“What do you think?”
“I don’t buy any of it,” Hunter admitted. “The only survivor is a fella named Julio. He said what they cut into was a huge cave a couple of soccer fields large. Plus, I don’t think the wounds on the body I saw were caused by a blade or a chainsaw even.”
“So, he wasn’t Scarfaced?” Taylor joked, trying not to laugh.
“Nope.” Hunter joined in on the joke. “No Scarfacing.”
Taylor killed the remainder of his beer and stood to toss the bottle in the trash. Hunter finished his beer and handed it to Taylor.
“So what do you think happened?” Taylor asked, returning to his seat. “If not a band of rivals?”
Hunter ran his hands over his face and then threw his short-cropped hair. He started to speak then paused then began again.
“Julio said it was monkeys.”
“Monkeys!” Taylor scoffed.
“Monkeys,” Hunter assured Taylor. “Well, baboons actually.”
“I freakin’ hate monkeys…Wait a minute, you don’t believe this guy, do you? That there’s monkeys down there?”
“Julio says his brother killed one,” Hunter offered. “That its body is down there along with the digging crew.”
Taylor rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Again, you believe him?”
“We’ll find out tomorrow when we head down there.”
8.
Hunter and Taylor were met at the airport by José Luis, a man who Hunter explained served as his, “Quartermaster, logistics expert, driver, and all around go-for.”
Following introductions, José took Taylor’s single carry-on bag and placed it in the rear of the late-model, nondescript Suburban. He then pulled one of several bags from the front seat and asked Taylor in broken English, “You want change?”
“Might as well,” Hunter offered. “And I’d rather you made sure everything is right before we drive across the border.”
Taylor agreed and the three men loaded into the Suburban. José drove from the runway to the private airport’s main lodge. Taylor exited the vehicle, entered the building, and made his way to the men’s room. He disrobed and put on his new clothing.
It had been a long time since he bought clothing for himself and he was pleasantly surprised that the sizes he’d given to José through Hunter had been correct. Everything Taylor put on fit him to a T. His coyote-brown tactical pants were long enough—not always an easy task given his 6’2” height—his boots were snug yet didn’t rub anywhere they shouldn’t, and his black shooter’s shirt put function over fashion. The only problem with the clothes had nothing to do with their style or fit but what they had to fit over. Taylor’s stomach had grown, albeit slightly, since his exiting the military. He thought back to Hunter’s mention that they had both gone soft around the middle and he immediately countered this with a thought of his own.
Not too bad for a guy in his mid-40s.
Taylor gathered the clothing he changed from and all the bags and tags and made his way back to the Suburban.
“Don’t you look nice?” Hunter laughed. “Your mom get you some new school clothes?”
“Not my mom. Your mom,” Taylor cracked. “And it wasn’t even my birthday. Go figure.”
José laughed at the joke and Taylor took note that Hunter’s quartermaster perhaps understood more English than he could speak.
Or let on.
“Appreciate the clothes, but where’re my weapons?” Taylor began again.
“I have,” José declared from behind the wheel. “They wait for you.”
“We already had most of what you requested,” Hunter offered. “What José picked up for you today with sent across the border via other channels. You can’t just drive guns and ammunition into Mexico, you know. Well, we can, but it’s easier not too. Boss has plenty of Border Patrol on the payroll but likes to save their services of looking the other way for more important situations.”
“Why are we driving into Mexico, by the way?” Taylor asked. “Why didn’t we fly direct?”
“The plane is owned by one of the companies our employer owns. We’re pretty sure it’s clear but with the DEA, you never know. The last thing Miguel needs is for any agency to follow us to the tunnel.”
“What about this truck? Can’t they follow it?” Taylor inquired.
“I steal this morning,” José boasted. “We change again when we cross.”
“Well, there you go,” Taylor mused aloud. “Problem solved.”
9.
