most powerful drug dealer in Mexico, it was Craig. In fact, Moore had decided it was safer to bet that Craig had things under control. The threat from Cardenas would be eliminated. There would be no more money forthcoming from his Mexican partner no matter which way the vote turned out. Finally, his choice had become clear.

  Moore picked up the handset and punched the button for the lit phone line with a large finger.

  “Hey Jim,” he said.

  “Sheldon, how are ya?” The North Dakotan’s accent always sounded fast and funny to Moore, like the man was from another country or maybe another planet.

  “I’m awl right,” Sheldon drawled back at him, “How’re you?”

  “Well, I’ll be a lot better if I can talk you into changing your mind on this trucking bill. The party needs your help here, Sheldon. If we open the border up too much, we’ll never keep jobs in the U.S. Stopping this is what the voters want. It’s what the party wants. It’s really the best answer for the country.”

  Sheldon just sat and listened. He could never get a word in edgewise with this guy and knew the best plan was to wait until he ran out of breath.

  “It’s the best answer for you too, Sheldon. You know what’ll happen to ya in the party if you go against us on this. You’ll be lucky to win the nomination again, much less pay for a campaign. The people of Alabama won’t support ya if you send their jobs to Mexico. We’ve got to keep your seat on our side of the aisle here in the next election.”

  The pause finally came.

  “Well,” Moore said, “I reckon it’s yore lucky day then. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll be votin’ against it.”

  “Great news!” Sullivan gushed in excitement. “You’re making the right choice. Thanks Sheldon, I knew we could count on you when it came down to it.”

  “I’m glad to help out,” Sheldon said with a hint of sadness.

  “Thanks again, Sheldon. I’ll give ya a call in a couple days to confirm, but I’m so glad you’ve decided to help us on this. The party appreciates all that you do. I’ll see ya.”

  The phone line clicked off, and Moore slowly lowered the handset back into its cradle. It was done. He had no idea how the future would unfold from here, but at least his conscience would be clear. There’d be no three million more dollars, and he might never touch the two million that was already sitting offshore. Maybe he could access it later if Cardenas was killed or give it back if he wasn’t; but he suspected that no refund would mollify the drug lord once he learned that he’d been betrayed. Moore had no idea how he would handle his chief of staff, no idea if he would run for reelection, and no idea if he could stay with his wife. All he knew was that he was counting on Craig’s statement that Vicente Cardenas would be dead by next week. He’d just bet everything on it.

  *

  Word spread fast on the hill. It was two hours past noon when Ortiz found out that his boss had changed positions on the trucking bill. It was certainly big news since he’d been the guy who pushed it through committee. What the hell was he thinking? Aside from the political ramifications of a flip-flop like that, hadn’t Ortiz made it clear what would happen to him if he changed sides? Ortiz walked quickly through the parking garage to his Audi, the frustrated echo of his quickened footsteps filling the concrete space. The car chirped as he shut off the alarm. He climbed in, started it up, and made his way outside of the garage to where there was cell service.

  He dialed his prepaid phone quickly and hit send.

  “Hola,” came Héctor’s surprised voice on the other end of the line. The Mexican pulled over to the side of the dusty dirt road that he was traveling on, headed for the newest building they were using for the bus “recruiting.” The road was too uneven to drive on while he talked on the satellite phone.

  “Tenemos un problema.” We have a problem, the American cousin blurted.

  “What is it?”

  “My boss has learned who your boss is, and he is changing his vote.”

  There was silence for a few seconds, then Héctor swore at length. Finally he calmed.

  “Then we must change his mind,” he said ominously.

  Ortiz had worried that it would come to this. Although he had known it was a distant possibility, he had hoped the senator could easily be deceived until the vote was over. The man hadn’t put much thought into his job at all in the last few months. How had he found out? It must have been the DHS meeting. He cursed himself for insisting that Moore go, but how could he have known that instead of defending the bill, the senator would learn Cardenas’ true identity? He was too close to turn back now, though. He was not going to let two million dollars slip away, and he had to figure out how to keep Moore quiet about Ortiz’ involvement in this. His whole future was on the line. He knew there was only one way they could be sure of Moore’s vote. Still, threatening someone’s life was a huge step in a direction he had hoped never to travel.

  “His daughter,” Ortiz said reluctantly. “She is a student in California at Stanford University.” He proceeded to relay her dormitory and room number to his cousin.

  “OK,” Héctor was nodding. This was good. There was no better way to change a man’s mind. “Can you send me a picture?”

  “Si.” Ortiz would have to find a way to swipe one from the senator’s office and scan it. Or maybe he could just snap a quick shot of one of the photos on Moore’s wall with his Blackberry.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “The vote will be Thursday or Friday.”

  “It’s not enough time. Is there a way to delay it?”

