‘Of course she’s fuckin’ alive man, what the fuck? Why you wanna know about her, man?’
I breathed out slowly, fully.
The girl was alive.
Elena Rosales was alive.
I could only imagine how happy her parents would be at the news. But what state would she be in? What had she been doing for the past three years?
I almost dreaded asking the question.
‘Why did you want her?’ I asked.
‘Sicario,’ he murmured, and I failed to understand what he meant.
‘You wanted her for your sicarios?’ I asked.
He shook his head, almost smiling. ‘Dumb mutherfucker,’ he drawled. ‘No, man, no. I wanted her to be a sicario.’
My heart went numb, my brain frozen.
I had to instantly recalculate everything I’d thought. Sex worker, drug mule, murder victim – all of these I’d considered, and been willing to accept. What I’d never contemplated was that the girl had been recruited into the cartel as a paid assassin.
‘Why?’ I asked, half-dumb, mind still reeling.
‘Who suspects a girl, eh? Nobody man, nobody. I wanted a young girl for the stable, someone we could train up, be my little black widow. An American was perfect, we could send her either side of the border, do hits here and there, hide out on either side too.’
I shook my head, still struggling to understand, to believe.
‘So you did?’ I asked. ‘You recruited her? Trained her?’
‘Fuck yeah,’ Sanchez said with some element of pride. ‘Bitch has killed more fuckin’ people than time, man.’
So Elena had been alive all these years, and had even been crossing the border – presumably with her own passport – to do jobs. I felt sickened, knew that the Laredo police must have just ignored Emilio’s pleas to investigate properly. Probably just put it down to another girl missing over the border, not wanted to waste resources on it. A few simple checks would have highlighted her border crossings, could have got her held at the bridge, returned to her family.
But, as they say, shit happens. What I needed to know was, what could I do about it now?
‘Where is she?’ I asked him.
‘Not here,’ he said with a smile, and I knew it was time for another dousing; he’d evidently forgotten what drowning felt like.
I pulled the towel back over his face and – despite his protests – tipped the bucket up over his head, the water running down over the cloth, soaking through until the spasms came, the convulsions, the fear and the terror.
When I guessed he’d had enough, I put the bucket down and pulled down the cloth.
‘Try again,’ I said. ‘Where is Elena Rosales?’
‘Laredo,’ Sanchez said instantly, ‘she’s in fuckin’ Laredo, man.’
‘Here in Nuevo Laredo?’ I asked for confirmation.
‘No man, in Laredo, American Laredo, Texas.’
Son of a bitch. Here I was shooting up half of Mexico, and the girl I was looking for was back where I’d come from, where her parents were sitting worried about her right now.
‘What’s she doing there?’ I asked.
‘Laying low for a while,’ Sanchez said. ‘Killed one of the top cops here. Married, but she was fuckin’ him, stabbed him in his own bed, twenty times right through his fuckin’ heart.’
I could hear the pride again, and my heart sank even lower.
If what he was saying was even partially true, what sort of person was I going to return to Emilio and Camila? Was she going to be capable of rehabilitation? Or was she already too far gone?
There was only one way to find out.
‘Where in Laredo is she?’ I asked. ‘Give me an address.’
I could see Sanchez was about to resist – despite his condition, he was obviously unwilling to give up his little ‘black widow’ without a fight – but when I reached for the towel, he shut his eyes quickly and shook his head.
‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘Palmer Drive man, she’s up on Palmer Drive, right near the fuckin’ country club.’
‘Nice place,’ I said.
‘Yeah, we got a place there, nobody suspects who we got living there, it’s funny, you know? Sicarios hanging out with the big shots, they got no idea who they are, they –’
But I was already pulling the towel back over Sanchez’ face, dousing him with the water; I questioned him again, just to make sure he’d not been lying the first time, and to get some further details; and then I put the towel back on and this time kept it on, tight; so tight that Miguel Ángel Sanchez could no longer breathe at all.
He struggled against the ropes, against the cloth, but he was too tired, too weak; and eventually, he was just too dead.
The world would be one hell of a lot better off without him.
I rose, stretched my limbs, and assessed my next plan of action.
It seemed that my Mexican adventure was at an end.
It was time to go back home.
Part Four
Chapter One
Kane licked my face happily, glad to see me. I almost licked him back, but settled on giving his face and ears a good rub with my hands instead.
It had only been a couple of days, but what days they’d been. Kane offered a pleasant sense of normality, and I was glad to see him too.
But the job was far from over. I had information, yes; but I still had to act upon it.
I’d traveled back the night before, the way thousands of Mexicans had before me – swimming across the Rio Grande.
With my fake passport abandoned back in the hotel room, and my fake driver’s license taken by the cops, I had no way of getting back into the US officially. Besides which, I had no idea if the Mexican police had put out some sort of warning for me; even if I’d had ID, it would have been a mistake to try and cross the border via US immigration.
And so, after I’d finished with Sanchez, I’d taken another car and driven east toward the Rio Grande, finally leaving the stolen vehicle on a quiet road near a large water treatment plant which nestled by the river.
