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

by Randel Stephen

  “I’m, like, serious, man. They won’t, like, leave us here. Will they?”

  “Well, the General always says never leave a man behind,” Private Zulu replied as he wiggled against his restraints for the hundredth time. “It’s in the Code of Conduct. Right before the part about recycling spent shell cartridges.”

  “Dude, like, they left us behind once already.”

  “Fair enough, but I’m sure the General has a plan. He always has a plan. I reckon he’s probably out there right now, scouting the place out. He’s a right genius when it comes to operational logistics, and he comes from a long line of war heroes. One of them even singlehandedly sunk a Nazi submarine with his bare hands. Why, I bet the General can’t wait to come in here with guns blazing and bust us out.”

  • • •

  “I really think we should consider calling the American embassy,” General X-Ray said as he wrung his pudgy hands. Sweat dripped down his face. “Maybe they have some hostage negotiators they can call in. If we head back to the border right now, we can be home by sun-up.”

  “I can’t believe you want to leave Private Zulu behind,” Fire Team Leader Bravo said.

  “Don’t think of it as leaving him behind. Just think of it as leaving him where he is. It’s his own damn fault he got captured. He was clearly instructed to fight to the death. I’m considering court-martialing him posthumously.”

  “Don’t you say that, General,” Private Tango said angrily. “Don’t you say Zulu’s dead.”

  “Men, we have to come to grips with the fact that he may be KIA. By now, the Mexicans probably know he’s a member of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia. They’ll obviously know our reputation and torture him to death. It’s the unfortunate price of our notoriety and success. I hope he doesn’t give them the HQ’s mailing address.” The General wiped his brow.

  “Private Zulu wouldn’t talk. Not in a million, billion years,” Private Tango said.

  “Really?”

  “Well…maybe.”

  “General, must I remind you of our contract,” Avery said as he searched in his fanny pack, hoping to find a snack. “We’re going after them.”

  “It’s hopeless,” the General replied.

  “With my superior intellect, hardly. We simply define our objectives, identify all the possible variables, and plan accordingly.”

  “Pull up over by those three rocks,” El Coyote said. Fire Team Leader Alpha stopped the bus. “Keep the headlights on, and grab your shovels and follow me.” El Coyote led the group to a spot in the middle of three large rocks arranged in a triangle. “Now dig here.” The men dug into the dry ground while Esmeralda repeatedly spun the cylinder of her pistol. Soon, Fire Team Leader Charlie’s entrenching tool hit something made of wood. “That’s it. Now dig it out,” El Coyote instructed. In a few minutes, the top of a wooden crate was exposed. Using his brute strength, the barrel-chested former wrestler pulled the rectangular crate from the ground and opened it.

  “Oh, baby,” said Private Foxtrot, as he looked at the collection of pistols and assault rifles inside.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to my museum of carnage,” El Coyote said with aplomb as he lifted an AK-47 from the pile and inserted a long, curved magazine. “That’s the ram’s horn.” He winked.

  “Where’d you get these?” the General asked.

  “Mostly from people who left them in my nightclub,” replied El Coyote as he chambered a round and raised the assault rifle to his shoulder. “People who drink too much tequila tend to leave things behind by accident. I keep them here for safety, because people who drink too much tequila also tend to steal things. Feeling better about our chances now, General X-Ray?”

  “It’s certainly an upgrade from our current arsenal, but I don’t know. We still have time to call the police.”

  “With all due respect, General,” Esmeralda said as she pulled a box of forty-four-magnum pistol ammunition from the crate. “Shut the hell up.” El Coyote passed out the weapons to the men.

  “Forget the guns, amigo,” Private Foxtrot said as he pulled out a half dozen sticks of dynamite from the crate. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about.” He held the explosives to his nose and inhaled deeply, like they were fine cigars. “I’m the demolitions expert ’round here,” he said to El Coyote.

  “No, thank you,” Avery said as El Coyote offered him a nine-millimeter automatic pistol. “I’m trained in the deadly art of hand-to-hand combat, namely Monkey Style Kung Fu, but Filipino stick fighting is my specialty.”

