Targets of Revenge (34 page)

The Mexican addressed the bartender by name and ordered a shot of Patrón and a short draft. Then, with a smirk, he said to Bergenn, “Well Someone Else ain’t coming.”

“Is that right?” Bergenn asked, trying to sound as if it didn’t much matter to him one way or another.

“That’s right. I’m in charge of your excitement tonight.” The tequila and beer came and the man threw down the fiery liquor and chased it with the draft. “Time to go,” he told them as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I think we should wait for the other guy,” Raabe said.

“I guess I’m not being too clear. Must be a language problem.” He gave them a full smile this time, showing off surprisingly white teeth. “I’m here to take you to see the other guy.” Then, before either of the Americans could respond, he added, “You should move it along before the fun’s over.
Comprende
?”

“Where is he?” Bergenn asked.

“Not far. A short ride.”

“What’s his name?”

He showed off his gleaming smile again. “Calls himself Pacquito.”

Bergenn nodded. “Yeah, that’s the guy. What do you call yourself?”

“Miguel.”

“All right Miguel, let’s take a ride.”

“Good,” the Mexican said, then pointed to the bartender. “What is that expression you Americans have? I fly you buy.”

————

They followed Miguel out to the street, where he stopped and turned around. He moved close to them before he spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

“Look, I know you’re both carrying, but if you think it’s going to do you any good then you don’t know Reynosa. All you’re gonna do is piss people off, you understand?”

“If you think we’re giving up our weapons then
you
don’t understand,” Bergenn said. “
Comprende
?”

“Hey man, I’m just telling you, is all.” He pointed down the street. “That’s my car over there.”

“Uh huh. Well I tell you what, Miguel, I’m a little tired so why don’t you go get your car and pull it up, right in front here?”

Before Miguel could reply, four men stepped toward them, appearing from the shadows and doorways of the dark street. Each one of them was carrying a handgun they were making no effort to conceal.

“Like I said,” Miguel told them, “all you’re gonna do is piss people off.”

“Apparently,” Raabe said.

Without another word, two of the men disarmed the agents. Then Miguel led them to his car.

————

What Miguel had described as a short ride was a twenty-minute run beyond the outskirts of Reynosa. Bergenn was shoved into the backseat
of Miguel’s sedan, squeezed in between two of the armed thugs. Raabe rode with the other two in a second car, seated in the passenger seat with the barrel of an automatic pointed at the back of his head. Their journey ended at the entry gate to a small farm surrounded by a wire fence. There were two armed men on duty, each carrying an automatic rifle and an unpleasant attitude.

As the cars approached, the sentries leveled their weapons at the drivers. Miguel slowed to a stop and leaned out the window. After he exchanged a few words with the guards the cars were allowed to pass through. From there they drove on to the main house.

Both cars pulled up in front of the modest-looking home and Miguel got out. “You wait here,” he told the others. He went inside, reappearing just a minute later. As he climbed back behind the wheel he said, “They want us to take our friends to the barn.”

The barn, a hundred yards farther down the dirt road, was not unlike the structure where the two agents had met Romero earlier that day.

Bergenn and Raabe were prodded to get out, then led to the old wooden building.

Inside, the barn was illuminated by improvised spotlights strung from a couple of the rafters. Several men were milling restlessly about in what appeared to be an uneven circle, as if anticipating some big event they were tired of waiting for. And there, in the middle of the group, Felipe Romero, stripped down to his undershorts, was hanging from his ankles, upside down, blood running down his back and chest. Off to the side was a tall, muscular man with a dark face and dark eyes that shone under the intense lights. He was brandishing a short, sharp boning knife.

“Ah, Pacquito, your friends have arrived. To rescue you no doubt.” He laughed, and most of the other men joined him in the merriment. “So
señores,
you have been waiting to hear from Pacquito, am I right?” Neither agent replied. “Well here he is. Not exactly what you had in mind, huh?”

Raabe spoke up first. “What the hell is this bullshit?” He looked around at the others, appearing more annoyed than concerned. “Who are you and why have you dragged us out here?”

