Nobody Dies in Mexico

Chapter 1

The man with the old eyes looked at what he was sure had once been an attractive young woman’s face before he put the lid on the 55-gallon drum and secured the band around the top. He wondered for only a second about her and why she had to die.

He considered how such a not-so-simple man as himself had lost his way. It was time he made a stand. He managed a grim smile as he considered the level of uncertainty in his physical world. Uncertainty was the dominant concept in his life.

He loaded the sixth and final drum and headed for the Italian’s cattle ranch deep in the northern Chihuahua desert. The five-year-old Ford pickup carried the six drums and food stuffs for the ranch. Jésus never worried about being stopped. To mess with the Italian cattle barons would have been suicidal for any Mexican law enforcement officer.

The entrance to the ranch headquarters was a massive stone arch that had cost more than most Mexicans would make in a life time. From the highway to the ranch was 27 klicks of good caliche road. The end of the good road was at the hacienda wall. At close to ten meters high it looked out of place in the rolling desert hills. Jésus worried about the gates being closed long before he could see the walls. Once closed at dusk they would not open again until the sun rose.

Pipo, the guard on the wall was an Italian Mafia foot soldier, a wanted man throughout southern Italy. This safe house in the desert was not to his liking. He was turning dark from the sun and was dropping weight because he could not stomach much of the Mexican food served at the ranch. He smiled to himself when he realized he could see his feet while standing. A first in a long time.

Hey, Pipo, any sign of Jésus?

The guard looked down at a man old enough to be his father.

Only some dust on the mesa.

Check the scope, Pipo! The older Italian was getting tired of babysitting his brother’s wife’s next of kin. The kid had to be told everything. He was obviously good at killing, but many had that skill.

El Jéfe, it looks like a brown and white truck. It could be Jésus.

Zertuche backed out of the sun and walked over to the gate control. He took it off the computer by pulling the power cord so the gates would not close before Jésus was inside the hacienda. It was the only real thing he knew how to do with a computer.

The damn computer was always early in the spring and late in the fall. He needed to determine how to change the closing of the gate as the sun changed, maybe even get it to open at his command. He looked at the Dell computer and realized he would never have the skill to do what he wanted. He smiled and said to no one in particular, I can always pull the fucking plug.

As he contemplated the auto settings on the computer, he saw Jésus pull into the compound. He decided to see how many drums the old man had with him. He smiled when he realized Jésus was younger than him. Much younger.

Zertuche took very long strides, considering his height and size, as he walked over to the kitchen where Jésus had parked to allow the staff to start unloading the supplies.

Any problems, Chuy?

None, señor. Zertuche raised his hands, not wanting a discussion in front of the kitchen help who were moving toward the back of the vehicle. No worries, El Jéfe.

Jésus, where in hell you come up with ‘No Worries’?

Jésus smiled without real emotion. I was watching the Discover Channel last night. Some crazy hunter from Australia.

Jésus lost his smile when he was reminded of his cargo of six drums. Most of the drums over the years had been heavier than the latest. Some were heavy enough that he could only manage one per trip. Many had biohazard warnings. He looked at the current load and then at the Italian.

Chuy, I want them planted in section 32 NW. Can you find it without problem?

Jésus climbed up into the truck and pulled out his map of the ranch that took up almost a half million hectares of the Chihuahuan desert. Section 32 NW was still a virgin area for drums. He climbed out of the truck and headed over to Zertuche, keeping his finger on section 32 NW. It would be the first piece of his father’s ranch that would be used for this criminal planting. Jésus was not happy. Zertuche did not pick up on Jésus’ mood, as he was watching the woman with the large breasts carry bags of flour into the kitchen.

Jésus nearly bumped into Zertuche with the map. He was grinding his teeth, waiting for Zertuche’s undivided attention. The Italian let out a sigh and turned to face Jésus.

Que?

