Noble Vengeance

by William Miller

  “We’d be here all day,” Noble said. “Where I can find Father Cordero?”

  The priest faltered. “I am Father Cordero.”

  Noble glanced around to be sure they were alone. “I understand you’ve been passing information for the CIA, Father.”

  A nervous smile flitted across Cordero’s face. He started to shake his head.

  Noble cut him off. “Don’t lie. I know you’ve been acting as a cutout. I’m not here to hurt you, father. My friend is missing. I’m here to find him.”

  “Who is your friend?”

  Noble took out a seven-year-old photograph of him and Torres in the Plaza de la Constitución.

  Cordero hesitated, then nodded. He motioned to a pew. They sat.

  “Your CIA approached me two years ago about helping them gather intelligence against the Los Zetas cartel. They told me all I would have to do was accept packages from one person and give them to another. Your friend would come once, sometimes twice a week, and give me a thumb drive. He called himself Diaz.”

  “How did he give you the information?” Noble asked.

  Cordero pointed to the collection box. “He would put it in the tithes and offerings. A few days later another man would come for confession. I would pass the thumb drive through the partition.”

  “Keep going,” Noble said.

  Father Cordero shrugged. “Two weeks ago, Diaz stops coming. I do not know why.”

  “What about the other man, the one picking up the information? What happened to him?”

  “He came the next week but I had nothing for him. I told him I had not seen Diaz. That was the last I have seen of him.”

  The story sounded okay, but Cordero was holding something back. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Another nervous smile flashed across his face. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Noble leaned back, crossed his arms, and fixed the priest with a look. “I’m going to find out sooner or later. Make it easy on both of us.”

  Beads of sweat collected on Cordero’s forehead. He wiped his face on his sleeve. “I only agreed to pass information, you understand? I thought I was helping my country. The cartels are a blight on Mexico. But now…”

  “Spill,” Noble ordered.

  Cordero massaged his temples. The struggle was plain on his face. He wasn’t cut out for spy work. Finally, he turned to Noble and asked, “Are you a good man?”

  Noble shook his head. “No.”

  Cordero sighed. “At least you are honest.”

  Noble shrugged.

  “Come with me.”

  They passed through an alcove and up a narrow flight of steps to the second floor. It was ten degrees hotter up here. Noble’s toes squished inside his socks. They entered a hall with arches that opened onto a cloistered garden in the courtyard below. A dry stone fountain stood at the center and a few stunted rose bushes struggled to survive the heat.

  “Not much of a garden, is it?” Cordero remarked.

  “No,” Noble agreed.

  “Not much of a gardener either,” Cordero said. “He did not come to work this morning. That is why I am forced to confide in you. There is no one else I can trust.”

  Before Noble could ask what the gardener had to do with anything, Cordero pushed open a door and motioned Noble inside.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Santiago sat with his back to the wall. His polished leather shoes were stacked on the table next to a backpack stuffed with pesos. His black shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Sweat glistened on his tattooed forearms. Overhead, three ceiling fans whipped around so fast they threatened to break free of their mounts.

  He shook a cigarette from a pack, stuck it between his lips and flicked a gold-plated Zippo. Dust motes danced in the pale light filtering through windows layered with grime.

  The bar was called Paquita’s and was empty except for Santiago and his crew. Lorenzo and Esteban occupied a table near the door, playing cards. Jorge was throwing darts. Ramone was behind the bar, sipping tequila and cleaning his nickel-plated 410 Taurus, a miniature hand-cannon he called a revolver. Lucita, the only woman in the crew, sat on top of the bar in a miniskirt, thumbing a message into her phone.

  Paquita’s had once belonged to Santiago. He had turned in his badge after fifteen years with the Mexico City police force, invested his entire savings in the bar, and gone into business for himself. It only took three years to go bankrupt. He was about to close up shop when Machado made him an offer; the drug lord would front the cash to keep Paquita’s open and in return, Santiago would launder money through the till. One thing led to another, now Santiago worked for Machado full-time.

