by Eric Meyer
"Okay, amigo, I’ll give you the coke. Not too much, just enough to keep you going until the doctor can fix you up. Take a shower, change into clean clothes, and I'll make the call to the hospital."
"I want the coke first."
"Of course, of course.”
He gestured to Alberto, who was hovering in the background. Hand behind his back, and Paco knew he’d been ready to put a bullet into Diego if necessary. "Give him what he needs."
He walked away his office to call the hospital. He was still uncertain he'd done the right thing by letting him live.
Maybe I should have let them kill him, even if Diego’s as fast as a striking rattler. Three of my men against one, he’d have been dead by now. Or would he? Rivera can produce a gun like a conjurer produces rabbits from hats. Perhaps another time, I’ll think about it, put the decision on the backburner.
He picked up the ornate, antique ivory phone and dialed the number. The call took almost two minutes before a sleepy voice answered. "Morales."
"Dr. Morales, I need you."
The reply was uneasy. "Who is this?”
“No names, you know who it is. I have a patient for you. He'll be at the hospital in three hours."
"That'll be four in the morning. Señor, I'm trying to get some sleep."
“Be there at 04.00, and don’t let me down. I wouldn’t advise it.”
He was starting to wake up. “No, no, of course.”
“The car will drive around the back, and you will let them in through the rear fire door. The man in question has a head injury. I want you to do your best for him. Get it fixed.”
"Can't it wait until regular hospital hours?"
"04.00. And, Doctor…"
"Yes?"
"This man is a friend, my best friend. I'm known him since we were kids. Make sure you do this right."
"I'll do what I can."
"You don't understand me, Doctor. I said make sure you fix him up. Comprende, amigo?"
"I understand completely," he muttered, "four-o'clock."
When Diego reappeared with Alberto trailing him, he looked a whole lot better as a result of the shower and a change of clothes. Someone had taped a clean dressing on his wound. Although it was probably the lines of coke he’d snorted that made the big difference.
He smiled at his friend. "I fixed it all up with the hospital, and the limo will take you there. Alberto, you go with him, and make sure they give him whatever he needs. I want the best, nothing less."
"Thank you, Paco."
"What are friends for? Just in case there are any misunderstandings, I explained to Dr. Morales he is to do whatever it takes to fix your head. Nothing but the best for you, and cost is no object. You need have no fears, I also told him if he lets me down, he'll pay."
Rivera chuckled, and it was if he could already taste the blood. "With his life?"
"Correct."
"Let me do it, Jefe."
"If it comes to it. Get going, and Alberto, make sure you keep me posted."
"Si, Jefe."
He watched them drive away, still thoughtful about the risk Diego posed to his business. He had to weigh his future use against the risk of him doing something stupid, like he'd already done. Shooting up Norte Americano malls, and bringing unwelcome attention from the cops down on his head. He stayed at his desk, lit a cigar, hand rolled for him and imported from Havana. They said the women who made them rolled them on the inside of their thighs, and he liked to think it was true. He tapped his fingers on the desk for several seconds as he tried to work out how to handle this little problem. Eventually, he decided to reserve judgment. If the doctor fixed him up, and he was the old Diego Rivera, as good as new, he’d let him live.
If there’s any doubt, he has to go down. Like the old saying, ‘A man causes a problem, kill him. No problem.’
* * *
Dr. Enrico Morales opened the rear fire door. They were waiting for him outside, two of Martinez’s thugs who terrified him. The third man had a dressing around his head. Blood was soaking from the wound, and his eyes were glazed, although that could have been the endless cocaine and heroin these people abused. He beckoned them inside, but the two thugs shook their heads, and one said, “We’ll wait in the car. Hospitals give me the creeps.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Doctors give me the creeps, too.”
He didn’t reply and gazed at the patient. “I’ll look at the injury now. I think I’d better X-ray it and see what we're up against." He glanced at the two narcos, "This may take some time. Are you sure you won’t wait inside?”
