by James Samuel
“Finally, Rosher has got what he deserved. Even a fixed election and the threats from Quezada could never get this man elected now. Cowardice goes against everything we value in our culture,” said Diego.
“How’s the arm?”
“Good enough. A few more days and I should be able to shoot my gun. That’s all I need.” Diego paused. “I can still feel it hurting in the night, though.”
“What do you know about Vargas?” asked James.
Diego’s expression darkened. He leaned back in the chair and pressed the back of his head against the red stone wall of the doctor’s courtyard.
“Vargas is one of the most vicious men in this part of Mexico. A lot of the massacres in Celaya have been traced back to him. Not that anyone can prove anything and not that the police have taken anything seriously, though, but everyone knows it’s him. He leads most of the attacks on Quezada’s behalf.”
James nodded. “Not a man to be taken lightly then.”
“He’s a man who can take care of himself.” Diego’s arm twitched. “Vargas wouldn’t rely on a lucky shot to take someone down.”
“So how would we go about finding him?”
Diego crossed one leg over the other as James waited with bated breath. He didn’t know where to look for Jessi Montoya and Sinclair hadn’t been in touch at all after he’d kidnapped the governor. There had to be a way to find her, but without one of Quezada’s lieutenants, he had no clues.
“Vargas is an animal, but he isn’t stupid. He’s not going to come out into the open for any reason. Quezada will have put his lieutenants on high alert. The problem we have now is Rosher’s wife knows who we are, even if she doesn’t know you by name.”
“Which means?”
“The war is going to get worse. Keep your head down.”
Dr. Silva appeared in the doorway, a worried look on his face. “You boys are in trouble. I just read online that a small bus has been attacked outside of León. One of the third-class buses.”
James turned to him. “Who?”
“Santa Maria, I think. There’s not much information on this yet, only rumours.”
“Why is it important to us?” asked Diego.
“The same as always in this country. They attacked the bus, killed everyone on it, and then set the bus on fire. You boys have unleashed something you can’t control.”
James chewed his tongue. He didn’t want to imagine how many innocents were on that bus, or how many of them were women and children. Quezada had escalated matters, and it was all his fault. All because he’d not taken the precautions needed to ensure the governor and his wife didn’t squeal.
“Miguel,” said Diego. “I don’t think James should go home again, do you? How much do you want to keep him here?”
Dr. Silva muttered something unintelligible under his breath. “Keep him here? I’m not sure you should even be here now. If they find you, they’ll kill me too.”
“Anything you want, Miguel. Tell me what you want, and we’ll get it for you.”
Dr. Silva made a strange growling sound deep in his throat. He no longer looked at Diego but focused on a point above his head as he considered the proposition. James wanted to intercede. Dr. Silva had done more than enough to aid them. He didn’t need to do anything more.
“I want to leave Mexico,” said Dr. Silva. “This land is cursed, and it won’t get better during my lifetime. Even now, I fear for my life whenever I leave this house.”
“I thought you said you didn’t need the money,” said James.
“Money has never been the problem. Getting visas to retire somewhere else is.”
James narrowed his eyes. “An esteemed doctor like you?”
Dr. Silva stepped away from James with his hands clasped behind his back. “Not so esteemed as you might think. I worked in the United States in the ’80s. Illegally. I crossed the border with Texas and worked as a private doctor. They deported me after seven years.”
Diego chuckled. “You see, James, not everyone is as good as they seem.”
“In any case, America is the only place I would want to go. My brother lives in California. He’s old, but I’d like to go to him. But they would never give me a visa after being deported.”
“We could arrange that,” said Diego.
James snapped his head to Diego. Could they really arrange a visa for someone who’d committed a crime?
“How?”
“We have powerful friends who don’t need to worry about ordinary regulations. That’s all you need to know. You let us use your house as a base and you can fly into San Diego, Los Angeles, or wherever you want to go. I could even get them to give you a green card.”
Dr. Silva didn’t look impressed by those fantasies, but apparently, the romantic desire of spending his final years as a legal resident in the US won out. He gave a slight nod and departed into the house.
James lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “How are you going to do that? We don’t know anyone who can give him a residence permit to stay in the US.”
Diego laughed. “Oh, James, you don’t know who I know. I could get a drug lord a green card if I wanted to.”
James folded his arms and threw his mind back to the task at hand. He’d lost the element of surprise. Quezada knew he had a price on his head now. He had made the connection between the foreigners and Montoya.
How many innocent lives would it now cost to take him down?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico
Fernando and Alex marched in lockstep as they left Tijuana Airport. Nobody questioned them as they showed their IDs to security. None of the few people hanging around the airport glanced at them twice. In more liberal Tijuana, their tattoos didn’t make them stand out in a crowd.
“Vargas has contacted me,” said Alex. “There’s a gringo working for Montoya now.”
Fernando laughed at that. “He’s really that desperate?”
“It’s no laughing matter. The gringo knows what he’s doing. He’s already killed some of our men. We tried to get him in León, but he survived and killed most of the sicarios in the restaurant.”
Fernando stiffened up. “He’s serious then?”
