Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Nothing, my dear. Just a coyote.”

“It didn’t sound like a coyote.”

“Of course it did,” Jose whispered to his wife. “Apologies.”

“Just some kind of dog, my darling.” The Padre raised his glass and drank. “Maybe you should check on our patient,” the Padre said to the doctor at the table.

“Of course.” The man got up from the table.

“I’ll go, too,” said Carnicero as he finished his wine.

“I as well,” Cesar said. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course,” the Padre replied. “Be sure to tuck your old friend in. Open another bottle,” he called to the staff.

Cesar rose from his chair to follow the doctor and Carnicero. He’d made sure that no one had seen him slip the steak knife into the sleeve of his suit coat earlier. Down the stairs, past an armed guard, he followed the two men. The door to the cell was at the end of the hall. Following the two men, Cesar entered the room. Barquero was covered in dried blood. Private Zulu was asleep, while Ziggy tossed and turned, begging for Nancy.

“Colonel Beltrán, please hold his arm while I sedate him.” Cesar stood behind the chair and took Barquero’s arm. He held it down as the doctor injected him with a syringe. Barquero flinched as the needle went in.

“Sleep easy, you bastard.” Carnicero grinned as the injection took place. “Tomorrow, we will have some more fun.” Barquero squinted through his swollen eyes at Carnicero and then looked up at Cesar. Cold anger filled his eyes.

“I think he likes you,” Carnicero said as he turned to leave with the doctor. No one saw Cesar leave the steak knife in Barquero’s bound hands, except Ziggy.

“Nancy…”

Avery took a piece of chewing gum out of his fanny pack and carefully opened it. After chewing it a few times, he removed the small, sticky wad from his mouth and molded it around the tip of the transponder. Using the foil from the gum, he clamped it over the tip of the device. Then he took off one of his high-top sneakers, held it above his head, and, for good measure, smashed the control panel to bits.

“By Crom, I swear!” he said as he slipped his foot back into the shoe. “Try downloading at wi-fi speed now, bitches.” Avery did a military rolling dive to his right, and came up holding his pistol and looking for enemies. Like most of the times he did a military rolling dive, he didn’t see anything afterward. He set off into the dark. Along the way, he looked for sticks. Filipino-style sticks.

“Maneuver medium left,” General X-Ray ordered his men.

“Maneuvering,” the men said in unison as they crawled on hands and knees toward the white fence surrounding the compound.

“Keep your heads down,” the General hissed as he saw an armed sentry smoking a cigarette outside the large red barn. “Foxtrot. Do you have the ordnance prepped?”

“Roger, sir,” Private Foxtrot said as he pulled a stick of dynamite from his back pocket and clamped it in his teeth like some kind of retriever. “Foxtrot go boom,” he mumbled with the explosive in his mouth.

“And your detonation device?”

Private Foxtrot held up a pack of matches. “My lighter ’ain’t working so hot.”

“Good enough. Now, I want you to head toward the edge of the barn. Once I give the signal, blow the door. We’ll attack across the courtyard and meet you inside. With Private Zulu incarcerated and Private Foxtrot working demolition, we’re down to only one full Fire Team. Bravo, that means you. You’ll lead the charge. And remember, boys, if you aren’t shooting, you should be loading, and if you aren’t loading, you should be shooting.” Private Tango and Fire Team Leader Bravo looked at one another nervously. “Once inside the barn, we’ll move in a series of zigs and zags, forming a search matrix until we find the HVTs.”

“What’s an HVT?” Private Tango asked.

“High Value Target.”

“What’s a High…” Private Foxtrot mumbled before taking the dynamite stick out of his mouth. “What’s a High Value Target?”

“Private Zulu and the civilian, or anything that looks like it’s worth something. This enemy we’re facing is composed solely of cutthroats and thieves. Technically, it’s not stealing if you steal from stealers. See if they have any flat-screen televisions or digital watches. Foxtrot, be sure to wait for the signal.”

In the dark night sky, high above the farm, a stealthily silent drone, on loan from the United States military, made lazy circles around the compound below. It sent a stream of images and data via satellite to a Mexican Army mobile command station ten miles away.

“General Morales. We have an issue with the target.”

“What is it, Sergeant?” The elderly Mexican commander put down a field radio and crossed the room to the view screen.

“Infrared is picking up movement around the perimeter of the compound. I don’t think it is our men.”

“It better not be. All assets were to hold position until the go signal was issued. How many men?”

“A group of three closing from the south and a second group of six from the north. Here and here.” The sergeant pointed to the small glowing figures on the blackish green console.

“It could be another cartel,” General Morales said as he stroked his mustache. “If we knew the Padre and his associates were going to be there, maybe they did, too. Spin up the assault team helicopter and have them hold two miles from the target. We’ve been waiting way too long as it is. I’m not letting that bastard get away again. Have all assets put on alert. Go signal is imminent.”

A cartel sentry walked the perimeter of the fence south of the farmhouse. He set down his rifle as he stopped to relieve himself before fishing a cigarette from his pocket. Just as he was about to light it, a pair of burly arms grabbed him from behind around the chest.

“I kill you now!” El Coyote whispered as he crushed the wind from the man’s lungs. In a few seconds it was over, and El Coyote let the man’s limp body, full of crushed ribs and collapsed lungs, fall to the dry ground.

“Not bad,” Avery said as he and Esmeralda emerged from the bushes. “But I could have done it quicker.”

“Follow me.” El Coyote bent over and ran to the back corner of the farmhouse. A door was open. Inside, the smells of the kitchen wafted out. The scents made Avery hungry. From inside, the sound of heavy boots walking across a wooden floor approached the open door. “You want this one, my friend?” El Coyote whispered to Avery.

“That’s okay. You need the practice,” hissed Avery. “Besides, I couldn’t find the right sticks.” As the man came out of the doorway, El Coyote threw a massive roundhouse punch at the man’s face. He never saw it coming. El Coyote caught the unconscious man before he could fall to the ground.

“Take care of him,” the brawny man said as he peeked into the kitchen. Avery and Esmeralda dragged the unconscious cartel soldier by his feet into some nearby bushes.

“Stop staring at my breasts!”

“I wasn’t.” Avery looked away from her chest.

“Pervert.”

They used a roll of duct tape to bind and gag the man before rejoining their companion. Avery looked to check his watch before realizing he didn’t own one.

Where is that blasted diversion? Avery thought to himself. It should have happened by now.

Private Foxtrot crawled to the edge of the barn. He couldn’t see the door, but he knew it was a few feet around the corner. He could smell cigarette smoke and the occasional shuffling of the guard’s boots on the gravelly ground. Slowly, he pulled the stick of explosives from his mouth. Taking out his pack of matches, he waited for the signal.