by Bill King
“I’m just doing my job, Cortez, and right now, things are not looking so good for you.”
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Chapter 18
CHUCHO TOOK ONE LAST swig from his bottle of beer before flipping it into the air and off to the side. It bounced head over heal a couple of times before coming to a rest next to a prickly bush, alongside half a dozen other empty bottles. It was early evening and sunset was only moments away, the shadows cast by the trees getting longer and fuzzier by the minute.
He sat cross-legged on a hillside overlooking the Rio Grande. For the past twenty minutes, he had been watching Graciela swim laps, back and forth, in the Olympic-size pool in the back yard of the Rancho. Graciela had been on the swim team as an undergraduate at Stanford and was wearing one of her old black, one-piece swimsuits with the Stanford emblem on the stomach. She still enjoyed the solitude of an early evening swim.
Her years as a competitive swimmer had made her less self-conscious of other people watching her in what, for most people, would be a private moment. There was no such thing as a private moment at the Rancho, especially nowadays. Anything that wasn’t under the watchful eyes of armed security guards was covered by surveillance cameras.
Chucho was intrigued. What was she up to and who were the new owners of the property? His recent experience with the red laser scopes told him this was not simply a rich businessman’s vacation home. No, it belonged to someone a lot more powerful. His basic survival instinct told him it was better to tread lightly until he knew what he was dealing with.
After a while, Graciela climbed out of the pool and began drying herself with a big white towel. She removed her black swim cap and shook her head, letting her auburn hair fall to her shoulders. She tossed the towel onto one of the wrought iron tables by the pool and grabbed a long white cotton robe, which she put on herself as she walked toward the house. A moment later, she was inside.
Chucho stood up and stretched his arms and legs. He turned around and climbed the remaining twenty feet to the top of the hill. That’s when he saw, in the distance, plumes of dust coming up from the road behind him. Vehicles, he thought to himself. Could they have seen me up here from the hacienda across the river? Even if they had, there’s no way they could’ve reacted so quickly.
He quickly scrambled on all fours to get behind a large cottonwood tree that gave him some cover, at least from a distance. He watched and waited.
Three minutes later, two dark blue Ford Explorer SUVs came to a halt next to a ramshackle old barn about five hundred meters from where Chucho lay hiding. He had not paid any attention to it, even though he remembered seeing the dilapidated old structure a few times during his years at the Rancho. Despite that, he didn’t remember ever actually having been inside.
Chucho adjusted his binoculars in hopes of getting a better look at what was going on. Judging by the warped and weathered look of the gray-colored wood on the outside of the derelict barn, it had probably been abandoned at least twenty years ago.
Two people got out of the first vehicle, both men, and walked over to a clump of bushes to relieve themselves. The rest remained in the vehicles. When they had finished their business, the two men walked over to the barn and slid the big door open. Considering how large and how dilapidated the big door was, it seemed to open with surprisingly little effort.
The two SUVs were then driven into the barn, followed by the two men on foot. They slid the big door closed behind them.
By now, the sun had already gone down and it was getting darker by the minute. Chucho waited for about ten minutes to see if anyone came out of the barn. No one did, so he cautiously slid down the hillside to get a closer look. It took him about ten minutes to cover the distance to the old barn.
As he approached the ramshackle farm building, he looked for windows but did not see any on the ground level. The old barn was actually much bigger than it appeared in the distance from the hillside. He walked all the way around the building but saw no other points of entry, so he decided to try the big door in the front. It wouldn’t budge.
There must be a lever or switch somewhere, he thought, feeling around in the vicinity of the door’s D-shaped wooden handle. He gradually widened his search until, eventually, his hand bumped against a bent, rusty nail that turned out to be a switch. The door slid open smoothly.
Parked inside the barn were the two black SUVs, each covered with a thick layer of dust. Unlike its rundown exterior, the interior of the barn had been completely rebuilt. It had all the accoutrements—shovels, pitch forks, buckets, tack and saddle racks—of a typical agricultural shed, but there was something about it that rang false. There was no indication that any animals had ever been inside.
Against the rear wall was what appeared to be an elevator door. Judging by the opening, which was about ten feet wide, it was most likely a service elevator. Chucho had been in the drug business long enough to recognize a smuggling site when he saw one.
He walked back to the two vehicles, neither of which was locked. He opened the rear door of one and found a couple of shopping bags containing women’s clothing. Lying next to them was a red St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap. He rummaged inside the other bag and found a red Kansas City Chiefs football jersey, along with half a dozen bottles of Gates Barbeque sauce.
“Mierda,” he muttered.
Just then, he heard voices, followed by the sound of the exterior barn door sliding open. He quickly found a place to hide behind some stacked bales of hay just before two men entered the barn and walked over to the elevator. One of them reached up and grabbed the end of a rope that was hanging down. He pulled on the rope and a large sheet of wood, apparently secured on the other end by strong hinges, was lowered until it swung into position and covered the entrance to the service elevator.
