The Jaguar (12 page)

It was Eusabio. Calmly and clearly he outlined to Luis what he had discovered in the mountains. There was no sign of Xterra, but the next poppy crop lay in tatters, a victim of the recent cold weather. His father had not received the news well, and had taken to his bed. The planned meeting with Marcelo and Barrio Fuerte upon Alfredo's return had been cancelled. There was little point in trying to re-establish relations if there was nothing to trade.

Luis' shock and frustration at yet more bad news also threatened to turn into rage, but he managed to keep his cool. He told Eusabio to stay where he was and to see what could be salvaged. Some of the plants must have survived, he reasoned. Perhaps there was still time for others to be replanted? He walked out of the building and joined a furiously pacing Gennaro. All the implications of what they had learned were bad. To have any chance of keeping their place in the drugs trade they would need now to import supplies. Their old east coast routes would make them vulnerable to Xterra, whose home territory this was. Importing drugs via the west coast would mean negotiations with other families and cartels. That would be tricky and the west coast was also more unstable, with various local gangs in Acapulco and other resorts trying to force their way into the business. In the meantime, Barrio Fuerte would have the best possible reason to find another supplier. Xterra would be hard for them to resist.

Silvio emerged from the police station and hailed Luis and Gennaro. Returning inside, they stared grimly at the one officer still brave enough to hold his post behind the screened-off front desk. A patrol had just radioed in a warning that another cartel had arrived. They had hijacked two vehicles from the bus station, taking several passengers. Driving south through the town centre, they had fired off random salvoes, apparently, at anyone who caught their eye. The officer appealed uncertainly to Luis for help.

“Xterra!” Gennaro spat at the floor, clenching both fists. The officer confirmed that their mark had been sprayed on the sides of both buses.

Luis nodded thoughtfully. He still didn't share Gennaro's anger. Luis didn't want a pitched battle with Xterra even though his own men were numerous, well-armed and well-trained. He also could not ignore the officer's appeal, if Las Contadonas were not to appear weak. Hopefully, a show of force would suffice. If it came to a battle, better here in Rochas Blancas than in Jaurez. There the family had a lot more to lose.

“Back to the trucks - let's run these bastards out of town,” he commanded. He smiled at Gennaro and put a hand on his arm. “This is what you do best, old friend. This one is for my father and for the memory of my uncle. I know our family has nothing to fear with you to take care of our affairs.”

Gennaro said nothing. He stooped to pick up a handful of dust as he stepped into the road then rubbed it slowly and deliberately between his fingers. “In case we have to do this the old-fashioned way,” he smiled back at Luis, “I want to make sure I can get a good grip on somebody's throat.”

There were no signs of the intruders in the centre of the small town. A growing crowd of concerned citizens thronged the bus station forecourt, consoling those whose friends and relatives, boyfriends and girlfriends had been kidnapped. The arrival of a fleet of SUVs crammed full of heavily armed men initially caused further panic and consternation. A few, emboldened by their loss, stood their ground, or even railed against the newcomers. As Luis left his truck, a lump of concrete flew through the air and shattered the windscreen behind him. A grandmother with two tearful children in tow grabbed at his jacket, screaming “
Mi hija (my daughter)
.” Soon he was surrounded, and it took a volley of gunfire before he could make himself heard. About twenty people were missing. The very old and the very young had been left behind, even when they had had to be forcibly dragged from a bus. Luis promised grandiloquently to return the hostages and to restore order to the town, as though he was completing another oration from the prison balcony. As his posse sped away again towards the southern desert, it was followed by a small flotilla of cars and vans, their occupants revitalised by the arrival of Las Contadonas. Some distance still further back, a squad car cautiously tailed the assemblage.

Thirty minutes later they were clear of all but an occasional shack or isolated farmstead. The side roads they passed were now no more than dirt tracks. Their progress had been slowed by Luis' broken windscreen and he was beginning to believe that Xterra and their victims were long gone. They crested a ridge and the landscape opened up before them as a vast untidy bowl of scattered fields, turned olive green and saffron by recent rains. The scale of the vista made their search seem futile and Luis was close to giving up. Then Alejandro, his driver, slowed to a crawl and pointed ahead. Gennaro laughed - Alejandro was short and squat and, in Gennaro's words, unable to see beyond his own front bumper. Alejandro swore profusely and kept pointing. A mile or two ahead the road snaked its way towards the railway line and there a train had stopped. No station was visible, but it was just possible to make out a couple of vehicles. The windows glinted in the late afternoon sunshine. All assumed that these must be the missing buses.

