The Jaguar ch-5

by T. Jefferson Parker

Bradley was glad to see El Tigre taken by Caroline Vega’s severe beauty, so much so that he dismissed all four prostitutes in order to focus his attention on her. He moved her to sit on his left, opposite Bradley. Jack Cleary got drunk more quickly than Bradley had hoped but he was a fisherman too. So Cleary appreciated Herredia’s tales and smartly made no attempt to match them.

  Present were old Felipe and the shortened ten-gauge shotgun that he was never without, and Fidel Candelario, the North Baja cartel lieutenant that Herredia had pledged to Bradley the moment he’d heard of Erin’s kidnapping and Armenta’s challenge.

  Candelario looked to be thirty years old to Bradley and in the prime of life. He was six feet tall, solid, clear-eyed and sharp-nosed, his black hair razor-cut stylishly short. From Bradley’s angle he looked Arabic. He explained in good English that he was from Baja Sur, growing up one generation behind the great El Tigre, whose footsteps he had followed from poverty to power.

  He told Bradley that he was in command of a personal guard of twenty men, each one of whom he trusted with his life. They were seasoned men, many with advanced military training in counterterrorism, counternarcotrafficking and hostage liberation. They were professionals, not the beheaders or skinners or other patologico monsters who had overrun Mexico. They had of course whatever weapons and communications gear they might need. They had four heavily armored GMC Yukon XL 1500s customized by a Texas company in Laredo. Even the windows repelled small arms fire. If they had to travel long distances, they used one of Herredia’s transport helos. My men are the optimo, he said, the best of the best.

  Bradley looked from Candelario to Herredia, then back to the young lieutenant. “I’m lucky to have you.”

  “But I am the one who has you,” said Fidel.

  “Carlos, tell this guy right now who’s going to be in charge of those men and this action,” said Bradley. “If we’re not clear on that, this whole thing is a waste of time and life.”

  Herredia leaned forward and pointed a thick forefinger at his associate, then at Bradley. “You are partners. You are equal. You are more similar than you know.”

  “That won’t work,” said Bradley.

  “We will make it work,” said Fidel. He said this with a wry smile that Bradley neither liked nor believed. “And when we find Armenta, he will be ours and your wife will again be yours.”

  “She’s the only thing that matters.”

  “I know this type of emotion.”

  “You’re lucky to know it, Fidel.”

  Candelario looked at him darkly and Bradley understood. “She and our two children were taken by Armenta’s son, Saturnino. He left them hanging in a warehouse and he sent word where to find them. I found them. Just as I will find him.”

  Later Herredia showed off his newest passion-a horse breeding and training facility. It was tucked back behind the house against the sharp Baja hillsides. He had already built the stables and paddocks and there was an earthen track and an infield of very green grass. The sprinklers came on and Bradley watched their spray crisscrossing in the moonlight.

  “I need the stud,” Herredia said. “I have the mares but I need a magnificent horse to make my racers.”

  “I know a breeder in Temecula,” said Caroline.

  “I want the best!” said Herredia. He gave her his most engaging smile.

  “Something tells me you’ll find a way to get it,” she said.

  Bradley saw Fidel look at her with sharp eyes and no expression on his face. You’re right, my man, he thought: she’s a beauty and a match for you.

  They all talked late into the hot Baja night. They sat in an outside pavilion around a rough-hewn table with bottles of tequila sparkling before them. The water of the swimming pool shifted with wedges of light and shadow and above them the stars were adamant at this uncertain latitude. Felipe sat away from the table where the light faded nearly to darkness, his shotgun across his lap, and whenever Bradley looked over at him his posture was unchanged and his withered old face like a gargoyle held half light and half shadow.

  Bradley drank slightly and let the tequila-fueled energy rise around him. He had sat here with Herredia so many nights, earning large money, missing Erin, looking into the stars and sending thoughts to her, unable to use a satellite phone for reasons of security, his cell phone useless. Now when he remembered those nights a wave of nostalgia swept him up and he felt weightless and unable to determine his own direction, like a cork bobbing in a hostile sea. His throat tightened and his heart beat hard. He breathed deeply. Keep yourself together, he told himself, for her. He thought a brief prayer to God. And another to El Famoso. One to Malverde and another to anybody or anything that could hear him. I don’t care what you are or what you want from me. Save them. Save them. Just save them.

