by Matt Rogers
The air seemed to palpably shift as he entered Mexico. It wasn’t anything physical — more a sense of foreboding taking hold. The familiar territory of the States shrank away, replaced by the mystery of Tijuana. He didn’t know what was waiting for him in the shadows. Maybe Ramos had already wised up to the fact that Bennett was taking too long. Maybe he was waiting to receive King at gunpoint, at which point he would apprehend him and interrogate him for the next month before finally bringing his miserable life to an end.
There was a Beretta M9 in King’s duffel bag, along with a handful of spare magazines. If Lars hadn’t allowed him exclusive access across the border, he would have been arrested by the officials back at the checkpoint. King didn’t know what to do with the weapon — if he took it into his meeting with Ramos or his men, he would have to act instantly in the event of a frisk search.
Maybe he should leave it in the car when he reached his destination.
Play it safe.
The uncertainty amplified.
He coasted into the city, unsure whether the evil that he sensed was just a placebo conjured up by the tales Lars had spun, or something tangible. The streets were unnaturally quiet, like the residents of Tijuana were opting to stay indoors instead of venture out into the lawless war zone created by the drug war. Lars had told him that the border states had the highest murder rates in Mexico, but the recent developments in Tijuana had speared it ahead of the pack.
The address Bennett had been provided with rested in the shanty towns on the other side of the city. To get there, King would have to drive through the centre of Tijuana itself. He imagined the central districts were safer than the outskirts, but he couldn’t be sure. Following the modified electronic GPS that had been installed in the centre of the Chevy’s dashboard, he realised just how little he knew about the city.
It had been the sparsest mission briefing he had ever received.
Maybe that had been deliberate.
He had effectively been given free reign to do as he pleased. Maybe they were assessing just how well he could improvise.
He entered a district that seemed a little more open and airy than the rest of Tijuana. The streets were wide and smoothly paved, and broad tourist-riddled hotels speared into the sky on either side of his vehicle. The foot traffic increased the further he headed into Tijuana’s centre, but he still got the distinct sense that everyone was hesitant. News of the constant murders must have spread rapidly through the city.
People were scared.
He caught a glimpse of the mountains in the distance, broad and sweeping and dotted with clusters of cheap housing. The GPS told him that the shanty town rested between the city centre and the mountains beyond. King imagined certain sections of Tijuana were effectively lawless.
He had been here many years ago, taking a short vacation between deployments in the SEALs. Back then, every street corner had bustled, packed with vendors selling anything from Mexican cuisine to trinkets to flyswatters and fans. Now, the city was a shell of its former self.
The crossover into the shanty town couldn’t have been more visually obvious. The open, pleasant streets of the tourist district morphed into car wrecking yards and rusting tin buildings. Everything seemed like it had been thrown together in a day, like no-one intended to reside here permanently. Lars had explained that most of the population of these shanty towns consisted of illegal migrants and the poorer working class. They were searching for other opportunities, clearly in the process of finding any other available options.
It’s the perfect location for Ramos to conduct his business dealings, King realised.
He turned down a street far narrower than the rest, following the instructions of the artificial monotone voice seeping out of the GPS. According to the electronic display, his destination was at the very end of the street, a building tucked into a small semi-circular courtyard.
The road was a dead end.
King’s heart rate started to quicken as he recognised the volatility of the situation. He could easily be cornered and outgunned in this street. He had a Beretta M9 in a duffel bag and nothing else. There were three pedestrians ambling along the dusty, unpaved sidewalks. All three of them were young Mexican men, skinny, dressed in loose-fitting singlets and shorts that stretched well past their knees. King made out the noticeable bulge of firearms poking out of the rear of their waistbands. They turned towards the source of the noise as King turned the Chevy onto the trail.
He found himself in a staredown with the trio. He had no doubts that he could effortlessly handle the three of them, but the last thing he wanted to do was cause commotion. He was supposed to be an inexperienced tech prodigy from California, not an easily-triggered thug intent on starting a fight with anyone who looked at him funny.
He kept the tinted windows of his Chevy up and stared straight ahead, slowly crawling past the three thugs in an attempt to appear unimposing.
It seemed to work.
Barely.
They hurled insults at him in Spanish as he passed by. One of them yanked the black-market pistol out of his oversized shorts and tapped the barrel against the passenger’s side window, yelling obscenities through the thin glass. King ignored them completely, adopting an expression of unease. He didn’t want to seem too tough for his own good. If they thought he was intimidated by them, they might be satisfied and avoid taking things further.
One of the thugs snatched at the passenger door handle. King touched his foot lightly to the accelerator, quickening the Chevy’s pace for an instant. The guy came up short. King glanced in the side mirror and watched as the trio regarded the Chevy for another moment longer.
Then it passed them by, and they turned their attention to something else.
King breathed a sigh of relief.
Not because they scared him.
But because if Ramos was watching, he had flawlessly played the part of an uncomfortable software engineer far out of his depth in these parts.
