by Jace Killan
“Gracias,” Marco said, meeting the teenager’s eyes. They were filled with fear. No one else seemed to suspect anything as they dug into breakfast, but Marco recognized it. He’d had that same look in his eyes the first time he’d been asked to kill. Something was definitely going down and it involved the kids, at least this teenager.
“Hermanos,” Espinosa stood and addressed the group in Spanish, “some of you are wondering why we are here, and there are rumors that we will address. With Guzman in prison, it has fallen to his capos to handle our part of the cartel’s affairs. So, Guzman has asked that I serve as acting jefe in his absence.”
That didn’t make any sense. Marco considered it but quickly dismissed the thought of Espinosa with that amount of power. Guzman was smarter than that. Espinosa’s uncle served as another of the three Jefes. That’s how Espinosa became a capo in the first place, not that he’d done anything deserving. And the fact that Espinosa worked for Guzman instead of his uncle spoke volumes to what the cartel really thought of Espinosa.
“Guero,” Espinosa continued, “will be your new capo and I want to make sure that he gets the respect he deserves.”
With that introduction, Guero stood and placed a hand on Espinosa who sat.
“Thank you, Señor. Brothers, it is true that I will be your new capo. But that is about all Espinosa has said that is true.” He laughed and slapped the tabletop several times.
Espinosa looked up, face winced, mouth opened like he wanted to ask a question but couldn’t find the words. Guero returned a slight smile, that look a poker player might make before presenting his winning hand. Only Guero’s hand was a glock that he pressed to Espinosa’s head.
Others in the room withdrew firearms. Marco still gripped his but didn’t reveal his hand. To them, Guero shook his head. “I will end his life right now. Put your guns on the table.”
A couple did as requested; others merely lowered their pistols.
“Shoot him, you idiots!” Espinosa shouted but none followed the direction.
Guero spoke slowly, “Esta mierda has jeopardized an important part of the cartel’s business out of greed.”
“No...” Espinosa started, but Guero slapped him with his free hand.
“Shut up, mentiroso.” Guero turned his attention back to the group. “Your former capo thought it would be a good idea to sell cocaine through the MZs. He used our coyote routes to transport the cocaine into the US, compromising the route. Now we’ve got ICE and DEA all over us.”
“It’s not...” Espinosa’s words were silenced by a gunshot.
Marco winced at the sight of pink mist dissipating with the silence that followed after the blast.
Guero pushed the dead capo onto the floor and sat back down. No one moved, though Marco waited, ready, expecting Guero’s man at his left to try something at any second.
“Eat,” Guero smiled. “We have work to discuss. I’d like to get to know each of you, as I will be assuming all of this greedy bastard’s duties.” He spat at the dead Espinosa.
Marco relaxed. This had only been a hit on Espinosa, not a suspicion of the others. His clandestine involvement for the CIA could move forward as planned.
“Rigo,” Guero said to Espinosa’s right hand man.
Rodrigo stood, hands in the air. “Don Guero, I knew nothing of Espinosa’s activities, I swear it.”
“I know, Rigo. It’s all right. Sit down.”
Rodrigo hesitated until Guero rested his gun on the table. “Will you be my second?”
Rodrigo lowered his hands and sat. “Don Guero, I’d be...”
Guero’s man at Rodrigo’s side leaned over and with a quick flick of the wrist, sliced Rodrigo’s throat.
Rodrigo grabbed his neck. He squirmed, trying to talk as he bled out.
“Guess not.” Guero laughed and took a bite of the huevos rancheros. “These really are delicious. Eat, amigos.”
The grunt across the room from Marco stood, placing his hands on the table. He didn’t seem to have a weapon. “Are you just going to kill us off, one at a time?”
Guero retrieved his glock and aimed it at the grunt. “Both these dead traitors were on the take. They were doing their own thing, which is the same as stealing from the cartel. Are you on the take, Hernan?”
“Of course not.”
“Then sit down, eat your breakfast, and stop crying like a baby.”
