Rancho Buena Fortuna

by Bill King

  “We have identified the FBI agent in the video from the Border Patrol, Tío Memo,” she said. “His name is Pete Cortez and he is assigned to the FBI’s Houston office.”

  “What do we know about him? Why was he in Laredo?”

  “From what we’ve been able to piece together, he was involved in a recent incident along the border,” she said. “Apparently, he was on a fishing weekend along the river when he was accosted by three individuals. Two of them were killed, while the third got away.”

  “Did he shoot them?”

  “One had his throat slit, the other was shot in the stomach,” she said. “We heard a couple of border patrol agents talking about it in their operations center. He’s become quite a celebrity in the border patrol building, almost verging on hero worship.”

  “Have you been able to extend your electronic surveillance into the FBI building there in Laredo?”

  “No, no, not yet,” she laughed. “One step at a time. However, if they communicate with each other as part of the same network, we’ll eventually get inside. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Well, keep me informed, Gracie,” said the old man. “It’s important to our long-term plans.”

  “One more thing, Tío Memo,” she said, her face reflecting her reluctance to bring up the subject. “I’m almost certain that the third man, the one who ran away, was Chucho.” She chose not to mention anything about the recent butchering she had witnessed on the CBP video. She didn’t want to appear to be piling on, especially not in front of the Frenchman.

  “That surprises me, especially that he would run away from a fight like that.”

  “There’s probably a lot about Chucho that would surprise you, Tio Memo. I’m concerned that his activities on the American side of the border might bring unwanted attention to us.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” he said, his soothing voice reminding her of when she was growing up and how he would always try to explain the broader world to her. “I know you two have a troubled history, but I don’t think he would be foolish enough to cause us problems.”

  “I hope you’re right, Tío Memo,” she said, trying to feel reassured by his words. “Nevertheless, I’m still concerned.”

  ◆◆◆

  By the time Graciela, López Navarro and The Frenchman had made their way down to the underground command center after lunch, it was nearly two in the afternoon. Graciela had alerted the shift chief an hour earlier, so they were ready for her when the three arrived. Marcela, the senior shift leader and Graciela’s most trusted lieutenant, already had the video feed of the Border Patrol command center displayed on the large video screen mounted on the wall.

  “This is a live feed we’re watching right now,” said Marcela, who was wearing a red Stanford sweatshirt that Graciela had given her for her birthday the week before. She was a homely looking woman in her mid-twenties, with the lingering vestiges of a nasty-looking purplish bruise just below her right eye that she had received from her boyfriend—technically, now her late boyfriend—three days earlier.

  Graciela protected her people, particularly the women. Every once in a while, a message had to be sent.

  The high-resolution image on the screen showed two men in dark green border patrol uniforms sitting in front of laptop computers. One of them kept rubbing his nose, apparently bothered by an annoying itch. This continued for nearly a minute, until the man coyly glanced over at the other man, saw that he wasn’t paying attention, and dug his index finger deep into his nose to remove the source of his irritation.

  “Eewww! Gross,” said Graciela, contorting her face in disgust. The Frenchman burst into hysterical laughter.

  “Now, watch this,” said Marcela, zooming in on the border patrol agent’s finger. “I count two nose hairs that came out with the bugger.” She pronounced it “boo-ger.” The agent nonchalantly rolled the nostril nugget between his thumb and index finger for a few moments before casually flicking it toward the center of the room.

  “A crude but effective display,” said El Indio, smirking and slowly shaking his head in disbelief. “What about the audio? I don’t hear anything.”

  Graciela nodded to Marcella, who adjusted the volume. A few moments later, one of the border patrol agents turned his head towards the other.

  “Are you going to the Dustdevils’ game tonight?” he asked, in a normal, conversational tone.

  “Yeah,” said the other. “They’re playing Arlington Baptist and a bunch of us are going to grab a few beers afterwards. Are you going?”

  Graciela nodded to Marcela, who adjusted the volume back to mute.

  “We usually keep it on mute, but we’re recording everything in case we need to go back and review something,” said Graciela. “For now, we just key off the video to guide us on what to listen to, at least for now. We’ll install some transcription software in the next day or two to create a written text record of all conversations, complete with a date-time stamp so we can quickly find it on the video tape.”

  “Excellent,” said López Navarro. “This capability is crucial to our future plans.”

  “I’m seriously considering establishing an intelligence analysis center, though, to better exploit this new source of information,” she said. “I can foresee this expanding into an entirely new revenue stream.”

  “Interesting idea,” mused the old man, stroking his chin. This was the first he had heard of this idea. “Who will you staff it with?”

  “I have a trip to Palo Alto planned for next week,” she said. “I have a couple of people in mind whom I want to talk to.”

  “Be very careful who you let in on this secret, Gracie,” said the old man. “Close friends are the most trustworthy, but they’re also the hardest to kill if the situation requires. Always remember that, my child.”

