Skills to Kill

by Brian Drake

  “They have news on the Internet now,” McConn said. “That’s not even good to make paper airplanes with.”

  “Old habit,” Dane said. “It’ll give me the lay of the land.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Not on some things.”

  McConn slid behind the wheel while Dane and Nina sat in back. Dane glanced at the headlines and saw an article about the general; he placed the paper facedown on his lap and looked out the window instead.

  “He never doubted you’d get here,” McConn said.

  “I guess we’ve avoided this long enough.”

  McConn passed him a Te-Amo cigar, lighting his own. They contributed to the smoky haze already filling the bar. It wasn’t a large bar, more of a hole in the wall wedged between a laundry and a dance studio. The only light came from the two windows at the front, and calling them windows was generous. They were more like the portholes on a cruise ship. The rest of the bar glowed from neon signs advertising this or that and a large-screen television playing an outrageous game show on which the host wore a glittering blue jumpsuit and his taller female companion spilled out of her top.

  The bar’s air conditioning worked and provided a respite from the blowtorch outside; drinkers escaping the dry heat filled stools and the other tables.

  McConn gave Dane and Nina the rundown on his visit and what he’d been doing for General Parra so far. He touched on the assassination but provided no details.

  “Where are Parra’s people now?” Dane said.

  “They’re hiding,” McConn said.

  “I’ll need to see them eventually,” Dane said. “Who’s taking the general’s place?”

  “A pair named Carlos and Eva. They’re married but I have no idea if they’re using real names. The whole unit is almost in a state of panic. Parra was killed at his safe house. Nobody but key people knew about the house, Steve.”

  Nina said, “Somebody’s a rat,” and downed the remaining tequila in her glass. She reached for the bottle their waitress had kindly left and poured a refill.

  Dane puffed on the Te-Amo. He would have preferred one of his Punch cigars, but when in Mexico, he smoked what the locals smoked. It was only polite. Mexico took pride in its cigars, which didn’t receive the respect and attention of the Central American blends; Dane did not want to offend his hosts. He said, “So how many knew?”

  “Besides Carlos and Eva? Me. It wasn’t common knowledge among the team.”

  “Parra always had a lady friend,” Dane said. “Did his current squeeze know about the house?”

  “I’ll find out,” McConn said. “He didn’t mention anybody to me.”

  “No bragging?”

  “There have been more important things on his mind.”

  “What about other attempts on his life?”

  “He didn’t say. He wanted me and you and as many men and equipment as we could gather. The cartels and their forces are growing more powerful day by day. He wanted us to help change that. And that’s all we talked about.”

  “You still have your pictures from the recon you made before he was killed?” Dane said.

  “Parra had the originals.”

  “Who has the originals now?”

  “They’re gone.”

  “Of course.” Dane drank some beer.

  “We need to get going,” McConn said. “The general would not be happy if we were late.”

  At least, Dane decided, they hadn’t missed the funeral.

  Mexico buried General Juan Parra with full military honors and made no mention of his alleged outlaw status. But Dane could not help but notice that only the required amount of regular army representatives had shown up. If members of Parra’s team were present, they did not reveal themselves.

  The twenty-one gun salute broke Dane from his reflection, and the service came to a close. The mourners stood up. Dane watched the honor guard close Parra’s casket; the coffin closed with a solid thud, forever sealing its occupant inside. He didn’t want his last memory of the general to be the still and serene face in the coffin, but one had to deal with no complaint with what life handed out. Nina tugged on his arm. He faced her and she hugged him.

  “I’m sorry, hon.”

  He squeezed her back.

  Presently some of the crowd gathered in clusters for quiet talk, while others made for the cemetery parking lot. Dane, Nina and McConn stood together watching. Dane felt the temperature rising by the moment and wanted to get out of his black suit as soon as possible.

