by Glenn Trust
“To visit Tio Alejandro,” he said, then opened his arms to wrap his daughter in a hug.
“I want to go!” Rosa exclaimed. “He has been gone for so long. I miss him.”
“We all miss him, little one, but he will be home soon. He spoke to me just last night and promised.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “And he said to give you something.”
“What?” Rosa’s eyes opened wide in excitement.
“This.” Bebé Elizondo leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“Oh.” Rosa’s smile faded. “That’s not the same.”
“It will have to do for now.” Elizondo lifted her from his lap and stood. “I have to go now, but I promise I will come back soon with Tio Alejandro.”
His wife Sofia and oldest daughter, Juana, stood by the door waiting. He kissed each on the cheek.
“When will you return?” Sofia asked.
“In a day or so. Not long. Alejandro has everything arranged.”
“Then why must you go?” she persisted. “This is his sort of work, not yours.”
“You forget my roots,” Elizondo laughed. “I was once young and not fat like this.” He patted his round belly. “Alejandro and I have faced many enemies together. This one has caught his attention in a way I have not seen before. I should be there. Besides, I will only be an observer. It is my way of supporting Alejandro. We owe him that.”
“I suppose,” Sofia said, doubt in her eyes. “It’s only that I have a bad feeling about this one.”
“A bad feeling!” Bebé Elizondo threw his head back and laughed. “Now you are becoming a superstitious old woman.”
“I am not old,” Juana said softly. “And I also have a bad feeling. I have never seen Tio Alejandro consumed like this.”
“All the more reason for me to go,” Bebé said firmly. “Stop your worrying. I will be surrounded by our men, and will stay far away from the action, only close enough to see Alejandro put an end to our enemy.”
With that, he turned and walked into the hacienda’s broad yard. The green grass was covered with fine dew from a morning mist that had climbed up over the hillside earlier, rising from the ocean below. A helicopter waited on the far side of the green expanse. Flanked by two of Garza’s security men, Elizondo strode across the grass, his steps leaving dark impressions in the dew. Watching from the door, Sofia crossed herself and whispered a prayer for his protection.
The helicopter ride was brief, only to the airport in Lázaro Cárdenas. From there, Elizondo transferred to a waiting plane that would carry him to the desert airstrip. It was a small jet, capable of landing on the desert airstrip the cartel used for smuggling operations and which now served as the prison for Garza’s captives.
They had spoken at length the night before, and Garza explained how the exchange would work. When it was completed, John Sole would be dead, along with the hostages. Garza assured him he was prepared for any eventuality. The problems with the detective would cease and their operations could return to normal.
Elizondo wasn’t so sure. The North American had led them on a chase for more than two years now, always one step ahead of the cartel. If Garza’s plan did not succeed, Elizondo wanted to be there to insist that this fruitless game of cat-and-mouse end.
***
The twelve hundred mile flight to the deserts of northern Mexico lasted three hours. Garza was waiting on the airstrip as Elizondo stepped from the jet. He nodded formally as Bebé strode forward to embrace him.
“Alejandro! It is good to see you.” Bebé stepped back from the embrace, beaming at his deputy. “All things considered, you look well.”
“All things considered I am well.” Garza nodded.
“So, this is where the trap will be sprung.” Elizondo looked around at the surrounding hills excitedly.
“Not here, but near enough that we can go by car.”
“Good. I have had enough of flying for today.”
“You are going with us?” Garza’s eyes flickered for an instant in surprise.
It was not easy to surprise his deputy, and Elizondo smiled. “Yes, of course. This affair has taken you away from us for too long. Surely, you didn’t think I would miss the conclusion, did you?”
“I don’t think you should be there,” Garza began.
“Enough.” Bebé lifted a hand to cut him off. “This is not up for debate. I will be there, and after you will return to Lázaro Cárdenas with me.”
The message was clear. Bebé had reached the end of his patience in the matter of the American. He was there in person to emphasize that point, and if necessary force Garza to return with him.
“Come, show me your hostages,” Elizondo chirped like a boy on a school outing. “I want to see everything you have done to prepare for this moment.”
They seemed remarkably calm, Elizondo thought, except for the rat. The man and woman looked up with interest as he was escorted into the building that served as their prison. Neither spoke. The rat trembled, his eyes wet with tears of dread. Elizondo grinned at him and nodded. The rat had good reason to tremble, and no doubt understood better what was going to happen to them.
Afterward, they retired to the nearby adobe house for refreshments. The security team surrounded the house as Bebé and Garza sat on the porch sipping wine and smoking cigars.
“You have prepared your trap well, Alejandro.”
“Thank you.”
“You understand why I am here?” Elizondo put his cigar in the oversized ashtray and looked at his deputy.
“I do,” Garza replied, meeting his gaze.
“This ends,” Elizondo added for emphasis. “One way or another, it is over.”
Smiling, round-faced Bebé was the head of the most vicious cartel the world had ever known. There would be no further discussion on the matter. Even Alejandro Garza acquiesced and nodded without speaking.