He was relieved when they declined. They were men he saw almost daily in his practice. Narcos, hitmen, assassins, killers, dress it up any way you liked, men who would kill you if you looked at them the wrong way. The lack of any facial expression, of any soul in their eyes was eloquent, as eloquent as the bulges under their coats.
"Of course.” He looked at the patient. “Come inside and give me a few minutes while I set up the x-ray." He went to walk away, but the patient grabbed his jacket, "I need something to stop the shakes."
"Cocaine?"
"Coke, yes, that’d be good."
He shook his head. "No, no, I meant do you have a cocaine habit?"
"Mind your fucking business, Doctor, and give me coke."
He assumed his best doctor-patient expression, the one he wore when he explained to them how he knew best. "That wouldn’t be a good idea, especially since I don’t know enough about the wound. I must find out what treatment you need. If you feel bad, I'll give you a shot to calm things down."
"No! I must have it now!”
He stood back in terror as the man raced across his office to the drug cabinet. Morales automatically tried to stop him, and it was the biggest mistake of his life. It was also the last mistake of his life. The man snatched out a gun, and in a blur of speed pulled the trigger. He felt the searing pain as the bullet entered his head, and everything went black. He didn’t see Rivera smash the glass front of the cabinet, snatch out packets and bottles of drugs without looking at the labels. He filled his pockets, and without a backward glance at the cooling body on the floor, walked back to the exit.
He strolled across to the limo. Not running, but calm, like he always was after a kill. He opened the door and climbed into the back. "I'm finished."
They jerked their heads around. "That was quick."
"Yeah, all I needed was drugs from the Doctor’s office.”
“He gave you everything you need?”
“He didn’t argue. I have it all. We can go home."
"To Guadalez?"
His expression was vacant. Finally, some understanding dawned. "Is that where we live?"
They gave him a strange look, but he had a fearsome reputation, and the look on his face, the burning red light in his eyes told them it would be best to leave it alone. Alberto nodded to the driver. "Get moving. Do as he says."
They drove away. As they were exiting the parking lot, security lights blazed, and men began running from the building. Someone screamed, a female voice, and men were shouting orders.
"What the hell is that?" Alberto murmured, "That sounded like cops. Something’s wrong." He looked behind him. “Diego, what happened in there?”
In the back, Rivera found the drug he wanted, Oxycodone. It wasn’t coke, but it’d do at a pinch. He swallowed a half-dozen tablets and shrugged. "Just some lunatic gone crazy I expect. You know what these hospitals are like, they attract all the wrong people.” He guffawed, “Too many sick people. And dead bodies.”
Alberto stared at him. “What did Dr. Morales say about your head injury? Did he say you needed to go back for treatment?”
“Doctor who?”
“Never mind.”
He swapped glances with the driver and murmured, “Oh, shit.”
* * *
Brand shouted, "Kaz, get up here. We’ve got trouble."
He went forward to the cockpit, and Brand handed h
im a headset. Immediately, he heard the voice shouting orders, and the tone wasn't friendly. The English was understandable, although heavily accented.
“Unidentified flight, you will land immediately. Otherwise, I will order the Air Force to shoot you down. This is your final warning.”
He looked at Brand. What can you do?"
"Do! Dammit, Kaz, what do you think I can do? I’m not a miracle worker. Common sense dictates I should get out of here right now, before they make good with that threat. I can hop back over the border fence, and to be honest, I'd be happy if I never overflew Mexico for the rest my life." He paused and looked Kaz, "On the other hand, that wouldn't get you where you're going."
"Can you put us down?"
He thought for a few moments. "That's a yes and no. Yes, I can put you down, but it's going to be hairy. A hot landing, you know what I mean?"
He knew. Wait until the helicopter hovered a few feet off the ground, then jump out. Often, soldiers would stand on the landing skid, ready to jump from several feet up. Hot landings were named for one reason, and one reason only. The soldiers were dropping into enemy territory, often under intense fire.
