Hawke's Fury

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Alejandro still talking to the owner. He noticed me. I pointed at my chest and then outside. He nodded.

  The aromatic, recently mowed grass was soft as a carpet underfoot. I could have been walking into an ambush. It didn’t matter. This was likely the guy I’d come to meet, the one who had called with the information I was looking for. I crossed the grass. The throaty rumble of a passing car engine was the only sound on the street.

  With the 9mm in my hand, I stopped fifteen yards and to the side of the little chapel’s gaping doorway. I spoke English. “Let me see you.”

  Hands splayed, a man reappeared, half in shadow. I expected him to whisper, or answer in a low tone. Instead, his voice was strong. “Come inside where we can talk.”

  “I’m pretty comfortable here.”

  “Yes, but there are eyes everywhere, Hawke.”

  Yep, this was my guy.

  The man had backed all the way to the rear wall of the roofless building to where I figured the altar once stood. I didn’t go straight in like someone stepping into a backyard shed, but checked the corners on either side of the doorway. Half of the room was filled with sunlight angling in from the west. It would be sunset soon, but right then there were no dark corners where someone could hide.

  We were alone.

  I repositioned myself to a side wall, so I could see him and the doorway. I sized him up. Dressed in jeans and a gold T-shirt, the young, muscular man stood somewhere around five foot eight or ten. His eyes flicked from me to the outside.

  I was relieved that he kept both hands to his sides. “All right. I’m here. Who are you?”

  “Call me Esteban. Some call me Flaco.” He saw my eyebrow raise. “I was skinny when I first came here. My real name can get many people killed.”

  “You have information for me?”

  “More than you can imagine.” His eyes were never still. “You might find it hard to believe, but I’m an American agent. Don’t ask me who I’m with, though.”

  “Nothing about this country surprises me. But how do I know you’re telling me the truth? Name the capital of Texas.”

  “Austin. Satisfied?”

  “Name the vice president.”

  He did, and I relaxed. “I only halfway believe you.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything else. There were two of us. One is dead. You know that.”

  “Cartels are careful about who they let in. There’s no way an American can infiltrate.”

  He was a good-looking kid, and his face lit up when he smiled. “Several years ago we came in as young men working undercover for the El Paso police department in one of their public high schools.”

  He saw my eyebrows raise again.

  “I wasn’t as hard-edged back then. My partner and I didn’t look our age. There was a huge flow of drugs in that area, and we heard they were moving it through the school. We passed for juniors. Our story was that we’d moved in from Arizona. Our paperwork was perfect and everyone bought it, all the way down to the girls and our teachers.

  “It worked better than we expected and we were about to shut the operation down and make the arrests when we found something even bigger. The cartels were changing their tactics here . . . there in the U.S. Instead of staying south of the border, they created independent cells in Texas, recruiting kids directly from the school. We gained some of the ‘older’ kids’ confidence, seniors, and our stories about moving to El Paso held up, and we were finally able to join.”

  My voice was harder than I intended, but I knew what they must have done to be completely accepted. “You don’t get in these gangs without initiation.”

  For the first time, his eyes dropped, then met mine. “I won’t talk about the things we had to do, but they were necessary to save lives then, and in the future. Once we were in, we moved up in the organization.”

  I knew what he meant but wanted him to say it. “You killed people.”

  He barely nodded.

  “Keep talking.” My stomach tensed, as if expecting a punch.

  “As my grandfather would say, hicimos nuestros hueses. We made our bones, and got so deep we can never get out.”

  “You became them.”

  “Yes, in a sense. But we still kept our morality.”

  “Really?”

  “The morality that binds us to the United States.” His eyes hardened. “Okay, we crossed lines, but for the better good.”

  “Judges back home won’t agree with that.”

  “Wouldn’t expect them to.”

  “So you’ve been in for years.”

  “Sí . . . yes. Some associations in the states admit there might be deep cover assets on this side of the river, but only our handlers have our names. Not even our families know about us. We simply vanished, like kids do all the time on the border. They think we’re dead.”

  Man, that was a tough one. This guy disappeared when he was pretending to be my son’s age. I wondered what I’d have done to find him. “That’s rough on the people who love you.”

  Pain flickered across his eyes. “Us, too. We’ve helped them, in many ways. What we did was to help keep them safe, or so we thought. Now I think all we’ve done is screw this country completely up, not that it was much better than when we arrived.”

  “You sound like those Washington spooks I’ve run into.”

  “Look, I’m not here to debate right or wrong with you. We were unique. There are no others doing what we do, but that all changed when you shot my partner.”

  My stomach flipped again, both from the recollection, and the information he had. No one but law enforcement investigators knew it was me who pulled the trigger. “The kid in the Movie Lot Massacre.”

  “That’s right. We were both supposed to be there, but the day before it happened, I was sent to . . . well, I wasn’t there.”

  “How did you know I shot him?” I couldn’t bring myself to say “kill.”

  “My handler told me. Word filtered down.”

  I wondered what else “filtered down.” “He was part of an attack that killed innocent people. All because they were making a movie.”

