Rancho Buena Fortuna

by Bill King

  “Remember what I said, you spoiled little girl. You may have convinced whoever the new owner is to move me out of here, but the Rancho was my home for over five years. I’ll be back and, when I am, it’ll take more than your pitiful security to stop me from retaking control. You can count on that.”

  He turned and began walking toward the door to the front entrance hall.

  “As the Americans say, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out,” she said meekly, but with as much false bravado as she could muster.

  He paused momentarily, then continued walking out of the library, leaving the double doors wide open. That went well, he thought to himself. Most people were scared to death of him and so, apparently, was she. He needed to keep it that way, although something about her gave him pause.

  He had tried discretely in the past to check up on her background but had come up with nothing. From what his sources could find, there was no prior relationship between her and El Coronel. None whatsoever. That worried him because it meant that her connection—and there surely was one—was someone even higher up the food chain, which could only mean one man. The man known only as El Indio.

  That scared him, and Chucho didn’t scare easily.

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 4

  BERNARD LEFEBVRE WAS A long way from his old stomping grounds in Marseille, a grimy port city in the south of France that is to blue collar crime what the Vatican is to Catholicism. He was known throughout the shadowy underworld of narcotics traffickers and global sociopaths as “The Frenchman.”

  Tall and rail thin, he looked much younger than his fifty years. His lean, muscular body was covered from head to toe with tattoos and his hair was still jet black, with a slight graying at the temples. His steely blue eyes had been known to bring fear to the hearts of even the most hardened criminal.

  Sitting in the wrought iron armchair next to him was an elegant looking man in his sixties who appeared to be the polar opposite of The Frenchman. Guillermo López Navarro was a wealthy lawyer from one of the most prominent and distinguished families in Monterrey, a pillar of Mexican society, a man universally respected by his countrymen for his lifetime of benevolence and good deeds.

  He was also the leader of a criminal enterprise that stretched across six continents, and his voracious appetite and insatiable greed probably meant that Antarctica would soon be on his radar for expansion, as well. He was known by reputation throughout the shadowy underworld as El Indio…and he was not afraid of The Frenchman. Not in the slightest.

  The idea of adopting the nom de guerre had been his father’s idea, back when he was a young man just learning the family business. It was the perfect misdirection. After all, nobody would ever associate the elegant looking aristocrat with a legendary criminal who went by the cryptic name of El Indio.

  “The sun setting on the Rio Grande is even more spectacular than you described, Memo,” said the Frenchman. Memo was a common nickname for Guillermo.

  The two men were watching as the sun set along the river as it bent to the west, sipping sugar-saturated expresso and engaging in small talk. A young woman wearing a bright flowered sundress and sandals stepped through the French doors from the library and out onto the sprawling stone veranda just off the main house of the Rancho Buena Fortuna.

  “Ah, Gracie, it’s so good to see you,” said the elegant man as he turned around to face the house. He pronounced her name “GRAW-see.” The two embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks. “Allow me to introduce Bernard Lefebvre.”

  Graciela and The Frenchman shook hands. She was mesmerized by the man’s appearance. If, as a child, she had been asked to draw a picture of the devil, he would have looked a lot like this.

  “I apologize for not meeting you when you first arrived, Tio Memo, but something came up in the Bunker that I needed to attend to,” she said, smiling and gesturing for the two men to sit back down in the cushioned wrought iron chairs around the stone fire pit.

  There was a slight chill in the air.

  She did not want to mention anything about Chucho’s visit earlier in the day, especially not in the presence of someone she did not know. She had shown weakness, a fear she had not yet fully overcome. Perhaps she would tell the old man later. She hated the thought of disappointing him, but she knew in her heart that he would use it as a positive teaching moment, as he had her entire lifetime, and she would be better off for it.

