Sincerely,
Avery Bartholomew Pendleton
• • •
After checking on the American League standings and feeling relieved as the New York Yankees still maintained a four-and-a-half-game lead over their division rivals, Avery shut down his computer. Suddenly, Ziggy came bursting through the door.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?”
“Squeak.”
“Jesus, not again,” Avery said as he scowled at Ziggy and shook his head. “For God’s sake, man, take a cold shower and sober up.” Ziggy crashed on his sack of clothes and pushed Mae Mae’s charm bag underneath it. Not long after, he was peacefully asleep.
The next morning, Avery kicked at the snoring little man.
“Ouch, man,” Ziggy said as he pulled himself upright. “Like, my head, dude.”
“I didn’t kick your head.”
“Like, I know, man, it just hurts. Really bad.”
“How bad?”
“Really bad.”
“Like you were eaten by a coyote and shit over a cliff?”
“Exactly,” Ziggy said as he looked at Avery in amazement. “Like, how’d you know?”
“That’s lysergic acid diethylamide for you, a particularly nasty member of the ergoline family when it comes to hangovers. I sure hope you cleaned your bathtub before manufacturing your last batch. Anyway, there’s only one thing we can do now.”
“Like, what, man?”
“Quickly, we need to find you sixteen ounces of green tea, two grams of gunpowder, and a Slim Jim, original flavor.”
“What?”
“You lick the gunpowder, slam the tea, and gag yourself with the Slim Jim until you puke. Bruce Lee used to do it before all his fight scenes.”
“No, I’m going to just lie here and, like, die.” Ziggy slumped over with a painful groan.
“Shut up. Grab your things — we’re heading home.”
“Like, already, dude?”
“Absolutely. Now move it! We’ve got work to do.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
You Have the Right to an Attorney
The Castle of San Juan de Ulua stood silent guard over the seaport of Veracruz. From the far side of the port, the ancient grey walls of the fortress complex rose from the surface of the dark water. The high battlements had stood watch over the harbor since the colonial days of Mexico. Historically, it was the most important seaport in Mexico. Ships from Europe unloaded supplies of sheep, cows, and slaves before the holds were refilled with gold, silver, and chocolate destined for the old world. This stoic fortress had seen her share of battles, including attacks from pirates seeking the vast stores of gold held in the port city. She also had a sordid past full of dark secrets to tell. Prisoners of the castle were chained to the three-foot-thick walls and left for the tide to come in. The water would reach waist high before retreating from the terrified men. Some believe the castle is still haunted by the tortured souls of its long-dead prisoners. Today San Juan de Ulua is mainly a tourist attraction, offering grand views of the port of Veracruz, still one of Mexico’s busiest shipping hubs. But this late at night, the tourists had all gone home. The castle was silent except for the rolling thunder in the night sky and the slapping of the waves against the massive walls of stone.
But below the castle’s battlements, beneath the waves, something was moving. Underneath the surface, a dark shadow passed. Barquero kicked his way methodically toward the cargo ships in the port. He breathed from a self-contained closed-circuit apparatus. After inhaling one-hundred-percent pure oxygen, the exhaled breath was recirculated through a chemical filter that removed the carbon dioxide, replenishing the oxygen supply. Most importantly, it eliminated the telltale sign of bubbles trailing to the surface. The front-worn configuration of the system was useful for shallow water and clandestine diving. With his black wetsuit and a cloud-covered sky, he was nearly invisible even close to the surface.
His target was a small freighter a few hundred meters ahead. The aging vessel flew a Vietnamese flag but was owned by a shell company operated by the Padre. Of course, vast amounts of narcotics had been hidden deep in the ship’s hold, but it had also been loaded with a dozen luxury automobiles, stolen from the United States, ultimately destined for Eastern European countries where they would bring three to four times their actual value. The Padre’s cartel moved the stolen cars from southern parts of the U.S. across the border utilizing fraudulent papers obtained from a small group of car dealers on his payroll. Straw buyers using false identification and stolen credit cards or counterfeit cashier’s checks for the down payments obtained most of the cars. Once they were driven off the lot, the additional payments never appeared. Some even came from luxury car rental agencies. The SUVs stayed in Mexico because of the high demand for them, but the other vehicles, particularly the highly coveted Corvettes, were destined for new homes in Poland or the Ukraine. Bribes paid to officials protected the valuable cargo from scrutiny and inspection. This shipment was scheduled to leave in the morning, but Barquero had other plans for it.
Swimming slowly and carefully along the hull of the moored ship, as the large port was busy even at night, Barquero attached a series of magnetized underwater mines below the waterline. The powerful limpet mines contained hollow compartments to create slightly negative buoyancy for easier handling underwater. Barquero had replaced the propeller timers with timed fuses. Normally, the propeller timers would ignite the explosives once the ship was a preset distance from shore, but Barquero wanted it to sink here. It would disrupt the seaport traffic and hopefully remind the port and government officials of Veracruz that turning a blind eye to the Padre’s organization came with consequences. They might even be able to link the stolen cars back to the Padre. Either way, Barquero wished he could be there to see the look in the Padre’s eyes when he received the news that his cargo ship now rested at the bottom of the harbor.
