Reign of Terror

by Frank Perry

momentarily ... “Hector! How good to see you! I was worried sick when I heard of the capture of your shipment. I am pleased that you escaped.” His knees shook and he could barely remain standing.

  “I didn’t escape, Tio. I wasn’t on the trucks.”

  “What good fortune! I was so worried about you.”

  “Yes, but you need not worry further. I am back for a time. But what about you, Jamie? Are you truly glad to see me?” Cardenas placed a gently hand on Jamie’s shoulder as he spoke.

  “Of course I am, Hector.”

  “Hmm, let me tell you about my discussion with Leo Moritz. I think you will find it amusing. I know I did.”

  Trouble

  The phone rang repeatedly with no answer. When it went to voice mail, she quit and dialed again. He answered, “Hallo.”

  “Peter, wake up! We need to talk.”

  “Gee, Rachael. Shunned for months and now we talk every day practically.”

  “Oh, be quiet. Listen, Jamie’s in trouble. He called and said he was arrested. A station named Padilla or something.”

  He sat up straight and alert, “Padilla? Is that what he said?”

  “Yes, I’m sure of it.”

  “Rachael, that’s the guy that did John.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “Look, we don’t have much time. I’m on my way to Dulles. Call the airport and get me on a plane to El Paso. Then call El Paso and explain what’s going on.”

  He was en route to the airport in ten minutes, having thrown everything in a bag and run. He was certain that the Feds in El Paso could not take action, just as they would have let Stokes die. Rachael called him with a reservation leaving Dulles in two hours through Houston. There were no earlier flights.

  Peter parked in the short-term lot nearest to the terminal and hurried to the ticket counter, then through security. The airport was livelier than he expected after midnight, but it was hard for him to be patient, waiting for the flight. Once the plane was airborne, the flight attendants dimmed the lights, and he tried to sleep for a few hours. He’d never met Jamie Montes, but learned to empathize with his situation after reviewing his record and discussing him with Rachael. This was a guy who was surrounded by death all the time. In the military, there were brief periods of deadly intensity, but Montes lived it every day when he was in Mexico. He admired the man’s courage.

  It was after dawn when he arrived at the sector headquarters. All three of the supervisors were still on duty, several hours after their normal night time shifts. Rachael had done the job of alerting them. As he came through the front door, LTC Colson approached, “Major, I’m surprised to see you back here so soon, is this an official visit?”

  “No, Ma’am, but I can make it official in a heartbeat if you want me to call the Director in Washington.”

  She shrank away as Chief Schmitt began, “Now look here, Major. You pulled some stunts here a few weeks back and I’m still taking heat.” Peter was close to decking the SOB who had hired and worked with the most dangerous drug kingpin in Mexico and had gotten a lot of people killed or nearly killed in the process.

  “Look, Chief, and the rest of you, I’m here to help an American in trouble again. You can give me all the bureaucratic bullshit you can shovel, but when done, you and I know that you can’t lift a finger to help, officially, so let me do this as a civilian. As they say, I’ll be ‘disavowed’.”

  There was some disgruntlement, but before anyone could object further, Leo spoke up, “Peter, let’s take a ride.”

  Exiting out the front doors, both men looked at each other but didn’t say anything until they were inside Leo’s car when he said, “This is about Jamie Montes isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you need, Peter?”

  “I think I’ll need a weapon this time, Leo.”

  The drive took ten minutes to the border crossing point. Leo was feeling immense guilt, having put Jamie in danger through a stupid action on his part. Schmitt had explained the suspicions about Morales to Colson and to him. Leo responded while dodging early morning traffic, “Do you still have Guy’s number?”

  “It’s still logged in my phone.”

  “Good. He can take you to a special building we use for storage in West Juarez. He knows where it is, and I’ll call him to be ready to pick you up and take you there. I can have one of my men meet you and work with you if you want.”

  “I think I’d rather go alone, Leo, if your guy can just get me outfitted.”

  “Sure thing, Peter.” He shook his hand as they approached the drop off point on the U.S. side. Peter took his travel bag and left Leo dialing his phone.

