T. Parker - The Jaguar

Saturnino’s face leaned near. “Strong men need beautiful women, like her,” he said just loud enough that she could hear him over the music. “To keep us strong. And generous. And filled with love.”

“You’re quite a philosopher, Saturnino.”

“You are this beautiful to me. I will be gentle with you.” He smiled and raised his hand toward her but stopped short, brushing his fingers in the air as if along the contours of her face. She felt revulsion and she saw the enjoyment of it in his smile. “Very gentle.”

“Don’t try it until after you’ve shot me.”

“I hear this many times. Maybe I will not be gentle.”

“I’d still rather die.”

“I admire your pride and your courage. I will take them from you.”

Saturnino turned to face the cages and Erin saw the black iron grates rise from the cat runs. Like a prison, she thought, everything automatic. Cheers went up from the crowd. Seconds later the cats appeared behind the grates. Erin wondered if they were drawn by the sound of the grates clanging up, or by the crowd. More cheers. Why would wild animals come close to all this noise? But the twelve predators paced in the half-light beyond the grates. A tiger snarled at a lioness and the lioness snapped back, her teeth flashing like yellow knives and ringing off the steel bars of the run.

Two cartel gunmen led a man through the crowd. He wore dirty trousers and a torn shirt and a necktie. His face was swollen and bloody. The reporter, thought Erin: the traitor.

The prison-bar door of the leopard cage rolled open. Erin heard the squeal of it through the beats of the ranchero song. A wave of nausea broke over her and her knees froze as she watched them push the man inside and knock him to the ground. They hovered over him until the door had almost closed then they scrambled, laughing, and squeezed out of the cage. The man struggled upright and faced the leopards waiting on the other side of the grate. The ranchero music blared and the crowd jeered him and the videographer made an adjustment to his little camera.

Erin rammed an elbow into Armenta’s arm. “You can’t do this!”

He looked at her with a forlorn expression and she tried to ram him again but Armenta caught her elbow in a powerful hand that held her fast. “He is a reporter and a traitor. He writes about me in his newspaper. He tells lies because the Zetas threaten him. The newspaper reporter blames me for the heads in Monterey but these are done by the Zetas. I forgive him. The reporter blames me for the dead police in Guadalajara but these man are hanged by Zetas. From the bridge. I forgive again. He blames me for Gustavo. My own Gustavo. He blames his death, not on the Americans but on me. Enough. This is the highest disrespect. The newspaper writer is very bad for my reputation and my business. He heats the plaza. I will pay for my own crimes, but not the crimes of others. This writer is now mine and he will write no more words against me or my family.”

Armenta dropped her elbow and took a step forward, raising his hand into the air and snapping his fingers. Erin saw Owens looking at her, an unreadable expression on her face.

Then the grate began to retract into the concrete floor and when it was low enough the male leopard launched himself onto the reporter. He screamed and lashed out with his fists but the cat closed its mouth over his face and the scream echoed thickly. The man collapsed onto his back and the leopard raked open his stomach with its hind claws as the female crushed his groin in her jaws and together they carried him out of the cage and past the grate and into the jungle beyond. In their grasp the reporter appeared to weigh little more than the clothes he wore and yet he struggled as he vanished into the darkness.

Erin fainted and was caught by Owens.

Hood sat in his expedition in the parking lot of the Jai Alai palace in Tijuana. The air was hot and smoggy and smelled of exhaust and burning trash. In the asphalt divots stood rainwater from the summer storm.

He looked out at the stately old neoclassical building and remembered coming here with his family for the jai alai games, which his mother in particular had enjoyed. They had made modest bets and cheered loudly and Hood still remembered the resounding smack of the hard, heavy ball rocketing off the walls of the court.

Now the games were gone and the palace was used for concerts and shows. A sign announced the upcoming events: Lila Downs, a farmer’s market, the Exxxpo Erotica.

The prepaid phone rang at three o’clock. Hood flipped it open and said nothing.

“Drive toward Revolucion. Park far in the lot where there are no cars. Stay in your vehicle with your hands on the steering wheel. The hands must be on it.”

Hood drove far into the mostly empty parking lot and took a parking place in the open. A moment later two Tijuana police cars swung in from opposite directions and stopped on either side of him. No sirens, no lights. Hood kept his hands on the wheel. Two more prowl cars came in and blocked him front and back. One uniformed officer got out of the passenger seat of each car but the drivers stayed.

Through his side window Hood watched a stocky man approach and wave him from the car. The officer’s hand rested on the grip of his sidearm, a large revolver. He wore sunglasses and his forehead was beaded with sweat. His nameplate said “Sgt. I. Rescendez” and his badge and uniform looked authentic.

Hood nodded and opened the door and got out. Rescendez pointed him toward his own vehicle, then reached over and hit the unlock bar of Hood’s Expedition. Hood heard the liftgate pop open, then the faint pneumatic hiss of the door risers and the sound of the suitcase bumping on the rear floor. The zipper whined three times. The back seats blocked most of his view but over the headrests Hood saw three men looking down into the rolling case. Two wore the peaked hats of municipal officers and Hood thought that if they were impersonating cops they’d done a good enough job of it. The alternative was even worse.

One of the men said something and the other two laughed. Hood could hear them rummaging through the bundles for dye packs and transmitters. A mumbled comment, and a moment later the zipper sounded three more times and the liftgate thumped down. The men returned to their cars.

“Give me the phone,” said Rescendez.

Hood pulled the phone from his pocket and surrendered it. The cop handed him another one, a different make and model, a car charger wrapped tightly around it.

“You are loitering in a public place,” Rescendez. “This is a fine of two hundred dollars. You can pay now or appear in court.”

“At least I know you’re real TJ cops,” said Hood.

The man laughed quietly, then pulled a satellite phone off his duty belt. He powered it up and dialed and handed it to Hood. Hood stepped away from Rescendez, listening to the ring.

A man answered and Hood identified himself as Charlie Bravo.

Erin’s voice was clear and fearful. “Bradley?”

“Erin, it’s me.”

“Oh, God, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

“Are you all right?”

“They haven’t hurt me.”

“You’re going to be okay. I’m bringing the money.”

“Please do it soon.”

“I’ll be there, Erin.”

“Soon, please soon. I’m being strong but-”

The phone went silent. Hood tossed it back to Rescendez, who caught it in one hand like a first baseman.

“You are familiar to me, Mr. Bravo.”

“I have a common face.”

“But where have I seen you?”

“I’ve never seen you.”

“Were you in Mulege?”

“Never.”

Rescendez laughed heartily and slapped Hood on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Maybe your face is very, very common. As you say. Now, please, the two hundred dollars fine is due to be paid.”