Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1)

by Cameron Curtis

  We turn left into another alley two blocks past La Cueva.

  “Park here.”

  Mirasol stops the car, shuts off the engine.

  “What now, Breed? Have you seen enough?”

  “No. I need to get inside. I need to see the second floor.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “You said they keep women there.”

  Mirasol stifles a laugh. “You are crazy.”

  “Just another dumb gringo looking to get laid.”

  Mirasol stares at her hands for a long moment. When she lifts her face, she has come to a decision. “Breed, we are now fighting the same war.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bledsoe comes to Juarez to indulge his appetite. I think the girls they keep here are young. You saw the ones they loaded into the truck.”

  “Yes.”

  “Bledsoe may have a private room on the second floor.” Mirasol’s voice quivers with excitement. “The way to get up there is to negotiate for a young girl.”

  “You mean act like a pervert.”

  “It may be the only way. These men are so depraved, the sickest preferences are normal to them.”

  “If you think it will work.”

  “I do. How much cash do you have?”

  This is Mexico. In Latin America, credit and debit cards are only beginning to see use. Everywhere, cash is the accepted medium of exchange. That’s why stickups and robberies are common. Fortunately, I came prepared.

  “A thousand dollars.”

  “Big spender,” Mirasol sniffs. “I have two hundred.”

  “Will it be enough?”

  “It might be. If they have a short, brown, ugly girl like me.”

  She’s fishing for a compliment. I say nothing. Reach for the door handle.

  “Breed.” Mirasol puts her hand on my arm. “We’re doing this to get upstairs. Nothing else.”

  I smile.

  Mirasol locks the car, and we walk to the brightly lit street. I put my arm around her shoulders, and she hooks hers around my waist. I’m struck once again by how tiny she is. As we walk, she leans against me. It’s a pleasant sensation.

  We come to the corner, and I identify the soldados on guard. One at each corner. Hard looking guys with tattooed arms and earrings. Intelligence does not gleam in their eyes. These are blunt instruments.

  My eyes sweep the interior as soon as we enter. The club is busy. A live band is playing popular dance music. Not well. I spot an empty table in an ocean of tables and guide Mirasol to a seat.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “A red wine.”

  I go to the zinc bartop. Find myself hobbled by my lack of Spanish. “Una cerveza.” I hesitate, groping for words. “Y… un vino rojo.”

  The bartender’s thirty, with a short beard and mustache. He sneers at the dumb gringo and brings me a large glass of amber liquid. Rows of goblets are held inverted in a wooden stemware rack above the bar. He retrieves one, sets it on the bar, and pours from an open bottle of red.

  “Four hundred twenty-five pesos.” The bartender smiles like he’s asking me to grab my ankles. The little shit has a gold incisor.

  It’s about twenty dollars. I draw a wad of cash from my front pocket, peel off a twenty, and slide it across the bar. “Gracias.”

  The bartender’s eyes follow the wad back into my pocket.

  I pick up the glasses and turn my back before he can respond.

  “Well done, Breed.” Mirasol smiles mischievously.

  “From now on, you do the haggling,” I tell her.

  “In Mexico, women are not welcome in bars. Close to the border, establishments are more liberal. We should not have trouble here, but attitudes are ingrained.”

  “Sounds like a chauvinistic society.”

  Mirasol sips her wine. “In Mexico, women are worthless. Their utility is limited to beer commercials. Liberals in America rally for women’s rights, but they have no idea what it is like here. Once, every five years, they do a story on the women who disappear from Juarez. To be found murdered, or not to be found at all. Then the righteous Americans forget.”

  As we speak, my eyes rove about the club. I take out my phone and snap Mirasol’s picture, careful to capture the sweep of the room behind her. The staircase leading to the second floor. I hand her the phone. “Take one of me.”

  I take the phone back and review the photographs. The picture of me captures the bar in the background. I push the phone back into her hands. “More. Take more.”

  Mirasol snaps more photographs. Me and the bar, me and the dance floor. I sit next to her, with our backs to the entrance. Raise the camera, snap a string of selfies.

