Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Are you sure?” asked Carnicero. “It could have been another cartel.”

“Without a doubt. He’s the only one who could sink a vessel of that size,” the Padre said as he rubbed his eyes. “When they salvage the ship, they’ll find the narcotics and the cars. That bastard. It’s going to take a lot more money to keep this quiet. And it goes without saying, my European partners will not be happy. The Ukrainians don’t like delays. I should have killed Barquero myself at the ranch when I had the chance.”

“I’ll take care of it, Padre. Trust me,” the cold-blooded assassin replied.

“I know you will, but take many men with you. Only the ones you really trust. I want him alive. I’m going to make an example out of him. He won’t die quickly, and when he does, it will be with his balls in his mouth.”

“Yes, Padre, alive. I swear to you.” Carnicero took the Padre’s hand and kissed the back of it. “Do you have any idea where he might be going next?”

“He won’t be hard to find. He’ll keep coming. In fact, he’ll come right to us. Put the word out that we’re moving a shipment of weapons, but don’t make it too obvious. He’ll come for them.” The Padre gazed into his adopted son’s eyes. “And you’ll be waiting for him.”

“Yes, Padre.”

“Good.” The Padre patted Carnicero on the back. “Now eat something — you must be starving,” he said as his demeanor immediately improved.

“I am,” Carnicero said as he dug into the platter. “Will you join me?”

“No. I’m not hungry.” The Padre lit another cigar. “Besides, a lion runs fastest on an empty stomach,” he added, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “And this lion has something to catch.”

Avery bobbled his way down the staircase of the big white house in Austin owned by his stepfather, Bennett. Reaching the bottom of the staircase, he stubbed his toe as he stumbled off the last step. Avery proceeded to string together a collection of profanities that would make a sixty-year-old Bangkok whore blush.

“Avery,” Bennett’s voice called from the kitchen, “that you out there, crying like a baby shitting peach pits?”

“Shut up, doctor,” Avery gruffly replied as he hobbled into the kitchen and grabbed a Mountain Dew from the fridge. Bennett and Kip, Avery’s stepbrother, were at the table drinking their morning coffee. Maximilian, Bennett’s beloved white French bulldog, was curled up under the table. Max raised his head off his paws and sniffed at the stinky, bearded man.

“When did you get back?” Kip asked.

“Late last night.”

“I thought I locked the doors in case you did,” said Bennett as he peered over the top of the newspaper he was reading.

“Your primitive security device is no match for my superior intellect,” Avery said as he drained his soda. “Hold my calls — I’ll be back later.”

“Where you headed?” asked Kip, as he noticed Avery was wearing his yellow tracksuit instead of his usual in-house attire of a dingy bathrobe.

“I have an appointment this morning with my legal counsel.”

“Who’s suing you now?” Kip asked he got up to refill his cup.

“Everyone. You haven’t really made it to the big time until jealous competitors quit trying to out-achieve you and resort to hiding behind sham legal suits as a strategy.”

“Well, if that’s your yardstick for success, I reckon Time magazine should be calling anytime for a head shot for their Person of the Year issue,” Bennett said as Avery barged out the back door.

“Like I said, hold my calls,” Avery yelled over his shoulder as the door slammed shut.

“I swear to God,” Bennett said, “if that boy ever has an intelligent idea, it’ll die of loneliness.”

It took Avery close to an hour to reach his destination with all the backtracking and sneaking among trees to avoid being tailed. Avery knew that the inevitable moment when the men in black suits rappelled down out of their helicopters to kidnap or assassinate him, it would be at the moment he’d least expect it. As usual, he was taking no chances. Eventually, he made it to his appointment. The sign outside the small office nestled between a dry cleaner and a Chinese restaurant identified it as the Law Office of Gregory Kennesaw Mountain, Esq.

Gregory Mountain wasn’t born as much as he was wrung from a bartender’s rag. He ran a one-man law practice in town, at least when he was sober. He got his middle name from the historic Civil War battle that took place at Kennesaw Mountain in late June of 1864. Gregory’s great great-grandfather, Rufus Mordecai Mountain, served as a colonel in the Army of Tennessee, commanded by General Joseph Johnston. A fortuitous misunderstanding by Rufus Mountain of a direct written order from his commander, a misunderstanding partially caused by the fact that he wasn’t a strong reader and partially because Rufus was knee-knocking drunk at the time, resulted in Rufus leading his men to the wrong spot on the battlefield. In hindsight, it turned out to be the right spot tactically, and the Confederates were able to drive back General Sherman’s Union forces. For his part, Rufus missed the bulk of the battle, as he passed out shortly after the first volleys were fired. His last words to his men before falling face down in the dirt were a series of long, low belches as he pointed his saber at the advancing enemy troops.

“Wake up!” Avery demanded as he stormed into the cramped legal office overflowing with scattered documents and legal journals.

“Don’t shoot!” Mountain called out as he popped up from his face-down position on his desk with both hands raised in the air, leaving a small pool of drool behind on the surface of his desk. “Howdy, son, you’re early for once!” The large attorney wore a red plaid blazer, a yellow paisley tie over a wrinkled white shirt, dirty blue jeans, a seriously gaudy gold pinky ring, and cowboy boots with actual spurs attached. “Who we suing today?” he asked Avery as he wiped off his desk with the palm of his hand. Mountain had been last in his law class, but first in regard to opportunity.

“I’m in a hurry today — let’s make this fast. First order, new business…”

“Slow your britches down, Avery, we’ve got a little old business to attend to first,” Mountain said as he held up a stack of folders. “Patent infringement,” he continued as he began to pick through the pile. “Defamation of character.” He tossed another file aside. “Cease and desist, libel, and the latest one, a restraining order from the mayor of Austin,” Mountain said as he held it up.

“She’s a nobody.”

“She’s the mayor, goddammit, and you can’t keep picketing on her cotton-picking front lawn anymore.”

“Not until she submits to my demands.”

“Son, you can’t put a personal parking meter in front of your stepfather’s house.”

“Quit thinking like a loser,” Avery said as he lifted an unruly pile of legal documents off the split and torn leather couch located against the back wall of the office so he could sit down. “Per my request, did you search your office for listening devices this morning?”

“Look, she says she’ll drop the restraining order, if, for once and for all, you’ll stay off her begonias.”

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“Be reasonable, Avery.”

“I want to sue her.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“What are the maximum damages I can ask for?”

“I’m not going to sue the mayor of Austin for you, at least not until you pay me. That reminds me,” Mountain said as he pulled out another folder. “You’re being sued for failure to make payment.”

“By who?”