“Baby!” Ziggy cried as he hugged his heavy, squirming lizard. Nancy fought free of his grip and started to wander away. “Like, what, man,” Ziggy said as he fought his way to his feet. Nancy looked back at him with blank eyes, then turned and continued walking slowly away from him. Ziggy followed. After a while, Nancy led Ziggy out of the twisting canyons.
“Like, right on, Nancy,” Ziggy said he looked at the open desert surrounding him. He still didn’t have any idea where he was. Nancy began lumbering down a trail. It was an ancient one that predated the Spanish. Local people had trod down the pathway for centuries, but to Ziggy, for some reason, it seemed to lead in the wrong direction. Then again, what did he know? He was lost. He set out after Nancy. Ziggy was exhausted and parched. His stride began to shorten. Every few minutes, Nancy would stop, turn around, and wait for Ziggy to catch up. It seemed hopeless. Mile after mile of rocks, dirt, and gravel spread out in front of them. Ziggy pushed on, following Nancy’s weaving back-and-forth stride the whole way. Then Nancy stopped again. Ziggy collapsed to the ground next to the big lizard.
“I’m, like, done for.” Nancy bit him. “Ouch, man! Like, easy on the violence, bro.” Nancy began scratching at the dirt, then stopped and looked right at Ziggy. “What?” Nancy scratched again at the ground. “Like, all right, man.” Ziggy reached over, and with his fingernails scratched at the dry dirt. Just underneath the surface of the soil, it was damp. Ziggy looked around him. They were sitting in the middle of a wide, dry riverbed. Ziggy started clawing at the ground with both hands. The soil became wetter and wetter the deeper he dug. Soon, he’d excavated down about a foot. Slowly, water began to seep into the hole. Using his shirt as a sponge, he soaked up the water and squeezed it into his mouth. The water was brown and tasted of mud, but to Ziggy it was the most refreshing thing he’d ever tasted, apart from icy-cold root beer. Again and again, Ziggy soaked the water from the bottom of the hole, while Nancy patiently waited. It took some time, but Ziggy finally had his fill. He was already starting to feel better. Nancy headed off again, away from the riverbed.
“Like, wait up, man,” he said as he scampered after the reptile. After a few hundred yards, Nancy veered off the trail and headed straight into the desert. Ziggy followed close behind.
“You, like, sure about this?” Ziggy asked. “I kind of, like, really dug that trail, dude. Trails, like, lead places and stuff.” Nancy ignored Ziggy and kept going. Ignoring people is one of the things that iguanas are best at. Nancy stopped beside a small cactus. Ziggy looked on as Nancy began to chew on one of the paddles before stopping and staring at Ziggy.
“Like, okay, man,” he said as he carefully removed the spiky thorns from one of the paddles. Using his fingernails, he scraped off as much of the small nodes that covered the outside of the green plant that he could. He looked at Nancy and then at the cactus. He took a bite. It wasn’t bad. A little chewy, but it was moist. Ziggy finished the paddle before having another one. Nancy began walking off again. Ziggy didn’t hesitate to follow this time.
• • •
The army helicopter sped toward Monterrey. Avery, using his old laptop from the bus, connected it to the Padre’s. After several minutes of typing, he looked up.
“Colonel,” Avery said through the intercom.
“Yes,” Cesar replied.
“I can access their communication network. Not much activity right now. Just some chatter. Sounds like people are moving drug shipments across various points along the border.”
“Anything about the Padre?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Keep listening,” Cesar said.
• • •
The Mexican Army unceremoniously dumped General X-Ray and his men at the border crossing. With the help of some Mexican officials, the men were escorted across the bridge. The U.S. authorities on the other side had no idea what to do with them.
