Trail of the Chupacabra
Stephen C. Randel


The Chupacabra Trilogy #2






Avery Bartholomew Pendleton is back, and he’s just as crazy as ever. Avery is a paranoid loner obsessed with global conspiracy theories who spends most of his time crafting absurd and threatening letters to anyone who offends him. That means pretty much everyone.

Still convinced of the existence of the mythical Mexican chupacabra*, Avery enlists the assistance of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia (STRAC-BOM) and their manic leader, General X-Ray, to help him invade Mexico. Accompanied by Ziggy, a burned-out hippy, and an uncommonly large iguana named Nancy, the group follows the advice of a New Orleans voodoo priestess and heads straight into the Mexican desert.

Unfortunately for the motley gang of explorers, Mexico can be a dangerous place if you cross the wrong people — specifically, the Padre, a vicious drug cartel boss, and El Barquero, a murderous gunrunner who has crossed Avery’s path before.

What unfolds is a laugh-out-loud dark comedy of insane humor, unforgettable characters, and chilling thrills.











TRAIL OF THE CHUPACABRA











A Novel by

Stephen Randel


For my dad, thanks for everything, Pop. — Your number one son




“Of course I’m sane, when the trees start talking to me, I don’t talk back.”

    

—Terry Pratchett, The Light Fantastic






“They’ve got us surrounded again, the poor bastards.”

    

—General Creighton W. Abrams Jr.








Introduction


Chupacabra — A legendary creature believed to inhabit parts of Latin America, particularly Mexico. Its name translates to “goat sucker.” The name comes from the creature’s reported habit of drinking the blood of its victims.

While the chupacabra may or may not exist, the violence in Mexico is very real. Despite efforts by officials on both sides of the border, more than fifty thousand drug-related murders were reported between 2006 and 2013. Many of the victims were tortured first. Many were women or young people. The overwhelming majority of the weapons used in these crimes came from the United States.




Prologue


Rosalina smiled at the warm sun climbing in the sky to the east of Monterrey, Mexico. It was early Sunday morning, and the traffic was light. The young nurse hummed a nursery rhyme and thought of names for the baby as she drove toward the hospital. Driving was becoming uncomfortable now that she was six months pregnant. Her husband had been taking her to work recently, but today he was out of town. His work took him away often, and sometimes for quite a long time. She never knew exactly where.

In her rearview mirror, Rosalina noticed two white pickup trucks approaching at a high rate of speed. She pulled over to the right-hand lane and slowed to let them pass. One of the trucks pulled directly in front of her and slammed on its brakes. Rosalina tried to stop in time, but she couldn’t. Her car rear-ended the truck. The second truck pulled up behind her and blocked her in. She was stuck and scared. A group of men holding automatic weapons and with bandanas covering their faces jumped from the trucks and surrounded her car. She locked the doors. One of the men approached her window. He had dark shoulder-length hair. He raised the butt of his rifle and smashed the window in. Shards of glass sprayed the front seat. Terrified, Rosalina cried out for help, but there were only a few cars on the road, and none of them stopped. Most sped up and drove past without the driver even looking over. In Mexico it was safer to drive past than get involved. The man with dark hair reached in and unlocked the door. He grabbed Rosalina by her hair, dragged her out of the car, and threw her in the middle of the road.

“Please don’t hurt my baby!” Rosalina pleaded.

The longhaired man slowly raised his weapon. He fired the entire magazine of his automatic rifle into the screaming woman. With the last burst, he aimed for her abdomen. The dark-haired man ordered one of his men to take the woman’s car and follow him. As quickly as it had started, the men took the vehicles and were gone.

Rosalina’s bloody body lay in the middle of the street. Passing cars drove around it. It was a full ten minutes before anyone even bothered to stop.




Ten years later…




PART I





CHAPTER ONE

El Comienzo


The night sky was inky black. Even though the city was deep in slumber, occasional muted sounds of car horns and sirens, talking to each other, arguing with each other, echoed faintly through the air along a city block in Reynosa. Rows of warehouses lined the streets in this old industrial section of the Mexican town. In the middle of the block, two men stood outside a pockmarked building with a sign describing it as an automotive supply company. The men extinguished their cigarettes as they suspiciously eyed a large black SUV with dark tinted windows quickly approaching. One of the men reached his hand inside his coat as the vehicle pulled to a stop in front of the building. From the back seat, a man exited the car. The two sentries in front of the building immediately recognized the heavyset man.

“Inside,” the man said as he unlocked the front door to the warehouse. The two sentries obediently followed him. They walked through a small office and into the storage room that comprised the majority of the building. The heavyset man turned on the interior lights. As the fluorescent lights overhead flickered to life, they revealed rows of storage racks stocked with auto parts. A large delivery van was parked next to the sliding doors at the back of the warehouse.

“Go out back and get Manny and Victor,” the heavyset man said to one of the sentries. The sentry immediately complied.

“Boss. What’s going on?” the other sentry asked.

“The Padre wants the weapons moved tonight.”

“Where?”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Are we coming with you?”

“Yes. You drive the van. Just follow my car. We need to be quick.”

“Boss!” the other sentry shouted as he ran back into the room. “They’re not out there!”

“What?” The heavyset man pulled a pistol from his jacket.

“Victor and Manny. They’re not out back,” the sentry replied.

“Check the van,” the heavyset man ordered. One of the sentries swung the van’s rear doors open. The bodies of two Mexican men rolled out, their throats slit.

“Jesus Christ,” the heavyset man said as he looked into the van loaded with crates of military-issue assault rifles, ammunition, and grenades. Attached to three of the crates were large blocks of plastic explosives. The detonators were clearly visible.

“Run!” the heavyset man yelled.

As the men turned toward the front exit, an incandescent fireball engulfed the middle of the block. The shockwave from the explosion shattered car windows a full block away from the building. Flaming embers slowly rained down from the pitch-black night sky while hot metallic debris pelted the street like burning hailstones. The black SUV in front of the warehouse was on fire. The driver was dead. The majority of the block was destroyed or in flames.

From the rooftop of a building a hundred yards away, the flickering fires that engulfed the street illuminated the dark face of a large, muscular man dressed in black. The hulking man placed the remote detonator in his pocket as he watched the carnage below. This was only a portion of the weapons he had stolen from the U.S. National Guard for the Padre’s cartel. Once the seaborne shipment had landed in Guatemala and was smuggled across the southern border of Mexico, it had been divided up and transported to storage points in the cartel’s territory. He’d discovered this particular location from one of the Padre’s men, who had unfortunately passed out in a brothel. He beat the man for an hour. After the cartel soldier gave up the information, he gave up his life. Rage burned in the muscular man’s eyes as he watched the flame-filled street below. The Padre had reneged on payment for the weapons. The Padre tried to have him killed. But El Barquero would have the last word. “The Ferryman” always did.

• • •







To: Editorial Department

Austin American-Statesman




Dear Sir or Madam:




In response to the overwhelming number of vapid readers of your humble publication, I would like to take a brief moment to respond to the horde of pinheads, nitwits, imbeciles, dunces, morons, and dimwits who felt obligated to comment on my last correspondence to your organization’s editorial department. Their idiotic and uneducated retorts and vicious personal attacks against my research regarding the timing of an overwhelming invasion of four-legged bloodsucking chupacabras due to global climatic shifts caused by the burning of fossil fuels are pathetic. Please note, I didn’t ever say it was going to happen today. Nor did I say it was going to happen tomorrow. I just said it was going to happen. Further research conducted at my own expense suggests that elevated levels of sunspot activity on the photosphere of the sun may have delayed the chupacabras’ migration across our southern borders as they shift their historic breeding grounds to more temperate climates. I have theorized that the intense magnetic activity that governs the variation and size of sunspots is at the root of the delay. Coronal mass ejections associated with sunspots are obviously disrupting the Earth’s magnetosphere and disorienting the internal navigation capabilities of the beasts. I am certain this is a short-term solar phenomenon that will self-correct at any moment. When that happens, the international scientific community will know that I was right. In the meantime, I suggest your readers apply extra sunscreen.

    

Sincerely,



    

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton






• • •


Avery shut down and closed his laptop computer as the airline flight attendant’s intercom announcement instructed. As the cabin crew prepared the plane for landing, Avery looked out the window at the long stretch of swamp and marshland below. Avery had never been to New Orleans before. In fact, Avery had never really been much of anywhere before. He wasn’t a big fan of flying. It had something to do with the big sign outside the airport that clearly stated TERMINAL. Or maybe it was that the TSA screener had gotten to third base with him and didn’t even buy him dinner first. Nonetheless, Avery’s longstanding reluctance to engage with the real world had recently begun to soften. After receiving a design fee in the low five figures from the retailing giant IKEA for his blueprints and design templates for a next-generation computer work station, Avery had started to reengage with the public. The money wasn’t insignificant. In fact, it was quite a generous offer. Still, Avery was rather upset that IKEA had only purchased his idea for an upfront, onetime fee and not the ongoing equal split of revenue from the project as he’d originally suggested. He was also pissed off that the final number of cup holders strategically located around the workstation had been dramatically reduced. However, the good news was that they did keep the attached mini-fridge. It took a significant amount of negotiating on Avery’s part, and the negotiating on Avery’s part mainly involved the threat of lawsuits. Ultimately, they finally gave in. The mini-fridge was a deal-breaker for Avery, and IKEA’s lead counsel threatened to quit if she had to deal with the condescending, boorish, and rude man for another instant. Victory in hand, Avery immediately took his newfound fortune and quickly quadrupled it in the currency markets. He then proceeded to lose half of it overnight in the metals markets.

“The silver market plummeted significantly today over fears that it would plummet significantly,” the business channel anchor announced, causing Avery to nearly choke on the nachos he’d been stuffing into his face.

“Freaking financial leverage,” Avery growled at the television set. “Oh, you’re a seductive mistress. Charming at first, but in the end, nothing but a money-grubbing whore!”

Avery immediately decided to abandon his brief flirtations with the financial markets and instead refocus on his research into most things paranormal and conspiratorial, particularly his stubborn fascination with the legendary chupacabra. Chupacabra translates to “goat sucker,” and the vampire-like beasts had a long history in the folklore of Mexico and Latin America. Avery thought he’d recently acquired the corpse of one, although DNA testing at an independent research laboratory identified it as a mildly decomposed coyote suffering from a bad case of mange. Still, that didn’t discourage Avery. He viewed the test as either inconclusive or, more than likely, a covert, high-level, government-sponsored coverup that went all the way to the White House.

“Of course they can’t let the public know about this!” Avery had screamed at his friend Ziggy. “It’s an election year! Panicked voters don’t cast ballots for incumbents!”

Avery decided that he needed to utilize the remainder of his wealth to gather more evidence for his theory. That was how he ended up on this airplane to New Orleans. He was on his way to the bi-annual conference of the International Society of Monster Hunters. He was joined on the journey by Ziggy, who was snoring away in a drug-induced slumber, in the adjacent aisle seat. The skinny, lizard-like man wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and baggy shorts woke suddenly as Avery slapped the back of his overly large head.

“Like, knock it off, man,” Ziggy protested as he rubbed his eyes and looked at the portly man wearing a bright yellow tracksuit sitting next to him. “You know, like, you should really think about trimming that beard of yours, dude. It’s, like, totally out of control and stuff, bro.”

“The day I take hygiene lessons from a gecko is the same day I slit my wrists in a warm, Roman bathtub,” Avery replied. “Now get up, you mentally defective reptile. I’ve got to hit the head before we land.”

“Can’t you just, like, hold it till we land?” Ziggy asked as he scrunched into a semi-fetal position in his seat so that the rotund Avery could squeeze past him and into the aisle.

“The timing of my essential bodily functions is not open for debate,” Avery said as he knocked the half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew out of the center armrest. “Damn you, Ziggy!” Avery swore. “You owe me another one when we land. Two, for that matter.”

“Like, why two, man?”

“Because I’m financing your airfare and lodging out of my personal affluence.”

“Your what?”

“My fortune.”

“I, like, didn’t think you like got that much.”

“For tax purposes, as far as the IRS is concerned, I didn’t get anything.”

“You aren’t going to pay your taxes?”

“Of course not. Taxes are for losers.”

“Like, why?”

“Simpleton. The Constitution only allows the government to coin money, and that money, when coined, must be freely exchangeable for silver or gold. Paper money, or, in my case, a check from a Swedish company, doesn’t meet the definition of income suitable for taxation. Just look it up online.”

“Like, far out.” Ziggy scratched his oversized head.

“Excuse me, sir,” a pretty flight attendant said to Avery. “I need you to take your seat. We’ll be landing shortly.”

“My good woman,” Avery replied pompously. “I must be permitted to use this flying machine’s facilities. I suffer from a serious intestinal condition that requires my immediate attention.”

“Well, okay,” the flight attendant said, relenting. “Just make it quick.”

“I’ll suggest that to my bowels, but they tend to have an internal clock of their own.” Avery headed toward the back of the airplane. He uncomfortably stood in line behind two people waiting for their turn in the lavatory. Noticing that no one was using the bathroom at the front of the plane, Avery reversed course and made his way forward.

“Excuse me, sir,” a second flight attendant said to Avery. “You need to use the bathroom at the rear of the plane.”

“Impossible,” Avery replied as he reached for the door handle.

“Sir, this restroom is for first class only.”

“It’s unoccupied, and I’m in distress.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the flight attendant, now growing more hostile, replied as she moved to block the door.

“Nonsense. I refuse to be held hostage by illogical policies,” Avery replied. “Out of my way, you pitiless authoritarian.”

“Back of the plane,” the flight attendant ordered as she pointed her finger down the aisle.

“I refuse. Furthermore, once we land, I fully plan to file a written complaint to the FAA and your union detailing your belligerent attitude.”

“Return to your seat, sir. Or I’ll have you arrested once we land.”

“Arrested for what? Attempting to use a vacant restroom? I dare you to cite the case law and legal statute for that.”

“For disobeying my instructions!”

“Outrageous! Do you know who I am?” Avery replied. The flight attendant immediately reached for the forward intercom phone.

“May I have your attention, please?” the flight attendant announced to the entire airplane. “Does anyone recognize this man? He apparently doesn’t know who he is.” The entire plane erupted in laughter as Avery’s face turned beet red. Avery slowly shuffled to the back of the plane. The line in back had disappeared, but the door was locked. A few moments later, the door opened and Ziggy popped out.

“Like, excuse me, dude.” Ziggy walked back to his seat. Avery squeezed himself into the lavatory.

• • •


An awkward silence filled the dark and smoky boardroom, creating an uncomfortable setting for the thirteen men sitting around the long mahogany table. The assembled were a mix of senior bankers, politicians, military leaders, and police officials. No one around the table knew more than a handful of the others, but they all had one compatriot in common: the man who had called them together today. All were concerned with this abruptly called gathering, but only a few of their faces revealed it. Meetings like this were uncommon. When they did happen, it was likely that fewer men would leave the room than had originally entered. The Padre had made all of them wealthy and powerful. He protected them, but he could also make them disappear. No one would ever find their bodies, and no one would ask questions. Once a person owed the Padre a favor, he owned their soul, their family, everything. And now he was pissed. Nervous eyes glanced to the door as heavy footsteps approached. The door swung open, and the Padre strode into the boardroom. Without saying a word, he sat down in a large leather chair at the head of the table. He immediately propped his immaculately polished black cowboy boots up on the table. The balding man wore a black suit and a Roman priest’s collar, and stroked his dark, bushy mustache as he surveyed his audience.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the Padre said as he fished a thin cigar from a silver case.

“Good morning, Padre,” the room replied.

“I’m truly sorry to have to disturb you this morning,” the Padre said as he lit the cigar and took a long drag. “I know you all have important business to attend to, but I have important business as well. This means we all have important business together. Together,” the Padre repeated for effect as he slowly gazed around the room, making sure to look each man in his eyes. “Some of you know each other, some of you don’t. What you all have in common is that you collectively make my business work. Whether it’s through finance, influence, or protection, I can’t do business without you, and you can’t do business without me. And the business is good, no?”

“But Padre,” a man in a banker’s blue pinstriped suit interjected. “It’s getting more difficult. Cleaning the money is not as safe as it once was. Anti-money laundering statutes and levels of oversight are becoming more restrictive, while the amount of money you’re bringing in is increasing all the time. You have to understand the risk we’re taking. Even gathering like this, in the middle of the city, in the middle of the day?” the man questioned. “It’s dangerous.”

“Is it a problem? If you want out, that’s fine,” the Padre replied as he took another drag from his cigar. “There are plenty of banks that would love to make as much money as yours does. Is that what you want? Out?”

“No, Padre,” the banker replied meekly. “But it is becoming a problem.”

“It’s a problem?” the Padre laughed. “That’s not a problem. Hire some more Spanish-speaking Ivy League geniuses and tell them to come up with something new. Fake companies, different locations offshore, South America, whatever, I don’t care. Just don’t tell me it’s a problem!” The Padre slapped the table with the palm of his hand. “You’ve got the easiest job in the room. I give you my money, and you give me back less. You’re not a banker. You’re a thief! An overpaid thief.”

“Padre, I didn’t mean any disrespect,” the nervous banker said humbly.

“Shut up and listen. All of you listen!” The Padre ground out his cigar on the boardroom table even though there was an ashtray right in front of him. “The problem, our problem, is right in front of you,” the Padre said motioning toward the file folders sitting in front of each man in the room. “Open them.” Each of the thirteen men quickly opened the file in front of him. Inside was a single grainy, black and white photograph of a large, heavily muscled man. “I need your help in finding this man.”

“Who is he?” asked one of the men, a police chief.

“His name is El Barquero,” the Padre replied. “The Ferryman. He used to provide a valuable service to me, smuggling weapons into Mexico, but not anymore. Now he’s a nuisance that must be dealt with. That is why we need to find him. He is dangerous for all of us.”

A military commander from the far end of the table spoke up. “I know of this man. He was a senior officer in the Mexican Army. A commander for the elite Special Forces Airmobile Group, he and his teams were trained by some of the best counter-terrorism and Special Forces groups in the world. I worked with him. He was a very deadly man then and, no doubt, still is. Then one day, soon after his wife was killed, he disappeared. There was no trace of him. The military assumed he was murdered by the cartels. I didn’t realize he was working for you.”

“No one did,” the Padre said as he lit another cigar. “Unfortunately, we had a falling out. Now is the time to officially terminate our relationship before he can do any more damage to my business.”

“What do we do if we find him?” another man asked.

“Not if, when we find him, just let me know where he is. I’ll take care of the rest.” The Padre took a long look around the table. “There can be no mistakes. Do you hear me? No mistakes.” The men in the room all nodded in agreement. “Very well. You may all leave.” The assembled men gathered their belongings and rose from the table. “Senior Gonzalez, stay for a moment.” A middle-aged Mexican politician nodded in reply and sat back down in his chair. After the boardroom had emptied, the Padre took a seat next to the man. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Certainly, Padre. What is it?”

“El Carnicero.”

“The Butcher? What about him?”

“I need you to get him for me. Even if those fools in suits could find Barquero, he’d kill them all before they even had time to pick up the phone.”

“But Padre, Carnicero? It’s impossible. We’ve tried to get him out for years.”

“Why is everyone telling me about the impossible today? It’s difficult, not impossible. Work your channels of influence more aggressively,” the Padre said as he put his arm around the man. “Remember how important he is to me. Money is not an issue.”

“The political pressure will be immense. It’s the bus incident, Padre — no one can forget the bus. I’m not sure if I can get him out, and even if I could, it will take a great deal of time.”

“Senior Gonzalez, you don’t have time,” the Padre said as he looked into the politician’s eyes. “Remember, you work for me. This must be done at once. If you have to, think of something more direct. I can provide anything you might need. Just do it fast. I want to see him soon.”

“Yes, Padre.”




CHAPTER TWO

The Sonesta Royale


Avery and Ziggy collected their belongings from the airport baggage carousel: a small roller bag for Avery and a black plastic lawn sack tied at the top with twine for Ziggy. The skinny hippy was still visibly shaken from the rough landing.

“Like, did we crash, or were we, like, shot down?” Ziggy asked.

“I’m guessing the landing gear failed to deploy properly,” Avery replied. “I plan on suing. I suggest you retain legal counsel for your own benefit.”

“Yeah. Like, good idea, man.”

“Take my bag and follow me. I’m off in search of ground transportation.” Avery strode off toward the nearest taxi stand.

“Like, wait up, dude,” Ziggy replied as he struggled with the roller bag and unwieldy lawn sack.

“Taxi, sir?” the driver at the front of the line of cabs outside baggage claim called out to Avery as he approached the stand.

“Obviously,” Avery replied as he climbed into the back seat of the cab. The cabbie assisted Ziggy with their luggage before they both joined Avery in the car.

“Where you headed?” the cab driver asked as he checked out the two odd-looking characters in the back seat through his rearview mirror.

“The Royal Sonesta. Double time,” Avery replied as he pulled an oversized pair of aviator-style sunglasses from his fanny pack.

“Excellent choice, sir.” The cabbie pulled away from the curb. “First time to New Orleans?”

“Like, yeah, man,” Ziggy replied.

“You’re going to love it,” the cab driver said to Ziggy. “Best food in the world. Got to get you some beignets, some debris, some gumbo. It’s all good.”

“Eyes on the road,” Avery barked to the cabbie as he buckled his seatbelt.

“Don’t you worry,” the cabbie replied. “I’ve been driving cabs in this town for thirty years. I can get you anywhere you want to go with my eyes closed.”

“I’d prefer you kept them open,” said Avery.

“No problem, sir. No problem. My name’s Pappy,” the balding man with a sunburned head said to the two men. “Where you fellows from?”

“Like, Texas,” Ziggy replied.

“Oh, we love y’all folks from Texas. Though you do tend to act the fool down in the Quarter sometimes. Anyways, we love you spending money just the same. Business hasn’t been so good since the hurricane and the oil spill. Anyone coming down now is extra welcome. Here’s my card in case you need anything while you’re here.” The cabbie handed a rumpled handwritten business card to Ziggy. “I know ’bout everyone in town. Pappy can get you whatever you need or to wherever you need to go. The number is on the back.”

“Groovy, man,” Ziggy replied. “You know, like, any good voodoo shops? I, like, got this business back home that…oh, like, no way, man,” Ziggy interrupted himself. “I, like, forgot to put the CLOSED sign up,” Ziggy said dejectedly as he thought of unhappy customers banging on the front door of his curio shop.

“Don’t worry,” Avery said. “There’s more than one head shop in Austin. I’m sure the community will survive your temporary absence.”

“It’s, like, not just a head shop, man,” Ziggy protested. “I’ve got, like, rare artifacts and totally museum-quality type stuff, too.”

“Right. I’m sure the Smithsonian absolutely covets your collection of monkey paws, shrunken heads, and vintage Ouija boards.”

“Oh, I got just the place for you,” Pappy said, looking back at Ziggy. “Stay away from the places in the French Quarter. They’re just for the tourists. But Pappy’s got the real thing for you. Oh, yes, sir. The real thing.”

“Like, right on, man,” Ziggy replied.

“How much farther to our destination?” Avery asked, perturbed.

“Oh, not too far. Hardly any traffic,” Pappy replied. “Just sit back and relax, and let Pappy tell you all about this fine city. See, right over there we got what we in the bayou call a…”

Avery spent the remainder of the ride trying to ignore the impromptu geographic and historical tour from their chatty cab driver. On the other hand, Ziggy hung on the cabbie’s every word. Pappy was still lecturing on the history of the riverboats when they pulled up to the grand hotel in the heart of the French Quarter. Afternoon revelers were already starting to gather on the upstairs balconies that lined the front of the building. Ziggy paid the driver and went to grab the bags. After a moment’s hesitation, he reluctantly allowed the bellman to take their belongings and roll them inside on a cart. By the time Ziggy made it through the lobby and to the reception desk, Avery was already in a heated argument with a hotel staff member.

“I’m very sorry, sir, but we don’t have any record of your reservation,” the front desk receptionist repeated to Avery.

“Impossible!” Avery bellowed. “My reptilian-like associate made them personally. Zigmund, produce the confirmation number immediately! I’m desperately in need of a room and a nap.” Ziggy fished a small slip of paper out of his pocket and recited the sequence to the young receptionist.

“I apologize again, but it doesn’t match any of our records,” the young man replied. “It’s not even the right number of digits.”

“Is there a problem here I may assist with?” the assistant hotel manager, who had just arrived on the scene, asked politely.

“Of course there’s a problem,” Avery huffed. “This imbecile in your employment has massacred our reservation. This will no doubt cost your establishment at least half a star in my travel rating blog.”

“Michael, take a quick break,” the assistant manager said as he perused the handwritten confirmation number. “I see. Give me just a moment. I think I may know what the problem is. Your last name, sir?” He picked up a phone and dialed a number.

“Pendleton. Avery B.”

“Thank you,” the assistant manager replied. “Ah, yes,” he said into the phone after a few moments. “Do you have a reservation for a guest under the name of Pendleton? I see. Yes. Thank you very much.” He hung up the phone. “You see, Mr. Pendleton, this is actually quite common. This is the Royal Sonesta. However, you made your reservation with the Sonesta Royale. It’s not all that far from here, and while I like to take the high road when discussing our competitors, I highly recommend you avoid that particular inn. It’s quite, uh, how would you say? Rather rustic.”

“How rustic?” Avery glared down at Ziggy, who had hidden himself behind his lawn sack.

“Well, suffice to say, the rats are terribly unrefined, the mold on the walls is less than fresh, and running water can only be guaranteed if you have a room on the top floor during a rainstorm. Other than that, it’s a bit unpolished.” Ziggy slunk even lower behind his sack as Avery’s face began to turn purple. “However,” the assistant manager continued, “I may be able to acquire suitable accommodations for you here. Just give me a second.” The man began typing into his reservation computer. “Yes, wonderful,” he announced after a few moments. “We’ve had a late cancellation. How long were you planning on staying?”

“Through the end of the conference,” Avery replied.

“Excellent. Are both of you thoracic surgeons?”

“Like, we’re not with that conference, man,” Ziggy replied from behind his sack. “We’re, like, with the other one.”

“I wasn’t aware there was another conference in town this week?” the assistant manager replied.

“Never mind,” Avery interrupted. “This room you have available. You’ll of course honor our price guarantee of twenty-nine dollars per night?” Avery asked.

“Twenty-nine dollars?” the flabbergasted man replied. “Sir, this is one of the finest hotels in New Orleans. The rate is two hundred and twenty-nine dollars per night, and that’s with me giving you a discounted rate, given the confusion in your reservations.”

“Highway robbery!” Avery spat.

“Sir, it’s a very fair rate.”

“I know your type. You’re no doubt working in conjunction with the other establishment to artificially manipulate and raise prices through a sophisticated bait-and-switch scam. I shall immediately report you to the appropriate federal authorities, you chiseling swine!”

“Sir, I’m only trying to help.”

“Right. Help line your pockets with the money of your defrauded customers, you charlatan swindler! Ziggy. Grab the bags. We’re departing this den of double-dealing con artists!” Avery shouted loud enough for the entire lobby to hear. “Take care to watch your wallets and purses!” Avery ranted as he headed for the main doors. “They’ll give you the shaft and rob you blind in this palace of shysters!”

Ziggy looked up at the assistant manager and shrugged his shoulders, as if to apologize. “Like, can you help us out with like some directions to our hotel, man?” Ziggy asked. The assistant manager scratched a quick map on the back of Ziggy’s piece of paper containing their confirmation number and handed it back to him.

“Best of luck,” the man said as he watched Ziggy run through the hotel lobby after Avery with the roller bag in one hand and dragging the lawn sack across the slick marble floor with his other.

“Beware of the misleading flimflam artists who operate this hovel!” Avery continued as he marched out of the front of the hotel and onto Bourbon Street. “Rogues of the most degenerate nature are on staff here! Crooks of the most despicable character…” Avery suddenly stopped his bellowing as he realized no one was paying any attention to him. In fact, the throngs of people meandering up and down the sidewalks were, for all intents and purposes, intentionally ignoring the obnoxious, portly man in the yellow tracksuit sporting an unruly tangle of brown hair and unkempt beard.

“Like, chill out, man,” Ziggy said as he caught up with Avery. “I, like, got the lowdown on how to, like, get us to the hotel.”

“Lead the way. And remember, I hold you personally responsible for this fiasco.”

“Like, don’t worry, man. It can’t be as bad as, like, that guy said and stuff.”

Twenty minutes and one stop to load up on Mountain Dew later, Avery and Ziggy found themselves walking through a decidedly un-touristy part of New Orleans. Boarded-up doors, broken windows, and the occasional burned-out storefront had replaced the open, welcoming doors and windows of the heart of the French Quarter. The few people who were out on the street or sitting in the shade of the dilapidated buildings cast curious glances at Avery and Ziggy. Even the occasional stray dog that crossed their path didn’t know what to make of the two obviously out-of-place travelers.

“I’m running out of what little patience I have left, Ziggy. Where in damnation is this place?”

“It’s, like, got to be right around here, man,” Ziggy replied as he turned his primitive map upside down and looked back down the street they had just come from.

“Give me the map!” Avery demanded as he ripped the small piece of paper from Ziggy’s hands. Avery pondered over the hastily scribbled directions. “Nothing but gibberish, you good-for-nothing insolent little fool of a pigmy.”

“Now, what you two fine gentlemen looking for?” a voice asked from the shadows of a stoop behind them.

“None of your business,” Avery replied to the voice without looking.

“Come on now,” the voice replied. “I can tell you just about everything. Sho ’nuff. In fact, my tied-dyed little friend, I can tell you something special about you right now.”

“Like, what, dude?” Ziggy asked the lanky black man wearing a plaid vest and timeworn black bowler hat as he stepped out from the shadows.

“Like what?” the man asked. “Like how about dem shoes you got on.”

“Like, my shoes?” Ziggy looked down at his sandaled feet.

“Yeah, brother. Like, about dem shoes you got on,” the man said as he removed his bowler and fanned his face with it. “For ten dollars, I can tell you where you got dem shoes.”

“Like, I don’t even know where I got them, man.”

“That’s the point, my man. Everyone should know where they got they shoes. You got ten dollars on you?”

“Like, I don’t know, man,” Ziggy said nervously.

“Come on now,” the man implored. “I know you got ten dollars on you, and I’ll bet you ten dollars of mine that I can tell you exactly where you got ’em.”

“Well, like, okay, dude.” Ziggy pulled out a ten-dollar bill from his shorts.

“You got dem shoes on your feet!” the man said, quickly snatching the money from Ziggy’s hands. “Sho ’nuff, you got dem shoes right on your feet!” The man cackled as he stuffed the bill in the front pocket of his vest.

“Like, wait a minute, man,” Ziggy protested.

“Shrewd investing, you pathetic chump,” Avery said to Ziggy.

“Now, where you looking to go?” The man put his hat back on.

“Ignore this man, Ziggy,” Avery said. “He’s already halfway to robbing you blind.”

“Oh, now don’t be sore, little fellow,” the man said as he patted the crestfallen Ziggy on his back. “I was just teaching you a valuable lesson ’bout the streets in this part. Got to be careful with that bankroll, my brother. Don’t go waving it around like a string of Mardi Gras beads. Now, where you heading? It’s the least I can do.”

“Sonesta Royale,” Ziggy mumbled.

“The Sonesta Royale,” the man said. “Why, that is a hard place to find. In fact, you is definitely going to be needing Jasper’s help for that one. By the way, that’s me. Jasper. Pleased to meet you.” Jasper shook Ziggy’s limp hand. “Now, for just another ten dollars, I’ll take you there myself. Walk you right in the front door. What ya say?”

“Do not give that man any more money,” Avery said to Ziggy.

“Come on now,” Jasper replied. “Going to be getting dark soon. And when it gets dark in this part of town, it gets real dark. Like, pitch-black dark. You’ll be stumbling around here for hours. Not exactly the safest place to be toting dem bags of yours around once the sun goes down.”

“You promise?” asked Ziggy.

“Give you my word, my brother. Folks ’round these parts know Jasper’s word is money. I’ll even carry yo bags.”

“Like, only if you promise, man.” Ziggy fished another ten dollars out of his pocket.

“Promise.” Jasper grabbed the money from Ziggy and picked up their luggage. “Follow me,” he said as he disappeared back up the darkened stoop behind them.

“Like, where you going, man?!” Ziggy called out as he and Avery followed Jasper into the darkness.

“Come on now,” Jasper said over his shoulder as he pushed open a rickety old wooden door at the top of the steps. “Right this way.” Avery and Ziggy stepped through the door and into a dimly lit room with a small reception stand at the end. Jasper set their belongings by the reception desk and turned around to face Avery and Ziggy. “Gentlemen,” he announced grandly. “I give you the Sonesta Royale! It’s the oldest, finest, and not to mention, most affordable luxury accommodation in the Big Easy. Gentlemen, it’s been my pleasure to assist you this fine afternoon.” Jasper removed his hat and bowed deeply.

A woman’s voice came from a room behind the reception desk. “Jasper! Quit bothering the guests. How many times do I have to tell you to stay off my steps?” A squatty black woman said as she waddled up to the desk.

“Just assisting the customers, Momma Dee, just assisting the customers.”

“Like, how come there’s, like, no sign out front?” Ziggy asked the woman.

“Our celebrity guests don’t like the notoriety,” Momma Dee replied.

“Celebrities, like, stay here?”

“Oh, sure,” the woman replied. “Why, Madonna stops in all the time. Now, you must be the Pendleton party.”

“Like, how’d you know that?” Ziggy asked.

“You’re the only reservation I have. I’m going to give you the best room in the house, the Louis Armstrong suite. Twenty-nine a night plus tax, the first two nights in advance. Complimentary café au lait served in the lobby between seven and seven-thirty, weekdays only. And Momma Dee goes to bed at eight in the evening sharp. If you need anything after that, make sure it’s something that can wait until morning. Second key opens the front door after hours, so don’t go banging like a fool on it in the middle of the night, ’cause I ain’t answering.”

“Room service?” Avery asked hopefully as he paid for their first two nights.

“Anything you want to serve yourself in your room is fine by me, unless it’s illegal. Immoral, that’s no problem, just not illegal. Jasper!” Momma Dee snapped. “Since you already up in here, make yourself useful and help these guests with their luggage. Room three-oh-two, top floor.” She handed two brass keys on a ring to Avery. “Now, Momma Dee is getting back to her Sudoku. I got this one by the balls.” She ambled back into the office behind the front desk. “Room phones don’t work,” she said over her shoulder. “If you need to use one, just come on down. I’ll be here until eight.” Ziggy and Avery exhaustedly followed Jasper up the stairs toward their suite.

“Like, Louis Armstrong actually stayed here, man?” Ziggy asked as he touched the peeling and slightly damp wallpaper in the stairway.

“Hell, no!” said Jasper as he lugged the roller bag and lawn sack up the narrow staircase. “That man had class.”

• • •







To: The Administrator

National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA)




Dear Sir:




I’m writing to inform you of a recent change in galactic title regarding a specific stellar object. Three years ago, through a well-known and highly regarded international registry organization, I purchased the naming rights to a star. This particular celestial object resides at Right Ascension 14 hours, 45 minutes, and 8.42 seconds and Declination 41 degrees, 11 minutes, and 32.22 seconds. Since obtaining the naming rights, this star has been known as Averius Maximus. Now, after three years of “open and notorious possession,” I’m claiming full title and complete and unequivocal ownership of this astronomical object under the State of Texas Adverse Possession laws. As the rightful owner of this star, I am willing to grant your organization the opportunity to post an image of my star on your website’s “Image of the Day Gallery,” along with a detailed press release that I will happily provide. After one day of free use, any attempt to utilize photographic or written descriptions of Averius Maximus will need to be licensed through my holding company Averius Maximus, Inc.

    

Sincerely,



    

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton







P.S. — Redirection of any available telescopes or nearby research satellites in order to provide a detailed analysis of solar mass, luminosity, radius, and chemical composition for Averius Maximus would be greatly appreciated and will factor significantly in favorable future image licensing terms.




CHAPTER THREE

Our House Wine Is Wild Turkey


Avery shut down his laptop as another marauding drop of dank rainwater dripped from the ceiling and landed on his head. He’d already moved around the small, dingy hotel room three times this morning in search of a safe place to compose his latest correspondence. Avery wiped his nose and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. The combination of humidity, mold, and occasional gunfire had played havoc with him all night. However, from Avery’s perspective, the worst feature of their lodging arrangement was the constant scratching sound of something mysterious moving behind the hotel room’s walls. He’d tossed and turned more than he slept. His rolling and kicking had ultimately pushed Ziggy out of their shared bed sometime in the early morning hours. Ziggy now lay curled up in the corner using his plastic trash bag as a makeshift blanket and a pile of spare clothes as a pillow. Avery ambled across the room and turned on the television. It had sound but no picture. He turned it off.

“Like, yeah, baby,” Ziggy mumbled in his twitching sleep. “Like, don’t stop with, like, the whipped cream. Like, more whipped cream, baby.”

“Wake up, you lazy deviant.” Avery kicked at Ziggy.

“Like, what?” Ziggy sputtered as he bolted upright. “Dude, you, like, foiled my awesome dream,” he said as he rubbed his face. “Bummer, man. Like, total bummer for the Zigster.”

“Get ready, pervert. We’ve got a long day ahead of us. The conference starts at noon. I don’t want to be late.”

“Like, are we still going to the voodoo shop first?” Ziggy asked as he pulled on his sandals.

“No time for that,” Avery replied as he changed out of his bathrobe and into his tracksuit. “One must prioritize.”

“But, like, you promised,” Ziggy moaned.

“I rarely keep the promises I make to myself. How can you possibly expect me to keep the ones I make to you?”

“But, dude,” Ziggy complained. “I really, like, need to check that place out that Pappy was talking about. It’s the, like, the real deal, man. No fake stuff. It’s all legit.”

“Out of the question.”

“Then I’m, like, out, man.”

“Out of what?”

“Like, this place, dude. Where’s the bus station?” Ziggy crammed his belongings back into his trash bag. “This bites, man. You, like, lied. That’s bad karma, man. Like, really bad karma.”

“You’re going nowhere,” Avery said as he slid into his black high-tops. “A manservant never abandons his master.”

“Hey, man. I’m, like, your wingman. Not a slave. Like, no wonder you don’t have more friends.”

“I don’t require friends.” Avery strapped on his fanny pack. “In my experience, friendship tends to clutter an otherwise perfectly good relationship between two people. Keep people at arm’s length at all times. It keeps them away from your wallet.”

“Like, fine then.” Ziggy sat down cross-legged on the dirty hotel room’s carpet and inhaled loudly.

“What are you doing?”

“Holding my breath.”

“Why?”

“So you’ll, like, change your mind,” Ziggy replied.

“Why would that change my mind?”

“Like, if they find me dead they’ll, like, blame you,” Ziggy said as he suddenly exhaled and then took another deep breath.

“You’re not doing a very good job with this plan of yours,” Avery said as he watched Ziggy’s face slowly turn scarlet. “I suggest you avoid pearl diving.” After a few moments, Ziggy began to shake. “Knock it off, Ziggy!” Avery barked. Ziggy continued to hold his breath. In addition to trembling, he emitted a high-pitched whining sound. “Enough!” Avery yelled as he began pacing back and forth. “You’re the last person on the planet who can afford to lose any more brain cells!” Ziggy’s face was beginning to turn purple. “Okay, fine!” Avery exploded. “We’ll stop at the damn voodoo shop on the way.” Ziggy collapsed sideways onto the floor and proceeded to cough uncontrollably.

“Like, you mean it?” Ziggy asked after a few moments.

“Yes, but only for a minute.”

“Far out, man. This is, like, going to be awesome.”

“Only for a minute,” Avery repeated as he headed for the door.

“Right on, man.” Ziggy launched himself up and followed Avery into the musty hallway. “You know, for minute there, I think I, like, crossed into the afterlife.”

“Really?” Avery asked sarcastically. “Did you find God?”

“I, like, didn’t know he was missing,” Ziggy replied with a puzzled look on his face. “Seriously, though, man, it was, like, the afterlife and everything.”

“Amazing,” Avery replied with a yawn.

“Totally, dude.”

“What did it look like?” Avery asked as he lumbered down the hotel’s staircase.

“Like the world’s largest music store, man. Except everything was, like, eight tracks only, dude.”

“Did you see an eight-track player?”

“Like, no, man.”

“You know why?”

“Why?” Ziggy asked.

“Because they don’t make them anymore.”

“So?”

“All the music in the world, but in an unusable format. Congratulations, Ziggy. You’ve just seen a glimpse of your afterlife, and it’s in hell.”

“Bummer, man,” Ziggy said dejectedly as they reached the bottom of the staircase and entered the hotel lobby. Momma Dee sat behind the reception desk, working on a crossword puzzle.

“Innkeeper,” Avery said, announcing his presence. “Where would someone find food in this less than gentrified neighborhood?”

“Ain’t much round here unless you head back towards the Quarter,” Momma Dee said without looking up from her puzzle. “After the hurricane, most places in these parts never opened back up. What’s a three-letter word for a large antelope?”

“Like, why did you stay and everything?” asked Ziggy.

“Because I’m, like, spearheading the gentrification and everything,” Momma Dee said with a sneer. “There’s a small market two blocks down,” she said as she pointed vaguely in the direction of the street out front. “You can get a bite to eat there.” She turned her attention back to her crossword. “Ain’t nothing fancy.”

“Fine,” Avery said. “In addition, we require use of your telephone.”

“In the office.” Momma Dee pointed behind her. “No long distance or nine hundred numbers, or I’ll throw your pasty butts out. Antelope, three letters?”

“A gnu. Ziggy,” Avery commanded. “Contact that babbling cab driver. Tell him we’re in need of transportation immediately. I’m off in search of sustenance. I shall return shortly.”

“Like, okay.” Ziggy searched his pockets for Pappy’s phone number. “Hey, man, I could, like, really go for some granola and soy milk,” he said as he looked up, only to see that Avery had already left. “Drag, man,” he mumbled as he went in back to use the phone.

A few minutes later, Avery spotted the small convenience store. It was the only business open on the block. The rest were locked or boarded up. A bell on the front door jangled as Avery pushed his way inside. An old black man behind the counter seemed to ignore his entrance. Avery snatched two bottles of Mountain Dew from the beverage cooler before noticing a hot dog warmer near the counter. He approached it. Three shriveled hotdogs turned slowly on the cylindrical heating rods. They looked as weathered as the old man behind the counter.

“How long have these suspicious meat tubes been sitting out?” Avery asked.

“A while,” the man replied.

“Today?”

“No, sir. Can’t get the flavor in one day.”

“What flavor?”

“The right flavor. It takes time, you know?”

“Not really,” Avery replied as he took a cardboard container and placed three stale buns in it. Avery searched for some tongs to pick up the crinkly sausages from the slowly spinning warming rack. “Utensils?” he asked hopefully.

“Ran out. Just use your hands. Don’t bother me none.”

“Hands?”

“Good Lord gave you two.”

“You sure?”

“Boy, just grab them wieners,” the perturbed man said. “They don’t bite. Once them hogs go in the grinder, they lose their hostility right quick.”

“Gross,” Avery groaned as he fished out the hot dogs and placed them in the buns. “Mustard packets?”

“Ran out. Snatch that mustard off the shelf over there and dress them up how you like.”

“Fantastic,” Avery said sarcastically as he pulled a plastic container of mustard off a shelf containing a variety of condiments and hot sauces. He broke the seal and gave each hot dog a healthy squirt. “What do you want me to do with this?” Avery held the mustard container toward the old man.

“Put it back on the shelf. It’s still good.”

Avery paid for his meal and wandered back down the deserted street toward the Sonesta Royale. Waiting in front of the hotel, Ziggy and Pappy leaned on the hood of Pappy’s cab. Pappy was waving his arms emphatically as he lectured the wide-eyed Ziggy about the difference between New Orleans and African voodoo. Avery approached the cab and handed one of the grisly-looking hotdogs to Ziggy.

“You, like, got to hear this Avery,” Ziggy said excitedly. “Pappy’s got this, like, trippy place for us to check out. I’m, like, totally stoked, man.”

“Yes, indeed.” Pappy wiped his bald dome with a handkerchief. “Mae Mae’s Voodoo Lounge is the real deal. Only place in town to get a shrunken head and a shot of whiskey at the same time.”

“Great,” said Avery as he crammed an entire hot dog in his mouth, spackling a good portion of his unruly beard with mustard in the process.

“Like, how long to get us there?” Ziggy suspiciously eyed the shriveled hot dog in his hands.

“Say about ten minutes,” Pappy replied. “I know all the shortcuts.”

“Well,” Avery began as he swallowed down his breakfast, “get moving. We have an important scientific conference to attend at midday. I will not be late. You hear me, Ziggy?”

“Cool,” Ziggy said as he nibbled at the end of his hot dog before spitting the offending bite onto the sidewalk. “Like, that ain’t right, man.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not natural. Like, how can you eat that? It’s, like, inedible, man.”

“Everything is edible.”

“Not, like, poison mushrooms.”

“They’re edible. Once.”

“I’m still not eating this, man.”

“Shut up and get in the car,” Avery said as he crammed another dog into his face.

“Off we go!” Pappy hollered as he climbed into the cab and started it up. A short while later the cab pulled up in front of a narrow single-story building flanked by empty lots on either side. Concrete foundations in the lots, overgrown with weeds, were the only remnants of what used to be buildings. Pappy pointed out the remains to Avery and Ziggy. “Some say Mae Mae’s magic is so powerful it held back the waters from the hurricane. It wiped out just about everyone but her. Some mighty powerful magic,” he said in a low, spooky voice. “So don’t you go getting on her nerves, you hear me? That witch can put a spell on you like that,” he said, snapping his fingers for effect. “Shrink your head, make your tongue swell up and toenails fall out, or worse. Now, when do you want me to come pick you fellows up?”

“You’ll wait out front for us,” Avery replied.

“The hell I will,” said Pappy. “Not in this neighborhood.”

“Fine. Give us half an hour, then,” Avery said as he and Ziggy climbed out of the taxi. “Don’t be late.” Avery and Ziggy approached the building with caution as Pappy sped away in his taxi. “Let me do the talking,” Avery said to Ziggy as he pushed open the door. Ziggy nodded in reply. The unmistakable smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke accosted the two men as they entered the dark room. They were greeted by the suspicious stares of local patrons hunched over games of dominos and plastic cups of beer. It wasn’t the first drink of the day for most of them.

“You want a beer or a shot?” a pretty young girl in a white dress asked from behind the bar. Avery sized up the child with the large Afro-styled hair, hardly more than ten years old, peeking over the top of the bar. To her right, a small sign read IF YOU DON’T USE PROFANITY, YOU WON’T OFFEND ANYONE. To her left, another read OUR HOUSE WINE IS WILD TURKEY.

“It would be illegal for you to serve us alcohol,” Avery said. “You shouldn’t even be in here. How old are you?”

“Old enough,” she replied. “What’ll you have?”

“Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Grandma Mae Mae schools me right fine.” She reached for two plastic cups. “One-drink minimum before noon. Two-drink minimum after that,” she said as she filled the cups from a beer tap and placed them on the bar. The golden liquid that filled the cups was perfectly still. Not a bit of carbonation. “Four dollars,” she announced proudly.

“Pay the girl,” Avery said to Ziggy. The skinny hippy fished a handful of wadded bills from his shorts and placed them on the bar. “Where can we find this Mae Mae?” Avery asked the pretty girl.

“Why? You need a spell? Want to make someone fall in love with you?” she asked with a giggle. “Or maybe raise a zombie?”

“No,” Avery replied.

“You the police?” The bar suddenly went dead silent.

“Hardly.”

“I didn’t think so,” the girl said as she pulled a small revolver out from under the bar and placed it in front of her. The bar’s patrons turned their attention back to their games and libations. “The police don’t wear so much yellow. Why do you wear so much yellow, anyway?” She propped her elbows on the bar and placed her hands under her chin.

“Why do you ask so many questions?”

“Mae Mae says the truth is in the questions. You just have to ask the right ones.”

“Does she? So, where can we find this Socratic woman?”

“Oh, she’s no Socratic. She only votes for Democrats.”

“Priceless,” Avery said as he began to fidget. “She can be found where?”

“Follow me,” the little girl said as she placed the small pistol back behind the bar and led Avery and Ziggy toward the rear of the narrow saloon. “Right through here.” She pushed her way through some long strands of purple beads that separated the front of the building from the back. As he entered the back room, Ziggy’s eyes lit up when he saw the massive collection of voodoo inventory. Candles, incense, wooden masks, charms, spells, and all variety of strange and obscure paraphernalia lined the walls and tables.

“Mae Mae,” the little girl called out. “You have visitors.”

“Of course I do, child,” came a woman’s voice from behind a silk screen in the back of the room. “I’ve been expecting them all morning.” Behind the screen, the shadowy figure of a short, slim woman rose from a chair and stepped into view. Mae Mae was a beautifully preserved woman. Her refined and elegant features belied the true age of the voodoo priestess with long dreadlocks streaked with gray. She wore a long black dress. A necklace made of small animal bones encircled her neck. “You’re running late this morning,” she said to the two men. “I imagine we better make this quick. What can Mae Mae do for you?” she asked with a smile that revealed a gold-capped front tooth surrounded by perfect, ivory-colored teeth.

“Like, you see, I’ve got this righteous shop back in Austin,” an overly excited Ziggy began. “Well, like, not as righteous as this place, but anyway, do you ship?”

“Does this look like a post office to you?” Mae Mae asked Ziggy as she spread her arms with a flourish. “What you need, I have. What you buy, you carry. But I wasn’t speaking to you.” Mae Mae approached Avery. Her gait was so light and so effortless it appeared she was simply sliding across the floor. “You’re looking for something. Aren’t you? What is it Mae Mae can help you find?” she asked Avery.

“Nothing you have in stock. He’s the lunatic obsessed with your voodoo and witchcraft,” Avery said, nodding at Ziggy, who was rummaging through a box of crystals. “I’m a man of science. I don’t have any time for this hocus-pocus. Empirical evidence. That’s what I need.”

“Empirical evidence?” Mae Mae asked with grin as she picked up a small pile of chicken bones from a nearby table and gave them a toss. “Of what?” She examined the scattered bones. “A beast, perhaps?”

“A cryptozoological specimen.”

“A hidden beast?” she asked.

“Sort of. They exist. I’ve just had a difficult time proving it.”

“What sort of beast are they?”

“Well, they’re most commonly referred to as chupacabras.”

“Of course they are,” said Mae Mae as she tossed her bones again. “I see you’ve been searching a long time for these hidden beasts.”

“You could say that.”

“You’re close. You’re very close. The sign points to the spawning.”

“Like, the bones told you that?” Ziggy asked as he pulled his attention away from a small voodoo doll. “Like, far out, man.”

“Not the bones,” Mae Mae replied.

“Then what?” asked Avery.

“Over there.” She pointed to a copy of the local newspaper resting in a wooden rocking chair. “Section C, page six.” Avery snatched up the paper and flipped to Section C.

“Sports?” Avery asked.

“Who’s leading the American League?” Mae Mae asked with a chuckle.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Everything.”

“You’re high as a kite, you crazy witch.” Avery tossed down the newspaper.

“Am I?”

“Decidedly.”

“Like, hang on,” said Ziggy as he grabbed the paper and thumbed through it. “The Yankees are, like, five games up in the American League East. Best record in baseball,” he said. “But what’s that, like, got to do with anything?”

“The chupacabra are very old and controlled by a powerful magic. In Haiti, when I was a child, my mother would warn me of them. She knew I had the vision. Mae Mae could tell when the demons would come looking for our livestock, and sometimes us as well. But they don’t always come. It always depends. Over time, I began to notice the pattern. The chupacabra only comes when the New York Yankees win the pennant.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Avery said. “You’re nothing but a quack.”

“You’re really starting to piss me off, fat man,” Mae Mae said with a growl.

“Like, don’t make her mad, dude,” Ziggy whispered. “She’ll, like, execute your toenails and stuff. So, like, Mae Mae? How do we know the Yankees will, like, win the pennant?”

“We don’t. But the signs are all there,” Mae Mae said.

“Like, in the bones?”

“No. The Yankees have a five-game lead, they’ve been hitting for power since the All-Star break, and they’ve got the best bullpen in baseball. Plus, a strange man shows up at my door,” she said, staring into Avery’s eyes. “A man on a quest. A man looking for — what was it? — Empirical evidence. Yes. It is coming. Mae Mae can feel it. Feel it for certain. Now join me.” She sat down at the table and put away the bones. “Take a seat,” she said to Avery as she produced a set of cards and began placing them face up across the table. Some of the cards were right side up and some were upside down. When seven cards were spread out, she looked into Avery’s eyes. “What do you see?”

“Well, I’d play the red queen on the black king,” Avery said as he sat down. “But then I think you’re stuck. Going to have to draw.”

“This ain’t solitaire, fool,” Mae Mae said.

“They’re, like, tarot cards, man,” Ziggy chimed in. “Bitchin’.”

“The cards you’re referring to are the King and Queen of Pentacles. The queen suggests creativity and intelligence, while the king, which is inverted or reversed, speaks to your materialistic nature. This next card here, the Eight of Pentacles, reversed, reveals your dislike of hard work.”

“Dude, these are hitting the nail, like, right on the head,” Ziggy said to Avery. “You’re, like, the laziest person I know. You know, like, hard work never killed anyone, man.”

“Maybe, but I’m still not willing to take the chance.”

