El Barquero pulled his car off the highway and into a parking lot in front of a series of self-storage units on the outskirts of town. Shutting off the engine, he scanned the area to make sure he was alone. Walking to a storage unit near the end of the row, he used a key from his pocket to open the lock. He pulled the metal door closed behind him and used the flame from his lighter to illuminate the small rectangular room. In the back of the storage unit rested a large metal case four feet wide and seven feet tall. Spinning the combination lock on the door of the case, he rolled the tumblers until they fell into place. Opening the door he examined his store of weapons. The case was filled with pistols, assault rifles, knives, ammunition, and explosives. He even had a crossbow with a high-powered scope, although he rarely used it. El Barquero had three weapons dumps like this spread across the Texas-Mexican border. He never knew when he might need to resupply.
The job tonight would be tricky. Three mules and two couriers waiting in a jeep, and all of them would be armed. He ignored the large fifty-caliber sniper rifle resting in the black foam lining in the back of the case; it would be too noisy and impractical for tonight’s work. Instead, he reached in and retrieved a small black submachine gun. Pulling around the gun’s folding stock and snapping it into place, he examined the HK UMP. A deadly submachine gun, this model fired approximately six hundred rounds of forty-five-caliber pistol ammunition a minute, a little slower and a little less accurately than the gun’s nine-millimeter cousin, but the stopping power was much more effective, and he planned on working up close and personal tonight.
El Barquero raised the machine gun to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. A vertical grip directly in front of the magazine helped significantly with the weapon’s accuracy, allowing the user to keep the weapon pointed directly at its target even if firing fully automatic. Reaching down into the bottom of the storage case, he produced a black tubular suppressor for the weapon and attached it to the gun’s short barrel. He knew he would need to reduce the sound of his weapon as much as possible with five men to deal with. He loaded a black rucksack made of ballistics material with spare magazines for the machine gun, extra ammunition for his pistol, night vision goggles, a knife with a boot clip, and the two curved scythe-like blades with short leather-wrapped handles. When the rucksack was loaded, he shut the weapons container and locked it. Loading a magazine into the HK, he chambered a round. Folding the stock back up against the gun’s receiver, he slung the compact weapon over his shoulder by its detachable carrying sling.
Making sure no one was outside the storage unit, he took his load and carried it back to his car, placing it next to the silver briefcase full of money. The sun was just starting to set as he sped back down the highway toward Tornillo.
• • •
Six hundred miles southeast along the border, the Padre sat in a worn fabric chair behind a modest desk in the office of the chief of police for the town of Nuevo Laredo. The Padre rested his immaculately polished black cowboy boots on the police chief’s desk, his legs crossed, as he blew smoke rings in the air from his thin cigar.
“I want to congratulate you on your appointment, Jose.” The Padre adjusted the priest’s collar around his neck and smiled at the young police chief standing in his own office, in front of his own desk. “I have the utmost confidence in your success and for your safety. Your predecessors, not so much,” he said with a devilish grin. “It’s been almost a year since anyone has had the balls to take the job here. The average length of employment for the last three chiefs was only about ninety days apiece. I have a very good feeling you will last much, much longer.”
“Thank you, Padre,” the visibly nervous young man said. “I promise I won’t let you down.”
“Of course you won’t, Jose. In fact, I predict you’ll become a great success. Your future accomplishments will find great favor with both the U.S. and Mexican law enforcement agencies. Why, some day, you and your beautiful young wife might even make a handsome political couple with you serving as governor.”
“Governor?”
“Why, yes, Jose, maybe even governor. You see,” the Padre said as he stabbed his cigar at the young police chief across the desk. “You have to think big. The bigger the better, and I have big plans for you… and I’m not just talking about carrying a little of product across the border when you meet with your U.S. counterparts. That’s just for fun. I love the irony. No, we’re going to make you a star. You want to know how?”
“How, Padre?”
“First, by making you not die!” the Padre roared with laughter. “No, my boy, you will become a hero in the fight against narcotics, and we will use the most powerful weapon available to accomplish our goal. The media.”
“The media?”
“Of course. You’re young, you’re handsome, and I know you studied some theater in the university. Jose, perception is reality. With sound bites, interviews, and photographs of your heroic raids against the evil cartels, we can create a whole reality for you by manipulating the public’s perception of you. Jose will be the young hero who is winning the war. Do you realize you share the same first name with Joseph Goebbels? He was Hitler’s propaganda minister. If he could make Hitler look like a hero to seventy million Germans before the war, making you the face of successful law enforcement in this part of the country should be nothing. Creating a believable perception is the key. The media is how we accomplish it.”
“But not in reality.”
“Of course not.” The Padre laughed as he ground out his cigar on the tile floor with his boot. “I’ll give you the information you need to look good with your counterparts. I don’t mind losing some product here and some product there as long as it’s good for business. And, like in all good businesses, from time to time, I need to clean house. You’ll look fantastic bringing back the bodies of dead drug smugglers for the newspaper reporters to write about. I can see the headlines already,” the Padre said as he motioned his hands in the air. “Young police chief triumphs where all others have failed. Of course, to get things done, you’ll need some help. But don’t worry; I’ll give you what you need. In fact, I have six men already picked out to join your police force. Good men. Men we can both trust.”