  “Not at all, my dear,” said López Navarro, nodding in the direction of The Frenchman. Good manners were important to both men, who were of another generation. It was what separated them from wild animals, the old man always said. “Bernard and I have entered into a business agreement that involves putting the Bunker into operation, kind of a test drive to work out the bugs before we put it into full-scale operation.

  “Excellent,” said Graciela, clasping her hands in delight. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  “It involves moving several high-value operatives back and forth across the border,” said Lefebvre, speaking in a French-accented Spanish, with just a trace of Italian thrown in. He also spoke a serviceable English, German and Russian, too, all required languages in his line of work.

  “That can mean a lot of things,” she said, smiling nervously. “Could you be a little more specific?”

  The Frenchman smiled, leaning forward slightly and looking her square in the eyes. She was so innocent looking, not at all how El Indio had described her. He had expected her youthful appearance, but not the innocence. He wondered how this collaboration would work. Maybe El Indio’s judgement was clouded by his fondness for the girl.

  “Our primary focus will be on moving bad people, rather than bad things,” he said, smiling, before adding, “Not that we won’t also move bad things with them.”

  “Well, that explains some of the more exotic features you had me work into the blueprints, Tio Memo,” she said, immediately thinking about the lead-lined underground storage room. She glanced at the old man before returning her attention to the Frenchman. “The more I know about your goals and needs, the better I can help you.”

  She exhaled slowly, placing her left hand on her right forearm, as if to steady it. This man frightened her, yet she was able—so far, at least—to have a conversation with him as an equal. She smiled inwardly. She was learning. She was steadily growing into her new world, her new profession.

  Perhaps her reaction to Chucho earlier was just a momentary backslide. Next time, she would be ready for surprises.

  El Indio sensed her feelings and gently placed his hand on hers, smiling with pride. She would be his legacy. She would eventually assume control of his criminal empire once she was ready. It could be in three years, it could be in five, but she was definitely the one. He had recognized her potential by the time she was three. He and his wife loved her as if she was their own flesh and blood.

  “So, Mr. Lefebvre… may I call you Bernard?”

  “Of course, Gracie,” he said, removing an unfiltered Turkish cigarette from the sterling silver cigarette box on the coffee table in front of him and lighting it.

  “Well, before I show you around the Bunker, Bernard, perhaps you can give me a quick sixty-second summary of what you plan to do so that I can better tailor my tour to meet your requirements,” she said, her body relaxing back in her chair, her self-confidence growing by the minute.

  El Indio smiled and relaxed, too. This meeting was a big test and, like each of the other tests he had put before her over the years, she was passing with flying colors. The criminal empire the Lopez family had secretly built over the generations would continue in good hands.

  The Frenchman took a deep drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke back out through his nostrils before beginning, in a conversational tone, “My representative in this endeavor will be a young Venezuelan by the name of Mateo Calderón …”

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 5

  CHUCHO—HIS REAL NAME, at least according to
his identification documents, was Jesús Ramirez Colón—was not the type of man to be worried, probably because he wasn’t smart enough to be worried. He was, however, extremely cunning and he reacted to events, rather than shape them. That was how El Coronel described it, anyway.

  Today, though, he was worried.

  Who was that gringo with the fishing pole? Sure, Paco and Miguelito were still teenagers, but they were both experienced street fighters. The gabacho had dispatched them both with the skill and swiftness of a professional, and not just any professional. The way he moved, the way he handled that knife, the way he put two bullets into Miguelito…all within the blink of an eye. No, this man was different.

  Two days had passed since the incident, but he still couldn’t get the image out of his mind. His split-second instinct had told him to get the hell out of there, and he always followed his instincts. That’s how he had remained alive in this cutthroat business.

  He didn’t consider it running away. He considered it a tactical retreat because that’s what El Coronel always called it, a tactical retreat. Besides, he was responsible for the two bags of money they had left secured to the dirt bikes.

