Wild Heart

by Tripp Ellis

  We passed by, and I tried to soak up as much information as I could about the compound. There were two gates facing the main road. One for the garage and one for a pedestrian entrance. Through the slotted iron gate, it was possible to get a glimpse of the courtyard, but not much more than that.

  We rounded the block and passed by once again. Dean turned down a side street and drove to the end of the block. He pulled to the curb, and the engine idled. From here, we could see the compound on the corner.

  "We can't stay long,” Dean said. “Believe me, they’ve got eyes looking for suspicious cars loitering in the area."

  “What about drone surveillance?”

  “They’ve got motion sensors and lookouts. They’ll shoot them down if they see them. And they’ve got local police on the payroll. We might be able to score satellite imagery from Isabella. But I’m telling you... this is not the place to make your move.”

  We stayed for a few minutes, then Dean dropped the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.

  “Your best bet is to hit them at the club and catch them with their pants down,” Dean said. “Literally.”

  We headed across town and drove by Juan’s club, surveying the area. Dean gave us an overview of Chica Loca, describing the layout, entrances, exits, etc. “Cover charge is a hundred dollars, US.”

  My brow lifted with surprise. “Sounds a little steep.”

  “That gets you into the club and free watered-down drinks. It also gives you access to the girls. If you want a little one-on-one time, it’s $150 bucks for half an hour. $250 for a full hour. This is a high-class joint. The girls are stunning. They look like something from the pages of a magazine. These aren’t streetwalkers that you find for $20 in town. Once you get in this place, you’ll understand why these guys go here every night. All the amenities are free for them. If I were you, here’s what I would do…”

  48

  Dean shared his plan of attack. It was a good one and in line with what I had in mind.

  We had the afternoon and early evening to kill, so we went back to the hotel. Dean said that Juan and Armando probably wouldn’t arrive until 9 or 10 PM. They’d drink until they had their fill, then they’d select a companion and disappear into one of the brothel rooms to take care of business.

  When the time came, we headed to Chica Loca and parked at the curb across the street from the entrance. The garish neon sign cast an array of colors across the street. A sultry silhouette flickered in different poses. The curvaceous neon outline of a nude figure clearly indicated what awaited inside. The exterior was painted in bright yellow, teal, and red. Chica Loca gave the appearance of a refined, friendly spot for sex tourism. Despite being owned and operated by the cartel, it was meant to make tourists feel safe and comfortable, like visiting a familiar fast-food restaurant. Though, the items on the menu were a little more enticing with fewer calories.

  We waited outside for an hour until a black SUV pulled to the entrance. Juan and Armando emerged along with two goons. They pushed inside the club, and the SUV sped away to find a parking spot.

  We hopped out of the car and jogged across the street. Dean stayed with the vehicle. We’d need a quick getaway.

  There was a thick bouncer at the door with slicked-back hair and mustache. We played the role of dumb, drunk tourists. He let us inside and neglected to search us. Drunk gringos were usually considered harmless. The main concern was rival cartels. We paid the cover charge and entered the den of sin.

  Music from a live band thumped, playing American pop and rock. At first glance, it looked like your average strip club with colorful lighting, cocktail tables, secluded booths, and a large bar stocked with every imaginable brand of liquor. The shelves behind the bar were illuminated, and colored LEDs under-lit the bar counter. Gorgeous brunettes slinked around chrome poles wearing thigh-high fishnet stockings and garter belts. There was plenty of satin and lace, and the frilly garments contained glorious supple curves.

  We hadn’t gotten two steps into the club when we were swarmed by a bevy of beauties looking to entice us with their wares. Everything about the place was designed to separate you from your cash. These girls promised to fulfill every fantasy.

  We declined their initial offers and made our way to the bar. We ordered a drink, and my eyes scanned the lurid establishment, settling on Juan and Armando. They occupied a booth not far away, and two goons stood guard. Gorgeous girls crowded the booth, pawing on the powerful men. Drinks flowed, and there were smiles and laughs all around.

