Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“Squeak.”

“Jesus, not again,” Avery said as he scowled at Ziggy and shook his head. “For God’s sake, man, take a cold shower and sober up.” Ziggy crashed on his sack of clothes and pushed Mae Mae’s charm bag underneath it. Not long after, he was peacefully asleep.

The next morning, Avery kicked at the snoring little man.

“Ouch, man,” Ziggy said as he pulled himself upright. “Like, my head, dude.”

“I didn’t kick your head.”

“Like, I know, man, it just hurts. Really bad.”

“How bad?”

“Really bad.”

“Like you were eaten by a coyote and shit over a cliff?”

“Exactly,” Ziggy said as he looked at Avery in amazement. “Like, how’d you know?”

“That’s lysergic acid diethylamide for you, a particularly nasty member of the ergoline family when it comes to hangovers. I sure hope you cleaned your bathtub before manufacturing your last batch. Anyway, there’s only one thing we can do now.”

“Like, what, man?”

“Quickly, we need to find you sixteen ounces of green tea, two grams of gunpowder, and a Slim Jim, original flavor.”

“What?”

“You lick the gunpowder, slam the tea, and gag yourself with the Slim Jim until you puke. Bruce Lee used to do it before all his fight scenes.”

“No, I’m going to just lie here and, like, die.” Ziggy slumped over with a painful groan.

“Shut up. Grab your things — we’re heading home.”

“Like, already, dude?”

“Absolutely. Now move it! We’ve got work to do.”

The Castle of San Juan de Ulua stood silent guard over the seaport of Veracruz. From the far side of the port, the ancient grey walls of the fortress complex rose from the surface of the dark water. The high battlements had stood watch over the harbor since the colonial days of Mexico. Historically, it was the most important seaport in Mexico. Ships from Europe unloaded supplies of sheep, cows, and slaves before the holds were refilled with gold, silver, and chocolate destined for the old world. This stoic fortress had seen her share of battles, including attacks from pirates seeking the vast stores of gold held in the port city. She also had a sordid past full of dark secrets to tell. Prisoners of the castle were chained to the three-foot-thick walls and left for the tide to come in. The water would reach waist high before retreating from the terrified men. Some believe the castle is still haunted by the tortured souls of its long-dead prisoners. Today San Juan de Ulua is mainly a tourist attraction, offering grand views of the port of Veracruz, still one of Mexico’s busiest shipping hubs. But this late at night, the tourists had all gone home. The castle was silent except for the rolling thunder in the night sky and the slapping of the waves against the massive walls of stone.

But below the castle’s battlements, beneath the waves, something was moving. Underneath the surface, a dark shadow passed. Barquero kicked his way methodically toward the cargo ships in the port. He breathed from a self-contained closed-circuit apparatus. After inhaling one-hundred-percent pure oxygen, the exhaled breath was recirculated through a chemical filter that removed the carbon dioxide, replenishing the oxygen supply. Most importantly, it eliminated the telltale sign of bubbles trailing to the surface. The front-worn configuration of the system was useful for shallow water and clandestine diving. With his black wetsuit and a cloud-covered sky, he was nearly invisible even close to the surface.

His target was a small freighter a few hundred meters ahead. The aging vessel flew a Vietnamese flag but was owned by a shell company operated by the Padre. Of course, vast amounts of narcotics had been hidden deep in the ship’s hold, but it had also been loaded with a dozen luxury automobiles, stolen from the United States, ultimately destined for Eastern European countries where they would bring three to four times their actual value. The Padre’s cartel moved the stolen cars from southern parts of the U.S. across the border utilizing fraudulent papers obtained from a small group of car dealers on his payroll. Straw buyers using false identification and stolen credit cards or counterfeit cashier’s checks for the down payments obtained most of the cars. Once they were driven off the lot, the additional payments never appeared. Some even came from luxury car rental agencies. The SUVs stayed in Mexico because of the high demand for them, but the other vehicles, particularly the highly coveted Corvettes, were destined for new homes in Poland or the Ukraine. Bribes paid to officials protected the valuable cargo from scrutiny and inspection. This shipment was scheduled to leave in the morning, but Barquero had other plans for it.

Swimming slowly and carefully along the hull of the moored ship, as the large port was busy even at night, Barquero attached a series of magnetized underwater mines below the waterline. The powerful limpet mines contained hollow compartments to create slightly negative buoyancy for easier handling underwater. Barquero had replaced the propeller timers with timed fuses. Normally, the propeller timers would ignite the explosives once the ship was a preset distance from shore, but Barquero wanted it to sink here. It would disrupt the seaport traffic and hopefully remind the port and government officials of Veracruz that turning a blind eye to the Padre’s organization came with consequences. They might even be able to link the stolen cars back to the Padre. Either way, Barquero wished he could be there to see the look in the Padre’s eyes when he received the news that his cargo ship now rested at the bottom of the harbor.

Soon the limpet mines were in place. Barquero methodically swam back to the castle. He climbed out of the water near an ancient cannon overlooking the port, quickly removed his gear, and stowed it in a stolen delivery van parked nearby. After driving around to the north end of the port, he pulled over and checked his watch. Dark clouds flickered slightly as bolts of lightning flashed above them. Rolling thunder echoed across the dark, choppy water. Seven minutes later, a series of muffled explosions erupted from the port. Dockworkers scrambled and pointed at plumes of water that rose from around the Padre’s ship. Lights and sirens sounded as men rushed to the sides of the freighter’s berth, only to watch it slowly slip under the dark waters, coming to rest on the bottom. When it was over, only the ship’s bridge and control room remained above the surface. The Ferryman’s eyes glowed with dancing fire as he drove off into the night.

Later that morning, in a quiet, wealthy section of Monterrey, a black limousine pulled into the driveway of a sprawling luxury villa. A number of men in casual clothes patrolled the grounds. Carnicero stepped out of the long car and walked directly inside the villa. Passing through the open design of the house, he made his way to the back patio. The backyard contained a large swimming pool surrounded by an intricate set of lush gardens. On the patio, sitting around a large glass table, was the Padre and a man Carnicero didn’t recognize. Music played in the background. It was a mixture of accordion and trumpets, a narcocorrido , or drug ballad. The vocalist told tales of the heroic exploits of the Padre. The Padre leapt to his feet when he noticed the longhaired man standing in the open-air foyer leading to the patio.

“That will be all,” the Padre said to his associate, who collected his papers from the table and left. “My son.” The Padre embraced Carnicero tightly.

“It’s been a long time, Padre.”