Silver, Lead,
and Dead
Silver, Lead,
and Dead
James Garmisch
Copyright © 2015 James Garmisch
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1500522171
ISBN 13: 9781500522179
CONTENTS
Part 1
CHAPTER 1: A Tale of Two Kidnappings
CHAPTER 2: Waking Up from Bad Dreams into Nightmares
CHAPTER 3: Best Laid Plans of Vice and Men
CHAPTER 4: Liars, Flyers, and Bloody Pliers
CHAPTER 5: Baggage Pickup
CHAPTER 6: Made in Mexico
CHAPTER 7: Let’s Make a Deal
CHAPTER 8: The Hombres of Walmart
CHAPTER 9: Blue-Light Special
CHAPTER 10: Trust Me—I Used to Lie for a Living
CHAPTER 11: The Zoo
CHAPTER 12: Training Wheels
Part 2
CHAPTER 13: The Love Boat
CHAPTER 14: Dope and Change
CHAPTER 15: Operation Crazy Ivan
CHAPTER 16: Sunrise Near Veracruz
CHAPTER 17: Under the Wire
CHAPTER 18: Battle of Chapultepec
CHAPTER 19: Hunger Pangs
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21: Safe House
CHAPTER 22: Lead Rules, Blood Pools
CHAPTER 23: Mr. Franklin
CHAPTER 24: The House That Blood Built
CHAPTER 25: That Salty Taste
CHAPTER 26: The Cuban Cowboy Way
CHAPTER 27: “The Plane, the Plane”
CHAPTER 28: Click Click Bang Bang
CHAPTER 29: Green-Colored Glasses
CHAPTER 30: Gang Plank
CHAPTER 31: Scrambled Eggs in Paradise
CHAPTER 32: Floating Cans
CHAPTER 33: Caesar’s Blues
CHAPTER 34: The Fan Hits the…
CHAPTER 35: Dueling Lead
CHAPTER 36: Son of a Drug Dealer
CHAPTER 37: Swiss Cheese and Hamburger
CHAPTER 38: Fish in a Barrel
CHAPTER 39: Hiding Places
CHAPTER 40: Furious
CHAPTER 41: Not So Fast
CHAPTER 42: Mexican Standoff
CHAPTER 43: What Goes Up
CHAPTER 44: Finally Over
CHAPTER 45: Landing Gear
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Part 1
CHAPTER 1
A Tale of Two Kidnappings
Juárez, Mexico, February 13, 2010, 0810 Hours
Armando Gonzalez lived in Ciudad Juárez, the largest city in the Mexican state of Chihuahua. The city had grown in Armando’s seventy-nine years from scrubland and farms joined by dirt roads and footpaths to a city of over a million. Juárez was now a city of factories, Walmarts, smokestacks, and old school buses packed with workers heading to the maquiladoras. The last decade had brought an entirely different transformation.
When Armando was young, gringos used to walk across the border, buy cheap booze, dance with hookers, and buy bundles of weed and heroin, or “mud,” to take back home. Drug trafficking in the 1950s and ’60s was more like buying produce from a local farmers’ market. Buy local; know your dealer. Sure, people got killed, but, by and large, business was done with a handshake, not a “goat horn,” or AK-47.
The farmers would bring down their crops from the hills of Sinaloa in old trucks or by animals. Hippies from California, soldiers on leave, and smugglers looking to make quick cash could satisfy their needs for the right price. There was a code back then, Armando mused. The police and government officials turned their heads and stretched out their hands. Gringos and Mexicans traded paper for weed. The world was in balance. Armando had been a police officer for a few years in his youth before the lure of smuggling drew him into a multidecade journey of mayhem. Several events in 1975 transformed Armando into a broken and humble man. At times, he was nostalgic about those days, but he recognized them for what they were, and he praised God for deliverance.