  One couple stood out from the rest, both wiry thin; the male had close-cropped hair and wore a black suit with boots not yet marred by the green grass. The female, who had an arm through one of his, wore a black dress with a hat and veil. Her hair was too short and her calves too toned for an ordinary Jane, but as they passed by, they did not acknowledged McConn nor he them.

  Dane said, “When can I meet Parra’s people?”

  “First thing tomorrow morning. Eight a.m. sharp.”

  Nina said, “Good. I like an early breakfast.”

  McConn dropped them off at their hotel. On the way in Dane told Nina he wanted only a regular room. He didn’t feel like indulging in their usual opulence. They unpacked. Dane turned on the A/C and let the cool air blast through. Nina went into the bathroom. Dane sat down by the closed window and read the newspaper. There was indeed no lack of stories regarding the drug war playing out on the streets of Nuevo Laredo, the very streets below.

  Gunmen from the Zeta Cartel, the primary player in the area, had ambushed and killed a recently appointed police chief as he’d left his home three days ago, calling it retaliation for a military raid along the Rio Grande in which a cartel commander had been killed.

  The murder tally also included a male and female, both in their twenties, who had been hung from each of the international bridges linking the city with the Texas border. The pair had been killed elsewhere first. They had been crusaders, the newspaper said, against the drug cartel, using social media to attack the drug runners and criticize the government for not doing enough to clean up the streets. They were not cops or government agents. The cartel didn’t care.

  Dane set the newspaper down and let out a breath. He knew all he needed to know about the town now. It wasn’t the first war zone he’d ever visited. It wouldn’t be the last.

  Next morning. Eva Avila, the woman Dane had noticed at the funeral, sleepily rolled over and felt for Carlos, but his side of the bed was empty. The rumpled sheets where he had lain weren’t warm; he’d been up for a while. She listened but did not hear him moving about the house. The radio and television were also silent. She bolted up with a pounding heartbeat; swinging out of bed, she threw on an old robe and went down the hall. He wasn’t in the den or kitchen; she called his name but he did not answer. And then she smelled smoke. She found him in their unfinished backyard, standing near a pile of bricks, smoking a cigarette.

  She went over and hugged him from behind. The morning chill brushed her ankles and ran up the hem of the robe. He stood in the shade of the house so the blast from the rising sun did not reach them. “You scared me,” she said.

  “Did I keep you awake last night?”

  “No.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. Must have gotten up ten times.”

  “I heard the phone ring this morning,” she said.

  “It was Hector,” Carlos said. “There are more Zetas in town than usual. They’re looking for us. The only reason I think they didn’t attack the funeral was because so few of us were there.”

  “How many Zetas?”

  “Two truckloads, at least. You know there will be more. They came in overnight.”

  “We aren’t going to make it, are we?”

  “Hush.”

  “Will the Americans really be helpful?”

  “General Parra told me all about them,” Carlos said. “If he believed in them, so can we.” He flicked the cigarette away. “We’re going to be late if we don’t get going.”
/>   They took turns showering and jumped into light-colored street clothes. Carlos merged their battered Jeep into traffic, and hot air raced into the open-topped vehicle. After a few minutes of driving, he told Eva to get a 9-millimeter automatic from the glove box.

  “What’s wrong?” She took out the SIG-Sauer and snapped back the slide.

  “Car behind us. It’s weaving through lanes.”

  She looked back. A white Ford missing its front bumper. Two men in front. Windows down. Carlos took the pistol from Eva and tucked it under his right leg. Eva reached under the seat and hauled up a battered MAC-10 with so many scratches and scuffs, it appeared useless; it wasn’t. She worked the bolt and held the submachine gun on her lap and wiped sweat from her brow. She could already feel her T-shirt sticking to her back.

  Carlos downshifted and sped up. He swung around a pickup full of hay bales. Eva watched the Ford leap ahead to keep up.

  Carlos swung right, tires screeching, the Jeep’s body leaning left, and stayed at speed through the block of shops and street vendors. The Ford fell behind a little but remained in sight. Carlos made the next sharp left and turned into the parking lot of an empty boarded-up school.

