The border Lords ch-4

by T. Jefferson Parker

  When the dishes were cleared Mateo lit an American Camel and spoke in Spanish.

  — Carlos is worried about his houses in San Ysidro and Yuma, Mateo hissed softly.

  — My houses.

  — He is worried that there was no message from the Zetas. No warning to abandon our hold on Buenavista. No mutilation. Why would the Gulf Cartel assassinate three of our sicarios and not take credit for it?

  — Now I am supposed to answer for the Zetas?

  — You answer me.

  — I'll answer you: The Gulf Cartel has someone inside your organization. That's the only explanation. It's the trouble with any organization. That's why I wasn't so sure about this whole thing when you people first came after me.

  Mateo's face was a dark, angular mask, too fixed to read. Ozburn knew that Mateo "El Gordo" Leya had just last week made the United States's Kingpins list, which put a government price on his head. This of course was a matter of pride among the higher narcos. Maybe it's gone to his head, thought Ozburn: Mateo did seem a bit more scornful than usual.

  — We need to know that your houses are safe for our people.

  — I need to know that your people are safe for my houses. I paid over two hundred grand each for those dumps!

  — Carlos needs to know.

  — Mateo, you guys figure it out. And I'll tell you both this: If my houses in San Ysidro or Yuma get hit, I'm out of this business. And you guys have one bigass problem.

  — We are not the problem, Mateo said with a tone of finality. He sat back and gave Ozburn that sleepy look again.

  Ozburn's anger spiked fast. He'd always had a temper, but for the last couple of months it had been growing steadily worse. The more he tried to contain it, the faster and harder it hit. And the more fun it was to just let it rip.

  He looked out at the heaving, gray Pacific and waited for the anger to pass before he spoke again. He had bigger fish to fry than three dead sicarios and a re-grout job on the bloody travertine.

  — I want to buy some of those Love 32s your people carry.

  Mateo gave him a glassy smile.

  — Only Carlos has the Love 32s, he said.

  — You told me he'd think about selling me some. Tell him I'm ready. I want one hundred of them.

  — Very expensive.

  — I've got a lot of money.

  — Only Carlos has those guns.

  — I heard that he has them made right here in Mexico.

  Mateo stared at him blankly.

  — By an American gunmaker. Can you imagine that, Mateo? An American gunmaker operating a secret factory south of the border? A factory protected by the North Baja Cartel? I'm in the business of guns. I hear these things, Mateo. I don't make them up.

  Ozburn grinned. In fact, he was making part of it up. He knew for a fact that Blowdown had come that close to busting Ron Pace, a young California gunmaker, last year. Sean had worked that operation. But Pace had gotten lucky and his thousand pistols had made their way south to Mexico and into the hands of Herredia's sicarios. He knew also that Pace and his pretty partner in crime had vanished from the U.S.A. So Ozburn wondered if Pace might be under the wing of Herredia, possibly even making guns for him. Guns were more valuable than gold in Mexico because you couldn't get them legally. The fact that Mateo would have this conversation about the possible sale of Love 32s told Ozburn that such a thing was very, very possible.

  Mateo cracked a rare smile. His teeth were large and dilapidated and the bicuspids were rimmed with gold.

  — They are made by the devil in hell, just for us.

  — See, I was right.

  — Maybe some truth.

  — Tell Carlos I want to buy a hundred of them and I don't expect them to be free. I can move them and make some good bucks if the price is right. Because I'll tell you something, Mateo-at the rate your killers are getting themselves killed in my houses, I need a new profit center.

  Mateo's smile brought another quick ripple of fury to Ozburn's brain. He'd benched three hundred seventy pounds in the gym a week ago and he wondered how it would feel to strangle bare-handed the sinewy Sinaloan. Good indeed. But he'd have to settle for less right at the moment.

  So he leveled his pale blue eyes on Mateo and growled at him. It was a short, supple snarl. His lips were back and his teeth were sudsed with saliva.

  Mateo smiled sleepily but looked toward his gunmen near the beer cooler. They ambled over. From under the table unfurled Daisy, her back bristling, her head down and teeth bared at them.

  One of them swung his coat back to draw his sidearm, and Ozburn launched. He was six feet four and weighed two hundred forty pounds but he was fast as a thought. He had his autoloader pressed to the man's forehead before the sicario could get his gun up, and his free hand placed around the throat of the gunman beside him.

