Final Target

by John Gilstrap

  Alejandro’s eyes narrowed as he regarded his cousin. Was this some sort of joke? Why would the head of the Federal Police’s Regional Security Division be on a line whose number he should not even know?

  Orlando replied to Alejandro’s unasked question with an extended exaggerated shrug as he handed over the phone.

  Alejandro brought it to his ear. “This is Mr. Azul,” he said.

  “I understand that you have been expecting a telephone call,” Flores said.

  “Certainly not from you,” Alejandro said. “And certainly not at this late hour.”

  “I was confident that I would not be waking you,” Flores said. “And since I received a surprise phone call just a few minutes ago, I thought I would return the favor.”

  Alejandro waited him out.

  “Does the name Raphael Lopez mean anything to you?”

  Alejandro felt a fluttering in his gut. “I believe I may have heard the name,” he lied. In fact, he knew the name very well.

  “You should read the newspapers more, Alejandro. A person in your position should recognize the name of the general commissioner of police. How about the name Irene Rivers? Does that sound familiar to you?”

  “Is she the director of the American FBI?”

  “She is, indeed. And I am told by the general commissioner that the two of them had a discussion about you.”

  That gut fluttering grew larger. “You say that as if I should feel honored,” Alejandro said.

  “Whatever it is that you have planned, I advise you to stop it,” Flores said. “The old times are dying, Alejandro. Commissioner Lopez has promised to wage war on you and on others of your ilk, and he seems to be staying true to his word.”

  “So he says to the head of the FBI,” Alejandro said. A politician’s promise was worth even less than a prostitute’s pledge of fidelity.

  “And to me,” Flores said. “I understand from others that you have been in contact with officers in my command.”

  “I have no idea—”

  “Don’t even try, Alejandro. I know what you are up to, and I know what we have done together in the past. This one is not happening.”

  Alejandro stood and walked to the window. In it he could see only his own reflection. “I don’t understand why you are calling me about this,” he said. That comment was as much for whatever electronic eavesdroppers were out there as it was for anyone else.

  “You are on your own, Alejandro.”

  “Because of an American bitch from the FBI?”

  “Because of my boss in Mexico City,” Flores said. “The commissioner did not explain to me the reason for the FBI’s interest in your plans, but he did mention to me that this was the first phone call he had ever received from Irene Rivers. If nothing else serves to illustrate the gravity of the situation, let that one carry the message. I understand that you have reached out to your network of my officers to seek information on the people who killed your brother before your brother had an opportunity to kill them first.”

  Alejandro felt anger blooming. “Do not speak of my brother—”

  “Not now, Alejandro,” Flores said. “Not on this one. I don’t pretend to know the details, and, frankly, I don’t want to know them. But I know for a fact that the people you are chasing had an opportunity to kill one of my officers tonight, and they chose not to. As the Americans like to say, I do not have a dog in this fight. You will get no cooperation from the police. Perhaps you can reach out to your friends in the army, but I would be surprised if they have not received a similar phone call.”

  “You lecture me as if your hands are clean of my business,” Alejandro said.

  “No one in my line of work is left unsullied by your line of work,” Flores conceded. “But in three years, or five or ten, when people in your line of work are either dead or in prison, people in my line of work will still be thriving. I suggest that you start planning for the future.”

  The line went dead before Alejandro could respond.

  “What was that all about?” Orlando asked. His face was a mask of concern.

  “That was about an impudent prick who has lost his focus on who, exactly, is in charge.” Alejandro handed the phone back to his cousin without turning away from his own reflection in the window. “We have lost the police and quite probably the army for this problem,” he said.

  “But we have other assets who can help us,” Orlando said. “Merchants and citizens.”

  “Wake up everyone,” Alejandro commanded, turning suddenly to face his cousin. “Start with my security team and from there dig as deeply as you can. Roust them all and get them in position around Laguna de Términos. Have our intelligence teams keep alert for any word of where the Americans might be. There are very few options.”

  “Suppose those children were lying?” Orlando asked in a hesitant voice.

  “They were not lying. You saw their faces. They were terrified. They know very well what would happen to them if I caught them in such a lie.”

  “Yes, cousin.”

  “We know from our friend in the police station in Tuxtla Gutiérrez that a school bus has been stolen by American commandos, so it’s clear that that’s what we are looking for. We know that they have every incentive to evacuate, by whatever means they can devise, before dawn, so that is our time window. How many school buses can there be on the road at this hour?”

  Orlando nodded enthusiastically, but Alejandro never knew whether to trust his cousin’s enthusiasm. All too often, his agreement was driven by fear.

  “I’ll make the necessary phone calls,” Orlando said.

  * * *

  The school bus was traveling slightly faster than was safe, and with the headlights off.

  “Mother Hen, Scorpion. Have you been able to make contact with our friends?” Jonathan and his team were only two minutes out from the secondary exfil site, and Venice hadn’t yet been able to alert Gloria and the kids of the change in plans.

  “Negative,” Venice said through what sounded like a yawn.

  “How sure are you that you heard transmission of a struggle before the transmission cut out?”

