“Thanks, but no. It’d be too hard to find. And anyway, Abuelo needs to be covered up. I need to be the one to do that.”
We enter the tiny house. The smell of decay reminds us of the grisly scene ahead.
Only a few steps are needed to bring the horrible sight into view. The kitchen light is still on from my last visit. Abuelo’s skin has transformed to a pale grey color, and the blood on his neck and the surrounding kitchen floor has dried.
A pressure builds in my chest, but tears don’t come—not yet. I can’t afford to let myself go until Oscar is free again.
I didn’t realize Miguel left my side until he returns with a sheet, presumably one from the house’s only bedroom.
“Here,” he says, handing it to me.
Kneeling down, I touch my hand to Abuelo’s silver-streaked hair, then drape the cloth over his body. As soon as Oscar is safe, I’ll arrange for his burial.
Now to return our attention to the living.
Rising, I move to the pantry and pull out the faded leather journal.
“What’s that?” asks Carlos.
I tuck the journal under my arm. “The key to rescuing Oscar.”
CHAPTER 33
Before we leave, we unlock the storage shed behind Abuelo’s house. We each grab a coa and machete and stuff them in the ever-present canvas bag on the back of the tow truck.
Rather than returning to Carlos’ garage, where the mechanics will be arriving in a few hours, we head to his house, an older but pleasant brick structure on the outskirts of town.
As we dismount from the tow truck, Carlos glances back at it. “I hope the boys at the shop aren’t going to need this today.”
“You’re the boss, right?” asks Miguel.
“Yeah. But I hate to do anything to draw attention…not while we’re trying to keep a low profile. But it’s my only vehicle besides my bike, which won’t hold all three of us.”
Hunger and fatigue has begun to hit all of us—hard.
We trudge inside and sink into chairs surrounding a small table. While Carlos breaks out some leftover rice and chicken, I survey his place. After all these years, this is the first time I’ve been here.
Carlos serves up three impromptu plates, and we all dig in.
I haven’t finished eating when a wave of drowsiness washes over me and grows stronger with every bite. As much as I want to start crafting a rescue plan, I know we have to sleep first, if only for a little while. We’re no good to Oscar if we can’t think straight. Besides, we’ve already agreed that the best time to strike will be at night, using the dark to hide our approach. That gives us at least fifteen hours, give or take, to craft a plan before we strike.
After scooping up the last bite, I step into the sala and stretch out on Carlos’ beige sofa. At first, a torrent of thoughts and emotions tumble across my mind, threatening to keep me awake. But before a handful of minutes have passed, exhaustion overtakes me, and I drift to sleep.
A rooster’s call snaps me out of my slumber. Bits of dreams—hazy fragments of a flight through agave fields and the roar of gunfire—burst into my consciousness like fireworks but fade just as quickly.
I raise myself onto my elbows. Mona, Carlos’ cat, lies nestled at the foot of the couch. Carlos himself is nowhere to be seen—probably asleep in his room. Miguel is snoozing, leaning backwards in an overstuffed armchair that looks to be older than me.
The rooster crows again. I look for my phone, panicking for a second when I can’t find it.
There it is, charging over by the table. One of the men must have plugged in it after I fell asleep.
After collecting my phone, I tiptoe over to the kitchen table. Taking a seat, I crack open Abuelo’s book and flip it to the back cover.
Yes! Just as I remembered. I remove a yellowed document and unfold it.
“What’s that?” asks Miguel from over my shoulder.
He laughs as I nearly jump out of my chair.
“Don’t scare me like that!”
“Sorry,” he says, his smirk looking anything but apologetic. “But really, what is that?”
“The blueprint to the distillery.”
“No shit? Really?”
Before I can answer, Carlos emerges from his bedroom, scratching his head. “Morning, guys.”
“Morning, Carlos,” says Miguel. “Look, Gaby has the blueprints to her abuelo’s distillery.”
“For real?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I was thinking we could use them to plan a route through the building. There’s not many of us, so we each need to know what the others are going to be doing.”
“Absolutely,” says Carlos. He looks around the kitchen. “Let me put together something to eat, and we’ll check it out while we eat.”
Ten minutes later, we’re munching on scrambled eggs and cheese on tortillas with the blueprints spread out in the middle of the table.
I smooth out the map. “The building is laid out like every other tequila distillery—laid out according to each step in the process. The ovens are out here on the eastern side of the building,” I say, pointing to the side of the distillery opposite from the main entrance I used previously. “Next to the ovens is the cooking chamber and then the fermentation room. Next is the distillation room, then finally the aging room. After that is the hallway I came down.”
“Not to ask a dumb question,” says Miguel, “but once we get in there, where do we go? We don’t know where Volante’s holding Oscar.”
“Probably in with the drugs,” says Carlos. “That’s where he’ll have most of his armed men, guarding it.”
“You don’t think he’d use one of the smaller rooms as a cell,” I ask, “so his men don’t have the distraction?”
“It’s possible. But if I were him, I’d keep Oscar with the drugs. That way, he could guard Oscar and his stash with the same men.”
