Rancho Buena Fortuna

by Bill King

  PETE CORTEZ HAD BARELY drifted off to sleep when the sound of his ringtone jolted him back to consciousness. It was set to the loudest possible level and played the opening stanza of “The Aggie War Hymn.” HULLABALOO, CANECK, CANECK…HULLABALOO, CANECK, CANECK. He rolled over and reached for his cell phone on the nightstand beside him.

  “Cortez,” he said as he put the phone to his ear, still half asleep.

  “Pete, this is Bobby Janak,” said the excited voice on the other end. “Get dressed. I’ll pick you up in five minutes. I’m already on my way.”

  “What time is it?” he asked, still trying to shake off the grogginess as he fumbled for his eyeglasses.

  “It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning,” said Janak, almost shouting over all the background noise. He was using his vehicle’s hands-free mode, which piped his phone conversation through the car’s audio system. He also had the driver’s window rolled down to combat his grogginess, making it even more difficult to hear and be heard. “Chucho just shot and killed a Webb County sheriff’s deputy out in Oilton, about thirty minutes east of here.”

  Cortez sat bolt upright. He was wide awake now.

  “You sure it was him?”

  “Positive. They captured his face on the dashcam as he got in the deputy’s vehicle and moved it out of the way so that they could get out of the storage facility. No doubt about it. It was him, alright.”

  “Okay, I’ll be waiting downstairs in the lobby by the time you get here,” he said, reaching for the pair of blue jeans he had tossed over the back of the chair by the window not more than an hour earlier.

  Three minutes later, as he walked into the main lobby, Janak’s black SUV pulled up under the front portico. Cortez walked through the hotel’s automatic sliding glass door and out into the stuffy night air, his blue FBI windbreaker concealing his Glock 19. As soon as he had climbed in the front passenger seat, they sped off, the squealing tires leaving two black marks on the concrete driveway by the front entrance.

  “Border Patrol has a helicopter flying over the area with a searchlight, but that’s more for dramatic effect right now since we don’t have a bead on him yet,” said Janak, his hands gripping the steering wheel as they barreled down state highway three-five-nine at just under a hundred miles per hour. “With any luck, the sound of the chopper and the searchlight will unnerve him and cause him to do something stupid…stupider than killing a cop, that is.”

  “I sure hope we have a plan B,” said Cortez, sarcastically. “Not that the helicopter searchlight isn’t tactically brilliant.”

  The full moon made for decent visibility, despite the fact that it was nearly one-ten in the morning. Not that there was much to see, anyway. This part of south Texas was not noted for its breathtaking scenery, which was mostly just scraggly shrubs, low lying trees and a lot of gritty dust blown around by the wind. That’s what the shortage of natural water does for the countryside.

  “There are plenty of places to hide out here,” said Cortez, his right hand pushing back on the lever on the side that caused the passenger seat to push back, giving him enough room to cross his left leg over his right.

  “Hey, man, try not to scuff up the dash,” said Janak, glancing over at Cortez, who had crossed his legs. The sole of his left boot rubbed against the dashboard. “We just got this vehicle and the folks in San Antonio will get all up in arms if we even put a scratch on these things. I swear, I’d be better off wrapping the darn thing around a tree than spilling coffee on the upholstery. What a bunch of ass clowns.”

  Cortez rolled down the window and stuck his face outside, hoping the rushing air would wake him up. For some reason, Janak now had the heater on and it was starting to dry out his nasal passages. He had probably bumped the wrong switch while reaching for the radio earlier.

  “Where are they concentrating the search?”

  “There’s a permanent border patrol check point out on three-five-niner, about nine miles east of Oilton, and he hasn’t passed by there,” said Janak. “The sheriff’s department has also set up a roadblock to the west, just outside Aguilares, cutting off his route back to Laredo, so that pretty much leaves the county roads headed either north or south. My hunch is that he’s probably headed southbound, either on farm-to-market road six-four-niner or on one of the dozens of dirt county roads.”

