Revenge of the Assassin

Chapter 11

The air in Ciudad Juarez, across the Rio Grande River from El Paso, Texas, stank of sour exhaust and raw sewage. The downtown was dilapidated and reeked of disrepair; the ancient school buses that were the public transportation belched toxic fumes into the atmosphere as they groaned past platoons of impoverished workers on their way home from long shifts in the maquiladoras plants that dotted the city. Trash choked every gutter of the broken sidewalks; colorful chip bags and ice cream wrappers mingled with cigarette butts and sludge that the pedestrians moved cautiously around, ever mindful of random ruts and holes awaiting the unsuspecting. If there was a sorrier sight than Juarez by day, it was surely Juarez by night.

Handcarts wedged between battered cars served all manner of food for the work crowd; the odor of hot dogs and frying mystery meat wafted like a cloud past the bus stop where the young man waited patiently, reading a newspaper by the storefront light while he kept a wary eye on the bar across the street — a known hangout of the enforcers who worked for the Familia Morenos cartel, and a poor choice to frequent unless suicide was high on one’s wish list.

Juarez had earned the dubious distinction of being the most dangerous city on the planet that wasn’t in an active war zone. Fully forty percent of the population had evacuated over the prior five years, while the Sinaloa cartel and the Juarez cartel battled over the trafficking hub that led into the United States. The murder rate was a minimum of eight deaths per day, with bursts of executions during an active conflict easily driving the number into the double digits.

The armed wing of the Juarez cartel, La Linea, comprised former police officers and military specialists from the Mexican Special Forces, as well as street gang members. La Linea was especially feared, even among the routinely savage Juarez crew, because of their penchant for decapitations and mutilation. They had borrowed a page from the U.S.-backed regime in El Salvador during the Eighties, which regularly left the mutilated bodies of its victims in prominent areas as a warning to would-be rivals, and to keep the population subdued with fear. Hardly a week went by without a grotesquely butchered corpse being left in a central location. The papers had grown so accustomed to the slaughter that there was a sense of boredom to the daily stories of slayings and beheadings — it took a significant event to make a dent in the jaded sense of apathy that floated over the doomed city like a haze.

For the past two years, Sinaloa had battled it out in the city streets with the Juarez cartel, culminating in Sinaloa having appeared to have won the war after a particularly bloody massacre that claimed the lives of over fifty people in a single day. But other rivals to the throne quickly threw their hats in and joined the killing frenzy in a bid for power, and the result was that the town had remained a death zone, with a population that didn’t venture out at night for fear of armed onslaughts. The cartel factions also augmented their income by conducting kidnappings and murder-for-hire, as well as slavery, car theft, fraud, burglary…anything that could be done at the point of a gun for profit, making life in Juarez a kind of living hell for the innocent residents who were the natural prey for the criminal syndicates.

El Rey watched as groups of tired females clung to each other while waiting for their bus. In addition to all its other sins, Juarez had earned a position of disrepute for the serial murder of thousands of young women, attracted to the city by the promise of work in the multitude of factories that were the region’s only saving grace.

Multinational conglomerates had discovered the value of assembling their North American products on the border, leveraging the dirt-cheap labor cost in Mexico to create windfall profitability — all part of the miracle of globalization. But the workforce, which was mainly young women, had drawn predators in the form of organized serial killing gangs, in which the police and the local power elite were strongly suspected. Even after the official four hundred or so cases had been solved and attributed to bus drivers, street gangs and deviant killers, the unofficial estimate remained closer to five thousand, with mass graves their legacy. The government had been quick to proclaim the spree over seven years earlier, and yet women still disappeared with regularity, and the word on the street was that the killers were still active.

At one time, the city had boomed to an estimated two million population, but the constant violence had driven many from the region, and it had shrunk by seven hundred thousand. Blocks of abandoned homes and businesses abounded, mute testament to the impact of the cartel warfare that defined the area.

With the United States just across the river, Juarez remained a critical junction for drug trafficking, and so it was that new contenders continued to move into town to take on the entrenched players. The Morenos gang had appeared eighteen months before with a splash, and had immediately begun a campaign of systematic brutality that rivaled the most brazen and vicious in Mexico. The town was divided up into the equivalent of fiefdoms where the local warlords reigned supreme, with the most dangerous to Aranas’ Sinaloa group run by ‘Chacho’ Morenos, one of the most influential power players in the region, having forged a coalition with Aranas’ sworn enemies in the Zetas cartel.

