T. Parker - The Jaguar

His rented home sat in the steep hills outside of town and from the eastern patio where he now stood he could see the little city huddled below, with its odd amalgamation of old and new: the ornate dome and cross of St. Cecilia’s, the zocalo, the narrow cobblestoned streets of the old town. And around them, like the growth rings in a tree trunk: the Rite Aid and the Blockbuster and the Ralph’s and fast food places on the U.S. side and the Sam’s Club and Wal-Mart and the stretch of maquiladoras and new apartments on the Mexican side. Hood could also see the new twenty-foot steel border wall. This had recently replaced the old chain-link fence, a porous formality along which Mexicans and Americans used to meet friends and family, trade news, exchange minor goods. Beyond the new wall were sharp mountains to the south and west.

They sat inside with the air conditioner blasting. Bradley declined a beer. He had two butterfly bandages across gashes in his forehead. His eyes were rimmed in red and their hollows were dark and he had not shaved. He paced back and forth in front of the cavernous black fireplace, Hood watching him from an old sofa. Hood’s dog Daisy lay on the paver tiles at his feet, her snout on the cool tile, her dark brown eyes tracking their visitor. She was black and slender with a white blaze on her chest, and had the high-standing, flap-topped ears common to the border dogs from which she had come.

Bradley told Hood the story of Erin’s kidnapping. Hood’s heart fell but he listened without interrupting. Erin had long been one of his favorite people and Hood had long believed that she would suffer someday at the hands of her husband.

When Bradley was finished he came to the couch and sat and buried his head in his hands.

“Can you get the money?”

“I’ve got the money.”

“A million cash?”

“Mom left us plenty. I invested it in gold before the crash.”

“A million cash?”

Bradley looked at Hood as if at an annoying child but said nothing.

“You’re not going to talk to our people, or the FBI?”

Again that look from Bradley. “They can’t help officially. You have to know that, Charlie. All they can do is get her killed. The more noise we make the faster she’ll die.”

“They’re some of the best law-enforcement people in the world.”

“Gringo law enforcement means nothing in Mexico. The government doesn’t want us, and the cartels hate us. We’re ants. You should know that better than anyone, after what happened to you with the Zetas.”

That last word sent a breeze of nerves across Hood’s scalp. The Zetas were military defectors, special forces men who had thrown in with the cartels and then become their own cartel. Hood had seen their violence, their beheadings, and their torture in Mexico and in the United States. “Calderon’s government helped us get Jimmy back.”

“Yeah, after he was tortured and broken. Jimmy was federal. Erin’s a singer. How much help are they going to give her, Charlie?”

“So you’re going to run that million dollars to the Jai Alai Palace in Tijuana tomorrow afternoon at three, and wait for a call from a guy named Gonzalvo?”

“Those are the orders.”

“Then what?”

Bradley looked over at Hood. “When I show the money I get to hear her on the phone. Proof of life. Then I wait for the next order.”

“When do you deliver the cash?”

“Ten days. I told you.”

“After they run you all over Mexico.”

“Probably.”

“I hate your chances,” said Hood. “But you don’t seem to. Why?”

“I have a plan.”

“Explain it.”

“I’ve been working narcotics for almost a year now, right? Jack Cleary is my boss and he’s smart and tough and he’s taught me a lot. We’ve got friends in Mexico. Counterparts. They’re smart and tough too. They’ll help, but not through official channels. And I’m going to use my ten days and these guys to find her because you know what? There’s a good chance that the minute Armenta gets the money he’ll kill her anyway.”

Hood knew that this was more than possible. It was happening more and more in the narco kidnappings-murder left less witnesses and ignited even more terror in the living, more submission and compliance.

“How are you going to find her while you lug forty pounds of cash from California to God knows where?”

Bradley looked at Hood and offered a small smile. “I love your optimism, Charlie. I love your can-do attitude.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Bradley marched out and a car door opened then slammed and a moment later he was back, pulling a piece of wheeled luggage across the pavers behind him. Daisy’s head was up and she was watching. Bradley stopped in front of Hood and pushed down the handle and flipped the luggage over at Hood’s feet. He squatted and unzipped the flap and threw it back.

“The answer is teamwork,” said Bradley. “You and me. You deliver this while my friends and I are coming in the back door. If I can find the back door, that is. When Heriberto’s men contacted me late this morning, I told them I have the money but I don’t have the stomach for delivering it. This produced great laughter and witty insults. I am now a fag without balls with a kidnapped wife who desires real men. And many other things almost as bad. But I can dispatch a brave friend to deliver. Because money is money, after all. So, what do you say, Charlie? What do you say?”

Hood thought. He knew Bradley was brash, fearless, and lucky. Knew that he was strong and bright and tainted. Hood suspected him of murder and lesser crimes but could prove none of them. Bradley’s highest allegiance seemed to be to himself. He studied the young man’s face. In it he saw Bradley’s mother, Suzanne. He and Bradley had been trading blame and suspicion for the three years since her death, and now Hood wondered if he should just forgive and help him through the harrowing future.

“Why me?”

“Because you love my wife. In a chaste and honorable, Charles Hood kind of way. I know you wouldn’t do it for me. But I think you’ll do it for her. Will you?”

Hood looked down at the suitcase. Daisy sat beside it looking at him. He pictured himself waiting for a call in the parking lot of the Jai Alai Palace in Tijuana, three P.M. the next day. He thought of Gustavo Armenta, Benjamin’s innocent, college-bound son, killed by an errant ATF bullet during an undercover buy that went bad. He thought of Armenta’s vengeance upon ATF agent Jimmy Holdstock, of his own bloody journey across the border to Mulege, of the carnage enacted by the Zetas, of Sergeant Raydel Luna, his counterpart, slaughtered by his own countryman to prove that honesty and bravery and integrity were weaknesses in their world. And of course he thought of Erin.

“There’s fifty grand extra in there,” said Bradley. “Yours for trying. And another fifty for expenses. Fifty more waiting here if we actually get her back alive.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Donate it to Save the Dinosaurs or something. Her passport is in there, too. I’m bullish. It’s all I can afford to be.”

“This is all wrong, Bradley. How did Benjamin Armenta know where you live? And that you and Erin would be home? How did he know about the hidden room? How did he know to pick a night when the dogs were kenneled and you didn’t have guests? How did he know that your gate was wired for security but the fence wasn’t? How did he know the security code for your house? Or that you had a million in cash just kind of handy? Why did he take such huge risks and lose two men for a million dollars? He makes that in an average week. So why the pyrotechnics? What did you do to him to deserve all the special attention?”

Bradley gazed down at the money and toed the suitcase with his boot. “Maybe we’ll find out. But I’m not going to beg. If you don’t want to help, don’t.”