Final Target

by John Gilstrap

  Tonight he’d chosen the country home where his mistress Abby resided. It was her time, so there would be no . . . recreation tonight, but he enjoyed her company. She could relax him in other ways.

  At the moment, he was in the home’s study, paging through a copy of the American magazine People while sipping on a fine tequila. Alejandro had never understood Americans’ obsession with things that didn’t matter—who cared about a feud between pop stars whose names no one would remember in five years?—but he had to admit that the magazine made the ridiculous more interesting.

  Abby’s home bore none of the opulence of his own. She could not afford Monet and Matisse, and even if she could, she would not understand what she was looking at. Here the furniture was simple yet functional. The leather was real, but of a low grade. She depended on overhead lights, whereas table lamps would have softened the feel of the room.

  The sound of a soft knock pulled his gaze up from the magazine, and he saw his cousin Orlando standing in the entryway between the main hall and the study. He had an uneasy look about him. “Excuse me, cousin,” he said.

  Alejandro placed the magazine, still open, on his lap and gestured for Orlando to take a seat. “Come in,” he said. “Sit. Do you have news for me?”

  “I believe we might,” Orlando said. “Nothing definite, but definitely interesting.”

  “May I get you something to drink?”

  Orlando made a waving motion with his right hand. “No, no. I’m fine.”

  “Then make my night a little happier.” Alejandro could hear the effects of the tequila in his own tone. He could afford a light mood with Orlando. They had always been close.

  Orlando took the seat opposite Alejandro’s, a patterned overstuffed chair that the drug czar had never liked. Orlando sat with his knees spread to support his elbows as he leaned in. “As I said, this is nothing definitive, but I got an interesting report from a police helicopter pilot.”

  Alejandro smiled. He never doubted the degree to which he owned both the police and the military in this part of the country, but it was always nice to get reassurance.

  “I believe you were correct that the killers have been hiding in the caves.”

  “They were spotted?”

  “Not exactly,” Orlando said. “But after nightfall, as the helicopter was exploring the area, they saw a flare of light among the forest. They tell me that it was largely by chance. In their words, the flash bore the light signature of a light burning inside one of the caves.”

  “The light signature?”

  “Of a candle, to be more precise.”

  “And how were they able to determine this?”

  “I’m afraid I did not ask. I am merely passing along what I was told.”

  “Do you have the police officers’ names?” Alejandro asked.

  Orlando looked suddenly concerned, probably for the welfare of the officers. “Yes, I do, but—”

  “Relax,” Alejandro said. “I don’t want to speak with them. But if they gave their names, they may be trying to curry favor with me.”

  Orlando scowled and cocked his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “They were aware of my suspicions, I assume?”

  “Well, of course,” Orlando said. “I had to tell them that—”

  “What is wrong with you, cousin? You’re far too defensive. My only thought was that if they were aware of the results I wanted to hear, then they might have looked extra hard to get me the results I wanted.”

  Orlando’s scowl continued to deepen. “I suppose that could be true. But they seemed very sure.”

  “And maybe they were,” Alejandro said. “Maybe they’re right. But it’s not strong enough for me to devote manpower to scouring the countryside to find them. Certainly not at night.”

  “I understand,” Orlando said. “I merely thought that you would want to know.”

  They fell silent for half a minute.

  “Cousin,” Orlando said, “may I ask what your plan is to stop these murderers?”

  Alejandro stood and took his empty glass to the tequila bottle that sat on a table under the front window. “Are you sure I can’t get you something?”

  “I am sure, yes,” Orlando said.

  Alejandro poured two fingers’ worth and drew a sip. “I believe that I must play to our one strength. We know that their plan is to flee from Laguna de Términos. We will be there for them.”

  “That’s a big area,” Orlando said. “It will be easy for them to slip through.”

  “Then we must be ready.”

  “How?” Orlando looked so confused and concerned that Alejandro had to stifle a laugh.

