Authors: Frank Hughes
The following morning I
sat in plush comfort as the little G5 banked around to land at a small airstrip
in the Chihuahua Desert. The single runway and small hangar were situated about
a half mile from three large industrial buildings. A paved single lane road led
from the airfield back towards the complex.
The plane touched down
and taxied over to the tower building. A red fuel tanker and a battered green
taxicab sat waiting. When the plane came to a halt, I undid my seatbelt, but
stayed where I was. The cockpit door opened and the copilot squeezed through.
“We’re here.”
He undid the hatch and
lowered it, kicking the metal steps into place.
“Where exactly is here?”
I said.
“Chemical plant. Twenty
miles outside of town.”
I followed him out the
door and down the narrow steps to the tarmac. The desert air was cool, but
after a few December days in the Colorado Rockies it felt positively balmy. The
copilot fished a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and lit one.
“What’s the
temperature?” I said, refusing the offered pack.
“About sixty. Typical for
this time of year. Might want to keep the jacket for later.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
The liner of my parka doubled as a windbreaker. I zipped it out and tossed the
Gore-Tex shell back in the plane.
I heard the chunk of a
car door closing. A lanky guy with long, dirty black hair was walking towards
us from the taxi. His stained khaki shirt hung outside his belt on the right
side, and the blue work pants were about three inches too long.
“
Señor
Craig?”
“That’d be me.”
He swept his right hand
back at the taxi. “I am Joaquin, your driver.”
“Okay, be right with
you.” I turned to the copilot. “What’s the schedule?”
“I’m waiting on
you. We get the plane fueled, and you bring the package back here. Of course,
if we don’t hear from you by nine tonight, we leave. This company,” he said,
jerking his thumb at the complex nearby, “has
mucho
juice down here, but
it doesn’t pay to overstay your welcome on these unofficial visits.”
“Gotcha.” I started over
towards the taxi.
“Hey, pal,” said the
copilot.
I stopped and looked
back.
“Not that I give a
shit,” he said, “but outside of a war zone, this is the most dangerous city in
the world. Don’t dawdle.”
“I run this one errand,
see the donkey sex show, and, I swear, I’m right back here.”
The driver held open the
rear door of the cab. I took a piece of paper from my pocket and unfolded it.
“You know where this
is?” I said, showing him the address.
“
Sí
,” he
said, after a moment’s study.
“There a problem?”
He shrugged. “
Es
muy peligroso
.”
“Is there a part of town
that isn’t dangerous?”
He smiled. “No,” he said, “
en todas partes es
peligroso
.”
“Everywhere is
dangerous. I hear that’s the slogan for the new ad campaign.”
The road from the
airstrip angled around the chemical plant and through a guarded gate onto a
well-maintained blacktop. Within a quarter mile we were on a major highway,
heading straight for a brownish cloud of smog that marked the city. The
landscape gradually changed from brown desert dotted with industrial buildings
and factories, to greener areas that mixed residential and commercial
structures. Zoning was either haphazard or not enforced, and the architecture
ranged from old, dilapidated crap to sleek and modern. Off to my right, I
caught glimpses of El Paso and the green swath of land that marked the course
of the Rio Grande.
Once in the city, our
pace slowed due to the chaotic traffic. We veered away from the city center
into a tired, unsanitary slum that reminded me of the worst parts of Tijuana.
The driver seemed to know his way around, negotiating a bewildering series of
turns through winding, narrow streets, until we rounded a corner to find the
road partially blocked by a rusted car with no tires and a boulder that looked
very out of place.
I leaned forward and
rested my arms on the back of the front seat. I caught sight of Joaquin’s eyes
in the front mirror, and he seemed briefly startled.
“What seems to be the
problem?” I said.
“The road, it is
blocked.”
“I can see that. Why is
it blocked?”
“It makes it
muy
dificil
for the
secuestradors
.”
“The what?”
“The men who take
peoples for money.”
