Or was it a shit heap with an eagle on top? Amused by the notion, Juan pushed open the door to the basement of Shen’s Famous Chinese Restaurant. It was a comfortable room, with six leather easy chairs arranged in a circle with a large round coffee table in the middle. A well-stocked wet bar filled one wall and a small bathroom was opposite the stairs to the dining rooms and kitchen above.
Sammy Shen and Uncle Luis were sitting in two of the leather easy chairs. Sammy’s father, Longwei, stood in front of a large wall-mounted split-screen CCTV monitor watching as the last of the luncheon customers lingered at their tables and the kitchen staff finished the cleanup and began the dinner prep.
A man with a mop of unruly hair, his head lowered, entered through the restaurant’s front door.
Longwei turned away from the screen and sat with Sammy and Luis. “He’s here.”
Juan settled into one of the remaining chairs.
“What did you learn?” Luis asked.
“Shouldn’t we wait?” Juan replied.
Lorenz glared at him.
“Either Agent Sedillo knows nothing or she’s smarter than I thought,” Juan began.
“She’s dying of a stage four brain tumor,” Sammy said.
Juan shrugged. He’d long stopped marveling at Sammy’s sources of information. “Okay, so she’s dying. She still didn’t tell me anything new.”
He switched his attention back to Uncle Luis. “She asked nothing about the DEA agent you had killed. I think she doesn’t know about it. All I do know is that three cops are coming here to track down El Jefe for the Las Cruces killings. I’m just the local contact to introduce them to their Kickapoo guide. The plan and the schedule haven’t changed.”
“But are they coming to kill or capture me?” El Jefe asked from the bottom of the basement stairs. Thick through the chest, with a wide nose under a broad forehead and wildly tangled hair, Estavio Trevino—El Jefe—joined the group. “Perhaps I’m not the only target.”
Lorenz laughed. “In our business, distrust is a virtue. But we have no evidence to suggest otherwise.”
“If El Jefe is right, we should wipe them out before they can do anything to anybody,” Juan suggested.
Lorenz shook his head in displeasure. “Brilliant.” All his people, including Juan, were trigger-happy murderers of one sort or another. And although he liked it that way, at times controlling his attack dogs tried his patience.
“That would surely not go unnoticed in Washington,” he added. “Such stupidity would make doing business much more difficult for us. We are scrutinized more closely now than ever before because of all the asylum-seekers crowding the border.”
Juan shrugged again. Sometimes Uncle Luis sucked all the fun out of life.
Lorenz turned to Trevino. “Every contact we have within DEA tells us this is solely an extraction operation. Juan takes them to their Kickapoo guide, who in turn leads them to you. The capture of El Jefe, the notorious Mexican assassin, will make heroes of them all and bring much praise to the Washington administration.”
Sammy looked at Lorenz. “Has there been any talk at DEA about Villalobos, the undercover agent you had killed?”
Lorenz shook his head. “Nothing.”
“That troubles me,” Longwei said. “Surely there should be a price on your head.”
“Which again raises the possibility that they have multiple targets,” Sammy speculated. “All of us in this room, perhaps.”
“Kill them when they cross,” Juan proposed again.
“Expeditious,” Trevino replied, “and not without merit, but as your uncle suggested, stupid nonetheless.”
“Propose an alternative,” Longwei prompted.
“If we knew their identities it would be easier to sort out their motives, other than simply capturing me,” Trevino said. “What if we take them prisoner and demand ransoms of five million dollars each? The same amount the DEA pays for the capture of a cartel drug lord.”
“Bold,” Longwei replied, impressed.
“Their people would come at us hard and fast,” Lorenz conjectured. “I am sorry to have brought this upon us. But all must know they cannot steal what is mine.”
“I wanted Goggin and Nautzile dead as much as you did,” Sammy said.
“Swindlers and thieves,” Longwei pronounced.
