The Cartel Strikes Back: The Ted Higuera Series, Book 5

by Pendelton Wallace

  “Your Dad sure left a big mark,” Harvey pointed his head towards the band. “Wherever he went.” He shook hands with Sarah and Chris.

  “Thank you, Harvey,” Candace said.

  “At least we didn’t have rain for this day.”

  He got no response.

  “I know this is a hard time for you, for all of us, but I need to meet with you three. We have firm business, succession business, to talk about. I don’t want to put any pressure on you, but we need to conclude this so the firm can go on.”

  Candace stared at him with blank eyes. Sarah started to sniffle again.

  “Is this a good time to bring this up?” Chris’s eyes flared. “We haven’t even put Dad in the ground yet.”

  Harvey held up his hands, palms out, in a signal of peace. “Don’t get excited, Chris. I’m only saying that there are important issues to be addressed . . . at a later time.”

  “What are you getting at, Harvey?” Chris asked.

  “I don’t think this is an appropriate time or place to discuss it, son. Why don’t we have lunch on Monday? I’ll go over the whole thing with you then.”

  ****

  Friday night in La Paz is a time of celebration. Work is done for the week, it’s time to enjoy.

  The Malecon overflowed with families and lovers, walking hand in hand, along the beach front. Every couple of blocks bands played rancheros and occasionally mariachi bands played the high-spirited music of Jalisco.

  Jose O’Doul’s was the hot spot in town. Across the street from the Malecon, it had a bar on the first level and an open-air disco under a palapa roof above. Techopunk music blared down on the streets.

  Esteban, Gil and Diego felt like they were in heaven. Sent by the Sinaloa Cartel to scope out La Paz and discover how to add it to their territory, the boys were surrounded by willing women and good tequila.

  With El Pozolero in prison and the Baja Cartel falling apart, the head of the Sinaloa Cartel thought that La Paz would be easy pickings.

  The boys threw money around like it meant nothing. They hired the best bands, laid the best girls and bought the most important city officials. They were almost ready to make their move.

  “Vamanos, amigos,” Esteban, the leader of the group said, then tossed back his chupita of tequila. “We have important work to do.”

  “Hijole,” Diego said, “what could be more important that showing these chicas a good time?” He squeezed the dark-haired girl in his arms.

  She giggled and pulled back.

  “El Jefe has set up a meeting for us tonight. Tonight, we get the mayor.”

  The three young men, dressed identically in the Sinaloa Cartel uniform of cowboy boots, tight black jeans, cowboy shirts and black Stetsons, headed down the stairs.

  “Amigos,” a waiter said as they passed him on the stairs, “you might want to be careful. I have heard . . .”

  “Why should we be careful?” Esteban shot back. “Let everyone in this hick town be careful of us.”

  The trio stepped out into the street. Their Ford F-250 pickup was parked illegally a block away.

  “Take in the night, amigos,” Esteban said. “By this time tomorrow, we will own it.”

  Across the street, the windows on a dark green Chevy Suburban slid down. The sun roof rolled back.

  Two AK-47s, cuernos de chivas, as the Mexicans called them because of the resemblance of the curved magazines to goat horns, slid through the windows. A man with a black ski-mask and wearing an armored vest, popped up through the sunroof.

  “Esteban,” Gil screamed, as he reached for his pistola.

  The three gunmen opened fire. The air was filled with the smell of gunfire. Hundreds of bullets stitched their way across the targets’ chests, into the walls and through windows.

  The whole incident only lasted seconds, then the Suburban sped away.

  Chapter 8

  Comandante Emiliano Infante loved his job. He was an important man, un hombre respectable.

  Mostly he sat in his chair in the Municipal Police office with his booted feet up on the desk. He drank coffee, occasionally with a shot of mezcal, to keep him warm, and dreamed about girls he had known.