Under cover of darkness, I’d made my way around the plant on foot, and slipped from the grassy banks of Mexico into the fast-flowing water.
As well as ICE border patrol agents, the Rio Grande was also patrolled by heavily armed gunboats from the Texas Department of Public Safety. But they weren’t set up for covering every square inch of the huge river, especially at night, and it wasn’t too hard to take advantage of gaps in the security net.
The river itself was a different story though, and the swim had been far from easy, the waters fast and with a vicious undercurrent that had threatened to pull me under every few seconds. And with every stroke I made, every foot of progress across the river, I was swept ten feet downriver, until – by the time I emerged, soaking wet and exhausted, on the other side – I was almost half a mile south from where I’d started.
But I was safe, far from the prying eyes of the border patrols, and I quickly collected myself and made my way north toward Laredo. The countryside here was the same as it was by the farm, dirty scrubland, open and barren. In the daylight, cover would have been hard to come by; but in the early morning hours, with the sun only just threatening to rise on the distant horizon, the dark welcomed me into its cloak of anonymity.
I’d called Emilio Rosales collect, had him come and pick me up from a minor road connecting to the main Zapata Highway which led back up into the city. If I’d walked, the sun would have come up on me and anyone who was around would see my wet clothes and jump to conclusions which – in this case at least – would be absolutely correct. The only people who would be hiking north up the highway, soaking wet on a bone-dry summer’s morning, would be those who had just swam across the Rio Grande.
It would have been the same with hitch-hiking – I would have no way of knowing which drivers were pro-illegal entry, and which were against it. In general, however, most people were pretty strongly against it, which stacked the odds against me a
little too much for comfort.
Calling Emilio was the safest thing to do, and within half an hour of the man picking me up, I was safely ensconced back in the family apartment on Salinas Avenue, Kane happily licking my hand while Emilio and Camila looked at me expectantly. I’d showered and changed and felt – almost – like a new man.
I hadn’t discussed what I’d found out with Emilio during our drive here, telling him I needed to tell his wife at the same time. I’d told him she was still alive – it would have been unfair to hold out on him with that – but no more.
My reticence was less about wanting to wait to tell Camila at the same time though, and more to do with the fact that I hadn’t really decided what I was going to tell them.
‘So she is alive?’ Emilio asked, his wife’s hand in his, looks of expectant hope on their faces.
I managed a smile. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Your daughter’s alive.’
‘You’ve seen her?’ asked Camila, the first time I had heard her speak. Her voice was full of excitement.
What do I tell them?
I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve not seen her. Not yet.’
‘What is wrong?’ Camila asked. ‘You do not look happy about it. Why?’
I still didn’t know what to say, and looked at my watch instead. It was just after half five in the morning. Full daylight outside, but still early for most people; maybe even for whoever was in that house on Palmer Drive.
I was running out of time; Sanchez was dead, and word would be out soon. If the safe house was alerted, who knew what the people there might do. If they freaked out and made a run for it, I might never have a chance of locating Elena again.
Ignoring the woman’s question, I stood, my mind made up. I’d find Elena, see what sort of a state she was in, if she even was still Elena somewhere deep inside, and then I would decide how to handle things.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I need to go. I can’t answer your questions right now, but we’ll have this whole thing wrapped up soon, and then you’ll know everything. But right now, I’ve got to move.’
I strode for the door, Kane by my side, and didn’t look back.
We had work to do.
Chapter Two
I swung by the train station first to get my gear; there were a few things in my trusty backpack that I just might need. I pulled out a worn combat jacket and pocketed some choice items. I left the pack itself, as it would just weigh me down.
Then Kane and I ran north toward the safe house, six miles in forty minutes. I didn’t want Emilio to drive me there, as I didn’t want him to know where I was going; and if things worked out badly, I didn’t want taxi or bus drivers to remember my route. Out for a run with my dog, nobody would give me a second look – especially at this time, when most people were still curled up in bed.
The time wasn’t my best – in my younger days, back in the Rangers, I’d managed the distance in just shy of thirty-two minutes – but that had been on a track, and without the heavy jacket which was now weighing me down. Kane, not even breathing hard, still regarded me with disappointment in his eyes. He was a hard dog to impress.
It was still before half six, and the streets had yet to come alive. In fact the only people I’d seen so far – in this exclusive enclave of Laredo, far removed from the rougher neighborhoods further south – were maids and house workers on their way to clean up and make breakfast for their wealthy employers. How the other half lived.
It was, in fact, a different world up here, multi-million dollar villas spread through the neighborhood in huge lots, hundred thousand dollar cars parked in each driveway. Salinas Avenue it wasn’t; and it was even further away from the blood-soaked mean streets of Nuevo Laredo.
And yet a part of Nuevo Laredo had come across the border and was infesting the area; one of the nearby houses bought by drug money, to provide a safe retreat and some R&R for the stone-cold cartel assassins.
Before killing Sanchez, when confirming his story about the safe house, I’d asked him how many others were hiding out there except for Elena. He’d told me four others, and I had no reason to doubt him. There were another two men stationed there permanently, but they weren’t sicarios, they just looked after the place for the cartel ‘guests’.
