by Leland Davis
“My daughter and grandchildren just arrived for the holiday. Why don’t we meet for dinner on Friday?”
Craig wasn’t happy about the delay, but Sutherland’s cool demeanor led him to believe it was more an issue with communication than any problem with the mission.
“OK, but not that place we ate last time.”
“There’s a place you might like just off the Bypass at 773, right behind the McDonald’s. Why don’t we meet there at eight?”
“I’ll see you there,” Craig said before abruptly disconnecting the line.
Sutherland placed the phone back in its place amongst the others on the desk. He took his glasses off with his left hand and massaged the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his right. He hoped he would hear something from Harris soon.
*
If this ride was less uncomfortable than the last one, it was only because Harris was so delirious with fever that he was barely aware of the passing of time. The jostling of the vehicle as it bounced along a rugged dirt road finally brought him to a more alert state. He checked his watch and saw that they’d been traveling for four and a half hours. It was dreadfully hot in the truck bed, and he was grateful that despite his delirium he’d had the presence of mind to bring along several bottles of water from the garage.
The truck finally lurched to a stop, and Harris heard the driver’s door slam shut. He had to move fast. He switched on his night vision goggles and pulled his mulit-tool from the pocket of his BDUs. He unfolded the Phillips head attachment and went to work removing the screws that held the interior body panel onto the tailgate. On his first trip in this automotive tomb, he’d noticed with dismay that there was no way to open the tailgate from inside. But he’d figured out a solution now that the drug lord’s body was not in the way. With the screws removed he was able to pull off the panel to expose the inner workings of the tailgate handle. He pulled inward on the cables on each side until he felt the tailgate release. He carefully tilted it outward and reached one hand to hold the top barely open. Then he removed his night vision goggles with the other hand and pulled out his silenced Sig.
He lowered the tailgate swiftly, using his hand to stop it just before the support cables pulled tight to prevent any noise. The bright sunlight that streamed through the opening momentarily assaulted his senses and left spots dancing in front of his eyes. He rolled swiftly off the tailgate and landed on his feet in the dusty dirt. His mind recorded the scuffing sound as his boots hit the ground and inventoried it with the rest of the information streaming into his acutely alert senses. Operating mostly by feel, he quickly replaced the interior body plate and screwed it onto the tailgate and then softly closed the gate and ducked behind the truck. By the time he’d finished that task, his eyes had cleared.
He was in the desert. A moment of relief washed over him. He was grateful to leave the stinking jungle behind him. The desert was his special place, his sanctuary. From the high deserts of Afghanistan to the dunes of northern Africa, he had operated in arid landscapes for most of his adult life. The dry air and heat of his new location enfolded him in the feeling that he belonged. Despite his injuries, he knew without question that he was the master predator here. He was king of the sandbox, finally returned to his element.
From his cover behind the Chevy truck he could see a large, barn-like metal building about fifty feet away. Behind the building he could hear the clanking and rumbling of a tractor with a front-end loader moving dirt. There was lots of motion inside, and he knew that he needed to get as far away from the barn as possible. He darted away from the truck as fast as he could manage with his injured leg and took cover behind a low, scrubby bush.
Once he was sure that he was sufficiently hidden so as not to be seen by anyone in the building, Harris began working his way slowly into the desert using every subtle rise of ground or small patch of growth for cover. He worm crawled through the dust, ignoring the pain of his injuries and invigorated by the feeling that maybe things had finally taken a turn in his favor. When he was sure that he was far enough away and well enough concealed, he settled in to wait and watch.
Héctor bounced down the remote desert road in his Avalanche. His mind was filled with a stream of calculations focused around the larger plan, the bigger picture. The death of his boss was an entirely unexpected boon. If Héctor played his cards right over the next week, it would mean very big things for him. The first step had been eliminating any competition from within the organization. There was no way he could assume control of the cartel if he had to squabble with his peers, and he’d seized his opportunity to eliminate them while he still had the element of surprise.
