Trail of the Chupacabra: An Avery Bartholomew Pendleton Misadventure (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 2)

by Randel Stephen

  “Hang on,” the Padre said as he finally was able to get the engine to turn over. He put the Jeep in gear. In the back, Carnicero’s vision was finally coming into focus just as the Padre stepped on the gas. The first clear thing Carnicero saw were the fiery eyes of Barquero as the bare-chested, muscled behemoth of a man pulled him from the back of the vehicle.

  • • •

  Cesar’s commandos rounded up General X-Ray and his men. He led them to the courtyard and had them sit on the ground with their hands bound as he tried to sort out what was going on. From inside the farmhouse, more of Cesar’s men brought out the handcuffed dinner party guests and associates who had weathered the chaos from inside the safe room. A few minutes later, Esmeralda, El Coyote, Private Zulu, and Avery were escorted out. Avery had a laptop computer under his arm. Avery looked at the shell-shocked group sitting on the ground.

  “Where’s Ziggy?”

  • • •

  Barquero pulled Carnicero from the back of the Jeep as it pulled away and threw him to the ground. Red light illuminated the area as the Padre stepped on the brakes and stopped the vehicle. He turned to look back.

  “Padre…don’t leave me,” Carnicero begged as he lay on the ground. The Padre looked at his adopted son and then at Barquero, then back at “The Butcher.”

  “I’m sorry, my son.” The Padre sped off into the darkness, leaving the two men behind.

  “Don’t leave me!” Carnicero looked around him. Barquero was gone.

  A voice came from the pitch-black night. “It’s your time.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Where I’ve always been. Right where you can’t see me. I’m invisible, Carnicero.”

  “No!” Carnicero said as he spun around in the darkness. “No!”

  “I’m right here.”

  “Okay…okay.” Carnicero picked up his rifle and fired a long burst into the night. In the muzzle flash, he thought he saw something move.

  “Try again, Carnicero.”

  Another long burst from the longhaired man followed. Then silence. Complete silence. The beating of Carnicero’s heart pounded in his ears. The veins in his temple pounded to the point of pain as he searched the blackness for Barquero. Carnicero took a deep breath. He tried to focus. He tried to stay calm.

  “You do know, I didn’t want to kill your woman…it was the Padre…not me.”

  A voice came from behind him. “It was you.”

  Carnicero spun, dropped to his knee, and fired his AK-47. Two rounds flew into the desert, and then the bolt locked open. He tossed the empty weapon to the ground.

  “She wasn’t my woman,” a raspy voice growled. “She was my wife! And you didn’t kill just her.”

  “I swea…I didn’t know she was pregnant.” Carnicero turned to look behind him. He didn’t see anything. Carnicero calmed himself as he slowly turned in a circle in the dark. “Barquero. Ferryman. Please, we are brothers…brothers,” he pleaded as he turned around again. “The Padre…the Padre…he can work this out. I promise you, we can make this right.”

  “Don’t worry — I’ll make this right with him, too.” From behind, Barquero grabbed Carnicero’s long hair in a ponytail and pulled him down to his knees. Barquero placed his powerful hands around Carnicero’s neck and began to squeeze. Carnicero punched his fist straight down on the instep of Barquero’s bare foot as hard as he could. For a second, Barquero’s grip loosened, and the longhaired man spun out of his grasp. As he climbed to his feet, a straight kick from Barquero caught him squarely in the solar plexus. The force of the kick drove Carnicero staggering backward. Barquero picked up the discarded AK-47 by the barrel and swung it in a wide arc. The butt of the weapon smashed into the side of Carnicero’s head, dropping him to the ground. Blood gushed from the ragged gash in his scalp. Barquero dropped the rifle and slowly approached his fallen opponent. Carnicero rolled over on his back, moaning. A dull flame seemed to glow in Barquero’s eyes as he stood directly over the bleeding man. Placing his foot on one of Carnicero’s hands, he pinned it to the hard ground. With his other foot, he stepped on Carnicero’s neck. With all of his weight, he pressed down on the struggling man’s windpipe. Carnicero pounded wildly on Barquero’s thigh with his free hand as the sound of his throat slowly and deliberately being crushed filled his ears. The helpless man began to make gurgling sounds as the immense strength of Barquero’s leg did its damage. Barquero began to twist his bare foot on the man’s throat. It felt as if his foot was almost flat against the hard, dry desert floor. He could feel the man’s spinal column giving way as he pushed down hard on it. Carnicero stopped pounding with his free hand, and grabbed onto a handful of Barquero’s pants and clutched it in his fist, but his strength was quickly fading. He desperately fought for a few moments more, and then his vision began to fade. Like an ever-shrinking circle, his perception began to diminish, smaller and smaller until the only thing he could see looked like a small, dark marble. Then it was over.

