Reluctant Smuggler

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  “Tony, stop.” Matt grabbed his arm.

  “I have to go.”

  “Take something.” The younger man pulled out his wallet.

  “I’ve got money.”

  “Bet you don’t have this.” Matt handed him a dog-eared business card. “Go see this guy. He’ll get you out of the country, no questions asked. But you’d better have a few bucks.”

  Tony took the card. “Does he have a plane?”

  “Yep.”

  “Thanks.” Tony stuck the card in his shirt pocket and climbed into the truck.

  He drove off, watching Matt wave to him in his side-view mirror. Adios, amigo.

  Tony zigged and zagged around rubble and through cracked streets. He probably had less than a quarter of an hour to lose himself in the mess that was Mexico City.

  Ten minutes later, he parked the truck behind a half-crumpled wall in what used to be a commercial district. He got out and walked until he entered an area where the earthquake had done minimal damage and taxis ran. Climbing into a cab, he showed the driver the card Matt had given him.

  “Sí, señor.” The driver streaked through breakneck traffic, oblivious to stop signs.

  Spine stiff, Tony eyed both sides of the street. Business as usual. No one stared. No one pointed at the man on the lam. Is this the way all fugitives felt?

  Every throb of his pulse threatened to snap the facade of control and unleash panic. His Des in the hands of a man like El Jaguar. Tony shut down his imagination. He’d be no good to his wife if he broke. He spun the pilot’s business card between his thumb and forefinger.

  Leave the country? Not hardly. He had one destination. The Yucatán jungle. And Desi’s wild hunch about the underground passage from the Chichén Itzá cenote had better be right. Because if he couldn’t find El Jaguar’s jungle lair, he might as well let the federales bury him in their deepest dungeon and throw away the key.

  Tony ended the tale, and Stevo’s long, low whistle sounded in his ear.

  “You sure do trouble up good, pard.” The man paused and cleared his throat. “But you know Desi is awfully good at taking care of herself, right?”

  Tony took a deep breath laden with exhaust fumes and people smells. “What I know is she keeps her angels scrambling. I have to find my wife.”

  “Based on a thread of a lead?” Stevo snorted. “Why are you on the phone with me? You need to let the office know what’s going on.”

  “No!” Tony’s shout turned heads. “They’ll tell me to turn myself in,” he continued in a more moderate tone. “But I need someone in the States to know the story. Besides, you’ll pray.”

  “You can count on me for that. But don’t even suggest keeping this from your mom. You need her prayer group in on the act.”

  Tony sighed. “Agreed.”

  “And I’m gonna call Polanski anyway.”

  “I expected no less. I’m sure she’ll notify Cooke, and he’ll bellow the roof down for my scalp. But if I don’t talk to him, I won’t be forced to disobey a direct order.”

  “Just listen close for directions from the Big Guy. You’ll need all the help you can get.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Tony hung up, rubbing his shoulder. Would he even be able to handle what he found if—no, when he located Desi?

  Twenty-Seven

  Tony swam deeper into the cenote at Chichén Itzá, shoulder throbbing with every stroke. Probably a good thing to stay active, or that king-sized beauty of a bruise would stiffen. Light from the lamp on his forehead played along crevices, but in the murky water everything seemed distorted and tinted with green.

  There!

  He stuck his hand into an opening, but his fingers met stone. Another false hope. He moved on, blood pounding in his ears, lungs craving air.

  Panic welled and his chest muscles tightened. He knew this sensation. Trapped in a liquid nightmare. No way out. Drowning. Can’t—Don’t think bad thoughts. Tony headed upward toward dawn’s light. He broke the surface and hauled in air.

  He’d been diving since 3:00 a.m. when he snuck onto the property. He couldn’t go down again. Wouldn’t.

  Had to.

  Soon workers would arrive for their shifts, and he’d have to hide until evening. Too long for Desi to wait when she needed him yesterday.

  “¡Hola, gringo!” The shout came from above.

  A uniformed state cop stared down at him. The judicial pulled out his gun. Tony gasped in air and dived. His last chance. If he didn’t find the passage, he might as well not come up.