“I was paid generously by you for a specific service,” Trevino replied to Lorenz. He paused and looked at each man. “I will dispose of this threat myself.”
“If you kill them here in Mexico while they hunt for you, it won’t solve anything,” Juan noted. “At the river or in the country, it would be all the same.”
Lorenz cocked an eyebrow at his nephew. “Sometimes I still have great hopes for you.”
Juan suppressed a smile.
Sammy leaned forward. “It’s a good point. I say we lead them into a trap as El Jefe suggests and demand a ransom for each.”
“The woman Sedillo as well?” Juan asked.
Sammy nodded. “Why not?”
Juan glanced at Estavio Trevino. “I told Sedillo I would be coming along.”
Trevino’s eyes narrowed. “Only to the colonia. If I allowed you into the Bolsón, you wouldn’t return.”
Trevino survived untouched because he had never been found in the vast forbidding Bolsón de Mapimí that stretched over parts of four Mexican states, where he allegedly lived in a remote, fortress-like hacienda. Those who tried had died.
Juan swallowed hard, clamped his jaw tight, and looked away.
Lorenz stared hard at Trevino, who met his look unflinchingly. “I’m still waiting for you to recover my money. A million dollars isn’t petty cash.”
“I agreed only to try,” Trevino snapped. “I have someone looking for it.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“It will have to do.”
Longwei held up a hand to stop any further contentiousness. “For many years our families and our friends have prospered because we’ve cooperated and been smart. Let us not be petty.”
Lorenz nodded glumly. “Yes, of course you’re right.”
Trevino shrugged in agreement. “As you wish.”
“Good,” Longwei said. “As for the Americans, perhaps we should do nothing. Let them come, look, and leave empty-handed.”
“They are coming for me,” Trevino emphasized. “If I have to kill them, I will.”
“Completely understandable,” Longwei granted. Lorenz and Sammy nodded their concurrence.
“I must leave.” Trevino rose and looked at Juan. “Bring them to the village as agreed. I will take over from there.”
“Jose Hernandez has been promised a fee to guide them to you,” Juan protested.
“He knows better than to do that. As quickly as possible, I must learn who these men are and what they truly want to accomplish. At the village, you will introduce me as Vicente Ruiz. The money is Jose’s to keep.”
“Will you release them if the ransoms get paid?” Sammy asked.
For the first time during the meeting, Trevino smiled. “I will send you their scalps as gifts. The ransom money will be mine.”
“Planning to retire?” Lorenz inquired, eyebrow raised. Twenty million would be a sizable amount even for Estavio. Perhaps his biggest payday ever. He wondered if Trevino had recovered his stolen million dollars and decided to keep it. Not an unreasonable possibility.
“Something like that.” With a goodbye nod, Trevino departed.
Sammy waited for the click of the electronic latch that secured the basement door. “I’ll find out who the DEA is sending to visit us,” he said.
“You’ll let Trevino know?” Lorenz inquired.
“Of course. He would be displeased otherwise.”
“Should Don Gilberto be informed?” Longwei asked Lorenz.
Lorenz shook his head. “My brother needn’t be bothered.”
CHAPTER 6
The official street address of the Eagle Pass DEA offices listed it on U.S. Highway 27
7, which is actually Main Street, just outside of town. It was housed in a compound of newer buildings, nicely landscaped on the street side but unmarked except for the numbers. The average motorist passed by without realizing its importance in the borderland war on drugs.
Behind it, the local campus of a junior college—a grouping of slightly more than a half dozen buildings—drew most of the attention and traffic. Virtually next door on the same side of the street stood a national-franchise chain hotel, convenient for the visiting bosses from the Houston Division and DEA personnel in town on temporary assignment.
Born and raised in Eagle Pass, Wanda Cantu, assistant to the administrator, had been with the department long before the office had moved into the new facility. She’d been hired right out of junior college to help expand drug abuse prevention services to schools in the surrounding area. It had served as a stepping-stone to her current position.