“Here’s your real problem.” Mae Mae pointed to the next card. “The Seven of Cups. You’ve been unable to determine your path, unable to decide how to best find the beast. Am I right?”

“Right on,” said Ziggy. “That’s, like, why we’re here for the monster conference and everything. To find out what to do next.”

“The next cards reveal your answer,” said Mae Mae. “The Chariot. You will take a journey, a long journey. It will lead you to a strange and different land. But it won’t be easy — look here, the Two of Wands, reversed. You should be cautious. Avoid the temptation to be impatient, because the last card, the Moon, reveals deception and danger. Things on your journey will not always be what they seem.”

“Creepy, dude,” said Ziggy.

“Look, you old witch, this is fascinating, really it is,” Avery said sarcastically. “But we’re in a hurry.” He prepared to stand.

“Remember what I said about impatience. Draw one more card for me,” Mae Mae asked. “The outcome of your journey.” Avery flipped over the top card on the deck. It was the Fool.

“Looks like you’re coming with me, Ziggy.”

“Awesome, man.”

“No,” said Mae Mae. “The Fool reveals the result of your journey.”

“Speak up, woman.”

“Unlimited possibilities.”

“Lady, you’re as prophetic as a Magic Eight Ball.”

“Like, sorry, ma’am,” said Ziggy. “He, like, usually doesn’t act this way. Well, okay, maybe he does. It’s just that he, like, needs some caffeine. Or sugar. Or, like, probably both. But I love your, like, readings. I’ve been studying up on my cards and everything, but I don’t, like, got the gift like you, man. I mean ma’am.” Ziggy blushed.

“Thank you, skinny one, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you do. Nor should you be surprised. Now leave. I’m tired,” Mae Mae said as she slumped in her chair. “You need to go. And you know where to go,” she said, gazing at Avery.

“South?” Avery whispered. He didn’t mean to say it, he just did. Mae Mae nodded solemnly in agreement.

“Find what you need to find. But be careful of what it is that you find. There is powerful magic taking place, Mr. Cryptozoologist. Things your science can’t explain. Things it doesn’t want explained.”

“We’re out of here.” Avery got up and headed toward the door.

“But, like, I haven’t got my stuff yet, dude,” Ziggy said as he looked around the treasure-filled shop. “I, like, got to get my stuff.”

“You, my little hippy friend, return when your journey is over,” Mae Mae said to Ziggy. “Right now your friend needs your help. And the help of others.”

“Like who?”

“You’ll know when the time is right. Now leave me to rest,” she said as she closed her eyes.

“Like, thanks priestess, dude,” Ziggy said as he scampered after Avery. As Ziggy blasted his way through the purple beads in the doorway, the pretty young girl in the white dress entered the room and stood behind Mae Mae’s chair. She laid her head on Mae Mae’s.

“Mae Mae. Why you always messing with those white people’s heads?” she asked. Mae Mae laughed.

“I sure do like using that one about the baseball,” she said as she leaned up and kissed the child. “The honkies buy it every time.”




CHAPTER FOUR

It Isn’t Easy Being a B-List Monster


Avery and Ziggy clambered out of Pappy’s taxi and surveyed the building in front of them. It was a long, one-story warehouse that had definitely seen better days. A printed sign out front bearing a Sasquatch logo announced Most Discreet Event. A large arrow pointed toward the front door.

“Like, what gives with the sign, man?” Ziggy inquired. “I thought we were, like, looking for a monster conference.”

“It’s self-explanatory,” Avery replied gruffly.

“Oh, like, totally, man.” Ziggy scratched his head. “But, like, how?”

“It’s an anagram.”

“A who?”

“An anagram, you burnout. The International Society of Monster Hunters and their event planners think they’re quite clever. They like to use anagrams to keep the attendees on their toes. Besides, it help keep out the riffraff.”

“Riffraff?”

“You know, reporters, police, Lutherans.”

“Oh. So, like, how does it work?”

“Just rearrange the letters into a different set of words,” Avery said as he adjusted his fanny pack.

“Trippy,” Ziggy replied as he squinted at the sign. “Event…Discreet…Most!” He proudly proclaimed.

“When we get inside, you shouldn’t talk to anyone,” Avery said as he rolled his eyes. “It means Monster Detectives. Rearrange the letters in Most Discreet Event, and you get Monster Detectives. Got it?”

“Far out, man.”

“Fortunately for you, I’m a master code breaker.” Avery plodded toward the door. “Follow me, stay close, don’t talk, and watch out for anyone suspicious,” he commanded.

“What kind of suspicious?”

“Any kind. Place could be crawling with the Feds,” Avery said as they entered the building. Inside, the conference attendees were beginning to gather. Folding tables and chairs lined the main portion of room. Up front, a large projection screen with the Sasquatch logo greeted the audience. A young, pale woman dressed from head to toe in black and carrying a large silver crucifix scurried past Avery and Ziggy.

“Suspicious,” Ziggy whispered to Avery as he nodded in the girl’s direction.

“Follow me.” Avery headed toward the conference registration booth.

“Suspicious,” Ziggy hissed as he noticed a tall man wearing a nose ring before following after Avery.

“Pendleton, party of two,” Avery said to the young man behind the desk. Above the registration desk, Ziggy noticed a series of signs. The first one read No Kirk Tees Admitted.

“Like, what does ‘No Kirk Tees Admitted’ mean?” Ziggy asked.

“It’s an anagram,” the man replied as he searched through a list of conference attendee names.

“Like, obviously, man,” said Ziggy.

“It means ‘No Trekkies Admitted.’” The man checked off two names from his list, and grabbed two kits of conference materials and handed them to Avery. “Everyone wants to be the original Spock. Fights break out during the conference cocktail reception. You get drunken attendees running around ripping off other people’s pointy plastic ears and everything. Not as bad as the brawls you see in the conference Quidditch tournament, but close.”

“Bummer, dude,” Ziggy said dejectedly. “I, like, left my broom at home. It’s, like, super-sweet.” Ziggy looked up at the signs again. “What about ‘No Creole Proprietors’? I, like, thought we were in Louisiana, man.”

“No police or reporters.”

“Far out. What about ‘Hibernators Roam’?”

“Bathrooms in rear,” the man replied.

“And what about ‘No Cell Phones’?”

“It just means turn off your phone,” the man said. Ziggy scratched his head in confusion. “The conference keynote speaker will begin in five minutes, and be sure to sign up for the afternoon breakout discussions.”

“Like, how about this session?” Ziggy pointed to a breakout topic listed in his conference materials as they walked toward the main meeting area. “The Coming Zombie Invasion.”

“Never going to happen,” huffed Avery.

“New Evidence of the Himalayan Yeti?”

“Old news.”

“Werewolves Versus Vampires?”

“Sounds like a bad movie. Over there — let’s take those.” Avery charged off to the back row of seats.

“Suspicious,” Ziggy whispered as he noticed a short, square woman wearing a necklace that appeared to be made of animal bones before he followed after Avery. The two men seated themselves in the back of the large room. A few minutes later, more than a hundred conference members had joined them in anticipation of the opening remarks. Slowly, a tall, grey-haired, pompous-looking man in a tweed coat approached the podium. Pulling a set of notes from his jacket, he kicked off the event.

“Good day, my fellow monster hunters. My name is Dr. Victor Von Stoopler from zee Austrian Institute of Paranormal Research,” the man said in a heavy German accent. “You’re all most likely familiar with my seminal work regarding zee nature of monsters in history and society.” Ziggy looked at Avery. Avery just shrugged. “Now, I’d like to begin by attempting zee impossible. I’d like to summarize my life’s research in zee next one hundred and twenty minutes in a manner that this conference’s body can digest and comprehend.”

“He’s full of shit,” Avery scoffed.

“You’re, like, one to talk, man.”

“Shut up.”

“You see,” Dr. Von Stoopler began, “zee title of my presentation is ‘Zee Monster as zee Metaphor and Allegory.’ Of course, as you know, we have always lived among zee monster. From Grendel to zee trolls to zee demons and zee elves, monsters are a part of our history. Zee word ‘monster’ is actually derived from zee Latin word monstrum. It means an omen or a warning. It tells us of some great malformation or aberrant occurrence in zee natural world around us. Rational thought is zee safety blanket that reminds us that everything is in order. But outside of our blanket, there is zee mystery and danger. Unspeakable danger. Chilling terror. Abject horror. Put quite simply, zee monster reminds us that zee world is out of order. That is why zee monster is usually grotesque. We create zee monster to explain zee unexplainable that surrounds us. God created all that is good and blessed. How then could God create zee disaster, zee destruction, and zee tremendous suffering and pain in zee world? He didn’t. Zee monster did. Zee monster, if you will, is God’s ultimate ‘get out of jail free’ card,” the doctor chuckled at his own joke. No one else did. “Zee monster provides zee symbolism and imagery we need to explain why for every light, there is darkness. For every act of goodness, there exists an act of evil. Religion refuses to allow us to blame God directly. There must be another explanation.”

“Like, I think he lost me, dude,” Ziggy said to Avery.

“Shut up.”

“Therefore,” Dr. Von Stoopler continued, “when monsters didn’t exist, it was necessary for God to invent them. For example, God invented zee werewolf to explain our uncontrollable primal urges. A convenient answer for our otherwise repressed animalistic instincts, our proclivity for violence and evil.” Dr. Von Stoopler paused for effect. “But is zee monster naturally evil? Does zee werewolf kill because it is evil, or is it evil because it kills?”

“Is that an anagram?” Ziggy asked.

“Shut up.”

“Repressed feelings are a common theme among zee monsters. Monsters are mirrors. A reflection of ourselves, or zee side of ourselves we refuse to admit exists, but God created and refused to take the blame for. Zee monster speaks to our insecurities and vulnerabilities. Our flaws. There are numerous examples. Zee vampire is of course an example of repressed sexuality. Godzilla represents our fear of zee atomic age and its potential for destruction. Zee ancient Kraken and even today, zee Jaws, are examples of man’s continued fear of zee oceans and their mysteries. As for zee zombie, it illustrates zee fear of loss of control, loss of identity.”

“Can we just get to the chupacabra?” Avery mumbled as he rubbed his eyes and fidgeted in his chair.

“Of course zee greatest of God’s monsters was Frankenstein,” Dr. Von Stoopler said as he raised his hand over his head to emphasize the point. “Dr. Frankenstein’s monster was born in an attempt to create zee perfect human being. It is a case study in man’s fascination with usurping God’s ability to create life. God invented Frankenstein’s monster as a warning to avoid his personal sanctum, his ultimate power…” Suddenly, Dr. Von Stoopler stopped his presentation as a cell phone rang out from the front of the room. “Turn off zee damn phone!” he exploded. “Didn’t you see zee sign in back? No cell phones!”

“I thought it was an anagram,” the clearly embarrassed man replied as he shut off his phone.

“Zee anagram for what?” the perturbed doctor asked.

“Cell phones on,” the man meekly replied.

“Congratulations, Ziggy,” Avery said. “You aren’t the only idiot here.”

“Thanks, dude.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh.”

“Zee cell phones are all off, no?” Dr. Von Stoopler inquired of the audience. “Very well, where was I? Ah, yes, zee monster and zee duality of man. Of course, any young schoolboy can tell you that Dr. Jekyll and zee Mr. Hyde are one and zee same, but what zee schoolboy can’t tell you is that…”

“What about the chupacabra?” Avery interrupted.

“Please hold zee questions until the end. Now, then…”

“When are you going to get to the chupacabra?” Avery demanded.

“Zee what?”

“The chupacabra.”

Dr. Von Stoopler addressed Avery. “Zee chupacabra is insignificant. It is a B-list monster. Like zee Cyclops.”

“You’re a fraud!” Avery yelled as he stood from his chair. The uncomfortable audience began to murmur.

“Zee insolence! How dare you. I’m zee world-renowned Dr. Von Stoopler!”

“Von Stoopler. Von Stupid. Whatever. I have evidence of their diabolical march towards us as we speak.”

“You have zee physical evidence?”

“Not exactly.”

“That is what I thought,” the doctor scoffed. “Come back when you have zee evidence. Now sit down and behave yourself.”

“No, you sit down, you Teutonic charlatan!”

“Chill out, man,” Ziggy pleaded.

“I will not chill out! Not while this fossilized hoaxster rambles on with his self-glorifying psychobabble bullshit.”

“Out! Out! I want this man out of zee building!” Four rather large conference attendees converged on Avery and Ziggy.

“I was just leaving,” Avery announced, realizing he was outnumbered and had left his Filipino fighting sticks at home. “And by the way, my conference evaluation form will be returned with highly negative marks.” Avery and Ziggy began their retreat. “Mark my words, Dr. Von Stoopler. I will have my revenge. Do you hear me? I will have my revenge!” he roared at the top of his lungs.

“Like, that didn’t go very well,” Ziggy said as he and Avery sat on the sidewalk in front of the warehouse, waiting for Pappy to pick them up. “We came all this way, man, and nothing. Like, absolutely nothing on chupacabras.”

“B-list monster my ass,” Avery swore. “Who needs these clowns anyway? Not me. I’ve got more scientific credibility in one finger than that entire room put together. The only person in this blasted town who actually makes any sense is that crazy witch of yours.”

“Mae Mae?”

“Yes. Head south it is. Pack your bags, Ziggy. We’re going to Mexico.”

“Like, I don’t have any bags, man. Just my sack.”

“Whatever. But we’re going to need some help.”

“Like, that’s exactly what Mae Mae said. That’s, like, really trippy, dude. She, like, prophesied it. What kind of help are we going to need?”

“Someone who knows the land, someone who knows the language, the people. Someone who can provide some muscle if things get tough. Most importantly, someone who wants to go to Mexico.”

“But, we don’t know anyone like that, man.”

“I do.”




CHAPTER FIVE

El Carnicero


Dusty wind blew across the corrugated metal rooftop of a single-story cinderblock building on the outskirts of Tornillo. A sign outside cautioned that Survivors Will Be Prosecuted. Assembled inside the building were three two-man militia fire teams, Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. They comprised the main body of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia (STRAC-BOM). At the front of the main room stood their illustrious commander, General X-Ray. The portly general, dressed in his WWII tank commander’s uniform, paced back and forth in front of his motley brigade of men sitting in lawn chairs and wearing a mismatched assortment of surplus fatigues from various branches of the military.

“Gentleman,” the General began. “Today we will begin a new campaign to stem the horrendous tide of illegal immigration into our fair republic of Texas. As y’all know, U.S. military and law enforcement assets, and I use the word ‘assets’ loosely, have continued to illustrate their complete incompetence in protecting our borders from this Hispanic scourge.”

“Uh, General, sir,” Private Foxtrot interjected. “We haven’t been having much luck, either, now that I think about it. It’s been months since we’ve stopped any illegal aliens on our desert patrols.”

“What’s your point, Private?”

“Well, maybe they ain’t coming anymore.”

“Nonsense,” General X-Ray scoffed. “Of course they’re still coming. They’re just being more careful and clever in their sneakiness. They’re dang near as hard to catch as my ex-wife’s boyfriend. What we need is a new plan. A new tactic to bag these vicious transgressors before our blessed homeland is overrun with non-American DNA,” the General said as he slapped a battered topographic map taped to a blackboard with his leather riding crop. “Fire Team Leader Bravo, what do you do if the fish aren’t biting?”

“Well, usually we start throwing some dynamite around the boat, or maybe run an electrical cable through the water and…”

“No! No! No!” The General slapped the map with his crop. “You move your boat to where the fish are biting.”

“Yeah, that works pretty good, too,” Fire Team Leader Bravo replied.

“Sir?” Private Zulu raised his hand.

“What is it?”

“Are we still talking about the Mexicans, or just regular old fishing? ’Cause I don’t much like boats. I’m not so good at swimming.”

“The Mexicans,” the General replied as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Now will y’all just shut up until I’m finished? I’m trying to brief you on Operation Gold Miner. Now, see these marked coordinates on the map? This is the exact spot the operation will commence from.”

“Sir?” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked. “Isn’t that pretty close to the border?”

“Actually, Fire Team Leader, it is directly on the border. It’s a critical detail that Operation Gold Miner necessitates. Gentlemen, this plan is ingenious in its simplicity. If we can’t interdict illegal aliens on our side of the border, we will interdict them on their side.”

“General?” Fire Team Leader Alpha spoke up. “How are we to know which Mexicans are planning to cross the border?”

“They all are!” the General barked.

“All of them, sir?” asked Private Tango.

“Of course! Why wouldn’t they? Any Mexicans we encounter on the southern side of the border are criminals who haven’t taken the opportunity to cross onto our sacred soil. In fact, it most likely means that they’re the laziest or least cunning of the immigrant population. It should be easy pickings.”

“Sir?” Private Zulu asked. “I’m not sure I can go to ole Mexico. I don’t have a passport.”

“You won’t need one, Private.”

“I’m pretty sure I read something that says you do now with all them new regulations and such.”

“Son? Don’t you understand? We’re going to tunnel into Mexico. We won’t need any documents.”

“But what if we get caught?” Private Zulu asked. “I sure don’t want to end up in one of those federales prisons.”

“We won’t get caught. That’s an order, Private.”

“If you say so, General,” Private Zulu replied quietly as he dreadfully thought of being locked away in a dark, foul-smelling cell full of banditos.

“Now,” the General continued. “To execute Operation Gold Miner, we’re going to need some highly specialized equipment in addition to our normal battle rig-out, namely, shovels, buckets, and some two-by-fours. We should have some in the storage shed out back. The key to victory will be stealth and speed. Team Leaders, we’ll rotate your Fire Teams into the excavation point every fifteen minutes. Fire Team Alpha, you’ll lead off. Fire Team Bravo, you will be in charge of removing debris out of the tunnel via buckets. Fire Team Charlie, you’ll start off by building the wooden structural supports for the interior of the tunnel.”

“Sir?” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just throw a ladder up against the fence and climb over?”

“It was an option I initially considered; however, once we have captured and bound our prisoners, I was concerned with our ability to evacuate them over the wall. Under it is! Besides, I like the irony. I suspect the reason that we aren’t encountering the enemy more often on our patrols is that they’ve constructed a vast network of tunnels all the way to Amarillo by now. Men, this will be a daylight operation. I’ve selected a remote location for our dig site; however, we will need to be extra careful of being spotted by military and law enforcement. This time the threat will come from both sides of the border. Keep your eyes peeled north and south. As always, if we do encounter the authorities, if nobody talks, we all walk. They can’t hold us for digging a hole. For all they know, we could be mining for gold.”

“General?”

“Yes, Private Foxtrot.”

“What if we do find gold?”

“Requisition it. God knows we could use the money.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, Private Tango?”

“Do you think we’ll find any gold?”

“Fire Team Leader Bravo!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Punch your trooper in the back of his head!”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Fire Team Leader Bravo slapped the private sitting in front of him. “Mission successful, sir! Standing by for orders!”

“Good man. Now, listen up, boys. I know the hunting has been a little slow lately, but I’ve got a good feeling in my belly that we are going to nail ’em big time on this mission. This could be a major turning point in the war.”

“Sir?” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked. “What if we come across Americans instead of Mexicans? After all, it’s tourist season.”

“If tourists are in season, then it’s perfectly legal to shoot them. You have my blessing.” The fire teams of STRAC-BOM glanced nervously out of the corners of their eyes at one another. “Remember your duty, men,” the General continued. “Our calling is a special one. The defense of our homeland and protection of our God-given rights and liberties can be denied by no government, foreign or domestic. Any organization that would attempt to abrogate these freedoms is the enemy. We are the only deterrent to tyranny left in this indifferent country. We can never let fear or doubt cause our conviction to waver, for we are the last line of defense. We are the Bowie knives of freedom, and if he were alive today, I have no doubt that old Jimbo would be the first man down the tunnel. We’ll head out once we’ve rounded up our equipment. Private Zulu!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Grab the shovels and buckets. Private Tango, round up the two-by-fours. Fire Team Leader Alpha, we’ll take your pickup.” The men of STRAC-BOM got up and began to assemble their gear. “God bless, men,” the General said as he saluted his brigade. “And good hunting!”

An hour later, the men of STRAC-BOM approached the site for Operation Gold Miner. They were packed into the open bed of Fire Team Leader Alpha’s pickup truck. General X-Ray rode up front. A scuffed bumper sticker on the back of the pickup read, I’m From Texas, What Country Are You From? The truck approached a small wooden building that stood a few feet from the tall metal border fence.

“Pull up to that shed,” the General said to Fire Team Leader Alpha, who was behind the wheel.

“Yes, sir,” he replied as he brought the vehicle to a dusty halt. The dry wind was blowing hard.

“Dang, General,” Private Tango said as he climbed out of the truck bed. “It’s blowing so much dust the jackrabbits are digging holes six feet in the air.”

“Never mind the wind, Private. It’ll provide some good cover if the border patrol is in this sector. Now, unload the gear, men. We’ve got some digging to do. Fire Teams! Get inside that structure and start taking up the floorboards. We’ll initiate our tunnel entrance inside the building.”

“Why not just start it right over here?” Private Zulu asked. “It’d be a bit closer to the wall.”

“Damn it, Private Zulu,” the General replied. “I swear on the baby Jesus, if I pushed your brain up an ant’s ass, it would rattle around like a BB in a box car. We dig inside because the building will cover our entrance from overhead satellite recon.”

“Good thinking, sir,” the private replied as he unloaded shovels from the truck. Soon, the men had the floorboards pulled up and were starting to excavate the hard, dry dirt. It hadn’t rained in weeks, and the ground was tough as concrete. After the Fire Teams had completed three rotations of digging, the hole was still only a few feet deep.

“Come on, men,” the General implored. “Keep digging. No surrender!” For the next three hours, the hot and sweaty Fire Teams did battle against the dense soil with their spades. For his part, the General, for the inspiration of his troopers, retold historic tales of great military battles and heroic deeds. Some were factually correct — others, not so much. “So when my Uncle Earl sailed out of the port of Galveston on his shrimping boat in July of forty-two, they said he was crazy. And he was crazy, he liked to eat wax candles, but it doesn’t change the fact that he singlehandedly tracked down and netted a German U-boat off the Mississippi delta. And with nothing but a single-shot four-ten and a ball peen hammer, Uncle Earl sent U-166 straight to the bottom, thus avenging the loss of the steam passenger ship, the Robert E. Lee, which the cowardly U-boat had earlier torpedoed and sunk, taking twenty-five brave souls with her,” the General said with his hand over his heart and tears welling in his eyes. “With this valiant act by my family, the threat to the Gulf Coast was eliminated. Men, it was a crucial turning point in the war against the Nazis. Rivaled in significance only by the invasion of Normandy or possibly the Battle of Stalingrad.”

“Hey,” Fire Team Leader Charlie whispered to Fire Team Leader Alpha as he moved another shovelful of dirt to a bucket. “Do you ever get the feeling that the General is about three bubbles off plumb?”

“All the time. Sometimes I wonder just what the hell we’re doing this for, anyway. You’ve got a good job at the filling station. Why’d you join up?”

“Well,” Fire Team Leader Charlie replied, “a man’s got to have a hobby, and my golf game sucks. How about you?”

“My wife’s meaner than a one-eared alley cat. I just like getting out of the house.”

“Fair ’nuff.”

“Situation report!” the General bellowed as he stuck his head down the slowly advancing tunnel.

“I think we’re getting close to the border wall,” Fire Team Leader Charlie called back. “We’ve got her braced up with them two-by-fours and floorboards, but the going is pretty slow.”

“We need to expedite this mission, pronto. It’s starting to get dark,” the General said as Private Foxtrot crawled past his feet with another bucket of rubble and dirt. “Private Foxtrot, how’re our explosive supplies?”

“Well, General,” the private said as he handed his pail to Private Zulu, “I reckon I got about a quarter stick of dynamite left, but that’s it. The munitions locker in the HQ was dang near empty.”

“Well, get it down there, Private. We should already be on the other side of the border and chasing down illegal aliens. I expected at least half a dozen prisoners by now.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Private Foxtrot pulled a small stick of explosives with a short fuse attached from his cargo pocket. “Make a hole! Ordnance coming through!” The remaining members of STRAC-BOM filed out of the makeshift tunnel as Private Foxtrot placed the dynamite at the far end of the hole. “Ready to blow, sir, but I need some matches.”

“Who’s got matches?” the General asked. His fire teams looked around at each other, shrugging shoulders. “Lighters?” No response. A weasel-like noise escaped from the General’s lips as his pudgy face began to turn scarlet.

Fire Leader Alpha spoke up. “Sir, my truck’s got a cigarette lighter in the cab. If we can get it in there before it cools off, that might do the trick.”

“Outstanding, Fire Team Leader. That, men, is how we improvise, adapt, and overcome. Who’s the fastest runner?”

“I’m mighty quick,” Private Zulu chimed in. “Momma used to make me chase down them chickens when I was a squirt.”

“Consider yourself volunteered. But be fast. You can’t let the coil get cold.”

“Uh-rah, sir!” Private Zulu said as he ran to the pickup. After a few seconds of heating the lighter up, he sprang out of the truck and bolted back into the shack. Diving into the tunnel, he passed the still-glowing lighter to Private Foxtrot.

“Fire in the hole!” Private Foxtrot yelled as he took the glowing lighter and lit the short fuse. The fuse sputtered and hissed as he scrambled back to the tunnel entrance. “Everybody hit the deck!” The entire brigade huddled together in the shack and waited for the explosion. They waited. They waited some more. Nothing.

“Private Foxtrot, get down there and see what the major malfunction is,” the General ordered. The Private cautiously crept toward the opening of the tunnel. Just as he reached it, a deafening explosion filled the small building. Wood, dust, and dirt filled the shack, blowing down parts of two walls in the process. The men held on to each other in terror as the dust finally settled. Finally, the men began to move.

“What the hell is that godawful smell?” Fire Team Leader Bravo asked.

“Nasty,” Private Zulu said as he wiped black sludge off his fatigues. Looking around, he noticed he wasn’t the only one covered in the foul-smelling muck.

“Oh, hell no,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said, looking at the brackish mess on the remaining walls of the building. He wished he’d worn his chemical warfare suit. “I think we hit a sewer line.”

“Retreat!” the General cried as he and his men fought their way over and on top of each other to reach what little remained of the door.

“I’m covered in poo!” Private Tango screamed as he ripped off his disgusting fatigues.

“In the mouth! In the mouth!” Private Foxtrot whimpered as he spit several times on the ground before tearing off his uniform as well. Soon, the entire STRAC-BOM brigade was stripped down to their underwear and sitting on the hard ground around what little was left of the wooden building, sulking in the defeat of Operation Gold Miner.

“I think I lost your lighter back in there,” Private Foxtrot said meekly to Fire Team Leader Alpha.

“Don’t worry about it. I can get a new one from my boss back at the dealership.”

“Thanks, Fire Team Leader. Hey, what’s that coming from over there?” The men of STRAC-BOM waited patiently as a U.S. Customs and Border Protection SUV pulled up to their position. The exhausted men, including the General, sitting in their skivvies, hung their heads as the Border Patrol agents exited their vehicle.

“Well, one good thing,” Private Zulu whispered to Private Tango as the agents approached. “At least we won’t end up in one of those Mexican federales prisons.”

“Yeah, but how bad could them Mexican prisons really be?” Private Tango held his hands out to be cuffed.

• • •


The prison was ancient. Dirty white walls topped with concertina wire were crumbling in places. Although the building was originally designed to house eight hundred inmates, the guards in the towers that ringed the open central yard now policed almost three times that many. Inside, the prison was dilapidated and filthy. Cells designed for two or three prisoners held seven or eight. Toilets overflowed, and cockroaches climbed the dank cell walls. HIV and venereal disease were rampant, and almost no medical care was available. Some days the prisoners were fed, some days they weren’t. Many of the inmates had not even been convicted of a crime, only accused or suspected of one. It could take over a year to get a trial in Mexico, and, unlike in the United States, the accused were considered guilty until proven innocent. It was like living in a nightmare with no way to wake up.

It was a vile, violent, and hellish experience, except for one wing of the building. In there, a few wealthy drug lords lived in relative comfort. They had large unlocked cells filled with their personal furniture and belongings. All had beds with thick mattresses and freshly laundered sheets. Televisions, cell phones, and billiard tables were commonplace, as were alcohol and drugs. Some had their families brought in to live with them; others paid for women and the sexual companionship they brought. The prison guards were not allowed in this wing unless requested by the tenants and only then if they were available. The facility was understaffed even for its original capacity. Guards worked shifts of twenty-four hours on and forty-eight hours off. Many slept while on duty.

Despite the relative comfort a few select inmates enjoyed, on balance, most prisoners judged their day on whether they had survived it. Homemade knives and shivs constructed of spare pieces of sharpened metal or glass with cloth or taped handles were common, as were toothbrush handles that had been melted down and had razor blades embedded in them. The guards didn’t bother confiscating the weapons until after they had been used to slash or stab a victim to death. Rival gangs held bitter grudges against one another. Murders and assaults were daily events. Rival gangs and cartels were segregated, but large fights, some more like full-scale riots, occurred from time to time. The prison officials did little to stop them until both sides had tired of killing for the day. It was less dangerous for the guards than actually attempting to break them up in progress. The inmates truly ran the asylum.

By far the most inhospitable and feared section of the facility was the zona de olvido. It meant the “forgotten zone.” It was the most secure location in the prison. It was located on the top floor of one of the cellblocks. It was kept pitch black during the day. Inmates were locked in windowless nine- by thirteen-foot cells containing only a raised concrete bed, a shower, and an open hole for a toilet. Prisoners were mandated to only stay in this solitary confinement for no more than a few weeks at a time. Most of the prisoners in the “forgotten zone” had been there for much longer, many for years. El Carnicero, “The Butcher,” had been there the longest of them all.

The Butcher had been an orphan. He’d been the leader of a gang of child bandits in Monterrey when the Padre found him. The Padre raised him like a son, a violent killer of a son. He was barely fourteen when he was given the name “Carnicero.” He earned it by assassinating more than thirty of the Padre’s rivals. His killing style was brutal. He had no compassion, no mercy. No one ever expected that the innocent-looking child selling Chiclets or begging for spare change would be the last person they were ever going to meet. No one expected that he would be the person to cut their throat and pull their tongue out, hanging it down in front of them like some kind of perverse, bloody necktie. By the time he reached his late twenties, no one really knew how many people he had killed, including him. Sometimes when a number gets too big, people just stop counting. He was one of the Padre’s chief lieutenants and confidants. The Padre treated him like a son. Then one day, everything changed. The Padre ordered the Butcher to kill a local newspaper reporter who had been critical of a local politician who seemed to turn his back on drug-related crimes. The politician was on the Padre’s payroll. The reporter had to be silenced. The Padre wanted to send a message. Not only would the reporter die, but his wife and young son were to die as well. Carnicero found the couple at home one morning. Their son was not with them. Before they died, Carnicero forced the boy’s mother to tell him where he was. He was on his way to school. The bus had just left. After killing the reporter and his wife, Carnicero found the bus and forced it to pull over. First, he shot the driver. He didn’t know what the reporter’s son looked like, so he killed every last child on the bus, even the young girls. The deaths of nine innocent school children shocked all of Mexico. Even the President of Mexico took a stand and expressed his outrage. Mexican police and military units were brought in from around the country. Carnicero had to be stopped, and the President of Mexico wanted him alive. The President was going to use him as an example of how the war against the cartels was being won. The Padre couldn’t protect Carnicero with all of the pressure from law enforcement and the government, and the hunt for his adopted son was destroying his drug business. People stayed as far away from the Padre as possible. The Padre wanted Carnicero to give himself up. If he did, the Padre could protect him. Yes, he’d go to prison, but it would be more than comfortable during his stay while the Padre worked to get him released. Carnicero refused. He wouldn’t just walk into a cell. He was going to run, and he did. For more than three months, with all of Mexico looking for him, he evaded capture. The President of Mexico put a hundred and fifty million–peso reward on his head, more than ten million U.S. dollars, twice the largest price ever. Someone finally took the bait and led the authorities to Carnicero’s location. Twelve police and military personnel were gunned down before he was apprehended, and it would have been more if the Butcher hadn’t run out of ammunition. His incarceration was headline news for over two weeks in Mexico and made the front pages as far away as Japan. Unfortunately for the informant, he wouldn’t collect. The Padre found out who he was and had him killed. The man’s body was dissolved in a barrel of chemicals. The Padre could buy just about anyone or anything, but he couldn’t save Carnicero. Not after what had happened on that school bus. He had to go to jail, and for the last two years, that was where he had been. In the zona de olvido.

Carnicero was lying in the dark on his stone bed when it started. It began with a large group of inmates gathered in the open area of one of the cellblocks. They carried improvised weapons and pieces of metal pipe. Some carried rocks pried from the crumbling walls. A prison guard handed one of the men a set of keys. The man used it to lock off one end of the cellblock from the remainder of the guards. He then led the gang of shirtless and tattooed men out the other end and toward a separate cellblock. Two men stayed behind and piled up stacks of mattresses and anything flammable they could find. Unlocking doors and gates as they went, the mass of gangsters poised themselves for a fight. Quietly, they slipped into the cellblock of their rivals. They attacked their enemies swiftly, stabbing and bludgeoning anyone they came across. Soon, the entire cellblock was a mass of screaming confusion. Bloodied bodies littered the dirty floor. Smoke began to fill the prison. Sirens and alarms sounded as prison guards rushed to the riot, only to find the gates locked and barricaded with debris and burning rubble. The riot soon spread to the main yard. A group of men playing soccer on the cement floor of the yard joined in the fray. In the chaos it was difficult to tell who was fighting whom. Bodies continued to fall. Bleeding men ran or crawled from the melee to escape. Other men with stones chased them down and beat them to death. By now, the guards in the towers had stopped firing warning shots and began shooting indiscriminately at the mass of men. Helicopters with speakers circled from above, announcing commands for the prisoners to fall to the ground with their hands behind their heads. The vicious fighting didn’t slow down. Men resorted to beating each other to death with their bare hands.

Inside, the “forgotten zone” began to fill with smoke. As the sirens wailed, Carnicero relaxed on his bed with his eyes closed. His long black hair spilled down to his shoulders. Cries of help from men in the cells around him became more panicked as the heavy smoke filled the corridor. The sound of a key in the lock to his cell and the illumination from a flashlight caused Carnicero to sit up. Even in the dark, Carnicero knew the man standing in front of his open cell. It was the prison warden. A lone guard accompanied him.

“Come with me,” the warden said. “Quickly. There is little time.” Carnicero followed the two men down the long corridor as desperate inmates pleaded to be released from the suffocating smoke. The warden led them down several flights of stairs before turning to the prison guard, drawing his pistol, and shooting him three times in the chest. “Put on his uniform. Hurry,” the warden said. Carnicero stripped the dead man of his clothes and put them on. “Rub the blood from his wounds on your face. No one will recognize you.” Carnicero, dripping in blood, followed the warden through a set of doors. Ahead, prison guards in riot gear were assembling. “Put your arm around my shoulder,” the visibly nervous warden said. “Now limp along like you are injured.” The two men stumbled through the crowd of men in black helmets and riot shields. Carnicero kept his head down. He looked at no one. “Get to the main yard now!” the warden commanded as he pushed his way through the guards, dragging Carnicero with him. “Move! Out of my way! This man is seriously injured. I must get him out of here.” Clearing the crowd, they headed down another smoke-filled corridor. Slowing only for the warden to fumble with his keys, they passed through a series of locked gates. Soon, the two men arrived at the prison’s loading dock. A black limousine with tinted windows and a driver behind the wheel was idling in the bay. Two armed men wearing suits stood by the rear door of the car. “These men will take you to the Padre,” the warden said. “The guards at the main gate are instructed to let you pass. Hurry. I must get back inside before I’m missed.” He turned to leave.

“Warden, one moment please,” Carnicero said. “May I have your pistol?” The warden reluctantly handed it over. Carnicero took the weapon, checked the chamber, and fired one bullet straight into the center of the warden’s forehead. “That’s for the ‘forgotten zone,’ you piece of shit,” he said as the man fell to the pavement. Carnicero spit on the man’s corpse before climbing into the limo. One of the men in suits handed him a wet towel. Carnicero wiped the blood from his face. The long car pulled out of the dock and worked its way through a throng of police cars and vans. Once clear of the confusion, it sped through the main gates without slowing down, leaving the smoking prison behind it.




CHAPTER SIX

The Ferret of the Vieux Carré


Later that evening, back at the Hotel Sonesta Royale, Avery sat in his dank, humid room and typed away at his laptop while slamming a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. He had some correspondence to catch up on, as well as some online research to knock out regarding the history of Mexico. Not to mention some high-altitude recon via Google Earth. Luckily, the one person in the neighborhood who had wireless Internet service apparently skipped securing their network. But before he could start his research, Avery had some government business to attend to.






To: The Deputy Secretary

United States Department of State




Dear Sir:




I am writing to you today to convey a matter of greatest urgency. Several months ago I received a facsimile document from an overseas attorney informing me of a recent inheritance of significant value. My timely good fortune has unfortunately come at the untimely expense of one of West Africa’s wealthiest philanthropists. My benefactor, Dr. Onabanjo, expired while stuck in a traffic jam as hundreds of Nigerian citizens clogged the streets to fill plastic buckets with gasoline pouring from a ruptured pipeline nearby. Of course, the greedy throng undoubtedly intentionally ruptured the pipeline for its own benefit. Amazingly, one remarkably dense individual apparently paused during the petrol feeding frenzy for a brief smoke break.  The Doctor’s flaming demise was a horrible tragedy for his country. However, the executor of his estate informed me in his communication that the doctor was a huge admirer of my work. He wasn’t specific about which work, as I am well known in many scientific disciplines, although I assume it was probably due to my recently self-published treatise regarding the true story of Dr. Livingstone and Henry Stanley. In short, Dr. Livingstone was not lost in Africa searching for the fabled sources of the Nile River. Rather, he was on the run from a series of overwhelming gambling debts owed to a notorious Welsh gangster, Mickey Biggs. “Brick Top” Mickey, as he was known at the time, sent a violent leg-breaker by the name of Henry Stanley to track down Dr. Livingstone. After catching up with the aforementioned doctor on the Dark Continent, Henry Stanley did not utter the oft-quoted but historically inaccurate phrase, “Doctor Livingstone, I presume?” Instead, Stanley snarled, “Doctor Livingstone, you cheeky bastard!” Unfortunately, history texts seem to favor the more gentile conversation. Anyway, I digress. Dr. Onabanjo’s last will and testament instructed that his entire fortune of $17,230,561 and twelve cents be left to myself. Alas, his attorney informed me via his fax that corrupt government officials, upset with the doctor’s controversial views on indigenous land ownership, have seized the estate’s bank accounts and corresponding assets, no doubt intending to use the proceeds for the purchase of secondhand Romanian land mines and flat-screen televisions. My contact generously offered to bribe the appropriate bank officials on my behalf and transfer to me my rightful inheritance. He explained that his only impediment was raising the $2,800 necessary to execute the bribe, as his personal financial difficulties since the doctor’s death had left him illiquid. The offer was clearly legitimate, as the attorney’s knowledge of the English language was horrifically appalling. Only an actual foreigner could butcher the common rules of grammar so proficiently. So I trusted him. Unfortunately, after wiring the bribe money to my contact, our communication has been spotty at best. Several weeks of correspondence, beginning with a string of dubious replies and unlikely excuses ranging from family illness to transit strikes and ending with no communication at all, have left me fearing that my contact will not execute our agreed-upon transaction. I’m formally requesting that the United States Department of State take immediate action on behalf of my situation. Please urgently deploy U.S. military forces to repatriate my inheritance, including my $2,800 wire transfer. I must insist that you utilize only Navy SEAL teams or Delta Force operatives, and under no circumstance inform the United Nations. Their peacekeepers are as useless as WWII German war bonds and as corrupt as carnival vendors. Seriously, never trust a soldier who wears periwinkle blue. Thank you for your prompt attention in this matter.

    

Sincerely,



    

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton






• • •


Meanwhile, deep in the heart of the French Quarter, Ziggy ambled through the crowds of tourists and late-night revealers. He’d been looking to find a smoke shop where he might procure some local paraphernalia. It wasn’t going well. He was lost. Since he was lost, Ziggy decided to drop some low-grade acid. Then it wouldn’t matter where he was going; he’d already be there. It was a technique Ziggy used when he couldn’t find what he was looking for. It also was a technique with decidedly mixed results, but Ziggy believed strongly in karma. Sooner or later it had to work. Or maybe it wouldn’t — it didn’t really matter, since he’d be high as a kite. Besides, it helped to pass the time and the chaos of the French Quarter, which was really starting to freak the little guy out. This was no place for the sober. Within a few minutes, Ziggy began to feel the drug kick in, and it kicked in with a vengeance. That was the number-one problem with pharmaceuticals manufactured in bathtubs; their potency and efficacy was suspect at best. Ziggy struggled to maintain his balance as he wove his way down the middle of the bustling street. Coming to a corner, he noticed the street signs at the intersection of Bourbon and Toulouse.

“Two louse?” a confused Ziggy mumbled as he immediately swatted away some imaginary lice crawling up the back of his neck. While he danced and spun in the middle of the street, a passing tourist threw some spare change at his feet. Positive reinforcement always motivated the drugged-out hippy. Ziggy kept up his twirling and contorting as a small crowd began to gather. He spun and twisted to the sounds of loud music pouring out of a nearby club. The LSD was really rolling now. Ziggy began to blurt out nonsense. He couldn’t control himself.

“Vegan pancakes!” he cried out as he threw his arms over his head and ran in place, his skinny legs pumping up and down as fast as they could go. “Weasels, man! No, don’t tell them!” he cried as he clamped his hands over his mouth. People in the crowd began to throw more money at his feet. Soon, Ziggy was pirouetting around a small pile of bills and coins like some kind of skinny, tie-dyed shaman with a neck like a loose stack of dimes and buggy whips for arms. “Moon fever, man. Get it, get it, get it.” Ziggy suddenly froze in place. “Hovercraft!” he screamed as he extended his arms above his head before returning to bouncing around the money again. The crowd was clapping and cheering him on. Women threw strands of colored beads at him. He batted them out of the air like they were rainbow-colored flying serpents. After what seemed like hours of ranting and spinning to Ziggy, he realized he was exhausted. Suddenly, he collapsed to the street, panting and drooling. Sensing the show was over, the crowd began to disperse. Ziggy lay in the middle of the street for few minutes before he got his wind back. On his hands and knees, Ziggy scraped up his earnings and put on the beads.

“Jewels!” Ziggy said as he admired his new possessions. Lights from the neon signs and nearby street lamps glittered off the purple, green, and gold strands. “My jewels!” Ziggy clutched them tightly to his chest. He noticed some abandoned beads in the gutter. He crawled over to examine them closer. Peering from side to side to make sure no one was watching, he quickly snatched them up from the muck and cradled them in his arms. Looking around again to make sure the coast was clear, he slipped them around his neck. “Mine!” he said as his teeth began to involuntarily chatter. “Leave now!” he yelled as he began to crawl down the street, dodging the numerous partiers. Left, right, and left again, he wove through the crowd of people, who were yelling and laughing as he shuffled on all fours. Trying to avoid the fray, Ziggy splayed himself on the ground and attempted to breaststroke Bourbon Street. From past experience, he knew that in treacherous times like these it was best to stay low, very low. Low enough that one had to look up to see a worm shit. “Mother of, like, God!” Ziggy screamed as he looked over his shoulder and saw a giant purple, gold, and green flying worm preparing to crap on him.

“Drowned rat,” a passerby yelled as he poured the bright red backwash of his hurricane cocktail on the slithering hippy. Ziggy rolled onto his back and flashed his fangs at the man.

“Squeak!” he screamed in an ear-splitting screech as the bully walked away with his girl in his arms. Quickly rolling back on his stomach, Ziggy spied another abandoned string of beads in the muck of the street. Glorious beads! Gleaming beads. Beads of beauty, of wonder, beads that no one possessed. “Mine, me, mine!” He grabbed them and put them on, licking them furiously to be certain they were clean. Ziggy crawled for a block and a half, ignoring the catcalls and jeers of revelers making fun of the tie-dyed, rodent-like man sniffing his way along the gutters of the French Quarter. By now, Ziggy was really starting to freak out. Like, seriously in the weeds, man. The frenetic flashing lights of the clubs and bars refracted like maniacal kaleidoscopes to the poor man. Loud, pounding music thumped in his head like a kettledrum from hell, making his eyeballs spasm. Screaming people passed him, roaring at the top of their lungs like bloodthirsty tigers as their faces melted away to reveal horrific laughing skulls. This was no place for amateurs, especially on hallucinogenics. Luckily, Ziggy wasn’t a greenhorn when it came to these sorts of matters. Somewhere, down deep, really deep, he knew what he needed to do. He needed to cool off. Lie low. Let the heat blow over. The only problem was, at the moment he really couldn’t speak. But he could crawl. So he did.

There were numerous highly regarded and extremely reputable companies that provided tours of historic New Orleans and the French Quarter. Some by bus, some by car, others on bicycle. Very few offered tours via crawling. More should. It really highlights the foundation of the city, or at least, that’s what Ziggy thought as he crawled along the dirty black pavement of Bourbon Street. You can really tell a lot about the soul of a city by what it keeps in its gutters. Ziggy examined all of it and kept most of it. Coins, stray beads, red-stained drinking straws, and old soggy Band-Aids — Ziggy sifted through them all. He hoarded away the best, but only after licking them clean, just to be safe. Ahead, spinning colors grabbed his attention. They whirled like multihued ballerinas viewed from overhead. It was a wall of spinning rainbows. Ziggy needed them. Ziggy must possess them.

“Squeak!” Ziggy blurted as he stumbled into the daiquiri shop. “Squeak, squeak!” The walls were lined with horizontal canisters of spinning colors. Ziggy grabbed the bar to keep from falling over. It didn’t work. He pulled himself up from the floor. The bar was empty, with the exception of two girls behind the counter. In most bars in America, Ziggy’s condition called for either a bouncer or the police, but this was New Orleans.

“What you having?” the pretty redhead behind the bar asked.

“Squeak!” Ziggy replied as he rubbed his balled-up fists quickly against his nose and flashed his teeth before ducking underneath the counter.

“Huh?”

A voice came from below the counter. “Squeak! Squeak!”

“J.J., this guy is crazy,” the redhead said to the tall blonde wearing low-slung jeans and a tight-fitting top, wiping off the spigots of the daiquiri machines behind her.

“Oh, don’t worry, I speak ferret,” J.J. said as she looked over the bar at the twitching man on the floor. “No biggie, it’s just a thing with me and my sister. Long story.”

“Squeak!” Ziggy scratched at his eyes.

“Squeak, squeak…squeak, squeak,” J.J. replied.

“Squeak!”

“He wants an extra-large pina colada.” J.J. grabbed an enormous sixty-four-ounce plastic cup and filled it with frozen white liquid from the spinning tap before handing it to Ziggy, who had pulled himself to his feet.

“Squeak!”

“Seven dollars,” J.J. replied.

“Squeak… squeak.” Ziggy pulled the street money from his pockets and dumped it on the counter. J.J. sorted out seven dollars in bills and coins, and pushed the rest back to Ziggy.

“Squeak, squeak,” Ziggy said as he pushed two dollars back to J.J. before hunching over and scampering out the door. The two girls behind the bar looked at each other, shook their heads, and laughed. It wasn’t easy to surprise a bartender on Bourbon Street.

Ziggy scurried down the street with his frozen tub clutched tightly to his chest with both arms in a bear hug, furiously sucking away at the freezing, suntan lotion–smelling concoction. Brain freeze set in immediately. His skinny body seized up like an engine with no oil. The upper half of his torso was immediately immobilized, but his legs kicked like live wires as he sat on the sidewalk. Huffing frantically, he tried to breathe the warm, humid Louisiana air deep into his lungs. Funny thing, it actually worked. In a minute, he felt fine. Of course, he was still tripping like a madman, but feeling pretty good, all things considered. A staccato thumping noise from the end of the block drew his attention.

“Squeak!” he said as he hunched over and stumbled toward the intoxicating rhythm. Working his way through the crowd, he approached a group of young boys banging away at large plastic cans with drumsticks. A group of tourists surrounded the boys and tossed tips to the youngsters as they played. There were few things in life Ziggy enjoyed more than a good drum circle, although he was a little disappointed they didn’t have a nice fire going. It really helped the trip. Even in his feral state, Ziggy was able to press his way up to the front row. Taking a seat in lotus position on the sidewalk, Ziggy began to sway and bob with the pounding of the drums. Musical notes erupted from the buckets and slowly floated away into the ether. He could see the music drift away in the night. It was beautiful.

“Squeakkkkk…squeakkkkk.” Ziggy’s screeching slowed as he moved his arms and body back and forth in perfect rhythm with the music.

“Keep it down, man,” a tourist said.

“Squeak!” Ziggy chirped as he rubbed his hands quickly around his nose before taking a big slug from his daiquiri. For the next fifteen minutes the boys blasted away at their improvised drums before halting their performance and prepared to move to another location. Ziggy slurped down the last of his now-liquid beverage.

“Urrp… Squeak.” Ziggy belched before getting up to follow the group. Scuttling along close to the windows of establishments lining the street for protection, he trailed them for several blocks, picking up a few more random strands of brightly colored beads for good measure. Turning off Bourbon, the street musicians made their way south. A short way down the block, Ziggy spotted a house of voodoo. Swinging his head back and forth between the retreating boys and the voodoo palace, he knew had to make a decision. Ziggy banged his way up the steps of the mysterious shop. Suddenly, a familiar face came into view.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Ziggy,” Mae Mae said with a gleaming smile. “You look a little out of sorts, skinny fella.”

“Squeak, squeak.”

“I see. You know that stuff isn’t good for you. Twists your mind up like a pretzel.”

“Squeak,” Ziggy replied bashfully. “Squeak, squeak.”

“Oh, let’s just call it professional courtesy. But the truth is I like to check in on the competition from time to time to see how business is doing. What brings you down here?” Ziggy shrugged his narrow shoulders in reply before rubbing his ears with balled-up fists. “You and your obnoxious partner still chasing after those nasty chupacabras?” Ziggy nodded. “Well, you’re looking in the wrong place. Now, you might run into a vampire or a zombie here in New Orleans, but to find those demon dogs, Mexico is your best bet.”

“Squeak.”

“Honey, you should be getting on home. In your condition, you need some good old-fashioned shuteye. Here, take this,” she said as she pulled out a small purple bag made of cloth and closed with a gold string at the top. “Take this and put it under your pillow. It’ll help you rest.” Ziggy snatched the bag and licked it before shoving it into one of his cargo pockets. “Take these also,” Mae Mae instructed as she handed him a set of tarot cards. “They can come in pretty handy when you don’t know what to do. Now, you know how to get back to your hotel, right?” Ziggy shook his head. “Let me see your hand.” Mae Mae took Ziggy’s hand and traced an intricate design on his palm with the nail of her pinky finger. “That should do the trick. Now get going, and stay out of trouble. Nobody likes a naughty ferret.”

“Squeak, squeak,” Ziggy replied as he half crawled to the door.

“And quit wasting time on your adventure. The signs still point to a spawning,” Mae Mae said as she waved goodbye to the freaky little man.

• • •


Meanwhile, back at the hotel, Avery continued his correspondence.






To: Speaker of the House

Texas House of Representatives




Dear Speaker Kimball:




I’m writing you today to express my outrage at the recent suggestion by the “so-called” mayor of Austin, Texas — let’s just refer to her from now on as “Ms. Evil,” as the sound of her name makes me want to drink lighter fluid, swallow a match, and put my head in a BLAST FURNACE! She makes me want to…God that hurts! I think I just broke my hand. Bastard! Wait a minute…I can still type. Well, maybe it’s just a sprain…

Anyway…I’m better now…calm blue ocean…calm blue ocean…my therapist suggests this helps…calm blue ocean…my therapist is insane…he doesn’t know it…calm blue ocean…he’s in denial…

What time is it? Sorry, back to business. Her suggestion that sales of soda products in excess of sixteen ounces should be prohibited has me just the slightest bit concerned. How concerned, you might ask? WHERE DO I F***ING START? ARE YOU COMPLETELY DAFT? GOOD GOD, MAN! FREEDOM IS AT STAKE! Sorry…sorry, I’m really sorry. I don’t feel well. Not well at all. I’m going to take a minute…I think I need a Mountain Dew…or two…

Okay, I’m back now. Jesus, that was close. Where was I? Oh, yes, the bitch. I mean, “Ms. Evil,” as she will be known until a house falls out of the sky and lands on her, at which time she will be known as “Flat Ms. Evil.” Soft drink bans, seriously? We’re not talking about clubbing baby seals to death here. We’re talking about soda pop. Mister Speaker, may I ask you a question? Thank you. What bans have worked in the past? Prohibition? I think not. Are we really prepared for an overwhelming wave of mafia hoodlums running thirty-two-ounce soda speakeasies out of church basements? You want shark fins? I can get them. Foie gras? I got a guy in California, which makes it twice as naughty. How about monkey paws? A store right here in Austin sells them. Of course, the owner is a useful compatriot, so I won’t compromise him. However, he does sell smoking paraphernalia in his shop, close to the university, I might add, but God forbid he offers a sixty-four-ounce cup of soda! In one trip to the market, I can buy five cartons of cigarettes, ten cases of vodka, and twenty pounds of bacon, but only one cup of pop. This isn’t just fascist, it’s criminal. Buying in bulk is a cornerstone of this country. Warehouse stores are located in warehouses for a reason. People want discounts for buying in bulk. That’s what you get in plastic cups that take two hands to carry. A bulk discount! Not to mention a wicked buzz. Is “Miss Evil” attempting to artificially drive up the price of soda? Does her family have major holdings in the soft drink industry? Do you? Maybe she has ties to the bottled water cartels. This conspiracy might run deeper than I thought. I’m going to need to do some more research. Please do not take this matter lightly, as I have a serious medical condition for which my team of personal physicians has prescribed a specific mix of caffeine and sugar. It can only be found in large-format bottles of soda. Just like with fine wine, the larger the container, the better preserved the beverage is. It’s a simple matter of less air in the bottle per volume of liquid. If I could buy Mountain Dew by the Nebuchadnezzar, I would. We’re talking about my medicine. This is a matter of public health. If this ban is imposed, I promise I will make the creation of large-format medical soda dispensaries front-page news. The concept seems to be working quite effectively for marijuana users. In the meantime, if you see “Miss Evil,” kick her in the stomach for me.

