“What?” exclaimed Evan. “You’re crazy!”
Jack ignored him. “Cindy doesn’t know, and if the DEA finds out, I’m fired.”
Evan stood up so quickly that Zeus lifted his head and growled.
“Jack! Just stop it! I know you’re a cop, but listen to yourself. You’ll end up in a YouTube video getting killed by some cartel members. You got a family too and a career. No. No way!”
“I feel called to do it.”
Evan paused and looked at his brother as if he were nuts. “Called? Like God told you?”
“Just called,” said Jack. “Like I have the resources, like I have been helping protect victims my whole freaking career…And now I know a victim who is almost family. What does it say about me, Evan, if I do nothing?”
Evan began to pace around the room. His head ached, and as he walked into the kitchen, an idea began to burn deep in his head, like a warm coal.
“I will be in and out in two days, Evan. I just need you to say that I was with you.”
Evan walked back into the living room, sipping the last of the coffee.
“A couple of years ago, I had a dream about helping a stranger, an old man with a horrible scar on his back. I refused to help, and he died.”
“How?” asked Evan, looking at his brother sideways.
“Can’t say, but it wasn’t pretty. Look, Evan, I got to go down there, and what I really wanted to do is ask you to go with me. But when I got here, I chickened out.”
Evan bit his lower lip and looked at his brother.
Zeus was snoring again.
“You know I spent a lot of time in South America and Mexico,” Evan began slowly. “You know I was a pilot with the agency—no secret there—but what I did, the details…Well, it’s the same with your job. You can’t talk about it.”
“Your point, Evan?”
“You’re married, Jack. You have three kids in college. You haven’t been in the field in, like, fifteen years, and, well, you have rules.”
“What are you saying?”
Evan looked at his coffee cup and felt like drinking some Scotch. His head throbbed. “My lies got someone I loved and my daughter killed many years ago. I thought I drank the memories away and covered the guilt—only it’s back now, stronger than ever.”
“You were married? When? Where?” asked Jack. His jaw dropped, and his eyes widened for a second as if he did not recognize his brother.
“In Colombia. I had a wife and daughter. The same time I had a fiancée up here. I was an ass,” said Evan.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“’Cause I am an asshole, Jack, that’s why. You go to Mexico and get killed, you’re no better than me. You’re hurting someone with lies.”
“You’ve been living with that for how long?” demanded Jack. He sat back on the couch, breathing heavily as if he had just run a race. He looked around the room, shook his head, and said quietly, “I forgive you, and God can forgive you. You should ask.”
“But the dead people, Jack—they don’t forgive or forget. There’s a Mexican ballad about a hit man who arrives in hell and meets his victims. That’s me.”
Evan walked over to a bookshelf and moved some books around till he found a small bottle with barely a swallow of tequila. “I haven’t had a drink in months, Jack. I can’t believe I just told you my big freaking secret!”
Jack stared at his brother, not in anger but with gentleness and a touch of pity. “Wow, Evan,” he said softly.
Evan opened the bottle and poured the contents down his throat, barely tasting the warm burn. He screwed the cap back on, set the bottle down, and looked at his brother. His lips felt warm, but his head was clear. “You wouldn’t last a day down there, Jack. They’d make you for a cop. You got too much to live for. Me—well, I’m a different story.”
“What are you saying?”
“I might be a little more prepared than you, Jack. You have access to real-life data, DEA intelligence. You can help me with that. But on the ground? You’re worthless! No, you’re better sitting at a computer!”
“Screw you. I am going,” protested Jack. “This is my operation.”
Evan spoke quickly as if he where betraying some secret. “Come with me, Jack. I want to show you something.” He led his brother back through the bedroom and into the only place in the house that was immaculate: his closet. Inside was a large walk-in safe that was securely bolted to the floor.
Evan opened the safe and stood aside for his brother. Jack eyed the assortment of handguns and custom AR-15s in Evan’s war closet and said, “Jesus, Evan, you expecting an apocalypse?”