  Ortiz considered this for a minute, running through his options. There was one senator from the other party who would probably be willing to work with him.

  “I have a senator I can get to stall it. It might require money, but there are not enough supporters of the bill to force a vote.”

  Héctor had no interest in the technicalities of the American Congress; he just wanted to be sure that the vote didn’t happen before they could convince Senator Moore to change his mind again. “How long can you delay it?”

  “Until after the Thanksgiving holiday next week?”

  “OK, I will go to California.”

  “Wait, one more thing…”

  “Yes?”

  “The girl will only be there until Saturday. Then she flies back here to Washington for the holiday.”

  It was a complication. Héctor definitely did not want to attempt to grab the girl while she was with her parents in Washington. California was a much better option. He would have to move quickly.

  “O
K. You delay the vote, and I will go to California. Call me when you’re sure the vote will be delayed.”

  They agreed and disconnected the line.

  Héctor put the satellite phone down on the passenger’s seat. He popped open the console between the front seats and removed his complicated shoulder holster rig and awkwardly struggled into it, banging his chest into the steering wheel in the process before reaching back to pull his ponytail free where it was stuck under the back strap. Then he popped open the glove box and removed his stainless Springfield .45 and slammed it home under his left arm before continuing along the road.

  A few minutes later, he stepped out of the truck into the sunlight in front of a metal barn similar to the ones he had visited on his last trip. The weather was a bit cooler than last time, and he was glad that there was no stench here yet. The buildings were much more pleasant to visit when they were new. As he strode into the shade of the barn, he could hear a roar of voices cheering behind the structure. There were bodies already inside; a group who had just been killed was slumped along a wall near the bus. On the other side of the space, a group of women were bound and lying on the floor, their soft weeping drowned out by the din of the crowd out back.

  Héctor continued into the sunlight behind the building where the men were all gathered around a freshly dug pit. They were jeering, shouting, betting, and raising large caguama bottles—almost full liters—of beer over their heads in a drunken frenzy. In the pit were five men. Three were dead—gruesomely shattered husks recently dismantled by bludgeon and blade, almost unrecognizable as human in their utter destruction. A fourth man lingered on his knees in a purgatory of semi-consciousness, his dwindling supply of living spirit pouring out through vicious gashes that covered his arms, shoulders, and neck. The last man stood over him with a machete, a macabre specter of disheveled slaughter coated in sticky blood. The ripe smell of carnage was thick in the air, goading the crowd into a crazed chant.

  “¡Mátelo! ¡Mátelo!" Kill him!

  Héctor shouldered his way to the front of the crowd, arriving just as the standing man slowly let the machete fall to his side. Héctor watched hardness fade from the man’s eyes as humanity overcame his thirst for survival, then the machete slipped from his bloody fingers and came to rest on the sticky earth at his feet.

  The roar of protest from the crowd was deafening, and some began to throw their oversized bottles at the men in the pit. Scuffles broke out as bets were argued in the absence of a conclusive end to the bout.

  Héctor snatched the .45 from beneath his arm in frustration and fired, and the head of the man standing in the pit exploded into a wet slop of pink spray. The jeering crowd fell totally silent at the heavy pistol’s report, then the man slumped onto himself like a marionette with its strings cut before toppling to one side.

  Héctor quickly adjusted his aim and fired into the head of the kneeling man, mercifully releasing him from his fruitless struggle for survival.

  “Pinche cabrones! Get back to work!” Héctor roared. “No mas de cervezas!” His frustration with the situation in the U.S. morphed into rage, and he wildly waved his gun around, sending the men scattering from in front of it. He fired two more rounds into the air to hasten their flight.

  12

  Wednesday, November 16th

  HÉCTOR FERNANDEZ BASKED in the sound his Luccese crocodile-skin boots made against the solid floor as he strutted down the concourse toward the terminal. It wasn’t the dull clump of a worker’s boot or a soldier’s boot, or the bombastic click of a politico’s dress shoe, or the dainty tap of a woman’s high heel. No, it was a staccato clap that sprang outward into a bubble of pure machismo around him as he walked. He savored the feeling of his long black pony tail swishing across the back of his short-sleeved button-up silk shirt and the texture of the denim of his jeans rubbing against his legs as he walked. California—he loved it here.

  He carried only a small bag with a change of clothes. He wished he had his beautiful .45, but there was no way he could travel with it on the plane. He’d cleared customs in Dallas, his false American passport getting him through easily. It had cost him a horrible ordeal yesterday driving seven hours from the desert to the jungle compound to pick up his false papers, then another four hours riding to the city for his 7:15 AM flight. At least he’d been given a driver for that portion. The worst part had been telling his boss the news, which was unavoidable due to his unexpected return to the compound. Cardenas had taken the development with grim displeasure, only nodding slightly when Héctor had informed him of the plan to use the girl.

