Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Don’t you say that, General,” Private Tango said angrily. “Don’t you say Zulu’s dead.”

“Men, we have to come to grips with the fact that he may be KIA. By now, the Mexicans probably know he’s a member of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia. They’ll obviously know our reputation and torture him to death. It’s the unfortunate price of our notoriety and success. I hope he doesn’t give them the HQ’s mailing address.” The General wiped his brow.

“Private Zulu wouldn’t talk. Not in a million, billion years,” Private Tango said.

“Really?”

“Well…maybe.”

“General, must I remind you of our contract,” Avery said as he searched in his fanny pack, hoping to find a snack. “We’re going after them.”

“It’s hopeless,” the General replied.

“With my superior intellect, hardly. We simply define our objectives, identify all the possible variables, and plan accordingly.”

“Pull up over by those three rocks,” El Coyote said. Fire Team Leader Alpha stopped the bus. “Keep the headlights on, and grab your shovels and follow me.” El Coyote led the group to a spot in the middle of three large rocks arranged in a triangle. “Now dig here.” The men dug into the dry ground while Esmeralda repeatedly spun the cylinder of her pistol. Soon, Fire Team Leader Charlie’s entrenching tool hit something made of wood. “That’s it. Now dig it out,” El Coyote instructed. In a few minutes, the top of a wooden crate was exposed. Using his brute strength, the barrel-chested former wrestler pulled the rectangular crate from the ground and opened it.

“Oh, baby,” said Private Foxtrot, as he looked at the collection of pistols and assault rifles inside.

“Gentlemen, welcome to my museum of carnage,” El Coyote said with aplomb as he lifted an AK-47 from the pile and inserted a long, curved magazine. “That’s the ram’s horn.” He winked.

“Where’d you get these?” the General asked.

“Mostly from people who left them in my nightclub,” replied El Coyote as he chambered a round and raised the assault rifle to his shoulder. “People who drink too much tequila tend to leave things behind by accident. I keep them here for safety, because people who drink too much tequila also tend to steal things. Feeling better about our chances now, General X-Ray?”

“It’s certainly an upgrade from our current arsenal, but I don’t know. We still have time to call the police.”

“With all due respect, General,” Esmeralda said as she pulled a box of forty-four-magnum pistol ammunition from the crate. “Shut the hell up.” El Coyote passed out the weapons to the men.

“Forget the guns, amigo ,” Private Foxtrot said as he pulled out a half dozen sticks of dynamite from the crate. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about.” He held the explosives to his nose and inhaled deeply, like they were fine cigars. “I’m the demolitions expert ’round here,” he said to El Coyote.

“No, thank you,” Avery said as El Coyote offered him a nine-millimeter automatic pistol. “I’m trained in the deadly art of hand-to-hand combat, namely Monkey Style Kung Fu, but Filipino stick fighting is my specialty.”

“Take it. You don’t fight the cartels with sticks.” Avery accepted the pistol and tucked it in under the strap of his fanny pack.

“Now, then,” Avery began. “We’re not far from the farmhouse. Our first order of business is to eliminate their communications capabilities. I noticed a type of transponder while scouting for chupacabra signs. I’ll tackle that. Second, we’re going to need a diversion. General, I’m leaving that up to you and your men. Lastly, we need to locate Ziggy and Zulu. My bet is that they’re in the main building, but we better split up to be sure. For the main house, Mr. Coyote and the stripper will come with me…” A devastating punch to his liver sent Avery crashing to the ground.

“For your information, I’m an exotic dancer, not a stripper, you fat, ugly bastard.” Esmeralda stood with her hands on her hips.

“My bad,” Avery groaned as he rolled on the ground.

“Some hand-to-hand combat expert you are.” She spit on the ground and pushed her ample breasts up higher in her corset.

“Saw it… saw it coming the whole way,” Avery moaned as he struggled to rise to his feet.

“Right.”

“It’s just that I don’t hit women,” Avery groaned. “Children and small animals on occasion, but never women.”

Light classical music filtered through the farmhouse as the guests arrived. One by one they were escorted from their cars and introduced to the host. After cocktails, they were seated at the table. The room was painted dark red. It was the color of dried blood. A majestic mahogany table awaited the party. Silver candlesticks illuminated the long room. At the head of the table, the Padre raised a glass to his guests.

“To our birthday boy, Jose, and to all of you.” His guests drank with him. Jose and his young wife bowed their heads. “Now that’s finished, on to business.” He laughed as he lowered his glass. “How was your trip, Ricardo? Kill anyone in India?” Jose’s wife spilled her wine.

“Forgive me. I’m so sorry.” The woman used her napkin to clean up the mess.

“Think nothing of it. Get that, please.” An attractive woman in an apron picked up the overturned glass and replaced it with a fresh one. “Ricardo. India? Good news?”

“Yes,” responded a man in a pinstriped suit. “India is good.”

“What’s in India?” asked Cesar.

“Methamphetamine or, more specifically, the raw materials required to produce it. We need large amounts of precursor ingredients for the manufacturing process, namely ephedrine or pseudoephedrine. We can’t get them domestically anymore, but in India and China, they’re more than happy to supply us. For a price.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t see. And neither does anyone else. I’m building a super-lab. The construction is nearly complete. It’s an underground facility with elevators and a sophisticated ventilation system. Most Americans cook up their filthy product in plastic bottles in rural areas for rural clients. We’re going after a significantly bigger market.”

“Our contacts in India can provide a hundred tons of the necessary materials within three weeks,” said the man in the pinstriped suit.

Three weeks? the Padre thought. That’s too long. He was pissed off but didn’t let it show. “Excellent work, Ricardo.”

“Is this a response to the legalization policies in America?” Cesar asked.

“Of course it is,” Carnicero replied. “Marijuana is a dying product. Meth is the future. What is better about ours is that it isn’t crystallized here. We ship it in liquid form, ninety percent pure, in tequila bottles or the spare gas tanks of eighteen-wheelers. The border patrol doesn’t even know what to think.” He laughed as he drank from his glass.

“Enough,” the Padre announced. “Tonight is for our guest of honor, Jose.” The dinner party raised their glasses in a toast. “Soon you will be an elected politician, one with a great future. Didn’t I promise you this?”

“Yes, Padre,” Jose said as he leaned over and kissed his beautiful wife. “I will repay your kindness with loyalty.”

“I expect that. It’s not so much a gesture that I reward…as much as it is…a condition of employment,” the Padre said with a pause as he sipped his wine. The pause had its effect as the room went quiet. From outside, there was a howl.

“ Señor , what was that?” Jose’s wife asked.