Alex nodded as he hailed a taxi. “I don’t think this guy is part of any cartel or has any interest in drugs. He’s too well-trained. One time you can call it luck, maybe some retired military guy, but this guy is something else.”
The taxi pulled over to the side of the curb.
“Playa de Tijuana,” Alex said to the driver.
From the border fence at the north end of Playa de Tijuana, Mexicans could look upon San Diego in its grandeur in the distance, forever wishing they could cross the fence. By Tijuana’s standards, this was a safe zone.
“What do we know about this gringo?” asked Fernando.
“Nothing, other than he’s white. Could be American could be European. What we do know is he’s working with Diego Gutierrez, a businessman. He used to work for the French Foreign Legion.”
Fernando didn’t speak as they drove through Tijuana’s maze of highways. As usual, the roads leading to the US border were jammed. It took them more than thirty minutes to get onto the main road for Playa de Tijuana.
He’d never felt any concern about being a narco before. The work was easy, and he always felt safe in the company of Alex. But if their rivals had hired foreign military types to fight their wars for them, it put him under threat.
Alex typed away on his phone during the journey, never looking up from the bright smartphone screen.
“Who are we meeting?”
Alex still didn’t look up from his phone. “Roberto Romero. He came across the border to talk business. I’m speaking to Quezada now about this business. It’s a big deal. The only problem is we’ll have to cut in the Tijuana Cartel. They’re small these days, but we need them.”
The Tijuana Cartel once reigned supreme over Mexico’s drug industry. The US had long targeted the Tijuana Cartel specif
ically. The years had passed, and the Tijuana Cartel was no more than a servant of its rivals that had long surpassed it. Still, their fall didn’t make the city any less treacherous.
They cruised down the main boulevard of Playa de Tijuana. The various restaurants sold a mixture of Mexican and American food. Fernando gazed up at the immense black border fence before them. He’d never touched American soil before, and with the open stretch of beach between Tijuana and San Diego, he didn’t think he would touch it anytime soon.
Alex commanded the taxi driver to pull over next to one of the few modern restaurants in the beachside area. He handed him the fare with a big tip attached. An amount to make sure he forgot everything he might have heard.
“I’ve never been this far north before,” Fernando remarked as he got out of the car. “It doesn’t feel like Mexico.”
Fernando observed the distinct lack of Mexican culture at the beach. Most of the people looked like American tourists or Mexicans pretending to be American. He inspected the elaborate artwork painted on the large concrete walls. The sea air from the Pacific tingled his nose as the wind blew inland.
“Come on, he’s here already,” said Alex.
They entered the El Rincon del Mar restaurant. The interior had windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, offering tremendous views of the yellow sands below and the crashing waves. Even inside, Fernando heard the sea growling as it lapped at the beach.
Only three or four tables were occupied in the restaurant. One man sat alone, in a crisp pink shirt with the top button undone and a glittering gold watch.
“Mr. Parejo?” Romero stood up from the table to grasp his hand like they’d been friends for years. “At last, we finally meet. I’m sorry your boss couldn’t be with us today.”
“Fernando Gomez.”
Romero gave him the same warm handshake. “Please, sit. The Sopa de Marisco is fantastic.”
The three men took their seats at the table and Alex said, “I just wanted to make it clear, Mr. Romero, that I have full authority to make a deal in Quezada’s name, so whatever I say has his blessing. I’ve just been talking to him on the phone.”
Romero smiled. “Good. And, please, call me Roberto. I don’t just want to do business; I want to be friends. Friends always make good business.”
Alex managed a brief twitch of his lips in return. “Quezada has already told me you’ve cleaned up your previous contacts in Los Angeles. We want as many guns as you can manage coming through both California and Florida.”
The waiter approached the table with menus in hand. Romero dismissed him with orders for beers and three soups. This meeting had nothing to do with enjoying a pleasant meal together. It was merely a cover so they could speak freely away from the increasingly brutal war in Central Mexico.
“California is the more difficult border. The president has increased security in the last year. Florida, we still have ways and means. The only difficulty there is the US Coast Guard.”
“Understood. The Tijuana Cartel will take control of your shipments coming through Baja California and into Sonora. In the east, we’ll handle it.”
“Very good. Look, if you want my honest opinion as a friend, what happens once those shipments reach Mexico is none of my business. I only take responsibility for them in America. I can’t make guarantees beyond that.”
Romero reached into his pocket and took out a packet of cigars. Underneath a sign on the wall reading ‘No Smoking’, he lit a match and puffed away. One of the waiters in the back seemed determined to try his luck, but one glare from Romero forced him to turn away. A couple of seconds later, another waiter appeared with an ashtray.
“Thank you,” said Romero.
“Are you happy with the terms?” asked Alex.
“Oh yes, very happy. You supply the requisite number of shipments in return. Again, I only take responsibility for those shipments once they reach the United States. The money is reasonable. I think we can do business together.”
Alex finally smiled. “Very good. I’ll tell Quezada right away.” He pulled out his smartphone and began typing away to Quezada again. “He’ll be very pleased.”