“I’m telling you, Tommy Lee,” a Homeland Security employee said to his partner. “There’s not squat in this here manual about what to do with civilian militia being repatriated to the U.S. of A. after being captured in a foreign military conflict.” He poked the heavy book with his finger. “If I go and do something that ain’t in the manual, I’m going to get my butt chewed.” Eventually, the U.S. officials decided that the prudent thing to do was to wash their hands of the issue and spend their energy covering their tracks. Following a thorough body cavity search, which was in the manual, the General and his men were taken to a local bus station and given vouchers for a ride back home. Their bus wasn’t scheduled to leave for another two hours.
“Men, I need to talk to you,” the General said. “I’m sorry I lied to you. That was completely my fault. You deserve better. I’m sorry. I apologize.”
“That’s okay,” said Private Zulu. “I had a whole lot of fun doing militia stuff the last couple of years.”
“We all did, sir,” added Fire Team Leader Bravo.
“You boys forgive me?”
“Ain’t nothing to forgive, General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said. “STRAC-BOM, attention! There’s an officer on deck.” The entire militia stood at attention and saluted. Fighting back the tears that welled in his eyes, the General returned the salute.
“You make me proud, boys,” the General said, beaming. “Now, I’ve got to ask you something. There’s no right or wrong answer here. No pressure.”
“What is it, sir?” Private Tango asked.
“Men, we left a civilian behind. He’s out there somewhere, alone, hungry, and tired. I’m never leaving a man behind again. It’s in the Code of Conduct. I’m going after him. I sure could use some help, but I don’t expect any volunteers. I know you all need to get home to your families. I just thought I’d ask.”
“I’m in,” said Private Foxtrot.
“Me, too,” said Fire Team Leader Alpha. Private Zulu looked at Team Leader Charlie and nodded.
“Sir, you can count on Fire Team Charlie,” the Team Leader said.
“Same thing with Fire Team Bravo.”
“Well, that makes it unanimous, General.” Private Tango slapped his hands together. “What are the orders, sir?”
“Hot damn, boys!” the General said. “We’re back in business. Okay, first thing we need is some papers. They don’t always check at the border going in, but they always do coming out.”
“How we going to get them papers?” asked Private Zulu.
“See that over there?” The General pointed at a bus full of tourists waiting at the station before crossing the border. “Leave this to me. If you see anyone approach the bus, give me the signal.”
“What’s the signal?” Private Foxtrot asked. “It didn’t really work that swell last time.”
“Yodel.” The General straightened and dusted off his tanker uniform. He put his mirrored sunglasses on. From his wallet, he removed his library card. “Wait here and be ready to move out fast.” The General approached the bus and peeked inside the open door. The driver wasn’t in the vehicle. The General coolly and confidently swaggered up the steps. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Officer Rizzo. I’m with the U.S. Federal Customs and Border Protection Transportation Security Association of the Tobacco, Firearms, and Alcohol Bureau of Investigation.” He flashed his library card quickly to the bus full of retirees. “May I inquire as to your destination today?”
“We’re heading down to them Mexican pharmacies, sonny boy,” one of the retirees said. “Come all the way from New Braunfels to get some of that cheap Viagra.”
“Murray!” the elderly woman next to him scolded. “Don’t go telling people our business.”
“Hell, I bet half the people on this bus are going down there just to get a hard pecker again,” Murray replied. The woman hit him with her purse.
“Well,” General X-Ray said, “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the new border crossing regulation known as rule five-two-eight stroke K-forty-nine. I’ll need all the male passengers to forfeit their passports
for a pre-border inspection, inspection. Please have them available as I come by. May I see your documents, sir?” the General asked the man sitting in the first seat.
“We never had to do this before?”
“I know, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience, but regulations are regulations, and this will save you a lot of time at the border. Now hand them over.”
“Why only the men?” the man asked.
“Because it’s an even-numbered calendar day. Ladies are scheduled for tomorrow. It’s in the manual.” The elderly man begrudgingly passed over his documents. “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you. Thank you for your patience. Thank you very much.” The General collected the passports from all the male passengers as he walked down the aisle. Heading to the back to the front of the bus, he heard Private Foxtrot yodeling. “Okay, folks, I’m just going to run these through the computer machine real quick, won’t be just a minute. Thanks again, and God bless America,” he said as he waddled out of the bus as quickly as he could.
