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

by Randel Stephen

  “Yes. Just get me close to him.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Evel Knievel Never Jumped the Rio Grande

  The white lines of the Texas highway zipped by as the school bus raced down the road. It was hot and the air conditioning wasn’t working, so the men opened all the windows. At least, they were open halfway. School bus windows sucked like that. They only did half the job half the time, and that really didn’t help when it was hotter than fish grease outside.

  Ziggy sang a Steppenwolf song at the top of his lungs as he danced, or rather twirled, in the stairwell of the school bus barreling down the road with a dry, dusty wind whipping through the vehicle.

  “Does he always do that?” the General, who was behind the wheel, leaned over and asked Avery.

  “Do what?”

  “Act the fool?”

  “Pretty much.” Avery drank a Mountain Dew from a straw. Ziggy threw his hands in the air as he sang. Several the men of STRAC-BOM joined him.

  “Jesus H,” the General said as he put on his mirrored sunglasses and chomped on his Juicy Fruit. “He’s infecting the brigade. It’s bad for morale.”

  “They look fine to me,” Avery said as he looked at the singing men in the back of the bus. Private Tango was playing air guitar. “They seem engaged, although one of them is picking his nose. Will he eat it?”

  “Private Foxtrot!” the General roared without even having to look back. The private wiped his finger on his fatigues.

  “Damn,” Avery said, disappointed.

  “Does he at least know any country music?” the General asked, looking at Ziggy, who seemed oblivious to everyone.

  “Which country?” Avery replied.

  “Our country.”

  “The one we’re currently in?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Shit.”

  “No shit.”

  “I was afraid of that.” The General checked his map, which was sitting on the dashboard. Ziggy spun around again in the stairwell. In back, Private Zulu bobbed his head while Fire Team Leader Bravo pumped his fist. Private Foxtrot tried in vain to get a flame from his cigarette lighter. He wanted to hold it up and wave it back and forth. It wasn’t happening, just some weak sparks.

  “Come on, man!” the private exclaimed as he flicked his defective red, white, and blue–decorated lighter.

  “How much longer to the border, General?” Avery asked.

  “Couple more hours. Depends on where we decide to invade.”

  “I was hoping you’d planned that out already.”

  “I’m working on it,” the General said as he wiped the sweat off his forehead.

  “You don’t have a plan?”

  “It’s in progress.”

  “How’s that progressing?”

  “That’s on a need-to-know basis.”

  “I’m paying for this, General. I’m pretty sure I need to know.”

  “Know how much?”

  “All of it.”

  “Well, to be completely honest, I was thinking that we could…”

  The men on the bus suddenly stood up and erupted in cheers as Ziggy pretended to smash an imaginary guitar on the floor of the bus.

  • • •

  In theory, cutting a man’s head off with a hacksaw is easy. In reality, it’s much more difficult and significantly messier than it sounds, much more, even for Carnicero, and he had lots of practice. When he was finished, even the toughest of his men were uncomfortable. They shuffled back and forth and bowed their heads as Carnicero tossed the bloody saw to the side.

  “One less informant,” he said as he wiped the blood from his face. “Who recruited him?” No one answered. “Who?” All of the men stepped to the side of the room except one.

  “He was my cousin,” the man said proudly.

  “You brought him in?”

  “Yes.”

  “So should I kill you, too?”

  “No, Carnicero. No, please.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was my cousin, a real tough guy. I thought we could trust him. I didn’t know anything about what he was doing. I swear. I swear on my children.”

  “But you see, that’s the problem. You should have known. He was your family. We’re a family. In families, there are no secrets.”

  “I didn’t know.” The man dropped to his knees. “I swear to God, I didn’t know he was talking to the police. I swear to God, Carnicero.”

  “I know you didn’t,” the longhaired man said as he turned and walked away. “But you should have.” A cartel soldier from the back of the room stepped forward and shot the man in the back of the head.

