Age of Blood

by Weston Ochse

  J.J. spent the next thirty minutes doing surveillance detection. Hotel Finisterra was a mere 2.4 kilometers down Cabo San Lucas Street. They could have been there in two minutes, but then they wouldn’t have known if they were dragging any surveillance with them. It was bad enough that they were alone; they didn’t need to announce the place from which they were operating.

  Cabo San Lucas had two faces. There was a tourist side that was glitz, brass, and crass, then there was the Mexican side that was tired, dirty, and hidden outside the exclusive resorts that desperately didn’t want anyone to leave them. And for the most part no one did. There were occasions where tourists, eager to see the real Mexico, would travel outside the guarded gates of the resorts to the stalls and shops that rimmed the outside perimeter of the seaside resorts. They’d buy shot glasses decorated with pictures of Pancho Villa, T-shirts with images of sharks wearing sombreros, knockoff purses, glued-together wooden dinosaurs, and worked-metal lizards, believing all the while that this was the real Mexico.

  Having grown up in Subic Bay, Philippines, Walker couldn’t help but see the similarities. So many sailors spent their time on land within two miles of the main gate of the base, believing that all Filipina girls wore miniskirts, seductive smiles, and had long and flowing hair. They had faith in the idea that there was a bar every ten feet, that all food came from street vendors, and that everyone spoke a cute version of broken English.

  Which, of course, couldn’t be further from the truth.

  Mexicans living near tourist areas, like Filipinos living near the same, found themselves trapped in an equatorial snow globe of make-believe, where expectations were met threefold in the hopes that gringos the world over would shower them with Benjamin Franklins. Not at all a version of reality they’d want or accept if they lived anywhere else, but they lived where they lived and adapted as best they could.

  As J.J. drove a leisurely surveillance-detection route, Walker saw the evidence of this lifestyle. The acrid smell of tequila from piles of broken bottles was an ever-present odor. The low buzz of flies, hovering like black halos over piles of excrement, was a constant sound beneath everything. Something had been dragged fifty feet down the street, leaving a long red smear. Could have been a stray dog. Could have been a stray cat. Could have been anything, but no one seemed to care. People just walked right through it. They never considered stepping around. It was just something that was there.

  From the dirty streets to the white stucco, often stained and badly in need of repair, or the broken cinder blocks that composed the walls of most buildings, the humid air smelled of burning tires and cooking meat, with the slight taint of garbage beneath it all. Here and there a car was parked against a curb. More often than not, it was stripped or missing an important part. Trash piles appeared every two blocks. Instead of bins, locals would get friends with pickups to help them move what had accumulated on the street to a nearby dump. The occasional dog, usually a chimera of something tan, black, and mean, either loped or limped, sniffing at everything that might be edible, including the occasional bum curled up in a doorway. The people were a uniform shade of exhausted, lugging food, stock, lumber, rock, and the detritus of everyday living on their shoulders, in their arms, on their backs, and often affixed to the back of a bicycle. Every so often, Walker would spy a tourist family who’d wandered too far afield, staring in fear at a Mexico they had not been promised in the glossy brochures.

  And, of course, there were the police forces. The municipal police handled traffic and the policing of their own citizens for the most part. The Policía Federal Preventiva, or federales, were ever-present because of the tourist industry and the transit of both drugs and people. Walker and J.J. passed several blue and white municipal police pickups, the policeman usually standing nearby or leaning against their trucks. They also passed federales sitting inside their newer armored SUVs, air-conditioning blowing while they observed all those who passed.

  J.J. hadn’t shown any nervousness until they passed the first federales SUV. When they passed the second and he became even more nervous, Walker had him pull over.

  “What is it? Are you in trouble?” he asked.

  “Have you heard of the Bite? La Mordida?”

  “No. What is it?”

  “It’s the bite the police take out of your wallet to keep them from doing something worse. It’s better to be bitten than to be eaten, they say.”

  “And you haven’t been paying?”

