by Mark Romang
Zaplata opened his eyes. A difference in tire vibration roused him from his daydream. He quickly noted Delhomme had turned off Federal Avenue’s smooth surface and onto the rougher blacktop covering the Levee Road. Thinking nothing of it, he searched the water for a ferry, but didn’t see one, neither close by or in the distance.
Maybe there isn’t a ferry. Maybe Delhomme is pulling my leg. Sunlight warmed the back of his head, confirming his suspicions. We’re going east! The old man was obviously playing him for a fool and driving around in circles to increase his fare.
Zaplata unbuckled his seat belt and pulled a Ruger SR40c from his fanny pack. He placed the muzzle up against Delhomme’s head. Perhaps the old man needed a little gentle persuasion.
“No more games, Senor Delhomme. I am not the fool you think I am. I can tell we’ve left the river. The water I see outside my window is a lake. So, if you value your life you will take me to this alleged ferry immediately. You have exactly one minute to comply.”
The cold gun muzzle pressing against his head caused the cabby to instinctively cringe. The small head movement caused the Ruger to push aside grizzled hair. Zaplata flinched. A military tattoo colored the cabby’s neck. Déjà vu immediately struck Zaplata. He’d seen the tattoo before. The heraldic tattoo depicted a shield divided in green and blue quarters, and displayed a white sun and a white star intersected by a red lightning flash. Underneath the colorful shield were the words: Of their own accord. 75th Ranger Regiment emblazoned a tab above the shield.
Zaplata could recall exactly when he had seen this very same tattoo. Sixteen years ago he had been running an inventory test inside Juan Angelica’s underground warehouse when a squad of American soldiers infiltrated the facility and began shooting workers at will. Just prior to himself being wounded in the raid, Zaplata caught a glimpse of a tattoo identical to Delhomme’s on the neck of a young U.S. Army Ranger. Coincidental or not, First Sergeant Mario Brinkman’s tattoo had been located on the back of his neck in precisely the same position as Delhomme’s.
Zaplata smiled. An epiphany burned hot in his mind. Perhaps Mario Brinkman and the cabby named Delhomme are one and the same. He had to find out.
With his free hand, Zaplata yanked at the cabby’s floppy fishing hat. Both the hat and the gray hair came off easily into his hand, leaving behind closely shorn jet-black hair.
Zaplata possessed countless surveillance photos of Brinkman, many from various distances and angles, and he had carefully studied them all many times. Brinkman’s features were as familiar to him as the creases on his own face.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Mario Brinkman. I see our paths have crossed once more. Fate is very kind to reunite us after all these years. Wouldn’t you agree? I know I have personally longed for this day for many years.”
“You’ve had ample opportunities to kill me, Carlos. Your thugs have been shadowing me for nearly a decade,” Brinkman said, slowly driving the Ford in an easterly direction. They were no longer on the Levee Road, having turned onto Fig Street, and were now eclipsing Lake End Campground’s western edge, where industrious campers pitched tents and tended fires, while older campers relaxed in lawn chairs outside luxury RV’s.
“Yes, but why let them have all the fun. I want to be the one who watches Mario Brinkman take his last breath,” Zaplata replied evenly.
“Then do what you came to do, Carlos. You’ve already taken away everything I cherish in life. I’m ready to die.”
Zaplata frowned at Brinkman’s compliance. He had expected him to mount a fierce resistance, or at the very least beg for his life. This wasn’t going to be a challenge at all. Perhaps the years of hardship have softened him, Zaplata thought.
He found it fun to entertain this assumption, but his instincts warned him that Brinkman’s placid demeanor could change in a heartbeat. A sleeping lion is dangerous no matter how old or tired.
Zaplata looked out his window. He frowned at the idyllic scenery. He saw children riding bicycles and kicking soccer balls, and fat adults sitting in camp chairs by their tents, eating and drinking. Where did all these stupid Americans come from?
“Your time of reckoning will indeed come, Senor Brinkman. But not yet. There are too many witnesses here. Your execution will have to take place in a more secluded area. Until then we have much to catch up on. Don’t you agree?”
“Other than reading you your Miranda rights, I have nothing to say to you.”
