The Long Run, page 21
Hunger gnawed at his belly. There were no open drive-throughs to grab breakfast and coffee. Everything was closed as storekeepers swept shattered glass and tossed ruined merchandise from their stores. Anyway, he had no money. It remained back at the compound, along with his backpack and wallet. They had no phones either. La Doña’s men had confiscated those days before. How would they get home? Where was he even headed?
“Take a right,” Sofia said. She sat beside him, studying the map Fermin had taken from the finca.
“Where are we going?” he asked. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Dominica had fallen asleep in her father’s arms. Fermin rested his beard on top of her head. His eyes were narrow slits, drooping and opening as the truck hummed down the road.
“I don’t know,” Sofia sighed and peered into the distance. “But there’s a highway a few miles ahead. From there, we can go one of several ways.”
“Which way takes us home?”
They were all road weary and exhausted from lack of sleep. Despite that, Sofia broke into a wide grin. It warmed his chest seeing that smile. A few days ago, he worried it was gone forever.
“There’s a US consulate not far from here. In Merida.” She tapped a finger on the map, pointing out the city on the northern tip of the peninsula. “We could go there. Tell them what happened to us. They would take us in. Probably fly us home, too.” She seemed to buzz with excitement.
The suggestion excited Israel too. Merida was three hours away. Not a long run. They could be home by tomorrow morning. The decision was obvious.
“Then we go there,” he said. Her grin faded, and she looked away. “What’s the matter?”
“They wouldn’t take all of us,” she said, nodding towards the back seat. Fermin’s eyes had shut, along with Dominica’s. Israel realized the problem. There was zero chance the US state department would grant Fermin and Dominica sanctuary. He saw in Sofia’s eyes a protective desire to help them.
“Then what? Where do we go?”
“The border,” she grimaced. He glanced at the map. The US-Mexico border was much further away than Merida. A thousand miles, at least by Israel’s estimation. That was a damn long run. Through large swaths of countryside controlled by the cartels. He groaned.
“Go to the consulate,” Fermin said. He had shed his sleeping daughter and leaned forward to listen to the conversation.
His sudden interjection startled Sofia. She turned to face him. “But… they won’t take you in.”
“I know. It’s OK. Just leave us the truck. I’ll get us to the border.”
“Are you sure?” Israel said.
“Yes. Anyway, it’ll be easier to avoid the gangsters if we split up.”
That made sense to Israel. Chucho was searching for four people. He’d damn sure broadcast their descriptions to all his men. Anything they could do to defy those descriptions would help their cause. Including splitting up. Sofia’s gaze told him she understood as well.
“OK. We go to Merida,” Israel said with an air of finality. It felt good having a plan. A destination to aim for. And without the guilt of abandoning Fermin and his daughter. This is what they wanted.
Outside town, the faded gray road gave way to a smooth blacktop highway. Towering palms, fluffy ponytails, and spiky bayonet trees filled the lush forest flanking the highway. A pleasant gulf breeze ran through the open windows, calming Israel’s nerves. It reminded him of his drives delivering pizzas in the Rio Grande Valley. Better to think about home than the murderous narcos on their tail. Luck was on their side. They had a head start. And the hurricane’s chaos aided their cause. But that luck wouldn’t last forever. They needed to hurry.
CHAPTER 36
Agent Dominguez
“Who the fuck are you?” Gustavo opened his front door in a tight muscle shirt and baggy sweatpants. He lifted a forearm to block the morning sun from his reddened eyes.
“Are you Gustavo Arriaga?” Agent Dominguez asked. She stood on the front porch of Gustavo’s aged, clapboard-covered home. Beside her, dried paint peeled from a wooden swing seat held aloft by a rusty steel frame. Torn chain-link fence surrounded the house. Two men stood on the cracked sidewalk in front. They eyed her like hawks tracking a hare when she arrived in her company car. They eyed her still from the sidewalk. She bade them a smiling good morning and brushed past them with all the authority the large FBI letters emblazoned on the back of her raid jacket afforded. If you dress like FBI, you gotta walk like you’re FBI. She wasn’t executing a warrant, so wearing the raid jacket wasn’t required. But in this neighborhood, it didn’t hurt to let everyone know.