  The truth, though, was far less cosmic. He had tucked his handgun inside one of the money bags—which they had left secured to the dirt bikes—because the barrel had been jabbing him in the back during the getaway ride. Therefore, he was unarmed when they accosted the fisherman, a screw up that had left him with only one course of action: to run away like a frightened little girl.

  He had decided not to share that part of the story with El Coronel.

  Fortunately for his reputation, the only other witnesses to the incident, besides the gringo, were both now dead. Still, he had to find him and eliminate him because a man like that posed an immediate and dire threat to his future plans for south Texas. That topic would be on the top of his list of things to talk about with El Coronel when he flew down to Monterrey that afternoon to meet with the Federal policeman.

  One thing was certain: the gabacho had to die. Before he could do that, though, he first had to find out who the man was.

  ◆◆◆

  The private Embraer Phenom 300 touched down at General Mariano Escobedo International Airport in Monterrey, Mexico, a little past three that afternoon. As the five passengers exited the plane, they were met by a large black SUV that took them and their luggage to the private jet terminal, a modern facility that had just undergone a major renovation befitting its affluent clientele.

  Among the passengers was a short, stocky man with a face reminiscent of a troll. He was dressed in an off-the-rack suit that was about a size or two too large. El Coronel had given him a couple of thousand dollars before he left for the States last year and told him to buy a decent suit…a dark suit, not a bold pastel color that the old Chucho probably would have chosen.

  Clothes make the man, he had said, and Chucho had smiled broadly. He had never owned anything other than secondhand clothes before and had purchased the suit he was wearing at a men’s store in the North Park Center mall in Dallas soon after arriving in the States a year ago.

  “Oye, Chucho, look at you,” the customs agent said, grinning from ear to ear. “You look like one of those rich bankers.” The two of them had worked together for a couple of years as young teenagers in Monterrey. The customs agent had gone on to a career in government service, while Chucho had continued in sales and customer service, so to speak.

  Chucho smiled and embraced his old friend. “Good to see you again, Pepo. Remember, same as always. You never saw me. I was never here.”

  “Of course, my friend,” the man replied, handing him back the identity papers with his picture and the name, Arturo Gómez. “Until the next time I don’t see you.”

  The drive north out of the city to the sprawling hacienda belonging to Coronel Jorge Velasquez Marin—his nom de guerre was El Coronel, despite the fact that no such rank existed within the Mexican Federal Police—took less than forty-five minutes. Chucho loved springtime in northern Mexico and, despite his excitement at being able to build something of his own in the ‘Promised Land,’ he still missed his homeland.

  Twelve months prior, Chucho had been sent to the United States by El Coronel to facilitate the expansion of the corrupt policeman’s burgeoning drug trade north of the border. He had spent a year in Dallas learning the ropes from the American side, as well as polishing up on his English. El Coronel felt he was now ready to implement his expansion plans into the American distribution network.

  Chucho was at heart an enforcer, a man who made his bones with his fists and with his gun. He had risen through the ranks to become El Coronel’s righthand man, especially when that hand was needed to batter people into submission. He was still trying to get used to traveling with bodyguards, instead of being the bodyguard himself. He still loved to fight and hated having to stand by and watch as someone else had all the fun.

  It was a little before four when the black Cadillac Escalade transporting Chucho pulled up to the outer security checkpoint, which was located about a mile down a dusty gravel road from the main ranch house. Even though they had instantly recognized Chucho sitting in the back seat, the two well-armed men gave the vehicle a thorough inspection before lifting the bar and allowing the vehicle to proceed.

  They had not forgotten an incident two years earlier, when one of the guards, having recognized Chucho, immediately waived his vehicle through the checkpoint. Chucho instructed the driver to stop, got out of the vehicle, and shot the offending guard in the stomach. It took the man an hour to bleed out, and Chucho warned the other guards not to render any aid and comfort. Lesson learned.

  Chucho was obsessed with security.