A Chance to Survive
The trek through the desert of northern Mexico was different in many ways, but also similar to Monty’s service in Vietnam almost fifty years earlier. There were no jungles, or leeches crawling up his leg to find the tender spots near his groin, or Viet Cong hiding in the brush to ambush his ass. In that respect, this mission was easier on him.
The similarities, however, were taxing. Monty Sole was pushing seventy years of age, and although he was in good shape for a child of the fifties, he was no longer a young man of nineteen. The fifty-pound pack on his back seemed to weigh a hundred.
The load was mostly water, a necessity in the desert. The other necessity was ammunition for the Winchester 70 slung over his shoulder. For food, he carried a plastic bag filled with nuts and M&Ms. Food would not be a problem. If all went well, the mission would only require two days in the field. If things went to hell in a hand basket, as John had warned they might, food would be the least of his worries.
The rifle belonged to his son. Actually, it had been Monty’s. John inherited it after Monty disappeared from his life. They considered having Carlos and the Cent Killers procure a more modern rifle, but Monty refused, telling his son he had grown up using the Winchester, learned his shooting skills hunting with it in the north Georgia mountains, and would not be comfortable trying to acclimate to another rifle on such short notice. John had agreed and handed over the Winchester along with as much ammunition as Monty could carry.
Carlos—Big-C personally ferried him across the border that morning and drove him within ten miles of the exchange point.
“You be careful out there, old man,” he called out as Monty climbed down from the SUV and pulled the rifle from its place of concealment under the floorboards.
“You too,” Monty said. “Watch out for the others. Get in and out fast when they make the exchange.”
“Shit! You ain’t got to worry about that.” Carlos grinned. “Fucking Salvajes are fucking crazy. We gonna get as far away from them as we can as fast as we can. You best do the same.”
“That’s the plan.” Monty nodded, shrug
ged at the pack straps, adjusted the rifle sling, gave a wave of his hand and strode off across the desert.
A dust cloud rose behind him as Carlos spun the SUV’s wheel and headed back toward the border to cross at a different point from where they had entered Mexico.
He was ten miles from the dry wash they had selected for the exchange. In making their plans, Monty and John agreed that any closer would risk detection.
Monty walked a mile before he stopped and unslung the rifle. He loaded three .30-06 rounds into the magazine and knelt, squinting through the scope at a creosote bush three hundred yards away. The first round sailed high. Two clicks on the scope and he fired again. The second round kicked up dust a yard to the right of the creosote. One more click on the scope. The third round passed through the center of the bush, sending a spray of dust into the air ten feet behind it.
Satisfied, he slung the rifle over his shoulder again and continued the trek. They had calculated an average speed of a mile and a half an hour for the hike to the place they had selected on their scouting trip. With rest and water breaks included, they figured a conservative total of seven hours transit time. Monty was motivated and made it in five, maintaining a blistering two-mile-an-hour pace with the pack and rifle.
His early arrival was fortunate. Concealing himself in a crevice on a small ledge in the wash’s cliff wall, he ducked low at the sound of an approaching vehicle. A minute later, a flatbed truck pulled into the desert clearing below. Three men climbed down from the bed, each carrying a rifle and small pack.
Their arrival was not unexpected, but the timing was. Monty realized they had underestimated their adversary. He was taking nothing for granted and was as diligent in his preparations as John had been.
Pushing his back into the shadows of the crevice, he pulled a pair of binoculars from his pack and scanned the scene below. One of the men was pointing and giving directions to the others, indicating places in the rocks along the cliff-like bluffs that formed the walls of the wash. Rifles slung over their shoulders, each made his way up the canyon side to their designated spot.
Monty realized there was little chance of being discovered. The attention of the men below was focused entirely on the area designated for the exchange. Still, he took no chances and stayed well back in his hiding place.
From his vantage point, he could see that each carried a hunting rifle similar to his but in .308 caliber. The rifles were fairly equally matched. The .308 was preferred these days by many shooters who felt the trajectory was flatter and more accurate.
Monty had to agree. The Winchester’s .30-06 round had a trajectory more like a rainbow than a line, but he knew from his Vietnam experience that the real difference was in the shooter. He was supremely familiar with his weapon and confidant in his abilities.
The movements of the men below and the noise they made indicated that, however vicious they might be at killing in the streets and barrios, they were not as proficient in this type of shooting. That was understandable. Firing at a target, undetected from concealment, was a skill that had to be learned. In Mexico, on their home turf, concealment was not a major issue for Los Salvajes.
He was outnumbered, but in his mind, the advantage was his. He could see them. They had not seen him. If all went according to plan, he would make sure they never did.
Monty put the binoculars down, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. In a few moments, he drifted into sleep. The men below continued their noisy preparations for the meeting that would take place in the wash below.
***
Sam Goodwin leaned forward, peering through the coating of dust on the windshield. He drove the pickup with Sandy riding shotgun and Sole in the crew cab rear seat.
“Not too close,” Sole cautioned.
“Right.” Sam eased off the accelerator.
Ahead, the two lead vehicles left a plume of dust hovering over the road. The first vehicle, the SUV driven by the Cent Killers’ leader, Carlos, was invisible in the dust cloud. The second was a van, the same van that they had used the day Sole guided them in the ambush and slaughter of the Demonios de la Muerte. Including the drivers, there were four heavily armed gang members in each.