“Excellent,” said Romero. “There’s only one other matter I wish to discuss. You might say it’s the most important matter.” He leaned forwards. “How is Rasgado?”
“Rasgado?” Alex seemed taken aback.
“Yes, Rasgado. I heard you managed to get him in your pocket.”
Alex opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come out.
“We did,” Fernando piped up. “He wanted to become secretariat, so we agreed to help him.”
Romero turned his gaze on Fernando. “Good. Very good. Did you know he was in the pocket of someone else before that?”
Fernando shook his head.
“Rasgado was the backup option for Senator George Black of Florida. He planned on using him as a Plan B in case he decided to betray me. You see, Black comes from an old southern family. Hates people like us. You’ve done me a big favour.”
“Thank you, Roberto,” Alex croaked. “It wasn’t by design, but with Rasgado on our side, we’ll be able to control Mexico for a generation.
Romero smiled. “And I understand Camacho is not doing so well.”
Fernando twiddled his fingers in front of him. Alex, taken completely by surprise, crumbled in front of his very eyes. Awkwardness oozed from his pores knowing Alex would no doubt shout at him for embarrassing him afterwards. He was a bodyguard, nothing more.
“Rasgado is only part of the problem. You need more than that if you’re going to take control. With that, I can help you.” Romero bent down to pick up his black leather bag. He retrieved a photo blown up to A4 size. “Do you recognise this man?”
Alex squinted at it and shook his head.
“I do.” The heat built up in Fernando’s cheeks. “That’s Harrison Phelps III. The Senate majority leader in Washington.”
Romero raised his eyebrows. “Impressive. Yes, Senate Majority Leader Harrison Phelps III of Virginia. Similar to Black, a racist. You can date the Phelps family all the way back to the days of slavery. A big family. Very influential.”
“And… what does he have to do with us?” said Alex.
“Phelps controls politics in the US. He’s stalled hundreds of bills and they’re piling up. He’s ground the political process in the US to a halt. He’s made of Teflon. He can’t be destroyed no matter how low the opinion polls fall. This is a man you want on your side.”
“But how could we get to a man like that?”
“The same way I got to Black. Just because he comes from a distinguished family doesn’t mean that family is doing well. Phelps’ father and brother lost most of the family fortune. They have their big house in Virginia, but that’s about it. Most of Phelps’ salary is still being used to pay off the family’s debts.” Romero slipped the photo back inside his bag. “Imagine what he would do if we could help his family elevate itself to its former greatness?”
Fernando leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He felt giddy just thinking about it. A pair of Mexicans controlling one of the most powerful politicians in the United States.
“I’ve already made overtures to him. I’ll be meeting him at my mansion in Miami next week. Just thought I would give you an idea of what’s possible with our new partnership.” Romero got up. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Romero departed. Both Alex and Fernando sat in total silence at the table. The tension made Fernando fidget in his chair.
“The Senate Majority Leader of the United States,” said Alex to nobody in particular. “Who would believe it?”
“This could be a big opportunity for us.” Fernando drummed his fingers on the table. “If we get in with Romero, we’ll have him on our side. The power of the United States supporting us. That would make us more powerful than any other cartel in Mexico. We could absorb them all.”
“Shut up,” Alex snapped. “This is not your deal. Quezada wil
l decide. Know your place.”
Fernando swallowed his anger and stared off at the crashing waves. Maybe one day Quezada would see his potential. One day, he would force Alex to see it too.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Guanajuato, Guanajuato, Mexico
Weeks passed and the drug war in Central Mexico escalated out of control. Shootings at roadside taco stands, attacks on buses, a couple of homes burned to the ground. All James could do was watch and wait for an opportunity as they hid in Dr. Silva’s mansion. The thought of all these innocent people dying by the dozens tortured him, kept him awake at night. He’d never felt so powerless.
Diego recovered in the intervening weeks. Now he could lift a gun, drive, and would be able to kill without any problems. It had put him in a rare, good mood. He didn’t pay a thought to the massacres outside their front door.
Sinclair visited them at the mansion one early afternoon when the sun had reached its highest point in the sky. The three of them huddled underneath the dusty columns of Dr. Silva’s courtyard, donning sunglasses, and tall glasses of homemade iced orange juice.
“Diego, good to see you’re back on your feet again.” Sinclair patted Diego on the shoulder.
“Like nothing ever happened. Not the first time someone has shot me. Probably won’t be the last. You got something for us?”
Sinclair perched himself on the edge of his chair. “Mexico City has finally decided to take action. They’ve deployed the Federal police and some divisions of the army in Guanajuato, mainly around Celaya and León.”
“Great news, that should really help us,” said James with heavy sarcasm.
Sinclair ignored him. “A man called Rasgado was promoted as the new secretariat today. That’s defence minister in England. The last one, Camacho hasn’t done any good, so we’ll see how he does. They say the president is desperate.”
James shrugged. “Well, that’s warmed the cockles of my heart. Did you come all the way out here to tell me that?”
Sinclair sighed. “No. I came to tell you I contacted Jacob Finch today. I’m sure you both know him, even if you haven’t met him.”