José drove Hunter and Taylor across the bridge and into the city of Juárez, Mexico. Unlike the spacious urban sprawl of El Paso, Juárez was a city seemingly shoved together haphazardly. Its streets were narrow, its buildings sandwiched together and on top of one another, and its pedestrians sardined shoulder to shoulder upon the street. The usually heavy traffic was even more so, and it took José 20 minutes longer than he anticipated to reach the two-story parking garage where the three men would change vehicles.
José pulled the Suburban next to a khaki-colored Chevy Tahoe outfitted for ranch work with oversized tires, a brush guard, and a winch. He exited the Suburban first then nodded for Hunter and Taylor to follow. The men exited and Taylor stood silently, watching José transfer the bags from the Suburban to the Tahoe. As Taylor watched, he made note of his surroundings. The garage was decades old, crumbling in upon itself, and it reeked of stale urine and vomit. A rat sat eating some kind of food material near a crack in the outer wall and pigeons drank from a puddle on the ground next to the entrance.
“I promised you.” Hunter laughed and slapped Taylor on the back. “Only the best for you.”
Taylor’s response was interrupted by José calling for him and Hunter to join him at the rear of the Tahoe. Taylor and Hunter walked to the back of the vehicle and watched as José opened the medium-sized Pelican case that sat inside the cargo bay.
“The fun stuff’s at the ranch,” Hunter offered. “But this will get you started.”
José took a holstered Sig Sauer 9mm P320 pistol from the case and handed it to Taylor. Taylor removed the pistol from its nylon home, checked it for fit, and insured that it was loaded. He put the holstered pistol on the right side of his belt then took from José two double pistol magazine pouches. Taylor checked each magazine to ensure that they too were loaded then attached them to his belt as well.
“Knife? Taylor asked.
José handed Taylor a SOG fixed blade knife and sheath. Taylor affixed this horizontally to the back of his belt then turned to take the envelope that Hunter held out before him. Taylor took the envelope and opened it.
“Mexican passport, ID, and firearm license,” Hunter explained.
Taylor nodded and put the contents of the envelope into his front shirt pocket.
Hunter pulled a small pistol from the inside front of his pants and handed it to José who in turn handed Hunter a rig similar to the one Taylor had just assembled on his person. Hunter put the belt containing his holstered Glock 19, ammo, and Leatherman multi-tool on, and moved toward the front passenger-side door of the Tahoe.
“Come on,” Hunter instructed. “Christmas is over. Time to get to work.”
José drove Taylor and Hunter through the city then east on Highway 2. The road skirted the Rio Grande and the men passed large agricultural fields of vibrant green and dotted with laborers. These gave way to smaller ranches and to a landscape of scrub brush and of mountains of weathered rock painted with a tapestry of cactus and a myriad of thorned plants. They drove through this for two and a half hours before they turned south on a single-lane dirt road. They passed through an open gate and over a cattle guard, continuing south for another hour until they came to a small ranch compound. It consisted of a half a dozen buildings circled by the remnants of pecan trees that had long since died from a lack of watering. José parked the Tahoe in front of a large barn constructed of old weathered wood and rusted corrugated tin. The three men exited the vehicle and Hunter led Taylor into the
barn.
Taylor’s mindset changed when he entered the building. The trip thus far had been relaxing and one of relief and rebirth. He’d put aside most of his old life and resigned himself to starting a new one. A life that would return him a world of never-ending training and monotony sprinkled with periodic episodes of inhuman violence. He entered the building prepared for such and took note of his immediate surroundings.
The building appeared to have once been a large barn or hanger of some sort. The huge open space had a packed earth floor and held a truck and cattle trailer, a cache of shovels, picks, pry bars, and other handheld digging instruments, wheelbarrows, and a flatbed trailer piled high with dirt and rock. At the far end of the barn was a ramp that led downward and toward a closed garage door. Office doors lined the left wall and the air within the building smelled of loam, diesel fuel, and carried with it the faint hint of blood and rot.
