Trail of the Chupacabra: An Avery Bartholomew Pendleton Misadventure (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 2)

by Randel Stephen

  Chairman and CEO, Alpine Condensation Pork Products

  • • •

  After another thirty minutes of weaving through town, constantly watching his six for secret agents, Avery arrived at a quirky maroon-colored house. The multicolored sign out front identified the old Victorian house as The Magic Man’s Curio Shop and Bookstore. The “Magic Man” was in fact Ziggy. Avery flipped the CLOSED sign on the front door to OPEN before barging in.

  “Hey, you freaky little lizard, where are you?” he bellowed.

  “Like, right here, man,” Ziggy replied. He was perched like a small monkey on the top of a tall ladder in the corner of the main room.

  “What the hell are doing up there?”

  “Checking out the feng shui, dude.”

  “What for, no one ever comes in here anyway.”

  “Like, I know, man. I’m thinking I’ve got my candles, like, too close to the incense. Bad energy. If I, like, rearrange them some, it might help business.”

  “I doubt it. Face the facts. You’re the owner of a head shop in Austin and still can’t make a decent living. Fifty thousand college students right around the corner, and yet you still can’t manage to sell a single bong. The problem is deeper than your product placement.”

  “Hey, man,” said Ziggy as he crawled down from his perch. “I sell books and stuff, too, you know.”

  “Sell or collect?”

  “Well, like I said, man, it’s been pretty slow lately. Can you help me move this table with, like, all the candles on it? I think right over there will do it.”

  “Absolutely not. I need to use your phone,” Avery said as he headed to the cash register.

  “Like, what happened to your cell phone, man?”

  “It self-actualized…err…it was executed…err…it’s a long story.”

  “Okay, but, like, no long distance calls, man.”

  “Don’t worry — it’s an in-state call.”

  “Okay, that’s cool, dude.”

  “As far as you know.” Avery fished a piece of paper with a phone number on it from his fanny pack and picked up the receiver. “Get your bags packed. We’re leaving with the tide.”

  “No way, I don’t, like, dig boats, man. I fell out of one in the ‘It’s a Small World’ ride at the Magic Kingdom when I was a kid. My dad was, like, super pissed. He made me swim the rest of the way and, like, meet him at the exit. No boats for the Zigster. Nope, definitely no boats.”

  “It’s a figure of speech. Pack your things, lizard,” Avery said as he dialed the number.

  PART II

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Operation Mexican Shadow

  Back at the STRAC-BOM headquarters, General X-Ray harrumphed as he noticed the front door left wide open.

  “Private Tango,” the General commanded. “Close that hatch immediately. You’re letting out all my bought air!”

  “Sir, yes, sir.” The private kicked the door closed with his heel, his arms full of camouflage-patterned toilet paper rolls.

  “Make sure the latrine is spic and span. I want to be able to eat off it.”

  Nasty, the Private thought as he choked down the little bit of lunch he just threw up in his mouth while thinking about the idea of actually eating off the repulsive bathroom’s floor. Around the building, the rest of the men continued their biannual dusting and cleaning of the HQ. Convinced his men weren’t slacking off, the General retreated to his office. Carefully removing a portrait of Lyndon Baines Johnson from the wall, he placed it gently on the floor.