"Me and Clarence were Marines. We'll manage. But look after Eva when you get back."
"I will. Stand by. I'll shout when we're a few feet off the ground, and out you go. Make damn sure you don't break anything when you land."
He tossed him the headset and went back into the cabin. He explained what they had to do. He and Clarence sat with their feet dangling out the door as the ground got nearer. Brand shouted back over the racket of the engine and rotor blades, "Get ready, they're getting mighty antsy. Threatening again to shoot us down, and they say they've launched a fighter to intercept. We’re going in now."
As they descended, the ground looked even nearer. Fifty feet, forty feet, and the rank stench hit them like a thick, miasmic fog. The place stank like an open sewer. As they went lower, they could see they were over a patch of waste ground, screened from the nearby houses by a tall hedge and a derelict building that once would have been a factory. Fifteen feet, ten feet, and Curtis shouted, "Go!"
Clarence was holding onto the M-60, still wrapped in the blanket. Walker had the handguns inside his shirt, and he realized as he jumped that it was the worst equipped mission into enemy territory he'd ever undertaken.
If we get out of this, I'm going back to the church, because someone will have pulled off a miracle.
He was dropping through the air, and the ground came up before he'd expected it, winded him as he sprawled in the dirt. He got to his feet and made sure Clarence was okay. He still had hold of the M-60. The problem was they weren’t alone. Instead of two, they were three.
"Eva, what the hell you doing?"
She returned a cheerful smile. "Don't worry. If they catch me, I'm just a reporter doing a story, no big deal." He started to object, but she overrode him, "Forget it, the Huey will already be back over the border, so I'm here to stay. Now tell me, what's the plan? Where’re we gonna look for this guy?"
He couldn't reply. He felt so numb with shock and disbelief. Disbelief she’d been so stupid, disbelief she hadn't heeded the warnings about the dangers of Ciudad. They were in the murder capital of Mexico, and yet there was worse, something for which he couldn't avoid responsibility. A plan. Or rather, lack of a plan.
She was still looking at him, waiting for an answer, and her eyes narrowed. "You better have a plan, Kaz. If you don't, we're screwed."
He nodded. “We’re screwed."
Chapter Six
He was aware of a fatal flaw in his planning, his lack of planning. He was in the center of a Mexican town, wearing the uniform of a New Mexico Sheriff. If he'd wanted to stand out more, maybe he could have adorned his outfit with fluorescent stripes, but it was enough to be concerned. Relations between Mexico and the United States weren't always smooth, and if the local cops or the Federales discovered an American law enforcement officer wandering around their town, they'd be angry and extremely pissed. Running into Mexican law enforcement would be the end, like running into a brick wall head-on.
Eva volunteered a solution. "I'll see what I can find. Give me a few minutes."
“You're wasting your time. The stores are still closed."
She gave him a mischievous glance. "But not the washing lines."
He shuddered as she disappeared into another street. As if things couldn’t be worse, she was about to commit a crime, and he'd be the beneficiary. If she succeeded, he’d be walking around town in stolen duds.
He looked at Clarence, who shrugged. "Don't ask me, I don't have any other ideas."
“I feel like I’m being pushed down a path, and I've no idea where that path is headed."
“The local jailhouse? I hear they're not so comfortable south of the border."
"Don't even think about it. Mexican jails, Jesus!"
They waited, keeping a lookout for any sign of interest from the local law, but so far, the streets were quiet. They were in the shadows of an alleyway, and while the occasional person went past, no one took the trouble to look their way, which wasn't surprising. The alleyway stank like an open sewer, the reason being it was an open sewer. He prayed Eva wouldn't take too long.
She arrived after almost a half-hour. "I had some trouble finding it all. Plenty of clothes, but they were the kind that would fit a typical Mexican, shorter and fatter than you. But I managed to find these."