“That would mean he’s in the aging room.” I study the blueprint. “To reach it, we’ll need to pass through either the main entrance—where I came in the other night—or the cooking and fermentation rooms. And neither way will be easy.”
“Why?”
I point to the building’s western edge. “These are the main doors, where I entered two nights ago.” I run my finger along a hallway. “This is the passage I went down.” My finger stops where the hallway widens into the aging room, the largest space in the structure. “This is where I saw the crates of coke…and the first two narcos. It’s a huge area. Plenty of room to put in twenty guards if you wanted.”
Carlos grunts. “And due to the drugs, it’ll probably be the most heavily guarded.”
“Like I said, getting there is going to be tricky,” I say, examining the architectural plans again. “There’s no other access to the rest of the distillery except through those cooking and fermentation rooms, except the main entrance and these two side entrances.” I point to the building’s eastern side. “And you can see the padlocks on those doors from the agave field. So to reach the aging room, we’ll somehow have to sneak through the main entrance, which you know is going to be heavily guarded, too.”
“If that’s where we need to go, then that’s where we’ll go,” says Miguel, his jaw set.
Is this the same amigo I’ve known most of my life? Or perhaps I’m only now getting to know him. Sometimes it takes a crisis to recognize a person’s true character, and I appreciate that of my friend as never before.
Carlos rubs his chin, deep in thought.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m thinking…no matter what plan we make now, we’ll still have to work our way around Volante’s people when we’re in there. Hell, we may have to come up with a new plan on the fly. That could be tough. It’d be easy to get confused navigating through there, especially in the dark. Why don’t we think of the distillery as a clock? That would put this main entrance—the one Gaby entered the other night—at the nine o’clock position.”
“I like it,” I respond. “We’ll have an ea
sier time understanding each other.”
Miguel bobs his head in agreement. “So tomorrow night, we enter the distillery at the same entrance Gaby used, the one at the nine o’clock position?”
“I think that’s our only choice,” I say. An idea pops into my head. I point to the blueprints again. “Although, this might be better…”
We discuss my alternate entry plan and agree to use it.
Carlos rubs his chin. “But first we have to figure out how to get even that far. You know Volante’s going to post sentries outside the building to keep his drugs safe. Our first step will be getting past those guys.”
We spend the next hour developing a strategy for approaching and penetrating the building.
The plan makes perfect sense, but I can’t shake a feeling of unease. Long ago, I heard an old soldier say that military plans are only good until the moment you hit the battlefield, and then they all change. Will that happen to us? And if so, will we be able to improvise our way through dozens of ruthless narcos?
In twelve hours, we’ll find out.
CHAPTER 34
We opt to stay in Carlos’ house all day. Better to stay out of sight and, as far as Volante’s crew is concerned, out of mind.
Carlos arranges the needed supplies in the bed of his tow truck, ensuring all is ready. After that, we spend the remainder of the day in restless anticipation. I know I should use the time to catch a bit more shuteye, but I’m too wound up to nod off. So instead I study the distillery’s blueprints, trying to match up its faded blue lines with the gloomy interior I witnessed firsthand two days ago.
Too bad I never made it past the aging room. It would’ve been helpful to have gotten a closer look at the rooms beyond it. It’s weird…a band of lawless drug-runners know my own family’s building better than I do.
We eat lunch. No one talks much. We’re each lost in the chamber of our own thoughts.
After lunch, I return to the blueprints, while Miguel turns on the TV and pretends he’s paying attention to it. But I can tell his mind is far away. His face reveals it: not scared, but determined…in a way I never witnessed in him before.
Over the course of the afternoon, a beam of sunlight pouring down from the kitchen window creeps across the tile floor.
At five o’clock, we eat a light dinner—not that we’re hungry. Anticipation has dampened our appetites. But we know we’ll need the energy later.
“Time to roll,” says Carlos, eyeing his old Timex.
At last! We all know the cover of dark affords the best chance of success, but waiting for the evening to come was excruciating. At least now we can do something.
“Works for me,” I say, rising.
Carlos rummages around in his pantry. “Dammit! I’m out of water.”
“Can’t we stop at Oxxo?” I ask. “It’s on the way.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to. We can’t afford to get dehydrated before we even get started.”
We pile into the tow truck and rattle into town. Carlos pulls to a stop in the parking lot of our local convenience store.
“It might look weird if we all go in together,” I say. “It’s not like we’re regular shopping buddies. Why don’t you give me the money and I’ll buy a few bottles?”
“Good idea,” says Carlos. He hands across a few banknotes and I slide out of the cab.
Why does it feel like every attempt to stay inconspicuous has the opposite effect? I keep my head down and scurry inside the store.
It takes only a minute to grab a six-pack of water bottles and head for the cash register. I’m walking down an aisle with chips on one side and candy bars on the other when a disheveled man centers himself in the space and stops, facing me.
“I thought it was you,” he says.
I look closer. It’s Scarface, the Sinaloa narco who duked it out with Volante’s men at Tequila Volcano last night!
I try to keep my cool. Cocking my head, I ask, “Do I know you?”
“Nice try, puta. But you can’t fool me. I know who you are.” His drops his gaze downward for a second, then returns it to me. “Why don’t we talk out back?”