  Jorge Velazquez Marin, who went by the appellation of El Coronel, was standing in front of the hacienda waiting for him, leaning casually against one of the limestone pillars on the front porch, He was smoking a fat Cuban cigar as Chucho’s vehicle pulled up in front of the well-manicured home that had once belonged to a wealthy industrialist from Guadalajara.

  No one ever asked how a Mexican federal police officer could afford such a property. Perhaps it was out of politeness but, most likely, it was out of fear because they intuitively knew the answer but preferred to pretend otherwise.

  “Ah, the prodigal son returns,” the policeman said jovially, his face beaming with pride as he embraced the man who had become almost like a son to him. “We have much to talk about.”

  The two men turned and walked through an exquisitely hand-carved rosewood door and into the sprawling hacienda. Chucho was brimming with confidence. The suit. The ride on a private plane. The invitation to visit El Coronel’s home. He had made it. He was now a somebody.

  “I received a phone call this morning that concerns me,” said El Coronel, as he led Chucho to his library, a comfortable room covered with dark oak paneling from floor to ceiling. Three of the walls were lined with built-in bookshelves, while the other was dominated by several tall windows that looked out onto the terrace garden.

  Chucho was flattered that El Coronel seemed to be about to share something important with him. He felt it was an indication his stature was continuing to rise in the eyes of the boss.

  “Is it anything I can help you with, mi coronel?”

  “Actually, it is,” the policeman said. He was dressed in blue jeans and a sweat-soaked blue work shirt, having spent the past two hours riding around on his tractor mower. He considered it good therapy, an activity that allowed him to rest his brain at times of great worry, and it enabled him to pretend he was a man of the soil, a man of the people. “It was about you. I understand that you paid an unannounced visit to the Rancho.”

  “Is that all?” he replied, sounding relieved. “I just wanted to see the old place again. I have a lot of fond memories of my years at the Rancho. Why should that be a problem? Did little Graciela call you to complain?”

  “Chucho, my boy, do you remember when I gave you your new assignment in Texas a year
ago? Do you remember what I told you?”

  “Yes, mi coronel. You told me to forget all about the Rancho, to focus all my attention on my future assignment in America,” he said, beginning to understand that his spur of the moment decision to pay a visit to Graciela may not have been such a good idea after all. “I didn’t think one little visit after twelve months would be a problem.”

  “Chucho, I want to you listen, and listen very closely this time,” he said sternly. “You are never again to go anywhere near The Rancho—never, not under any circumstances—unless I tell you it’s okay. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, mi coronel, I understand.”

  “This is for your own good, my boy. Trust me on that score.”

  Chucho said nothing. His eyes downcast, he simply nodded his head in acknowledgement, like a chastened little boy who had just been scolded. El Coronel had given him a lot of leeway over the past year to run things as he saw fit. It was part of the learning process, the policeman had always told him. Now he was learning that even carte blanche authority came with restrictions.

  “Now, Chucho,” said El Coronel, changing the subject. His tone of voice instantly changed from somber to all business. “Tell me more about this mysterious man who killed your two men.”

  ◆◆◆

  It was late Monday afternoon in the nation’s capital and Mondays always put people in an irritable mood.

  “Ah, Calhoun, there you are,” said Albert Hennessy, the Assistant Director of the FBI’s Inspection Division. “Please, come on in and take a seat.”

  Reggie Calhoun, a mid-level agent who had been with the FBI for the past fifteen years, walked into the sleek, modern office, where two well-dressed individuals were already seated around a small conference table. The two nodded in his direction as he sat down in the empty chair at the end of the table, but neither said a word.

  “I am forming a Shooting Incident Review Group and I’d like you to run point on the investigation,” said Hennessy, a career lawyer with twenty-five years in the Justice Department before his appointment six months earlier to head up the Inspection Division. His perfectly groomed white hair was a testament to the two-hundred-dollar haircut he had received in his office thirty minutes earlier by his high-priced personal barber.