  Eva smiled as they sped between buildings and reached the blacktop of the open playground. The two had planned for an event like this, and had previously noted this location as a great place to stand and fight. As Carlos stomped the brakes, Eva jumped out and ran for a narrow gap between two buildings. She squeezed into the gap and dropped to one knee, brushing away a spider web that tickled the back of her neck. Two Zeta foot soldiers wouldn’t swing the tide, she thought, but it was a great way to begin evening the score.

  Carlos, kneeling by the front of the Jeep, held the SIG-Sauer in both hands.

  The Ford swerved into the lot and stopped near the Jeep. The two men jumped out holding automatic weapons. Carlos fired three times before the two were completely out of the car; Eva triggered a salvo from the MAC-10. The thugs never fired a shot. Carlos hit the driver in the chest and neck; Eva’s rounds stitched the other gunman up the center of his back.

  The crackling echo of gunfire hadn’t faded before Carlos jumped back into the Jeep. “Come on!” he shouted, Eva leaping up beside him. Eva took out her cell phone and started dialing from memory—she had no stored numbers in that particular phone. She began spreading the word. The Zetas weren’t stopping with the assassination of General Parra; they were coming after all of them. She hoped her friends would be as lucky as they had been, but also knew that even the best and most skilled warriors eventually fell. Just like she would someday. And Carlos, too.

  Steve Dane did not like the idea of waiting, but also had to admit that his body wasn’t quite ready for full throttle. As he stood in the shower, leaning against the wall, not moving, he let the hot water sting his body and kick the overnight soreness away. The purple welts on his arms and chest weren’t getting worse; the other wounds were well on the healing road, but it had been a major effort getting out of bed, with every joint stiff and complaining about the movement.

  He emerged from the shower drying his hair; Nina leaned against the dresser, drinking a bottle of water. She smiled as she brushed by and shut the bathroom door and started her own shower. Dane drank the rest of her water and dressed. He was already sweating by the time he finished buttoning his shirt. He turned up the A/C.

  Nina came out. “You’ll roast in those long sleeves.”

  “I’ll take the risk,” he said.

  They met McConn at the Nuevo Laredo Café and split a large taquito chilaquiles scramble, consisting of eggs, peppers and onions, with refried beans and hash browns; a second plate of Mexican sausage, rice, and frijoles y tortillas sat next to the first. They forked portions from the larger plates onto their smaller ones.

  Nina spread hot salsa over her eggs, a combination Dane did not find appealing until she convinced him to try a taste. The buttery eggs went very well with the salsa, and he mixed some into his own eggs.

  “Where are they?” Nina said, speaking over the motors of strategically placed fans that tried to cool the cafe. “They’re twenty minutes late.”

  McConn checked his phone; then, the café door swung open and Carlos and Eva, still flushed from the fight, entered. They joined the trio at the table. McConn made the formal introductions, but they all remained subtle in their greetings and nobody shook hands. Dane offered Carlos and Eva some breakfast, and the pair eagerly dug in.

  Carlos explained the delay.

  “Was anybody else hit?” McConn said.

  “Some of our people haven’t answered their phones,” Carlos said. “I don’t know if that means they were hit or not.”

  “Nice of them to oblige us this way,” Nina said. “So who are the shooters?”

  “The drug cartel’s army,” Dane said. “But they didn’t start that way.”

  McConn jumped in. “They started as a paramilitary force for the government who could meet the cartel head-on.”

  “What went wrong?” Nina said.

  “After we organized the first two battalions,” McConn said, “they went to work for the cartel instead.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Another shining spot for US foreign policy,” Dane said.

  Carlos said, “What do you mean, we?”

  “McConn and I were part of the joint task force of US Special Ops units that came here to train the Zetas.”

  “You know how they think,” Eva said.