  • • •

  “Air conditioning!” The General pounded on the dashboard. “I need some damn air conditioning. Private Zulu, what did you do to my damn refrigerated air?”

  “Nothing. I don’t think.”

  “It’s hotter than a stolen tamale in here. I want my frozen air!” The General pulled over to the side of the road. “Fix it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Now! You must have broken it when you requisitioned it.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” Private Zulu replied as he climbed over Ziggy, who was curled up in the stairwell. Zulu went to the front of the bus. A passing semi blared its horn as it roared by. “Pop the hood, General!” The private looked around inside. He didn’t have a clue. The engine was so high he could barely see inside. Climbing up on the fender, he pulled at some stuff, poked some things, banged on this and that, and finally decided to switch some wires around. Diversion. That was what the General had always preached when in a jam, and Private Zulu was in one now. He could definitely hotwire a bus, but he damn sure couldn’t fix the air conditioning on one. He definitely needed more diversion. “General, do we have any Freon?”

  “Hell, no.” The General stuck his head out the window as another semi blew past and let its horn go. Gravel sprayed the private.

  “Okay. Give me a minute.” He stared into the engine. “Do we have a hammer?”

  “Yep,” the General replied out the window. “Fire Team Leader Alpha, bring him our smashing iron.”

  “You know what you’re doing?” Fire Team Leader Alpha asked as he handed Private Zulu the hammer.

  “Totally.”

  “Totally what?”

  “I totally have no idea what I’m doing. Do you?” Private Zulu asked.

  “No.”

  “Should we tell the General?”

  “Are you crazy? Just hit something.”

  “Okay.” Private Zulu whacked away at the engine with his hammer for a few minutes. “Try it now, General.”

  “It’s working!” the General cried out. “Cool air.” Private Zulu and Fire Team Leader Alpha looked at each other incredulously.

  “Good work,” Fire Team Leader Alpha said.

  “It’s all in the wrist.”

  Both men climbed back inside. Private Zulu bowed to the applauding men onboard.

  “We’re off!” The General put the bus in gear. If a buses’ engine could scream in bloodcurdling agony, that was the sound it made. It shuddered and lurched side to side. It misfired loudly. It misfired again. The bus managed to make it about a mile down the road before the General pulled over again, the vehicle shaking and sputtering all the way. However, the air conditioning worked beautifully, and that was good. Mechanically, everything else about the bus was awful. Private Zulu and Fire Team Leader Alpha went to work on it again. They pushed and pulled anything they could find. When that proved fruitless, they went back to work with the hammer. The sun was setting.

  “General.” Private Zulu stuck his head inside the bus. “It’s too dark to see anything, and we’re pretty beat. Maybe we just ought to spend the night here and see if we can get a mechanic in the morning.”

  “No mechanics. Get a flashlight and keep working on it, Private.” Zulu and the Fire Team Leader alternated holdi
ng the light and taking things apart and putting them back together. Unfortunately, for every part of the engine they disassembled and put back together, they ended up with an extra piece or two that didn’t fit.

  “Got a spare screw and another washer here,” Zulu said.

  “Put ’em with the rest,” the Team Fire Leader said as he yawned. Zulu tossed them in the pile.

  “This is freaking impossible,” complained Private Zulu. “I’m so confused I don’t know whether to scratch my watch or wind my butt.”

  “I think everyone on the bus is asleep. Maybe we should grab some shut-eye. I’ve got a bad feeling that this is going to be a long mission.”

  “Sounds good to me. Probably best to sack out under the bus. Don’t want to wake the General,” Private Zulu said.

  “Firm thinking, Private.” The two men slithered under the vehicle and tried to get as much rest as possible. Not really an easy task on the shoulder of a highway. Flying gravel, blaring horns, and the occasionally marauding scorpion made uninterrupted sleep next to impossible. In the morning, they were awoken by the sound of a tow truck pulling up behind the bus. Fire Team Leader Alpha rubbed his eyes, flicked a scorpion off his chest, and crawled out from under the vehicle. A man wearing a mechanic’s shirt was approaching.