  Ozburn growled again, this time at Daisy, and she dropped her tail and hung her head and slunk back under the table. Then Ozburn lowered his gun and took his hand off the man's neck.

  — You guys sure get jumpy after a few beers. Sorry about the safe house shoot-up but that's your problem, amigos, not mine. I'm not taking the rap for that or anything else the North Baja Cartel brings upon itself. Tell Carlos I won't charge him a cleaning fee for my messed-up home. Tell Carlos anytime he wants to pull his boys out of San Ysidro and Yuma, that's fine with me. I'll get more rent on the open market, and no brains in my nice clean kitchens. And tell Carlos I want to buy a hundred of those Love 32s.

  He growled again, just a quick one, just a snarl, then clicked his tongue, and Daisy bounded out from under the table and led the way to the waiting car and Leftwich. Ozburn watched the rugged hills bounce past. He felt jacked up and itching for Seliah, no surprise there. Leftwich offered him the ancient, battered silver flask and Ozburn took a gulp of the powerful blend. Leftwich claimed to have invented it at seminary.

  "How did it go, Sean?"

  "Mateo's suspicious but he can't put me at the safe house. And he'll have to tell Herredia I want the guns."

  "Perfect."

  Ozburn felt the drink melt down into him. It tasted of smoky tequila with a soft undertone that reminded him of honeydew melon. Woody and clean and just a little sweet. It was always cool, which was odd, considering the flask rode in the priest's jacket pocket pretty much twenty-four/seven. Ozburn suspected cucumbers because of their unique thermal properties. Leftwich told him there were eight ingredients in it but wouldn't tell him what they were.

  "My bones ache. My balls ache. I feel like biting people. I still hear mice walking two rooms away and I can hardly gag down a glass of clean water. Ever since I met you I've been falling apart, Joe."

  Leftwich nipped, then offered the flask, and Sean drank again. "But coming together, too, wouldn't you say? Strong as a horse and your eyesight is keen and you're accomplishing something meaningful in your life. And I'll bet you and Seliah are making some very powerful love."

  "You don't talk about her."

  "I happen to be very fond of her."

  "She wasn't too happy about you drinking me under the table in Costa Rica."

  "You drank you under the table in Costa Rica."

  Ozburn glanced at the padre. Joe wore his usual black shirt and the stiff white collar. He wondered how the man could stay comfortable in those clothes all day, every day, in the border heat and dust. "You coming to Mulege or not?"

  "No, thank you, Sean. The Lord's work awaits me in L.A." Five hours later Ozburn climbed the stairs to the Mulege apartment with one young gunman ahead of him and one behind. The narcos seem to get younger every year, he thought. He carried a briefcase that had already been inspected by the lead boy, who had also thoroughly searched him for weapons. Ozburn was giddy with anticipation as he took the next step on his dark journey. Just a few days ago he had sent word out through one of his best informants to Benjamin Armenta, word that there were to be new machine pistols for sale, machine pistols with very special powers. And the Gulf Cartel had responded q
uickly to the news.

  The gunman knocked, and the door opened a moment later and Ozburn stepped inside. The apartment was poorly lit and smelled of cigarette smoke and chorizo and coffee. Ozburn thought it wasn't much of a place for a powerful crime clan. Hard times in the narco trade.

  Seated at a small kitchen table was a large man wearing a white guayabera shirt, jeans, boots and sunglasses. His face was pitted.

  "My name is Paco."

  "Gravas."

  The gunmen joined a third young man and now the three of them stood with their backs to the door. Kids, thought Ozburn. Sixty years of life between them. This is their future.

  Paco motioned to him. Ozburn set the briefcase on the table and opened it and turned it to face the big man like a jeweler displaying a watch in a case. Paco appeared to be staring at the Love 32, though Ozburn couldn't see his eyes. Ozburn had already converted it to full automatic fire, inserted the fifty-shot magazine, extended the telescoping butt rods and screwed the noise suppressor onto the end of the barrel. You only get to make one first impression, he thought.

  "This is the Love Thirty-two, Paco."

  The man lifted the gun in his big dark hand. His finger looked tight within the trigger guard and Ozburn wondered why they had to send a bear to test-fire a handgun.

