Blood Tide

by Graham Spence

  I sat, waiting for sunlight. There was nothing else to do. I knew I would die an awful death, so decided to take as many of the soldados with me as possible, saving the last shot for myself. I still had plenty of M4 ammo, thanks to pilfering the Sinaloan supplies. I also had the Glock, which I hadn’t used. That alone meant thirty-four bullets when my carbine ran dry. This, I vowed, would be an Alamo but on the Mexican side of the border.

  As the sun brightened, I realized that I had not been a victim of rotten luck. On the contrary, I was the beneficiary of insane good fortune. The hole which snagged my ankle was not some rotten root. It was a beautifully disguised coyote cave, covered by freak horizontal-growing bush that concealed it from above.

  I jabbed my rifle into the gap to make sure its rightful owner wasn’t having a siesta, then squeezed into the tiny den, just big enough to accommodate an average-sized human. I pulled the bush down, and was all but invisible. Maybe my tracks would give me away, but the scrub provided reasonably dense ground cover. I doubted many of the soldados, mostly crop-picking peons or from the cities’ ghettoes, would be expert trackers.

  I lay in the vile-smelling pit for the rest of the day. Take it from me, coyote scat is not cologne. At times, the Sinaloans were so close I could hear them talking. Footsteps stomped inches from the hole. I had my pistol out as it was too cramped to wield a rifle. But I knew if they pulled aside the shrub trapdoor to my burrow, I would be riddled with holes before I could confess my sins — which in itself would be a lengthy business.

  The topic of conversation never varied. All seemed bewildered that I had so utterly and totally disappeared. I strained to hear news of Carl and Teresa, but the focus was on me. That meant Carl had crossed the river, or was dead. Or both. They now wanted me.

  As darkness fell, I knew I had to move out. It was now my time to cross the border.

  I eased out of the coyote lair, almost screaming in agony. My ankle was far more damaged than I first thought. It was the size of a melon and burning hot. I tried to stand. I fell heavily. I had to get up, otherwise I would die.

  Using the M4 as a walking stick — just as Carl had done with a LMG when chased by ISIL in Syria almost two years ago — I hobbled forward.

  The pain was intolerable. My ankle was so shattered it could not bear any weight. There was only one way to cross into California. On my stomach.

  I started the agonizing crawl. My ruined ankle seemed to hook every stone, root, tree stump or fallen branch in Mexico. My mind was a blur of scorching torment.

  Still I persevered. If the narcos came looking, I was a sitting duck. In fact, such was the excruciating pain, I hoped they would find me. A bullet in my brain would bring blessed relief.

  I felt something press against the back of my neck. I knew it was a rifle. In fact, not a rifle, but a shotgun. I could feel both barrels like cold as ice circles on my skin.

  “Don’t move, amigo,” said the voice in Spanish.

  I passed out.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I WOKE WITH sun streaming through a faded lace curtain. An elderly Mexican stood over me as my eyes flickered open.

  Her face, framed by straight ash-gray hair, was as placid as a Madonna. I felt at peace as she placed a cool hand on my forehead.

  She left the room. I wanted to call her back. In my pain-addled state, she was my mother. I needed her desperately

  Then a man appeared in the doorway. He looked familiar, but everything was blurred.

  I screwed my eyes, wanting the woman to reappear. Or at least a similar apparition. She didn’t. The man’s face came into focus.

  “Do you know me?”

  “Yes. I think so. But I’m not sure from where.”

  “I am Pablo. The attendant of Don Geraldo.”

  Now I remembered. We had met in the lawyer Alexandro Dumas’ office. Chris had promised we would find his boss’s killers.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Neighbours said there was fighting on Don Geraldo’s estancia. So I came to look and found you. Luckily I recognized you in time. I thought you were a narco and was about to put a bullet in your head.”

  I told him I had been in a gunfight with the Sinaloans, but didn’t mention Teresa. I didn’t know how much he would appreciate us attempting to rescue the daughter of the man who had killed his Patrón. Not much, I suspected.

  “So you were fighting the Sinaloans, not the CT?” Pablo asked.