  J.J. watched behind them in his rearview mirror. He licked his lips, then turned to Walker. “Let’s just say that things have been a little slow.”

  “How does it work? Do they come to you?”

  “They used to, but now it’s all done online.”

  “Could be tricky. Leaves a paper trail.”

  “They have a set of charities I give to. One is legit, the others aren’t. Or is it the other way around? Regardless, I got a visit last week. They’re hungry for a bite.”

  “La Mordida.”

  J.J. nodded, then pulled back onto the street. Assured they didn’t have a tail, he drove straight to Hotel Finisterra. Once a proud gem in the all-inclusive-resort game, it had been left behind. With its fading paint and out-of-date architecture, it was immediately obvious the hotel was a discount resort. During spring break it probably had girls hanging naked from every balcony, but they weren’t the sort to be picky where the food and tequila were always free. Now Walker saw overworked housewives trying to herd their children together and enough over-sixties to make him think he’d landed in the middle of a shuffleboard convention.

  They pulled up to the valet and J.J. tossed the young man dressed like an Aztec warrior the keys and a few dollar bills. The young man glared at the car as if it were an insult. He turned to say something to J.J., but J.J. was already inside. Walker merely smiled at the valet, then hurried to catch up to the former SEAL.

  Regardless of the exterior state of the resort, when entering through the doors one was met by a scouring wash of cool air. On one side of the lobby was a series of counters with aquariums built into the walls behind them. Hundreds of multicolored fish swam inside like a living painting, while handsome young men and women dressed in burgundy suits with white shirts worked tirelessly to make the tourists feel like the kings and queens of a far-off land where even the lowest of Westerners sat taller than the locals. The lobby’s other side was full of low-slung leather couches, chairs, and rugs on tile floors. Instead of a wall of aquariums, there were floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a series of terraced pools, graduating down to the Sea of Cortez.

  J.J. moved to a coffee kiosk and ordered an iced coffee. As he stood, tapping his foot impatiently and waiting on the barista, he scanned the people sitting in the chairs. He small-talked with Walker to keep up appearances. Since Walker didn’t know who they were looking for, he kept his eyes on the barista, which wasn’t an unpleasant experience at all. Just about the time she delivered the coffee with a flutter of her eyes and a shy smile was when J.J. made a slight motion with his head toward one of the couches.

  Walker winked at the girl, then shoved his hands in his pockets and moved toward the windows. He angled so he would pass beside the couch in question. Sitting on it was a young man dressed like a Saturday Night Live pimp and a bespectacled elderly woman reading a book. The man was about five foot six. His T-shirt and slacks were so tight that if he was concealing a weapon it had to be inside of him. He’d used a thin application of eyeliner to bring out his eyes. He was handsome in a slender Enrique Iglesias sort of way, but when he got up and approached a young woman getting off an elevator, Walker didn’t know what to do. Were they going to follow him? Were they going to take him down?

  They walked arm in arm out the door.

  Walker remembered too late that Holmes had put him in charge and as such he should have established safe and recognition signals with J.J. prior to going inside. They also should have had a backup plan. He was mentally kicking himself when J.J. beg
an moving. But he didn’t follow the pair out the door. Instead, he sat down beside the elderly woman. He raised a hand and gestured for Walker to sit down on the other side of her. Reluctantly, Walker nodded and soon found himself ensconced in a cloud of lavender.

  “Greetings, Señora,” J.J. said as he sipped at his iced coffee.

  The woman tightened her mouth, but made no move to reply.

  “Let me introduce you to my friend. His name is Bob. Say hi, Bob.”

  “Hi, Bob,” Walker said.

  He watched as her mouth loosened slightly into an almost smile, then tightened back. He noticed that the book she was reading was Roberto Bolaño’s Los Detectives Salvajes. The dead Chilean-turned-Mexican-Trotskyite’s books had become immensely popular after his death; even Jen had read them, placing them spine-out beside the likes of Gabriel García Márquez and Pablo Neruda. He’d expected something else of an elderly Mexican matron.