  “Rosalina,” Barquero whispered as he removed his foot from the dead man’s throat. The cool night wind blew over him as he closed his eyes. Somewhere in the desert, something howled.

  PART III

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  They Can Come in Pretty Handy

  Ziggy ran through the desert night like he’d never run before, which really meant like he’d never run before, because Ziggy didn’t regularly run, unless chased. Ziggy had never been naturally predisposed to physical activity. He’d tried some yoga here and a little Pilates there, but it wasn’t really his thing. Of course, though, he’d been chased, quite a bit, actually. Mainly in school, but the races weren’t terribly long. A swift beating and forfeiture of his milk money usually occurred before he could make much of a getaway. For the most part, Ziggy practiced the defensive art of rolling into a small ball for protection. He found that the schoolyard bullies would get tired of kicking him after a few minutes. No one knows for sure if the armadillos learned this tactic from Ziggy, or Ziggy learned it from the armadillos.

  He ran until he reached the hills. Then he ran some more. His lungs seared despite the cool night air. Soon the hills turned into canyons. He twisted and turned his way back and forth. Finally, when he couldn’t take another step, he collapsed. His skinny chest heaving, he looked up at the sky. The heavy clouds slowly parted, and a full moon shone its bright light down on him. Milky clouds of stars illuminated the canyon walls with a faint glow. Drenched in sweat and parched for water, he searched his shorts for something, anything. All he found was the set of tarot cards that Mae Mae had given to him back in New Orleans. In despair, he threw them away. The cold wind blowing through the canyon walls tossed them about like dry leaves. He began to cry. Over the hills came the howl of something. For a moment, Ziggy regained some clarity and began to crawl on his bloodied knees, now caked with dirt.

  Like, why am I here? Why did I ever, like, come with Avery? Solemn and desperate thoughts filled his mind as he pressed on. I just want to go home. Home to Austin…just, like, want to go home. Ziggy stopped. He couldn’t go anymore. He curled up and went to sleep.

  A few hours later, Ziggy woke up. The sun was beginning to rise in the east. Dry salt was crusted around his mouth. He needed water. Ziggy sat up and looked around. He couldn’t stand, but he could crawl. So he did. It was slow going at first, as the hard ground hurt his knees. Get long pants…like, really long pants. But he kept going, not really sure which direction to take. Like, away from the sun, man. Mile after mile he crawled. The twisting canyons gave him little sense of direction. After a few hours, he rounded another of the countless bends in the hills. Scattered around the canyon floor were his tarot cards. He was right back where he’d started. Dejectedly, Ziggy dragged himself to the one piece of shade he could find and curled up into a fetal position. This is, like, it, man.

  • • •

  Avery, STRAC-BOM, Esmeralda, and El Coyote had been at the Mexican Army’s mobile headquarters all night. Not even the bitter coffee they
were drinking could keep their heads from bobbing up and down. Private Foxtrot held a bag of ice to his head. He was still groggy from the exploding stick of dynamite.

  “One more time,” General Morales asked. “You eight are from Texas, and you two are from Mexico. Now, what were you really doing there? And don’t give me any more of that chupacabra bullshit again.”

  “General,” Avery said, “we’ve been over this many times. My deep knowledge and vast experience with the process of interrogation by the authorities impels me to ask you to please shut your cornhole and let us go.”

  “Sergeant, restrain that man!”

  “What? You guys eat a lot of corn down here,” Avery replied as he was being handcuffed. “Am I wrong?”

