by Brad Taylor
She passed the houses and picked up her pace, now thinking about how to get back to the border crossing. She took a right and stopped at an intersection. She pulled forward and saw the lime-green helmet to her left, sitting fifty feet down the road. Waiting on her.
She felt a bump in her heart rate but did nothing overt. She continued straight, heading east to the Paso del Norte Bridge. She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw the motorcycle fall in behind her.
She took another right to be sure. He remained with her. At the next stop, she studied her tablet but couldn’t pinpoint her position with any certainty. When the bike pulled up behind her, she moved forward, going faster than was allowed on the narrow road.
Continue east. Eventually you’ll hit the bridge road.
She was forced to slow down behind a battered pickup truck and was thinking about passing when the motorcycle broke off, taking a right and driving out of view. She exhaled and slumped in the seat, releasing the tension in her body. The pickup put on its brake lights and stopped. She turned the wheel to pass and glanced into her blind spot, seeing an SUV flying forward. She jerked back to the right to avoid being hit, but it didn’t pass. Instead, she heard tires scream as it skidded to a halt abreast of her car.
The sight collapsed her world like a black hole, causing all thought other than survival to be sucked in. Two years ago she might have panicked, frozen in place as the drama unfolded, but that girl was long gone. Destroyed in a cauldron not of her making.
She had the car in reverse before the SUV had even fully stopped, the engine of her little rental whining in protest as she floored the pedal. She traveled barely five feet before slamming into a dented sedan that had pulled up behind her. She saw the driver fling forward against the steering wheel, and time slowed.
Trapped.
To her front the pickup’s passenger door had opened, and a man was exiting. The rear hatch of the SUV begin to rise, then she saw the motorcycle coming down the sidewalk toward her, the lime-helmeted rider holding a MAC-10 machine pistol in his left hand. He began firing as he came abreast of the pickup, shattering her windshield in a shower of glass.
She flung herself flat in the seat, Pike’s instructions from two years ago on surviving just such an ambush penetrating the chaos. Your vehicle is a weapon.
Still lying flat, she jammed the car into drive, jerked the wheel to the right and floored the gas pedal. She hit the curb and rocketed forward, colliding with brick and ricocheting to the left, the bullets still tearing the air above her head.
She crunched something to her front, the car grinding as the object was flung aside. The lime-helmeted rider appeared on her hood, bouncing in the air, the weapon gone. She jerked upright and slammed on her brakes, rolling him onto the sidewalk. As soon as he had cleared the hood, she hit the gas again. He made it to a knee and saw her coming. He held his arms out and screamed, his mouth open through the clear faceplate of his helmet. The bumper caught him just above the waist, slapping him back on the hood. But only for a second. He clawed, trying to maintain his position, the friction of his legs against the ground sucking him under. She rolled over the top of him, the car bucking as if she’d hit an asphalt speed bump. She jerked the wheel to her left and slammed into the street, the pickup and SUV directly behind her.
She kept the pedal jammed to the floor, but the SUV began to gain, its horsepower much greater than that of her rental. She desperately tried to recall her training.
Negate his advantage. Make him drive.
She flew through another intersection, taking a right at a high rate of speed and forcing the SUV to slow or roll over. She worked the car through turn after turn, steam now coming out of the hood of the rental, but gaining distance from the SUV with each one.
Finally, she completed a turn out of view of the SUV. She took an immediate right, completely lost. She kept her speed and continued turning, striving to maintain an easterly heading by watching the GPS. A light came on in the dash and she saw the temperature gauge buried to the right.
Jesus. It’s going to quit on me.
She considered the dilemma of driving on blindly. There were at least three cars chasing her, and she could run into any one of them at any time. If that happened, she wasn’t sure if her rental would hold up for another race. She wasn’t even sure if it would hold up just to get to the bridge—if she could even find it. Given enough time, they would locate her again, of that she was positive. It was their terrain, and they were probably calling in reinforcements right now. The longer she drove, the greater the odds of discovery. When they spotted her they would drive her like cattle until the car died, and she would be caught.
But you might be a block away from the bridge right now. A block away from US border agents.
She pushed the car forward, debating, knowing the decision would determine her fate. She saw a concrete wall adjacent to an open field littered with cans and slid in behind it. She shoved her tablet and Jack’s video recorder into her purse and opened the door, her hand trembling at the decision, her conscious mind screaming at her to remain in the vehicle. To make a run at getting to the bridge. She paused for a moment, then committed, leaping out and racing in a crouch down the wall. She reached the street and peeked around the concrete, seeing it deserted. She ran across and disappeared between two houses.
She sat with her back against the rough brick and stared at her Google Maps display, trying to locate where she was. She glanced back the way she had come and studied the building shadows, determining which way was east. She found her brother’s phone trace on the map and estimated where she had driven since the attack. Worst case, she figured she had about a mile as the crow flies.
A mile on foot in hostile terrain.
15
The lights blazed on and Jack scurried to his corner, as he’d been instructed to do. He placed his hands over a steel eyebolt in the floor and waited to get shackled, his body shaking as if he were in a meat locker. Not because of any drop in temperature. Because he’d seen what these animals were capable of and knew sooner or later it would be his turn.