We agreed never on my father’s land. Jésus was talking through clinched teeth, making him difficult to understand. The young woman’s face in the drum was flashing through his mind’s eye. He didn’t want her buried on what was once his family’s property. He had no idea why.

Zertuche took up his defensive stance, the same one he had learned as a young man living in New York City. We never agreed. Marco agreed and he is dead. Besides, these drums are human waste. Nothing will hurt the land.

Jésus looked at the heavier man wishing he could understand him. He could act like the grandfather he was one second, then turn and kill anything close to him the next. Marco did agree, Oso. His word should be your word.

Jésus’s black eyes met Zertuche’s brown eyes. Macho was real life and death in this part of the world. Marco had also called Zertuche Oso, in reference to his girth and hair, until Marco was ambushed and killed during an early morning cattle round up. Jésus thought it was Zertuche who was responsible.

Marco is no longer with the living and I never agreed. He didn’t respond to the Oso nickname. Being called a bear was the least of his worries.

Jésus pushed closer to Zertuche, striking out and upward through the diaphragm into the heart with his Buck 8" skinning knife. Zertuche fell to his knees, hitting the hard pack before the blood started to flow. Jésus walked to the Ford, throwing the map on the front bench seat, then checked to make sure the gates were open. He pulled his father’s 1894 Winchester 30-30 from the rack behind the seat and shot Pipo off the wall. The woman with the large breasts looked down at Zertuche and watched as Jésus shot the man off the wall. She didn’t scream.

Jésus tipped his hat, then drove over Pipo through the gate to the area marked section 32 NW. He would visit the house where he was born before heading north with his six drums and a story about Italian cattle ranchers who scared even the drug cartels.

Chapter 2

I was born in El Paso, Texas while my father was away fighting a war he would not survive. My mother, with help from my uncles and grandparents, raised me from a pup to an adult. My first four years as a quasi-adult away from home were spent working part-time for the FBI and going to college. The plan was to get a law degree and remain with the FBI as an agent. It was a good deal until my grades slipped as I became increasingly aware of how easy it was to get laid in Washington, DC. After one warning, my name was turned over to the local draft board. The FBI took no prisoners and they were not happy with my engineering goals or my sexual aspirations. I believe they would have overlooked my sexual exploits if I had continued down a road learning law or at least becoming a CPA. The FBI had no use for an engineer.

I understood that I was the one who broke the contract and was willing to pay. It took the local draft board a week to determine I should be drafted. My draft exemption had been pretty high but that didn’t seem to make any difference to the FBI or the Selective Service Board. As soon as I was notified, I headed down to the local recruiting office located not far from the J. Edgar Hoover Building. I was given what I asked for and signed up to spend three years in the army rather than the two if I had been drafted.

Now at upper middle age, I was retired for the second time. Still had no clue what to do with what remained of my life. I was getting too old to work in Middle East war zones and my love life was nonexistent after my wife died several years ago. My right knee and hip were always sore, keeping me from going after a physical line of work or hobby. I busied myself with research and blogging for fun and profit.

I drove to what I still thought of as my wife’s house just off Rim Road in El Paso. It was too big for one person, but I loved the area and my neighbors were as good as it gets.

I hit the garage door opener and maneuvered into the smallish two-car garage with my BMW Mini Cooper S, parking it next to my 1953 MG-TD. Whacked the pad next to the kitchen door closing the garage door. The only phone in the house was staring at me with the flashing light of the built-in answering machine. Hit the caller ID button to see who had called. One person, two calls. Rosie was pawing at the screen door leading to the mud porch from the backyard. Rosie was one of the few living things who still loved me unconditionally. I headed to the porch to let her in when I nearly tripped over Mack’s feet.

Speedy, don’t you ever lock this place up?

Good to see you too, Truck.