    

Sincerely,



    

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton






• • •


After checking on the American League standings and feeling relieved as the New York Yankees still maintained a four-and-a-half-game lead over their division rivals, Avery shut down his computer. Suddenly, Ziggy came bursting through the door.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“Squeak.”

“Jesus, not again,” Avery said as he scowled at Ziggy and shook his head. “For God’s sake, man, take a cold shower and sober up.” Ziggy crashed on his sack of clothes and pushed Mae Mae’s charm bag underneath it. Not long after, he was peacefully asleep.

The next morning, Avery kicked at the snoring little man.

“Ouch, man,” Ziggy said as he pulled himself upright. “Like, my head, dude.”

“I didn’t kick your head.”

“Like, I know, man, it just hurts. Really bad.”

“How bad?”

“Really bad.”

“Like you were eaten by a coyote and shit over a cliff?”

“Exactly,” Ziggy said as he looked at Avery in amazement. “Like, how’d you know?”

“That’s lysergic acid diethylamide for you, a particularly nasty member of the ergoline family when it comes to hangovers. I sure hope you cleaned your bathtub before manufacturing your last batch. Anyway, there’s only one thing we can do now.”

“Like, what, man?”

“Quickly, we need to find you sixteen ounces of green tea, two grams of gunpowder, and a Slim Jim, original flavor.”

“What?”

“You lick the gunpowder, slam the tea, and gag yourself with the Slim Jim until you puke. Bruce Lee used to do it before all his fight scenes.”

“No, I’m going to just lie here and, like, die.” Ziggy slumped over with a painful groan.

“Shut up. Grab your things — we’re heading home.”

“Like, already, dude?”

“Absolutely. Now move it! We’ve got work to do.”




CHAPTER SEVEN

You Have the Right to an Attorney


The Castle of San Juan de Ulua stood silent guard over the seaport of Veracruz. From the far side of the port, the ancient grey walls of the fortress complex rose from the surface of the dark water. The high battlements had stood watch over the harbor since the colonial days of Mexico. Historically, it was the most important seaport in Mexico. Ships from Europe unloaded supplies of sheep, cows, and slaves before the holds were refilled with gold, silver, and chocolate destined for the old world. This stoic fortress had seen her share of battles, including attacks from pirates seeking the vast stores of gold held in the port city. She also had a sordid past full of dark secrets to tell. Prisoners of the castle were chained to the three-foot-thick walls and left for the tide to come in. The water would reach waist high before retreating from the terrified men. Some believe the castle is still haunted by the tortured souls of its long-dead prisoners. Today San Juan de Ulua is mainly a tourist attraction, offering grand views of the port of Veracruz, still one of Mexico’s busiest shipping hubs. But this late at night, the tourists had all gone home. The castle was silent except for the rolling thunder in the night sky and the slapping of the waves against the massive walls of stone.

But below the castle’s battlements, beneath the waves, something was moving. Underneath the surface, a dark shadow passed. Barquero kicked his way methodically toward the cargo ships in the port. He breathed from a self-contained closed-circuit apparatus. After inhaling one-hundred-percent pure oxygen, the exhaled breath was recirculated through a chemical filter that removed the carbon dioxide, replenishing the oxygen supply. Most importantly, it eliminated the telltale sign of bubbles trailing to the surface. The front-worn configuration of the system was useful for shallow water and clandestine diving. With his black wetsuit and a cloud-covered sky, he was nearly invisible even close to the surface.

His target was a small freighter a few hundred meters ahead. The aging vessel flew a Vietnamese flag but was owned by a shell company operated by the Padre. Of course, vast amounts of narcotics had been hidden deep in the ship’s hold, but it had also been loaded with a dozen luxury automobiles, stolen from the United States, ultimately destined for Eastern European countries where they would bring three to four times their actual value. The Padre’s cartel moved the stolen cars from southern parts of the U.S. across the border utilizing fraudulent papers obtained from a small group of car dealers on his payroll. Straw buyers using false identification and stolen credit cards or counterfeit cashier’s checks for the down payments obtained most of the cars. Once they were driven off the lot, the additional payments never appeared. Some even came from luxury car rental agencies. The SUVs stayed in Mexico because of the high demand for them, but the other vehicles, particularly the highly coveted Corvettes, were destined for new homes in Poland or the Ukraine. Bribes paid to officials protected the valuable cargo from scrutiny and inspection. This shipment was scheduled to leave in the morning, but Barquero had other plans for it.

Swimming slowly and carefully along the hull of the moored ship, as the large port was busy even at night, Barquero attached a series of magnetized underwater mines below the waterline. The powerful limpet mines contained hollow compartments to create slightly negative buoyancy for easier handling underwater. Barquero had replaced the propeller timers with timed fuses. Normally, the propeller timers would ignite the explosives once the ship was a preset distance from shore, but Barquero wanted it to sink here. It would disrupt the seaport traffic and hopefully remind the port and government officials of Veracruz that turning a blind eye to the Padre’s organization came with consequences. They might even be able to link the stolen cars back to the Padre. Either way, Barquero wished he could be there to see the look in the Padre’s eyes when he received the news that his cargo ship now rested at the bottom of the harbor.

Soon the limpet mines were in place. Barquero methodically swam back to the castle. He climbed out of the water near an ancient cannon overlooking the port, quickly removed his gear, and stowed it in a stolen delivery van parked nearby. After driving around to the north end of the port, he pulled over and checked his watch. Dark clouds flickered slightly as bolts of lightning flashed above them. Rolling thunder echoed across the dark, choppy water. Seven minutes later, a series of muffled explosions erupted from the port. Dockworkers scrambled and pointed at plumes of water that rose from around the Padre’s ship. Lights and sirens sounded as men rushed to the sides of the freighter’s berth, only to watch it slowly slip under the dark waters, coming to rest on the bottom. When it was over, only the ship’s bridge and control room remained above the surface. The Ferryman’s eyes glowed with dancing fire as he drove off into the night.

• • •


Later that morning, in a quiet, wealthy section of Monterrey, a black limousine pulled into the driveway of a sprawling luxury villa. A number of men in casual clothes patrolled the grounds. Carnicero stepped out of the long car and walked directly inside the villa. Passing through the open design of the house, he made his way to the back patio. The backyard contained a large swimming pool surrounded by an intricate set of lush gardens. On the patio, sitting around a large glass table, was the Padre and a man Carnicero didn’t recognize. Music played in the background. It was a mixture of accordion and trumpets, a narcocorrido, or drug ballad. The vocalist told tales of the heroic exploits of the Padre. The Padre leapt to his feet when he noticed the longhaired man standing in the open-air foyer leading to the patio.

“That will be all,” the Padre said to his associate, who collected his papers from the table and left. “My son.” The Padre embraced Carnicero tightly.

“It’s been a long time, Padre.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It was difficult.”

“I understand. The school bus was a mistake. But I promise you, Padre — I’ll never go back. I’ll die first.”

“You won’t ever go back. You have my word. I’ll protect you, my son. Come sit down with me.” After the two men took their seats, a short white-haired butler came from out of the villa.

“Padre,” the man began, “may I bring you some breakfast?”

“Yes, please.” The man turned and left. “That’s Antonio. He runs the house for me when I’m not here, which is most of the time.”

“Are you still sleeping in a different place every night?”

“Of course I am. One can only bribe so many people for protection.”

“Who was the man you were meeting with? I don’t know him.”

“He is my new communications director. Straight out of Silicon Valley.”

“Communications?” Carnicero asked.

“Yes, cell phone networks are too easy for the authorities to monitor these days. We still use the Internet for encrypted messages, but we’ve needed a better way to communicate deep in the field with our processing facilities and along the border when our shipments cross. Besides, the service coverage in the middle of the country is poor anyway. I don’t want to be surprised by the police or our rivals because our lookouts can’t get a signal.”

“How can that man help?”

“We’ve built our own encrypted radio network. All around our territories we’ve built a network of concealed radio towers with powerful antennas. They’re boosted by repeaters that extend our communication range deep into the desert and provide us with an early warning network for shipments in transit into the United States. Computers actually allow us to target specific radios that our men carry and skip over others so that our messages stay local, not broadcast across the country. It’s brilliant, and the best part is that anyone can buy the equipment.”

“It is brilliant, but it sounds expensive.”

“True, but it’s totally green. The towers are powered by solar panels.”

“So you’re an environmentalist now,” Carnicero laughed. “The times have changed, but the people seem to love you.” He motioned toward the speakers still playing the narcocorrido.

“Yes, the music. It’s Internet radio from just across the border in Texas. The Mexican government has banned the national stations from playing the narco-ballads, but people still clamor for them. Do they love me or fear me? I’m not so sure, but as long as they do what I say, I’m happy. But sometimes they must be reminded. Here, look at this.” The Padre pulled a yellow leaflet from a folder on the table and passed it over. Carnicero examined it. It was an antigovernment leaflet warning of the consequences of being an informant. Below the warning was a black and white picture of seven naked men hanging from their necks beneath an overpass. “I’m having a plane drop thousands of them over Monclova in a few days. Look at this,” he said as he pushed a newspaper across the table. “Turn to page three.”

“The article about Monclova?” Carnicero asked as he skimmed the story about an arson attack against a local ice-making company. The company’s facilities had been set on fire and more than a dozen of their trucks destroyed.

“They were cooperating with the authorities. Lending them trucks that the police used for undercover surveillance. I don’t understand it — I never even tried to extort money from the company.”

“So how’s business?” Carnicero asked as he put the newspaper down.

“Fantastic, for the most part. My latest passion is American quarter horses.”

“Quarter horses?” Carnicero laughed. “What do you know about horses?”

“The best have four legs, run fast, and crap a lot. Most importantly, they’re an excellent way to clean the money.”

“So you’re just buying them to launder the product proceeds?”

“And occasionally bet on them. My favorite horse just won a race with a million-dollar purse.”

“Is he a champion?”

“Not really, but when the jockeys know who is going to win, they can make more money at the betting window than at the finish line. So I let them in on it and strongly suggest they let my horses win. Elsewhere, we’ve been diversifying our product markets. America is still our biggest consumer, but Europe is growing rapidly. Overall, costs are down, prices are up, and even the other cartels have been quiet lately, maybe a little too quiet. I recently increased our security at all the facilities. Of course, with you back, security operations are now in your more than capable hands,” the Padre said as he lit a thin cigar.

“Thank you, Padre, but the other cartels would be crazy to go to war against you. You’ve never been stronger.”

“I know, but it pays to be cautious. The more we have, the more we have to lose,” he said as he blew a smoke ring into the air. “Also, there is one specific person that I’m concerned about.”

“One person? Who?”

“Do you remember Barquero?”

“The Ferryman? Of course, he brought in most of our weapons from the United States.”

“He used to. His last shipment was the largest one ever. Military hardware stolen from the U.S. National Guard. It was an inside job, beautifully planned, but we had a disagreement. Or maybe I just changed the terms of our bargain when he didn’t deliver them all the way and left me with the responsibility of moving the shipment across Mexico’s southern border and then all the way north. It was a pain in the ass. I lost several good men. Anyway, he was upset, and you don’t let a man like him wander around upset. His temper is as bad as yours. With you in prison, I sent my next best sicario, Sandro, to do the job.”

“Sandro is a very good hit man.”

“Was very good. Barquero killed him. Cut off his head.”

“That son of a whore!” Carnicero growled.

“Yes.”

“Where is he now?”

“Somewhere in Mexico. I had the weapons divided up and stored in different locations. He found one and destroyed it, along with some of our men. He blew up an entire block in the process.”

“He never was very subtle. He likes overkill.”

“The pot is calling the kettle black, no?” The Padre laughed.

“True.”

“Padre, your breakfast,” Antonio said as he placed a large platter of food and two china place settings from a large silver serving cart on the patio table.

“Thank you,” the Padre replied as he crushed out his cigar into a heavy Baccarat ashtray. “That will be all.”

“Padre,” Antonio said quietly, “there is one more thing. News from Veracruz.”

“Veracruz?”

“It’s about the freighter.”

“What about it? It should have sailed more than an hour ago.”

“There has been a problem with the ship, Padre,” Antonio said meekly.

“What kind of problem?” the Padre demanded.

“I’m sorry, but the ship has been sabotaged.”

“What do you mean, sabotaged?” the Padre asked angrily. “I paid a great deal of money to have it protected.”

“It was underwater explosives, Padre. It was a professional job. It happened early this morning. The ship and cargo are a total loss. Six of your men were onboard and couldn’t make it off. The authorities want to retrieve the bodies immediately.”

“Goddammit!” The Padre grabbed the heavy glass ashtray and threw it across the patio. It shattered to pieces as it hit the tile floor. “Leave us alone!” Antonio quickly retreated inside the villa. Two bodyguards on the third floor balcony overlooking the pool and gardens glanced nervously at each other after the Padre’s sudden outburst. “Barquero,” the Padre seethed.

“Are you sure?” asked Carnicero. “It could have been another cartel.”

“Without a doubt. He’s the only one who could sink a vessel of that size,” the Padre said as he rubbed his eyes. “When they salvage the ship, they’ll find the narcotics and the cars. That bastard. It’s going to take a lot more money to keep this quiet. And it goes without saying, my European partners will not be happy. The Ukrainians don’t like delays. I should have killed Barquero myself at the ranch when I had the chance.”

“I’ll take care of it, Padre. Trust me,” the cold-blooded assassin replied.

“I know you will, but take many men with you. Only the ones you really trust. I want him alive. I’m going to make an example out of him. He won’t die quickly, and when he does, it will be with his balls in his mouth.”

“Yes, Padre, alive. I swear to you.” Carnicero took the Padre’s hand and kissed the back of it. “Do you have any idea where he might be going next?”

“He won’t be hard to find. He’ll keep coming. In fact, he’ll come right to us. Put the word out that we’re moving a shipment of weapons, but don’t make it too obvious. He’ll come for them.” The Padre gazed into his adopted son’s eyes. “And you’ll be waiting for him.”

“Yes, Padre.”

“Good.” The Padre patted Carnicero on the back. “Now eat something — you must be starving,” he said as his demeanor immediately improved.

“I am,” Carnicero said as he dug into the platter. “Will you join me?”

“No. I’m not hungry.” The Padre lit another cigar. “Besides, a lion runs fastest on an empty stomach,” he added, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “And this lion has something to catch.”

• • •


Avery bobbled his way down the staircase of the big white house in Austin owned by his stepfather, Bennett. Reaching the bottom of the staircase, he stubbed his toe as he stumbled off the last step. Avery proceeded to string together a collection of profanities that would make a sixty-year-old Bangkok whore blush.

“Avery,” Bennett’s voice called from the kitchen, “that you out there, crying like a baby shitting peach pits?”

“Shut up, doctor,” Avery gruffly replied as he hobbled into the kitchen and grabbed a Mountain Dew from the fridge. Bennett and Kip, Avery’s stepbrother, were at the table drinking their morning coffee. Maximilian, Bennett’s beloved white French bulldog, was curled up under the table. Max raised his head off his paws and sniffed at the stinky, bearded man.

“When did you get back?” Kip asked.

“Late last night.”

“I thought I locked the doors in case you did,” said Bennett as he peered over the top of the newspaper he was reading.

“Your primitive security device is no match for my superior intellect,” Avery said as he drained his soda. “Hold my calls — I’ll be back later.”

“Where you headed?” asked Kip, as he noticed Avery was wearing his yellow tracksuit instead of his usual in-house attire of a dingy bathrobe.

“I have an appointment this morning with my legal counsel.”

“Who’s suing you now?” Kip asked he got up to refill his cup.

“Everyone. You haven’t really made it to the big time until jealous competitors quit trying to out-achieve you and resort to hiding behind sham legal suits as a strategy.”

“Well, if that’s your yardstick for success, I reckon Time magazine should be calling anytime for a head shot for their Person of the Year issue,” Bennett said as Avery barged out the back door.

“Like I said, hold my calls,” Avery yelled over his shoulder as the door slammed shut.

“I swear to God,” Bennett said, “if that boy ever has an intelligent idea, it’ll die of loneliness.”

It took Avery close to an hour to reach his destination with all the backtracking and sneaking among trees to avoid being tailed. Avery knew that the inevitable moment when the men in black suits rappelled down out of their helicopters to kidnap or assassinate him, it would be at the moment he’d least expect it. As usual, he was taking no chances. Eventually, he made it to his appointment. The sign outside the small office nestled between a dry cleaner and a Chinese restaurant identified it as the Law Office of Gregory Kennesaw Mountain, Esq.

Gregory Mountain wasn’t born as much as he was wrung from a bartender’s rag. He ran a one-man law practice in town, at least when he was sober. He got his middle name from the historic Civil War battle that took place at Kennesaw Mountain in late June of 1864. Gregory’s great great-grandfather, Rufus Mordecai Mountain, served as a colonel in the Army of Tennessee, commanded by General Joseph Johnston. A fortuitous misunderstanding by Rufus Mountain of a direct written order from his commander, a misunderstanding partially caused by the fact that he wasn’t a strong reader and partially because Rufus was knee-knocking drunk at the time, resulted in Rufus leading his men to the wrong spot on the battlefield. In hindsight, it turned out to be the right spot tactically, and the Confederates were able to drive back General Sherman’s Union forces. For his part, Rufus missed the bulk of the battle, as he passed out shortly after the first volleys were fired. His last words to his men before falling face down in the dirt were a series of long, low belches as he pointed his saber at the advancing enemy troops.

“Wake up!” Avery demanded as he stormed into the cramped legal office overflowing with scattered documents and legal journals.

“Don’t shoot!” Mountain called out as he popped up from his face-down position on his desk with both hands raised in the air, leaving a small pool of drool behind on the surface of his desk. “Howdy, son, you’re early for once!” The large attorney wore a red plaid blazer, a yellow paisley tie over a wrinkled white shirt, dirty blue jeans, a seriously gaudy gold pinky ring, and cowboy boots with actual spurs attached. “Who we suing today?” he asked Avery as he wiped off his desk with the palm of his hand. Mountain had been last in his law class, but first in regard to opportunity.

“I’m in a hurry today — let’s make this fast. First order, new business…”

“Slow your britches down, Avery, we’ve got a little old business to attend to first,” Mountain said as he held up a stack of folders. “Patent infringement,” he continued as he began to pick through the pile. “Defamation of character.” He tossed another file aside. “Cease and desist, libel, and the latest one, a restraining order from the mayor of Austin,” Mountain said as he held it up.

“She’s a nobody.”

“She’s the mayor, goddammit, and you can’t keep picketing on her cotton-picking front lawn anymore.”

“Not until she submits to my demands.”

“Son, you can’t put a personal parking meter in front of your stepfather’s house.”

“Quit thinking like a loser,” Avery said as he lifted an unruly pile of legal documents off the split and torn leather couch located against the back wall of the office so he could sit down. “Per my request, did you search your office for listening devices this morning?”

“Look, she says she’ll drop the restraining order, if, for once and for all, you’ll stay off her begonias.”

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“Be reasonable, Avery.”

“I want to sue her.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“What are the maximum damages I can ask for?”

“I’m not going to sue the mayor of Austin for you, at least not until you pay me. That reminds me,” Mountain said as he pulled out another folder. “You’re being sued for failure to make payment.”

“By who?”

“By me.”

“Outrageous! Counter-sue back.”

“On what grounds?”

“Legal incompetence. Is the reason you call your business a practice because you aren’t very good at it? What are the maximum damages I can ask for?”

“Don’t push your luck, city boy,” Mountain said as he balled his meat hook–sized fists.

“Did you even go to law school?”

“See that little piece of paper on the wall over there!” Mountain pointed to a crooked frame on the wall next to a taped-up torn-out page of Miss October. “It says ‘Vanderbilt’ on it!”

“My good man, I can get you one from Harvard from a Russian online auction site in ten minutes. Want to time me?”

“Son, if crazy were dirt, you’d have enough to cover half the King Ranch,” Mountain said with a chuckle.

“That’s not a half-bad idea,” Avery said, scratching his unruly beard. “Then I could make claim to the mineral rights underneath. Look into it and get back to me.”

“Avery, I can’t keep representing you like this.”

“Of course you can. I’m the perfect client. I’m highly litigious and soon to be wealthy beyond imagination.”

“Did you find financing for Project Alpine yet?”

“I’m still working on it,” Avery replied as he chewed on his fingernails. “Are the articles of incorporation ready to go?”

“Get the money lined up first.” Mountain pulled a fifth of whiskey from his desk drawer and took a slug. “Want some?” He offered the bottle to Avery as he coughed into his sleeve.

“No, thanks. I came by to let you know I’m going to be leaving the country for a while.”

“Son, I hate to be the one to point out the fly in your buttermilk, but that’s not a real good idea, considering the terms of your latest probation. What the hell were you doing breaking into that research lab, anyway?”

“I’ve always wanted a pet monkey.”

“Avery, let me remind you, your probation officer is a real asshole. He’s as mean as rattlesnake with an elephant standing on its tail. Can I give you a little advice, son? Never kick a turd on a hot day. One more slip-up, and you’re headed to the pokey.”

“You don’t intimidate me.”

“I’m not trying to intimidate you, Avery. I’m your friend. I’m trying to advise you.”

“I can walk down the street and get all the advice I need, and for free, I might add. What I’m looking for is counsel, imaginative counsel, courageous counsel, and, most importantly, the kind of counsel that’s slightly left of legal. You know, the kind that actually works.”

“Well, then, as your attorney, I strongly advise you not to leave the country.”

“Duly noted. By the way, what are the documents currently needed for entry into Mexico?”

“Mexico? Sweet Jesus, Avery, you’re so damn nuts I swear I can see the squirrels juggling chainsaws inside your head.”

“And what’s the current exchange rate these days?”

“Please tell me you aren’t really going.”

“Okay, I’m not going.”

“Really?”

“No, just trying to make you feel better. Is it working?”

“No,” Mountain said as he took another pull from his whiskey bottle. “Why the hell is going to Mexico so important? You do remember that little incident a while back at Bennett’s house with that cartel hombre, don’t you? South of the border might not be the safest place for you.”

“The Mexican assassin? I’m sure he’s forgotten about me already. It’s tequila under the bridge.”

“What do you plan on doing there? Vacationing? You know, they’ve got some really nice beaches around Galveston or Corpus.”

“My search for the chupacabra must continue. I have strong reason to believe that the perfect time to observe and capture one is at hand.”

“Dammit, son, how many times do I have to say this? There’s no such thing as a flipping chupacabra!” Mountain pounded his bottle on his desk for effect.

“That’s what they used to say about witches.”

“Witches don’t exist, either!”

“Of course they do. Austin elected one mayor.”

“For the record, I think this is a really bad idea. Typically, with someone like you, the law down there won’t be on your side. If you get in trouble, I can’t promise I can get you out. But if you insist on going, take this,” Mountain said as he wrote down a phone number on the cover of a racing form sitting on his desk before tearing the page off. “When, not if, things go tits up, you call this number and ask for Enrique Montalban. Mention my name. He’s an attorney in Mexico City. We go way back. When we were still just kids, we used to run rum out of Havana to the Keys. He’s pretty handy in a knife fight, too. But whatever you do, don’t play cards with him. He’s a world-class cheat.”

“Explains why you two got along. Hey, you aren’t billing me for this, are you?”

“Of course I am. But don’t worry about it — I’ll just tack it onto my lawsuit.”

“Well played, Mountain. Well played.”

“So exactly where in Mexico are you headed?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Hell of a plan.”

“It’s in progress. I like to marinate an adventure before cooking it.”

“Well, boy, you’re headed straight into the hot oven. It’s shit-ass crazy down there right now.”

“Your shirt looks like crap.”

“At least I’m wearing one. What’s the deal with yellow, anyway? You look like a fat banana with a beard.”

“Yellow? Did you miss Fashion Week this year?”

“Unfortunately,” Mountain said as he spit in his trash can. “I, too, was busy shaving my chest and bleaching my…”

“Yellow is the new black,” Avery interrupted.

“The new black. Who knew? Well, I suggest starting in Matamoros. I know this one little sugar shack down there — you can really wet your whistle, if you know what I mean,” Mountain said with a wink. “Seen some things there that words just don’t do justice. You ever seen one of those shows with the donkey and the two…?”

“Thanks, but this is a business trip. Just a heads-up, I’m having all my mail forwarded here while I’m gone,” Avery said as got up to leave. “Pay the bills, throw out the ads, and save the coupons. I’ll reimburse you, obviously.”

“Sure you will.” The attorney rubbed his aching head. “Adios, amigo.” Mountain waved and drained his bottle while watching Avery exit his office. “Stay out of trouble,” he called out before violently vomiting in his trash can. “And get the Project Alpine money!” he shouted before ducking down and vomiting again.

• • •


After leaving his attorney’s office, Avery sneaked along for several blocks before finding what he was looking for. Approaching a postbox at the corner of a busy intersection, he looked left and right to make sure he wasn’t being watched before dropping a letter into it.

• • •







To: Loan Department

7th National Bank of Austin




Dear Money Lenders:




I’m writing to express my desire for a small business loan. I’ve closely reviewed your institution’s loan forms and documents, and have found them cumbersome, redundant, and completely useless. Personal information is called “personal” for a reason. I’m sure you understand. Please accept this correspondence as a more than capable replacement. For the time being, I cannot divulge the entirety of my business plan for competitive reasons. The global business markets are savagely cutthroat. Secrecy is the devastatingly long lever of the first mover’s advantage.




Executive Summary:




Give me ten million U.S. dollars immediately.




Top Secret Plan Overview (that can be revealed at this time):




Question: What are America’s two favorite snacks? Answer: Mountain Dew and pork rinds. Curiously enough, no one has ever considered combining the two. Well, the time has come, and I plan to dominate the world’s market for Mountain Dew–flavored pork rinds. Of course, I could just directly approach the manufacturer of Mountain Dew with this dazzling concept, but I’m looking to maximize my personal fortune by going it alone. Besides, it would deprive your institution the opportunity to be involved in financing this groundbreaking concept from its infancy. Trademarks and copyrights obviously prevent me from using the Mountain Dew name in my project, so I’ve developed an alternative concept: Alpine Condensation. But my marketing genius only starts there. Alpine Condensation Pork Rinds will be marketed through a partnership with a well-known hip hop performer. My preference is for someone who has spent time incarcerated. It’s essential for the product to have some street cred with the kids. Now, it may be difficult to find a rapper who has actually gone to jail, but I’m trying. If I can’t find one, I’ll hire a suitable entertainer and compensate them with discount coupons for future product purchases for time spent behind bars on trumped-up charges. Preferably drug charges. The target market for Alpine Condensation is the late-night snack consumer returning home from the club. Nothing refreshes like a bag full of crispy, salty, sweet, tangy, caffeine-loaded pork rinds after a long night of dancing and partying. The product can also be marketed to athletes, as pork rinds are naturally rich in protein. Can you envision the Stanley Cup or Claret Jug filled to the brim with Alpine Condensation Pork Rinds? I can. But we have to move fast! The genius of this plan is in its simplicity. It’s only a matter of time before someone stumbles onto to it. Production plans for the product are simple. First, I’m going to need pigskin, and lots of it. Fortunately, China is one of the world’s largest producers of pork. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Quality. Yes, the U.S. and the Dutch raise a higher quality of pork, but we’re talking about skin here. Ribs and chops are not of concern. Cheap Chinese pigskin it is. Second, I’ll need to hire the services of a team of ninjas to break in and steal the secret formula for Mountain Dew. I already have a team picked out and training in the Gobi Desert. Third, I’ll require access to the massive facilities at Analytical Food Laboratories in Grand Prairie. There I will create a crystallized version of the flavoring agent for my pork rinds. I refuse to allow them to do the testing themselves, as someone may figure out where I’m headed with my analysis. We will need to pay them to shut down and send the staff home for several days. There you have it. Three easy steps, and the food invention of the century will rise from the ashes of defeated snack manufacturers from around the planet. Consequently, Alpine Condensation’s packaging will prominently feature a flaming phoenix rising from the ashes of defeated snack manufactures from around the planet. In order to maximize profits for myself, corporate staff will be kept to a minimum. I will assume the duties of Chairman and CEO, while my compatriot Ziggy will serve as a board member. It’s always a good idea to keep some deadwood on your staff in case the economy turns and you have to lay someone off. As a financial institution, you should keep that in mind. While the sole intention of my project is to create mind-boggling wealth for myself, I am aware of the backlash in this country regarding disproportionate financial excess. Therefore, in an act of goodwill, I will reach out to the world’s humanitarian community. Because of the incredibly long shelf life of pork rinds, they are perfect for humanitarian aid. I will offer global aid groups a two-percent discount on purchases, but only for bulk orders, and payment must clear before shipping. I’m currently busy with an outstanding research project that has me traveling internationally. Please hold all loan committee questions until after product launch. Please mail the check for ten million dollars to my attorney. His name is Gregory Kennesaw Mountain. He’s in the book.

    

Sincerely,



    

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton



    

Chairman and CEO, Alpine Condensation Pork Products






• • •


After another thirty minutes of weaving through town, constantly watching his six for secret agents, Avery arrived at a quirky maroon-colored house. The multicolored sign out front identified the old Victorian house as The Magic Man’s Curio Shop and Bookstore. The “Magic Man” was in fact Ziggy. Avery flipped the CLOSED sign on the front door to OPEN before barging in.

“Hey, you freaky little lizard, where are you?” he bellowed.

“Like, right here, man,” Ziggy replied. He was perched like a small monkey on the top of a tall ladder in the corner of the main room.

“What the hell are doing up there?”

“Checking out the feng shui, dude.”

“What for, no one ever comes in here anyway.”

“Like, I know, man. I’m thinking I’ve got my candles, like, too close to the incense. Bad energy. If I, like, rearrange them some, it might help business.”

“I doubt it. Face the facts. You’re the owner of a head shop in Austin and still can’t make a decent living. Fifty thousand college students right around the corner, and yet you still can’t manage to sell a single bong. The problem is deeper than your product placement.”

“Hey, man,” said Ziggy as he crawled down from his perch. “I sell books and stuff, too, you know.”

“Sell or collect?”

“Well, like I said, man, it’s been pretty slow lately. Can you help me move this table with, like, all the candles on it? I think right over there will do it.”

“Absolutely not. I need to use your phone,” Avery said as he headed to the cash register.

“Like, what happened to your cell phone, man?”

“It self-actualized…err…it was executed…err…it’s a long story.”

“Okay, but, like, no long distance calls, man.”

“Don’t worry — it’s an in-state call.”

“Okay, that’s cool, dude.”

“As far as you know.” Avery fished a piece of paper with a phone number on it from his fanny pack and picked up the receiver. “Get your bags packed. We’re leaving with the tide.”

“No way, I don’t, like, dig boats, man. I fell out of one in the ‘It’s a Small World’ ride at the Magic Kingdom when I was a kid. My dad was, like, super pissed. He made me swim the rest of the way and, like, meet him at the exit. No boats for the Zigster. Nope, definitely no boats.”

“It’s a figure of speech. Pack your things, lizard,” Avery said as he dialed the number.




PART II





CHAPTER EIGHT

Operation Mexican Shadow


Back at the STRAC-BOM headquarters, General X-Ray harrumphed as he noticed the front door left wide open.

“Private Tango,” the General commanded. “Close that hatch immediately. You’re letting out all my bought air!”

“Sir, yes, sir.” The private kicked the door closed with his heel, his arms full of camouflage-patterned toilet paper rolls.

“Make sure the latrine is spic and span. I want to be able to eat off it.”

Nasty, the Private thought as he choked down the little bit of lunch he just threw up in his mouth while thinking about the idea of actually eating off the repulsive bathroom’s floor. Around the building, the rest of the men continued their biannual dusting and cleaning of the HQ. Convinced his men weren’t slacking off, the General retreated to his office. Carefully removing a portrait of Lyndon Baines Johnson from the wall, he placed it gently on the floor.

“Pardon me, sir,” the General said to the painting as he snapped to attention and saluted. Fishing around in the top drawer of his desk, he retrieved a long piece of twine with a magnet tied to one end. Years earlier, the General had commissioned the construction of STRAC-BOM’s headquarters partly on account of the fact that Fire Team Leader Bravo’s mother’s house was getting a little too cramped for their militia meetings and partly because she threatened to call the FBI when she overheard the intimate details of Operation Dragon’s Breath, an ill-conceived attempt to mass produce homemade napalm, a plan that ultimately cost the poor woman her beloved potting shed and greenhouse. The exterior siding in the back of her house still bore scorched streaks of black soot and a few spots of melted vinyl to this day. When building the militia’s new operational command and control center, the General insisted on an intricate and top-of-the-line storage facility for the organization’s funds and secret plans. Initially, he’d attempted to purchase a used vault from the Antwerp Diamond Center in Belgium. The massive safe with its ninety-nine-digit dial, capable of more than one hundred million combinations, was just what he was looking for. Unfortunately, the shipping cost alone for the three-ton steel door was prohibitive. Instead, General X-Ray settled on the next best security device money could buy. Behind the LBJ portrait was a dinner plate–sized hole in the wall. Dropping the magnet into the hole, he carefully lowered it into the space behind the wall. When it reached the bottom, he spent a minute fishing back and forth with the long piece of twine. After a dozen swipes, the General felt the magnet catch on to something. Slowly pulling on the twine, hand over hand, he inched the magnet up. When the magnet finally emerged from the hole, it was stuck to a round metal washer attached to another long piece of twine. Taking hold of the second piece of twine, he reeled it in until a dusty tube sock emerged from the wall. The sock jingled as he carried it to his desk and sat down. Empting the contents of the sock onto his desk, the General put his head in his hands and moaned.

“We’re done for,” the General whimpered as he began to cry over the sad little pile of bills and coins in front of him. “Finished. Doomed.”

“Begging the General’s pardon, sir,” Private Zulu said as he peeked his head into the office. “Is everything okay?”

“No, no, no, no, no,” the General said, slapping his bald dome with alternating hands. A large snot bubble began to form from his pig-like nose. Closing his eyes and wringing his hands, the General let out a pathetic, high-pitched squeal of desperation. “Calgon, take me away!” he sobbed as he placed his forehead on the desk and covered his ears with his hands.

“What’s the commotion?” asked Fire Team Leader Charlie as he peered over the top of Private Zulu’s head.

“Not sure,” the private said. “But the General is acting crazier than a sprayed roach. Never seen him like this.”

“Get a hold of yourself, General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie implored. “Please don’t let the rest of the men see you like this. Morale is poor enough after we had to spend the night in jail for that sewer line incident on the border.”

“You’re right, Team Leader, you’re right,” the General said as he wiped his runny nose with the sleeve of his tanker’s uniform and slowly regained his composure. “Assemble the men in the ready room. I have an announcement to make.”

The mood was eerily somber as the three Fire Teams gathered and stood smartly at attention in front of their slump shouldered leader. The normally bombastic General didn’t say a word.

Fire Team Leader Alpha finally broke the silence. “What’s the problem, sir?”

“Broke,” he replied.

“What’s broke, sir?” Private Tango asked. “Fire Team Leader Alpha can fix about anything.”

“We’re broke,” the crestfallen General informed his brigade. “Nothing left in the bank after our latest bail posting.”

“All of it?” Private Zulu asked.

“Just about. The federal matching dollars I requested were denied. Goddamn Democrats,” the General said, shaking his fist in the air.

“What do we do now?” Private Foxtrot asked.

“Capitulate. The enemy has won.”

“But, General, sir,” Private Tango said. “What about them boys at Iwo or Guadalcanal you told us about? We can’t just give up now. They didn’t.”

“No, Private, it’s over. I’ll draw up the papers and present them to the Mexican President myself. Meet him in the middle of the international bridge. Soldiers, gather up all your weapons and ordnance. I’m sure he’ll want them as part of our unconditional surrender.”

Fire Team Leader Alpha spoke up. “General, can’t we at least sue for peace terms?”

“The Mexicans will never go for it. They’ve wanted us dismantled for years. Boys, be sure to burn all the documents and maps, and don’t forget to booby-trap the latrine. Also, turn off the air conditioner before we leave, but save all the light bulbs — they’re halogen.”

“They’re must be something we can do,” Private Zulu said as he scratched his head. “What about lemonade stands?”

“Firm thinking, Private, but selling lemonade would take too long to generate the necessary capital to continue our operations.”

“Sir, I mean knocking them off,” the private replied. “Bonny and Clyde style. Little kids don’t put up much of a fight. We can take ’em. I think.”

“I won’t see this unit resort to domestic terrorism. Not under my command. We’d be just as bad as the heathens. I won’t stoop to their level.”

“What about holding a raffle or a bake sale?” Private Foxtrot added. “It could work.”

“Private, you can put a possum in the business end of a wood chipper, but it doesn’t mean you’ll get raspberry jelly out the other. No, it’s settled.” The General put his hand over his heart. “The Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia is now officially decommissioned. It’s time to stand down from our glorious mission. The American people are on their own against tyranny and invasion. Private Zulu, lower the colors.” Private Zulu went to take down the small American, Confederate, and Texas flags from the front of the room before pausing at the sudden ringing of a telephone from the General’s office.

“Should I get it, sir?”

“Yes, Private,” the despondent General replied as he unhooked the holster containing his pearl-handled pistols and placed them on his podium. “It’s probably the Mexican Army. They must have wire-tapped our HQ and are no doubt calling to gloat.”

Private Zulu rushed into the General’s office and picked up the phone just before it went to the answering machine. “STRAC-BOM HQ. This is Private Zulu speaking.”

“Zulu, good man,” the voice on the other end of the line replied. “This is one Avery Bartholomew Pendleton of Austin speaking. I’m glad I got you. We were involved in a small business dealing a while back. I’m sure you remember.”

“Hey, man, you never paid me for my dang coyote!” Private Zulu yelled into the phone. “Not to mention you left a dead bandito in the building, minus one melon. I had to spend weeks with the coppers and the shrink-head doctors before they let me out. Said I had some kind of Post Menstrual Traumatic Stress Disorder. I thought I’d never get out of that loony bin. Still having nightmares. Mostly about bloody pumpkins.”

“Never mind, Private. The specimen didn’t prove conclusive, although I still have my doubts. However, fortunately I have a new mission in mind for your organization. Is your commanding officer currently available? It’s rather quite important. Chop, chop, be a good boy.”

“I don’t trust you one bit, you dead wolf thief.”

“Patience, Private. There’s money involved.”

“Money? Hang on a minute.” Zulu put the phone down and thought about it before picking it up again. “Okay, but I still want my dough, you hornswoggler, you. General, it’s for you!” the private yelled.

“Who is it?” the General asked as he entered the office.

“A man calling about a mission, but don’t sign up for anything without getting paid first. This guy is slicker than snot on a glass doorknob. He’s the one that stole my dog from hell.”

“You know the man?” The General took the receiver.

“Well, we’ve howdied, but we haven’t shook.”

“I see.” He lifted the receiver to his ear. “General X-Ray speaking.”

“Are you the commanding officer of this outfit?”

“Yes. Who’s speaking?”

“My name is immaterial.”

“Immaterial? That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard. Are you from New Jersey?”

“For now, just call me Agent 00Zero.”

“What can I do for you, Agent 00Zero? I’m presently in the middle of something.”

“Is your regiment currently available for charter service?”

“Fortunately, we do have a hole in our operational schedule.” The General stood at attention, his demeanor rapidly improving.

“Are you familiar with the current invasion from Mexico?”

“Am I? It’s what STRAC-BOM was founded for.”

“Are you also aware that the United States government is incapable of stopping this invasion alone?”

“Absolutely! They’re as useful as a pocket on the back of a shirt.”

“Interesting concept.” Avery thought about the potential business opportunities. “General, I have reason to believe a major spawning is approaching. A significant gathering that will precede an unprecedented migration across our borders is at hand.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’m sure you understand, my intelligence reports are confidential, but I have aerial recon that confirms it. The information is classified above top secret. All you need to know is that the Yankees are still in first place.”

“You bet your sweet ass we still are! God bless America!”

“Whatever. Now listen to me. We must depart for Mexico at once.”

“You don’t want to fight them on our side of the border?”

“Of course not. The best place to toss a monkey wrench into the gears of an invasion is on enemy soil. They won’t expect us coming.”

“Hot damn, son! You think just like I do. Now, there’s just one thing. Our commission. What sort of budget did you have in mind?”

“Two thousand U.S. dollars. Half now, half on completion of the mission.”

“Well.” The General scratched his pink, bald head. “That rules out air and naval support, not to mention armored columns, but it’s a start. My men can be ready immediately.”

“Speaking of your men, how many units do you command?”

“Three highly trained and battle-hardened Fire Teams. Each team consists of two men: one Fire Team Leader and one Private. Including me, the brigade’s total strength is seven elite and fearless warriors, but under fire, we fight like a hundred and seven.”

“Excellent. Are the men fit and well fed? Have they had their shots lately?”

“We haven’t had lunch yet, but my men can eat barbed wire and crap razor blades.”

“Nice party trick, but not relevant. Have their psych profiles been recently updated? I can’t risk anyone breaking under the pressure of interrogation if captured. Our mission is a dangerous one.”

“I can personally vouch for their mental fitness. Although we might want to keep an eye on Private Zulu.” The General cupped the receiver with his hand. “He’s a little slow on the uptake, not to mention the download, if you know what I mean.”

“Hey,” the perturbed Private Zulu said. “I can hear you. I’ve got feelings, too, you know?”

“Duly noted, General,” Avery replied. “How about undercover experience and language capabilities? We want to keep a low profile among the indigenous population.”

“Fire Team Leader Bravo speaks a little Russian. I had to a keep close watch on him in the early days, as I suspected he might be a Commie infiltrator, but he checked out pretty fine. Was the best man at me and my ex-wife’s wedding.”

“No Spanish?”

“All the boys speak a little Texican, plus a few Spanish swear words, but we do have an authentic, genuine phrase book in our intelligence center. Not exactly an Enigma machine, but it comes in pretty handy.”

“Not ideal, but bring it along anyway. What about transportation?”

“Only our private vehicles are available at the moment, mostly pickups. Our Humvees and helicopters are out being retrofitted with laser-guided rockets and new DVD players,” the General lied. Private Zulu rolled his eyes.

“Well,” Avery said. “Transportation is your problem, General. Acquire something suitable and inconspicuous. Something big enough to hold your men, my associate, and myself. The cost of the vehicle comes out of your end.”

“Hum,” the General muttered as he rubbed his chubby chin. “Okay, I’ll come up with something. You mentioned an associate. Does he have a code name, too?”

“Just call him moron.”

“Roger that.”

“General, how long before you can pick us up in Austin? We don’t have much time to stop this invasion.”

“We’ll expedite our load-out and leave this evening, hopefully by midnight. We’ll rendezvous at your base no later than ten hundred hours tomorrow morning.”

“Very well. Do you have something to write with?”

“Yes.”

“Take down these coordinates.”

“Excellent.” The General scribbled down Avery’s address on the cover of an old issue of Playboy magazine sitting on his desk.

“General, don’t draw attention to yourself or your men. The agents in the black helicopters mean business. They’re probably armed with poison darts, most likely curare. It’s very nasty stuff. If captured, commit suicide. It’s less painful for you, and it covers my tracks. But once we’re across the border, we should be safe.”

“Outstanding, but just one question. What’s the mission name?”

“Name?”

“To be called, or rather, coded. As you mentioned, the landscape is fraught with interlopers and spies. We need a code name. All the best operations have one.”

“How about…?” Avery thought for a moment. “Operation Alpine Condensation?”

“Agent 00Zero, with all due respect, it sounds like something a Volkswagen gets at high altitude.”

“Operation Banana Hammer?”

“Best suited for Central America.”

“Operation Matador?”

“Getting warmer, I think.”

“Operation Broken Donkey?”

“I don’t much care for animals.”

“Me neither. Operation Open Wound?”

“Interesting, but disgusting.”

“General, I don’t give two shits, wait, wait for it, make that three shits, what you call it. Are you in or are you out? I have SEAL Team Six on standby, if you’re incapable.”

“In, we’re definitely in! But my men need leadership, and leadership means showing them the path before they walk down it. You can’t keep the map to yourself. You have to give your subordinates an idea of where they’re headed, for the sake of morale, even if it’s off a cliff. Esprit de corps is the deciding factor in most engagements. I beg you. The name of the mission is critical.”

“General, we don’t have time for this. Jesus Christ, do you want to bring in focus groups and do surveys, maybe a media consultant? If so, you’re paying for it.”

“Of course not. Agent, may I be so bold as to suggest a name for our mission?”

“Will it get you moving any quicker?”

“Yes.”

“Then go ahead.”

“Operation Mexican Shadow. We’ll be in and out before anyone notices.”

“Whatever, fine. Now assemble your men and anything you need, and get the hell to Austin!”

“Agent 00Zero,” the General said as tears welled in his eyes. “Thank you for this opportunity. STRAC-BOM won’t let you down.”

“Well, see that you don’t. Good day, General.”

The phone line went dead. The General hung up and called for his men to reassemble in the main room.

“Boys!” the General announced proudly as he strapped his pistols back around his bloated waist. “We’re back in business. Call in sick for the next few days — we’ve got new orders.”

“What about being bust-ass broke?” Fire Team Leader Alpha asked.

“We have a new benefactor, one with money. Now I know Operation Gold Miner didn’t exactly go as planned, but we’ve been given another shot. The only catch is we’re going to have company this time. Two civilians willing to pay for our services.”

“Don’t that make us like mercenaries, General?” Private Foxtrot asked.

“No, it just means we’re employed.”

“With benefits?” Private Foxtrot asked hopefully. “’Cause this back tooth of mine has been leaking puss like crazy.”

“No benefits!” the General shouted. “It’s contract work. Now pull your crap together, men. It’s time to get frosty. Fire Team Leader Charlie!”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Take your private and requisition some transportation big enough for seven men, plus two.”

“Requisition?” the Team Leader asked. “You mean, like, rent something? I thought we were out of cash.”

“No. Steal something. Private Zulu’s only real value is that he can hotwire anything. Isn’t that right, Private?”

“You bet, General,” Private Zulu proudly replied. “Screwdriver and a sharp knife, and I can light the fire and spin the tires on anything Detroit ever made.”

“Outstanding, Private. Now, Team Leader, get to it. I want you back here with ground transportation by twenty-three hundred hours and not a minute later.”

“Yes, sir,” Fire Team Leader Charlie replied. “Come on, Zulu.”

“And remember,” the General added. “Something that blends in.”

“Right, sir.”

“Now, the rest of you men. Put away those gall-darn cleaning supplies and start organizing the gear. I want a full shakedown in less than four hours.”

Fire Team Leader Charlie and Private Zulu headed to the Team Leader’s pickup while the rest of the men rushed to pack their gear and gather supplies and provisions.

“You got something in mind, Team Leader?” Private Zulu asked. “I’m pretty good at starting up cars, but I never actually stole one before. Well,” he said sheepishly, “I stole a dirt bike once, but it was on a dare from a girl.”

“Let me think on it a spell, Private. I’ll come up with something.”

The two men drove around Tornillo for a while, looking for a suitable target. Over the next hour, they spotted sedans, minivans, station wagons. The only problem was that loads of people around the small town recognized them and waved as they passed by. Pretty soon they both decided that El Paso might have a far better selection of cars for theft and most certainly a whole lot fewer people that they went to church with. After they made their way up the interstate, the outskirts of the big city appeared on the horizon.

“Where should start looking?” Private Zulu asked.

“I don’t know. Got any ideas?”

“How about the impound lot?”

“Naw,” said Fire Team Leader Charlie. “Too much security. Folks coming and going all the time.”

“What about the mall? It’s got a pretty big lot.”

“Same thing, too many people around — plus, they’ve got cameras. Hey, wait a minute, look over there.”

“At what?”

“That school bus lot.”

“The one with the big fence?”

“Sure, I’ve got some bolt cutters in the back. A bus would be perfect for all the boys and our gear.”

“Don’t seem right somehow. It’s like stealing from the kids.”

“For the love of Sam Hill, you’re the one that suggested sticking up lemonade stands. Hell, the kids will love it. It’ll probably give them a day or two off from school. Beside, the government is cutting back school budgets all the time. They’re the ones really stealing from kids. We’re small time. Nobody will notice.”

“All right, good point, but the General said something low-key. Big and yellow don’t spell low-key to me.”

“Of course it does. Buses are downright common. Plus, you ever see a cop giving a school bus a parking ticket?”

“No.”

“Then, there you go.”

“Sounds good to me. Then let’s check it out.”

The two men pulled off the highway and slowly drove around the fenced lot, examining it for weaknesses in its defenses. “You sure we should be doing this in broad daylight?” the private asked. “The General, he says covert operations are best executed under the cover of the dark, with overwhelming manpower, treachery, or all of the above.”

“Good point, but it means we’ve got some time to kill. What do you want to do?”

“How about a movie?” Private Zulu suggested. “It’ll be cool inside. This heat is killing me.”

“Sorry.” The Fire Team Leader apologized for his truck’s clunky air conditioning. “You want to go to that big movie cinema across town?”

“The SuperMegaJumboPlex? You bet, they got all the new stuff,” the private said as he picked his nose and flicked the findings out the cracked window, only to have it blow back in. A bit later, the men arrived at their destination and approached the ticket counter. “What should we see?” Private Zulu asked as they dodged a throng of teenagers.

“How about that one?” Fire Team Leader Alpha suggested as he pointed to the top of the board.

“The Artist?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it about?”

“Don’t know, but I heard it was up for all the awards.”

“Okay by me. Hope it’s got a car chase.” The men purchased their tickets, went inside, and hit the concession stand. Taking their seats, they crammed fists of popcorn into their mouths as the previews rolled. The next several hours left the men rather confused, but less sweaty than before. The movie wasn’t exactly what they expected.

“Well,” Fire Team Leader began as they left the theater. “What did you think?”

“I think I’m never coming back to this place again. We got swindled. The dang audio was busted for the whole movie, and nobody even bothered to fix it. I couldn’t hear a word they were saying.” The two disgruntled men climbed into the pickup and headed back to the bus lot. The sun was going down, and they had to get to work. Pulling up to the depot, Fire Team Leader Charlie pulled over on the side of the road. They could see the gate was locked. “Which one should we swipe?” the private asked.

“Which ever one is handiest, I suppose. Just curious — can you drive one of those things?”

“I guess so. Can’t be that hard, although, come to think of it, that’s what I said about algebra, and that bitch ’bout done killed me. How come they always want you to find X? That sucker is long gone by now.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. All right, let’s get that gate open.” The men climbed out, and the Fire Team Leader grabbed his bolt cutters. Sneaking along the quiet road until they reached the gate, the men prepared to cut the chain around the fence. Suddenly, the sound of grinding gears came from behind them. “Private, take cover, now!” The men dove into a small drainage ditch beside the road just as a school bus pulled up to the gate. The driver got out and unlocked the chain before getting back into the bus and pulling into the lot. He parked it in an empty space. A minute later the driver climbed out and headed for the main office. “Hurry up, Zulu, grab the one that just pulled in. It’s already warmed up. I’ll wait here and keep watch.”

“What?”

“Quick. You may not have much time.”

“I’m going alone? That wasn’t the deal.”

“We didn’t have a deal. Now get moving. I’ll watch your six. I’ll hoot like an owl three times if someone is coming.”

“You better not leave me.”

“You know we never leave a man behind. It’s in the STRAC-BOM Code of Conduct. Right after incoming fire always has the right of way.”

“Yeah, I remember. Okay, cover me.” Private Zulu scampered into the lot and made his way to the bus. The door was open. Private Zulu used his screwdriver to remove the ignition cover and expose the wires inside. “Dang it!” exclaimed the Private, as the colors of the wires were different from what he was used to. Which one is it? He struggled to open the blade on his rusty Swiss Army knife. Gotta remember to clean this som’bitch. Eventually, he got the knife open. Fumbling with the wires, he used his pocketknife to strip the plastic covering off the ends of all of them. Holding his breath and squinting, he twisted two of the wires together. Nothing happed. He tried two more. Nothing. He tried two more. Bang! A filling in one of his back molars exploded. Head spinning, lying on his back, the gearshift between his scrawny legs, he heard a faint sound, another, and then one more. It could have been an owl, but it would have to have been an old, diseased, choking, dying hoot owl, with a pronounced lisp. Actually, it didn’t really sound like an owl at all, but it was enough to get the private motivated. Pulling himself to his feet, he noticed movement in the office. Terrified, he grabbed the wires again, then braced himself and touched them together. Sparks flew, and the engine lurched. Trying one more time as he clenched his teeth, Private Zulu twisted the two exposed wires together and pinched them off. The engine turned over. It was running. Zulu jumped into the driver’s seat and put the school bus into gear, grinding the gears in the process. As he swung around to exit through the gate, he sideswiped another bus. Then he heard more hooting: lisping, diseased, choking, dying bird hooting. Stomping on the gas, he sped out of the lot. Looking back, he saw Fire Team Leader Charlie racing to his truck. The Fire Team Leader caught back up with him before they even made it back to the interstate. Neither man let off the gas until they saw the Tornillo exit.