The two men then opened the rear door to the SUVs and removed the last of the shopping bags before closing the doors and hitting the fob key to lock the vehicle. Then they walked over to the big sliding door, turned off the lights, and exited the barn.
“Carajo,” Chucho whispered under his breath. “What the hell is going on here?”
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Chapter 19
IT WAS EARLY EVENING on a Friday and Graciela was seated at a table for two at Evvia, a Mediterranean restaurant in Palo Alto. When she saw her expected dinner companion walk through the main door, she waved to attract her attention.
“Gwen, over here,” she called out, excitedly. The two women embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks before sitting down at their table, which was nestled next to the large windows overlooking Emerson Street. The soft aura coming in from the streetlights gave the place a warm, cozy feel.
“It’s so great to see you, Gracie,” said Gwen Thompson, who was in the Bay Area for an international security symposium and was still dressed in the same dark suit and gray silk blouse she had worn to the conference. “What time did you get in?”
“About three hours ago,” said Graciela, who was wearing a light green sweater over her sun dress to protect her arms from the chill of the night air. “Tío Memo was kind enough to let me borrow his plane to fly up here. My life has been much too hectic lately for me to add in the chaos of flying commercial.”
“So, how’s your project coming along?” asked Gwen, picking up her white linen napkin from atop the table and placing it in her lap.
“Perfect. The software patch you installed works like a charm. It’s just like being in the same room with them.”
“I’d love to see it in person sometime.”
“Maybe sometime in the future but, for now, I think we should stay as far under the radar as possible. I don’t want them to suspect that we even exist, much less know where we’re located.” She reached for her glass of effervescent water and took a sip.
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
The waitress came to their table and each ordered a glass of chardonnay. The restaurant was teeming with expensively dressed customers, most of them pr
obably chatting about their hectic day’s activities. They kept their voices low to keep from being overheard, and the ambient noise caused them to have to lean in while conversing.
“I’m looking for someone to set up an intelligence analysis center,” said Graciela, leaning forward toward Gwen, her voice low. “Someone who can help me turn all this info we’re gathering into something useful. Can you think of anyone from our Stanford days who might be a good fit?”
“Where would they work? Here or there?”
“They would be with me.”
“That may cost you a little extra in salary—let’s call it a boondocks differential—but I’m sure you can find someone,” said Gwen, glancing over Graciela’s shoulder at the young waiter tending to the table next to them. “Actually, I can think of four or five people just off the top of my head who would be perfect and would probably love to do it, especially for the right price. Student loans and living expenses, especially here in the Bay Area, can put quite a financial strain on most people…present company excepted.”
Graciela noticed that Gwen was sneaking furtive glances at the waiter.
“Thinking about robbing the cradle?” she asked, causing Gwen’s face to turn beet red.
The sommelier arrived with their bottle of wine and opened it at the table. Graciela waved her hand, indicating the woman should go ahead and pour the wine into their glasses.
“Do you think any of these people would have any qualms about working with me?” asked Graciela once they were alone again.
“What, you mean sticking it to ICE? I don’t think so. In fact, it’ll probably be a selling point.”
“I’m guessing you probably lied just a little on your employment application with Homeland Security,” said Graciela, a mischievous smile on her face.
“Maybe just a little bit,” said Gwen, smiling back at her. She picked up her wine and, clinking her glass against Graciela’s, toasted, “To the future.”
While they were waiting for their dinner to arrive, Gwen wrote down a list with five names and phone numbers. She slid the note across the white linen tablecloth to Graciela.
“This should give you a start,” said Gwen. “Each of them is fluent in both Spanish and English, which I assume would be a prerequisite. You can tell them I gave you their names. I know all of them personally and you can rely on them.”
“Is there one you would choose above all the others?”
Gwen pointed to one of the names, Rhonda Shaughnessy.
“Nice Hispanic name,” said Graciela, smiling.
“Her parents were missionaries in Argentina,” said Gwen. “She was born and raised down there and, even though she looks a lot like Christina Hendricks, English is actually her second language…maybe even her third.”
“Is she politically active?”
“If you mean, is she registered to vote, the answer is probably yes. If you’re asking if she’s a member of Antifa, no, she’s not. She’s really more of a bookworm than an activist.”
“That’s exactly what I’m looking for,” said Graciela. “I’ll give her a call tonight when I get back to my hotel.”
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Chapter 20
“MI CORONEL, WHAT A nice surprise,” said Chucho, picking up his mobile phone and switching it off speaker mode. He was trying to spruce up his language now that he was in middle management. He motioned with his left hand for the three men in the room to leave and give him some privacy.
“I think we may have a problem,” the Mexican Federal policeman said in a calm, but serious voice. “I have just learned that an FBI agent from Houston was here in Mexico a couple of days ago, looking for you. Apparently, he is the same gabacho you had the scuffle with that night on the river, the one who killed your two young compatriots.”
“What does he know about me?” He sounded more curious than concerned.