“Every day. Here, look at this.” Evan’s voice grew deep and impatient as he went from slight embarrassment to guilt and then to baring it all. “Green bag, Europe. Yellow bag, Asia. Red bag, South America. Look inside,” urged Evan. Each duffel bag made a solid thud as it hit the carpet.
Jack whistled and then was very quiet as the impact of what he was seeing hit him.
“You got a different jump bag for each region? Holy shit, Evan! Fake passports? Money? Gold? You’re breaking half a dozen laws with this crap…cell phones, plastic weapons to sneak past security? What the hell! Are the marshals after you?”
“You just proved my point, Jack. This is normal to me. I live with paranoia that at any moment they are going to come get me. What if they have second thoughts about letting me just retire?”
“They?”
Evan shook his head as if he were explaining geometry to a chimp.
“What the hell did you do, Brother?” Jack muttered.
Evan shook his head. “Can’t say.”
Jack pulled a wad of euros and a small plastic knife that could fit easily in the palm out of the European bag. “Only a paranoid nut job or a—”
“Terrorist or spook would have something like this?” Evan finished the sentence and then began piling his jump bags back into the safe and locked it. He felt relieved in a way, like he had just shared a burden, given someone an insight into the paranoia of his world.
“Rest my case, Jack. You’re not fit to go; I am. When do I leave?”
Jack backed out of the closet, walked back into the living room, and sat down. “Not crazy or prepared enough,” he said. “Too much to live for? You have a peculiar way of putting things.” He shook his head slowly and tried to process what he had just learned about his own flesh and blood. “I wanted your help or an alibi at the least—not for you to take over. But maybe you’re right.”
“You’re getting the bonus plan, Bro,” quipped Evan.
“Possibly a dead brother too,” Jack said and sighed. He walked to the front window and glanced out at the snow. He took several deep breaths and then turned around to face his brother. “I don’t know, Evan. My motives are to bring Sophia’s family some closure—to say, ‘Your father is dead or missing’—or, by some miracle, to get him back. Not likely alive though.”
“Nope,” Evan chimed in.
“But I want to work with you. I would feel like a coward having my younger brother go while I didn’t. And you really have bad luck on top of everything, Evan.”
Jack’s sarcastic attempt at humor was partly based on fact but also on a desire to give Evan an out. Both knew that Evan had a better chance than Jack did of pulling off such an operation.
Neither spoke for several minutes. Jack stared out at the snow-dusted trees and said, “Don’t feel like you have to, Evan, and this is no time to prove anything to anyone.”
Evan coughed and shook his head. He wanted to say that he was far beyond trying to prove anything to anyone, that it was a chance to help someone other than himself. Instead, he muttered, “My problems will still be here when I get back, unless I get killed—or maybe meet a beautiful Mexican soap-opera star.”
“Evan, this is serious. Stop kidding!”
“You know I’m just mumbling to myself. It keeps me chilled. Staying calm is key.”
“Bad habit,”
said Jack. “People might think you’re crazy or not serious.”
“Or both. Look, I’ll be fine. My calendar is empty. Yeah, this is dangerous, but Mexico really is OK if you don’t act like a fool—way more good people than nasty ones. I’ll see what I find out and bring them some kind of an answer either way. Deal?”
“I guess,” said Jack warily. “They will appreciate it. The worry of missing a loved one—”
“I know, Jack. It never goes away. I have one small favor to ask of you while I am gone.”
“Name it, Bro!”
Evan looked at his dog, then at his brother and then again at the dog. Zeus perked up his ears and barked.
CHAPTER 4
Liars, Flyers, and Bloody Pliers
Juárez, Mexico, February 14, 1300 Hours
Gerard was in a horrible mood. His eyes were bloodshot, his mouth tasted like cigarettes, and despite the Red Bull and cocaine, he was starting to see double. He had flown fifteen hundred miles from Boca del Rio, where he could be spending his day at the beach. Now he was here, in hell. Gerard Blaise, hated the barren, crime-ridden border town of Juárez. The temperature would be warm during the day and dip down into the thirties at night.
