by Tom Riggs
“I though this was a surf town,” said Anna, “Why isn’t anyone in the water?” She seemed more relaxed once she was out of the pick-up.
Munro looked out to sea. Despite it being the off-season, the waves were actually huge, at least six foot. Measured from behind. If you were out there on a board you would be facing a twelve foot wall of water.
“The wind is wrong,” he explained, “with waves this big it needs to be coming offshore. That way it holds the waves up as they break so that they come down slowly from one side. That’s when you can ride them. At the moment it’s blowing on shore and smacking the waves down in one break at the same time. Makes them impossible to ride.”
“No wonder everyone here looks so bored.”
“Quite. Not much to do in a surf town when you can’t surf.”
They sat on a large log between some palm trees. A girl walked in front of them onto the beach. Despite being young, she was covered in piercings and tattoos. There was a huge ink drawing of what looked like a fern on her back, her hair had been braided to form long dirty dreadlocks. Anna followed Munro’s look.
“Shame about the plant,” she said, “she could have been a real looker.”
Munro smiled, “My thoughts exactly.”
Anna looked around her and stood up.
“What’s the plan then?”
Munro looked at her. There was something about her. She was not someone who turned heads when she walked into a bar. But the more he looked at her the more attractive she became. She had no make-up on but her skin was clean, tanned and slightly freckled. Her eyes were sparkling and alive and looking at Munro closely. Stay on point, he told himself. Keep this professional.
“I need to call my office in London,” he said looking at his phone. “They’ve left a couple of messages to call. Why don’t you go for a swim or something?”
Anna looked at the sea and the beach. The sun was getting low, but there was little sunset to speak of, as thick clouds had appeared on the horizon. The tide was high and the huge waves were pounding down close to shore. A young local boy had attempted to get in with a small sharp surfboard. But the waves had defeated him and he was staggering out. A small slick of blood ran from his leg and arm from where he had been pounded onto a rock hidden in the frothing white water. Anna looked at him stagger to shore and collapse exhausted onto the sand.
“Think I’ll pass on that one thanks. Look … I need to hear from my grandparents. Hear their voices. Check they’re OK. I’m going to go into town and call them. They should be in San Diego by now. I saw a sign for a telephone exchange up the road.”
“That’s not a good idea I’m afraid,” replied Munro. “You don’t know who could be in town. You can call your grandparents on my spare phone.”
“I know it’s not a good idea, but I really need a walk. I also need to freshen up, and I’m not seeing any showers round here. Besides, look around you. The worst that is going to happen is that one of these surf hippies will bore me to death talking about onshore and offshore winds.” She laughed and Munro saw with dismay how her face became more beautiful.
Munro smiled, she was right. They hadn’t seen any police for a while, they were as safe there as they were ever going to be.
“Ok, point taken. But be careful. If you see any cops, come straight back here. And take this phone. Speed dial one if you get into any trouble. Any trouble at all…” He paused. “How are you planning on freshening up by the way? You know you can’t book into any hotels don’t you? That’s how they found you at the trailer park.”
”I’ll find something,” she said, looking around uncertainly.
And with that she took her bag from the pick-up and walked up the lane leading to what Munro guessed she meant by ‘town’. He watched her walk away for a moment too long.
Munro walked down onto the beach. Despite its desolation, he quite liked it. The virgin jungle going down onto the wide empty beach gave it an untouched feel. You could imagine that it had been like this for thousands of years. No umbrellas, no condos and no beachside restaurants. A large bar set into the jungle seemed to be the main attraction. It was a small thatch hut surrounded by scores of ramshackle tables and chairs, some of the chairs little more than stumps made out of the remains of a palm tree. It was empty, the bar boarded up to keep the sand out. Even so, Munro imagined that with the sun out and if the wind dropped, it could be quite a nice bar. A good place for a cold cerveza and a taco after a hard afternoon on the waves.
He sat at one of the empty tables, leaned back into a rickety chair and put his feet onto a palm tree stool. Rudd had sent him two short emails. The first just said ‘Call me.’ The second was more ominous, it said ‘Call me immediately. Have id on suspect. This is very serious.’
26
Hector had been quiet on the journey back to the villa. It had not taken them long to find the ranchero who had sold El Ingles his pick-up. Once they had got all the information they could out of the man – make of car, registration number, colour etc. – Hector shot him. He emptied the entire magazine of one of his new Steyr TMP into the man. Thirty-five bullets, nine millimetre, at close range. It was a waste of bullets more than anything, thought Silvano. Everything cost money, came out of the bottom line. But Hector did not think like that. Hector had never thought like that. He was a killer, not a businessman. Hector enjoyed killing, whereas Silvano recognised it as a necessary tool of their business. Silvano also wondered if it was totally necessary to kill the ranchero. He had told them everything he knew willingly enough; he had been more than helpful. But Hector just could not help himself. It was almost as if he had missed out in the church. Missed out on a great opportunity for more killing. Like a child taken to the candy store but not allowed any sweets.
