Cartel

by Chuck Hustmyre

  Father Rodrigo was late for afternoon confession. Not that it really mattered. There was very little chance anyone would come. Still, he was always waiting in the church, whether any penitents showed up or not.

  But today he was five minutes late because he'd had trouble finding his keys. He only had three keys-the church, the rectory, and his old truck-and they were on the same ring. He preferred to think that he had simply mis-placed them due to the disruption of his daily routine that his niece and her American colleague had caused when they had shown up so unexpectedly last night, but that probably wasn't the truth. He had been losing, or misplacing, things more and more lately. And just last week he had momentarily forgotten Señora Calderon's name when she dropped off a dish of enchiladas for him.

  As he walked toward the rectory door, Rodrigo patted the pocket of his black coat and felt the outline of his keys. They had, in fact, been in his pocket the whole time, instead of hung on the hook by the door where he usually kept them. Maybe it was the wine he'd drunk last night with Benetta and the American. Rodrigo wondered about those two. The American had been wearing a wedding ring, and Rodrigo re-ally hoped his niece wasn't getting involved with a married man. That never ended well.

  When Rodrigo pulled open the door, he found two men standing on the doorstep. One was bigger than the other, but they were both in their twenties, wearing expensive track suits with zippered jackets hanging open over T-shirts and gold chains, and sleeves pushed up, exposing tattoos crawl-ing across their forearms and the backs of their hands. Their necks also bore webs of ink.

  Rodrigo glanced down at his own arms, now concealed beneath priestly black, but he could feel the faded scroll of tattoos there. He knew who these men were. He used to be one of them. "Can I help you?" he said.

  The smaller one pushed Rodrigo back into the foyer. "We're not the ones who need help."

  "Where do you think you're going, priest?" the bigger man said.

  Rodrigo stood straight and faced them. He saw the butts of their pistols now, hanging in leather shoulder holsters under their jackets. "I'm going to the church," he said. "To hear confession. Have you come seeking absolution?"

  Both men laughed. The big one shut the door and slammed the iron bolt closed. Rodrigo eyed the wicker bas-ket on the table beside the door, where the old Colt .45 re-volver lay hidden under a cloth napkin. The gun was close but not close enough.

  The smaller one pulled his jacket open and flashed his pistol. "Where is Benetta Alvarez, and the American DEA agent?"

  Like most of Rodrigo's countrymen, these gangsters had been raised Catholic, and like many, including Rodrigo him-self, they had turned away from the faith. Rodrigo's faith had been restored decades ago. The faith of these two young men had not. At least not their faith in Jesus Christ and his Holy Catholic Church. Their tattoos proclaimed a different faith: Santa Muerte, the cult of death that so many drug traf-fickers and criminals chose to follow.

  "I don't know who you're talking about," Rodrigo said. Then the big one punched him in the face and sent him stumbling back into the den. He tripped over the coffee table and fell. A heavy brass candleholder that stood in the center of the table fell with him.

  The two men stepped closer. "We know she's your niece," the smaller gunman said. "So tell us where she is, old man, and we will let you live."

  Rodrigo wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It came away bloody. "And if I don't?"

  "Then we kill you."

  "We are Los Zetas," the bigger one boasted.

  Rodrigo nodded. "I'll tell you." He reached out his left hand. "But first help me to the sofa."

  The smaller cartel gunman grinned, already savoring his victory. He grabbed Rodrigo's outstretched hand and yanked him to his feet. Rodrigo came up with the candleholder in his right hand and swung it at the man's head. The heavy round base smashed into the man's temple. Blood erupted and the man went down hard.

  For an instant, the bigger gunman's face registered noth-ing but surprise. Rodrigo didn't waste that instant. He stepped over the smaller man and raised the candleholder for a downward strike. The gunman, instead of hitting Rodrigo with his fist, which would have knocked the priest down again, reached into his open jacket for his pistol, and while he was trying to unholster it, Rodrigo slammed the base of the candleholder down on top of his skull and sent him to the floor just like his partner, unconscious and bloody.