The next step was to secure his pipeline. He had to keep drugs flowing out so that money would keep flowing in. Although he had access to a few of Cardenas’ offshore accounts, his boss had prudently kept most of his funds hidden from Héctor. It was upsetting that there were hundreds of millions of dollars sitting somewhere that he couldn’t access, but the long process of locating those funds was a job for a later time. Héctor needed more money right now to complete his plan and get the new shipment method up and running. Without the girl, money was the only leverage he could use to force the American senator’s hand. Hopefully the man would not find out that his daughter was gone until after the vote. Once the vote was placed, Chucho would take care of any potential future leaks. However, Héctor needed additional insurance which neither his cousin nor Chucho could provide, and he needed a backup plan in case anything related to the vote went wrong. That meant that he needed cash, and lots of it.
As much as he had grown to hate this disgusting operation with the buses, he would have to briefly increase it instead of tapering it off. He parked his truck in the baking sun outside the large metal building and then walked gratefully from the scorching heat into the shade inside. Thankfully there was little smell this time, and the place was relatively clean and neat. The last bus had arrived two days ago and the mess had already been cleaned up. Most of the men were out back with shovels assisting the tractor as it dug a fresh pit.
“Buenas tardes, Señor,” called a man in a Mexican Federal Police uniform as he hurried over to greet Héctor.
“Hola, Manuel. How are things going here?”
“We will be ready for the next bus tomorrow, but we don’t have anything to send with the new couriers.”
Héctor had suspected that would be a problem. Most of the drugs had been re-routed to the other building in anticipation of the start of the new shipping method. The two facilities were completely separate and had no knowledge of each other for obvious reasons of security. Héctor hated traveling even a short distance with drugs on him, but there was little choice. He would have to fix this problem himself if he wanted to hurry things along.
“I will make sure you have what you need when the time comes,” Héctor answered.
“Gracias, Señor.”
“What time will you be ready?”
“Around one o’clock.”
“Bueno. Gracias, Manuel,” Héctor said to dismiss the man. Then he turned and strode back into the sunlight to his truck. He would stay at a nearby hotel tonight and then stop off at the other building in the morning to pick up the drugs. He could deliver them here and hopefully be on his way back to Monterrey before this building began to stink.
*
When the bus reached Ciudad Victoria, Chip and Sam hopped off outside a giant Bodega Aurrera supermarket. It seemed that in Mexico you could get off a bus any place that it slowed down enough to jump rather than waiting until it reached a station. The store was a green-painted Mexican version of Super Walmart—actually owned by the same U.S. Company—except that the much narrower aisles were piled haphazardly with junky products with little organization at all. It took Chip and Sam half an hour to find some affordable, better-fitting clothes in the confused and crowded store. The time spent was well worth it—they would blend in far better wearing their new urban outfits than they could
in the peasants’ clothes that they had swiped from the clothesline. It was also nice to have some clothes that actually fit. They finally got Sam some shoes, which made a big difference while walking on the city streets. They also picked up some other basic supplies like toothbrushes, soap, a small backpack, and some snacks and drinks.
They left the supermarket and made their way deeper into the busy downtown. The narrow sidewalks were thick with pedestrians, and the streets were crammed with honking cars. It all seemed startling to Chip after three nights of camping in a remote jungle. He was always a little bit overwhelmed when reentering busy urban settings after spending time in the backcountry, and diving into a crowded Mexican city only made the feeling more intense.
They found an internet café and ducked inside. The facility was low on style and class, just a simple room with rows of ancient computers. It actually felt more like a college computer lab than an internet café. They indicated with gestures to the bored attendant that they wanted to use a computer and were waved to an empty terminal. The room was filled with young people, mostly kids in their early teens with headphones on watching American pop music videos. Chip could see Lady Gaga dancing on at least three different screens, and he wondered what their fascination was with the freaky looking long-legged blonde. Maybe that was just it, he thought; blonde was exotic down here, and the realization made him even more self-conscious about their own appearance. Despite their new local garb, he and Sam definitely stood out.
