Los Zetas Cartel Collection (3 book series)

by AJ Adams

  On Thursday I tracked down the bomb-maker. I had a chat with him, during which he threw up on my shoes and bled all over my shirt. It turned out he’d not just designed and built the device, he’d planted it, too. An extra service for a customer he’d only met online and who had made a hundred dollar down-payment on Paypal, for fuck’s sake!

  This is the sort of thing that Arturo wants me to stamp out. It’s bad enough dealing with the other cartels without having every nerd in the country getting in on the act. So I sent a message that it wasn’t a good idea for self-educated incendiary device experts to sell their services. Not even if the mysterious online client puts down a tiny payment and convinces said nerd that the next payment will fund an entire semester’s tuition fees.

  I left the nerd’s body on top of his PC, hacked into eight pieces, all stacked neatly in a pile. Now you know why I wear black when I’m working. At least I didn’t have to tell his family the bad news or deal with the funeral arrangements.

  Friday was quiet, so I went to see Arturo to catch him up on events. He had some great grass, so with the help of that and a case of Dos Equis, we got totally crunk. I made it home, but I didn’t say a single word to Chloe before I passed out. Again, who’s the fucktard here? Me.

  Saturday was when they shot Gina, Arturo’s second cousin’s husband’s niece. She was at the wrong place at the wrong time – an ice-cream shop opposite an ATM – and got hit by a stray bullet when a gunman tried to rob a customer. Gina was sixteen. She’ll live, but it was a close thing.

  I got called out of a deep sleep and headed straight for town. I found the bastard who shot her within the hour. He’d holed up in an apartment and had taken a 16 year-old girl and her baby as hostages. I could have just shot him and taken out the kids, too, because nobody would have cared, but I decided to be a hero.

  I put down my gun, walked in and told him I just wanted to talk. He was stoned, on crack probably, and very, very nervous. I played on his paranoia by telling him they were watching him from across the street. He never even asked who “they” were. He just slid over to the window to see for himself, and in the split second he took his eyes off me, I shook loose the blade that I always carry up my sleeve and it was in the air, aiming right for his jugular.

  It would have been beautiful, except that the 16 year-old started screaming. The knife was already killing him, but he had just enough life left to take a shot at me. Of course I was moving pretty fast by then, so the bullet aimed at my chest just nicked my arm. He bled out a few seconds later, and that was the end of him. When I looked at him closely, I could see he wasn’t much older than the screamer. A great day for kids, Saturday.

  My people came running in shortly after and took care of the scene. It turned out that the teenager was working for one of our people, so I warned her that if she talked, it would be me coming to silence her. By this time, she knew exactly what that meant. I knew she wouldn’t say a word, but I sent her to Monterrey, just in case. She can come back when the fuss dies down.

  Then I went and sat in the doctor’s office for an hour. The bullet was an in-and-out so it just needed cleaning and some stitches, but it hurt like fuck and ruined one of my favourite shirts. I’d had it for years, and it was so soft from washing that it felt like silk. After I got fixed up, I went to see Gina. She’s going to live, but she’s going to have a scar. For a young girl, that’s a shaming thing. I let her cry it out, and then I had her mother all over me, too, weeping and hysterical. By the time I got out of there, it was late and I had a thumping headache as well as a sore arm. Both Gina and her mom had pounded the wound pretty good.

  So you’ll understand that I wasn’t exactly happy that week. The bodies were piling up so thick and fast that I was living permanently with the stink of death. But Chloe didn’t know. She just thought I was avoiding her.

  Chloe didn’t let it show, either. Concealing her thoughts and feelings, her true self, kept Chloe alive and sane during those two long years when she was being tortured and abused, and now that I was hurting her, she adopted the same strategy.

  That week Chloe wrapped up her real thoughts real tight, buried them inside her and behaved as if there was nothing wrong. No matter what time I came home or in what state, she’d have something ready for me, and I’m not just talking food.

  I’d forgotten about all about her asking me about my past and the way she behaved; it looked like she had, too. She was affectionate, she made jokes, and she seemed to have it together.

