Standoff

Nineteen

We taxied to gates with a neon sign announcing AEROPUERTO INTERNACIONAL BENITO JUÁREZ.

Once inside the terminal, I witnessed the kind of fawning and obsequiousness usually reserved for powerful members of state as Apostles and his entourage, of which I was one, breezed through customs and immigration. Once out in the arrivals hall, we were met by a man in a chauffeur’s outfit, accompanied by a couple of bodyguards. He and his escort led us through the crowds. We passed an ATM without a queue so I stopped, fumbled with my wallet and fed the card into the slot.

“What are you doing?” It was Perez. He was right behind me.

I punched in the four-digit PIN.

“What does it look like?” I said, pressing the key for “English”. “Who passes up a chance to shop duty free, right?”

“Welcome, Mr Cooper,” the title on the ATM screen read.

“Get away from the machine,” Perez said as I pressed the key for 2000 MXN — around a hundred and sixty bucks — then the key for savings.

A sharp pain in my ribs made me jump. “Hey, what’s your problem?” I snapped at Perez.

“My problem is you,” he said, showing me the pearl-handled blade hidden in the palm of his hand. “Move.”

“That’s twice you’ve cut me,” I said, taking my card from the slot.

“You think I can’t count?” he replied, his Ray-Bans revealing nothing.

“Do it again and I’ll kill you,” I told him.

“Yes, I would like you to try.”

The cash appeared in the slot and I grabbed it. I could see Apostles and the rest of our party heading out the exit and hurried to catch them up, the blood welling from Perez’s jab sopped up by my black polo shirt, which also hid it.

Killing this nasty little fuck was something that needed to be done, but not before I found out what Apostles was up to.

Almost directly outside the exit was our ride, a Hummer stretched almost to breaking point. A small army in Lakers, Bulls and Celtics T-shirts and sweats, packing FN assault rifles, accompanied it, crowded into a pickup. Maybe they were there to stop the Hummer’s wheels being stolen. Pairs of Federales securing the area, armed with H&K MP-5s and wearing ski masks and sunglasses, ignored our party completely.

The drive in the Hummer was mercifully short — Perez’s little hurry up hurt like a bitch. I hoped stopping at that ATM had been worth it. The destination turned out to be a gated community around the other side of the airport called the Campestre, the entrance guarded by more Federales in ski masks with assault weapons.

Inside the gates, the traffic disappeared completely. We drove through a block with Applebee’s, Starbucks, Chili’s and other familiar names nestled beside various strip malls. All pretty normal — almost reassuring. And then the houses began: big, flashy homes with heavily barred windows and doors, more than a few showing neglect along with signs announcing that they were for sale. Buyers weren’t queuing. Ahead, the pickup swerved around a rock half the size of a small car sitting in the middle of the road. The Hummer took a slower, more careful detour around it.

“I can see you’re intrigued,” said Daniela, noting my eyes fixed on the obstacle.

She had me there.

“Boulders like that are all over the Campestre. The residents put them there to slow down the kidnappers so their guards could shoot them.”

I guessed that accounted for all the FOR SALE signs.

Ahead, the armed escort pulled over to the curb while the Hummer scribed a big quarter circle and came in behind it, bouncing into a wide driveway. A heavy steel gate closed behind us.

“We’re here,” said Daniela.

That was a relief. I wanted to see what damage Perez’s knife had done to my ribs and also change my shirt, though the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

“Here” was a sprawling monument to concrete and glass humming with air-conditioning motors, crawling with more of Apostles’ NBL-branded security. I followed Apostles and the twins inside where the temperature dropped into the temperate zone. “Lina, why don’t you show Vin to his room,” he said, his arm around her. To me, he said, “We’ll meet later. We must talk.”

Lina led me through the place, which echoed like a dungeon with every footfall. We climbed a curved staircase to the mezzanine level. Down below, I watched Apostles, Daniela and Perez mingle with various lieutenants and their spectacularly augmented girlfriends. I spotted a man among the party wearing an expensive suit and a mask. It was El Bruto, the lucha libra wrestler from the back page. Different suit but I’d recognize those jagged silver teeth and the scowling, angry expression anywhere. Hands were being shaken, backs slapped.

Lina cleared her throat.

“You’re here,” she said as I turned around, opening a door and revealing a king-size bed beyond it.

I walked past her into a room. It smelled of dead air. On a chest of drawers was a bottle of Glen Keith, a glass and an ice bucket. I licked my lips and picked up the bottle.

“El Santo looks after his guests,” she said reacting to my expression, which was probably close to rapture.

Seeing that bottle waiting for me was good and bad: good because Glen Keith was my favorite brand of single-malt scotch whiskey; and bad because Glen Keith was my favorite brand of single-malt scotch whiskey. Apostles’ intelligence had to be first class for him to know that. He’d been digging pretty deep. I cracked the seal on the screw top and savored the aroma. “Care for a belt?”

She shook her head. “I’ll wait for a martini.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“Downstairs,” she said, smiling. Up to that moment, I didn’t know she was capable of it. “There’s a bathroom through that door.” She nodded in its direction. “Everything you need.”

“And my bag?” I asked her.

“Coming.”

“Where does everyone else sleep?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“It’s not a loaded question.”

Loaded or not, she ignored it. “Leave your door unlocked. El Santo doesn’t like locked doors.”

