Greasing the Piñata (25 page)
“Do you want me to kill you now?”
Sally sat cross-legged on the bed wearing what looked like loose black pajamas, though they might have been her regular clothes. Cape could never tell.
“Was that a rhetorical question?”
“You seem intent on killing yourself.” Sally spoke calmly but her eyes were unyielding. “Thought I might save you some time.”
“I’ve lost my client.”
“She was taken—there’s a difference.”
“I have to get her back.”
Sally muttered something in Cantonese.
“You don’t have to come.”
“I know.” Sally stood and stepped over to the other bed, where she had arranged her weapons. She began sorting them into various piles.
“I don’t see any other way.”
“Neither do I.” Sally turned to face him. “
A lack of options is the quickest path to defeat.
”
“Art Of War?”
“Common sense.” Sally sighed. “You said Cordon lives in a castle?”
“That’s what Oscar called it.”
“He’s coming with us?”
“He’ll meet us there. He needs to call some people, make arrangements.”
“So we go in alone, just you and me.”
“Drug lords don’t come to the door when police are ringing the bell.”
“Any idea how many men will be inside?”
Cape almost smiled. “Of course not.”
“Floor plans?”
“Nope.”
“No time to get them, either, I suppose.”
Cape shook his head. “
Time is not our friend.
”
Sally raised her eyebrows. “Confucius?”
“The sad truth.”
Sally smiled despite herself. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as I make a phone call.”
Antonio Salinas put down the phone and smiled.
“Who was that?” Priest sat in the shadows on the far side of the room. The blinds were drawn and the only lamp was next to Salinas on the desk.
“Someone I never expected to hear from again.”
“The news we’ve been expecting?”
“No.” Salinas shook his head in wonder. “I never expected this.”
“I told you to have a little faith.” Priest stretched like a cat. “Good news?”
Salinas pressed his fingers together in a mock prayer and brought them to his lips.
“Miraculous.”
They took turns driving.
Sally slept for the first few hours, curled up in the back seat. When it was his turn, Cape tried to rest but couldn’t—his mind was racing, in part because of Sally’s driving. He had forgotten she didn’t have a license.
“I never needed one. You don’t need a car in Hong Kong, and in San Francisco I tend to stay near Chinatown.”
Cape nodded. Even compact cars couldn’t travel across rooftops and through windows. He took the wheel.
They drove in silence until
Matamoros
started appearing on the signs. Sally counted off the distance whenever they passed a new one, in case Cape had fallen asleep at the wheel. They were still more than an hour from the city when he told her his plan.
Sally didn’t say anything for a long time.
“It’s hard to believe it could work.”
“The only angle I could think of—it’s worth a try.”
“You’re going to blow this whole thing up.”
“They tried to do the same to us.”
“I’m not saying I don’t like the plan.” Sally turned in her seat. “But blowing things up can get—”
“—messy?”
Sally nodded. “We won’t really know until we get there. You could be wrong.”
“So we stick to the plan.”
“Planning only leads to failure. A successful warrior relies on preparation, not planning.”
“So we stick to the preparation?”
“Just stop.”
“Trying to let off some steam. To mentally
prepare
.”
Sally scowled. “
The ability to gain victory by changing and adapting is called genius.
”
“Art of War?”
“Very good—extra credit for the Occidental kid in the front seat.”
“I’m not as uncultured as you might think—for a
gwai-loh
. Ask me another.”
“Just drive.”
The private jet landed on the small airstrip north of the city and taxied to a stop near the terminal.
“You are staying behind?” Salinas turned to his companion.
Priest shook his head. “I’m going to wait until dark—I think you should, as well.”
“You are too superstitious.”
Priest tugged at his collar. “Perhaps.”
Salinas gestured to the six men standing near the door of the cabin. “
Vamanos.
”
One of the men stood apart from the rest of the group. He had a bulbous nose and a nasally whine to his voice. His name was André but not everyone called him by his real name. He jutted his chin at Priest. “Want me to stay with you?”
“No, thank you.” Priest gestured toward Salinas. “Go keep our host company.”
A black Escalade was waiting for them. Salinas sat in front next to the driver.
As the men took their seats they each grabbed a suitcase from the floor in front of them. Hard-sided Pelican cases filled with custom padded foam. They set the cases on their laps and opened them to find a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun with a folding stock capable of firing in burst mode—three bullets at a time—or fully automatic at over 600 rounds per minute. Next to the gun were two 50-round clips and a single hand grenade.
“Holy shit,” said André. “You don’t mess around.”
Salinas turned in his seat to smile at his American guest. “I prefer the direct approach.”
As they pulled onto the city streets the driver looked over at Salinas.
“Playa del Bagdad?”
Salinas nodded. “
Castillo
Cordon.”
Cape drove around until they found an American hotel. They didn’t have much time and wanted tourist-friendly directions and maps in English. They pulled into the Best Western Plaza Hotel on the corner of 9
th
and Bravo and checked into a single room, double occupancy. They didn’t plan on spending the night.
