After a while the man lying on the ground stopped moving. His breathing became slow and shallow. Several of his leg muscles began to twitch and spasm. His eyes began to lose focus, and they were slowly closing. The man who had handled the snake moved towards the inert body. He kicked hard, landing his boot low down on the side of the body, right on the kidney. The body remained still. There was no reaction.
Pancho turned away. He took hold of the Mexican’s arm once more, and started to walk back to his car.
‘Perhaps you would like to reconsider my offer of employment?’ Pancho smiled softly at the Mexican.
The Mexican looked back at Pancho. His face had been drained of colour, and he was still shaking with fear.
He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.
He just nodded.
Chapter Ten
The Mexican had almost finished cleaning his fourth car of the day.
It was only ten in the morning, but he always started work at eight o’clock. It had been calculated that he could wash and valet a vehicle, inside and out, in thirty minutes. He could just about achieve that, but it wasn’t easy. You had to work fast to hit that particular target. He would like to see the person who worked out those timings actually achieve them personally. Bloody accountants, he muttered to himself.
He had started his employment with the car rental company just two weeks ago. All arranged by Pancho, of course. He simply had to do the job, until he was instructed otherwise. He could keep all the wages and tips that he earned, which he had to admit were very good by Mexican standards. In addition, he would receive a bonus when he returned to Tijuana.
Pancho had promised to look after his family while he was away. ‘Financially and otherwise,’ he had been told. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant. Was there a veiled threat in there somewhere? He had seen what these people were capable of if you didn’t do as they said. So he had no choice, he would do as they asked.
He recalled a brief visit that Pancho had made to his house just before he had left his home city. Asking if he was ready for the journey, the man had invited himself in. The Mexican’s wife and son were at home. Pancho picked the young boy up at one point, and stroked his hair playfully. He had praised him on having such a fine looking boy. Then when his wife was serving glasses of cold beer to them, the man had put his arm around her, pushed his hand under her thin cotton blouse, and cupped her breast with his hand. She hadn’t reacted, but the Mexican was furious. He moved forward, but then stopped when he saw the cold, black stare from Pancho’s eyes.
‘I am always looking for young, attractive women to come and work for me,’ he had said with a wide grin.
The Mexican knew that this powerful man controlled most of the whore houses in the northern territory of Mexico. The thought of his young wife being forced to work in one of those places made him feel suddenly quite sick. He knew that Pancho had taken many of his enemy’s wives, sisters and daughters and forced them into his sex industry. Yes, he decided, he would try and do as he was told.
He forced the memory from his mind, and came back to the present time. Staying in the city of San Diego was no real hardship for him, and he had been provided with a very good room in a house near where he worked. Apparently, the owner of the property was a good friend of Pancho’s.
The Mexican had enjoyed the journey across the border to the United States. He was told that the car he was driving was to be returned to the car rental company in San Diego. It had previously been rented out from there. He had commented that it must be difficult to get authority from the rental company to drive the car into Mexico. But apparently it wasn’t. As long as you paid for the extra insurance, it was no problem.
The Mexican had openly smiled when he had first seen the car he had to drive. It was an almost brand new Ford Mustang with a V8 engine. He knew quite a bit about cars, although he could never afford to own a good one himself. He was now being asked to drive a Mustang GT Fastback. He couldn’t believe his luck. The car was a dark grey colour, with black, machined aluminium wheels. It had a five litre engine, which he knew from reading about it, was capable of delivering four hundred and thirty five horsepower. That was a very powerful car, and fast.
He had collected the car from an address just outside the city limits of Tijuana. After being provided with all the necessary paperwork, he was told to drive to the rental garage in San Diego. It was near the international airport. The exact address had been fed into the SatNav in the car. He just had to follow that.
He was to cross the border at the busy San Ysidro crossing. Expect a delay, he was advised. He was also told that he must use car crossing lane number fourteen at the border.
‘Do not use any other lane than that one.’ He had been ordered. ‘We have a friend on that gate. He will allow you to pass without too much fuss.’
The journey had been uneventful. He was still nervous about leaving his family, but he had told them he wouldn’t be away for too long, and that he would call them every day. The border crossing was busy, as expected. He panicked briefly when he was waved into lane number twelve by an armed border guard, but he had managed to move across to fourteen when the man wasn’t looking.
At the crossing point, his papers were carefully inspected by both the Mexican border police and the US border guards, but neither of them asked him any questions, and he was waved through. Just as he was about to pull away from the checkpoint though, a loud alarm started to sound. His pulse suddenly began to rise, and his hands began shaking. What could have happened? Was he about to be stopped and searched? Was the car stolen? He thought that was the most likely explanation for his journey.
He slowed the car down, and then stopped. As he peered to his right, he could see the crossing lane next to him was a hive of activity. Armed US border guards were dragging a man from his car. A dog was barking furiously. Two uniformed officers were hauling out small brown packages from under the back of the vehicle. One of the packages was ripped open, and a cloud of white powder was blown up by the gentle wind.
The Mexican tried to relax. The alarm wasn’t for him.