He reached the courtyard at the end of the road and coasted to a stop outside a small block of rundown apartments, three storeys high and rotting away before his eyes.
On the second floor balcony, two mean-looking thugs stared down at his car.
King peered up through the tinted windshield and made eye contact with him.
They beckoned him up.
He killed the engine and stepped out into the arid heat.
15
In the brief seconds of contemplation he had before the thugs on the landing above grew suspicious, King decided not to bring the Beretta. If he chose to arm himself, it would make it unavoidable to use the weapon when they opted to frisk search him. He wasn’t entirely convinced that Ramos was on the premises, and a couple of dead henchmen would leave him no closer to tearing the cartel apart, like Lars had instructed him to do.
He had enough confidence in his ability to fight at close-quarters to head in unarmed.
The move spiked his adrenalin as he left the Chevy. He had never found himself in a situation as precarious as this. He had never impersonated another man, let alone attempted to integrate himself with a highly dangerous drug cartel. It took all the willpower in his body to calm himself.
Then again, the nerves would help convince the cartel of his persona — a terrified office worker taking a risk. He decided to let them show. In fact, he amplified them.
What if they’ve seen a photo of Bennett? King posited.
He made his way toward the flight of stairs connecting to the upper levels of the apartment complex, thoughts churning through his head.
He doubted that they would know what the software engineer looked like. All signs pointed towards a rushed decision that had been easily foiled by border officials. Ramos had likely panicked, acting in the aftermath of an unknown situation that made him scramble. He’d reached out to bring in more help behind-the-scenes.
He would have trawled through online resumes, more than likely.
By now, King was in too deep a
nyway. He had committed to action the moment he left the Chevy. There was no diplomatic resolution to a situation like this. Violent confrontation was a given. It would come down to whether that would occur here, or at a later time.
Whatever the case, someone would die.
He told himself that all the training he had put himself through would ensure it would not be his body carted off to the morgue.
He felt the twin pairs of eyes boring into the top of his skull as he crossed underneath the second-floor balcony and mounted the flimsy flight of stairs. The thugs were watching intently.
This was it.
He made it to their level in a few seconds, taking the stairs three at a time like an eager contractor, excited to get into the dirty business. He smiled greedily at the two thugs as he crossed the space between them, while they scowled disinterestedly back at him. He embraced the persona of an excited software engineer who didn’t really know how the world worked outside his cubicle.
Both the thugs were built like tanks and covered in tattoos from head to toe. Their heads were shaved, either to add to their tough-guy demeanour or to hide receding hairlines. They had the same features, with pronounced jawlines, thick lips and beady eyes — King imagined they were related.
Cousins, or brothers. Raised on the streets.
Hard, cruel men.
Perfect for the enforcer roles.
‘You are software guy?’ the larger of the two said in stunted English, regarding him with an incredulous look.
‘That’s me,’ King said. ‘Am I in the right place?’
‘I don’t know,’ the man said. ‘You do not look like software guy.’
Briefly, King sized up the space between them and prepared to smash the man’s head into the nearest railing, bashing him unconscious before the other, smaller man could make a move.
Then he realised that the guy was referring to his build. They didn’t know what James Bennett looked like. They were evidently taken aback by a six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-twenty pound powerhouse showing up. They had clearly been imagining a different stereotype.
‘I lift weights sometimes,’ King said. ‘Good genetics.’
The man simply grunted.
‘Arms out, bitch,’ the smaller man said. He was still heavyset, probably an inch or two under six-foot. He lacked a visible neck — instead, the trapezius muscles around his shoulders had bunched up to bury it under a mountain of artificially-enhanced sinew. King glanced at the veins running along the man’s forearms and guessed that the pair had altered their frames with a cheap cocktail of Mexican designer steroids. Ramos probably had access to a few dealers.
Strength would only get them so far, though.
Despite the hostile demands, King complied. He spread his arms straight and wide, poking them out in either direction. At the same time, he took care to shuffle restlessly on both feet, showing his unease. The shorter enforcer stepped forward and patted King down hard, manhandling him as he searched for weapons underneath his clothing.
Finding nothing, he backed off, satisfied.
King visibly squirmed, unsure of what would come next.
‘I was told to meet a guy who would put me to work straight away?’ he said, improvising. ‘Is that you two?’
The taller of the pair cast a long, laboured gaze down the trail which King had ascended moments earlier. The street was dead quiet. Across the neighbourhood, the faint screams and hollers of gangs and drug dealers wafted through the air.
It seemed that King had come alone.
The guy nodded and ushered King toward a closed door built into the cheap plaster wall running the length of the balcony. One of the apartments in the complex, no doubt snatched up by Ramos to facilitate his online operation. King wondered what had happened to the men that had previously been running the man’s business.
In a ditch somewhere, he concluded.
King stepped tentatively up to the door. He hesitated, unsure of what to do next. The enforcers stood behind him, one on either side, spaced an equal distance apart in the event that King tried any funny business. He paused, then raised a hand to knock on the thin wood.
A hand seized the back of his shirt.