  When I am done, I have a panoramic collection of photographs of the ground floor. Three hundred and sixty degrees. I put my arm around Mirasol, pull her in, and kiss her. She stiffens. I hold her close, take my lips away for a moment, and kiss her again. I feel her begin to melt. Her lips part and she surrenders. Her fingers run through my hair, and she returns the kiss.

  I close my eyes, enjoy the intimacy.

  When I let Mirasol go, her eyes and lips are shiny.

  She reaches for her wine and takes a gulp. My beer tastes like water, I’ve been ripped off. Mirasol’s scent and taste overwhelm me. I force myself to switch on.

  The bartender and a number of Mexicans are staring at us.

  I pretend not to notice. Take in the men and scantily clad women dancing in front of the band.

  Pensively, Mirasol stares at me.

  Two men descend the staircase behind her. Lean and swarthy, clean-shaven. Their faces are more tanned than their jaws. One man is bald, the other has short, neatly trimmed hair.

  With confidence, they walk to the bar and engage the bartender in conversation. He leads them to a back room. He shuts the door behind them and returns to the bar.

  Quds. Preparing to infiltrate the USA.

  They do not want their beards to give them away, so they shave. Shaving leaves their faces half-tanned.

  “We should do this,” I say at last.

  “Yes,” Mirasol agrees.

  “Who do you think?”

  “The bartender,” she says. “Bartenders know everybody.”

  Mirasol gets up, goes to the bar. The bartender is serving others. She waits, looks back at me and smiles.

  When he has finished, the bartender comes to Mirasol and they speak. He seems surprised. Casts a glance at me, then leans in, and they speak some more.

  I look around the club. There are two hulking bouncers at the door, but their attention is on the other customers. They may be cartel, but I don’t think so. They’ve been hired for their size, to intimidate rowdy partiers, eject them if necessary. I see other men at tables near the door and at the foot of the stairs. These guys look hard, with chiseled faces and tattoos on their arms and necks.

  One of three men at the table wears a man-bun and a droopy mustache. He looks like a China seas pirate. His v-neck t-shirt reveals tattoos on his chest. At his feet is a large canvas bag. Big enough to conceal several AK47s and magazines.

  My eyes flick to the men at the table near the door. Under the table, they have a similar bag. I count at least six soldados on the ground floor, with small arms. Two Quds in the back room behind the bar. More upstairs.

  It’s a hornet’s nest.

  Man-Bun has sharp eyes. He stares at Mirasol and the bartender. Says something to his friends, gets up and strides to the bar. I look away as he passes me.

  The bartender and Man-Bun know each other. He joins the conversation with Mirasol. Looks me over, turns back to them. The bartender glanced at me. Man-Bun looked.

  The three of them speak for five minutes. The bartender shouts for an assistant to help serve drinks. Obviously, the negotiation is more important. Finally, Man-Bun leaves them and walks to the stairwell. With a final look at Mirasol, he disappears upstairs.

  Flushed, Mirasol returns to our table.

  �
��You’ve bought yourself a virgin,” she says. “Nine hundred dollars.”

  “I’ve never had a virgin.”

  “She won’t be.” Mirasol squeezes my arm. “These creeps sell her virginity twenty times a week.”

  “For God’s sake.”

  “It’s an old scam.” Mirasol’s air is dismissive. “We’re going up together.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Mirasol grins. “I told them I was arranging a present for you. I like to watch.”

  I wonder how much depravity lurks in Mirasol’s skull.

  Man-Bun descends the stairs. He walks straight to our table, addresses Mirasol. “Ven conmigo.”

  Mirasol takes my hand. “Come on.”

  The stairs, covered with worn green carpet, creak underfoot. The material is worn and faded in the middle. Dark on either side. The odor of cigarette smoke clings to everything. The walls are pressed wood, painted pink.

  At the top of the stairs, Man-Bun stops. Puts the flat of his hand against my chest. “Dame el dinero.”

  I take the wad from my pocket, peel off sixty dollars. Keep the sixty, hand him the rest. Man-Bun counts the money. Twice.