  Pain stung his arm, and the water went pink in the area of his bicep. The officer had good aim. Tony changed trajectory and rammed the wall before he could stop.

  He went still. A mild current pulled at him near his flippers. He moved down, and an opening gaped before him. He would have shouted if he could.

  Tony plunged through. Walls hugged him as he forged on…and on. His flipper strokes weakened. Blackness edged his vision. Lethargy stole his thoughts. Part of him acknowledged the tunnel had widened. He drifted upward, and his snorkel tugged. That meant something.

  Oh, yeah. Surface.

  Tony blew out the little carbon dioxide left in his lungs then chanced a breath—his last if water entered. Air gurgled through the poorly cleared snorkel and teased his lungs. Fighting the need to choke, Tony blew again then inhaled pure, blessed O2. He lifted his head but hit rock.

  Okay, he’d found a couple of inches of air at the top of the tunnel. Hopefully, it’d last until he found where the underground stream came out. Greybeck must be Hercules to swim this tunnel with no snorkel or flippers, but then the guy already knew where the opening was and hadn’t wasted most of the oxygen in his lungs looking for it.

  The stream level dropped, and his head came out of the water, but the light beam dimmed. Great time to lose the battery. The water went shallow, and he crawled. The light winked out, and he moved on in the dark, the sound of his breathing magnified by sightlessness.

  Unh!

  His head hit something solid. Tony sat back, rubbing his noggin. He reached upward and found ceiling. To one side he touched a wall. A wave in the other direction met open air. He crawled on dry rock at a gentle upward slope, and then reached a crest and started down.

  A rushing sound came from up ahead. More water. An underground river must join this passage from another direction.

  Tony stopped. Trusting himself to this new water source could be fatal. He might have missed a passage in the dark—one that Greybeck knew about but he didn’t. That was a big maybe. He could waste a lot of time backtracking to find something that didn’t exist.

  Big breath and full speed ahead.

  The rush became a roar, spray splashed in his face, and then the stream snatched him, tumbled him, threw him. He burst into open air, flipped, and rocketed downward.

  Tony hit water headfirst. Pain stabbed his sinuses. He went deep, fought for control, and swam toward the light above. His head broke the surface.

  Holy mackerel!

  Water sparkled—a vast, underground lake that seemed to have no end. The walls glittered. What? How? The light must come from somewhere.

  He looked up. A wide beam speared from an opening in the cave roof. He followed it to a patch of shore. An odd-shaped craft rested on the sand. Tony swam toward it.

  He splashed out of the water and then stared at the gray tube as tall as he was and twice as long. Submersible—miniature submarine. The river probably flowed all the way to the Atlantic. This baby could move a lot of drugs, antiquities, or people. Intriguing, but the ladder built into the far wall interested him more right now. The rungs led up to the hole in the top of the cave. Dollars to donuts the opening wasn’t far from El Jaguar’s lair…and Desi.

  He removed his flippers, then stripped off snorkel, mask, and wet suit pants. The dry pack at his waist contained the gun and clip taken from Peña, chinos, a shirt, and tennis shoes. He tore a strip from the bottom of his shirt and bound the wound on his bicep. He’d ha
ve another scar to add to his collection. Nice souvenir of his swim in the ancient cenote. He changed, slipped the Beretta into his waistband, stuck the clip in his pocket, and started up the ladder.

  Scents of rotting undergrowth and exotic flowers carried to his nostrils. He poked his head above ground and scanned the forest. No guards in evidence. He’d have to chance it.

  Tony scrambled out of the hole and sprinted to the tree line. A faint path caught his eye, and he moved at a slow trot over matted grasses. A large animal—horse or mule—had left dried droppings here and there.

  The scent of cigarette smoke alerted him to human presence. Tony halted. No cry of alarm sounded. He slipped into the forest, placing each foot as if he trod on rotting boards. Where are you, gangsta? In the jungle, the red flare of an inhaled cigarette answered him.

  Ten feet away, a man leaned against a tree, M16 rifle cradled in the crook of an arm. His gaze was on the path, but the slouched shoulders and bent knee screamed boredom.

