Authors: Frank Hughes

Devil's Run (26 page)

“Back door?” I said to
the nurse.

She looked at me as if I
were making no sense.

“Back door! What
the hell,
entrada trasera
! Where is the back door?”

She pointed.

“Go now,” I said. When she
continued to sit there I pointed the gun at her, and that seemed to work.

Fighting with a pistol
is a lot harder than it looks in the movies. The short barrel, low stopping
power, and poor sight radius make it far less accurate than a long gun. Add the
panic, stress, and adrenaline of an armed encounter and, well, let’s just say I
would have preferred a shotgun.

The best way to obtain
accuracy with a handgun is to focus on the front sight, which is easier said
than done. The natural tendency of human beings under stress is to focus on the
danger. Highly trained anti-terrorist units spend endless hours mastering
pistol shooting in pressure situations, but the rest of us don’t have that
luxury. While a Customs agent I rarely had cause to pull my Beretta, much less
shoot the damn thing. In my last government position, we were expected to avoid
armed confrontations and retreat when they happened. The handgun training
focused mainly on instinct shooting, a theory that states where your eyes look,
your arms point, and the bullets go.

Now, with headshots my
only choice, I needed precision. I brought the pistol up to eye level in the
two handed isosceles grip I preferred and moved towards the door frame,
muttering “front sight, front sight” like a crazy person. At the door jamb, I
began incrementally leaning sideways, keeping the bulk of my body behind cover.
The lead shooter was now ten feet away, the barrel of his submachine gun
pointed right at me. I made the front sight blade clear and sharp on the dark
blur of his head and squeezed the trigger.

I didn’t hear the report
of the pistol, but I clearly heard the clang of the slide and tinkle of the
ejected shell. Blood spurted in a little arc from the center of his forehead.
He collapsed in a heap. As he fell, I fired two rounds at the man behind him,
who staggered back, but did not fall. I pulled back into the shadows, cursing,
knowing at least one round had hit his weapon, not him. I’d focused on the
danger, the gun, and not the man.

I ran back into the
clinic. The attackers would be cautious now, but they still had to move fast
before some of the thousands of troops and federal police patrolling the city
responded to the gunfire. I couldn’t remember whether a Para Ordnance magazine
held twelve or fourteen rounds. I decided twelve, to be on the safe side. That
left me with six rounds in the mag and one in the pipe. I got the spare
magazine out of my pocket and did a tactical reload, stuffing the half-used
magazine into my belt.

Confused and panicked
patients were spilling out of their rooms in a disorganized mob. I fired a
couple of rounds into the ceiling to spur everyone towards the rear. The crowd
swept towards the back of the clinic, gathering new members as it went. I heard
the chatter of a suppressed gunfire behind me and turned to see an explosion of
plaster dust and wood chips in the reception area. They were coming in.

The corridor turned to
the right. At the corner I fired two rounds towards the front door before
continuing on. Ahead of me Joaquin was assisting an older man in a white shirt
and faded khaki pants. A crutch dangled from his free hand. The older man’s
left leg was in a cast, the trouser leg slit to accommodate it. His right arm
was in a blue sling. He did not look like a drug addict. His features had an
aristocratic cast, and the thick white hair and full beard were clean and
carefully trimmed. He also looked ridiculously calm, but he wasn’t out of it.
Dark, piercing eyes sized me up quickly.

At the end of the hall,
a shaft of sunlight appeared as someone opened the rear exit. The patients
began spilling out, but their panicked babbling changed to shrieks of terror.
Mingled with their cries was the steady flutter of silenced automatic weapons
and the wet thud of bullets tearing flesh.

Of course, they had men
at the rear. The tide turned, and the dwindling pack surged towards us. Through
an open door I saw a large communal kitchen.

“This way!” I said.

A long stainless steel
food preparation table ran down the center, stained and blackened pots and skillets
hanging on the rack above it. Along the back wall was a stainless steel counter
with two deep sinks, a half dozen propane tanks stored underneath. Two propane
stoves stood to the right of the counter, a big pot of something bubbling on
one of the burners. There was no other door to the room. The only openings were
two windows, one above the stoves, and the other just past the sinks. Through
grime covered glass I could see heavy metal bars.

“You appear to have led
us into a trap, my friend,” said the older man, as if commenting on the
weather.

The remaining patients,
now down to about a dozen, followed us into the kitchen. I pointed at an array
of cooking knives, cleavers and meat tenderizing mallets.