  He closed his eyes, nodded. The lids were tattooed with red eyeballs that seemed to stare straight through me. “Yes, he was, but the movie was based on the Devil Woman, and she prefers anonymity.” He held up a hand. “She exists, and she’s worse than any cartel leader you’ve ever heard of. Whoever wrote the script knew way too much about her operation, and the movie would have brought too much attention to her operation.”

  “It’s gonna be made anyway.”

  “You and I know that, but she thinks she’s stopped it.”

  “By killing innocent people. Your partner was there with an automatic weapon.”

  “He was, but we had a pact. On American soil, we carried blanks. We won’t kill our own people . . . innocent Americans.” He was trying to cover himself regarding the blood work he’d participated in.

  “You’re lying about that part. You don’t become cartel soldiers without killing people. If they found out you were loading blanks in your rifles, you’d be in a ditch before you could whistle Dixie.”

  He gave a wan grin at the reference. “Rationalizing what I do is the only way to stay sane. Once we started crossing back and forth across the border, we agreed we wouldn’t kill civilians.”

  His rationalization struck me as bullshit. “But you kill down here. You share the same DNA with these folks.”

  “Again, you don’t know what we do, and your morality has no roots this side of the river. Here, there are bigger fish to fry than you can imagine, and the information we’ve gathered is incredibly important.”

  That statement guaranteed who he was. No one but Americans would know how to use that phrase about frying fish. My stomach was still at my feet, though. Grinding my teeth to choke it down, I took a deep breath. “Why am I here? Why’d you call me?”

  He checked the door again. “Because I don’t want those old women k
illed, the ones in Del Rio. And there’s another, bigger reason, but I need to start with the fact that there are others on a list, also. Someone in Hawaii, and a baby. This has to stop. I don’t have much more time, so listen to what I have to say.”

  For the next five minutes he told me how border agents were recruited through threats and murder, how their families were targeted if the agents lost their effectiveness or if they failed. I learned Frank Nelson’s daughter in Hawaii was about to be just as dead as if she was in Texas. He told me Ruby Nelson and her sister in Del Rio were still on the list, and then he described a cartel drug pipeline that flowed from the border, all the way up to Interstate 10 in Texas, all protected by men who were betraying their departments, the state, and our country, but only to protect their families.

  He filled in a dozen holes in what I knew, but he wasn’t finished.

  “The person in charge of all this is the most evil woman I’ve ever met or even heard of. The Devil Woman of Coahuila is also from El Paso, and she’s behind all this. She’s about to start moving more than drugs or humans across the border. She is more horrible than you can ever imagine.

  “It’s going to get worse, and more people will be hurt, on both sides of the border. In fact, tomorrow night she’s sending a group across to test a new pipeline she’s put into place, and it won’t be just people from Central America. Everyone thinks it’s just people from Guatemala or Honduras, but I know for a fact some are from China and Iraq. This time there are five Syrians. These guys are bad dudes, and I think they have something planned, and all this is coming up through that system she’s put in place. Even more, this is all a feint, to draw attention away from the drones she’s using to move drugs. In a year or two, Amazon is going to start delivering packages with drones. Her plan is to mix her own drones in with them and drop the drugs right down in her people’s back yards. No one will know which drones are legal.”

  From where I stood, I had a good view of the open lot behind the housewares store. It was quiet out there, so I figured we had at least a little more time.

  “So where is this . . . Devil Woman’s ranch?”

  He described the area less than a hundred miles away. “She’s going to be running more operations through your region, because they’re tightening security in the traditional crossing places. There are too many border agents these days, and now the coyotes are funneling these people through rougher country where it’s easier to use the land to avoid detection. They’ll arrest the people on the ground and the drones will fly over without notice.”

  “I have to get the word to my people.”

  “Yes, I knew you were the only person I could trust, who would believe my story, and would keep me out of it.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “We can read, you know. You’ve been in the papers more than once in the last year or so. You’re a legend down here, and Señor Mendez in there who owns the housewares store was talking about you at the cantina here in town. I was here with my compadres, and heard him. After you killed my partner, I decided to call you.”

  That one hurt. “How’d you get away to meet me here?”

  He gave me a sad smile. “I am a sicario. I had a job to do here, but you finished it for me.”

  “What was it?”

  “I was sent to shoot someone who betrayed the Devil Woman when she had faith in him.”

  “Find him?”

  “You did, before you came here.”

  “Well, hell. Those guys who stopped us.”

  “Sí.”

  “I did your work for you.”

  “Sí, and you did it well. We’re putting the finishing touches on my assignment, and I will soon be gone.”

  “We?”

  He shrugged. The guy had a lot more info he wasn’t giving up. The corner of his mouth twitched in a tiny smile. “Bien. One more thing. You have to be careful. There is someone who is loyal to a rival cartel here in Coahuila. They want the Devil Woman’s pipeline. His name is Incencio, and he is very dangerous to everyone but himself.”

  That name rang a bell, but I couldn’t put my finger on where I’d heard it before. “Don’t you have any good news?”

  “Yes. This meeting is over. I’ve told you all I can. Now, we have to get out of here.”

  “You keep my number handy, just in case you need it.”

