Silver Lead and Dead (Evan Hernandez series Book 1)

by James Garmisch

  She shrugged and tried to cover up her comment. “Hope you feel better,” she said.

  Tanya walked past the two men with her backpack. She knew playing scared would cause these men to prey on her. She preferred to be hated; they stayed away.

  “Mario is that way!” Jorge pointed up a flight of steps, and she went up two at a time.

  Tanya made it to the top deck and steadied herself as the yacht pitched and moved. She watched Jorge the Shark and the tall, thin, broken man with prison tattoos climb the stairs behind her.

  Frenchman, huh? Tanya thought. You look like a tattooed rat or a buzzard, tall and lanky. No, you are dubbed the Flying Rat.

  Tanya watched Mario approach. He seemed to be in a great mood this morning. Tanya hated mornings.

  “Still a little seasick, my dear?” asked Mario.

  Tanya nodded and backed away from the railing. The salt spray stung her eyes, and the rising sun made her squint. She could not stand sun in her eyes. “Don’t like boats or water.”

  Mario walked onto the deck and greeted Tanya with a hug.

  “How long to fix the computers?” Mario asked with a kind smile.

  “Once the satellite is here, no time. My team, I need my team to work for a day or so, and then we need to work at your headquarters.”

  Mario laughed. “This is my new headquarters. I want a mobile business, and I want to run it anywhere.”

  Mario held up his hands. “Not a computer person—just make my business run. In six weeks I am having a birthday party. I am buying a new and very big toy! My sons will be there. I want you around for my birthday party.”

  “Happy birthday, sir. You know I don’t do parties.” Tanya stared at the deck of the yacht.

  Mario ignored her. “My sons, they handle the books, the logistics. You must speak with them and their tech staff.”

  “Be glad too, sir,” she lied.

  “Will you be back by then?” Mario looked concerned.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The police, the government, they have been cracking our systems. We are too old fashioned. My payoffs to the governments on both sides of the border are eating into my profits, gas prices, planes, ships, unions. And with the economic uncertainty with that socialist up north, people aren’t buying as much.”

  “Efficiency can save money, sir. Your business is like a bucket with so many holes.”

  “Smart girl. All of Mexico wants a piece of my pie! My sons, they say, ‘Father, you must catch up with the times.’ Ha! Back in my day, all you needed was this!”

  Mario pulled a gold-plated Desert Eagle .44 out of a custom-leather holster on his hip. The grip was a beautiful blue polymer of some kind with a picture of a nude Mexican girl. She admired the holster too, which Mario had made with his own hands. He was obsessed with the old macho days of the cowboy and the age of the classic smuggler—he thought he was the reincarnation of Jesús Malverde.

  Tanya hated guns but was always intrigued by the artwork and design of Mario’s latest toys. He seemed to have an endless supply of such custom weapons.

  “Both of my sons have their MBAs. They have men working for them with PhDs in economics, science, engineering, blah, blah. Me, my dear? A sixth-grade education.”

  “And you’re the boss, sir. Education ruins a good mind.”

  Mario smiled and winked. “I like you, computer girl. You are bold—odd but bold.”

  “Say what I see, sir.”

  “Help them make my empire secure so I have something to leave for my family. These idiots are robbing me blind!” Mario put his hand on the railing and stared out at the ocean.

  “No problem.”

  “I am buying a submarine.” Mario smiled. He gripped the rail with both hands. He had tossed the empty glass overboard like he did every morning.

  “Sub?”

  “You will be here for the party. I want you to install computer-tracking systems on it.”

  “Yes, sir, but you know I hate—”

  Mario raised his hand and waved it in the air, “Yes, yes, computer chica, you hate people, waves, boats, helicopters, the sun, and I am not surprised to hear that you hate subs.”

  Mario seemed charming for a second and smiled at her, like an old uncle who knew much more than he let on.

  Tanya allowed herself a shy smile and brushed a wild hair away from her face. She looked at the sky and then looked away, embarrassed.

