by Jace Killan
“She’s fine. She’s got my dad’s pension and Chorch’s, too. Plus she collected a quarter mil when each were killed. And my abuelo left her some money. She’s good I think. She’d be better if I could make something of myself.”
“I’m sure she’s glad to have you home and sober.”
“I guess.” Joaquin took a sip of ice water. “Did you look into me joining the military?”
Spencer nodded. “Yeah.”
Joaquin’s heart sank. He knew what would follow. He could see it in Spencer’s eyes.
"I’m sorry, man. I really tried. They’re not going to let you in. I did everything I could to get you a waiver, but the severity of the crime...and the multiple charges...I’m sorry, Jaqui.”
He’d had his hopes up so high, he’d expected to be shipped off to boot camp tomorrow. The finality of Spencer’s words punched him in the gut. “The system’s rigged man. Sure, I’ve made mistakes, but I’m trying to fix that. I paid my debt to society. But that’ll never be enough will it. I’ll always be a loser low-life murdering druggie.”
“Jaqui. I’ve never looked at you that way. Chorch didn’t either. He never judged you, never wrote you off as a loser. He’d tell me how he wished he could be home more to spend time with you. He thought you were just going through some stuff and he didn’t know how to help. But to him or me, you’ve never been a loser. We’ll figure something out.”
Spencer continued speaking but Joaquin didn’t hear it. Something else grabbed hold of his attention. A blonde woman in red heels entered the restaurant. He’d seen her before. Rage churned Joaquin’s insides.
“What is it?” Spencer asked.
Joaquin dipped his gaze. “Did Chorch ever talk about my dad’s girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend?”
“I don’t know if he knew. He was deployed when I found out. I followed my dad once and saw him sleeping with her.” Joaquin nodded in the woman’s direction.
She wore a charcoal pantsuit and white blouse. She was older than the last time Joaquin saw her. Even though it had only been for a few minutes, years ago, and he’d seen her from a distance, Joaquin knew her face. He’d replayed the scene hundreds of times over the past several years.
Joaquin fought to control his breathing and for the first time since he’d gotten out of prison, he had a real urge to use. This woman and all she reminded him of, was an enormous trigger—one he needed to analyze and understand, but now he only wanted to run away.
Spencer’s eyes widened. He started to say something, but stopped when the woman approached.
“Spencer? When did you get into town?”
Joaquin’s jaw hit the floor. How did Spencer know this slut?
Spencer stood, shook hands with the woman and pointed at Joaquin. “Lisa, this is Jim’s boy. Joaquin.”
Lisa smiled though her face grew flustered, surprised. “Joaquin. I—I didn’t recognize you. It’s so good to meet you.” She extended her hand.
Joaquin couldn’t accept it. How dare this woman talk to him? She had destroyed his family. He clenched his jaw and looked back at Spencer who smiled nervously.
“You look like him,” Lisa said, a sniffle in her voice as she withdrew the hand. Was she really about to cry? Was it the memory of his dad, or did she suspect that Joaquin knew about the affair? “For what it’s worth. I’m so sorry about your father. He was one of the best men I’ve known.”
Joaquin found words now. “And I bet you’ve known a lot of men.” He laughed, not from humor but from nervousness and anger.
Both she and Spencer looked shocked, but that didn’t stop Joaquin. “So yeah, Spence, this is the lady that was screwing my dad.”
Spencer cocked his head, but didn’t look at Lisa who grew wide-eyed and shook her head.
“Jaqui,” she said, “your father and I worked together at the service. He’d never cheat on your mom.”
That caught Joaquin’s attention, pulling him back from the surreal. He looked at Lisa whose eyes were glossy with unborn tears. “Service?”
Spencer and Lisa shared a glance.
“My dad worked for immigration.” Joaquin’s mind sped up now.
“That was his cover, Jaqui,” Spencer said. “You didn’t know he was CIA?”
Lisa sat down across from Joaquin. Spencer sat as well.
“My dad was a spook?” Joaquin struggled to wrap his mind around this thought. Why hadn’t he known? Why hadn’t they told him? “Does my mom know?”