They hit the gift shop before going to their room, grabbing hats, shorts, shirts and sunglasses. When they returned to the lobby they looked completely different.
Sally was wearing a loose cotton blouse over black pants that flared at the ankles. Her face was shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat tied around her chin. With her darker skin, light freckles, and almond-shaped eyes, she could almost pass for a local.
Cape had gone for an equally innocuous look, a long t-shirt hanging over baggy shorts, Teva sandals. Around his neck were a camera and a pair of sunglasses. He smiled as they passed a full-length mirror next to the elevators.
“You look like a native.”
“You look like a tourist.”
“Wait a sec.” Cape rummaged in his cargo shorts. He sorted through the photos he had taken from Rebecca’s collection and handed two to Sally. “You take these, I’ll keep the rest.”
“You sure this will work? You said Cordon lives on the beach.”
“Bagdad Beach, about twenty kilometers east of here.” Cape spread his hands. “There’s apparently nothing out there, just this monstrous house that Cordon built right on the ocean.”
“So if anyone came into town—”
“They’d come here.” Cape put his photos back in his pocket. “And I don’t want to go the castle until it’s dark.”
“OK, let’s go for a walk.”
“You take north and east, I’ll go south and west. Meet here in two hours.”
Sally tipped her hat. “
Adios.
”
“
Hasta luego.
”
Cape checked the street signs against the map whenever he reached a neighborhood that looked a little different from the one before. He was trying to see the city through someone else’s eyes. The ground was relatively flat, the architecture mostly colonial. The streets busy but not terribly crowded. Cape glanced at the tour book as he walked.
Matamoros is located directly across the Rio Grande from Brownsville, Texas, its sister city on the other side of the border. Because of its proximity to the United States it is known as
La Gran Puerta de Mexico
—the Great Door To Mexico—a distinction celebrated by a massive red sculpture, a post-modern arch welcoming visitors from both countries.
In 1826 the city got its name
Villa de Matamoros
in honor of the independence hero Don Mariano Matamoros, but prior to that the town had been called many things. When Capitan Juan José de Hinojosa explored the region in 1706 he was struck by the natural beauty of the wetlands surrounding the area, so he called it
Paraje de los Esteros Hermosos
—Place of the Beautiful Marshes. Almost a hundred years later Franciscan monks came, and while they were also impressed by Mother Nature, it was their job to claim territory in the name of Mother Mary, so they renamed it
Nuestra Señora del Refugio de los Esteros
—Our Lady of the Refuge of the Beautiful Marshes, a compromise worthy of their order.
The locals simply called their city The Refuge—
El Refugio
—or town of refuge, a name that seemed to suit it best. Because of its location near the ocean and directly across the river from the States, it was the perfect border town. A hub for smuggling everything from drugs to guns to human beings. A place to pass through on your way to a better life. Sometimes a place to hide. A gateway to freedom for many, the city of refuge was also an open door for men like Luis Cordon.
There are almost half a million people in Matamoros, and Cape knew the odds against finding one person in a city that size. But he knew something about the person he was looking for, and Cape had a hunch about the type of places to visit.
He had two hours to see if he was right.
The house looked like a castle.
It overlooked Bagdad Beach on what until recently had been public property. Following his deal with the Mexican government for building refineries that turned methane into electricity, Luis Cordon found allies on the zoning commission. They discovered a portion of beachfront property unsuitable for public bathing because the soil had been contaminated with hazardous waste. The government could not afford to clean it up, so that section of the beach had to be closed. Cordon graciously agreed to buy the land from the state and clean up the spill. No one ever determined how the ground was contaminated in the first place.
But the castle also looked like a house. It had huge picture windows in the front, welcoming until you noticed the heavy leaded glass, which a security expert would tell you was bulletproof. The walls were rust-colored stone, the color of an adobe house but the shape of a medieval fortress.
The front was only one story high, but the ground sloped sharply beneath the house, the back facing the ocean. It was deceptive rolling up to the driveway, but on foot from the beach side it was clear that the house was huge. The top floor stretched four stories above the churning waves and rocks below.
Salinas had the SUV stop directly in front of the house. This was no time to be subtle. Luis wouldn’t be expecting him, not at his home. Never in person.
Luis wouldn’t do anything stupid until he knew why his old boss had come to visit. He would expect a conversation, a little respect. Maybe a business proposition.
Salinas would give him none of those things. He had something Luis never expected him to have: inside information. Luis might threaten him physically, but Salinas could threaten him with publicity. He had already made all the necessary arrangements.
He snapped his fingers and his men piled out of the car, guns over their shoulders, grenades concealed in pockets or clipped to their belts.
Gauchos
, thought Salinas. I have a bunch of cowboys working for me. But they were loyal, and in the end that would make the difference.
