Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Like what?”

“Various things. For example, I’ve recently decided to deemphasize one of our oldest and most profitable product lines.”

“Which one?”

“Marijuana.”

“Why?”

“Colonel, do you follow American politics?”

“Fairly closely.”

“Then you have noticed that numerous U.S. states either have or are currently considering legalizing marijuana. Several states have even begun to put the wheels in motion. Others are sure to follow suit soon. Obviously, legal access to drugs can be a very troubling thing for a business that supplies the same product illegally. What sense does that make? Spending billions to stop me at the border for importing something that is legal on the other side. Americans,” he said with disgust. “Even their own President admits he’s smoked it.” The Padre opened up his laptop and typed in a password. “If this trend in the United States continues, I calculate that I may lose up to thirty percent of my marijuana sales in the next two years.” He turned the laptop toward Cesar and showed him a graphic illustrating the point. “What to do?”

“Reduce your focus on marijuana and redeploy assets to more lucrative markets like cocaine and heroin.”

“Exactly, but don’t underestimate methamphetamine, Colonel. The profit margins are excellent.”

“Of course.”

“Additionally, it’s important for the leader of a corporation to understand where the main business and strength of the organization is. It’s like a corporation that builds its success manufacturing trucks and then one day ends up selling ladies’ hats because someone thought it was a good idea. Sooner or later you have to bring in bankers and consultants, and pay them ridiculous amounts of money to tell you what you already know. You shouldn’t be selling ladies’ hats. The core competency of my business is the manufacture and distribution of narcotics. You see, I’m not a soldier, but unfortunately a growing portion of my time is being spent on wars with the other cartels and the authorities, at least the ones not on my payroll. At first I thought procuring more powerful weapons was the answer. That is how Barquero came to work for me. Now I understand that giving bigger guns to my men only means a bigger mess to clean up. They aren’t trained soldiers like you and your unit. I want to outsource this problem. You’ve spent ten years trying to stop me, and you’re always outgunned in the fight or double-crossed by some government official who works for me. Besides, I hear the Mexican Army isn’t exactly always on time making its payroll. I pay much better and always on time.”

“I see.”

“Besides the men you used to help capture Barquero, who I assume are completely loyal to you, what kind of additional assets can you deliver?”

“Maybe twelve men. That would be as many as I can trust and who would be interested.”

“Is twelve enough?”

“More than enough, Padre. My unit is the most elite group of commandos in the entire Mexican Army. We’ve been trained by the best of the best from around the world, including the Americans, Germans, and Israelis. But my men aren’t bodyguards.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to be. Carnicero will continue to organize my personal protection. I expect your men to serve as the commandos they are. You will become the leader of a secret group designed to eliminate my occasional problems.”

“A hit squad?”

“If that is how you wish to look at it. I’ve done my research on you, Cesar. You’re very intelligent. I want to make a place for you on my management team. I don’t just need advice from lawyers, accountants, and politicians. I need to know what is happening on the front lines when I make decisions. Does my offer interest you?”

“I’m intrigued, and you’re not the kind of man to decline a generous offer to. There’s no doubt my men are sick of fighting an unwinnable war. Sick of watching their friends and colleagues die. But I need to talk to them first to be sure. Individually. It may take some time.”

“Of course. While you continue to consider my offer, I want you to spend the night here, Colonel. I’m throwing a birthday party tonight for the chief of police from Nuevo Laredo. He’s a talented young man that I’m grooming for political office. I’d like you to meet him. I can envision the two of you working together in the future. A number of my top lieutenants will be present as well.”

“As you wish, Padre.”

“Excellent,” the Padre said as he rose to lead them out of the office. “I’ll have a room set up for you. In the meantime, I’ll show you around the complex. I want you to examine some of the armaments Barquero acquired for me before we had our little falling out. I think you’ll be suitably impressed. I believe it will help make your decision easier. Later, you can clean up and relax before dinner.”

“Thank you, Padre.”

Private Zulu wiped his sweaty and dusty brow with a dirty bandanna before sticking it in his back pocket and examining his handiwork. He cocked his head sideways and stared at the excavated plot of soil and rocks in the middle of the desert.

“That’s a honey pot?”

“It will be once it’s baited,” replied Avery.

“I don’t much reckon. Just looks like a sorry hole in the ground to me.” Private Zulu stuck his entrenching tool into the dry soil and spit into the shallow pit.

“Trust me Private… Ziggy! Quit pushing the dirt back in!”

“Like, I’m just squaring off the, like, edges, man,” Ziggy said as he worked his way around the perimeter of the dig site with his entrenching tool. “Finished, man!” Ziggy flashed a double peace sign.

“Well dug,” said the General. “Now get in to check it for size.”

“For what?”

“Size.” The General pushed Private Zulu into the hole.

“Like, why all the, like, hostility, man?”

“You’re next, you good-for-nothing, skinny-ass hippy.” Avery kicked Ziggy into the pit next to Private Zulu. Avery fell over in the process.

“Like, why are you always insulting me, dude?”

“I’m not insulting you,” Avery said as he picked himself up and dusted off his tracksuit. “I’m describing you. There’s a difference.”

“Well, at least I’m not, like, fat, and stuff.”

“I don’t need to be thin. God gave me awesome hair. Back in your hole!” Avery kicked his foot out at Ziggy, who was trying to climb out of the pit. “Back in your hole!”

“I want out,” said Private Zulu.

“Close your eyes and cover your mouths.” Avery pulled a small plastic squeeze bottle from his fanny pack. “Trust me on this one.” Avery squirted the men with a long stream of foul-smelling dark yellow liquid. Private Zulu and Ziggy howled in disgust. Zulu coughed and gagged, while Ziggy threw up in his mouth before choking it back down. Avery squirted them again for good measure. “That should do it.”

“What in the name of sweet Jesus was that?” Private Zulu asked while wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Genuine goat urine, gentlemen,” Avery replied. “I couldn’t come to an agreeable price with that unscrupulous goat farmer for an actual animal. Now think goat thoughts.”

“Like, goat thoughts, man?”

“Kind of like lamb thoughts, just not as cute.”

“Like, I want Nancy, man.” Ziggy reached out and pulled the large iguana into the pit and cuddled the squirming creature in his arms.

“General, where are the rest of your troops?”

“Back over the rise looking for gold… I mean scat.”

“Well, we’d better go get them and set up a perimeter above this location.”