“Yeah. The fuck are you?” Gustavo was a little man with a wiry bulldog build. All puffed chest and muscled arms. She liked guys like this. She liked putting them down. Agent Dominguez reached into her jacket and retrieved her badge. His sneer didn’t fade. “Aight. So? Why you knocking on my door so damn early?”
The clock on her dash read nine o’clock when she stepped out of the car. Only night owls and gangsters thought nine o’clock was early. “Sorry to bother you. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about Israel Cortinas.”
He grimaced and worked his jaw. She heard the joint pop. “I ain’t know him.”
“Then why did you call him three days ago?”
“Who says?”
“The phone company. You called him Monday.” She had no such cell phone records. But he didn’t know that. She propped one hand on her hip and studied his reaction. Her bluff worked. The puff of his chest flattened like air out of a balloon.
“Aight. So? So what? He’s a friend. I ain’t allowed to call my friends?”
“Call them all you want. I just want the truth.”
“Who’s truth? Yours or mine?”
“The God’s honest truth. That’s all,” she said.
He studied her through squinting eyes and pursed lips. “What about him?”
“I need to talk to him. Do you know where he is?”
“Why you need to talk to him?”
Agent Dominguez sighed. It would be that kind of interview. Like pulling teeth from a running man. No answer would come easy. “If Israel is your friend, I’m guessing you know Sofia Martinez too? You’ve known him since you were kids.”
He shrugged. “That was a long time ago.”
“Yeah. But somebody kidnapped Sofia Martinez in Mexico four days ago. And Israel boarded a plane to Cancun two days later. Do you know why he got on that plane, Mr. Arriaga?”
“Fuck if I know. Maybe he likes the señoritas. They make ‘em fine as fuck down there.” He grabbed his crotch and grinned. Gold plated canines glinted in the sun.
Agent Dominguez was used to being tested. Gustavo was seeing how far he could push. She would push back. She didn’t have to play the part of the friendly cop. Based on the pungent aroma of musty marijuana smoke that drifted past Gustavo when he opened the door, she could throw him in cuffs. A stainless-steel scale sat on the coffee table behind him. Plastic baggies and rubber bands beside it.
“Nice home you have,” she said, peering over his shoulder. He shifted his body to block her view and pulled the door closed behind him.
“I don’t know why he went to Cancun. Aight?” he sneered.
“I don’t give a damn what you do in your home, Mr. Arriaga. Sell all the dope you want. I’m trying to save Sofia’s life. Did you ever meet her?”
“Once or twice.”
“She was a sweet kid, right? Big smile. Braces. Friendly. I saw her photos.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
Agent Dominguez stepped close enough to smell the weed on his breath. Gustavo recoiled, surprised at her move.
“How will you feel when you see her body swinging from an underpass on TV and knowing you didn’t do a damn thing to help?” she said.
“Step off me with that shit! I didn’t take that girl. I ain’t the one took her.”
“No. But Israel might be. Tell me how I can find him.”
“You tryin’ to pin this on Izzy? Aren’t you? ¡Putos policías! That some bullshit!”
“Yeah? Why is that? Talk to me.”
“Step off and I might tell you!”
Agent Dominguez stepped back, giving Gustavo some breathing room. He tugged on his shirt as if trying to air the stink of law enforcement off his body.
“Izzy didn’t take her. He’s worried about her. That’s all,” he said.
“He could worry from here. Why go to Cancun?”
Gustavo’s pit bull face scrunched and looked away. Unsure how to respond. She knew the look. Torn by the twin desire to help his friend and not talk to law enforcement.
“The federales know he’s down there,” she said. “They’re looking for him. They think he’s working for the cartel. If they find him, it’s won’t be pretty. If you have information that could help him, you better tell me now.”