‘Keep moving along please.’
A border guard had approached and was banging on the car roof. The Mexican took his foot off the brake, and drove off. He was soon on the San Diego freeway heading north-west, carefully following the instructions on the SatNav.
The car was a dream to drive, and he adored it. He wound down the driver’s side window and rested his arm on the top of the door. The engine seemed to roar like a lion as he accelerated along the road. All his worries about what he had been asked to do by Pancho were momentarily forgotten.
He had eventually dropped the car off at the rental office as requested, and been told to report for work the following morning.
That had been two weeks ago. Back in the present, he was now looking around the garage for his next car to clean. He started walking towards a red, Chevrolet Silverado. It was a large vehicle, a pick-up, and it would take longer than the allocated thirty minutes to clean it properly. He cursed.
Apart from washing the cars though, he had another job to do.
The car rental process had been explained to him before he had left Mexico. Customers would arrive, mainly from the nearby San Diego International Airport, and check in at the rental car reception. After completing their paperwork, they then had free access to select their car. It didn’t matter which one. As long as you drove out of the rental garage with a car in the category that you booked for, you could take any car. Theoretically, all the rental company knew was who had taken cars out. They couldn’t actually say which customer had which particular car.
The Mexican had been told by Pancho that he mustn’t let the dark grey Mustang that he had delivered, go out with just any customer. It was only to be taken by someone who was driving to the New York area.
That was a journey of around three thousand miles, depending on which way you went. There weren’t many renters who drove cars across the whol
e American continent. There were some, but not many.
In the last fourteen days, eight people had approached the dark grey Mustang, and had been about to climb in and drive off. In each case the Mexican had rushed over to them, advising them that that particular car was not ready to be driven out yet. Would they like to select another vehicle? The customers hadn’t minded, as there were over twenty similar Mustangs in the rental garage.
He was about to start work on the Silverado, when he noticed two men and a woman walking towards the line of Mustangs. They each had one item of luggage. The two men looked like they were both carrying their rental paperwork. The young woman was holding her luggage in her right hand, which allowed her to use her left to sweep back her long blonde hair as she walked.
The younger man and the girl stopped next to a bright orange V8 Mustang Fastback. They loaded their small cases into the back of the car, and then got into the vehicle. The other man stopped next to the dark grey Mustang.
The Mexican halted what he was doing and rushed over.
‘Excuse me sir, please can I see your rental paperwork.’
‘Here you go. Is everything okay?’
The Mexican looked at him. His English accent was immediately noticeable. There was something else though. He seemed confident. Also, although not a young man, he appeared fit, and strong.
‘Can I just check something please?’ The Mexican’s voice had a nervous edge to it. He was panicking a little. How was he going to tell this man that he couldn’t have this car?
He looked down at the paperwork. He face relaxed as he read the details on the contract.
‘I see you have the car rented for twelve days, and you are dropping it in New York.’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’ He nodded over towards the orange Mustang. ‘My friends and I are on a road trip. We have a long way to go, so can we get going now please.’
The Mexican handed back the paperwork. ‘Yes, all is fine. Enjoy your trip.’
‘Thank you,’ said Cole. He opened the door and sat down in the driver seat of the car. He studied the control panel in front of him, it was impressive. The touch and feel of the car was nice. It had been a boyhood dream of his to drive a genuine American Ford Mustang. He made himself comfortable in the seat, and then he pressed the ignition button. The V8 engine immediately fired into life.
The Mexican watched the two cars pull out of the garage.
His instructions were to call Pancho as soon as the dark grey Mustang left San Diego. He thought about simply ignoring that request. He could leave the United States and return to Tijuana, and be reunited with his wife and son. Maybe Pancho wouldn’t mind too much. After all, he had delivered the car as requested.
He thought about it for a moment longer.
His backside suddenly began to itch. He scratched it. Then he shuddered.
He walked off to call Pancho.
Chapter Eleven
A large, black car pulled up outside the house. The Mexican looked out of his room window. He was becoming familiar with American cars by now, and he recognised this one as a Buick LaCrosse. He couldn’t see anyone inside it as the windows were heavily tinted.
‘That must be him,’ he said to himself.
He was nervous as he approached the car. During the phone call with Pancho, he had been told that he would be issued with further instructions later that evening.
The conversation on the phone had been difficult. He had asked, in fact begged, if he could now be allowed to return to his family in Mexico. He told Pancho that he had done everything that he had been asked to do. Being away from home for so long was not enjoyable.
Pancho had ignored his request. There were important things still to be done. The Mexican had been told that he must stay and continue his good work. Look out for a visitor who would be calling on him that evening.
The back door of the vehicle opened as he approached.
‘Get in,’ said a deep sounding voice.
They drove in silence for several miles until they came to a small warehouse. It was in a run-down, deserted area of the city. There were no other vehicles around at this time of night. They parked next to a large, wooden door.
‘Get out,’ said the voice.