  Then he looked a little closer and he noticed the size of the pores on her face. He glanced at J.J. over her shoulder and couldn’t help but notice his knowing smile. Walker returned his gaze and took in the pieces of the woman, rather than the whole. He began with the hair. Blond with hints of gray. He’d taken it originally to be professionally coiffed, but now that he was looking at the individual hairs, they just seemed too thick. And the skin. The skin was too soft to be that of an elderly woman. He had to give credit. The application of base had made the skin seem old, but he could tell from where the makeup met the lower neck that the skin was younger than it appeared to be. And then he saw it. The Adam’s apple. The idea that only men had them was a fallacy, but it was true that men had larger laryngeal prominences, and this one was anything but subdued.

  “And to whom do I have the pleasure?” Walker asked, holding out a hand.

  She glanced at it, then glanced at Walker’s face before turning to J.J. “You’re an ass,” she said, in a voice painfully lacking in feminine qualities.

  “I might be, but I need to talk to you.”

  “And who is this, your new lover?”

  J.J. glanced quickly at Walker, then grinned. “No. Just a friend.”

  “So what do you want? I have business.”

  “We do too. We need you to come with us.” Seeing the tightening of the shoulders, J.J. added, “We’ll make it worth your while.”

  “You know who I work for, Jingo.”

  “I do. And you know who I worked for. Isn’t that right, Jaime Gonzalez?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”

  “Not here,” J.J. said. He stood and held out an arm, bowing slightly like an Old World gentleman. “Take my arm.”

  “And if I won’t?”

  “Then we’ll carry you out.”

  “I might scream.”

  “And when Bob here rips off your wig and shows the world who you really are do you think you’ll ever be able to come back?”

  The tightness of the lips relaxed to reveal a man’s teeth, complete with a gold incisor. “You boys going to treat me like a lady?”

  “Of course.”

  Jaime Gonzalez gently closed his book. He stood and smoothed his dress; then he held out his left arm to Walker.

  “I count on you to treat me with the respect you would your mother.”

  Walker hesitated. “My mother’s dead and she never crossdressed.”

  Jaime stared at Walker, then grabbed his arm. “You seem like one of the good ones. Too bad you’re hanging with this old fag,” he said, glaring at J.J. Then he let Walker lead the three of them from the resort.

  14

  CABO SAN LUCAS. LATER.

  Yank held on to the handlebars for dear life. He hadn’t ridden a motorcycle in several years, but the Suzuki dirt bike was necessary if he was going to keep up with the mark.

  They’d approached him in the Nefertiti Hotel as planned with Ramon flanking one side and Yank the other. He’d have preferred a smash-and-grab, but Holmes wanted this low-key, so he had to act semicivilized. Juan Carlos was a Zetas cartel facilitator, in place to ensure that mafia members transiting through Cabo San Lucas, or those operating in it, had everything they needed. He wasn’t so much a criminal as he was a procuring agent. Whether it was booze, drugs, sex, or extravagant food, Juan Carlos could make it all happen with ease.

  He wasn’t much to look at. He was about five foot five and balding, and his paunchy stomach and thin legs promised that his days of sports were long gone. So when he leaped up and took off like an Olympic sprinter after he saw Ramon, Yank couldn’t have been more surprised. Yank had taken off after him, but had found it impossible to keep up, soon tiring and slowing. But Juan Carlos kept on running. When Yank knocked down a motorcyclist, his first move was to grab the bike and use it to follow the man. And when he sped up, so did Juan Carlos.

  Where did he get his speed? Yank wondered.

  He cranked the throttle, leaned forward, and held on as the studded tires ate the ground beneath him. Sand and rock spit out the back end, firing indiscriminately into the crowds gathered at the outdoor tourist markets. Every so often, he’d spy the man still running up ahead of him. His arms were pumping, his legs were churning, and all the while he was moving forward as fast as he could.

