The Jaguar (11 page)

The passenger gave the driver a long look.

“Where are we going?” asked Hood.

“You have nothing to fear,” said the driver. He raised his big face to the rearview.

“I have the money. I can show it to you and you can save the cost of gasoline.”

“Mr. Bravo, we wanted to talk to you,” said the driver. “We wanted you to see our city. There is much history here, much of it bad. But it is not as terrible as everyone in the United States believes. If Calderón can weaken the cartels before he runs out of political support, Juarez will return to normal.”

The bull-like man in the passenger seat turned and looked at Hood through his sunglasses. He looked familiar. “Sgt. Rescendez of the Tijuana city police is a man I know,” he said. “He told me he recognized you from Mulege.”

“I was not in Mulege,” said Hood.

“He said you were one of the Americans who rescued the ATF agent, Holdstock.”

“No. He is mistaken.”

“He has always been an observant man. Let’s say he is correct. Then you know that Benjamin Armenta still wants to punish Holdstock and ATF for killing his son.”

“I only know of that story from the media,” Hood lied again. “Armenta has punished the man enough. Did you see his family on TV? The newspapers said the shooting was accidental. That Holdstock wasn’t even aiming at Armenta’s son.”

The bull nodded. “That may be true. But if Benjamin Armenta believes that you are an ATF agent in Mexico, he will take the money and kill you.”

“I’m not an ATF agent. But I think he might kill me anyway. And I don’t know where your friend gets his alleged information about me.”

“He was one of Luna’s men. He helped to rescue the agent Holdstock.”

They made two left turns, reversing direction.

“Well, he’s working for Armenta now,” said Hood.

“There have been thousands of police officers fired across Mexico,” said the driver. “Thousands more have quit under suspicion and
even more because of fear. There are few livings to be made here by police. So they go where the jobs are. North, or to the
narcotrafficantes.
Rescendez was once a good man. See? He still offers us information we can use. For money, however.”

Hood considered this. What could be a more dire ailment for a nation than an inability to retain decent law enforcement?

“You are a friend of Bradley Jones?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do to Benjamin Armenta to deserve this?”

“I don’t know,” said Hood. “He’s an American cop. He makes a fair salary.”

“Yet Armenta sends men to the
Estados Unidos
in order to kidnap his wife? And he wants one million dollars to free her? This makes not enough sense.”

“Who are you? How do you know this?”

“This area is called the Campestre,” said the driver. “You see the mansions? This was our most expensive district. There were country clubs. Now you see these houses are for sale and for lease. They are falling apart. Nobody wants to live here. Too many murders. Too many beheadings. See the boulders in the driveways? The owners placed them there to slow the vehicles, to make kidnappings and carjacking and assassinations more difficult. It did not work. So, the prosperous people, they sell. They’re in El Paso now, and Dallas and even in California.”

A truth began to dawn on Hood, or at least he thought it did. He looked out at the derelict mansions of Campestre. Most of the wrought-iron security gates had been carried off by thieves and the streetlights had been yanked for their copper. The long driveways they once protected were choked with leaves and fallen branches and trash. A pack of dogs rooted through the garbage.

Soon they were outside of the city, traveling into the steep desert
mountains to the south, the big “The Bible Is the Truth” sign towering above them. The road turned to dirt, then it cut along flush against the mountain. Soon Hood was looking down on Juarez from hundreds of feet above and he could see the slow brown Rio Grande and El Paso beyond it and he thought: If I’m wrong about this I’m a dead man.

They stopped and the driver shut off the engine. Then he partially turned his bulk to face Hood and show his badge holder. “We are Special Investigations, Juarez Police Department,” he said. “We are the most assaulted police force in the world. There is almost nowhere in the city where it is safe to work or even be seen.”

The passenger took off his sunglasses and turned to face Hood.

“You are a Luna,” said Hood.

“Yes. I am Valente Luna and he is Julio Santo. You are Charlie Hood. Raydel was my brother and he spoke respectfully of you. Like him I have sworn to remove the plague from my country. Raydel died for your friend Holdstock. Now you will take us to Benjamin Armenta, Mr. Hood, and Raydel’s death will have meaning.”

Hood looked from Luna’s badge into his fierce black eyes. He remembered Raydel’s similar eyes, the goodness and will and bravery in them. Hood had heard Raydel Luna say one of the most beautiful things he had ever heard said, then he had helplessly watched the man die. Since that moment Luna had earned full citizenship in Hood’s dreams and seeing now that some of Raydel was still alive in his brother made Hood’s heart glad.

“Right on,” he said. “Now maybe you should get me back to the Lucerna before the Gulf people see me talking to you.”

The driver started up the SUV.

“Our informants told us where you would be and what you were carrying in the luggage,” said Luna. “We assume that they have sold this information to others as well. Information is cheap of course,
and can be sold many times. So in Mexico everyone soon knows everything. Armenta has thousands of enemies who would love to find you. We expect the next part of your journey to be fraught with possible danger.”

He offered Hood his pistol, handle first.

An hour later Hood answered the knock on his hotel room door. Two men in dark suits and open-collared dress shirts walked past him into the room without invitation or greeting. Hood saw the Mayan blood in them, in the broad cheeks and slightly almond-shaped eyes, the ample ears and compact bodies. Their eyes were quick and hostile. When the hotel door swung shut the heavier man went straight to the suitcase standing upright against the wall. He swung it up and onto the bed and held out a hand to Hood.