  He looked at Caroline sitting next to El Tigre and paying close attention to another of his stories. She was two years older than Bradley, dark-haired and brown-eyed, strong and forceful. Her cheekbones were high and scarred by old acne and her tightly gathered ponytail called attention to the scars. Her smile was rare. She was fearless in bad situations and apparently not satisfied with what other people might call normal life. Caroline reminded him greatly of his mother, which was one of the reasons he noticed and later sought her out and brought her close.

  But I see that my beautiful dorado is now in the mouth of a great white shark that is the size of Isla Cerralvo and I must land it with my little Shimano reel that is only for the small fish!

  Cleary smiled along blearily but when Bradley caught his eye he saw something acute and sober in it. Good, he thought, you’ll need all the clarity you can muster, Jack.

  Fidel said little at first and appeared to be glaring at the glass of tequila that he had not sipped. He wore a tan T-shirt and a gold cross on a chain, tan camo pants and suede combat boots. Bradley wondered why Mexican outlaws so loved the military. It had to be more than to fool the people they preyed on.

  Bradley and Fidel spoke briefly of their families and where they grew up, then of cars, sports, guns, music, Obama and Calderon. Somehow Lorca and Neruda and Urrea came up and they spoke of them too. But all of this had the air of obligation to it and their words came out flat and lifeless because their hearts were in other places.

  “Where do you think she is?” asked Bradley.

  “Armenta is strong in the south. Veracruz, Oaxaca, Tabasco, Chiapas, Quintana Roo, Campeche.”

  “But he has safe houses all over Mexico.”

  “He will take her where he is strongest.”

  “It’s a different world down there.”

  “Yes, jungle. Rainforest. Not desert. Jungle rots the body and the soul.”

  “Is Saturnino still his enforcer?”

  “Yes. He is a murderer and a rapist.”

  Bradley felt his heartbeat accelerate. Now this would be added as fuel for his terrible dreams and images. “Maybe we’ll both get what we want.”

  Fidel leaned toward him. His eyes were bright and dark and his nose was hooked. “We have one of Armenta’s men. We took him by surprise in the night, much as your wife was taken. He will know where she is. The difficulty is making him want to tell us before he expires.”

  “Then lighten up on him, Fidel. If you kill him he won’t say much.”

  “We should leave this to our capable men. We all have different natures.”

  “Let me have a try at him.”

  Fidel looked at Bradley. “No. You would not have self-control.”

  “True.”

  “Only self-control can get you out of Mexico alive.”

  “I’m getting her out of Mexico alive.”

  “I will do what can be done. And if it ends as it did for my mujer then I will have one more fellow prisoner in this hell that is life. You.”

  Later when everyone had gone to their rooms Bradley walked past the pool and through the gate and down to the pasture and stood for a while looking at the hillsides to the east, brushed with moonlight. Low in the distanc
e a slick of rainwater caught the light more brightly. Bradley had never seen standing water in this part of Baja. Horses stirred in the paddock.

  Again he opened his mind to the raids of memory. What memories were here. For nearly three years, from the time he was just seventeen years old, he had driven to El Dorado once a week and returned home with an average of twelve thousand dollars in cash. The North Baja Cartel took in roughly four hundred thousand dollars a week off the L.A. streets and Bradley drove the collected money south to make his percentage. He had earned nearly a million-six in those first two and a half years, almost pure profit, little overhead and no taxes.

  In those early days he had posed as a fisherman, a surfer, a social worker, a church charities representative. He had lugged fishing gear, camping equipment, surfboards, piles of new and used clothing, Bibles and religious literature, cases of canned food and water and sports drinks. He had used several vehicles, some with doctored plates, and several different sets of false documents. Later, his LASD shield became useful at times. Still later, when Herredia brought several U.S. Customs agents under his influence, complementing the Mexican inspectors he already owned, Bradley’s job had gotten much easier. The good old days, he thought. Money and more money. He had enjoyed it immensely.