  “Pardon me, sir,” the General said to the painting as he snapped to attention and saluted. Fishing around in the top drawer of his desk, he retrieved a long piece of twine with a magnet tied to one end. Years earlier, the General had commissioned the construction of STRAC-BOM’s headquarters partly on account of the fact that Fire Team Leader Bravo’s mother’s house was getting a little too cramped for their militia meetings and partly because she threatened to call the FBI when she overheard the intimate details of Operation Dragon’s Breath, an ill-conceived attempt to mass produce homemade napalm, a plan that ultimately cost the poor woman her beloved potting shed and greenhouse. The exterior siding in the back of her house still bore scorched streaks of black soot and a few spots of melted vinyl to this day. When building the militia’s new operational command and control center, the General insisted on an intricate and top-of-the-line storage facility for the organization’s funds and secret plans. Initially, he’d attempted to purchase a used vault from the Antwerp Diamond Center in Belgium. The massive safe with its ninety-nine-digit dial, capable of more than one hundred million combinations, was just what he was looking for. Unfortunately, the shipping cost alone for the three-ton steel door was prohibitive. Instead, General X-Ray settled on the next best security device money could buy. Behind the LBJ portrait was a dinner plate–sized hole in the wall. Dropping the magnet into the hole, he carefully lowered it into the space behind the wall. When it reached the bottom, he spent a minute fishing back and forth with the long piece of twine. After a dozen swipes, the General felt the magnet catch on to something. Slowly pulling on the twine, hand over hand, he inched the magnet up. When the magnet finally emerged from the hole, it was stuck to a round metal washer attached to another long piece of twine. Taking hold of the second piece of twine, he reeled it in until a dusty tube sock emerged from the wall. The sock jingled as he carried it to his desk and sat down. Empting the contents of the sock onto his desk, the General put his head in his hands and moaned.

  “We’re done for,” the General whimpered as he began to cry over the sad little pile of bills and coins in front of him. “Finished. Doomed.”

  “Begging the General’s pardon, sir,” Private Zulu said as he peeked his head into the office. “Is everything okay?”

  “No, no, no, no, no,” the General said, slapping his bald dome with alternating hands. A large snot bubble began to form from his pig-like nose. Closing his eyes and wringing his hands, the General let out a pathetic, high-pitched squeal of desperation. “Calgon, take me away!” he sobbed as he placed his forehead on the desk and covered his ears with his hands.

  “What’s the commotion?” asked Fire Team Leader Charlie as he peered over the top of Private Zulu’s head.

  “Not sure,” the private said. “But the General is acting crazier than a sprayed roach. Never seen him like this.”

  “Get a hold of yourself, General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie implored. “Please don’t let the rest of the men see you like this. Morale is poor enough after we had to spend the night in jail for that sewer line incident on the border.”

  “You’re right, Team Leader, you’re right,” the General said as he wiped his runny nose with the sleeve of his tanker’s uniform and slowly regained his composure. “Assemble the men in the ready room. I have an announcement to make.”

  The mood was eerily somber as the three Fire Teams gathered and stood smartly at attention in front of their slump shouldered leader. The normally bombastic General didn’t say a word.

  Fire Team Leader Alpha finally broke the silence. “What’s the problem, sir?”

  “Broke,” he replied.

  “What’s broke, sir?” Private Tango asked. “Fire Team Leader Alpha can fix about anything.”

  “We’re broke,” the crestfallen General informed his brigade. “Nothing left in the bank after our latest bail posting.”

  “All of it?” Private Zulu asked.

  “Just about. The federal matching dollars I requested were denied. Goddamn Democrats,” the General said, shaking his fist in the air.

  “What do we do now?” Private Foxtrot asked.

  “Capitulate. The enemy has won.”

  “But, General, sir,” Private Tango said. “What about them boys at Iwo or Guadalcanal you told us about? We can’t just give up now. They didn’t.”

  “No, Private, it’s over. I’ll draw up the papers and present them to the Mexican President myself. Meet him in the middle of
the international bridge. Soldiers, gather up all your weapons and ordnance. I’m sure he’ll want them as part of our unconditional surrender.”

  Fire Team Leader Alpha spoke up. “General, can’t we at least sue for peace terms?”

  “The Mexicans will never go for it. They’ve wanted us dismantled for years. Boys, be sure to burn all the documents and maps, and don’t forget to booby-trap the latrine. Also, turn off the air conditioner before we leave, but save all the light bulbs — they’re halogen.”

  “They’re must be something we can do,” Private Zulu said as he scratched his head. “What about lemonade stands?”

  “Firm thinking, Private, but selling lemonade would take too long to generate the necessary capital to continue our operations.”

