Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

Barquero pulled off his helmet and unfastened his seatbelt. As he climbed down from the cab of the dump truck, he realized he must have fractured several ribs during the impact. Wincing from the pain, he pulled an assault rifle from the cab with him. Chambering a round in the HK417 battle rifle with attached under-barrel grenade launcher, he approached the SUV that his dump truck had clipped. The vehicle was on its side. Barquero fired a burst into the front section of the car. The driver he was aiming at stopped moving. The men in the back were already dead. To his right, past the armored delivery truck, three armed cartel soldiers were climbing out of the second SUV and spraying automatic rifle fire in his direction. Barquero fired a forty-millimeter grenade at the vehicle. It exploded, sending all three men flying into the road. Barquero chambered another grenade into the launcher before firing it at the bulletproof windshield of the delivery truck. The window exploded. Barquero filled the cabin with a long stream of automatic rifle fire. Nothing inside moved. Gravel dust continued to swirl and cover the roadway. Traffic behind the wreckage slid to a stop. Horns blared.

Swapping out the magazine in the HK, Barquero strode to the rear of the delivery truck. There were most certainly men inside with the shipment, but even his grenade launcher wouldn’t open the reinforced rear doors of the truck. Reaching into his black fatigues, he pulled out a shaped charge of plastic explosive. He placed it on the doors. Just as he was about to arm the charge, he heard the sound of something rolling across the top of the truck. Looking up, he caught the image of three cylinder-shaped objects rolling off the top of the truck as they landed on the road next to him. Barquero dropped his weapon and dove for cover away from the explosives just as they detonated with a deafening bang and a blinding white flash. Barquero rolled onto his back and tried to get up. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. A dull ringing filled his ears. He couldn’t stand. Suddenly, the rear doors of the armored truck swung open. A man in a military uniform stood in the opening and removed a pair of earplugs. Even through the fog that filled his head, Barquero recognized the man.

“Cesar,” Barquero said as his world continued to spin. A man with long dark hair stepped up beside Cesar and removed his earplugs as well. He waved his hand forward as two cartel soldiers with assault rifles leapt down from the cargo bay. The first one slammed the butt of his rifle into the side of Barquero’s head, then handcuffed him. The second one injected him with a syringe. The world slipped into blackness for Barquero. The last thing he saw through his spinning vision was Cesar and Carnicero laughing together. Another SUV that had been following a mile behind the convoy pulled up along the shoulder of the road, past the growing line of stalled traffic behind the carnage. It parked next to what was left of the armored truck.

“Put him in the SUV,” Carnicero ordered his men. “We’re taking him to the farm,” he said to Cesar. “Do you want to come with us? The Padre plans on having quite a bit of fun with this one.”

“No, I have to get back to work. There’s my ride,” he said, pointing to a military helicopter approaching low from the southeast. “What about the armored car?”

“Leave it,” Carnicero replied, viewing the damage to the front of the vehicle. Barquero’s dump truck had nearly demolished the engine compartment of the white truck, and the grenade had destroyed the cabin. Thick black smoke and orange flames engulfed the mangled front of the vehicle. “It’s worth losing for capturing this big bastard.” He watched his men load the large man into the back of the SUV. A horn from a motorist blocked by the wreckage blared. Carnicero pulled a gold-plated forty-five-caliber pistol from his waistband and fired several times at the car. “Shut up!” He fired twice more for good measure. The noise stopped. “Here’s an advance on your money,” he said, pulling an envelope from inside his jacket. “The balance will be deposited in an offshore account.”

“Thank you.” Cesar took the envelope.

“You know, Colonel Beltrán, now that we are working together, we have some very good investment people if you’re interested. The returns are always guaranteed. Bad things happen to our bankers if they aren’t.” Carnicero grinned as he stepped into the SUV as the military helicopter landed in a field just off the side of the highway. The two men went their separate ways.

Avery tapped his fingers impatiently. The crew had gotten a late start that morning. They were behind schedule, and Avery was beginning to grumble. The cause of the delay had to do with Privates Zulu and Foxtrot spending the better part of the morning on the rather foul toilet inside the Coyote’s Liar while the menudo from the previous evening formed a violent conga line through their lower intestines. With only one toilet in the small, rank-smelling restroom, the two men had to switch places every few minutes, leading to several close calls for the man left standing. Private Foxtrot was particularly afflicted by the painful revenge of the tripe. His complaints to El Coyote were met with indifference.

“I make a fresh batch every two weeks,” El Coyote explained as he shrugged his big shoulders. “Sometimes every three — it’s hard to keep track. You should have some tequila. Tequila makes everything better.” Private Foxtrot’s face turned a light shade of green as he ran back to the small bathroom and slammed the door.

“Let go of me!” Private Zulu yelled from behind the door. “I’m not finished!”

“Soldiers,” the General said, knocking on the bathroom door with his riding crop. “Five minutes, and we’re bugging out. Organize your bowels and fall in. No potty breaks until we reach the target. You understand me?” The General’s question was answered by a series of agonizingly desperate moans from the other side of the door. “Son of a bitch.” General X-Ray stood with his hands on his hips and shouted at the door. “I swear, getting you lollygaggers moving is harder than shoving a wet noodle up a wildcat’s butt.” The General turned and walked away as the painful cries of the two men continued. “MacArthur never had to deal with crap like this. Not even in the Philippines. I need new troops.”

“I’m leaving,” said Avery.

“Where?” asked General X-Ray.

“To see a man about a goat.” Avery waddled out with a determined look on his face.

The room slowly came into focus for Barquero. Dried blood was caked in his eyes. It was difficult to see in the dimly lit space. He was naked and bound to a wooden chair. The room was square. Next to one of the walls, a workbench was littered with various knives, hammers, and horrific-looking medical devices seemingly more fit for coaxing life out of the patient than for healing. In contrast to the evil-looking instruments of pain, the soft music of Handel’s Concerto Grosso in B Minor filled the air. Someone was taking his vital signs. Barquero didn’t recognize the man in the white coat. He did recognize the other two men in the room. One was Carnicero. He was rubbing his knuckles. They were bruised from the beating he’d given the big man earlier. Directly across from Barquero, sitting in a chair with his legs crossed, the Padre smoked a thin cigar.

They’d been working on Barquero for several hours already, alternating between pummeling him with fists and using wires attached to a car battery on various parts of his body. He never said a word the whole time, and they never asked any questions. Eventually, Barquero had passed out from the torture. Unfortunately, his strength was now a huge weakness. He didn’t fall into unconsciousness easily.