She passed the garments to him, and he changed into black pants, a shirt two sizes too big, making him look like a mariachi singer, and a surplus camo jacket with several repairs to the sleeves. It looked like it had last seen action in the Vietnam War, or maybe World War II. Wounded in action, too, and he almost checked the jacket for a purple heart. When he walked out into the street to look at his reflection in the window of a nearby store, there was enough light for him to see how he looked, and it wasn't good.
"Like a hobo."
She chuckled. “That's better than looking like a cop. Especially an American cop. Don't worry about it. You look fine."
He glanced at Clarence, who quickly looked away.
“What's that expression for?"
"Nothing, nothing. You look, uh, fine." He turned around, and Kaz didn't need anyone to tell him the reason, to hide the wide smile on his face. He resigned himself to wearing the clothes and thanked Eva for getting them. Or at least, stealing them, even if it did land him in jail.
"We need to find out where that Gulfstream landed."
She nodded. “The airport? Ciudad Juarez International Airport, it's about two miles from here."
Clarence turned, and he'd recovered from his amusement. "We can be there in a half-hour, but why would anyone tell us what we want to know?"
Eva had the answer, as she so often did. "This is Mexico, so they'll tell us because we’ll pay them. It’s normal in my job to pay for information, and this country lives on the kickback, on the bribe. Find the right guy, and he'll spit it all out to us."
He didn't share her optimism. The dark, black cloud of the cartels hung over daily life in most of Mexico. Especially in this benighted city, where people pretended the cartels never existed, even if the narcos controlled, or at least financed, most of the commercial life of Mexico.
They started walking and reached the airport while it was still early. On the approach road, a bar was doing good business, crowded with drinkers, all men, and they went inside. They got surly looks because they weren't locals, and because they were foreigners. Gringos. But the drinkers were far too busy imbibing to take much notice of them. He saw a guy wearing overalls smeared with grease, carrying the logo of Mexico's national airline, Aeroméxico. He looked a likely prospect, and he casually sidled up to him with a friendly expression on his face, although he had to pretend not to gag. Not only were the overalls smeared with grease, they stank like the sump of an engine whose oil hadn’t been changed in years.
He gave him a friendly nod. "Hi, I guess you're goin
g off duty after a hard night."
The guy was clutching a glass of beer, from which he took a sip and refilled it from a jug on the table, sitting next to a chaser Kaz guessed was tequila.
He gave him a suspicious glance. “What business is it of yours?”
"I'm looking for some help. How about I buy you another drink?”
“Why?”
He raised his eyebrows to the celling. “I’m with a reporter from the newspaper, she’s doing a story. If she gets some answers, she can offer you a small bonus. A couple of hundred dollars."
He stared at him through bleary eyes. "I'm not going off duty. I don't work nights. I'm on the next shift, the early shift. And I’m due to clock in soon, I don’t have time.”
“Two hundred dollars must be worth showing up late.”
He took another drink. “I guess so. We’re servicing a Boeing that flew in from New Mexico yesterday and can wait.”
He didn't blink, although he reminded himself never to fly in one of his aircraft flown by Aeroméxico. "That’s really helpful. What it is, my journalist friend," and he nodded toward Eva," she needs some local information for a story she's writing. Where would you land private jets in this area?"
A shrug. "That's easy, Mister. Here, at the airport. Where else?"
He nodded enthusiastically, as if the guy had just given him the location of the Ark of the Covenant. "That’s good to know. This article, it's about Mexican and U.S. cooperation, and she needs some information about the private jets that fly in and out of here."
"Okay, I'll tell you what I know, but it'll cost you."
"I already said she’d pay two hundred dollars."
"Three hundred dollars."
He smiled. "Three hundred dollars it is. I want to know about a particular aircraft that landed in the last twenty-four hours. A Gulfstream G650, it's painted in white livery, with no company markings."