Lisa and Spencer nodded their heads.
Spencer said to Lisa, “Should I tell him?”
“I thought he already knew.”
Spencer shook his head. “You know Jim. By the book. And he was most worried about putting his family at risk.”
Lisa nodded.
Spencer cleared his throat and lowered his voice as he leaned in. “Lisa was your dad’s controller. They were on a task force developing assets within the cartels, so they could monitor drug trafficking, and more importantly human trafficking.”
Lisa’s eyes searched for Joaquin’s. “It’s true. Your father was an excellent agent.”
The frustration brought on by this news, this lie, and finding out that everyone else knew it except Joaquin crippled him. He tried to gather his thoughts and push past the doubts that somehow he’d erred in his accusation. “I saw you. I followed my dad when he met you at some apartments.”
Spencer’s head raised and eyes closed as he let out an audible sigh. “Oh Jaqui. The apartments on Thomas?”
“Yeah.” Joaquin stared intently, trying to read Spencer and Lisa’s expressions.
“That was our office,” Lisa said. “Your father would come in once a week to report on his assets.”
Joaquin looked at Spencer who affirmed Lisa’s assertion with a nod.
Joaquin couldn’t take it. Trapped. He needed to escape. He needed to get high. Meth called at him.
“Are you okay, Jaqui?”
His head ached. “Yeah, I just need to use the john.” He stood, vision blurred, head swirling. He walked to a hallway at the side of the kitchen. The bathrooms were located to the left, the kitchen to the right. Joaquin headed straight, right out the door.
9
Years ago, Not long after Joaquin entered prison, his father, Agent Jim Maxwell, stood over the body of the young Mexican, early twenties. Maxwell wiped the beaded sweat from his forehead and tried to imagine the journey this dead man had made across the blistering desert.
His death had been instant from the close range shotgun blast shredding his left shoulder and chest. The poor guy probably had no idea what waited for him on the house porch. He certainty hadn’t expected a pissed off rancher with a pump action Remington aimed at his approach.
Eldon, the rancher, pointed at the porch indicating where he’d stood when he fired. A chalk white rail surrounded the raised, wood-slatted floor hosting a pair of dusty plastic chairs and a blue igloo ice chest doubling as a coffee table.
Maxwell only shook his head. He couldn’t blame the guy. Eldon had been threatened, harassed, bribed, and assaulted. But he’d never know what that spent shotgun shell would cost Maxwell and the agency.
“Anything on Juan Doe?” Maxwell asked.
Shelly stuck her head through the faded white doorframe. “Just a bag.”
“Drugs?”
“Heroine. And a little food and water and a pair of socks,” came the answer.
Maxwell clenched his jaw, looking closer at the Mexican, dressed in dirty jeans and a button up short sleeve shirt. Who was he? Why had he come? According to Eldon there were two others, not the typical coyote group of a couple dozen. The other two got away.
That was very unlike Guzman, one of the jefes of the Sinaloa Cartel. He’d never allow one of his capos, most likely Espinosa, to jeopardize the coyote operation, by mixing it with a couple of drug mules. But the cartel jefe, Fernando Guzman was in lockup, serving in the same penitentiary as Maxwell’s son, Joaquin. Maybe Guzman had lost his gr
ip on the cartel, managing it from a prison cell.
This story didn’t match the cartel’s MO. Either Eldon was mistaken and this poor fool had just happened upon the wrong place at the wrong time or someone in the cartel rank and file screwed up. If the latter were true, they’d hear it in the news in a couple days when Guzman set things right. Either way Guzman would know about the death and the drugs, the damned reporters were already lined up at the front gate, restrained by a yellow strand of do-not-cross tape.
The story would hit the six o’clock news and Guzman would adjust. He’d change his tactics, his coyotes, his safe houses; everything would change. Maxwell’s inside man, Marco, might be reassigned or worse, he might be put out with his idiot capo. They had worked too hard and too long to lose their foothold now.