“Yodel-ay-hee-hoo!” the Private called out again, louder this time. The General made it back to the men just as the tour bus driver came out of the main depot building.
“Let’s move out!” The General quickly led his men away from the bus station and into a quiet alley a few blocks from the border crossing. He began fishing through the passports, looking at the photos. “No.” He tossed one aside. “No.” He tossed another aside. “No…no…wait.” He stopped and held a passport up to Fire Team Leader Bravo’s face. “Not bad,” he said. “Same nose.” He handed the passport to the Team Leader.
“General, this guy has lost most of his hair.”
“Don’t worry about it. They probably aren’t even going to check. It just needs to be close.” Fire Team Leader Bravo showed the picture to Private Tango.
“I don’t know,” said Tango. The General kept shuffling through the documents until every man had a document with a photo containing at least one similar facial characteristic. The biggest problem was that the tourists were all a good twenty years older than the men of STRAC-BOM. The General was unfazed.
“It’s all about confidence, men. Just follow me, walk straight across the border, go right past the officials, and don’t act nervous. If they call you over, just act old.” The men followed the General a few blocks to the border crossing. From the U.S. side, people streamed into Mexico with no problem. On the other side of the border, frustrated travelers stood in a long queue waiting to get into the United States. The General led his men to the spinning gates with heavy horizontal bars that marked the entrance into Mexico. An official closely watched the men as they passed. The General was the first through the spinning turnstile, followed by Private Zulu, Fire Team Leader Alpha, and Private Foxtrot.
“Pardon me, sir,” the border official held up the palm of his hand to Fire Team Leader Bravo. “May I see your documents?” Fire Team Leader Bravo fidgeted as he handed over his passport. The rest of the men hustled their way past and through the spinning gate as the official examined the document. “Thank you Mr. Bleaker.” The official looked at the photo and then up at the Fire Team Leader.
“Just heading over for the cheap pharmacies, officer.” The Fire Team Leader rubbed the top of his head. “Those pills and foam, they really work.” The border official looked at the photo again.
“Have a nice day,” he said as he handed the passport back. “Be sure to declare your purchases on the way back.”
“You bet.” Fire Team Leader Bravo went through the gates and joined up with the other men.
• • •
The Padre lay on a dirty, bare mattress deep in the bowels of a dilapidated apartment complex in the heart of Monterrey. Outside, his men kept watch. Surrounded by stained walls and a single flickering bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, he actually felt at home. It reminded him of when he was young. He’d started in the business as a lookout and courier for the Colombians, not far from here. His training for the job was unique. After being raised by his parents in a small, devout home for a life destined for the church, an approach by a degenerate priest intent on abusing him in the most unspeakable and horrific ways had led him to question his faith. Beating the man who touched him to death with his fists cemented his decision to leave the church and his home. Fresh blood still on his clothes, he ran from the church. With no one to believe his story, he roamed the streets of Monterrey looking for work, for food. The Colombians always needed someone, and he was poor, young, hungry, and motivated. He’d placed his whole existence in the hands of the church. When it abused his trust, he swore he’d never serve God again. Now he served the South Americans. They were the new masters of his universe. He moved up the narcotics food chain quickly. He was smart and resourceful. He was only apprehended once, for allegedly killing a man his employers wanted dead, and even then he didn’t talk. After he’d spent a few months in jail, the local police couldn’t hold him anymore. The day he got out, an associate of his local handler put him on a plane to Cartagena. It was the first time he’d ever flown. When he landed, he was introduced as a young man who could be trusted. He’d killed for the Colombians and didn’t talk. The drug business was still in its infancy. The raw product came directly from South America. The hard part was moving it into the United States undetected. The Padre outlined his plan for using the loose border security along Mexico’s eastern border with the U.S. as a major delivery route. For some reason, they believed and trusted in him. When he flew back to