CHAPTER NINE

Ghost From the Past


Back in his office, Avery packed his roller bag, fanny pack, and ice chest for the upcoming journey. He wanted to be sure he wouldn’t run out of Mountain Dew. More importantly, he hoped he would have sufficient time on the trip to continue his critical correspondence. He’d been quite aggravated lately, even more than usual. His “hit list” of targets destined to receive a rambling, scathing petition was at an all-time high. He was hot. It made his blood boil. He needed to get a few letters sent off immediately, before STRAC-BOM arrived, in order to cool down. If nothing else, Avery was persistent, kind of like a bad rash. He wanted to start his epic road trip feeling good about himself, and the best way for Avery to feel better about himself was to annoy someone else. He figured he’d be up all night anyway. So he typed away.






To: Subscription Department

Wicked Gamer Illustrated




Dear Whoever,




I’m writing you today to kindly ask you to politely, comfortably, and conveniently bend over and stick your head up your ass. I’ve been a loyal subscriber to your somewhat entertaining, mildly informative, but mostly advertising-ridden rag for over twenty years. I was probably your first customer. I remember when I used to have to walk thirteen blocks to a rundown smoke shop to buy your periodical before you actually started mailing it out. I remember when your crappy magazine came with rusty staples and warped pages. I remember when it came with full-color advertisements for dehydrated Sea Monkeys on the back pages. Trust me, I’ve ordered them. Horrible pets. No sense of obedience. Taste horrible. Anyway, I’VE PAID MY SUBSCRIPTION! But, given your recent correspondence, you apparently don’t know that. Why do you insist on bombarding my mailbox with countless renewal letters marked URGENT — THIS IS YOUR LAST ISSUE? Really? Seriously? At the bottom of your last letter, or, more precisely, your latest threat, it clearly states that my subscription runs until February of next year. Why would I renew now? Are you financially insolvent? If so, what’s the point? If you go bankrupt, will my subscription be transferred to another magazine? Newsweek, maybe? Good God, I hope not. Their coverage of first-person shooters (FPS) and role-playing games (RPG) is pathetic. And no, I don’t want to buy a gift subscription! Who am I going to give it to? Some anonymous kid in Tokyo with a pithy Internet handle who shot me in the back of the head after a marathon twelve-hour online session? The little jackass! And another thing that pisses me off, why the hell does the issue that shows up in my mailbox in August state very clearly on the front of the magazine that it’s your October issue? Naturally, I assume as the writers of a video game magazine you smoke a lot of pot, but it’s supposed to slow you down, not speed you up. At least, that’s what I’m told. I eagerly await your next edition.

    

Sincerely,



    

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton












P.S. — Please bring back the Sea Monkeys.




• • •


In the desert, a pack moved. But it didn’t move in unison. Some animals strayed behind, yipping and dancing in the moonlight. Some fanned out to the side, sniffing the night air. But always, no matter where they were, they all paid attention to the large beast at the front of the pack. He was hungry. His stride was long and purposeful. He owned the pack. One look from him, and the others would cower and then obediently follow.

The big animal paused in the dry sand. He raised his muzzle and smelled the air. Others behind him began to stir and whine. One growl from him, and they stopped. He looked back at his pack. He was the alpha. They wouldn’t move if he didn’t want them to. The big animal loped off into the distant moonlight. He covered the ground effortlessly with his long stride. When he disappeared from view, the rest of the pack paced back and forth anxiously.

Soon he returned. In his jaws was the carcass of an animal. Domesticated. It was weak and nearly dead, but not totally dead. It would serve the pack well. The big animal stood guard as his pack ate. The goat died quickly. His pack was sated. As the clouds parted and the moon peeked through, he howled.

• • •


“A goddamn school bus!” the General screamed as he pounded the steering wheel of the bus cruising along the road toward Austin. “Yellow? Are you completely insane, Fire Team Leader Charlie? What were you thinking?”

“It’s big.” The Fire Team Leader ducked his head.

“It’s cowardly yellow!”

“It fits all the men. It was all we could find.”

“It stands out like an oil derrick on a putting green!”

“It’s asymmetrical counter-camouflage, sir,” Fire Team Leader Charlie replied. “It kind of mingles in, you know? General, have you ever seen a school bus get a parking ticket?” The Team Leader winked at Private Zulu.

“Are you trying to make a point?” the General asked.

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Then what is it?’

“No one will notice us.”

“Unless they notice we’re not kids,” Fire Team Leader Bravo chimed in.

“Yeah, we should get some kids!” Private Foxtrot added enthusiastically. The bus went silent.

“Idiot,” the General mumbled. “How far are we from Austin?”

“About thirty miles, General,” replied Fire Team Leader Alpha.

“General,” Private Tango said. “I need to eat something.”

“Break open some rations.”

“We didn’t bring any.” The shy private ducked his head.

“What? No rations! We’re going on an invasion. No rations…what the…why we’ll never…goddammit!” The General slammed down on the brakes. The long bus snaked back and forth on the highway before pulling over to the side of the road. “You jackasses!” he screamed as his pudgy face turned even redder than normal. “No rations?”

“We’re broke,” Fire Team Leader Alpha said as he picked his nose.

“Bust ass,” Private Foxtrot added.

“We’re so broke, the bank asked for their calendar back,” Private Zulu chimed in, picking his nose as well.

“If we even had paper plates, we’d have to wash them,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said.

“We’re not broke, men,” the General said, encouraging his men, “just severely bent. But not for long, mind you. Paying customers live just that way.” The General pointed down the road toward Austin. “And all the lost gold of Mexico!”

“Lost gold?” Private Foxtrot asked.

“Of course.”

“Who lost it?” Fire Team Leader Bravo inquired.

“Probably some Mexicans.” The General put the bus back in gear and prepared to pull back on the road. “They tend to misplace things — identification documents, peace treaties, precious metals. Private Tango, reach inside my rucksack and grab that book.”

“This one, sir?” Private Tango held up a dog-eared copy of The Complete Moron’s Guide to Lost Gold of the Americas.

“Exactly. It’s got a whole chapter on Mexico. Whatever we find, we keep. Now settle down, men — we’ll be in Austin in no time.” The General pulled back onto the road, narrowly missing a passing semi with its air horn blaring.

• • •







To: International Astronomical Union

Paris, France




Dear Complaint Department:




Something has annoyed me for quite some time, and I need to get it off my chest. Why in the hell did your organization downgrade Pluto from a planet to a dwarf planet? Dwarf planet? Seriously? I’m very pissed off, and, as the owner of my own astronomical object, which I’m sure you’re aware of, I know a lot about this stuff. I’ve reread your new definition for planets in our solar system several times. Pluto does orbit the sun! Pluto does have significant mass to achieve a round shape! The only thing that could possibly disqualify the poor rocky ice ball is that it doesn’t dominate the neighborhood around its orbit. I understand that its largest moon, Charon, is basically half the size of Pluto, but come on. It seems to me that you’re simply discriminating against a planet because one of its moons has a fat ass. That’s just cruel. There’s no room in science for bullies. Carl Sagan would be ashamed of you. And what does dominating its orbit have to do with anything, anyway? Rhode Island doesn’t dominate its surrounding area. We don’t just rename it Eastern Connecticut or classify it as a dwarf state, do we? Come to think of it, Connecticut doesn’t exactly dominate its neighborhood, either. New York could kick the crap out of both Rhode Island and Connecticut with Long Island tied behind its back. Plus, I spent an inordinate amount of time in grade school memorizing the order of the planets. What a waste of time now. You’ve even ruined my superbly fabulous planetary mnemonic for reciting their sequence. My Vicious Evil Monster Jumped Sally Underneath the Neighbors’ Porch. Get it? Mercury, Venus, Earth, etc. Without Pluto, it just doesn’t make sense anymore. Neighbors’ what? It could be anything. It’s so frustrating. I just don’t know why you did this to Pluto. Is this some kind of anti-American thing? Clyde Tombaugh, who discovered Pluto in 1930, was an American. In fact, he was the only American to ever discover a planet in our solar system. Now we’ve got no one on the scoreboard. I’ve noticed the International Astronomical Union is headquartered in Paris, France. Is this a jealousy thing? Does this have anything to do with the recent lack of success of French cyclists in the Tour de France, not to mention the whole Lance Armstrong thing? There’s no room in science for bigotry. Speaking of which: What the hell is up with the label dwarf planet, anyway? Shouldn’t it be “little person” planet? I’m sure you’ve had plenty of complaints from the vertically challenged over that one. Get with the program, you cheese-eating French xenophobes. And why you decided to pick on Pluto in the first place is beyond me. Pluto, or Hades, as he is known in some circles, is the ruler of the underworld. Not someone to take lightly, and definitely not someone to piss off. Just keep this in mind: Pluto resembles a large asteroid composed of rock and ice. What happens when asteroids get ticked off? They smash into things! I have enough on my plate already. I don’t have time for the President to summon me to the White House in order to meet with his advisors and mastermind a brilliant last-minute strategy to save the earth from a rogue dwarf planet — sorry, I meant a rogue “little person” planet — hell bent on crashing into the Earth and unleashing a new ice age just because you don’t think it deserves to be considered a planet anymore!

    

Sincerely,



    

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton



    

Sovereign owner and Supreme Ruler of Averius Maximus — Right Ascension 14 hours, 45 minutes, and 8.42 seconds and Declination 41 degrees, 11 minutes, and 32.22 seconds.






• • •


Outside, the sun baked Austin. From a distance, the big white house with the prominent columns in front shimmered in the heat. Inside, Maximilian licked himself. He was a French bulldog, so it was all right. They tend to do that. A lot. Max, the sturdy alabaster dog, snuffled along the baseboards, looking for snacks. He didn’t find anything worth eating. Maybe a few things for chewing, but he wasn’t interested in chewing. It was too hot. Eating, maybe. Chewing, too hot. Outside, a noise caught his attention. He leapt up toward the low windowsill and slammed his front paws on the glass with a bang. His flat face pressed against the picture window, leaving a fresh smudge of drool on top of the other smudges of drool that lived on top of the other smudges of drool that defined his window. It was definitely Max’s window, and everyone knew it. The smudges were just his way of signing his work. It was an artist thing.

Outside, a long vehicle pulled up to the curb. What’s that? Max’s stubby tail pricked up, and a low growl reverberated deep from within his stocky chest. Bennett, his elderly master and Avery’s stepfather, although only Max acknowledged his authority, called him into the kitchen. Max obeyed and gave Bennett a curious look with his blocky head cocked to one side, and then immediately ran back to the window and began to bark hysterically.

“What the hell is that damn dog doing now?” Bennett asked his son Kip and sister-in-law Polly, both eating a lunch of pimento cheese sandwiches and Polly’s homemade pickles at the table. The sandwiches were excellent, but Polly’s pickles were rank. Her recipe, handed down from her mother’s mother, landed somewhere in between sickeningly sweet, half-sour, mildly dilled, and completely fermented. They tasted awful, but they packed an alcoholic punch. More than two, and driving was not recommended. Kip tried to inconspicuously hide his pickle in his napkin. Bennett, a retired doctor, rose from the table and headed toward the front door, only to nearly be run over by Avery as he pounded down the main staircase, stumbling most of the way.

“Got it,” Avery yelled as he leapt the last two steps to avoid tripping. “As you were.” He brushed past his stepfather.

“Jesus,” Bennett said as he grabbed the banister for support. “Boy, you’re as useful as a trapdoor on a canoe.” Avery pulled open the front door just as the motley and extremely sleepy members of STRAC-BOM reached the porch. The General, in his tanker uniform, led the way.

“Avery Bartholomew Pendleton, I presume,” the General said as he saluted.

“Never heard of him,” Avery said as he returned a half-hearted salute. “Refer to me as Agent 00Zero.”

“Private Zulu has informed me of your real identity.”

“Never mind, then. Inside, quickly!” Avery frantically waved the camouflage fatigue–wearing men into the house. “The black helicopter traffic has been infrequent lately, but we can’t take any chances.” Max eyed the seven strangers with suspicion as they entered. “Don’t worry, though — I’ve swept the interior for bugs and surveillance devices. Can’t be too careful with the current administration in Washington.”

“Well put,” the General replied.

“Avery,” Bennett asked as he filled his pipe with tobacco, “what the hell is going on?”

“These are my associates. We’ll be embarking on an important scientific journey shortly. Kindly refrain from opening my mail or entering my office while we’re gone. It’ll be booby-trapped.”

“You’re leaving. Why didn’t you say? I’ll help you pack.”

“Good day, sir,” the General said as he extended his hand to Bennett. “How are you this fine morning?”

“Well, the Baptists and the Johnson grass are taking over.” Bennett shook the General’s pudgy hand. “Other than that, I’m pretty fair, I suppose. You are?”

 “I’m General X-Ray, the commanding officer of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia. I’m sure you’ve heard of our courageous exploits protecting America from invasion. My men and I will be escorting Avery on a top-secret mission to Mexico. Have no fear for his safety — my men are highly trained professionals.”

Bennett surveyed the troops. “What are you hopping around for?” he asked Private Foxtrot.

“Sir, got to pee, sir.”

“Down the hall.” Bennett pointed as Private Foxtrot scurried toward the bathroom, closely followed by Fire Team Leaders Alpha and Charlie. “Can I get you or your men anything?”

“I’m so hungry I could eat the butt off a low-flying duck,” Private Tango said.

“Polly, can you wrangle these boys up some sandwiches?”

“Why, I’d be delighted,” the flame-orange-haired Polly replied. “You just give me two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” The portly Aunt Polly wobbled into the kitchen on her rickety high heels, followed quickly by the sound of a plate shattering. “Crabapples! Pardon my French, gentlemen,” she called out.

“Second one today.” Bennett rubbed his head before lighting his pipe. “General, you and your men make yourselves at home.”

“Let me collect my things, and we’ll be off,” Avery said as he pounded back up the stairs toward his room, turned office, turned laboratory, turned junk bin.

“Lovely residence,” the General said as he paced around the first floor of the house. Noticing an oil painting of Stephen F. Austin hanging on the wall, he snapped to attention and saluted. Max sniffed the General’s leg before lifting his own and marking him with a quick squirt. “What the…”

“Max!” Bennett yelled before grabbing the dog by the scruff of his neck and shuffling him into the kitchen. Bennett returned with a roll of paper towels. The General patted his leggings dry. A few minutes later, the entire group crowded into the kitchen. Polly scampered to place food on the table for the group. Her rear end looked like two bobcats fighting in a flour sack as she bounced around the kitchen. The men of STRAC-BOM inhaled Polly’s sandwiches. Max made a killing off scraps that fell to the floor. Most of the militia avoided the pickles, the exception being Private Zulu, who polished off three before his head began to spin.

“These are great!” the private exclaimed before hiccupping.

“You might want to take it easy on those,” Kip whispered to the visibly swaying private, who had started on another one. “And for God’s sake, don’t blow on an open flame.”

A few minutes later, Avery and the militia ambled toward the school bus with Avery’s gear. Private Tango helped Private Zulu, who was weaving back and forth while singing a Willy Nelson song that he clearly didn’t know the lyrics to.

“Boy couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.” The General crumpled up a parking ticket stuck under the buses’ windshield wiper. “We’re not anywhere near that goldang fire hydrant.” He tossed the ticket into the gutter. “Mount up, boys — we ride!”

“We’re missing a man,” Avery said. “Need to pick him up on the way.”

“Easy enough.” The General fired up the bus. Bennett, Kip, and Polly watched the men from the front porch as they piled into the long vehicle.

“What a strange group of men,” Polly said. Bennett draped his long arm over Polly’s shoulders.

“I’ve been to two World Fairs and a Mexican donkey show, and I’ve never seen anything like it,” Bennett said.

“Do you think we’ll ever see Avery again?” Polly asked as she clung to Bennett’s arm.

“If you can guarantee it, I’ll give you fifty bucks,” deadpanned Bennett. Kip laughed. Polly slapped Bennett’s hand. Max belched and then licked himself.

• • •


It was dark, and a dog was barking down the block. But for “The Ferryman,” it always was like that. El Barquero cut the power to the house and went to work on the alarm system. It didn’t take him long. He’d done it before, many times before. The back door was deadbolted. He went to a window instead. Using one of his curved knives, he pried it open and slipped through. Inside, he surveyed the room. Modest and unpretentious, it was nothing special. That was like Cesar. Barquero had known him for years. Years ago, Cesar Beltrán had been under his command in the Mexican Army’s elite Special Forces Airmobile Group. Colonel Beltrán now led Barquero’s old unit. Barquero started up the stairs. He was quiet, silent as he mounted the steps.

“Freeze. Or I’ll shoot,” a confident voice called from the top of the landing.

“It’s me,” Barquero whispered.

“Who?”

“Your friend.”

“How do I know? Who are you?”

“Look,” Barquero said as he dropped his scythe. “It’s me. Cesar, you remember me, don’t you?”

“My God. What happened to you?” Cesar asked as he lowered his pistol and came down the dark stairway.

“I need your help.”

“My help?”

“Help. Cesar, I need your help.” The big man went to his knees and picked up his curved knife.

“Okay,” Cesar said as he walked cautiously past the man and toward the bar, turning on the lights on the way. “But keep quiet. Maria and the kids are asleep.” Cesar still held his pistol. He set it down and poured two glasses of mescal. “Drink, my friend.”

“To our friends, especially the ones not with us anymore.” Barquero downed the glass of warm liquid. Cesar joined him.

“You’re a goddamn ghost, back from the grave.”

“Ghost? No, but from the grave, yes.”

“What happened? The army looked for you. I looked for you!” Cesar’s voice rose.

“Quiet,” Barquero implored.

“You’re right.” Cesar looked at the staircase. “Now, what happened to you?”

“I got lost.”

“Bullshit!” Cesar yelled, and then lowered his voice. “Dogs get lost. You abandoned us. You abandoned your duty.”

“I know,” Barquero replied. His eyes were full of rage and sorrow at the same time. “I had to…”

“Had to what?”

“Leave…I had to leave.” Barquero sat down on the couch. He pulled out a silenced pistol from his jacket and placed it on an end table. “It was Rosalina. She was…”

“I know.”

“She was killed.” Barquero closed his eyes. “And the baby, too.”

“Goddammit, I know.” Cesar sat down on the couch next to his friend.  He placed the bottle on the wooden coffee table. “We went to the funeral. We all did. All your men went. Why weren’t you there?”

“I don’t know,” Barquero said as he picked up his gun and lowered the hammer. “I went out to…went out to find out who did it.”

“We could have helped.”

“The army? The police? That’s bullshit, Cesar. You know that.”

“Did you find them?”

“No!”

“Quiet, please,” Cesar said as he put his finger to his mouth. “Don’t wake Maria.” Cesar scowled, then smiled. “Okay, wake Maria — she always loved you, but Jesus, not the kids.” The two men smiled, then drank. “We had orders to find you. I still have orders to find you. There are consequences for deserters.” Cesar set his glass down. “You don’t just leave the army.”

“You can if the money is right.” Barquero set his glass down also. Cesar refilled them both.

“So you left for the money?”

“I didn’t know what to do. Rosalina…”

“You’re a criminal now.”

“I’m worse than a criminal.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve done some bad things. Bad things…worked for some bad people.”

“So what the hell do you want me to do for you? Feel sorry for you? You quit. You left. You knew what we were facing. The same damn thing we’re facing now. We’re outgunned, outmanned, and out-financed, but you quit…and for the money?” Cesar downed his drink.

“I left because of Rosalina and the baby.”

“Sure, I know, but my men…your men…they’re getting killed, and for what? I’m sorry, but you’re not the only one who lost someone. We’re fighting a battle we can’t win. Too much money, too many cartels…but you just quit. So I ask you again, should I feel sorry for you?”

“No, Cesar.”

“Then what do you want? You want me to arrest you? I should. It’s my duty. You’re a wanted man. Coming here, you’re placing my family in jeopardy. I could be arrested for harboring a fugitive from the military.”

“I’ll leave.” Barquero picked up his pistol.

“No!” Cesar said as he stood and grabbed Barquero by the throat. Barquero reached up, twisted his hand, and spun Cesar around and threw him down to the floor. He looked toward the stairs and listened to see if anyone was awakened. Nothing.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Cesar,” Barquero whispered. “I only want some information.”

“About what?” Cesar grimaced with his face pinned to the floor. Barquero let him go and pulled him to his feet.

“The Padre. I need to know about the Padre.”

“What do you want to know? That he’s untouchable? That he’s paying off everyone from the janitors to the politicians?” Cesar looked at him.  “Trust me — the army has been after him for years. I got close once. I lost almost all of my men. The Padre? What do you want with him?”

“I know him, and I have a debt to settle before he settles it with me first. What I want to know is where he is. Where he’s moving and what he’s moving. Save your men, Cesar. I can get him. I’ll get him for you. I just need to know where to look. Please tell me.” Barquero looked his old friend in the eyes. “I’ll make this right.”

“After all these years thinking you were dead, you show up, and now you want me to send you off to make sure it happens? He’ll kill you. No one man can stop him. The military, the police, the Americans, no one can touch him, he owns everyone. Not to mention, he doesn’t just kill people — he kills everyone they know.”

“I know that.”

“Did you know El Carnicero?”

“I knew of him. They caught him.”

“He’s out.”

“Out? How?”

“Prison riot, staged by the cartels. Someone smuggled him out. The government won’t say, but the word is that the Padre bought his way out. The press wasn’t even allowed to mention his escape. It might look bad for the government.” Cesar poured again, and the men drank. After a long, silent pause, Cesar spoke. “You can help me get him?”

“Yes. Just get me close to him.”




CHAPTER TEN

Evel Knievel Never Jumped the Rio Grande


The white lines of the Texas highway zipped by as the school bus raced down the road. It was hot and the air conditioning wasn’t working, so the men opened all the windows. At least, they were open halfway. School bus windows sucked like that. They only did half the job half the time, and that really didn’t help when it was hotter than fish grease outside.

Ziggy sang a Steppenwolf song at the top of his lungs as he danced, or rather twirled, in the stairwell of the school bus barreling down the road with a dry, dusty wind whipping through the vehicle.

“Does he always do that?” the General, who was behind the wheel, leaned over and asked Avery.

“Do what?”

“Act the fool?”

“Pretty much.” Avery drank a Mountain Dew from a straw.  Ziggy threw his hands in the air as he sang.  Several the men of STRAC-BOM joined him.

“Jesus H,” the General said as he put on his mirrored sunglasses and chomped on his Juicy Fruit. “He’s infecting the brigade. It’s bad for morale.”

“They look fine to me,” Avery said as he looked at the singing men in the back of the bus. Private Tango was playing air guitar. “They seem engaged, although one of them is picking his nose. Will he eat it?”

“Private Foxtrot!” the General roared without even having to look back. The private wiped his finger on his fatigues.

“Damn,” Avery said, disappointed.

“Does he at least know any country music?” the General asked, looking at Ziggy, who seemed oblivious to everyone.

“Which country?” Avery replied.

“Our country.”

“The one we’re currently in?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Shit.”

“No shit.”

“I was afraid of that.” The General checked his map, which was sitting on the dashboard. Ziggy spun around again in the stairwell. In back, Private Zulu bobbed his head while Fire Team Leader Bravo pumped his fist. Private Foxtrot tried in vain to get a flame from his cigarette lighter. He wanted to hold it up and wave it back and forth. It wasn’t happening, just some weak sparks.

“Come on, man!” the private exclaimed as he flicked his defective red, white, and blue–decorated lighter.

“How much longer to the border, General?” Avery asked.

“Couple more hours. Depends on where we decide to invade.”

“I was hoping you’d planned that out already.”

“I’m working on it,” the General said as he wiped the sweat off his forehead.

“You don’t have a plan?”

“It’s in progress.”

“How’s that progressing?”

“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”

“I’m paying for this, General. I’m pretty sure I need to know.”

“Know how much?”

“All of it.”

“Well, to be completely honest, I was thinking that we could…”

The men on the bus suddenly stood up and erupted in cheers as Ziggy pretended to smash an imaginary guitar on the floor of the bus.

• • •


In theory, cutting a man’s head off with a hacksaw is easy. In reality, it’s much more difficult and significantly messier than it sounds, much more, even for Carnicero, and he had lots of practice. When he was finished, even the toughest of his men were uncomfortable. They shuffled back and forth and bowed their heads as Carnicero tossed the bloody saw to the side.

“One less informant,” he said as he wiped the blood from his face. “Who recruited him?” No one answered. “Who?” All of the men stepped to the side of the room except one.

“He was my cousin,” the man said proudly.

“You brought him in?”

“Yes.”

“So should I kill you, too?”

“No, Carnicero. No, please.”

“Why not?”

“He was my cousin, a real tough guy. I thought we could trust him. I didn’t know anything about what he was doing. I swear. I swear on my children.”

“But you see, that’s the problem. You should have known. He was your family. We’re a family. In families, there are no secrets.”

“I didn’t know.” The man dropped to his knees. “I swear to God, I didn’t know he was talking to the police. I swear to God, Carnicero.”

“I know you didn’t,” the longhaired man said as he turned and walked away. “But you should have.” A cartel soldier from the back of the room stepped forward and shot the man in the back of the head.

• • •


“Air conditioning!” The General pounded on the dashboard. “I need some damn air conditioning. Private Zulu, what did you do to my damn refrigerated air?”

“Nothing. I don’t think.”

“It’s hotter than a stolen tamale in here. I want my frozen air!” The General pulled over to the side of the road. “Fix it.”

“Do what?”

“Now! You must have broken it when you requisitioned it.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Private Zulu replied as he climbed over Ziggy, who was curled up in the stairwell. Zulu went to the front of the bus. A passing semi blared its horn as it roared by. “Pop the hood, General!” The private looked around inside. He didn’t have a clue. The engine was so high he could barely see inside. Climbing up on the fender, he pulled at some stuff, poked some things, banged on this and that, and finally decided to switch some wires around. Diversion. That was what the General had always preached when in a jam, and Private Zulu was in one now. He could definitely hotwire a bus, but he damn sure couldn’t fix the air conditioning on one. He definitely needed more diversion. “General, do we have any Freon?”

“Hell, no.” The General stuck his head out the window as another semi blew past and let its horn go. Gravel sprayed the private.

“Okay. Give me a minute.” He stared into the engine. “Do we have a hammer?”

“Yep,” the General replied out the window. “Fire Team Leader Alpha, bring him our smashing iron.”

“You know what you’re doing?” Fire Team Leader Alpha asked as he handed Private Zulu the hammer.

“Totally.”

“Totally what?”

“I totally have no idea what I’m doing. Do you?” Private Zulu asked.

“No.”

“Should we tell the General?”

“Are you crazy? Just hit something.”

“Okay.” Private Zulu whacked away at the engine with his hammer for a few minutes. “Try it now, General.”

“It’s working!” the General cried out. “Cool air.” Private Zulu and Fire Team Leader Alpha looked at each other incredulously.

“Good work,” Fire Team Leader Alpha said.

“It’s all in the wrist.”

Both men climbed back inside. Private Zulu bowed to the applauding men onboard.

“We’re off!” The General put the bus in gear. If a buses’ engine could scream in bloodcurdling agony, that was the sound it made. It shuddered and lurched side to side. It misfired loudly. It misfired again. The bus managed to make it about a mile down the road before the General pulled over again, the vehicle shaking and sputtering all the way. However, the air conditioning worked beautifully, and that was good. Mechanically, everything else about the bus was awful. Private Zulu and Fire Team Leader Alpha went to work on it again. They pushed and pulled anything they could find. When that proved fruitless, they went back to work with the hammer. The sun was setting.

“General.” Private Zulu stuck his head inside the bus. “It’s too dark to see anything, and we’re pretty beat. Maybe we just ought to spend the night here and see if we can get a mechanic in the morning.”

“No mechanics. Get a flashlight and keep working on it, Private.” Zulu and the Fire Team Leader alternated holding the light and taking things apart and putting them back together. Unfortunately, for every part of the engine they disassembled and put back together, they ended up with an extra piece or two that didn’t fit.

“Got a spare screw and another washer here,” Zulu said.

“Put ’em with the rest,” the Team Fire Leader said as he yawned. Zulu tossed them in the pile.

 “This is freaking impossible,” complained Private Zulu. “I’m so confused I don’t know whether to scratch my watch or wind my butt.”

“I think everyone on the bus is asleep. Maybe we should grab some shut-eye. I’ve got a bad feeling that this is going to be a long mission.”

“Sounds good to me. Probably best to sack out under the bus. Don’t want to wake the General,” Private Zulu said.

“Firm thinking, Private.” The two men slithered under the vehicle and tried to get as much rest as possible. Not really an easy task on the shoulder of a highway. Flying gravel, blaring horns, and the occasionally marauding scorpion made uninterrupted sleep next to impossible. In the morning, they were awoken by the sound of a tow truck pulling up behind the bus. Fire Team Leader Alpha rubbed his eyes, flicked a scorpion off his chest, and crawled out from under the vehicle. A man wearing a mechanic’s shirt was approaching.

“Having some trouble, mister?”

“Yeah, she’s misfiring like a blind sniper,” the Fire Team Leader replied.

“I’ve got a shop a few miles down the road. Want me to take a look?”

“Be much obliged if you would.”

The mechanic peered into the engine compartment. “Well, here’s your problem,” he said immediately. “Try her now.”

Private Zulu climbed inside and stirred the General, who was less than happy at being woken in the middle of a dream in which he was commanding three full brigades of horse soldiers pitted in battle against a tiny band of elderly Navajo women and small children. The Navajo had his men completely surrounded and were winning the day, but the General was sure it was only temporary. The General bitched a little, but then started up the bus. It ran smoothly, but the air conditioning didn’t work anymore. Fire Team Leader Alpha thanked the generous mechanic and climbed on board, and the men hit the road again.

An hour later, Avery woke up and wiped the drool from his face.

“Morning,” General X-Ray said, looking back at Avery. “It’s a great day for an invasion, son. Clear skies and not a chance of rain.”

“Marvelous,” Avery groggily replied. “When do we eat?”

“Not until we’ve invaded. We’ll requisition from the enemy.”

“I’m starving.” Avery cracked open a Mountain Dew and drained it. “Pull over.”

“Not a good idea.” The General doubled-checked his mirrors. “We’re on a mission.”

“Take that exit.” Avery pointed.

“I’m busy driving.”

“The exit!” The bus swerved toward the off-ramp.

“Don’t yell at me in front of the men!” the General screamed, his face turning a bruised plum color.  Avery looked back at the men of STRAC-BOM. They were all asleep.

“May I ask you a question?”

“About what?” The General readjusted his mirrors as he navigated down the exit ramp.

“How did you get this job?”

“Protecting America? I was born with the job of protecting America from invasion.”

“No kidding. Me, too — I’ve been trying to convince people that…wait, pull over there. See that place?”

“The hotel?”

“Exactly. Pull in. It’s time for breakfast.”

“Then you’re paying.”

“Nobody is paying.”

“What are you talking about?”

“General,” Avery said as he looked at his driver seriously. “This is my kind of mission. I know what I’m doing. Get your men up.”

“Like, I’m up!” Ziggy said as he crawled out of the bus stairwell. “Are we there yet?”

“Shut up,” Avery and the General said in unison.

“Bummer, angry dudes.” Ziggy curled up on the top step.

“Where the hell did you find this hippy, anyway?” the General asked.

“Have you ever been to Austin?”

“No, but question answered.” The General cupped his hand over his mouth. “Can we drop him off somewhere?”

“No, he’s strangely useful to me. Kind of like a slinky. He doesn’t really bring much value to the universe, but it still makes me laugh when I push him down a flight of stairs. Pull in there.” Avery pointed.

“Okay.”

“Get the men up.”

“Why? The border is less than forty minutes away.”

“I’m hungry, and we’re going to eat.”

“Whatever you say.” The bus pulled into the parking lot of an extended-stay business hotel.

“General, what time do you have?”

“Nine hundred hours.”

“Perfect. The business-class rush hour is over, and the selection should still be good. Follow me. Act natural. If anyone approaches us, I’ll do the talking.”

“All right, men. Fall in!” The members of STRAC-BOM wiped the sleep from their eyes and followed Avery across the parking lot. Ziggy brought up the rear. He danced along as he hummed a Grateful Dead song to himself. At the door to the hotel, Avery turned and addressed the men.

“Follow me closely, and try to act inconspicuous. Don’t make eye contact with any hotel staff. If harassed by an employee, take hostages.” Avery turned and entered the hotel. The rest of the men followed and attempted to avoid attention, but when a group of nine grown men, six wearing camouflage fatigues, one in a vintage WWII tanker’s uniform, one in a yellow tracksuit, and one wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and baggy shorts, try to sneak across a busy hotel lobby, it’s pretty conspicuous. Avery led the procession of men around the perimeter of the lobby, using large potted plants for cover when possible. “In there.” Avery pointed. The men hustled into the breakfast lobby of the hotel and launched themselves at the buffet. Eggs, cereal, pastries — the group cleaned them out. Avery noticed they were missing someone. He went and peeked into the lobby. Ziggy was at the front desk, filling out a reward program application with the manager. Avery whistled and waved Ziggy over to him. Ziggy shook the manager’s hand and joined the group.

“Like, forty nights, man, and I’m like, Platinum.” Ziggy smiled as Avery dragged him toward the buffet. Avery stacked his plate with everything he could find. Ziggy just grabbed a banana. Joining the other men at a table, Avery began to stuff his face indiscriminately with food.

“Hurry up,” Avery implored through open mouthfuls. “We’ve only got a few minutes before someone gets suspicious.” The group gorged themselves. Avery stuffed spare jelly doughnuts into his tracksuit as the hotel manager approached their table.

“Excuse me,” the manager said with a frown. “The breakfast buffet is only for hotel guests.”

“We are guests.” Avery choked down a box of dry cereal.

“May I see your room key?”

“Don’t have one yet.” Avery shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth, a good portion of them sticking in his unruly beard. “Our check-in was delayed.”

“Delayed?”

“Yes, we’re with the Donner party. Here for the wedding.”

“Wedding? We don’t have any weddings on the books for at least a week.”

“That’s unfortunate, Mr. Smith,” Avery said as he glanced at the hotel manager’s name badge. “If that is your real name. The bride is going to be very disappointed. She’s coming all the way from Russia. Never upset a Russian bride. She’ll cut out your liver and feed it to you wrapped in her garter belt. It’s an old tradition, but one definitely not to be trifled with. By the way, do you have an omelet station?”

“No! And leave now, or I’m calling the authorities.”

“Are you in anyway related to the El Paso Smiths?”

“No. Now all of you, out!”

“Good, they’re serial killers, but wonderful cooks. By the way, who’s in first place in the American League East?”

“That’s it — I’m calling security and the police.”

“Every man for himself!” Avery cried as he barreled toward the front door, grabbing a complimentary newspaper on the way. The rest of the men scrambled behind him, the General bringing up the rear as he grabbed some extra bacon from the buffet. Just outside the front entrance, Avery pulled a smoke bomb from his fanny pack and lit it. Stinky purple smoke erupted from the small, round pyrotechnic. He threw it inside and ran toward the parked bus. Avery collapsed into a seat on the bus, completely out of breath. He pulled a doughnut from his tracksuit and shoved it into his mouth as the rest of the men piled into their long, yellow getaway vehicle. The General climbed aboard last, tearing up a parking ticket for leaving the bus in a fire zone.

“Well-executed operation, Mr. Pendleton,” the General said as he pulled back onto the highway access road. “I like your style.”

“It’s a gift,” Avery replied as he looked for the baseball standings. “Where’s the lizard?”

“The what?”

“Ziggy?”

“Never leave a man behind!” General X-Ray cried as he pulled the bus into a sharp U-turn and headed back to the hotel. They found Ziggy playing hacky sack in the middle of the parking lot and eating a banana. Fire alarms inside the hotel were blaring. Businessmen and -women were stumbling out of the front doors. The sounds of sirens were building from down the street.

“Like, thanks, dudes.” Ziggy stepped into the bus and sat in his preferred spot in the stairwell, tucking his knees under his chin. “Like, where are we going, anyway?”

• • •


Loud dance music pulsed away in the club. The sun was long up, and the rest of the drunken customers were all gone, but the girls kept dancing for El Carnicero, and he definitely kept watching them. Empty champagne bottles littered the table in front of his couch. The room was dark, but lights from the stage bounced off the mirrored walls and disco ball overhead. A woman wearing almost nothing approached him.

“Why so sad?” She sat down beside him.

“Busy.”

“With what?” She rubbed his chest.

“Get off me.” He pushed her hand away.

“You can tell me,” she purred.

“Guns. Moving guns for the Padre.” He drained the last of his champagne glass and pushed her off. She leaned back over and unzipped his pants.

• • •


“By my estimation,” the General said, “the drought has lowered the level of the Rio Grande to a point where we can use it to our advantage.” The dust-covered school bus bounced down a rutted road, bucking and weaving as it swerved back and forth to avoid rocks and potholes. “They won’t be expecting us out here.”

“Like, where is here, man?” Ziggy asked as he ate the rest of his banana.

“The middle of nowhere.” The General checked his mirrors. “The border fence doesn’t run all the way out here. All that separates us from Mexico is that damned river.”

“Like, I’m not a strong swimmer, dude,” Ziggy whispered, looking up from the stairwell with fear on his face.

“Not to worry, you yellow-bellied commie hippy freak, this brigade is mobile and hostile. Won’t even have to get our feet wet. This military vehicle is dang near amphibious.”

“Sir, General, sir,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said. “I wouldn’t push the old girl so hard. It wasn’t made for this sort of stuff.”

“Poppycock.”

“Like, poppy what?” Ziggy asked the General. “That, like, sounds pornographic, man.”

“Nonsense. We’re going to be fine. We just need a flat crossing point, maybe with some sandbars. Speed is our advantage. Although I wouldn’t mind finding a spot we could jump it from.” The General scratched his flabby chin and jerked the wheel over hard with one hand to avoid a terrified jackrabbit in the dirt road. “Always wanted to invade Mexico by air.”

Fire Team Leader Bravo spoke up from the back. “Sir, may I suggest we just use the crossing at Eagle Pass?”

“You may suggest it, but we ain’t.”

“Why not?”

“How many men do we have on board?”

 “Nine.”

“How many passports do we have?”

“Don’t rightly know, sir. Boys, anybody got one of them there passports?” The only hand that went up was Avery’s.

“What country of origin?” Avery asked as he shuffled through his fanny pack. “American? Portuguese? Japanese? Russian? I’m set.”

“You see, Team Leader,” the General said, “the enemy now requires paperwork to enter their country. Can you imagine that? A grown man needing a document to enter and stay in a country — it’s unbelievable. Just one more reason to invade, I suppose. Private Foxtrot! Where’s my map?”

“Sir, right here, sir,” the private said, handing over the road atlas.

“We’re off the grid. This road doesn’t show up. That’s good.” The General gave the bus some gas. “Boys, this is going to be as easy as Saipan!” Fire Team Leader Charlie looked over at Avery with concern.

“This might be bad.”

“How bad?” Avery whispered as he swallowed hard and held onto the firm, green Naugahyde seat in front of him while the bus careened down the bumpy road.

“Heavy casualties. Survivors envying the dead,” the Fire Team Leader said as he looked for a seatbelt.

“River ahead!” the General announced. “Battle stations!”

The men of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operation Militia secured themselves as best they could. Avery and Ziggy just looked on as the Rio Grande appeared in the distance. True, the years-long drought in Texas and New Mexico had lowered the water level of the mighty river significantly, but to say it was something that could be navigated by a school bus was a bit of a stretch — a stretch as long as the Rio Grande.

“You boys know the secret to off-roading?” the General asked. “Stand on the stupid pedal!” He yelled and floored the accelerator. “Suckin’ gas and haulin’ ass!”

The first part of the journey wasn’t so bad. The bus caught a little bit of air coming off the five-foot riverbank. No big deal, really. They took a few bounces across some flat rocks in the riverbed, throwing the men around a bit. A little splash of water here, a little splash of water there, nothing to be too concerned about. Then they took a comfortable slide over the top of a conveniently placed sandbar, followed by a gentle, smooth roll into the far side of the river. The first part was easy. The hard part was next. When a school bus loses momentum in a moving stream of water, everything tends to go tits-up. Buses are heavy. Heavy vehicles and water are a bad combination, kind of like small children and bayonets. At first, the bus seemed to track across the water and almost gain speed as it splashed across the top of the shallow river, but then it started to slow down. Ironically, inside the vehicle, the passengers believed that the bus was still accelerating. It’s a delayed effect. The wake from the splash helps to propel an enormous object, like a bus, forward, encouraging optimism from its inhabitants. These same inhabitants naturally think that the powerful forward thrust of the wake behind the vehicle after their terrifying fall is a good thing. Unfortunately, when fleeting moments of joy immediately follow moments of abject terror, it’s usually not a good thing. It just means that abject terror is probably taking a smoke break. And abject terror doesn’t usually smoke for long.

“Rawhide!” the General yelled as the bus entered the water, but then it slowly started to slip to the left. He didn’t care; he poured on the gas. The back wheels spun furiously but found no purchase. “Come on, you useless son of gun, go, go, go!” Nothing really happened except for the back end of the bus swinging downriver. They were now pointed backward and starting to bob downstream, and the problem with a bus bobbing downstream is that it usually doesn’t bob for very long. After few seconds, they started to sink. Water began to seep into the bus. Ziggy crawled up the stairwell as the water level rose.

“Like, dude, getting higher here, man.” Ziggy sat on the floor next to the General and pulled his knees up under his chin. “I’m not cool with the water, man. Not cool. Nope, nope, nope.”

“Broken arrow, broken arrow!” the General cried as he looked back over his shoulder and spun the steering wheel as if trying to parallel-park the bus on the far bank. “Did I ever tell you about my great-nephew’s amphibious landing at Normandy in the big war?” he asked Ziggy. “He was piloting a landing craft full of soldiers and was supposed to pull up on Omaha Beach. Unfortunately, he got a little turned around in some bad weather and made landfall due east at Gold Beach, which was occupied by the enemy at the time, and by enemy, I mean the British. He had a few thoughts about engaging them with his machine guns, but thought better of it because Roosevelt was sympathetic to the tea-sippers at the time.” The General yanked hard on the steering wheel, shifted into reverse, and stood on the gas pedal. “For the record, one of FDR’s worst all-time decisions.”

“How’d he get lost, man?” Ziggy asked as he kicked at the rising water.

“The damn current took him. It kept him from landing on Omaha Beach and a certain Medal of Honor. Our family is famous for gallantry, you know.”

“Dude, I need, like, a life vest. Like, where are the life jackets, man?”

“Use the current!” Avery yelled as he jumped from his seat and leaned over the General.

“Like, the current is using us, man. Where’s the lifeboat, dude?” Ziggy implored.

“Sharp bend in the river turning north!” Avery pointed. “Using the current is our only chance. Keep it in reverse and stay as wide as possible. The water on the inside of the bend moves faster than the water on the outside. Stay wide!”

“Whatever you say, city boy.” The General spun the wheel hard to the left and hit the gas. Every few feet the bus would bottom out in the riverbed and grab a brief moment of traction. Fire Team Leader Alpha chewed his fingernails. Private Zulu covered his eyes. Private Tango stripped off his fatigues.

“What the hell are you doing, Private?” Fire Team Leader Bravo asked the man sitting next to him in his skivvies.

“Preparing to bail out, Fire Team Leader.”

“Put your dang pants on. You want to get arrested in Mexico buck naked?”

“Are we going to get arrested?”

“No, probably just drown. On second thought, keep your pants off. It’ll be easier to bury you.”

“Hard left rudder!” Avery bellowed. “Full throttle, all back!” The General pushed the pedal to the floorboard as the wheels spun in reverse. The slower current on the southern, Mexican side of the border began to pull the back end of the bus toward the shore. The water level in the bus slowly dropped, but Ziggy continued to search for flotation devices.

“Ropes, dining fly, duct tape…like, why the hell no life preserveRs!” Ziggy screeched at the top of his lungs. The rest of the men on the bus froze. No one, not even Avery, had ever heard the normally timid man raise his voice. Suddenly, the bus stopped with a lurch. The men all looked around. Avery ran toward the back of the bus and peered outside. The back end of the bus was rammed against the sloping bank of the Mexican side of the border.

“Engines, all stop, General.” Avery opened the back door of the bus and jumped out on the bank. He fell on his side when he landed.

“You all right?” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked, leaning out the back of the vehicle.

“I did that on purpose in order to break my fall. It’s a technique they teach in the Russian Special Forces.” Avery lay on his back and held his ribs.

“Yeah, whatever…you all right?”

“No.” The men of STRAC-BOM and Ziggy all piled out of the bus while Fire Team Leader Charlie helped Avery to his feet. The militia wandered around the riverbank, pondering their good fortune. General X-Ray planted a small paper American flag in the riverbank. Ziggy climbed for higher ground.




CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Flying Burrito


El Barquero made his through the streaming crowd of people wearing brightly colored jerseys. The sun was out in this part of Coahuila, and it was hot. People were singing and chanting in the streets around the large complex. Drums and horns played loudly as the soccer fans poured into one of the newest and finest stadiums in Mexico. Police stood guard all around the arena. There had been shootings here before. Recently, one even stopped a match in mid-progress. Barquero made his way to a small stand in the concourse. He stood out of the way and waited. A few minutes later his friend Cesar appeared out of the crowd.

“Walk with me,” Cesar said, slipping back into the flow of people walking to their seats for the game’s kickoff. The two men walked toward the far end of the stadium. They both scanned the crowd as they walked. El Barquero dropped the flyer he was holding and looked back as he picked it up. “Anything?” Cesar asked.

“No.”

“Good, I have men out there. If you can’t see them, no one can.”

Barquero clinched his jaw. “Over here. Follow me,” Barquero hissed. Cesar followed him. They stood next to the wall near a restroom. Fans poured by. Cesar reached up and touched his earpiece.

“We’re good. I’ve got six of my men in the stadium. They don’t see anything.”

“What do you have for me?”

“The Padre, he’s moving a shipment of weapons tomorrow. Your guns, the ones you stole.”

“Where?”

“North of here. Hundred miles or so.”

“Who gave you the information?”

“I know a girl. A stripper. She’s really good, she’s got these fantastic…”

“How’s he moving it?”

“Uh, by truck, a large truck. It’ll be heavily armed. The Padre likes to armor-plate them and builds in firing ports for his security detail.”

“How many men?”

“At least a dozen, maybe more, probably in several vehicles with some men inside the cargo area of the main vehicle. After his cargo ship sank, the Padre’s not taking any chances. By the way, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“What about Carnicero?”

“I don’t know, but I would assume he’ll be there.”

“Prepare for the worst…”

“…and expect it.” Cesar touched his earpiece again. “Okay. We’re still clear,” he said.

“I’ll take care of this,” Barquero said as he scanned the concourse. “Have your men ready. You can take all the credit.”

“Okay, I like all the credit.”

“After I take care of this, I’m done. Can you help me disappear?”

“What?” Cesar asked incredulously. “You don’t want to come around for the holidays?”

“I’m serious,” the intimidating man said as he looked down at his friend.

“Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

• • •


Carnicero walked with one of his men outside the stadium. He smoked a cigarette and watched the late-arriving crowd through his dark sunglasses. Cheers lifted through the air as the match began. The home supporters were already singing loudly for their side. The two men watched Cesar and Barquero leave the arena and head off in different directions.

“We can take him, boss. Right now.”

“No, we can’t,” Carnicero said, running his hand through his long hair. “Not yet.”

“Should we follow him?”

“No.”

“Why not, boss? He’s right there,” the man implored.

“It’s not the right time.”

“What? With all these people around, we could be gone in an instant.”

“With all these cops around, we could be caught.”

“I don’t know, boss, it’s El Barquero right in front of us. You want him, the Padre wants him…” An enormous roar rose from the soccer stadium as the home team took an early lead.

“No, the time will come. I want some food,” Carnicero said as he turned, flicked his cigarette to the pavement, and walked away. “And a girl. Find them both for me.”

• • •


Ziggy sat on the dry, cracked bank of the river. It was an ancient river, one with a history that spoke of long-extinct prehistoric animals, indigenous natives, foreign explorers, and mad conquerors. His bare feet soaked in the river’s cool, muddy water as he tossed small rocks into it. They made splashes. Rings formed. He loved how one splash made a small ever-expanding circle, and then another rock thrown into the middle of the first circle made another wake, pushing the first one along even more. Rock upon rock, building more and more rings. More and more circles. It reminded him of the universe and its solar systems, constantly expanding and overtaking each other with wave upon wave of star systems overlapping in an ever-expanding infinity of nothingness…or ever-expanding infinity of everything. It really depended on what type of mood Ziggy was in. After surviving the river crossing, he was in a rather good mood. He was on an adventure with his best friend, Avery. Ever-expanding infinity of everything it was, then. He’d save the ever-expanding infinity of nothingness for another day. Rocks and rivers, stars and the universe, infinity and everything. He was a happy lizard.

“It’s, like, a really pretty river, man.” Ziggy tossed another rock.

“He loves nature,” Avery, from the riverbank, said to the General, “despite what it did to him.” Avery ate from a box of dry cereal as he scanned the American League box scores in the newspaper he’d stolen from the hotel. The Yankees lead continued to slip. “Who the hell is this Jeter character?” Avery wadded up the sports page. “And why the hell do they even bother playing him? Hasn’t had a hit in a week.” The General watched as the men of STRAC-BOM used a series of ropes and pulleys to haul the school bus out of the river and up the bank. Some of the men pushed branches and sticks under the rear wheels so they could find traction as the bus tried to back out of the water. All of the men complained loudly.

“Sir.” Fire Team Leader Bravo wiped his muddy hands off on his fatigues. “I’m not sure this is going to work. This bus must weigh at least ten tons.”

“Goddammit!” the General cursed. “If I tell you to lift an elephant with one hand, you’ll do it! Now, get my transportation dry, Fire Team Leader!”

“Where we going to find an elephant with one hand?” Private Tango whispered to Private Zulu. “I thought they only had feet.”

Zulu stared blankly. “That’s a really good point.”

The men stopped their complaining and went back to work.

It took some time, but after a while the bus was on high ground. Once the bus was free, the men loaded up and prepared to pull out. The only problem was the bus wouldn’t shift into first gear anymore, or any other gear, for that matter, except reverse. However, the air conditioning worked perfectly. That was a plus. Driving in reverse provided some navigational challenges, but it did give a nice view of the Rio Grande valley through the front window.

“They can’t sneak up on us this way,” the General reassured his men as he sat in the back with Avery, while Fire Team Leader Charlie took over driving.

“General,” Avery began, “I plan on chasing invasive species all around this desert. How are we going to do that with a machine that only goes the wrong direction?”

“Like, it goes the right direction, man,” Ziggy said, “but only, like, in the wrong way.”

“Back in your hole!” the General shouted. Ziggy cowered and slunk back down the aisle to his stairwell.

“Nicely done.”

“Where did you find him, again?”

“Long story. Look, General, we need to fix this vehicle. Now, my calculations suggest we’re a few miles from a small outpost, one of notorious repute, according to the Lonely Planet’s Travel Guide to Places You Don’t Ever Want to Go, but we may be able to find a certified mechanic to solve this temporary inconvenience.”

“As long as he can keep the cool air running, fine. But I want a man watching him the whole time. Can’t trust anyone down here. Might tamper with the brakes or steal the spare tire or worse.”

“What would be worse?” Avery asked as he cracked open a warm Mountain Dew.

“He could break the air conditioning.”

“Good point.”

“You mentioned invasive species. How many are we planning on apprehending?”

“One is enough.”

“Just one?”

“If it’s still alive and in good condition.”

“I see.” The General rubbed his chin. This should be easy, he thought. “Male or female?”

“A mature female of breeding age would be optimal, but alternatively, an adolescent male wouldn’t suck, either.”

“Options. Good. I like options. Allows for flexibility in the battle plan,” the General said.

The school bus bounced across the desert floor, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it, which actually was in front of it as the vehicle careened side to side in high-speed reverse. Private Tango lay splay-legged on the roof, pointed toward the rear of the bus. With binoculars in one hand, he called out signals relayed through an open window by Fire Team Leader Bravo to Fire Team Leader Charlie at the wheel. With his free hand, the private hung on for dear life even though the General had ordered him duct-taped to the top of the bus. No matter what, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Avery pulled out his laptop. He didn’t have much battery left. He needed to make this quick.






To: General Manager

New York Yankees Baseball Corporation and Empire




Dear Sir:




I’m writing you today to encourage you to kindly get off your ass and start winning more games. Recent results have been disappointing, to say the least. Tampa Bay is rapidly closing the gap, and Boston is already within striking distance. The Orioles and Blue Jays are even still in the race. Good God, man, the Canadians! Baltimore is bad enough, but please, not the Canadians! The time to take action is at hand. The suggestions listed below are in no particular order, but all must be implemented immediately. And by that, I mean now.