  “I’m very glad you stopped by, cousin,” Alejandro said. “We have much work to do and many people to wake up.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Jonathan wished that the restaurant owner had not seen them stealing his truck. He had no idea how efficient the local constabulary might be, but that didn’t matter. A call had no doubt been placed to the police, who now knew that a vehicle had been stolen. If the restaurateur had seen their guns and other kit, that would raise the interest levels even more. And if there was one bit of intel about which Jonathan was 100 percent certain, it was that nothing happened in the police department or within the Mexican army that did not include a literal or figurative cc to Alejandro Azul and all the other drug lords who actually ran things.

  One thing that was totally reliable about the Mexican cops was that they did not play favorites among the drug dudes. He who was on top today might well be vivisected tomorrow, so a smart bureaucrat kept all options open all the time.

  “Do you have the address in your GPS?” Jonathan called through the window that separated the cab from the bed of the pickup.

  “Nope,” Boxers said. “I’m just driving aimlessly through strange territory in hopes of finding a specific spot.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Jonathan said.

  After a few seconds of silence, Boxers said, “Yes, I have it.” He’d never been very good about letting the punch line hang.

  After they left the outskirts of San Raymundo, they headed out on what looked to Jonathan to be the main road, which quickly devolved into a weird, hybrid kind of road, where one side was paved and the other was not. Perhaps it was under construction; perhaps they’d run out of money. Or, perhaps, this was the best damn road in all of Mexico.

  God, how he hated this country.

  The total travel plotted out on the GPS to be just under ten miles, and Boxers was able to cover it in under twenty minutes. At that rate, he nearly bounced Jonathan out of the flatbed twice. Big Guy apologized both times, but Jonathan didn’t doubt for a second that the driver was having a grand time giving him a rough ride.

  After very few minutes of driving, the buildings had all but disappeared, and now they were just west of nowhere. It was kind of hard to make out the details through his NVGs, but in his mind, he likened the surroundings to rural Alabama or Mississippi, but with different vegetation. In the stillness of the night, the predominant sound was that of the Ford’s engine, and what few buildings he could see were mostly dark. They hadn’t yet passed another vehicle on the road.

  If they did pass someone head-on, he was confident that the other party would see only anonymous approaching headlights. What Jonathan feared was a vehicle—particularly one of a greater size than theirs—pulling up behind them and the driver, in the wash of headlights, seeing the kit and weaponry. The more dots that could be connected, the more complicated their lives would become.

  Finally, Boxers slowed the Ford along a stretch of road that featured a vine-tangled chain-link fence on the right and dense jungle on the left. The chain-link became a concrete wall, and then they pulled to a stop in front of a two-panel, recessed, solid white metal gate. A hand-lettered sign on the right-hand panel of the barbed wire–topped gate read ESTACIONAMIENTO MUNICIPAL—roughly translated to municipal parking lot.

  “If Mother Hen is right,
then this is the place,” Boxers said. “I wish we’d brought Roxie along.” Roxie was the name Boxers had given to a remote-controlled drone that he’d become very adept at piloting through all kinds of conditions to give them an overhead view of terrain that betrayed little from the ground-level view.

  “Mother Hen is always right,” Jonathan said. “Let me get out and see if I can open the gate.” He vaulted himself out of the flatbed and landed easily on the crumbling concrete sidewalk. He pulled his NVGs out of the way as Boxers positioned the pickup so that the headlights illuminated the gate.

  The panels were hinged—as opposed to sliding—and steel handles had been welded to each, through which a substantial thick-linked chain had been stretched and fastened in place with the kind of padlock that meant serious business.

  “Stand back, Boss,” Boxers said. “It’s late, and I have the universal key.”

  Jonathan started to object on principle but realized it would be futile as soon as he heard the engine rev.

  “Hang on, Harry,” they both said together as Boxers popped the clutch and launched the pickup squarely into the spot where the two panels of the gate met. As the pickup made contact, the panels gave way with a flash of sparks and a horrendous tearing noise.

