PRECIPICE (17 page)

“OK. You delay the vote, and I will go to California. Call me when you’re sure the vote will be delayed.”

They agreed and disconnected the line.

Héctor put the satellite phone down on the passenger’s seat. He popped open the console between the front seats and removed his complicated shoulder holster rig and awkwardly struggled into it, banging his chest into the steering wheel in the process before reaching back to pull his ponytail free where it was stuck under the back strap. Then he popped open the glove box and removed his stainless Springfield .45 and slammed it home under his left arm before continuing along the road.

A few minutes later, he stepped out of the truck into the sunlight in front of a metal barn similar to the ones he had visited on his last trip. The weather was a bit cooler than last time, and he was glad that there was no stench here yet. The buildings were much more pleasant to visit when they were new. As he strode into the shade of the barn, he could hear a roar of voices cheering behind the structure. There were bodies already inside; a group who had just been killed was slumped along a wall near the bus. On the other side of the space, a group of women were bound and lying on the floor, their soft weeping drowned out by the din of the crowd out back.

Héctor continued into the sunlight behind the building where the men were all gathered around a freshly dug pit. They were jeering, shouting, betting, and raising large caguama bottles—almost full liters—of beer over their heads in a drunken frenzy. In the pit were five men. Three were dead—gruesomely shattered husks recently dismantled by bludgeon and blade, almost unrecognizable as human in their utter destruction. A fourth man lingered on his knees in a purgatory of semi-consciousness, his dwindling supply of living spirit pouring out through vicious gashes that covered his arms, shoulders, and neck. The last man stood over him with a machete, a macabre specter of disheveled slaughter coated in sticky blood. The ripe smell of carnage was thick in the air, goading the crowd into a crazed chant.

“¡Mátelo! ¡Mátelo!"
Kill him!

Héctor shouldered his way to the front of the crowd, arriving just as the standing man slowly let the machete fall to his side. Héctor watched hardness fade from the man’s eyes as humanity overcame his thirst for survival, then the machete slipped from his bloody fingers and came to rest on the sticky earth at his feet.

The roar of protest from the crowd was deafening, and some began to throw their oversized bottles at the men in the pit. Scuffles broke out as bets were argued in the absence of a conclusive end to the bout.

Héctor snatched the .45 from beneath his arm in frustration and fired, and the head of the man standing in the pit exploded into a wet slop of pink spray. The jeering crowd fell totally silent at the heavy pistol’s report, then the man slumped onto himself like a marionette with its strings cut before toppling to one side.

Héctor quickly adjusted his aim and fired into the head of the kneeling man, mercifully releasing him from his fruitless struggle for survival.

“Pinche cabrones! Get back to work!” Héctor roared. “No mas de cervezas!” His frustration with the situation in the U.S. morphed into rage, and he wildly waved his gun around, sending the men scattering from in front of it. He fired two more rounds into the air to hasten their flight.

12

Wednesday, November 16th

HÉCTOR FERNANDEZ BASKED in the sound his Luccese crocodile-skin boots made against the solid floor as he strutted down the concourse toward the terminal. It wasn’t the dull clump of a worker’s boot or a soldier’s boot, or the bombastic click of a politico’s dress shoe, or the dainty tap of a woman’s high heel. No, it was a staccato clap that sprang outward into a bubble of pure machismo around him as he walked. He savored the feeling of his long black pony tail swishing across the back of his short-sleeved button-up silk shirt and the texture of the denim of his jeans rubbing against his legs as he walked. California—he loved it here.

He carried only a small bag with a change of clothes. He wished he had his beautiful .45, but there was no way he could travel with it on the plane. He’d cleared customs in Dallas, his false American passport getting him through easily. It had cost him a horrible ordeal yesterday driving seven hours from the desert to the jungle compound to pick up his false papers, then another four hours riding to the city for his 7:15 AM flight. At least he’d been given a driver for that portion. The worst part had been telling his boss the news, which was unavoidable due to his unexpected return to the compound. Cardenas had taken the development with grim displeasure, only nodding slightly when Héctor had informed him of the plan to use the girl.