  “Sir, I mean knocking them off,” the private replied. “Bonny and Clyde style. Little kids don’t put up much of a fight. We can take ’em. I think.”

  “I won’t see this unit resort to domestic terrorism. Not under my command. We’d be just as bad as the heathens. I won’t stoop to their level.”

  “What about holding a raffle or a bake sale?” Private Foxtrot added. “It could work.”

  “Private, you can put a possum in the business end of a wood chipper, but it doesn’t mean you’ll get raspberry jelly out the other. No, it’s settled.” The General put his hand over his heart. “The Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia is now officially decommissioned. It’s time to stand down from our glorious mission. The American people are on their own against tyranny and invasion. Private Zulu, lower the colors.” Private Zulu went to take down the small American, Confederate, and Texas flags from the front of the room before pausing at the sudden ringing of a telephone from the General’s office.

  “Should I get it, sir?”

  “Yes, Private,” the despondent General replied as he unhooked the holster containing his pearl-handled pistols and placed them on his podium. “It’s probably the Mexican Army. They must have wire-tapped our HQ and are no doubt calling to gloat.”

  Private Zulu rushed into the General’s office and picked up the phone just before it went to the answering machine. “STRAC-BOM HQ. This is Private Zulu speaking.”

  “Zulu, good man,” the voice on the other end of the line replied. “This is one Avery Bartholomew Pendleton of Austin speaking. I’m glad I got you. We were involved in a small business dealing a while back. I’m sure you remember.”

  “Hey, man, you never paid me for my dang coyote!” Private Zulu yelled into the phone. “Not to mention you left a dead bandito in the building, minus one melon. I had to spend weeks with the coppers and the shrink-head doctors before they let me out. Said I had some kind of Post Menstrual Traumatic Stress Disorder. I thought I’d never get out of that loony bin. Still having nightmares. Mostly about bloody pumpkins.”

  “Never mind, Private. The specimen didn’t prove conclusive, although I still have my doubts. However, fortunately I have a new mission in mind for your organization. Is your commanding officer currently available? It’s rather quite important. Chop, chop, be a good boy.”

  “I don’t trust you one bit, you dead wolf thief.”

  “Patience, Private. There’s money involved.”

  “Money? Hang on a minute.” Zulu put the phone down and thought about it before picking it up again. “Okay, but I still want my dough, you hornswoggler, you. General, it’s for you!” the private yelled.

  “Who is it?” the General asked as he entered the office.

  “A man calling about a mission, but don’t sign up for anything without getting paid first. This guy is slicker than snot on a glass doorknob. He’s the one that stole my dog from hell.”

  “You know the man?” The General took the receiver.

  “Well, we’ve howdied, but we haven’t shook.”

  “I see.” He lifted the receiver to his ear. “General X-Ray speaking.”

  “Are you the commanding officer of this outfit?”

  “Yes. Who’s speaking?”

  “My name is immaterial.”

  “Immaterial? That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard. Are you from New Jersey?”

  “For now, just call me Agent 00Zero.”

  “What can I do for you, Agent 00Zero? I’m presently in the middle of something.”

  “Is your regiment currently available for charter service?”

  “Fortunately, we do have a hole in our operational schedule.” The General stood at attention, his demeanor rapidly improving.

  “Are you familiar with the current invasion from Mexico?”

  “Am I? It’s what STRAC-BOM was founded for.”

  “Are you also aware that the United States government is incapable of stopping this invasion alone?”

  “Absolutely! They’re as useful as a pocket on the back of a shirt.”

  “Interesting concept.” Avery thought about the potential business opportunities. “General, I have reason to believe a major spawning is approaching. A significant gathering that will precede an unprecedented migration across our borders is at hand.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m sure you understand, my intelligence reports are confidential, but I have aerial recon that confirms it. The information is classified above top secret. All you need to know is that the Yankees are still in first place.”

  “You bet your sweet ass we still are! God bless America!”

  “Whatever. Now listen to me. We must depart for Mexico at once.”