  “Bring her back here,” the drug lord had instructed curtly.

  Héctor knew that bringing her to Mexico would complicate things. It would take him the rest of the day to line up everything that would have to be in place. He found his way onto the train to the airport’s rental car area then grabbed hold of a metal post to steady himself as the railcar lurched into motion. At the rental car desk, he used a credit card that matched his false passport to rent a minivan, then he headed south on the 101 through San Mateo. A half-hour later he took the Willow Road Exit, following the instructions from the GPS in his rental van, and began weaving his way through Palo Alto and onto University Ave. He soon rolled onto campus and slowly found his way through the school buildings until he pulled to a stop at a curve where one small campus street turned right and became another. It wasn’t a perfect view due to the angle, but through a row of trees and bushes and across an area of grass he could see the stone archway of the girl’s dormitory. It looked more like a cathedral than a barracks, and he noted that the stone façade and tile roof would fit right into Mexico, even down to the wide bladed yuccas that were planted flanking the arched entryway. He spent a few minutes watching before driving a rambling and circuitous route through campus until he was able to find a parking lot at the rear of the dormitory. He pulled into a space and put the minivan in park.

  He fished his iPhone from his pocket. It was on a Mexican plan paid for by a cover business. Although it didn’t work at the remote jungle compound in San Luis or at the desert buildings in Tamulipas, it was useful when he worked in cities. He pulled up a photo of Samantha Moore that his cousin had emailed to him last night from an anonymous gmail account. He’d received the email early this morning when he arrived in the capitol of San Luis Potosi to catch his flight. Although it was a poor quality cell phone photo of a framed picture, he could tell that she was an attractive girl. Long straight blonde hair, thin delicate features, large brown eyes. She was a bit tall—he guessed around 175 centimeters from looking at the family photo taken with the senator and the girl’s mother. Her chest was full, but her narrow hips were not quite round enough for Héctor’s taste. Still, he had to admit that part of him would be tempted, even though his boss had been very specific that she not be harmed.

  He put the phone away and stepped out of the van, then casually walked a complete circuit around the building. One corner butted closely to another dormitory. Two sides were flanked by parking lots, one by the grassy area he had seen in front, and the fourth side faced an open area that led to a building which appeared to be a dining facility with a large, triangular concrete patio. It was time for the evening meal in America, and students were streaming to and from the cafeteria. This was not going to be easy. There were too many exits from the building to watch, too many ways that she could go, and too many people around. He climbed back into the minivan and left campus, programming the GPS to take him to a nearby hotel.

  *

  Sam tried to dissolve into the seat of the metallic blue BMW as it rolled out of a giant tangled highway interchange and down a ramp onto a city street. It was the first time she’d ever ventured south to San Jose. Brett took an immediate right. After growing up in DC this didn’t have the look of a bad neighborhood to her, but she knew it must be. As they entered a residential area, the main street they traveled was lined with one-story block and concrete buildings painted in a variety of colo
rs, with bars or grates on many of the windows. Down the side streets she could see traditional stick-built American houses, most of them small, with an occasional spindly palm tree rising from their midst. The cars parked along the side streets at this hour on a weekday were old, and a few of them had flat tires or looked like they hadn’t been driven in a while.

  Brett took a right and rolled slowly past the houses, looking at the addresses. He finally pulled to the left curb and stopped in front of a small house, extending two fingers out the bottom edge of the open car window. A heavyset guy in sweatpants with a black Raiders jersey draped over his bulk was sitting on the steps of the house talking on a cell phone. When he saw the car pull up, he hopped up and stepped quickly to the open window of the car, still talking on the phone. The man reached in through the window. Brett passed him a twenty, and two small baggies were passed in. Then the BMW slowly rolled away as the man made his way back to the steps with the phone in one hand and the money hand stuffed in his pocket.

  A few blocks later the street ran into a cross street and ended at a row of trees. Brett parked the car along the row of trees, and they got out. They ducked into the shade and down a bank near a slow-moving stream. Crouching behind a tree, Brett pulled a glass pipe from his pocket, reached into one of the baggies and removed a small, yellowish-white crystalline rock.

  *

  Héctor checked into the hotel and got a room with two double beds. Once in the room, he scrolled through his contacts and selected a U.S. number with a 310 area code—the L.A. area. It only rang once.

  “Hola,” came the answer. Héctor could hear a car stereo blaring Mexican pop music over the roar of the wind through an open window in the background.

  “Hola, Chucho. ¿Dónde estás?”

  “San Jose,” was the answer.

  Good, he was almost here. Héctor relayed the name and location of his hotel as well as his room number before disconnecting. L.A. was the closest place that he had good contacts, and he’d called the man this morning before boarding his first flight.