Zaplata dismissed Brinkman’s chilly declaration as a pathetic attempt to regain control. “Let’s see, what should we talk about first? Why don’t we start with your precious daughter, Eve?” Zaplata clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Your heart must still be torn in two by her unfortunate demise.”
Zaplata allowed his finger to linger on the Ruger’s trigger. The sensation flowing through his index finger aroused him. He could put an end to it all right here, right now. He could finally have his revenge, and it took all his resolve not to fire the gun. “But you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, Mario. After all, the Hispanic boy that Salvador Monzon paid to befriend Eve is exceedingly handsome. And the heroin he shared with Eve came from my signature stock. It’s no wonder she became hooked so fast. A new user should never inject heroin so pure.”
Chapter 48
“Why do you hate me so much?” Brinkman muttered. Hearing Zaplata’s admission ripped open old wounds. He still hadn’t recovered from burying Eve, and didn’t know if he ever would. He could still see her resting in her coffin, a waxy shell no longer human.
“You shot me six times in the stomach with your M-16! You left me to suffer like a wounded animal. How could you forget that?” Zaplata roared.
Brinkman flinched at the outburst. He would have to try something very soon. Zaplata smoldered like an ignited gunpowder keg. Unfortunately he couldn’t access the Glock in his shoulder holster. His zipped windbreaker prevented him from withdrawing it. That left the Ford Fusion as his only weapon. Luckily the DEA had spent considerable time and money teaching him defensive driving techniques. Perhaps now he would finally get to test the lessons he’d learned.
Brinkman blinked his eyes. He hadn’t envisioned it going down like this. From the moment Eve’s casket had been placed into her tomb he had tirelessly gone about gathering evidence that would one day lead to Carlos Zaplata’s arrest. Countless times he envisioned himself slapping handcuffs around Zaplata’s wrists. And now he’d blown his once-in-a lifetime chance, an opportunity he prayed for daily.
Brinkman didn’t fear death that much. The miracle at Golgotha assured him his place in the hereafter. Heaven awaited him, as did a beautiful reunion with Eve.
In Heaven, heroin no longer enslaved Eve. Her arms were no longer scarred by needle marks, and her smiling face radiated a beatific luster unmatched by any angel.
But the genuine possibility of Carlos Zaplata evading capture and destroying thousands more families with his illicit drugs overshadowed this enchanting thought. He knew he had to remain on Earth for at least a little while longer. Someone had to stop the proliferation of Zaplata’s drugs.
“I pled for mercy,” Zaplata continued in a much calmer tone. “The pain was so great I asked you to finish me. But you just looked at me and said, ‘Sorry, I’m not that accommodating, Carlos. I think I’ll just let nature take its course. You’ll bleed out in a few minutes anyway.’“
“You have to understand. We were in heavy combat. Your blood loss made me think you would pass on in a few seconds anyway.”
Zaplata bared his teeth. The sinister scowl made him look like a hungry wolf standing over a fresh kill. “After you left me I spent the next three years living in hospitals. I had over two dozen surgeries to repair my stomach. I lost eighty pounds. To this day I must protect myself against infections. I would have been better off had you simply shot me.”
“Every second we have on Earth is a treasure, a priceless gift,” Brinkman argued. “You took away Eve’s gift.”
“How dare you le
cture me so piously,” Zaplata scolded. He pressed his .40 caliber Ruger more firmly against Brinkman’s head. “Now it’s your turn to beg for mercy, Senor Brinkman.”
God, what do I do? Brinkman screamed silently. He figured he had thirty seconds at the most before Zaplata stopped talking and pulled the trigger. Brinkman glanced at the panoramic scene outside the windshield. Fishing boats and canoes hugged Lake Palourde’s picturesque shoreline, while ski boats formed powdery wakes farther out.
The happy boaters were oblivious to his life and death struggle with North America’s most notorious drug lord. Yet if offered the opportunity to switch places with the boaters, he would turn it down. He had devoted a third of his life to arresting drug dealers. Over the years his job evolved to become more than just gainful employment. He considered himself to be at war with men like Zaplata. And until someone informed him that the war was over, he would continue fighting until he took his last breath.
Brinkman pensively studied the boats on the lake. An outrageous idea took shape in his brain. Whether the idea had any merit or not, he figured he had nothing to lose by acting on it. Zaplata intended to kill him no matter what he did.