They pulled up a pair of cheap plastic chairs and took their seats, then leaned in to see the screen, almost bumping heads in the process. There was a weird moment as their eyes met from inches away, then Chip grinned and tapped the space bar to awaken the computer. He racked his memory for how to navigate around in Windows XP. He finally found the Internet Explorer icon and double clicked it, then he navigated to Google. He was grateful to see a link to the English language version and clicked on that as well. He searched for US Consulates in Mexico and then followed the link to the website for the US Department of State. Annoyingly, he had to sift through a list of every US consulate in the world to find the ones he was looking for. Then he opened another browser window and called up Google maps to search for the city names so they could find out where the consulates listed for Mexico were located.
They had two reasonable options—heading for the consulates in either Monterrey or Matamoros would carry them back toward the States. They tried to search for bus routes and destinations, but the language barrier was too extreme to figure out what they needed to know. They decided to call Sam’s dad and see which consulate he recommended. Maybe he could pull some strings and get them out of here.
They logged off from the computer and handed a few pesos to the attendant, then they walked back out into the street to find a pay phone. This time Sam handled the dialing and navigation of the confusing Spanish menus.
“Hello?” Sheldon’s voice was guarded when he answered. From the new number that had appeared on his caller ID he couldn’t tell whether this would be his daughter calling or one of the men who had stolen her from him.
“Hi Daddy, it’s me.”
“Thank God! Are you ok, Darlin’?”
“I’m fine. We got away.”
There was that ‘we’ again, Sheldon thought. It didn’t matter, though. He was just so grateful that she was alive.
“Where are you? Let me know what we’ve gotta do to get you back home.”
“We’re in Ciudad Victoria. It’s a pretty big city. I think it’s about four hours from the border, but the bus will take longer. But we both need passports to get into the U.S.”
“We? Who are you with?” Moore finally asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“His name is Chip. Chip Wilson. He rescued me. He saved my life, Daddy.”
Moore was relieved to know that his little girl wasn’t navigating a foreign country by herself. He figured this guy must be one of the SEALs that had been sent to kill Cardenas. The idea of one of his country’s super-warriors taking care of his daughter went a long way toward putting the senator’s mind at ease. He had received a video on his phone of several dead soldiers, so he’d held out little hope that any of the team had survived. Although part of him was disappointed that they hadn’t solved his problem by killing the drug lord, he was consoled that at least one of them had lived and managed to save his daughter.
“OK. Well, can y’all get to a US Consulate? I can call and make sure they help you get back into the States.”
“We can take a bus to the consulate in Matamoros tomorrow. Then once we have passports, the border’s right there. We can be in Brownsville, Texas by tomorrow night.”
“OK. I’ll call the consulate in Matamoros and let ‘em know you’re coming. I’ll make sure they don’t give you any problems getting back over into the States. Are you OK right now? Do you need anything?”
“We’re fine. Chip has some money, and we’re going to stay in a hotel tonight. Then we’ll be on the first bus toward the border in the morning.”
“That sounds good. Y’all be safe now. I’ll find you a flight home from Brownsville, too. I can’t wait to see you, Darlin’. I’m so sorry about all of this.”
“I’m sorry too, Daddy. I love you. See you in a couple of days.”
“I love you too, sweetheart. Be careful. I’ll see you soon.”
As she hung up the phone, Sam’s eyes were a little bit misty. Chip gave her a moment to compose herself before he got them moving again.
It was getting on toward evening, and Chip was starved. They wandered the streets for a few more minutes looking for a place to eat and were surprised and delighted when they found a pizza joint. Any taste of home was welcome right now, so they walked inside and found a table.
