The Engineer

by Rachel Renee

  “We have a bit of a drive ahead. Did you bring your passport?”

  Thankfully, I remembered it in my haste to get going. “Got it.” Patting the chest of my jacket where I stashed it is my answer.

  “We shouldn’t need it, but in case we get pulled over, it’s good to have.”

  Small talk ensues after that, nothing pertinent, nothing telling. I let it go for a bit, enjoying the comradery, if even just because we’re both waiting before we converse about what needs to be said.

  “I grew up in Houston, but when I was a teenager, my father got transferred and I ended up in Mexico. When I turned eighteen, I went back to the States and joined the military, Army. I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with myself so I stayed in for a few years until I decided to apply for the agency. I was surprised I was hired in right away. I spent a couple more years training, no field work until I was nearly thirty. They sent me back to Mexico. I’ve been here in some capacity ever since. Fighting the war on drugs in one city or another. Cartel after cartel.”

  This isn’t his first run-in with this type of case. He’s been able to keep a low profile. Not seemingly worried that the cartels will pin him as a traitor. That’s somewhat impressive. Also, a little worrisome that the amount of different cartels is large enough he’s able to go below the radar with at least a handful.

  Finally, after a couple of hours of background info, random stories, and information, Dom begins talking about how he got to know Natalia and how that led him to meeting her father, Jose. It’s a very similar story to how I got to know my first big target.

  “It was a total setup from the beginning, me meeting Natalia, and getting to know her and the children. The agency put me up in the apartment next door. I learned her habits and schedule, making sure we left at similar times or went to the market on the same days.”

  It didn’t end well for Dom, the relationship he built with Natalia, his initial target. “After I met Jose, Natalia felt like I was using her. Which, in a sense, I was, to get close to the cartel. I do care about the woman, though. Her and the girls.” He sighed loudly before finishing. “Natalia doesn’t know the real reason I needed to befriend her in the beginning, but she wants nothing to do with her father and therefore broke off contact with me.” He laughed at this and so did I. Dom added, through a chuckle, “As much as she can, considering we live in the same building and our apartments are practically on top of each other.”

  I decide to ask the question again, the one I attempted with no answer in my apartment. “Why couldn’t you just tell me about Jose? That Natalia was his daughter and he was a target?”

  “Wanted to see what you were made of. I left the bread crumbs, a to-see-if-you-were-able-to-follow-them type of situation.”

  “I can respect that.” Though I don’t truly appreciate it.

  Dom goes on to tell me how he met Thiago at the factory. “We were set up at the same station my first few weeks. I did a lot of work, he spent a lot of time texting. I never complained, and Thiago said he liked that about me. After a while, he asked me if I was in the market for some better working conditions. I had started suspecting he was employed by the cartel at that point, because of his random visitors and drug conversations he tried to keep under wraps, but those didn’t escape my prying eyes or ears.”

  Dom is an observer, a person who stands back and enters the fray organically when he can.

  “I was introduced to Miguel when Thiago befriended me.”

  I wonder if he ever saw him around the apartment building before that time? I start to ask, but Dom continues his tale. “I already knew Jose, but Thiago didn’t realize that. I let the whole thing play out, allowing Thiago to have the confidence that he was the one in charge. He may be of great use to me someday. I mean, he already has in some ways. I knew Jose, but I didn’t yet work for the man. Thiago was my official way in.”

  For all intents and purposes, Dom is a cartel member. No wonder he’s been so tight-lipped about certain things. He runs drugs, he sets up pickup and delivery of the engines at the factory, and he’s in tight with the big boss, although he continues to tell me Jose is not the cartel leader. “He’s just the guy I’m working for. He gets his assignments from someone else.”

  He doesn’t admit he knows who the leader is but I’m guessing he does and he’s not ready to supply the information. I’ll continue to prove I’m trustworthy, whether he turns out to be or not, and it’ll be useful in getting what I need from this man.

