Hunt the Falcon (18 page)

That accomplished, the two of them wrapped Cucho in a Mexican blanket that covered his entire body head to toes. “Toss me the keys to the vehicle,” Crocker said to Randal.

“Why? What are you going to do with him?” was his nervous response.

“You and Manny stay with the girl and keep her quiet. Offer her money if you think that'll work, then meet us at the car in three minutes.”

“But—”

Crocker and Tré hoisted Cucho onto their shoulders and exited out the back of the stall to a loading dock, down eight stairs to an area filled with assorted-sized trucks, to the street. They walked to the end of the block, turned left, and entered the parking lot.

Crocker used a key to open the car, loaded Cucho into the trunk, got in, and started the engine. The kid they had paid to watch the car was nowhere in sight.

Two minutes later Crocker spotted Randal and Mancini leaving the market. As Mancini climbed in back, Crocker started the engine.

Randal, halfway in and sweating profusely, shouted, “We can't do this!”

Crocker: “Why not?”

Randal: “Taking a man like this is illegal.”

“Either get in or stay out,” Crocker barked.

Randal got in, shut the door, and asked, “What are you planning to do with him?”

“Take him somewhere where we can beat the living shit out of him and find out what he knows about those Iranians,” Crocker said, steering out of the lot.

Randal leaned over the backseat and shouted, “No! I won't allow it! You're not authorized!”

Crocker reached back with his left arm, grabbed Randal's jaw, and shoved him back so hard his head slammed against the rear seat. “Shut up and listen!”

He turned the car onto a main avenue and wove through traffic with no idea which direction he was headed. “Which way is out of town?” he asked.

“Keep going straight ahead, but—”

Off to his right he saw a stadium-like structure surrounded by a large parking lot. “What's that?” he asked.

Mancini: “Looks like a bullring.”

The structure was completely dark except for a few lights at the front. Crocker turned into the deserted lot, drove to the rear of the bullring, and cut the engine.

“Help me get him out,” he said, stepping out into the building's shadow.

“You can't treat an innocent man like this,” Randal protested. “It's completely unacceptable.”

“Are you kidding, man? No way he's innocent,” Tré shot back.

The sky was turning dark blue, and the stench of animals and death hung around them. Crocker got in Randal's face and said, “Stay in the car if you don't want to be a part of this. Walk away and a hail a cab!”

Randal shook his head but said nothing. He stood with his hands on his hips and watched Crocker and Tré pull Cucho out of the trunk, unwrap the blanket, and stand him up against the brick wall of the bullring. Mancini grabbed a six-inch hunting knife from a nylon sheath strapped to his ankle and held it up to Cucho's throat. He said, “Drug and people traffickers are the scum of the earth.”

“Mr. Valdez, this is what we're gonna do,” Crocker offered calmly. “After we remove the tape from your mouth, I'm going to ask you a question. If you don't answer to my satisfaction, I'm going to tell my friend here to cut off one of your fingers. Then, since I'm a nice guy, I'm going to give you one more chance. You'll be writhing in pain then and about to pass out. I'll ask you the same question. If you don't answer fully and truthfully that time, I'm going to tell him to slice your balls off. You're going to be in an unimaginable amount of hurt then. So I'll take mercy on you and cut your throat.”

Terror filled Cucho's eyes. The clouds behind them had turned dark red.

Mancini sliced through the tape around Cucho's ankles, grabbed one of his hands, and held the knife ready. Then he nodded to Tré, who ripped the tape off Cucho's mouth and covered it with his hand.

“Ready?” Crocker asked.

Cucho nodded. Tears were already welling in his eyes.

“Three men who claimed to be Venezuelan contacted you today. What did they want?” Crocker asked.

Cucho moved his head as if he was ready to talk. Crocker pointed to Tré, who removed his hand from Cucho's mouth.

Tré said, “Boss, I don't think Cucho is a guy.”

“What?”

“Check the neck. No Adam's apple.”

Tré was right. The loose clothes, the insolent attitude, the rough but pretty face. They all pointed to the same conclusion.

Crocker said, “I don't care what the fuck you are, I'll still tear you apart.”