So, seven possibles, including Elena Rosales – or Z13, as she’d apparently become known since leaving home.
The first commander of Los Zetas – Arturo Guzmán Decena – had been known as Z1, after his Federal Judicial Police radio code; a code reserved for high-ranking officers. This was where the gang’s name itself came from – ‘The Z’s’ – and many members had since taken on Z-numbers as their cartel nicknames.
Elena was referred to as Z13, as that was the age she’d reportedly made her first kill.
She’d been just thirteen years old.
As I made my way along the tree-lined avenues leading to Palmer Drive, I wondered how much there was left of the little girl who was still loved so much by her parents. Would there be anything left at all?
Well, I supposed, I would find out soon enough.
I was almost there.
Chapter Three
Laredo obviously wasn’t as destitute a place as I’d first imagined; if the Country Club, with its golf course and tennis courts, was anything to go by, then at least some some of its fair citizens must have been doing well there.
The houses on Palmer Drive backed up onto the golf course, their back yards looking out across the fairways. Kane and I had slowed to a walk now, taking in the world around us with every step. The target house was coming up soon, and all of my senses were perfectly attuned to the environment. And from the slight tension in Kane’s body next to me, I knew his were, too.
With my combat jacket and utility pants I didn’t exactly fit into these lustrous surroundings; but then again, I might well have been the hired help, out walking the rich owner’s doggy. And anyway, there still wasn’t anyone up and about to see me in the first place.
The houses all sat within enclosed lots, with plenty of fences and walls to keep the undesirables out. I could see the roof of the cartel safe house now, terracotta tiles already reflecting the warm light of the morning sun.
Closer now, and I could see that trees obscured much of the frontage; but it was a big place, low and wide, white stucco walls underneath the terracotta roof, set well back from the street.
Hidden.
Secure.
Maybe.
I half-expected dogs, but couldn’t see any sign. Probably on account of the neighbors; if they wanted to keep a low profile, then a pack of barking pit bulls probably wasn’t the best way of going about it.
No, I thought, anonymity was their best protection here; if nobody knew they were here, there would be nothing to worry about. And if anyone was foolish enough to trespass, then the villa’s guests were trained sicarios, hardened killers.
I wondered what they got up to here, how good they were at keeping a low profile. I wondered if – after the action, the adrenaline, the fear, the excitement – they didn’t find the luxury home just a little bit boring after a while.
Kane and I were walking past the house now, on the other side of the road, eyes not directly on the place but at the same time still taking everything in.
There was movement somewhere in the front yard, and I focused for a split second to check what it was – a gardener, half-hidden in the trees.
But almost certainly not a gardener – probably one of the two gang members stationed permanently at the house, on perimeter guard duty. He might have clocked me, but it wasn’t too troubling – he’d have no more reason to suspect me than anyone else.
But then again, I considered, my presence might set alarm bells ringing – if he habitually frequented the front yard, he might think it strange that he’d never seen me before.
Well, I thought, shit.
I was tight for time anyway.
Might as well take the bull by the horns.
I adjuste
d my position, eyes alighting fully on the small Latino man in the yard, making it clear that I’d seen him, and trotted over the road with Kane right by my side.
‘Good morning,’ I said with a wave as I came closer. ‘I just moved in down the street, just out exploring the neighborhood.’
The man looked up from where he’d been pretending to dig out weeds from around the trees and bushes – or actually had been digging, I could see now – but otherwise ignored me. I wondered how long that would last.
I reached the gate, noting how thick the ironwork was, how the fence reached just a little bit higher than those of the surrounding properties; not enough to stand out or draw attention to itself, but enough to make a difference if you wanted to attack the place. It would make it just that little bit harder.
‘My name’s Tom,’ I continued with a smile, face up against the gate now. ‘Tom Dalby. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to be around at this time, you must be a really early bird like me, huh?’
The man’s eyes fixed on mine. They were pure black, death behind them. He was small, but with a wiry muscularity that screamed predator.
‘Which house have you bought?’ the man asked in broken English.
‘Eleven forty-two,’ I answered. ‘Real nice around here.’ I looked down at myself sheepishly. ‘I should probably get myself some new clothes, but I’ve come from Detroit and it’s cold as hell up there, you know?’
‘Eleven forty-two wasn’t for sale,’ the man said, suspicion in his eyes now, body tensing, ready for action.
‘I never said I bought it,’ I said quickly. ‘House swap with Dennis and Jean for the season, you know?’
I hoped he wouldn’t know the first names of the people who lived at eleven forty-two; I’d selected the number as it was a long way down the street, and I assumed the man’s knowledge of its residents would be limited, if it existed at all.
‘Heat gets a bit much for them in the summer down here,’ I continued, ‘my place is on a lake and they’re gonna get some fishing in, cool down a bit. You know how they are, right?’
THE THOUSAND DOLLAR MAN: Introducing Colt Ryder - One Man, One Mission, No Rules Page 12