Hernan sat and stared at his plate. Marco wondered if someone would slice Hernan’s throat, next.
Guero stood and knocked on the door. “Perhaps we need some tequila to help the digestion. I am not the enemy, you will see. These men, these cheaters, were our enemy. And they’re dead. Now, we have work to discuss.”
A dozen young men, none older than sixteen, entered the room. They each carried a bottle of tequila, capped with a shot glass.
The same youth that had served Marco earlier, presented the bottle.
Guero poured himself a shot and downed it. The other men started to do the same, though they struggled with the corks.
Marco sat his bottle down and using only his left hand, took his time, while paying more attention to the room. He held the 45, his finger in the trigger, ready for a cowboy quick-draw.
Guero slammed his shot glass on the table and laughed. “Drink friends. Drink to Jefe Guzman. Drink to the cartel.” He picked up the glock and shot the man sitting to his right.
As if on cue, the teen servers withdrew firearms and shot each of Espinosa’s men in the back of the head.
But Marco was ready. As soon as the youth presented the pistol, Marco caught him off guard, cocking him with an elbow. He used the same motion to shoot Guero’s man to his left, hitting him in the neck.
Instinct told Marco to stay low. He crawled for the door, bullets flying all around him. One struck his leg from under the table and another smashed into his shoulder when he stood to open the door.
11
Joaquin’s father, Jim Maxwell sat half asleep in church when his cell buzzed. He’d been meditating about Joaquin. That Sunday he hadn’t driven out to Graham County Penitentiary to visit his son. He’d almost given up on the effort. Each time he made the trip it ended in nothing more than a six-hour drive, there and back. Joaquin refused all visitors. And he stopped taking phone calls from his mom ever since Chorch died a month ago.
Fighting the thought that he’d lost both of his sons, Maxwell would’ve gone again, if only for the hope of seeing Joaquin, but Marco’s text changed those plans.
The encrypted message read in Spanish, “Movie’s over. Need popcorn. Heading to bathroom.”
His heart dropped. Marco, alive, was injured. Surely this had to do with that rancher Eldon and the dead mule. Maxwell kissed his wife’s cheek. “I’ve got to go in. I’ll call you later.”
As the good wife, she didn’t complain or whine or bargain, only smiled and nodded.
Maxwell left the chapel and called Lisa, his controller. “I just heard from Marco.”
“Is he all right?”
“No. I’m sure it’s related to that shooting a couple days ago. I told him to be on guard. Something happened and he’s wounded. He needs extraction from the safe house in Guaymuchil.”
“How’d he get down there?” Concern underlined her voice.
“Not sure.” Maxwell got into his leased Buick and spoke over the beeping as he started the car. “I suspect Espinosa was called in with his men. I think he ran a side business that put Guzman’s trafficking at risk.”
“If that’s true and your man’s compromised, how do you know he isn’t selling you out?”
“C’mon Lisa. I know Marco. He’s like my kid.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Do you think you can get approval for a jet?”
“Count on it.”
Maxwell would fly into the Mexican Marine base of La Reforma, nestled on the Gulf of California. There he would take the hour car ride to Guaymachil. He’d leave now and be at the safe house by 4:00 p
.m. He hoped Marco would make it. Maxwell cared for all his assets, but Marco, he loved like a son.
Marco hobbled from the restaurant through a side gate leading into a mechanic’s shop. He’d left a trail of blood for his pursuers, so he pushed himself through the pain to hurry.
A salon flanked the shop. Marco circled from behind the building and spotted his getaway. In front, a woman arrived in a brown sedan. Before she turned off the car, Marco snuck to her side leveling the firearm at her head.
“Get out,” he said in Spanish. “Now!”
She did, though she tried to take her purse. Marco needed it more than she did. He snatched it from her and she retreated in fear.
He sped away, ducking when his pursuers released several rounds through the back window.