“Yeah, he came to me for help. Aight? He knew you people wouldn’t help. And the federales and policías are all in the cartel’s bag. Wasn’t anybody looking for that girl. So he decided to find her himself.”
Agent Dominguez worked her jaw for a moment, stunned at the statement. “You’re saying Israel went to Cancun to… rescue Sofia?”
“Yeah. He couldn’t sit on his ass and wait for her to die.”
“Is that what you thought? That her captors were going to kill her?”
“Yeah,” he snorted, as if that were an obvious conclusion. His reaction surprised her. The cartel was notorious for kidnapping people and holding them for ransom. Kidnappees were far more valuable alive than dead.
“Why is that?” she said.
“They haven’t sent a ransom note or anything, have they? Been, what, four days now? Five? Have they called the police? The family?”
“No,” she said. That was privileged information. Not for public consumption. But she needed to give something to win his cooperation. “Nobody has heard anything from Los Cabrones since they took her.”
He gave a derisive snort. Gustavo’s snorts seemed to have all the phonologic complexity of an indigenous tribe. “That’s your problem. You think Los Cabrones got her. Chingao. You cops don’t know nothin’ do you?”
“If it’s not Los Cabrones, then who took her? They run Cancun.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Papa Gabriel died two months ago. Other gangs moved in. Been a war going on ever since. Y’all didn’t know that?”
Agent Dominguez scanned her memories. None of the agency’s documentation mentioned Papa Gabriel’s passing. The legendary head of Los Cabrones. The gangster who tamed the Yucatan. Dead?
“Then who took her?” she said. Gustavo shook his head and smirked. Agent Dominguez grew tired of his dismissive looks. But she would suffer them all to bring Sofia home.
“Izzy told me about the guy who took Sofia. Got a hooded calavera covering his chest? That’s a Border Boys tat. Only senior leaders get that.”
The Border Boys. The agency had plenty of information on them. A gang of former paramilitaries who had seized giant swaths of the northern Mexico badlands through extreme violence and intimidation. Severed heads were their calling cards. The news chilled her blood.
“Why haven’t they contacted anybody? Why kidnap her and not ask for ransom?”
Gustavo shrugged. “Who says they haven’t? Lots of people out there.”
“They haven’t called her family. Or the police. Who else would they ask?”
“Maybe you should ask Big Red.”
“Who?” She felt like a marionette, jerking on strings as new leads presented themselves.
“Her man. I’ve heard that handle on the street too. Big Red. Might be a different cracker. I don’t know. But I’ve heard it.”
“Her man? Sofia’s boyfriend? He goes by Big Red? How do you know that?”
“Izzy told me. Said he met him and the fool said to call him Big Red.”
Agent Dominguez realized she had never pulled out her notebook. Gustavo flinched when she reached for her jacket. He relaxed when she slid the notebook from her pocket. She scribbled the names Papa Gabriel, Big Red, and The Border Boys on a clean sheet.
“You heard of Big Red on the street. What do you mean by that?”
Gustavo’s eyes shifted, and he rubbed his nose. “Bought some stuff off a cat said he was connected. He said Big Red could get anything. And beat the street price.”
“And did he?”
“Yeah,” Gustavo nodded, looking impressed. “He did. Good as anything I ever bought before. And for less money.”
“What’s this cat’s name?”
Gustavo shook his head. “I got a business to run.”
“And I’m trying to save a young woman’s life. Maybe your friend’s too. You already gave me Big Red.”
Gustavo scanned the neighborhood like he was worried somebody was watching. “You didn’t get this shit from me, aight?”
Agent Dominguez nodded.
“He called himself Centavo. Skinny vato with a biker mustache.”
“Got a number?”
He shook his head. “Never saw him before. Came to a house party about a month ago. Had the stuff in his trunk. Told me he’d have more later. Haven’t seen him since.”
She scratched the name Centavo on her notepad. Another name. Another path. Could Israel not be their guy? They already alerted Mexico about his presence. Boots were on the ground searching for him.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Arriaga.”