We were using nicknames from our days at Hacienda Grade School. At my age it would be difficult to determine how the nickname Speedy applied, however Mack to Truck was pretty easy. Mack was younger and we had gone to the same grade school and high school. I had accomplished very little that was positive in high school, but my one real mistake made me a legend before I was 17. The backfield football coach challenged his legion to a foot race. If any of us beat him, we didn’t have to do drills or wind sprints for a week. I ran him down, threw him in one of the lockers in the training room and locked it when he backed out of the deal. That was my junior year. Participating in any kind of high school sports my senior year was not a consideration. I did take up boxing, sponsored by the Fox Plaza Barber Shop and coached by the elegant Joe Mora. My speed and heavy hands brought fear into many fighters who were better. Learning self-defense skills at an early age was one of the few good decisions made in an otherwise average childhood.

My vicious, well-trained guard dog’s mission is to keep the riff-raff out.

Rosie?

Yeah, Rosie.

Speedy, I hate to tell you this, but she loves me more than you. A very fickle female, your Rosie.

I walked around Mack’s legs and let Rosie in. She jumped over the back of the sofa and nearly landed on Mack. He pulled her large head down and started rubbing her ears.

Mack, you do have a way with females. I’ll give you that.

Not the first female head I have pulled into my lap.

Mack was blond, blue-eyed and a little shorter than me, which made him short and me almost average. His body was covered in soft white fuzz that women loved. His arms were deformed from lifting heavy weights throughout his military and extended law enforcement careers. I believed he could grab my ears and pull my head apart. He loved good cigars and routinely broke the law buying Cubans in Mexico, bringing them back into the U.S. He did share the Cubans with me from time to time. They were wasted on me but I always tried to be sociable when it came to Mack the Truck Jackson. His taste in vodka was as good as cigars. That was something I didn’t mind sharing with him.

I called three days ago. I was getting worried about you.

I gave him a hard look, both of us knowing what the caller ID would show. I really was not into this small-world-gotta-have-24/7-communications-and-synergy bull shit. Twitter…not in this life.

Okay Speedy, I called a couple of times this morning. There are some people asking about you and I thought you should know.

I sat next to Mack on the leather sofa. Rosie jumped and landed on my lap, nearly knocking the wind out of me, her tongue hitting my ear. Damn girl, I need to put you on a diet.

I pushed the 80-pound dog down onto the floor. Okay, Mack, I’ll bite.

The Sheriff and Chief of Police had their monthly meeting and your name came up for a position they want to establish. It would be funded by both the city and the county.

Mack I’m retired. I like it that way.

I think you need to talk to one of them. Customs handed JTF-6 a situation and, like the military unit they seem to be, they are not sure what to do with it.

I knew a lot of operatives at the Joint Task Force but I couldn’t think of one old enough to know me.

Tell me the rest of the story.

Mack shifted his weight, pulled a throw pillow out of his way and started to arrange his thoughts and butt. I was sure he knew what he was going to say before he arrived, but now he was not sure how he was going to present it.

A ranch hand from Northern Mexico drove his pickup over the border and turned it over to Customs, who turned it over to JTF-6. He managed to walk away without them getting any information. He did give his name as Jésus Ornelas. Ring any bells with you?

Ornelas? Sure, must have known a dozen in school, but Jésus Ornelas does not ring any bells. I reached down and took off my boots and socks. Rosie came over and sniffed my feet and thought about licking them to see if they tasted as bad as they smelled. Where are you going with this Mack?

Do you remember a few years back when the rumors of the New York mob moving into northern Mexico was part of every week’s intel report on Mexico?

Should I?

Good grief, you were the sheriff of Reeves County at the time. Didn’t you ever read any of the sit reps being sent to you? Mack leaned over to watch what Rosie was going to do about my toes. He sat back, pulled a Montecristo No. 3 from his jacket and started to lick it. He knew better than to smoke in my house. Hell, he didn’t smoke in his house.

Got another one of those Cubans? Mack handed me one and we both headed to the patio. I pulled some Grey Goose vodka out of the freezer along with grapefruit juice mixer for me.

