The Chupacabra tct-1

by Stephen Randel

  “Come, sit down, my friend,” the Padre said as he noticed the large man in the doorway. The woman at the stove poured a cup of coffee for El Barquero and placed it in front of him. “Did you rest well?” the Padre asked.

  “Yes, Padre,” he said as he drank from the delicate china cup. “Thank you for having me as your guest.”

  “After your good work these last few months, it’s the least I could do. Well, besides pay you!” The Padre laughed loudly.

  The woman brought plates and silverware to the table, quickly followed by a large platter of food.

  “Anything else, Padre?” she asked humbly.

  “Not now,” he replied. “You may leave us.” The two men spent the next few minutes eating their breakfast in silence as the Padre continued to thumb through his newspaper. “Ah, you see this?” the Padre said, breaking the silence as he pointed to an article on the new police chief in Nuevo Laredo. “That is why I’m heading to Nuevo Laredo this morning.”

  “I didn’t think they had a police chief.”

  “They haven’t, at least not for the last year. Someone kept killing them,” the Padre said with a smile. “This one is different. He works for me. He’ll be crossing the border on a regular basis to work with a Texas law enforcement task force concentrating on stopping illegal drug traffickers. Ironically, each time he travels to Laredo, the tires of his police car will be filled with exactly what he is charged with interdicting. You finished with breakfast?”

  “Yes, Padre.”

  “Good,” he snatched up his phone and headed to the door. “Come with me. I want to show you something. You know, I don’t even know why they try stopping us anymore,” the Padre said as they crossed the compound to the barn. The armed guards remained, but the mass of cars from the previous night had mostly disappeared. “The Mexican authorities are in chaos. On top of that, they’re broke. That’s why so many soldiers run away from the army and the police and join the cartels. Who wants to fight if you aren’t sure if you’re going to get paid? And the Americans, what do they do? Every few years they promise the Mexican government a billion dollars here or a billion dollars there to help. A billion dollars a year!” He made a grand gesture in the air with his hands. “Sure, it makes for a great headline on the evening news. But compared to what? The ten or twenty billion dollars a month they spend on their wars on the other side of the planet. No, we’re the ones with the resources, my friend.” The Padre opened the barn door. “As long as Americans demand our product, no one can stop more than a small percentage of our shipments.”

  Swinging open the barn door, El Barquero was amazed to see that the cockfighting pit and bleachers had been removed, leaving only an open dirt floor. The bodies of two naked men with hands tied behind their backs hung from ropes around their necks from the rafters above. Examining the men, El Barquero noticed they had been tortured before they died. He immediately recognized one of the men from last night. He was the one with the gun who had stopped him from entering the barn.

  “Don’t mind them,” the Padre said as he quickly paced across the barn floor toward a metal door on the opposite side of the room. “Just thieves that stole from me. My partners and I don’t care for thieves.”

  The Padre entered a code on the keypad mounted next to the door and motioned for El Barquero to enter. The room was long and rectangular, with metal floors and walls. It was filled with workers who were moving loads of heroin, cocaine, and methamphetamines and packaging them for delivery. El Barquero had been to the farm before, but never had he been allowed to enter this room. The Padre greeted the laborers by name, asking some about their families as they walked down the main aisle of the long room.

  “One big happy family,” he explained as they reached another locked door at the end of the room. Entering another code, he invited El Barquero into the small, windowless office. “Have a seat,” the Padre said as he dropped into the plush black leather chair located behind an ornate mahogany desk. He reached into his inner suit coat pocket and produced another thin cigar. “Not a good idea to smoke on the floor,” he said as he lit the cigar, “but fine in here. You don’t smoke, do you?”

  “No, Padre.”

  “What do you think?” the Padre asked as he placed the cigar on the edge of a large crystal Waterford ashtray resting on the desk. “I’ve never shown you this before.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “Our cartel has dozens of these spread around our territories. Of course, we also have others for storing weapons, and machine shops for assembly, repair, and conversion of the semiautomatics to fully automatic, even motor pools for our vehicles. Hell, we even have our own medical facilities.”