  Juan was a middle-aged guy, bald on top, with short curly hair on the sides. He had a full mustache and wore a white linen suit. He looked every bit the part of a drug overlord. He wore a gaudy gold chain around his neck and several flashy rings. Tufts of chest hair sprouted from his open collar.

  The bartender served our drinks, and he eyed JD curiously. After squinting at him for a moment, he said, “I know you."

  My heart leapt into my throat. The last thing we needed was to draw attention to ourselves.

  The bartender's eyes lit up. "You are the singer, no?"

  At first, I was sure the bartender had mistaken JD for the famous ‘80s rockstar that he resembled. I figured that no one in a joint like this would have heard of Wild Fury, though the last video was an Internet sensation and reached #3 on the charts. The video had almost a billion views worldwide.

  JD smiled and played it cool.

  "I recognize you from the video with the girls,” he said, using his hands to illustrate large bosoms. A mischievous grin curled on his face. "All I need. Great song!”

  I was shocked.

  JD had, in fact, been recognized in a foreign country as Thrash. It was impressive and somewhat concerning, seeing how we were trying to keep a low profile.

  The bartender continued. "The band…” he pointed to the stage, “they play your song every night."

  JD lifted an impressed eyebrow and tried not to grin too much.

  "You need to get on stage with the band and sing,” the bartender said.

  JD politely declined.

  "You must," the bartender urged enthusiastically.

  Then he did something that I had not anticipated. He shouted to Juan Valverde. "Boss! Boss! Come here."

  He waved the cartel boss over, but Juan ignored him.

  The bartender shouted several more times to get Juan’s attention.

  Juan dismissed him with a hand wave, but the bartender wouldn’t let up.

  I was hoping Juan would continue to ignore him. But finally, Juan excused himself from the ladies and strolled to the bartender, looking annoyed. Juan had the confident swagger of a powerful and dangerous man. He was in his own bar, in his element, and he was untouchable.

  The excited bartender couldn't contain himself. "Boss, this is him!” he said, pointing at JD. "He's the guy in the video with the gorgeous blondes.” He mimicked big bosoms with his hands again. “Your favorite song."

  Juan studied JD's face for a moment. Then a wave of recognition washed over him. His eyes lit up. “My friend, I am so honored to have you in my bar!”

  The cartel boss extended his hand, and the two shook.

  “I am a huge fan,” Juan said like a star-struck fan. “Anything you want is on the house. But may I ask one favor?”

  Cartel bosses never asked for anything. It was a subtle demand.

  “You must get up and sing for us." Juan smiled.

  It was an offer JD couldn't refuse.

  The situation was awkward, to say the least. Fortunately, neither Juan nor Armando had ever seen our faces in the course of the investigation. Neither knew we were cops.

  I hoped it would stay that way.

  49

  Juan wouldn't take no for an answer. And it certainly wasn't wise to make the cartel boss angry. After a round of tequila shots, JD took the stage with Juan, and they both sang All I Need.

  Juan was quite off-pitch.

  But it was his moment to share the stage with an Internet ce
lebrity, so to speak.

  Despite Juan’s vocal shortcomings, the rendition was met with overwhelming applause. Something told me that every time Juan took the stage, it was met with obligatory enthusiasm.

  After the brief set, the boisterous cartel boss invited us back to his table for more drinks. He introduced us to Armando, and I loathed shaking the scumbag's hand.

  JD and I played nice.

  We indulged in Juan’s hospitality, which included seemingly endless shots of tequila and a bevy of willing beauties.

  "What brings you to my fair city?" Juan asked.

  "A little rest and relaxation," JD said. "Can you ever have too much fun in the sun?"

  Juan smiled. “I will make you an honorary lifetime member of the club. No cover charge."

  "That's mighty kind of you," JD said.

  “We have the finest ladies in all the land, as you can see," Juan said, brimming with pride. The booth was crowded with girls cozying up to all of us.

