by Tom Riggs
“I can kill you now and end the pain; or make it worse. Much worse. You choose.”
The man opened his eyes and said something in Spanish that Munro could not understand. He then said in English “Just kill me.”
Munro walked towards him, picking up one of the AR15 rifles as he did so. He put his foot into the man’s wound. The man screamed in agony.
“I will kill you as soon as you tell me a few things.” He pushed his foot harder into the man’s wound as he continued. “Three questions amigo. Who sent you? Who are you working for? Why do you want this girl?” With each question, Munro turned his foot slightly, causing the man to scream in fresh agony.
The man screamed but said nothing, so Munro pressed his boot harder into the wound.
“Hee-ctor” screamed the man, “Hector sent us.” He then passed out. Munro paused. He needed more information, but he also needed to leave. Fast. He raised the rifle and fired two shots into the man’s chest. He made a deal, might as well keep to it. Even with a rapist. He then picked up a pistol and two spare ammo clips from the pick-up. He now had his witness, a handgun and a semi-automatic rifle.
He also had five dead police.
The small corporate jet landed at Puerto Vallarta airport and taxied towards a private hangar. Hector had travelled up from Venezuela alone. Cesar and Pancho were both dead, a bullet each to the backs of their large stupid heads. Hector did not tolerate ineptitude and their performance on Isla Margarita had been a master class in total incompetence. Not spotting that the boy had a girl with him was inexcusable; that she may have witnessed them killing the boy was unthinkable. You never leave witnesses, especially not on a job like that. Especially not a gringa witness. Hector did not stop to consider that he should have noticed her too. He did not search her room, it was not his fault. But what had really signed the two mens’ death warrants was their handling of the Englishman, Munro. They were stupid, of course. But they were meant to be tough too. For one to have his arm broken and the other to be beaten to the draw was too much. He could not have dumb pussies working for him. They had been a disgrace to the cartel and they had had to die.
The plane pulled into the large private hangar. It was modern and clean, as befitted the arrival of a twenty-million-dollar jet. Hector saw that the welcome party had arrived. Two large, brand new Cadillac Escalades and a Dodge Ram. All dark coloured, with blacked out windows and huge shiny alloy wheels. Subtlety had never been El Cazon’s strong point. They might as well have put signs on the bumpers saying ‘Sonora Cartel’. Hector hoped that the men El Cazon had sent him this time would be better than the two jokers in Venezuela.
He need not have been worried.
The plane had slowed to a crawl and gradually came to a halt by the waiting cars. As the plane door opened and the electric staircase began to extend down, several men got out of the vehicles. Hector only recognised the one who got out of the Ram, but that was enough. Silvano Reis, his old lieutenant from Los Negros, and now the acting captain of the Sonora cartel’s paramilitary operations.
The other men he did not know. He did not need to. He could tell who they were immediately. Could tell from their tattoos, from their clothes. Several small dark young men had also got out of the Escalades. They wore blue bandanas around their necks, white vests and baggy jeans. To a man. Almost as if they were in uniform. Most of them had completely shaved heads, a few had weak goatees or moustaches. They were young, these gangbangers. Young and mean. But it was not their street gang clothes that Hector immediately noticed, it was their tattoos. They were covered in them, on their arms, on their hands and some even on their faces. Some of their arms were so heavily inked that you could not tell where the tattoo began and the skin stopped. They had Mayan symbols, numbers and names carved into their dark skin. One man had a Mayan god inked over his shaved head, its wings coming down over his cheeks.
But it was one tattoo that all of them had on them that Hector recognised. The devils horns, the sign of La Mara. The horns were carved on their arms and three triangles were inked between their thumb and index fingers. Both symbols showed that they belonged to the largest gang in Central America. Mara Salvatrucha. MS13. The cartel used them as hired muscle, and they were good. Not as good as Los Negros themselves, but effective. Most of them were Salvadorians or Guatemalans. Small, dark, mean men who had been killing since they were 14.