They ordered a large pizza—‘vegetariano’ for Sam—and washed it down with a couple of cold Coronas. There weren’t many other people in the restaurant, only a few guys drinking beer and watching a soccer game on the TV over the bar. It was shortly after 5, which was far too early for most Mexicans to eat their evening meal. The quiet atmosphere had an intimate feel, and as they talked and laughed over more beers, Chip and Sam finally relaxed and let the madness of the last few days fade away. By the time they stood up to leave at 8 o’clock, they were both warmed by the tranquilizing feeling that everything was definitely going to be OK.
They found a hotel three blocks down the street and checked in. It was a nice enough place, although it wasn’t one of the newer American-style hotels. The small lobby opened onto a narrow open-air courtyard bordered on both sides by balcony walkways leading to rooms in the multi-story wings of the hotel. The courtyard below was used as off-street parking for hotel guests and was tightly packed with cars. As Chip and Sam climbed the stairs to their fourth-floor room a car alarm wailed below, echoing between the hotel walls to create a horrible racket. People sat outside on the narrow walkways in front of their rooms. Some were talking, some smoking cigarettes, and others were sipping on beers.
It was with great relief that they stepped from the crowded balcony into the peace and seclusion of their tiny hotel room. There was one small double bed with a tiny table crammed in next to it. The walls were garishly colored and decorated with low quality artistic paintings of Mexican landscapes. An oil painting of Jesus hung on the wall over the bed. Chip turned on the bulky picture tube TV and cruised the channels while Sam headed straight for the shower. The only show he could find in English was an old episode of Happy Days, so he propped a bed pillow against the headboard for cushion and leaned back to watch the Fonz while he waited for his turn to clean up.
Sam emerged about twenty minutes later. She had switched back into the light blue peasant dress and was drying her hair with one of the scratchy hotel towels. Now that she was clean, Chip thought she looked amazing. She stood and brushed out her long blonde hair, straightening it over her shoulders and down the back of the simple dress. She was smiling contentedly as she worked out the tang
les. Aside from the slight yellowing of the fading shiner beneath one of her eyes, it was hard to believe all that she had been through over the last few days. Chip stole another furtive glance at her as he made his way into the bathroom for his turn in the shower.
When he stepped into the streaming water it was icy cold. The shock of the chilly shower took his breath away even as it took him two weeks back in time. As he scrubbed off the dirt and sweat of the last few days, his mind was filled with memories from The Woods. His training and the weeks of travel with the team came flooding back to him in a welter of images of the faces of his friends. They were all gone. He shivered as he scrubbed, wishing that the bracing water could wash away his sadness and his guilt. How had he survived when they had not? Why did they have to die? Should he have gone back and looked for Harris? He knew in the back of his mind that Harris would have come back to look for him, and that knowledge made him feel small. Was there more he could have done to save his friend? It was the very same question he had been asking himself every day since Daniel’s death back in the spring, only this time amplified because unlike with an accident in his familiar whitewater environment, the answers were much harder for him to ascertain.
Chip had lost several friends to whitewater rivers over the sixteen years that he’d been paddling. Most, like Daniel, had taken calculated risks and come up on the wrong side of the invisible line that separated adventure from calamity, skill from luck, and life from death. That was the nature of the beast; there was no use being angry, and nobody to be angry with. In time he was slowly coming to terms with that kind of loss, but this was something else. These men had been betrayed. Their deaths weren’t due to their own misjudgments or lack of skills. Someone, somewhere had held power over them the through knowledge of the mission’s very existence, and that person had exercised the power with devastating results. This time there was plenty for Chip to hate. The death of his teammates was not the consequence of missteps in the delicate dance with a force of nature greater than themselves. Men had done this, and the feeling that he must find those men and make them pay twisted in his gut and lit a fire deep inside him. It warmed him until all of his muscles clenched into tight balls of rage, and the cold drops of shower water bounced off of him before cycling down the drain.