None of which particularly bothered the young man, who was himself one of the earth’s most dangerous predators. El Rey had spent ten days in Juarez so far, plying the street criminals with cash to gain their confidence, buying drugs and a few weapons, which were both in plentiful supply. He’d maintained an aura of the underworld by claiming to be a high-end male prostitute for rich gringos, which his new movie-star features lent credence to, as did his choice of clothing, deliberately selected to maximize his flamboyant cover. He knew from experience that prostitutes were largely invisible in criminal circles, and so quickly had entre to many establishments that would have immediately questioned a young, fit male who wasn’t in the cartel game.

He’d learned that the second in command of the Familia Morenos liked to let off steam in the bar across the street, which was flanked by cars filled with armed sentries, as well as several police cars. Juarez was a city where money bought influence, including police guards to diminish the appeal of an assault. El Rey knew that there were thousands of soldiers in the town chartered with keeping the peace, but until recently they’d been strangely unable to locate the Sinaloa cartel’s outposts. That had all changed when the new regime had come into the government, and now Sinaloa was on the run, forced to keep a low profile. This had helped the Morenos solidify power in what would have been an impossible way just six short months earlier, when Sinaloa had maintained a stranglehold on the streets. Now the Juarez situation was in flux, and the Morenos’ ascent had emboldened other groups to come to town and challenge one and all for a piece of territory.

El Rey understood why this was an impossible circumstance for Aranas — it called into question his authority and created competitors in what had been a relatively stable corridor. The entire situation had been exacerbated by the armed forces cracking down on his group, telegraphing the message that it was open season on Sinaloa. In the delicate world of cartel power, any hint of disequilibrium invited in rivals, which was exactly what had happened. Aranas made five million dollars every evening in Juarez alone, so El Rey completely understood the reasoning of wanting his Morenos problem taken care of while he was available.

A dark green Escalade rolled up to the bar and stopped in front. Five men got out, all wearing cowboy hats and windbreakers, which hardly concealed their weapons. The smallest of the group was his objective for the evening — the number two man in the Morenos organization, Paco Aceviere. He would know where Chacho was hiding out, which would have to be nearby. You didn’t try to take over one of the gateways for narcotics smuggling into the U.S. on a remote basis. He had to be close by, so all that remained was to find out where and come up with a plan to exterminate him — a chore El Rey was more than confident he could undertake in short order.

He’d been watching the coming and going at the bar, and now that he had visual confirmation that the Familia Morenos’ captain was going in for a drink or three, it was just a matter of time and patience until the man led him to his boss. He toyed with the key fob in his shirt pocket and glanced down the block at the brown Ford Taurus he’d parked there hours ago. At least nobody had stolen his ride — that was a plus.

El Rey flipped the paper over to the sports section and began reading the coverage of the hotly contested soccer matches that were the nation’s fascination. It was a warm evening, and he had all night. Nobody gave him a second glance, other than an occasional older man curious about his wares. If you only knew, my friend, he thought to himself and smiled. It was going to be another long evening, he could tell, but the end was in sight.

Don Aranas answered the small cell phone the following afternoon and listened impassively as El Rey requested several items. He snapped his fingers and gestured, and one of his guards hurried to his side with a pen and sheet of paper. Aranas carefully wrote down the unfamiliar combination of letters, and then agreed that he would call back as soon as he had arranged for the desired items. Aranas lived in a world where anything could be had, for a price, no matter how exotic or esoteric. Still, after he hung up, he studied his note and shook his head.

This wouldn’t be easy. Then again, it was only money. The sooner he located the goods, the sooner one of his big headaches would be over.

He considered the errand and then placed another call, to the man who supplied his troops with whatever they needed. He would know where to acquire the assassin’s necessary tools. Of that, Aranas was sure. After a few minutes of back and forth, he disconnected. Nothing in life worth doing was cheap, and this had been no exception.

The estimated delivery time was three days, allowing for transatlantic shipment.

Aranas called El Rey back and relayed the news. They would arrange for pick up at one of his facilities in Juarez.

When Aranas hung up, it was with a sense of satisfaction. His nemesis would cease to exist before the week was done.

Five million was a bargain.