“I am Mateo. And this is what the Chinese call the death of a thousand cuts. You know of this, yes?”

When neither man replied, Mateo lashed out and, with a few deft flicks of the wrist, carved two small X’s into the flesh at the center of Romero’s lower back. The man’s body, which had been hanging limply in space, now convulsed as a new source of blood began to ooze from the shallow wounds. His muscles tensed, then gave in to his own weight, but Romero did not make a sound.

Raabe took a reflexive step backward. “Look, Mateo, I don’t know who you are, or who you think we are, or what you and your buddies are up to here, but we’ll take a ride back to our hotel right now and just forget we ever met. How’s that?”

Mateo responded with a pensive look. “That would be fine, if you can explain how you came to know our man Pacquito and what business you have with him.”

The two Americans assumed that Romero had not given up their cover. If he had, they wouldn’t be having this discussion. Mateo obviously suspected something, but whatever it was it was not sufficient or credible enough for him to pull the trigger on the three of them. At least not yet.

Raabe pushed his way past two of the men to have a better look at Romero. They bristled at being shoved aside, but Mateo held up his hand, ordering them to let the American through. Raabe bent down and tilted his head to the side. Romero’s torso was certainly bloody, but the cuts made so far did not appear anywhere close to lethal. They never do in this slow and painful method of bleeding a man to death. Romero’s eyes were half shut and his face was flushed. He had been hanging there for too long.

Raabe stood and turned back to Mateo. “Yeah, we met this guy earlier today. He told us he could arrange to get us some goods.” He cast a look around the group, then back at
el jefe
. “And some girls, if that’s okay with you. Unless you happen to be with the Reynosa vice squad.” He turned to Romero again, shot him a disdainful look, then directed his attention back to Mateo. “You got a beef with this guy, what the hell does that have to do with us?”

“Mm hmm, and where did you two meet our friend Pacquito?”

“What the hell do I remember? Some gin mill.” Raabe paused. “I guess you call it a tequila mill around these parts.” When no one smiled he turned to Bergenn, feigning the need for help. “I can’t remember the name of the damn place.”

“I can’t remember the name either. The something-or-other tavern, over on Fuente, wasn’t it?”

“Right,” Raabe said. “The tavern on Fuente.”

Mateo eyed each of them with obvious skepticism. “And you just happened to find Pacquito, willing to get you some product and some pussy, is that it?”

“More like he found us,” Raabe said. “We just got to town, feeling out the local action, and he plopped down next to us at the bar.” He looked around again for some support, as if they might be taking a vote at some point. “Are we done with this inquisition?”

“Maybe,” Mateo said. Then he turned to one of his lieutenants. “Let him down,” he ordered.

The reaction among the spectators was mixed. Some were clearly friends of Romero’s and were relieved to see him crumple to the ground in a heap when the rope from which he was dangling was cut. Others seemed more interested in having the bloody proceedings continue.

A couple of the former group leaned over the barely conscious man. One gave him some water to drink.

Mateo, meanwhile, stabbed his boning knife into one of the wooden supports and stepped toward the Americans. “You two rolled into town, armed with automatics, looking like a couple of American cops, and you want us to believe you just happened to meet our boy Pacquito?” He turned his head to the side and spat on the ground, then got right up into Bergenn’s face. “We’re not finished here,” he announced, then told his men, “Take their wallets, their money, whatever they’ve got with them, then lock the three of them up until I have some more time to look into this.”

B
ERGENN AND
R
AABE
were herded from the barn to a nearby storage building. Romero was carried there. The two agents were shoved inside, Romero tossed to the ground, then the door was slammed shut and locked behind them.

Bergenn and Raabe immediately tended to the injured DEA agent, sitting him up against a wall in the dimly lit room. Even in his half-conscious state, Romero had the presence of mind to signal the others to come as close to him as they could. He whispered, “Be careful. They may have the room bugged.”

Raabe did not hide his astonishment, spreading his arms and responding with a look that asked if this old place could really be wired for sound.

Romero nodded.