  "These girls will fulfill your heart’s desire. But be careful, don't fall in love," Juan cautioned with a maniacal laugh. "But you can fall in lust for an evening."

  He lifted his glass to toast, and we swigged the tequila.

  "Go ahead and indulge yourself," Juan said. "You pay for nothing here."

  JD thanked him for his hospitality.

  "That goes for both of you," Juan said, looking at me. "Take your pick. Any girl in the club.”

  "Except for this one right here," Armando said, pulling a girl named Bonita close.

  The girl cooed and whispered something naughty in his ear.

  "If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” Armando said. “I think it's time to take care of business. Can’t keep the lady waiting."

  We slid out of the booth and let Armando exit, dragging his girl in tow.

  "I guess it's time for us to take you up on your hospitality," JD said to Juan.

  JD escorted a lovely young woman from the booth, and I followed with a companion of my own.

  The two girls were used to the routine. They led us through the bar to a staircase, each step lined with red LED strips. Sumptuous hips swayed from side to side as they climbed the steps, their pert cheeks ready to burst through their skimpy, tight skirts. Stiletto heels clacked against the stairs.

  When we reached the top of the landing, there was a clerk behind a counter. The girls told him this evening would be compliments of the boss. Normally, this is where you would pay the man for a room. He handed us keys, and the girls guided us down a dimly lit hallway with red walls and black doors. Red LED strips lined the tops of the walls, casting a sinful glow.

  There were dozens and dozens of small rooms. Miniature pleasure palaces, rented by the half-hour or hour. Muffled moans and grunts filtered from the rooms. Mattresses squeaked. The girls pulled us down the long corridor, and I made note of which room Armando entered.

  We reached our rooms, and Ivette took the key from my hand. She unlocked the door and pulled me inside. The room was small and lit with more red LEDs. I told Ivette to get undressed and wait for me. She smiled and peeled off her dress, then sauntered toward the bed. She looked delicious.

  I pulled the door shut and stepped into the hallway. JD had done the same.

  There was no one else in the hallway for the time being, and the clerk at the top of the stairs couldn't see from this angle. We waited for a moment. It sounded like someone was coming up the steps. Another girl led a client down the hallway, and we waited for them to enter a room.

  When all was clear, we drew our pistols and kicked open the door to Armando’s love shack. We barged in, our weapons in the firing position, catching the thug with his pants down. Armando was buck naked on top of the young lady, looking like a dog in heat.

  His concubine screeched with terror, and Armando’s face twisted with a mix of rage and confusion. He hesitated slightly before reaching for his gun on the nightstand.

  "Don't even think about it!” I shouted.

  Anger twisted on the thug’s face, but he knew he wasn't fast enough to grab his weapon.

  “Get off the girl and put your hands against the wall. Now!"

  Armando reluctantly complied. “You two are dead men.”

  “We’re all dead men,” I replied philosophically. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  JD ratcheted the cuffs around his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, then brought his other arm around and locked them up tight.

  “Make a sound, and I’ll blow your ugly head off,” JD warned.

  “I gotta hand it to you… you guys got balls. Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with?”

  I poked my head into the hallway and scanned in all directions. Two more girls led clients to rooms. We waited until they disappeared, then we hurried Armando out of his room and down the hallway to a staircase that led to a back exit. The buck-naked thug swayed in the breeze, his bare feet slapping against the tile floor.

  JD texted Dean.

  When we pushed through the exit door, into the back alley way, Dean was waiting for us. He popped the trunk, and we stuffed Armando inside and slammed the trunk lid. A slew of obscenities flew from Armando’s mouth, and he banged and kicked in the trunk.

  We hopped into the backseat of the car, and Dean floored it. The tires spit gravel as he peeled out of the alleyway and turned onto a side street.

  JD had a shit-eating grin on his face. "Mission accomplished!”

  He held out his fist, and we bumped knuckles.

  But the celebration was a bit too soon. We weren’t out of this yet.

  50

  The tires squealed as we rounded the corner, and the tiny engine in the four-door sedan howled. Armando kept banging and shouting in the trunk. He was a big guy, and the space was cramped. The ride was probably quite uncomfortable.