  But now as he stood in this desert and looked at the far hills he felt betrayed by what he had once thought of as bravery and confidence. And betrayed by the burden of Murrieta. Wasn’t it all just stupidity and foolishness? What had he gotten for it? A small fortune, yes. And for a while, on the legitimate side of his life, good LASD performance reviews and a minor hero’s status.

  But he had also been shot and stabbed and involved in a shootout that had claimed six lives. This earned him an ongoing LASD Internal Affairs investigation that stopped his Mexico deliveries a year ago and dried up his largest stream of revenue.

  One year ago, he thought. One cursed year ago everything changed. IA had begun tailing him at work, then had him reassigned from Narcotics to a desk job in Fraud; they had spied on him during his free time and even tried to spy on him at home; they had interviewed his fellow deputies; and they had no doubt gained access to his phone records and bank transactions. They were a thousand terriers yapping and biting at his ankles. The terriers had only begrudgingly given him these ten days off even though his vacation time would cover it.

  A year of bitter suspicion and a drastic pay cut and now, worst of all, Erin kidnapped. And their unborn child. Unimaginable. Fire of my life, Bradley thought, I have delivered you to my enemies.

  He closed his eyes and heard her voice: Come to me by moonlight, sugar/Let the moon be your guide.

  Bradley opened his eyes on the moon and to him it looked not like a guide but an unmoved witness to his own vanity and failure.

  11

  When he got back to the pavilion Mike Finnegan occupied the chair where Fidel had been. The little man sat up straight, twiddling his thumbs on the table before him, his ankles crossed and the toes of his black dress shoes just touching the ground. He looked up at Bradley. He wore a wheat-colored linen suit with a blue pocket square that matched his eyes and a blue, open-collared shirt.

  “I’m deeply sorry for what has happened,” Finnegan said. “But I believe we can get her back.”

  Bradley walked around the table studying Mike. A long moment passed before he spoke. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “And a good evening to you, Bradley.”

  “You have no idea what happened, you sonofabitch.”

  “Don’t overestimate me, Brad. People know what happened. Many people. It’s a statement. Armenta did this exactly so people would know.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Offering to help you.”

  Bradley felt flummoxed and fooled. “You don’t know Herredia.”

  Finnegan’s expression was impatient but somehow soulful. “You’re so certain of all the things I cannot know! It really is flattering. But Bradley, let’s elevate this discourse. Let’s get right to the point. What do you see in all that has happened? Why has it happened? What are you doing to get her back? It’s far too late not to be honest with me, and you know it.”

  Bradley reached down and took Mike’s chin in his hand and lifted up his face so he could more fully view it. He felt the stubble of the red whiskers, the heat of the flesh, the strong bone beneath. In the clear blue eyes he saw concern and intelligence and bottomless optimism.

  “What I see is one crazy little shit.”

  “But I hear the tick of a clock.”

  Bradley pushed away Mike’s face and sat. He pressed his hands to his eyes and ran them through his wavy black hair, then folded them on the table and looked at Finnegan. “I’m down to eight days. I don’t know where she is. I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

  “But do you have the money?”

  “Hood has the money.”

  “He’s your mule? So that you and Fidel can find her first?”

  Bradley nodded but said nothing. He had never felt helpless and so furious at the same time. Felt so outsmarted and outgunned. But he felt them all now. He felt that, even with Fidel’s band of blue-ribbon bad guys, Armenta had already beaten him.

  “Erin is very much alive and well,” Mike said. “I have word from someone I can trust.”

  Bradley sprang from his chair and put both hands on the table and leaned his face into Finnegan’s. He watched the hopeful blue eyes and he searched them for the smallest hint of what truly lay behind them. “Tell me what you know. Tell it!”

  “She has been seen in Quintana Roo.”

  “Don’t toy with me, Mike.”

  “She has been seen in Quintana Roo.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have eyes on Armenta, Bradley. But it doesn’t matter how I know. It only matters what I know.”

  Bradley shoved off and paced around the big table, his heart beating urgently and his brain firing thoughts he couldn’t control. “And she’s okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Then they haven’t…”

  “No. She’s being treated well.”