  I should have been a bit more open with her and told her I was having a bad week. Not share any details, of course, but just to give her the heads-up that there was a reason, actually several reasons, all of them dead bodies, that meant I was a bit preoccupied and absent for such long times. The truth is that I was selfish. When I come home, I don’t want to think about business. It never occurred to me that Chloe was jumping to all the wrong conclusions.

  I should have known that Chloe was showing me what I wanted to see. I should have known she was hiding her real self – the uncertain, insecure girl whose safety and very existence depended on the whim of one person – me.

  I can be such a fucking moron sometimes. What happened next was entirely my fault.

  Chapter 12: Chloe

  When I walked out, I kept off the road, walking cross-country. By this time, you see, I had a good idea of the lay of the land. I walked quietly, keeping an ear out for watchers. I was all ready to throw myself down on the ground or climb a tree to escape them, but I didn’t see a soul. After having had them hanging about in groups, all concerned about my safety, I took that as another sign that Kyle didn’t value me anymore.

  It hurt. I tried to tell myself that it was my own stupid fault. I told myself that I should have known better than to think he could be my friend – or anything else. I had let myself be conned with no more than soft words. I was an idiot. Rimjob had been right. Knowing that really hurt.

  I was crying as I walked along, and I actually thought of suicide again. I can’t swim, and the river wasn’t far away. But I knew I was kidding myself. I’ve got a super strong survival instinct. It’s the toughest thing about me. No matter how shitty things get, I really don’t want to die. So I stopped weeping like a stupid cow and got on with getting out of there.

  After about an hour of walking through the trees, I hit the main road. I looked north, and then I looked south. After thinking for a while, I began walking south to Reynosa. I thought it better to avoid Nuevo Laredo in case Kyle or one of the pack saw me there.

  It was pretty hot, and I was constantly worried that someone would pop out of the bushes and catch me. So I walked and trotted and walked again. I’ve done that a million times over a million miles of country, from Thailand to Poland because it’s the fastest way to get places when there isn’t transport. It also has the additional advantage of there being no official record of your movements, like bus tickets. I don’t mind covering vast distances on foot, but having to dive into the bushes at every sound wasn’t much fun. After a few hours, I was hot, sweaty, and covered in grass and dirt stains. I looked like shit, and I felt like shit. Not a good combo.

  It must have been close to noon when I saw the cherry top. It was moving fast, coming from Nuevo Laredo and heading for Reynosa. The car was silver and white so it was hard to spot in the melting heat, but I could see the little flashing light on the top from miles away.

  As it came closer and closer, I hesitated. Part of me said that I should hide. The other part of me said I should see this as an opportunity. Mexican police are corrupt as hell, but I wanted to get to a British consulate so I could get a new passport. Going along with the police would be the easiest way to go. After all, I had no idea where the nearest consulate was. For all I knew, it was in Mexico City at the other side of the country.

  So I stood there, and when they pulled up, I showed off the Spanish classes I’d been taking online.

  I didn’t tell them the truth, of course. I told them I was a t
ourist and that I’d come over from the US on a day trip. I told them I’d met this really handsome man, and that he said he’d take me to see a really authentic Mexican country restaurant, but when he got me in his car, he made a terrific pass at me...blah, blah, blah. And then I sighed and wiped away a tear, and told them that I’d fought him off and run away but that in my haste I’d dropped my passport in his car...blah, blah, blah.

  I was pretty good, actually. I put in enough hesitations to show them that I felt a bit stupid for getting into trouble, and I told a bare bones story so that I wouldn’t trip up on details if they asked questions. Also, the way I told it, it looked like I’d only just escaped being raped. I was hoping they’d feel all proud, rescuing a gringa tourist, and not ask too many questions.

  My tale of woe went down really well. They listened, nodded, told me to get in, and drove me to town. That’s where the trouble started. They were perfectly polite until they started looking at their computer records. Then there was a flurry of activity, and they were no longer smiling.

  “Your name?” It was a uniform with gold braids.