He drove through a couple side streets as fast as he could. Being a Sunday morning, a few people strolled the sidewalks. The only vehicles on the street were parked along the edges.
Marco found the main road and blew through a stop sign. The closest safe house was in Guaymuchil, a twenty-minute drive. Prudence would suggest he ditch the car and find another ride. They’d be looking for the shot up sedan. But he hadn’t the time for such tasks, injured, with Guero’s men in close pursuit.
Marco addressed his shoulder first. It throbbed as if being hit again and again with every heartbeat. It oozed blood but not as much as it would had the round hit an artery. Had that been the case he would’ve passed out by now.
He peeled off his corduroy jacket and tossed it aside, then pulled down his t-shirt and felt around for the exit wound, relieved when he discovered the finger width hole in front. He searched the woman’s purse. Sure enough, he found one tampon that he unpackaged and inserted into the hole. His eyes blurred involuntarily from the pain.
Marco had been shot once before, at the young age of eighteen. The bullet had been a ricochet and tore into his gut. That pain didn’t compare to now. The cartel had several doctors on their payroll and he had received swift and excellent care for his gut wound. Marco didn’t expect to be so lucky with the CIA. Agents at the safe house might perform field first aid, but eventually he’d need the help of a real doctor if he lived that long.
He turned his attention to the leg. Marco lifted his pant cuff high enough to find a long superficial wound, damp but not oozing with blood. The bullet had taken a chunk of his calf muscle, but hadn’t touched bone. Still it pained him, almost as much as the shoulder.
A cell phone belonging to the woman sat in a cup holder between the front seats. Marco took it and texted a memorized number, knowing Maxwell would be on his way as soon as he received it. Then he turned off the phone and tossed it out the window.
The text was probably a mistake. The cartel would have already identified the woman’s phone number and had probably started to triangulate Marco’s position. They’d surmise that he headed to Guaymachil. But Marco needed his handler’s help if he were going to live. Maxwell would alert the safe house to be ready.
Fatigue sat in. His body begged him to close his eyes, a sign of his blood loss, but he fought the temptation by screaming and slapping his face.
Minutes later, he entered Guaymachil and made several quick turns checking the rear-view mirror to see if anyone followed.
Normally, he’d drive around for an hour or so, nowhere near the safe house to ensure he hadn’t been tailed and to protect the anonymity of the residence. But he drove a shot up sedan, seen by at least two of his pursuers and it would only be a matter of time before they spotted him. He’d have to forgo precaution. He wouldn’t last another ten minutes. He barely held on to consciousness as it was, and the cartel had eyes everywhere. They had won allegiances through fear, just as they had won his when only a teenager.
Marco pulled up to the back of the safe house, grateful to see the sliding wrought-iron gate open. A white man appeared, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and tan slacks. He waved for Marco to enter.
Marco hadn’t met this agent before, but they surely recognized him. Another agent appeared, this one Hispanic.
He tried to keep his eyes open as the Hawaiian-shirted agent helped him from the sedan, while the Hispanic agent backed the vehicle out of the safe house. He would drive it to another lot, drawing attention away from the residence.
Inside, with Marco on a leather sofa, a third agent administered first aid. Marco shut his eyes, giving into the pain. Several needle pricks around his shoulder indicated the anesthetic. It hadn’t quite set in when the man withdrew the tampon, shooting pain deep along his arm.
“That time of the month, huh Marco?”
Marco offered a delirious chuckle and passed out.
12
Maxwell arrived as planned, just before 4:00 p.m. A young officer serving in the Mexican Marines chauffeured him in a black sedan with diplomatic plates and tinted windows.
The Mexican government had cooperated fully with the extraction request from the CIA. The current government appreciated US assistance. The Sinaloa Cartel had become a real threat to the Mexican people. In many ways, they were similar to the Taliban or Al-Qaida or any other dangerous sect that used violence to control people.