  “Take it. You don’t fight the cartels with sticks.” Avery accepted the pistol and tucked it in under the strap of his fanny pack.

  “Now, then,” Avery began. “We’re not far from the farmhouse. Our first order of business is to eliminate their communications capabilities. I noticed a type of transponder while scouting for chupacabra signs. I’ll tackle that. Second, we’re going to need a diversion. General, I’m leaving that up to you and your men. Lastly, we need to locate Ziggy and Zulu. My bet is that they’re in the main building, but we better split up to be sure. For the main house, Mr. Coyote and the stripper will come with me…” A devastating punch to his liver sent Avery crashing to the ground.

  “For your information, I’m an exotic dancer, not a stripper, you fat, ugly bastard.” Esmeralda stood with her hands on her hips.

  “My bad,” Avery groaned as he rolled on the ground.

  “Some hand-to-hand combat expert you are.” She spit on the ground and pushed her ample breasts up higher in her corset.

  “Saw it…saw it coming the whole way,” Avery moaned as he struggled to rise to his feet.

  “Right.”

  “It’s just that I don’t hit women,” Avery groaned. “Children and small animals on occasion, but never women.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  They’ve Got Us Surrounded…Again

  Light classical music filtered through the farmhouse as the guests arrived. One by one they were escorted from their cars and introduced to the host. After cocktails, they were seated at the table. The room was painted dark red. It was the color of dried blood. A majestic mahogany table awaited the party. Silver candlesticks illuminated the long room. At the head of the table, the Padre raised a glass to his guests.

  “To our birthday boy, Jose, and to all of you.” His guests drank with him. Jose and his young wife bowed their heads. “Now that’s finished, on to business.” He laughed as he lowered his glass. “How was your trip, Ricardo? Kill anyone in India?” Jose’s wife spilled her wine.

  “Forgive me. I’m so sorry.” The woman used her napkin to clean up the mess.

  “Think nothing of it. Get that, please.” An attractive woman in an apron picked up the overturned glass and replaced it with a fresh one. “Ricardo. India? Good news?”

  “Yes,” responded a man in a pinstriped suit. “India is good.”

  “What’s in India?” asked Cesar.

  “Methamphetamine or, more specifically, the raw materials required to produce it. We need large amounts of precursor ingredients for the manufacturing process, namely ephedrine or pseudoephedrine. We can’t get them domestically anymore, but in India and China, they’re more than happy to supply us. For a price.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t see. And neither does anyone else. I’m building a super-lab. The construction is nearly complete. It’s an underground facility with elevators and a sophisticated ventilation system. Most Americans cook up their filthy product in plastic bottles in rural areas for rural clients. We’re going after a significantly bigger market.”

  “Our contacts in India can provide a hundred tons of the necessary materials within three weeks,” said the man in the pinstriped suit.

  Three weeks? the Padre thought. That’s too long. He was pissed off but didn’t let it show. “Excellent work, Ricardo.”

  “Is this a response to the legalization policies in America?” Cesar asked.


  “Of course it is,” Carnicero replied. “Marijuana is a dying product. Meth is the future. What is better about ours is that it isn’t crystallized here. We ship it in liquid form, ninety percent pure, in tequila bottles or the spare gas tanks of eighteen-wheelers. The border patrol doesn’t even know what to think.” He laughed as he drank from his glass.

  “Enough,” the Padre announced. “Tonight is for our guest of honor, Jose.” The dinner party raised their glasses in a toast. “Soon you will be an elected politician, one with a great future. Didn’t I promise you this?”

  “Yes, Padre,” Jose said as he leaned over and kissed his beautiful wife. “I will repay your kindness with loyalty.”

  “I expect that. It’s not so much a gesture that I reward…as much as it is…a condition of employment,” the Padre said with a pause as he sipped his wine. The pause had its effect as the room went quiet. From outside, there was a howl.

  “Señor, what was that?” Jose’s wife asked.