  After taking a few seconds to catch his breath, Rodrigo picked up a lace doily from the coffee table and wiped the blood off the candleholder. Then he set the heavy brass holder back in place.

  In the kitchen he found a burlap sack that one of his few remaining parishioners had used to bring him a live chicken a couple of weeks ago. Rodrigo had eaten the chicken and saved the sack. Now he stuffed the men's pis-tols and mobile phones into it.

  He unbolted and opened the rectory door, then turned around to look back at the two men lying unconscious on the floor. "Bless you, my sons. You are forgiven in the eyes of God." Crossing himself, he said, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen."

  The door had two locks, the old-fashioned iron bolt to lock it from the inside at night, and a more modern deadbolt to lock it from the outside when he was away. Rodrigo stepped out and used his key to snap closed the deadbolt.

  His pickup truck was parked in the alley between the church and the abandoned building next door, on the oppo-site side of the church from the rectory. He tossed the burlap sack onto the mildewed and rotted seat, then slid behind the wheel and jammed the key into the ignition. The old motor still had some life left in her and she started on the third crank.

  Rodrigo backed out into the street. A shiny new Cadil-lac Escalade was parked at the curb in front of the church. He coasted to a stop beside the Cadillac, took one of the pis-tols from the burlap sack, and shot the front and back tires on the driver's side of the Cadillac.

  Then he drove away.

  Chapter 56

  When Scott and Benny walked out of Walmart, he was car-rying a plastic shopping bag and they were wearing new clothes. Benny had bought jeans and a black Polo shirt, and Scott had abandoned the denim work shirt for a brown Har-ley-Davidson T-shirt. They had changed in the bathrooms and tossed the old clothes in the trash. Scott kept the hat.

  They stepped away from the door and stood on the sidewalk. Scott opened the plastic bag and handed Benny a bottle of water. He twisted the cap off a second bottle and took a long drink. The cold water felt good going down. Then he handed her a candy bar and took a second one for himself. They were extra large 3 Musketeers bars, loaded with fat and carbohydrates. Neither of them had eaten since last night, and they were both starving.

  After gobbling down a candy bar and taking another long pull of water, Benny said, "I have to call my uncle and ask him to take Rosalita out of school right away."

  Scott nodded as he chewed the last of his 3 Musketeers bar. In addition to the clothes, water, and candy bars, they had also bought a prepaid cell phone. Scott tore the phone from its hard plastic packaging and pressed the power but-ton. As the phone powered up, he handed it to Benny.

  It was dangerous for either of them to call anyone, espe-cially since they had no way of knowing whose phones were being monitored; and if the people chasing them had proven anything, it was that they had access to some very high-level technology and resources. But there was no way to stop Benny from doing everything she could to keep her daughter safe. Not that Scott would even want to try. He knew he would do anything to protect his own children, consequenc-es be damned. "Keep it short," he said.

  Benny nodded as she punched in the country code for Mexico and a telephone number.

  * * * *

  Father Rodrigo was steering his truck with one hand and holding his mobile phone with the other when the phone rang. He stared down at it in surprise. He had just tried for the third time to reach his niece, but his calls went straight to her voicemail without even ringing. He was pretty sure that mean
t either the phone had been switched off or the battery was dead.

  A horn blew and when he looked up he realized he had drifted into the oncoming lane. He jerked the wheel and got the old girl back on course.

  His phone rang again. This time he raised the phone so he could see both it and the road at the same time. The caller ID showed the incoming call was from a blocked number. That was very unusual and he considered not answering it, but maybe it was one of his parishioners in some kind of trouble. Though if it were, given his present circumstances, he couldn't offer much in the way of help. But perhaps he could offer some human comfort or spiritual guidance.

  Rodrigo thumbed the ANSWER button. "This is Father Rodrigo," he said.

  "Tío."