This government had fought back, though not without casualties. Twenty-five thousand men, women, and children died the previous year in the Mexican Drug War, with over a million Hispanics displaced from their homes. The cartels terrorized the Mexican people, preying on their fears. And they did it all for money. So many lives disrupted from death. So many more obligated to the cartels because of their help into the US where a Mexican might find adequate compensation for their labors. Either way they were all beholden to the cartel.
At the safe house, Marco crawled in the back of the sedan, next to Maxwell.
Maxwell patted his man on the leg. “So how you been?”
Marco laughed uncomfortably. “Good now.”
Marco slept most of the way, back to the marine base in La Reforma.
A couple miles from the base, the sedan passed over a hill as the terrain lowered toward the ocean.
Maxwell admired the sun dipping in the horizon when the windshield cracked, then the sedan swerved. A single shot had struck the driver in the chest. The young officer gasped for air but struggled to maintain control of the vehicle.
Maxwell and Marco ducked as the sedan cracked and popped from more gunfire.
Maxwell withdrew his pistol from under his suit jacket and handed it to Marco, then took out the .357 he carried around his ankle.
The car continued downhill though it veered off the road, scraping against a barbed wire fence and eventually resting when it hit a wide fence post.
More shots pinged the side of the sedan, though they didn’t seem to pierce it. The shooters were too far away.
Trapped, Maxwell couldn’t open his door because of the barbed wire fence. The officer in front had fallen unconscious, if not dead. Marco crouched as low as possible, avoiding the spitting bullets finding their way through the windows.
Maxwell shoved Marco lower to the floor. He stole a peek out of Marco’s shot up window for the direction of the gunmen. He spotted two, coming down the embankment, guns raised at their direction. He ducked as another barrage of fire wisped around him.
Shots sounded from up the road. Maxwell had hoped for this. The second vehicle had left the safe house minutes later and followed several miles back to assist if Maxwell’s vehicle had spotted any followers.
The shots were enough to distract the men and Maxwell popped off several rounds at the shooters, hitting one in the leg. Marco tried to sit up, but Maxwell used his hip to keep him down.
The shooters returned fire. One round managed to penetrate through the vehicle and lodge into Maxwell’s left arm.
Shots came from up the hill and the already wounded shooter dropped to the ground.
In desperation, the remaining shooter charged at Maxwell’s vehicle, launching several rounds into the side door. Four found their target, one lethal, splitting Maxwell’s h
ead.
Marco lay in silence, holding his breath. His ears searched for anything from his friend lying on the seat above. But Maxwell didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He was gone.
Marco sat up, aiming his pistol at the charging shooter and fired. The bullet countered the man’s momentum as it plowed through his head, toppling him to the ground. After a moment of stillness, two men Marco had met at the safe house called out and approached the sedan.
Marco’s own leg burned, and his shoulder wound bled again, but he didn’t care about any of that. His friend, the man he considered to be his father, was dead.
13
Today, so far, he was still six years sober, Joaquin stared at the teenth of pink crystal. He hadn’t removed it from the plastic bag, though he knew from all of his classes and sessions that he had already passed the line. After years of sobriety, government mandated or not, he had easily found a dealer and acquired that which destroyed so much of his life.
He wanted to forget. Forget the pain, the hurt, the shame. He wanted to escape. Meth would aid that, for a time. The teenth would last a few days. But then what? He’d get more. He’d use more, escape more. He’d grow paranoid from not sleeping. He’d lose twenty pounds from not eating. And everyone would know that he was still a junkie.
For some reason this had seemed acceptable to him before prison. He could live with the thought of being a junkie because his father had cheated on his mother. But his father hadn’t actually cheated—instead he worked for the Central Intelligence Agency—he was a hero.
Chorch was a hero too. Joaquin had rebelled against the greatness gene and instead, became a looser junkie who took away Brina’s life. He could no longer justify his addiction. His mind filled with disappointed eyes. His mother, father, brother, Brina. And here, now, he was about to use again. If heaven existed, would Brina be there? Did she look down on Joaquin now? Watching him betray her all over again? What of his grandfather?