Hood tossed him the key and the man caught it and opened the lock, unzipped the main compartment and flipped over the top.

The other man stood in front of the door with his hands crossed contritely in front of him.

Hood watched the first man rummage through the bundles of cash. He pulled some out, then picked up the whole suitcase and dumped the rest of the money onto the bed. He took a packet of fifties, cut through the plastic with a switchblade and extracted a thin stack of bills. These he fanned with a thumb, closely watching the play of the paper in his hands. When he was done he dropped the fifties into the pile and looked at Hood. “Your phone.”

Hood popped it from his hip and tossed it. The man dialed and waited a moment, then motioned Hood over to take it.

Hood held it up to his ear and waited. Erin’s voice was thin and trembling.

“Charlie?”

“Yes, it’s me. Are you okay?”

“I’ve seen the most terrible things.”

“Have they hurt you?”

“They fed a man to leopards and I fainted. I can’t lock the door to my room and I can’t get out and this man says he’ll rape me when he wants to. There’s a priest who wears a gun and young acolytes following him around and I don’t know where I am or what these people are going to do to me. I’m afraid, Charlie. I’m trying to be strong but I’m just damned afraid I’m going to lose everything, even what’s inside me.”

“Have they hurt you, Erin?”

“I’m okay, Charlie. Where is Bradley? We only have a few more days. Have you heard from him? Why isn’t he here? No! Wait—”

As in Tijuana one of the men claimed Hood’s old phone and gave him a new one, another prepaid model, another car charger wrapped around it. The other man handed him a plastic shopping bag containing two Mexico license plates issued apparently by the state of Yucatán. On Armenta’s gulf, thought Hood.

“Reynosa in one day. You will be called there. Drive through Texas. It is faster than Mexico and more safe. As soon as you cross into Mexico, change the license plates.”

“I have something for you,” said Hood. He reached for his duffel and both men drew down on him. Hood raised his hands and they nodded and he moved very slowly, working two of the small photo albums from his duffel. He slipped a one-hundred-dollar bill into each before handing one to each of the
narcos.

They looked at Hood blankly, then opened the booklets.

“Do you know him? Have you seen him?”

The men flipped patiently through the pictures. One looked up at Hood with an amused smile. The other went through the photos twice.

“No.”

“No.”

“Keep them. Show them to the men you work with. Show them to whoever you want. I’ve got a thousand dollars for anyone who can tell me where he is. My numbers are on the last page. Call collect if you want.”

“Reynosa in one day.”

When the men were gone Hood called Bradley on the satellite phone. “She’s okay. I just talked to her. She’s scared but she’s okay.”

“Tell me everything she said.”

Hood did. When he was finished he listened to the silence at the other end. “Where are you, my friend?” asked Hood.

“On my way to Veracruz.”

“Who aimed you there?”

“Carlos’s people. The bad guys always know where the other bad guys are.”

“Do you know where they’re keeping her?”

“Somewhere on the Yucatán peninsula. Trust me, Hood—when I know where she is, you will too. But I suspect you’ll find out long before I do.
If
I do.”

“Do you trust Herredia?”

“I have to. I’m lost down here without him.”

“I’m guarding this money with my life. I’m doing my job, Bradley.”

“Tell me everything she said. Please. One more time.”

“
THAT IS NOT
V
ERACRUZ
,” said Bradley, poking his finger against the window glass of the Chinook. The air was spotted with turbulence and the ride was rough. “It’s Guadalajara.”

“There has been a change,” said Fidel. He had piloted the craft for nearly seven hours. They had gotten a late start from El Dorado, which had greatly angered Bradley. “We will stop near Guadalajara.”

“But Carlos has a safe strip for us in Veracruz.”

“We need to see some people.”

“We need to get Erin off the Yucatán. We’re eleven hundred miles from the Yucatán, Fidel. You start late. You make changes. You’re making me angrier.”

“I am so sorry for that. But we have new information. The man I told you about. The one we were questioning.”

“We’ve been in the air all day.”

“It came yesterday.”

“This is bullshit and I don’t like it. Carlos won’t, either. He recruited you to help me, not to risk Erin’s life.”

Fidel gave him a dark look that encompassed Erin within his own history. Bradley saw that his quest to save Erin was only a part of Fidel’s quest, a subordinate fragment of the dream that was to avenge his wife and family, and he felt the nearly blind fury stirring inside
again. It was always right there, up near the surface, invisible and powerful.

“Would you like to fly us to Veracruz, Bradley?”

“I can’t fly this thing.”

“No, of course not. Then you be a good soldier and do what I tell you to do.”

Someone pushed into the flight deck. Bradley heard the roar of the motor and rotors when the bulkhead door opened and he turned to see Caroline Vega glaring down at him.

“You only missed Veracruz by six hundred miles.”

“I was just explaining that to Fidel,” said Bradley.

“And I was just explaining to Jones that we have a change of plans,” said Fidel.

“Like what kind of change?” asked Vega.

“We need fuel.”

“What are all those drums of fuel in the back for? I kicked one of them. It wasn’t empty.”

“You can never have too much fuel,” said Fidel. He turned and smiled up at her. “So now we stop for fuel.”