  “The Sinaloans are destroying the CT. It seems they’re now digging a tunnel to America on the estancia. We were watching them. That’s why there was a gunfight.”

  “Who was with you.”

  “Carl. He escaped across the river.”

  Pablo nodded. He remembered Carl.

  “So Pancho Guerra is not there? He is not on the estancia?”

  I shook my head. “They’re Sinaloans.” Pablo’s face sagged with regret.

  I then had an idea. I lifted the sheet off my bed, and saw that my foot had been firmly bandaged. It felt a lot better.

  “How long before I can walk?”

  Pablo called his wife. The Madonna-like woman appeared. She felt my ankle. Her fingers were a balm. As it was not broken, she said I would be able to stand in two days, but would be limping for a month.

  I liked the prognosis. Two days was all I needed.

  “You want Pancho Guerra to come to the estancia?” I said.

  Pablo nodded. “More than life.”

  “Maybe I can get him,” I said. I pulled out my phone. There was thirteen percent battery registering. But more important, there was a signal. This was time to put Carl’s original plan into action.

  I dialed Brett, Guerra’s American recruiter.

  “Kelly Murdoch here.”

  There was silence. Then he spoke, “But you’re dead. The Tecate attack ...no?”

  “No. I escaped seconds before our vehicle blew up. But Carl didn’t. I lay low for a couple of days, then hijacked a truck and followed the Sinaloans. They’re at an estancia on the American border about fifteen miles from Tijuana. They’re led by a guy called El Rapido — do you know him?”

  “Yeah, he’s Chapo’s nephew and a big deal. Surname’s Gonzales, hence the ‘Speedy’ nickname. I also know what estancia you’re talking about.”

  “Apparently it once belonged to some guy called Geraldo, or something.”

  The silence confirmed that.

  “Well, I’m there now,” I continued. “And get this. El Rapido arrived two days ago with Teresa. She’s being held hostage in a cottage on the premises.”

  “What? So the Sinaloans did take her after all?”

  “Well, she’s with them, and definitely a prisoner. Her arms and feet are zip-tied. There’re about twenty sicarios or whatever you call them guarding her.”

  “Why you’re only phoning now?”

  “Couldn’t get a signal. But they’re not taking her anywhere. How many men have you got after the Tecate cluster-fuck?”

  “Not enough. We’ll need some back-up from the Jalisco people. Could take a couple of days.”

  “I’ll be at this number. But listen, when you get here, tell the Jefe to meet me before storming the premises. The Sinaloans have set up ambushes at the main gate and on both sides of the roads. I need to show him where to find Teresa.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  He didn’t. Instead, Pancho Guerra himself did, asking exactly where the ambushes were. I told him, but said it would be better if I guided him personally to where Teresa was held.

  “But the Sinaloans are well-armed. You will need a lot of men. Brett says you are getting soldados from Jalisco.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We will come now.”

  That was the last thing I needed. I still could not walk properly. I had to stall him.

  “Then a lot of your people will die. I am watching Teresa every day, so will know if she is taken anywhere else. Wait for reinforcements.”

  To my eternal relief, he reluctantl
y agreed.

  It was Monday. He told me to meet him on the outer western perimeter of the estancia on Wednesday morning. Three a.m. sharp. There was a dirt track marking the edge of Don Geraldo’s property, where he and CT soldados would assemble. That way we would circumvent any attacks on the main road, if we had to.

  I then told Pablo my plan.

  …

  GUERRA HAD ABOUT thirty men with him, which was more than I expected.

  According to Pablo, who had done a recce the day before, the Sinaloans had fifteen men, which meant Carl and I had accounted for at least five. They had not been reinforced, which was not surprising. As they no longer had a prized hostage, there was no need. I assumed the remaining men would now be prepping the drug tunnel still to be dug. Pablo said two large earth-moving trucks had arrived that morning, which appeared to confirm my theory.

  I told Guerra that with the Jalisco reinforcements he outnumbered the Sinaloans, which gave him crucial confidence for a full front assault. The ambush positions on the main road had been removed, as the Sinaloans were convinced the CT was too weak to attack.