  The temperature was already oppressive in the early dawn as the sun began rising above the horizon. Cats were rummaging through debris near the Mexican station, and the Rio Grande River was nearly dry with a putrid smell. Crossing the walking bridge at the border, there was a turnstile barricade and a hostile-looking officer behind bulletproof glass who said nothing. Peter showed him his military ID and was waived through like the other soldiers looking for fun.

  Traffic was queued up as far as he could see with trucks and cars planning to enter the U.S. entering the U.S. Horns were already starting to blare and people yelled impatiently, but nothing seemed to move. A few disheveled American servicemen were shuffling along the sidewalk heading north after a sinful night, probably late for morning muster at Ft. Bliss.

  Peter kept his head down in case there were surveillance cameras. He was wearing Levis and a blue tee-shirt. The only things in his travel bags were more clothes and shaving gear. He walked along the street and stopped at the first corner, under an awning where Guy would know to meet him. Americans were common this close to the border where they came for bargain shopping or nightlife, although he was there much earlier or much later than most. He was alone and conspicuous.

  Guy pulled to the curb a few minutes later and Peter casually got into the passenger seat. They shook hands and Guy said, “Hola, mi amigo, Buenas Dias.”

  “Hello, Guy, I was hoping not to see you again this soon.”

  “Si, but Mister Leo said you are here again to help your friends. You have so many friends in Mexico!”

  “Only one at a time compadre. They just seem to get into trouble.”

  “Yes, we always have some of the soldiers in our jails. The police make money when friends and their family come for them.”

  “I hope it’s that simple.”

  Guy looked at him briefly, “I think not.”

  They drove for almost an hour in traffic to the western outskirts of town. The building was located in a barrio consisting of single-story adobe houses under rusted tin roofs with dogs and chickens roaming the streets. In an area of garages and small shops, Guy stopped in front of a courtyard with tall chain-link fencing, surrounding a flat-roofed building with bars on the windows and an old “garaje” sign on the front. It wasn’t open for business, and the gate was locked.

  Guy sat patiently, “Like all things in Mexico, we wait now.”

  A short time later, a dirty pickup truck came down the street from the opposite direction and pulled up nose to nose with Guy’s car. The driver stepped out and walked toward the gate. He was a tall thin Mexican wearing a crumpled cowboy hat and a short-sleeved western-style shirt with jeans and working boots.

  Guy said, “That’s Arturo. He is a friend.”

  Peter exited the car as Arturo unlocked the rusted steel chain. He didn’t say anything as Arturo looked at him saying, “Are you Mr. Shields?” His English was recognizable as Southwestern American.

  Peter didn’t extend his hand, following the native courtesies he had observed, “Yes, thanks for coming out here.”

  “Yeah, let’s get inside. We don’t like coming here in the daylight.”

  He swung the gate open then drove into the courtyard as Guy followed. The gate was locked again before they entered the building. Inside
, as their eyes adjusted, the only thing immediately visible was open space and a decayed concrete floor. The rear of the building remained dark. Arturo locked the door behind them. The two large overhead doors didn’t look like they had moved in decades.

  He led them to the rear of the building where a barred door protected a second steel door, probably a tool bin or parts storage area. Arturo opened the padlock and entered the opened doorway ahead of Peter. It was black inside until Auturo pulled the string for a single incandescent light bulb above them. Peter was amazed at the weapon cache stored there.

  Sweeping his hand, Arturo said, “Mr. Moritz said to give you whatever you want. So, please help yourself.” The shelves contained an amazing inventory of weapons, night vision equipment, electronics, battle uniforms, vests, helmets--everything needed for a small army and covert surveillance.

  Peter walked up to one shelf and took a Beretta and three additional magazines and two boxes of 9mm ammunition. “This is all I need, unless you have some kind of vest I can use to carry this stuff without being too obvious.”

  Autoro smiled, signaling him to follow to the far end of the storage room. “You mean this?” He handed him a western-looking vest with numerous inside pockets, like a reversed fishing vest.

  “Amazing. You guys have some serious gadgets here.”

  “We try, Sir. We mostly use the surveillance stuff, but sometimes we need the firepower.”

  They shook hands inside the garage as all departed, and Arturo locked everything securely.