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 16

  WHILE CHUCHO HAD FINALLY succeeded in identifying him, Pete Cortez had not been as lucky. He had spent countless hours reviewing the traffic camera footage in hopes of stumbling across a picture of the Mexican drug trafficker. However, no luck so far. It was a slow and tedious process, even if he felt confident—which he didn’t—that the man would be captured on film driving the streets of Laredo.

  He knew that the man’s name was Chucho but, without a picture, his chances of finding him were probably pretty slim. A check of the federal database identified thousands of men with that nickname between the ages of twenty and forty, but none of their pictures matched the man he had seen the on the riverbank that morning.

  He was about to call it quits for the day—he could only stare at a computer screen for an hour at a time before he became completely bug-eyed—when he recognized the face. The parrot beak nose was unmistakable. That was him, no doubt about it. The quality of the picture certainly could have been better, but it was good enough and, now that he at least had a picture, finding him would be much easier, at least in theory.

  He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was just past ten in the morning. He took his cell phone from his shirt pocket and scanned through his address book for the number for his contact with the Mexican Federal Police in Monterrey.

  “Bueno. Dígame,” the man on the other end of the line answered in a deep, booming voice.

  “Marco,” said Cortez in Spanish. “This is Pete Cortez with the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Houston, Texas.”

  “Ah, yes, Pete, of course, I remember you. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

  “I’m working on a case in Laredo and I’m trying to identify a Mexican national who is directly involved. I believe he is a drug trafficker and thought you might be able to identify him and maybe tell me something about him.”

  “I would be happy to, Pete,” said Marco Sanchez Ramirez, who was a chief inspector investigator with the Federal Ministerial Police in the city of Monterrey. He and Cortez had worked together twice during the past three years, the most recent time involving human trafficking
from Mexico into the Port of Houston. “What do you already know about this man? His given name, or even his nom de guerre?”

  “The man we’re looking for goes by the name of Chucho,” said Cortez. “All I have is a traffic camera photo that I just located. Not a great photo, but I’m positive it’s him. Otherwise, I have nothing at all.”

  “What makes you think he’s a Mexican national?” asked Sanchez. “Lots of Norte Americanos have Hispanic surnames. Yourself included, I might add.”

  “Point taken. Still, I’m pretty sure he’s a Mexican national. One of the two men killed in the incident is a Mexican—his grandmother retrieved the body—and the other has not yet been identified.”

  “Can you email the photo to me?” Sanchez spelled out his email address phonetically.

  “Sure thing. You can call me back at this number if you come up with something. It’s my cell phone, so you can reach me anytime, day or night.”

  As soon as he hung up with Sanchez, Cortez had one of the CBP technicians help him create a reasonably clear photo of Chucho. He uploaded the image and emailed it to the address he had just been given.

  Three minutes later, Cortez’s phone rang. It was Sanchez.

  “We need to talk…in private,” said the Mexican policeman. “I’ have a meeting in Nuevo Laredo in three hours. Can you meet me at La Cantina Nuevo Leon? It’s just two blocks south of the border, right across the street from Plaza Juarez.”

  ◆◆◆

  Mateo Calderón stood on the observation deck high atop the Liberty Memorial Tower, which rises more than two hundred feet above the World War One memorial plaza. From there, he had a panoramic view of Kansas City for as far as the eye could see. In this case, though, his attention was focused just a quarter of a mile away—on the Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City.

  Severe thunderstorms were forecast for later that afternoon, which had prompted Calderón to put on a light windbreaker before he left his hotel in suburban Olathe that morning. The wind was blustery, making it difficult to hear on his cell phone.

  “How strong is the signal?” he asked, pressing the phone firmly against his ear to block the wind as best as he could.

  “Perfect. I have five bars,” said the man who was dressed in grey workman’s overalls and standing on the roof of the Federal Reserve Bank, next to a row of large air conditioning units. He had worked for the company contracted to do all the HVAC work at the bank for nearly fifteen years and was a model employee. He was expert at his job, was never late to work and got along well with everyone. He had never been in trouble, not even a parking ticket.

  He was also a family man with two kids, a boy and a girl, both getting ready to go off to college, and he needed money. It was as simple as that. No gambling problem, no drug or drinking problem, nor any of the things that might normally trigger suspicion. His wife had died in a hit and run accident five years earlier and he was raising his children on his own.

  Like most Americans, he had not saved enough money for college, having already spent a small fortune on private schools just to get his kids through high school. He was facing an impending mountain of debt and Graciela’s local contact had offered him a lifeline when they first approached him one week earlier.

  Today was a regularly scheduled maintenance visit, so it aroused no undue suspicion that he was bringing tools and routine replacement components upstairs on a dolly, up to the rooftop.

  The plan was simple. The man would implant a small canister that would disperse deadly chlorine gas through the ventilation system. A cell phone secured to the canister would serve as the trigger. When it rang, the gas would be released. Simple.

  Of course, Calderón had told him the cannister contained harmless tear gas, not chlorine. There was no sense risking a last-minute attack of conscience.

  “Put the package in place and then go about your normal business,” said Calderón, trying to reassure the man that there was no way the police would ever be able to tie him to this incident. “Our technology people have made sure that the security cameras did not record you going up on the roof. You have nothing to worry about, so long as you remembered to wear gloves. They’ll never suspect you were involved. You can go back to your normal life, as if this had never happened.”