They resumed trying to stanch his bleeding, using their jackets to pat him down as they assessed the extent of the injuries. Whatever else Mateo may be, he was clearly good with a knife. The numerous cuts he had inflicted were all short, shallow, and designed to cause fast pain and slow bleeding.

As they bent over him, Romero managed to tell them what had happened in the past few hours.

After he had left Bergenn and Raabe and made his way back to town, he was immediately intercepted by three of the most dangerous enforcers in the local cabal. They told him that Mateo wanted to meet with him. When he asked why, he was given no explanation, but there was nothing unusual in this. What he found unusual was
the show of force in collecting him and taking him to the farm. The second thing out of the ordinary was the tone of the questions.

Mateo, who was the regional head of their cartel, claimed to have information that Romero had met with two American
federales
that morning, and he was demanding some answers.

How could he have heard that already?
It was as if Romero had been followed to their meeting place, but he knew that was not so, he had taken far too many precautions. He saw no evidence that he was being trailed to or from their rendezvous.

The two agents waited.

“I told them how we met at La Taverna on Calle Fuente. You wanted coke and girls, and I said I could deliver.” He paused to take a breath. “He didn’t even bother to ask me a second time. His men grabbed me and took me to the barn.” He stared at them, his hard, sad eyes unblinking in the faint light. “You saw the rest.”

“He was sure we were agents and that you met with us?”

“A hundred percent.”

“Which leaves only one explanation,” Bergenn said quietly. “Someone gave us up before we got here.”

Romero’s answer was a solemn nod. Then he mouthed the question, “How many knew?”

Bergenn and Raabe shared a concerned look. Then Raabe held up three fingers. Sandor. Byrnes. LaBelle.

“Then you need to know something else. About Jaime Rivera.”

The two men were listening intently to Romero’s raspy whisper.

“Lately I’ve gotten some information. I believe he’s actually an American.”

“I don’t understand,” replied Raabe. “Living inside the States, you mean?”

Romero shook his head “Worse. Working inside the government. Maybe even DEA.”

“When were you going to share that little tidbit with us?”

“Only when I had to,” Romero replied without apology. “I already told you guys, we’ve been working on this for two years and I’ve finally had a breakthrough. I can’t afford to trust anyone.”

“Your direct boss sent us,” Raabe reminded him.

Romero offered no response.

“All right,” Bergenn said. “Say Rivera is an American, possibly working from the inside. What else do we have on him?”

“We think he’s a middleman, not the major honcho he’s rumored to be. Loera may have set it up that way, have him appear more important than he is, get everyone spinning their wheels looking for this imaginary Rivera instead of chasing down the real players in Sinaloa.”

“But if there’s someone working from the inside to help move narcotics into the country, he
is
important.”

Romero agreed.

“What about you?” Bergenn asked. “If Rivera is on the inside, how have you survived for two years?”

“Only a couple of possibilities. My cover is so deep maybe Rivera doesn’t know about my assignment.” The look on his face said he wasn’t buying that one. “Or Rivera knows who I am, but taking me out would raise too many questions.”

“You think it’s likely he’d leave you in place for two years?”

Romero shook his head. “No, that doesn’t make sense either. I think the explanation is simpler than that. Rivera knows who I am, but he also knows I haven’t gotten close to him.” He looked from one agent to the other. “Until now.”

Raabe glanced at Bergenn, each thinking the obvious thought but neither man saying anything.

“Now I have intel that Rivera may work out of D.C. I’ve managed to track some calls lately. Disposable cell phones were used of course, but it looks like Washington.”

“Assuming it was actually Rivera and not one of his deputies,” said Raabe. “I assume you don’t have confirmation since you’re not even sure who this Rivera is, am I right?”

Romero nodded.

“Not much to go on after two years,” observed Bergenn.

Romero reacted with disappointment rather than anger. “Like I said, that’s why I can’t trust anyone.”

“So why are you telling us now?” Raabe asked.

Romero looked from one man to the other again. “It’s not likely all three of us are going to make it out of here, that’s why.”