Hector looked at them again, none of them looked to be older than their mid-twenties. The men were young, but their eyes were old. They had the dead blank eyes of men who had seen a lot and done a lot. The eyes of killers. And killers were what Hector needed to finish this job quickly. Mexico was not a safe place for him to be and he did not want to stay long.
Silvano came forward. Unlike the MS13 men, he was dressed in the style of their gang, Los Negros. Like Hector he had been in the GAFE Special Forces and dressed like he still was – black t-shirt tucked into black combat trousers tucked into shiny black army boots. Hector smiled to himself. You can take the man out of the army. If he had not been slightly overweight and unshaven, he might even have passed for a GAFE man still. But cartel life seemed to have made him lazy.
“Welcome home, el captain” he said holding out his hand. The words were a necessary act of respect. Silvano was the acting captain, but only because Hector had been away. The Salvadorians needed to know who was in charge from the beginning.
“Thank you, Silvano,” replied Hector as they shook hands. No bullshit street hand signals between them. Los Negros were soldiers, not gang bangers.
They walked towards the Dodge pick-up and Silvano held the front passenger door open for Hector. Another sign of respect. That was good. Silvano got into the passenger seat behind the driver. Not behind Hector. Hector noted with satisfaction that the driver was from Los Negros too and was dressed in the same way as Silvano. Three Negros and ten MS13. More than enough to finish off one man. The Salvadorians got into the two Escalades and the convoy sped off out of the hanger towards a side gate at the airport. Two airport security guards held it open to let them onto the highway.
“So El Cazon has sent me mercenaries for the job?” asked Hector, not smiling, looking straight ahead. “Are the rest of Los Negros busy?”
“El Cazon sends his respect Hector, he would have liked to have come and met you himself.” Silvano paused. “He said you would understand.”
Hector did. El Cazon Salazar was currently number five on the FBI’s most wanted list. Even in his own territory he had to keep a low profile.
“The rest of Los Negros are in Ciudad Juarez and Nuevo Laredo, fighting,” continued Silvano. “The war is bad there at the moment, Los Zetas are winning. To be honest we need every man we can spare. I should be in Ciudad Juarez now with my men.”
Our men, thought Hector, our men.
“I understand,” he replied, “Tell El Cazon I am grateful for what he has given me. Are the Salvadorians as good as I hear?”
“They are better captain. Not military trained but ruthless. We captured two Juarez sicarios last week. Gave them to the MS13 boys with a video camera. Told them to record a warning. They gave us 19 hours of film. All excellent stuff captain, excellent stuff. They sawed off the Juarez mens’ legs and arms, real slow. Then they peeled the motherfuckers with razor blades, kind of like potatoes. By the end, the Juarez men looked like a couple of Chile Rellenos con salsa.”
The three men burst out laughing. Chile Rellenos were stuffed peppers covered in a thick tomato sauce. Silvano had always been a funny guy. Hector was glad to be back.
The convoy was heading north, to Sayulita, on the instructions of Hector. If the girl was there, the Englishman would be there soon too. Hector lit a cigarette and opened a window. He would enjoy seeing what the MS13 men could come up with for the man called Munro.
“We have la gringa?” asked Hector
“Luis took some men to pick her up an hour ago. It should not be a problem. We are going to meet them in Tepic once we have taken care o
f the English.”
“Tell Luis I want her alive. I need to interrogate her before we take care of her.”
“Of course, captain,” replied Silvano, “We always keep a pretty gringa alive for ‘interrogation’.” Silvano and the driver started laughing again, but Hector kept quiet.
“I am serious Silvano. I need to find out what she knew and who she talked to.”
Silvano stopped laughing. A joke was only funny if Hector laughed too. He also just remembered that it was rumoured that Hector preferred young boys to women. He certainly had in prison. The conversation turned to other topics. Hector had been away three years. Three years was a long time and a lot had happened in the cartel. Men had died, gone to prison, become police informants. Alliances had been made with past enemies, alliances broken with past friends. A lot had changed in three years.