  Jonathan was surprised that the weak point had turned out to be not the chain that bound the panels, but rather the hinges that anchored the right-hand panel to its concrete mount. The panel pulled free and flapped like an untethered flag, finally coming to rest under the wheels of the pickup. The metal-to-metal contact had pulled something away from the undercarriage of the Ford, and Jonathan felt a pang of remorse. If the owner could have afforded a new truck, he would have bought it a long time ago. Now, he’d have no choice.

  Was there even such a thing as auto insurance in a place like Mexico? If he remembered, he’d have to ask Venice when they got clear of this mess.

  As Boxers barreled on through the ruined gate, Jonathan flipped his NVGs back down and scanned the main road up and down, taking a full ten seconds in both directions to make sure they hadn’t attracted unwanted attention. So far, if anyone had heard, they were minding their own business.

  His earbud popped, and Boxers asked, “Hey, Boss, are you comin’ or what?”

  “On my way,” Jonathan said. He didn’t like the feel of this at all. Too loud, too hurried, and too unplanned. This op was going the way of ops that got people killed, and he sensed that as each step forward brought another unknown complication, they were continually stacking the odds against themselves. In his experience, playing fast and loose was the single best way for an operator to come home in a bag.

  Turning his back to the road, Jonathan walked through the crashed gate toward the spot where Boxers had stopped the pickup truck. He could see Dawkins standing outside the passenger door, pulling his stuff back on and settling it on his shoulders and back. Beyond him and beyond the pickup, he saw Boxers disappearing into a forest of parked yellow school buses.

  “They had to be yellow,” Jonathan grumbled. Way to be stealthy.

  Jonathan was nearly to Dawkins’s location when he heard movement to his left and then the slap of what sounded like a screen door. He dropped to a knee and shouldered his M27 as he pressed his TRANSMIT button and said loudly enough for Dawkins to hear, “Get down. We have company.”

  Then, in Spanish, he called, “Step out and show yourself.” He switched his NVGs to the thermal setting and saw the silhouette of a man among decorative trees and bushes, against a backdrop of what must be the caretaker’s residence. “You cannot hide,” Jonathan said. “I see you standing there. Step forward, please.” He tried to keep his voice in the nether zone between friendly and authoritarian. Whoever this guy was, Jonathan had zero desire to shoot him, but he’d do what he had to, to protect his PC.

  “Don’t shoot,” a male voice replied.

  “Are you armed?” Jonathan asked.

  “No.”

  “Then you are safe. Please step forward.” He shifted his NVGs back to light enhancement mode for the clarity of the image as a young man—early twenties, maybe—stepped hesitantly away from the shadow of the building and into view. Jonathan could see the infrared beam from Boxers’ rifle sight painting the side of the man’s head as Jonathan’s painted the center of his chest. The young man was barefoot and wore boxer shorts and a wifebeater. He held his empty hands in front of him, where they could be seen, and he splayed his fingers. This was not his first potentially lethal encounter with armed authorities.

  “Stop there,” Jonathan ordered, and the guy obeyed. “Turn around.”

  The man hesitated. Jonathan saw his eyes widen with fear, and he understood. Thugs the world over liked to execute their victims with their backs turned.

  “I’m not going to shoot you,” he said. “I just want to make sure that you’re not hiding a weapon in the back of your pants.”

  After another few seconds’ hesitation, the caretaker did a shuffling pirouette to demonstrate that he was clean.

  Jonathan turned off his laser sight and lowered his rifle, but Boxers’ laser stayed trained on a point just in front of the man’s left ear. “You can put your hands down,” Jonathan said as he stood and tilted the NVG array out of the way and stepped forward. “Are you the only one here?”

  “Yes,” the man said.

  “Please don’t lie to me,” Jonathan said. “We are not here to hurt you or anyone else, but understand that I will search your house. It’s better for everyone if nothing startles me. Now, I’ll ask again. Are you alone here?”

  The man nodded emphatically. “I am here alone every night. I am the caretaker. It is my job to be here all day every day.”

