Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Deborah’s cell phone rang and she answered. She listened for a few moments and then said, “You’re sure it was his men?”

  She listened again.

  “Okay, keep me in the loop.”

  She disconnected the call and slumped in her seat, letting out a long sigh.

  “Problem?” McMahon asked.

  “The driver who took the company SUV to Ed and Manuel didn’t make it back to the office.”

  “Any idea what happened?”

  “They found his body outside Guadalajara. I’m assuming Toledo’s men got him. They didn’t go into detail, but they said it’s almost certain that whoever snatched him now knows everything he knew.”

  Mexico’s cartels control much of the illegal drugs trade from South America to the United States. They import cocaine from South America and smuggle it on to the US.

  —BBC News

  43

  The plane came in low, no more than fifty feet off the ground. It passed them and then looped back. This time it was lower—low enough that Traynor could make out the pilot’s face. When Toledo looked up, he was most definitely recognized. The plane sped ahead and made another turn. It stayed low, and as it passed on the left, an automatic weapon opened fire on them. The bullets walked across the sandy soil, kicking up small clouds of dirt as they hit. Manuel cursed as the gunner zeroed in.

  He turned the wheel, left the road’s surface, and raced across the bumpy terrain. Scrub brush and bushes scraped the side of the Ford and several disappeared beneath the undercarriage. The rasping sound, accompanied by the bouncing vehicle, made Traynor pray that they would not lose the oil pan or do so much damage that the truck would be unusable.

  Manuel aimed for a small copse of trees. The plane passed overhead, and several rounds popped through their roof, hitting the seat mere inches from Traynor’s leg and letting in small dots of sunlight. “Christ, Manuel, step on it!”

  They stopped inside the grove of trees and Manuel popped the hatch. He and Traynor scrambled from the Expedition. Manuel raced to the back of the truck, tore open the wooden crate, and threw Traynor an assault rifle and two magazines.

  Traynor shoved one of the magazines into the receiver, hit the bottom to ensure that it was seated properly, and then pulled the operating rod, loading a bullet into the chamber. He took cover behind a tree, switched off the rifle’s safety, and searched the sky for the plane. The Piper was in the middle of yet another turn, and when it straightened its flight path, it aligned itself for a run on the trees in which they had sought shelter. Traynor aligned his sights, leading the aircraft slightly to allow for its speed. When it was alongside the grove, he opened fire. As the plane passed, bullets perforated its thin skin. One of the heavy rounds must have hit the shooter as well as the motor, because the automatic weapon that had been firing at them fell to the ground and smoke erupted from the engine cowling. The plane was too low for the pilot to glide far, and it flew into the ground, tumbled several times, and then settled on its back, bursting into flames.

  Toledo stared through the window, his face pale. Traynor opened the door and said, “Looks like someone in your organization is attempting a hostile takeover.”

  “Possibly it was not my people. They would not do anything that would get me killed. I believe it’s one of the gangs that compete against me—possibly the Sinaloa Cartel.”

  “Either way,” Manuel said, “we’re fucked. They know where we are now.”

  “Well,” Traynor said. “We have enough of a head start that we may be able to outrun them.”

  “No doubt he contacted his people … and we can’t outrun a radio.” Manuel returned to the Ford. “Route 45 is this road’s only outlet and they’ll seal it off before we reach it.” He climbed into the driver’s seat and Traynor jumped into the back.

  “Are we going to check for survivors?” Traynor asked.

  “Why? We’d just have to shoot them. If anyone survived, let them take care of themselves.”

  They returned to the unpaved road, bouncing across the open ground, and turned north.

  A stationary or fixed surveillance is conducted to observe a home, building, or location to obtain evidence of criminal activity or to identify suspected offenders.

  —FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations

  44

  McMahon and Deborah had been watching the mansion for six hours, and no one had come or gone. She shifted in her seat, wiped her palms on her thighs, and sighed. “My butt is sore from all this sitting.”

