Retribution Road

by Jon Coon

The police cars were closing in. The plane engines came up to speed and turned for takeoff. The plane roared off the field, barely clearing the oncoming police cars. Adriana Cortez to her parents and the police—“Chica,” or worse, to everyone else—lay dead in the grass.

  Chapter 6

  IN THE CLEAR NIGHT SKY, Gabe and Carol saw the plane turn south and disappear over the Gulf. Minutes later the chopper landed by the police cars and got a report from the somewhat stunned officers. Yes, they had seen Paul. Yes, Paul was wounded. No, they had no idea how badly.

  By Adriana’s body was her cell phone, and in the Corvette the police found more pot and a SIM card on the car floor. Paul had done his best to leave a trail for them to follow.

  “We need to call my dad,” Carol said. She was in full nurse mode, keeping her emotions in check. But just barely.

  “He just answered,” Gabe said, phone in hand.

  “I want to talk to him first.”

  Gabe handed her his phone. “They shot him, Dad,” she cried. “They shot him and took him in a plane.”

  Flying low to stay off radar, and yet above the waves on the Gulf, the Aztec headed south, cruising at 210 knots. Estevan examined the two small holes in Paul’s back and put pressure on the wounds with a bloody towel. “You’re going to be okay,” Estevan said. “She missed your lungs or there would be frothy blood coming up. Try to relax, and if the pain gets too bad, I can give you something. We’ve got a ways to go.”

  Paul nodded his understanding and slouched back in the seat. He was nearly unconscious, but something told him to stay awake, so he fought off sleep and focused on what Chica had said: they were going to use him to get at his grandfather. Not if he could stop it, they wouldn’t. That just was not happening.

  “They’ve taken Paul,” Carol sobbed.

  “Slow down, honey. Who’s taken him?”

  “Men in a plane. They killed his girlfriend after she shot him and dragged him off to their plane.”

  “Who did she shoot?”

  “She shot Paul!”

  “Okay, and then they shot her and took Paul in the plane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Here, talk to Gabe. I’m too upset and I’m not making any sense.”

  Gabe took the phone, and Carol dropped to her knees sobbing. Gabe knelt beside her and pulled her against him with one hand while he held the phone with the other.

  “Hello, Captain. It’s drugs. We found Paul’s truck submerged in a quarry with a dead girl. Apparently an OD, and there was evidence in the house where they’d been living. The girlfriend was South American. It doesn’t look good.”

  There was a disappointed silence on the phone.

  “Captain, are you there?”

  “Sorry. I’m afraid ‘they’ is a Mexican cartel, and they set Paul up to get to me. They’ve been targeting family members of our drug task force. But how would they have found Paul?”

  There was another pause. Then Captain Bright said, “You need to bring Carol and Emily here now. I’ll make arrangements with your department to borrow you for a while. It’s funny, I was going to call you today. I’ve got a diving job for you. Pack your gear and I’ll fly over and get you tomorrow. Don’t let those girls out of your sight, not for a minute. Understand? I’ll call you as soon as I’m in the air.”

  “Yes sir, we’ll be ready.”

  “And, Gabe, one more thing. If you’re a praying man, now’s the time.”

  Chapter 7

  THE CONCRETE BLOCK WALLS WERE painted lime green, and there was only one window. Too high to look out of but large enough to flood the room with daylight. He was in a hospital bed with an IV stand close and a plastic bag with a hose hanging from it. As his eyes tried to focus, he realized the line was connected to a needle in his arm, held in place by fabric tape. He’d been shot. He’d been shot and he should feel the pain. But there was no pain. In fact he could hardly feel anything except the sensations of floating and being unable to focus. It was a good, warm and fuzzy feeling, like the time he intentionally drank too much cough syrup trying to get high.

  “Whatever this is, I like it,” he said, then fell back into a deep sleep.