Soon the limpet mines were in place. Barquero methodically swam back to the castle. He climbed out of the water near an ancient cannon overlooking the port, quickly removed his gear, and stowed it in a stolen delivery van parked nearby. After driving around to the north end of the port, he pulled over and checked his watch. Dark clouds flickered slightly as bolts of lightning flashed above them. Rolling thunder echoed across the dark, choppy water. Seven minutes later, a series of muffled explosions erupted from the port. Dockworkers scrambled and pointed at plumes of water that rose from around the Padre’s ship. Lights and sirens sounded as men rushed to the sides of the freighter’s berth, only to watch it slowly slip under the dark waters, coming to rest on the bottom. When it was over, only the ship’s bridge and control room remained above the surface. The Ferryman’s eyes glowed with dancing fire as he drove off into the night.
• • •
Later that morning, in a quiet, wealthy section of Monterrey, a black limousine pulled into the driveway of a sprawling luxury villa. A number of men in casual clothes patrolled the grounds. Carnicero stepped out of the long car and walked directly inside the villa. Passing through the open design of the house, he made his way to the back patio. The backyard contained a large swimming pool surrounded by an intricate set of lush gardens. On the patio, sitting around a large glass table, was the Padre and a man Carnicero didn’t recognize. Music played in the background. It was a mixture of accordion and trumpets, a narcocorrido, or drug ballad. The vocalist told tales of the heroic exploits of the Padre. The Padre leapt to his feet when he noticed the longhaired man standing in the open-air foyer leading to the patio.
“That will be all,” the Padre said to his associate, who collected his papers from the table and left. “My son.” The Padre embraced Carnicero tightly.
“It’s been a long time, Padre.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It was difficult.”
“I understand. The school bus was a mistake. But I promise you, Padre — I’ll never go back. I’ll die first.”
“You won’t ever go back. You have my wor
d. I’ll protect you, my son. Come sit down with me.” After the two men took their seats, a short white-haired butler came from out of the villa.
“Padre,” the man began, “may I bring you some breakfast?”
“Yes, please.” The man turned and left. “That’s Antonio. He runs the house for me when I’m not here, which is most of the time.”
“Are you still sleeping in a different place every night?”
“Of course I am. One can only bribe so many people for protection.”
“Who was the man you were meeting with? I don’t know him.”
“He is my new communications director. Straight out of Silicon Valley.”
“Communications?” Carnicero asked.
“Yes, cell phone networks are too easy for the authorities to monitor these days. We still use the Internet for encrypted messages, but we’ve needed a better way to communicate deep in the field with our processing facilities and along the border when our shipments cross. Besides, the service coverage in the middle of the country is poor anyway. I don’t want to be surprised by the police or our rivals because our lookouts can’t get a signal.”
“How can that man help?”
“We’ve built our own encrypted radio network. All around our territories we’ve built a network of concealed radio towers with powerful antennas. They’re boosted by repeaters that extend our communication range deep into the desert and provide us with an early warning network for shipments in transit into the United States. Computers actually allow us to target specific radios that our men carry and skip over others so that our messages stay local, not broadcast across the country. It’s brilliant, and the best part is that anyone can buy the equipment.”
“It is brilliant, but it sounds expensive.”
“True, but it’s totally green. The towers are powered by solar panels.”
“So you’re an environmentalist now,” Carnicero laughed. “The times have changed, but the people seem to love you.” He motioned toward the speakers still playing the narcocorrido.
“Yes, the music. It’s Internet radio from just across the border in Texas. The Mexican government has banned the national stations from playing the narco-ballads, but people still clamor for them. Do they love me or fear me? I’m not so sure, but as long as they do what I say, I’m happy. But sometimes they must be reminded. Here, look at this.” The Padre pulled a yellow leaflet from a folder on the table and passed it over. Carnicero examined it. It was an antigovernment leaflet warning of the consequences of being an informant. Below the warning was a black and white picture of seven naked men hanging from their necks beneath an overpass. “I’m having a plane drop thousands of them over Monclova in a few days. Look at this,” he said as he pushed a newspaper across the table. “Turn to page three.”
“The article about Monclova?” Carnicero asked as he skimmed the story about an arson attack against a local ice-making company. The company’s facilities had been set on fire and more than a dozen of their trucks destroyed.
“They were cooperating with the authorities. Lending them trucks that the police used for undercover surveillance. I don’t understand it — I never even tried to extort money from the company.”
“So how’s business?” Carnicero asked as he put the newspaper down.