An office door opened, and a tall, thin, corporate-looking man exited. He waved to Hunter and called him over. Hunter led Taylor across the expansive floor and to the entrance of what Taylor could now see was an empty conference room.
“Productive trip, I hope,” the man offered to Hunter as they shook hands.
“Very productive,” Hunter replied, turning his gaze back to Taylor. “I got what I went to get.”
The man smiled at Hunter then held out his hand to Taylor. The men shook hands and sized each other up.
“Captain Taylor,” the man offered, still grasping Taylor’s hand. “I am Eduardo León. I handle Human Resources for Señor Alvarado.”
“Human Resources?” Taylor questioned in disbelief. “The Acuña Cartel has a Human Resources department?”
“Our branch does, yes,” Eduardo said stoically. “One of the best. In fact…”
“I didn’t mean any disrespect…” Taylor interrupted. “It’s just…”
“I understand,” Eduardo insisted. He nodded to Taylor then invited him into the conference room with a wave of his hand.
Taylor entered the room and was followed by Eduardo and then Hunter. The office was spacious but sparse. It had a cement floor and contained large conference table that held what Taylor assumed was Eduardo’s workstation. Hunter closed the door behind them, and Eduardo took a seat behind two large computer monitors.
“Where’s Alvarado?” Hunter asked as he took a seat across the table from Eduardo.
Taylor took a seat in the chair adjacent to Hunter’s.
“Señor Alvarado will be here shortly,” Eduardo stated. “He looks forward to meeting to Captain Taylor and to hearing of your plan to get the tunnel construction back on track.”
“Call me Taylor,” Taylor insisted.
“As you wish,” Eduardo politely replied as he turned one of the screens around to face Taylor and Hunter. “Taylor, I’ve taken the liberty of opening an account for you at the same Swiss bank Hunter and the rest of his team use. I assume that will be alright with you?”
Taylor looked at Hunter in disbelief then muttered, “Sure.”
“Then I’ll need your electronic signature here,” Eduardo said, sliding a small electronic tablet in-between the two monitors and toward Taylor. “Your paycheck will be deposited the first of every month. Your insurance went into effect this morning. Would you like your signing bonus in cash, deposited into your account, or a combination of both?”
“Signing bonus? You’re kidding.” Taylor almost laughed in disbelief.
“Of course you get a signing bonus. And a very nice one at that as Colonel Hunter here tells me you’re worth the cost.”
Taylor turned in his seat to see a man in black slacks and a heavily starched white shirt enter the room. He was sided by two much larger men who wore ill-fitting pants and guayabera shirts. Eduardo and Hunter stood, and Taylor followed suit. The well-dressed man stepped forward and held his hand to Taylor.
“Miguel Alvarado,” he offered. “It is very nice to have you on board.”
“Thank you for having me, Señor Alvarado,” Taylor replied. “I look forward to getting to work.”
“Yes,” Miguel said. He sat at the table and directed Juan and Arturo out of the office with his eyes. The men left and Taylor, Hunter, and Eduardo returned to their seats. “I wish your arrival fell on better circumstances. And that you had time to acclimate to your position within the organization. Unfortunately, you’ll not have that luxury.”
“Understood,” Taylor agreed.
“I need you and Hunter to solve this setback as quickly as possible,” Miguel continued. “Discover the identity of our attackers and take the appropriate action.”
Taylor listened intently to Miguel and studied him even more so. He sounded like a politician. He couldn’t just come and say what he wanted. He had to talk around the issue. And despite his careful choice in words, Taylor could tell Miguel was raging inside.
That he was furious over this setback and that he felt it somehow painted him in a negative picture.
Was he always like this? So, reserved?
Or was this a show for just for him?
“The problem will be identified and eliminated,” Hunter promised.
“I would hope so,” Miguel stated. “I’m counting on you and your team.”
10.