The job had been a perfect fit, allowing her to look after her retired, aging parents, Rodolfo and Yolanda Cantu, who owned a small ranch-style house in an older neighborhood of town near the Rio Grande.
By circumstance, the responsibility of caring for her parents had fallen to Wanda. A social worker had told her that almost always it was a daughter who became the caretaker because women were more nurturing. For Wanda, it had been taxing, exhausting, and not in the least bit rewarding. But there was nobody else to do it. All her parents’ relatives lived in Monterrey, Mexico. Her older brother worked on an oil platform in the Gulf of Mexico and returned home rarely. Her sister, younger by a year, was married to a career Army sergeant and living with her family on a military post in Germany.
Wanda made do, traveling daily from her apartment where she lived with her three cats to her parents’ home to check on their welfare and fix them a meal. But when a major storm dumped over sixteen inches of rain in less than twenty-four hours, the river and nearby creeks overflowed, flooding out Rodolfo and Yolanda.
With no insurance, Wanda was forced to move them in with her. She took out a large bank loan to pay for the necessary home repairs required before the city would approve reoccupancy.
Halfway through the renovation, Wanda’s mother, Yolanda, had a stroke that left her permanently wheelchair-bound. Wanda hired a part-time aide to look after both her parents while she was at work, which put a strain on her financially. A week before they were scheduled to move back in the house, Rodolfo fell, broke his hip, and suffered a severe concussion, leaving Wanda with a major crisis to manage.
After many tests and consultations, the clinic doctors told Wanda that both parents could no longer live independently. They strongly advised nursing home care.
All the area assisted living facilities were at capacity, and Wanda’s parents had assets that disqualified them from government programs. She had burned up all her leave time trying to find an alternative, when one of the clinic doctors suggested applying for help through a new foundation funded by an anonymous donor. Within a week, her written request for financial assistance was approved, legal papers were signed, and Rodolfo and Yolanda were moved into a nice San Antonio assisted living facility, a hundred and forty miles away, that cost thousands of dollars a month. It had been a true miracle.
Six weeks later Wanda met the anonymous donor and discovered that some miracles came with strings attached. If she failed to act as Sammy Shen’s agent on matters of importance to him, he’d expose her to the DEA as a paid informant. Sammy Shen owned her.
Wanda returned to her childhood home after her parents died with her cats and an occasional live-in boyfriend who came and went as he pleased. It was a short walk to the Catholic church where she’d been confirmed and had worshipped all her life, an easy drive to work, and not far from the casino where she sometimes liked to go with girlfriends to play the slots.
Wanda was content with her life and her job. Only Sammy’s rare phone calls jolted her back to reality. Because her position with the department required a security clearance, each of his requests for information was a smack in the face, reminding her of her disloyalty, her treachery. Each time she did as he asked, the fear of discovery overwhelmed her, made her tremble.
On a cool Saturday evening, Wanda was in the backyard pruning some shrubs that bordered the rear lot line when the new cell phone Sammy had sent to her by courier rang. She hesitated, thinking to let it go to voice mail, but decided not to. She hurried inside, stripped off her gardening gloves, and answered.
“You have three important people arriving from out of town early next week,” Sammy said without preamble. “Who are they?”
“I don’t have that information.”
“Don’t be difficult, Wanda.”
“I really don’t know.”
“What do you know?”
“The resident agent is handling everything personally.”
“I want their names, when they’re due to arrive, and where they’ll be staying, tonight.”
Wanda almost choked with fear. “Tonight?”
“Yes. I’ll call you back in an hour.”
The connection went dead.
Stunned, Wanda sank down on the living room couch. Sammy had never asked her to take such a big risk before. Her electronic key card would log her in and out of the building after hours. If asked, what valid reason could she give for going into the office on a weekend night?