As for the Salvadorians, Silvano was beginning to regret ever having brought them along. Hector had said they needed muscle and he had wanted to please Hector. But now they were superfluous. They had hardly said a word in two days. They just wandered around with their blank looks, tattooed faces and gangbanger clothes. Little weirdoes, he would be glad when he could get back to his own men. He had given the description of the car to all the state police chiefs they had in their pay. By now it would have gone to literally hundreds of the fat corrupt men who passed for police in this part of the country. They all had the same order. Kill on sight.
Back at the villa and all they had to do was wait. The Salvadorians quickly assumed their old positions on the sofas and started watching the baseball again. Did El Salvador even play baseball?
Silvano followed Hector into the kitchen, where he was starting to make one of his intricate sandwiches again. He stopped on the other side of a large marble island, three or four feet from his old boss.
“Hector, captain?”
“Si, Silvano?”
“Hector, I have been thinking. We have given the description of El Ingles’ new car to every state police chief between here and Mexico City. There is no way he is going to get away.”
“We haven’t been able to catch him so far, Silvano. Every state police chief between here and Mexico City had a description of his last car and they didn’t find him. What makes you so confident this time?”
“We will find him captain, I can assure you. And when we do, we will kill him captain, I can assure you of that too.”
“I agree Silvano. I have been thinking about that. I like your story about the MS13 men skinning those two Juarez sicarios, making them look like Chile Rellenos.”
“It was quite something Hector, even you would have been impressed.”
“When we find El Ingles, I think we should get our Central American friends to do the same again. On the puta gringa too. I would like to see that.”
“A great idea captain. I will arrange for it to happen.” Silvano paused, uncertain how to go on. “But about the MS13 boys.”
Hector paused midway through buttering a piece of toast. “What about them?”
“Captain, I have just spo
ken to some of the men at Nuevo Laredo. Things are going badly there. Los Zetas launched an offensive last night and took half the eighth barrio from us.”
“So? Tell our boys to fight back like men.”
“They are Hector, they are. But we lost seven men last night and we’re over- stretched as it is. We could really use those MS13 boys in Laredo right now. They could push the battle in our favour.”
“The MS13 men stay here.” Hector turned away from Silvano, towards the fridge.
Silvano paused, he knew he should turn away now. The conversation was over as far as Hector was concerned. But he did not turn away. Instead he continued speaking.
“Hector. Captain. With the greatest respect, we do not need the MS13 men anymore. When we find El Ingles we can take him out with any local police and local sicarios that we have on the ground. I need the Salvadorians in Nuevo Laredo and I need them there today.”
Hector did not turn round but instead continued to search through the packets and jars in the fully laden fridge.
“I understand Silvano, I really do. But my order remains. The MS13 men stay until we have El Ingles.”
Silvano drew his pistol, but kept it below the counter of the small marble island that separated him from his old captain.
“I am afraid the order is not yours to give, Hector. You are not in charge. I am. I will speak to El Cazon about it if necessary. But, the fact is, we don’t need them.” Silvano hoped that Hector had not noticed the slight catch in his voice. The slight break at the end that showed just how nervous he was. Hector froze, his back still to Silvano. Silvano had his pistol out but it was out of Hector’s sight. Slowly Hector turned. His gun was still in his thigh-holster. In his right hand was the small sharp knife that he had been using to butter the toast with.
“So,” he said smiling at Silvano, his eyes blazing with what Silvano could not tell, “the little dog barks. I was wondering how long it would take before my little deputy piped up.”
“I don’t want to fight, Hector. I’m just telling you how it is. We are at war here. Los Zetas get stronger every day. We need every man we can spare. We have all our contacts looking for El Ingles, but El Ingles is not Los Zetas. To be honest, I don’t even know why we are looking for him or la gringa.”
“You are looking for them because El Cazon told you to.”
“That is correct Hector and we are doing all we can. But this was meant to be a day’s work. It’s running out of control. I will stay with you and help you find El Ingles, for old times’ sake. But the Salvadorians must go to Nuevo Laredo. They cost us thousands of dollars a day, and we are not paying them to watch baseball.”
“That is your order?” said Hector, standing by the open fridge, the knife still in his hand.
“That is my order, Hector. I’m sorry. But I am captain now. I have been for three years. You are here as El Cazon’s guest.”
Hector put the knife down on the sideboard and stared at Silvano. Silvano still could not tell what he was thinking. All he knew was that he would be glad when the pock-marked bastard was gone.
“I am here as El Cazon’s guest.” Hector said it very matter of factly, repeating it as a statement.
“An honoured guest of course Hector, an honoured guest. But a guest all the same. I am the captain now and El Cazon and the other captains will back me up. Believe me.”
“You have spoken to El Cazon?”
“I don’t need to, Hector. I am the captain now. Now finish your sandwich and get some rest. I need to make arrangements to get these Salvadorians to Nuevo Laredo.”
And with that Silvano slowly turned so as to avoid showing Hector his still drawn pistol. He turned slowly and calmly, thankful that Hector would have no idea how hard and fast his heart was beating. Hector turned to the toaster, as if to get the second piece of bread out. But instead he pulled the toaster’s plug out of its socket, whipping the toaster back and up into the air behind him.