  He took a drag and sent a cloud of smoke up to the ceiling where the fan whipped it apart. He supposed, looking back, he had known what he was getting into. The bar was a money pit. Cops in Mexico are either on the take or they don’t live long enough to retire, and Santiago figured it was better to be a full-time gangster than a full-time cop, part-time crook. At least this way he didn’t have to balance his loyalties.

  Before he could give the matter any more thought, el Lobo—the Wolf—came in, followed by an old man in a dirt-stained chambray work shirt. The old man had a tanned face with deep lines from decades of work under the harsh Mexican sun. He tortured a straw hat between his hands and blinked in the dim light. His eyes lingered on Lucita for a moment and then fixed on Santiago and the backpack.

  El Lobo led the old man over by the elbow. “Tell him what you told me.”

  The old man tortured the hat some more. “You are looking for the Domingo woman?”

  Santiago inclined his chin.

  The old man licked dry lips. “And the money? Five hundred thousand pesos?”

  Santiago took the cigarette from his mouth and pointed the glowing tip at the backpack.

  The lined face bent toward the pack like metal filaments drawn to a magnet.

  Santiago uncrossed his ankles and dropped one leg over the pack. “First you tell me where the girl is.”

  A bead of sweat trailed down the old man’s craggy cheek. He glanced around the room again. Ramone opened the cylinder on his nickel-plated revolver and spun it, letting the mechanical whir fill the silence. The old man swallowed hard. “She is at the Santa Ana Mission.”

  Santiago’s eyes narrowed. “How did you come by this information?”

  “I’m the gardener, señor.”

  Santiago took a deep drag and smoke trailed out through his nostrils. “If you are lying to me…”

  Ramone snapped the cylinder on his revolver shut with a loud clack.

  The gardener flinched. “It is no lie, señor. You will find her there. She is being treated by the nuns.”

  Santiago nudged the backpack with the toe of his dress shoe.

  The old man stuffed the hat on his head and clutched the pack to his chest. “Gracias, señor. Gracias,” he said as he backed out of the barroom.

  Santiago watched him go, then turned his attention to el Lobo.

  The Wolf gave a small nod, silent assurance that the old gardener was telling the truth.

  So, Alejandra was alive after all. Santiago was sure she had died from her wounds. Well, no matter. She would not live much longer. He flicked his cigarette butt at a garbage can across the room. It bounced off the wall in a shower of sparks. “Let’s go, mis amigos.” Santiago stood up and stretched. “It’s time to confess our sins.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Noble stepped into a cramped bedroom with shuttered windows. The copper stench of blood and offal attacked his senses. Alejandra Domingo lay on a narrow cot, clinging to life. Machado had done a real job on her. Bloodstained bandages hid the left side of her face completely. The other half was covered in angry purple welts. She sucked air through busted lips.

  The sight turned Noble’s blood to ice. Every counterintelligence officer knows the risks; swim with sharks and you might get eaten. Taking out an enemy agent is one thing, but cutting
up a woman’s face is different. This was barbaric.

  A heavy-set nun in a wimple occupied a chair near the head of the bed. She started up when the door opened, her round face tight with fear. Father Cordero made a calming motion with both hands. She sank back down.

  “Her name is Alejandra Domingo,” Cordero said. “She was helping your friend extract information from Machado.”

  Noble nodded without taking his eyes off her. “I know.”

  The nun dipped a washcloth in a bucket and dabbed Alejandra’s forehead. The semiconscious woman responded with a weak moan.

  “She staggered into the nave two weeks ago,” Cordero told him. “Naked and covered in blood. We couldn’t take her to a hospital. Machado has people everywhere. We have been caring for her as best we can.”

  “Has she said anything?” Noble asked.

  The nun shook her head. “She is delirious with fever.”

  Cordero said, “She cannot stay here any longer.”

  “Why?” Noble asked. “What happened?”

  “Machado has offered a half million pesos to anyone who knows where she is.”