  “Did Saturnino ra-”

  “No!”

  “Where is she, Mike! Where?”

  “She’s being held on one of Armenta’s properties on the Yucatan Peninsula. Somewhere between Polyuc and the Kohunlich ruins, near the Belize and Guatemala borders. On a map it looks small but in reality it’s a lot of jungle. Very dense jungle. We should have a good GPS fix within twenty-four hours.”

  Bradley stopped opposite Finnegan and again leaned forward into the man’s face. “Should or will?”

  “I do what I can do, Bradley. Every vessel has its shape and capacity.” Finnegan took Bradley’s right hand in both of his small, strong own. “Let me be your ally and friend.”

  “What do you want?”

  “For you to have everything on this Earth that you deserve.”

  “She’s all I want. I’ll do anything to get her back.”

  “I understand that.” Finnegan studied him for a long moment and in his eyes Bradley saw both judgment and sympathy. “Then ask me to be your friend. Phrase it any way you like. Make a joke of it if you have to. The words are what matter to me, not your opinion of them. I need to hear them before I can help you.”

  Bradley pulled his hand but Mike held it fast and Bradley felt the surprising strength of him.

  “Speak to me, son of El Famoso.”

  “Don’t start that shit.”

  “That’s a start.”

  Bradley pulled hard again, but Finnegan’s two fierce little hands were stronger than his one, so he twisted it free with a Hapkido move that left him able to break Mike’s elbow. “Okay. Be my friend, Mike. Help me get her back. Or I’ll snap your neck, roast you on a spit, and feed you to my dogs. I have twelve of them.”

  Mike smiled. “What an exceptional proposal of friendship. I accept.”

  Bradley released his arm and sat back down acros
s from him.

  “I’ll also need just a few drops of your blood.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Blood for what?”

  “For everything words can’t cover. It’s a ritual. I’m not sure why, but it works. It really does. You’ll see.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Just old-fashioned.” From somewhere inside his coat Mike produced a dagger and rested it on his palm for Bradley to see. It was short, mostly handle, and Bradley could tell that the metal was black and old. Before stainless steel alloys, he thought. Before carbon and graphite and tungsten. The flatish handle was wrapped in tooled leather held by rounded silver rivets for weight and grip. “Hand out now and palm up. Just a little prick.”

  Bradley looked long at the man, remembering that Mike once told him that he had introduced Bradley’s parents in order to give him a chance at “magnificence.” Mike claimed to be their close friend. And he had told Bradley things about his parents and his ancestors, things that only a very close friend would know. When Bradley had first met Mike three years ago he had sensed a connection but it was a vague sense, and unsteady, a trickle of memory that would flow and evaporate and flow again.

  “How long have you known me, Mike?”

  “Since your first breath. I’ve told you this and more.”

  “And you told me that when I was ready to see I would see.”

  “First you must look.”

  “How long have you known Carlos?”

  “He was eleven. A critical age. Old Felipe brought him to me. I’ve always surrounded myself with people of will and talent. Now, hand out and palm up?”

  “How long did you know my mother?”

  “She was eleven also. It’s the pivotal age in my view.”

  “When I was eleven I had a dream that I was on the Oceanside pier one night, and someone dared me to close my eyes and jump off and I was afraid so I didn’t. The next day I was ashamed because a friend of mine had done it a bunch of times. I hated being a coward. It ate at me. I badgered Mom to take me to the pier that night but I didn’t tell her why. She did. No moon. It was summer but it was cool and every step farther out on that pier I was more and more afraid. Mom carried a big beach towel and my good jacket because I told her I might need them. She wore a red satin blouse and jeans and her hair was full and shiny. I’ll never forget how beautiful she was. I just wore my trunks. I looked down at the faraway water. It was heaving and the yellow pier lights gave it a strange glow. I told her about the dream and the friend. And she said, I’ll meet you on the beach-and don’t be ashamed to take just a tiny peek on the way down, because so long as you know what’s in front of you, you’ll be fine. I said, I love you, Mom. And she said she loved me and I closed my eyes and jumped.”