  “Stakeouts usually become an endurance test.”

  Deborah poured the last of the coffee from their thermos and said, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I have to pee.”

  “It probably wouldn’t hurt to change locations. We’ve been here a long time. You take the car and go take care of nature’s call. I’ll stay here and find a new focal point.”

  When he opened the driver’s side door and got out, she rounded the vehicle and got behind the wheel. “How will I find you?”

  “I’ll be close to here. All you have to do is drive up the street and I’ll find you. If all else fails, we each have a phone.”

  “Okay, give me twenty minutes,” Deborah said.

  “While you’re at it, refill the thermos.”

  She passed an electronic camera with a large zoom lens through the window. “If anyone shows, you’ll want this.”

  He took the camera and after she turned the corner and disappeared, walked along the sidewalk. As he strolled, the camera swung from the strap around his neck, acting as a metronome to help him keep his pace under control. To a casual observer, he appeared to be a tourist out for a stroll, taking pictures of southern California’s rich and famous. He reached the corner and looked back at the estate. The view from there would allow them to keep their vigil. He strolled back, and when he reached a large willow, he slipped into the obscurity of its hanging branches. He stayed there, not leaving the tree’s shelter, until Deborah drove down the street and stopped beside him.

  He got in on the passenger side and settled back. “We’ll park on the corner up there.” He pointed to the new vantage point.

  “Anything happen?”

  “No. We’ll give it a while longer and then possibly revise our strategy.”

  “Any sign of Skidgel?” As if it had a psychic connection, the transceiver that monitored the tracking devices on Skidgel’s cars began to chirp.

  “I’ll be damned,” McMahon said.

  “What?”

  “Unless I miss my guess, he’s less than a mile away.”

  “At last,” she said softly, “all of the vultures are convening.”

  “I’d like it better if Ed and Manuel were with us,” he said.

  “I’m sure they’d rather be here than where they are.” She drove to the new outpost and pulled alongside the curb.

  McMahon raised the camera to his eye and adjusted the lens to ensure that any photos they took would be useful. When the distant gates appeared in the reticule as sharp as if they were mere feet away, he said, “This rig must have cost you a bundle.”

  “About the same as Daddy’s weekly booze bill.”

  McMahon whistled. “That much?”

  According to a study by the international think tank, Institute for Economics and Peace, northern Mexico continues to be the region most affected by drug-related violence; this is due to its proximity to the United States, the region’s most important market for illicit drugs.

  45

  They made first contact with the opposition in midafternoon. Their antagonists were clustered around two parked Chevy SUVs blocking the road. Several of the men wore law-enforcement uniforms and held shotguns. Manuel stopped a couple hundred yards short of the roadblock. He surveyed the scene for several tense moments and said, “I wish I knew who in the hell we’re dealing with. If it’s douche bag’s people we could hold a gun against his head and force them to let us through. On the other hand, if they’re the opposition
, that would only make them act sooner.”

  Manuel studied the terrain on either side of the road—a lot of scrub brush and patches of dry, brittle grass; this time there was no convenient grove of trees. “Not a lot of cover if we have to make a fight of it.”

  Toledo inclined toward the windshield and through the dusty glass tried to determine who they were. “You could let me go and end this.”

  “Like we said, that might work if those are your people,” Traynor said.

  “Who’s to say that they aren’t Sinaloa?” Manuel added. “They have a presence in seventeen states. They may have put up a reward larger than yours to anyone who gets you—preferably dead.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Toledo replied. “This is Mexico and money talks.”

  “Sure,” Traynor said, “and once you’re free, you’ll give us safe passage.”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you be upset if I tell you that you’re full of shit?” Traynor said.

  “I am a man of my word.”

  “You are full of shit,” Traynor said. Manuel seemed to have made a decision and spun the wheel to the right. Once again they left the road and headed cross-country.