Armando had been shot four times and survived. His brothers had not been so lucky. The decade he spent in prison was perhaps the beginning of the best thing that ever happened to him. During an oppressive day in June, Armando decided to have his large tattoo of Jesús Malverde recolored. Jesús Malverde patron saint of smugglers, held the nostalgia of Robin Hood and the allure of a noble outlaw. Armando’s tattoo covered his entire back and was quite impressive, even by prison-tattoo standards. Malverde had been executed for his crimes.
“Worship dead idols and false prophets and end up like them.” The words from an inmate had at first offended Armando, but gradually the warning burned fear into him. Armando’s slow conversion was not pretty. One day the scales fell from his eyes, he recalled, and he surrendered his life to a higher power.
Armando never looked back. Illiterate, he learned to read so he could see and understand the Holy Bible for himself. Armando came to believe that God did indeed have a plan for him, and it was not living a life of pleasure but one of service. His friends abandoned him, and he was mocked, yet he grew stronger each year. During Armando’s ninth and final year in prison, he met the sister of another convict and fell in love. Her name was Sophia, and she was indeed the answer to his prayers. Sophia’s father owned a chain of grocery stores in Juárez, and upon release, Armando began working for him. Sophia and Armando were married and had four children.
Armando paused to think about his children. It seemed like yesterday when they were born. The two oldest boys had been killed in the mid-1980s by stray gunfire. The two younger daughters, twins, now lived in the States. Maria, a teacher, and her six children lived in San Antonio. His daughter Sophia had also married, had five children, and was now living in a place called Virginia.
A car backfired; Armando jumped and returned abruptly to the present. How could fifty years go so quickly?
He now owned the grocery store with one of his surviving brothers. His wife, Sophia, had died eighteen years earlier. A night did not go by that Armando didn’t plead, “Please let me die tonight too and wake up in your glory and see Sophia again.”
Each morning he woke up in his one-room apartment disappointed but accepting, thinking, You must not be done with me yet. He recalled how his daughters pleaded with him to leave Juárez. “It’s not safe! You must come live with us.”
“No, my little angels. I can’t be comfortable in North America, oblivious to the suffering down here. I am a disciple of Christ and am doing my best to spread blessings and his word.”
His daughter Sophia would sigh, just like her mother. “But you are giving the money Maria and I send you to bums and vagrants. You will make yourself a target! You are not a poor man, yet you live like a bum!”
“What is money, my child? I spread love and help those who need it. It’s God’s money. He has done great things in people’s lives.”
“Maybe he will send a bomb to destroy all the narcos! Papa! Leave that country!”
“Mexico will be judged just like every other vile place where man lives. Look at the United States. Its acts would make the people of Sodom blush. Evil will get its reward.”
Armando walked down the street to the store and thought about Sophia, his angel—beautiful like her mother. Armando still felt at home in the city even though things had gone from bad to insane. The smell of death had been baked into the ground. Shell casings, broken bottles, and shreds of clothing cut from the wounded by paramedics lay in bloody clumps in the gutter. He could smell smoke from taco stands and generally saw the same people every day standing around, waiting for something to happen. Armando handed out Bibles
to anyone who would take one and would pray for anyone who would listen—especially for those who would not.
“No, my work in this city is not done!” he had told Sophia.
Rust, hopelessness, rotting corpses, and poverty were laid out and left to dry in the sun like miles of mota. Juárez had more murders in one day than El Paso had in a year. Despite soldiers and police on nearly every street and a curfew, the city was out of control. Armando drank a warm Pepsi from a bottle as he left his house. His cluttered neighborhood had seen better days. Most of the houses on his block were boarded up and empty. Some one hundred thousand people had fled Juárez over the years.
Armando had worked at the same job and gone to the same church every day for decades. He swallowed the last of the Pepsi and threw the empty bottle into a Dumpster that stank like human remains. Armando paused. It was still early in the morning, and there was a slight chill in the air. He could not ride his bike anymore; he had given it to a man on the street. He walked two blocks, passing old, abandoned sheds and houses, graffiti-covered walls, and a few gutted cars.