Going for broke, he turned onto the camp road and tromped the Fusion’s accelerator pedal. Although it looked stock from the outside, a Police Interceptor motor hid under the hood. The powerful engine provided the Ford with considerable horsepower. The faux taxi cab surged forward, gathering momentum in a big hurry down the narrow camp road.
“What are you doing, you crazy idiot? Slow down!”
“We could have done this the easy way, Carlos. But you chose the hard way,” Brinkman said as he suddenly slammed his foot down on the brake pedal. The front end of the Ford hunkered down as the car decelerated to a sudden halt.
Already leaning forward in his seat, the neck-snapping change in the car’s velocity propelled Zaplata forward. Brinkman felt Zaplata’s Ruger scrape across his head. As the gun cleared his face, Brinkman’s right hand snaked up and grabbed Zaplata’s wrist. The drug lord’s impetus sent him crashing headfirst over the center console, yet he still had the presence of mind to fire his side arm. Bullets hissed by Brinkman’s face and punched holes in the dash.
Continuing with his plan, Brinkman stomped the accelerator pedal to the floorboard. The Fusion rocketed forward. A line of Boy Scout tents distorted his peripheral vision. Up ahead an old man on a golf cart tooled carefree down the center of the road, oblivious to the certain death hurtling behind him. Brinkman blasted his horn several times before the old man finally swerved off the road.
Spotting his destination, Brinkman cranked the steering wheel as far to the left as he could with his available hand. The Fusion’s back-end slewed to the right as the vehicle charged down a grassy bank toward a boat ramp. Brinkman glanced down at Zaplata, just long enough to see the Ruger aimed at his forehead.
Brinkman scrunched his head down a fraction before a trio of bullets obliterated his headrest. And then holding steady at fifty-miles an hour, Brinkman drove the Fusion down the boat ramp. The car nosedived violently into Lake Palourde.
Although designed to save lives, deploying airbags can occasionally take the life of a child or even a petite adult. The Fusion’s seven airbags buffeted Brinkman about. His head lolled to the side and struck his side window. He sat there momentarily stunned. Blood streaked his face from a deep gash over his cheekbone.
As the deployed airbags quickly deflated, Brinkman tried to marshal his thoughts. With effort he moved his bloody face away from the window. He looked down in disbelief at the lake water flooding the interior. In just a few seconds the water had already risen to his stomach. The seriousness of his predicament quickly cleared the grogginess from his mind. I have to get out!
Brinkman grabbed the door handle and pushed, but the door wouldn’t budge. Then he remembered that the doors automatically lock once the car is in motion. Brinkman hurriedly pushed the power unlock button on his door. He heard a click as the door unlocked. Counting on a different outcome, he pulled on the handle, but still the door wouldn’t budge. A sinking feeling smothered him as he realized the water pressure on the outside was too great for the door to open. He shifted his attention to the window.
Brinkman pushed the power window button that lowered the glass. But just like the door, the window wouldn’t move. He pounded desperately at the glass with his fist. Breaking the tempered glass would be extremely difficult and require a sharp object or tool designed specifically for the task. He didn’t have either.
A portion of Brinkman’s class load at the defensive driving school had been how to survive a car submersion. And now with his life on the line, he tried to recall his instructor’s lecture on the subject. He vaguely remembered his instructor saying that power windows cannot overcome the pressure differential in a submerged car. He also remembered the instructor stating that a door will not open until the pressure differential between the outside and the inside is equalized. And that will only happen when the vehicle’s interior is completely flooded. Until that moment, he and Zaplata were hopelessly trapped.
Frigid water lapped around Brinkman’s sternum, chilling his lungs. Wild-eyed, he looked around for Zaplata. At the crash impact, the drug lord’s torso had been across the center console, his head down near the floorboard. Apparently his compromised position didn’t allow him protection from the airbags. Brinkman guessed Zaplata struck his head somewhere near the bottom of the dash. He’d knocked himself out.
Use your gun to shoot out the window! Brinkman’s internal voice screamed.