“Padre, there’s no budget for more police right now. That was the first thing I asked the mayor for.”
“Don’t worry about the mayor. I have a relationship with him, too. Hell, I was invited to his daughter’s wedding a few months ago. I made the front page of the paper congratulating the bride with a kiss. Now, the first thing we need to do is introduce you to the world in a big way. Do you recall the theft of a large quantity of military-grade weapons from the U.S. National Guard recently?”
“Yes Padre. It was big news. They found the dead body of a man involved, an American, but not the weapons.”
“Well, you’re going to find the body, or at least the head, of the other man that was involved. You’ll also recover some of the stolen weapons. Best of all, the man you are going to find is a Mexican. He’s a Mexican who works for the cartels. It will make for great headlines.”
“What about the rest of the weapons, Padre?”
“Those you won’t find,” the Padre said with a smile. “I need to put you on the map, Jose, but please understand I do have a business to run.”
• • •
Kip had showered away the dirt and sweat from his work on the front walkway. Waiting for Bennett to return, he sank into the soft leather couch as he cracked open a cold beer. Flipping through the channels, he surfed some sports programming while he rubbed the belly of the white French bulldog who had decided to join him. Pretty soon, the two of them were both snoring away in exhausted slumber. An hour later, Kip and Max were woken by the sound of Bennett returning home. Max bounded off the couch to meet his master at the back door.
“Anybody alive in here?” Bennett called out as he entered the room sporting his seersucker suit and bow tie. He was holding two beers. The still ecstatic little M
ax was in tow.
“Wow,” Kip said through a long yawn. “I was out like a light.”
“Manual labor will do that to you sissy pencil-pushers. Want one?” Bennett offered one of the bottles to Kip.
“Thanks, Pop,” Kip said as he took the offered beer while Bennett crashed down on the couch next to him. Max leapt directly into his master’s lap and begged for more attention. “Have fun downtown with your buddy, old man?”
“Always do. He’s about the only person immune to my rather caustic personality. Speaking of personalities, your Aunt Polly will be along in a bit. She’s fixing dinner for us tonight.”
“What’re we having?” Kip asked, taking a pull from the beer.
“Chicken fried steak. One of the few things she makes that I’m pretty sure won’t poison us. What’re we watching?”
“Nothing,” Kip replied as he handed the remote to Bennett. “Dealer’s choice.”
“How about this?” Bennett asked as he scrolled the channel guide, landing on the Food Network.
“What is it?”
“One of those new reality cooking shows, Swamp Food Kitchen.”
“Here, try some alligator,” the effusive cooking show’s host with a heavy British accent encouraged one of the participants. “Don’t be scared. It tastes like chicken.”
“I hate it when people say alligator tastes like chicken,” scoffed Kip. “It makes me want to ask them if they’ve ever even had chicken before. Chickens and alligators have completely unique diets; they don’t taste anything alike.”
“What if you fed your alligator nothing but chickens?” asked Bennett.
“Well, then, maybe, I guess,” conceded Kip. “You like gator?”
“Never touch the stuff,” replied Bennett as he fished into his coat pocket for his pipe and tobacco pouch. “I don’t eat anything that could eat me. It screws with the food chain.”
“I thought humans were at the top of the food chain?”
“Try telling that to a shark chewing on your leg and see if it lets go.”
Max exploded from his master’s lap and scampered toward the sound of the front door opening, barking madly as he met Aunt Polly entering the house with her arms full of groceries.
“Get down, Maximilian, you naughty boy!” Polly yelled at the white Frenchie humping her pudgy leg.
“Knock it off, Max!” Bennett commanded as he and Kip rose to help Polly with her load.
“Here, I’ve got it, Dad,” said Kip as he took the two loaded bags and moved them into the kitchen.
“Thank you, sweetie. That randy dog should be registered as a sex offender! He’s downright lewd. And I thought the old walkway was a hazard. The moat you’ve dug out front would swallow an army,” Polly said as she marched to the foot of the stairs. “Avery!” she yelled at the top of her lungs up the stairs. “I paid off your tab at the bookstore! You owe me two hundred and forty-seven dollars and fifty cents!”
“Go away,” came a muffled, distant reply from the end of the second-floor hallway.
“I’ll pour all this Mountain Dew I brought over right down the drain!” Polly yelled in reply.
“Harpy!” Avery replied in the distance.
“That boy drives me nuts,” Polly said to no one in particular as she clicked into the kitchen on her creaking white high heels and started to sort the groceries. “Dinner in one hour!”
Kip and Bennett returned to the couch and continued watching television. Deciding that Saturday night college football was more entertaining than Everglades cuisine, they settled in with the game. Kip tossed a plush mouse-shaped chew toy he found stuck halfway under one of the couch cushions across the room and out into the main foyer for Max to chase. Max flashed across the room at full speed after the toy. Uncontrollably sliding past the stuffed mouse on the slick wooden floor of the foyer, Max’s claws scratched frantically, looking for purchase. After regaining his footing, he sprang back towards his prey and attacked.