People were fleeing north by the thousands from all over Mexico. Armando sighed; it was not an economic problem but a spiritual one. Many of his friends and neighbors who fled to the States chasing a magic new beginning were dead within a few years or just as bad off. They just dragged their problems across the border.
Armando smelled and then saw a dead dog lying among broken beer bottles and plastic syringes. He crossed the street. He spotted the grocery store and reached for his keys as he did every day. A few homeless people lay among piles of trash. They smelled like old urine. Stray cats regarded him as an invader and looked for food. He said a prayer for the homeless people and reached in his pocket for some tracts.
A loud noise caught Armando’s attention. A yellow pickup with no muffler or tailgate rounded a corner and pulled right up on the sidewalk next to him. The exhaust stank, and the truck rattled as it idled.
Is this it? Are they going to kill me? he wondered.
He looked at the truck and the driver with surprise and curiosity. Two men jumped from the bed of the rusted-out truck. One was short and fat, the other tall and thin. They both wore ski masks and moved with nervous energy and clumsy, shaky hands. Armando frowned. Back in the day, he already would have killed these two amateurs. Now he faced them without fear and with a hope that soon he would see his lost love.
The taller of the men put a gun in Armando’s face. He yelled, “Get in, old man!”
The kidnappers threw a bag over Armando’s head and lifted him off the ground and into the bed of the truck. He did not resist as moldy-smelling blankets were piled on him.
“Go! Go!” yelled one of the men as he slammed his fist onto the cab of the truck.
The truck took off with the exhaust booming. Armando’s keys and tracts lay on the sidewalk.
Mexico City, February 14, 2010, 0800 Hours
Mexico City is a large sprawl of concrete, steel, dust, and smog. Streets weave through and around it like veins and arteries pumping and receiving blood.
At seventy-three hundred feet in altitude, the city is home to twenty-one million people packed like bees in sixteen boroughs over 573 square miles.
Nineteen-year-old Manuel Rosa did what he did best: he talked. No one seemed to be listening, so he talked louder and faster.
“So, Roger, you looking forward to going back to Scotland? The land of rain and clouds? You know you will miss it here in Mexico City, the kidnapping capital of the world, huh? Exams are over and we could go to the beach. Warm water here; freezing water in Scotland. Great party last night—never seen my cousins drink so much! Passed all my classes. Changing majors by the way—screw business school; screw dad! I am going to be an artist and live in Spain!”
Manuel frowned when he had no response. He sat wedged in the backseat of his father’s bulletproof Mercedes speeding along to Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez. His bodyguards ignored him as they often did. He was in the backseat with Salvador, while Jose drove, and Roger rode shotgun.
“Look! A Ducati would love to get one of those, would never happen. What would I do? Drive around with my security detail on my back? Look ridiculous.”
The car exited and headed toward the airport entrance. Manuel spoke faster trying to get all his words out before it was too late. He noticed that a police truck had fallen in behind them.
“Roger, so I have a question for you. Have you always done what your father has asked? I mean did you do for a living what he wanted?”
Roger grumbled and fiddled with a new Blackberry that Manuel had bought for him as a going-away present. At six four and 250 pounds, Roger seemed to fill the car. Manuel was amused at how slow anyone over the age of thirty was with technology, and he was glad now that he had bought it, if not for the sheer joy of watching Roger struggle.
“Need help with that?” Manuel asked, laughing. “Helps, Roger, if you turn it on!”
Roger cursed and grumbled and then shoved the thing in his pocket. He spoke with a heavy Scottish accent that annihilated the Spanish language whenever he chose to speak it. Roger had retired from the British SAS six years ago and attended cooking school in Paris. Now, he was in Mexico as a chef for Manuel’s family. The former chef had been shot over refusing to yield a parking space. Roger’s appearance had terrified his cooking instructors at first, but that all changed when they tasted his creations. With long hair, a full beard with a few braids, and pro-Scottish tattoes, he looked more like a cast member out of a remake of Highlander.
“Lad, you should not speak of your father that way.”
“Well, Roger, did you do what your dad wanted?”