“Oh, kidnappers.”
“
Sí
,
kidnappers.”
“Can we go around?”
“There is no need.” He
pointed. “The clinic is right down there.”
“Wow, you are a great
driver.”
“
Sí
.” He
smiled at me in the mirror. “
Gracias
.”
“Of course, I never said
anything about a clinic.”
His eyes widened and his
right hand went for his hip, but my forearm was already around his neck. A
properly applied choke hold cuts off blood flow to the brain, resulting in
nearly instant unconsciousness. Done improperly, it can kill just as fast,
which is why many police departments in the United States no longer use it.
Joaquin’s eyes fluttered and closed. He slumped in his seat. I lowered his head
to rest on the steering wheel and took the keys from the ignition. I checked
the pulse in his neck. Still alive. This meant I was now batting around .900
now on proper chokeholds.
Under his greasy shirt I
found an old, but well-maintained Para Ordnance .45 automatic, a heavy, no
nonsense gun, which was fine by me. In my days as a Customs agent I was far
more likely to hit somebody with my Beretta than shoot at them. You would be
surprised how many skels just beg for a little attitude tune up. Sigs and
Glocks, with their composite frames and annoyingly large trigger guards just
don’t cut the mustard when it comes to sapping someone down. You need a steel
gun with some heft.
I slipped the safety off
and press checked the chamber. A round was loaded. I dropped the double-stacked
magazine to confirm it was loaded. It was, with hollowpoints. These guys didn’t
kid around. I replaced the mag and stuck the pistol behind my right hip,
leaving the safety off. Carrying a single action automatic that way wasn’t the
safest thing in the world, but I was used to a double action Beretta, and I
didn’t want find myself squeezing a useless trigger because I’d forgotten to
thumb the safety down.
I got out and opened the
driver’s door. A quick search of my new friend netted a Gerber Mk II fighting knife
strapped to his left forearm and a Walther PPK in an ankle holster. I stuck the
knife in my belt and kept the Walther handy.
I slapped the driver’s
face a little to bring him around. Soon he grunted and his eyes opened
slightly. I jammed the PPK up under his chin. His eyes opened wide.
“Good morning,
Sunshine.”
His eyes hardened with
hate, but he said nothing.
“Let’s talk
about who you are,” I said. I pushed the pistol deeper into the flesh of under
his jaw. “
Comprende
?”
“No.” He spat the word
out, and dared me to shoot him with a defiant stare.
“I like you,” I
said. “You’re tough. But, let’s see if you have the
juevos
to walk to
that clinic with me. Now get out.
Vamanos
.”
I kept the hand with the
PPK in my jacket pocket and pointed in his direction as we walked down the
street. I watched for the moving window curtain, the top of a head, the furtive
movement in a doorway that could indicate an ambush. I had to balance checking
behind me with keeping an eye on my companion. When you are alone you just have
to leave some things to chance.
We stayed close to the
buildings on the left hand side of the street, but not too close. You want to
be near cover, but not too close to the wall. Ricochets don’t behave like
billiard balls. When a lead bullet hits a wall, or any hard surface, it
flattens somewhat, causing it to take off in a path virtually parallel to the
surface it strikes. Hugging a wall might only get you killed faster.
There weren’t many
people around, and those that were disappeared when they caught our vibe. Even
the scrawny stray dogs took one look and skulked away. I saw a hand lettered
sign for the La Vida Nueva clinic nailed to a power pole about fifty feet from
the taxi. A crudely drawn arrow pointed the way. I noticed a few other markers
were scrawled on the stucco walls of some buildings as we got closer.