These thoughts weren’t productive so Maxwell forced them from his mind. They’d take the event in stride. Eldon had protected his ranch. Who could blame him? Last week a dozen cattle were slaughtered, the heads separated from their carcasses and lined up on Eldon’s front door step.
The cartel wanted his land and he refused to sell. He’d held out longer than any other in the area. When neighboring crops were burned and herds of cattle poisoned, most of the nearby landowners accepted the cartel’s offer to buy without even a counter.
Of course it wasn’t officially the cartel, and maybe some were naive enough to believe that the M-Z Ranch was an aspiring cattle company hoping to add to the US’s 9.3 million dairy cow population. Plausible maybe that they had no idea that the eme-zetas or MZs had combined with the Sinaloa Cartel, assisting in the land grabs to secure the coyote operation.
Maybe the dead Mexican didn’t realize he’d hiked through MZ’s coyote territory. But where’d he get the heroine if not from the MZs?
No doubt about it, the dead Mexican was a mule.
There were two ways for illegals to get into the United States—either way carried a cost. An aspiring immigrant could hire a coyote, a person in the business of human smuggling and trafficking. The cost from the border into the US ran about two thousand dollars. And the process would take three to four weeks, or more if they encountered any trouble.
The illegal would receive a backpack with supplies and start the arduous journey across the border. They’d travel over a hundred miles through brutal desert with a few dozen others and a coyote tour guide leading the way. They’d walk at night, sleep during the day to avoid the heat and detection, and eventually catch a ride once they made it past la migra, also known as Ice or immigration.
Rarely did the immigrant pay the two grand up front, but rather would sign an IOU to the cartel. The aspiring immigrant would collateralize any and all possessions, a house, a car, land, whatever, and they had two years to pay the debt or lose their assets, or their loved ones. Interest of the loan accrued at ten percent per month. This needed to be paid regardless. Failure to do so would lead to premature acceptance of the collateral or premature death.
The second way an aspiring immigrant could enter the United States illegally involved a different branch of the cartel—the mules.
Instead of paying coyote fees, the aspiring immigrant could enlist to be a mule. The cartel would also supply a backpack with some necessities, but add to it a twenty-kilo sack of drugs.
The immigrant would mule the drugs into the US in exchange for permission to cross the border. Cheaper, unless they were spotted, in such case they’d most likely receive a bullet to the head because dead help wouldn’t talk.
Maxwell wished this Mexican hadn’t died so he could answer a few questions. He’d been a mule, but a mule wouldn’t dare come across this way. The cartels had worked out the passage, smooth and private. It didn’t get the attention of the DEA. ICE was a concern but as long as nobody dead showed up on CNN, they were manageable.
The dead Mexican had alerted everyone, paid off or not, they had all come now, police, ICE, DEA, and even the agency, though no one knew of the CIA’s involvement.
They’d worked hard at acquiring anonymity and they weren’t going to let that cat out of the bag. Maxwell worked under the cover of an ICE agent. The cartels had no idea. If they did, his asset, Marco Aguirre would be assassinated and they’d lose years of clandestine groundwork. He’d have to let Marco know what had happened on Eldon’s front porch.
Maxwell nodded at Eldon in thanks. “The police will want to take your statement. But we’re done here.” He turned to the open front door. “Shelly?”
Shelly exited the home followed by another of their team. The three loaded in a black, unmarked Audi SUV and drove through the front gate, held open by a DEA agent. Maxwell offered a wave, and watched in the rearview mirror as the other agencies headed for the house where Eldon stood clueless, never knowing the storm he had ignited by killing that aspiring immigrant.
10
Marco Aguirre gripped the Colt .45 in his corduroy jacket. Since receiving Maxwell’s encrypted text message, Marco had been on edge.
Then Espinosa, one of Guzman’s capos called a meeting in Chihuahua. Rarely did the capos meet with all of their men at the same time in the same place, except for a change in leadership or when someone screwed up, requiring direct attention. At least Maxwell had given him a heads up.