  “There can’t be too many cars out on the road this time of night,” said Cortez. “That should make it easier to spot him, assuming he’s driving with his lights on.”

  “This is the Mexican border region, Pete, gateway into the biggest illegal drug consumer market in the world. There may not be a lot of legal traffic in the early hours of the morning but, trust me, there’s a lot of activity out there, even at this hour. You should see it from the air, using infrared. It’s almost like rush hour in Dallas.”

  Cortez was studying the GPS on the vehicle’s laptop computer.

  “My guess is that he’s headed southbound on highway six-four-niner,” he said. “That at least seems to go somewhere…specifically, the border.”

  After studying the map for about fifteen seconds, Cortez looked up and said, “Tell me about Los Ojuelos.”

  “It’s nothing but a ghost town these days,” he said. “It’s been abandoned for years.”

  “I think we should head for there, then.”

  ◆◆◆

  Janak and Cortez had just turned south onto highway six-four-nine when an excited voice broke through over the radio.

  “This is eight-two-seven-bravo-papa,” said the pilot of the Border Patrol helicopter that was assisting in the search. The chopper was following farm-to-market road six-four-nine at seven hundred feet when it spotted the two vehicles. “Have located suspect vehicles southbound on foxtrot mike six-four-niner. Two pickup trucks with cargo in the bed, one mile north of Los Ojuelos. Over.”

  “Roger, eight-two-seven-bravo-papa,” a booming voice over the radio said. “This is Webb County Sheriff. We’re coming up six-four-niner from the south, just past Thompsonville. Over.” Thompsonville was fifteen miles south of Los Ojuelos.

  “Roger, sheriff,” said the pilot. “We’re following them on infrared. Let me know if you want me to flash him with my spotlight. Over.”

  “Roger, eight-two-seven-bravo-papa. And let me know ASAP if they stop or turn off the road. What is their current speed? Over.”

  “This is eight-two-seven-bravo-papa. I have them traveling at eighty miles per hour. Over.”

  The sheriff did some quick math in his head.

  “We should intercept them in about five minutes at the rate we’re closing,” said the sheriff over the radio. “I’m going to pull off the road just north of three-seven-three and deploy a couple of spike strips across the road. That should slow them down. Over.”

  “Sheriff, this is FBI One. I’m about three minutes north of Los Ojuelos,” said Janak over the radio. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t try to double back this way. Over.”

  They had them boxed in from the north and south. Of course, that still left east and west as options, but they were hoping Chucho didn’t realize he was cut off until it was too late.

  “Roger, FBI One. I have an additional sheriff’s vehicle and two deputies with me, so we’ve got numbers on them. Over.”

  “This is eight-two-seven-bravo-papa,” said the helicopter pilot. “I’ll light up my searchlight on your signal. Over.”

  “Roger. Let’s do this thing. Out.”

  Meanwhile, ten miles to the north, Janak slowed down to eighty-five miles per hour as he and Cortez sped through the little town of Los Ojuelos. Janak was right. It was a town whose glory days, if they ever existed, were long past. All that remained was a smattering of abandoned buildings on the state farm-to-market road.

  When they reached the other side of town ten seconds later, Janak floored the accelerator. The speedometer needle crept steadily higher…one-hundred, one-hundred-ten, one-hundred-twenty, before finally leveling off at one-hundred-twenty-five mi
les per hour. He had the vehicle’s bright lights on and, with the illumination from the full moon, he felt confident at this speed.

  Cortez pulled his Glock 19M from his holster and chambered a round. In addition to the magazine already in his handgun, he had three additional fifteen-round magazines.

  “How are we fixed for ammo, Bobby?”

  “I’ve got four clips for my Glock, plus a five hundred round case of nine-millimeter Speer in the back of the vehicle.”

  “Good. I’ve got a feeling that little sucker’s not going to run away this time.”

  ◆◆◆

  The explosive sound of the lead vehicle’s tires shredding as they drove over the spike strips could be heard for miles. Traveling at nearly ninety miles an hour, it would have been nothing short of a miracle for the driver to be able to maintain any semblance of control over the vehicle. However, there were to be no miracles that night.