Ernesto’s body mirrored that of the jackhammer he was operating. It was as if a man and machine were one. Both reverberated in a frenzied repetitive motion and in an attempt to control the power that surged through them.
Julio paused from shoveling the loose rock and dirt that his older brother’s actions were sending everywhere to watch Ernesto work. Ernesto saw this and paused for a break.
“What you smiling at?” Ernesto asked his brother in his native tongue.
“Your gut,” Julio said, laughing. “It’s bouncing all around.”
Ernesto rubbed his girth and laughed. “I’m in training. I want to look like a typical American, so I fit in when we get there.”
“You mean a fat American.”
“Yeah. Like I said, a typical American.”
The two men laughed for a moment then Ernesto raised the heavy jackhammer and worked at the wall before him. Shards of rock splintered and flew in every direction, and clouds of earth and dust washed in the dim light of the cave. The percussion of the hammer was deafening and echoed throughout the tunnel. Ernesto felt a sudden give and tried to pull back, but the momentum of the hammering was too great. The wall gave way and collapsed, revealing a hole half the size of a doorway. Ernesto struggled to control the cumbersome jackhammer but was unable to do so and fell forward through the newly developed opening.
Julio watched in disbelief and horror as his brother shot forward. He rushed to Ernesto’s side and helped him to his feet.
“You okay?” Julio asked in genuine fear, hoping that his brother was harmed.
“I’m fine,” Ernesto said, brushing the dirt from his clothing with furious slaps of his hands.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine,” Ernesto scoffed in embarrassment at his tumble.
The realization of where they were suddenly struck the two men and they stared into the darkness in disbelief and wonder. A narrow beam of light from the tunnel cut through the darkness to illuminate a floor of slick rock and the hint that it extended to the horizon. Workers from the tunnel ceased their duties and rushed to stand at Ernesto’s and Julio’s side to see for themselves the alien world Ernesto had inadvertently gained access to.
A worker named Gio took a cell phone from his pocket and shined the light into the darkness was a little effect.
“Here,” another worker scoffed, pulled a flashlight from his belt, and shined its light outward and into the void.
“Doesn’t even hit the other side,” the flashlight bearer exclaimed.
“If there is another side,” another pondered aloud.
The flashlight trained upward and the men gazed in amazement.
“Must be three or four stories tall,” Ernesto exclai
med.
“At least,” Julio agreed.
“Smells like a sewer in here,” another worker exclaimed.
“This ain’t a sewer,” the man with the cell phone countered.
“I didn’t say it was a sewer. Said it smells like one. Smells like shit in here.”
“Like a barnyard,” another added. “Like wet dog and goat piss.”
“And wet,” another worker added. “Humid. Real humid.”
“Be quiet!” Ernesto suddenly commanded. “Listen.”
“What?” the flashlight bearer asked in a whisper. “What is it?”
“Heard something,” Ernesto whispered in response. “Something like a dog growling or something.”
“A dog?” Julio asked in hushed tones. “Down here?”
“Hush!” Ernesto curtly instructed. “Be still.”
The men stood in the cleave of light produced by the tunnel, staring into the void and listening. Soft murmurs reminiscent of puppies crawling with unopened eyes toward their mother in search of nourishment whispered from the darkness.
The murmurs grew louder.
The flashlight beam swung to and fro, searching for their source.
“What’s that?” Julio asked in a tone just above a whisper.
The murmurs became barks.
Low, deep barks.
The barks grew in volume, hardened in anger, and echoed across the measureless cavern.
Men breathed heavily.
Sweated in nervousness.
And fought to control their unease.
The cave exploded in a cacophony of howls and barks, spattered with the cackling of hyenas, the pain of mongrel curs, and the screams of someplace primordial.
The flashlight caught jade-colored reflections in the sea of blackness.
Then flashes of ivory fur.
Of clacking maws filled with teeth.
Of rage charging forward.
Someone screamed and the men scrambled toward the tunnel in panic.
The Tunnel Page 3