  I ask him who his other report is, the one inside the CIA, and he refuses to give me a name. We argue back and forth for a good five minutes, both of us frustrated at the stalemate. It’s finally dropped after I refuse to give him my contact’s name.

  “You’re right. I won’t tell you mine, so why would you give me yours?” There’s a slight smile on his face, his hair almost blocking it from view. “Where were you before you started this mission?”

  I know he said he’s been in Mexico, but I wonder who he’d been involved in taking down. Plus, it’s good to keep the conversation going, which is what I’m trying to do with that question.

  “Can’t tell you that. Again, would you tell me where you were on your last mission?”

  Shaking my head no, I realize I’m getting nowhere with this line of questioning. He’s somewhat cooperative about the cartel, but the bureau is another story, one he’s tight-lipped about. Honestly, that makes me feel a bit better. He’s taking the job seriously, possibly still on the right side of the law despite how buried he is in the cartel life. What I’m not feeling good about is the fact Dom’s accent continues to get lost in conversation. The more I’ve gotten to know the man, the more a very different inflection comes out. A little Texas drawl. I know we’re playing a role, but how deep is his particular part supposed to stay true to his Mexican heritage and background? Who else is he supposed to fool? Because if he is slipping up with me, is he also messing up in conversation with them?

  Dom stops at the edge of a town to grab us some breakfast and coffee. My stomach began grumbling five minutes into the drive and continued for the next couple of hours. I guess he got tired of listening to it because I never once complained or asked him to stop.

  After breakfast, Dom drives us the rest of the way through the city, before crossing the middle of nowhere, off the main road and onto a dusty, beaten down path. “We aren’t getting into the U.S. legally, are we?”

  His shoulders rise and fall, but I see a small corner of his mouth uptick.

  “How many of these entrances are there?”

  “More than you know. The government sets up blockades and entrances are moved, but they stay open. These lands are a part of each other, and there’s no reason one people should be blocked from traversing wherever they desire.”

  “There are many people who would disagree with you.”

  “Do you?”

  Do I? As I’m contemplating how I answer Dom, he shouts out, “Welcome to the United States! Texas greets you!”

  The path did not change much, but there must have been a marker to indicate our position. “I expected the trip to take longer.”

  “Once we hit the main thoroughfare, the time lengthens.”

  “When will—” I no sooner say those two words than the truck lifts and falls beneath us as the tires hit pavement and thrust us onto a blacktop roadway. The transition from one path to the new road jolts me, causing my head to knock against the seatbelt connecter.

  “We still have a little ways, but it will be much smoother from here on out.”

  Dom makes a quick pitstop on the side of the road to change out the license plates to Texas ones so the police won’t pull us over and ask for identification if they notice Mexico plates. While Dom is preoccupied with that, I open up the glove compartment where he keeps his maps and pull the top one out. He glances my way when he hops back in the truck but doesn’t stop me from going through his things.

  “Where are we?” I’d like to get my beari
ngs, and it would also be nice to be able to find my way back to our destination if it’s ever necessary to come alone.

  My hand rests on the map, my finger on the border, a little town in Texas I’ve never heard of, heading in the direction of Austin, which is still hundreds of miles away. Dom doesn’t slow but his eyes avert to me and the map. He grabs my hand and moves it northwest, nowhere near the point I thought we’d be in.

  “Headed outside of El Paso. Although we are still a bit south of it. Can’t come in right on top of it.”

  “El Paso? I thought Sanchez was in Austin?”

  His brows raise. “Was is the key word. He’s relocated.”

  15

  IT WAS a peaceful drive until it wasn’t. After turning left off the main road, following it down a mile, we turned another left onto a gravel drive. The gravel drive turned to unmarked pavement after another mile and then three-quarters of a mile down that stretch, a huge compound came into view. “I can see why he moved,” I comment.

  “You never saw the last place. This has nothing on Austin.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I don’t joke about the size of a man’s assets.”