  The vehicle shot off the road and into the cleared field, rolling over five or six times before coming to a rest upside down.

  The driver of the second truck, upon seeing what happened, slammed on its brakes and skidded off the road, remaining upright. Chucho and the driver, their adrenaline surging, managed to climb and sneak around to the rear of the vehicle, hoping to use it for cover while they searched for signs of danger.

  “What the hell was that?” asked Chucho, his pistol drawn and ready. “Go check on the other vehicle, Carlos. See if the weapons are still okay.”

  Just then, he heard the faint but unmistakable whop-whop sound of helicopter rotors overhead, coming closer and louder by the second. Then the night sky lit up like high noon as the pilot turned on the powerful searchlight.

  Chucho tried to quickly calculate his odds. His two men in the first vehicle were almost certainly out of the fight, and probably even dead. The spectacular rollover, at one point after the third or fourth roll, had sent the pickup pirouetting skyward like a ballet dancer before returning to the ground and resuming its uncontrolled tumbling.

  That left him and Carlos, who had been driving the second truck, against a helicopter and whoever had caused the accident on the road. That was best case. The worst case—and far more likely since there was a helicopter involved—was that they were probably outnumbered at least five or ten to one.

  What he heard next sealed the deal for him.

  “Chucho, this is the Webb County Sheriff,” came the sound from a bullhorn about fifty yards away. He was speaking in Spanish. “We have you surrounded. Lay down your weapons and step out onto the highway with your hands in the air.”

  Just then, he heard the screeching sound from a vehicle approaching from the north as its driver slammed on the brakes. It skidded sideway, coming to a stop about seventy yards away, facing diagonally across the highway, blocking the two-lane road. The two men quickly got out of the vehicle and took cover behind it. Janak retrieved his rifle and infrared scope from the back of the SUV and began setting up.

  “I have two individuals in the second vehicle,” came the squawking voice of the pilot over the radio. “The bodies in the first vehicle have not moved since I arrived, so they’re either dead or unconscious, or they’re really good at playing possum.”

  That reduces the odds even further, thought the sheriff.

  “It’s your call, Chucho,” said the sheriff over the bullhorn, again in Spanish. “Your odds are getting worse by the minute.”

  Chucho was not afraid to die. He was just not ready to die. Not yet. He had always felt he was destined for greater things. Dying, bullet-ridden, on a dark Texas highway did not qualify as “greater things.”

  He bent over and placed his handgun down on the ground, then looked over at Carlos and nodded for him to do the same. Then he raised his hands above his head, palms outstretched to better show that he was not holding a weapon. The bright light from the searchlight made it easier for the police to control the situation.

  The sheriff was the first to reach him and place him under arrest, grabbing him by the wrist and placing it roughly into one of the handcuffs before reaching up for the other wrist and securing it in the other handcuff. He had known the recently deceased deputy since the man was a young boy on the little league team he coached. His son had been the deputy’s best man at his wedding less than a year ago.

  Every fiber in his body wanted to put a bullet through Chucho’s skull but, fortunately for millions of innocent people, as it would turn out, his professional self was in control that night.

  Of course, none of them had any reason at the time to even begin to imagine the significance of this arrest down on the Texas border.

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 27

  IT HAD BEEN A long night for Chucho and it seemed to be getting worse by the minute.

  The only good news for him was that, at shortly past five in the morning, his lawyer showed up at the Webb County jail, where he was being held pending formal capital murder charges. A short, heavyset man in his mid-thirties, the lawyer introduced himself as Emilio Bustamante, or Leo for short. His jet-black hair, slicked back with an overabundance of hair cream, reflected the bright ceiling light as he entered the interview room.