  “Ah, there is someone in there! You are a pretty girl, computer girl. A smile like that, and you hide it! Rough, but there is a beautiful girl in there. You come to the party. I want people to see the smile. I want to see you happy, even if it’s for a second and no one is looking, ha!”

  “I will be there and will only step on that floating deathtrap if you go first!”

  “Deal!”

  “I must go, sir.”

  “Yes! Yes! I have a meeting in the mountains today with some government official, some mayor—more handouts, more payoffs! If only I could deport all these deadbeats to North America!”

  Mario clapped his hands and raised his voice. “Jorge! Get my computer girl to shore. Anything happens to her, I will see bodies blowtorched!”

  “Yes, boss!”

  Tanya let Mario see a smile again, quite by accident, but this time she felt no guilt. Even if it was a killer sticking up for her, it did feel nice to be treated special.

  CHAPTER 14

  Dope and Change

  Veracruz, Mexico, Two Days Later

  Jorge Valdez loved the morning. He leaned on the railing of his balcony and gazed out at the Gulf of Mexico. A slight breeze was stirring as the first traces of color and light began to illuminate the horizon. He closed his eyes and took in the faint salt and oil smells of the gulf.

  “How many fisherman and smugglers are out there right now?”

  He heard the annoying laughter of sea gulls. The city was still asleep, and for an instant, Jorge felt almost peaceful. As soon as he realized he was calm, the acidic tension returned to his jaw and shoulders.

  “Why do I feel guilty? Certainly all great leaders have felt uncertain. But betrayal is yet another thing.”

  From his penthouse in Veracruz, he had a great view of the seawall and port. Comacho Avenue snaked for miles along the crowded beachfront.

  Jorge knew change was inevitable, just like hotels, strip clubs, and North American chain stores. He had seen the improvement from millions of invested dollars into the surrounding communities.

  “Veracruz has grown up, changed, and so have I!” He spoke to himself and spat over his balcony. Jorge decided to say what was on his mind out loud. He had to hear the words. He had to believe them in order to make it real. He massaged his face with both hands and inhaled deeply for a moment. “Mario must die.”

  He looked out at the ocean and knew that on an emotional level he felt guilt. He owed everything to Mario, but on an intellectual level, a survival level, Mario was a relic. In Mario’s day you did not ship one hundred tons of mota in a shipment, and you did not own cargo ships, planes, front companies, lobbyists, or fake organizations that preached open borders for the people so you could move your product. Mario did not understand the big picture of an increasingly global world of geopolitics and economics. No, Mario still thought it was the old days of killing and making payoffs to ship products. Turf wars, technology, media, marketing—it had all changed, and Mario had not. Jorge set his jaw and said it again: “Mario must die!”

  He saw himself as a visionary, a revolutionary, and not unlike great men who had come before him in history. Men who had changed everything. Jorge was about to change everything, but not out of some lofty ideology, politics, or self-anointed greatness. No, he was a realist. Jorge would let his followers be the ideologists, the believers, the dumb wind-up toys that would do his bidding.

  No, Jorge was far more practical. “I want to be Caesar!”

  Jorge’s vision was to develop a union of cartels. This union would share profits, combine reco
urses, capitalize on regional assets, and divide the country up into boundaries. The turf wars were ultimately bad for business and had claimed far too many lives, lives that could be spending money.

  The “United Cartels” would exercise tremendous political and financial power to accomplish three things. First, they would back politicians who would bring their business out of the shadows to legitimize the selling, manufacture, and distribution of their product.

  Emotional media campaigns had been running in the smaller outlying radio markets and newspapers, showing how drug violence was caused by its illegal status. False stories aired of mothers turning to the cartels to avenge the deaths of their sons, who had been wrongfully killed by military or counternarcotics police.

  “If corn were illegal, people would kill to buy or sell that too!”