  I laugh. I don’t know if he meant it to be funny, but it was. Dom didn’t laugh. I look at him, then back toward the compound once more. “Sorry. I thought you were trying to be funny.” Gazing back at him once more, I notice the twitch of his mouth and the small chuckle that escapes is discernable but barely.

  Feels good to laugh, but the machine gun at the window halts it immediately. I almost snicker again, reminded of my arrival into Mexico. Dom rolls both windows down, the gunmetal now close enough to graze the skin of my temple. The man outside Dom’s window has lowered his weapon and the two are conversing in hushed tones. Leaning away from the gun to my head, trying to discern what my counterpart is talking about, gives the intruder on the other side of my door reason to make another move.

  I don’t recall the door being unlocked, but it’s opened and Machine Gun on the outside is in, pulling on my jacket, telling me to get out of the truck. “No tirando. Ya voy,” I tell the man as I attempt to get out of the vehicle and not get tripped up on the bag at my feet.

  He doesn’t let go of my jacket, continuing to tug the pocket area of the fatigue. Once I’ve officially exited the vehicle, I put my hands in the air to let the man know I mean no harm. He steps around and behind me, the gun pulled back. I’m almost relieved without it jabbed into my person. When I look at Dom, he’s not looking at me, but the guy with the gun and he’s bobbing his head yes to answer the question I missed because of the scuffle.

  My head tilts sideways, enough to observe what is about to happen. The butt of the gun is slanted back before he immediately thrusts it forward. Had I been standing upright, I wouldn’t have had enough time to get out of the way of the blow that was coming. I dodged it by millimeters, swooping left and getting out of harm’s way. I whirl around, grabbing the same end of the gun that was about to do me harm. The gunman is shocked and clings to the barrel in our new game of tug-of-war.

  I’m not comprehending what’s going on behind me as my right hand reaches for the trigger, my left sliding further up the hilt to get a better grip. The man’s eyes go wide when he realizes my advantage. He drops the barrel and throws his hands to the air, his eyes never leaving my gaze.

  Dom’s voice comes into focus now that I’ve got the gun and the man under control. “Establecerse. Todos somos amigos.”

  It’s kind of hard to settle down when there’s a gun pointed at you. And despite his comment, I doubt we’re all friends. I speak to the men, looking from one to the other, apologizing before this goes any further. “Lo siento.” I put the gun down, proving just how much.

  Dom pats me on the back. “These two are trigger happy,” he whispers.

  One especially. Glancing back at the man who once had the weapon pointed at me, I watch as he reaches to the ground to pick it back up. The other guy who had been talking to Dom at the gate entrance stands tall next to his comrade. Dom reassures them both that I’m a friend and Jose knows we’re coming. “Llamo esta manana.”

  They murmur to each other before stepping aside so we can continue onto the premises.

  “Get back in the truck,” Dom orders.

  I do as I’m told, stepping back into the truck and securing the door behind me before Dom puts the vehicle in drive and accelerates through the property entrance. “What a welcome. The cartel really knows how to make a guy feel like he belongs.” I try to make light of the situation, but Dom wants no part of it. “P.S. did you tell that man he could hit me with the butt of the gun?”

  Thinking back to his appearance when I glared his way, I remember the head nod and the action of the gun at my backside. If he wasn’t telling him to hit me, what did he give him the go-ahead for?

  “He asked if we were friends. I said ‘yes’ and he was dropping the weapon.” Dom’s left eyebrow raises before he adds, “You’re the one who over-reacted.” He says it as if it wasn’t a big deal.

  “From my vantage point, it looked as if the butt of the gun was raised and lowered, aimed right at my head.”

  “That’s not how I saw it. Let’s chalk it up to a misunderstanding and get on with our day, shall we?”

  Such an American way to say things. I make note of his comment but tilt my own head forward in answer.

  “You will have your conversation with Jose and we will leave immediately after.”

  “That’s all I want.” And to get a look around the place for future intel, but I’m not revealing that to Dom. If he’s smart, he already knows anyway.