Their role would be crucial in the exchange of hostages. They were to make the initial contact with the cartel and the mystery man who had spoken to Sole on the phone, calling himself the enemy.
Fair enough. An enemy he was, and John Sole had no intention of underestimating him. He had taken every precaution he could think of to give the hostages at least a fighting chance at survival.
He harbored no illusions about their chances. Despite the promises to the contrary from his enemy, Sole knew that once he was in the cartel’s grasp, they intended to kill Isabella, Billy, and Luis Acero.
“Stop here,” he said.
Sam let the pickup roll to a stop while the two lead vehicles proceeded another half mile to a point where the canyon road they followed came out into the broad wash and open desert. Sole exited the pickup and turned to Sam and Sandy.
“You know what to do. Get them out of here fast. Don’t stop. Don’t come back.”
“What if there’s trouble?” Sandy asked. “If they start shooting?”
“Then shoot back, but do not stop the pickup. Get back across the border. Carlos and his men will be behind to cover you.”
“And you?” Sam asked.
“I’ll be alright. I have a plan to end this once and for all.” It was a lie. Sole knew that his plan was thin at best, but he nodded reassuringly. “Your job is to get them back across the border. Now turn the pickup around and be ready to get the hell out of here when Carlos comes back with the hostages.”
“Right.” Sam put the truck in gear and backed around in the dirt so that the truck pointed in the direction they had come.
“Good luck, John.” Sandy had been through a confrontation with men sent from the cartel once before in Texas and understood better than Sam what they faced.
“See you on the other side.” Sole tried to give a reassuring smile. Sandy was not reassured.
He began trotting along the canyon road toward the opening into the wash. Ahead, the Cent Killers’ two vehicles inched forward slowly, checking things out. When he reached the point where he could see beyond the canyon into the wash, Sole crouched near a jumble of rock and dirt that had fallen from the canyon wall during one of the infrequent rains that hit the region.
He watched Carlos’ SUV slow to a stop a hundred yards from four vehicles, positioned in an arc facing them. Sole counted fifteen men, armed with automatic rifles, pistols tucked in their belts. A tall man stood in the center, and Sole knew he was the man who had taken the hostages, who had killed his family and partner. Fists clenched, he waited for the show to start.
***
Alejandro Garza had his binoculars out, spinning the focus ring as the vehicles approached. He nodded, satisfied. Soon, now. Very soon. The sooner the better.
He glanced over his shoulder at Bebé Elizondo watching from one of the vehicles. He had overruled Garza’s protestations and insisted on being present for the final confrontation with the American. Garza understood that it was Elizondo’s way of emphasizing that this quest to destroy their enemy ended today.
Fair enough. Garza turned back to the approaching vehicles. The next few minutes would bring everything to a conclusion.
***
Carlos guided the SUV closer, now just fifty yards from the cartel’s waiting vehicles. Dust swirled around them as he braked to a stop and the van pulled up alongside. Making the initial contact with Los Salvajes was risky, but not as risky as what was to come.
The gringo had demonstrated his prowess in arranging the military-style ambush that eliminated the Demonios de la Muerte. Besides, participating in the exchange was a good business decision. The promise of ending the cartel’s domination of the drug market in Albuquerque, and the chance to eliminate a good portion of Cent Killers’ competition would boost their profit
s enormously.
The dust swirled away, and he exited the SUV. Five other armed Cent Killers got out of the van and formed a protective arc around Big-C. They were outnumbered and outgunned and they knew it, but if all went according to plan they would be gone long before gunfire was exchanged.
“You the man in charge?” Carlos called across the open space to the tall man standing in the center of the cartel's circle of vehicles.
“Where is he?” Garza called back without answering the question.
“Watching.” Carlos smiled. “He has a plan.”
Garza nodded, his eyes briefly scanning the cliffs along the wash and the canyon opening. He had known the detective would be too clever to expose himself without the release of the hostages. It didn’t matter. The result would be the same.
He shrugged and called back. “What is his plan?”
Carlos turned and nodded to the van. Two more Cent Killers came out and walked forward to place three bundles in the sand between the two groups.
“What is this?” Garza asked.
“He said you would know,” Carlos replied and motioned for his people to retreat to the van.
Garza regarded the bundles and nodded. This man, John Sole, was an adversary worthy of respect. Still, he doubted that he would have the fortitude to go through with what he was proposing.
Garza motioned to one of his men who stepped forward and gingerly examined the three bundles. After a minute, he returned to Garza and verified that they were three bomb vests, the sort of suicide vests worn by terrorists. Each was packed with Semtex plastic explosives and a detonator that could be activated by a cell phone or radio transmitted signal.
“Now what?” Garza called out.
“First thing, he said to remind you no cell phones or radios. We wouldn’t want to set them off by accident.”
Garza eyed the gang leader, wondering why they had never recruited someone like this into the cartel operations. He had balls, and no doubt was planning to cash in on whatever Sole was planning.