  Tony eased behind a tree trunk, stooped, and picked up a small rock. A quick toss and the stone thumped onto the path.

  The guard jerked to attention and tossed away his cigarette. “¿Quien está?”A simple enough Spanish phrase that Tony understood. “Who is there?” He chucked another stone. The guard rushed forward in a crouch, teeth bared.

  Tony rammed him from behind, and the guard sprawled to the ground. Knees buried in the man’s back, Tony brought the butt of the Beretta down on the back of the guards head. A melon-crunch sounded, and the man went limp, but still breathing. Using the guard’s belt, Tony bound the man’s hands behind his back, then pulled off his pants and secured his feet. A strip from the downed gang member’s shirt provided a gag.

  Tony grabbed the guards rifle, slung the strap around his shoulder, and continued along the path. A mule’s bray brought him up short. He crouched and hugged the tree line as he crept forward. The forest thinned and gave way to empty sky. Tony got down on his belly and army-crawled over rock to the edge of a cliff.

  About thirty feet below, a corral held a dozen mules. A man forked hay from a stack outside the corral into a feed bin inside the enclosure. The mules crowded in. A second man stepped out of what must be a storage shed and called to the first in a tongue that was not Spanish. Mayan? The first guy jabbed his pitchfork into the haystack and followed the second one down a path past a wooden building with a moss-covered, sheet-metal roof. A tall antenna jabbed from the peak of the roof. Communications device? Tony’s heart rate quickened.

  The men disappeared into the forest. Tony backed away from the cliff’s edge and stood. The stony ground didn’t betray a path like the grass had. He’d have to guess which direction led to the way down. He turned right, but after a few paces his belly knotted like when God was telling him he’d taken a wrong turn. Okay, left then. Soon the slope pitched downward, and trampled grasses revealed he was on the right track. Thank You, Lord.

  The ground leveled, and the path veered toward the drop-off where a winding track angled toward the ground below. Except for the mules, no sound or movement came from the area. He hustled down and loped to the rear of the metal-roofed building. The structure had no windows. No way to tell what or who was inside.

  He peered around the corner. Insects buzzed and grass waved. Beretta held close to his chest, muzzle upward, Tony crept forward in the shade of the building. He hardly breathed as his ears strained for any human sound. A few more feet and he came to a door. Back pressed against the wall, he tried the knob. It turned. He let out a long, silent exhale.

  Either someone was in there, or these gangsters had an open-door policy. This was the sort of building where they’d store valuables— things or people. Maybe Desi was locked in some miserable crate. Blood burned through his veins.

  He cracked open the door. No voices, but rustling, followed by a grunt, and then hammering. Tony slipped in the door under cover of the noise. Wooden crates varying from microwave to medium television size lined freestanding shelves. Doubtful if the boxes contained appliances, but neither could they contain human beings. Someone was packing for a trip.

  The dim lighting and the shelves didn’t allow him to see the source of the noise. Someone yelped, and the banging abruptly quit, followed by a curse in Spanish. One man. No evidence of other human presence, but no reason to think Desi couldn’t be here.

  Tony eased across the dirt floor. The hammering started again, and he moved boldly. The door banged open, and Tony darted behind a shelf, heart thumping.

  “Luis,” someone called, and the hammering ceased. The man at the door barked words.

  Tony understood the words El Jaguar and “¡ándale, apúrate!”—come on, hurry up. He swallowed frustration at his poor command of the language. A man, presumably Luis, moved into Tony’s line of sight. Both men went out the door, and it slammed shut. A key rattled in the lock, then silence.

  Moving on, Tony came to a half-constructed crate with a hammer and a can of nails on the floor beside it. A groan brought his head around.

  His scalp prickled. Desi? But that was no feminine moan. Tony inched forward. His gaze passed over a ham radio on a table against the wall—the reason for the roof antenna—and then landed on a barred cage. A man knelt inside an area too small to stand in or stretch out.

  Tony moved closer. The prisoner’s face was a mass of bruises. One eye was swollen shut, and dried blood crusted a cheek. Around his neck hung Desi’s medallion. “Esteban Corona?”

  “Sí. And you are?” The man spoke in English thickened by his puffy mouth.