  Of course, Fósforo was lying through his teeth, but he didn’t want to spook the man. He needed him to truly believe, at least until the deed was done, that he could get away with it. Once the job was done, though, he would suffer the same fate as their contact in Cleveland. In fact, that task had also already been contracted for.

  The attack was scheduled to take place at exactly eleven o’clock the following morning.

  ◆◆◆

  The vehicle carrying Isabela Sanchez and her three compatriots arrived on the outskirts of St. Louis, Missouri, during the heart of rush hour. Tens of thousands of tired, frustrated motorists were all trying to navigate their way through the sprawling metro area on Interstate 44. They were augmented by at least ten times as many weary commuters fighting the traffic on their way home after a long day of work. The result was gridlock, as cars and trucks and buses moved along at a seemingly glacial speed. For the past ten minutes, Isabela’s vehicle had traveled less than a mile. It didn’t look like the next ten minutes would be any better, either.

  “Pull off the highway here,” she said, pointing at the big green exit sign just ahead of them. “I need to find a restroom. Pull into that fast food restaurant up there on the right.”

  Isabela was the first one out of the vehicle, a Navy-blue crossover SUV. She quickly skirted through the parking lot to the front door of the restaurant, stopping only briefly to allow a yellow Mini Cooper to pull forward in the drive-through lane. The three teenage girls in the car were engaged in an animated conversation and paid no attention to her. In fact, had she not stopped to wait for them to pass, they probably would have run her over and never realized it, save for the telltale thump-thump.

  Her team consisted of three other women and Isabela wanted to be first in line. This would give her time to make a phone call while they waited for everyone else to use the ladies room.

  As she exited the restroom, she pulled her burner phone from the back pocket of her skinny jeans and hit the speed dial entry marked F in her address book.

  “Dígame,” said Calderón, who recognized the letter I on the caller ID as being Isabela.

  “We’re here,” she said. “I’m ready to copy.”

  “314-899-9090.”

  “Comprendido,” she said. Understood. The entire call took less than ten seconds.

  She then sent an instant message to the number Calderón had just given her. The message said simply, “Waren hier,” which means we’re here in German. It was Fósforo’s idea to use multiple languages in their communications to make law enforcement’s forensic postmortem investigation even more difficult. At least, she assumed it was his idea. It could also have been the Frenchman’s or Graciela’s.

  Thirty seconds later, she received a text message that gave her the address to meet her contact, as well as a time. They were using the Wickr app on their phones, which meant that their messages were not only encrypted, but also would disappear after a short delay.

  Isabela, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, had already entered the address into the GPS by the time the other three women returned to the car. It was just two miles away.

  “Everybody feeling better?” she asked. They all nodded their heads affirmatively.

  “Good. We meet our contact in twenty minutes. Let’s try not to be late.”

  Less than two minutes later, the SUV merged back into the traffic on the interstate, heading toward the downtown area.

  ◆◆◆

  La Cantina Nuevo Leon was a little hole in the wall place on Avenida Vicente Guerrero, just across the border, next to Plaza Juarez. Cortez noticed a white Ford SUV with big block letters reading POLICIA FEDERAL MINISTERIAL parked in the lot beside the restaurant.

  C
ortez saw chief inspector Sanchez sitting at a table over in the corner when he walked through the entrance. He walked over and sat down.

  “What’s so secret that you had to drive a hundred forty miles to tell me in person?” asked Cortez, in Spanish.

  “I wanted to warn you personally that the man you are looking for is Jesús Ramirez Colón,” said Sanchez. “He is an enforcer for a corrupt Polícia Federal officer named Velazquez, who is most commonly referred to as El Coronel. Ramirez goes by the name Chucho and is widely known for his savage brutality…and that’s a pretty high bar in this region of Mexico.”

  “You wouldn’t know it based upon our brief encounter,” said Cortez. “He just turned and ran. Little guy was quick, too. It was like he vanished into thin air.”

  “Did you chase after him?”

  “No, I was trying to help the young kid I had just shot in the gut, but he died about a minute later. I think I heard the sound of a motor bike in the distance as I knelt beside the kid. That’s probably how he made his getaway.”

  “What about the other man?”

  “He bled out pretty quickly,” said Cortez. “I severed his jugular with my knife and grabbed his pistol. That’s what I shot the second kid with.”

  Sanchez whistled softly.

  “Normally, I would say that you were lucky you did not lock horns with Chucho but, perhaps, the truth is the other way around,” said the Mexican policeman.

  He slid a large manila envelope across the table to Cortez, soaking up a small spill of salsa in the process.

  “Here’s what I have,” said Sanchez. “I keep the originals in a safe in my lawyer’s office. These are copies.”

  Cortez opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. He examined the documents carefully for a couple of minutes before placing them back into the envelope and handing it back to the Mexican policeman.

  “I have everything on this,” said Sanchez, sliding a thumb drive across the table to Cortez. “This should be a lot easier for you to get through customs and security.”