  The corridor behind him stretches the length of the building. Ceiling lights under dirty glass domes have been set ten feet apart. The carpet is the same worn green. The doors on either side are closed. At the far end is a fire exit. It opens to the metal stairs at the back of the building.

  One of the doors on the right opens, and two men step into the corridor.

  Quds. The first is stocky. He wears boots, utility pants, and a loose black t-shirt. His hair is close-cropped and he is clean-shaven. His face is half-tanned.

  The second man is—Hamza.

  Our eyes meet across the length of the corridor. We take each other in with a single glance. He has no reason to recognize me, but he knows my bearing, my physical type. Enough to be suspicious.

  Man-Bun sees me looking over his shoulder and turns to follow my gaze. Waves the money at Hamza. “Está bien. Ellos son clientes.”

  Without a word, Hamza leads the other Quds to a room at the far end of the corridor. They disappear inside.

  The money disappears into Man-Bun’s pocket. He opens the first door on the left. Like an obscene maitre d’, he steps aside and raises his arm to show us into the room.

  Mirasol’s grip tightens on my hand and she leads me through the doorway. Man-Bun shuts the door behind us and leaves us alone with—

  The girl.

  30

  Juarez, 2330 Hrs Wednesday

  Man-Bun leaves us alone with—

  The girl.

  Maybe five-four, taller than Mirasol. Young, but adolescent. Fourteen or fifteen. Wide eyes, wide mouth, rosy cheeks. Shoulder length hair and fair skin. She sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped over knees pressed demurely together. She wears a filmy white cotton shift.

  I sweep the room. It is larger than I thought. Center-fed, two blind spots, two cuts. Comfortable. I expected a hovel, a bug-infested mattress on the floor. This place is clean, with a throw-rug next to the bed. The floor bounces with the beat of music playing downstairs. There is a dressing table and chair. A mirror for the girl. A collection of combs and brushes. On one corner of the dressing table, a dish with a collection of condoms. Bottles of hand cream and lubricant. Four lengths of leather cord wrapped neatly in coils.

  I look back at the girl. She tries to smile for me, but can’t quite pull it off. She looks frightened, ready to cry.

  Above the bed is a window. An old casement design. It has glass panes opening inward, and heavy plantation shutters opening out. The window is shut.

  I go to the en suite bathroom. Small, but a luxury in a place like this. A cheap shower stall and toilet. Plastic containers of air freshener sit open on the porcelain cistern. I smell pine and a whiff of bleach. This facility is the reason for the center-feed. The two cuts. I make certain the bathroom is empty, then join Mirasol and the girl. The two speak together in Spanish.

  “I’ve seen what I need to see,” I tell Mirasol. “How long do we have to stay?”

  “We paid for an hour,” Mirasol says. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I pick up the chair from in front of the dressing table. Turn it around, sit down. Mirasol is sitting on the bed next to the girl. The pillowcases are white, with a simple floral design. The bedspread is white. There are a pair of towels neatly folded at the end of the bed. Imagine what they are for.

  The girl looks confused. She was expecting a ménage à trois. Clumsily, she slips the shift from her shoulders. Embarrassed, I look away. “Oh, for… Cover her up.”

  “Relax, Breed.” Mirasol reaches for the girl and pushes the straps back. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

  “Not on a kid.”

  Mirasol takes the girl’s hands in hers and speaks gently. “Breed, this is Nevita.”

  I find it impossible to generate enthusiasm. “Hi.”

  My mind is on Hamza and the Quds killers. How many? I consider the size of the building and the number of rooms. Perhaps half a dozen Quds and twice that number of soldados. The two rooms at the far end of the corridor are probably not used as bedrooms. Logistics and administration. Nevita’s room must be the nicest one unless there is one like it on either end.

  “There are not many whores here.” Mirasol looks up from Nevita. “She says this is a VIP business. Only herself and a few other girls, all young. Only rich men and women come to see her.”

  “Ask her how many rooms are used for sex.”

  Nevita speaks quickly, gestures.

  “Two,” Mirasol says. “This one, and a smaller room at the other end. They keep the girls chained in another room across the hall.”