“Bring her back here,” the drug lord had instructed curtly.

Héctor knew that bringing her to Mexico would complicate things. It would take him the rest of the day to line up everything that would have to be in place. He found his way onto the train to the airport’s rental car area then grabbed hold of a metal post to steady himself as the railcar lurched into motion. At the rental car desk, he used a credit card that matched his false passport to rent a minivan, then he headed south on the 101 through San Mateo. A half-hour later he took the Willow Road Exit, following the instructions from the GPS in his rental van, and began weaving his way through Palo Alto and onto University Ave. He soon rolled onto campus and slowly found his way through the school buildings until he pulled to a stop at a curve where one small campus street turned right and became another. It wasn’t a perfect view due to the angle, but through a row of trees and bushes and across an area of grass he could see the stone archway of the girl’s dormitory. It looked more like a cathedral than a barracks, and he noted that the stone façade and tile roof would fit right into Mexico, even down to the wide bladed yuccas that were planted flanking the arched entryway. He spent a few minutes watching before driving a rambling and circuitous route through campus until he was able to find a parking lot at the rear of the dormitory. He pulled into a space and put the minivan in park.

He fished his iPhone from his pocket. It was on a Mexican plan paid for by a cover business. Although it didn’t work at the remote jungle compound in San Luis or at the desert buildings in Tamulipas, it was useful when he worked in cities. He pulled up a photo of Samantha Moore that his cousin had emailed to him last night from an anonymous gmail account. He’d received the email early this morning when he arrived in the capitol of San Luis Potosi to catch his flight. Although it was a poor quality cell phone photo of a framed picture, he could tell that she was an attractive girl. Long straight blonde hair, thin delicate features, large brown eyes. She was a bit tall—he guessed around 175 centimeters from looking at the family photo taken with the senator and the girl’s mother. Her chest was full, but her narrow hips were not quite round enough for Héctor’s taste. Still, he had to admit that part of him would be tempted, even though his boss had been very specific that she not be harmed.

He put the phone away and stepped out of the van, then casually walked a complete circuit around the building. One corner butted closely to another dormitory. Two sides were flanked by parking lots, one by the grassy area he had seen in front, and the fourth side faced an open area that led to a building which appeared to be a dining facility with a large, triangular concrete patio. It was time for the evening meal in America, and students were streaming to and from the cafeteria. This was not going to be easy. There were too many exits from the building to watch, too many ways that she could go, and too many people around. He climbed back into the minivan and left campus, programming the GPS to take him to a nearby hotel.

*

Sam tried to dissolve into the seat of the metallic blue BMW as it rolled out of a giant tangled highway interchange and down a ramp onto a city street. It was the first time she’d ever ventured south to San Jose. Brett took an immediate right. After growing up in DC this didn’t have the look of a bad neighborhood to her, but she knew it must be. As they entered a residential area, the main street they traveled was lined with one-story block and concrete buildings painted in a variety of colors, with bars or grates on many of the windows. Down the side streets she could see traditional stick-built American houses, most of them small, with an occasional spindly palm tree rising from their midst. The cars parked along the side streets at this hour on a weekday were old, and a few of them had flat tires or looked like they hadn’t been driven in a while.

Brett took a right and rolled slowly past the houses, looking at the addresses. He finally pulled to the left curb and stopped in front of a small house, extending two fingers out the bottom edge of the open car window. A heavyset guy in sweatpants with a black Raiders jersey draped over his bulk was sitting on the steps of the house talking on a cell phone. When he saw the car pull up, he hopped up and stepped quickly to the open window of the car, still talking on the phone. The man reached in through the window. Brett passed him a twenty, and two small baggies were passed in. Then the BMW slowly rolled away as the man made his way back to the steps with the phone in one hand and the money hand stuffed in his pocket.