  “Nothing, my dear. Just a coyote.”

  “It didn’t sound like a coyote.”

  “Of course it did,” Jose whispered to his wife. “Apologies.”

  “Just some kind of dog, my darling.” The Padre raised his glass and drank. “Maybe you should check on our patient,” the Padre said to the doctor at the table.

  “Of course.” The man got up from the table.

  “I’ll go, too,” said Carnicero as he finished his wine.

  “I as well,” Cesar said. “If that’s okay.”

  “Of course,” the Padre replied. “Be sure to tuck your old friend in. Open another bottle,” he called to the staff.

  Cesar rose from his chair to follow the doctor and Carnicero. He’d made sure that no one had seen him slip the steak knife into the sleeve of his suit coat earlier. Down the stairs, past an armed guard, he followed the two men. The door to the cell was at the end of the hall. Following the two men, Cesar entered the room. Barquero was covered in dried blood. Private Zulu was asleep, while Ziggy tossed and turned, begging for Nancy.

  “Colonel Beltrán, please hold his arm while I sedate him.” Cesar stood behind the chair and took Barquero’s arm. He held it down as the doctor injected him with a syringe. Barquero flinched as the needle went in.

  “Sleep easy, you bastard.” Carnicero grinned as the injection took place. “Tomorrow, we will have some more fun.” Barquero squinted through his swollen eyes at Carnicero and then looked up at Cesar. Cold anger filled his eyes.

  “I think he likes you,” Carnicero said as he turned to leave with the doctor. No one saw Cesar leave the steak knife in Barquero’s bound hands, except Ziggy.

  “Nancy…”

  • • •

  Avery took a piece of chewing gum out of his fanny pack and carefully opened it. After chewing it a few times, he removed the small, sticky wad from his mouth and molded it around the tip of the transponder. Using the foil from the gum, he clamped it over the tip of the device. Then he took off one of his high-top sneakers, held it above his head, and, for good measure, smashed the control panel to bits.

  “By Crom, I swear!” he said as he slipped his foot back into the shoe. “Try downloading at wi-fi speed now, bitches.” Avery did a military rolling dive to his right, and came up holding his pistol and looking for enemies. Like most of the times he did a military rolling dive, he didn’t see anything afterward. He set off into the dark. Along the way, he looked for sticks. Filipino-style sticks.

  • • •

  “Maneuver medium left,” General X-Ray ordered his men.

  “Maneuvering,” the men said in unison as they crawled on hands and knees toward the white fence surrounding the compound.

  “Keep your heads down,” the General hissed as he saw an armed sentry smoking a cigarette outside the large red barn. “Foxtrot. Do you have the ordnance prepped?”

  “Roger, sir,” Private Foxtrot said as he pulled a stick of dynamite from his back pocket and clamped it in his teeth like some kind of retriever. “Foxtrot go boom,” he mumbled with the explosive in his mouth.

  “And your detonation device?”

  Private Foxtrot held up a pack of matches. “My lighter ’ain’t working so hot.”

  “Good enough. Now, I want you to head toward the edge of the barn. Once I give the signal, blow the door. We’ll attack across the courtyard and meet you inside. With Private Zulu incarcerated and Private Foxtrot working demolition, we’re down to only one full Fire Team. Bravo, that means you. You’ll lead the charge. And remember, boys, if you aren’t shooting, you should be loading, and if you aren’t loading, you should be shooting.” Private Tango and Fire Team Leader Bravo looked at one another nervously. “Once inside the barn, we’ll move in a series of zigs and zags, forming a search matrix until we find the HVTs.”

  “What’s an HVT?” Private Tango asked.

  “High Value Target.”

  “What’s a High…” Private Foxtrot mumbled before taking the dynamite stick out of his mouth. “What’s a High Value Target?”

  “Private Zulu and the civilian, or anything that looks like it’s worth something. This enemy we’re facing is composed solely of cutthroats and thieves. Technically, it’s not stealing if you steal from stealers. See if they have any flat-screen televisions or digital watches. Foxtrot, be sure to wait for the signal.”