  They were nearing the water. Soon, the quay would be before them. When he saw that Juan Carlos wasn’t about to stop, he couldn’t help slowing the motorcycle. What was Carlos going to do? Go flying off the end like a stuntman?

  As he slowed, he saw Ramon zip past, his legs propelling him as fast as the other man’s.

  Suddenly Juan Carlos pulled up at the edge of the quay.

  Ramon hit him square in the back, a move that took them both flying into the water.

  Yank glanced behind him at the trail of upset Mexican peddlers and knew he shouldn’t be where he was. A pair of policemen were pushing their way through the crowd. One thing was sure, he couldn’t go back. He did what anyone would do in his position. He spun the throttle, shot forward, and flew off the end of the quay. As the bike began to fall first, he let go, letting it smash into the water. He flew another dozen feet, then hit the water as well, but he’d had time to arrange his limbs so that when he hit, it was sideways.

  He sank and turned to his right beneath the water. He’d spied a sailboat at the end of the quay. It took all of his breath before he felt the stern rudder. Then, when he was certain he was amidships, with the bulk of the boat between him and the quay, he let himself come up for air. He wanted desperately to shoot to the surface and gasp in great gulps of oxygen, but he fought it. Instead, he rose slowly, letting air through his teeth to alleviate the burn in his chest.

  He saw that he’d been right. The boat, which turned out to be a 2008 Beneteau 37, did hide him from view.

  “What’s your name?”

  He looked up and saw, leaning over the boat’s side, a head of blond hair backlit by the sun to create an almost blinding halo. He could just make out her face in contrast and tell that she was fond of piercings.

  “Yank. What’s yours?” He held out his hand.

  She shook it. “Mindy. What were you doing chasing that man?”

  “He has something we need.” He changed the subject. “You sound like you’re American.”

  “San Diego.”

  “Oh yeah? Where?”

  “Do you know San Diego?”

  He grinned, enjoying the moment talking to an undoubtedly beautiful San Diego blonde on the tip of the Sea of Cortez after the end of a motorcycle chase to catch a superhuman Zeta facilitator. He knew San Diego like every SEAL knew San Diego. He could tell her about so many places. But telling her he knew San Diego he might as well say to her, I’m a U.S. Navy SEAL.

  “No. Never been. Is it a nice place?”

  She frowned. “It’s boring there.”

  “Not so boring here.”

  “Oh. It’s boring here, too. It’s just that sometimes I see things like you flying through the air.”

  “Oh, really? So this ha
ppens often?”

  She made a face. “Or something like it.” She turned back as someone called her name from on deck. “Listen, I have to go.”

  “Okay.”

  She disappeared for a moment, then popped her head back. “We’re going for some fuel. If you can hold on, we’ll bring you into the marina.”

  “That sounds good, Mindy,” he said.

  She tossed a set of boat fenders over the side, one with a trailing line. He submerged except for his face and grabbed the line. Soon, they were putting into the marina on the Beneteau’s diesel engine. Once they reached the docks, Yank let go of the line then dove, only coming back to the surface when he saw the lighted slats above him. When he did, he wished he hadn’t. Where the water in the lagoon was clear, down here was a collection of dirt and soot and trash, filmed over from lack of a current.

  It took him half an hour to make it to the end of the marina. It took him another half hour still to make it back into town. Thankfully the Baja sun dried him quickly. Another twenty minutes found him rapping on the gates of the hotel they’d occupied, where he hoped to link back with Ramon.

  Laws came to the gate, chewing on a piece of fruit.

  “Wondered what happened to you. Ramon and the other guy were back here an hour ago. We’re about to get started.”

  Back here? Started? What was going on?

  Laws let him in, then locked the gate behind them. He patted Yank on the back. “Have fun out there?”

  “Er … yeah.”

  “Good. Excellent. Here, have some mango,” he said, handing over a half-eaten piece of fruit.

  Yank took it, but didn’t want to take a bite. Instead, he held it awkwardly as they entered the pool area. And what he saw there drew him up short.