  “Tony Lucano. Desiree’s husband.”

  Corona gripped the bars. “Is she with you?”

  “She’s here, but not with me.”

  “You must get her away.”

  “That’s the plan. I’ll let you out first.” Tony tugged the heavy padlock on the door.

  “The key is over there.” Corona pointed to a wall rack that held a set of keys.

  Moments later, Tony helped the aide crawl out of the cage. The man swayed, and Tony supported him to the chair by the radio. “You know how to work one of these things?”

  Corona smiled, or rather, the less swollen side of his mouth did. “I had a set as a boy.”

  “Technology’s changed, but see if you can figure this out and call for help.”

  “Where are we?” Corona’s one open eye blinked up at him.

  “A few miles from Chichén Itzá. That’s the best I know. They’ll search by air. Tell them to watch for a corral full of mules, plus a couple of buildings in a clearing. I figure the rest of the camp is nearby and probably appears to be a primitive Mayan village.”

  “Sí. This I have seen. You will find the village a few hundred yards up the path.” Corona flicked the On button. Lights blinked. “Battery powered. I can do this.”

  “Send your transmission and get out of here. Crawl if you have to, and hide in the forest.”

  The aide grabbed Tony’s wrist. “El Jaguar is Fernando Vidal, a family enemy.” Corona touched the medallion on his chest. “This is a symbol of our mutual shame, so I could not bring myself to claim it, intending to leave the past buried. Unfortunately, Vidal has chosen the course of vengeance. I heard him and his son Salvador talking. They plan to take most of these artifacts, but leave the rest to be found with my dead body. It is to seem like I was El Jaguar, and a power struggle within the gang led to my death. Salvador is an officer with the Mérida policía. He will make sure the investigation leads to such a conclusion.”

  Tony snorted. “Clever, but an intragang war leaves more than the outgoing leader dead.”

  “Vidal and his son, the turncoat officer, are going to shoot some, maybe all of the others in the village.”

  Tony’s gut roiled. Including Desi? “I need to get my wife.”

  Corona inclined his head. “Vaya con Dios.”

  Tony jerked a nod and strode for the door. He turned the dead-bolt latch and peered outside. The way was clear outside, and Tony h
ustled up the path the mule handlers had taken. I’m close, Des. Can you feel me?

  Limbs heavy, mind sluggish, Desiree made herself take a bite of the eggs and ham Juanita set before her. Thankfully, she was the only one at the table. She didn’t even want to know where everyone else was. Well, she did, but only so she could avoid them.

  The food tasted good on the tongue but sat poorly in her stomach. She had to eat. She’d need the strength for—what? No escape plan had miraculously materialized in the sleepless hours of the night. But murderous fantasies galore? Those she could do.

  Vidal could have used his influence to help the Maya, but he corrupted their youth instead. He preyed upon the poor, Mayan and Hispanic. He killed. He stole. He deceived. He lied. Desi went still with her fork stabbed into a piece of ham.

  So why did she believe him when he claimed Tony was dead?

  Tingles washed down her body. Didn’t she have more faith in God’s protection than that? She set the fork on the plate. Bad things happened to believers. She should know. Her father was murdered. Her home had been blown sky high. Tony lost a spleen and might lose his job.

  But he beat the odds and lived through the accident. No way did he survive the worst nature could dish out, and then fall victim to the schemes of a dirt-sucking worm. Desi’s tuffed a bite into her mouth and chewed like she was taking a chunk out of Vidal’s hide.

  Tony, you’re alive, and you’re coming for me. I’m going to believe that until I see you or gasp my dying breath.

  Ravenous, she gobbled the rest of her breakfast. Juanita beamed over the clean plate.

  From his perch on a tree limb several yards up a hillside, Tony studied the village. Many huts and trees covered the grounds. Unlikely an aircraft could land here. Probably the reason for the mules. The inaccessibility made the village less suspect for anyone looking for El Jaguar. Who would guess the transport lay underground?

  Men in jeans and T-shirts moved around, stowing gear in packs. Only a few were armed. One of the gunmen was a tall, lean man who sent people scurrying wherever he went. Salvador?