  “The business has become quite complicated,” El Barquero noted.

  “Without a doubt. Not like in the old days when the Colombians paid us by the load to smuggle their cocaine across the border. Back then, we were just mules in the transportation business. Eventually, we got smart. We asked to be paid in product so we could start our own businesses and not just serve as Mexican middlemen. Then the big thing happened. The Americans decided to make a statement. President Clinton declared war on the Colombian dealers. For years, they focused only on South America. It gave us a window of opportunity to vertically integrate our businesses. Now we control the raw materials and supplies, labor, manufacturing, distribution, and even the marketing. Did you see the men stamping the pills and blocks of product with our insignia? Educated consumers want to know the origin of their product these days.

  “Yes, the business has become complicated,” said the Padre as he puffed on his cigar. “I even have public relations work to do. At least, that’s what I consider my business with our new police friend in Nuevo Laredo today. Just making sure we have the right friends in the right places. Ultimately, expansion and integration is what led the cartels to form. Sometimes it’s easier to grow through mergers and acquisitions of many small businesses than organically. Sometimes these mergers were friendly, and sometimes they were not. But the more the business grew, the more the different cartels squabbled and fought. Now the most important asset is access to the border. We were fortunate to have an original location on the Gulf Coast border; it gave us early access to America. Now the challenge is expanding that territory. It will be bloody. The other cartels have guns, too. That’s the only thing I worry about, not the army or the police or the Americans—the other cartels. That’s why the idea of thieves stealing shipments near Juarez is so troubling. When we do go to war, I want it on my terms, not theirs.” The Padre finished his cigar and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Reaching under his desk, he pulled out a metal suitcase and placed it on the desk. “Half the money now,” he said as he slid the silver case across the desk to El Barquero. “Half when the ship lands and the weapons are delivered to Matamoros.”

  “That wasn’t our deal.”

  “No, but you only delivered the merchandise halfway. Don’t get me wrong, my friend, I loved your plan, but moving the shipment across the Guatemalan border and through Mexican territory we don’t control adds difficulties on my end. I know you did great work sourcing the weapons. There’s nobody except you I would trust to pull off such a large job. I’ll very gladly pay you the full fee, but only when the shipment has arrived. You have my word. Okay?”

  “Okay,” the stone-faced man replied without emotion. For a second, El Barquero thought about killing the Padre right where he sat, but only for a second.

  “Excellent.” The Padre checked the heavy gold watch on his wrist. “Come, time to go,” he announced as he rose from his chair. The two men exited back through the storeroom of workers and out through the barn. The two dead men had been cut down and removed. Reaching the black armor plated limousine parked outside with the engine running, the Padre turned and placed his hand on El Barquero’s shoulder. “Remember, if you hear anything about shipments being stolen in the desert, I want to know immediately.”

  “Yes, Padre.”

  “Good,” the Pa
dre said as he pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open as he climbed into the limousine. “I’ll be in touch.” Two heavily armed guards entered behind him and closed the door.

  The long black car kicked up gravel as it pulled out of the compound. El Barquero, seething with anger, glared menacingly at the car as it pulled out of sight, leaving nothing but a slowly dissipating cloud of dust in its wake. He took the metal case and walked toward his car. His eyes were filled with venom.

  • • •

  A few miles north of the border, Agents Hank Martin and Maria Diaz rode their horses through the rocks and scattered underbrush of the desert. The two border patrol agents were cutting sign, or looking for trails in the desert left by illegal aliens and drug smugglers. It was tricky work. Smugglers often wore boots made from carpet that slipped over their shoes like makeshift hospital booties. It made their tracks difficult to spot. The two agents had left their U.S. Customs and Border Protection SUV and horse trailer a few miles back, preferring to use the horses to reach the area they were curious to examine. During the early morning hours, a long-haul trucker along Interstate 10 had reported seeing a red flare off in the distance, somewhere in the vicinity north of the exit to Tornillo. Agents Martin and Diaz knew that drug smugglers occasionally used ultra-light planes, essentially hang gliders modified with a small engine, to slip across the border at low altitude and drop loads of narcotics. The flare might possibly have been a signal used by couriers waiting on the ground to retrieve the shipment.