  “Having some trouble, mister?”

  “Yeah, she’s misfiring like a blind sniper,” the Fire Team Leader replied.

  “I’ve got a shop a few miles down the road. Want me to take a look?”

  “Be much obliged if you would.”

  The mechanic peered into the engine compartment. “Well, here’s your problem,” he said immediately. “Try her now.”

  Private Zulu climbed inside and stirred the General, who was less than happy at being woken in the middle of a dream in which he was commanding three full brigades of horse soldiers pitted in battle against a tiny band of elderly Navajo women and small children. The Navajo had his men completely surrounded and were winning the day, but the General was sure it was only temporary. The General bitched a little, but then started up the bus. It ran smoothly, but the air conditioning didn’t work anymore. Fire Team Leader Alpha thanked the generous mechanic and climbed on board, and the men hit the road again.

  An hour later, Avery woke up and wiped the drool from his face.

  “Morning,” General X-Ray said, looking back at Avery. “It’s a great day for an invasion, son. Clear skies and not a chance of rain.”

  “Marvelous,” Avery groggily replied. “When do we eat?”

  “Not until we’ve invaded. We’ll requisition from the enemy.”

  “I’m starving.” Avery cracked open a Mountain Dew and drained it. “Pull over.”

  “Not a good idea.” The General doubled-checked his mirrors. “We’re on a mission.”

  “Take that exit.” Avery pointed.

  “I’m busy driving.”

  “The exit!” The bus swerved toward the off-ramp.

  “Don’t yell at me in front of the men!” the General screamed, his face turning a bruised plum color. Avery looked back at the men of STRAC-BOM. They were all asleep.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “About what?” The General readjusted his mirrors as he navigated down the exit ramp.

  “How did you get this job?”

  “Protecting America? I was born with the job of protecting America from invasion.”

  “No kidding. Me, too — I’ve been trying to convince people that…wait, pull over there. See that place?”

  “The hotel?”

  “Exactly. Pull in. It’s time for breakfast.”

  “Then you’re paying.”

  “Nobody is paying.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “General,” Avery said as he looked at his driver seriously. “This is my kind of mission. I know what I’m doing. Get your men up.”

  “Like, I’m up!” Ziggy said as he crawled out of the bus stairwell. “Are we there yet?”

  “Shut up,” Avery and the General said in unison.

  “Bummer, angry dudes.” Ziggy curled up on the top step.

  “Where the hell did you find this hippy, anyway?” the General asked.

  “Have you ever been to Austin?”

  “No, but question answered.” The General cupped his hand over his mouth. “Can we drop him off somewhere?”

  “No, he’s strangely useful to me. Kind of like a slinky. He doesn’t really bring much value to the universe, but it still makes me laugh when I push him down a flight of stairs. Pull in there.” Avery pointed.

  “Okay.”

  “Get the men up.”

  “Why? The border is less than forty minutes away.”

  “I’m hungry, and we’re going to eat.”

  “Whatever you say.” The bus pulled into the parking lot of an extended-stay business hotel.

  “General, what time do you have?”

  “Nine hundred hours.”

  “Perfect. The business-class rush hour is over, and the selection should still be good. Follow me. Act natural. If anyone approaches us, I’ll do the talking.”

  “All right, men. Fall in!” The members of STRAC-BOM wiped the sleep from their eyes and followed Avery across the parking lot. Ziggy brought up the rear. He danced along as he hummed a Grateful Dead song to himself. At the door to the hotel, Avery turned and addressed the men.