1) More cheating. Seriously, how hard is it to steal signs? One kid with a pair of binoculars and a two-way radio in centerfield, and you’re done. Or how about aerial drones? They seemed to work pretty well in the Middle East. Make it happen. Otherwise, I know corking bats is so 1990s, but it’s still a good one to try to slip through. I’m sure the technology has gotten much better than rubber balls. There is probably some kind of nanotechnology developed by the Koreans out there now that can help. If you’re caught, blame it on overseas manufacturers. Americans always buy that one.

2) Spend more money. Don’t tell me you don’t have enough. You’re the Yankees, and talent doesn’t come cheap. Overpay the roster. It intimidates the other teams to see your players chewing on hundred-dollar bills rather than tobacco.

3) Throw at the batter more often. I don’t mean pitch inside more often. I mean hit the batter more often. When a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball nails an opposing player, he gets the message. When he gets whacked a couple of times during a game, he’ll back away from the strike zone. Isn’t that why you have so many relievers in the bullpen, anyway? Replacements for ejected pitchers? Down and away, followed by right in the ear. That’ll keep ’em off balance. For a bit, anyway, and then you just have to “bean” them.

4) Sign fewer white guys. They suck at most things except tennis and investment banking.

5) Invert the order. The opposing team won’t be expecting it. Tell your new lead-off hitter to lean into the pitch. This gives you an excellent excuse for suggestion number three when the media asks why you’re throwing at so many people.

6) Forget breaking balls. Bring back the eephus pitch. It makes Latin players dizzy.

7) Turn off the hot water in the visitors’ locker room. Enough said…wait a minute…turn off the water and hide a live cougar in the locker room (and by “cougar” I mean a mountain lion, not one of your player’s groupies). Better yet, don’t feed the big cat for a week or two. A mature, hungry puma can greatly reduce your opponent’s On-Base Plus Slugging Percentage (OPS).

8) Sponsor a handgun and hard liquor night at the ballpark. Encourage warning shots at the opposition. I’m sure this will be an attendance booster as well, particularly among families with small children. It’s like fireworks during the game!

9)  Spend even more money.

    

Sincerely,



    

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton






• • •


After an hour duct-taped to the roof of the bus, Private Tango was covered in dust and totally exhausted from bouncing and bucking across the rough terrain. His navigating skills were deteriorating rapidly as repeated blows from the roof of the vehicle to his chin began to set in. His calls for directional adjustments and accelerator controls quickly became confused.

“Large squid, medium left. Big ditch! That’s good. Oh, no, a helpless three-legged javelina. Oh, my God! No, not really… Oh, my God! All stop, full reverse. Now full ahead. Excellent. Let’s get out of here! Big ditch. Okay, okay… big squid!”

Fortunately, the vehicle soon came across a rutted dirt road that seemed to lead to some sort of small town or nasty outpost. It looked like something out of a spaghetti Western film set, only more real and dangerous.

“That’s it,” Avery yelled to Fire Team Leader Charlie. “Make for the town.” The Fire Team Leader complied, and soon they backed into the village, scattering stray dogs and chickens along the way.

This was the kind of town that people didn’t want to end up in, unless they were thieves, cutthroats, or murders. That said, even cutthroats avoided this place, as knives were considered as somewhat useless, if not gauche. That was, if the thieves didn’t steal them first. No, guns and murder did the talking here. It was also known as the home of the famous lucha libre wrestler “El Coyote.” He was renowned for his ability to break his opponents with a leaping maneuver off the top rope. It was known as the “Flying Burrito.” His high-flying assault from the corner turnbuckle consisted of landing on his foe with his back as he would scream, “I kill you dead!” His unfortunate competitors would subsequently grab their severely severed spleens in pain as he ripped off their colorful masks and paraded around the ring with them, swinging them above his head. It drove the fans wild. His mask was bright gold with bloody fangs painted near the opening for his mouth, and it never came off once in his entire career. It was part of the reason he was so revered in this part of Mexico. He retired undefeated, except for two matches in which he owed the promoter more money than his winning purse would cover. Fortunately for the Coyote, Mexican professional wrestling statistics are flexible at best. Everyone in town considered him to have never met his better or even come close to losing a match. In his retirement, the still-imposing barrel-chested man now ran a sort of bar, hotel, brothel, nightclub, strip joint in this small village. But really, it was mainly a brothel. The Coyote like the word brothel a lot. It sounded way better than whorehouse. He thought it sounded kind of French, kind of classy. He hung Impressionist art reproductions on the wall, in velvet, of course, so in case someone threw a beer bottle, it wouldn’t shatter. Plus, the velvet paintings soaked up the booze. At the end of the night, he would wring out the artwork into a glass and give away the gnarly, ink-stained liquid as a free shot known as the “The Sweat of Monet.”

“Pull over,” Avery said. The mud and dust covered bus ground to a halt, backward, of course.

“Someone get Private Tango off my roof,” the General ordered.

Around them, old stone buildings surrounded an open square with a small, communal well. The pockmarked edifices were whitewashed but dingy. People walked by and seemed to not look, but they really did. It was hard not to notice the raggedy band of misfits that climbed off the bus. Even the donkeys noticed.

“Look at the size of the dinger on that one…” Fire Team Leader Alpha slapped Private Foxtrot across the back of his head. “I’m just saying, Team Leader, that’s some donkey.” The private rubbed his head.

“Fire Team Leader Charlie,” the General announced, “find someone to fix this contraption.”

“Why me?”

“You found it, you fix it. Pronto!”

“Roger that, General.” The Fire Team Leader looked around the village, wiped his face, and set out.

“We need disguises,” Avery suggested. “Have the men follow me.” Soon the crew was outfitted with large, colorful sombreros. Avery’s was yellow, with tiger stripes. A pudgy man in a yellow tracksuit leading a group of men in camouflage fatigues wearing brightly colored sombreros exited the small general store, trying to act inconspicuous.

“Walk Mexican,” Avery said as he dragged his feet and looked down. The rest of the men followed suit. A cloud of dust lifted behind the band of men as they made their way across the street. The most prominent building on the block had a large neon sign proclaiming it as the Coyote’s Lair. Avery noticed the flickering sign. Coyote, he thought. Promising. He headed for it.

“Welcome!” El Coyote, said ushering the men inside. “Right this way, my friends.” The former wrestler pulled aside a scarlet-colored velvet rope that kept back no one. The men followed El Coyote inside — all except Ziggy, whose attention was captured by something further down the street. “Lupe, a table up front!” The round woman at the bar ignored him. “Lupe!” She walked away. “Don’t mind her,” El Coyote said. “Sit wherever you like. The next show starts any minute now.”

The men of the militia ambled up to a long table in front of the main stage. The place was empty except for a couple of dancers. “Don’t worry.” El Coyote wiped down the table with a greasy rag. “You’re just in time. The crowd starts to come in around sundown. Best to get here early. What can I get you gentlemen to drink?”

“Mountain Dew,” said Avery.

“Lupe, one tequila!”

“No, Mountain Dew, please.”

“Yes, tequila. Is very good.”

“Beer, cold,” said the General. The rest of the men nodded.

“Lupe, tequila and cerveza all around.” El Coyote walked toward the bar. Scantily clad women from the brothel’s rooms upstairs began to filter down the staircase into the club to check out what sort of fresh meat had just wandered in. Private Zulu’s jaw dropped. He’d only heard of places like this, and what he’d heard about them was very naughty. An overweight stripper wearing a leather bikini sauntered over and spun around in front of Private Zulu. Grabbing the back of his head, she shoved his face into her cleavage and violently shook her chest, grinding the skinny private’s face into the leather bikini top. Letting him go, she blew the frazzled private a kiss over her shoulder.

“She smelled nice,” Private Zulu said.

“What?” Private Foxtrot watched the stripper saunter away.

“Kind of like the seats inside a new truck.”

“Looked like forty miles of bad road to me. How about that one over there?” Private Foxtrot pointed.

“Naw,” Private Zulu said, “she’s two axe handles across the ass.”

“Good point. What about her?”

“You know, she’s a bit old for me.”

“Old? There ain’t nothing but old in this place.”

“Yeah, I just like a lady’s skin to fit a bit tighter.”

“She does droop in places that shouldn’t, but Daddy used to always say, ‘It’s better to have ten ones than one ten.’”

“Your daddy also tried to teach a raccoon to drive a tractor.”

 “Yep, drove it right through the side of the barn…hold the phone, partner. What about that one?” Private Foxtrot pointed at the most beautiful girl in the bar. Dark hair, voluptuous curves, and a big pistol strapped to her hip. She was the bomb, and everyone knew it, especially her.

“Now you’re talking.”

“Naw, she’s out of your league.”

“What do you mean?” Zulu asked.

“I mean that she must cost a fortune. Look at those…”

“I got money!”

“How much?”

“Couple of bucks, plus a few old pesos I found lying ’round the HQ.”

“You’re out of luck, buddy,” Private Foxtrot said as he watched the gorgeous woman curl herself around the pole on the main stage. “The good news is you’ve got enough money to buy me something to eat.”

“We done ate today already. How can you be hungry again?”

“I’m always hungry.” Private Foxtrot waved for El Coyote’s attention. “What kind of vittles you got to eat around here?”

“My friend, we serve the best menudo in town.” El Coyote smiled. “Spicy! Good for a hangover, too.”

“Hey, Zulu, you like menudo?”

“Sure, but mainly their older stuff, before they went all commercial.”

“No, I mean to eat.”

“Never had it. What’s in it?”

“Stomach,” El Coyote replied.

“Stomach? No way, Jose, I ain’t eating stomach.” Private Zulu shook his head.

“My friend, it’s tripe. It’s good for you.”

“Tripe? Okay. I like tripe.”

“Excellent. Lupe! Two bowls of menudo, pronto.”

“Do you even know what tripe is?” Private Foxtrot asked his friend.

“Sure, it’s like chicken, right? Mexican chicken?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

“He was kidding about the stomach part, wasn’t he?”

“Just trust me.” A few minutes later, the two privates were slurping away at large, steaming bowls of bright red soup with large chucks of honeycomb-shaped material and hominy floating in them. “What do you think?” Private Foxtrot wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his fatigues.

“Spongy.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty good.”

“Strangest-looking chicken I ever had before.” Private Zulu lifted his bowl to his mouth and drained the last bit of his soup. “Tastes like rubber. They must feed them something different down here, maybe plastic bags. Hey, what the heck has he got over there?” The private pointed to the front of the building, where Ziggy was carrying an iguana about half the size of himself. He made his way to the table and took a seat. He draped the long brownish-green reptile around his neck, like a lizard shawl.

“Where’d you get that?” Private Tango asked.

“Like, this kid, man. I swapped my hacky sack for him.”

“What’s his name?” asked Private Foxtrot.

“Nancy.”

“Nancy?”

“Like, yeah, dude.”

“Why’d you name him Nancy?” Private Zulu moved his chair back from Ziggy a few feet.

“Like, I’m not sure he’s a he, man. Like, I think he digs me, though, dudes. Watch this.” Ziggy kissed Nancy on the head. Nancy hissed and bit his ear. “See!”

“The General is in the can. Better not let him see that thing when he comes back,” said Private Tango. “He’s not much of an animal lover. His dog used to chew on him when he was little.”

“Like, Nancy’s not a dog, man. He’s an iguana. Like, he wouldn’t hurt anyone, dude.” Nancy hissed again and took another snap at Ziggy’s ear. “Like, good boy,” Ziggy said as he stroked the clearly perturbed iguana’s neck. Avery, sitting at the other end of the table, just shook his head.

“You men better stay out of the head for a few minutes,” the General said as he took his seat and wiped his forehead with a Confederate flag handkerchief. “It’s pretty ripe in there. Jesus! What the hell is that damned dinosaur doing wrapped around your neck, boy?”

“Like, it’s a rescue lizard, man.”

“Get it out of here.”

Nancy hissed at the General.

“No way, dude. Homeless iguanas are, like, a major, major problem in Mexico. Nancy, like, needs me, man.”

“Well, he’s not sleeping on the bus,” the General said as he took a swig of his warm beer. “Lizards are like Russian Spetsnaz — they’re most dangerous at night. Now, Mr. Pendleton, let’s go over our plan of attack for capturing an illegal immigrant…”

“A what?” Avery asked.

“A Mexican. Plenty of them around here.” The General lowered his voice and scanned the brothel without moving his head. “You’re after a female of breeding age, correct? This is a target-rich environment.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a scientist, not a human trafficker. I hired you and your men to escort me in search of a chupacabra.”

“A who?”

“Not a who, a what, and what it is, is simply the last frontier of undocumented creatures. A beast so secretive that it’s classified above top secret. J. Edgar Hoover even had a file on them.”

“You mean to tell me that we stole a vehicle, forded a raging river…”

“It wasn’t that raging, General, sir,” Fire Team Leader Alpha interrupted. “More like lazy. We could have waded across if we had wanted to.”

“Shut up!” the General bellowed as he pointed a pudgy finger in Avery’s direction. “My men are a highly trained militia with a mission of national importance, to stop the invasion of illegal immigrants. Not to chase after Bigfoot.”

“For the record, General, it’s really not advisable to chase after a sasquatch. Better to set up a well-camouflaged blind and wait. Chasing them only makes them angry. There was this one time, in British Columbia, where I…”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about Canada! Don’t even mention Canada. We’ve got enough problems with Mexico as it is. It makes my head hurt.” The General rubbed his bald dome.

“Try the menudo,” Private Foxtrot suggested.

“But don’t get it with the chicken,” Private Zulu added.

“General,” Avery said, “I have contracted with you for a specific service: guide and escort me and my companion…”

“And Nancy!” Ziggy blurted out.

“…And Nancy, during our journey to capture a chupacabra. Our oral agreement is irrevocable and binding, and if you choose to violate the terms of said agreement, I will be forced to employ the formidable resources of the Law Office of Gregory Kennesaw Mountain. You’re no doubt familiar with his extensive experience in front of the Supreme Court.”

“Actually, no.”

“Well, the next time you want to import bulk quantities of recently expired snack foods from former Soviet Republics, you can thank him. He’s what you would refer to as a great American patriot.”

“Sounds like a commie to me.”

“He’d sue you for that.”

“Sue me for what? We’re broke.”

“And that’s exactly why you need me, General. I’m a paying client. Assist me in my mission, and you and your men can pursue whatever extracurricular activities you wish. As long as they don’t interfere with trapping a living specimen for my research.”

“Affirmative.” The General rubbed his chin. “We’ll set out in the morning. Where are we headed?”

“About twenty miles outside of Piedras Negras. It’s not far from here.”

“My friends,” El Coyote said as he gathered up empty beer bottles from the table, “you should be careful in that part of the country. It is very dangerous.”

“Danger is my middle name,” the General responded.

“I thought it was Huey?” Fire Team Leader Bravo asked.

The General ignored him. Fire Team Leader Charlie walked into the brothel and made his way to the table while checking out the gyrating women in the main room.

“Status report!” the General barked at the Team Leader.

“She’s ready to go. I traded some of our supplies to pay the mechanic’s bill. Bus is out front. You going to finish that?” Fire Team Leader Charlie pulled the half-empty beer bottle from Private Zulu’s grasp and drained it.

“Not the duct tape?” the General asked.

“Nope, figured we might need that.”

“Good man. Well, boys, let’s get some shut-eye. Big day tomorrow.”

The men got up and followed the General out to their vehicle. The General wadded up a parking ticket stuck under the windshield wiper as the men climbed onboard. An hour later, the General quietly woke his men. They gathered in the front of the bus for a strategy meeting. Avery was inside the Coyote’s Lair, charging his laptop. Underneath the bus, Nancy was splayed out across Ziggy’s chest as Ziggy slept.

“Here it is, men,” the General said as he thumbed through his book, “this area outside of Piedras Negras.”

“You sure we should be headed there, General?” asked Private Tango. “That big fellow inside said it was pretty dicey around there.”

“It was pretty hairy at the Battle of Belleau Wood, too, but it didn’t stop our doughboys from whipping those Huns. Now, be silent and listen. I’m going to tell you a story.”

“Not another one about your relatives, please,” Fire Team Leader Alpha implored.

“No. One about explorers…and gold.” The General grinned as his eyes gleamed. “It all started with the Aztecs, the Spanish, Cortez, and the Jesuits. For centuries, this land has been littered with gold that men were too weak, too lazy, or too dead to carry away. But like all great stories, ours begins in Texas. Y’all remember the year of our Lord 1836?” The General bowed his head in reverence.

“No…not really…when?” the men mumbled.

“1836. It was the year that the great land of Texas proclaimed itself a Republic. Now, the United States and its pathetic East Coast–based politicians refused to recognize this remarkable act of patriotism. Instead, the Republic of Texas was forced to fight its way through nearly a decade of invasion and foreign terrorism from Mexico. You see, the Mexican government realized that if the United States wasn’t going to support this bastion of Texas freedom, they might still have a chance to reclaim land from the God-fearing settlers who inhabited it. So what did they do? They called in reinforcements. When you’re weak, ask the strong for help. So they went to the Indians. Apaches, namely. The Mexican government spent almost ten years and tens of thousands of dollars, not to mention chests full of glass beads and bottles of firewater, bribing the Indians with promises of land and money in order to convince them to attack and destabilize the rightful settlers of the Republic. I’ll admit destabilization of the landholders made sense — the Mexicans didn’t have access to air cavalry, cruise missiles, or electronic jamming equipment at the time, so it was the next best thing. From the Indians’ standpoint, all the settlers offered were Bibles and conversion to Christianity. They thought that was pretty weak compared to gold coins.”

“I’d choose gold, too,” said Private Tango.

“Me, too,” added Fire Team Leader Bravo.

“Good trade.” Private Zulu coughed and then spit on the floor of the bus.

“But that’s just the beginning, men. Eventually, the United States annexed the Republic of Texas, an act of domestic terrorism I still haven’t forgiven that traitor, John Tyler, for. About that time, an Apache war party entered South Texas on behalf of the Mexican government. The mighty Chief Medium Rabbit, the son of Little Rabbit and grandson of Big Rabbit, led it. Along with the war party, a small detachment of Mexican soldiers accompanied them with several wagons loaded with gold coins to pay for their mercenaries’ services. Little did they know, Mirabeau Lamar had ordered the Texas Army to intercept their forces. Just inside the Texas border, the two sides clashed. The fighting was swift and bloody, with the Texans quickly routing their foe and chasing them back across the border. For twenty miles, the Army of Texas pursued Chief Medium Rabbit and his men. The Mexican soldiers with their heavy load of gold struggled to keep pace. Realizing that the Mexicans were slowing his warriors down, the Chief ordered his men to scatter into the Mexican desert. The Indians disappeared into the wilderness without a trace, as Indians are apt to do. Only Chief Medium Rabbit stayed with the Mexican troops. Medium Rabbit convinced the soldiers to bury the treasure in the bank of a small stream. Right about here.” The General pointed to a map in his book. His men all leaned in to take a look. “Now, the Texas Army was right behind them and soon caught up with the squad of Mexican soldiers and their now-empty wagons. Chief Medium Rabbit knew he was licked, so he disappeared into the desert. The Mexican soldiers put up a brief fight but were soon overrun by the Texans, who held a short, formal military trial consisting of deliberating the question of whether to hang the Mexicans from the tree on the left or the tree on the right. After closing arguments were made, it was unanimously decided that they would use the one on the left. A few minutes later, the squad of Mexican soldiers swung from the tree, their necks slightly longer than they’d been a few minutes before. The commander of the Texans worried that Mexican reinforcements might be on the way, so they gathered up the empty wagons and hightailed it back across the border.”

“Sir, what about the gold?” asked Fire Team Leader Bravo.

“The Texans didn’t know that there was any gold. Only Chief Medium Rabbit knew.”

“Did he come back for it?” asked Private Tango.

“Eventually, but in the meantime, a series of heavy rainstorms flooded the area. The rushing water completely changed the shape of the creek and its banks. The Chief could never find the exact spot, and he never told anyone about it.”

“Then how does this dang book know about it?” Private Zulu scratched a chigger bite.

“As more and more settlers from both Texas and Mexico moved into the area, Chief Medium Rabbit decided to get out of the Indian business. He spent the rest of his days working in a traveling Wild West show, where, ironically, he played the role of a Baptist preacher. Years later, well into his nineties, on his deathbed in Washington D.C., he recounted the story of his life to his autobiographer. She was a pretty woman in her early twenties named Margaret, whom he’d eventually marry and conceive a child with just fifteen minutes before he died. The Chief had always had a thing for young squaws. In the telling of his life’s story, the Chief explained to Margaret where the final resting place of the lost Mexican gold was, or as best he could remember. When his autobiography, Red Power, Bitch, was published, it set off a stampede of amateur and professional treasure hunters into the exact part of Mexico we’re headed to in the morning, but nothing was ever found. Now, we can help these two idiots we’re babysitting to find that chupacabra thing they’re looking for, but from now on, men, gold is our top priority. Do you get me?”

“Sir, we get you, sir!” the men chanted in unison.

“Private Foxtrot, you did pack the metal detector, didn’t you?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

“And each man has his own entrenching tool, correct?”

“Mine is missing the handle, sir,” Private Zulu said. “But it still digs pretty fair.”

“Excellent. Tomorrow we hunt for gold. Wouldn’t be surprised if we come across something left behind by Cortez or the Aztecs as well. For some reason people tend to lose things all over this country. This is our big break, men. Failure is not an option. With a stash of gold, we can look into buying some of those used Chinese battle tanks I was telling y’all about. Now, let’s get some sleep. We’ve got a big day of treasure hunting ahead of us.”

Sweet Jesus, Private Zulu thought to himself as he tucked himself into his Dallas Cowboys sleeping bag. Every babe in town will want to go out with me if I roll in driving a battle tank.

• • •


Inside the Coyote’s Lair, Avery’s head hurt from lack of Mountain Dew. He was quickly entering the first stages of withdrawal. He tried to ignore the bevy of topless women vying for his attention, paid-for attention, that is, as he typed away.






To: The Department of the Treasury

Secretary of the Treasury




Dear Secretary:




I’m writing to you this evening, or whatever the hell time it is in this infernal, dry place I’m currently confined in (seriously, they should hose this place down to stop the dust)…apologies, never mind my previous comments, I’m experiencing a sugar crash. Scorpion! Jesus! Where did it go? Things are getting weird around here. Are you still there? Good.

I have something really important to suggest. And by suggest, I mean demand. Immediately! The economy is in a shambles. Unemployment is increasing, home values are declining, debt is rising, and consumer confidence is falling. Worst of all, the retail price of soft drinks is at an all-time high. Obviously, this is clearly not a good economic signal, as I’m sure you’re aware of the inverse correlation between sugar/caffeine-based asset prices and the stock market per my very popular Internet-published treatise entitled Soda Pop Killed the European Union, or How Dr. Pepper Kicked Greece’s Ass.

Sir, I know you’re extremely busy, mostly with taxpayer-financed lunches and pointless speeches; by the way, do you have a speechwriter I could borrow for a few days? I have a few things I’d like to get off my chest, and apparently my signature style is a bit blunt for the common man.

I digress. You pig. Here’s my problem with the current situation. It’s all about inflation. Where does inflation come from? Pretty much from you and the Federal Reserve. Jackasses. When money is printed in order to add “liquidity” to the market, the value of previously printed paper currency is devalued. It’s an insidious form of taxation without representation, and that really gets my Jefferson up. And my Thomas is a real humdinger!

I beg you to return us to a gold standard, but not the old, ridiculous gold standard, a new and much-improved one. I suggest the World of Warlocks (WOW) Gold Standard. And by suggest, I mean demand! Wait, I demanded something earlier. I’ll just suggest it aggressively. The economy of this Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game (MMORPG) is quickly becoming the twenty-sixth largest economy on the planet. At its explosive current rate of growth, it will inevitably pass Sweden’s GDP sometime in the next few years. More importantly, the stable currency and low inflation rate of World of Warlocks is the envy of most modern economists. How do they do it, you ask? Or wait, did I just ask that? Really need some caffeine. Never mind. Anyway, they do it with a currency tied to a specific commodity…gold, and lots of it. I myself, and by “myself” I mean my Level Eighty-Five Night Elf Rogue whose name is unpronounceable in the English tongue (you can just refer to him as Fred), have accumulated close to one million pieces of gold, just under the game’s allowable cap, an artificial ceiling that I can’t fully understand (for more information on this topic, please reference my website, where I debate whether WOW is a paragon of capitalism or socialism). Nevertheless, the economy of WOW is a model of efficiency and productivity. Aligning the U.S. dollar with the WOW Gold Standard would be a courageous but no-risk decision. In WOW, the intelligence of the elves, the industriousness of the dwarves, and the sweat of the humans power their economy. And by “humans” I mean the human avatars in the game, not your orc-like colleagues over at the Federal Reserve fumbling around with the discount rate and presuming it actually does anything they actually mean it to. Bunch of monkeys humping a football in a boardroom, that’s all they are. Additionally, in WOW, the trolls and their deviousness offer a natural counterbalance to the rest of the society to avoid reckless social and charitable decisions in roughly the same way the old Republican party used to in ours. In summary, WOW is the perfect economic model of guile, ingenuity, and deceit. It’s efficient, brutally fair, and extremely stable. Sound like ours? Of course not, you read the papers. Tell me I’m wrong. If your bureaucratic mandates require a commission to study the issue, I’m happy to volunteer as the chairman. Obviously, I would require the appropriate travel vouchers and lodging/meal per diem. Nothing more than the average senator receives. I’m not a greedy man by nature.

    

Sincerely,



    

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton












P.S. — Any information you can send me regarding how to exchange Fred’s significant WOW gold balances for nonsequential, unmarked twenty-dollar bills or bearer bonds would be greatly appreciated.







CHAPTER TWELVE

It Wants Khaf


The large white delivery truck headed north toward the U.S./Mexican border. Originally, it had been a beer truck, and it still looked vaguely like a beer truck, but in reality it was more like a tank. The glass in the driver’s compartment was bulletproof, and the run-flat tires were designed to continue operating even when shot with large-caliber ammunition. The gas tank was armored and self-sealing, and the cargo bay was reinforced with steel plate armor. It had horizontal firing ports that could be opened to allow gunmen inside the truck’s storage compartment to fire on assailants. A trap door on the roof of the cargo bay opened to allow a fifty-caliber machine gun to be raised via electric motor and employed against other vehicles. The modified truck was extremely heavy. A customized, more powerful engine and stronger, more durable shocks and brakes offset the increased weight. The truck was closely followed by two black SUVs with tinted windows. The three-vehicle convoy barreled down the highway.

Cesar had contacted El Barquero early that morning. Cesar’s sources said that the Padre wanted a shipment of weapons, mainly heavy arms, moved closer to the border, and Cesar had a description of the delivery vehicle and the route they were taking. The only problem was they didn’t have much time.

The weapons were to be used for fighting with the rival cartels that threatened the Padre’s precious smuggling routes into central Texas. The other cartels had recently become more brazen. Everyone knew what had happened in the Veracruz harbor. They thought the Padre was becoming weak. In the wars between the different drug cartels of Mexico, weakness was always exploited as an opportunity to expand. Turmoil within the leadership circle of a cartel created a vacuum that had to be filled quickly. This was the first time in many years that anyone could imagine challenging the Padre in his own territories. However, the other cartels were not working together as they should have. They were just racing forward individually to test the Padre’s vulnerability. The Padre needed to teach them a lesson, and he planned to use the latest military-grade weapons manufactured by the United States to do it. His enemies would be outgunned. Once their men had pulled back from his territory, he could get back to rebuilding his narco-empire.

Ten miles ahead of the armored truck, El Barquero stood on the southbound access road of the highway. The access road led down from an overpass across the route the weapons shipment was taking. Its elevation gave him the ability to see for miles across the pancake-flat terrain to the south. With a high-powered sniper’s monocular/range-finder, he scanned the horizon and watched. The highway traffic was light. According to Cesar, the shipment would pass this way soon. Cesar’s men were to follow the vehicle at a distance. Cesar himself would be trailing a few miles back in a helicopter. The news of the shipment had come so quickly that Barquero and Cesar didn’t have time to coordinate communications equipment. Barquero barely had time to gather his weapons and find suitable transportation for the mission. He was going to be on his own to stop the transport initially, but that was okay with him. Cesar and his men would be close behind, and Cesar had never let him down. In fact, Cesar had bailed him out of a number of tight spots back in the old days. Barquero wasn’t worried; Cesar always brought the cavalry in right on time.

Through Barquero’s monocular, a large, white delivery truck appeared on the distant horizon. It was almost two miles away. He didn’t have much time. He ran for the truck parked alongside the road. The dump truck he had stolen from a construction site was still full of gravel. Putting the vehicle in gear, he pulled onto the highway. The heavy load of crushed rock made gaining speed difficult. He stood on the accelerator, slammed on the clutch, and shifted through the gears with urgency. He could see the delivery truck approaching from the south. The divided highway had two lanes running in each direction. Between the north- and southbound lanes was a small median. It was made of concrete and was the height of a street curb. Barquero pulled into the left-hand lane and continued to accelerate. The armored truck was two hundred yards away. Barquero tightened his seatbelt and pulled on a race-car driver’s crash helmet. This is going to suck. One hundred yards. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and checked his rearview mirror to see if anyone was following him. Fifty yards. He cursed and pulled the steering wheel hard to the left. The dump truck leapt over the low median and bounced into the oncoming traffic. The delivery truck driver had no time to respond; his foot barely touched the brake as Barquero’s gravel-laden dump truck crashed head-on into the Padre’s delivery truck. At the moment of impact, Barquero let go of the steering wheel and crossed his muscled arms in front of himself. He had been trained to let go of the wheel during a collision, as the impact of a crash can rip the steering wheel violently to one side, literally breaking the driver’s arm. The impact of the crash spun both vehicles clockwise. The rear of the dump truck clipped the front end of one of the SUVs, which was following too closely behind the delivery truck and was unable to stop. The second SUV had been far enough back in the convoy to witness the dump truck cross the median at full speed. Its driver slammed on the brakes and slid past the spinning tangle of vehicles in front on him. His SUV came to a halt on the side of the road. The impact between the two trucks was incredibly violent, but incredibly short. The mass of the two heavy vehicles slamming into one another brought them to a quick halt. Dust from the gravel in the bed of the dump truck clouded the scene like a smoke screen.

Barquero pulled off his helmet and unfastened his seatbelt. As he climbed down from the cab of the dump truck, he realized he must have fractured several ribs during the impact. Wincing from the pain, he pulled an assault rifle from the cab with him. Chambering a round in the HK417 battle rifle with attached under-barrel grenade launcher, he approached the SUV that his dump truck had clipped. The vehicle was on its side. Barquero fired a burst into the front section of the car. The driver he was aiming at stopped moving. The men in the back were already dead. To his right, past the armored delivery truck, three armed cartel soldiers were climbing out of the second SUV and spraying automatic rifle fire in his direction. Barquero fired a forty-millimeter grenade at the vehicle. It exploded, sending all three men flying into the road. Barquero chambered another grenade into the launcher before firing it at the bulletproof windshield of the delivery truck. The window exploded. Barquero filled the cabin with a long stream of automatic rifle fire. Nothing inside moved. Gravel dust continued to swirl and cover the roadway. Traffic behind the wreckage slid to a stop. Horns blared.

Swapping out the magazine in the HK, Barquero strode to the rear of the delivery truck. There were most certainly men inside with the shipment, but even his grenade launcher wouldn’t open the reinforced rear doors of the truck. Reaching into his black fatigues, he pulled out a shaped charge of plastic explosive. He placed it on the doors. Just as he was about to arm the charge, he heard the sound of something rolling across the top of the truck. Looking up, he caught the image of three cylinder-shaped objects rolling off the top of the truck as they landed on the road next to him. Barquero dropped his weapon and dove for cover away from the explosives just as they detonated with a deafening bang and a blinding white flash. Barquero rolled onto his back and tried to get up. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. A dull ringing filled his ears. He couldn’t stand. Suddenly, the rear doors of the armored truck swung open. A man in a military uniform stood in the opening and removed a pair of earplugs. Even through the fog that filled his head, Barquero recognized the man.

“Cesar,” Barquero said as his world continued to spin. A man with long dark hair stepped up beside Cesar and removed his earplugs as well. He waved his hand forward as two cartel soldiers with assault rifles leapt down from the cargo bay. The first one slammed the butt of his rifle into the side of Barquero’s head, then handcuffed him. The second one injected him with a syringe. The world slipped into blackness for Barquero. The last thing he saw through his spinning vision was Cesar and Carnicero laughing together. Another SUV that had been following a mile behind the convoy pulled up along the shoulder of the road, past the growing line of stalled traffic behind the carnage. It parked next to what was left of the armored truck.

“Put him in the SUV,” Carnicero ordered his men. “We’re taking him to the farm,” he said to Cesar. “Do you want to come with us? The Padre plans on having quite a bit of fun with this one.”

“No, I have to get back to work. There’s my ride,” he said, pointing to a military helicopter approaching low from the southeast. “What about the armored car?”

“Leave it,” Carnicero replied, viewing the damage to the front of the vehicle. Barquero’s dump truck had nearly demolished the engine compartment of the white truck, and the grenade had destroyed the cabin. Thick black smoke and orange flames engulfed the mangled front of the vehicle. “It’s worth losing for capturing this big bastard.” He watched his men load the large man into the back of the SUV. A horn from a motorist blocked by the wreckage blared. Carnicero pulled a gold-plated forty-five-caliber pistol from his waistband and fired several times at the car. “Shut up!” He fired twice more for good measure. The noise stopped. “Here’s an advance on your money,” he said, pulling an envelope from inside his jacket. “The balance will be deposited in an offshore account.”

“Thank you.” Cesar took the envelope.

“You know, Colonel Beltrán, now that we are working together, we have some very good investment people if you’re interested. The returns are always guaranteed. Bad things happen to our bankers if they aren’t.” Carnicero grinned as he stepped into the SUV as the military helicopter landed in a field just off the side of the highway. The two men went their separate ways.

• • •


Avery tapped his fingers impatiently. The crew had gotten a late start that morning. They were behind schedule, and Avery was beginning to grumble. The cause of the delay had to do with Privates Zulu and Foxtrot spending the better part of the morning on the rather foul toilet inside the Coyote’s Liar while the menudo from the previous evening formed a violent conga line through their lower intestines. With only one toilet in the small, rank-smelling restroom, the two men had to switch places every few minutes, leading to several close calls for the man left standing. Private Foxtrot was particularly afflicted by the painful revenge of the tripe. His complaints to El Coyote were met with indifference.

“I make a fresh batch every two weeks,” El Coyote explained as he shrugged his big shoulders. “Sometimes every three — it’s hard to keep track. You should have some tequila. Tequila makes everything better.” Private Foxtrot’s face turned a light shade of green as he ran back to the small bathroom and slammed the door.

“Let go of me!” Private Zulu yelled from behind the door. “I’m not finished!”

“Soldiers,” the General said, knocking on the bathroom door with his riding crop. “Five minutes, and we’re bugging out. Organize your bowels and fall in. No potty breaks until we reach the target. You understand me?” The General’s question was answered by a series of agonizingly desperate moans from the other side of the door. “Son of a bitch.” General X-Ray stood with his hands on his hips and shouted at the door. “I swear, getting you lollygaggers moving is harder than shoving a wet noodle up a wildcat’s butt.” The General turned and walked away as the painful cries of the two men continued. “MacArthur never had to deal with crap like this. Not even in the Philippines. I need new troops.”

“I’m leaving,” said Avery.

“Where?” asked General X-Ray.

“To see a man about a goat.” Avery waddled out with a determined look on his face.

• • •


The room slowly came into focus for Barquero. Dried blood was caked in his eyes. It was difficult to see in the dimly lit space. He was naked and bound to a wooden chair. The room was square. Next to one of the walls, a workbench was littered with various knives, hammers, and horrific-looking medical devices seemingly more fit for coaxing life out of the patient than for healing. In contrast to the evil-looking instruments of pain, the soft music of Handel’s Concerto Grosso in B Minor filled the air. Someone was taking his vital signs. Barquero didn’t recognize the man in the white coat. He did recognize the other two men in the room. One was Carnicero. He was rubbing his knuckles. They were bruised from the beating he’d given the big man earlier. Directly across from Barquero, sitting in a chair with his legs crossed, the Padre smoked a thin cigar.

They’d been working on Barquero for several hours already, alternating between pummeling him with fists and using wires attached to a car battery on various parts of his body. He never said a word the whole time, and they never asked any questions. Eventually, Barquero had passed out from the torture. Unfortunately, his strength was now a huge weakness. He didn’t fall into unconsciousness easily.

“How many days?” The Padre blew a ring of smoke into the air.

“How many days for what?” the physician asked as he measured Barquero’s pulse. “To give you the information you’re looking for?”

“I don’t want information. I want to know many days you can keep him alive?”

“The way you’re treating him, two, maybe three days.”

“He hasn’t begun to see the depths of my hospitality yet. I want you to keep him alive for a week.”

“At least a week,” Carnicero added as he picked up a scalpel from the workbench and checked its razor edge. “I want to enjoy this as long as possible. The record is eight days.”

“There are drugs I can administer to extend his life,” the physician said as he placed his stethoscope over Barquero’s heart. “But be mindful of trauma to his head. That’s difficult, if not impossible, to reverse.”

“What a shame.” Carnicero ran his hand through his long, dark hair as he picked up a pair of pliers with his other. “I’ll just have to work on his pelotas. It takes big balls to double-cross us, Barquero. You won’t have them for long. Do you hear me?” He shouted into the bound man’s face.

“Quiet,” the Padre said as he ground out his cigar with his boot. “What a shame, Barquero. What a partner you could have been. The weapons you brought us have made my empire what it is today. No more smuggling a handful of bales of marijuana across the border in the middle of the night, running from the agents like scared dogs. No, now I run this part of the country. The police and the politicians answer to me. One day, this business will belong to Carnicero. I wanted you to be his right-hand man. But you screwed up. No one steals from me without repercussions. It makes me sad, though. I worked so hard to get you to join the organization. You once had so much pride in serving your country and fighting the cartels. But you never stood a chance. You never had enough men or resources, yet you continued to gallantly march on. A noble warrior pitted against evil men. Oblivious to the inevitable.” The Padre rose from the chair and paced around the room. “Do you know what the secret is? Shall I tell you the secret to finding true strength? It’s not physical strength, but mental strength. The only way to achieve it is to embrace that which we are told all our pathetic lives to suppress. It is the darkness inside us. Once you do, then you are truly free, and that freedom is power. Do you know why I still wear this Roman collar around my neck? I spent most of my life dedicating my entire existence to God. I threw myself at His feet and begged for answers through my tears. But God never responded. What a sick joke. But in the end, the joke was on Him. I won. This collar is my trophy. It reminds me every day that once you unshackle yourself from the silly idea that the pursuit of virtue is a noble cause, you can achieve anything. Understanding that man is first and foremost a creature capable of unspeakable evil releases him from the chains that bind him. In nature, the wolf kills not because it can, but because it needs to. We are all part of nature, and in nature only the most brutal survive. The weak, they die. I will not weep at the feet of God anymore.”

“I will…kill you,” Barquero whispered in his raspy voice through a mouthful of blood.

“No, you won’t. I will live, and you will die.” The Padre placed his hand on Barquero’s head. “You were like my second son. I so desperately wanted you to join my family. When you finally left the military to join us, it was one of the happiest moments of my life. But it wasn’t easy to get you to agree. Actually, it was Carnicero’s idea that finally did the trick, although I don’t think he truly understood it at the time. I think he just wanted blood. Poor Rosalina.” He stroked Barquero’s head. “You do realize that her death wasn’t random?” Barquero struggled at his bonds. “That’s right, my friend. Once she was killed, it was only a matter of time before you saw the darkness and embraced it.”

“Not to mention the child,” Carnicero added with a laugh.

“I… will… kill you both.” Barquero’s muscles bulged as he struggled. His dark eyes filled with fire.

“Once she was gone, I knew you would come to me. That’s what people do in their times of despair. They come to their God, and I am a God. People worship me, beg me for work, and do whatever I say unconditionally. They sell their souls to me for a few pesos. I bargained for your soul with the life of your wife and unborn child. Now I own it, and eventually, when the time is right, I will destroy it.”

“And when you are dead,” Carnicero added, “I will peel the skin from your face and have it sewn onto a soccer ball. My men will use it for their Sunday afternoon game.” He laughed.

“I’m sorry, Barquero,” the Padre said. “You’re going to experience a great deal of pain for the problems you have caused and your betrayal. But at your worst moment, don’t bother praying to God. Pray to me. For ultimately, I’m the one who will end your suffering.” The Padre walked toward the door. “Carnicero, again with the battery.”

“Si, Padre.”

• • •


Avery, Ziggy, and the men of STRAC-BOM stood in a circle by the side of the bus. Nancy was examining a small cactus. They were parked in the middle of the desert. A handful of white clouds dotted the brilliantly blue sky around them. Nancy slowly ambled across the rocky and broken ground, stopping to bask in the sun next to a small cactus.

“How’s your tummy feeling?” Private Foxtrot asked Private Zulu as he clutched his stomach, the death rattle of the bad menudo still rumbling inside him. Private Zulu wiped the sweat from his pale face.

“I’m going to need to get a whole lot better just to die.”

“Now, listen carefully,” Avery said to the group. “I don’t have long to train you men in the art of chupacabra hunting. Normally, it requires an intense, three-day workshop that includes a sophisticated, in-depth personality profiling exercise conducted under hypnosis to match you with the most efficient stalking techniques based on a series of over one hundred separate data points gleaned from your subconscious. The waiting list for the seminar has a backlog of six months. Today, I’ve got about fifteen minutes to bring you up to speed. Now, does anyone have any relevant experience in tracking ancient species?”

“I saw one of them shows about hunting Bigfoot on the television once,” Private Foxtrot said hopefully.

“Completely irrelevant. Sasquatch hunting is child’s play compared to this. With Bigfoot, it’s all about structures. Find the structure the creature uses for shelter, and you’ll find the sasquatch. The chupacabra is the shark of the desert. It has to keep constantly moving or it dies, and it leaves nothing in its wake but silence and the occasional carcass of its victim. No, hunting this creature takes a different approach.”

“What about its motivation?” Private Tango asked.

“Shut up, Private,” the General scolded.

“No, General,” Avery interrupted. “The private may be on to something. Go ahead. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“What motivates it? What does it want?”

“It wants khaf,” Ziggy said in a sinister voice.

“What?” Private Tango looked confused.

“Ziggy, stop speaking Vulcan.”

“Worla!”

“Don’t backtalk me, you little hippy smurf. In the parlance of the Romulans, you are less intelligent than a group of things that are not known for being intelligent. Now, go play with your lizard.”

“Nancy,” Ziggy called out as he went to find his iguana. “Like, here boy, or, like, girl.”

“My apologies, Private, he meant blood. The chupacabra’s major motivation is blood. It prefers human, but it can survive on goat’s blood if necessary. They’re extremely smart and experts at the art of camouflage, but when they get even the slightest whiff of fresh blood, they tend to lose their minds. Their eyes glow in the dark, and they become single-minded in purpose. If confronted by one, don’t ever turn your back to it. They can leap twenty feet in the air and can outrun a well-motivated springbok.”

“How many are there?” asked Fire Team Leader Bravo.

“My calculations suggest that for a healthy breeding population to survive, there would need to be at least several hundred of them.”

“Why aren’t there any bodies of the ones that die?”

“Well, Team Leader, my hypothesis is that they are cannibals when it comes to their deceased pack members.”

“That would explain it,” Private Zulu said. “Are we going to need some kind of hunting license in case we run into a game warden?”

“Excellent question, Private. Genetically speaking, the chupacabra falls outside of the spectrum of wolves, dogs, and coyotes. As such, the Mexican law is silent on the issue. So consider there to be no limit on the bloodsuckers. Bag as many as possible.”

“If we have any extra, can we barbeque them? Fire Team Leader Charlie makes a damn fine sauce.”

“Absolutely not. These creatures are scientific treasures. You wouldn’t pan-fry a coelacanth, would you?”

“Depends on whether or not I had any cornmeal handy.”

“Personally,” Private Foxtrot added, “I like cracker crumbs myself. Oh, wait a minute…let’s stop talking about food.” The private grabbed at his gurgling stomach.

“Knock it off, men,” the General said. “We’re on an official mission here. We will act according to the rules of the Geneva Convention, which is very clear on the prohibition of cooking prisoners. Even in beer batter, which, for the record, is the best way.”

“Thank you, General. I appreciate your support in this matter. Now, if I’m right, and I usually am, we are in a perfect location to detect a suitable specimen.”

“How come?” asked Private Tango.

 “Elementary. Plenty of dry cover and a local source of water.” Avery pointed to a small stream a few hundred yards away. “Over that rise about a mile away is a large farm.” He pointed in the other direction. “They more than likely have a varied collection of livestock that may attract the chupacabra. Plus, I’m almost positive I spotted a group of three traveling through this area last week when using my ultra-sensitive high-altitude satellite monitoring system.”

“What?” General X-Ray asked.

“Like, Google Earth, dude,” said Ziggy, returning with a struggling iguana under his arm.

“I need to get one of those,” the General said enviously.

“We’ll set up a honey pot on the other side of that rise and watch for activity. In the meantime, we’ll start looking for signs of recent activity. Namely, footprints and scat.”

“What?” asked Private Tango.

“Poo. Look for evil-smelling poo.”




CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hard Bargain


In the desert, a black limousine drove along a rutted dirt road. Inside the vehicle, Colonel Cesar Beltrán sat in the back with two armed guards. Up front, another gunman accompanied the driver. The car began to slow as it approached a white fence surrounding a large compound. To the left, a yellow farmhouse sat across from a massive red barn. The back of the compound contained a series of low black buildings that appeared to be some kind of barracks. A sentry at the gate said something into a radio and then waved them through. When they pulled up outside the farmhouse, an attractive young woman greeted Cesar as he climbed out of the limousine.

“The Padre is expecting you in his office. Please follow me.” The woman turned and led Cesar inside. On the main floor, toward the back of the house, they approached a set of heavy wooden doors ornately painted with bright murals of Mexican laborers toiling in vast fields of marijuana. Depictions of men holding AK-47s surrounded the fields as they supervised the work. The woman knocked softly on one of the doors.

“Come in,” a voice called out from behind it.

“Please enter,” the woman said as she pushed open the heavy doors.

“Have a seat, Colonel,” the Padre said as he sat at his desk on the far side of the room. His immaculate black boots were kicked out across the edge of the desk. Cesar surveyed the room as he entered. The office was filled with the spoils and mementos of a lifetime spent as a drug kingpin. Large, ornate display cases with glass doors showcased collections of rare and valuable weapons. Antique firearms were juxtaposed next to modern handguns and assault rifles. The modern guns were all gold- or silver-plated, and several were encrusted with jewels. Collections of ancient Spanish swords and suits of armor as well as pre-Columbian Mayan stone daggers and Aztec war clubs and spears were displayed around the room. In one corner, a large stuffed peacock spread its colorful tail feathers. Only its doll-like black eyes gave away the fact that it was no longer alive. On the wall, directly behind the Padre, hung a portrait of Jesus Malverde, or San Malverde, the patron saint of thieves and drug dealers. Cesar sat down in a leather chair directly across from the Padre.

“An amazing collection.” Cesar motioned around the room.

“Thank you. Examples of the tools used throughout the centuries to, one might say…master this country.”

“Master, indeed. You have a beautiful home here.”

“Just one of many, but I do enjoy the quiet of the desert, especially at night. May I have something brought in for you?” The Padre removed his feet from the desk and closed the case of the silver laptop computer in front of him. “Coffee, maybe?”

“No, thank you, Padre. I’m fine.”

“Very well, then, I’ll get right to business. Colonel, you and your men did an exceptional job bringing your former commander to me.”

“Is he dead?”

“Barquero? No. Not yet, anyway. His body will turn up on the side of a highway or hanging from a bridge once Carnicero is finished playing with him. I haven’t decided yet. It might take several more days. He’s as strong as a bull.”

“And dangerous as a snake. I can’t emphasize enough how important it is to watch him at all times, Padre.”

 “I agree completely. As I was saying, I’m indebted to you and impressed with your work. I’m glad you accepted my proposal for a meeting on such short notice. I was hoping you would consider another proposition from me.”

“I’ll certainly listen.”

“How much do you know about my organization?”

“Considering that my unit has been trying to stop you and a dozen other cartels for the past decade, I think I understand it fairly well.”

“Stop me? More like chasing my shadow. Any success that you may have had was because I wanted you to have it. It’s important to throw a bone to my informants in the government from time to time so they get their names in the paper as heroes in the war against the cartels.”

“Of course.”

“What the army may not know about my organization is that I don’t consider myself a drug lord. On the contrary, I consider myself to be a businessman in charge of leading an organization that, if it were listed on the Mexican stock exchange, would be one of the largest and certainly most profitable. Like all corporate executives, from time to time I find it essential to reevaluate the structure of the organization and its business lines. I credit the success of my business to the fact that in the early days I abhorred delegation. I supervised every part of the business. As we have grown, I’ve had to empower others to manage different segments of the business, sometimes with great success, and sometimes not. It was hard to give up the day-to-day control, but look at my empire now. Looking forward, I also realize that several things need to change if I’m going to continue to grow the business.”

“Like what?”

“Various things. For example, I’ve recently decided to deemphasize one of our oldest and most profitable product lines.”

“Which one?”

“Marijuana.”

“Why?”

“Colonel, do you follow American politics?”

“Fairly closely.”

“Then you have noticed that numerous U.S. states either have or are currently considering legalizing marijuana. Several states have even begun to put the wheels in motion. Others are sure to follow suit soon. Obviously, legal access to drugs can be a very troubling thing for a business that supplies the same product illegally. What sense does that make? Spending billions to stop me at the border for importing something that is legal on the other side. Americans,” he said with disgust. “Even their own President admits he’s smoked it.” The Padre opened up his laptop and typed in a password. “If this trend in the United States continues, I calculate that I may lose up to thirty percent of my marijuana sales in the next two years.” He turned the laptop toward Cesar and showed him a graphic illustrating the point. “What to do?”

“Reduce your focus on marijuana and redeploy assets to more lucrative markets like cocaine and heroin.”

“Exactly, but don’t underestimate methamphetamine, Colonel. The profit margins are excellent.”

“Of course.”

“Additionally, it’s important for the leader of a corporation to understand where the main business and strength of the organization is. It’s like a corporation that builds its success manufacturing trucks and then one day ends up selling ladies’ hats because someone thought it was a good idea. Sooner or later you have to bring in bankers and consultants, and pay them ridiculous amounts of money to tell you what you already know. You shouldn’t be selling ladies’ hats. The core competency of my business is the manufacture and distribution of narcotics. You see, I’m not a soldier, but unfortunately a growing portion of my time is being spent on wars with the other cartels and the authorities, at least the ones not on my payroll. At first I thought procuring more powerful weapons was the answer. That is how Barquero came to work for me. Now I understand that giving bigger guns to my men only means a bigger mess to clean up. They aren’t trained soldiers like you and your unit. I want to outsource this problem. You’ve spent ten years trying to stop me, and you’re always outgunned in the fight or double-crossed by some government official who works for me. Besides, I hear the Mexican Army isn’t exactly always on time making its payroll. I pay much better and always on time.”

“I see.”

“Besides the men you used to help capture Barquero, who I assume are completely loyal to you, what kind of additional assets can you deliver?”

“Maybe twelve men. That would be as many as I can trust and who would be interested.”

“Is twelve enough?”

“More than enough, Padre. My unit is the most elite group of commandos in the entire Mexican Army. We’ve been trained by the best of the best from around the world, including the Americans, Germans, and Israelis. But my men aren’t bodyguards.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to be. Carnicero will continue to organize my personal protection. I expect your men to serve as the commandos they are. You will become the leader of a secret group designed to eliminate my occasional problems.”

“A hit squad?”

“If that is how you wish to look at it. I’ve done my research on you, Cesar. You’re very intelligent. I want to make a place for you on my management team. I don’t just need advice from lawyers, accountants, and politicians. I need to know what is happening on the front lines when I make decisions. Does my offer interest you?”

“I’m intrigued, and you’re not the kind of man to decline a generous offer to. There’s no doubt my men are sick of fighting an unwinnable war. Sick of watching their friends and colleagues die. But I need to talk to them first to be sure. Individually. It may take some time.”

“Of course. While you continue to consider my offer, I want you to spend the night here, Colonel. I’m throwing a birthday party tonight for the chief of police from Nuevo Laredo. He’s a talented young man that I’m grooming for political office. I’d like you to meet him. I can envision the two of you working together in the future. A number of my top lieutenants will be present as well.”

“As you wish, Padre.”

“Excellent,” the Padre said as he rose to lead them out of the office. “I’ll have a room set up for you. In the meantime, I’ll show you around the complex. I want you to examine some of the armaments Barquero acquired for me before we had our little falling out. I think you’ll be suitably impressed. I believe it will help make your decision easier. Later, you can clean up and relax before dinner.”

“Thank you, Padre.”




CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Honey Pot


Private Zulu wiped his sweaty and dusty brow with a dirty bandanna before sticking it in his back pocket and examining his handiwork. He cocked his head sideways and stared at the excavated plot of soil and rocks in the middle of the desert.

“That’s a honey pot?”

“It will be once it’s baited,” replied Avery.

“I don’t much reckon. Just looks like a sorry hole in the ground to me.” Private Zulu stuck his entrenching tool into the dry soil and spit into the shallow pit.

“Trust me Private… Ziggy! Quit pushing the dirt back in!”