Twenty minutes later, the call came through. Silvano took it, but said little after he answered.
“Who was that?” asked Hector as soon as Silvano finished the call.
Silvano paused. Nominally, he and Hector were almost equals. Nominally. But Silvano had been Hector’s deputy for ten years and knew that he took bad news very badly. Nominally meant nothing if Hector lost his temper.
Hector kept looking ahead and said, “Tell me what happened.”
Silvano paused again and then told him.
“That was the police colonel in Tepic.”
“They have la gringa?”
“Not exactly Hector. There’s been a problem.”
Five men dead, including Luis. The girl gone. One man still alive. Talking about a man coming out the bushes firing. A description, tall, well built, dark hair. Little more.
“Munro,” said Hector. Still looking straight ahead at the highway.
“The English? He could take out five men?”
“Hijo de puta,” said Hector banging on the dashboard, “they could have taken him out in Margarita.”
“The colonel, he said the English took them out before they could even draw their guns…who is he?”
Hector said nothing. Instead he reached into a bag he had been carrying and took out a thin red file. It was marked ‘Confidential: Secret Intelligence Service’.
“The other English in Venezuela, el gordo, he gave me this.” Hector handed the file back to Silvano, still staring straight ahead.
Silvano thanked Hector and took the file. He was silent for the next five minutes as he read its contents. His English was not perfect, but he understood enough.
“Is this true?” he asked Hector as he handed back the file.
“The other English said it was, although that man lies for a living, so who knows?”
“Cabron,” exclaimed Silvano sitting back into his seat, “esta puta is serious, Hector.”
“Cabron,” repeated Hector with contempt, “we are serious.”
Silvano sat back and stared out of the window.
“El Ingles.” he said, almost to himself.
Hector lit another cigarette. Munro. The English. El Ingles. It had to be. Who else was there? But five men dead? Hector was impressed. Perhaps he had underestimated El Ingles. He would enjoy the kill even more now.
“Where is the man now, the man who got away?”
“With the police colonel, Hector, in Tepic.”
“Tell them both to meet us at the site. I want to see this for myself.” Five men. One man.
“What about the girl, Hector?”
“Alert our people at the airport and on the state borders. Have those idiots in the police stop every car if necessary. They can’t get far.”
“Si, Hector,” replied Silvano.
“Tell the police I want El Ingles alive.”
19
Anna Neuberg did not weigh more than nine stone. She had regained consciousness enough to hold onto the handlebars of the quad for the ride back. Even so, she was in state of shock and barely able to speak. To be safe he had ridden the quad with her up front, so he could grab her if she passed out again. They had only stayed in Sayulita long enough for her grandparents to pack her a bag of clothes and for him to pick up his hire car. Ross and Sara Neuberg had not taken much persuading that their granddaughter was safer with Munro than with them. The few words Anna had managed to say were enough to convince them of that. But for most of the time Anna had been in a trance, despite her grandparents’ best attempts to goad her out of it.
Within forty minutes of firing his last shot at the policemen, Munro was back on the road, heading south towards Puerto Vallarta. The road was familiar to Munro now and he took it at speed. He was back in the wooded hills within minutes.
Ten miles out of Sayulita, Anna came around. She was sitting in the passenger seat and had until then been seemingly content to stare out of the window into space. But suddenly, very suddenly, something in her brain clicked. She looked at Munro, looked around her at the unfamiliar car, looked at Munro again and started screaming. Immediately Munro pulled the hire car into a lay-by cut out from the surrounding forest. He took her by both shoulders and looked at her in the eye.
“Calm down Anna. I’m a friend.”
“Who are you? Where are my grandparents?”
“Your grandparents are safe. They are on their way north now. They should be over the border, into the States, by tomorrow.”
“Who are you?” she said, slightly calmer now.
“My name is Jack Munro. I was hired by Richard Lipakos’ mother to investigate his murder.”
“You killed those men. They were policemen.”
“They were going to kill you.”