  "You won't be disappointed. Those four boxes of ACP ammo are my gift to you. If you decide not to buy these guns, I trust that you'll get this one back to me. They run seventeen fifty a copy. Seventeen fifty."

  "We are not thieves."

  "No. You are some of the finest businessmen in all of Mexico."

  Paco racked the gun and aimed it at Ozburn and pulled the trigger. "Armenta will judge."

  "Fine with me. I'll await his decision. By the way, we can't make these things overnight. If he wants them soon, he'll have to let me know soon. And it's strictly American dollars, half up front and half when we're done. We don't deliver. You pick them up when and where we tell you to. You transport them. That's how it works in the gun biz."

  "I know how it works."

  "Nice meeting you."

  Ozburn turned and walked out, his heart beating fast and an ache in his throat. He flew back low, north across the sparkling Gulf of California, Betty casting her small, slow shadow upon the vast sea. He saw a pod of gray whales and watched them breach and blow. The coast was dotted with islands, some green and some stripped bare by goats. The secret of Mexican airspace was to stay low, under the radar. You didn't need to file a flight plan for short jaunts across the border. With no radio and no transponder, he was essentially invisible. If Mexican authorities got tough with him, he'd act like a dumbass gringo with no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there.

  He used a private runway outside of Calexico. The owner was an acquaintance and he'd given Ozburn permission. He still circled it his lucky three times, looking for signs of his ATF family, who were no doubt frantic to bring him in. But the strip was deserted and smooth, and Ozburn set Betty down short and sweet.

  He got out Daisy's kibble and poured some into her bowl and set the bowl under the wing of the plane. While she ate he watched the distant cars on I-8 and listened to the roar of the blood in his ears.

  They walked into town on dirt roads, Ozburn dead-reckoning his way in. Daisy acted as scout. Ozburn had his old Marine Corps duffel slung over his shoulder, pretty much everything on earth he might need in the coming days.

  At the motel he asked for a room upstairs in back, paid cash for one night. He walked across the mostly empty parking lot toward his room. Just a couple of weeks from now the snowbirds will be packing in here, Ozburn thought. He fondly remembered his mother and father, who had mounted many a family vacation in their Winnebago-four kids, six bikes, a dune buggy and always a dog or two. From Dallas, it was a long drive anywhere.

  In the motel room he checked his cell messages and downloaded the e-mails to his laptop.

  He read them, then wrote Seliah: From Sean Gravas [sGravas23@zephyr.net] Sent: Friday, October 14, 2011 10:02 p.m. To: Ozburn, Seliah Subject: If Dear Sel, If I could touch you I would. If I could see you I would. If I could tell you where I am and what I'm doing-I WOULD. Be STRONG for me and we will be together soon. Six years ago when I promised better or worse, it was a statement of fact, too. There is no power on EARTH or HEAVEN or HELL that can keep me from you when OUR TIME comes. Have faith in me as I have faith in you. Sean

  PS. Daisy says hello.

  PSS. Hi, Charlie-I assume you have Sel's password now?

  Ozburn paused, then sent the message. He knew the reference to Charlie was a breach of his cover story-if his North Baja Cartel "partners" were to get his laptop and read his outgoing mail, they might well wonder who the hell this Charlie was. Over my dead body, he thought. And screw Herredia. Screw his North Baja Cartel. Yes, I will screw them royally.

  He stripped down and turned on the shower. The sight of the water coming from the head brought a painful ache to his throat. Weird. He wondered if it was a delayed reaction to Mateo's veiled threats and the gunman's move to shoot Daisy. But neither of those things had bothered him at the time, and what a nice growl or two I gave them, he thought. He had been fighting the urge to growl for more than a week now, and tonight he'd just let it come.

  He stepped under the stream of falling water but he couldn't get the temperature right-first too hot, then too cold-then he realized it wasn't the temperature that was annoying him. It was the water itself. It was formless and threatening and suffocating. Eager to fill and penetrate. He shut the water off and lathered and shampooed, then turned it back on only long enough to rinse off. He shuddered as he dried, watching the liquid circle and slurp down the drain, his throat muscles on the verge of cramping. Last night the headache just about killed me, he thought. Now this. And Seliah going through the same shit I was, a couple of weeks back. What's happening?