  He didn’t see the dark-haired girl in white shorts and a green scrub top who came in to check on him a little later. He didn’t see the snakes tattooed on both her arms as she reached over to take his pulse and then gently move the hair back from his face so she could examine him more closely. And he wouldn’t remember her smile, once beautiful, now an embarrassment with decayed and missing teeth. He wouldn’t remember any of those things, but she wouldn’t forget anything about him. She made the sign of the cross over his forehead and then left him in his narcotic stupor.

  Gabe helped Carol up and kept an arm around her as they walked back to the chopper. The ambulance crew had bagged Adriana after the CSI team finished with taking photos and carefully searching the grounds. The Corvette was being loaded on a flatbed, and DEA had claimed it for detailed examination. Gabe made sure they had Adriana’s phone and the SIM card Paul had left on the passenger-side carpet. Gabe also made certain any and all information garnered from the body, the crime scene, or the phone would be passed immediately to Captain Bright. Having done all he could think to do, he climbed into the chopper beside Carol.

  Carol alternated between detached nurse mode and emotional mom. “It’s because of my dad, isn’t it? He made those big drug busts, and now they’re coming after him and after us.” She took his hand and leaned against his chest. He could feel her quiet sobs.

  “I believe that’s what he said.”

  “I thought after Emily was kidnapped and you saved her, when I moved out of your trailer, away from the threat of being involved with another cop . . .” She paused and blew her nose. “I thought we would be safe.”

  He wiped tears from her face and gave her his handkerchief.

  “Thanks.” She leaned against him again and held on as if he were a life ring.

  “I don’t think any of us are safe from the gangs and the cartels. Cops know the risks we face, but when they come after our families, that’s a game changer. No one can be prepared for that.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We go home and pack. Your dad’s right. The Rangers can protect you a whole lot better there than I can here.”

  “You’re coming too?”

  “Your dad asked me to come. He said he has a dive for me. And if things get crazy I want to be with you. And Paul—when we find him—has questions to answer about his truck and that dead girl. I’ll see if Bob can take the dogs, but one way or another, we’ll be in Texas tomorrow night.”

  “That fast?”

  “That’s what he said. He’s flying over in the morning. And one other thing, Carol. Please don’t blame your dad for this. There aren’t many guys anywhere who could make a dent in a cartel the way he has. I’m sure he thought you and the kids were safe with me, but no one could have anticipated what happened with Paul. Who could have ever guessed that girl was connected to them? Or that Paul would have said anything to pin a target on his back?”

  “I know what you’re saying is true, but I just want it to go away and leave us alone. First Charlie is murdered on that damn bridge and then Emily kidnapped and now Paul? I don’t deserve this. None of it. You guys all signed up for these risks: Charlie in the Marines, Dad in Vietnam, you and your diving. Not me. I just want to live in peace, make babies, and have a garden.”

  “Make babies? More babies?”

  “Well, maybe. I’m not that old. There’s still some time.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about age.”

  “If there were something else you could do for a living, no police work, no getting shot at or getting me shot at, or my kids nearly killed. If you could do that, we’d have something to talk about.”

  “That would be a big change.”

  “There would be benefits. Lots of benefits.”

  “Something
to think about, that’s for sure.”

  “Come here.” She pulled him down to her and kissed him long and deep.

  “Think about that and let me know. This could be a limited time offer.”

  Chapter 8

  IT WAS SUNSET WHEN THE eight-passenger Cessna 414 AW made a textbook landing at Panama City, Florida. Its long tapered nose and sleek air frame belied its nearly thirty-year age. New burnt orange and white paint and polish, in honor of the University of Texas Longhorns, gleamed as proof of the affection with which the plane was maintained. Carol hugged Gabe and said, “It’s my dad,” as the plane taxied toward them. Emily snuggled between them and waved toward the plane.

  The props spun down to a stop and the two-part side door opened and a stair dropped into place. Captain Tom Bright paused in the hatch and waved back at them before descending to the tarmac to meet them.

  “Got everything?” he asked amid hugs and handshakes.

  “I believe so,” Gabe answered. “Can I drive the truck out here to load?”

  “I’ll call the tower and get permission. Go get your truck.”