The clinic had a little
courtyard, protected by a low mud colored wall topped with a wrought iron
fence. We entered through an arched gateway, where the clinic name was painted
in faded black paint on the arch. The gate looked as if it was rusted in the
open position. An elderly, couple sat on a stained and torn sofa in the
courtyard, looking at us without much interest. As we passed I realized my
first impression was decades off; they were meth addicts in their twenties. The
deeply lined faces, tanned nearly black, only looked old. Both wore similar
flannel shirts and paper thin jeans full of holes. The man had a red bandana
tied around his head. A cigarette had burned down to a stub, seemingly unnoticed,
between the leathered fingers of the woman’s left hand.
The clinic itself was a
two story affair whose paint job, while not new, was years younger than the
surrounding structures. The place had once been a small hotel or, more likely,
a bordello. The front desk was now the reception area, complete with a pretty
young nurse in a clean, starched uniform. She looked up as we approached.
“
Buenos dias
,”
she said, smiling.
“
Hablamos
Ingles
?” I said.
“Yes, of course,” she
said, in English that was only slightly accented.
“I am looking for Mr.
Boyd. Kenneth Boyd.”
“He is a patient here?”
“That’s my
understanding.”
She pulled down a
hardbound ledger from the shelf above her desk and consulted it. I looked at my
companion, who was giving me a puzzled look.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said
the nurse, “but we have no one by that name here.”
“Can you check again? I
was told he was here no more than three days ago.”
“I will check again for
you.”
As she leafed through
the book, Joaquin looked from her to me and back again with growing puzzlement.
After consulting several pages, she closed the book with finality.
“I am sorry, sir. We
have no record of a Mr. Boyd, not for three weeks back.”
“What about credit card
receipts?”
She smiled. “Sir, we do
not use credit cards here.”
With my left hand, I
fished the photo of Ken from my shirt pocket and handed it to her.
“This is the man.
Perhaps he is registered under another name.”
She examined it
carefully, then, still looking at it, began to slowly shake her head. She handed
the picture back to me.
“I’m afraid I do not
recognize him.”
“And you are here how
often?”
“Five, sometimes
seven days a week. I have never seen this man. And no
gringos
have been
patients here for many, many months.”
“I see. Would it be
possible to speak to the director of the clinic?”
“Not at this moment. He
stepped out for a few hours.”
Joaquin was
startled. “
Cuando
?” he said.
The nurse seemed taken
aback by the urgency of his tone.
“
Hace unos
minutos
.” She looked at me. “A few minutes ago, after the police were
here.”
“
La Policia
?” said Joaquin.
“
Sí
.”
“Shut-up,” I said to
Joaquin. “Why were the police here?” I said to the nurse.
“They arrested two men
who were here, how do you say, just waiting.”
“
El doctor hablar con nadie antes de su partida
?”
said Joaquin.
“
Un
paciente
?”
“No,” she said, confused
as to what the problem was. “He took his bag and went out, saying he would be
back later.”
Joaquin muttered an oath
and started past me, into the clinic.
I put my left hand in
his chest and drew the PPK. “Whoa, Seabiscuit. Where do you think you’re
going?”
The nurse stared at the
gun, frozen in her seat.
“You don’t understand,”
he said, his English very improved. “There is no time.”
“No time for what?”
“Do you wish to die?” It
was not a threat. He was on the knife edge of panic. He shot a look at the
front door, then back at me. “Shoot me or let me pass.”
I heard shouting and
dogs barking outside. Joaquin moved quickly to the door, stepping halfway
through. Then he turned and sprinted past me towards the back of the clinic.
I peered out. Five men,
all wearing ski masks, were approaching the courtyard entrance. They wore flak
vests over nondescript work clothes. Three of them, carrying suppressed MP5
submachine guns, entered through the arch. The remaining two, covered both ends
of the street with FN assault rifles.
The first man through
the gate casually shot the patients on the couch as he passed. He and the
second man continued towards the front door, but the third stopped at the
bodies and pulled a machete.
I stepped back into the
darkness of the lobby and swapped the Walther for the .45. Five guys with
automatic weapons would go through this place like a hot knife through butter.
I needed to slow them down, make them hesitate, and buy time for me and everyone
else in the building.