“Tell them to use
those,” I said to Joaquin, pointing, “and cut a hole in the wall over there.
Hurry!”

He began shouting orders
in Spanish. I went to the door and leaned out, firing two rounds towards the
rear of the clinic, then two more in the opposite direction. I went back in the
kitchen, and slammed the door shut.

The survivors were
chopping and kicking at a rapidly expanding hole in the wall. I looked for
something to block the door. A wooden armoire, taller than I was, would
absolutely fit the bill. I pushed against it, but it barely budged. There was
some shouting and then three patients were beside me. The four of us managed to
tip the heavy cabinet over, and it crashed to the floor, blocking the door.

“
Vamanos
!”

The men helping me
scurried back to where the others were disappearing through the hole in the
wall. Joaquin came over to me.

“
Una pistola
.
Give me a pistol.”

I looked at the older
man, who nodded. I don’t know why, but that reassured me. Keeping the .45
trained on Joaquin’s stomach, I handed him the Walther. He smiled grimly and tucked
it in his belt before helping his companion through the opening.

Glass shattered in the
window above the stove and a hooded figure shoved the barrel of his MP5 through
the bars. He hesitated before firing. Probably the dark room was invisible to
him. I snapped off two shots and he fell back, leaving the gun hanging from the
bars.

I was alone in the
kitchen now. I grabbed a full propane tank from beneath the sink and placed it
on the stove next to the active burner. Then I went across the room and through
the hole in the wall into the kitchen of a private home. Behind me, the blocked
door began to disintegrate under a steady barrage of bullets. I positioned
myself with the least exposure and aimed carefully at the tank on the stove. I
fired one round and ducked back.

Nothing happened. I
chanced a look and saw that I’d hit my target. The dimpled hole was clearly
visible, but the bullet had merely knocked the tank backwards to rest against
the rear of the stove. Shit. If you can’t blow up a propane tank, what can you
blow up?

I heard the pounding of
many feet on the floor above me. The escaping patients were moving to the roof.
Probably a good idea, since the narrow street would be a shooting gallery. I
moved deeper into the building. Just as I found the stairs, my ears popped and
the building shook. A blast of hot air followed me into the room, pelting me
with dust and wood debris. The propane tank had gone after all.

I followed the sound of
activity upstairs to a rear bedroom. The escaping patients had dragged a bureau
beneath a trap door and were helping each other onto the roof. Joaquin was on a
cell phone, speaking rapidly.

He ended the call and
handed the phone to the older man. I helped him lift his companion onto the bureau.
While Joaquin held him steady, I jumped up and grabbed the frame of the trap
door. The patients were already several rooftops away, so there was no one
there to help me. I pulled myself through and flopped onto the roof, just as
more explosions shook the building.

I reached a hand back
into the room and said to the older man, “Take it.”

The hand that grasped my
wrist was calloused and strong. There was no gratitude in the man’s face, only
the expectation that he deserved such effort. As I pulled him up, Joaquin
hopped onto the bureau and pushed him from below. Between the two of us we got
him through, and he lay on his back, exhausted. Joaquin soon joined us.

“Where?” I said to
Joaquin.

He pointed in the
direction of where we had left the taxi. I nodded.

We started across the
roofs in that direction. I led the way, pistol at the ready, while he half
dragged, half carried the other man. After a moment, I stopped to let them
catch up, looking back just as two more explosions shook the clinic. Black smoke
laced with orange flame rose from the site of the blasts. Sirens wailed in the
distance.

Joaquin reached where I
stood. He and the other man looked back as well.

“They will have gone,”
said the older man. “The police and the army are on their way. It should be
safe to return to the street. But, we must hurry.”

“You want to avoid the
police and the army?”

“It would be best for
me,” he said.

I turned to continue.
Three men were running towards us across the roof. They were bareheaded and
carried submachine guns. I brought the pistol up.

“No,” said the older
man, his voice commanding.

I turned to find Joaquin
pointing the Walther at my face. His finger tightened on the trigger.

“No,” said the older man
again.

Joaquin looked at him,
confused.

“Not now.
Perhaps later, but I have questions. Now,
Señor
,” he said to me, “Drop
the
pistola
. Or I will indeed let Joaquin pull the trigger.”

I believed him. Not to
mention I was outnumbered and outflanked. I slipped the safety on and let the
gun drop. It hit the roof with a thud. Joaquin spoke into the other man’s ear.

“Joaquin would
like his knife back, as well.” He smiled. “
Por favor
.”