  Guerra snorted with indignation. He was now even more eager for an all-out attack.

  “However, Teresa is not at the main house,” I continued, “That’s been burned to the ground by your men more than a year ago. She’s locked in a cottage overlooking a lake two miles away, and guarded around the clock by at least three men.

  “What I suggest, is your men storm the Sinaloan camp at the main house. While that is happening, I drive you to the cottage where Teresa is held. Brett and I will take out the guards, and Teresa will be safe.”

  Guerra thought that was a good idea, but worried I would not be able to fight with my damaged foot, which I said had happened during the Tecate fight.

  “I won’t need to leave the car. You have seen me shoot.” He and Brett nodded.

  “Okay, let’s do it.”

  With the ambush posts on the main road dismantled, we could drive straight in. And that’s what we did with automatic rifles blazing and grenades exploding. One man had a flame thrower, which resulted in the entire estancia entrance going up in smoke.

  At the rear, I drove a Dodge Ram with Brett, Guerra, and to my surprised delight, his top sicario, Juan Veloza, whose hijo son I had floored at the beach hotel in Rosarito. The family had put a price on my head. That would be another score settled.

  The battle raged as we approached the house, and I veered off onto the dust strip that led to the bass lake.

  “OK,” I said as we got close. “The cottage is behind those trees. You’ll see it in a minute. The guards are always on the porch by the front door. They will have heard the gunfire and be ready. We have to move fast — open fire as I speed past.”

  Brett and Veloza nodded. I drew my Glock as they opened the backseat windows, assault rifles at the ready, totally zoned into the moment.

  So was I, although in a different zone. I turned in the driver’s seat and shot Brett and Veloza in the head.

  I then trained my gun on Guerra. Recovering quickly from shock, he tried to lift his pistol, but I smashed his hand hard with my Glock. His shattered fingers went limp.

  “Sorry, amigo. It’s now time to pay your dues.”

  Pablo came out of the grove. In his hands was an immaculate hunting rifle, barrel gleaming with a blonde mesquite stock. The silver side panels were exquisitely engraved with images of leaping pumas. It had been Don Geraldo’s prize possession.

  “Get out,” I said.

  Guerra cautiously opened the door, never taking his eyes off me and Pablo.

  “Do you know who I am?” Pablo asked. Pancho glared back at him. Then shook his head.

  “I am the avenging spirit of Don Geraldo. The man who owns this land. The land you killed him for.”

  Pancho Guerra was not a steel-hard narco for nothing. He knew the old adage of living by the sword. He understood this was the end.

  “Do what you have to do, old man.”

  He refused to kneel, so I kicked his kneecaps from behind.

  “Turn him around,” said Pablo. “I want my face to be the last he sees.”

  I did as I was told.

  Pablo shot him dead-center between the eyes with Don Geraldo’s final bullet.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  PABLO DROVE ME to the river and I hobbled across the border. There was just enough juice in my cellphone to contact the DEA.

  I told the somewhat suspicious receptionist that John Peters would vouch for me. A police car arrived twenty minutes later and whisked me to the DEA headquarters in San Diego. From there, a no-nonsense woman rushed me into a conference room and a top level security phone conference call was set up with Col. Beckenham at Fort Bragg and John Peters in Tijuana.

  “Did Carl make it?” was my first question as we connected.

  “Sure did,” said a voice behind me.

  I spun the wheels of the office chair and got the biggest bear hug of my life.

  “Tell you everything later,” Carl said and sat down beside me.

  “OK Kelly, fill us all in.”

  I recounted the firefight with the CT and Sinaloans ending with Pancho Guerra’s death.

  “He was shot with the same rifle that Geraldo made his last stand. That means that every bullet The Don took to the fight has now been fired.”

  “Anyone else killed?”

  “An American mercenary called Brett, and a sicario Carl and I previously met called Juan Veloza.”

