Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Man,” said Private Zulu, “that little feller sure can cover ground. We’ve been on his tail for miles.”

“These canyons are as crooked as a barrel of fishhooks,” said Private Tango as he stuck a finger in his ear, twisted it around, and examined the excavated contents.

“Uh, General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said.

“What is it?”

“I think we have a major malfunction here.” The Fire Team Leader pointed at the ground. “I think we’ve already been here before.” The rest of the men examined the crisscrossed tracks in the dirt.

“Lard buckets!” the General exclaimed. “The little bastard got himself lost.”

“Does that mean we’re lost, too?” Private Foxtrot asked.

“Of course not,” the General replied. “The way out is right over there. Or was it that way?” He pointed.

“I was kind of thinking maybe down that way,” Fire Team Leader Alpha added.

“Well, somebody pick one,” the General said.

Something bit Ziggy. He looked up to see Nancy standing on his chest. The frilled collar under the iguana’s chin tickled Ziggy’s nose.

“I, like, know, man. But I don’t have the keys.” Nancy stared at Ziggy. “All right, come on then. But if, like, those, evil dudes are still there, I’m splitting, man.” Ziggy and Nancy made their way over the nearby rise and walked to the Padre’s farmhouse. Ziggy hunched down behind the fence surrounding the property and watched.

“I think, like, the coast is clear.” Ziggy searched the compound while Nancy sat on the porch of the farmhouse and watched. All of the dead bodies had been taken away, but the blood, bullet holes, and signs of the furious battle remained. Ziggy walked back over to Nancy.

“Let’s, like, see if he has cable, man.” Ziggy led Nancy inside the farmhouse. Gathering up some chips and salsa from the kitchen, Ziggy settled down with a stack of DVDs into a plush couch full of bullet holes. Miraculously, the enormous flat-screen television that dominated the Padre’s entertainment room still worked, although it did have a long crack in the screen, but Ziggy didn’t mind. He looked for a remote for the stereo. He liked watching television with the sound muted and the stereo on full blast. When he opened a drawer on the end table next to the couch, Ziggy’s eyes lit up. There, inside the drawer, next to the stereo remote, was one perfectly rolled joint and a sterling silver lighter. Ziggy lit up, cranked the volume, and started his movie.

“Want one?” Ziggy offered a chip with some salsa to Nancy. The big lizard just ignored him.

Avery asked a soldier to go and find the Colonel immediately. Avery typed away furiously at his laptop. It whined and hummed, unlike the top-of-the-line model of the Padre’s, which it was connected to. It pissed him off. Cesar arrived a few minutes later.

“What is it?” he asked as he entered the room.

“A transmission on the secure network that was a little out of the ordinary.”

“What was the message?”

“The meeting is still on.”

“Where?”

“It didn’t say, but by triangulating between the network of communication towers in the area, I’d say the message was sent from here in Monterrey.”

“Can you be more precise?

“No.”

“Damn,” Cesar swore. “Keep listening.”

“What about your contact?”

“Nothing yet. You keep working.”

Barquero left some money on the nightstand of the hotel room. In bed, a naked prostitute known to associate with the Padre’s men rolled over and went back to sleep. She didn’t know where the Padre was, but she did know someone who did. She didn’t want to die at the hands of the heavily muscled man, so she talked. Then things got interesting. Barquero put on his pants and left the hotel. Outside, he hailed a taxi on the bustling street.

“The financial district,” Barquero said to the driver. The ride passed in silence as Barquero thought about the Padre. Killing El Carnicero had been satisfying, but he couldn’t stop until the Padre shared his adopted son’s fate. Barquero remembered the shocked look on Carnicero’s face as the Padre abandoned him in the desert to save his own life. The cruel bastard had to die. Reaching the financial district, Barquero paid the fare. Looking up, he surveyed the office building in front of him. He took note of the surroundings, including the buildings nearby and the parking entrance. Entering the building, he walked confidently past the security desk. Neither of the two men sitting there said anything to him. An elevator took him to the floor he was looking for. From the elevator lobby, he noticed the stairs next to the last bank of elevators. The name of a law firm was printed on the glass doors that led to a quiet and extravagantly furnished office lobby. The sign indicated the firm specialized in international law. Barquero entered the office.

“Good afternoon,” the smartly dressed woman behind the reception desk said with a smile.

“Good afternoon.” Barquero marched past her and turned down a hallway containing a row of offices.

“Sir, you can’t go back there. Sir!” Barquero ignored the woman and scanned the nameplates on the doors of the windowless offices as his long, fast stride carried him down the hall. Reaching a corner office, he found the name he was looking for. Pushing the door open, he barged into the room. Sitting behind a large desk, a startled-looking man wearing a tan suit was talking on the phone. Barquero took out a pistol while grabbing the man by his collar and pulling him up. The telephone receiver fell to the desk.

“What is this?” the panicked man asked as Barquero led him to the door, the pistol placed firmly in the middle of the man’s back.

“Walk,” Barquero growled. “Don’t make a scene.”

“Mr. Salazar, is everything all right?” the receptionist asked as the two men walked quickly past her. “Should I call security?”

“No,” the visibly shaken attorney said. “Everything is fine.” The two men went to the elevator lobby. Barquero pressed the “down” button. Back at her desk, the receptionist picked up the phone. Barquero watched as she turned her back while dialing. The elevator chimed as the doors opened. Quickly, he pulled his captive to the door leading to the stairs at the end of the line of elevators. When the receptionist turned back around, she saw that the two men were gone and elevator doors were closing.

“Security,” she said into the phone. Barquero dragged the man down two flights of stairs before stopping and pointing the gun’s silencer directly at the man’s forehead. The man’s face was ashen.

“Where is he?” Barquero asked.

“Who?”

Barquero thumbed back the hammer on the pistol. “You know.”

“I…I don’t what you’re talking about.”

Keeping the gun pointed at the man’s head, Barquero punched him hard in the liver. The man’s feet buckled. Barquero held him up against the wall.

“Your client. Your only client, Salazar,” Barquero said. “He’s in town. There’s a meeting. Where is it? Last time I ask, then I kill you and I’ll find your family. Now, where is he?”

“He’ll be at the warehouse late this afternoon.”

“What warehouse?”

“Here. In Monterrey.” The lawyer gave Barquero the building number for the warehouse.

“If you’re lying, I’ll find you.” Barquero’s large hand palmed the man’s entire face. He slammed the back of the man’s head into the concrete wall of the stairwell. Salazar’s body went limp. As he slid to the floor of the stairwell, his head left a long smear of blood on the wall. A few minutes later, Barquero emerged from the parking garage. A confused-looking attendant watched as the big man who had just walked under the parking lot gate disappeared from sight.