“Silvano!” he shouted as he grabbed the plug end of the long cord with his other hand. Silvano had noticed something happening behind him and was turning and raising his pistol at the same time. But he was not fast enough. The toaster was large, steel and American. The cord was six feet long. Hector swung it hard and fast. He whipped it round at speed and it caught Silvano square in the side of his head. The force knocked him sideways slightly. Only slightly, but enough to disorientate him. He dropped his pistol. In less than three seconds Hector was on the other side of the island. He kept hold of the toaster, but tightened his grip, moving his right hand to the toaster end of the cord. Holding it tight, like a club. With his left hand he grabbed Silvano, still slightly disorientated, by the collar and pushed him away. Hector was not tall, but Silvano was smaller. As soon as Silvano’s head was in just the right place, Hector smashed the toaster down onto it. And then he smashed it down again. With all his strength. And then he did it again.
“You. Mother. Fucker.” He shouted between smashes.
“Fifteen. Fucking. Years.” With each hit, more blood began to appear on Silvano’s face. Hector had been so fast around the island that Silvano had not had time to fight back. After three blows, Silvano’s head began to slump. There was no way he was going to fight back.
“Fifteen. Fucking. Years.” Silvano was now slumped against the side of the island, but Hector held his head up at the optimum range for his blows, resting it on the smooth marble top, smashing his head after every word. “Fifteen. Years. And you call me a guest. A guest!” After each powerful blow, the toaster was beginning to dent and fall apart. Hector’s eyes were wild now and he was frothing slightly at the mouth. “A. Fucking. GUEST!”
On the last word, he beat down so hard with the toaster that it came apart, one side of its steel casing falling away to expose the small wires and grill underneath. He threw it to the ground in disgust and turned to see that some of the Salvadorians and the driver had stood up to watch them. They all stood frozen, staring at Hector. He was splattered with Silvano’s blood, his eyes were blazing and spittle had dried at the edges of his mouth. Silvano was slumped to the floor, his head a pulp of blood and exposed raw flesh. The stark white and black marble kitchen was totally silent. Hector was sweating slightly and his normally greased back hair had become unkempt. With one hand he slicked it back, using some of Silvano’s blood as gel.
To the driver he said, “Get me El Cazon. Now!”
27
Munro stood up from the rickety bar table and typed in the familiar digits of Rudd’s home phone. It was late back in England and Munro was not looking forward to the next time he would see Mrs Rudd. Explaining his regular late-night calls would not be fun. But what the hell, Rudd had said it was serious.
The phone rang once before Rudd picked it up.
“Jack, good of you to call.” Awake and alert. He had been waiting for the call.
“Sorry not to call sooner Charlie, reception has been on and off going through these hills. You’ve got an id on the face?”
“I certainly have, that’s why I called you. I sent the image that Anna gave us to an old friend at Interpol. He owes me a couple of favours and was only too happy to oblige. I said he was probably from somewhere Latin American but otherwise kept it pretty vague. Three hours later he called me back.”
“Three hours? That’s fast for Interpol isn’t it?”
“Very. But this guy is serious. They’ve got a thick file on him, which my friend sent over. He was fairly easy to identify because of his scars. Even on Interpol’s files, not many people are that ugly. Or that dangerous.”
Rudd paused and it sounded like he was turning some pages.
“Well come on then,” said Munro as he walked through the deserted bar, away from the wind-swept beach, “who is he? Who’s the perp?”
Rudd paused as if turning to the right page in his report.
“Perp is one Hector Manuel Ortega, former senior sicario for the Sonora cartel.”
Munro remembered the man in the cleari
ng. Hector. Hector sent us.
Rudd continued to read from the file. “Former captain in Los Negros, their paramilitary wing. Spent six years in the army, the last three of them in GAFE, Mexico’s special…”
Munro cut him off “…forces. Like our SAS. I’ve heard of them. Eduardo said a few had defected to the cartels.”
“That’s right,” said Rudd. “Seems Señor Ortega was lured away some time ago. Was dishonourably discharged from GAFE. File note mentions rumours of an incident in Chiapas, but nothing confirmed. Joined the cartel as a hit man, but rose quickly to command one of the gangs. One of five captains in Los Negros, which means he was pretty senior in the organisation. File says he probably had at least a hundred gunmen under his command.”
“What’s with all the past tense? He isn’t with the cartel anymore?”
“Not for a few years, no. Hector’s nickname in the cartel was ’El Doctor‘. He likes to torture his enemies with syringes and sulphuric acid, perform major surgery on them before they die. The federal police arrested him four years ago in a raid in Mazatlan. He was in the basement of a safe house. His gang had captured some rival pushers and they were teaching them a lesson, stringing them up on beams and going at them with chainsaws. They were dipping one of the men into a barrel of sulphuric acid when the police came in. They found him literally with blood on his hands. Four dead bodies, three more died later. Evidence like that, seems no-one could ignore it. He was eventually tried and convicted of twelve murders. Sentenced to 150 years, no chance of parole. The papers all reported it as a great victory for the federal government. Interpol said it’s pretty rare for such a senior captain to be convicted.”