  When the gear was loaded, the captain turned to Carol and asked, “Want to do a pre-flight?”

  “Sure.” Her response was half-hearted, but Tom let it slide. He suspected she was on the edge and didn’t want to make things worse.

  They walked around the plane checking flaps and tires. When they finished, Tom asked, “Want left seat?”

  She perked up, smiled, and said, “You bet. But it’s been a while.”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  “Okay.”

  When they were aboard, ladder up and door secured, Tom turned to her and began, “Kick the tires—”

  “And light the fires,” she said. She smiled at the memory of happier times, then gave a half-hearted laugh. After the stress of the last few hours, Gabe was glad to see her smile, even as subdued as it was.

  The engines came up to speed, and Carol called the tower to get permission to taxi into takeoff position. When granted, she rolled the plane onto the runway and headed upwind until reaching the end and making a one-eighty, putting the nose into the gentle wind. It was dark now, and when the tower granted permission, she looked over at her dad. Tom nodded and she pushed the throttles forward, bringing the revs up.

  “Flaps, lights, brakes, go. I love this part,” she said as the sleek plane became an orange flash, airborne at 150 knots. They climbed to altitude, leveled out, and began the westerly heading to Austin. They would cruise at 190 knots, or 218 miles per hour, burning forty gallons of aviation gas per hour.

  “I didn’t know your mom was a pilot,” Gabe said to Emily.

  “She only flies when we are with my granddad. She says planes are just too expensive. Besides, she likes horses better.”

  “Me too.”

  “Are you going to get a horse?”

  “I can’t let you guys have all that fun without me.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Emily said, looking very serious. “Are you going to stay in that trailer forever? You know Mom built closets for you and a den for your guns and stuff. And you’re not getting any younger.”

  Gabe smiled and ruffled her hair. “We’re talking, Emily. But things are complicated.”

  “Like with my brother, huh? I asked Mom what’s going on and all she would tell me is ‘it’s complicated.’ I wish people would start telling me the truth. I know a lot more than you think.”

  “Oh really? What do you know, smarty-pants?”

  “I know Paul was doing drugs, not just grass. That girlfriend of his was stoned all the time. And I know I’m too old to be called smarty-pants. That’s not politically correct.”

  “You’re right and I apologize. How about if I call you princess instead?”

  “That’s better.”

  “Well, I’m glad we’ve worked that out.”

  She giggled and looked out the porthole at the stars filling the night sky.

  Carol set the autopilot and released the yoke. She looked back and saw that Emily was leaning against Gabe’s arm, asleep. She turned back to her dad and said quietly, “Now tell me what this is all about.”

  “It’s retribution. We’ve hit the cartel hard and they want paybacks. They think if they hit us back hard enough we’ll back off, but you know we can’t. We won’t. If we do, they’ll end up owning our turf, and that just can’t happen. The illegal immigration problems are bad enough. The tons of drugs they are bringing across the border could destroy a whole generation. Congress just doesn’t want to accept that this fight is for the future of our country. I just don’t understand how they can be so blind. If they don’t change the laws, we are going to be another Mexico or failed socialist democracy like the ones in South America.”

  “Dad, isn’t that a little extreme?”

  “Honey, wait until you’ve seen what I see to make that call. Things are changing so fast, and none of them for the better. I’m afraid we’re going to lose this country if we don’t wake up and take back control.”

  Realizing that was a conversation she couldn’t win, she changed the subject. “You said you have a diving job for Gabe. What’s that about?”

  “I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, but Bobby Benson’s plane went down offshore of Galveston yesterday. Our team is doing a sonar search, and when they find it—”

  “Oh no. Not Bobby and Susan. How about the kids?”

  “They were coming back from Cancun, and we think the kids were with them.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible. The senator must be devastated.” She looked for a tissue, didn’t find one, and wiped her tears on her sleeve.

  “He is, and he wants answers.”

  “If you need Gabe you must think it wasn’t an accident. So what really happened?”