  Thank God. It was Benetta. Rodrigo was so glad to hear her voice he let go of the steering wheel entirely and crossed himself. The truck pulled hard to the left, but he got it back under control before he hit anything. "Sobrina, where are you?"

  "I'm...across the river."

  "With the American?"

  "Yes."

  "What's happened?"

  "Nothing," she said. "Nothing has happened, but I need you to get Rosalita."

  "Isn't she in school?"

  "I need you to take her out of school."

  "Benetta, listen to me. You're in danger."

  "I know. That's why I need you to-"

  "Two men came to the church looking for you and Agent Greene."

  "Who?" she asked, an edge of panic in her voice.

  "Los Zetas."

  "What did they want?"

  "To know where you and-"

  "What did you say?"

  "Nothing. I left before...before I had to answer their questions."

  She was quiet for several seconds. Then she said, "Now they'll be after you too."

  "Why are they looking for you?"

  "Can you get Rosalita for me?"

  "Of course, I can," Rodrigo said. "But we can't go back to the church."

  "I'll meet you."

  "Where?" he asked.

  "I...don't know." Now she sounded desperate.

  "Do you remember where I used to take you when you were a little girl," he said, "the place where we got those cookies you loved so much?"

  "The market?"

  "So you do remember."

  "Of course, I remember," she said, sounding like she was about to cry. "They were the best cookies in the world."

  "We'll meet you there."

  "I don't know how long it will take me to get there."

  "It doesn't matter," Rodrigo said. "She'll be safe with me."

  "I know that."

  "We'll see you there."

  "Thank you, tío. I love you."

  "I love you too, sobrina."

  Rodrigo turned at the next corner and headed toward Rosalita's school.

  * * * *

  Benny ended the call with her uncle and turned to Scott. The conversation had been in Spanish. Scott hadn't understood any of it, but he understood the pain in her eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked.

  They were still standing outside Walmart.

  "Tío is getting Rosalita from school," Benny said.

  "There's more."

  She stared at him. Then took a deep breath. "Two men came to the church looking for us."

  "Who?"

  She didn't answer.

  "Who?" he said again.

  "Los Zetas."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know."

  "Take a guess."

  Benny looked away without answering.

  "You said none of this was Los Zetas-not Ortiz, not the video, not Mike's death. None of it. That's what you said."

  She turned back to face him. There were tears in her eyes. "And I told you the truth."

  "Then why is Los Zetas looking for us at your uncle's church?"

  "The Nuevo Laredo plaza belongs to them."

  "I understand that," Scott said. He understood it well. The decades of internecine fighting between the cartels, and the ten-plus years of open warfare between the cartels and the Mexican government were all about who controlled the key crossing points on the border and the shipment corridors leading through them, what the cartels called the plazas, and the Nuevo Laredo plaza was one of the most valuable. "But what does that have to do with you?"

  "I told you I don't know," Benny said. "All I know is that I have to meet my uncle and get Rosalita."

  Scott realized there was no sense pressing her. Not right now. Because no matter what else Officer Benetta Alvarez might be, she was a mother first, trying to protect her child. He nodded. "I agree. We need to get her to a safe place right away."

  "I don't know a place like that," she said.

  "Can your uncle drive her across the border?"

  Benny shook her head. "The Americans will only allow children to cross the border if they are with their parents."

  "Do they even check that?"

  "Yes," she said. "And most of the time very carefully."

  "I've seen thousands of refugee children on the news come across without their parents," Scott said. "Whole train loads of them."

  "That's only when your politicians want to make a point."

  "So you're going back across and get her?"

  "I have to," Benny said.

  Scott touched the flash drive hanging beneath his T-shirt. He had no idea what to do next. There was no one else he trusted with the video now that Glenn was dead. Maybe it could wait. "I'll go with you," he said.

  Benny shook her head. "You don't have to do that."

  "I know I don't," he said. "But I want to help."

  She nodded. "Thank you."

  "The police are looking for us, so the bridge is out," Scott said. "And I'm not shooting my way through that tun-nel again."