  As they left the thoroughfare, Traynor watched the assembled mob. “They’re running for their trucks,” Traynor said.

  “They can’t go any faster than us on this surface. Maybe we can make it into the mountains and make a stand.”

  “Great, just what I want … to be part of an Alamo reenactment.”

  “Maybe it will be San Jacinto. The Texans won there.”

  “I hope we find something,” Traynor said. “It’ll be hard to circle the wagons with only one wagon.”

  The ground rose, and when they dropped down the other side, they lost sight of their pursuers. Manuel suddenly turned the Expedition in a tight circle, stopped, and pressed the release button, raising the back hatch door.

  “What are you doing?” Traynor asked.

  “There are times when the best defense is a good offense … we’re going to take the fight to them.”

  Traynor lowered one half of the backseat, gaining access to the material in the rear. He moved the gas cans to one side, pushed the wood crate aside, and checked the rifle to ensure he had a full magazine. “Okay, now what?”

  “When I pass through them, you open fire.”

  Traynor was not exactly sold on this plan, but it was better than anything he’d been able to come up with. He slid through the opening and lay in a prone shooting position. When Manuel accelerated, Traynor began to slide toward the open hatch, and he had to use his toes to grip the top of the lowered backseat to keep from sliding. The Ford rose over the swell and accelerated toward the oncoming SUVs. Manuel armed himself with a pistol, and as they closed in, Traynor heard shots. Suddenly the Chevrolets flashed by and were behind them. Traynor fired an enfilade of 7.62 mm bullets into the cloud of dust that came from rear of each SUV. When the strong wind blew away the dust, he saw one of the trucks attempt to turn and its front wheel sink into the soft ground, flipping it over.

  The second Chevy slowed, safely turned, and then raced after them. Traynor aimed at where he thought its grill would be and fired several rounds, hoping to hit the radiator. When the truck appeared out of the dusty contrail, he saw that one of its headlamps was smashed and there were flashes coming from the left side window. Whoever was shooting was good. One of the rounds snapped as it passed over him and blew a spiderwebbed hole in the windshield. Traynor adjusted his line of sight and shot three bullets into the windscreen on the shooter’s side. Steam and smoke began to flow out of the hood, and the Tahoe slowed as the driver attempted to stop and turn off the engine before it overheated and seized up. Manuel drove away, leaving them in a cloud of dust.

  Traynor scrambled into the backseat and held on as Manuel careened back onto the road and raced north. Toledo’s face was as white as a sheet. “Whoever that was,” Traynor said to him, “they weren’t overly concerned with your well-being. It gives me a bit of consolation to know that even though a shitload of people want us dead, even more seem to want your hide hanging on their barn.”

  Toledo gave Traynor a look that said he did not understand the euphemism. Traynor decided to let him ponder it.

  Manuel pulled to the side of the road. “Close that hatch, will you, Ed?”

  “Sure.” When Traynor was back in the truck, Manuel pulled back onto the road and accelerated.

  “Where are we?” Traynor asked.

  “The GPS says our next turn, which is Highway 45, is in fifty-seven miles.”

  “About an hour, huh?”

  “If we don’t run into anymore road hazards.”

  Traynor patted Toledo on the back of his head and said, “Starting to look as if we’re gonna make it, Holy.” For some reason, Toledo did not seem pleased by the news.

  As the sun was setting, they crossed into Chihuahua, refueled, keeping the empty cans for refilling later, and Traynor took over the driving. “We’ll spend the night in Hidalgo Del Parral,” Manuel said.

  “Is that wise?”

  “Probably not, but it’s about two hundred kilometers to the next town of any size. We need some food, gas, and showers wouldn’t hurt. I, for one, must smell like a dead dinosaur.”

  Once again Traynor was surprised by the terrain. Here it was mountainous and forested. “This dispels all the myths I believed about Mexico,” he said.

  “No doubt,” Manuel responded. “As we go north, we’ll run into more of what you expect. We will soon be in the Chihuahua Desert. These forests and mountains are its western border.”