“Hellhole!” he muttered, driving the white van slowly through traffic.
The men with him had their weapons ready in case someone tried to carjack them. Even criminals were afraid to drive in Juárez.
Blaise was short and wiry like an endurance athlete. He had a narrow face with a long pointy nose, sharp brown eyes, and a thin mouth that was fixed in a sarcastic smirk. He was not French by birth but had fled a dead-end gypsy life in Eastern Europe to reinvent himself. Several years in the French Foreign Legion had given him a new name and marketable skills. Now known as Gerard, he was a for-hire weapons expert and pilot. Trouble with the law and authorities had set him on the run, and he had ended up in Mexico.
He rubbed his face, noting he had not shaved in two days. “I need more smokes,” he said.
The men with him said nothing.
“Boss?” said one of the men.
“Yes?” Gerard asked.
They drove past a group of police standing in a circle looking down at a body. Streams of blood stained the pavement. Shell casings glittered in the sun. Children on bikes and old people moved to get a closer look. Gerard noticed the body of a cop sprawled in his car, the windshield shredded from bullet holes. He heard a helicopter and spat out of the van’s window.
“Do we have to fly back today?” one of his companions asked. “I know a great bar.”
“My orders are to get the girls back to the coast,” said the Frenchmen. “But I’ll check. I am tired, and none of you idiots can fly a plane. Besides, this place is dangerous!”
Only a few in the gang could tolerate being around Gerard.
The van moved through traffic, passing car dealerships, banks, and homeless people. They passed Los Pueblos del Mercado and turned into a back alley. “I’ll get out here. You two are backup,” he said, parking the van. “Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t sleep!”
He got out of the van, pausing to light another cigarette. He glanced at a telephone pole with hundreds of pictures of missing women, all stapled on top of one another, torn and bleached by the sun. A handwritten sign in Spanish read, “400 girls killed and the government has done nothing.”
The store was one of hundreds of small convenience stores owned by the Eastern Cartel and was used primarily for money laundering. The Scorpions protected such stores and their managers.
“Can I help you, señor?”
Gerard turned to face a small, round Mexican who was missing teeth and had crooked glasses. He looked like he was out of a spaghetti western. “Store Manager Juan?”
“Si, y usted?” Juan spoke loudly and walked with a limp.
Gerard lifted up his shirt with both hands, turning his head to the side to avoid getting cigarette ash on himself. Smoke wafted into his eyes, and he squinted. A large scorpion tattoo covered his abdomen and torso. He kept his sunglasses on. “The scorpion says who I am.”
The store manager visibly gulped and took a deep breath. He had heard of this man.
“I am Gerard. Donde esta leche?” he snarled.
“Back here, señor,” Juan stammered. He was terrified.
“Abrir the back door. My men are parked out back,” said Gerard, opening the door and letting one gang member in.
Juan led them to a large walk-in beer cooler with a chain and padlock on its door. Juan fumbled with a key, and he spoke nervously. “The doctor was here this morning. He say they are in good health.” He continued in a mix of broken English and Spanish, “Las chicas es d-d-drugged and asleep. I-I had to put extra blankets on them. El doctor left instructions for us to give medication.”
Gerard rolled his eyes and exhaled loudly. “Will you shut up? I have a headache! This is not the first time I have done this, you fool.”
The three men went into the cooler and walked to a corner.
“Shit, does beer need to stay this freaking cold?” Gerard said.
Behind some boxes and pallets of Tecate and Dos Equis, five bodies covered with blankets lay on a mattress. Chains linked the ankles of the captives.
Gerard was about to yank the covers back when he spotted an old man sitting on a stool, staring at the young women. “Who the fuck is this?” He yanked out his .45 and put it to the old man’s head. The old man did not flinch or look up; he just kept staring at the girls as if he were their protector. Gerard paused. “Is he blind?”
“No, señor, please, no shoot him!” pleaded the store manager. “He is my helper! He cleans and makes sure the girls breathe. He keeps them warm. El doctor…he…he say to watch them. He no speak or hear; he no sees too good.”