  Police business was slow in the City of Peace. There were always traffic infractions, usually by gringos. Who did they think they were, coming to his country, his city, flaunting the law? Every now and then there was a domestic violence dispute. He sent his men to break up the fight, but they always left the couple together. What a man did in his home, his castle, was his business. What right did the state have to interfere?

  He wasn’t scheduled to work evenings, especially not on weekends, but he had to get away from the nagging Señora. Besides, Mexico was playing Italy in a fútbol match and he had a TV in his office.

  The Mexicans scored the first goal and Don Emiliano screamed with glee.

  We’ll show those stuck-up Europeans.

  Then the phone rang.

  “El Jefe,” he said after he picked up the phone.

  “Don Emiliano, you must come quick . . .” the breathless voice said.

  “What is it?”

  “You must come now. Jose O’Doul’s. There’s been a shooting.”

  Don Emiliano sat up straight in his chair. “A shooting? Where? How?” It had been seventeen years since the last murder in La Paz. Long before his time.

  “A drive-by, Jefe.” The voice on the phone started to bring his breathing under control. “A Suburban shot three Sinaloa narcos in front of Jose O’Doul’s. They also shot two women and a little girl.”

  “¡Caramba!” Don Emiliano grabbed his gun belt and hat. “I’ll be right there.”

  His sergeant pulled the chief’s car to the curb. As El Jefe walked towards the crime scene, a reporter shoved a tape recorder in his face.

  “Jefe,” the reporter shouted, “what can you tell us about this shooting?”

  Don Emiliano stopped and looked the reporter in the eye. A dozen others stood nearby with pens poised over paper. TV cameras homed in on him.

  “We don’t know who these perpetrators are yet, but you can rest assured that we will find them and we will bring them to justice.”

  ****

  Enrique and Arturo dug for weeks. They lost track of time. Only the knowledge that their families were enjoying the good life kept them going, that and the hope that they would be released from their servitude when the tunnel was completed.

  Finally, thank La Virgen, El Professor told them to stop. Now came the delicate part. After tunneling horizontally for almost two kilometers, they had to dig back to the surface, twenty meters above them.

  With great care and precision, they started up with picks and shovels. A slip, a mistake, could bury them in tons of earth. They wanted to be cautious; El Professor wanted them to be fast.

  Day after day they tunneled up until they hit a hard cement surface. This was it, they were done. Now other workers would climb the long ladders and break up the concrete with jack hammers.

  Enrique and Arturo slowly let themselves down the ladder to claim their rewards.

  El Professor thanked them and handed them a bottle of Tequila each, but he didn’t let them return to above ground. He had something else planned.

  ****

  El Pozolero paced his apartment like a caged tiger. His patience was long since exhausted.

  What is taking those cabróns so long?

  Everything was arranged. Money had changed hands, the proper people were threatened. Families and their schedules were documented. Everything was arranged with military precision.

  ****

  The two guards watching the video monitors of El Pozolero’s “cell” were on edge, ice climbed up their spines and sweat poured from their foreheads. The older guard kept watching the clock on the wall.

  Finally, the minute hand on the clock hit the twelve.

  “It is four. Time for a smoke break,” the older guard said.

  Without another word, the two men left their pos
t and wandered outside for cigarettes.

  ****

  What was that? El Pozolero headed into his bathroom, the only part of his apartment that didn’t have video cameras watching him.

  There it was again. A hard hammering sound. El Pozolero almost danced. He stared at the floor of his shower. The tile trembled. A broad smile broke out on his face.

  He looked around to see if anyone was watching.

  Nothing. All was going as planned.

  The terracotta tile on his shower floor cracked, then fell away. The tip of a jack hammer bit broke the surface.

  “Hola, amigos.” El Pozolero could hardly contain himself.

  More hammering. Hands began to pull at the broken tiles, creating an opening.

  It was taking forever. Were the guards back yet? If they were, they would see nothing. Their fat bank accounts and fear for their families would insure that.

  What about the warden? He would be on the all-expense-paid cruise he won in a contest he never heard of.