I retrieved the knife
and tossed it next to the gun.

“
Gracias
.
And now you will join us.” He turned to Joaquin. “I would also like to see Dr.
Alvarez.”

“
Sí
,
Patron
.”

“Not all of him, of
course. Just his head.”

39.

I was led
through a labyrinth of muddy back alleys and trash strewn side streets. It fell
to me to assist the injured man. Joaquin and one of the other gunmen led the
way. Twice we were forced to hide as army trucks filled with troops rumbled
past. Then we found refuge in the squalid back room of a cantina to avoid a
small squad of hooded men dressed entirely in black.
Policia Federale
was stenciled in white on their body armor.

Once they passed, we
continued our journey and minutes later were crouching in the mouth of an alley
next to a well-paved road. We were there only seconds before a battered Ford
delivery van pulled up. The side door slid open and a man with an MP5 motioned to
us. I was prodded with a gun barrel. I carried my charge to the van and handed
him in. Another, less gentle prodding and I climbed in too. The others
followed, and the van was speeding away before the door closed.

It was cramped and
uncomfortable on the metal floor, not to mention all the guns and surly looks.
The older man, on the other hand, was treated with great deference by the
others. He lay back on a small mattress and pillow, appearing quite content and
unruffled. In short order, someone produced a cigar. He carefully lit it with
an offered match, inhaling the smoke with great satisfaction.

“Cuban,” he said,
brandishing the cigar. “The best.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said.

“Ah, yes. They are not legal
in your country.” He looked at the burning tip. “A pity.” He looked back to me.
“You are a cop, are you not?”

“I used to be. Not
anymore.”

“What kind of cop did
you used to be?”

“U.S. Customs.”

He nodded, as if he
already knew. “Drugs?”

“I was involved in drug
investigations, yes.”

“Where?”

“New York. Mostly at
JFK. Kennedy airport in New York.”

He nodded. “Are you
familiar with the name Cristos Sandoval?”

I had to think for a
minute. The name was vaguely familiar. I sorted back through the dusty memories
of a previous life. Then I pulled it up. The name had come up, peripherally, as
part of a background briefing.

“I think so. Mexican
cartel leader.”

“Remarkable. And you
know this how? I must warn you,” he said, his tone conversational, “that your
life depends on you telling the truth. And I am very good at spotting liars.”

“How nice for you.”

The man next to me
smacked me in the face with his weapon. I tasted blood.

“He does not like your
manner,” said the older man.

“Tell him to take a
number and get in line.”

The gunman moved to hit
me again, but one gesture from my interrogator stopped him.

“Now,” he said, “while
you can still use your mouth to speak.”

“It was part of a
briefing on the Mexican cartels smuggling cocaine into the U.S. Sandoval was
one of the players they mentioned.”

“I see.” He puffed on
the cigar. “I am Cristos Sandoval.”

I hid my distress by
glancing around the van. “I pictured you rolling with a bit more style.”

He sighed. “Yes, well
times have changed somewhat.” He took another pull on his cigar. “Now tell me,
Mr. Nicolas Craig, former federal policeman Nicolas Craig, how you happened to
show up at a clinic where I am hiding, just before gunmen come to kill me.”

“It’s a long story.”

“It is a long trip. And
while you are still talking, you are still breathing.”

He had a point. So I
told him everything, from the moment Raviv approached me to my nights at The
Retreat. He listened thoughtfully, occasionally interrupting with a question.
When I was done, he had long since finished his smoke. For a long time he sat
in silence, then he spoke in Spanish to one of the gunmen, who produced another
cigar.

“And you did not sleep
with this woman?”

“No.”

“I understand she is
quite beautiful. You are a man of considerable strength.”

Joaquin leaned over and
whispered something to him. Sandoval laughed.

“
Sí
,
Joaquin, or a
puta
, like that husband of hers.” Sandoval examined the
new cigar and then bit off the end with teeth that were gleaming white and surprisingly
small. He spit the shred of tobacco onto the floor. “This woman. You are aware,
are you not, that her name before marriage was de Verdugo? Corazon de Verdugo.”

“Yes.”

“And that the chemical
plant where you landed in your private plane, the one that is now gone, is
affiliated with Verdugo Enterprises?”

“I was not aware.
However, I am not surprised.”

Joaquin struck a match
and held it up. Sandoval leaned forward to light the cigar.