  Noble let out a low whistle. Half a million was a lot of money in Mexico. Enough to live like a king.

  Cordero said, “I fear the gardener has been tempted by sin.”

  The nun made the sign of the cross.

  Noble felt the first giddy rush of impending danger. “Did he know she was here?”

  Cordero spread his hands. “The sisters and I did our best to keep it a secret, but…”

  Noble nodded. Treating someone with severe injuries is hard to keep quiet. They need medicine and food, and throwing out wads of bloody bandages every day tends to raise suspicion. He asked, “Can she move?”

  Cordero shook his head. “I’m surprised she made it here on her own. She had lost a lot of blood.”

  “How did she get here?” Noble asked.

  “In a BMW.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “In a parking garage four blocks away,” Cordero said.

  “Go get it,” Noble ordered.

  The priest hesitated and then said, “I don’t have a license, señor.”

  Noble gave him a hard look.

  Cordero backed out the door. “I will return as soon as I can.”

  Noble went to the side of the bed.

  The nun shook her head. “She was such a beautiful girl.”

  Noble wasn’t surprised. Torres had a knack for surrounding himself with beautiful women.

  Alejandra stirred. Her cracked lips parted. She croaked out, “Water.”

  The nun pointed to a pitcher. Noble poured a cup and carefully tipped some into her open mouth. She coughed and spluttered. He slid an arm under her shoulders and sat her up. The sheet fell away. Cuts and bruises covered her entire body. Noble patted her back until she stopped coughing and then helped her take a drink. This time she managed to swallow.

  Her right eye peeled opened. “You are American?”

  “That’s right.” He took the key out of his pocket. “Do you know what this goes to?”

  Recognition flashed in her eye, but she shook her head.

  “You sure?” Noble asked.

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  He took out the picture of him and Torres. “What about him? You know him?”

  Her face crumbled. “Diaz…” The name trailed off into broken sobs. The flood gates opened. Noble eased her back onto the mattress and pulled the sheet over her naked breasts.

  “Señor?” The nun had gone to the window and was looking out through the slats.

  Noble joined her.

  A dust-covered Jeep Wrangler had pulled up and a team of hard cases, armed with pistols and sub-machineguns, piled out.

  “Are they here for the Tuesday night Bible study?” Noble asked.

  The nun shook her head.

  He frowned. “I didn’t think so.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Four hard cases ran to the door of the mission while another man exited the Lexus. He was tall and well-dressed, in a dark button-down with his hair slicked back and his sleeves rolled up. Tattoos covered his forearms.

  Noble was outnumbered and out-gunned. Hiding was out of the question. They’d tear the mission apart until they found the girl. He cursed and the nun gave him a reproving look.

  Noble went to the cot and got an arm under Alejandra’s shoulders. “Help me get her up!”

  The nun swiveled Alejandra’s feet off the bed onto the floor.

  Alejandra’s one good eye fluttered open. “Are we in danger?”

  “We need to get out of here,” Noble told her. “Can you walk?”

  She nodded, but that alone took all of her strength. Walking was out of the question. Noble slipped an arm around her waist and hauled her to her feet. The sheet fell away. Her knees shook like a newborn filly.

  The nun grabbed the sheet and tried to cover her up.

  “No time,” Noble barked. He hustled Alejandra, her bare feet trailing along the floor, into the upstairs hallway. “Is there a back way out?”

  The nun nodded. “Sí, señor.” She led him along the passage. Noble’s heart thrummed inside his chest. Alejandra did her best to keep her feet moving, but only succeeded in making it harder for Noble to carry her. He hugged her tight, probably causing her a lot of pain, but she bore the treatment in silence.

  They turned a corner in the upstairs hall with open windows looking down on the inner courtyard. Two of the Los Zetas sicarios burst into the garden at the same time. Noble drew up short in the space between windows. He put his back against the wall and motioned for the nun to stop. She wasn’t fast enough. One of the hard cases spotted her and pointed. “There!”