Cucho took a deep breath, coughed, and said, “Okay.…Three men did contact me. I didn't ask where they were from. They had money, cash, and said they were looking for a way to cross into the U.S.”

“They wanted to be smuggled in illegally?” Crocker asked.

“Yes.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them I couldn't help them.”

Crocker looked at her and said, “You're a stubborn bitch, aren't you?” He didn't expect an answer. Turning to Tré, he instructed, “I'll hold her hand against the wall, you tie something over her mouth.” Then, to Mancini: “Ready?”

Cucho thrashed her head from side to side: “No, don't cut me! I told them—I told them I couldn't do it myself, but I sent them to someone I know. A man who has a tunnel.”

“Who is this man, and where can we find him?” Crocker asked urgently.

“His name is Ruiz. I'll draw you a map.”

“Fuck the map. You're taking us to him. Now.”

An off-kilter half moon shone like a cruel smile in the sky. Cucho sat in back, between Mancini and Tré, with Randal next to Crocker up front. Her desperation seemed to grow as they wound through residential streets to a wider industrial road lined with warehouses and businesses.

Mancini said, “Two cannibals are talking. One says to the other, ‘I don't like my mother-in-law.' The other one says, ‘Then try the noodles.' ”

Tré chuckled. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

Mancini had more. “What's gray and comes in quarts?”

“What?”

“An elephant.”

Tré laughed hard, then, turning to Cucho, said, “It ain't funny. I can't help laughing, but it really ain't funny at all. You into men or women?”

Cucho: “None of your business.”

“Focus,” Crocker said from the front seat.

“Not to worry, chief. I'm sharp as a razor blade.”

Cucho directed them off the road to a decaying parking lot with several stores at one end. She pointed to the building on the far left. “That's it.”

“That's what?”

“The tunnel I told you about is located inside that building.”

In the dim yellow streetlights Crocker saw a one-story tan-colored cement building with green trim. The white neon sign overhead read “Mercado Ruiz.” As he watched, a big girl with braids chained a row of battered shopping carts together out front. The place looked like it was closed for the night.

Tré said with a sigh, “Fucking dead end, if you ask me. Let's kick her ass.”

Cucho pointed to the rugged landscape behind the building and said, “I'm telling the truth. You see the U.S. is over there, past those hills.”

“What time were the Venezuelans planning to cross?” Crocker asked.

“Probably after the market is closed for business. After dark.”

Crocker looked at his watch. It was a few minutes past 1900. He asked, “Where does the tunnel start?”

“Inside the market.”

“Where?”

Tré, like an echo: “Yeah, where? Be specific!”

“I can't be specific. I've never been inside. I don't shop there.”

Crocker started the engine. Without turning on the headlights, they slowly circled around the building. Parked behind the Mercado Ruiz was a panel truck. Men were moving bags from the truck to inside the market.

Turning to Mancini, he said, “Take a radio with you and watch the front. Alert us if anyone enters.”

“Roger, boss.”

“Tré, you wait here. I'm going to check the dock.”

He got out, stretched, and walked casually past the truck, where he saw two men in dirty T-shirts hauling bags of what looked like flour or maize into the market. He proceeded to the end of the building and stopped. Just as he was about to circle around to the front, he saw the taxi headlights flash twice.

He hurried back to the car and asked, “What's up?”

Tré reported, “Manny said four dudes just got out of an SUV and entered.”

“Tell him to stay out front until he hears from us.”

“Sure thing.”

Looking at Cucho sitting in the back, Crocker asked Tré, “You bring the tape with you?”

“Affirmative, chief.”

“Tape her mouth, wrists, and ankles, then leave her on the floor.”

“My pleasure.”

Randal elected to stay behind. Crocker figured he'd probably call Nesmith and tell him what was going on. Not that it mattered. They didn't have time to stop him now.

He led the way purposefully across the rear lot, past the truck to the loading dock where the two workers were stacking bags against a wall. Crocker hoisted one of the sacks on his shoulder and climbed a set of concrete steps to a storage area with rows of cardboard boxes. Behind him, Tré carried another sack.