“Not very much, at least for now, but my sources say he does have a picture of you,” said El Coronel. “And he now knows your name, thanks to one of his counterparts with the Ministerial Police. Personally, I think it is only a matter of time until he finds you.”
“Houston is a long way from where I am.”
“Yes, but I understand he has been working in Laredo for the past several weeks.”
Chucho was silent for a moment.
“I guess I should have killed him when I had the chance,” said Chucho, glumly.
“Yes, in hindsight, that probably would have been much better. Even better would be if you had remembered to bring a weapon with you when you approached the man,” he said. “The problem is, with your newfound visibility, your value to me goes down. Way down. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Chucho understood that, despite his longstanding relationship with El Coronel, this was still a business where forgiveness was in short supply.
“I will kill the gringo, mi coronel,” said Chucho, the nervousness now obvious in his voice. “You can rely on me.”
“Just make sure you do…and don’t let too much time pass before you take care of this little matter.”
“Si, señor.”
“Oh, and Chucho, please make sure that it cannot be traced back to you, and especially not to me.”
The threat, though implied, reverberated in his ears. He glanced down at his wristwatch. It was almost seven and nightfall was fast approaching.
“I will leave for Laredo immediately, mi coronel,” he said, the sweat now pouring down the side of his face. “I will let you know when it is done.”
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It was just past three in the morning when Pete Cortez arrived at the perimeter check point the Laredo FBI field office had set up on the highway leading into the farmhouse that Chucho was reported to be staying at. He quickly found Bobby Janak, who was standing by an FBI vehicle, speaking with a Texas Ranger and a couple of Jim Hogg County sheriff’s deputies.
“How are things looking, Bobby?” asked Cortez, taking a sip of hot coffee from his black Yeti tumbler. The sun was still not due to rise for another three hours and, with a low layer of night clouds blocking out the moon, it was pitch black outside. It was eerily still, except for the droning noise of the cicadas.
“We have two men in position inside the property, with eyes on the farmhouse,” said Janak. “No sign of any activity. No lights on inside the house or in any of the outlying buildings.”
“Are we sure anyone is even there?”
“Yeah, there are two pickups parked out front, and thermal imagery shows four bodies inside the farmhouse. All appear to be asleep.”
“Good,” said Cortez. “It looks like we’ve got them.”
Janak peeled back the Velcro strap covering the luminescent dial on his wristwatch and glanced down.
“It’s three-oh-seven,” he said. “The assault team is set to move in at three-fifteen, so that gives us another eight minutes.”
“Sounds good,” said Cortez. “I’ll hang with you.”
The next eight minutes went by quickly and, at exactly three-fifteen, Janak gave the order for everyone to move in. Over the next three minutes, a ten-man assault team—technically, it was eight men and two women—silently crept through the dense brush and to the side of the farmhouse. Cortez and Janak followed them part way before taking up a tactical position roughly fifty feet from the house, facing the front porch.
They checked the thermal imagery one last time. There appeared to be two people in the front room in a horizontal position, probably asleep on the two couches. A third appeared to be sitting in a chair in the front room, while a fourth, prone, appeared to be asleep in one of the back bedrooms. Three members of the sheriff’s SWAT team were crouched together on the porch by the front door.
Janak depressed the button on his radio and said softly, but urgently, “Go!”
One of the SWAT guys quietly turned the knob on the front door and opened it about one foot, just enough for a second SWAT officer to toss a flash-bang grenade into the front room and quick
ly pull the door closed. At the exact same instant, another tactical assault officer, holding a brick, smashed through the glass window of the rear bedroom where the fourth man lay sleeping, and tossed a second flash-bang grenade into the room.
At the sound of the explosions, black clad SWAT officers immediately burst into the house. Shots rang out and, when it was all over, just moments later, three men lay wounded in the front room. The man sleeping in the back bedroom was unable to reach his handgun before two SWAT officers subdued him.
Within a minute, roughly fifteen law enforcement officers were inside the farmhouse, combing every square inch looking for weapons, explosives, drugs and, of course, the little man whose reported presence was what brought them all there in the first place.
“Any sign of our man Chucho?” asked Cortez, who was standing at the edge of the front porch. Even though it was still dark outside, the light spilling out from the house vastly improved the visibility.
“No sir, we just finished checking all the rooms and he’s nowhere to be found,” said the SWAT on-scene commander. “We’re scouring the place looking for hidey-holes but, so far, we’ve come up with nothing. Zilch. Nada. No way he could have gotten past us before or during the attack, which means he wasn’t here when we first put the place under observation last night about eight.”
“Well, crap,” said Cortez, who turned around and started walking back through the dark night toward his vehicle that he had left parked on the main road.
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“Chucho, man, where are you?” asked the man on the other end of the phone, his breathless voice bordering on panic.
“I’m in Laredo taking care of some important business,” he said, puzzled by the man’s tone. It was only a little after five and the sun was not yet up. He had checked into a motel nearby to catch a couple of hours of sleep before returning to his vigil outside the FBI building. “What’s up? You sound like you’ve just survived a near death experience.”