“As long as that is all he does,” said Gerard. He and the driver laughed. “Crazy old man…Fine, he can help us.”
Gerard lifted off the blankets and looked at the girls. They wore orange jumpsuits like prisoners. Their skin looked a little blue. Gerard ran his hands over their bodies—breasts and hair. He was about to unzip one of the jumpsuits to have a look and then had second thoughts. Even he would not defy Jorge Valdez, his boss.
“Nice, and they are still breathing,” he said. “Payday is coming, men! They’re too cold. The drugs don’t allow them to regulate temperature. They die, I kill you. Get it? Now, go get the bags. We need to move. Where are the drugs and directions?”
Gerard always transported the girls in body bags. If he was stopped by the police, he would slip them some money and say that he was transporting bodies to either a medical school or morgue. He turned to the old man, who had not taken his eyes off the girls.
“You want them, old man? Are you their knight in shining armor? Eh? They are like sleeping beauties, no?”
Gerard caressed one of the girl’s faces and rubbed her body soothingly. Her skin was cool, and he felt slightly aroused. “This is a lot of money here. No prince charming rescues these girls. The big bad wolf gets them. Fairy tales are not real, old man. This is real.” He pulled out his gun again and put it to the man’s temple. The man didn’t move.
“I am a Scorpion. Do not forget; I can find you anywhere, you old bastard!”
Two gang members returned with Juan and some body bags. One of them said, “We have a problem, boss.” His voice was shaky, and he looked at the floor.
“Problem?” asked Gerard coldly.
“Sí, the van, the muffler…It scraped and came off when we came up the alley. It sounds like a loud motorcycle, and we have a flat tire. Ran over something in the road.”
No one spoke for a long moment. Gerard looked around. He was a very cautious person and above all else was superstitious.
“We can switch trucks, boss, but this one must be towed.”
“No! I have made many deliveries in this truck. We go get it fixed.”
“Could take a day or two, boss.”
“Well, then, Jesus, you
get to party in Juárez for two days!” said Gerard. He chuckled but clearly was not amused. He took a wad of cash out of his back pocket and peeled off a hundred-dollar bill.
“Juan! You watch these girls, and call me at this number if there’s any problem. Let them wake up to pee and eat, walk around a little. Then out again!” He wrote a number on the bill. “I will be back in two days max. Don’t screw up!”
“Si, señor” stammered Juan.
“And the old man—he can’t leave.”
“No, sir, he stay and help,” answered Juan.
Gerard considered this. “I will have the doctor come sit with them tomorrow. They are not to be moved.” He was surprisingly calm as he left, followed by the two gang members.
“Boss,” said one of the men, “I called us a cab. My cousin, he will get us. My other cousin, he will tow the truck.”
The three men stepped out into the alley, which stank like old urine and garbage.
“You are thinking ahead. Good. What is your name again?”
“Carlos.”
“Good, Carlos.” Gerard handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “This club you men keep bragging about, it better be good. I want this to go smooth. Understand? I have a ritual, and if my ritual does not go right, people die—get it?”
“Boss, anything like this happen before?” asked Carlos.
Gerard lit up his last cigarette. He paused and watched a cloud of smoke float away like a pleasant dream. “Once, when I was flying back to Boca del Rio.”
He paused again as if he was watching a slow movie.
“A Peruvian overdosed last year. Dumped her out at ten thousand feet,” Gerard said and laughed. “We lost a lot of money, but we just snatched some American instead,” he said.
In the cooler, Juan looked from the five drugged females to the man he had kidnapped, Armando Gonzales. This was Juan’s first venture into kidnapping, and he was wondering if it was worth it. He and his buddies had not really considered the logistics involved in kidnapping the old man and housing him at the same time they were working their regular jobs.
And he was having second thoughts now that the Scorpions had arrived. He knew that he and his gang would be killed if they were suspected of conducting their own operation.
Silver Lead and Dead (Evan Hernandez series Book 1) Page 4