“Don’t tell nobody that shit.” Gustavo folded his arms and scowled.
“Of course.” She pivoted and hurried to her car. The men on the sidewalk watched her pass. “Have a nice day!” she told them with her chin held high. She had assumed her visit to Gustavo’s home would cap off her investigation. Instead, new angles had opened. She mentally kicked herself. She should have done this sooner. Her next conversation would be with Hank Carson. Or was it Big Red?
CHAPTER 37
Chucho
Chucho would have taken the back roads after leaving the finca if the hurricane hadn’t shredded thousands of trees and tossed them all over creation. His knowledge of the area would have put him ahead of his fleeing targets. But he couldn’t afford the constant stops to clear the roads. The escapees had too large a lead already. So, he followed their tracks to the nearest town.
Leona Vicario was a beehive of activity. Improvised crews dragged fallen debris off the roads. Linemen struggled to repair fallen lines. A woman bawled beside the collapsed roof of her home. None of this devastation mattered to Chucho. It was as the spirits willed it. The living should be grateful the spirits hadn’t claimed them as well. He had more important business to deal with. He and his men had cruised every major road in town. But they found no one.
They stood beside the highway on the outskirts of town. A sour pit had formed at the base of his stomach. Almost twelve hours had passed since the escape. The escapees had transportation. And he still had no cell phone coverage to alert his network of lookouts. The escapees would soon be beyond his reach if they weren’t already. He imagined La Doña’s dismissive scowl once she heard the news. There was still time before that happened. He kneeled and spread both palms on the ground. Mud curled around his fingers and over his hands.
“U Buluc Chabtan. I honor your great strength. Grant me your vision to find my enemies. Send them to me on your winds,” he said. He scooped a clod of damp earth and spread it over his cheeks and neck. Cool clumps tumbled down his chest and over his shoulders. “I will feel their movements. Sense their location. Grant me your great powers, Buluc Chabtan, the wise and powerful.” He completed his chant feeling renewed and empowered, at one with his deity. He stood and faced his men. Hugo remained a respectful distance away, staring at the ground.
“They think they’ve escaped. They think they’ve won. Hmph. That will be their undoing. They’re going to the American consulate in Merida. But we will get there first. ¡Vamos!” The Jeep rocked as he climbed into the passenger seat. Hugo slid behind the steering wheel. Chucho would not let him out of his sight. Hugo’s only hope of survival was recovering the prisoners he allowed to flee. Soon they were on the highway, speeding towards Merida. “Take the toll road,” he said. Unless they had found some cash in the finca, the escapees were penniless. It would slow their route as they passed through every town.
His cell phone blipped. A notification appeared on the bright screen. It was reacquiring the network. He was back online. A twisted smile spread across his lips. Send them to me on your winds.
CHAPTER 38
Agent Dominguez
Carson Engineering’s main office was located inside a bland two-story block of steel and mirrored glass. Agent Dominguez parked her car and shrugged on her usual blue blazer, leaving the FBI raid jacket behind. She was eager to hear Hank’s thoughts on Big Red and Centavo. She had called him after leaving Gustavo’s house and he invited her to visit the office. Her reflection grew sharper in the mirrored glass as she approached the front door. A blond receptionist with tight curls and a puckered smile welcomed her upon entering.
“Good morning!” the receptionist said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Henry Carson Jr.”
“Sure thing. And your name is?”
“Alana Dominguez.” She didn’t want to draw undue attention by including Special Agent in her title. She wanted Hank relaxed, convivial.
“Have a seat, Miss Dominguez, and I’ll give him a tinkle.” Her pixie face squished as she grinned.
Agent Dominguez took a seat in the spartan waiting area. Steel chairs with thin vinyl padding surrounded the room like sentinels. The only hint of green was a plastic fern grayed by a thin layer of dust. Creased copies of Popular Mechanics and Engineering Magazine littered a plain brown coffee table. She hiked an eyebrow at the lone copy of Sports Illustrated. Swimsuit edition, of course.