  The opening in the floor continued to widen. El Jefe saw a face below him. A head poked out.

  “Jefe, we will have you out in a little moment,” the head said.

  El Pozolero couldn’t restrain himself. “Get out of the way.” He began kicking the floor tile. It fell a long distance before he heard it hit the tunnel floor below him.

  He tried climbing into the hole. He couldn’t get his bulk through the opening.

  “Que sea más amplio. Ándale.” He couldn’t wait another moment; they had to widen the hole.

  The hands in the hole below him complied. Some more hammering and a few tiles pulled into the hole and it was ready.

  The great drug lord lowered himself into the hole once again. It was a tight squeeze, but this time he made it.

  The men below him quickly scampered down the ladder, out of his way. It was a long climb, the air getting danker and smelling more like earth with every rung. He was suspended in total darkness, clinging to the wooden ladder for life itself. A chill began to infiltrate itself into El Pozolero’s soul. Down and down he went, into the bowels of hell.

  There was a light below him. He continued down to step off the ladder into a small, square chamber, shored up with planking and plywood on the walls and ceiling.

  “We have been waiting for you, Patrón,” the short skinny man with wire-rimmed glasses said as he offered his hand.

  “Professor, mi amigo.” El Pozolero brushed past the hand and engulfed the slight man in a giant bear hug.

  “”Everything is ready, Patrón.” El Professor waved his hand towards a cart with the front end of a motor cycle on rails. “I will personally drive you to the other end.”

  El Pozolero climbed into the back of the cart while the small man in jeans and a khaki work shirt climbed on the motorbike end of the contraption. He kicked the starter and the motor turned over.

  “Hold on, now we go.” El Professor engaged the clutch and started down the tracks.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the other end of the tunnel in the motorcycle/cart. At the other end, the men climbed out and El Professor led his boss to another long ladder.

  This ladder was smoother and well worn. Many hands and feet had used it over the months the tunnel was under construction.

  El Pozolero started ascending first, followed closely by the tunnel master. It took a few minutes to climb the twenty meters, but eventually, the drug lord emerged into the sunlight of a partially-constructed house.

  “Very good, Miguel,” El Pozolero said, and patted El Professor on the shoulder as he climbed to the surface.

  “What do we do with the tunnelers now that they are done?” the smaller man asked.

  “They have served me well?” El Pozolero asked.

  “Sí, mi patrón,” El Profesor answered.

  “Then kill them quickly. Bury them in a grave somewhere in the mountains and see that their families are taken care of.”

  The sunlight warmed El Pozolero’s soul as he stepped out of the never-to-be completed house. Six guards with automatic weapons flanked him as he walked to the waiting SUV. It would take them a half hour to drive to the airport then he would be away. His private jet would take him anywhere he desired.

  Chapter 9

  Catrina Flaherty stood in the middle of piles of lumber, boxes of new furniture and appliances. Construction moved steadily along repairing her office.

  Her partner, Ted Higuera, suggested Jorge Medina, the contractor who remodeled Hope’s restaurant, to do the reconstruction after a murder suspect tried to take Catrina out of the investigation by bombing her building.

  Her right hand nervously fingered her left shoulder. That’s where the murderer’s bullet entered her body. She was back on her feet now and fully focused on building a new and better Flaherty & Associates.

  “Señora Flaherty.” The short, dark man smiled at Catrina. “Good to see you today.”

  “Hi Jorge.” Catrina returned his smile. “Where are we on the project?”

  “The security guys, they are coming today.” Jorge looked at the clip board in his hand. “We should be ready for plumbing inspection by tomorrow.”

  Catrina moved towards the temporary staircase that led to her mezzanine office in the old warehouse. “Great. When can we start closing up the walls?”

  Jorge followed Catrina like a Chihuahua following his master. “As soon as we get sign off on plumbing. My chicos, they are very fast with the drywall. You’ll be . . . how you say? Muy impressiando. Sí, you will be very impressing.”