A few blocks later the street ran into a cross street and ended at a row of trees. Brett parked the car along the row of trees, and they got out. They ducked into the shade and down a bank near a slow-moving stream. Crouching behind a tree, Brett pulled a glass pipe from his pocket, reached into one of the baggies and removed a small, yellowish-white crystalline rock.

*

Héctor checked into the hotel and got a room with two double beds. Once in the room, he scrolled through his contacts and selected a U.S. number with a 310 area code—the L.A. area. It only rang once.

“Hola,” came the answer. Héctor could hear a car stereo blaring Mexican pop music over the roar of the wind through an open window in the background.

“Hola, Chucho. ¿Dónde estás?”

“San Jose,” was the answer.

Good, he was almost here. Héctor relayed the name and location of his hotel as well as his room number before disconnecting. L.A. was the closest place that he had good contacts, and he’d called the man this morning before boarding his first flight.

Next, Héctor picked up the hotel phone and dialed the number for his cousin’s Blackberry. Ortiz picked up.

“I have arrived in California,” Héctor told him. “I’ve seen the dormitory, but it will be very difficult to locate the girl. I have help arriving soon. What is the status of the vote?”

“We can delay the vote until the holiday. It will cost one million dollars, and I need it delivered by tomorrow morning.” Ortiz knew he was pushing his luck. In truth, he had convinced a senator who supported the bill that he could change his boss’ mind if the vote was delayed until after the holiday, and the man had been more than happy to help. It wouldn’t cost another dime. The money was one more way that Ortiz could cover his ass if this whole thing turned to shit—and he figured there was now a very good chance that would happen. He’d need some funds to run with.

Héctor was not pleased, but he had expected this. He’d known that meddling with the American political system would be no simple thing. This operation was getting very expensive, but what choice did they have? He would have to convince Cardenas that it was simply the cost of doing business. Maybe they could cut back on the amount offered to Moore once they had his daughter. Yes, that was the solution. He got the offshore account number from Ortiz and then disconnected the call, promising to confirm the funds transfer first thing tomorrow morning. He would call Switzerland late tonight—they were nine hours ahead of California—and have the funds moved to the Bahamas as soon as the day started there. There was no way he could wait for morning on the west coast—they would need confirmation before the Senate met tomorrow.

Twenty minutes later there was a knock on the hotel room door. He opened up to allow a man to enter. Jesús “Chucho” Morales was a short, solid looking Hispanic in jeans and a windbreaker carrying a worn black gym bag. He was Héctor’s best problem solver in the United States, well known for completing the most difficult and dangerous jobs. Héctor also knew that Chucho was a complete sociopath, so he would have to monitor him carefully lest anything unfortunate happen to the precious object of their current search. Although Héctor admitted to himself that Chucho was probably not the best person to call for this delicate job, he knew the man was reliable and the best person he could find so close to the Bay Area on such short notice.

Chucho put the bag down on the second hotel bed and took off his windbreaker, revealing massively muscular arms protruding from a sleeveless t-shirt, and the butt of an automatic pistol sticking up from the rear waistband of his jeans. One of his ropy arms was adorned with a tattoo of an almost cartoon-like, bare-chested, large-busted Mexican woman with flowing black hair that wrapped around the sides of his bicep and tricep, her face appearing to move through a range of expressions as the muscles rippled in the man’s arm. He opened the bag and pulled out a pair of handheld two-way radios and a cheap nickel-plated .45 with a faux-wood plastic grip. He passed the pistol and one of the radios to Héctor then rummaged around in the bag and found a few pairs of plastic flexicuffs. They each pocketed a radio and a pair of flexicuffs, and Héctor stuck the ridiculous nickel plated .45 in the back of his pants, pulling on a jacket from his own bag to cover it. They headed out for a bite to eat before setting up surveillance at the dorm.

13

Thursday, November 17th

MOORE DIDN’T KNOW whether to be frustrated or relieved. The senator from New Mexico had submitted an amendment to the bill at the last minute, and a raging debate had begun. Although everyone knew the bill was not going to pass, this would certainly delay the vote for the foreseeable future.