“Like, I’m just squaring off the, like, edges, man,” Ziggy said as he worked his way around the perimeter of the dig site with his entrenching tool. “Finished, man!” Ziggy flashed a double peace sign.

“Well dug,” said the General. “Now get in to check it for size.”

“For what?”

“Size.” The General pushed Private Zulu into the hole.

“Like, why all the, like, hostility, man?”

“You’re next, you good-for-nothing, skinny-ass hippy.” Avery kicked Ziggy into the pit next to Private Zulu. Avery fell over in the process.

“Like, why are you always insulting me, dude?”

“I’m not insulting you,” Avery said as he picked himself up and dusted off his tracksuit. “I’m describing you. There’s a difference.”

“Well, at least I’m not, like, fat, and stuff.”

“I don’t need to be thin. God gave me awesome hair. Back in your hole!” Avery kicked his foot out at Ziggy, who was trying to climb out of the pit. “Back in your hole!”

“I want out,” said Private Zulu.

“Close your eyes and cover your mouths.” Avery pulled a small plastic squeeze bottle from his fanny pack. “Trust me on this one.” Avery squirted the men with a long stream of foul-smelling dark yellow liquid. Private Zulu and Ziggy howled in disgust. Zulu coughed and gagged, while Ziggy threw up in his mouth before choking it back down. Avery squirted them again for good measure. “That should do it.”

“What in the name of sweet Jesus was that?” Private Zulu asked while wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Genuine goat urine, gentlemen,” Avery replied. “I couldn’t come to an agreeable price with that unscrupulous goat farmer for an actual animal. Now think goat thoughts.”

“Like, goat thoughts, man?”

“Kind of like lamb thoughts, just not as cute.”

“Like, I want Nancy, man.” Ziggy reached out and pulled the large iguana into the pit and cuddled the squirming creature in his arms.

“General, where are the rest of your troops?”

“Back over the rise looking for gold… I mean scat.”

“Well, we’d better go get them and set up a perimeter above this location.”

“Aren’t we going to wait for dark?” the General asked.

“Dark? And potentially miss the opportunity to spot one of those nefarious bastards? No, we set up shop now.”

“I was under the impression the enemy was nocturnal.”

“Mostly. However, they know that I know that, so they’ll think I won’t think that they would know their best opportunity for migration would be when I wouldn’t think it was the same time they were thinking it would be. I think.”

“Naturally.”

• • •


Inside the Padre’s compound, Cesar followed Carnicero and the Padre toward a large red barn. Inside, the Padre led the two men to a large delivery truck parked in the cavernous room. Opening the back of the truck, the Padre motioned for Cesar to climb in.

“What do you think, Colonel?”

Cesar examined the crates of military-grade weapons and explosives. “U.S. military ordnance?”

“Precisely. Your men will have the best of everything.”

“These are my favorites,” Carnicero said, tapping on one of the crates before lifting the lid. Inside was a portable ground-to-air missile launcher.

“Impressive,” said Cesar. “Do you have more?”

“Of course,” the Padre replied. “I have many similar caches, although one lies at the bottom of a harbor. Barquero is paying the price for it.”

“Padre,” a shirtless man called out as he entered the barn.

“What is it?”

“Reports of some men on the property. About a mile to the west.”

“Are they police?”

“I don’t think so, Padre.”

“Army?”

“Impossible,” said Cesar. “I would know if there was an operation near this location. Probably just some people who stumbled into the area.”

“They picked the wrong place to stumble into. Carnicero, take some men and go after them.”

“Yes, Padre,” Carnicero said as he pulled a pistol from his waistband. “Kill them?”

“Not unless you have to. I want to know who they are. Bring them to me. I want to know who would trespass so close to my property. The locals know better.”

“Yes, Padre.”

“Cesar, come with me. It’s time for lunch.”

• • •


Private Foxtrot navigated his metal detector along the bank of the shallow stream as the rest of men poked their entrenching tools into the muddy flats along the edges of the water.

“This is useless,” said Fire Team Leader Alpha. “I don’t even have a clue what we are looking for.”

“If the General says there is gold out here, then there must be,” said Private Foxtrot.

“I’ve known the General a long time, and he don’t exactly always get the facts just right.”

“Wait, I’ve got something!”

“What?”

“It’s big!”

“How big?”

“The size of a Cadillac.”

“Great, an old car.”

“No, it’s something else. Something else. Holy mama!”

“Watch it, here comes the boss.”

“Attention, battalion!” the General announced as he and Avery approached the men. “Gather up!” The men of STRAC-BOM came together in a circle around the General. “Now look here,” the General said as he began drawing in the mud with the business end of his riding crop. “Over that rise, Private Zulu and one of our civilians, the skinny one, are positioned in a prime location for reconnaissance, according to our fat civilian. No offense.” General X-Ray looked at Avery. Avery bit his lip. He was close to his goal, and now was the time for discretion, even though it didn’t sit with him very well. “We’ll take position here at the top of the ridge.” The General pointed with his riding crop. “When the enemy reveals its location, on my command, Fire Teams Alpha and Bravo will execute a modified reverse echelon and advance on the target while Fire Team Leader Alpha, the civilian, and myself will establish a staggered skirmisher line in the rear.”

“A reverse what?” Private Tango whispered to his Team Leader.

“I don’t know,” replied Fire Team Leader Bravo. “Just run a shallow crossing route over the middle, and I’ll hit you between the linebackers.”

“Roger that.”

“Any questions?” the General asked. None of the men said a word. “Okay, then, obey my commands and protect yourself at all times.” Suddenly, the sound of automatic gunfire exploded from the other side of the rise. Through the din, the sounds of Ziggy’s and Private Zulu’s screams rang out. “Battle stations!” the General shouted. “Fire Team Leader Alpha, where are the weapons?”

“In the bus.”

“Why are they in the bus?”

“That’s where you said to store them.”

“Idiot! Get the weapons. The rest of you men, follow me.” The General turned and waddled his way up to the top of the rise with his troops in tow. Avery was the first one to the top. A group of six Mexican men were loading Ziggy and Private Zulu into the back of a pickup truck. The men were heavily armed. One of the men, one with long black hair, turned and looked back up toward the top of the rise.

“Retreat,” the General whispered as he ducked down and started back to the bottom, his troops right behind him. Avery didn’t move. He just watched the men below. Once Ziggy and Private Zulu were tossed into the bed of the pickup, the man with the long hair turned and climbed into the vehicle. It sped off across the desert floor.

“What the hell?” Fire Team Leader Alpha, halfway up the slope, his arms full of old deer rifles and shotguns in various states of disrepair, asked as the General stumbled past him toward the bus.

“Retreat!” the General cried out again.

“Retreating!” the men called out while running to catch up with the General.

“Flipping pig shit,” Fire Team Leader Alpha swore as he turned around with his load and followed the group. “Make up your damn mind.”

Meanwhile, at the top of the rise, Avery watched the truck pulling away into the distance, heading toward the farm. Over the distance, he could still hear Ziggy screaming out.

“Nannnnncccccy!”

• • •


Back at the Coyote’s Lair, the dejected men stared into half-finished bottles of beer.

“I can’t believe they got Zulu,” Private Foxtrot said.

“And the civilian, too,” added Private Tango. “This ain’t going to look good in our mission debrief.”

“My friends, I told you, that area is dangerous, no?” El Coyote passed out another round of beers. “Many people go missing there and are never seen again.”

“What are we going to do, General?” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked. “We can’t just leave them behind, can we?”

“I’m strategizing on it,” the General replied as he rubbed his head.

“Mr. Coyote, do you have a telephone I may use?” asked Avery.

“Sure, my friend. It is behind the bar. Feel free.”

“What’s going on?” asked the General. Avery pulled a small piece of paper from his fanny pack.

“I’ve got an idea. Wait here.” Avery went to the bar, found the phone, and dialed a number. After it rang a few times, someone picked up the other end.

“Yes.”

“I’m trying to reach Enrique Montalban.”

“How did you get this number?”

“Gregory Kennesaw Mountain. He’s my legal advisor, or at least one part of the numerous legal experts that comprise my crisis team. He suggested I get in touch with a Mr. Montalban, if certain unfortunate circumstances arise. Can you please put me in touch with him? Immediately.”

“You are speaking to Enrique Montalban. Are you calling to settle Mr. Mountain’s significant gambling debt with me? I can assure you the accumulated interest is quite significant.”

“Not my concern. May I suggest you take the matter up with Mr. Mountain personally? He is usually sober by two or three in the afternoon, except for weekends and holidays, but the window of lucidity is rather small. Don’t wait until after four.”

“To whom am I speaking?”

“For now, just call me Rock Star.”

“What is the nature of your call, Mr. Star? Or should I just call you Rock?”

“I’m in a bit of a pickle. You see, I’m here in Mexico and seem to have misplaced a couple of friends.”

“Misplaced?”

“They were taken, actually.”

“Many people are taken in this country. It is not so uncommon. I suggest you contact the police.”

“Normally, that would be my first call. Well, not normally, but I’m not the most popular person with the authorities at the moment.”

“Are you a wanted man?”

“Most likely.”

“By who?”

“The government.”

“Which one?”

“All of them, I think. There’s also a little problem with the appropriate travel documents for several of the members in our party.”

“You’re in the country illegally?”

“We didn’t exactly sign in at the front desk, if you know what I mean.”

“What makes you think that I can help?”

“According to Confucius, if you toss a pebble into a pond, you get a ripple. If you toss a toaster into a pond, you get a bigger ripple, not to mention a whole lot of dead fish. What I mean to say is that, according to my attorney, you are the kind of man who can make a very big ripple.”

“You’re a very strange man.”

“Thank you. Genius is almost always misdiagnosed.”

“Besides you and your two missing colleagues, how many others are with you?”

“Six others.”

“Where are you currently?”

“A little place outside of Piedras Negras at a house of ill repute known as the Coyote’s Lair. Our friends were taken to a large farm not far from here.” There was silence on the other end of the line.

“I know the place you are at,” Mr. Montalban said after a few moments. “Stay there. I will make some calls and see what I can find out. Can you describe your two companions? The ones who are missing, so to speak.” Avery gave him a detailed description of Ziggy and Private Zulu. “Thank you, Mr. Rock Star. Once again, do not leave the Coyote’s Lair. Someone will be in contact with you. Someone who can help.”

“Thank you in advance for your kind assistance, Mr. Montalban. Now, make it snappy.”

“But of course.” Mr. Montalban hung up the phone.

“There, that was easy.” Avery returned to the group.

• • •


Back in New Orleans, Mae Mae rocked in her chair. The rocking chair was hand carved by her father. It was old, and it helped the elderly voodoo priestess to relax. Something wasn’t right with Mae Mae. She felt it in her bones. It ached deep within her. Her dreams had been crazy lately. Those two white fools. Mae Mae rubbed her temple. It didn’t help with her headache. Her granddaughter, in her little white dress, came through the purple strands of beads.

“Mae Mae, we need more whiskey.” The pretty little girl went to the back of the building.

“It’s up in there, child,” Mae Mae said in a hushed voice. “Take it all out, sweetie.”

“Mae Mae, you okay?” The little girl carried a case of liquor toward the front of the house.

“Hush, child. Leave me be.”

“Okay, Mae Mae.” The little girl looked over her shoulder with concern. The shouts from the bar in the front room grabbed the girl’s attention. “I’ll be back, Mae Mae. You just rest easy.” The girl disappeared through the purple beads.

“I’ll be here…child.” Mae Mae exhaled, long and slow. She climbed out of her rocker and went to the table. Standing above it, she tossed the bones. A concerned look spread across her face as they settled. She sat down at the table and began to deal from a deck of tarot cards. She looked at the cards, examining them closely. A worried look spread across her face. I can’t believe those two crazy honkies actually went to Mexico. Mae Mae picked up her cards and bones, and went back to her rocking chair. She was tired. She went to sleep… and prayed for them. For the first time ever, she prayed for honkies.

• • •


“Nancy… Nancy,” Ziggy whimpered in the dark.

“Where are we?” Private Zulu asked.

“Like, I don’t know, man. Nancy…”

“Quiet… I don’t think we’re alone in here.”

“Huh?”

“I think there’s someone over there.”

“Like, where?”

“Over there.”

“It’s, like, too dark, dude.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling.” A groan came from the other side of the room. “I told you so! Help! Get us out of here!”

“Nancy!” Footsteps came from outside the room. Suddenly the door opened, and a light was turned on. The brightness temporarily blinded the two men, who struggled at the bonds that held them firmly in their chairs.

“Help us, mister,” Private Zulu begged the figure slowly coming into focus in the doorway. The man, wearing a dark suit and priest’s collar, lit a cigar.

“What were you doing on my property?”

Neither Ziggy nor Private Zulu said a word. Their eyes were riveted to the sight of the massive, bloody, naked man tied to a chair on the other side of the room. A car battery rested at his feet.

“I said, what were you doing on my land?”

“We wasn’t doing nothing, mister,” Private Zulu said. “According to the General, I’m only supposed to give you my name, rank, and serial number.”

“I don’t, like, have a rank,” Ziggy mumbled.

“Do you know who I am?” the Padre asked as he blew a cloud of smoke across the room.

“No, sir,” Private Zulu answered. “May I use your the toilet, mister? I’ve got a real bad case of the green apple squirts. I don’t cotton too much to the chow down here.”

“How many others are with you?”

“Oh, a whole bunch, mister. They’re probably on their way to get help right now.” Across the room, Barquero moaned. “Maybe, if you just let us go, we can forget this whole dang thing. We was just about heading back to Texas anyway. Bygones is bygones, my granny used to say.”

A man carrying a cell phone entered the room. Cesar followed the man. He paused when he saw Barquero.

“Hello, my old friend,” Cesar said. Squinting through the blood in his eyes, Barquero struggled at his bonds and cursed through the duct tape covering his mouth.

“Padre,” the man with the phone said, “you have a call.” He handed the Padre the phone.

“Who is it?” the Padre asked. “What do you want? Really? Where? I see. I’ll take care of it. Thank you, Mr. Montalban.”

• • •


Back at the Coyote’s Lair, Avery and the remaining men of STRAC-BOM watched the naked women dance for the evening crowd. The bus was parked out back. The General had insisted, for security reasons. They all had their sombreros on for disguise, except the General. As usual, the main focus of attention in the building was on Esmeralda. The curvaceous brunette slowly spun her way around the main stage. She pulled a large revolver from the holster on her hip and playfully pointed it at random men in the audience. Her intoxicating smile virtually hypnotized customers into tipping her every peso they had on them.

“Man, that babe is finer than a frog hair split three ways.” Fire Team Leader Bravo finished his beer.

“Be careful, my friend,” El Coyote said as he placed another round of beers down on the table. “She’s a beauty, but she bites.”

“That pistol she’s packing sure looks right legit,” Private Foxtrot said.

“That’s because it is,” replied El Coyote.

“Jesus!” Private Foxtrot ducked under the table as Esmeralda swung the handgun in his direction. “It’s not loaded, is it?”

“Of course it’s loaded, my friend. What use is an unloaded gun? Lupe! Bring these men some more tequila.” Behind the bar, Lupe ignored him. “When is the man you called showing up to help find your friends?” El Coyote asked Avery.

“I’m expecting to hear from him at any moment.” Avery yawned. “You’re absolutely positive there’s no Mountain Dew for sale in this wretched town?”

“Positive, my friend.” All of a sudden, the doors to the club swung open, and half a dozen armed men burst in.

“This is a message from the Padre!” one of the cartel soldiers said. “Stay away from the farm!” A long string of automatic weapon fire immediately followed his proclamation. Everyone in the building dove for cover as glass exploded throughout the room. Avery tried to hide under the table. He didn’t really fit. The men from STRAC-BOM hit the deck. Burst after burst of gunfire continued and mixed with the screams of terrified patrons. The acrid smell of gunpowder quickly filled the room. Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped. There was total silence except for the occasional tinkling of a fragment of broken glass falling to the floor.

“Stay away from the Padre!” one of the gunmen warned.

“I kill you!” El Coyote cried out as he leapt from behind an overturned table, jumped off the top of another, and came crashing down on a gunman, driving him hard into the floor. “I kill you dead!” From behind the stage, Esmeralda appeared with her long silver revolver and pointed it straight at the Padre’s men. Wearing a tight-fitting red corset and holding the big pistol with both hands, she fired all six rounds toward the attackers, hitting two of them. The powerful rounds blew the men backward several feet. The other gunmen dove for cover. From behind the bar, Lupe emerged with a sawed-off shotgun. She jacked shell after shell into the chamber as she sprayed the area with heavy lead shot. El Coyote picked the victim of his devastating “Flying Burrito” up over his head, spun around twice, and launched him ten feet across the room into a wall. The man hit headfirst. He fell to the floor and didn’t move again. Panicked patrons and barely clad strippers scattered for the exits. Esmeralda and Lupe continued to pull the triggers of their weapons, but they were both out of ammunition. The three surviving members of the cartel recognized the sound of hammers falling on empty chambers. They reloaded and crawled out of hiding.

“Follow me!” El Coyote yelled as he pulled Avery out from under his table. General X-Ray and his men quickly followed.

“Through here,” Esmeralda said as she pointed behind the stage just as the henchmen began to fire again. Bullets slammed into what remained of the mirrored walls all around her. Behind the bar, Lupe had reloaded her shotgun and popped up out of hiding. Firing away, she hit one of the gunmen with two bursts, nearly tearing him in half. The man’s partners turned their assault rifles on Lupe and cut her down. “Lupe!” Esmeralda screamed as El Coyote pulled her behind the stage, where Avery and the others huddled together.

“This way,” El Coyote said, dragging the inconsolable Esmeralda with him. “To your vehicle.” Emerging through the back of the Coyote’s Lair, the group piled into the school bus. Sounds of gunfire continued from inside the building, followed by the sound of a large explosion. Fire Team Leader Alpha poured on the gas and ground through the gears as the rickety bus barreled down the narrow backstreets of the small village. Looking back, El Coyote could already see the flames beginning to rise from his beloved brothel. It had been his life, and now it was gone. By now Esmeralda had stopped crying and stared coldly out the window.

“You okay, ma’am?” Private Tango asked quietly.

“Do I look okay?” Esmeralda shot back. “Those bastards just killed my sister. No, no, I’m not okay!”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Private Tango said sheepishly.

“And for the record, my name isn’t ma’am.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing to me!”

“Calm down,” El Coyote said.

“Don’t you tell me to calm down!” Esmeralda screamed. “It’s all your fault. You let these stupid gringos into the club. All they do is just sit around watching me dance and don’t even tip. And then, if that’s not enough, they bring the Padre right to us. Everything is gone, Lupe is dead, and it’s all your fault!” Esmeralda punched the bus seat in front of her with the butt of her pistol.

“What are we going to do about Zulu and the civilian?” Private Foxtrot asked.

“They’re with the one they call the Padre,” replied El Coyote. “I know where his farmhouse is. I’m sure he’s keeping them there. We’ll get them out, if they’re still alive, and then we’re going to take our revenge. I’ve had enough with these damn cartels. This town is full of good people. No more turning our backs and pretending everything is okay. Enough is enough. El Coyote has had enough.” He looked at Esmeralda and reached for her hand. Esmeralda slapped it away.

“Mr. Coyote,” General X-Ray said, “my men are trained professionals…”

“Your men are fools,” Esmeralda interjected before she turned her head and stared out the window.

“As I was saying, my men are professionals, and even if we had the proper equipment and time to recon and plan a full-scale search-and-rescue mission, we’d be outmanned and outgunned.”

“I have a plan. Driver, head toward the hills over there.” El Coyote pointed across the desert. Fire Team Leader Alpha pulled off the road and headed away from the village. “Esmeralda, you don’t have to come with us,” El Coyote said.

“Screw you. I’m coming. Someone is going to pay for Lupe.” Esmeralda spun the cylinder on her long pistol. The group sat in silence for the next few minutes. Avery watched as the dark red sun settled below the horizon to the west. He wondered if Ziggy was okay. The little hippy was his only real friend, even if Avery rarely treated him like one. For the first time since he’d lost his mother, Avery felt genuine remorse for another human being.

• • •


“They’re, like, going to come and get us, right?” Ziggy asked.

“Shhh…you’re going to wake the big Mexican.”

“I’m, like, serious, man. They won’t, like, leave us here. Will they?”

“Well, the General always says never leave a man behind,” Private Zulu replied as he wiggled against his restraints for the hundredth time. “It’s in the Code of Conduct. Right before the part about recycling spent shell cartridges.”

“Dude, like, they left us behind once already.”

“Fair enough, but I’m sure the General has a plan. He always has a plan. I reckon he’s probably out there right now, scouting the place out. He’s a right genius when it comes to operational logistics, and he comes from a long line of war heroes. One of them even singlehandedly sunk a Nazi submarine with his bare hands. Why, I bet the General can’t wait to come in here with guns blazing and bust us out.”

• • •


“I really think we should consider calling the American embassy,” General X-Ray said as he wrung his pudgy hands. Sweat dripped down his face. “Maybe they have some hostage negotiators they can call in. If we head back to the border right now, we can be home by sun-up.”

“I can’t believe you want to leave Private Zulu behind,” Fire Team Leader Bravo said.

“Don’t think of it as leaving him behind. Just think of it as leaving him where he is. It’s his own damn fault he got captured. He was clearly instructed to fight to the death. I’m considering court-martialing him posthumously.”

“Don’t you say that, General,” Private Tango said angrily. “Don’t you say Zulu’s dead.”

“Men, we have to come to grips with the fact that he may be KIA. By now, the Mexicans probably know he’s a member of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia. They’ll obviously know our reputation and torture him to death. It’s the unfortunate price of our notoriety and success. I hope he doesn’t give them the HQ’s mailing address.” The General wiped his brow.

“Private Zulu wouldn’t talk. Not in a million, billion years,” Private Tango said.

“Really?”

“Well…maybe.”

“General, must I remind you of our contract,” Avery said as he searched in his fanny pack, hoping to find a snack. “We’re going after them.”

“It’s hopeless,” the General replied.

“With my superior intellect, hardly. We simply define our objectives, identify all the possible variables, and plan accordingly.”

“Pull up over by those three rocks,” El Coyote said. Fire Team Leader Alpha stopped the bus. “Keep the headlights on, and grab your shovels and follow me.” El Coyote led the group to a spot in the middle of three large rocks arranged in a triangle. “Now dig here.” The men dug into the dry ground while Esmeralda repeatedly spun the cylinder of her pistol. Soon, Fire Team Leader Charlie’s entrenching tool hit something made of wood. “That’s it. Now dig it out,” El Coyote instructed. In a few minutes, the top of a wooden crate was exposed. Using his brute strength, the barrel-chested former wrestler pulled the rectangular crate from the ground and opened it.

“Oh, baby,” said Private Foxtrot, as he looked at the collection of pistols and assault rifles inside.

“Gentlemen, welcome to my museum of carnage,” El Coyote said with aplomb as he lifted an AK-47 from the pile and inserted a long, curved magazine. “That’s the ram’s horn.” He winked.

“Where’d you get these?” the General asked.

“Mostly from people who left them in my nightclub,” replied El Coyote as he chambered a round and raised the assault rifle to his shoulder. “People who drink too much tequila tend to leave things behind by accident. I keep them here for safety, because people who drink too much tequila also tend to steal things. Feeling better about our chances now, General X-Ray?”

“It’s certainly an upgrade from our current arsenal, but I don’t know. We still have time to call the police.”

“With all due respect, General,” Esmeralda said as she pulled a box of forty-four-magnum pistol ammunition from the crate. “Shut the hell up.” El Coyote passed out the weapons to the men.

“Forget the guns, amigo,” Private Foxtrot said as he pulled out a half dozen sticks of dynamite from the crate. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about.” He held the explosives to his nose and inhaled deeply, like they were fine cigars. “I’m the demolitions expert ’round here,” he said to El Coyote.

“No, thank you,” Avery said as El Coyote offered him a nine-millimeter automatic pistol. “I’m trained in the deadly art of hand-to-hand combat, namely Monkey Style Kung Fu, but Filipino stick fighting is my specialty.”

“Take it. You don’t fight the cartels with sticks.” Avery accepted the pistol and tucked it in under the strap of his fanny pack.

“Now, then,” Avery began. “We’re not far from the farmhouse. Our first order of business is to eliminate their communications capabilities. I noticed a type of transponder while scouting for chupacabra signs. I’ll tackle that. Second, we’re going to need a diversion. General, I’m leaving that up to you and your men. Lastly, we need to locate Ziggy and Zulu. My bet is that they’re in the main building, but we better split up to be sure. For the main house, Mr. Coyote and the stripper will come with me…” A devastating punch to his liver sent Avery crashing to the ground.

“For your information, I’m an exotic dancer, not a stripper, you fat, ugly bastard.” Esmeralda stood with her hands on her hips.

“My bad,” Avery groaned as he rolled on the ground.

“Some hand-to-hand combat expert you are.” She spit on the ground and pushed her ample breasts up higher in her corset.

“Saw it… saw it coming the whole way,” Avery moaned as he struggled to rise to his feet.

“Right.”

“It’s just that I don’t hit women,” Avery groaned. “Children and small animals on occasion, but never women.”




CHAPTER FIFTEEN

They’ve Got Us Surrounded… Again


Light classical music filtered through the farmhouse as the guests arrived. One by one they were escorted from their cars and introduced to the host. After cocktails, they were seated at the table. The room was painted dark red. It was the color of dried blood. A majestic mahogany table awaited the party. Silver candlesticks illuminated the long room. At the head of the table, the Padre raised a glass to his guests.

“To our birthday boy, Jose, and to all of you.” His guests drank with him. Jose and his young wife bowed their heads. “Now that’s finished, on to business.” He laughed as he lowered his glass. “How was your trip, Ricardo? Kill anyone in India?” Jose’s wife spilled her wine.

“Forgive me. I’m so sorry.” The woman used her napkin to clean up the mess.

“Think nothing of it. Get that, please.” An attractive woman in an apron picked up the overturned glass and replaced it with a fresh one. “Ricardo. India? Good news?”

“Yes,” responded a man in a pinstriped suit. “India is good.”

“What’s in India?” asked Cesar.

“Methamphetamine or, more specifically, the raw materials required to produce it. We need large amounts of precursor ingredients for the manufacturing process, namely ephedrine or pseudoephedrine. We can’t get them domestically anymore, but in India and China, they’re more than happy to supply us. For a price.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t see. And neither does anyone else. I’m building a super-lab. The construction is nearly complete. It’s an underground facility with elevators and a sophisticated ventilation system. Most Americans cook up their filthy product in plastic bottles in rural areas for rural clients. We’re going after a significantly bigger market.”

“Our contacts in India can provide a hundred tons of the necessary materials within three weeks,” said the man in the pinstriped suit.

Three weeks? the Padre thought. That’s too long. He was pissed off but didn’t let it show. “Excellent work, Ricardo.”

“Is this a response to the legalization policies in America?” Cesar asked.

“Of course it is,” Carnicero replied. “Marijuana is a dying product. Meth is the future. What is better about ours is that it isn’t crystallized here. We ship it in liquid form, ninety percent pure, in tequila bottles or the spare gas tanks of eighteen-wheelers. The border patrol doesn’t even know what to think.” He laughed as he drank from his glass.

“Enough,” the Padre announced. “Tonight is for our guest of honor, Jose.” The dinner party raised their glasses in a toast. “Soon you will be an elected politician, one with a great future. Didn’t I promise you this?”

“Yes, Padre,” Jose said as he leaned over and kissed his beautiful wife. “I will repay your kindness with loyalty.”

“I expect that. It’s not so much a gesture that I reward…as much as it is…a condition of employment,” the Padre said with a pause as he sipped his wine. The pause had its effect as the room went quiet. From outside, there was a howl.

“Señor, what was that?” Jose’s wife asked.

“Nothing, my dear. Just a coyote.”

“It didn’t sound like a coyote.”

“Of course it did,” Jose whispered to his wife. “Apologies.”

“Just some kind of dog, my darling.” The Padre raised his glass and drank. “Maybe you should check on our patient,” the Padre said to the doctor at the table.

“Of course.” The man got up from the table.

“I’ll go, too,” said Carnicero as he finished his wine.

“I as well,” Cesar said. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course,” the Padre replied. “Be sure to tuck your old friend in. Open another bottle,” he called to the staff.

Cesar rose from his chair to follow the doctor and Carnicero. He’d made sure that no one had seen him slip the steak knife into the sleeve of his suit coat earlier. Down the stairs, past an armed guard, he followed the two men. The door to the cell was at the end of the hall. Following the two men, Cesar entered the room. Barquero was covered in dried blood. Private Zulu was asleep, while Ziggy tossed and turned, begging for Nancy.

“Colonel Beltrán, please hold his arm while I sedate him.” Cesar stood behind the chair and took Barquero’s arm. He held it down as the doctor injected him with a syringe. Barquero flinched as the needle went in.

“Sleep easy, you bastard.” Carnicero grinned as the injection took place. “Tomorrow, we will have some more fun.” Barquero squinted through his swollen eyes at Carnicero and then looked up at Cesar. Cold anger filled his eyes.

“I think he likes you,” Carnicero said as he turned to leave with the doctor. No one saw Cesar leave the steak knife in Barquero’s bound hands, except Ziggy.

“Nancy…”

• • •


Avery took a piece of chewing gum out of his fanny pack and carefully opened it. After chewing it a few times, he removed the small, sticky wad from his mouth and molded it around the tip of the transponder. Using the foil from the gum, he clamped it over the tip of the device. Then he took off one of his high-top sneakers, held it above his head, and, for good measure, smashed the control panel to bits.

“By Crom, I swear!” he said as he slipped his foot back into the shoe. “Try downloading at wi-fi speed now, bitches.” Avery did a military rolling dive to his right, and came up holding his pistol and looking for enemies. Like most of the times he did a military rolling dive, he didn’t see anything afterward. He set off into the dark. Along the way, he looked for sticks. Filipino-style sticks.

• • •


“Maneuver medium left,” General X-Ray ordered his men.

“Maneuvering,” the men said in unison as they crawled on hands and knees toward the white fence surrounding the compound.

“Keep your heads down,” the General hissed as he saw an armed sentry smoking a cigarette outside the large red barn. “Foxtrot. Do you have the ordnance prepped?”

“Roger, sir,” Private Foxtrot said as he pulled a stick of dynamite from his back pocket and clamped it in his teeth like some kind of retriever. “Foxtrot go boom,” he mumbled with the explosive in his mouth.

“And your detonation device?”

Private Foxtrot held up a pack of matches. “My lighter ’ain’t working so hot.”

“Good enough. Now, I want you to head toward the edge of the barn. Once I give the signal, blow the door. We’ll attack across the courtyard and meet you inside. With Private Zulu incarcerated and Private Foxtrot working demolition, we’re down to only one full Fire Team. Bravo, that means you. You’ll lead the charge. And remember, boys, if you aren’t shooting, you should be loading, and if you aren’t loading, you should be shooting.” Private Tango and Fire Team Leader Bravo looked at one another nervously. “Once inside the barn, we’ll move in a series of zigs and zags, forming a search matrix until we find the HVTs.”

“What’s an HVT?” Private Tango asked.

“High Value Target.”

“What’s a High…” Private Foxtrot mumbled before taking the dynamite stick out of his mouth. “What’s a High Value Target?”

“Private Zulu and the civilian, or anything that looks like it’s worth something. This enemy we’re facing is composed solely of cutthroats and thieves. Technically, it’s not stealing if you steal from stealers. See if they have any flat-screen televisions or digital watches. Foxtrot, be sure to wait for the signal.”

• • •


In the dark night sky, high above the farm, a stealthily silent drone, on loan from the United States military, made lazy circles around the compound below. It sent a stream of images and data via satellite to a Mexican Army mobile command station ten miles away.

“General Morales. We have an issue with the target.”

“What is it, Sergeant?” The elderly Mexican commander put down a field radio and crossed the room to the view screen.

“Infrared is picking up movement around the perimeter of the compound. I don’t think it is our men.”

“It better not be. All assets were to hold position until the go signal was issued. How many men?”

“A group of three closing from the south and a second group of six from the north. Here and here.” The sergeant pointed to the small glowing figures on the blackish green console.

“It could be another cartel,” General Morales said as he stroked his mustache. “If we knew the Padre and his associates were going to be there, maybe they did, too. Spin up the assault team helicopter and have them hold two miles from the target. We’ve been waiting way too long as it is. I’m not letting that bastard get away again. Have all assets put on alert. Go signal is imminent.”

• • •


A cartel sentry walked the perimeter of the fence south of the farmhouse. He set down his rifle as he stopped to relieve himself before fishing a cigarette from his pocket. Just as he was about to light it, a pair of burly arms grabbed him from behind around the chest.

“I kill you now!” El Coyote whispered as he crushed the wind from the man’s lungs. In a few seconds it was over, and El Coyote let the man’s limp body, full of crushed ribs and collapsed lungs, fall to the dry ground.

“Not bad,” Avery said as he and Esmeralda emerged from the bushes. “But I could have done it quicker.”

“Follow me.” El Coyote bent over and ran to the back corner of the farmhouse. A door was open. Inside, the smells of the kitchen wafted out. The scents made Avery hungry. From inside, the sound of heavy boots walking across a wooden floor approached the open door. “You want this one, my friend?” El Coyote whispered to Avery.

“That’s okay. You need the practice,” hissed Avery. “Besides, I couldn’t find the right sticks.” As the man came out of the doorway, El Coyote threw a massive roundhouse punch at the man’s face. He never saw it coming. El Coyote caught the unconscious man before he could fall to the ground.

“Take care of him,” the brawny man said as he peeked into the kitchen. Avery and Esmeralda dragged the unconscious cartel soldier by his feet into some nearby bushes.

“Stop staring at my breasts!”

“I wasn’t.” Avery looked away from her chest.

“Pervert.”

They used a roll of duct tape to bind and gag the man before rejoining their companion. Avery looked to check his watch before realizing he didn’t own one.

Where is that blasted diversion? Avery thought to himself. It should have happened by now.

• • •


Private Foxtrot crawled to the edge of the barn. He couldn’t see the door, but he knew it was a few feet around the corner. He could smell cigarette smoke and the occasional shuffling of the guard’s boots on the gravelly ground. Slowly, he pulled the stick of explosives from his mouth. Taking out his pack of matches, he waited for the signal.

• • •


The army sergeant viewed his computer monitor. Three glowing figures huddled by the back of the farmhouse, and another one appeared next to the barn.

“General Morales,” the sergeant said. “Whoever they are, I think they are preparing to breach the buildings.”

“Goddammit!” General Morales swore. “They’re going to blow our operation. That’s it. We’re out of time. Send them in. Send the go signal.”

“Sir, the air assets will get there well before the ground troops have time to arrive.”

“I don’t care. Send the go signal.”

“What about Colonel Beltrán?”

“He’s on his own.”

• • •


“Can you see him?” General X-Ray asked.

“No,” replied Fire Team Leader Charlie. “It’s too dark in that corner by the barn, but he should be there by now.”

“Well, send the signal and cross your fingers.”

“What’s the signal?” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked.

“The signal. The signal to blow the doors!”

“I don’t think we have one.”

“What? Does anyone here know the signal?” the General asked. Nobody responded.

• • •


Closing on the compound at a high rate of speed, two Mexican Army helicopters skimmed low across the desert floor. One was a large transport helicopter carrying a team of Mexican Army special forces commandos; the other was a smaller gunship.

“Helo one-niner, this is little bird. Over.”

“Roger, little bird. Over.”

“Bring it in fast and shallow. Put her down in the courtyard between the two main structures. I’ll fly high cover with the sniper team. Over.”

“Roger, little bird. Going in now.”

• • •


“Are you sure we don’t have a signal?” General X-Ray asked. “I’m pretty sure we had one before. Maybe a whistle or something?”

“Naw,” said Private Tango. “The whistle meant retreat, or maybe chow time. I can’t rightly remember.”

“Was it a hoot owl?” asked Fire Team Leader Alpha.

“No, we gave up on that one. Remember, nobody could get it right,” replied Fire Team Leader Charlie. “It always sounded like the owl was dying.”

“Do we have any more signal flares?”

“Nope,” said Fire Team Leader Bravo. “We used them up at your birthday party.”

“Yes, I remember,” said the General. “Damn near burned down the HQ that night.”

“Yeah, but it was a hell of a party, sir,” Private Tango added. “When Zulu popped out of that cake and started firing off flares, it looked like the Fourth of July.”

“Only problem was that we were inside at the time,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said. “I’ll never forget when the town’s volunteer fire department showed up, all wearing tuxedos.”

“Yep, they sure was pissed off about being called away from their fire chief’s wedding,” Private Tango said.

“Dang it, men, stop reminiscing. We’ve got to come up with a signal, or we’ll be here all night. The thing about Foxtrot is that he never does anything without being told first. Decent trooper, but the boy has all the initiative of a wet turd.” All of a sudden, a huge roar passed overhead. General X-Ray and his men lay prone on the ground as the dry grass around them blew violently back and forth. A high-powered spotlight from above cut through the darkness like a laser, illuminating the courtyard. The guard by the barn dropped his cigarette and began firing wildly at the large helicopter, which bounced and skidded to a halt in the middle of the compound. The guard took cover inside the barn doors and continued to fire blindly from around the corner. Two more guards from inside the barn joined him. Army troops poured out from both sides of the chopper and began to set up a perimeter.

“Signal! Signal!” General X-Ray shouted as he jumped to his feet and began waving his arms over his head in Private Foxtrot’s general direction. “On your feet, men! Signal! Signal!” His men leapt up and began waving their arms with him.

• • •


Private Foxtrot ducked his head as gunfire exploded around him. Armed men began to stream out the farmhouse and fire at the helicopter in the courtyard.

“Holy crap,” he said. Striking a match and lighting the fuse to the stick of dynamite, the private went to throw it around the corner. In his haste, he didn’t reach far enough around the corner. It hit the side of barn and bounced back at his feet. The private dove on the sizzling stick of explosives. The hissing fuse burned his hand as he tried to pick it up. When he dropped the dynamite, it landed right in front of his face. From his belly, Private Foxtrot tried to blow out the fuse. It didn’t work. The fuse had already burned halfway down. Scrambling to his feet, he made a break across the open compound and sprinted toward the General and the rest of the men. Halfway across the courtyard, he spotted General X-Ray jumping up and down and waving his hands back and forth.

Oh, Jesus, he thought to himself, he wants me to go back. Private Foxtrot turned around and raced back for the still-fizzing stick of dynamite, dodging bullets the whole way. When he reached the explosive, the fuse was almost burnt to the end.

“The hell with this!” Private Foxtrot screamed as he turned around again and ran. “I never wanted to be in a militia anyway!” Two strides later, an enormous explosion rocked the compound. The force of the blast lifted Private Foxtrot off his feet and threw him in the air. Landing face first in the dirt, he skidded several feet before coming to rest with the trail of his landing stretching out behind him in the dirt.

“Man down!” General X-Ray cried. “Fire Team Bravo, go get him! Everyone else, concentrate your fire on the barn.”

• • •


In the dark room beneath the farmhouse, El Barquero woke to the sound of the dynamite explosion. Feeling the knife still in his hands, he began to cut himself free. He remembered Cesar giving it to him, but then things went black. It didn’t take long for him to cut himself free. As he rose to reach the door, a meek voice called out.

“Like, help, man.”

Barquero turned on the light. Across the room, he saw the two men looking at him plaintively. Barquero turned toward the door and then stopped. He turned back around and cut the two men loose. Ziggy kept his eyes shut the entire time. The sight of a naked, blood-covered man twice his size holding a knife was too much for his fragile nature.

“Get out of here. You’re on your own.” Barquero spun around and went to the door. It was locked. Taking a few steps back, he lowered his powerful shoulder and drove it as hard as he could into the middle of the door. It shattered. Reaching through the hole, he released the lock on the far side. Pushing what remained of it open, he ran down the hall toward a set of stairs.

“I’m with him,” said Private Zulu as he sprinted out of the room. Ziggy didn’t move. He was too scared. The sound of automatic weapon fire snapped him back.

“Like, wait for me,” Ziggy said as he crept out of the room.

• • •


At the sound of the explosion, the Padre’s dinner guests immediately hid under the heavy table, all except the Padre, Carnicero, and Cesar.

“Carnicero!” the Padre roared. “Get the men!” Carnicero ran from the room, shouting instructions. “The rest of you, follow me. There is a safe room.” The Padre led the dinner party out of the long dining room and down a hall to the left. Cesar lagged behind. When he exited the room, he went to the right.

• • •


El Barquero flew up the stairs two at a time. Turning a corner, he ran face first into one of the Padre’s soldiers. Grabbing him by the shoulders, he viciously head-butted the man. The man went limp in his arms. Barquero stripped the man of his pants and put them on. They barely fit, but unfortunately the man’s boots didn’t. Barquero froze; the sound of footsteps from above echoed down the staircase. He positioned himself. Just as the man came around the corner, he grabbed him by the throat.

“No,” Cesar hissed as Barquero’s hands clasped around his neck. Barquero continued to squeeze for a second more, then let go him. “So this was your idea of a good plan?” Cesar asked as he tried to catch his breath.

“It was the only way for me to get close to the Padre. You knew that. Where is he?”

“Upstairs. Jesus, you look like shit, man. Are you okay?”

“I wouldn’t look this way if you had kept up your end of the deal. What took you so long? This was supposed to go down earlier.”

“A dinner meeting with the Padre and some of his top people. I made the decision to wait until we could get them all. Seriously. Are you okay?”

“You made the decision? I’m fine, but waiting wasn’t part of the plan,” Barquero said as he picked up an assault rifle and pistol from the unconscious cartel soldier at his feet. He gave the rifle to Cesar. “Show me where the Padre is.”

“Can I come?” Private Zulu asked from the bottom of the stairs. Cesar and Barquero turned, and both pointed their weapons at him.

“He’s not one of them.” Barquero lowered his pistol.

“Find cover,” Cesar said. “Help is outside. When this is over, they’ll come to get you.”

• • •


At the first sound of fighting, Avery, Esmeralda, and El Coyote headed through the kitchen into the sprawling farmhouse. Esmeralda unloaded her massive pistol into two cartel soldiers who burst into the room. El Coyote picked up a third and smashed his head into a wall until he stopped moving. Avery followed the two into the main area of the house. Moving from room to room, they searched for Ziggy and Private Zulu. Bullets from outside slammed through a large plate-glass window, sending all three to the ground. They were pinned down for several minutes.

“Check that room over there,” El Coyote said as he fired at a cartel gunman down the hall. Avery, more than glad to get out of the massive shooting gallery that the compound had turned into, threw open the heavy doors covered in murals. Inside, the room was filled with artifacts and weapons. He spotted a heavy wooden desk. Just the place to let this little kerfuffle work itself out, Avery thought. Climbing underneath the desk, he noticed a shiny new laptop computer sitting on top of it. Realizing the computer was way better than the one he owned, he pulled it down under the desk with him. Of course it was password protected, but Avery enjoyed hacking into other people’s computers the way some people enjoy working on crossword puzzles.

• • •


“Keep pouring on the fire!” General X-Ray encouraged his men. “Fire Team Leader! I’m still waiting for that status report on the wounded.”

“I think he’s going to be fine, General,” said Fire Team Leader Bravo. “Hopefully it’s just a concussion.”

“Well, I hope he doesn’t expect me to put him up for a battlefield commendation. Lose a limb, maybe, but not for a concussion.” A blinding light from above suddenly illuminated STRAC-BOM’s position. Violent winds buffeted the men as the whining of the helicopter’s engine and rotors bit through the air.

“This is the Mexican Army! Put down your weapons and place your hands on your heads. I repeat, this is the Mexican Army. Put down your weapons and place your hands on your heads, or we will open fire.”

“He’s bluffing, men. Hold your ground!” the General shouted to his men. A sniper from the helicopter fired a round over the top of General X-Ray’s head. “On the other hand…lay ’em down easy, boys. They’ve got us surrounded…again…shit.”

• • •


“Where are the rest of our damn men?” the Padre asked.

“Our communication network is down,” Carnicero said. “We can’t reach them to coordinate anything, but we’re pushing the soldiers back.”

“You’ve got to get me to the tunnel in the barn!” the Padre yelled at Carnicero.

“We’ve driven them back from the courtyard. I think I can get you there. What about the people in the safe room?”

“I don’t give a damn about them. Leave them. Just get me out of here!”

“I promise, Padre. All you men,” Carnicero yelled to his cartel gunmen, “on the count of three, fire everything you have. Give us cover until we can get the Padre to the tunnel. Padre, are you ready?” He looked at his savior, his father.

“Yes, my son.”

“Then stay down and follow me. Men! Do it now!” Carnicero’s men unleashed a hail of automatic weapons fire.

• • •


“Keep watching that door!” El Coyote yelled to Esmeralda as he reloaded his rifle. A few seconds later, El Coyote heard the massive boom of her long pistol.

“Don’t shoot! It’s me!” Private Zulu cried out as he stuck his head into the room.

“Get down!” Esmeralda yelled over the din of gunfire as the wall behind the private exploded with bullet holes. Zulu hit the deck and crawled on his belly to Esmeralda. Reaching her, he grabbed her leg and hung on for dear life. “Get off me! And stop looking up my skirt!”

• • •


Barquero and Cesar exited the front of the farmhouse. Quickly surveying the scene, Cesar could see that his men had been driven back to the north, near the fence close to a group of men prone on the ground with their hands on their heads.

“Where the hell are the ground troops?”

“There he is,” Barquero seethed as he saw the Padre and Carnicero sprinting across the open courtyard toward the barn. He took to one knee and fired his pistol until it was empty. He missed. He dropped the pistol. Halfway to the barn, Carnicero threw a grenade into the transport helicopter. Just as he and the Padre reached the barn doors, it exploded in flames. Cesar signaled to his men.

“Advance on the barn and the farmhouse,” he yelled. “We have to drive them back with everything we have.”

“Yes, Colonel,” one of his soldiers replied.

• • •


Ziggy slowly climbed to the top of the stairs, and got down on his belly and slithered through the main floor of the farmhouse. He cringed at the deafening gunfire and explosions. Bullets ripped through the wall in front of him and smashed out a window behind him. Crawling through the broken glass, he launched himself out the window. Bleeding from his knees, Ziggy looked up into the night sky as he pulled himself up. A sharp beam of light pierced the sky in a weaving pattern. Another explosion rocked the night as more gunfire erupted.

“Like, this is the worst flashback ever, dude.” He clamped his hands tightly over his ears and ran straight into the desert as fast as his sandaled feet could carry him.

• • •


Carnicero pulled the barn doors closed behind him. On the ground, three cartel soldiers lay covered in blood. Two were dead. One was semi-conscious.

“Get to the tunnel,” Carnicero said as he picked up one of the dead men’s AK-47. “I’ll be right behind you.” The Padre ran for a metal door at the far side of the barn. When he entered a code into the key panel on the wall, the door opened, and he disappeared.

“Take me with you,” the wounded man on the barn floor pleaded to Carnicero.

“I can’t. Stay here and hold them off until the Padre gets away.”

“I’m dying,” the bleeding man pleaded.

“Take this.” Carnicero pulled the pin on a grenade and handed it to him. “Don’t let go until they come in.” The man started to weep. Carnicero turned his back on him and ran to the truck parked in the barn. Quickly, he slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled a rocket launcher from one of the crates in the back of the vehicle before following the Padre through the metal door.

• • •


Cesar and his men had pushed the remaining cartel soldiers back. Advancing on their position, the Padre’s men began to lay down their weapons and put their hands behind their heads.

“Breach the barn door!” Cesar ordered two of his men. The men took positions on either side of the doors before one kicked them in. A second later, an explosion threw the body of one of the commandos back out into the courtyard. The other rolled on the ground screaming. “No!” Cesar cried as he unloaded his magazine into the barn. Barquero sprinted barefoot across the yard to the barn. As he reached the doors, he dove inside. Rolling as he came up, he scanned the interior for targets. Everyone was dead, and the Padre was gone. Barquero saw the open metal door at the far end of the barn. He approached it cautiously. Entering the room beyond, he walked through the vast rows of tables filled with drugs being prepared for shipment. A trapdoor in the floor led to some kind of passage. Barquero climbed down the ladder into darkness. At the bottom, a string of electric lights in the ceiling of a low tunnel pointed south of the compound. Stooping down, he slowly followed the sound of footsteps in the distance.

• • •


“General Morales, I have confirmation that the fighting has mostly stopped and that our ground troops are just now arriving on the scene.”

“Is Colonel Beltrán all right, Sergeant?”

“Yes, he’s with his men. They have three casualties and five more wounded, two critical, but the cartel’s resistance has been neutralized. Many killed, only a few prisoners.”

“What about the Padre?”

“No word yet if he is dead or captured.”

“Get medical evacuation in there now.”

“Wait a minute… General, look here.”

“What is it?”

“Right there.” The Sergeant pointed to the heat signatures on his monitor. “South of the compound. Two individuals. I have no idea where they came from. They just popped up.”

“Get the chopper over there.”

“General, helo one-niner was destroyed at the landing zone.”

“What about the little bird?”

“Still online.”

“Get it over there now!”

• • •


The Padre pulled the camouflage netting off the Jeep hidden by the exit to the tunnel from the barn. Climbing inside, he searched his keychain for the right key.

“Goddammit! Which one is it?”

“Padre, wait for me,” Carnicero called out as he climbed out of the tunnel, still carrying the ground-to-air missile launcher.

“Hurry up,” the Padre said as he found the right key. The Jeep’s engine struggled to turn over as Carnicero climbed into the back. The Padre tried it again. Just then, a large-caliber bullet tore into the passenger-side seat. From above, blinding light and a loud, whining roar erupted. Carnicero quickly tossed his rifle from off his shoulder. It flipped out of the back of the Jeep. Carnicero lifted the rocket launcher to his shoulder and targeted the small gunship in his target receptacle. Another sniper round impacted just behind the Jeep. Carnicero released the safety and fired. His vision went blind as the light from the missile’s propellant exploded with white light. The projectile streaked into the dark night. A second later, an explosion from above rocked the Jeep. Shards of burning metal rained out of the sky as the helicopter crashed to the ground. Carnicero’s vision slowly began to come back as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

“Hang on,” the Padre said as he finally was able to get the engine to turn over. He put the Jeep in gear. In the back, Carnicero’s vision was finally coming into focus just as the Padre stepped on the gas. The first clear thing Carnicero saw were the fiery eyes of Barquero as the bare-chested, muscled behemoth of a man pulled him from the back of the vehicle.

• • •


Cesar’s commandos rounded up General X-Ray and his men. He led them to the courtyard and had them sit on the ground with their hands bound as he tried to sort out what was going on. From inside the farmhouse, more of Cesar’s men brought out the handcuffed dinner party guests and associates who had weathered the chaos from inside the safe room. A few minutes later, Esmeralda, El Coyote, Private Zulu, and Avery were escorted out. Avery had a laptop computer under his arm. Avery looked at the shell-shocked group sitting on the ground.

“Where’s Ziggy?”

• • •


Barquero pulled Carnicero from the back of the Jeep as it pulled away and threw him to the ground. Red light illuminated the area as the Padre stepped on the brakes and stopped the vehicle. He turned to look back.

“Padre… don’t leave me,” Carnicero begged as he lay on the ground. The Padre looked at his adopted son and then at Barquero, then back at “The Butcher.”

“I’m sorry, my son.” The Padre sped off into the darkness, leaving the two men behind.

“Don’t leave me!” Carnicero looked around him. Barquero was gone.

A voice came from the pitch-black night. “It’s your time.”

“Where are you?”

“Where I’ve always been. Right where you can’t see me. I’m invisible, Carnicero.”

“No!” Carnicero said as he spun around in the darkness. “No!”

“I’m right here.”

“Okay… okay.” Carnicero picked up his rifle and fired a long burst into the night. In the muzzle flash, he thought he saw something move.

“Try again, Carnicero.”

Another long burst from the longhaired man followed. Then silence. Complete silence. The beating of Carnicero’s heart pounded in his ears. The veins in his temple pounded to the point of pain as he searched the blackness for Barquero. Carnicero took a deep breath. He tried to focus. He tried to stay calm.

“You do know, I didn’t want to kill your woman…it was the Padre…not me.”

A voice came from behind him. “It was you.”

Carnicero spun, dropped to his knee, and fired his AK-47. Two rounds flew into the desert, and then the bolt locked open. He tossed the empty weapon to the ground.

“She wasn’t my woman,” a raspy voice growled. “She was my wife! And you didn’t kill just her.”

“I swea…I didn’t know she was pregnant.” Carnicero turned to look behind him. He didn’t see anything. Carnicero calmed himself as he slowly turned in a circle in the dark. “Barquero. Ferryman. Please, we are brothers…brothers,” he pleaded as he turned around again. “The Padre…the Padre…he can work this out. I promise you, we can make this right.”