  Toledo, who had gotten quieter the farther north they progressed, snorted derisively. “You Norte Americanos are ignorant of anything you don’t see on your television or in your cinema.”

  Traynor sat back and remained quiet; for the first time Toledo had said something with which he could not argue.

  Hidalgo Del Parral was larger than expected. It was located in a valley surrounded on all sides by the foothills of the Sierra Madre Mountains (which, Manuel explained, were actually two mountain chains: the Sierra Madre Occidental in the west and the Sierra Madre Oriental in the east. The first extended from the state of Chihuahua into the far southern tip of the state of Durango; the latter ran from the state of Coahuila into the state of Nuevo Leon). Traynor made up his mind that one day he was going to return to this magnificent country and explore it in more detail.

  They found a small hotel in the southwest corner of the city, along Highway 24. Manuel informed Traynor that, after a night’s sleep, they would follow 24 to Highway 23 and from there, make a dash for the US border somewhere between Douglas, Arizona, and Columbus, New Mexico.

  “How are we gonna get over the border fence?” Traynor asked.

  “It’s not complete through that stretch—and may never be as there are no towns there. We shouldn’t have to worry about the border patrol either, there ain’t a lot of illegal border crossings through that stretch.”

  Once inside their room, Toledo was once again shackled, this time to a thick cable that secured the antiquated TV from theft. Traynor took a quick shower and then watched Toledo while Manuel did the same.

  “I, too, would like to clean my body,” Toledo said in the whiny tone that had become his norm.

  Traynor opened his valise and took out a stick of deodorant and some aftershave and tossed them to him. “You’ll have to make do with these,” he said. “At least you’ll smell a bit better.”

  Toledo caught the hygiene products with his free hand and gave him an angry glare. Traynor flopped onto one of the beds and crossed his arms under his head.

  When Manuel walked out of the bathroom, he saw Toledo holding the aftershave and deodorant and asked, “What’s up?”

  “Ole Holy, doesn’t like the arrangements I made for his personal hygiene.”

  Manuel walked across the room and unlocked Toledo’s handcuff. “We’re only hurting ourselves … He smells like
day-old roadkill.”

  He led Toledo into the bathroom and Traynor heard Toledo whine, “I can’t remove my clothes with these on.” The handcuffs rattled.

  “Tough shit,” Manuel said. “Your clothes stink too. Shower with them on.”

  Traynor heard Toledo muttering in Spanish, and although he did not understand what he was saying, by the tone he knew that it was not complimentary. He turned the television on and tuned it to what he assumed was a local news and weather forecast; at least a buxom young woman was reading something in Spanish. Over her shoulder he saw a weather map of Mexico and the southern United States. Centered in the blue expanse of the Gulf of Mexico was the winged circle symbol, showing the position of Hurricane Fredericka. Several lines with arrowheads showed the predicted possible tracks the storm could take; one of them pointed toward northern Mexico.

  “That,” Manuel said, “could be a problem.”

  Traynor had not heard him come back in and turned to him. “Is she saying what I think she’s saying?”

  “If you think she’s saying that Fredericka may come this way … then the answer is yes.”

  He was quiet for several seconds and then shook his head. For the first time since they had met, Traynor detected worry in Manuel’s demeanor. “What is it?” he asked.

  “That’s a strong storm. Right now it’s a category four, but could be a five before it makes landfall.”

  That made Traynor worry; he was no meteorologist, but knew that a category five storm meant winds in excess of 155 miles per hour. He also knew that category five hurricanes had a nasty habit of spawning tornadoes along their leading edge.

  Unattended parked surveillance vehicles may create suspicion or become the target of criminal activity.

  —FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations

  46

  Skidgel arrived and drove through the gate. He parked in front of the tall white mansion and went inside without knocking. McMahon snapped several pictures and lowered the camera. “So,” he said, “the plot sickens.”