by Frank Perry
skin!”
Peter reached into his pocket for wire cutters and a folding knife, laying them on the end table beside him. “I’m sure of that, but I’ll tell you what really matters and you should pay very close attention. There is a small chance that you will live, if you cooperate and are completely honest.”
Padilla screamed again for his guards.
Peter let him scream until Padilla whimpered.
“Your guards won’t be aiding you tonight. You should realize that I am either your savior, or your worst nightmare. So let me explain what will happen next, because at some point you will be praying for death, after you have given me important information.”
Padilla tried to exhibit a brave front, built on years of terrorizing people when roles were reversed, “Are you insane! My people will kill you before the night is over!”
Peter grinned quickly, then resumed a dark appearance, “Not likely. You’re a small thug with no value to anyone except the badge you wear. If you die, someone will just take your place. There are others in Juarez who can easily replace you. So, at this moment, I want you to think of me as your only friend. I can save your life and keep you from experiencing extreme pain.”
Padilla was sweating in rivulets as his eyes bulged watching Peter fondle the cutters. “Who are you? I have money!”
“Actually, I’m not interested in money and no one is paying me. My name is unimportant. What is important is that you speak quickly and honestly, answering each question I ask you. We’re going to play a little game I call ‘Jeopardy’”
Padilla was crying as Peter went on, “I am going to cut off one finger each time you refuse to answer a question, or two fingers if I think you’re lying. I know it’s not fair since it’s only my opinion if you are lying, but I get to make the rules. Once fingers and toes are gone, I’ll start on your facial extremities, and so on, and so on. Do you get the picture?”
In one last act of defiance, Padilla spit at Peter who responded, “And I should also mention the tongue and eyes. In the final phase of the game, I may be kind and kill you. Otherwise, I’ll leave you as a vegetable. Gosh. I wonder how your ‘friends’ will treat you then.”
Padilla screamed again as Peter roughly gripped the man’s hand and grasped his right index finger. “Wait! Wait! You haven’t asked a question!” Padilla’s pulse and respiration were skyrocketing.
Peter appeared detached, “Oh, yes! I don’t want to forget that part.” He paused then continued, “I have a friend who recently visited you at the Police station. He’s an American. Do you know who I mean? Be careful, this is a two-finger opportunity for you.”
Padilla was hyperventilating and gasping, but said nothing until Peter gripped two fingers between the blades. “Wait. Yes! I know about him!”
“Good, now we’re making progress. Do you remember his name?”
“Mister John Stokes!”
“That’s right! Now, isn’t this fun?”
Padilla just glared and hissed through clenched teeth as Peter continued, “Now. Let’s try another two-finger question. Do you know who has him?
Padilla didn’t answer quickly until he felt the cold steel edges of the cutter surround his fingers, then blurted “Yes, yes!”
“Is he alive?”
“I don’t know. He was wounded. I, I saw blood at the station, but not him!”
“Okay, we’re now getting to the final Jeopardy questions, double or nothing -- four finger questions!”
Padilla was panicking. There was no doubt the man opposite him was serious. Peter asked, “Do you know where he is?”
“No! No I do not. Please, Señor, do not hurt me, I beg!”
“Well Armando -- I hope you don’t mind my calling you Armando?, anyway, I don’t think I explained all the rules. You see if you answer honestly, but still negative, I’ll douse your legs with lighter fluid and burn you alive.” Peter reached to his side for a can of charcoal lighter fluid.
“Wait. No. I tell the truth.” He screamed through tears as Peter soaked Padilla’s pants. “Please! Please! I beg you!”
“Did begging ever help your victims?”
“Please! Maybe I can help. Please do not burn me!
“How can you help? Did you lie to me?”
“No! No, not that. I know a place, a warehouse where Señor Cardenas takes prisoners for torture and killing. It is the only place. Please, it is my honest answer!” Odor proved Padilla was losing control of bodily functions.
Peter looked at him and took a deep breath, “All right. That’s almost the answer I was seeking. So, as I consider what to do with you, you will tell me precisely where this warehouse is.”
Shaking and sobbing, Padilla answered, “Yes! Yes I will!”