  “Your story. One more time,” General Morales ordered.

  “Sir,” General X-Ray began, “as a matter of professional courtesy among generals, may my men and I be held in a separate area from that lunatic?”

  “You and that man share the same charges. And stop referring to yourself as a general! I’ve made some calls, Mr. Rizzo. You’re no more a general than I’m an Italian prince.”

  “Hey, General,” Private Zulu said. “I didn’t know you was Italian.”

  “Only half.”

  “Damn, General,” Private Foxtrot added. “What about all them family war heroes and stuff?”

  “He lied to you,” General Morales said, holding up a stack of papers. “You and your men are nothing more than a renegade band of civilians involving yourselves in things you have no business doing. Right here, more than a dozen documented incidents along the U.S./Mexican border related to your activities.” General Morales threw the papers down. “All the time doing more harm than good. Do you know how long we’ve been planning to raid that compound? How many good men died? Do you even know who runs that place?”

  “Who?” asked Fire Team Leader Charlie.

  “Some say his name is Guillermo Eduardo Rios, others Emilio Aguilar. All we know for sure is that he goes by the name of the Padre and that he’s been a wanted man for suspicion of drug trafficking, money laundering, and murder for over twenty years. International authorities around the world have him targeted. Last night, for the first time, we had a chance to catch him and some of his senior leadership red-handed. If it weren’t for your incompetence, we would have succeeded. You interfered in a military operation, and in this country I can make you disappear for a very long time for that.”

  “I’d like my phone call now,” Avery said.

  “You’ll get nothing until I get to the bottom of this,” General Morales said.

  “This isn’t a threat, your honor, but merely a statement of fact. My highly trained team of permanently retained legal advisors will…”

  “Shut up, or I’ll have you gagged. And from now on, you will address me as General Morales.”

  “Okay, but I’m just saying…by the way, Morales, I mean General Morales, any chance your family is from Midland? I knew a man from there by that name once. Beautiful singing voice, but he couldn’t bowl worth a crap.”

  “General Morales,” Esmeralda pleaded, “sir, El Coyote and I have nothing to do with these men. Those bastards killed my sister.”

  “And they burned down my business,” El Coyote added.

  “You are the same as them,” General Morales said as he stroked his mustache and admired Esmeralda’s exquisite bosoms. “I lost men and equipment, too. I liked you as a lucha libre, El Coyote. I very much liked you in your day. You never lost your mask, but what you did last night was a mistake. What if every citizen in Mexico took up arms against the cartels? What would happen then?”

  “We’d get our country back.” The stone-faced El Coyote crossed his stout arms in front of his burly chest. General Morales paused for a moment; his expression softened, and then he sat down in a chair.

  “Maybe, it’s just I’ve been after the Padre for so long…I don’t know.” General Morales rubbed his forehead. “What to do with you? What to do?”

  “Sir,” Cesar said as he entered the room and saluted.

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “The computer, sir.” Cesar held out the silver laptop.

  “Hey,” Avery said. “That’s mine. It’s official American property.”

  “Shut up,” General Morales and Cesar said simultaneously.

  “But I found it.”

  “General,” Cesar said, “our men have been working all night on it, but we can’t access the information. We can get it to our specialists in Mexico City, but it’s going to take some time.”

  “We don’t have time,” General Morales replied. “The Padre has been on the run for hours. He could even be out of the country by now.”

  “I know, but we don’t have a choice.”

  “What do you want to know?” asked Avery.

  “General,” Cesar said, “our technicians there are the best.”

  “I can do it.” Avery raised his handcuffed hands.

  “How long?” General Morales asked Cesar.

  “Really, I can.” Avery rattled his cuffs.

  “A day at least,” Cesar replied to his superior.

  “A day?” General Morales asked. “He’ll disappear by then.”

  “Do you want the password?” Avery asked.

  “Are you sure they can’t access the information here?” General Morales asked.

  “It’s really not that hard,” Avery said.

  “Positive, sir.”

  “It was really quite simple, actually,” Avery called out.

  “I guess we have no choice.” General Morales got up from his chair.

  “Is anyone listening to me?” Avery pulled at his unruly hair.

