Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

Loco thoughts. He rubbed the little statue of La Santa Muerte on his seat, saying a small prayer for his soul. Wondering if the man he had boiled had also prayed to the patron saint of death. And whether that made them both insane.

*

Driving into the El Paso neighborhood known as Eagle, the sicario reflected that it didn’t look a whole lot different from Juárez. Very few trees, cinder-block houses with yards full of rock and dirt, and adobe dwellings interspersed with seedy automotive repair shops and convenience stores. Situated along the Chavez Border Highway, it was literally a stone’s throw from Mexico, butting right up against the Rio Grande River. The thought brought him some comfort that perhaps he could get away with what he’d been tasked.

He’d had no trouble crossing over and was glad he’d kept his passport up to date. He’d never used it to come into the United States but had always treasured it as a final out, a wild card that might come in handy should he be picked up by Mexican authorities—or should he need to run from other, less forgiving types.

The Paso del Norte crossing was northbound only, but he was sure the southbound crossing at Stanton Street would, if anything, be easier, since he would be headed into Mexico instead of the United States.

He turned left off of the Border Highway onto Park Street and began looking for the skate park. He crossed three intersections and started to wonder if the intelligence was wrong. At the fourth, he saw the corner of the park. He turned left again, now scanning for atmospherics. So far, so good. The Eagle neighborhood had a very high crime rate, but he wasn’t looking for police. He was searching for the street gang that owned this barrio and would be acting as lookouts for the Sinaloa cartel.

He took a left on South Hill Street, boxing his route in, and saw a tattooed hood wearing a dingy white wife-beater and jeans. He was lounging against the front wall of a meat market and talking to another street thug sitting on an overturned plastic bucket. The conversation stopped when his car came into view. They both eyeballed him as he turned, and the sicario wondered if this neighborhood was so close-knit that they’d know he didn’t have any business here. He ignored them, getting a quick glance at their side of the street, then driving past and looking to the left, away from their eyes so they couldn’t see his face. Giving them only a view of the wig and hat he wore.

Seventy-five meters down and he saw the safe house. It was a one-story brick structure with two windows, one on either side of a single door. Small, maybe three rooms total, butting right up to the sidewalk. No yard to speak of, which meant no chain-link fences to contend with. All in all, a plus for the sicario.

It was getting to be late afternoon, and while the sicario would have liked to wait until darkness, he wasn’t sure when the Sinaloa transporter would arrive. Once the reporter was loaded, there would be no chance of taking him. He drove around the block, passing the skate park again. This time, instead of continuing on, he stopped at the alley that ran behind the safe house, a dirty, narrow strip littered with trash. He backed up to the skate park and wedged his car in between two pickup trucks, getting it out of view.

He walked toward Hill Street, scanning left and right. When he reached the alley, having seen nothing alarming, he shifted left and went down it at a rapid pace, walking all the way to the next block. When he passed the safe house, he saw a back door, but it was heavily barred with a wrought-iron grate. Not an entrance, but it would work as an exit.

He circled back to his car, coming up with a plan. It would have to be quick and dirty, but with only one lookout position, they weren’t expecting trouble. At most, there would be three men inside to contend with. None would be expecting a threat, but that would change when he knocked on the door. They would arm themselves out of reflex. Unless …

9

The sicario picked up his pace and reached the skate park and his car. He drove it to the mouth of the alley, backing the vehicle just inside and off the street, but not close enough for the safe house to hear the engine. He threw his wig and hat into the backseat, lifted up a special compartment in the right rear door panel, and pulled out a suppressed Sig Sauer P226 nine-millimeter pistol. The weapon was bigger than he would have liked, made larger still by the five-inch suppressor, but it was necessary. He donned a specially made shoulder rig, seated the pistol, then put on a cheap nylon windbreaker to cover it.

He exited the car and began walking back around the block, toward South Hill Street and the meat market. He knew that the lookouts would focus on his bald skull and scorched forehead, and the image would preclude their brains from making any connection to the man who had just driven past. Which would cost them.

He turned the corner and walked with purpose straight toward the meat market, both gang members staring at him intently. He ignored them, stopping short of the building proper and veering toward a gate in the wooden fence that ensconced the market’s property. He opened it like he belonged and went through a six-foot-tall barricade that would preclude anyone from seeing what he was about to do. He searched the area with his eyes and saw nothing but old washing machines and beer cans. No windows on the building or witnesses in the yard. He knelt and called out in Spanish.

“Help me. Please come help.”

He waited, then repeated the call. Eventually, the one he’d seen on the bucket came through the gate, saying, “What do you want, cabrón?”

He jammed the suppressor into the thug’s throat and said, “Call your friend.”

The man splayed his hands out in a gesture of surrender.

The sicario waited a beat for compliance. When it didn’t occur, he twisted the barrel, pushing it deeper into the soft folds of flesh. “Call. Your. Friend.”

The man did, bleating like a goat. The sicario shot him from under the chin, the bullet going through the brain and taking out a section of skull as it exited the top. The body hitting the ground made more noise than the suppressed 226. He waited.

The wife-beater rounded the corner cursing, walking with a swagger. He saw the body a split second before he felt the suppressor at the base of his jaw, just below his ear. He, too, held his arms out.

The sicario said, “Do not talk. Just nod yes. You know the house you are protecting?”

A nod.

“We’re going over there, and you’re going to knock on the door. Get them to open it without alerting them something is wrong. If you fail, you will die. If you succeed, you can run away down the street. I’ll do the rest. Do you understand?”

Another nod, but this time with a snarl on his face.

Trouble.

“Put your arms down. Look at me.”

The man/boy did so, glaring at him with a challenge, showing he wasn’t concerned.

“I know whose house that is, and they are of no help to you. I am a Los Zetas sicario. Do you know what this means?”

The toughness cracked and the thug tentatively nodded.

He jammed the barrel deep into the soft fold of flesh beneath the jaw. “Do you understand what this means? For you?”

The gang member became visibly scared, staring at the molten scars on the sicario’s forehead.

“I have made many men such as you cry for death. Weeping and begging for their mothers. Your next few minutes will decide if you do the same. Let’s go.”

This time the gang member nodded vigorously. He’d heard the stories. Maybe even seen the pictures. He’d played at being tough in his own little fishbowl, had dealt out his own version of justice in the barrio, but understood the man with the gun operated in a whole different universe of pain.