  “No more or less sure than I was when I first mentioned it to you,” Venice said. “I heard what I heard, and I reported it. I haven’t had any further contact, so I don’t have any further information.”

  Boxers rumbled out a laugh. “I think Mother Hen needs a nap,” he said off the air.

  “Roger that,” Jonathan transmitted through a grin. “Be advised that the plan still stands. We will wait for one hour. At the sixty-first minute, we’re out of here.”

  “You’re really just going to leave those orphans for the cartels?” Dawkins asked. He’d clearly been able to stitch together the details of both sides of the conversation, and he seemed appalled. “Don’t do that on my account.”

  “None of this is on your account,” Boxers said. “You’re just the job that needs to be done.”

  Jonathan rolled his eyes behind his NVGs. Boxers had such an ingratiating way with the precious cargo.

  “I don’t want a bunch of dead kids on my conscience,” Dawkins said.

  “How about dead rescuers?” Jonathan asked. “Because if we don’t get out of this shit heap of a country before dawn, that’s what you’ll be responsible for.”

  “Speak for yourself, Boss,” Boxers grumbled. “I’m not dyin’ just ’cause it’s daytime. Hell, sunlight just brings better target opportunities.” He pulled the school bus off the road and into a hole in the trees adjacent to a water tower that rose fifty feet above the jungle floor. He killed the engine.

  “We’re pretty well hidden here,” Dawkins said. “How will they ever find us? Better still, if your Mother Hen hasn’t been able to tell them that the plan changed, how are they even going to know to come looking?”

  “This is the plan,” Jonathan said. “I told Tomás—the leader kid—that this was the secondary exfil site. Even marked the water tower on his map for him. I also told him that I woul
d contact them only if that was what we were up to. There’s some doubt whether or not the radio message got through, so we default to sticking around for a while. This would be an excellent time to take a nap, if you want.”

  “Yeah, right,” Dawkins said with a humorless chuckle. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to sleep again.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Boxers said. “If things do go to shit, you’ll be able to sleep forever.”

  * * *

  Villa Sánchez Magallanes was a bigger spot on the map than it deserved to be. Bordered on the north by the Gulf of Mexico and on the south by a bay that, as far as Jesse could tell, did not have a name, the touristy town was part of a strip of land that formed a narrow band of barrier reef. In the yellow glare of the Toyota’s headlights, the shops were all boarded and closed. The dirt-packed streets were slick with mud, and despite this being the twenty-first century, no one had let the town fathers in on the secret of street signs.

  As was expected in any seaside community, Mother Nature punished the structures, but unlike in American tourist communities, the concept of repairing the cumulative damage seemed elusive. Every store and house they passed seemed to be in some sort of disrepair, whether it be crumbling corners where walls joined or sagging roofs. Every structure they passed had a single story and was made of pastel-painted concrete, the same as in every other corner of the country.

  By definition, the address they were looking for had to be on the bay side, and it had to be on the water. Mother Hen had given them a street address—a number and a street name, just as you would get in the States—but here neither numbers nor streets were immediately visible. Fortunately, she had also provided them with specific GPS coordinates and a picture of the specific type of boat they were looking for.

  Jesse drove, while Davey tracked them on the hand-held GPS.

  “So, Davey,” Jesse said, if only to break the tension. “What’s so special about a SeaVee thirty-nine-Z boat?” Mother Hen had been very specific on the type and model.

  “It’s got the range we need, and we don’t need a crew to operate it.”

  “Aren’t there a lot of boats with those traits?”

  Davey chuckled. “The SeaVee has four engines, a five-hundred-eighty-gallon fuel tank, and can hit eighty miles per hour on the water in a pinch.”

  Jesse pivoted his head to see his father’s silhouette. “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly.” Davey pointed ahead through the windshield. “Okay, slow down. My hand atlas here says we’re coming up on the street.”

  Jesse slowed the car to a crawl and put on his turn signal.

  “Don’t do that,” Davey said.

  “What?”

  “The turn signal. Don’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you mind?”

  Jesse canceled the turn signal.

  Davey explained, “If someone’s following you, you don’t want them to know where you’re going. Certainly, you don’t want to give them advance notice.”

  Jesse chuckled. “Been watching a few too many spy movies in your spare time?”

  “This is definitely the turn,” Davey said. “I’ve lived too many spy movies.”

  Jesse spun the steering wheel to the right, and right away, the narrow street became impossible. It was navigable because the Toyota was narrow, but if they met oncoming traffic, driving would become a negotiation. On either side, chain-link fences all but brushed the sideview mirrors. The houses and businesses beyond those fences were merely black shapes against a blacker night.

  “Kill your headlights,” Davey said.

  Jesse twisted the knob without question, and instantly, the night turned inky. He hit the brakes.

  “Good idea,” Davey said. “Sit still for a minute or two and let your eyes adjust to the dark. Oh, and take your foot off the brake.”

  “Why?”

  “Because brake lights are like beacons.”

  “Suppose I drift? I can’t see anything.”

  “Then put it in park,” Davey said. Something had changed in his father’s tone. The inherent sarcasm seemed to have been replaced with an all too serious business tone. It was one that Jesse had not heard before.