  “Sí, but there is no cell service here.”

  “I noticed that. There’ll be other times and places. Oh, I need one more piece of information from you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What’s the name of the agent I killed? His real name.”

  “Ricky Delgado.”

  That was the best bona fide I could come up with. With that name, I could call Yolanda once I got cell service and have her check it out. But I wasn’t through. Yeah, I know he’d said they disappeared when they were “kids,” but the El Paso PD would have their names on file. As a Texas Ranger, I could get the information fairly easily. “I need to inform his family. No organization’ll admit to having him on their payroll. He should have benefits coming. What was his name here?”

  “You have too many questions. You’re going to get on the bad side of my handlers.”

  “I need a lot of answers, and I’m not afraid of them. I might need to talk to you again in a day or so.”

  He licked his lips, thinking. “Since my work here is done, by you, I will return to the Devil Woman’s ranchero down in Coahuila. There is a cantina there in town called El Fuste. I’ll be there at night for about a week.”

  “That’ll work.” Tucking the pistol back under my shirt, I stuck out my hand. “Thanks, Esteban.”

  His grip was strong, like any good Texan who’d been taught to shake. We both came from where a handshake still meant something, and any doubts completely faded away. Without looking back, I stepped out of the little chapel.

  “Hey, Hawke.”

  I turned.

  “His name was Pollito on this side of the river, because he looked so little and young.”

  His offhand comment hurt my heart, so I shifted my position to study the area, and so he couldn’t see my suddenly watery eyes.

  Late evening shadows from the town square’s trees stretched across the courtyard. I’ve always said it was my favorite time of day, when the heat dissipates and the shade is cool and welcoming. Wanting to look like a tourist, I strolled around the plaza’s crumbling walls, taking it all in, even shooting a couple of pictures with my cell phone, just in case someone had eyes on me.

  Like any good visitor, I snapped a few of the surrounding area, then went back inside the store. From the moment I stepped through the doorway, I knew something was wrong. Alejandro wasn’t waiting for me, and it was too quiet. There were no voices.

  “Anyone here?”

  Silence.

  Walking as lightly as possible, I approached the counter.

  A stream of blood flowed around a pony wall blocking the public from the register side of the counter. I peered over and saw Alejandro and the owner were lying side by side, their throats cut from ear to ear.

  Chapter 22

  The sky was rich with color from the setting sun. Dusk was the best thing about Morelos Street. It wasn’t the worst paved street Perry Hale had ever seen, but it ran a close fifth. Narrow and dirty, drivers had to thread their way through cars parked at the curb. Volkswagen beetles, beaten up Ford Rangers, and a variety of broken-down sedans lined both sides of the street.

  He unconsciously rubbed the week’s growth of whiskers on his chin. “I hate coming over here.”

  Yolanda Rodriguez walked beside him, fingers tucked into the front pockets of her jeans. Her boots clumped on the gritty sidewalk. The black ponytail sticking through the adjustment hole of her coral-colored Life is Good cap flipped with every move of her head. “It could be worse.”

  “How?”

  “We could be on our side of the river and find this. We saw a lot worse in Afghanistan.”


  “Yeah, but we were walking around armed. I feel nekked as a jaybird out here.”

  Knowing Mexico’s convoluted gun laws, neither he nor Yolanda carried firearms. He didn’t even have his fixed-blade Tac II knife that always rode in a specially designed sheath on his belt. When revealed, the sight of that little instrument scared more people than a handgun.

  Not far from the Disney-like clean tourist section of Ciudad Acuna, the buildings around them were dingy and weather-worn despite the bright paint that was supposed to provide a cheery, inviting feel. After cracking in the desert heat, the paint job simply looked seedy. The crumbling, dirty sidewalks were busy with people of all ages. Dozens of highline wires crisscrossed overhead, giving the illusion of an open ceiling.

  Yolanda pointed at an unimpressive building on the corner. “This is it.”

  Built to provide a homey touch, a useless, peeling picket fence sagged in the narrow two-foot span between the sidewalk and a cinderblock building once the color of clay flower pots. Now faded to a light earth tone, someone tried to brighten it up with a sweeping strip of blue evolving into a stylized horse head, which contained the hand-painted words, Caballo Diablo.

  “This is the definition of a gun and knife club. Stay frosty.” Perry Hale gave the street a quick glance before pushing the door open and stepping inside the neon-lit, smoke-filled cantina.

  “Always am.” Yolanda followed him in.

  Grupero music enveloped them with a wall of accordion and guitar runs. Perry Hale waited for his eyes to adjust, feeling Yolanda’s shoulder against his back as she did the same. Confident that she was covering their rear, he watched several of the bar’s patrons turn to peer at the new arrivals through the dimness.

  A drawn-out comment from an unseen source told them someone appreciated Yolanda’s appearance. “Orale!”

  Choosing to ignore him, Perry Hale tilted back the bill of his green “Come and Take It” gimme cap and wound through a minefield of scattered wooden tables and chairs until he reached the bar. He hoped none of the men in the cantina were history buffs and wondered if he’d made a mistake wearing it south of the border.