  “Chloe Jones.” I lied instinctively.

  You see, I’d remembered that my passport was with Arturo and I suspected that he wouldn’t have hung on to it for too long. Passports are worth good money, especially in a country like Mexico where people will pay a fortune for a new life in a new country. By now my passport and a new Chloe Smith would probably be in the UK, discovering that no matter what she’d been told, that the streets of London are not paved with gold. Alternatively, my passport would be in the hands of another courier, and she would have used it to exit the country weeks earlier. That would have been all right, except I’d told my uniform friends that I’d come in the night before.

  Lying about my name is normal for me because I don’t actually know my real name. When I’d been dumped at the hospital, they’d called me Chloe because it was written on my chest in marker pen. They gave me Smith as my surname in the first orphanage. So Chloe Smith is my legal name now.

  However, after I got caught in Lisbon that first time, I decided I’d better have a safe back up identity. I mean, you never know, right? So when I got back to the UK, I found this grifter, one Davy Jones, and in return for my sucking him off three times (yes, I was that scared and desperate!) he got me a back-up ID. Apparently there’s a Chloe Jones who died at birth. Lucky, huh? I’ve always wondered if that was really my name, and if my mum reported me dead or something.

  Anyway, now all this was finally coming in useful. I told them my name was Chloe Jones, gave them all the details, and was certain that it would stand up to any check the consulate might do.

  The two uniforms would have accepted it but there was a senior man hanging about in the background who wasn’t buying it. He was one of those buggers with a nose for trouble, and he knew something about me was off. That made me very nervous, although I tried not to show it.

  I would have bolted, but I was in the middle of a room full of uniforms so I couldn’t slip away. I went to the loo but that was in the back, next to the lockup. It had no windows, either. So I peed and went back to my plastic chair, trying to look cool as I waited. All the time though, I was worrying. Not just about the paperwork but also about Kyle. If he came back early and found me missing… Well, let’s say I didn’t want to see him mad.

  The two uniforms came back about an hour later, and they weren’t smiling. They had a chat with the senior man, and when he looked my way, he was smiling in a way I didn’t like.

  He oozed along and lounged on the edge of the desk in front of me. “What did you say your name was?” His English was perfect. That was a bugger. It meant I couldn’t pretend not to understand him.

  “Chloe Jones.”

  “There is no record of you entering this country yesterday.”

  Shit! This was not good. It was also unexpected. Police don’t usually check with immigration. I pretended innocence. “But I’m here, so that can’t be right! Maybe your computer is wrong? Can you check again?”

  “It’s not wrong.”

  “But I’m here! You can see that, can’t you?”

  “Ah, but am I looking at Chloe Jones?” he grinned nastily. “I don’t think you are an American tourist.”

  “I said I was British!”

  “I don’t think you are a tourist at all,” he continued smoothly. “I think you are one of the many people who come here for – shall we say, shopping?”

  “I do love your pottery,” I said, trying to smile.

  He slammed the desk with his hand and I almost hit the ceiling with fright. “You are here to buy drugs!” he yelled. “Do you think we are stupid? Do you think we don’t know? Who are you working for?”

  “Nobody,” I said. “And I haven’t a drug on me. You can look in my bag if you like.” I didn’t like the way he looked at me. “You can do a pee test,” I told him. “I’m clean!”

  “I’ll do more than that!” he yelled. “I’ll put you in jail for ten years!”

  “Call the consulate or the embassy,” I snapped back. “Tell them to check on me, and then you’ll see you’re wrong.”

  I was hoping that showing fight would make them think again, but they didn’t go for it. Two minutes later they were fingerprinting me, and then I was shoved into a cell. Nobody even mentioned the consulate or the embassy.

  I’ve been in jail in Lisbon and Battambang and I can tell you right now that the Reynosa version is about in between the two. Lisbon is in Portugal, so the jail was all new and had a flushing loo. Battambang was just a cage, pure and simple, with zero amenities except for flies, lice, cockroaches and really weird bugs that spurted out some sort of poison when they bit you. This cell was basically three brick walls and one side of steel bars. There was no bunk, and the loo was a hole in the floor in a corner. There was a tap fixed above the hole. It had no top and leaked constantly. It washed away some of the filth, but the hole was caked in crap. And I mean crap. The real deal. It wasn’t pretty.

