Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

El Barquero turned toward the sound of ATV engines firing to life as he gathered up the three heavy bundles of narcotics. Seeing the first vehicle crest the ridge behind a portly man about halfway down the slope, he knew he would have only about a minute before they could work their way completely down the ridge and cross the valley to his position. The red flare above him was starting to sputter as it drifted lazily toward the ground. In a few seconds, it would extinguish, giving him a chance to escape in the darkness. El Barquero lifted the awkward load and turned to make his escape. Just as the light from the flare burned itself out, he heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun shell being chambered.

“United States Border Patrol!” Agent Martin barked as he leveled his shotgun at the large man in the darkness. “I want your hands in the air where I can see them!”

El Barquero dove to his side as he sprayed a short burst from his submachine gun toward the man holding the shotgun. Agent Martin’s twelve-gauge shotgun roared in return, send a long flash of light out into the dark night. The shotgun’s powerful discharge impacted with one of the bundles of narcotics El Barquero had shielded himself with during his rolling dive. Firing another burst toward the agent, El Barquero abandoned the drug shipment and moved into the night to put distance between himself and his pursuer. Suddenly, another shotgun blast roared from Agent Martin’s weapon, quickly followed by another a few feet to his side.

“Maria, flank him to the east around that line of rocks!” Agent Martin hissed to Agent Diaz as she chambered another round in her shotgun. “I’ll flush him toward you!”

Agent Martin rushed into the desert night in pursuit of the giant Mexican. His lungs burned as he sprinted after the fleeing man through the desert brush for several hundred yards before stopping to catch his breath and take account of the situation. Rounding a large pile of rocks, he caught a brief glimpse of the man. Raising his shotgun to fire, El Barquero quickly whipped his weapon around and fired a long burst. The burst caught Agent Martin in his leg, sending him tumbling to the ground. El Barquero turned and charged at full speed back to the north, toward the high ground. Agent Martin, clutching his bleeding leg with one hand, reached for his radio with the other.

“Diaz!” he yelled. “I’m hit. He’s coming your way.”

Suddenly, El Barquero spotted another figure rounding the rocks, holding the distinct silhouette of a shotgun. El Barquero raised his weapon to fire at the same time as Agent Diaz. As Agent Diaz fired, El Barquero felt the impact in his side. The blow knocked him from his feet.

“Don’t move!” Agent Diaz commanded the man on the ground, his submachine resting at his side. “Don’t even think about it!”

As Agent Diaz approached the fallen man, El Barquero used a free hand to swivel the pistol stuck in his belt toward the agent, hoping the darkness would conceal the movement. As the woman approached, he fired twice in quick succession, one round hitting his target, who collapsed to the hard desert floor.

Leaping to his feet, El Barquero felt warm blood dripping down his side where the shotgun blast had partially impacted. Swallowing the searing pain from the wound, he limped off into the inky night toward the north. Quickly heading a hundred yards from the downed border patrol agent, he paused to don his night vision goggles to see if he was being followed. No one was coming, but El Barquero could clearly see that the men with the ATVs had reached the bodies of the three cartel drug smugglers. The men were attaching the bundles of narcotics to their machines.

“Quickly!” General X-Ray commanded his men. “Load up this contraband. I want it transported to headquarters immediately!”

“What about base camp?” asked Fire Team Leader Charlie.

“Leave it,” said the General as he scanned the darkness with both of his pearl-handled pistols drawn and cocked. “We’ll come back for it later. Didn’t you hear that gunfire? They’re still out there, armed and dangerous. We’ve got their despicable possessions. We can ransom it back to them and use the proceeds to fund our next operation.”

“How we going to find them to ransom this stuff?” asked Private Zulu, who had attached one of the bales to his ATV next to his taped-up coyote corpse.

“I don’t know!” spat the General. “Put a note on the International Bridge in Tornillo or something. I’ll figure it out. Now, Fire Team Leaders, are we loaded?”

“Yes,” the Fire Team Leaders all responded.

“Good. Private Foxtrot, you ride with Fire Team Bravo. I’ll ride shotgun with Fire Team Leader Alpha,” the General said as he climbed on the back of one of the ATVs.

“But, sir,” Private Foxtrot complained. “How are we going to fit three people and that burlap bag on one ATV?”

“Just make it happen!” the General replied. “Now, head south, men. Sooner or later we should intersect with the interstate and then follow it back to headquarters.”

El Barquero made his way up the slope to the north. From the top of the ridge, he turned and used his night vision equipment to locate the ATV-mounted men. He was standing in their abandoned campsite. Seething with anger, he watched the three ATVs loaded with men and his shipment making their way south. Quickly he searched the men’s campsite. Finding a first aid kit, he tore it open and bound his wounded midriff tightly with a compress, gauze, and tape. He’d lost some blood, maybe broken a rib or two. He definitely had some heavy buckshot in his side. He needed to get to someplace safe to recuperate. Noticing a set of laminated sheets on a makeshift table under the dining fly, he reviewed the topographical maps and a typewritten document entitled “Operation Land Shark.” The document with the mission overview was typed on stationery with the letterhead “Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia – Tornillo, Texas.” El Barquero memorized the STRAC-BOM headquarters address and phone number listed at the bottom of the document. His eyes raging with fire, he turned to take one last look at the ATVs leaving with his shipment of drugs before taking the zebra-striped dirt bike the militia had left behind and heading back to his vehicle in the desert.

Agent Diaz opened her eyes. Everything was dark. More importantly, everything hurt. A bullet had clipped her shoulder. The wound wasn’t life-threatening, but it was bleeding and it hurt like hell. As she tried to rise from her back, her vision spiraled and she collapsed back to the hard, dry ground. Putting her hand behind her head, she realized she was bleeding from there as well. Even though it was a glancing wound, the impact of the gunshot had knocked her over. She realized she must have split her head open on impact.

“Got to get up, just got to get up. Jesus!” she cried as she crunched herself forward before slumping back down again in pain. Agent Diaz took a dozen quick, deep breaths before trying again. “ Chica ! Don’t quit on me now, chica !” she hissed to herself, remembering her cruel instructor’s taunts in her border patrol training as she painfully raised herself upright. A few more deep breaths, and she made it to her feet. Using the butt of her shotgun as a crutch to lean on, she grabbed her radio.

“Hank!” she urgently cried. “Hank, can you hear me? Where are you?” She stared pleadingly at her radio, waiting for a reply. “Hank. Please. Are you there?” Getting no reply, she hobbled back toward the south to look for Hank. It took her five minutes to cover the distance before she saw her partner prone on the ground, lying in a dark pool of blood.