landed on the road next to him. Barquero dropped his weapon and dove for cover away from the explosives just as they detonated with a deafening bang and a blinding white flash. Barquero rolled onto his back and tried to get up. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. A dull ringing filled his ears. He couldn’t stand. Suddenly, the rear doors of the armored truck swung open. A man in a military uniform stood in the opening and removed a pair of earplugs. Even through the fog that filled his head, Barquero recognized the man.
“Cesar,” Barquero said as his world continued to spin. A man with long dark hair stepped up beside Cesar and removed his earplugs as well. He waved his hand forward as two cartel soldiers with assault rifles leapt down from the cargo bay. The first one slammed the butt of his rifle into the side of Barquero’s head, then handcuffed him. The second one injected him with a syringe. The world slipped into blackness for Barquero. The last thing he saw through his spinning vision was Cesar and Carnicero laughing together. Another SUV that had been following a mile behind the convoy pulled up along the shoulder of the road, past the growing line of stalled traffic behind the carnage. It parked next to what was left of the armored truck.
“Put him in the SUV,” Carnicero ordered his men. “We’re taking him to the farm,” he said to Cesar. “Do you want to come with us? The Padre plans on having quite a bit of fun with this one.”
“No, I have to get back to work. There’s my ride,” he said, pointing to a military helicopter approaching low from the southeast. “What about the armored car?”
“Leave it,” Carnicero replied, viewing the damage to the front of the vehicle. Barquero’s dump truck had nearly demolished the engine compartment of the white truck, and the grenade had destroyed the cabin. Thick black smoke and orange flames engulfed the mangled front of the vehicle. “It’s worth losing for capturing this big bastard.” He watched his men load the large man into the back of the SUV. A horn from a motorist blocked by the wreckage blared. Carnicero pulled a gold-plated forty-five-caliber pistol from his waistband and fired several times at the car. “Shut up!” He fired twice more for good measure. The noise stopped. “Here’s an advance on your money,” he said, pulling an envelope from inside his jacket. “The balance will be deposited in an offshore account.”
“Thank you.” Cesar took the envelope.
“You know, Colonel Beltran, now that we are working together, we have some very good investment people if you’re interested. The returns are always guaranteed. Bad things happen to our bankers if they aren’t.” Carnicero grinned as he stepped into the SUV as the military helicopter landed in a field just off the side of the highway. The two men went their separate ways.
Avery tapped his fingers impatiently. The crew had gotten a late start that morning. They were behind schedule, and Avery was beginning to grumble. The cause of the delay had to do with Privates Zulu and Foxtrot spending the better part of the morning on the rather foul toilet inside the Coyote’s Liar while the menudo from the previous evening formed a violent conga line through their lower intestines. With only one toilet in the small, rank-smelling restroom, the two men had to switch places every few minutes, leading to several close calls for the man left standing. Private Foxtrot was particularly afflicted by the painful revenge of the tripe. His complaints to El Coyote were met with indifference.
“I make a fresh batch every two weeks,” El Coyote explained as he shrugged his big shoulders. “Sometimes every three — it’s hard to keep track. You should have some tequila. Tequila makes everything better.” Private Foxtrot’s face turned a light shade of green as he ran back to the small bathroom and slammed the door.
“Let go of me!” Private Zulu yelled from behind the door. “I’m not finished!”
“Soldiers,” the General said, knocking on the bathroom door with his riding crop. “Five minutes, and we’re bugging out. Organize your bowels and fall in. No potty breaks until we reach the target. You understand me?” The General’s question was answered by a series of agonizingly desperate moans from the other side of the door. “Son of a bitch.” General X-Ray stood with his hands on his hips and shouted at the door. “I swear, getting you lollygaggers moving is harder than shoving a wet noodle up a wildcat’s butt.” The General turned and walked away as the painful cries of the two men continued. “MacArthur never had to deal with crap like this. Not even in the Philippines. I need new troops.”
“I’m leaving,” said Avery.
“Where?” asked General X-Ray.
“To see a man about a goat.” Avery waddled out with a determined look on his face.
The room slowly came into focus for Barquero. Dried blood was caked in his eyes. It was difficult to see in the dimly lit space. He was naked and bound to a wooden chair. The room was square. Next to one of the walls, a workbench was littered with various knives, hammers, and horrific-looking medical devices seemingly more fit for coaxing life out of the patient than for healing. In contrast to the evil-looking instruments of pain, the soft music of Handel’s
They’d been working on Barquero for several hours already, alternating between pummeling him with fists and using wires attached to a car battery on various parts of his body. He never said a word the whole time, and they never asked any questions. Eventually, Barquero had passed out from the torture. Unfortunately, his strength was now a huge weakness. He didn’t fall into unconsciousness easily.
“How many days?” The Padre blew a ring of smoke into the air.
“How many days for what?” the physician asked as he measured Barquero’s pulse. “To give you the information you’re looking for?”
“I don’t want information. I want to know many days you can keep him alive?”
“The way you’re treating him, two, maybe three days.”
“He hasn’t begun to see the depths of my hospitality yet. I want you to keep him alive for a week.”
“At least a week,” Carnicero added as he picked up a scalpel from the workbench and checked its razor edge. “I want to enjoy this as long as possible. The record is eight days.”
“There are drugs I can administer to extend his life,” the physician said as he placed his stethoscope over Barquero’s heart. “But be mindful of trauma to his head. That’s difficult, if not impossible, to reverse.”
“What a shame.” Carnicero ran his hand through his long, dark hair as he picked up a pair of pliers with his other. “I’ll just have to work on his
“Quiet,” the Padre said as he ground out his cigar with his boot. “What a shame, Barquero. What a partner you could have been. The weapons you brought us have made my empire what it is today. No more smuggling a handful of bales of marijuana across the border in the middle of the night, running from the agents like scared dogs. No, now I run this part of the country. The police and the politicians answer to me. One day, this business will belong to Carnicero. I wanted you to be his right-hand man. But you screwed up. No one steals from me without repercussions. It makes me sad, though. I worked so hard to get you to join the organization. You once had so much pride in serving your country and fighting the cartels. But you never stood a chance. You never had enough men or resources, yet you continued to gallantly march on. A noble warrior pitted against evil men. Oblivious to the inevitable.” The Padre rose from the chair and paced around the room. “Do you know what the secret is? Shall I tell you the secret to finding true strength? It’s not physical strength, but mental strength. The only way to achieve it is to embrace that which we are told all our pathetic lives to suppress. It is the darkness inside us. Once you do, then you are truly free, and that freedom is power. Do you know why I still wear this Roman collar around my neck? I spent most of my life dedicating my entire existence to God. I threw myself at His feet and begged for answers through my tears. But God never responded. What a sick joke. But in the end, the joke was on Him. I won. This collar is my trophy. It reminds me every day that once you unshackle yourself from the silly idea that the pursuit of virtue is a noble cause, you can achieve anything. Understanding that man is first and foremost a creature capable of unspeakable evil releases him from the chains that bind him. In nature, the wolf kills not because it can, but because it needs to. We are all part of nature, and in nature only the most brutal survive. The weak, they die. I will not weep at the feet of God anymore.”
“I will…kill you,” Barquero whispered in his raspy voice through a mouthful of blood.
“No, you won’t. I will live, and you will die.” The Padre placed his hand on Barquero’s head. “You were like my second son. I so desperately wanted you to join my family. When you finally left the military to join us, it was
