Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

The screams were horrific, but Jack couldn’t turn away. Couldn’t stop watching the macabre scene. Eventually, using the knife like a shovel, the man dug out something the size of a large pill. He held it to the light, then dropped it on the floor and crushed it with a boot heel.

That had been over six hours ago, and when the lights blazed on again, Jack was almost catatonic in fear, praying he’d simply be locked into his eyebolt, the punishment going to someone else.

It didn’t work out that way. The bearded narco appeared and walked over to him. He said in Spanish, “Stand up.”

Jack pretended not to understand, and the man slapped his head hard enough to knock it into the wall.

He repeated, “Stand up.”

Jack did so.

The man cinched his arms in handcuffs and led him to the stairs. They broke out onto the second level, and Jack entered an ostentatious display of wealth, ornate statues and artwork competing with the gold leaf on the walls. They passed through a den, the far wall made of glass, and he glimpsed a pool surrounded by foliage resembling a rain forest. Before being led into another room, he saw a tiger walking amid the greenery. A live tiger.

The narco saw his expression and said, “We keep him hungry for a reason. If you’re lucky, we’ll only feed your body to him. Make El Comandante mad and you’ll be staked to a tree.” The man grinned and said, “It is not a pretty thing to see.”

Jack was still assimilating the words when he was jerked into a chair in front of a huge desk, looking like it had been made in the eighteenth century. He waited, taking shallow breaths.

The door opened and the bald man with the scar entered, taking a seat in the corner. The man said not a word, simply staring at him, his eyes burning with a weird glow. He perched on his chair like a bird, as if he would take flight at the slightest provocation. He rested his hands on his thighs and sat still, but his eyes were vibrating. Hypnotic. Jack turned away when the door opened again.

A short Latino with a protruding gut and a full mustache entered. He pulled a cigar out of a humidor on the giant desk and sat down, saying nothing. He clipped the end, then made a production out of lighting the cigar. He puffed a few times, getting the glow right, then turned his attention to Jack.

“Mr. Cahill, I’ve seen your reporting in Dallas. I’ve done my research. Enough to know that you have done the same. You know who I am?”

Jack shook his head. “I have no idea.”

The man scowled, obviously slighted, but said, “Yes, of course. That’s why I’m still alive. You do, however, know who I represent?”

Jack nodded vigorously, attempting to make up for his insult. “Yes. Los Zetas. I had no interest in you. I focus on Sinaloa. I’ve never done anything against you or your cartel. I’ve never reported against you. Please, killing an American reporter is suicide. Like Kiki Camarena.”

The man puffed, then smiled. “Oh, come on. You exaggerate your own importance. Don’t compare yourself to Mr. Camarena. He was a DEA agent. A man tied to the United States government. Someone they had to avenge. You are nothing but a reporter. Nobody will care. But why are we talking about death? I am the one who rescued you from that very fate.”

Jack waited, unsure of where the conversation was going.

“You were investigating the Sinaloa cartel and attended a meeting in El Paso. The Sinaloa men were creating a plan. Something worthy of killing an American reporter. As you state, those are high stakes. What were they doing? What is the plan?”

Confused, Jack said, “I have no idea. Please. They didn’t talk about Los Zetas. There was no discussion about you. I can’t help with any plans against your business.”

The man leaned back, saying nothing, the cigar smoke coiling around his head. When he spoke again, Jack knew his life was in the balance.

“You heard something that was important. Tell me what it was. Surely they weren’t going to kill you over a kilo of cocaine. Were they? Tell me there’s a reason I went to so much trouble to bring you here.”

Jack vomited everything he knew, detailing how the conversation involved information sharing and satellite GPS technology, but nothing to do with Sinaloa or drugs, begging the man to understand that he was telling the truth. Doing whatever he could to remain alive.

The narco’s eyes squinted, and he turned to the window, thinking. He said, “You know who this gringo contact is? What he looks like?”

Seeing a light flicker in the darkness, Jack said, “I don’t know who he is, but I can recognize him. I know what he looks like. I can help if I’m alive.”

The man considered his words, then said, “Pelón, what do you think?”

The bald man leaned forward and said, “I think you have brought more aggravation than it’s worth. He’s an American journalist. Not a peasant to shoot in the head. This will be trouble.”

The man laughed, a tinge of rabid hysteria slipping through. When the heaves subsided he said, “Pelón, my dear friend, you are paranoid. Who said anything about shooting Mr. Cahill in the head? What Sinaloa wants is what I want. Control of the Juárez plaza. If he helps, he will live. If he doesn’t, he will die.”

He focused his eyes on Jack. “The search for this man ends at the border. There is nobody in the United States coming for him.”

16

Jennifer held her breath, hearing the soft rustle of men jogging by. Her phone vibrated and she saw it was Pike. She ignored the call and sent a text.

Can’t talk.

She waited until she was sure the men had gone, then dialed him back.

He answered on the first ring. “Hey, I’m in Atlanta. Should I catch a flight to Dallas or El Paso?”

She kept her voice low. “Pike, I’m in Mexico, and I’m in trouble.”

She expected an outburst, but he was all business. “What’s the situation?”

She heard a noise outside and hung up.

She held her breath again, afraid to make any sound, not for the last time wishing she had paid attention to Pike and stayed in El Paso. The scuffling faded and she leaned back against the refuse, the stench of the Dumpster she was hiding within nearly overpowering.

A text came in. I’m coming.

It was of little use, since even if Pike was texting from inside an aircraft on the runway, he was still a good five or six hours away, but it gave her a needed boost in confidence, something that had faded after she’d left her car.

Once she’d decided on a direction, she’d gone only about five blocks, running between the concrete buildings, when two cars stopped at a house about seventy meters away—one of them a police vehicle. Two uniformed officers exited and split up, knocking on the doors to houses. She sprang out at the sight, almost giddy with relief. She was jogging toward the police car when a man came out of one of the houses and pointed in her direction. The policeman saw her and bellowed at the other car. The civilian vehicle spilled out men and she began sprinting in the other direction.

She had run blindly through the dilapidated neighborhoods, jumping over fences and zigzagging across lots, her speed much greater than that of the men chasing her. She’d eventually lost them inside a vulcanizing business, the back lot covered with stacks of old tires, some reaching ten feet in the air. She’d cut straight through, but the men chasing were forced to search, giving her breathing room. Jogging through an alley, she’d found a Dumpster behind a grocery store and decided to risk discovery by hiding rather than moving.

Pike’s call had been a long five hours ago, way before the sun began sinking below the horizon. She continued waiting until she saw the glow of a halogen security light on the corner of the store, wanting the darkness to cloak her heritage from anyone who saw her.