“That’s different son; my dad was a drunk. He ran me off when I was about your age. I joined the service and never looked back. Answer is no.”
“So there! I am going to be an artist!” Manuel said.
Salvatore looked sideways at Manuel and shook his head. Salvatore reeked of cigarettes and breath mints.
“Art? Get a job first, boy, and then you can draw all you want. Your father is a good man. But he is not a forgiving man!”
“All of you talk too much!” Manuel complained.
“Son, we all rebel. Let’s talk about this when I get back. I’ll be gone for three months. Hold your tongue. If you still wanna color pictures for a livin’ we can talk to your dad then,” Roger said flatly.
“Fine. But I hate my life.”
The car edged its way toward the international departures and slowed.
“You hate your life? Son, you got a good family and a good life here.”
Manuel showed his frustration but struggled to keep his voice calm. No one ever raised their voice at Roger; his temper was legendary.
“Nice? Like when your best friend from high school gets kidnapped and held for ransom by the police and then even after the parents pay—they rape her and melt her with acid? No! I am done with this place. I have not been outside by myself since. No walks, no bike rides. I am moving to Spain.”
Roger shook his head; no one spoke.
Salvatore coughed and pulled out his cigarettes.
Jose drove slowly up the ramp to international departures. He cursed at a tow truck stopped illegally next to the curb and parked the Mercedes beside a curbside taxi off-loading a man. Laws were merely a suggestion in Mexico.
A taxi left, and a white delivery van drove up slowly next to the curb. Roger got out and put on his backpack. Jose popped the trunk and got out. Salvador rolled down his window but stayed in the car. The engine was still running. Manuel got out quickly and walked around to say good-bye to Roger, who gave him a quick handshake, closed the trunk, and shrugged.
“I’ll see you in a few months, amigo.”
“Have a good trip, Roger. I am not kidding about school.”
“Do what you got to, son. I believe in you. Adios.”
Roger walked around the delivery van, paused to look back, and then disappeared insi
de the terminal. A breeze picked up, and the sound of planes and the smell of jet fuel filled the air.
Manuel turned to look as the same black-and-white police truck pulled up behind them. Two cops got out.
“Guess we must move along,” said Manuel, looking around for Jose. The car’s driver-side door was open, but its driver was nowhere in sight. And the large delivery truck to the right of the Mercedes blocked a view of the terminal’s entrance, casting a shadow over the car. The airport seemed eerily quiet.
“No se puede estacionar aqui!” Two cops approached. One cop spoke to Manuel while the other walked toward Salvador between the white truck and the Mercedes.
“You don’t understand, sir. My driver, he was just here!” explained Manuel.
“Come with me.” The policeman looked bored and annoyed.
“My driver left, sir. We dropped off my friend, I turned around, and the driver was gone!”
“Come!”
Manuel did as told. He walked to the police truck and noticed two men sitting in the back. The truck was a pickup with a four-door crew cab.
He just wants a payoff. Freakin’ corrupt cops, thought Manuel.
To the cop he said, “My driver’s license is suspended.” He looked back at the Mercedes. Jose was still gone—or he had left. “I don’t know where my driver went.”
“Your friend can drive, yes?” asked the cop, nodding toward Salvador. “And I need to run your name.”
“My father will kill me if I get a ticket.” Manuel started to get nervous and ramble. He wished Roger were here; he would know what to do. Something was not right, but he was too anxious to do anything.
The police officer was calm and looked annoyed. “Your name?” He picked up his radio mike.
“Manuel Rosa.”
The cop’s face suddenly changed, and he grinned evilly. Manuel felt his pulse jump, and he gulped. Did this cop recognize his name?
Manuel glanced at Salvador, who opened the car door to speak with the second cop.
Manuel stood next to the police pickup. He felt confused and just wanted to go. His cousin was setting him up on a blind date that night with a beautiful French exchange student. His mind drifted. A honk from the white van brought him back to reality.
Silver Lead and Dead (Evan Hernandez series Book 1) Page 1