  “What are the other rooms used for?”

  Mirasol puts the question to Nevita. I don’t know much Spanish, but I understand “No se.”

  I estimate enemy strength. Six soldados and two Quds downstairs. I saw Hamza and one Quds in the hall. Based on the number of rooms, I make five or six Quds, plus Hamza. Twelve or more cartel shooters.

  Nevita and Mirasol are absorbed in conversation.

  Mirasol translates, tells me Nevita’s story. Mirasol provides context and fills in gaps from her own knowledge.

  The North America Free Trade Agreement came into effect in the early nineties. It destroyed industries in two countries. One country was the United States, the other was Mexico. The United States lost its manufacturing base as factories moved south of the border. Industrialists were happy to screw the unions. Automobiles, air-conditioners, clothing. Anything that relied on labor to assemble or stitch was moved. On the other side of the border, prices for farm commodities collapsed. Mexico found its agriculture business decimated.

  The result was massive dislocation on both sides. The American middle class, used to high-paying manufacturing jobs, was thrown out of work. Factories were closed. Entire towns in the Midwest were depopulated. Politicians urged men who had spent their lives building cars to learn how to write computer programs.

  In Mexico, hundreds of thousands of women migrated to border towns to escape poverty. American manufacturers built factories in places like Juarez. These are the maquiladoras, the border factories that prove globalism works. Their products flood the United States, duty-free. In Juarez, these factories employ a quarter of a million people.

  The maquiladoras prefer to hire women and young girls. Women are less likely to complain about low wages and poor working conditions. Less likely to unionize. Globalism works for the elites and government of both countries. But—the system is built on slave labor.

  American retailers followed the manufacturers to the border towns. They went to serve the American dream to the newly employed. Walmarts and McDonald’s sprang up everywhere.

  There were problems.

  The prosperity in the United States generated inflation on both sides of the border. America’s newly unemployed middle class were crushed. Only information econ
omy jobs could keep pace. In Mexico, an unfair economy developed. The average wage in Juarez is one-eighth the average wage in the US. On the other hand, the average cost of living is ninety percent that of the US.

  Two million people live in Juarez. Unemployment is close to zero. Economists call it frictional unemployment. When an employee leaves the maquiladoras, another comes to take her place. This state of affairs produces a more painful consequence. The women of the maquiladoras are disposable. They come and go. No one keeps track.

  Women who leave employment in a factory may do so for a better opportunity. Given the nature of the labor market, this is unlikely. Women and girls simply disappear.

  Nevita and her mother came to this world two years ago. They lived in a rented hovel and worked in the maquiladoras. The minimum working age in Mexico is fifteen. Nevita was twelve. She lied about her age. The American corporation that owned the maquila ignored the law. Bribed authorities to look the other way.

  Together, Nevita and her mother managed to make ends meet.

  Until a perverse economic development.

  China had been admitted to the World Trade Organization. The global elites found Chinese workers were happy to undercut Mexican workers. Mexicans accepted an eighth of the American wage. The Chinese accepted a quarter of the Mexican wage. The maquila in which Nevita worked as a seamstress closed.

  Thousands of jobs in Juarez vaporized. Nevita’s mother clung to her employment. Nevita searched for work but found nothing.

  One day, six months ago, Nevita was walking in the Mariscal. She was approached by a man. He was plain-looking, dressed in a clean suit. Polite and well spoken, he complimented her on her beauty. Told her he was a photographer. Would she model for him? It was humble pay, but more than she would make in a maquila. Desperate to help her mother, Nevita agreed. The man gave her half the money in advance. It was more than she earned in a week at the factory. She went with him to his “studio” at La Cueva.

  At La Cueva, he took the money back, raped her, and refused to let her leave.

  His friends raped her.

  They explained what they expected. Men with money came to use her. If she did not satisfy, she was beaten. They were careful not to mark the merchandise. Nothing that would destroy her value. They punched her in the belly. They struck her on the side of her head with the heels of their hands. So hard her teeth rattled. Nevita worked hard to please.