  • • •

  In the dark night sky, high above the farm, a stealthily silent drone, on loan from the United States military, made lazy circles around the compound below. It sent a stream of images and data via satellite to a Mexican Army mobile command station ten miles away.

  “General Morales. We have an issue with the target.”

  “What is it, Sergeant?” The elderly Mexican commander put down a field radio and crossed the room to the view screen.

  “Infrared is picking up movement around the perimeter of the compound. I don’t think it is our men.”

  “It better not be. All assets were to hold position until the go signal was issued. How many men?”

  “A group of three closing from the south and a second group of six from the north. Here and here.” The sergeant pointed to the small glowing figures on the blackish green console.

  “It could be another cartel,” General Morales said as he stroked his mustache. “If we knew the Padre and his associates were going to be there, maybe they did, too. Spin up the assault team helicopter and have them hold two miles from the target. We’ve been waiting way too long as it is. I’m not letting that bastard get away again. Have all assets put on alert. Go signal is imminent.”

  • • •

  A cartel sentry walked the perimeter of the fence south of the farmhouse. He set down his rifle as he stopped to relieve himself before fishing a cigarette from his pocket. Just as he was about to light it, a pair of burly arms grabbed him from behind around the chest.

  “I kill you now!” El Coyote whispered as he crushed the wind from the man’s lungs. In a few seconds it was over, and El Coyote let the man’s limp body, full of crushed ribs and collapsed lungs, fall to the dry ground.

  “Not bad,” Avery said as he and Esmeralda emerged from the bushes. “But I could have done it quicker.”

  “Follow me.” El Coyote bent over and ran to the back corner of the farmhouse. A door was open. Inside, the smells of the kitchen wafted out. The scents made Avery hungry. From inside, the sound of heavy boots walking across a wooden floor approached the open door. “You want this one, my friend?” El Coyote whispered to Avery.

  “That’s okay. You need the practice,” hissed Avery. “Besides, I couldn’t find the right sticks.” As the man came out of the doorway, El Coyote threw a massive roundhouse punch at the man’s face. He never saw it coming. El Coyote caught the unconscious man before he could fall to the ground.

  “Take care of him,” the brawny man said as he peeked into the kitchen. Avery and Esmeralda dragged the unconscious cartel soldier by his feet into some nearby bushes.

  “S
top staring at my breasts!”

  “I wasn’t.” Avery looked away from her chest.

  “Pervert.”

  They used a roll of duct tape to bind and gag the man before rejoining their companion. Avery looked to check his watch before realizing he didn’t own one.

  Where is that blasted diversion? Avery thought to himself. It should have happened by now.

  • • •

  Private Foxtrot crawled to the edge of the barn. He couldn’t see the door, but he knew it was a few feet around the corner. He could smell cigarette smoke and the occasional shuffling of the guard’s boots on the gravelly ground. Slowly, he pulled the stick of explosives from his mouth. Taking out his pack of matches, he waited for the signal.

  • • •

  The army sergeant viewed his computer monitor. Three glowing figures huddled by the back of the farmhouse, and another one appeared next to the barn.

  “General Morales,” the sergeant said. “Whoever they are, I think they are preparing to breach the buildings.”

  “Goddammit!” General Morales swore. “They’re going to blow our operation. That’s it. We’re out of time. Send them in. Send the go signal.”

  “Sir, the air assets will get there well before the ground troops have time to arrive.”

  “I don’t care. Send the go signal.”

  “What about Colonel Beltrán?”

  “He’s on his own.”

  • • •

  “Can you see him?” General X-Ray asked.

  “No,” replied Fire Team Leader Charlie. “It’s too dark in that corner by the barn, but he should be there by now.”

  “Well, send the signal and cross your fingers.”

  “What’s the signal?” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked.

  “The signal. The signal to blow the doors!”

  “I don’t think we have one.”

  “What? Does anyone here know the signal?” the General asked. Nobody responded.