by A. T. Grant
Thirty minutes later they were clear of all but an occasional shack or isolated farmstead. The side roads they passed were now no more than dirt tracks. Their progress had been slowed by Luis’ broken windscreen and he was beginning to believe that Xterra and their victims were long gone. They crested a ridge and the landscape opened up before them as a vast untidy bowl of scattered fields, turned olive green and saffron by recent rains. The scale of the vista made their search seem futile and Luis was close to giving up. Then Alejandro, his driver, slowed to a crawl and pointed ahead. Gennaro laughed - Alejandro was short and squat and, in Gennaro’s words, unable to see beyond his own front bumper. Alejandro swore profusely and kept pointing. A mile or two ahead the road snaked its way towards the railway line and there a train had stopped. No station was visible, but it was just possible to make out a couple of vehicles. The windows glinted in the late afternoon sunshine. All assumed that these must be the missing buses.
“What the hell are they doing?” Luis questioned both his eyes and his knowledge of Xterra tactics.
“Loco - Xterra are loco!” Alejandro spat. “They just want to terrorise people and they don’t care how they do it. They killed my brother-in-law in Laredo, just because he didn’t stop his taxi for one of them when he already had a fare. They are scum. I want to hear them scream and their bones break.”
The convoy traversed the long downward slope with increasing speed, the wind buffeting Luis’ face. Enveloped now by the gently folded landscape below, they only occasionally caught a glimpse of the railway line. They did not see the train again until rounding a bend and finding the dark blue diesel at a cattle halt, right in front of them. Its side was strafed and windows smashed. People were scrambling out and over the loose chippings. An old man tripped and tumbled. Several figures rushed to his aid. The newcomers were quickly spotted. Some began waving and pointing. Others ran for cover. The buses were gone, surely with several more hostages.
“Keep going,” Luis commanded.
They shot past, without a pause. This was now a hunting party, each man with the scent of blood in his nostrils. The final chase was short. Within a couple of turns the truck behind Luis’ veered left across the carriageway and pulled over. There was a din of brakes and reversing engines. Men jumped to the ground to examine fresh, wide tyre tracks. They led up a gravel track towards a narrow cutting in the low hillside. A heavily rusted sign halfway up advertised a cattle ranch in flakes of old grey paint.
Gennaro organised his team: trucks, other vehicles and civilians were to stay by the highway. Guards would be positioned just within sight, in either direction. A dozen men were to follow Luis and Gennaro on foot towards the ranch. They would walk in three groups, one following the track and the others a little distance to either side.
Soon they saw a curved red coach roof, cresting the horizon between the wind-swept embankments. Creeping forwards now on their hands and knees, a scattering of individuals could be seen standing below in a rough semi-circle, the straight edge completed by the two parked buses. Some wore dark military uniforms and bullet-proof vests, others suits and designer sunglasses. Further into the shallow valley, beyond this scene, a smaller group lingered in front of an old timber barn. Luis’ men were clearly outnumbered.
One bus already appeared to have been emptied. Luis surmised that its occupants must be in the barn. A line of terrified looking men were filing reluctantly from the other. Each was forced to kneel, hands on head, to form a line facing the gunmen. Why, thought Luis, would Xterra hide an execution in such a remote location, if their purpose was purely to terrorise? Within moments he had his answer. Two at a time, the men were being dragged from the line and given weapons. A man held a machete in both hands, but as far from his body as he could manage, as though it were a dangerous beast that might spring up and attack him. His partner was presented with a sledgehammer by a leering assistant, who stood beside an assortment of similarly crude implements. It was refused and thrown back to the floor. A shot rang out. The victim slumped to his knees and toppled slowly onto his face, his body twitching sporadically in the grass. The first man leapt at the executioner, emitting a sound which was half scream, half roar, as he tried to cut into the gunman’s neck with the machete. A bullet hit him in the stomach but he ran, clutching at his innards. His intended target held a palm nonchalantly to a flesh-wound.