  Jorge, of course, had no connections on paper to any of these groups. If Mario found out, his head would be on a stick. Outside the borders, Jorge had already secretly funneled millions into front groups in the States that advocated for legalization and open borders; this would pave the way for the legal shipments of his product. It may take years to break through with mota, but eventually it would pave the way for bigger cash crops, like cocaine and designer drugs. Locally, Jorge had spent millions giving clothes, books, and computers to school children. He had even followed the example of Pablo Escobar by building apartment buildings and a soccer stadium. Some cartels offered dental plans to workers and free housing for families. Jorge knew the details would take years to iron out, and like all revolutions, there would be blood and pain.

  The dumb masses were always the easiest to persuade. The bread-and-circus concept had worked in ancient Rome, and it still worked today.

  Second was the most difficult: Jorge had to persuade the other cartels to stop the turf wars, the killing, and begin protecting the people, even if it was a facade. He called this the Robin Hood phase. The cartels would appear to be the protectors of the people and portray the police as incompetent. Jorge had already seen this happen in several regions where kidnappers or rapists were released from the police and then snatched by gang members, publicly tried, and executed.

  Jorge felt the stab again. Five of the eight cartels had agreed to his plan, and they all had the same demand: “Mario must die, and then we are in.”

  The third phase would be to isolate and destroy all opposing politicians and critics and to silence the media. He was not interested in ruling the government or making laws. He just figured an impotent puppet who refused to harass his business partners would create a more peaceful society and ultimately lower costs.

  Jorge’s plans may take years to cultivate, and he may not even live to see the final product, but his legacy as a good farmer would bear fruit.

  First, he would honor his cartel relationships by killing Mario. The next round of assassinations would be much more grand and could possibly start a war if not handled properly.

  Jorge had hired Andre Pena, a Colombian explosives expert, for this purpose. When the bombs had done their work, Jorge would announce that they were the work of Mario and that he, Jorge Valdez, would put an end to the violence once and for all.

  “Mexico needs to be fundamentally changed, our children need to be safe and free to pursue their passions, enjoy their rights, blah, blah…”

  Jorge smiled at the bullshit that could be shoveled down the dumb masses’ throats. “Power to the people,” and all that garbage.

  The media would report it, or else.

  The politicians and generals would agree, or else.

  “Caesar.” Jorge laughed.

  The Mind of Jorge Valdez

  Oaxaca one of the most biologically diverse states in Mexico. Four million people spread out over 36,214 square miles. Oaxaca is located on the Pacific and southwest side of the country—warm and tropical along the majestic coast where cliffs drop off suddenly into the sea. The interior of the state rises up with green and rocky cliffs with steep valleys. Agave for mescal, mangoes, coffee, and bananas are the main agricultural crops. The Zapotecs are the most numerous of the indigenous Indian tribes.

  Jorge was half Zapotec. He grew up surrounded by a strong, closely knit family on one of the larger estates in the countryside. His grandfather, father, and all six of his brothers and two sisters were fiercely loyal to the family business. In the 1940s, his grandfather started growing and harvesting agave, which he used to produce several different types of mescal. Over the decades, the small operation turned into a lucrative estate with its own internationally distributed label. The distillery, shipping, and distribution had been a family affair, and all hands were involved. The company had modernized with the times. He had cousins and sisters who did the marketing, website design, advertising, and sales. His brothers and he managed the fields and day-to-day operations. Jorge had a head for numbers. He could motivate workers, settle disputes, and get things done when others were ready to throw in the towel. Jorge’s early life as a member of a family-run business would later come in very handy when he met another man whose father had a much more lucrative family-run business.

  When Jorge met Mario, everything changed.

  Jorge left home for Mexico City at age twenty-one to enroll in college as a political science and history major. His parents figured he would get this need to be educated out of his system and then come back to the estate. No one could imagine the cascade of events that was to happen and the bizarre 360 that Jorge would take in his life.