“Mmm-hmm,” he said,
puffing gently as he turned his cigar in the flame. He sat back and let go a
stream of blue smoke. “This is why Joaquin was your taxi driver.” He waved his
cigar in a vague circle. “Those of us engaged in the trade here in Mexico, my
partners, my competitors, we all have our spies, our informers, our traitors.”

“Like Doctor Alvarez.”

“
Sí
. You
understand. It is a shame, but for some loyalty is for sale to the highest
bidder. Such men have their uses, but the world would be a better place if
there were only men like these.” He swept his hand grandly. “Men of honor and
loyalty.”

A smiling Joaquin
quietly translated for the others, who quickly sported smiles of their own,
revealing various degrees of poor dental hygiene.

“You find it amusing, I
suppose,” said Sandoval, “that a man like me, a so-called drug lord, speaks of
honor?”

“I am in no position to
judge.”

“So I have heard,” he
said, giving me a meaningful glance. He lifted his injured arm. “I survived a
recent attempt on my life, an ambush. A great number of my personal bodyguard
died, as did some unfortunate innocents.”

I had not been following
the news closely, but I was aware that drug violence in Mexico, already high,
had spiked to new levels in recent weeks.

“The attack was
planned by a rival and carried out by Barrio Azteca, but my Army sources inform
me that among the attackers were also
gringos
with military, not prison,
tattoos. The attack itself was military in nature.” He exhaled a thin stream of
smoke. “I barely escaped with my life. My injuries forced me to seek care and
refuge in that filthy clinic, until I was well enough to travel. I paid the
owner, Dr. Alvarez, for his hospitality and discretion. I assume that my
generosity made him greedy for more riches and he revealed my presence. The
arrest of my bodyguards and his sudden departure just before the attack
confirms this to my complete satisfaction.”

So the good doctor had
left his staff and patients to be massacred. Decapitation might be too good for
him.

“Yesterday,”
said Sandoval, “through one of my own spies in the
Policia Federale
, I
heard that a great sum of money had been provided to a high official to ensure
the discreet and unobstructed arrival of a trained
sicario
.”

I knew the term, a word
that referred to an ancient splinter group of Jewish Zealots known as the
Sicarii or ‘dagger men’. In the Latin American drug trade the word was
synonymous with assassin.

“This man would
arrive at a certain time on a private plane at a certain airfield.” He let the
sentence trail off and drew on his cigar. “This
sicario
, I was told, was
coming to find and kill me. A city policeman of questionable ethics was
assigned as a taxi driver for this man, told to take him wherever he wanted to
go. And when you arrived on a private plane, at that airfield, you directed
your taxi driver to come directly to the clinic.”

“What happened to this
policeman?”

“It does not
matter. We are all better off with one less corrupt
puerco
.”

I said nothing. I was
too busy contemplating how my head was going to look next to those of Doctor
Alvarez and the original cab driver.

“Did you come to
kill me,
Señor
Craig?”

“No. I did not come to
kill anyone. I told you, I am looking for Kenneth Boyd, and I was told he was a
patient at that clinic.”

“The son of the Verdugo
lawyer.”

“Yes.”

“You did not
come to kill, but you are a
sicario
?”

Everyone was staring at
me.

“I was,” I said. “A long
time ago.”

He nodded. “For your
government, is what my sources in Washington tell me.”

“I’m impressed,” I said.
“Only a handful of people in the U.S. Government have that information.” Which meant
the information had been deliberately leaked by someone anxious to see me dead.
“If you thought I was here to assassinate you, why not just have me killed? Why
take the chance?”

“Curiosity. Sending a
single assassin is very unusual in my country. I wanted to see what sort of man
you were. And I hoped to question you, to learn the identity of my enemy.”

He looked down, closely
examining the burning tip of his cigar. I felt the eyes of the others on me.
The hatred was palpable. Finally, Sandoval looked up at me.

“I have been at
that clinic for nearly five days. No
norte americano
has been a patient
or a visitor there.” He waved the cigar at the men in the van. “I would have
known.”

“It appears I was
misinformed.”

“Or misled. It is
obvious to you that my enemies knew where I was?”

“Yes.”

“And that the attack on
me took place to coincide with your arrival?”

“Yes.”

“It appears then that
you were sent to your death.”

“That was the intent.
Now I’m your problem.”

“True.” Again he seemed
fascinated by the tip of the cigar.

“Who do you think is
trying to kill you?” I said.

“Until today, I did not
know. Only that they were Colombian.”

“And today?”

“I would venture that
the Rojas clan is my true enemy.”