  “Follow me closely, and try to act inconspicuous. Don’t make eye contact with any hotel staff. If harassed by an employee, take hostages.” Avery turned and entered the hotel. The rest of the men followed and attempted to avoid attention, but when a group of nine grown men, six wearing camouflage fatigues, one in a vintage WWII tanker’s uniform, one in a yellow tracksuit, and one wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and baggy shorts, try to sneak across a busy hotel lobby, it’s pretty conspicuous. Avery led the procession of men around the perimeter of the lobby, using large potted plants for cover when possible. “In there.” Avery pointed. The men hustled into the breakfast lobby of the hotel and launched themselves at the buffet. Eggs, cereal, pastries — the group cleaned them out. Avery noticed they were missing someone. He went and peeked into the lobby. Ziggy was at the front desk, filling out a reward program application with the manager. Avery whistled and waved Ziggy over to him. Ziggy shook the manager’s hand and joined the group.

  “Like, forty nights, man, and I’m like, Platinum.” Ziggy smiled as Avery dragged him toward the buffet. Avery stacked his plate with everything he could find. Ziggy just grabbed a banana. Joining the other men at a table, Avery began to stuff his face indiscriminately with food.

  “Hurry up,” Avery implored through open mouthfuls. “We’ve only got a few minutes before someone gets suspicious.” The group gorged themselves. Avery stuffed spare jelly doughnuts into his tracksuit as the hotel manager approached their table.

  “Excuse me,” the manager said with a frown. “The breakfast buffet is only for hotel guests.”

  “We are guests.” Avery choked down a box of dry cereal.

  “May I see your room key?”

  “Don’t have one yet.” Avery shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth, a good portion of them sticking in his unruly beard. “Our check-in was delayed.”

  “Delayed?”

  “Yes, we’re with the Donner party. Here for the wedding.”

  “Wedding? We don’t have any weddings on the books for at least a week.”

  “That’s unfortunate, Mr. Smith,” Avery said as he glanced at the hotel manager’s name badge. “If that is your real name. The bride is going to be very disappointed. She’s coming all the way from Russia. Never upset a Russian bride. She’ll cut out your liver and feed it to you wrapped in her garter belt. It’s an old tradition, but one definitely not to be trifled with. By the way, do you have an omelet station?”

  “No! And leave now, or I’m calling the authorities.”

  “Are you in anyway related to the El Paso Smiths?”

  “No. Now all
of you, out!”

  “Good, they’re serial killers, but wonderful cooks. By the way, who’s in first place in the American League East?”

  “That’s it — I’m calling security and the police.”

  “Every man for himself!” Avery cried as he barreled toward the front door, grabbing a complimentary newspaper on the way. The rest of the men scrambled behind him, the General bringing up the rear as he grabbed some extra bacon from the buffet. Just outside the front entrance, Avery pulled a smoke bomb from his fanny pack and lit it. Stinky purple smoke erupted from the small, round pyrotechnic. He threw it inside and ran toward the parked bus. Avery collapsed into a seat on the bus, completely out of breath. He pulled a doughnut from his tracksuit and shoved it into his mouth as the rest of the men piled into their long, yellow getaway vehicle. The General climbed aboard last, tearing up a parking ticket for leaving the bus in a fire zone.

  “Well-executed operation, Mr. Pendleton,” the General said as he pulled back onto the highway access road. “I like your style.”

  “It’s a gift,” Avery replied as he looked for the baseball standings. “Where’s the lizard?”

  “The what?”

  “Ziggy?”

  “Never leave a man behind!” General X-Ray cried as he pulled the bus into a sharp U-turn and headed back to the hotel. They found Ziggy playing hacky sack in the middle of the parking lot and eating a banana. Fire alarms inside the hotel were blaring. Businessmen and -women were stumbling out of the front doors. The sounds of sirens were building from down the street.

  “Like, thanks, dudes.” Ziggy stepped into the bus and sat in his preferred spot in the stairwell, tucking his knees under his chin. “Like, where are we going, anyway?”

  • • •

  Loud dance music pulsed away in the club. The sun was long up, and the rest of the drunken customers were all gone, but the girls kept dancing for El Carnicero, and he definitely kept watching them. Empty champagne bottles littered the table in front of his couch. The room was dark, but lights from the stage bounced off the mirrored walls and disco ball overhead. A woman wearing almost nothing approached him.