  "I know a way."

  "The last time you said that we almost got killed."

  "This way is safer," Benny said and tried to smile. "I promise."

  Chapter 57

  Jones was sitting in the passenger seat of the Suburban as Gavin drove them west on East Saunders Street toward I-35, pretty much smack in the middle of Laredo, when his BlackBerry rang. The caller ID showed a blocked number. No surprise there. Most of Jones's calls came from blocked numbers. "Yes," he answered.

  "I may have found him," the caller said without pream-ble. The voice belonged to the CIA liaison to the National Security Agency. "One of my go-to comm geeks has been scanning cell phone freqs in the Laredo corridor and we just got a hit."

  "A hit on what?" Jones asked, already getting annoyed that the liaison man didn't just get straight to the point.

  "The software picked up the words Agent Greene, American, Benetta, and Los Zetas in the same conversation."

  Jones felt his pulse quicken. "Are you up on the phone?"

  "No, but we're tracking it," the liaison said. "My guy tells me if he throws the switch to listen, the system auto-matically generates a report for the weekly metadata file that goes to the Congressional Oversight Committee." The caller dropped his voice a notch so that it was just above a whis-per. "I thought you might not want anything so official."

  Jones reached for his briefcase on the floor and slipped out an iPad. "You thought right. Where is the phone now?"

  "Laredo, Texas."

  "Specifically."

  "Uh...hold on a sec." After a pause, during which Jones activated his iPad and started a GPS tracking application, the liaison continued. "Headed north on state highway 1472, approaching Las Cruces Drive. But moving slowly with sev-eral stops. Looks like he's on a bus."

  "Send it to me."

  "Just did. You should get it-"

  "Got it," Jones said as soon as he saw the blip on his screen. "Keep me looped in. I'll let you know when I have them."

  "Glad to help an old-"

  Jones hung up.

  "You got a fix on them?" Gavin asked.

  Jones studied the map on his iPad for a few seconds. "Take thirty-five north to San Dario
Avenue. They're on a city bus."

  Gavin stomped the gas and cut into the far right lane. A sign said that I-35 was three-quarters of a mile ahead. "A city bus?"

  "That's what the man said."

  "What kind of covert operator takes a bus?"

  "The kind who keeps getting away from us," Jones said.

  * * * *

  Holy Ghost School educated girls from ages five through seventeen. Even though professional teachers now taught most of the classes, nuns from the Society of Saint Teresa of Jesus still ran the school. Father Rodrigo knew the mother superior, a fierce woman in her seventies who still managed to strike a hint of fear into Rodrigo's heart, despite his clerical collar.

  The school spanned an entire city block and was sur-rounded by a tall iron fence topped with razor wire. Heavy gates stood at either end of the U-shaped driveway. The gates were only opened mornings and afternoons, when the girls came to school and when they left. During classes, the school was on permanent lockdown, with armed guards pa-trolling the hallways and grounds.

  It was just before the dismissal bell when Rodrigo ap-proached the school. Both gates were open and a long line of cars stretched into the street, waiting on the students to swarm out of the building as soon as the bell sounded. Driv-ing past the line of waiting cars, Rodrigo noted that many of them were European-Mercedes, BMW, Audi, Volvo, even a Maserati and a Bentley-and that chauffeurs were behind the wheels of most of them. Some of the cars even bore sub-tle signs of having been armored.

  Holy Ghost was a good school, probably the best in Nuevo Laredo, and it was expensive. Benetta could never have afforded the tuition on a policia salary, but Rodrigo had talked the mother superior into granting a substantial discount for Rosalita.

  At the entrance, Rodrigo thought there was just enough room for him to squeeze his truck between the waiting cars and the gate's left stanchion. This was an emergency. But his depth perception turned out to be off by a few inches, and the iron post tore the cracked mirror off the driver's side door. He kept going, creeping up the driveway toward the front of the school, hearing the other drivers shouting at him.