“Don’t worry — I’ll make this right with him, too.” From behind, Barquero grabbed Carnicero’s long hair in a ponytail and pulled him down to his knees. Barquero placed his powerful hands around Carnicero’s neck and began to squeeze. Carnicero punched his fist straight down on the instep of Barquero’s bare foot as hard as he could. For a second, Barquero’s grip loosened, and the longhaired man spun out of his grasp. As he climbed to his feet, a straight kick from Barquero caught him squarely in the solar plexus. The force of the kick drove Carnicero staggering backward. Barquero picked up the discarded AK-47 by the barrel and swung it in a wide arc. The butt of the weapon smashed into the side of Carnicero’s head, dropping him to the ground. Blood gushed from the ragged gash in his scalp. Barquero dropped the rifle and slowly approached his fallen opponent. Carnicero rolled over on his back, moaning. A dull flame seemed to glow in Barquero’s eyes as he stood directly over the bleeding man. Placing his foot on one of Carnicero’s hands, he pinned it to the hard ground. With his other foot, he stepped on Carnicero’s neck. With all of his weight, he pressed down on the struggling man’s windpipe. Carnicero pounded wildly on Barquero’s thigh with his free hand as the sound of his throat slowly and deliberately being crushed filled his ears. The helpless man began to make gurgling sounds as the immense strength of Barquero’s leg did its damage. Barquero began to twist his bare foot on the man’s throat. It felt as if his foot was almost flat against the hard, dry desert floor. He could feel the man’s spinal column giving way as he pushed down hard on it. Carnicero stopped pounding with his free hand, and grabbed onto a handful of Barquero’s pants and clutched it in his fist, but his strength was quickly fading. He desperately fought for a few moments more, and then his vision began to fade. Like an ever-shrinking circle, his perception began to diminish, smaller and smaller until the only thing he could see looked like a small, dark marble. Then it was over.

“Rosalina,” Barquero whispered as he removed his foot from the dead man’s throat. The cool night wind blew over him as he closed his eyes. Somewhere in the desert, something howled.




PART III





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

They Can Come in Pretty Handy


Ziggy ran through the desert night like he’d never run before, which really meant like he’d never run before, because Ziggy didn’t regularly run, unless chased. Ziggy had never been naturally predisposed to physical activity. He’d tried some yoga here and a little Pilates there, but it wasn’t really his thing. Of course, though, he’d been chased, quite a bit, actually. Mainly in school, but the races weren’t terribly long. A swift beating and forfeiture of his milk money usually occurred before he could make much of a getaway. For the most part, Ziggy practiced the defensive art of rolling into a small ball for protection. He found that the schoolyard bullies would get tired of kicking him after a few minutes. No one knows for sure if the armadillos learned this tactic from Ziggy, or Ziggy learned it from the armadillos.

He ran until he reached the hills. Then he ran some more. His lungs seared despite the cool night air. Soon the hills turned into canyons. He twisted and turned his way back and forth. Finally, when he couldn’t take another step, he collapsed. His skinny chest heaving, he looked up at the sky. The heavy clouds slowly parted, and a full moon shone its bright light down on him. Milky clouds of stars illuminated the canyon walls with a faint glow. Drenched in sweat and parched for water, he searched his shorts for something, anything. All he found was the set of tarot cards that Mae Mae had given to him back in New Orleans. In despair, he threw them away. The cold wind blowing through the canyon walls tossed them about like dry leaves. He began to cry. Over the hills came the howl of something. For a moment, Ziggy regained some clarity and began to crawl on his bloodied knees, now caked with dirt.

Like, why am I here? Why did I ever, like, come with Avery? Solemn and desperate thoughts filled his mind as he pressed on. I just want to go home. Home to Austin…just, like, want to go home. Ziggy stopped. He couldn’t go anymore. He curled up and went to sleep.

A few hours later, Ziggy woke up. The sun was beginning to rise in the east. Dry salt was crusted around his mouth. He needed water. Ziggy sat up and looked around. He couldn’t stand, but he could crawl. So he did. It was slow going at first, as the hard ground hurt his knees. Get long pants…like, really long pants. But he kept going, not really sure which direction to take. Like, away from the sun, man. Mile after mile he crawled. The twisting canyons gave him little sense of direction. After a few hours, he rounded another of the countless bends in the hills. Scattered around the canyon floor were his tarot cards. He was right back where he’d started. Dejectedly, Ziggy dragged himself to the one piece of shade he could find and curled up into a fetal position. This is, like, it, man.

• • •


Avery, STRAC-BOM, Esmeralda, and El Coyote had been at the Mexican Army’s mobile headquarters all night. Not even the bitter coffee they were drinking could keep their heads from bobbing up and down. Private Foxtrot held a bag of ice to his head. He was still groggy from the exploding stick of dynamite.

“One more time,” General Morales asked. “You eight are from Texas, and you two are from Mexico. Now, what were you really doing there? And don’t give me any more of that chupacabra bullshit again.”

“General,” Avery said, “we’ve been over this many times. My deep knowledge and vast experience with the process of interrogation by the authorities impels me to ask you to please shut your cornhole and let us go.”

“Sergeant, restrain that man!”

“What? You guys eat a lot of corn down here,” Avery replied as he was being handcuffed. “Am I wrong?”

“Your story. One more time,” General Morales ordered.

“Sir,” General X-Ray began, “as a matter of professional courtesy among generals, may my men and I be held in a separate area from that lunatic?”

“You and that man share the same charges. And stop referring to yourself as a general! I’ve made some calls, Mr. Rizzo. You’re no more a general than I’m an Italian prince.”

“Hey, General,” Private Zulu said. “I didn’t know you was Italian.”

“Only half.”

“Damn, General,” Private Foxtrot added. “What about all them family war heroes and stuff?”

“He lied to you,” General Morales said, holding up a stack of papers. “You and your men are nothing more than a renegade band of civilians involving yourselves in things you have no business doing. Right here, more than a dozen documented incidents along the U.S./Mexican border related to your activities.” General Morales threw the papers down. “All the time doing more harm than good. Do you know how long we’ve been planning to raid that compound? How many good men died? Do you even know who runs that place?”

“Who?” asked Fire Team Leader Charlie.

“Some say his name is Guillermo Eduardo Rios, others Emilio Aguilar. All we know for sure is that he goes by the name of the Padre and that he’s been a wanted man for suspicion of drug trafficking, money laundering, and murder for over twenty years. International authorities around the world have him targeted. Last night, for the first time, we had a chance to catch him and some of his senior leadership red-handed. If it weren’t for your incompetence, we would have succeeded. You interfered in a military operation, and in this country I can make you disappear for a very long time for that.”

“I’d like my phone call now,” Avery said.

“You’ll get nothing until I get to the bottom of this,” General Morales said.

“This isn’t a threat, your honor, but merely a statement of fact. My highly trained team of permanently retained legal advisors will…”

“Shut up, or I’ll have you gagged. And from now on, you will address me as General Morales.”

“Okay, but I’m just saying…by the way, Morales, I mean General Morales, any chance your family is from Midland? I knew a man from there by that name once. Beautiful singing voice, but he couldn’t bowl worth a crap.”

“General Morales,” Esmeralda pleaded, “sir, El Coyote and I have nothing to do with these men. Those bastards killed my sister.”

“And they burned down my business,” El Coyote added.

“You are the same as them,” General Morales said as he stroked his mustache and admired Esmeralda’s exquisite bosoms. “I lost men and equipment, too. I liked you as a lucha libre, El Coyote. I very much liked you in your day. You never lost your mask, but what you did last night was a mistake. What if every citizen in Mexico took up arms against the cartels? What would happen then?”

“We’d get our country back.” The stone-faced El Coyote crossed his stout arms in front of his burly chest. General Morales paused for a moment; his expression softened, and then he sat down in a chair.

“Maybe, it’s just I’ve been after the Padre for so long…I don’t know.” General Morales rubbed his forehead. “What to do with you? What to do?”

“Sir,” Cesar said as he entered the room and saluted.

“Yes, Colonel.”

“The computer, sir.” Cesar held out the silver laptop.

“Hey,” Avery said. “That’s mine. It’s official American property.”

“Shut up,” General Morales and Cesar said simultaneously.

“But I found it.”

“General,” Cesar said, “our men have been working all night on it, but we can’t access the information. We can get it to our specialists in Mexico City, but it’s going to take some time.”

“We don’t have time,” General Morales replied. “The Padre has been on the run for hours. He could even be out of the country by now.”

“I know, but we don’t have a choice.”

“What do you want to know?” asked Avery.

“General,” Cesar said, “our technicians there are the best.”

“I can do it.” Avery raised his handcuffed hands.

“How long?” General Morales asked Cesar.

“Really, I can.” Avery rattled his cuffs.

“A day at least,” Cesar replied to his superior.

“A day?” General Morales asked. “He’ll disappear by then.”

“Do you want the password?” Avery asked.

“Are you sure they can’t access the information here?” General Morales asked.

“It’s really not that hard,” Avery said.

“Positive, sir.”

“It was really quite simple, actually,” Avery called out.

“I guess we have no choice.” General Morales got up from his chair.

“Is anyone listening to me?” Avery pulled at his unruly hair.

“What?” General Morales barked.

“I can do it. I already have,” Avery said.

“You’ve been able to get into this computer?” General Morales walked toward Avery.

“Hello? Of course I have.” Avery leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and grinned. He nearly tipped over. “Rather interesting read,” he said, righting himself, “if you’re into the whole drug-dealing thing and everything. Personally, I was more interested in the hardware. It’s top of the line. I could use it, for my research, of course. What was it you called it again? Chupacabra bullshit?”

“Show me how you did it,” General Morales said firmly. Avery rattled his handcuffs over his head.

“A Mountain Dew, if you please. No ice.”

“Sergeant, him find one,” General Morales said. Cesar placed the silver laptop down on a table and then uncuffed Avery.

“And a straw!” Avery yelled after the sergeant. “Watch and learn, amateurs.” Avery cracked his knuckles. “Now, at first I was perplexed. Of course, that hardly ever happens to me, what with my overwhelming intelligence.” He stared at Morales. “But, when faced with adversity, I improvise. It all happened like this…take notes as appropriate…anyway, it all happened like this…”

• • •


Bullets and explosions rocked the farmhouse as Avery curled up under the Padre’s desk while he admired the cartel leader’s computer. He coveted it. It made him viciously angry that anyone should have such a magnificent machine, except him. Avery had spent the greater part of his life accumulating spare and broken parts to design his personal network. Dirty old monitors and secondhand hard drives were the backbone of his system. His longest-standing gripe was with his Internet service provider and the agonizingly slow speeds they offered. His numerous letters to the company had been unanswered. As a self-proclaimed “hacktivist,” he’d shut down their servers on several occasions out of spite. This gorgeous piece of state-of-the-art technology held a special place in his heart. He must possess it. With it, he could shut down everyone’s servers, even if he didn’t have a good reason to. It would be hysterical.

“Piss off,” he said as another roar from Esmeralda’s hand cannon sounded from outside the office filled with artifacts and valuable guns. Avery noticed the stuffed peacock with its colorful plumage in the corner. Its glass eyes seemed to mock him. “Screw you, cocky bastard.” Avery flipped the peacock the bird. He began to type a password into the computer as the roar of gunfire intensified.

“I’m working in here!” he yelled. It was answered by gunfire that splintered the mural-covered doors to the office. “Idiots,” Avery said as he tried a password. “Nope, the password is definitely not PASSWORD.” It wasn’t “12345,” either. Avery stuck his head out from under the desk and looked around the office. This guy definitely has some kind of weapons fetish, Avery thought to himself. Must be overcompensating for repressed sexual issues. The display case closest to the desk was clearly the most ornate. Avery got up to take a closer look. He examined the contents of the case intently. Why would these be together? The top shelf contained an Aztecan atlatl. It was a stick with a hook at one end and a handle at the other. A small spear or dart was placed against the atlatl’s hook. A flipping motion was used to launch the projectile downrange with far more force than a man could throw one with his bare hands. Avery had made one when he was a kid. He’d nearly poked his eye out when trying to use it. Next to the atlatl was a modern handgun. It was a SIG-SAUER. The pistol’s grip was encrusted with diamonds. The next shelf down contained a heavy four-foot-long oaken war club. The edges of the weapon were embedded with obsidian. Avery knew what it was. It was a macuahuitl, another Aztec artifact. Avery had tried to buy one online once, but the seller wouldn’t accept Diners Club. Avery had written Diners Club a long letter about that one. Next to the macuahuitl was a Remington shotgun. The entire firearm had been intricately painted with the distinctive Louis Vuitton pattern. I should get Bennett one of those for Christmas. That’d really cheese the old doctor off. Avery flinched as more bullets slammed into the door of the room. There was also an old British pistol of Enfield design inside the display case. Every metal part of the gun was plated in gold. At the bottom of the display case was a long thrusting spear with a wide stone blade at the tip. It was called a tepoztopilli. Avery had long theorized that this was one of the main weapons the ancient indigenous people of Mexico had used to fend off chupacabras prior to the invention of the flamethrower.

“But what does it all mean?” As the gunfire outside intensified, Avery scratched his gnarly beard and climbed back under the desk. An atlatl, a SIG-SAUER, a macuahuitl, a Remington, an Enfield, and a tepoztopilli, he thought to himself. Modern guns and ancient weapons stored together. It doesn’t make any sense. Or maybe it does. Maybe it makes sense by not making sense. Why, you sneaky bastard. Avery typed the first letter of each weapon into the laptop. ASMRET. Access was still denied. Avery rearranged the letters in his head. He typed in STREAM. It didn’t work. He tried TAMERS. It didn’t work. Avery could only think of one more anagram that would fit. Into the password dialog box, he typed MASTER. This time it worked — he was in.

“How did I ever get to be this good-looking and brilliant at the same time? It’s almost not fair,” Avery said as he searched through the files on the computer. Some were simple to open. They mainly contained spreadsheets and graphs relating to a complex global drug business. Others files were more difficult. Additional passwords were needed to access the encrypted data…

• • •


“So, losers, that’s how it went down,” Avery said as he placed his hands behind his head and kicked his feet up onto the table in front of him.

“Off,” General Morales said as he knocked Avery’s feet from the table. “How much of the data did you access?”

“Enough to get the general picture, General.” Avery giggled.

“Colonel Beltrán, have your men start to download and organize the information.”

“Right away,” Cesar said.

“Oh, it won’t be that simple.” Avery finished his Mountain Dew. “Hit me again, General.” He crushed the aluminum can in his hand and belched. “The really good stuff is still encrypted. Of course, I can access it, but I’ll need my other computer.”

“Where is it?” asked Cesar.

“In the bus.”

“Where’s the bus?”

“Not far from the compound,” General X-Ray said.

“Is there a reward for this so-called Padre?” Avery asked.

“Naturally,” General Morales replied. “Up to ten million U.S. dollars, depending on the level of involvement.”

“Well, I can help you get your man. I know where he’s heading. Take me with you, and I can work on the rest of the computer files on the way.”

“Colonel, do you want to take him with you?”

“If he can help me track down the Padre, yes,” Cesar said.

“Then take him.”

“Where’s the Padre headed?” Cesar asked Avery.

“I would say we should head toward Monterrey. His calendar shows a meeting regarding methamphetamine production will take place there soon. I also noticed something about a secure communications network. It explains the transmitter in the desert that I executed. I may be able to tap into it for you.”

“How?” General Morales asked.

“General, here’s the deal. I could try to explain it to you, but the process is so incredibly complex it would most likely cause blood to pour out of your ears.”

“General Morales,” Cesar said, “that may explain why we suddenly lost all trace of communication with the Padre’s cartel through the traditional cell phone networks a few months ago. This man could be useful.”

“Take him with you, then.”

“Okay, I’ll get our men ready to move out. We can be in the air in less than thirty minutes. General Morales, what do you want me to do with the rest of these people?”

“Let the woman and the wrestler go with the understanding that everything that happened here last night, never happened. I don’t want the press to find out the Padre evaded us again. As for the Americans, take them to the border and turn them over to the U.S. authorities.” General Morales turned to face the men of STRAC-BOM. “You should feel very lucky I don’t charge you for being in this country illegally. You’re not welcome back in Mexico. Ever.”

“Fine by me,” said Private Zulu. “This place is crazy, and the food sucks. Goddamn plastic chickens.”

“What about Ziggy?” Avery asked.

“Your missing friend,” said General Morales. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have the resources to look for him right now. I need every available asset focused on the Padre. If we don’t move fast, he’ll disappear forever. Your friend is on his own for now.”

A worried look crept across Avery’s face. He knew Ziggy wasn’t very good on his own.

• • •


Back in the desert, an ancient Aztec pyramid filled Ziggy’s dreams. Not a tall pyramid like the ones found in Egypt, but lower and flatter. It was symmetrical and perfectly alabaster, as if geometry and art were as one. Ziggy thought it was beautiful. He thought it was perfect. Unfortunately, there were two problems with this image for Ziggy: One, the steps of the pyramid were lined with canine creatures made of stone, and two, their eyes seemed very, very, real. They all seemed to be staring right at him. In his sleep, Ziggy began to sweat and toss. The red eyes of the beasts looked right into him. They looked right through him. He tried to get up and run, but he couldn’t move. Slowly, in his dream, the clouds in the night sky parted to reveal a perfectly full moon. It began to turn red. Ziggy fought his paralysis. Slowly, very slowly, he made it to his feet, but it was as if he was moving in quicksand. His mind was completely awake. It screamed at him to run, but his body wouldn’t respond. On the pyramid, the creatures slowly began to move. One by one, they began to climb down the levels of the pyramid. Ziggy tried with all his might to turn and run, but his limbs wouldn’t respond quickly enough. By the time he’d taken his first step, they were on him…

“Like, Jesus Christ, man!” Ziggy screamed as he woke from his nightmare. Leaping into the air, he ran around in circles and waved his hands over his head. “Shit, like, shit, like, shit, like, shit, man. I don’t, like, need this hassle!” Ziggy looked around. He was in the middle of a canyon. The sun was bearing down on him. Scattered around his feet were the tarot cards. Suddenly it all came back. The trip to Mexico, the firefight at the farmhouse…all of it came back. Ziggy sat down and tried to meditate. It didn’t work; it was too hot, and he was too thirsty. He tried again.

“Ohmmmm, ohmmmm,” Ziggy hummed as he sat in the lotus position with his thumb and index finger pressed together. “Ohmmmm, ohmmmm,” he continued, until it gradually began to feel cooler. Slowly, his thirst diminished. Little by little, his body began to relax. Progressively, his mood improved, and the pain in his bloody knees subsided. Then he heard something. At first it wasn’t clear. Then, slowly, it came into focus. It was coming from inside his head. He strained to understand its meaning. Bit by bit, it became clearer. Then, as if someone had turned the volume on the stereo up to eleven, he could make it out perfectly.

They can come in pretty handy when you don’t know what to do, the voice said. Ziggy was confused.

They can come in pretty handy when you don’t know what to do, the voice inside his head repeated itself.

That’s, like, so familiar, man, Ziggy thought to himself. Like, where did I hear that before?

They can come in pretty handy when you don’t know what to do.

“Mae Mae!” Ziggy screamed, leaping to his feet. He ran around the canyon floor, scooping up the loose tarot cards.

• • •


Outside the Mexican Army’s mobile operations area, two helicopters began to spin up their rotors. Commandos refitted with fresh weapons and ammunition climbed into the choppers. General X-Ray looked on enviously as he and his men were led to a military truck for transport to the border. He wanted one of those helicopter things, bad.

“Colonel,” General Morales said to Cesar, “what happened to your man on the inside?”

“I don’t know, General. I followed him into the tunnel myself. When I got there, it was only the body of Carnicero. Nothing else.”

“Is this man a mercenary?”

“He never asked for money.”

“Then why would he help you?”

“I guess it was personal.”

“With the Padre and him, or you and him?”

“General…”

“It’s okay, Colonel.” Morales put his hand on Cesar’s shoulder. “Look, Colonel, I know who he is. I know who he was. This fight we’re in the middle of is so upside down, you don’t know whom you can or can’t trust anymore. I promise you this, as long as he can help us apprehend the Padre, I don’t care who he is. I never will. I won’t ever come after him for things he did in the past if…if we can do this. But I need to know, can you handle him? Can you trust him right now?”

“Yes, sir,” Cesar said as he stood at attention and saluted.

“Good, then.” The General returned the salute. “Now, what about that one?” General Morales pointed at Avery, who was busy arguing with a soldier as he tried to load a case of Mountain Dew onto an army helicopter.

“I don’t know. I can’t decide if we really need him or not.”

“Should I be worried about this mission?”

“About the American?”

“No, I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about El Barquero,” General Morales said. “I don’t know what he is going to do.”

“I trust him, sir. He can help.”

“Okay.” General Morales paused for a second. “Get on your helicopter, Colonel. Bring me the Padre…dead or alive.” Cesar turned toward the helicopter, which was spinning up for takeoff. “Colonel.” Cesar looked back at his superior. “Don’t let the American get killed. I’ve got enough paperwork to deal with already.” Cesar nodded and boarded the chopper just as it took off.

• • •


Ziggy scooped up all the tarot cards from the canyon floor and stacked them neatly. For most of his life, he’d needed advice, but this time trumped all those times. Parched and weak with hunger, he shuffled the cards.

“Like, here we go, Mae Mae.” He spread the cards in a fan. Which one? Ziggy thought. One from, like, the middle? No way, totally obvious, man. Like, one from the end of the deck?  Ziggy closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth violently. The sensation would have caused most people to be slightly thrown off, but for Ziggy, it helped him to think more clearly. Something about redistributing years of built-up carcinogens locked up in his body into a more uniform pattern. Keeping his eyes closed, Ziggy reached out and randomly picked a card. Opening his eye, he turned the card over and placed it on the ground in front of him. The card was the Magician. Ziggy enjoyed tarot cards. He didn’t really understand their meaning; he just liked the colorful pictures. The Magician’s right arm was pointing upward, as if signaling a direction. Ziggy looked up. The Magician’s arm was pointing down one of the canyons. Ziggy gathered up the tarot cards, placed them in his pocket, and got to his feet. He started walking.

• • •


The helicopter Avery was in had open doors on either side. The noise was too loud for the passengers to speak. Avery wore a headset for communication. Avery offered a Mountain Dew to the door gunner. The soldier ignored him and panned his machine gun across the desert floor. Avery shrugged and opened the can. Avery took mental notes of the interior of the helicopter. He’d long assumed this would be the type of machine that the black-ops units would use when they came to arrest him. He thought it was ironic that he was now traveling in one on behalf of a foreign government.

“Once we get your laptop from the bus,” Cesar said through the intercom to Avery, “we’ll head straight for Monterrey.” Avery nodded. “I need you to narrow down the location for us,” Cesar continued. “I have a contact there who may be able to help, but after we got so close to the Padre last night, I’m worried he might decide to completely disappear. I’m relying on you, Avery. We can’t let the Padre disappear.”

Avery nodded in understanding and took out the Padre’s laptop. He opened the calendar. He wanted to take a closer look for clues.

“Door gunner,” Avery shouted into his intercom. The gunner turned to him. “If you see any vicious-looking beasts with glowing red eyes heading north toward the Texas border, I suggest you shoot them.”

• • •


Ziggy had walked as far as his bony legs would carry him. He was seriously dehydrated and beginning to mildly hallucinate. Of course, this may or may not have had anything to do with his hydration issues. Ziggy randomly hallucinated all of the time. It was payback for a lifetime of his particular chemical habits. All of a sudden, he heard the beating of helicopter rotors. Looking up, he saw two helicopters flying low and fast across the top of the canyon.

“Like, hey, man!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “Like, down here, dudes! Down here, dudes!” The helicopters roared over the canyon and continued on their way. Feeling ultimate dejection and complete loneliness, Ziggy lay down and closed his eyes. He wasn’t walking anymore. Curled up, he made peace with the universe.

• • •


General X-Ray and his men sat in the back of a military transport truck headed toward the border crossing. The General looked at his dejected men. Fire Team Leader Bravo stared blankly out the window. Private Tango looked at the floor. Their morale was completely gone. The General knew he’d let them down. He’d lied to them. His family wasn’t full of military heroes. His family was full of bakers. The truth was, he’d never even served in the military. He couldn’t do more than a couple of pushups and could only tread water for less than a minute. When he tried to enlist, he was disqualified for having exceptionally flat feet.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” the army doctor had said as he tried to slip a piece of paper under General X-Ray’s arches. The General had founded STRAC-BOM after reading about civilian militias in the paper.

“If the military won’t take me, I’ll start my own,” he had sworn. It was pretty easy, actually. No paperwork involved. Everything he knew about the inner workings of a military unit, he’d learned from watching old war movies. The General had seen the movie Patton about a hundred times. He knew every line by heart. The men he’d recruited to join the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia had bought his story hook, line and sinker. As for the men, they weren’t all that into military maneuvers — they just liked being away from their families for a few weekends a month. The camping out, drinking beer, and blowing stuff up was a bonus. Once General X-Ray had formed STRAC-BOM, he realized the one thing he desperately needed was an enemy. What’s an army without an enemy? He finally realized the desperation that his hero, General George Patton, felt when WWII ended. So General X-Ray did the only logical thing: He invented an enemy. He lived close to the border, so Mexico was the obvious choice. Besides, he didn’t have the financial resources to fly north and fight the Canadians, which he would have preferred. Also, immigration was the headline issue in West Texas at the time. Thousands of undocumented people were streaming across the border every year. He’d never really had a personal problem with it before. On the contrary, he actually liked the fact that a pickup truck full of Mexican men would knock on his door every Sunday and offer to mow his lawn for ten dollars. It saved him a lot of time, and they did a really good job. Not like the lazy dope-smoking teenagers from around the neighborhood who didn’t bag the clippings or edge the sidewalk. Still, a real general needs to declare war on somebody. The Mexicans were perfect. So Mexico it was. As a bonus, running around in the desert at night protecting his country’s border made him and his men feel important. He constantly claimed victory to anyone who would listen, even though the local press was reluctant to report his victories. Over time, he really began to feel he was doing the right and patriotic thing, but the truth was they never actually apprehended anyone. The tricky thing about a lie is that if you tell it long enough, sooner or later you actually begin to believe it yourself.

“Jesus,” the General muttered as he looked at his hopeless band of men. They sat with forlorn looks on their faces as the truck hauled them closer to the border. The simple truth was they were financially broke and had failed their last mission, losing a civilian in the process. General X-Ray felt like a complete failure. He felt tears welling up in his eyes. What would General Patton do? he thought. All of a sudden, it hit him like a piano falling from the top of a building. He wouldn’t quit! Right here, right here in front of him, he had a team of men he’d trained. They were men who would follow him. They were men who looked to him for leadership and direction. And right now, more than ever, they needed a strong leader. General X-Ray decided he would fight on. He wouldn’t quit. All he needed was a new mission, a better one than they had ever had in the past, one that would rally his troops and reclaim their honor. He was as certain of it as anything in his life. Morale was everything for an army, and morale for warriors starts with a clearly defined objective. But this operation would be for good, not evil. That was the only way to fully repair the unit’s honor.

“That’s it,” the General said as he wiped the tears from his chubby face. Operation Skinny was now in effect. He was going after Ziggy, with or without the rest of STRAC-BOM.




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Before He Was King


Scraping… scraping… scraping. Rough scraping like sandpaper. Ziggy felt something abrasive drag across his cheek.  It woke him from his restless sleep. He tentatively opened one eye. A prehistoric-looking eye stared back. It blinked at him, and then something bit Ziggy’s nose.

“Nancy!” Ziggy cried as he hugged the big iguana. Nancy hissed. While iguanas do enjoy licking things and being reunited with the ones they love, they don’t necessarily enjoy being hugged. In fact, they hate it. It’s just not in their nature, hence, the squirm defense. Nancy’s heavy tail whipped against Ziggy as he clutched her to his breast.

“Baby!” Ziggy cried as he hugged his heavy, squirming lizard. Nancy fought free of his grip and started to wander away. “Like, what, man,” Ziggy said as he fought his way to his feet. Nancy looked back at him with blank eyes, then turned and continued walking slowly away from him. Ziggy followed. After a while, Nancy led Ziggy out of the twisting canyons.

“Like, right on, Nancy,” Ziggy said he looked at the open desert surrounding him. He still didn’t have any idea where he was. Nancy began lumbering down a trail. It was an ancient one that predated the Spanish. Local people had trod down the pathway for centuries, but to Ziggy, for some reason, it seemed to lead in the wrong direction. Then again, what did he know? He was lost. He set out after Nancy. Ziggy was exhausted and parched. His stride began to shorten. Every few minutes, Nancy would stop, turn around, and wait for Ziggy to catch up. It seemed hopeless. Mile after mile of rocks, dirt, and gravel spread out in front of them. Ziggy pushed on, following Nancy’s weaving back-and-forth stride the whole way. Then Nancy stopped again. Ziggy collapsed to the ground next to the big lizard.

“I’m, like, done for.” Nancy bit him. “Ouch, man! Like, easy on the violence, bro.” Nancy began scratching at the dirt, then stopped and looked right at Ziggy. “What?” Nancy scratched again at the ground. “Like, all right, man.” Ziggy reached over, and with his fingernails scratched at the dry dirt. Just underneath the surface of the soil, it was damp. Ziggy looked around him. They were sitting in the middle of a wide, dry riverbed. Ziggy started clawing at the ground with both hands. The soil became wetter and wetter the deeper he dug. Soon, he’d excavated down about a foot. Slowly, water began to seep into the hole. Using his shirt as a sponge, he soaked up the water and squeezed it into his mouth. The water was brown and tasted of mud, but to Ziggy it was the most refreshing thing he’d ever tasted, apart from icy-cold root beer. Again and again, Ziggy soaked the water from the bottom of the hole, while Nancy patiently waited. It took some time, but Ziggy finally had his fill. He was already starting to feel better. Nancy headed off again, away from the riverbed.

“Like, wait up, man,” he said as he scampered after the reptile. After a few hundred yards, Nancy veered off the trail and headed straight into the desert. Ziggy followed close behind.

“You, like, sure about this?” Ziggy asked. “I kind of, like, really dug that trail, dude. Trails, like, lead places and stuff.” Nancy ignored Ziggy and kept going. Ignoring people is one of the things that iguanas are best at. Nancy stopped beside a small cactus. Ziggy looked on as Nancy began to chew on one of the paddles before stopping and staring at Ziggy.

“Like, okay, man,” he said as he carefully removed the spiky thorns from one of the paddles. Using his fingernails, he scraped off as much of the small nodes that covered the outside of the green plant that he could. He looked at Nancy and then at the cactus. He took a bite. It wasn’t bad. A little chewy, but it was moist. Ziggy finished the paddle before having another one. Nancy began walking off again. Ziggy didn’t hesitate to follow this time.

• • •


The army helicopter sped toward Monterrey. Avery, using his old laptop from the bus, connected it to the Padre’s. After several minutes of typing, he looked up.

“Colonel,” Avery said through the intercom.

“Yes,” Cesar replied.

“I can access their communication network. Not much activity right now. Just some chatter. Sounds like people are moving drug shipments across various points along the border.”

“Anything about the Padre?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Keep listening,” Cesar said.

• • •


The Mexican Army unceremoniously dumped General X-Ray and his men at the border crossing. With the help of some Mexican officials, the men were escorted across the bridge. The U.S. authorities on the other side had no idea what to do with them.

“I’m telling you, Tommy Lee,” a Homeland Security employee said to his partner. “There’s not squat in this here manual about what to do with civilian militia being repatriated to the U.S. of A. after being captured in a foreign military conflict.” He poked the heavy book with his finger. “If I go and do something that ain’t in the manual, I’m going to get my butt chewed.” Eventually, the U.S. officials decided that the prudent thing to do was to wash their hands of the issue and spend their energy covering their tracks. Following a thorough body cavity search, which was in the manual, the General and his men were taken to a local bus station and given vouchers for a ride back home. Their bus wasn’t scheduled to leave for another two hours.

“Men, I need to talk to you,” the General said. “I’m sorry I lied to you. That was completely my fault. You deserve better. I’m sorry. I apologize.”

“That’s okay,” said Private Zulu. “I had a whole lot of fun doing militia stuff the last couple of years.”

“We all did, sir,” added Fire Team Leader Bravo.

“You boys forgive me?”

“Ain’t nothing to forgive, General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said. “STRAC-BOM, attention! There’s an officer on deck.” The entire militia stood at attention and saluted. Fighting back the tears that welled in his eyes, the General returned the salute.

“You make me proud, boys,” the General said, beaming. “Now, I’ve got to ask you something. There’s no right or wrong answer here. No pressure.”

“What is it, sir?” Private Tango asked.

“Men, we left a civilian behind. He’s out there somewhere, alone, hungry, and tired. I’m never leaving a man behind again. It’s in the Code of Conduct. I’m going after him. I sure could use some help, but I don’t expect any volunteers. I know you all need to get home to your families. I just thought I’d ask.”

“I’m in,” said Private Foxtrot.

“Me, too,” said Fire Team Leader Alpha. Private Zulu looked at Team Leader Charlie and nodded.

“Sir, you can count on Fire Team Charlie,” the Team Leader said.

“Same thing with Fire Team Bravo.”

“Well, that makes it unanimous, General.” Private Tango slapped his hands together. “What are the orders, sir?”

“Hot damn, boys!” the General said. “We’re back in business. Okay, first thing we need is some papers. They don’t always check at the border going in, but they always do coming out.”

“How we going to get them papers?” asked Private Zulu.

“See that over there?” The General pointed at a bus full of tourists waiting at the station before crossing the border. “Leave this to me. If you see anyone approach the bus, give me the signal.”

“What’s the signal?” Private Foxtrot asked. “It didn’t really work that swell last time.”

“Yodel.” The General straightened and dusted off his tanker uniform. He put his mirrored sunglasses on. From his wallet, he removed his library card. “Wait here and be ready to move out fast.” The General approached the bus and peeked inside the open door. The driver wasn’t in the vehicle. The General coolly and confidently swaggered up the steps. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Officer Rizzo. I’m with the U.S. Federal Customs and Border Protection Transportation Security Association of the Tobacco, Firearms, and Alcohol Bureau of Investigation.” He flashed his library card quickly to the bus full of retirees. “May I inquire as to your destination today?”

“We’re heading down to them Mexican pharmacies, sonny boy,” one of the retirees said. “Come all the way from New Braunfels to get some of that cheap Viagra.”

“Murray!” the elderly woman next to him scolded. “Don’t go telling people our business.”

“Hell, I bet half the people on this bus are going down there just to get a hard pecker again,” Murray replied. The woman hit him with her purse.

“Well,” General X-Ray said, “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the new border crossing regulation known as rule five-two-eight stroke K-forty-nine. I’ll need all the male passengers to forfeit their passports for a pre-border inspection, inspection. Please have them available as I come by. May I see your documents, sir?” the General asked the man sitting in the first seat.

“We never had to do this before?”

“I know, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience, but regulations are regulations, and this will save you a lot of time at the border. Now hand them over.”

“Why only the men?” the man asked.

“Because it’s an even-numbered calendar day. Ladies are scheduled for tomorrow. It’s in the manual.” The elderly man begrudgingly passed over his documents. “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you. Thank you for your patience. Thank you very much.” The General collected the passports from all the male passengers as he walked down the aisle. Heading to the back to the front of the bus, he heard Private Foxtrot yodeling. “Okay, folks, I’m just going to run these through the computer machine real quick, won’t be just a minute. Thanks again, and God bless America,” he said as he waddled out of the bus as quickly as he could.

“Yodel-ay-hee-hoo!” the Private called out again, louder this time. The General made it back to the men just as the tour bus driver came out of the main depot building.

“Let’s move out!” The General quickly led his men away from the bus station and into a quiet alley a few blocks from the border crossing. He began fishing through the passports, looking at the photos. “No.” He tossed one aside. “No.” He tossed another aside. “No…no…wait.” He stopped and held a passport up to Fire Team Leader Bravo’s face. “Not bad,” he said. “Same nose.” He handed the passport to the Team Leader.

“General, this guy has lost most of his hair.”

“Don’t worry about it. They probably aren’t even going to check. It just needs to be close.” Fire Team Leader Bravo showed the picture to Private Tango.

“I don’t know,” said Tango. The General kept shuffling through the documents until every man had a document with a photo containing at least one similar facial characteristic. The biggest problem was that the tourists were all a good twenty years older than the men of STRAC-BOM. The General was unfazed.

“It’s all about confidence, men. Just follow me, walk straight across the border, go right past the officials, and don’t act nervous. If they call you over, just act old.” The men followed the General a few blocks to the border crossing. From the U.S. side, people streamed into Mexico with no problem. On the other side of the border, frustrated travelers stood in a long queue waiting to get into the United States. The General led his men to the spinning gates with heavy horizontal bars that marked the entrance into Mexico. An official closely watched the men as they passed. The General was the first through the spinning turnstile, followed by Private Zulu, Fire Team Leader Alpha, and Private Foxtrot.

“Pardon me, sir,” the border official held up the palm of his hand to Fire Team Leader Bravo. “May I see your documents?” Fire Team Leader Bravo fidgeted as he handed over his passport. The rest of the men hustled their way past and through the spinning gate as the official examined the document. “Thank you Mr. Bleaker.” The official looked at the photo and then up at the Fire Team Leader.

“Just heading over for the cheap pharmacies, officer.” The Fire Team Leader rubbed the top of his head. “Those pills and foam, they really work.” The border official looked at the photo again.

“Have a nice day,” he said as he handed the passport back. “Be sure to declare your purchases on the way back.”

“You bet.” Fire Team Leader Bravo went through the gates and joined up with the other men.

• • •


The Padre lay on a dirty, bare mattress deep in the bowels of a dilapidated apartment complex in the heart of Monterrey. Outside, his men kept watch. Surrounded by stained walls and a single flickering bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, he actually felt at home. It reminded him of when he was young. He’d started in the business as a lookout and courier for the Colombians, not far from here. His training for the job was unique. After being raised by his parents in a small, devout home for a life destined for the church, an approach by a degenerate priest intent on abusing him in the most unspeakable and horrific ways had led him to question his faith. Beating the man who touched him to death with his fists cemented his decision to leave the church and his home. Fresh blood still on his clothes, he ran from the church. With no one to believe his story, he roamed the streets of Monterrey looking for work, for food. The Colombians always needed someone, and he was poor, young, hungry, and motivated. He’d placed his whole existence in the hands of the church. When it abused his trust, he swore he’d never serve God again. Now he served the South Americans. They were the new masters of his universe. He moved up the narcotics food chain quickly. He was smart and resourceful. He was only apprehended once, for allegedly killing a man his employers wanted dead, and even then he didn’t talk. After he’d spent a few months in jail, the local police couldn’t hold him anymore. The day he got out, an associate of his local handler put him on a plane to Cartagena. It was the first time he’d ever flown. When he landed, he was introduced as a young man who could be trusted. He’d killed for the Colombians and didn’t talk. The drug business was still in its infancy. The raw product came directly from South America. The hard part was moving it into the United States undetected. The Padre outlined his plan for using the loose border security along Mexico’s eastern border with the U.S. as a major delivery route. For some reason, they believed and trusted in him. When he flew back to Monterrey, his pockets were full of cash and his head full of ideas. He built his team from the street urchins of the mean city. He knew that some could be trusted and some couldn’t. So he ruled with an iron fist. Of all the young men he recruited, he ended up killing many of them himself. Soon the word got out. The Padre could be trusted to pay well, and he could also be trusted to kill quickly if he was crossed. He took the name “the Padre” because he wanted to set himself apart. Despite his young age, he understood the importance of branding. Even though he wasn’t much older than many of his soldiers, he did act as a “father” to them. When their families were sick, he sent a doctor. When someone’s sister got married, he paid for the wedding the parents could never afford. Over time, his success with moving product into Texas reached a point that the Colombians couldn’t ignore. He’d spent a tremendous amount of time and money in the States, cultivating relationships and distribution channels. He’d traveled as far north as Chicago to meet with gangs that dealt drugs. He convinced them to buy from him. He was charismatic, charming, and smart. Most gangsters had never worked with a Mexican before, but this one delivered on time. His employers kept paying him more and more money, but the Padre wanted more than just cash. He wanted a part of the business. After one fateful trip to Cartagena, he came home a bitter man. By that point, he was in his late twenties and tired of just being an errand boy, taking all of the risk and only being thrown the scraps. Over the years, on his trips to Colombia, he’d met a number of people involved in the manufacture of cocaine. They were weary of being strong-armed by their current employers. The Padre offered them better terms. Soon he was buying directly from the suppliers, and his financial take exploded. He hired more men and began purchasing guns in large quantities. He knew his former bosses would eventually come after him. The Padre was going to be prepared. Eventually, the war did come, and it was bloody. Both sides lost many men. During the wars, no one made much money. Then the miracle happened. The United States declared a war on drugs against the Colombians. His former employers were at the center of the bull’s-eye. It gave him and his men a chance to regroup, but their product was now at risk. Cocaine wasn’t easily coming out of South America anymore. He had built a massive distribution network but had nothing to distribute. One night, drinking mescal with a prostitute in a hotel room not that different from the one he was in now, it came to him. He needed a new product. Marijuana was cheap to buy in Mexico and move across the border. The margins were shit compared to coke, but he had money to invest. As he watched the Colombians over the years, it became clear to him that the only people who make money in the drug game were the people who controlled the entire process from manufacture to distribution. The margins might be worse, but the chance to head his own organization was intoxicating. The vast expanses of land in the Mexican wilderness made cultivating the plant relatively easy. In rural areas, a few pesos bought a great deal of silence. Hell, in most places the work he offered was welcomed. Over the years, the business grew, and his product line expanded. Whatever the end client wanted, he provided. Now it was methamphetamine, and he was ready. Leaning back on his greasy, cold pillow, he thought about his contacts in India.

Three weeks for the supplies? Goddammit! That’s too long. I should have gone there myself. The sun slipped below the horizon. The Padre took a pill from his pocket and swallowed it. He drank deeply from a bottle of tequila by his mattress and slipped off into a fitful sleep.

• • •


In the middle of the desert, headlights cut through the night. A Mexican farmer pulled his flatbed truck over to the side of the road. General X-Ray and his men dismounted from the back.

“Gracias,” the General said to the driver, who tipped his hat in return as he pulled away. “All right, men, I’m pretty sure it’s that way.” He pointed over the horizon.

“What’s that way?” asked Private Foxtrot.

“The bus.”

“I think it might be more that way,” the Private replied.

“You’re concussed. Follow me, men.” The group headed out into the darkness. Dodging prickly cacti and scattered rocks, they made slow time. After two hours, tired and thirsty, the General held up his fist. The men all stopped and hugged the ground. “Sorry, boys, I may have been a little off.”

“What?” asked Fire Team Leader Charlie.

“There is some good news,” the General said. “Shelter, boys.” The General pointed to the bullet-riddled remains of the Padre’s abandoned farmhouse. “Follow me.” The group moved out. Within a few minutes, they were in the kitchen, cooking eggs and drinking copious amounts of the Padres’ cold beer and warm tequila.

“Who wants jalapenos?” the General asked as he flipped the pan and rolled out another perfect omelet.

“Extra cheese!” Private Zulu cried. The men ate in silence, too busy stuffing their faces to converse. After finishing their supper and another couple of bottles of the Padre’s tequila, the sleepy and happily drunk militia stumbled through the house, looking for bedrooms.

“General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked, “when are we going after that little fellow?”

“In the morning, Team Leader. In the morning.”

• • •


The sun was coming up in Monterrey. Avery slammed a warm Mountain Dew as the sounds of the busy city came to life. He picked up the morning newspaper and reread the headlines just to make sure. It really pissed him off…






To: The Chairman

Federal Reserve Board




Dear Chairman:




I’m writing today to express my explicit contempt for your lack of action in saving America’s, if not the world’s, favorite son. I know that the bailing out of banks and insurance companies is important (for you, anyway; those free lunches and conferences at swanky hotels are pretty sweet). May I ask a question? Do you take the towels or just the soap and shampoo? Myself, I like the bed sheets and linens. High thread count is hard to find these days, and it saves the maid’s time changing the bed out. I’m sure they’d thank me. I’m a giver, and taking the sheets gives them time back to use for rifling through guests’ belongings and spitting on toothbrushes. But we have business to discuss, Mr. Chairman. America’s culture is being savagely attacked. Without our culture, what do we really have, except expensive healthcare and high property taxes? Okay, you got me. We have good chicken wings, too, really good wings, but the co-pays suck. Are you following me? Trillions of dollars are being spent bailing out corporate America while the most important of our cultural icons is left to hang out in the wind. Twisting and turning, no home, no savior, slowly drying up from the inside out…ultimately it will die, contrary to popular opinion. And so will a whole generation with it. I know what they say about the resiliency of it. Nothing can stop it. Time, temperature, pressure, it’s virtually impervious to everything but the realities of the financial markets. Sure, embalming fluid helps, but only for a while. And that’s only a rumor. I repeat, only a rumor that it contains embalming fluid. However, the filling does contain a certain cellulose gum used in rocket fuel. Can you please help me, for the sake of the nation? Please bail out the Twinkie. Bail it out before the North Koreans buy the brand to enhance their intercontinental ballistic technology. They think they’re still at war with us, and if they take the Twinkie, they might as well have taken South Dakota. To that end, we might not realize its importance until it’s too late.

    

Sincerely,



    

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton






• • •


On the other side of town, the Padre picked up a field radio from the floor beside his dingy mattress and keyed the “talk” button.

“It’s me. Can you hear me? Good. The meeting is still on.”




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Circles


Ziggy ate the fat grasshopper that Nancy brought to him for breakfast. He kind of liked it. Not what he would normally would have for breakfast, but it worked. Being from Austin, he was very conscious of nose-to-tail sustainable cuisine, and this certainly qualified. It was crunchy on the outside, sort of like hummus on the inside. He asked the big iguana if he could have another. Nancy bit him.

• • •


Back in the Padre’s ruined farmhouse, General X-Ray rallied his men at sunup. Pounding on bedroom doors around the farmhouse, he woke his troops from the first decent night’s sleep they’d had in several days.

“Puke and rally!” he commanded as he roused Tango. “That’s an order, Private,” he yelled. “Puke and rally. Operation Skinny is in effect!” The weary and hung-over men climbed out of their soft, warm beds and put on their combat boots. They rallied up in the kitchen, but this time, there weren’t fluffy omelets waiting for them. “We’re moving out and searching for the civilian.”

“How’re we going to find him, sir?” Fire Team Leader Alpha asked. “He could be anywhere.”

“We’re going to track him, Team Leader. Just like the fat civilian taught us to look for his chupa…the coyote things.” The men gathered up whatever water and provisions they could carry and went outside. “Now, check the ground, men. The Mexican Army said he wasn’t found inside, so he must have bugged out. Unless they were lying to us, which they very well could have been. Never trust anyone down here. Nonetheless, I want visuals on tracks. Pronto!” The militia circled the farmhouse, looking for clues.

“What does that look like, Team Leader?” Private Tango asked, pointing at the ground.

“Well,” Fire Team Leader Bravo said, “could be some blood. Could be some tracks. Could be some bloody tracks. Not really sure.”

“Not really sure? That’s some good tracks, Team Leader, and they’re heading straight that way.” Private Tango pointed toward the hills in the distance.

“Better tell the General, I guess.”

• • •


Nancy continued leading Ziggy on a zigzag path through the desert. Ziggy, with a sudden appetite for grasshoppers, kept a sharp lookout for crunchy things with wings. Unfortunately for him, not the grasshoppers, Ziggy wasn’t very good at catching them. Nancy looked at him in disgust as he dove into the dust after another one and missed. Nancy hissed and kept on walking. In the distance, Ziggy saw a familiar sight. A long yellow vehicle rested under a shimmering heat mirage.

“Like, groovy, man.” Ziggy and Nancy headed straight for it. When they reached the bus, Ziggy opened the door and climbed inside. Nancy followed hesitantly. Ziggy looked for food and water. For once he wished Avery had been able to find some Mountain Dew. “All right, Nancy. I know, like, where we are. I’m going to, like, lie down for just a minute, dude.” Ziggy curled up in a bus seat and closed his eyes.

• • •


The General led his men into the canyons, still following the tracks left in the desert floor. After they wound and wove their way through the confusing maze, the General stopped and allowed his unit to rest.

“Man,” said Private Zulu, “that little feller sure can cover ground. We’ve been on his tail for miles.”

“These canyons are as crooked as a barrel of fishhooks,” said Private Tango as he stuck a finger in his ear, twisted it around, and examined the excavated contents.

“Uh, General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said.

“What is it?”

“I think we have a major malfunction here.” The Fire Team Leader pointed at the ground. “I think we’ve already been here before.” The rest of the men examined the crisscrossed tracks in the dirt.

“Lard buckets!” the General exclaimed. “The little bastard got himself lost.”

“Does that mean we’re lost, too?” Private Foxtrot asked.

“Of course not,” the General replied. “The way out is right over there. Or was it that way?” He pointed.

“I was kind of thinking maybe down that way,” Fire Team Leader Alpha added.

“Well, somebody pick one,” the General said.

• • •


Something bit Ziggy. He looked up to see Nancy standing on his chest. The frilled collar under the iguana’s chin tickled Ziggy’s nose.

“I, like, know, man. But I don’t have the keys.” Nancy stared at Ziggy. “All right, come on then. But if, like, those, evil dudes are still there, I’m splitting, man.” Ziggy and Nancy made their way over the nearby rise and walked to the Padre’s farmhouse. Ziggy hunched down behind the fence surrounding the property and watched.

“I think, like, the coast is clear.” Ziggy searched the compound while Nancy sat on the porch of the farmhouse and watched. All of the dead bodies had been taken away, but the blood, bullet holes, and signs of the furious battle remained. Ziggy walked back over to Nancy.

“Let’s, like, see if he has cable, man.” Ziggy led Nancy inside the farmhouse. Gathering up some chips and salsa from the kitchen, Ziggy settled down with a stack of DVDs into a plush couch full of bullet holes. Miraculously, the enormous flat-screen television that dominated the Padre’s entertainment room still worked, although it did have a long crack in the screen, but Ziggy didn’t mind. He looked for a remote for the stereo. He liked watching television with the sound muted and the stereo on full blast. When he opened a drawer on the end table next to the couch, Ziggy’s eyes lit up. There, inside the drawer, next to the stereo remote, was one perfectly rolled joint and a sterling silver lighter. Ziggy lit up, cranked the volume, and started his movie.

“Want one?” Ziggy offered a chip with some salsa to Nancy. The big lizard just ignored him.

• • •


Avery asked a soldier to go and find the Colonel immediately. Avery typed away furiously at his laptop. It whined and hummed, unlike the top-of-the-line model of the Padre’s, which it was connected to. It pissed him off. Cesar arrived a few minutes later.

“What is it?” he asked as he entered the room.

“A transmission on the secure network that was a little out of the ordinary.”

“What was the message?”

“The meeting is still on.”

“Where?”

“It didn’t say, but by triangulating between the network of communication towers in the area, I’d say the message was sent from here in Monterrey.”

“Can you be more precise?

“No.”

“Damn,” Cesar swore. “Keep listening.”

“What about your contact?”

“Nothing yet. You keep working.”

• • •


Barquero left some money on the nightstand of the hotel room. In bed, a naked prostitute known to associate with the Padre’s men rolled over and went back to sleep. She didn’t know where the Padre was, but she did know someone who did. She didn’t want to die at the hands of the heavily muscled man, so she talked. Then things got interesting. Barquero put on his pants and left the hotel. Outside, he hailed a taxi on the bustling street.

“The financial district,” Barquero said to the driver. The ride passed in silence as Barquero thought about the Padre. Killing El Carnicero had been satisfying, but he couldn’t stop until the Padre shared his adopted son’s fate. Barquero remembered the shocked look on Carnicero’s face as the Padre abandoned him in the desert to save his own life. The cruel bastard had to die. Reaching the financial district, Barquero paid the fare. Looking up, he surveyed the office building in front of him. He took note of the surroundings, including the buildings nearby and the parking entrance. Entering the building, he walked confidently past the security desk. Neither of the two men sitting there said anything to him. An elevator took him to the floor he was looking for. From the elevator lobby, he noticed the stairs next to the last bank of elevators. The name of a law firm was printed on the glass doors that led to a quiet and extravagantly furnished office lobby. The sign indicated the firm specialized in international law. Barquero entered the office.

“Good afternoon,” the smartly dressed woman behind the reception desk said with a smile.

“Good afternoon.” Barquero marched past her and turned down a hallway containing a row of offices.

“Sir, you can’t go back there. Sir!” Barquero ignored the woman and scanned the nameplates on the doors of the windowless offices as his long, fast stride carried him down the hall. Reaching a corner office, he found the name he was looking for. Pushing the door open, he barged into the room. Sitting behind a large desk, a startled-looking man wearing a tan suit was talking on the phone. Barquero took out a pistol while grabbing the man by his collar and pulling him up. The telephone receiver fell to the desk.

“What is this?” the panicked man asked as Barquero led him to the door, the pistol placed firmly in the middle of the man’s back.

“Walk,” Barquero growled. “Don’t make a scene.”

“Mr. Salazar, is everything all right?” the receptionist asked as the two men walked quickly past her. “Should I call security?”

“No,” the visibly shaken attorney said. “Everything is fine.” The two men went to the elevator lobby. Barquero pressed the “down” button. Back at her desk, the receptionist picked up the phone. Barquero watched as she turned her back while dialing. The elevator chimed as the doors opened. Quickly, he pulled his captive to the door leading to the stairs at the end of the line of elevators. When the receptionist turned back around, she saw that the two men were gone and elevator doors were closing.

“Security,” she said into the phone. Barquero dragged the man down two flights of stairs before stopping and pointing the gun’s silencer directly at the man’s forehead. The man’s face was ashen.

“Where is he?” Barquero asked.

“Who?”

Barquero thumbed back the hammer on the pistol. “You know.”

“I…I don’t what you’re talking about.”

Keeping the gun pointed at the man’s head, Barquero punched him hard in the liver. The man’s feet buckled. Barquero held him up against the wall.