  “Won’t help much,” Dane said. “I’m sure they’ve modified the tactics we taught them. But I would like to show them that they can’t kick sand in our faces like that.”

  Eva said, “You’ll never get them all.”

  “It’s not about that, honey,” Nina said.

  Dane smiled at Eva.

  Carlos said, “The Zetas have a centralized base of operations now. One man controls the force. He houses, trains and supplies weapons.”

  “Pablo Oliva,” McConn said. “Cuban. He went to the cartels and sold them the idea of running their army so they didn’t have to spend their resources.”

  “Let me guess,” Dane said, “that Oliva buys his weapons from somebody called the Duchess.”

  “How did you know?” Eva said.

  “If General Parra hadn’t been killed, we’d have come here anyway,” Dane said. “Nina and I have been on that woman’s trail from Italy to Paris to Greece to here.”

  “She’s slippery,” Nina said.

  “We found a shipment of guns in Paris that was coming here,” Dane said. “It’s safe to assume Oliva was expecting them. What new intell were you gathering that may have made them kill the general?”

  “Smuggling routes,” McConn said.

  Carlos continued, “We’ve been identifying not just the Zetas’ growing numbers but the routes they use for both drug and human trafficking.”

  “The plan,” Eva said, “was to hit each route at the same time and close them down.”

  “And they took the general’s files on this,” Dane said. “They knew where to go and what to steal. Who was the general’s latest girlfriend?”

  “Her name is Rosita,” Carlos said.

  “Was she present the night he was killed?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not. Bring her somewhere safe where we can talk.”

  “We’ll arrange it.”

  “Where can we get a look at Oliva?”

  “That’s easy,” Carlos said. “He visits a nightclub downtown every night. His daughter sings there.”

  Dane and Nina stood near the edge of the Rio Grande dividing Nuevo Laredo from Texas. Off to their right spanned one of the two international bridges linking the town to the US; the second bridge was off to the left. The right-side bridge was full of cars crossing the border; the other bridge had lanes of nothing going nowhere. Dane assumed the cars going to Texas would eventually return via the other bridge.

  “We can throw rocks into Texas,” Nina said.
r />   “The US might take it as an act of war and invade,” Dane said. “Maybe that would help.”

  Dane turned his back to the US side and gazed back at the Mexican town. It could have been any town in the world. Homes, shops, people living and working and dreaming—or trying to amidst the war raging around them that had claimed so many lives. Places like this were all over the world, and the governing powers, for all their talk, had no power at all over the aggressor forces, due to either incompetence, corruption or apathy. What was one tiny town on a planet of millions of towns? Who cared what happened here?

  Just another war zone, yeah. Deep down he knew even his minuscule effort would not turn the tide; still, he could not stand by and let the suffering continue without letting the aggressors know that there was somebody in the world who could not be bought off and had no problems using the same violent tactics as they.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Dane cracked half a smile. “Same old thing,” he said.

  “Come on.” She pulled on his arm. “I want a beer.”

  “They call it cerveza here, baby.”

  “Shut up and drive.”

  They found a cantina called Hector’s, where they sat at the bar, each with an ice-cold bottle of Carta Blanca.

  Customers drifted in and out, either drinking or ordering food. Everybody seemed to be living their lives as best as they could, but their cautious glances betrayed the underlying fear that permeated the town.

  Hector, the owner, looked about a thousand years old, with a full head of gray hair and fiery dark eyes.

  As Dane and Nina drank, he railed against the “invasion” of cartel soldiers. The murders in the streets, decapitations, the horrors of a drug war they didn’t want but that had been visited upon the ordinary citizens anyway.

  Dane and Nina listened without comment. There wasn’t much they could say. But it wasn’t the first time in Dane’s experience that innocent people had been dragged into a conflict they did not want; how they reacted and fought back against the injustice, though, separated the sheep from the wolves. So far the only wolves he’d found willing to fight back were General Parra’s people.