  “Brett McCain is wanted for murder in Texas,” said Peters. “He killed a woman while fleeing from a bank heist. A nasty piece of work, who actually failed Delta selection for serious character defects. So he’s not, nor ever was, Special Forces. I doubt if there will be any enthusiasm to pursue that matter further, particularly from our side. As far as Juan Veloza is concerned, I think you are more likely to get a medal from the Mexicans than condemnation.”

  That was a relief. I didn’t know Brett’s history and had actually sort of liked him. However, it was him or me. Veloza, I knew, was a scumbag.

  “Otherwise, I have no idea how the CT and Sinaloan fight went,” I concluded.

  “I can add some details,” said Peters. “The CT managed to rout the Sinaloans at the house, but were ambushed on their return to Tijuana. The Mexicans say a full-blown cartel war is going to erupt at any moment. Jalisco sicarios have been flooding into the city to support the CT, and Los Zetas and Gulf Cartel fighters are flocking in to bolster the Sinaloans.

  “Who is the CT leader now Pancho is singing ghost riders in the sky?” Carl asked.

  “Pancho’s eldest son was next in line, but the hijos are having none of that. Miguel is calling the shots.”

  Carl and I looked at each other. Miguel. We nodded. This had to end one way or another.

  After the conference call, Carl and I went out to celebrate. No other reason except for being alive, which after the past few months was no small matter.

  We hit McP’s, an Irish pub in Coronado, and beers with shots of Wild Turkey magically appeared. Carl had trained with the Navy Seals, and McP’s was a popular warrior hangout.

  “Where’s Teresa?” I asked.

  “Staying with me. She’ll join us later.”

  “How did you get her across?”

  “We had a bit of a problem on the river bank, but when you opened up from behind, they scattered. Perfect timing for us, and I kid you not, we didn’t just walk on water — we galloped. Teresa was born in San Diego, like many rich Mexicans, so has U.S. citizenship. No problem on that score.”

  “Does she know about her dad?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “What about Miguel?”

  Carl’s eyes hardened. “We’ve got to settle that soon. We owe it to Caysee.”

  “But you can’t kill your girlfriend’s brother.”

  “I wouldn’t call her a girlfriend. Not just yet. But she hates Miguel, although she loves — loved — her dad.”

 
“Carl, tell me exactly what she is to you.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Cut the crap. I’m not asking again.”

  Carl grimaced. “OK, brother. Time for truth, even if I’m not sure about anything yet. It’s weird, man. She’s beautiful, funny, feminine — yet hard as anything. The other girls I’ve dated are all … well, sort of caught up in trivia. Feelings, and stuff, which is great for the quiet life. But Teresa spits in the eye of all that. She asks for nothing, expects nothing. She’ll fight to the death for you, if you will do so for her. She knows the cartel way of life was fleeting, because she has seen it snuffed out so often. Including her mother. She doesn’t expect to live long, and will die unrepentant. But beneath all the narco crap, she is at heart a tough, loyal cookie from the barrios, despite her father’s gazillions, and I kind of like that.”

  I nodded. Maybe a diamond-hard chica was not so bad for him after all. She certainly had atoned for being a Guerra. I knew she was irrevocably on our side. Well, Carl’s, anyway.

  Carl glanced sideways at me. “But maybe I don’t have to kill Miguel. Someone else can.”

  An image of Caysee’s mutilated body flashed through my mind. The person who did that was an undeniably vicious sadist, who would kill in such a manner again. We knew that person was Miguel.

  I nodded. The only justice would be warrior justice.

  At that moment, Teresa entered. She stared at me, stunned, then rushed up and held me tight.

  “You escaped.”

  I nodded, giving her a brief summary of hiding in a coyote hole before calling the CT sicarios for help. The second part was not true, of course, but why add to her grief.

  “I have bad news,” I said. “You father was killed in the battle.”

  She looked at me, stunned. Her eyes flooded. I expected some screaming and wailing, but that was just my stupid stereotyping of Latino women. She rubbed her eyes, then said quietly, “I loved him. He was my father. But he was a bad man, and I always knew that he would die in such a way. It is now time to move on. I have no reason to go back to Mexico.”