  Inside the Ford, Guy asked Peter where he wanted to go next. “I’m not sure, but let’s try Padilla’s house first. I’d like to chat with him again.”

  It was approaching mid-day when they parked along the narrow road near tall scrub trees. Peter said, “I’m going to see if Padilla is at home. You find a place to park away from here, and I’ll call to be picked up.”

  “Si, Señor.”

  Peter disappeared behind desert brush.

  In Washington that same morning, Rachael had come into the office earlier than usual, but waited until noon to call Leo Moritz. His work hours were a mystery, so she had no idea when he slept. He answered his cellphone, sounding alert.

  Rachael began, “Leo, did you see Peter this morning?”

  “Yes, Rachael. He got here at daybreak and is already in Mexico.”

  “Okay. Did you learn anything more about Jamie? Has anyone had contact with him?”

  “No, Rachael, Sorry. Jamie means a lot to us here and to me personally.” Moritz didn’t plan to confess his discussion with Morales to anyone. It was the kind of mistake they warned rookies to avoid.

  “Okay. Look, if you hear anything, please call me.”

  “Will do, Rachael.”

  After the call, Leo understood her concern for Peter. After Stokes, no one in the sector wanted to be inside Mexico. The Agents and National Guard troops were all familiar with the new dangers. Rachael should be worried. But Leo’s feeling of despair went more to Jamie. Had he killed him? Talking to Morales had been innocent. He was hiding in open sight for years in the sector. But in the final judgment, an old mantra of the military nagged at him. He had talked too freely about the most sensitive of all covert channels. If Peter couldn’t save Jamie, he was to blame.

  Guy’s car rolled to a stop in the same location where Peter had left him earlier. The trailing dust cloud from the road carried over the car as the door opened, and Peter jumped in. The tires had been still for only about two seconds before they were rolling again.

  “He’s not there, Guy.”

  “Si, but you had to know.”

  “Yeah. So let’s go downtown to his station.”

  “Señor, Peter. That is very dangerous!”

  “I know that. Let’s stop and buy me a hat.”

  Peter was unshaven. His clothes were rumpled and dirty from travel and skulking through the hot desert. He hoped his appearance would fool people from a distance in the city.

  As they drove for an hour through stop-and-go traffic, including one accident between a mule cart and a bus, Peter had visions of Stokes and Tilman lying in their own filth on the dirt floor in the warehouse. Jamie would be treated much worse.

  Guy stopped at a small corner grocery that looked like a prison block from the outside and went in to buy a ball cap for some unknown Mexican athletic team. It was green with a white crest, which turned brown when Peter stomped the hat in the gutter before fitting it to his head. Little was said between them for the last minutes before arriving near the station.

  Leaving the car, Peter said, “This is as far as we go together, Guy. Please stay nearby but someplace safe.”

  Guy shook his head, “Vaya con Dios, compadre.”

  The car disappeared into a stream of congested dusty rooftops bobbing along the broken road as Peter walked to the corner and turned toward the police station. He tried to appear disinterested and relaxed, casually walking down the street. There were other people, walking slowly in the midday heat or sitting at the doors of shops along the street. The sidewalk was narrow and broken in several places. The blazing desert sun caused everything man-made to deteriorate, and Juarez was too poor to constantly repair and maintain things. The gun was tucked in back, under his belt with his shirt falling loosely over it. It wasn’t completely hidden, but it was also not uncommon for people to carry them.

  The police station was in the middle of the block on the opposite side of the street. Peter crossed over between cars and felt his heart rate increase as he got closer. There were two old wooden chairs empty on the curb by the entrance, which was a large indented framework with no doors.

  He walked past the entrance and tried to look inside, but his eyes couldn’t adjust to the interior darkness. He continued to the corner. There had been no sound or other clue that anyone was in the front processing area. He paused for a minute at the corner, then returned back to the station. As he entered through the large opening, he covered his eyes, trying to visualize the interior. He detected only one officer along the right side wall behind one of the dozen old oak desks. He tried to imagine John sitting behind one of the desks just a few weeks before. He moved inside several paces, as his eyes adjusted, seeing a single corridor ahead located in the middle of the back wall.