“Let him go,” the gunman shouted and the semi-circle parted. A skinny figure stumbled up the hillside, heading directly for Luis and his men, who scrambled backwards and hunkered deeper into the dirt. It stopped in surprise at the sight of Gennaro lying incongruously in the grass. A student: clean-cut, well-dressed and clearly from a good family. Trying to speak, blood issued from his mouth. The realisation that he was dying spread rapidly across his face. He gazed down at his stomach in despair. His legs collapsed beneath him and he fell to lie inert in the dust, eyes open and staring blindly.
Two more figures had been dragged forward and presented with weapons. They were pushed towards each other and ordered to fight. Almost apologetically they began to circle each other, one with a long blade, the other clutching a claw hammer. Neither man wanted to risk a blow or to get too close. Continually threatened and goaded, they were poked with a knife whenever they swung within range.
“Only one can survive,” the ringmaster shouted. “One of you will join us and be honoured as a hit-man for Las Xterra, but the weakest must die. Who wants to see their family again? Who is like us and has the strength to take another life?”
Still the men did little, looking at each other as though for the first time.
“Fight or die!” A gun was now raised. A plump, middle-aged businessman lunged forward with a slash of his blade. Its tip caught in some clothing. As it did so, his youthful opponent brought his hammer down instinctively on the man’s arm. He screamed in pain, cradling his elbow with his other hand. Both stopped and stared at their tormentors. Almost instantaneously, two head shots rang out and they collapsed, one over the other, to form an untidy pile on the plain.
Luis had seen enough. He would end this decisively and then he would get out. Alex and he would settle in the Caribbean, or in Canada, and raise children who didn’t believe there were answers in violence. He tried to hide from the glaring irony of his own actions as he sent Alejandro away for reinforcements. Calmly he informed Gennaro that he and three others would circle round to the back of the barn, to free the women and children who must lie within. Gennaro would know when to attack the main group. Luis’ party would also ensure there was nowhere for Xterra to run.
As he withdrew, another pair was being forced forward. Again both individuals refused to fight, hanging their heads in anticipation of the next bullets. No shots were fired. Instead both were dragged to the front of the first bus and forced down onto their stomachs. Each in turn received a brutal kick to the side of the head then lay still. Another Xterra henchman had stepped up to take the wheel. The engine roared into life, diesel fumes spewing out onto the much diminished number of hostages still waiting in line. The bus crept ahead, the prone men disappearing from view beneath the front fender. There was a short, strangled scream as a front wheel climbed over the first man, then once again only the revs from the deep-throated machine.
The second person had been able to part roll away, one leg mangled by a wheel. A suited figure picked up the sledgehammer and walked between the buses. The broad arc of the implement crossed the setting sun and barely slowed as it travelled through its victim’s skull in an explosion of blood and brains. There was a sudden outburst of expletives and laughter as the killer realised his suit was now covered in gore. He threw the tool petulantly into the rear window of the bus. A shower of glass sent the driver tumbling down the steps and into the dirt, to the accompaniment of another volley of mirth.
“Is there no one here who can fight?” Another well-tailored thug stepped forward and admonished the rem
aining figures. He discharged three shots from a handgun and two bodies fell, one toppling forward and one slumping upon the shoulder of his neighbour, as if seeking comfort in death.
Luis’ group hesitated briefly behind the barn. They could no longer see what was going on, but the gunfire had come no closer. Luis assigned a man to guard each corner of the building. A third followed him towards a small wooden door in the middle of the tall, Dutch-style, rear wall. It was slightly ajar. As Luis listened carefully he could hear the low, distressed whimpers of the captives within. He peered cautiously through the gap. A shaft of sunshine streamed into the barn from beneath the eaves. At ground level it was in semi-darkness and he could see little. His companion gently tested the door. There was a metallic squeal and something that had been leaning against it fell slowly to the floor. Someone began to cry. Luis heard male voices. The beam of a powerful torch began searching the wide floor area. Now he could make out the silhouettes of several pairs of female figures, tied back to back. The torch bearer stood framed in the doorway to what looked like a small back office.