  Law enforcement was in Agent Martin’s blood. His father was a retired Texas Ranger and his mother had worked as a sheriff’s department dispatcher. He had considered following in his father’s footsteps, but after thirteen years of service with the border patrol, he had been promoted to the rank of assistant chief patrol agent, and he knew he was staying put. Besides, the tall, lanky man was an outdoorsman at heart, and this way he spent at least part of most workdays out under the open skies he loved so much.

  Agent Diaz had never really considered criminal justice as a career option, but when she graduated from the University of Texas El Paso, the Department of Homeland Security was rapidly expanding its ranks of border patrol agents and she jumped at the chance. After completing her training, her first two years of service had mainly consisted of line watching along the border, but now in her third year with the border patrol, she had been assigned field duty. She had grown up on a ranch in southwest Texas and had barrel-raced for years when she was a young girl. She loved the thrill of riding on patrol rather than just sitting and watching the fence between Juarez and El Paso.

  “Well,” said Agent Martin as he reined his big tan horse to a stop and leaned on his saddle horn with both hands. “This ought to put us somewhere close to the area.”

  “Did we get an idea of how far from the interstate the flare was?” asked Agent Diaz as she pulled her dark brown horse alongside her partner and removed her cowboy hat, running her hand through her black hair.

  “Naw,” replied Agent Martin. “Hell, I’m not even really sure he saw a flare. Could’ve been an airplane light thirty miles away. These big skies can play tricks on you, particularly at night.”

  “Yeah, still worth a look, though. Not a half-bad morning for a ride, to boot.”

  “That it is, Maria,” Agent Martin replied with a smile. “That it is. Well, let’s head up toward that higher ground a ways. If someone was dropping something, they’d most likely unload it before they got too deep into the hills.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The two agents paced their horses toward the elevated terrain and then headed east, looking for signs of travel along the foot trails that occasionally intersected their path. From time to time, they would discover a discarded water bottle or abandoned sandal, but nothing that appeared fresh or promising. Suddenly, Agent Diaz noticed something odd about a half mile away and slightly back from the edge of the ridgeline above them.

  “Hank,” she said as she stopped her horse and squinted into the bright sun that rose in the eastern sky. “Think maybe we got something up there.”.

  “Well, well,” said Agent Martin as he raised a pair of black binoculars to his eyes. “Looks like some kind of camp. I got four tents, a dining fly, and a couple vehicles, maybe more. Can’t tell from this angle.”

  “Any movement?”

  “Not that I can see. Let’s head back to that wash we passed back there and come in from behind and above for a better look-see.”

  The agents returned to the washed-out area that ran down the slope of the ridge. Leaning forward in their saddles, they held onto the necks of their mounts as the horses scampered up the slope. Reaching the top, they looped around the position of the camp, stopping about two hundred yards away to dismount and further examine the area.

  “Base,” Agent Martin said calmly into his radio, “this is Patrol Seven. We’re in the foothills north of I-10 in the vicinity of the flare that was reported. We have a campsite with four tents around a dining fly. Don’t see any activity, but there’re three ATVs and a dirt bike parked outside. Going in to check it out. Over.”

  “Roger Patrol Seven,” his radio responded. “Do you require backup? Over.”

  “Nope. Not yet. Might just be some campers. Will advise. Over.”

  The two agents led their horses towards the campsite, removing their Remington shotguns with composite stocks and pistol grips from the long leather scabbards attached to the sides of their saddles. Agent Diaz chambered a shell in her shotgun and unsnapped the holster of the forty-caliber semiautomatic pistol she wore at her hip. She’d only been in the field with Agent Martin for a year, but she’d been fired on before.