No guards were visible in front of the house. The outer gate was open, a simple brick walkway leading up the door. On either side of the path the earth was hard-packed sand raked clean. It looked like the ground was being cleared for a landscaping project. Salinas wondered idly what kind of plants would grow in this sandy soil so close to the beach.
He waved his hand in an abrupt gesture and his five men spread out on either side of the brick walkway, three on the right and two on the far left. The American with
una nariz grande
stayed close to Salinas, immediately on his left but practically in his shadow. Typical American, always talking tough until the action started.
***
Inside the house, Enrique watched the men fan out across the sand. He waited until they had spaced themselves evenly, then he checked the security camera to see where Salinas was standing. With a nervous hand, he held the remote control in his hand, his thumb sliding back and forth across the top button. He waited until Salinas took another step forward, then Enrique pressed the button. He held it down so hard that his thumbnail turned white and only released it when the walls started to shake.
Earthquakes are caused by a sudden and violent disruption of earth. Tectonic plates floating on liquid magma collide, one slips under its neighbor and shakes it up a little. But what topples buildings and kills people isn’t the magma or the plates—it’s the ground resting on the plates, the soil beneath our feet that supports our weight when we walk, holds our buildings erect, and keeps our world on solid ground.
But ground isn’t solid. It’s porous. For every million grains of sand on the beach there are ten million air pockets between them. For hardened clay it might be less, but no speck of dirt really touches the one next to it. Like people, the earth needs room to breathe.
Give the ground too much air, though, and something terrible happens. It turns to liquid. Air pockets cause dirt to slip and slide. Pump enough air into sand and it liquefies, the grains flowing over each other like water. A patch of ground solid enough to support the weight of a car can be transformed into a churning wave as ephemeral as the human soul.
Salinas staggered backward on the paving stones as the ground opened its mouth on either side. The bricks bucked and yawed, the ones nearest the edges of the path disappearing into the sand like sinking ships. The earth roared and the men on either side of him were yelling. André had leapt onto the walkway directly behind Salinas and was clutching his shoulder like a drowning man.
The five men sank up to their waists instantly, sand spraying into the air, cross currents pulling the men sideways. Salinas saw one man lurch three feet to the left and then get yanked deeper into the sand, down to his chest. It looked like he’d been taken by a shark.
A muffled explosion and a cry of pure terror. The man on the far right must have worn his grenade on his belt and the pin was torn free by force of the wave. All around him the sand churned red. Salinas watched in horror as the man screamed until his head disappeared beneath the surface.
Salinas tried to run but the walkway was disintegrating. He felt the bricks wobble like rogue surfboards beneath his feet.
Then it stopped.
The earth went silent. Only the sound of grown men whimpering filled the courtyard. Salinas and André crouched together on the bricks. The four men still alive were stuck, held fast as if they were trees.
Once the air stopped pumping through the sand it went from liquid to solid in an instant. The men grunted and yelled, pressed down on the sand with their arms. Two tried to reach one another to get some leverage, but they might as well have been dropped into cement. They seemed to be able to move an inch at a time, but at this rate it would take them hours to dig themselves out.
Salinas had already decided to leave them behind when they started screaming.
The man on the far left was the first, then his companion a few yards away. Salinas saw something dart across the surface of the sand near one man’s arm, then disappear. He looked to the right and caught more flashes of brown. Scuttling across the surface with the speed of many legs—insects, maybe some kind of crab. Salinas narrowed his eyes and took a step closer to the center of the walkway.
Scorpions.
Three inches long, barbed tails curling behind segmented bodies built for speed. One of the few creatures on the planet other than a shark whose only purpose in life was to bring death.
More breached the surface. Small and nimble enough to squeeze through the sand in a way that a human body never could. The men were delirious with fear, spit flying from their mouths as they shouted for help. They slapped the ground with maniacal energy but were not nearly fast enough to swat creatures that swam through the sand to sting their arms, legs and genitals.
Salinas watched in horror until the last man stopped twitching and died.
The front door opened.
A man in a haz-mat suit with a silver tank connected to a metal rod by a plastic tube stepped into the yard and took aim at the scorpions. Whatever yellow liquid was in the tank was deadly, far more toxic than the scorpions. It smoked when it hit them. They ran but couldn’t escape. The spray made them whither and shrink like dry leaves under a magnifying glass. In less than five minutes the yard was clear.
The man in the suit disappeared and another man stepped into the doorway.
Enrique smiled and held up the remote control. This time his thumb hovered over the second button.
“That walkway has its own channel, a different set of pipes beneath your feet. You saw how quickly your men sank into solid ground. You might have noticed a few stray bricks disappeared as well.”
He waited to make sure Salinas was paying close attention.
“What do you think will happen when I press this button?”
Salinas started to respond but André cut him off. The American stepped in close, and Salinas felt the barrel of a handgun press hard against his spine.
“That won’t be necessary.” André’s nasal tones echoed around the open courtyard. “Just tell Cordon we want to come inside.”