The man who sat next to the Mexican had said nothing during the entire journey. He was a big man, with a shaven head and a fat stomach. He smelt badly of body odour. The Mexican had never seen him before. He didn’t know that the man was originally from Cuba. In his youth, he had been a good amateur boxer. Since then, a lot of his muscle had turned to flab, but he was still strong. And he was mean.
The fat Cuban opened the wooden door of the warehouse. He beckoned for the Mexican to follow him. The driver of the car remained with the vehicle. The warehouse was completely empty, except for a large, metal tank in the middle of the concrete floor. The tank was about the size of a domestic skip. The sort you might hire to take away rubbish if you were cleaning out your garage. It was covered by a large tarpaulin sheet.
The two of them walked up close to the tank.
The fat Cuban took out a handkerchief and wrapped it tightly around his face. Then he grabbed the sheet covering the tank, and pulled it off with one swift movement.
The Mexican instinctively screwed up his face, and took a step back. He put his hands over his nose and mouth, trying to completely cover them. The smell was unbelievable. His turned his head away, and leaned forward. Such was the intolerable smell that he threw up over the concrete floor.
The fat Cuban grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back towards the tank. The Mexican could see that it was about half full, maybe one and a half yards deep. It contained a dark brown, slimy liquid. It stank horrendous. It must surely have been human excrement, he thought.
‘Get in,’ the fat Cuban said.
The Mexican looked horrified and tried to pull away, but he was being held by his hair still. Before he could prevent it, he was being picked up like a child by the fat Cuban. He tried to kick out with his legs, but it was no good. His attacker simply held him tighter. With one swift action, he was turned and thrown over the edge of the tank. He landed right in the middle of the thick slime.
He was immediately engulfed in the brown, pungent liquid. It was definitely a tank of human shit, he quickly realised. The smell was unbearable. Some of it had entered his mouth, and he instantly coughed and retched. He couldn’t open his eyes, if he did so they stung badly. He tried to cover his nose, but his hands were covered with excrement, so all he achieved was covering his face with more shit.
He couldn’t cope with the smell any longer. He felt like he was about to pass out. He managed to stay conscious, and tried to walk slowly towards the edge of the tank. Just as he thought he had almost reached the side, the fat Cuban was waiting for him. He was holding a metal pitch fork. It had two prongs on it. The big man placed the fork on the Mexican’s shoulders, and with one quick movement, he pushed his head under the surface of the liquid.
The Mexican tried to hold his breath, but he was so tense and frightened that he very quickly ran out of air. The metal fork was holding him under the surface, and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t push himself up.
He needed air. He couldn’t hold on any longer. He took a deep breath, hoping to suck in oxygen, but all he breathed in was liquid human waste.
The taste was revolting, and he gagged and choked. He tried to force the vile stuff from his mouth, but he had no air to do so. He sucked in again, and more of the slime entered his mouth and throat. He started to swallow. The taste in his mouth and throat was disgusting, and again made him retch.
He was getting light headed, and was on the brink of blacking out. He felt ill, and was desperately fighting against the metal fork holding him down. But it was hopeless.
Then, suddenly, he was being pulled back up to the surface. He turned his head up towards the roof of the building and took in several large gulps of air. He stood motionless for a while, trying to breathe. He was covered in shit
, and had swallowed several mouthfuls of the liquid. His stomach ached terribly.
His eyes were stinging badly, and he couldn’t open them. Carefully, he walked to the edge of the tank with his hands stretched out in front of him. When he reached the side he felt the cold metal of the tank.
‘Get out,’ said the fat Cuban.
The Mexican slowly hauled himself out of the tank. As he tried to place his feet on the concrete floor, he slipped and fell down.
Nearby, he heard a grating noise, like a metal tap being turned on. Without warning, he was hit with a solid blast of ice cold water. Clearly the fat Cuban was hosing him down, attempting to clean off the human excrement. He turned his body slowly, in the hope that the water would clean his back and legs. Then he moved his face directly into the path of the jet of water, and took some gulps of the cold water. He swallowed hard, trying to wash the foul tasting excrement from his throat.
The hose was turned off, and the fat Cuban dragged the Mexican to his feet. He pushed him back towards the car waiting outside. The back door was opened.
‘Get in.’
He sat down on the back seat, noticing that it had now been covered with a thick, plastic sheet. Presumably that was to prevent the interior of the car becoming badly soiled. The car door was then shut and locked. The fat Cuban went around to the other side and got in next to him.
They headed back to the house where the Mexican was staying. Once again they drove in silence. When they arrived, the back door of the car was opened, and the fat Cuban gave him a hard shove.
‘Get out.’
He climbed out of the car. He still felt terrible. His throat was burning, and his eyes were stinging. Even after being hosed down, his clothes reeked of shit. The back door of the car banged shut, and the vehicle sped off.
Back in his room, he peeled off all his clothes and headed for the bathroom. Just as he was about to turn on the shower, he heard a gentle ping noise. It was his cell phone. He went back to have a look at it. Someone had sent him a text message.
The Transamerica Cell: A fast paced, gripping, action adventure, conspiracy thriller, with a superb, breath-taking ending (Hedge & Cole Book 3) Page 4