  “You don’t want to fight them on our side of the border?”

  “Of course not. The best place to toss a monkey wrench into the gears of an invasion is on enemy soil. They won’t expect us coming.”

  “Hot damn, son! You think just like I do. Now, there’s just one thing. Our commission. What sort of budget did you have in mind?”

  “Two thousand U.S. dollars. Half now, half on completion of the mission.”

  “Well.” The General scratched his pink, bald head. “That rules out air and naval support, not to mention armored columns, but it’s a start. My men can be ready immediately.”

  “Speaking of your men, how many units do you command?”

  “Three highly trained and battle-hardened Fire Teams. Each team consists of two men: one Fire Team Leader and one Private. Including me, the brigade’s total strength is seven elite and fearless warriors, but under fire, we fight like a hundred and seven.”

  “Excellent. Are the men fit and well fed? Have they had their shots lately?”

  “We haven’t had lunch yet, but my men can eat barbed wire and crap razor blades.”

  “Nice party trick, but not relevant. Have their psych profiles been recently updated? I can’t risk anyone breaking under the pressure of interrogation if captured. Our mission is a dangerous one.”

  “I can personally vouch for their mental fitness. Although we might want to keep an eye on Private Zulu.” The General cupped the receiver with his hand. “He’s a little slow on the uptake, not to mention the download, if you know what I mean.”

  “Hey,” the perturbed Private Zulu said. “I can hear you. I’ve got feelings, too, you know?”

  “Duly noted, General,” Avery replied. “How about undercover experience and language capabilities? We want to keep a low profile among the indigenous population.”

  “Fire Team Leader Bravo speaks a little Russian. I had to a keep close watch on him in the early days, as I suspected he might be a Commie infiltrator, but he checked out pretty fine. Was the best man at me and my ex-wife’s wedding.”

  “No Spanish?”

  “All the boys speak a little Texican, plus a few Spanish swear words, but we do have an authentic, genuine phrase book in our intelligence center. Not exactly an Enigma machine, but it comes in pretty handy.”

  “Not ideal, but bring it along anyway. What about transportation?”

  “Only our private vehicles are available at the moment, mostly pickups. Our Humvees an
d helicopters are out being retrofitted with laser-guided rockets and new DVD players,” the General lied. Private Zulu rolled his eyes.

  “Well,” Avery said. “Transportation is your problem, General. Acquire something suitable and inconspicuous. Something big enough to hold your men, my associate, and myself. The cost of the vehicle comes out of your end.”

  “Hum,” the General muttered as he rubbed his chubby chin. “Okay, I’ll come up with something. You mentioned an associate. Does he have a code name, too?”

  “Just call him moron.”

  “Roger that.”

  “General, how long before you can pick us up in Austin? We don’t have much time to stop this invasion.”

  “We’ll expedite our load-out and leave this evening, hopefully by midnight. We’ll rendezvous at your base no later than ten hundred hours tomorrow morning.”

  “Very well. Do you have something to write with?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take down these coordinates.”

  “Excellent.” The General scribbled down Avery’s address on the cover of an old issue of Playboy magazine sitting on his desk.

  “General, don’t draw attention to yourself or your men. The agents in the black helicopters mean business. They’re probably armed with poison darts, most likely curare. It’s very nasty stuff. If captured, commit suicide. It’s less painful for you, and it covers my tracks. But once we’re across the border, we should be safe.”

  “Outstanding, but just one question. What’s the mission name?”

  “Name?”

  “To be called, or rather, coded. As you mentioned, the landscape is fraught with interlopers and spies. We need a code name. All the best operations have one.”

  “How about…?” Avery thought for a moment. “Operation Alpine Condensation?”

  “Agent 00Zero, with all due respect, it sounds like something a Volkswagen gets at high altitude.”

  “Operation Banana Hammer?”

  “Best suited for Central America.”

  “Operation Matador?”

  “Getting warmer, I think.”

  “Operation Broken Donkey?”