Monterrey, his pockets were full of cash and his head full of ideas. He built his team from the street urchins of the mean city. He knew that some could be trusted and some couldn’t. So he ruled with an iron fist. Of all the young men he recruited, he ended up killing many of them himself. Soon the word got out. The Padre could be trusted to pay well, and he could also be trusted to kill quickly if he was crossed. He took the name “the Padre” because he wanted to set himself apart. Despite his young age, he understood the importance of branding. Even though he wasn’t much older than many of his soldiers, he did act as a “father” to them. When their families were sick, he sent a doctor. When someone’s sister got married, he paid for the wedding the parents could never afford. Over time, his success with moving product into Texas reached a point that the Colombians couldn’t ignore. He’d spent a tremendous amount of time and money in the States, cultivating relationships and distribution channels. He’d traveled as far north as Chicago to meet with gangs that dealt drugs. He convinced them to buy from him. He was charismatic, charming, and smart. Most gangsters had never worked with a Mexican before, but this one delivered on time. His employers kept paying him more and more money, but the Padre wanted more than just cash. He wanted a part of the business. After one fateful trip to Cartagena, he came home a bitter man. By that point, he was in his late twenties and tired of just being an errand boy, taking all of the risk and only being thrown the scraps. Over the years, on his trips to Colombia, he’d met a number of people involved in the manufacture of cocaine. They were weary of being strong-armed by their current employers. The Padre offered them better terms. Soon he was buying directly from the suppliers, and his financial take exploded. He hired more men and began purchasing guns in large quantities. He knew his former bosses would eventually come after him. The Padre was going to be prepared. Eventually, the war did come, and it was bloody. Both sides lost many men. During the wars, no one made much money. Then the miracle happened. The United States declared a war on drugs against the Colombians. His former employers were at the center of the bull’s-eye. It gave him and his men a chance to regroup, but their product was now at risk. Cocaine wasn’t easily coming out of South America anymore. He had built a massive distribution network but had nothing to distribute. One night, drinking mescal with a prostitute in a hotel room not that different from the one he was in now, it came to him. He needed a new product. Marijuana was cheap to buy in Mexico and move across the border. The margins were shit compared to coke, but he had money to invest. As
he watched the Colombians over the years, it became clear to him that the only people who make money in the drug game were the people who controlled the entire process from manufacture to distribution. The margins might be worse, but the chance to head his own organization was intoxicating. The vast expanses of land in the Mexican wilderness made cultivating the plant relatively easy. In rural areas, a few pesos bought a great deal of silence. Hell, in most places the work he offered was welcomed. Over the years, the business grew, and his product line expanded. Whatever the end client wanted, he provided. Now it was methamphetamine, and he was ready. Leaning back on his greasy, cold pillow, he thought about his contacts in India.
Three weeks for the supplies? Goddammit! That’s too long. I should have gone there myself. The sun slipped below the horizon. The Padre took a pill from his pocket and swallowed it. He drank deeply from a bottle of tequila by his mattress and slipped off into a fitful sleep.
• • •
In the middle of the desert, headlights cut through the night. A Mexican farmer pulled his flatbed truck over to the side of the road. General X-Ray and his men dismounted from the back.
“Gracias,” the General said to the driver, who tipped his hat in return as he pulled away. “All right, men, I’m pretty sure it’s that way.” He pointed over the horizon.
“What’s that way?” asked Private Foxtrot.
“The bus.”
“I think it might be more that way,” the Private replied.
“You’re concussed. Follow me, men.” The group headed out into the darkness. Dodging prickly cacti and scattered rocks, they made slow time. After two hours, tired and thirsty, the General held up his fist. The men all stopped and hugged the ground. “Sorry, boys, I may have been a little off.”
Trail of the Chupacabra: An Avery Bartholomew Pendleton Misadventure (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 2) Page 24