“It’s the wind!” the man exclaimed. “Now shut up and await your turn. You’re all fucked, but some of you will be more fucked than others, if you piss me off now.” There was more cursing and crying. Luis heard a sharp smack across someone’s face. The crying subsided into stifled sobs.
“Now check outside then close that fucking door.”
Only two guards, Luis conjectured. He and his companion, Silvio, stared resolutely at each other. It was now or never. They heard the internal door close again, a female scream from beyond it, and then more distant cursing. Much closer there were footsteps - slow and irregular - as though someone was picking carefully through debris. The two sank back on either side of the entrance, both clutching at switchblades. The handle rattled, the door swung open and an unarmed figure stepped outside. He squinted at the hillside above, which still held on to the last rays of the sun. Luis sprang upwards, swung an arm around his neck and forced his head back. His partner leapt to his side and jabbed his knife straight at the protruding Adam’s apple and windpipe.
Even after the man’s knees had given way, Luis clung on. He could feel the warm corporeal dampness soaking into his shirt. Finally, he lowered the limp dead weight of the body carefully to the ground. At either end of the building his lookouts gave a nod and a thumbs-up. Luis gestured one of them over to guard the door. He put away his knife then carefully screwed a silencer onto the barrel of his pistol. Silvio did the same, wiping the blood from his blade onto the dead man’s shirt. The two slipped cautiously into the barn. There were no other watchmen.
Their presence was not initially noticed. It was not until they were in the middle of the floor that a woman looked up. She was wearing a gag and her face registered no interest. Luis was all too aware what she saw when she glanced at him. She looked down again and hugged at her knees, rocking slightly. Bright artificial light framed the ill-fitting doorway to the office. The shaft of sunshine overhead had faded away, so this entrance stood out, like a portal to the underworld. Both laughter and muffled cries of pain filtered through from beyond. The two interlopers repeated their previous routine, but this time Luis had a clear view of what lay beyond. Through a particularly large gap, made by someone levering out a lock, he could see a broad muscular thug in khaki camouflage gear, pinning a young woman to a table. One hand clasped her shoulder and the edge of her skirt, which was pulled up to reveal the pale fullness of her bare buttocks. The other moved cruelly within her. Her face was turned towards Luis, tears streaming from her eyes and lacy underwear hanging from her mouth. The rapist was swopping crude jokes about the girl with someone who Luis could not see. The assailant paused to unzip his trousers. As he began to pull at the girl’s dark hair in order to turn her over, Luis kicked the door in and delivered a single shot to the base of his skull. The force doubled him over onto the table. He lay there alongside his conquest, one arm falling across her in a grotesque embrace, the other channelling his lifeblood onto the floor.
“Shit!”
Naked from the waist down, another gangster wheeled around in the blind corner where he had pinned a terrified girl. Like a caged animal he threw himself headlong at Silvio. Silvio and his gun flew separately into the opposite wall. Luis kicked the assailant savagely in the balls from behind, before he could regain his balance. The man doubled up, heaving for sufficient breath to scream. Silvio shook his head to clear his concussion. He struggled unsteadily back onto his feet then dropped the folded figure with a vicious stranglehold. Luis fired off three shots into the second rapist’s protruding backside.
The girl still kneeling in the corner began to blubber uncontrollably. As Luis turned towards her she let out the hideous wail of a wild animal in pain. He leapt to her side and forced his hand over her mouth. She was naked, she couldn’t have been more than seventeen, and she looked at Luis as though he was hell itself. For half a second he confirmed her view: adrenaline merged with testosterone and he felt the raw, primeval urge to take what he had won. Then he recoiled in self-disgust. Silvio was already half out of the office, heading for the barn doors. Before either could get there, the battle was raging outside.
Alejandro was dead: it was the first thing Gennaro said when Luis fought his way back to him. He had gone berserk when the action started, running into the ring of Xterra thugs, and firing until he ran out of bullets. Another old hand had been shot in the stomach, and was on the ground a short distance away. Silvio had broken a collarbone. He sat down on a grassy bank so a colleague could fashion a rough sling. One more hostage had died, as he grappled bravely for a gun. All of Xterra were dead. Luis did not need to ask why there were no living casualties. He had just witnessed some of the executions.