  A hailstorm of bullets screamed through the arches, blasting chunks from the sandstone walls. The sound felt like a jackhammer in his ears. Dust clogged his nose and stung his eyes.

  The nun got her back to the wall. Noble warned her to stay put. She nodded.

  He shifted Alejandra’s weight, pulled one of the Glocks he had taken from the airport cops and used his heel to rack the slide. He stuck the pistol around the window frame and squeezed off three rounds. He was firing blind, but it had the desired effect. The cartel killers high-stepped over dead shrubbery to the back wall for cover.

  There was a closed door at the far end of the hall. Noble thrust his chin. “Stairs?”

  The nun nodded.

  Stuck in the middle of a passage was the worst possible place he could think to be in a firefight. There was no cover and nowhere to run. If the cartel thugs caught him here, they would cut him to ribbons. Noble dumped Alejandra into the nun’s arms. “Stay put.”

  She struggled to keep Alejandra off the floor.

  Noble ran to the end of the corridor and heard feet pounding up the steps. He stuffed his pistol into his waistband and flattened himself against the wall.

  The door flew open. A bulldog of a man came through with a nickel-plated revolver clutched in one chubby paw. Noble caught the Bulldog’s wrist in one hand and drove his elbow into the man’s face, breaking his nose with a dull crunch. Blood gushed from both nostrils. Noble used the momentum to spin the bulldog around and lever his revolver at a second man coming up the steps—a rail-thin Mexican with a MAC-10.

  Noble slipped a finger into the trigger guard, over the bulldog’s finger, and squeezed. The revolver roared. Fire licked from the barrel. The blast hammered Noble’s eardrums.

  The skinny guy took .410 buckshot in the chest from less than two meters. Nine lead balls tore through him. He went backwards down the stairs and sprawled in a heap on the landing. The smell of spent gunpowder hung in the air.

  The bulldog got his free arm around Noble’s neck and choked off his air supply. Noble used his bodyweight to drive the bulldog into the door frame. The sandstone wall shuddered under the impact. Noble slammed him twice more. The bulldog lost his grip and Noble sent him tumbling down the steps.

  The bulldog la
nded on top of his dead partner. Noble was hoping the fall would break his neck. No such luck. The bulldog was alive and full of adrenaline. He groped for the MAC-10. Noble aimed the revolver and squeezed the trigger. The bulldog rolled clear, and the shot hit the dead man instead. The bulldog staggered to his feet, retreating around the bend in the stairs before Noble could get off another shot.

  The bulldog could sit at the bottom of the steps and keep them pinned until he was out of ammo. Noble ran back down the hall and pulled Alejandra’s slender arm over his shoulder.

  The nun breathed a sigh of relief. “What now?”

  Noble carried Alejandra the other direction, back toward the staircase that Father Cordero had led him up when he entered. As he rounded the corner, a cartel gunman in a cowboy hat and snake-skin boots reached the top of the steps.

  Noble raised the revolver and fired. Alejandra’s weight pulled him off balance. The shotgun load ricocheted off the stone wall. The cowboy threw himself through an open door, stuck his pistol around the frame and fired blind. Angry lead hornets buzzed along the hall.

  Noble retreated to the corner. His heart was beating so hard he could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck. His hearing was gone, replaced by a high-pitched ringing. The nun cowered at his side. They were trapped in the U-shaped hallway. The bulldog controlled one end. The cowboy controlled the other. Noble was stuck in the middle. He couldn’t defend both sides at once.

  He had to make a play. He could put Alejandra down and rush one of the gunmen, but it would give the other a chance to shoot him in the back. At the very least he would die on his feet. He was working up his courage to charge the cowboy when he heard a car horn blaring.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Father Cordero mashed the horn and cramped the steering wheel to avoid a stalled bus. He swerved into the oncoming lane and, for one terrifying second, was staring directly at an oncoming pickup. He cut the wheel and slewed back into the flow of traffic.