She looked at him closely “You saved me…thank you.”
“Any time.”
“Are you a policemen?”
“No, not a policeman. More like a private investigator, usually corporate work, but..”
“You killed them. All of them.”
“I know,” said Munro winding down the window. The car was getting hot, he needed some un-canned air.
“You saved my life… my grandparents…” Anna was calm now, but clearly still in shock.
“Your grandparents are safe,” repeated Munro. “They left their trailer park with some friends and will head straight for the border. The police aren’t looking for them, so they’ll be fine. We, on the other hand…” Munro looked at Anna. She had gone semi-comatose again. It was a natural reaction to the shock, but it also meant that she might snap out of it at any time and start screaming again. Which could be awkward. Munro took out a small pillbox and tapped out one small blue capsule. He gave it to Anna with a bottle of water.
“Here, take this,” he said. Diazepam, 5mg. It would knock her out for a few hours. Enough time for them to get some distance from Sayulita. Some distance from the five dead police. Anna took the pill without question and swallowed it. Munro laid her back in her seat and looked out of the window. A nameless Mexican highway, a jungle lay-by. He envied Anna her drugged and dreamless sleep. He breathed in the hot jungle air and forced himself to think, dispelling any thought of sleep, any thought of surrender. He took out the map that the hire car company had given him. Assess the situation.
Five men dead. Most - if not all - police. Not good. He had never killed a cop before, they were normally on the same side. But then he had never seen a group of cops about to gang rape a young woman before. Munro looked at a map. The hire company had given it to him with the car and it was pretty basic, but it showed the main roads. Showed the main road away from Puerto Vallarta at least. He needed to get onto the main interstate freeway, fast. Get out of the state. Once on the freeway, it was either North or East. North, the next state up was Sinaloa. Munro remembered Eduardo’s words – Sinaloa is controlled by Felix Salazar. The Sonora drug cartel. Someone had sent those cops, someone with control of the local police force. The cartel totally controls the local police. Not North then. East, and the freeway ran towards Guadalajara.
The nearest army base is in Guadalajara, three hundred miles inland Eduard
o had said. On the other side is the army and some of the federal police. Inland it was. Eduardo may not be able to help him, but at least the police might be honest there.
With Anna safely knocked out, Munro set out onto the road. He had to change cars. That much was certain. He did not know who the enemy was, but it was clear that they had reach. They could kill Richard Lapis in Venezuela. They could arrest Anna Neuberg in Mexico. They had friends in the local police force. They must have friends in the Sonora cartel. If they could do that, they could certainly find out about Munro. If they knew his name, they could track his arrival in Mexico City and his subsequent flight to Puerto Vallarta. It would not take a genius to check the hire car records at the airport.
He had to change cars.
He followed the highway back towards Vallarta. But as it began to level out and the landscape became more developed, he saw that it would soon branch. Straight on and he would follow his path back to the airport. But left and a new highway would take him inland towards the interstate freeway. Inland, away from the coast. Away from Sinaloa.
Left it was.
As the highway got further and further from the coast, so the wealth - and buildings - became more and more thinly spread. The highway close to Vallarta had housed car showrooms with the latest American models, large wealthy shopping malls and US fast food outlets. But along this road it was small tiendas, open air restaurants and tyre shops. Everything was one storey and built of the same crumbling, dirty white concrete. The restaurants looked dirty and fly ridden, the tiendas sad and unused. Only the tyre shops seemed to be doing a good business. Piles of the latest deep-tread, wide rim US tyres were stacked outside them. Some also sold alloy rims. Gleaming circles of chrome and steel, ready to turn the most hum drum vehicle into a pimpmobile. Eventually Munro found himself driving through scrubby farmland. Every now and then they went through a small pueblo of low concrete shacks, dusty and non-descript. But for the most part, they were driving through a landscape of dry empty fields. The trees had been cleared and fields had been partitioned off, but there was little growing. It was hotter inland, much hotter. The sun had scorched the fields brown.