  Given the early hour, Leo was not exactly dressed for court. In fact, he was wearing blue jeans and a loose-fitting black tee-shirt that read AUSTIN CITY LIMITS across the front in red, yellow and green letters. His dusty cowboy boots looked like they could use the services of the old shoeshine man who plied his trade on the ground floor of the courthouse building. He held his white straw cowboy hat by the crown in his left hand. In his right, he carried a scuffed and well-worn brown leather briefcase that looked like it had been handed down for several generations.

  “Gentlemen, I’d like to speak with my client in private, if you don’t mind,” he said in a deep Texas drawl, setting his briefcase and hat down on the metal table. Then he turned to Chucho and said, in Spanish, “I trust you haven’t said anything.”

  “No, Leo, I only told them I wanted to see you,” he replied, also in Spanish.

  Not that speaking in Spanish afforded them any privacy, since everyone else in the room, with the exception of Chucho, had been speaking both Spanish and English since infancy and had native fluency in both. It’s just that people usually revert to their native tongue in stressful situations like this, which for Chucho meant Spanish.

  As the sheriff and his two deputies were leaving the room, Leo looked over at the sheriff and said, in English, “I assume that all listening devices have been turned off and that my conversation with my client will be private?”

  “Of course, Leo. You have my word,” said the sheriff, closing the door firmly behind them as they left the room. Leo had known the sheriff for most his life and kind of believed him. Kind of.

  For the next twenty minutes, Leo and Chucho spoke in hushed voices, with Leo occasionally taking down notes on a yellow legal notepad he had removed from his old leather satchel. Finally, the lawyer stood up, picked up his hat and briefcase, and walked over to the steel door. With his index finger, he pushed the buzzer beside the door, which was opened several seconds later by an armed uniformed deputy.

  “I’d like to speak with the sheriff, Tom,” said Leo, stretching his arms and placing his big hat on his head. “By the way, do y’all have any fresh coffee? I sure could do with a cup.”

  “Rough night, Leo?” asked the deputy, a knowing smile on his face.

  The lawyer was escorted down the brightly lit hallway to the breakroom, where he poured himself a cup of hot coffee from one of the two glass pots resting on top of the silver commercial coffee maker. He then followed the armed deputy down the hall to the sheriff’s office, stopping every few steps to take a sip from the dark blue porcelain Webb County Sheriff Department coffee cup.

  When they reached the sheriff’s office, Leo walked right past a matronly woman in her sixties who had served as the secretary for the past five sheriffs. Despite her protestations, he continued straight through the ope
n office door.

  “Unless you want to bargain for how your client will be executed, I don’t think we have much to talk about, counselor,” said the sheriff, who did not even bother to look up from his desk when Leo entered his office. “I’ve known Jeff Morales since he was a nine-year old on my son’s little league team. Your client murdered him in cold blood.”

  When the lawyer said nothing, the sheriff finally looked up.

  “I think the FBI is going to be interested in what my client has to say,” said Leo in a soft voice, slumping his stocky frame down into one of the wooden chairs by the small conference table. He took off his hat and set it, brim up, on the table. There was no smile on his face, just a look of supreme confidence.

  “And why is that?” asked the sheriff, the sarcastic tone in his voice unmistakable.

  “Two words…Federal. Reserve.”

  ◆◆◆

  Graciela had decided to take advantage of the beautiful early summer morning by having breakfast on the back terrace. She was surrounded by an array of massive terracotta planters that contained brightly colored flowers nurtured in the large glass greenhouse on the east side of the hacienda.

  She had had greenhouses built on both sides of the big house, one for plants that responded best to the morning sun, the other for hardier varieties that did best with the stronger afternoon sun. She maintained a fulltime gardening staff of three.

  Today was a special occasion. El Indio and The Frenchman had arrived by helicopter on the front lawn about twenty minutes earlier to finalize plans for the orchestration of the current round of Federal Reserve Bank bombings, as well as to lay out the direction for future attacks.

  The three were now sitting around an oblong wrought iron table in the center of the veranda. An oversized canvas umbrella protected them from the sun. Even though it was just past nine, the temperature was already well into the eighties, but a light breeze brought a refreshing relief. She loved this time of morning. By noon, it would be in the mid-nineties.