She ran a list of possible reasons through her mind and decided that searching for her misplaced checkbook would do. That was it. She’d sat down at home to pay some bills, looked high and low, and couldn’t find it. Perhaps she’d left it in her desk, so she’d decided to go and look. Surely that would be seen as innocent and reasonable behavior by anyone who asked.
She grabbed her purse, locked the house, and made the short drive to the office. In the secure parking lot, she took a deep breath and walked quickly to the employee entrance, looking straight ahead so that there would be no mistaking her identity on the CCTV. Everything she did had to appear normal.
The building was empty. She passed by the communication room, the small, secure armory, the conference room, and accessed the administrative suite that housed the offices of the resident agent and the administrator. Wanda’s small, windowless office in a corner of the suite was tucked next to a walk-in supply closet. With her door open she could sit at her desk and see everybody who entered and left the reception area. That was the way she liked it, so as not to feel too claustrophobic.
There were no surveillance cameras in the administrative area, but still Wanda hesitated before deciding to leave her office door open. Everything normal, she reminded herself.
She settled behind her desk, powered up the desktop computer, entered her high-security passcode, which gave her clearance for all current and pending operations, and within minutes had the information Sammy Shen wanted. Rather than print it out, she wrote it down and slipped the paper into her purse.
Terrified that the hour had run out, Wanda checked the time on the cell phone. She was under the deadline and would be back home before Sammy’s next call. She took another deep breath, shut down the computer, killed the lights to the suite, locked up, and left.
She never, never wanted to do anything for Sammy Shen again. But how could she stop?
Wanda drove home mulling ideas of how to break Sammy’s grip on her. She was qualified for administrative and support jobs at her GS rating or higher in other federal agencies. If she left DEA and moved out of law enforcement entirely, he’d have no more use for her. Even if she had to relocate to San Antonio or another town to take the job, it would be worth it. She’d rent out the house and make a little additional income on the side. Move back when she could take her retirement.
She arrived home calmed by her scheme, determined to get started on it right away. She unlocked the door and flipped on the light switch. Special Agent Maria Sedillo stared at her from the easy chair that faced the front window. One of the cats, Honey, was in her lap, purring.
Wanda’s knees
started to buckle.
“Sit down, Wanda,” Sedillo ordered, nodding at the couch. “Before you fall and hurt yourself.”
She stumbled to the couch and sank down like a leaden lump. “How?” she asked, her voice strangled.
“We’ll get to that later. When Sammy Shen calls, you’ll tell him exactly what you learned. If he wants more information, you’ll agree to provide it. Understood?”
Dumbstruck, Wanda nodded and waited for Agent Sedillo to say more. Instead, she sat silently, petting Honey, a preoccupied, detached look about her.
The ringtone to the cell phone made Wanda jump. She retrieved the paper from her purse and answered nervously.
“What have you got?” Shen asked.
“The men are Special Agent Bernard Harjo, Special Agent Danny Fallon, and Doña Ana Sheriff’s Detective Clayton Istee. Agent Fallon is assigned to the Vancouver Consulate General’s Office, Agent Harjo is on special assignment in Los Angeles, and Detective Istee is stationed in Las Cruces, New Mexico. They arrive in two days and are booked into the hotel adjacent to the office. The resident agent will accompany them.”
“Well done, Wanda,” Sammy replied, his tone softening. “Find out when they plan to cross into Piedras Negras and if they’ve asked the Mexican federal police to meet and accompany them.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Of course you will. Remember, destroy the phone immediately. You’ll get a new one delivered tomorrow.”
The disconnect icon flashed. Wanda dropped the phone on the cushion.
Special Agent Sedillo stared intently at Wanda. “Tell me exactly what he said.”
“He wants to know when they plan to enter Mexico and if the Mexican Feds will be assisting. I’m to destroy the phone right now. A new one will come tomorrow. That’s always the way we do it.”
Not wanting to disturb the cat on her lap, Sedillo held out her hand.
Wanda brought her the phone and retreated to the couch. “How did you find out about me?”
Head Wounds Page 8