  And he felt stupid for not having thought of the gearshift. He racked it forward, took his foot off the brake, and waited. Sure enough, within a minute, he could see pretty well. No colors or fine details, but enough not to run into bigger obstacles. “I think I’m good,” he said.

  “It’s your call,” Davey said. “Now you’re gonna have to put your foot on the brake to shift out of park, but after that, use the emergency brake. It doesn’t trigger the lights, and we’re just going to be crawling. There should be plenty of braking power.”

  Jesse engaged the transmission, and the Toyota crept forward. “The street ends at the water,” he said. “Is that where we’re going?”

  Davey looked up from his GPS. His smile gleamed in the glow of his hand atlas, as he liked to call it. “Good thinking.”

  Jesse coasted the Toyota slowly to the end of the street, all the way up to the tall, heavy closed gate bearing a sign that read MARINA.

  “I’m not an expert in Spanish,” Jesse said, “but I find that word encouraging.”

  “Good observation,” Davey said. “But I’ve got to tell you, my gate-climbing days may well be behind me.”

  Jesse threw the transmission into PARK, opened his door, and stepped out. The night had moderated quite a lot since they left their garage. The temperature was noticeably cooler, and the breeze off the water felt wonderful. The breeze also brought the stench of decaying fish. Hey, you can’t have everything.

  Jesse wasn’t sure what his father was doing, but Davey stayed in the car while his son wandered up to take a closer look at the gate that closed off the access road. A few lights near the water, beyond the clubhouse (marina house?), cast enough illumination for him to see the heavy-duty chain and padlock that held the gate closed.

  “There’s always another way,” Jesse said aloud. It was among the greatest lessons that allowed him to be a successful thief. People thought about the big stuff, but the little stuff often went unnoticed.

  As that thought crossed his mind, Jesse noticed the personnel gate, which stood next to the vehicle gate, probably to let the early morning staff enter to get breakfast ready for the early rising tourists who wanted to use a boat after sunrise. Fingers crossed, he walked to the gate—it looked like a repurposed jail-cell door—and turned the lever. It didn’t move.

  “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. They’d locked the damn door. In frustration, he smacked the panel of bars.

  And the door floated inward. A solid life lesson: locking the knob does little good if the door is not latched to begin with.

  They were good to go.

  Just to be certain, Jesse stepped inside the open gate and slid a rock into place to make sure that it stayed open. Then he jogged back to the car. “We’re in,” he said.

  They moved to the trunk.

  “Do you know how to put one of these on?” Davey asked, holding up the vest.

  Truthfully, Jesse had never given it a lot of thought.

  Davey demonstrated, slipping the body of the vest over his head and then using the Velcro straps to secure it in place. “The shit-hits-the-fan moment may be close,” Davey said. “This would be a good time to put on your vest.”

  After getting tangled in the vest once, Jesse figured it out and settled it into place.

  “Looks good on you,” Davey said, and he handed him a rifle. “Keep your booger hook off the bang switch.”

  Jesse laughed. How very Davey-like.

  Armed and on high alert, Jesse let Davey lead the way into the marina. He chose not to think about the possibility that the one boat they were supposed to choose out of all the boats in this part of Mexico might be broken or visiting wherever it was that people with boats liked
to go.

  “Are you going to know this thing when you see it?” Jesse whispered.

  “If you see any big boat with four outboard motors, let me know and I’ll check it out,” Davey said. Davey moved in a way that Jesse had never seen, sort of in a half crouch, with his rifle to his shoulder in a posture that made him think that maybe his father had done this before. He seemed ready to shoot any threat.

  “Are we in danger?” Jesse whispered.

  “We’re about to steal a boat that’s worth about three hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Davey whispered back. “That feels dangerous to me.”

  Point taken. How could anyone spend that kind of money for a boat?

  After they passed through the personnel gate, a gravel sidewalk took them down toward the water, where a wide assortment of watercraft floated and rocked in their moorings. Sailboats and powerboats swayed in the swells of the water, the sailing masts seeming to battle one another without ever actually making contact.

  The boats stretched out from four double-sided piers, ten boats per side. As they approached, Jesse noticed for the first time that the clouds had given way to a bright three-quarter moon. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he imagined that with a little effort he could actually read a book in the moonlight.

  “There it is!” Davey proclaimed in a shouted whisper. He pointed through the night to the middle of the forest of masts. Jesse couldn’t tell which boat was which, but he followed his father’s lead. They glided quickly down the length of the second pier from the left, and Davey stopped about halfway down, at the bow of a white boat with a cockpit in the center of the deck, probably twenty, twenty-five feet ahead of a bank of four outboard motors.

  Davey barely broke stride as he peeled off of the pier and climbed down onto the deck of the boat.

  “Jesus, what a beautiful boat,” Davey said, probably a little louder than he would have liked. He turned and faced Jesse. “Do you have any idea how much I would love to have a boat like this?” he asked.

  “At least you get to drive one,” Jesse replied. He took care to balance himself as he climbed down onto the deck. As soon as his feet found the traction-ribbed floor—it was probably called a deck, and yes, he knew that—he wished that he’d remembered to bring Dramamine.