Crocker's senses were on high alert. To his right he saw an office. Light spilled out the open door onto the stained concrete floor, and he heard men talking inside.

He motioned to Tré to wait behind the boxes, then took three steps toward the office door. A mustached guard holding a submachine gun stepped out. He waved the gun in front of Crocker's face. “Quién es?”

“Paco,” Crocker grunted.

“No aquí. Afuera!”
(Not here. Outside!)

Crocker nodded and stumbled, pretending to be drunk.

Two men leaned out of the office and looked his way. One appeared to be Middle Eastern. The other held two Doberman pinschers on metal chain leashes. The dogs bared their teeth and growled at him. The stocky man holding them pulled the dogs back, and the two men walked down a hallway and out of sight. Crocker felt a chill shoot up his spine.

He wanted to go after the two men, but the guard with the Uzi stood in his way. Instead of searching him, the guard called over his shoulder, turned, and hurried after the others. Crocker was about to drop his sack and follow when a fourth man, shorter, older, and wearing a blue apron, emerged from inside. Seeing Crocker, he waved his arms and cursed in Spanish.

Crocker didn't understand everything, but knew he was being called an idiot and a drunk, and was being told to leave the bag at the loading dock. When he didn't move, the man took a walkie-talkie from his apron and started to lift it to his mouth.

Crocker had just decided to drop the bag and charge when he saw Tré spring from behind the man and grab him in a headlock. The walkie-talkie clattered across the concrete floor. Tré covered the man's mouth with his free hand.

“Drag him into the office,” Crocker whispered, picking up the walkie-talkie and hearing men speaking urgently in Spanish. Inside, in one of the desk drawers, he found twine and a rag, which they used to gag him, bind his wrists and ankles, and tie him to a chair.

“Ready?” Crocker whispered.

“I'm cool.”

“Follow me.”

He led the way down the dark hallway and entered a large storage room stacked with boxes. At the far end was another door that he opened carefully to reveal a room filled with white fluorescent light. Some sort of generator or large refrigeration unit occupied the left side of the room. The rest of it was filled with mops, brooms, buckets, ladders, and other supplies.

From his vantage point, Crocker couldn't see past the generator. But he heard a door creak open, then two men laughing. He and Tré crouched behind the generator, and Crocker flashed hand signals to indicate that he'd take out the first man.

The dogs picked up their scent and started barking. One of the Dobermans poked his sleek head around the side of the big machine and lunged, snapping at Crocker's wrist and missing, but locking its jaw around the pistol in his hand. Still, Crocker managed to squeeze off two rounds, one of which tore into the lead man's thigh.

As the man's screams reverberated in the small room, Crocker sprung into his midsection and slammed his body against the opposite wall. The man went down, and the dogs attacked the back of Crocker's legs. The pain was immediate and intense, causing his muscles to clench.

He tried kicking them off, and to his left, glimpsed Tré wrestling a submachine gun away from the mustached guard, who was bleeding from his nose. Crocker reached around, grabbed hold of one of the dogs by the head, ripped it away from his thigh, and flung the dog into the wall. He heard ribs snap and the thud the animal made when it hit the floor.

It stopped moving, but all kinds of alarms were screaming in his head because the second Doberman had its teeth deep into the flesh around his left ankle. He tried to pivot to his right, but the leash was wrapped around his right foot, which was partially pinned by the fallen man. Crocker lost his balance and fell, and the Doberman was immediately on top of him, lunging for his throat.

Teeth in his face, hot dog saliva dripping onto him, he grabbed its ear with his right hand and pulled back. The dog squealed and snapped its teeth at Crocker's wrist.

He quickly pulled his hand away, then tried to get hold of the dog's neck, but the dog sunk its incisors into his forearm and hit a nerve, causing massive pain that he felt all the way up his arm into his neck.

Crocker was losing the battle and trying to feel for his fallen pistol with his left hand. All he found on the floor was blood, teeth, a leash. Lunging, he grabbed hold of the dog's right paw and yanked it back violently until he heard the bone snap. The Doberman yelped and bore down harder. Then two shots popped, and rounds passed through the dog's chest with a spray of blood.