Brinkman plunged his right hand down into the water and felt for his seat belt buckle. He pushed the button to release the belt, and then tried to unzip his windbreaker so he could gain access to his Glock. But the zipper only moved a few millimeters and no more. He tugged on it several more times without success, and realized he must’ve snagged the zipper on the fabric surrounding it. If he couldn’t unzip his windbreaker he wouldn’t be able to get to his side arm.
The rising water eclipsed his shoulders. He tried the door again, but it still wouldn’t budge. He fought to remain calm but white-knuckle fear churned in his mind like a river eddy. The water lapped around his neck. Before the water crept above his mouth he filled his lungs with a deep breath and held it.
Brinkman felt his world turn upside down as the Fusion suddenly flipped over onto its roof. The diminishing air pocket shifted to his feet. Panic stabbed his gut. He wanted to scream but didn’t dare. He was completely submerged now.
His instructor’s claims rang hollow in his mind. Maybe there was no truth to his lecture. Perhaps the door would never open. If so, he looked forward to leaving this broken world with all its endless struggles and joining Eve in Heaven.
If I can’t get to my gun, maybe I can find Zaplata’s.
Brinkman blindly felt around for Zaplata. He quickly felt the drug lord’s head and patted down Zaplata’s neck and shoulder, groping until he reached a hand. The hand was empty. Brinkman had hoped the drug lord still held onto his gun. And maybe he still did. He’d have to try the other hand.
Brinkman found Zaplata’s other arm and followed it to his hand. Fingers still clutched a gun. Brinkman wrenched it free and aimed it at the window. Please fire! He prayed. Brinkman pulled the trigger. The Ruger fired, but the bullet didn’t shatter the window like he’d hoped. Only a small dimple and a few cracks appeared on the window glass. Water pressure obviously affected the gun’s stopping power, decreasing the bullet’s velocity. Brinkman altered his aim a few inches over and fired another single shot.
Another dimple. A few more cracks. Not enough.
Fire the whole frigging magazine into it! Brinkman pulled the trigger. But the gun wouldn’t fire. He tried again and again and sickly realized the gun must only hold an eight-to-ten round clip. Zaplata had fired at least six shots at him before they entered the lake. He just fired twice. That made eight or nine.
Brinkman grabbed the steering wheel and kicked
at the spider-webbed glass with everything he had. The window caved outward, forming a hole. But the hole wasn’t big enough for him to wriggle out of.
Water completely filled the car’s interior. The Fusion was now a tomb, nothing else. Changing tactics, Brinkman reached for the door handle and tugged. To his amazement the door popped open easily. Brinkman pushed the door open as far as the hinges would allow and swam out from the Fusion. The car rested upside down on the lake bottom in approximately ten feet of water.
Swimming came easy to Brinkman, and he quickly covered the distance, breaking the surface roughly twenty-five yards from shore. He inhaled deeply several times, and then disappeared once again beneath the surface. He descended approximately five feet and studied his submerged car with keen interest. For about thirty seconds he watched the car. He saw no movement inside or outside the Ford. The DEA group supervisor smiled and returned to the surface.
Having obsessively researched Carlos Zaplata for almost a decade, he became privy to a great deal of Zaplata’s personal information. He acquired the intelligence using spy technology available to the Drug Enforcement Administration: listening devices, hidden cameras, phone and e-mail intercepts, and even photos taken from spy planes and satellites.
For the most part, the information amounted to nothing more than classified file filler, like the breakdown of Zaplata’s wine cellar, the red to white ratio, including the vintage of each dusty bottle. He even knew the cash value assessed to the drug lord’s extensive art collection: 6.8 million dollars.
Zaplata’s private life was not nearly as private as he thought. The Drug Enforcement Administration even kept tabs on Zaplata’s sexual activity, debriefing his whores whenever they left his estate the following morning. It was all a very elaborate and expensive attempt at guessing the man’s next move. A multi-million-dollar chess match.
But one scoop remained that, for whatever reason, Brinkman kept to himself. It was knowledge very few business associates and friends in Zaplata’s inner circle knew about. Zaplata closely guarded the secret, admitting it to no one. He had to maintain his reputation for being undefeatable at all costs. Yet in the end, despite his best attempts at hiding the chink in his armor, the whole world would soon know that Carlos Zaplata couldn’t swim a stroke.