After recording the information needed to find the warehouse, Peter gave Padilla another set of instructions. “Now Armando, you must believe me that I’ll return if this information is incorrect. Also, no one knows that I have visited you tonight, but they will be informed if anyone tries to interfere with me. I have friends, just like me, who could visit you in the future if anything should happen. So, you just let me disappear and say nothing, and everything will be all right. Do you understand?
Padilla was physically and mentally drained. All he could do was nod without lifting his head.
Peter left Padilla taped to the chair and walked out of the front of the house and up the road toward Guy, who was parked in the brush nearby. The guards were unconscious, but alive. He could imagine what Padilla would do to them. It wasn’t his concern.
The Trap
The trap was set. Montes had always provided reliable information. The Texas DEA’s greatest busts were mostly because of his information. They were positioned tonight for the biggest catch ever and expecting a fight. Almost all sector DEA, Border Patrol, sheriff and Guard people were being used. Only a small skeleton crew remained at the checkpoints, and there were no roving patrols.
Tension at the roadblock on Puente Río Bravo and up the interstate was at the highest level ever. Agents were told what was coming. There had been ample time to prepare the trap. The highway crossing station supervisors moved from booth to booth keeping everyone calm. They couldn’t have any mistakes before the trap was sprung. Cutoff trucks and snipers were in position. They would now wait.
As dusk settled over the Franklin Mountains, Cardenas’ convoy started to roll. Lookouts along the trail reported no Americans were in sight. The heavily laden SUVs passed Cardenas and Montes as they rolled out of the warehouse. Ahead and behind the SUVs were trucks with dozens of armed men with automatic weapons and RPGs (Rocket Propelled Grenades). All vehicles were to maintain radio contact with Cardenas.
As the last vehicle drove slowly out of the warehouse, Cardenas turned to Montes, clasping one hand on his shoulder and shaking his right hand, “Jamie, my friend, you have been a good amigo, and I shall miss you. I must leave you now to manage this operation. You shall not see me again.” Earlier that day, Cardenas had met with all of his gang leaders in the warehouse to explain that Montes would be in charge after tonight’s shipment.
Cardenas departed quickly in a parade of cars, mostly consisting of armed guards. Montes remained with several men who were not known to him, but were now his subordinates. Looking at the murderous criminals gave him a lonely feeling.
Several miles away, the dirty Ford Falcon pulled to a stop momentarily in a brushy cluster, hidden from view. Within seconds, it was pulling back onto the dirt road, motoring back toward town. A lone stealth figure had exited and was moving through the brush toward a large dilapidated storage building. The rusted corrugated-steel structure had no windows, electricity and a dirt floor. The rusted walls touched the uneven ground in several locations, and weeds grew all along the sides. Animals, scorpions, spiders, flies and snakes moved freely under the walls.
About a dozen men waited in the dark by the front of the building for Cardenas to
contact them about the prisoners. The leader took two of the gunmen inside with him to a dark back corner where two Americans were lying in the dirt. One wore uniform trousers and the other was dressed like a civilian. Neither had reacted when he kicked them. They were bound with rope around their ankles and their wrists were tied behind their backs. There was also rope looped tightly through their elbows, dislocating their shoulders. Their arm and foot bindings were pulled together, curling their legs upward so their elbows and ankles almost touched. Both had been shot. Their faces were wrapped in duct tape covering their mouths and eyes. They had been given Gatorade periodically when Cardenas wanted them alive, but now there was no instruction to keep them alive. The big Mexican spoke to his two other guards in Spanish, “We wait then kill them.”
One of the guards objected, “Señor Cardenas said we could bargain with the Americans for them!”
“The Americans won’t pay any more for them alive than dead.”
Some additional bickering went on, but the bigger man made the decisions. They walked away, leaving John Stokes and Corporal Stephan Tilman of the TXARNG (Texas National Guard) to the whatever creatures were crawling around. Stokes was near death and Tilman had not moved for hours, or days, Stokes had no time reference. His thoughts were of Carolyn and never seeing his girls again. As infection worsened in his stomach wound, he hallucinated about their graduations, proms,