  After college, Jorge became an officer in the Mexican army. After a few years, he tried out for the elite Air Mobility Command, where once again his natural leadership style and no-nonsense way of getting people to comply accelerated his career. He was not obsessed with status or rank, just leading and being the best. He chased left-wing guerillas through the jungle and did battle with the narcos who were splitting Mexico apart. He did not consider himself a crusader but a staunch Mexican Nationalist. He loathed politicians and had some sympathy for dissidents and the underdog. He hated Marxists. Jorge cross-trained with US Special Forces and made a name for himself as a hardened leader. When Jorge turned forty, the political winds began to change. Army officers began to get hung out to dry by a new administration for abuses and various crimes that were at one time overlooked by the government. Such crimes included killing and torturing communist revolutionaries, narcos, and anyone else deemed an enemy of the state.

  Jorge had three significant life-changing events during that year that would give him a complete paradigm shift. The first was when he was introduced to Mario by a retired fellow operator who was now leading a security firm. He was amazed at how open his friend was about his criminal activities, as if it was normal and perfectly OK. Jorge had spent months hunting for narco kingpins based on DEA and government intel. He had sent his men on multiple dead-end missions where they marched and hacked their way through the highlands of Sinaloa, taking out labs and doing snatch-and-grab operations.

  In hindsight, Jorge realized he was being vetted for recruitment. He never told his superiors or anyone that he had met Mario, one of the most wanted men in Mexico. On his second meeting with Mario, his entire world was turned upside down. He accompanied his retired friend and Mario to a multimilliondollar mansion high up in the beautiful hills of Sierra Madre. A swimming pool, a driving range, and even a private landing strip were carved into the hillside. Jorge was entertained by American and European hookers who made more in a weekend on their backs than he made in a year. He was amazed at the openness and decadence at Mario’s parties. By the end of the night, when Jorge was exhausted by alcohol and the youth of the exotic call girls, he mustered the courage to speak with Mario.

  “How do you do it? How do you evade detection? I have teams of men who fly around looking for you guys. But here you are. No one could miss this palace!” Jorge did not bother to contain his amazement.

  “My friend, when the Mexican military or government gets a little pressure from the gringos at the DEA
, they tell me. I donate one or two acres, or maybe even a shipment, and sometimes I give them rivals.” Mario laughed and grabbed Jorge like a brother and spoke close to his face. Tequila and cigar smoke lingered on his breath.

  “My friend, listen to me. This is a big game we play. We pay money to the politicians to sell a product that everyone in America wants. As long as the product goes north and the money flows south, they stay off our backs. You want to catch the organized criminals, you turn your guns on the politicians! Ha! We have been farming for generations; they made it illegal, not us!” Mario smiled and wobbled a little in his chair.

  “You work for me, and you will see how the real world works. My father, he tells me stories of how the American government could not buy enough heroin from us at the beginning of World War II. We helped the war effort, ha! They treat us farmers as criminals, and they use men like you as chess pieces.”

  Mario had a unique way of smiling that made people feel as if they were having their minds read.

  “You and me, we both come from farming families. You know how to work for a living. Politicians, they produce nothing! You have my respect, and if you need something, you call!”

  Jorge never forgot their conversation and became more disillusioned by the month as he saw politicians and police take credit for drug busts and then show up at rival narco parties to get blow jobs by teenage prostitutes. Norteamericano drug-war money kept pouring in. Sometimes equipment, like body armor, night-vision goggles, and weapons would “accidentally” get lost and end up in the hands of el narco.

  Then one day, Jorge’s father and sister were kidnapped. His family refused to contact the police at first and paid ransom three times. The kidnappers broke contact and were not heard from again. The payoffs were bankrupting the business. The police were backlogged and did not want to pursue it beyond three weeks. Jorge gave up hope when his father’s finger and sister’s bloody underwear were delivered with a fourth ransom note. Jorge remembered the day when he finally crossed the line and reached out to Mario. He was cynical enough and had experienced enough to believe that the police were somehow involved.