  He got his vitamins and supplements out of the duffel and laid them out on the bathroom counter-packets of multiples, extra B complex, glucosamine and chondroitin, protein capsules, omega oils-all the things he'd sworn by since his diving days in college. He'd never really been sick a day in his life and he was pretty sure this was why. Now it seemed logical that these natural things would reduce the aching in his body and maybe even calm the frightening tangents of his mind. He counted out his usual dosage and choked them down with some tap water.

  He lay down on the bed and thought of Seliah, and after an hour the neck pain went away. He dozed. He awoke ferociously thirsty and he was able to drink. It was the most satisfying and delicious drink he had ever had.

  He tried to sleep but he couldn't. He breathed deeply and dangled a hand off the bedside to stroke Daisy's smooth black head.

  10

  Hood rose early to call the rest of the Desert Flyers about Sean Ozburn and his missing Piper Cub. He'd struck out last night; then it had gotten late. Now he drank coffee while he woke up, and the morning news out of L.A. droned on from the kitchen TV. Standing out on his patio, he saw the sun climbing slowly over the distant mountains. Hood was a sunrise man and this part of the morning always made him thankful.

  "Next, Bradley Jones, a young Los Angeles deputy on his very first patrol rescues a kidnapped boy and leaves three men dead in a Maywood shoot-out…"

  Hood's coffee cup stopped midway to his mouth. He went back inside and set down the cup and turned up the volume. The anchor-woman continued talking as Bradley Jones appeared on-screen, bloodied and dazed, walking out onto the porch of a house holding a boy.

  "Last night around ten fifteen two LASD patrol units responded to a silent alarm in unincorporated Maywood. Deputies Bradley Jones and Caroline Vega entered a residence and discovered a small boy, bound and gagged. A violent shoot-out followed. Three men were killed and Deputy Jones was seriously wounded. It was Jones's first patrol as a deputy. Now, you can see in this video that he is bleeding profusely. That's a potato peeler protruding from his chest. The deputy was attacked during the incident. An Amber A
lert had been issued yesterday afternoon for the boy, and the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department says he was kidnapped by narcotics traffickers who asked an undisclosed ransom. There is speculation that this little boy may have tripped that alarm himself. Here's what the deputies had to say to FOX's Theresa Brewer."

  Hood watched as Bradley talked to the reporter, handed the boy over to another LASD deputy, then sat down on the front porch and passed out. Then a fast-forward to Deputy Vega speaking to the reporter as she escorted the boy toward a cruiser. The news anchor went on to say that the dead men were yet to be identified and that Deputy Jones was in stable condition at County/USC Medical Center. The incident was being investigated by an LASD team.

  Hood smiled and took up his coffee again. He laughed quietly. He shook his head. He had known Bradley since the boy was sixteen. Back then he was a brash, strong kid who looked like he needed a little guidance in life. Hood had encouraged him toward law enforcement. But Hood had also won the affections of Bradley's mother, Suzanne, and Bradley had never forgiven him for that. Or for arresting her. Or for being there when she died.

  Suzanne's death had changed them both, but Bradley the most: He had sworn revenge on her young killer and taken it, Hood knew-though the murder remained unsolved. Bradley hadn't even been eighteen at the time.

  And he had still gone into law enforcement, as Hood had encouraged him.

  Now, on his first patrol, three men dead and a boy saved and Bradley a bloodied hero.

  A hero to some and a scourge to others, thought Hood. So much like his famous ancestor, the outlaw Joaquin Murrieta. So much like his mother. Hood had loved her in spite of all that. And in spite of all this he bore a grudging admiration for the audacity, smarts and luck of her son.

  He called a captain friend at LASD who said that Bradley had been released from County/USC.

  Next he called more of the Desert Flyers and finally came up with George. George owned a "clean little landing strip" near Calexico, and Sean had asked him a couple of weeks ago if he could use it. George said yes because he liked Sean, and he liked the idea that the ATF might get some use out of his humble runway. Hood got three names and numbers from George, all DF members who owned private airstrips. All three told Hood they'd given Sean clearance-two, maybe three weeks ago. Hood had chosen the landing strip closest to Buenavista and hoped for luck. Hood made the Calexico airstrip just before ten. No Betty. No planes at all. But he found fresh aircraft tire tracks and the kibble slopped around the imprint of a bowl left in the runway sand and the boot and dog prints leading down the dirt road toward town.