After his “rescue” in El Paso, he’d been unceremoniously thrown into the trunk of a car, his legs, arms, and mouth bound with heavy duct tape. He was allowed to keep his watch, and he’d had the sense to check it. They’d driven for about nine hours, whereupon Jack had been taken from the trunk and placed onto the floor of a light airplane, his head covered in burlap. He had no idea how long they’d flown but would have guessed no more than an hour before they landed and he was transferred to the trunk of yet another vehicle. They’d driven for maybe two more hours and stopped. He’d heard the car doors slam, then he’d sat in the trunk forever, the claustrophobia and darkness starting to eat into him.
Finally, his hood had been removed, and the bald man who had captured him in El Paso had pulled him out, his face showing no emotion whatsoever. He’d simply said, “Disobey and you will die. Do you understand?”
Jack nodded, having no illusions about the man’s sincerity, his disfigured forehead leaving an impression that the emotion did not. Another man cut off the tape on his legs, hooded him again, and led him into a building. He walked down a flight of stairs until he found himself in what he called the “dungeon”: a room forty feet square with fourteen eyebolts along the walls and a small half bath consisting of a sink and toilet. Nothing else.
When they’d pulled his hood off he saw two other men crouching down, handcuffed to an eyebolt. After they stripped the remaining tape from his arms and mouth, they unshackled the two men and left them alone. Gathering his courage, he asked them who they were, but they didn’t speak English. He debated giving up his Spanish card and decided it was worth it.
“Who are you? Why are you here?”
The men said nothing, staring at him. One was older, about fifty, and the other looked to be cresting over his twenties.
He tri
ed again. “Where are we?”
The older man finally spoke. “It doesn’t matter where. It matters who.”
Jack said, “Who? What do you mean?”
“Los Zetas.”
The words caused Jack to momentarily lose his senses. His ears refused to believe their meaning. Thirty hours ago he’d been an intrepid reporter in Dallas, Texas. Now he’d been captured by not one but two Mexican drug cartels and had ended up with the worst. Los Zetas were beyond cruel. Beyond barbaric. Through his research he’d seen the videos. Seen the men getting decapitated with chain saws. Seen the pictures of the mass graves. He began gulping air.
The man said, “You must be very important. I’ve never heard of them taking a gringo.”
Jack said, “Why are you here? What is this place?”
Jack learned that he’d been transferred to a kidnapping safe house. Both men with him were Mexicans in the upper echelons of the corporate executive ladder, members of the tiny minority in Mexico that tasted the good life, and were now desperately trying to get their companies or families to pay a small fortune for their release.
Jack knew all about the kidnapping industry in Mexico. Knew the fates of those unlucky enough to be taken. Los Zetas had little sympathy for people who didn’t pay and routinely killed their captives whether a ransom was met or not. But they had released people in the past. A small hope. All the two men had.
Twelve hours into his captivity, he saw how minuscule that hope was in two separate instances. Without fanfare, the lights had blazed on. A man came down the stairs carrying a suppressed pistol. He walked over to the younger captive, now cowering on the floor, holding his hands up, begging. The man said not a word, placed the bulbous suppressor against the captive’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. Then walked away.
Fifteen minutes later, a crew dragged the body out, still not saying a single word. Jack sat in his corner in shock, literally unable to assimilate the loss of control or the violence being perpetrated. He’d begun rocking back and forth, trying to find something to anchor against, when the room blazed into light again.
Another man had been led down, duct-taped and cowed. They’d released him and explained the rules, then left. This man, younger still than the one killed, maybe twenty-one or -two, scooted to a wall and warily looked at both Jack and the older man. Before they could even begin to talk, the overhead lights blazed on again, signaling someone coming.
A narco with a full beard marched down the stairs, carrying a fillet knife and a machete. He stomped over to the young kid and said, “Which arm?”
The kid collapsed, crying and wailing in Spanish.
The man said, “Tell me which arm, and I’ll use the knife. Say nothing, and I’ll use the machete.”
The boy wailed again, then held out his right arm. The narco handcuffed his left wrist to the eyebolt, then clamped the right under his own arm. He took the fillet knife, traced the bicep, and began digging.
The screams were horrific, but Jack couldn’t turn away. Couldn’t stop watching the macabre scene. Eventually, using the knife like a shovel, the man dug out something the size of a large pill. He held it to the light, then dropped it on the floor and crushed it with a boot heel.
That had been over six hours ago, and when the lights blazed on again, Jack was almost catatonic in fear, praying he’d simply be locked into his eyebolt, the punishment going to someone else.
It didn’t work out that way. The bearded narco appeared and walked over to him. He said in Spanish, “Stand up.”
Jack pretended not to understand, and the man slapped his head hard enough to knock it into the wall.
He repeated, “Stand up.”
Jack did so.
The man cinched his arms in handcuffs and led him to the stairs. They broke out onto the second level, and Jack entered an ostentatious display of wealth, ornate statues and artwork competing with the gold leaf on the walls. They passed through a den, the far wall made of glass, and he glimpsed a pool surrounded by foliage resembling a rain forest. Before being led into another room, he saw a tiger walking amid the greenery. A live tiger.