“What the hell are they doing?” Luis questioned both his eyes and his knowledge of Xterra tactics.

“Loco - Xterra are loco!” Alejandro spat. “They just want to terrorise people and they don't care how they do it. They killed my brother-in-law in Laredo, just because he didn't stop his taxi for one of them when he already had a fare. They are scum. I want to hear them scream and their bones break.”

The convoy traversed the long downward slope with increasing speed, the wind buffeting Luis' face. Enveloped now by the gently folded landscape below, they only occasionally caught a glimpse of the railway line. They did not see the train again until rounding a bend and finding the dark blue diesel at a cattle halt, right in front of them. Its side was strafed and windows smashed. People were scrambling out and over the loose chippings. An old man tripped and tumbled. Several figures rushed to his aid. The newcomers were quickly spotted. Some began waving and pointing. Others ran for cover. The buses were gone, surely with several more hostages.

“Keep going,” Luis commanded.

They shot past, without a pause. This was now a hunting party, each man with the scent of blood in his nostrils. The final chase was short. Within a couple of turns the truck behind Luis' veered left across the carriageway and pulled over. There was a din of brakes and reversing engines. Men jumped to the ground to examine fresh, wide tyre tracks. They led up a gravel track towards a narrow cutting in the low hillside. A heavily rusted sign halfway up advertised a cattle ranch in flakes of old grey paint.

Gennaro organised his team: trucks, other vehicles and civilians were to stay by the highway. Guards would be positioned just within sight, in either direction. A dozen men were to follow Luis and Gennaro on foot towards the ranch. They would walk in three groups, one following the track and the others a little distance to either side.

Soon they saw a curved red coach roof, cresting the horizon between the wind-swept embankments. Creeping forwards now on their hands and knees, a scattering of individuals could be seen standing below in a rough semi-circle, the straight edge completed by the two parked buses. Some wore dark military uniforms and bullet-proof vests, others suits and designer sunglasses. Further into the shallow valley, beyond this scene, a smaller group lingered in front of an old timber barn. Luis' men were clearly outnumbered.

One bus already appeared to have been emptied. Luis surmised that its occupants must be in the barn. A line of terrified looking men were filing reluctantly from the other. Each was forced to kneel, hands on head, to form a line facing the gunmen. Why, thought Luis, would Xterra hide an execution in such a remote location, if their purpose was purely to terrorise? Within moments he had his answer. Two at a time, the men were being dragged from the line and given weapons. A man held a machete in both hands, but as far from his body as he could manage, as though it were a dangerous beast that might spring up and attack him. His partner was presented with a sledgehammer by a leering assistant, who stood beside an assortment of similarly crude implements. It was refused and thrown back to the floor. A shot rang out. The victim slumped to his knees and toppled slowly onto his face, his body twitching sporadically in the grass. The first man leapt at the executioner, emitting a sound which was half scream, half roar, as he tried to cut into the gunman's neck with the machete. A bullet hit him in the stomach but he ran, clutching at his innards. His intended target held a palm nonchalantly to a flesh-wound.

“Let him go,” the gunman shouted and the semi-circle parted. A skinny figure stumbled up the hillside, heading directly for Luis and his men, who scrambled backwards and hunkered deeper into the dirt. It stopped in surprise at the sight of Gennaro lying incongruously in the grass. A student: clean-cut, well-dressed and clearly from a good family. Trying to speak, blood issued from his mouth. The realisation that he was dying spread rapidly across his face. He gazed down at his stomach in despair. His legs collapsed beneath him and he fell to lie inert in the dust, eyes open and staring blindly.

Two more figures had been dragged forward and presented with weapons. They were pushed towards each other and ordered to fight. Almost apologetically they began to circle each other, one with a long blade, the other clutching a claw hammer. Neither man wanted to risk a blow or to get too close. Continually threatened and goaded, they were poked with a knife whenever they swung within range.