A police car bounced its way down the dirt track. An ambulance followed, but nobody emerged from these vehicles. Luis looked around the increasingly cold and shady hollow. The scene looked like a tableau in oils celebrating the end of some great military campaign, but Luis felt no sense of triumph. He read too much into the lengthening shadows. Xterra would see this as a declaration of war, a war that they would need to win decisively if they were not to lose their grip on those they terrorised. His own family had now to militarise, or to run.
Luis waved to the police, who were still sitting warily in their vehicles. A few of the survivors were beginning to cast around uncertainly for support. As the officers made their way towards them, other civilians; friends and relatives of those who had been kidnapped, followed cautiously. Luis sat down, emotionally exhausted, and watched the remainder of the human drama play itself out in front of him. Some found the living, others the dead and the valley became a battleground between the extremes of human emotion. A second ambulance appeared and soon the worst of the living casualties had been stretchered or led away.
Luis left Gennaro’s side and walked towards two women who had found their sons alive and well in the melee. They greeted him with tears and thanks, but Luis took little notice. He outlined the situation in the barn to his men. The two women must go in first and alone. There had been enough terror and humiliation for one day.
Gennaro gathered the troops and headed for the main road. Luis made arrangements for the body of Alejandro to be collected, and then followed. They headed back to Rochas Blancas. They would have to play the role of gallant liberators for at least another day. Then they would leave a dozen men behind to maintain a visible presence. That would help to calm the situation in the gaol. It would also slow Xterra down. Xterra would have to be cautious and wait until they knew the strength of Las Contadonas in the town. They would also have to decide whether to bother with it at all, or to attack directly in Juarez. Luis realised only too well what he had really done for the town. He had turned it into a target for punishment, with all the horrors that might entail. Hopefully, the Federal police would turn up first. Hopefully then, they would decide to stay. Luis wasn�
��t confident. There was no election to be won and the government were as likely to cover the whole thing up. Why do anything to highlight the situation? This day would probably not even make the press. Only the bravest would write that article.
Luis sighed to himself in tiredness and frustration, trying to ignore a nagging sense of fear and heaviness of spirit that refused to go away. His truck rolled on through the night. Events had now gathered their own momentum.
Chapter Seventeen
Coba
“Chocolate?” David waved a bar of dark, spiced, Mayan chocolate in the general direction of the two children. He took their giggled response as a no and slung it back into the large cool-box in the middle of the minibus. They were on their way to an overnight stay in the ancient pre-Columbian city of Coba, deep within the jungles of the interior. Everyone was in a good mood and considerably more relaxed now in each other’s company.
David watched the forest sweep by. The road was smooth and wide, only narrowing for an occasional village, most no more than a line of concrete shacks, fronted by diverse piles of tourist tat. Yesterday had gone well. They had lazed and swum within the cool embrace of the cenote for several hours. The small kiosk at its base that hired snorkelling equipment had fortuitously doubled as a bar. Each person had followed the sun’s slow movement from rock to rock, reading, chatting and drying out after intermittent dips into the clear, deep waters. David’s curiosity quickly overcame any coyness at stripping down to his swimming shorts. He had lowered himself off a small wooden dock, into clean waters alive with small fish. Swifts nested in shady crevasses only feet from the swimmers and patches of reflected light danced across the walls. As he swam into his first cave, David noticed a clutch of tiny bats shuffling for the darkest position on the roof. The cave ended in another pool of light, where the waters receded into mud and shingle around the floor of a smaller cenote. David had tripped his way backwards out of the water, struggling with his flippered feet. He stood in his own patch of sunshine, staring up at the open circle of stone above him. Beyond that nothing showed and nothing else seemed to matter. He had forced himself to think of Phoebe but, if he had felt anything, it had only been relief. He had stood for several minutes sucking in that instant, whilst back in the shadows the children, plus Flick and Ethan, dived and splashed around.