“If you think he’s going to bring it back, you’re sadly mistaken,” said Bennett as Max growled and violently shook the soft toy back and forth in his mouth. “The French done bred all the retriever out of that one.”
“Touchdown Tulsa!” the football play-by-play announcer on the television emphatically proclaimed. “And the Golden Hurricane now lead Houston by a score of twenty-seven to three as we approach halftime.”
“Damn it, Houston,” Bennett growled. “They ought to change their mascot from the Cougars to the Possums.”
“Why so?” asked Kip.
“Because they play dead at home and get killed on the road.”
“Dinner in ten!” Polly cried awhile later as she stuck her head, blooming with wicked red hair, into the room. “Oh, good Lord,” she said as she turned and looked at Avery coming down the stairs in his bathrobe and waving a metal wand over the stairway banisters.
“Quiet, woman!” Avery demanded as he waved the wand back and forth. The wand had a long silver wire connecting it to a pager-like device. “No noise!”
“What in the heck are you doing now?” Polly inquired as Avery turned into the den and raised his arm, passing his wand in a sweeping motion along the ceiling trim.
“Weekly bug sweep,” he replied nonchalantly as he waved the wand across an oil painting on the wall of Stephen F. Austin. “It requires that all electronic equipment be turned off. That includes the television, doctor.”
“You turn my ballgame off and I’ll feed you your teeth,” snarled Bennett.
“Given my line of work and your current residence, this is for the benefit of both of us,” Avery replied as he wiped his nose on his bathrobe sleeve.
“Keep it up, big boy, and I’ll make it your ex-residence.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” asked Kip.
“I’m conducting a radio frequency spectrum analysis looking for digital, spread-spectrum, and frequency-hopping transmitters. The government is more than likely using state-of-the-art electronic surveillance techniques to monitor my work. Little do they know, I’m a specialist in counter-surveillance operations.”
“Lunatic,” spat Bennett.
“Ingrate,” replied Avery, as he turned sideways to slip behind the couch and sweep the baseboard. “What year were the phone lines installed?”
“Don’t know, comma space, don’t care,” replied Bennett. “Now quit interrupting my game and get ready for dinner.”
“Dinner? Excellent!” Avery exclaimed. “Polly, I’ll have clams casino and a grilled cheese, and would you kindly fill the ice bucket and chill some Mountain Dew?” Avery continued with his bug sweep of the downstairs portion of the house until Polly called the gang for dinner. Sitting at the table, Avery grumbled when he saw the plate of chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and green beans sitting before him. “Where’s my straw?” Avery asked.
“We’re out,” replied Polly as she placed a basket of warm dinner rolls on the table and sat down to join the group.
“How do you expect me to drink Mountain Dew without a straw?”
“Like a normal person,” replied Polly. “Now, everyone, bow your heads for grace. Dear Lord, please bless this bounty we are about to receive. Bless our friends and family and those not able to be with us today. Lord, thank you for bringing our dear Kip back home to us, and please grant Miss Pearl success with our intervention and a lenient judge in the meantime. Oh, and Lord, please give Avery one hour in heaven before the Devil knows he’s there.”
“Amen,” the table said in unison, with the exception of Avery. Kip, Bennett, and Polly quickly finished their dinner, while Avery picked at his green beans and sipped his Mountain Dew. Upon completing their meal, Polly cleared the dishes and brought out a large plate stacked high with her famous pralines.
“Looks like something Max pooped in the backyard,” Avery said disgustedly as he sniffed one of the pralines.
“They most certainly do not,” a shocked Polly replied. “They just so happen to be award-
winning.” Avery filled each of the pockets of his bathrobe with a half dozen pralines and headed to the staircase with his half finished Mountain Dew.
“If the Pentagon calls for me, I’ll be in my office.”
• • •
South of the border, the Padre sat at a small table in the back of a dirty cantina in the heart of Nuevo Laredo. Noise and exhaust fumes from cars and buses wafted in through the open windows from the busy street outside. His back was to the wall as he watched the front door. He still wore his dark suit, and his legs were crossed with his boots propped up on a neighboring chair. A glass of water sat on the table in front of him. Two ominous-looking bodyguards stood at his side. The smoke-filled cantina was littered with loud Mexican men drinking beer and tequila, avoiding the heat of the breezeless early evening. The Padre lit another thin cigar as he checked his watch.
“Gordo,” the Padre said to the overweight bodyguard standing beside him. “What are the two things I value most in people?”
“Loyalty and punctuality,” a large man with a long, ragged scar across his neck replied.
“Precisely,” the Padre said as he checked his heavy gold watch again. His attention turned toward the front door as a tall Mexican man quickly burst into the cantina. He was wearing jeans and a brown leather vest with no shirt. The tall man’s arms and upper body were covered with tattoos. The Padre motioned for him to approach.
“Sit down, Sandro,” the Padre said as he removed his boots from the chair, allowing the man to sit. “Three minutes late.”
“I apologize, Padre. It won’t happen again,” Sandro said as he sat down.
“I know it won’t,” the Padre replied. “How are my roosters doing?”
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