  I was starting to think we might have gotten away with it when a black SUV fell in line behind us, having pulled out from a side street.

  I sat in the backseat, and Dean's nervous eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. "We’ve got company."

  He mashed the pedal to the floor and weaved through the traffic, ignoring street signs. Horns honked, and tires screeched, avoiding narrow collisions.

  The SUV rumbled behind us. It’s snarling grill inched closer. A pistol emerged from the passenger window.

  I rolled down the window and angled my pistol at the behemoth. I squeezed several rounds into the window on the driver's side. Muzzle flash flickered, and bullets peppered the glass, embedding in the windshield. The armored vehicle had bulletproof glass. At best, I'd be able to obstruct the driver’s vision.

  The SUV probably had run-flat tires, and I was sure there was a protective barrier in the front grill. I pumped a few shots into the engine compartment for good measure, but it didn't seem to do any good. The big, black SUV kept barreling forward.

  Dean banked a hard left, and the ass end of the car slid out as we rounded the corner. He counter-steered, keeping it under control, and sped away.

  We had one slight advantage over the armored SUV—it was heavy and suffered from massive understeer. When the beast tried to make the corner, it swung wide and plowed into a row of cars parked at the curb. It brushed them away like a tank, scraping paint and showering sparks into the night. It kept going, but the delay opened up a gap between us.

  Dean took another hard right, and I tumbled across the back seat and slammed against the opposite door.

  I'm sure Armando was enjoying the ride.

  Dean banked another hard left and hauled ass down the road, passing storefronts and restaurants.

  I looked through the rear window and saw the SUV turn behind us. The V8 thundered, and the SUV gained on us quickly.

  Dean swung another left into a residential area, then took a quick right.

  We played this cat-and-mouse game, twisting through the streets—and for a moment, I thought we had lost them. We needed to get the hell out of Dodge before the police got involved. They wouldn't be the
re to help us.

  We doubled back around and raced down the boulevard. From the corner of my eye, I saw the massive grill of the SUV launch from a side street. It was on a collision course to T-bone us.

  Dean mashed the pedal, and the SUV clipped the right rear quarter panel, sending us into a spiral. Tires shrieked and smoked. Metal crumpled.

  The black SUV plowed forward and smacked into a light pole on the opposite corner.

  We did a 360 down the roadway, but Dean managed to regain control of the car. He straightened up and kept going, but the right rear tire had been shredded, and the rim ground into the asphalt, spewing sparks as we raced away. He took a hard right, then a left, then another right, and barreled as fast as he could down the road.

  I noticed the commotion in the trunk had ceased.

  I was pretty sure Armando hadn’t survived the impact. The right rear quarter panel had severely encroached upon the narrow compartment.

  "Shit," Dean grumbled, his panicked eyes bulging at the instrument cluster on the dash.

  "What's the problem?" I asked.

  51

  “We’re running out of gas,” Dean shrieked. “Fuel line must have ruptured.”

  A moment later, flames flickered from the right rear.

  Dean pulled into an alley, and we hopped out of the car. The smell of burning gas and rubber filled my nostrils.

  We tried to open the trunk, but it was jammed shut from the impact. But let's be honest, we didn't try that hard.

  We backed away from the flaming vehicle. It was soon engulfed in an amber glow. It popped and crackled, and black smoke billowed into the night sky. It would be a beacon for the cartel.

  Armando would soon be extra crispy.

  We took off running down the alley and made a couple of twists and turns through a residential neighborhood.

  Dogs barked.

  We were far from the tourist part of town. Three gringos wandering these streets would stick out like sore thumbs.

  We found an abandoned home a few blocks away. There was no roof, and the exposed cinder block was damaged and crumbling in parts. The derelict structure was overgrown with weeds and was loosely fenced off with chicken wire. Two main walls had fallen down. There was a pile of gravel and some construction materials in the area. Who knows how long it had been standing there?