  “What?” General Morales barked.

  “I can do it. I already have,” Avery said.

  “You’ve been able to get into this computer?” General Morales walked toward Avery.

  “Hello? Of course I have.” Avery leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and grinned. He nearly tipped over. “Rather interesting read,” he said, righting himself, “if you’re into the whole drug-dealing thing and everything. Personally, I was more interested in the hardware. It’s top of the line. I could use it, for my research, of course. What was it you called it again? Chupacabra bullshit?”

  “Show me how you did it,” General Morales said firmly. Avery rattled his handcuffs over his head.

  “A Mountain Dew, if you please. No ice.”

  “Sergeant, him find one,” General Morales said. Cesar placed the silver laptop down on a table and then uncuffed Avery.

  “And a straw!” Avery yelled after the sergeant. “Watch and learn, amateurs.” Avery cracked his knuckles. “Now, at first I was perplexed. Of course, that hardly ever happens to me, what with my overwhelming intelligence.” He stared at Morales. “But, when faced with adversity, I improvise. It all happened like this…take notes as appropriate…anyway, it all happened like this…”

  • • •

  Bullets and explosions rocked the farmhouse as Avery curled up under the Padre’s desk while he admired the cartel leader’s computer. He coveted it. It made him viciously angry that anyone should have such a magnificent machine, except him. Avery had spent the greater part of his life accumulating spare and broken parts to design his personal network. Dirty old monitors and secondhand hard drives were the backbone of his system. His longest-standing gripe was with his Internet service provider and the agonizingly slow speeds they offered. His numerous letters to the company had been unanswered. As a self-proclaimed “hacktivist,” he’d shut down their servers on several occasions out of spite. This gorgeous piece of state-of-the-art technology held a special place in his heart. He must possess it. With it, he could shut down everyone’s servers, even if he didn’t have a good reason to. It would be hysterical.

  “Piss off,” he said as another roar from Esmeralda’s hand cannon sounded from outside the office filled with artifacts and valuable guns. Avery noticed the stuffed peacock
with its colorful plumage in the corner. Its glass eyes seemed to mock him. “Screw you, cocky bastard.” Avery flipped the peacock the bird. He began to type a password into the computer as the roar of gunfire intensified.

  “I’m working in here!” he yelled. It was answered by gunfire that splintered the mural-covered doors to the office. “Idiots,” Avery said as he tried a password. “Nope, the password is definitely not PASSWORD.” It wasn’t “12345,” either. Avery stuck his head out from under the desk and looked around the office. This guy definitely has some kind of weapons fetish, Avery thought to himself. Must be overcompensating for repressed sexual issues. The display case closest to the desk was clearly the most ornate. Avery got up to take a closer look. He examined the contents of the case intently. Why would these be together? The top shelf contained an Aztecan atlatl. It was a stick with a hook at one end and a handle at the other. A small spear or dart was placed against the atlatl’s hook. A flipping motion was used to launch the projectile downrange with far more force than a man could throw one with his bare hands. Avery had made one when he was a kid. He’d nearly poked his eye out when trying to use it. Next to the atlatl was a modern handgun. It was a SIG-SAUER. The pistol’s grip was encrusted with diamonds. The next shelf down contained a heavy four-foot-long oaken war club. The edges of the weapon were embedded with obsidian. Avery knew what it was. It was a macuahuitl, another Aztec artifact. Avery had tried to buy one online once, but the seller wouldn’t accept Diners Club. Avery had written Diners Club a long letter about that one. Next to the macuahuitl was a Remington shotgun. The entire firearm had been intricately painted with the distinctive Louis Vuitton pattern. I should get Bennett one of those for Christmas. That’d really cheese the old doctor off. Avery flinched as more bullets slammed into the door of the room. There was also an old British pistol of Enfield design inside the display case. Every metal part of the gun was plated in gold. At the bottom of the display case was a long thrusting spear with a wide stone blade at the tip. It was called a tepoztopilli. Avery had long theorized that this was one of the main weapons the ancient indigenous people of Mexico had used to fend off chupacabras prior to the invention of the flamethrower.