“Fantastic, for the most part. My latest passion is American quarter horses.”
“Quarter horses?” Carnicero laughed. “What do you know about horses?”
“The best have four legs, run fast, and crap a lot. Most importantly, they’re an excellent way to clean the money.”
“So you’re just buying them to launder the product proceeds?”
“And occasionally bet on them. My favorite horse just won a race with a million-dollar purse.”
“Is he a champion?”
“Not really, but when the jockeys know who is going to win, they can make more money at the betting window than at the finish line. So I let them in on it and strongly suggest they let my horses win. Elsewhere, we’ve been diversifying our product markets. America is still our biggest consumer, but Europe is growing rapidly. Overall, costs are down, prices are up, and even the other cartels have been quiet lately, maybe a little too quiet. I recently increased our security at all the facilities. Of course, with you back, security operations are now in your more than capable hands,” the Padre said as he lit a thin cigar.
“Thank you, Padre, but the other cartels would be crazy to go to war against you. You’ve never been stronger.”
“I know, but it pays to be cautious. The more we have, the more we have to lose,” he said as he blew a smoke ring into the air. “Also, there is one specific person that I’m concerned about.”
“One person? Who?”
“Do you remember Barquero?”
“The Ferryman? Of course, he brought in most of our weapons from the United States.”
“He used to. His last shipment was the largest one ever. Military hardware stolen from the U.S. National Guard. It was an inside job, beautifully planned, but we had a disagreement. Or maybe I just changed the terms of our bargain when he didn’t deliver them all the way and left me with the responsibility of moving the shipment across Mexico’s southern border and then all the way north. It was a pain in the ass. I lost several good men. Anyway, he was upset, and you don’t let a man like him wander around upset. His temper is as bad as yours. With you in prison, I sent my next best sicario, Sandro, to do the job.”
“Sandro is a very good hit man.”
“Was very good. Barquero killed him. Cut off his head.”
“That son of a whore!” Carnicero growled.
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
“Somewhere in Mexico. I had the weapons divided up and stored in different locations. He found one and destroyed it, along with some of our men. He blew up an entire block in the process.”
“He never was very subtle. He likes overkill.”
“The pot is calling the kettle black, no?” The Padre laughed.
“True.”
“Padre, your breakfast,” Antonio said as he placed a large platter of food and two china place settings from a large silver serving cart on the patio table.
“Thank you,” the Padre replied as he crushed out his cigar into a heavy Baccarat ashtray. “That will be all.”
“Padre,” Antonio said quietly, “there is one more thing. News from Veracruz.”
“Veracruz?”
“It’s about the freighter.”
“What about it? It should have sailed more than an hour ago.”
“There has been a problem with the ship, Padre,” Antonio said meekly.
“What kind of problem?” the Padre demanded.
“I’m sorry, but the ship has been sabotaged.”
“What do you mean, sabotaged?” the Padre asked angrily. “I paid a great deal of money to have it protected.”
“It was underwater explosives, Padre. It was a professional job. It happened early this morning. The ship and cargo are a total loss. Six of your men were onboard and couldn’t make it off. The authorities want to retrieve the bodies immediately.”
“Goddammit!” The Padre grabbed the heavy glass ashtray and threw it across the patio. It shattered to pieces as it hit the tile floor. “Leave us alone!” Antonio quickly retreated inside the villa. Two bodyguards on the third floor balcony overlooking the pool and gardens glanced nervously at each other after the Padre’s sudden outburst. “Barquero,” the Padre seethed.
“Are you sure?” asked Carnicero. “It could have been another cartel.”
“Without a doubt. He’s the only one who could sink a vessel of that size,” the Padre said as he rubbed his eyes. “When they salvage the ship, they’ll find the narcotics and the cars. That bastard. It’s going to take a lot more money to keep this quiet. And it goes without saying, my European partners will not be happy. The Ukrainians don’t like delays. I should have killed Barquero myself at the ranch when I had the c
hance.”
“I’ll take care of it, Padre. Trust me,” the cold-blooded assassin replied.
“I know you will, but take many men with you. Only the ones you really trust. I want him alive. I’m going to make an example out of him. He won’t die quickly, and when he does, it will be with his balls in his mouth.”
“Yes, Padre, alive. I swear to you.” Carnicero took the Padre’s hand and kissed the back of it. “Do you have any idea where he might be going next?”
“He won’t be hard to find. He’ll keep coming. In fact, he’ll come right to us. Put the word out that we’re moving a shipment of weapons, but don’t make it too obvious. He’ll come for them.” The Padre gazed into his adopted son’s eyes. “And you’ll be waiting for him.”
“Yes, Padre.”
“Good.” The Padre patted Carnicero on the back. “Now eat something — you must be starving,” he said as his demeanor immediately improved.
Trail of the Chupacabra: An Avery Bartholomew Pendleton Misadventure (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 2) Page 8