I follow the path of his eyes and spot the dark matte finish of a handgun’s barrel protruding from underneath a folded newspaper. Looks like I don’t have a choice. Narcos have killed in places more public than a convenience store. That’s why people fear them: their utter disregard for human life.
“All right,” I say, setting the water on the floor and heading the direction he’s pointing. “Easy. I’m going.”
He opens a door at the rear of the building marked Employees Only.
“After you,” he says, motioning with the newspaper.
“Hey,” yells the employee from the register, “you can’t go through—”
Scarface turns and glares at the teenager. The kid catches the maniacal gleam in the narco’s eye and stops mid-sentence.
I pass through the doorway into a grimy back alley where garbage has spilled from an overripe dumpster. The backsides of a dozen small businesses form this lane. At this hour, no one occupied it but me and the psycho gangster.
Scarface tosses down the newspaper and trains the handgun on me. “You look surprised to see me. Well, I heard The Brotherhood was in this area. So I came here…and found you.”
“Wait…you think I’m with those guys?”
“Don’t try to deny it, chica. You think I’m gonna believe you just happen to be in the same shithole town as those guys?”
“Look, I’m not who you think I am—” I begin.
“Shut up! I know who you are. Did you know my amigo died at the volcano?” He advances a step.
“I’m sorry about that, but I’m not the one who killed him.” I take a step backwards.
“Your friends did. It’s the same thing.” He takes another step forward.
“They’re not my friends. I thought The Brotherhood kidnapped my brother. I was there to get him back.”
“You think I’m stupid?” snarls the thug, flecks of spittle flying from his lips. “There wasn’t anyone else there. You tried to distract me so your Brotherhood friends could take me down.”
“That’s not true.”
“Shut up!” He raises the handgun to shoulder level. “You’re dead.” His eyes drop to my chest. “But first I’m gonna have a little fun. Be a shame to waste a nice piece of ass like yours.”
My mind races. How to escape?
The punk takes another step forward, laughing as I take one back.
Seduction won’t work with this guy. He’s on a power trip, getting a kick out of my fear. A plan begins to coalesce in my mind.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, laying on the fear in my voice.
“You know what I want, Little Mama. Take off your shirt.”
He takes another step towards me. This time I resist my impulse to step backwards and instead hold my ground.
I fumble with the buttons on the long-sleeve shirt I wear to protect myself from the agave fields’ glaring sun and prickly leaves.
Scarface takes another step towards me, practically licking his chops. As he begins to grow impatient with my efforts, I finish the last button and strip off my shirt.
“Now your pants.”
Still holding the shirt, I reach toward my jeans zipper.
Reaching down towards his own pants, he takes another step forward, closing the gap between us to a mere half meter.
I throw my shirt into his face and snap off a front kick into his solar plexus—simple but effective…and powerful.
He staggers backwards, his pistol clattering to the concrete as he holds both hands to his stomach and gasps for breath.
No time to waste.
I land a roundhouse kick to his face, sending him crashing to the street. He groans in agony as blood leaks from an abrasion on his jaw.
I hesitate. Leave now or finish the guy off?
The prone figure stops groaning and makes an unexpected roll towards the nearby pistol. Hi
s hand is closing on the grip when I execute a knifehand strike to his Adam’s apple.
The weapon dribbles out of his still fingers. His entire body goes limp. I’m not sure if he’s dead, and frankly I don’t care.
Question answered: finish the guy off. This encounter has been a good reminder: I have to show as little mercy to the narcos as they show their victims. It’s the only way we have a chance of saving Oscar.
I retrieve the pistol and tuck it into my rear waistband, then stand with hands on hips, waiting for the rush of adrenaline to recede and my heart rate to slow.
I shake my head. How did I get narcos from two different cartels pissed at me? I just want to get my brother back.
After a half minute, I stoop to the ground to retrieve my crumpled shirt. The trembling of my fingers renders rebuttoning the shirt difficult, but I manage to finish the job, leaving it untucked to conceal the pistol.
After a futile attempt to straighten my hair, I return to the Oxxo through the back door.
The clerk stares at me in disbelief.
Saying nothing, I pick up the abandoned six-pack of water, pay for it, and head back to the tow truck.
I pass the water to Miguel, then climb in and resume my seat between the men.
“What took you so long?” asks Miguel. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “I ran into an old friend.”
“Are you sweating?” he presses.
“Yeah. He wanted to talk in private, so we went out back for a minute. But don’t worry. We’re not running late.”
Miguel shrugs and seems to forget the matter.
Good. We’re all jumpy enough. No point in adding to his stress by telling him what just went down. Better to keep his focus on rescuing my brother rather than worrying about a past event—‘cause in a few minutes, we’ll need all the concentration we can muster.
CHAPTER 35
Traveling along Capilla de Guadalupe’s main drive, Carlos continues past the lane leading to my family’s property and instead turns onto a dirt path another kilometer down the road.
We bump along loose soil for a minute, then pull over among an abandoned cluster of wooden shacks, relics from the time seasonal workers slept out in these fields.
The Rebel of Goza Page 9