He restrained himself, deciding not to act. Instead, he raised an eyebrow inquisitively. The taller of the two thugs had yanked him back by the shirt, constricting the air around his throat. King guessed that they felt suddenly threatened. They hadn’t expected the software engineer to look more imposing than the enforcers themselves, and they were trying to assert their dominance however they could. King let the shirt material tighten uncomfortably around his neck and looked over his shoulder.
‘What is it?’ he said.
The taller thug snarled. ‘Are you sure he’s clean?’ he said to the shorter man.
The other guy nodded. ‘Yeah, man. No weapons.’
The first man shrugged in satisfaction and let go of King. ‘Don’t get smart with me, motherfucker.’
King paused, stifling a retort. Instead, he nodded. ‘No problem, man. Do I knock?’
‘Yes, you knock. What are you — fucking stupid?’
King pursed his lips, as if unsettled by the hostility, and turned back to face the door.
He knocked twice, softly. He didn’t want to appear too eager — James Bennett would no doubt be shitting himself at this point in time.
Inwardly, King was too.
The door opened instantly. King came face-to-face with a man dressed in an expensive leather jacket and designer jeans, despite the heat. He was taller than King, but not by much — he guessed six-foot-four. The guy had a wiry yet strong frame, like he didn’t work out but was gifted with a natural athleticism. He had long black hair hanging in strands over his forehead, and a cruel, youthful face. King guessed he wasn’t far over twenty-five years old.
Joaquín Ramos.
The man who was in the process of razing Tijuana to the ground.
16
Ramos offered a hand, extending thin, spindly fingers in King’s direction. ‘Mr. Bennett?’
‘That’s me,’ King said, shaking Ramos’ hand.
The man had a strong grip, which he used to full effect in an attempt to intimidate King. King let the slightest hint of a wince cross his features. He wanted Ramos to feel like he had control.
Ramos stepped aside, gesturing into the small apartment.
King hesitated momentarily, recognising that if he accepted the gesture and stepped into the room, his back would face all three of them. Then he resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to put himself at risk if he wanted to blend in. James Bennett wouldn’t cover his six at all times, so neither would King.
He walked in, brushing past Ramos on the way inside.
The room was dark and musty — he guessed Ramos preferred it that way. The curtains had been drawn across the small set of windows facing out onto the balcony, casting a dark shadow over most of the room. The ceiling light hadn’t been turned on — instead, the only illumination came from a desk lamp next to a rudimentary computer set-up, with a handful of monitors connected to a central PC via a nest of tangled wires. King was no tech guru, but he could spot amateur work when he saw it. He realised that whatever happened to Ramos’ previous helpers must have thrown him off his game. Ramos was improvising now, coming up with makeshift solutions on the fly. King expected that he hadn’t used this place as a headquarters before.
Most of the usual stock-standard furniture that came with an apartment like this had been stripped out, converting it into a utilitarian workspace. A doorway on the far wall led through to what King imagined was a bedroom/bathroom combination — otherwise, the main living area was the only notable feature of the apartment. It couldn’t have been more than fifty square feet in total.
King wondered just what conditions James Bennett would have been forced to work in if he had ever made it into Tijuana.
He heard the creak of wood behind him as Ramos and the two enforcers stepped into the a
partment and shut the door. King wheeled on the spot as the trio spread out in front of him. All three of them watched him like hawks, assessing him for any sign of confrontation. Maybe his appearance truly had thrown them off.
‘Little cramped in here,’ King said. ‘Nowhere for the four of us to sit.’
‘I imagine we won’t be here long,’ Ramos said. ‘You’ve got plenty of work to do. We’ll leave you to it soon.’
‘Looking forward to it. For the right price, of course.’
An uncomfortable silence settled over the low-ceilinged space as neither of the three responded. King eyed the bulge in the side of each enforcer’s waistband, indicating that they were armed. He didn’t let his gaze linger for long. He didn’t want them to take his curiosity the wrong way.
‘How was the drive over?’ Ramos said. ‘No problems at the border?’
King shook his head. ‘No problems.’
‘It was very brave of you to drop everything and come help me,’ Ramos said. ‘Like we discussed, you’ll be compensated heavily if you get everything up and running smoothly.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘What did you think of my offer?’ Ramos said. ‘In my initial message. Did it tantalise you?’
King made sure not to hesitate, but inside his head the gears whirred. As far as he knew, Lars and the D.O.D. hadn’t been able to get their hands on the log of messages that Ramos had exchanged with Bennett. He remembered getting told that the messages had been protected by PGP encryption, which made their contents indecipherable for anyone except the receiver.
Apparently, Bennett had destroyed them before leaving his old life behind to cross the border.
King would have to make everything up on the fly.
‘It appealed to me,’ he said. ‘I’d be grateful for anything close to that amount.’
Ramos paused, staring straight through King. ‘I lowballed you, though. We discussed that after, remember? I’ve agreed to double it.’
‘Frankly, I’ll take all the money I can get,’ King said, taking care not to stammer.