Maxwell had recruited Marco to infiltrate the cartel nearly three years earlier. Marco, then in his early twenties had jumped at the opportunity. He hated the cartel, particularly Guzman, who’d had Marco, at the age of fourteen, kill a man. Guzman had threatened to personally rape and kill Marco’s mother, if he didn’t perform the hit. Since then he’d killed dozens for Guzman and the cartel out of fear for his mother’s life. A few years ago, his mother died anyway, not by the cartel’s hand, but from cancer.
Now Marco served as part of cartel management and would be on the short list for capo whenever a spot opened up.
Marco noted the closed sign hanging on the front door of the restaurant. He entered through the back into a room void of windows. Inside were three others, all grunts, and no Espinosa.
Marco greeted the others, shook hands, and made small talk. A wide table filled the center of the room, surrounded by metal folding chairs, sixteen in all. By that count, the cartel expected the entire group in attendance and maybe a few more.
A door on the far wall opened and a teenage boy entered, carrying several baskets of chips, followed by an even younger girl holding a pitcher of salsa and a stack of black bowls.
Marco’s mouth watered. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, besides his usual Diet Coke.
A couple more men showed up and found seats near a basket of fresh chips.
Marco took a chip, warm and buttery, and dipped it into the bright red salsa, cool and tangy followed by a rush of heat. He ate another and one more.
He knew he needed to be on guard. This meeting could get ugly, and he had to be ready. He returned to the wall near the back door where he had entered. He leaned against the wall, his back in the corner.
Moments later, Espinosa entered with another of Guzman’s capos, Guero. Guero, nicknamed for his lighter skin, brought several others with him who joined the group at the table.
Marco gripped the forty-five. Every inch of his body screamed that things were about to get ugly. Of course, he could be overreacting because of Maxwell’s tip, but just as well, Maxwell’s tip might be the lens that could help him see what was really going on.
The cartel ran like a business, albeit a violent, illegal one. Capos were high-level managers, jefes the executives. Marco, one of the mid-level managers, a soldier, managed a few grunts still earning their stripes.
If the cartel suspected Marco was in bed with the CIA, he’d be eliminated whether the suspicion was ever substantiated or not.
Marco scanned the room, gauging the others’ nerves. Espinosa seemed giddy, showing off a new pair of silver-tipped boots. The others enjoyed the chips and salsa, and Marco fought the urge to join them. Even Guero and his men ate, an indication that the food hadn’t been poisoned.
Guero’s men socialized, but were on their guard. Marco could tell. Guero disappeared into the restaurant. Later, he returned and nodded to Espinosa who asked for those still standing to sit.
Marco selected the chair closest to the corner. He didn’t like the situation, but didn’t know how he could possibly get out of it without drawing unwanted attention and keep his cover in tact. He sat several paces from the closed back door, meaning it’d take ten or more seconds to get outside.
Espinosa took the seat at the head of the table, Guero to his right. Guero’s three men split, each at a side of the table. One of these, a slender scruffy looking vaquero sat next to Marco. His heavy cologne mixed with a sweaty musk turned Marco’s stomach.
In that moment, Marco regretted coming. He should have asked Maxwell to remove him from the cartel, offer him safe passage to the US where he could begin something of a normal life.
He quickly dismissed the thought. Perhaps this would only be a changing of the Capos. Maybe it would afford Marco the opportunity to get in deeper with the cartel. He’d have to wait and see.
Most likely everyone in the room was armed. If not, he was a fool. Guero would expect that everyone had at least one piece on them so he’d be prepared, even over compensate. Marco had two weapons—the Colt in his jacket and a smaller .357 around his ankle. He also wore a buck knife on his hip for good measure.
Guero wouldn’t try to disarm the men because that would draw suspicion. Instead he’d try to be as subtle as possible before the pounce. Still there were eleven of Espinosa’s men, so if Guero and his three were going to try something, they were already outmatched three to one.
Guero would use the element of surprise to level the field. And it could work. Hit the men while they ate.
The restaurant door swung open and several kids entered with plates of what smelled like enchiladas. One teenager sporting a budding mustache placed an oval porcelain plate in front of Marco. A large portion of huevos rancheros, filled the space, flanked by rice and creamy refried beans.