  The first time I was chucked into a chokey I was dead scared. Prison can be a very dangerous place, but when you’ve been through what I’ve been through, you learn how to get along. Basically, you pick on the biggest cow there and belt her, and then everyone leaves you alone.

  When I looked round, I could see there would be no trouble here. There were a bunch of hookers, a few druggies, and the usual drunks. Nobody was looking at me. They just shuffled aside a bit and ignored me. All in all, it was a very civilised place with nice people.

  I put down my backpack, sat down on top of it, and waited. If it went well, they’d call the embassy or consulate, and I’d be out of here pretty soon. Even if there was no record of me crossing over, they’d probably not bother too much. It would have been different if I had a consignment with me, but I was squeaky clean. So they probably would chalk it up to one of those things, and kick me out of the country.

  However, when two or three hours crawled by and nobody came, I was getting a bad feeling. When I’d been sitting there for about five hours, I knew for certain that I’d boobed, because the two uniforms came to the cell. They had two friends with them, and all of them were grinning in a way I didn’t like. When they opened the door, everyone was suddenly crowding away from me and piling up against the far wall – in the same way sprats flee a shark.

  “Linda!” One of the uniforms leered.

  Pretty. Oh Christ.

  “I’m British!” I shouted. “Lay a finger on me and...”

  One of them leaned down and slapped me. It rocked me off my feet, sending me flying into the wall behind, and it made my eyes water. This was going to be bad.

  I scrambled away, trying to hold on to one of the whores who was pressed into the crowd on the opposite wall. Of course she started hitting me, terrified that they’d take her too, so I got a bashing from both her and the uniforms.

  There were five of them and one of me, so they pried my fingers loose and then the uniforms hauled me out
of that cell.

  I didn’t make it easy for them. I screamed, kicked, punched, bit and spat. If they’d done the right thing and just had two of them holding my arms, they would have been all right. But they all wanted in on the act, so there were four of them all trying to subdue me. There was a terrific few minutes when two of them thumped each other, but then it went downhill rapidly. They sorted themselves out, got me by my arms and legs, and carried me into a small room furnished with a mattress.

  At this point I burst into tears: it was pure fear. I didn’t give up, though. When they tore at my clothes, trying to rip off my tee, I kept my arms glued to my sides and kicked as hard as I could. I got into a corner and tried to keep them away by kicking, but they got hold of me and pulled me back into the centre of the room. Then one of them, he had a little moustache like Hitler, circled behind me and grabbed me. While he pinned my arms, the others quit trying to rip off my top and went for my jeans instead.

  I kicked and screamed and spat, but when there’s four of them against one, there isn’t a lot you can do. Two of them grabbed a foot each, and Hitler moustache lifted me up a little so I couldn’t get in any kicks. The fourth started unbuttoning my jeans.

  It took them forever but eventually the jeans were sliding down my hips, taking my knickers with them. I could feel my bare bottom bounce against Hitler moustache’s crotch. He had an enormous erection and the most hideous garlic breath. It’s funny how it’s the details that strike you when there’s real trouble. I mean, what the fuck does garlic breath matter when you’re about to be gang raped? Sometimes I don’t get the human brain, I really don’t.

  Anyway, to get back to the story, once my jeans and knickers were off, they all piled in. They shredded my t-shirt, so that disappeared. My bra straps had broken earlier in the fight; the remains just vanished into thin air, too. I was stark naked.

  They were laughing and joking, enjoying the idea of the gangbang to come. Their hands were all over me, pinching and grabbing. I was crying rivers by now and absolutely bloody terrified, but the second they threw me down, I bounced back up and I was fighting again and yelling for Kyle. I was still screaming like a banshee when they tripped me. I fell on my back, and they were on top of me.