“Only one can survive,” the ringmaster shouted. “One of you will join us and be honoured as a hit-man for Las Xterra, but the weakest must die. Who wants to see their family again? Who is like us and has the strength to take another life?”

Still the men did little, looking at each other as though for the first time.

“Fight or die!” A gun was now raised. A plump, middle-aged businessman lunged forward with a slash of his blade. Its tip caught in some clothing. As it did so, his youthful opponent brought his hammer down instinctively on the man's arm. He screamed in pain, cradling his elbow with his other hand. Both stopped and stared at their tormentors. Almost instantaneously, two head shots rang out and they collapsed, one over the other, to form an untidy pile on the plain.

Luis had seen enough. He would end this decisively and then he would get out. Alex and he would settle in the Caribbean, or in Canada, and raise children who didn't believe there were answers in violence. He tried to hide from the glaring irony of his own actions as he sent Alejandro away for reinforcements. Calmly he informed Gennaro that he and three others would circle round to the back of the barn, to free the women and children who must lie within. Gennaro would know when to attack the main group. Luis' party would also ensure there was nowhere for Xterra to run.

As he withdrew, another pair was being forced forward. Again both individuals refused to fight, hanging their heads in anticipation of the next bullets. No shots were fired. Instead both were dragged to the front of the first bus and forced down onto their stomachs. Each in turn received a brutal kick to the side of the head then lay still. Another Xterra henchman had stepped up to take the wheel. The engine roared into life, diesel fumes spewing out onto the much diminished number of hostages still waiting in line. The bus crept ahead, the prone men disappearing from view beneath the front fender. There was a short, strangled scream as a front wheel climbed over the first man, then once again only the revs from the deep-throated machine.

The second person had been able to part roll away, one leg mangled by a wheel. A suited figure picked up the sledgehammer and walked between the buses. The broad arc of the implement crossed the setting sun and barely slowed as it travelled through its victim's skull in an explosion of blood and brains. There was a sudden outburst of expletives and laughter as the killer realised his suit was now covered in gore. He threw the tool petulantly into the rear window of the bus. A shower of glass sent the driver tumbling down the steps and into the dirt, to the accompaniment of another volley of mirth.

“Is there no one here who can fight?” Another well-tailored thug stepped forward and admonished the remaining figures. He discharged three shots from a handgun and two bodies fell, one toppling forward and one slumping upon the shoulder of his neighbour, as if seeking comfort in death.

Luis' group hesitated briefly behind the barn. They could no longer see what was going on, but the gunfire had come no closer. Luis assigned a man to guard each corner of the building. A third followed him towards a small wooden door in the middle of the tall, Dutch-style, rear wall. It was slightly ajar. As Luis listened carefully he could hear the low, distressed whimpers of the captives within. He peered cautiously through the gap. A shaft of sunshine streamed into the barn from beneath the eaves. At ground level it was in semi-darkness and he could see little. His companion gently tested the door. There was a metallic squeal and something that had been leaning against it fell slowly to the floor. Someone began to cry. Luis heard male voices. The beam of a powerful torch began searching the wide floor area. Now he could make out the silhouettes of several pairs of female figures, tied back to back. The torch bearer stood framed in the doorway to what looked like a small back office.

“It's the wind!” the man exclaimed. “Now shut up and await your turn. You're all fucked, but some of you will be more fucked than others, if you piss me off now.” There was more cursing and crying. Luis heard a sharp smack across someone's face. The crying subsided into stifled sobs.

“Now check outside then close that fucking door.”

Only two guards, Luis conjectured. He and his companion, Silvio, stared resolutely at each other. It was now or never. They heard the internal door close again, a female scream from beyond it, and then more distant cursing. Much closer there were footsteps - slow and irregular - as though someone was picking carefully through debris. The two sank back on either side of the entrance, both clutching at switchblades. The handle rattled, the door swung open and an unarmed figure stepped outside. He squinted at the hillside above, which still held on to the last rays of the sun. Luis sprang upwards, swung an arm around his neck and forced his head back. His partner leapt to his side and jabbed his knife straight at the protruding Adam's apple and windpipe.