  The compound is set on acres of land. The property immaculate, wide open, and almost as if a city in itself. There are small buildings along the roadway, rows of gardens planted on one side. Women in basically what looks to be cotton sacks are tending to the fruits and vegetables, plucking crops from their plants and putting them in baskets.

  The trees are sparse, but there are a few here and there. Children are huddled in small groups underneath a few of them. The biggest child of the group is reading from a tattered book, the others are listening intently. Oddly, I don’t see one smile on a face and that hits a nerve.

  Dom slows as we approach the big white house in the middle of the property. I’m assuming this is Jose’s humble abode. The armed guards are spread along the front, each watching suspiciously as the truck advances. When we’re parked, Dom tells me to wait until he gets out and alerts them to the reason for our visit.

  A tall man, even taller than me, comes out to greet Dom. They shake hands, converse, and then Dom turns, stretching out his arm and motioning his approval to me. Taking a deep breath, I release myself from the vehicle and join the team. It’s awkward to be looking up at someone, been a while since I’ve found someone much bigger than me.

  His height is not the only thing he’s got on me, the weight this man is carrying adds to his giant likeness. I reach my hand out to introduce myself, and his grip crushes my fingers. He doesn’t speak to me, but to Dom and tells the two of us to go on in.

  He’s much more welcoming than the first guy, but I’m not about to let my guard down. Eight thin stone steps bring us to the large oaken entrance. A woman in a traditional maid outfit opens the door wider to allow us to enter the airy vestibule. She speaks quietly, asking us if we want something to drink. Personally, I’m parched and could use some water but Dom mentions we’d like tequila before I can speak.

  “Jose loves his tequila.”

  “How fitting. Does he bottle his own?” I’m referring to Cuervo, but Dom doesn’t respond to my sarcastic comment.

  The marble floors are so elegant, shiny and pristine. The previous owners must have had a lot of money to blow when they built this place. No expense has been spared, I realize, as I glance upon the third crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling down the wide hallway.

  Dom knows his way around. I assumed this was a new purchase for Jose,
but the comfort level my coworker is exuding makes me feel like he’s been here many times.

  “Jose will meet us in here.” Dom doesn’t knock, only reaches for the brass handle and motions for me to step inside. The office is covered in a dark cherry wood, bookshelves expand the two side walls, and the desk is made from the same material. The large picture window on the back wall goes from the marble, all the way up to meet the vaulted ceiling. Another touch of elegance was brought to this room.

  I walk over to the bookshelf nearest me, fingering the spines of some old, weathered classics. “Don’t let Jose catch you touching his collection. These books are his pride and joy. Most of them are original pieces he’s spent a lifetime collecting.”

  I remove my hand immediately, realizing how much the library adds to the richness of the office.

  “You should sit. Jose doesn’t like visitors exploring without permission. Let’s not start off on the wrong foot.”

  After what happened at the entrance, shouldn’t Dom be concerned I’m feeling the mission had already commenced negatively? Without arguing, I pick the first brown leather chair I come to and plop down, sinking into the plush leather encasement and relaxing for a split second.

  The door opens and a small man, hunched over and white-headed, approaches with a silver-plated tray lined with three amber-colored liquid-filled glasses. Dom gestures for me to stay seated as the man approaches me with my drink. “Gracias.” He nods his head at my thanks and saunters over to Dom to complete the same act. Then he ambles to the desk and places the third glass in the center, having to stretch out completely to get it in the perfect spot across the large counter. He meanders a little more quickly out of the room once his job is complete.

  The golden liquid is pungent, a little more so than what I’m used to.

  “Jose does bottle his own,” Dom enters. “But this is no Cuervo.” He pulls the quarter-filled glass up to his lips and takes a sip. I lift mine up and take a slow draw of my own. There’s a sweetness to it as it touches my tongue, a slow burn as it slides the rest of the way down.