“Your client. Your only client, Salazar,” Barquero said. “He’s in town. There’s a meeting. Where is it? Last time I ask, then I kill you and I’ll find your family. Now, where is he?”

“He’ll be at the warehouse late this afternoon.”

“What warehouse?”

“Here. In Monterrey.” The lawyer gave Barquero the building number for the warehouse.

“If you’re lying, I’ll find you.” Barquero’s large hand palmed the man’s entire face. He slammed the back of the man’s head into the concrete wall of the stairwell. Salazar’s body went limp. As he slid to the floor of the stairwell, his head left a long smear of blood on the wall. A few minutes later, Barquero emerged from the parking garage. A confused-looking attendant watched as the big man who had just walked under the parking lot gate disappeared from sight.

• • •


Ziggy switched out his DVD and grabbed some salsa. It was good straight out of the bowl. He loved the old versions of the Wolfman. It made him feel powerful beyond his frail frame and weak nature. The movie opened with something howling in the night.

• • •


“There it is, General,” Fire Team Leader Bravo called out. Down a long shoot of canyon, the desert opened up.

“Told you we’d find it,” said Private Foxtrot. The General led his men out of the confusing maze.

“We need to find the bus,” the General said.

“Oh, crap.” Private Zulu looked behind him. “General…”

“Fire Team Leader Charlie, we need to egress to the transportation, stat.”

“General…” Private Zulu said again.

“Private Tango,” the General continued, “you take point.”

“General.”

“What is it, Zulu?” the General asked.

“Them things.”

“What things?” the General asked as he turned around. In the hills behind him, something moved. “What in the hell…” The images came into focus as they wove their way down to the desert floor. All of a sudden, one of them shook its head and howled. The rest of the pack spread out around the big alpha coyote with eyes that glowed with red fire.

“One, two, three, four, five, six…” the General counted. “Oh, crap. Boys…run! The bus is that way!” The men of STRAC-BOM tore across the desert, tripping and falling as they went. “Don’t look back!” the General cried out. The pack of coyotes spread out in a fan-shaped pattern and slowly but deliberately loped after them, tongues hanging out. “Make for the bus!” the General ordered. “Reverse echelon with a defensive wedge formation!”

“A what?” Private Tango asked.

“He means run!” Fire Team Bravo said. Private Zulu slipped and fell.

“Help me!” Zulu cried. His Team Leader stopped and looked back.

“Keep going!” Fire Team Leader Charlie shouted to the rest of the men as he turned back for his trooper. By the time he got to Zulu, the first of the coyotes had arrived. Saliva flew from its white fangs as it snarled and shook its head back and forth over the skinny, fallen private. “Asshole!” Fire Team Leader Charlie said as he kicked the coyote in its ribs with his combat boot. The animal screeched in pain and ran back about ten feet before looking up and snarling. “Give me your hand.” The Team Leader pulled Private Zulu to his feet. The other coyotes arrived and slowly surrounded the two men. The vicious animals’ low growls filled the desert valley. Most were mangy, and all were starving. They drooled, looking at Private Zulu. He was little, weak, and a straggler. That combination set off some long-held primal instinct in their brains, eons old. He was their target. He was dinner. Fire Team Leader Charlie stood between Private Zulu and the growling beasts.

“Come on!” the General yelled back at the two men.

“You want some, come get some!” Fire Team Leader Charlie said. The coyotes advanced on the two men, who were doing their best to form back up with the main group without losing sight of their attackers. One by one, the coyotes made testing runs in on them. Slowly, they became more and more confident, charging in ever closer to the two men as they made their way back to their buddies.

 “Keep moving,” the General yelled as Fire Team Leader Charlie and Private Zulu closed with the rest of the men. “Egress to the bus, pronto! Don’t let them split our ranks.” Around them, the stoic beasts circled with their white fangs flashing. The men of STRAC-BOM circled up. Back to back, they closed their ranks and shouted angrily at the fearsome animals. Private Zulu held up a pack of matches.

“These vampire hounds don’t like fire,” he said as he threw it at the advancing animals before realizing he hadn’t lit the pack first.

“Private Foxtrot,” the General called out. “Ordnance!”

“What ordnance?” Private Foxtrot replied.

“The dynamite. Light up a stick.”

“Them dang army federales took it all, sir.”

“Damn. Stay close to me, men.” The General marched backward. “To the bus. It’s our Alamo!” His men followed without breaking rank. Slowly, ever slowly, they inched toward safety. Several times the coyote pack attempted to separate them, always looking for the weakest link in their pack, more specifically, Private Zulu. Their hackles were up as they knifed in. Always, the men held rank, kicking and screaming at the four-legged intruders. Eventually, the bus came into sight. “Fire Team Leader Charlie,” the General shouted. “Can you make a break for the bus and get her started up?”

“Roger that.” The Fire Team Leader took off running toward the bus. One of the coyotes drifted after him. Running as fast as he could, the Fire Team Leader dove at the bus door, but the monster was upon him. It sunk its fangs into his calf and shook its head violently.

“Let him go, you son of a bitch!” Private Zulu screamed as he jumped on the back of the coyote pulling at his Team Leader. “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!” he cried as he pounded on the neck of the creature. For just a second, the animal let go. “Shoo, you mangy jackass!” It turned and growled at him. He kicked at it. “Screw you, too,” he yelled as he pulled his Team Leader on board. Fire Team Leader Charlie took the keys from the glove compartment and fired up the bus. Seconds later, the rest of the men, followed by the General, clambered on board. Outside, the starving coyotes surrounded the bus and growled. One of them attacked the front tire.

“Head out!”

“Where?” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked.

“Anywhere!” The Team Leader floored it, scattering the coyotes. The rest of the men on the bus frantically searched for their weapons. Racing across the desert, the animals howled in the background as they chased after the long vehicle. At full speed, Fire Team Leader Charlie took the rise above the spot where the honey pot had held Ziggy and Private Zulu. Even with its weight, the heavy bus caught air as it flew off the top of the ridge. The vehicle bounced twice upon landing while the Team Leader stood on the pedal, leaving the frustrated pack in the distance. He set out for the farmhouse while the militia fired their outdated weapons harmlessly out the windows at shadows.

Above, from the ridge, sets of glowing eyes watched as the bus bounced away.

• • •


Avery typed away at his computer…






To: Senior Management

Hotel 9 International




Dear Sir:




I’m writing to express my sincere disappointment with a recent stay at one of your business suite properties. Unfortunately, I’m currently working on a secret, clandestine intelligence operation with a foreign government, so I’ll have to keep this brief and to the point. Certainly I won’t be the first to suggest a major overhaul of your complimentary breakfast buffet. The eggs were dry, the cereal selection was abysmal, the frosting on the donuts was almost nonexistent, and the bacon was anything but thick-cut. Free shouldn’t mean free of quality. Secret operatives like myself require a hardy breakfast to have the energy to track down the most dangerous international criminals on the planet. It’s hard work, all the sleuthing, computer hacking, and what not. Without me operating at full mental capacity, the safety of the free world is at stake. The penalties for interfering with a special agent and his work are severe. To avoid a thorough investigation by the appropriate federal authorities, I demand a complete overhaul of your menu. Smoked salmon and a chocolate fountain for dunking donuts are mandatory. They’re completely non-negotiable. In the meantime, please forward two dozen vouchers for a free night stay via my attorney, Gregory Kennesaw Mountain. His address can be found in the Austin, Texas, directory. You have one week to reply to my demands. I’m now signing off to continue securing the free world from evil. Thank me later.

    

Sincerely,



    

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton












P.S. — During my stay, I observed a large, unruly group of vagrants in combat gear stealing from the buffet. Keep an eye out for them.





“Anything new to report?” Cesar asked as he entered the room.

“Stop interfering with my work! I’m trying to work here!” Avery put down the candy bar he was eating and slammed his laptop shut.

• • •


“Like, want some chips, army dudes?” Ziggy asked as the men of STRAC-BOM raced into the Padre’s entertainment room.

“Where have you been?” the General asked.

“I don’t, like, really know, man,” Ziggy said as he puffed away. “You tell him.” The skinny hippy looked at Nancy, who was resting at his feet on the couch. The iguana ignored him. “Want a smoke?”

“Hell, no!” the General said as he ripped the joint from Ziggy’s grasp and crushed it out on the floor. “Snap out of it — we’re under attack. Men, board up the doors and windows with anything you can find.”

“Attack?” asked the suddenly severely paranoid and positively stoned Ziggy. “Like, by who, man?”

“By them damn chupacabras,” Private Zulu said as he tried to move a heavy armoire in front of a window that had been shot out during the firefight. Ziggy looked at the haunting werewolf on the television screen and gulped.




CHAPTER NINETEEN

Tough Day at the Office


The city noise leaked through the windows the same way the smog did. Cesar paced back and forth in the informal command post. He hadn’t heard from Barquero in hours. It made him nervous. The Padre was in Monterrey. He was close. If he slipped away again, it was over. He would disappear, but his drug dealing and killing wouldn’t. The phone rang. Cesar picked it up.

“Good.” Cesar hung up the phone. “I’ve got him. What are you doing? Sleeping?” He smacked Avery across the head.

“No.” Avery rubbed his ear. “I’m simply reciting pi backward from its one-thousandth digit. It helps me to relax and concentrate. If someone isn’t hitting me!” he yelled. “Thanks for not helping.” Avery looked back at his keyboard. “I’m almost there.”

“Never mind that — my contact has found him.”

“Where?”

“At a warehouse. Here.” Cesar pointed to a spot on a map pinned to the wall.

“I doubt that. I’ve…”

“Shut up, we’re moving out. Sergeant, alert the team!”

“Really, you should listen to me…”

“Sergeant, I mean now!” Avery shrugged, and packed up his equipment and followed Cesar to the ground transportation.

• • •


In a sedan along a crowded highway, a man with a dark suit, wide-brimmed hat, and Roman priest’s collar talked on a cell phone. From inside his suit coat pocket, he took out a small silver case and removed a thin cigar. He lit it.

“Yes, I understand,” he said as he exhaled a ring of smoke and hung up the phone.

• • •


“Move, move, move…” Cesar exhorted his men. “We leave now!” Avery dragged himself into the dark SUV with another half dozen heavily armed troops dressed in black.

“Anyone have anything to eat?” Avery asked. A Mexican Army Special Forces operator next to him pulled out his pistol, stared at Avery, and chambered a round. “Why do you carry a forty-five?” Avery asked.

“Because they don’t make a forty-six,” the man with a ragged scar on his face responded with a cold grin as he pulled a black ski mask over his head.

“Going skiing?”

“We cover our faces. We can’t let them know who we are,” the special operator replied. He spit on his hands and rubbed them together.

“That’s really delightful,” Avery said in disgust as he looked out the window as the city passed by. It was a hard city, but anyone could tell it once was a seat of power. The old combined with the new to create a strange mix of architecture. Twenty minutes later, they reached their destination. Cesar led his armed men as they fanned out around the warehouse. They took up concealed positions in buildings around their target. From the rooftops, snipers scanned the area. Meanwhile, Avery continued to work on his laptop.

“Colonel, I think we may be in the wrong place.”

“My contact was very specific. This is the location,” Cesar replied.

“Colonel Beltrán, come in, over,” a voice came from Cesar’s radio. He picked it up.

 “What is it?”

“I’ve got a visual on a car approaching the warehouse.”

“I see it,” Cesar said. “All units hold until I give the go. Be sure to watch for a large Mexican national dressed in civilian clothes. He’s with us, over.” The car pulled up in front of the warehouse. A man dressed in black got out. “Is he wearing a priest’s collar?” Cesar asked into his radio.

“Affirmative,” came back a reply.

“Good, that’s our target. Stay on him, over.” The man in black took a key from his suit pocket and entered the warehouse as his ride pulled away. “Let the car go,” Cesar said. “Stay with the target. All units prepare to go in. I want him alive if possible. Take up breaching positions. Go now!” Cesar and his men moved quickly from their concealed locations around the building. Two of his men stood beside the main door. “Breach it now!” Cesar commanded. One of the men pointed a shotgun at the hinges of the door. Two quick blasts roared out. The door fell away as the second man threw a concussion grenade into the building. A deafening roar was followed by a procession of Cesar’s men into the warehouse.

“Stay down! Stay down!” the first soldier through the door yelled at a figure prone on the concrete floor. Using zip ties, the soldiers restrained the stunned man. Cesar used a flashlight to illuminate the man’s face. The man just laughed. It wasn’t the Padre. In the back of the warehouse, Barquero quietly made his exit.

• • •


“Who was the man?” the Padre’s driver asked as the armored limousine cruised out of Monterrey.

“Just someone who owed me a debt,” the Padre replied as he lit a cigar. “It was his misfortune that he happened to look like me. Vaguely.”

“It must have been quite a large debt.”

“Yes, but the alternative was for him to die. He’ll spend some time in jail, but I’ll pay his family something, and, most importantly for him, he gets to stay alive.”

“Plata o plomo?”

“Yes,” the Padre chuckled. “Silver or lead. It’s always an easy choice. Take me to the meeting.”

• • •


Avery hunched over his laptop. A half-empty can of Mountain Dew rested within easy reach. He took a swig and continued to work.

“Colonel.”

“Yes.” Cesar seethed with anger over losing his mark for the second time.

“Was the Padre involved in any major construction projects that you are aware of?”

“He has many different businesses under his control. He mainly uses them for laundering drug proceeds. It’s possible that one of them is involved in construction. Why?”

“Well,” Avery said, “there are a number of files here regarding the construction of a facility outside Monterrey. He’s been arranging major deliveries of equipment and supplies.”

“What kind of equipment?”

“Heavy equipment, including excavation and drilling machines and lots of chemicals, too. Looks like all the transactions were in cash.”

“There’s no way it’s legitimate.”

“There’s also the purchase of an abandoned building nine months ago.”

“Do you have the exact location?”

“Of course I do,” Avery said in disgust. “Do you think I’m stupid?” Avery scratched the stained armpits of his dirty yellow tracksuit.

• • •


Barquero was furious with himself. He should have known it couldn’t be that easy. He should have killed the attorney. Sitting in the cab of a pickup truck he’d stolen earlier, he cleaned and reloaded his pistol. Backed-up traffic slowly crawled past his spot on the side of the highway. The cell phone in his pocket hummed.

“I know he wasn’t there. Yes…where is it? Are you positive? Okay. I’ll handle it.” He hung up the phone and started up the truck. Horns blared as he forced his way onto the road.

• • •


Ziggy finished the bag of chips, got up, and switched out the DVD, while General X-Ray and his men stood sentry at locations around the farmhouse, watching for signs of the coyote pack. Fire Team Alpha was holed up in the kitchen.

“Team Leader?” Private Foxtrot asked. “What do you think that thing was I found in the desert?”

“What thing?” Fire Team Leader Alpha yawned.

“With the metal detector. The needle dang near flew off the dial.”

“Who knows, probably some old junk.”

“You think it might be gold?” Private Foxtrot asked hopefully. “Remember the General’s story about them Mexicans that buried it to get away from the Texans?”

“After the last couple of days, I’m not buying any more of the General’s stories. He’s crazier than a dog in a hubcap factory. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Don’t you think we ought to tell him, though? It might be worth checking out. I’m just saying.”

“Foxtrot, there’s a pack of half-starved coyotes out there, and you look like a fried pork chop with red-eye gravy to them. How’d you expect to go dig up some dang infernal desert junk with one of them chewing on your liver?”

“We got our guns back now. We can fight ’em off.”

“You couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with that single-shot twenty-two of yours, and you know it.”

“I’ll do the digging. You can keep ’em off me with your scattergun. They sure do like to come in close. You can’t miss.”

“Not me, partner. You know what has four legs and an arm? A happy coyote.”

“Can’t we at least tell the General? I bet he can come up with a plan.”

“Fine, tell the General. Anything to get you to shut up.”

“Thanks, Fire Team Leader. You know, you’re my best pal.”

“Lucky me.” Fire Team Leader Alpha picked up an apple from a bowl and took a bite.

• • •


It was getting dark, and Barquero was surveying the abandoned building forty miles outside of Monterrey. He checked his weapon and the two curved hand scythes in his waistband. Cesar and his men hadn’t arrived yet. That was good. He had a score to settle. Personally. He liked to work alone.

The building showed signs of decay and neglect, but there were armed men posted at locations around the perimeter. Barquero moved stealthily among the excavators and dump trucks surrounding the building. As dilapidated as the outside of the building appeared, there was clearly a great deal of work being done in and around the property. At one end of the building, an eighteen-wheeler was backed up to a loading dock. Men were using a forklift to unload pallets of materials into the facility. In front of him, two men with assault rifles waited by a door. He sneaked past them under the cover of heavy machinery, opting for a broken window on the side of the facility. Meticulously, he picked the remaining broken shards of glass from the window, one by one. To his right, he heard footsteps. Leaning up against the shadows, he reached for one of the curved blades at his back. As the man rounded the corner, Barquero attacked. It was over in seconds. The man’s quivering body spilt its blood on the dry sand at the corner of the building. Barquero returned to the window and pulled himself in. Room to room, he searched. Coming to a long hallway, he heard to men laughing. They were standing by a staircase.

“And the what?” one of the men asked, laughing.

“I swear to God, the next thing she did was…” the man said as he slumped against the wall.

“What?” his confused partner asked as a bullet from Barquero’s silenced pistol pierced his lung. “What the…” he said as he collapsed on top of his compatriot. Barquero ran down the hall and, in quick succession, shot both men in the head. He checked behind him and then went down the steps.

• • •


“I want every available helicopter in the air now!” Cesar shouted into his radio. Sirens blared and lights flashed as the long procession of military vehicles raced down the highway.

“Most commando teams sneak in without sirens,” Avery said. “Trust me, I should know.”

“Get me General Morales on the line,” Cesar said.

“Seriously, with the lights and everything, we look like a freaking neon snake out here.” Avery opened another Mountain Dew. “MI-6 would never do it this way.”

“Shut up,” Cesar said to Avery. “When we get there, you stay put.”

“Whatever,” Avery replied as he returned to playing the latest release of Zombie Slaughter on his laptop. “But can we stop for tacos on the way? No onions for me.”

“Not another word from you!” Cesar went back to his radio.

“What? No tacos here? This country bites ass,” Avery muttered.

• • •


General X-Ray and the rest of the STRAC-BOM listened intently as Private Foxtrot recounted the story of the metal detector and the positive reading he’d come across. When the private had finished, the General leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his bald dome.

“That big a reading?” he asked.

“Sir, massive, sir,” Private Foxtrot replied.

“But it was back near where we parked the bus? Near that pack of animals?”

“Yep.”

“Well, boys, we’ve found the civilian, and as far as I’m concerned, that fulfills our end of the bargain. I was planning for us to bug out back to the States once it gets light outside. But let’s face it. We’re still broke as beggars, and if there really is something down there of value, it just might be the ticket that keeps us in the militia business. It won’t be easy, but I think we can do it. That said, the mission is officially over, and you men deserve to head home for some well-deserved R&R. We’ll put it to a vote. But it needs to be unanimous.” The men looked around nervously at each other.

“I, like, vote no, dudes,” Ziggy said as Nancy squirmed in his arms, trying to bite his face.

“This is a military operation,” the General said. “Hippy votes don’t count.”

“Like, bummer, man.” Ziggy kissed Nancy.

“Anyone who wants in, say aye.” The General looked at his men.

“Aye!” said Private Foxtrot. No one else said a word. “Come on, guys,” the private pleaded. “Think of all the sweet stuff we can buy with the money. ATVs, grenade launchers, bass boats with machine guns…”

“I’m in,” said Fire Team Leader Charlie. He kicked at Private Zulu.

“Me, too,” said Zulu reluctantly.

“I’ll go,” said Fire Team Leader Alpha. “Someone has to keep an eye on Private Foxtrot.” The private gave his Team Leader a high five.

“Well,” the General said. “That means it’s up to Fire Team Bravo. What’ll it be?”

“Why not?” said Fire Team Leader Bravo. “How hard could it be?”

“Sure,” added Private Tango. “You guys need me.” The General beamed as he looked around the room at his men.

“This is going to be epic, men,” General X-Ray said proudly. “Why, if we pull this off, I’m pretty sure National Geographic will want to make a documentary about it. It’ll be bigger than when they raised the Titanic.”

 “When should we head out, General?” Private Zulu asked.

“Immediately. We’ll use the cover of darkness to our advantage.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Fire Team Leader Alpha asked. “I mean, what if we run into those dogs again?”

“Don’t worry, Team Leader — I’m pretty sure those things don’t see well at night.”

• • •


Barquero made his way down several flights of stairs, stopping occasionally to listen for sounds. He swapped out his pistol’s magazine. One flight of stairs below him, a metal deck opened up. Fluorescent light came from below. The sound of men working came from below the platform. Barquero silently made his way down. Below him was a sprawling space filled with machinery and chemical containers. At the far end of the cavernous room, men wearing chemical suits worked to move materials from a freight elevator into the laboratory. Mixed with the slight buzzing of the light panels in the ceiling was the faint sound of the massive system venting air to the outside. Barquero used stacks of crates that were being stored on the platform to move unseen to a position overlooking the middle of the room. Peering down, he could see the Padre. He was talking to a man wearing a dark tracksuit, open at the neck. A thick metal chain hung from the neck of the stocky man. A large bodyguard stood behind him. A pistol hung from a shoulder harness the guard wore over his shirt. He wasn’t trying to conceal the weapon in any way.

“It wasn’t just the drugs that didn’t arrive,” the man with a heavy Eastern European accent said to the Padre. “I want my cars.”

“Yuri, calm down,” the Padre said. “I know you’re upset. I am, too. The incident at the harbor was only a minor inconvenience. I’ll replace the merchandise. You’re not the only one who lost something. I lost an entire container ship. They’re not easy to replace.”

“If we were in the Ukraine right now, you’d be a dead man.”

“Yuri.” The Padre’s demeanor suddenly became ice cold. “Don’t threaten me.” Two of the Padre’s men with AK-47s took a step forward and stood by the Padre. “You’ll get your product and your goddamn cars. But don’t you ever threaten me.” The Padre stared straight into the gangster’s eyes. “Ever.” Yuri looked around the facility as rest of the Padre’s men quit what they were doing and watched the two notorious drug moguls face off. “Back to work!” the Padre yelled. His men immediately complied. “Like I said, I don’t go back on a deal with a partner. And I promise you want to be a partner with me on this one.” The Padre motioned to the massive meth lab being assembled around them. “Once this is complete, I’ll make you the largest methamphetamine dealer in Europe. If you want a Lamborghini, you’ll be able to buy the company.”

“When do you start production?” Yuri rubbed his double chin.

“The lab will be complete in a few more days, but it will take several weeks to have the precursor materials delivered from overseas.”

“This site is remote, but not that remote. How will you keep it hidden?”

“I’ve had some of the best technicians in the world working on the filtration systems, and with the lab this deep underground, it can’t be spotted from the air.”

“What if someone talks? You’ve, how do you say? Put many of your eggs in a basket.”

“I’m only using my most trusted men in the facility. They are men with families. They know what I’ll do if I have to. Everything is going to be fine. Now, come with me. I want to show you how the process works.” The two men walked toward the freight elevator at the end of the production floor. Above them, Barquero crept farther down the platform.




CHAPTER TWENTY

Going in Hot


The school bus crept along the bank of a small stream as the members of STRAC-BOM used the vehicle’s headlights to illuminate the surrounding area of desert. They all were on the lookout for coyotes. Coming to a bend in the shallow riverbed, the bus slid to a halt. Inside the bus, Private Foxtrot cinched up his armor. The metal chest plate made of sheet steel, arm and leg greaves, and helmet with a pronounced crest on top had all come from the Padre’s collection. Hundreds of years old, it was now about to meet the Mexican desert again.

“I’m going in,” Private Foxtrot said as he adjusted his conquistador’s helmet. “Cover me, you bitches.” He stood at the bottom of the stairwell. Taking a piece of chewing gum out of his mouth, he stuck it on the window. “Don’t anyone touch that,” he said before clanking his way out of the bus with the metal detector. Flashlights duct-taped to the barrels of rusty shotguns and old deer rifles poked out from the windows.

“Clear right,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said.

“All good left,” added Team Leader Alpha.

“Bravo?” asked the General.

“Uh, yeah. Nothing in back,” Fire Team Leader Bravo replied. “Nothing but tumbleweeds.”

“Commence searching, Private Foxtrot,” the General ordered. Private Foxtrot began to scan back and forth over the area with his device. “It’s right around here, I think…pretty sure, anyways.”

“Hurry up, Private,” the General implored. Private Foxtrot tried his best to remember exactly where the spot was. In the dark, with flashlight beams dancing back and forth, it was difficult for him to remember. The Private stopped scanning and looked up. He thought he’d seen something move just beyond the reach of the flashlights’ range.

“What’s the matter, Private?” asked the General.

“Thought I saw something over there.”

“Anyone see anything?” the General asked his men.

“Nope,” Private Zulu responded.

“Negative! The correct reply is negative!” the General shouted as his face turned red. “How many times do I have to tell you, Private?”

“Sir, sorry, sir!” Private Zulu called out. “Negative!”

“That’s better. Now, Foxtrot, get back to swinging that damn detector. I want to see you busier than a one-armed monkey with two peckers.”

“Yes, sir.” Private Foxtrot resumed panning back and forth with his device. Every once in a while, he thought he saw something creeping in the distance, but he didn’t dare stop his searching. For fifteen minutes, he plodded along through the desert. The bus followed close behind him. The Private stopped in his tracks and took a whiff of the night air. “Damnation,” he said as he pinched his nose.

“What the hell is it now, Private?” the General asked.

“Something awful rank-smelling out here, sir.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t know. Think it’s over there a piece.”

“Check it out.” The Private wandered in the general direction of the noxious odor.

“Holy crap,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said. “That stink could knock a buzzard off a gut wagon.” He tied a camouflage bandana over his nose and mouth.

“Found it, sir.” Private Foxtrot stood over a decomposing pile of entrails and cracked bones.

“Status report,” the General said. “I want details.”

“Think it might have been some kind of animal. Maybe a goat.” Inside the bus, Private Zulu swallowed hard.

“Team Leader Charlie?” the skinny private asked.

“Yeah.”

“You know what dead goats mean?”

“Now, don’t you go getting all riled up about those chupacabras again.”

“You seen the look in the eyes of those coyotes. They weren’t natural-looking eyes. They had the devil in them.”

“Like, he has a point, man,” Ziggy added.

“No more talking about chupacabras!” the General ordered. “Private Foxtrot, keep going.”

“Maybe I ought to switch out with someone for a spell. I’ve got a blister the size of a half dollar on my foot, and this Spanish armor ain’t helping anything.” The private adjusted the heavy helmet on his head. The helmet’s wide, downward-sloping curved brim impaired his peripheral vision.

“Negatory. Move out.”

“But it’s pretty fresh, sir.”

“Irrelevant, Private. Find me my treasure.”

Private Foxtrot reluctantly resumed his search.

• • •


Cesar briefed the men in his vehicle on what to do when they arrived at the target location.

“No more waiting around for the Padre. This time we’re going in hot. I want you to take down anyone who looks like a threat. You see someone with a gun, you have my authority to shoot first.”

“Do you have a ghillie suit I can borrow?” Avery asked. “I left all my sniper gear at home.”

“You’re not going in with us,” Cesar said. “I want you to stay in the vehicle. Keep listening for transmissions.”

“No fair.”

“That’s enough from you.”

 “You wouldn’t even know where this guy was if it weren’t for me.”

“And I can still have you locked up for being in this country illegally. Get ready, men. ETA to target, one minute.”

“You guys suck.” Avery opened another Mountain Dew and went back to playing his video game. The convoy of military vehicles arrived at the scene just as two army helicopters were coming in low and fast. They stopped and hovered fifteen feet in the air as troops in black gear fast-roped to the ground. Two cartel guards by the door of the facility unloaded their weapons in the direction of the advancing troops. Using heavy machinery for cover, Cesar led his men forward.

“Sergeant! You take a squad through the main doors,” Cesar yelled over the din of the helicopters and gunfire. “I’m taking one to the loading bay.” Hunched over, Cesar ran from cover to cover, his squad of men behind him. Three cartel gunmen in the loading dock sprayed AK-47 fire in their direction. Five more of the Padre’s armed men came out of the bay to join them. Cesar pulled up behind an excavator. Sounds of heavy gunfire came from inside the building. “Ortiz, can you drive that bulldozer over there?” Cesar pointed.

“Yes, sir.” The soldier ran to the heavy machine while Cesar and his men poured automatic fire at the loading dock. Ortiz started up the bulldozer and raised the heavy hydraulic blade. Putting the machine in gear, he slowly advanced toward the cartel soldiers. Rolling across the open ground, Cesar and his men fell in behind the earthmover. A door gunner from one of the helicopters sprayed the dock with large-caliber bullets that tore apart the rear portion of the tractor-trailer backed up to the dock. Cesar pulled out a grenade and motioned for one of his men to do the same. Stepping from behind the advancing bulldozer, both men arced their grenades toward the bay. Two loud explosions sent bodies of cartel soldiers flying.

“Ortiz!” Cesar yelled. “Head straight for it!” As the lumbering vehicle approached the loading dock, two cartel members, covered in blood, threw down their assault rifles and put their hands over their heads. Cesar’s men zip-tied the captives’ hands and feet before Cesar led his men to the freight elevator.

“Take it down!” he ordered as he reloaded.

• • •


The Padre froze when he heard the sound of gunfire coming from above. He pulled a gold-plated automatic pistol from his suit and chambered a round.

“What the hell is going on?” Yuri asked. The Ukrainian’s bodyguard pulled out his pistol.

“They’re coming,” the Padre said calmly to his men. “Prepare for them.” A dozen of the Padre’s men stopped moving equipment, and pulled machine guns and assault rifles from storage cases.

“I thought you said this place was safe?”

“Shut up, Yuri.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up! This is bullshit…you said this place…” The Padre shot Yuri in the face and then turned the gun on his bodyguard. They fired at the same time. Both men fell to the floor. The Padre’s bodyguards shot Yuri’s man with everything in their magazines. His body twitched and jerked as the bullets tore his body apart. The Padre struggled to his feet. He had a bullet wound in his left shoulder. Yuri’s body lay prone on the lab’s floor. The Padre shot him in the face again.

“I said… shut up!”

• • •


Private Foxtrot clanked along in his Spanish armor as he waved the metal detector back and forth.

“Hot damn!” he yelled out as the needle on the meter jumped all the way to the right. “Found it!”

“All right, boys, time to dismount,” the General commanded. “Bring out every entrenching tool we have.”

“Like, what do you want me to do, man?” Ziggy stroked Nancy’s back.

“Grab a flashlight and watch the perimeter. And keep that damn lizard out of my way. Out of the bus, boys!”

The men of STRAC-BOM began digging in the hard desert soil.

“Dry as a dang powder house down here,” Private Tango said as he chipped away at the packed dirt. The men had been digging for over an hour.

“Like breaking rocks.” Private Zulu took a break from digging.

“Private, quit your lollygagging,” the General said. “Church ain’t over till the singing is done.”

“I’m not lollygagging, sir. I’m just resting a spell before I get tired.” He went back to digging. Privates Tango and Zulu shrieked simultaneously like little girls.

“Calm down.” Fire Team Leader Charlie looked around the bottom of the hole and poked with his shovel.

“Dead hand…dead hand,” Private Zulu mumbled as he crawled out of the hole and wiped his hands off on his uniform.

“Well, well, well.” Fire Team Leader Charlie lifted something out of the soil with his entrenching tool.

“What is it?” the General asked as he pointed a flashlight into the small pit.

“This old fellow ain’t going to be dealing southpaw from the deck anymore.” Fire Team Leader Charlie held up the skeletal remains of a left arm balanced on the blade of his shovel.

“Is the rest of him down there?” the General asked as he examined the bones.

“I reckon so.”

“Well, get him out of there.”

“What do you want me to do with this?”

“Like, can I have it, man?” Ziggy held the squirming Nancy under one arm while he reached for the relic. “Like, my store specializes in this stuff.” Ziggy took the remains of the arm and sniffed it. Struggling to hold Nancy still, he took the skeleton arm, stretched it over his shoulder, and scratched his back with it. “People, like, pay top dollar for this stuff.”

“You’re as crazy as a soup sandwich.” Fire Team Leader Charlie went back to digging with the rest of the men.

“I’m really not, like, crazy, dude.” Ziggy examined his new treasure. “Avery just says I’m, like, mentally hilarious.”

It took a few minutes for the men to remove the rest of the skeleton. As the various pieces were excavated from the ground, Ziggy laid them out in anatomical order. “I, like, need the hip bone, man. The foot bone connected to the…leg bone. The leg bone connected to the…hip bone,” Ziggy sang as he worked at reconstructing the skeleton.

Private Tango heard a dull thunk as his shovel hit something solid. The men all looked at each other.

“We got something, General.” Fire Team Leader Bravo got down on his hands and knees, and began sweeping away dirt with his hands. “It’s wood. Looks like some kind of long crate.”

“You’re sure it ain’t a chest?” Private Zulu asked. “’Cause I never heard of a treasure crate, just a treasure chest.”

“He’s right — it’s definitely a crate,” Private Tango said as he started to dig around the sides.

“Like, you sure there isn’t a hip down there, man?” Ziggy pointed into the pit with the skeleton’s bony arm.

• • •


Avery sat in the military vehicle outside the Padre’s facility and fumed. He distinctly remembered General Morales’ comments about the value of the reward for the Padre’s capture being contingent upon the level of involvement of the individual claiming the money. They’re trying to cut me out. Rip me off on some Mexican technicality. You can’t trust anyone in this country. The fighting now seemed to be contained inside the facility. Around the grounds, only a few army soldiers remained on lookout. Avery opened the door and performed a barrel roll onto the hard ground. Springing to his feet, he took a karate stance. His eyes panned left and right and then left again, but his head didn’t move. Tiptoeing between the heavy machines, he reached down and picked up a broom. Unscrewing the handle from the brush, he attempted to break it over his knee. It didn’t work.

“Son of…” Avery hopped around on one leg while the other throbbed in pain. Avery took the broom handle and stuck one end in the ground. Holding the top of the long wooden stick, he placed his foot in the middle of it. He tried to snap it. Avery fell over. The stick rolled away. Picking it up, he jammed one end into the space between the tire and wheel well of a backhoe loader. Pulling back with all his strength, he leaned his weight into it. This time the broom handle snapped. It sent Avery rolling over backward. Dusting himself off, he took the two pieces of broom handle and began to alternate swinging them diagonally back and forth in front of his body in a looping motion that brought the sticks up and around his head.

“Strike, strike, deflection,” he said as he swung the sticks. Avery whipped the sticks back and forth, faster and faster in a crisscrossing figure-eight pattern. “Block, block, deflection, strike, strike.” On the balls of his feet, Avery moved side to side with small, hopping jumps. “Evasion, evasion, deflection, strike, strike. Keep the sticks moving. Never stop moving. Don’t let your opponent judge the range of your sticks. Block, block, strike…strike…deathblow!” Avery leapt in the air and took a huge downward swing with one of his sticks. “Victory is mine.”

Avery placed his arms at his side and bowed deeply to his imaginary sparring partner. He wasn’t at all happy with the weight and balance of his sticks, but they would have to do. He hoped he wouldn’t run into any Filipino martial artists inside. The odds weren’t good, but they’d die laughing if they saw his pathetic fighting sticks. Avery marched to the main door. Stepping around the bodies of dead cartel gunmen, he ducked inside.

• • •


Deep underground, Barquero watched as the Padre’s men began to barricade the massive meth lab against Cesar and his men. The majority of the Padre’s men took positions around the freight elevator at the far end of the facility as the gunfire above intensified. The rest of the Padre’s men went to guard the stairwell that Barquero had come down. He knew he couldn’t kill all of them. He needed to wait for Cesar. Then he could kill the one he wanted the most. Barquero slowly lowered himself from the platform above the facility’s floor and dropped to the ground. In the chaos and confusion, no one noticed as he hid behind a stack of chemical containers.

• • •


“General.” Fire Team Leader Alpha wiped the sweat from his face. “That’s all of them.” The General and men stood looking at the ten wooden crates.

“What do you think is in ’em?” Private Tango asked.

“They look like coffins to me,” Private Zulu answered.

“Hell, no.” The General kicked one of the dirt-encrusted boxes. “Too short and too skinny for coffins.” He got down on his knee and began to rub the dirt from the side of one. “It’s got something painted on it.” The General spit on the top corner of the crate and rubbed furiously at the dried soil. “New…New Haven…New Haven, Connecticut. Private, get me that smashing iron from the bus.” Private Zulu returned promptly with a claw hammer. The General took the tool and pried back one of the corners of the crate. The men of STRAC-BOM aimed their flashlights into the crate as the General lifted the lid. Even Ziggy looked on in anticipation. Nancy ignored them. “Great day in the morning,” the General said as he gazed upon the contents of the crate.

“What are they, General?” Fire Team Leader Bravo asked. Tears welled up in the General’s eyes as he lifted up something long and heavy.

“Henries, boys. I’ll be goddamned, but we found Henries.” The General lifted up the mint-condition Henry repeating rifle to show his troops. “You could load this salty bastard on Monday and shoot until Sunday. It’s… it’s… beautiful. It’s perfect.” The General wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“They worth much?” asked Private Zulu.

“Perfectly preserved like this?” The General brought the never-before-fired weapon to his shoulder and sighted down the long barrel of the lever-action rifle. “Thousands, maybe tens of thousands apiece.”

“So,” Private Zulu said. “We got ten crates, at six rifles a crate, times thousands…tens of thousands…” The scrawny private stuck out his tongue as he attempted to do the math.

“Like, did we find the hip bone, man?” Ziggy interrupted.

“Quiet,” Private Zulu said. “I’m ciphering. Carry the…”

“It’s a lot of money, boys.” The General turned and shook the hands of his Fire Team Leaders. They saluted in return. All of a sudden, Nancy hissed. The big iguana’s head bobbed up and down violently. From the desert, sets of glowing eyes moved back and forth in the dark.

“Battle stations!” the General ordered. “Fire at will!” The men began to unload their weapons into the night. Like ghosts, the sets of eyes vanished from view and then reappeared in another place. “Keep firing, men!” The General squeezed off rounds from his pearl-handled revolvers into the dark.

“Behind you!” Fire Team Leader Alpha yelled as he let off a blast from his shotgun. Private Foxtrot turned around and aimed his single-shot twenty-two at nothing in particular and fired.

“I’ve only got two more shells,” the private said as he fumbled to reload his rifle.

“I’ve only three more,” said Fire Team Leader Bravo.

“I’m out!” yelled Private Zulu. Ziggy picked up Nancy and crawled into the pit.

“Ohmmm, ohmmm,” Ziggy chanted as the gunfire rattled his delicate nature. “Like, peace, man.” He was terrified, and even meditation wasn’t helping.

“Keep up the fire, boys.” The General shot from the hip as he aimed at glowing sets of eyes. The growling coming from the pitch black beyond their flashlight beams became louder and louder. The General’s pistols clicked empty.

“I’m out!” Fire Team Leader Charlie yelled. The sound of gunfire stopped.

“Into the hole!” the General ordered. “Fall back! Fall back!” The men piled in on top of one another. Seven civilian militia, a hippy, and one exceptionally large iguana made for a rather tight fit. “Men, when they come for us, remember, no surrender, no retreat.” The evil growling became ever louder. The glowing eyes steadily advanced on their position.

“I just want to, like, go home.” Ziggy kissed Nancy. Nancy bit him.

• • •


Inside the Padre’s building, Avery followed the trail of dead cartel gunmen down a long hallway. As he took cover in doorways, every advance he made was preceded by a violent lashing of his improvised fighting sticks.

“Cover, cover… move, move, move,” Avery muttered as he launched himself at another doorway. Eventually he reached the last door before the stairwell. “Advancing, advancing… cover, cover, hold.” Avery looked down the stairs and suddenly got a very bad feeling.

• • •


Cesar and his men knelt poised in the freight elevator, their weapons at the ready. Cesar looked at his men.

“They’ll be waiting for us.” Cesar chambered a round in his assault rifle. He took out a grenade and pulled the pin. “I’ll go first.” The elevator came to rest at the bottom floor. Two of Cesar’s men took hold of the bottom of the elevator’s sliding door and lifted it up. Cesar tossed the grenade underneath it. A hail of gunfire exploded from inside the lab, puncturing the door in long streaks of bullet holes. One of Cesar’s men went down. The grenade exploded, and Cesar’s men threw the elevator door all the way up. Cesar dove into the massive lab. Dust and smoke filled the air as he took cover behind some machinery. He fired his weapon at the cartel gunmen as his troops spread out looking for cover. Another of his soldiers fell in a heap to the floor. “Padre! I’ve got you!” Cesar reloaded and began firing again.

“Get me out of here,” the Padre said to his two bodyguards as he tied a rag around his wounded shoulder. The burly Mexicans began to escort him away from the dock. “You three! Come with us. The rest of you stay here. Kill those goddamn government dogs!”

• • •


“Bayonets at the ready, men!” General X-Ray ordered. Private Zulu pulled out his rusty Swiss Army knife as the menacing pack approached the open pit in the middle of the desert. The terrified private could smell their foul, reeking breath. His knife blade wouldn’t open. He flipped out the corkscrew instead.

• • •


The Padre and his two bodyguards ducked as they ran for the stairs in the back of the lab. The bodies of army soldiers and cartel gunmen surrounded the entrance to the stairwell. The Padre fired his pistol at the one remaining army commando at the stairwell. The soldier went down. His bodyguards grabbed him and helped him to the doorway.

“Not that arm!” the Padre yelled in pain. Around and around the flights of stairs they climbed up.

At the top of the stairs, Avery heard footsteps coming. He backed up over the bodies of two dead cartel soldiers and took a fighting stance in the doorway of the nearest room. Whipping his broom handles in a figure-eight pattern, he steadied himself. He’d been training for this his whole life.

“Deflect… block… strike.” Two men carrying a third emerged from the stairwell. Avery stepped forward. “Be like water…” He whipped his sticks in front of himself and charged. One of the Padre’s bodyguards raised a pistol and aimed directly at Avery. Suddenly, the bodyguard’s chest exploded. From behind the Padre and his men, El Barquero, the Ferryman, shot the other bodyguard in the back of his head. The first guard, his blood splattered over Avery’s tracksuit, already dead on his feet, stood without falling. “Strike, strike!” Avery yelled as he whacked the man twice over the head with his broom handles. The man fell to the floor. The Padre turned and fired into the stairwell. His gun slide locked open. It was empty. He dropped the pistol. From the darkness of the stairwell, Barquero emerged. He stared the Padre directly in the eyes. Barquero’s hate-filled gaze made the Padre freeze. With one hand, Barquero took the Padre by the neck and picked him up. The Padre’s legs shook and twitched above the concrete floor. Barquero squeezed harder. The Padre’s eyes began to bulge. His face turned purple. It was his last few moments on the earth. With them, the Padre thought of his parents. He thought of the priest who did this to him. He thought of Carnicero. A gunshot rang out.

“Let him go!” Cesar yelled. Barquero tightened his grip. “I’ll shoot you in the back, Commander,” Cesar implored. “He’s worth more alive!”

Barquero wavered, and then he dropped the Padre to the cold, hard concrete. The Padre grabbed his throat, choking. Barquero spit on the Padre’s face. Cesar’s men rushed from the stairwell and restrained the man in the priest’s collar.

“He’s mine!” Barquero seethed.

“No, he’s mine,” Cesar said. “He’s mine, and you need to remember that there are as many people after you as there are after him. You get to disappear. That was the deal. I won’t come looking.” Barquero put his pistol back in his waistband. He looked at the Padre. The drug lord, in his immaculate dark suit and polished cowboy boots, wiped the spittle from his face. He looked at Barquero and laughed. Barquero’s eyes were filled with fire. His gun hand quivered. “Go now,” Cesar said, pushing Barquero in the back. “Go!” Barquero walked down the hall. On the way he turned and looked at Avery standing in the doorway. Avery readied his sticks.

“I know you,” Barquero said. “I remember you.”

“Yeah, sorry about all that,” Avery replied. “Complete misunderstanding on your part. Don’t feel bad. Could’ve happened to anyone. Besides, I’ve decided not to press charges.” Barquero stared into Avery’s eyes for a moment. The hair on the back of Avery’s neck stood on end. Barquero turned and disappeared down the hallway without looking back. Cesar’s men pulled the Padre to his feet. “Now, Colonel,” Avery said to Cesar. “About that reward…”

• • •


Ziggy could see the saliva hanging from the gleaming jaws of the beasts as they approached the pit. Their blood-chilling growls filled the air. Ziggy held Nancy in his arms.

Private Foxtrot adjusted his Spanish conquistador’s helmet. All three Fire Team Leaders looked at each other and nodded solemnly. Private Zulu and Private Tango shook hands. General X-Ray prepared to give the order to attack.

Then, suddenly, for some reason, the largest of the animals lifted its head and looked up at the night sky. It let out a long, wailing howl at the moon. Slowly, the pack retreated into the darkness…

• • •


Back in New Orleans, Mae Mae sat in her rocking chair. Her headache had faded. After a while, she got up and went to her table. She rolled the bones. Then she took out her tarot cards and began dealing them out. Examining the cards, she smiled.




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Occasionally, Lost Cats Found


The men of STRAC-BOM and Ziggy sat at the kitchen table of the big white house in Austin. Avery was expected soon. The men were starving and ate whatever Aunt Polly gave them. Her crazy mane of clown-red hair bobbed as her high heels buckled in an attempt to keep her upright.

“Jell-O salad with mayonnaise, pimento cheese, also with mayonnaise, bacon, and grits.” Polly smiled. “Go on. Eat up, boys!”

“Thanks, ma’am,” Private Zulu said.

“Be sure to put some butter on those grits, sugar.”

“Yessum, ma’am. Thank you kindly.”

“Why, General, your men have such nice manners.”

“Thank you. Militia policy. But don’t pay no mind to the private. He thinks a seven-course meal is a possum and a six-pack.” The General tried his Jell-O hesitantly. He managed to choke it down. “Delicious.” Bennett stood in the corner of the kitchen and tried not to laugh. Max, the feisty French bulldog, was on his leash. The end of the leash was tied around the kitchen door handle. Max’s paws scampered in place as he tried desperately to get at Nancy, who was under the table, chewing on a carrot stick. The sight of the big iguana in his favorite spot under the table was driving Max crazy, like an itch right in front of his tail — one he couldn’t reach.

“So, Avery is some kind of hero down in ole Mexico,” Bennett said as he lit his pipe. “You don’t say.” He waved out his match. “Hell, Polly, order these boys a pizza or something. Don’t make them eat that stuff.”

“Bread today is better than cake tomorrow. You boys eat up.”

“You sound like a damn fortune cookie, woman.” Bennett puffed on his pipe. “General, what’s going to happen to you and your men now?”

“Well, sir,” the General said as he wiped his mouth, “we had a bit of good fortune down south. Came back with some artifacts of value. Plan on selling them and re-outfitting the unit.”

“That so?”

“Top of the line, all the way.”

“Flamethrowers?” asked Private Zulu.

“And Tasers,” the General replied.

A horn honked outside. Bennett walked to the front door and saw Avery climb out of a taxi parked behind the mud-stained school bus. He was wearing a tan suit, a skinny black tie, and dark sunglasses. He carried a silver-colored metal briefcase.

“Ma’am,” Private Zulu said, “got any more of them pickles? From last time?”

“Why sure, honey. They’re even better once they sit awhile.” She leaned down to his ear. “It gives them more of a kick,” Polly whispered. “You just stay right there. I’ll get you some.”

“Two is his limit,” the General said, looking at Private Zulu. “I mean it, Private.”

Avery climbed the front steps to the house. Bennett opened the door and let him in.

“What’s going on with the getup?” Bennett asked. “No more tracksuits?”

“Bloodstains don’t come out of yellow.” Avery walked straight past his stepfather. “Polly!” Avery yelled out. “Dew me!” Polly unwrapped a straw and pulled a can of soda from the fridge. Avery walked into the kitchen and took the can from her. “Bad dog,” he said to Max. Max growled. From under the table, Nancy hissed. “Jesus!” Avery yelled at Ziggy. “How’d you get that monster through customs?”

“We, like, took the river route again, dude.” Ziggy reached down to pet the big iguana. It bit his hand before he could get close. Avery opened his briefcase and took out some money.

“General, consider our business concluded.” Avery drained the Mountain Dew in one long pull as he handed over the money. “Save the straw.” He handed it to Polly.

“Thanks. By the way, on our trip home, the boys and I chipped in and got you a little something.” The General handed Avery a gift box adorned with a camouflage bow.

“Go ahead, open it.” Private Zulu could barely contain his excitement.

Avery opened the box.

“A grappling hook. Honestly, you shouldn’t have.”

Private Zulu beamed. “I knew you’d like it.”

“You know, we never did get your chupa…whatever it was,” the General said. “What’re you going to do now?” Avery removed a newspaper from his briefcase and opened it to the sports page.

“According to this,” Avery said. “The New York Yankees are in last place in the American League East. Dead last. This season is a hopeless waste for a chupacabra spawning.” He put the paper down. “It just wasn’t meant to be this time. But…the day will come. Oh, you trust me, it will come, and I’ll be ready.” Avery sighed. “Until then, I have more important business to tend to.” Bennett stifled a laugh as he chomped on his pipe stem. “Where’s Kip?” Avery asked.

“He’s out,” Bennett replied. “Gone to see his girl.”

“Was he in my office while I was gone?”

“Can’t say.”

“Think. At any time during my absence, any time, was he in my room?”

“Can’t say.”

“That rat bastard!”

“Well, thank you for the hospitality, sir, ma’am,” the General said as he rose from the table. “But we’ve got a piece of highway to cover before we get home and return that bus to the depot. Planning on getting a used Croatian amphibious vehicle to replace it.” The General winked at Avery. “Don’t worry — we’ll drop the hippy off on the way.”

Private Zulu grabbed his pickles and shoved them in his pocket. The men of STRAC-BOM got up from the table and, one by one, thanked their hosts. Ziggy reached down and picked up his squirming reptile. Max growled again, his stubby tail pointed straight in the air. His hackles were standing up. Nancy ignored him. The General led his militia outside, and they loaded up. He cursed at Private Zulu and Fire Team Leader Charlie as he pulled another parking ticket from the window of the bus.

“Drive safe, y’all.” Bennett and Polly waved goodbye.

Upstairs, Avery stopped at the door to his office. Below the SKUNK WORKS sign, he used a single thumbtack to attach another. AVERY BARTHOLOMEW PENDLETON — PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR FOR HIRE — GOVERNMENTS TOPPLED — TERRORISTS’ PLOTS FOILED — MURDERS SOLVED — OCCASIONALLY, LOST CATS FOUND.

• • •


The Padre wore a jumpsuit. His hands and feet were shackled. His shoulder hurt from the bullet he’d taken from the Ukrainian bodyguard. He sat in a plastic chair in front of a folding table. The rest of the windowless room was empty. His immaculately polished boots, his Italian suit, and Roman priest’s collar were all gone. He sat in the cold room, alone. The door opened. A man with a briefcase came in and stood in front of him. From his suit coat, he produced a thin cigar. He handed it to the Padre. The Padre held it up and looked at it. He smelled it. The man with the briefcase took out a gold lighter and lit the cigar for him. The Padre inhaled deeply. He looked at the man standing in front of him.

“When am I getting out?”

“I’m… sorry, Padre.”

The Padre was silent for a few moments. “So that’s it?”

“I’m sorry.”

The Padre looked at his smoldering cigar. The tip burned red hot. “Carnicero?”

“He’s dead,” the man in the suit replied.

The Padre stared at the cigar. One part was on fire, one part was not, but the whole thing was consuming itself. The Padre held the glowing tip under his nose. The smoke rose in a spiral. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

• • •


Later that evening, in Monterrey, Barquero slipped through the throng of people on the sidewalk. They were lined up for the street vendors who boisterously hawked their food from small stalls to the late-night crowd of revelers. Time and time again, he looked back over his shoulder. No one was following. Barquero was a large man, but no one seemed to notice him. He found a taxi and got in. As the car pulled away from the curb, Barquero closed his eyes. Rosalina.

• • •


A lone coyote sat on a ridge above the Mexican desert. The pale moon cast an eerie light over the hungry animal as its tongue hung from its jaws. The beast wasn’t full. It wasn’t yet satisfied. It just sat, watching. Waiting patiently for the right moment…




EPILOGUE







To: President of the United Mexican States




Dear Mr. President:




You don’t have to thank me. You don’t even have to apologize, although it would be nice. We both know I saved your country and your position in the government. What I want, besides the rest of my rightful reward for locating and delivering to you one of Mexico’s most highly sought-after drug cartel lords, is the full and complete reimbursement of my out-of-pocket expenses. Heretofore, listed in no particular order:




1) Three cases of Mountain Dew. Original flavor only.

2) One new “Bruce Lee” yellow tracksuit. XXL size only.

3) One Motel 9 “All You Can Eat” breakfast buffet voucher.

    

Sincerely,



    

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton












P.S. — The New York Yankees won’t lose forever. You should keep my phone number handy. The chupacabra will have its revenge…







Copyright


Knuckleball Press


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Stephen C. Randel

Published by Knuckleball Press

All rights reserved

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of Stephen C. Randel except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.




Also by Stephen Randel


The Chupacabra: A Borderline Crazy Tale of Coyotes, Cash & Cartels

2012, Knuckleball Press

www.stephenrandel.com