  “Bobby was a great pilot. I trusted him enough to let you fly with him. If you remember, he was the only one. Plus, Bob has had threats: ‘Back off or else.’ I think this could be the or else.”

  “And you want Gabe to question them?” She put both hands back on the yoke and tensed her arms and neck. It was hard to hear what her dad was saying, much less believe him.

  “If what you told me about what he did on that bridge is true—”

  “Oh, it’s true. Remember, I was there. I know it sounds unbelievable, but it was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Have there been many threats like that?”

  “The harder we push, the harder the cartel pushes back. And the Mexican government isn’t helping. We think the same thing is going on down there. Oppose the cartel and they kill you and your family. It’s never been this bad.”

  “So how are we going to protect ourselves?” She felt the knots in her stomach tightening. The situation appeared hopeless.

  “Bunker mentality. It’s the only thing I can think of … at least for now. I’ve made provisions at the ranch. Once I know you all are safe and we get Paul back, we can take the fight to them. And I think I know just how to do it.”

  “But how are you going to do that? Get Paul back, I mean?”

  Chapter 9

  EL PATRÓN—“THE BOSS”—JUAN MATEO CALDERA, stepped back from the marble sink and toweled the last of the shaving cream from his bronzed face. He looked both right and left, admiring his firm skin, perfect teeth, and full head of gleaming black hair. The surgeries and dental work, done in a Southern California clinic that catered to the Hollywood rich and famous, had been worth every dollar. Nodding his approval, he picked up a bottle of Frederic Malle cologne and splashed the golden liquid liberally on his face and chest. He’d come a long way from that skinny, pock-faced boy who started life as a farm worker on a coffee plantation in southern Chiapas, Mexico.

  Still in the glass-front shower, his wife, Lareina, was washing her long black hair and arching her back against the water pressure. He admired the view, truly spectacular, then refocused on his own grooming.

  He’d lost his father in one of the m
any confrontations between the Zapatista Army of National Liberation and the Mexican army when he was eleven. He was raised to be a Zapatista rebel and was carrying a Russian-made AK-47 by his twelfth birthday. The Free and Sovereign State of Chiapas, the southernmost of the thirty-two sovereign states of Mexico, was one of the poorest, with parts of the state boasting a 48 percent illiteracy rate and two-thirds of the population without sewage service, only a third with electricity and half with potable water. This, in spite of a wealth of natural resources including gas and oil, timber, and a third of the nation’s fresh water.

  As the Mexican coffee industry experienced competition from Vietnam, the plantation was no longer able to compete in the international market, where coffee is the third largest traded commodity, even with many workers only receiving shacks for lodging and subsistence amounts of food as pay. Facing a desperate situation, Juan went looking for a more promising career.

  Like 450,000 others, he found it in the drug industry. During thirty years of ruthless ambition, he’d clawed his way over a mountain of bodies to the top of his chosen profession. He was now “El Patrón.” His word was law to hundreds and his wealth counted in millions of yearly revenue. He was beloved by his sycophants, feared by his enemies, and worshiped for his generosity to hospitals, schools, and churches in the mountains of southern Chiapas. He saw himself as a good father and provider to his own wife and four children as well as a benefactor of needy indigenous tribe members of the surviving Mayan nation, many of whom now served in his international consortium. And in Chiapas, there had been no better friend to the tribes than the Zapatistas.

  The rebels took their name from Emiliano Zapata, a hero of the Mexican Revolution. With a history of bloody rebellion and revolt, they supported the rights of tribes against the mandates of the Mexican government. Zapatistas claimed the right to work and cultivate once indigenously held lands, particularly the rainforest known as the Lacandon Jungle.

  Unfortunately, clearing the land for farming by the technique known as “slash and burn” had produced soil that only supported crop production for four or five years. That created the need to clear more and more land, which reduced the once 1.5-million-acre rainforest by an estimated 5 percent per year, leaving only a remnant of old growth along the border of Guatemala. This put the Maya tribes in conflict with the Mexican federal government and conservation groups worldwide.