Mack and I puffed on our cigars sipping the Goose. Mack, you still haven’t told me why I should talk to your chief about a job.

I don’t know why they want to talk to you. I am just the messenger.

Okay, I’ll see Chief Lund the first of next week.

Speedy, I think you better have your act together this evening because the Chief and Sheriff are both coming over after work.

Anything else I should know?

Well, they might be bringing that new full colonel from JTF.

I thought JTF5 or 6 was history along with Powell?

Naw, they’re bigger than ever. All this illegal immigration talk and the drug cartels at war along the border has their budget off the chart. When nobody else has money, they come up with the funds. They are ghosts now that Powell is no longer involved.

The new movers and shakers in the military were combat veterans, most with multiple tours of Iraq or Afghanistan. I could relate with them better than the bean counters of the Clinton years. Working with JTF would probably be easier than the last time I needed their help. Always a problem when those in command are more worried about how much a rocket launcher costs rather than what it is going to be used for.

Speedy, let’s order some food and they can bring you up to date on what’s going on. You know I’m just the messenger.

Chapter 3

We ordered pizza and Chinese for ten people and slowed way down on the vodka. It was 7pm when the Sheriff of El Paso County, the Chief of Police for the City of El Paso and the senior officer of JTF arrived. The food was five minutes behind.

I knew Sheriff Sam and Chief Lund and liked them both. The female JTF Colonel was another matter. She looked familiar. Maybe in another life time. We all dug into the food and drank beer. I offered bottled water and soft drinks, but Mexican beer it was.

The Colonel was the first to bring up business as we were finishing up close to $100 worth of food and beer.

Colonel Wilson reached into her oversized briefcase and pulled out what looked like satellite photos. She quickly moved the pizza boxes and laid out the photos so each grid lined up. She had done it before. She then asked Mack if he could get the box out of her car that had the close-ups.

It was easy to line up the grids with the Pan American Highway cutting through them. I had bought cattle in the area years ago. Nothing much had changed about the desert of northern Mexico.

Mack easily carried a rather large box filled with file folders. He set it down on my dining room table and Col. Wilson started to lay out the ones she wanted. She had her very blond hair up so a fatigue cap would fit. Her desert fatigues were crisp and her boots still held a gloss. I started to wonder if they were patent leather. Her eyes were a deep blue with white specks. Colored contacts? She was a bit taller than me. If my old imagination had been working, I would have been guessing what her body looked like under her desert fatigues.

Sir, I would like you to look at this area and tell me what you know about it. Wilson backed off so I could sit and look at what she wanted me to see. I studied the sat photos, changing a couple of them around and then went to the close-in shots.

Colonel, what do you want me to say? I did business with a ranch in this area years ago. You can still make out the ranch headquarters, pens, out buildings and the little dirt runway. This monster of a compound with the large wall was not there when I was flying in.

Wilson put her long index finger on the ranch that I knew. Do you remember the name of the rancher, Mr. Rogers?

I couldn’t pull it up in my memory banks. Let me see if I still have any of the receipts.

I returned with a box from the basement lettered cattle, set it on the table and started to go through paperwork I had not bothered with in several years, maybe more than a decade. I had meant to throw it out. I had learned the hard way not to keep financial records the IRS might want to go over years after I could have legally destroyed them.

What are we looking for? I had cattle certificates of entry from both the Mexican and American Customs, including receipts for vaccinations, quarantine and numerous pages that were unreadable due to water damage.

Col. Wilson was the first to respond to the question. We need to know the name of the man who owned the ranch you bought cattle from. Does the name Jésus ring any bells?

I took the box into the living room, taking a fresh beer with me and wondering if this was the same Jésus Mack brought up. I looked at the box, checking the outside markings. I couldn’t remember what the cardboard box used to hold. The water stains were extensive. The box had been stained by the water heater giving up.

As I adjusted my hold,