The narco saw his expression and said, “We keep him hungry for a reason. If you’re lucky, we’ll only feed your body to him. Make El Comandante mad and you’ll be staked to a tree.” The man grinned and said, “It is not a pretty thing to see.”
Jack was still assimilating the words when he was jerked into a chair in front of a huge desk, looking like it had been made in the eighteenth century. He waited, taking shallow breaths.
The door opened and the bald man with the scar entered, taking a seat in the corner. The man said not a word, simply staring at him, his eyes burning with a weird glow. He perched on his chair like a bird, as if he would take flight at the slightest provocation. He rested his hands on his thighs and sat still, but his eyes were vibrating. Hypnotic. Jack turned away when the door opened again.
A short Latino with a protruding gut and a full mustache entered. He pulled a cigar out of a humidor on the giant desk and sat down, saying nothing. He clipped the end, then made a production out of lighting the cigar. He puffed a few times, getting the glow right, then turned his attention to Jack.
“Mr. Cahill, I’ve seen your reporting in Dallas. I’ve done my research. Enough to know that you have done the same. You know who I am?”
Jack shook his head. “I have no idea.”
The man scowled, obviously slighted, but said, “Yes, of course. That’s why I’m still alive. You do, however, know who I represent?”
Jack nodded vigorously, attempting to make up for his insult. “Yes. Los Zetas. I had no interest in you. I focus on Sinaloa. I’ve never done anything against you or your cartel. I’ve never reported against you. Please, killing an American reporter is suicide. Like Kiki Camarena.”
The man puffed, then smiled. “Oh, come on. You exaggerate your own importance. Don’t compare yourself to Mr. Camarena. He was a DEA agent. A man tied to the United States government. Someone they had to avenge. You are nothing but a reporter. Nobody will care. But why are we talking about death? I am the one who rescued you from that very fate.”
Jack waited, unsure of where the conversation was going.
“You were investigating the Sinaloa cartel and attended a meeting in El Paso. The Sinaloa men were creating a plan. Something worthy of killing an American reporter. As you state, those are high stakes. What were they doing? What is the plan?”
Confused, Jack said, “I have no idea. Please. They didn’t talk about Los Zetas. There was no discussion about you. I can’t help with any plans against your business.”
The man leaned back, saying nothing, the cigar smoke coiling around his head. When he spoke again, Jack knew his life was in the balance.
“You heard something that was important. Tell me what it was. Surely they weren’t going to kill you over a kilo of cocaine. Were they? Tell me there’s a reason I went to so much trouble to bring you here.”
Jack vomited everything he knew, detailing how the conversation involved information sharing and satellite GPS technology, but nothing to do with Sinaloa or drugs, begging the man to understand that he was telling the truth. Doing whatever he could to remain alive.
The narco’s eyes squinted, and he turned to the window, thinking. He said, “You know who this gringo contact is? What he looks like?”
Seeing a light flicker in the darkness, Jack said, “I don’t know who he is, but I can recognize him. I know what he looks like. I can help if I’m alive.”
The man considered his words, then said, “Pelón, what do you think?”
The bald man leaned forward and said, “I think you have brought more aggravation than it’s worth. He’s an American journalist. Not a peasant to shoot in the head. This will be trouble.”
The man laughed, a tinge of rabid hysteria slipping through. When the heaves subside
d he said, “Pelón, my dear friend, you are paranoid. Who said anything about shooting Mr. Cahill in the head? What Sinaloa wants is what I want. Control of the Juárez plaza. If he helps, he will live. If he doesn’t, he will die.”
He focused his eyes on Jack. “The search for this man ends at the border. There is nobody in the United States coming for him.”
16
Jennifer held her breath, hearing the soft rustle of men jogging by. Her phone vibrated and she saw it was Pike. She ignored the call and sent a text.
Can’t talk.
She waited until she was sure the men had gone, then dialed him back.
He answered on the first ring. “Hey, I’m in Atlanta. Should I catch a flight to Dallas or El Paso?”
She kept her voice low. “Pike, I’m in Mexico, and I’m in trouble.”
She expected an outburst, but he was all business. “What’s the situation?”
She heard a noise outside and hung up.
She held her breath again, afraid to make any sound, not for the last time wishing she had paid attention to Pike and stayed in El Paso. The scuffling faded and she leaned back against the refuse, the stench of the Dumpster she was hiding within nearly overpowering.
A text came in. I’m coming.
It was of little use, since even if Pike was texting from inside an aircraft on the runway, he was still a good five or six hours away, but it gave her a needed boost in confidence, something that had faded after she’d left her car.
Once she’d decided on a direction, she’d gone only about five blocks, running between the concrete buildings, when two cars stopped at a house about seventy meters away—one of them a police vehicle. Two uniformed officers exited and split up, knocking on the doors to houses. She sprang out at the sight, almost giddy with relief. She was jogging toward the police car when a man came out of one of the houses and pointed in her direction. The policeman saw her and bellowed at the other car. The civilian vehicle spilled out men and she began sprinting in the other direction.