  The desk officer said something in Spanish, and Peter shrugged while turning and walking toward the man. The officer inquired again, and Peter said, “Ah, no comprendo. Do you speak English?”

  The officer was large with an officious bearing and obviously perturbed or confused about why an American was there. The man stood upright but said nothing. It was hard to tell if he was nervous, since the furnace-like heat made everyone perspire. Peter was about to say something more when a horrifying muffled sound came down the hall. He looked in that direction, hearing something like high-pitched sobbing, followed by a second long muffled scream. It sounded like it came through a pillow. An awful acrid smell filled the station. Peter had smelled burning flesh before.

  His attention snapped back to the desk officer who was reaching for his sidearm. Without time for his own weapon, Peter hefted the front edge of the desk into the Mexican, thrusting him against the wall, then reached for the astonished officer’s upper body as the man continued to struggle for his weapon, pulling him forward by his shirt, over the desk, tossing him onto the dirty linoleum floor. Peter dropped quickly to his knee, rolling the man and smashing his sternum with a hard fist. The Mexican’s eyes bulged as Peter slammed his elbow upward under his chin, and his neck snapped back, shocking his brain, sending him into unconsciousness.

  Jumping to his feet, Peter ran down the hallway while reaching for his own gun, expecting to meet other police. The back door slammed as he rounded the corner into the cell block. The dreadful smell was intense.

  He cycled the first round into the chamber of his weapon, and instinctively fingered the safety switch off. Moving cautiously toward
the back, fear turned to rage as he turned into the last cell.

  He couldn’t be sure it was Jamie Montes. His face was too contorted and swollen, but that was about all that distinguished him as a human. Strapped to a backboard on the floor, the man tried to move his arm from under the bindings. Numerous old car batteries were stacked in the corner near the victim along with a hot caldron used to melt lead from them. Molten metal had been poured over his feet and up to his abdomen forming a distorted mound of steaming metal, roughly in the shape of a human. Hot liquid metal had dissolved the flesh and bone as it cooled to form a grotesque statue. Most of the lower part of his body by his feet was covered with solidified metal, while farther up was still steaming. On the floor beneath the cooled metal, discolored fluids had boiled out of the pulp underneath.

  Peter looked around then moved closer to the man’s face, removing the shirt stuffed and taped in his mouth. “Jamie. Jamie, can you hear me?”

  There was a gurgling sound as the man tried to talk. He should have died hours before, but the torture was done slowly from the bottom up to keep him alive as long as possible. Peter unstrapped an arm, which jerked involuntarily upward, nearly hitting him. There was nothing Peter could do for him. Jamie’s lower body was gone and some of his internal organs would be boiled.

  Jamie grasped Peter’s sleeve. “Jamie, I can’t help you. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” Peter’s eyes were watering. He hadn’t known Jamie personally, but nobody should suffer this way.

  Jamie’s face contorted as he tried to turn his head to look at Peter and tried to talk. His hand fell toward Peter’s gun hand.

  “I understand, Jamie. I’ll help you.”

  Peter hurried back out front to the fallen officer and took his gun, rushing back to Jamie. Lifting his hand as gently as possible, he said, “Here it is Jamie, cocked and loaded.”

  Unable to move his head, Jamie’s stare was fixed upward. Fresh tears formed in the slits of his swollen eyes. Peter wrapped Jamie’s fingers around the grip and placed the muzzle against his ear. He stood saying, “Your father and mother are waiting for their son” then he rose slowly watching to be sure Jamie could control the gun before turning toward the back door. The gun fired before he got to it.

  Requiem

  Dread flowed through her as she answered her cellphone.

  “Rachael, I didn’t get to him in time.” She could hear the sadness in his voice.

  “On God. Look, Peter, you tried. You’re the only one who tried.”

  “Yeah, well. They weren’t kind.”

  “Don’t tell me. If he’s dead, then it’s over.”

  “There’s more I need to do.”

  “Peter! You need to come home. You can’t save Jamie, now save yourself.”

  “Rachael, the people who did this to Jamie are killing other people every day. The police and military won’t stop them -- hell, they’re on the payroll!”

  She yelled more from fear than