  Catrina stifled a little chuckle. “I’m sure I will, Jorge, I’m sure I will.”

  The old entry way suffered the worst damage in the explosion. The heavy glass doors and windows were shattered, the staircase completely gone. Catrina straightened the pot with a sad looking ficus. It only had a few leaves before the explosion; now three tired looking leaves drooped from the top of the tree.

  “I think, Señora¸ that we find you new plants for the entry way. Maybe something that will live in a more shady ambiante.”

  “That would be nice, Jorge. I have complete faith in your ability.” In her mind’s eye she could see El Nuevo Chaparral, Hope’s restaurant, with its tropical vegetation all through the dining areas.

  She stepped through the opening that had once been a heavy wooden door. “It will be nice to have a pleasant first impression for our clients.”

  The beat up, garage sale furniture had been cleared out. The WWII era carpet rolled up and hauled off. Workers were laying a marble tile floor.

  This place has looked like a refugee camp for so long. I guess we can spend a little of the money that we’re making to build a more pleasant work environment.

  A sly smile crossed Catrina’s face. Higuera. Since he rejoined the firm, he had built an entirely new line of business. Now he had major companies lining up to use his digital security offerings. Money was rolling in. Ted had even hired a couple of assistants.

  As Catrina walked into the break room, she stared at the spot where the old refrigerator lived. The resulting fire had charred the old box, but it still kept on ticking. Catrina hated to get rid of it, but she was determined to create a happy workplace for her employees.

  A sudden chill ran down her spine. She thought back to that night, not so long ago, when she found an open bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge. She was so close. She’d almost fallen off the wagon.

  She searched her purse for the small pocket where she kept it. Finally, as sweat broke out on her brow, she found it, her ten-year medallion. How close she had come to losing it.

  “The security guys Señor Ted hired, they are very good.” Jorge broke into Catrina’s private hell. “I never seen some of the things they installing.”

  “Good. We can count on Higuera to keep our building and systems secure.”

  “Most of the furniture arrived yesterday.” Jorge looked down at his clipboard. “Your office no arrive yet. It should be here by Monday.”

 
; “That’s fine. I’m not using it right now anyway.”

  Catrina’s cell phone buzzed. She looked at the screen to see who was calling. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

  She walked away from Jorge and towards the plastic-sheet covered area where Ted kept their servers.

  “Catrina Flaherty,” she said into her phone.

  “Hi, Cat, may I call you Cat?” The smooth voice poured out of the phone. “I was hoping that we could get to know each other a little better.”

  Catrina smiled and felt a warm tingling in her stomach. “I’d like that, Harvey. What did you have in mind?” She could picture his handsome face and silver hair.

  “I have tickets to the Seattle Symphony on Friday. They’re doing a performance called ‘Basically Bach.’ Would you like to go?”

  Catrina didn’t give a fig about classical music, but something urged her to see this man. “I’d love to. What time?”

  “How about I pick you up around six? We can have cocktails and appetizers before the performance then afterwards, I have reservations at the Met.”

  That was too good to resist. The Metropolitan Bar & Grill served the best steaks this side of the Mississippi. She loved the place, but rarely went there. It was out of her price range.

  “Six o’clock sounds great. Let me give you my address.”

  “No need. I have it already.”

  Hmmm . . . It looks like he does a little detective work on his own.

  ****

  Ben Johnson, a small trim man with thinning gray hair, was one of Harvey’s oldest friends. He and Harry had gone through UW Law with Ben. They were the “Three Amigos,” charging through law school like a cavalry charge through a line of infantry, leaving no prisoners in their wake.

  The three had been unstoppable. After a couple years clerking and working for large firms, they formed Hardwick, Bernstein & Johnson.

  Harvey was still sore about the placement of the names. He thought they should be alphabetical. Harry and Ben insisted that Harry’s name should be first because of name recognition.