were facing. The same damn thing we’re facing now. We’re outgunned, outmanned, and out-financed, but you quit…and for the money?” Cesar downed his drink.
“I left because of Rosalina and the baby.”
“Sure, I know, but my men…your men…they’re getting killed, and for what? I’m sorry, but you’re not the only one who lost someone. We’re fighting a battle we can’t win. Too much money, too many cartels…but you just quit. So I ask you again, should I feel sorry for you?”
“No, Cesar.”
“Then what do you want? You want me to arrest you? I should. It’s my duty. You’re a wanted man. Coming here, you’re placing my family in jeopardy. I could be arrested for harboring a fugitive from the military.”
“I’ll leave.” Barquero picked up his pistol.
“No!” Cesar said as he stood and grabbed Barquero by the throat. Barquero reached up, twisted his hand, and spun Cesar around and threw him down to the floor. He looked toward the stairs and listened to see if anyone was awakened. Nothing.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Cesar,” Barquero whispered. “I only want some information.”
“About what?” Cesar grimaced with his face pinned to the floor. Barquero let him go and pulled him to his feet.
“The Padre. I need to know about the Padre.”
“What do you want to know? That he’s untouchable? That he’s paying off everyone from the janitors to the politicians?” Cesar looked at him. “Trust me — the army has been after him for years. I got close once. I lost almost all of my men. The Padre? What do you want with him?”
“I know him, and I have a debt to settle before he settles it with me first. What I want to know is where he is. Where he’s moving and what he’s moving. Save your men, Cesar. I can get him. I’ll get him for you. I just need to know where to look. Please tell me.” Barquero looked his old friend in the eyes. “I’ll make this right.”
“After all these years thinking you were dead, you show up, and now you want me to send you off to make sure it happens? He’ll kill you. No one man can stop him. The military, the police, the Americans, no one can touch him, he owns everyone. Not to mention, he doesn’t just kill people — he kills everyone they know.”
“I know that.”
“Did you know El Carnicero?”
“I knew of him. They caught him.”
“He’s out.”
“Out? How?”
“Prison riot, staged by the cartels. Someone smuggled him out. The government won’t say, but the word is that the Padre bought his way out. The press wasn’t even allowed to mention his escape. It might look bad for the government.” Cesar poured again, and the men drank. After a long, silent pause, Cesar spoke. “You can help me get him?”
“Yes. Just get me close to him.”
CHAPTER TEN
Evel Knievel Never Jumped the Rio Grande
The white lines of the Texas highway zipped by as the school bus raced down the road. It was hot and the air conditioning wasn’t working, so the men opened all the windows. At least, they were open halfway. School bus windows sucked like that. They only did half the job half the time, and that really didn’t help when it was hotter than fish grease outside.
Ziggy sang a Steppenwolf song at the top of his lungs as he danced, or rather twirled, in the stairwell of the school bus barreling down the road with a dry, dusty wind whipping through the vehicle.
“Does he always do that?” the General, who was behind the wheel, leaned over and asked Avery.
“Do what?”
“Act the fool?”
“Pretty much.” Avery drank a Mountain Dew from a straw. Ziggy threw his hands in the air as he sang. Several the men of STRAC-BOM joined him.
“Jesus H,” the General said as he put on his mirrored sunglasses and chomped on his Juicy Fruit. “He’s infecting the brigade. It’s bad for morale.”
“They look fine to me,” Avery said as he looked at the singing men in the back of the bus. Private Tango was playing air guitar. “They seem engaged, although one of them is picking his nose. Will he eat it?”
“Private Foxtrot!” the General roared without even having to look back. The private wiped his finger on his fatigues.
“Damn,” Avery said, disappointed.
“Does he at least know any country music?” the General asked, looking at Ziggy, who seemed oblivious to everyone.
“Which country?” Avery replied.
“Our country.”
“The one we’re currently in?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Shit.”
“No shit.”
“I was afraid of that.” The General checked his map, which was sitting on the dashboard. Ziggy spun around again in the stairwell. In back, Private Zulu bobbed his head while Fire Team Leader Bravo pumped his fist. Private Foxtrot tried in vain to get a flame from his cigarette lighter. He wanted to hold it up and wave it back and forth. It wasn’t happening, just some weak sparks.
“Come on, man!” the private exclaimed as he flicked his defective red, white, and blue–decorated lighter.
“How much longer to the border, General?” Avery asked.
“Couple more hours. Depends on where we decide to invade.”
“I was hoping you’d planned that out already.”
“I’m working on it,” the General said as he wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“You don’t have a plan?”
“It’s in progress.”
“How’s that progressing?”
“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”
“I’m paying for this, General. I’m pretty sure I need to know.”
“Know how much?”
“All of it.”
“Well, to be completely honest, I was thinking that we could…”
The men on the bus suddenly stood up and erupted in cheers as Ziggy pretended to smash an imaginary guitar on the floor of the bus.
In theory, cutting a man’s head off with a hacksaw is easy. In reality, it’s much more difficult and significantly messier than it sounds, much more, even for Carnicero, and he had lots of practice. When he was finished, even the toughest of his men were uncomfortable. They shuffled back and forth and bowed their heads as Carnicero tossed the bloody saw to the side.
“One less informant,” he said as he wiped the blood from his face. “Who recruited him?” No one answered. “Who?” All of the men stepped to the side of the room except one.
“He was my cousin,” the man said proudly.
