Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Nonsense. I refuse to be held hostage by illogical policies,” Avery replied. “Out of my way, you pitiless authoritarian.”

“Back of the plane,” the flight attendant ordered as she pointed her finger down the aisle.

“I refuse. Furthermore, once we land, I fully plan to file a written complaint to the FAA and your union detailing your belligerent attitude.”

“Return to your seat, sir. Or I’ll have you arrested once we land.”

“Arrested for what? Attempting to use a vacant restroom? I dare you to cite the case law and legal statute for that.”

“For disobeying my instructions!”

“Outrageous! Do you know who I am?” Avery replied. The flight attendant immediately reached for the forward intercom phone.

“May I have your attention, please?” the flight attendant announced to the entire airplane. “Does anyone recognize this man? He apparently doesn’t know who he is.” The entire plane erupted in laughter as Avery’s face turned beet red. Avery slowly shuffled to the back of the plane. The line in back had disappeared, but the door was locked. A few moments later, the door opened and Ziggy popped out.

“Like, excuse me, dude.” Ziggy walked back to his seat. Avery squeezed himself into the lavatory.

An awkward silence filled the dark and smoky boardroom, creating an uncomfortable setting for the thirteen men sitting around the long mahogany table. The assembled were a mix of senior bankers, politicians, military leaders, and police officials. No one around the table knew more than a handful of the others, but they all had one compatriot in common: the man who had called them together today. All were concerned with this abruptly called gathering, but only a few of their faces revealed it. Meetings like this were uncommon. When they did happen, it was likely that fewer men would leave the room than had originally entered. The Padre had made all of them wealthy and powerful. He protected them, but he could also make them disappear. No one would ever find their bodies, and no one would ask questions. Once a person owed the Padre a favor, he owned their soul, their family, everything. And now he was pissed. Nervous eyes glanced to the door as heavy footsteps approached. The door swung open, and the Padre strode into the boardroom. Without saying a word, he sat down in a large leather chair at the head of the table. He immediately propped his immaculately polished black cowboy boots up on the table. The balding man wore a black suit and a Roman priest’s collar, and stroked his dark, bushy mustache as he surveyed his audience.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the Padre said as he fished a thin cigar from a silver case.

“Good morning, Padre,” the room replied.

“I’m truly sorry to have to disturb you this morning,” the Padre said as he lit the cigar and took a long drag. “I know you all have important business to attend to, but I have important business as well. This means we all have important business together. Together,” the Padre repeated for effect as he slowly gazed around the room, making sure to look each man in his eyes. “Some of you know each other, some of you don’t. What you all have in common is that you collectively make my business work. Whether it’s through finance, influence, or protection, I can’t do business without you, and you can’t do business without me. And the business is good, no?”

“But Padre,” a man in a banker’s blue pinstriped suit interjected. “It’s getting more difficult. Cleaning the money is not as safe as it once was. Anti-money laundering statutes and levels of oversight are becoming more restrictive, while the amount of money you’re bringing in is increasing all the time. You have to understand the risk we’re taking. Even gathering like this, in the middle of the city, in the middle of the day?” the man questioned. “It’s dangerous.”

“Is it a problem? If you want out, that’s fine,” the Padre replied as he took another drag from his cigar. “There are plenty of banks that would love to make as much money as yours does. Is that what you want? Out?”

“No, Padre,” the banker replied meekly. “But it is becoming a problem.”

“It’s a problem?” the Padre laughed. “That’s not a problem. Hire some more Spanish-speaking Ivy League geniuses and tell them to come up with something new. Fake companies, different locations offshore, South America, whatever, I don’t care. Just don’t tell me it’s a problem!” The Padre slapped the table with the palm of his hand. “You’ve got the easiest job in the room. I give you my money, and you give me back less. You’re not a banker. You’re a thief! An overpaid thief.”

“Padre, I didn’t mean any disrespect,” the nervous banker said humbly.

“Shut up and listen. All of you listen!” The Padre ground out his cigar on the boardroom table even though there was an ashtray right in front of him. “The problem, our problem, is right in front of you,” the Padre said motioning toward the file folders sitting in front of each man in the room. “Open them.” Each of the thirteen men quickly opened the file in front of him. Inside was a single grainy, black and white photograph of a large, heavily muscled man. “I need your help in finding this man.”

“Who is he?” asked one of the men, a police chief.

“His name is El Barquero,” the Padre replied. “The Ferryman. He used to provide a valuable service to me, smuggling weapons into Mexico, but not anymore. Now he’s a nuisance that must be dealt with. That is why we need to find him. He is dangerous for all of us.”

A military commander from the far end of the table spoke up. “I know of this man. He was a senior officer in the Mexican Army. A commander for the elite Special Forces Airmobile Group, he and his teams were trained by some of the best counter-terrorism and Special Forces groups in the world. I worked with him. He was a very deadly man then and, no doubt, still is. Then one day, soon after his wife was killed, he disappeared. There was no trace of him. The military assumed he was murdered by the cartels. I didn’t realize he was working for you.”

“No one did,” the Padre said as he lit another cigar. “Unfortunately, we had a falling out. Now is the time to officially terminate our relationship before he can do any more damage to my business.”

“What do we do if we find him?” another man asked.

“Not if, when we find him, just let me know where he is. I’ll take care of the rest.” The Padre took a long look around the table. “There can be no mistakes. Do you hear me? No mistakes.” The men in the room all nodded in agreement. “Very well. You may all leave.” The assembled men gathered their belongings and rose from the table. “Senior Gonzalez, stay for a moment.” A middle-aged Mexican politician nodded in reply and sat back down in his chair. After the boardroom had emptied, the Padre took a seat next to the man. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Certainly, Padre. What is it?”

“El Carnicero.”

“The Butcher? What about him?”

“I need you to get him for me. Even if those fools in suits could find Barquero, he’d kill them all before they even had time to pick up the phone.”

“But Padre, Carnicero? It’s impossible. We’ve tried to get him out for years.”

“Why is everyone telling me about the impossible today? It’s difficult, not impossible. Work your channels of influence more aggressively,” the Padre said as he put his arm around the man. “Remember how important he is to me. Money is not an issue.”

“The political pressure will be immense. It’s the bus incident, Padre — no one can forget the bus. I’m not sure if I can get him out, and even if I could, it will take a great deal of time.”