  They stood six feet apart now, so even in the dark, Jonathan could get a feel for the guy’s behavior. He also wanted the man to see how well he, Jonathan, was armed, to make clear what a bad idea it would be to do something stupid.

  “What’s your name?” Jonathan asked.

  “Emiliano.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Why do you think we are here?”

  Emiliano looked at his feet. He clearly did not want to answer.

  “Do you think we are here to steal?” Jonathan asked.

  The caretaker took a deep breath and stiffened his body. He seemed to be bracing himself to be hit.

  “You can look at me,” Jonathan said. “I swear to you that I am not here to hurt you.”

  The kid tilted his head up just enough so that he could look past his eyebrows to see Jonathan.

  “What I am here to do is buy a bus from you.”

  Emiliano’s head snapped up all the way, and he recoiled from the words.

  “Is that okay with you?” Jonathan asked. He reached into the Velcro pocket on his left thigh and pulled out a hefty roll of greenbacks.

  Emiliano’s eyes flashed at the sight of the money. “But the buses are not mine to sell.”

  Jonathan made a show of peeling off forty Benjamins. “Then think of it as a loan,” he said. He proffered the four grand to Emiliano with his right hand and returned the remaining bills to their assigned pocket.

  Emiliano’s gaze switched between the wad of bills and Jonathan’s face.

  “No one has to know,” Jonathan said. “Just give me the keys to a bus that’s full of gas, and we’ll be on our way. It will be our little secret.”

  “I could lose my job.”

  “This is four thousand dollars U.S.,” Jonathan said. “What is that? Five, six months’ wages for you? You can find another job if you have to.” He was rolling the dice that a resident caretaker’s annual income didn’t exceed the national average of ten thousand and change.

  “F-five thousand,” Emiliano stuttered.

  “Don’t get greedy, my friend,” Jonathan cautioned. He’d added menace to his tone. “I continue to have the option of tying you up and taking a bus without paying you a dime. Your call.”

  Emiliano’s attention dart
ed to Jonathan’s right, where Big Guy had stepped out from among the buses and made himself visible.

  “You can stand, too, Dawkins,” Jonathan said. Then, to Emiliano: “Like I said. Your call.”

  Emiliano’s hand trembled as he reached out and took the bills from Jonathan.

  “Where do you keep the keys?” Jonathan asked.

  The caretaker tossed a thumb back at the building he’d come from. “Inside.”

  “Then let’s go.” Jonathan pointed with his forehead and rested his hand on the pistol grip of his carbine. “You lead.”

  With the wad of money clenched in his fist, Emiliano turned and led the way back to the door of his home and office. Inside, the place was a wreck. A well-used and abused metal desk sat just inside the door on the left, stacked with papers and envelopes and dirty dishes. A stub of a cigarette smoldered atop a mound of butts that erupted from an ashtray, which, Jonathan was willing to bet, had never been cleaned. The place stank of nicotine, dirty socks, and rotting food. It reminded Jonathan of his college days and the dorm rooms of the guys who never got laid.

  The rest of the single-story structure, which had about the dimensions of a single-wide house trailer, consisted of an unspeakably filthy kitchen and, beyond that, a dimly lit living space that had to be home for vermin.

  A Peg-Board filled with dangling keys dominated the wall behind Emiliano’s desk, directly across from the front door. The caretaker walked to the board and chose one, seemingly at random.

  “I want one of your best,” Jonathan said. “And fully fueled.”

  “All the buses are fully fueled,” Emiliano said. “The drivers do it when they return in the afternoon so they don’t have to do it in the morning.” He handed over a key that dangled from a paper tag and a beaded two-inch chain. “Number eight,” he said.

  Jonathan eyed the key, then eyed Emiliano. As he took it, he said, “You understand it would be a mistake to cross me, right?”

  “When people want to know what happened to the bus, I will tell them that I have no idea. When I heard the gate crash, I hid under my bed and prayed. I’ll tell them that I never saw anything.”