  “United States Border Patrol!” Agent Martin announced loudly as they approached the campsite. “Anyone there, come out with your hands where I can see ’em!”

  The men of STRAC-BOM slowly and wearily emerged from their pup tents and watched in silence as the two mounted border patrol agents in green uniforms and tan Stetson hats entered the perimeter of the camp, brandishing their shotguns across their laps.

  “Who was on lookout?” a perturbed General X-Ray asked his men.

  “You didn’t assign one, general,” replied Private Tango.

  “You fellas look a little old to be boy scouts,” said Agent Martin. “We got some kind of sleepover going on here?”

  “I’m Brigadier General X-Ray,” the General began. “Commander of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia, STRAC-BOM for short, and these are my Fire Teams. I assume you’ve heard of us.”

  “Well, no, I surely haven’t,” replied Agent Martin. “Agent Diaz, you ever heard of a STRAC-MOM?”

  “It’s STRAC-BOM,” replied the General.

  “Apologies,” replied Agent Martin. “You ever heard of a STRAC-BOM?”

  “I’ve heard of civilian militias,” Agent Diaz said as she surveyed the crew of men in ragged and mismatched fatigues. “But not this one in particular.”

  “Just what sort of war games are you and your men up to, general?” asked Agent Martin.

  “We’re engaged in Operation Land Shark,” replied the General. “A multi-day surveillance and interdiction campaign aimed at eliminating illegal border crossings into our great nation.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Agent Diaz, laughing. “Are you the guys that tried to shut down the international bridge in Tornillo awhile back?”

  “Yes,” replied the General. “Operation Dam the Gate was not entirely appreciated by your law enforcement counterparts; however, I believe it at least made a symbolic statement of how true red-blooded Americans feel about your inability to stem the flow of illegal aliens washing over our border. After all, as the great General George S. Patton once said, ‘All it takes for evil to flourish is for good men to do nothing.’”

  “I don’t believe that quote is attributed to Patton,” Agent Diaz replied.

  “Doesn’t matter,” snapped the General. “The point is that
we stand armed and committed to succeeding where authorities like you have failed.”

  “And just how armed are you?” asked Agent Martin.

  “Our battle gear is in the tents,” the General responded. “All properly registered and licensed, I assure you.”

  “You know,” said Agent Martin as he dismounted his horse. “Why don’t we just have a look anyway. Bring any firearms in your possession out here and line them up over there under the dining fly. Unloaded, if you don’t mind.”

  The General grumbled in protest as he and his men retrieved their weapons and lined them up as instructed. Agents Martin and Diaz surveyed the cache of motley firearms.

  “You know, guys,” Agent Diaz said. “It’s not just illegal aliens running through here at night. This is one of the most heavily trafficked border areas for narcotics smuggling, and the cartel soldiers involved tend to carry some serious firepower,” she added, pointing to the pellet gun and wrist rocket in the collection of weapons. “You know what happens when you bring a slingshot to a fight with a Mexican and his Cuerno de Chivo?”

  “His what?” asked Private Zulu.

  “His ram’s horn,” she explained. “That’s what they call an AK-47. The curved magazine looks like a ram’s horn, and you’ve got no chance going up against one with this stuff.”

  “She’s right,” chimed in Agent Martin. “Sneaking around out here in the dark, you’re liable to get shot, either by drug runners or by us. Now, I can’t make you leave, but I highly suggest you go back to your day jobs and leave this to us.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” the General replied. “But our mission is scheduled until Sunday, and we’ll not abandon our campaign. Now, if you don’t mind, we need to break camp and commence transit to Rally Point Dos.”

  “All right,” replied Agent Martin. “But first, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about a flare being launched around here last night?”

  “Indeed,” said the General. “I was illuminating two illegal alien targets.”