“Can I go out?”

“Why would you want to go out?” she asked.

“Get my bearings. Stretch the legs. Have a steak at Applebee’s.”

“You’re in Juárez, that’s all the bearings you need. There’s a gym in the basement and we have a chef on staff. If you go out, you’ll be accompanied.”

“For my own protection?”

“Of course. And anyway, we’re going out soon.”

“Where to?”

“You’ll see.”

I let it go. “So tell me, what do you get out of this?”

“I’m sorry?”

“He likes twins. You and Daniela are not the first and you won’t be the last.”

“You’ve been listening to his wacko daughter.”

“She might have mentioned it.” It had also been part of Chalmers’ briefing, but I wisely kept that to myself.

“Arturo doesn’t like you or trust you.”

Arturo? And then I remembered: Arturo Perez. Arty. I had to smile. Someone named him when he was a baby, his mother most probably. Frankly, I couldn’t imagine the guy having a mother, or for that matter being anything other than a mean, tattooed, blade-wielding psychotic with dead eyes. “Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual.”

“You’re bleeding.” She nodded at my arm.

The blood had finally seeped through the shirt and slicked the inside of my bicep and elbow.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

She shrugged and looked around the room. The fact that Lina was satisfied with the lack of an answer told me folks bleeding profusely in her orbit was not so unusual. And if I wasn’t mistaken, the woman was lingering. She had questions, or maybe she wanted to tell me something. “There are clothes in the drawers,” she said. “They’re your size.”

If they could land my brand of sauce, I supposed a thirty-six-inch waist was a cinch. “I’ve got clothes in my bag.”

“It’s coming.”

“So you said.”

“I did.” She leaned against the doorjamb. I sat on the bed and bounced, testing the springs. Firm. The energy in the room was odd to say the least.

“You know, when we were kids, Daniela would pull the wings off butterflies and laugh about it as their little bodies quivered and curled up in agony,” she said.

I wondered where that had come from. “Meanwhile, what did you do?”

“Watched.”

“If you’re warning me off your sister, you don’t have to. I’m here to get work, not get laid.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her; the way she looks at you.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Are you always so full of yourself?”

“I like to test the limits,” I said.

“You’re way past them.” Her lip curled. “The point is, if I noticed it, so have others. Arturo, maybe. You should be careful. Otherwise that —” she pointed in the direction of my punctured rib cage — “might not be superficial next time.”

Before I could respond, a kid arrived with my bag. He wore ridiculous oversize convict jeans belted so tight around his knees that he was forced to walk funny. He placed the bag inside the door and waddled off with a sly backward glance at Lina.

“I have to go,” she said. “Don’t want people getting the wrong idea.”

“What idea is that?” Lina pushed herself off the doorjamb and walked away. No glance over the shoulder, not from her. I closed the door and wondered what had been the point of the visit, then put it out of my mind.

I picked up my bag and dropped it on the bed. Next stop, the bathroom. I stripped off the polo shirt, heavy with blood, and angled the cut toward the mirror to get a look at it. The jab in my side was around a centimeter deep between the eighth and ninth ribs. Cartilage had stopped the point of the blade from entering further. Perez was a craftsman. The prick had known exactly where to stick the blade and how much pressure to use. The wound was painful and it had bled profusely for a short period of time, but it was more of an inconvenience than a danger. With the slice on my hand, Perez had left his mark on me twice. I told myself I’d do what I could to return the favor.

I turned on the shower and went back into the room to get the phone charger and plug in my cell and, in so doing, confirm with CIA that both my Visa card and cell were in Juárez. And, of course, to throw back a couple of fingers of you know what. I took the glass into the bathroom and rested it on the basin while I checked the shower’s water temperature. There was a knock on the door. I turned the shower off, threw on a clean polo shirt before opening it and saw the kid in the jailhouse jeans. El Santo wanted me downstairs. I tossed back the rest of the scotch and followed.

“There have been developments,” Apostles said, reclining on a sofa away from the partying going on down the other end of the room, folks getting their groove on to Latino sounds. Apostles’ hands were behind his head, an ankle resting on his thigh. The body language was relaxed, but he was frowning about something.

Arty also sat on the sofa, but rigid and upright like he was skewered on a poker. Something was up.

“Your former fucking friends across the border have intercepted more of our product,” Apostles continued, like maybe I’d had something to do with it. “A significant amount — eighty million dollars’ worth.” He paused, took a deep breath, then screamed, “That’s over two hundred million fucking dollars your country has stolen from me in just two months!”

There wasn’t much I could say but I was thinking: “Go team.”

No one moved while Apostles got himself under control. He glared at me, his eyes red-rimmed with fury. “Tell me more about your plan to put my sales targets back on track.”

“What you need is a pilot,” I began.

“I have pilots.”

“I mean like the pilots who guide ships through difficult waters.”

Apostles was impatient. “And …?”

“From what I’ve seen, your aircraft are state of the art. With proper planning, I can get your planes on the ground without detection almost anywhere in the States. And because US air defenses are aimed out and not in, the further you get from the border the less likelihood there is that your aircraft will be deemed hostile. Civilian airspace control has tight corridors, ceiling and base heights. You just need to know when to fly low, when to fly high and what areas to avoid. As I said, with the right navigation systems and a little professional finesse, your aircraft can thread the eye of a needle and land somewhere more convenient to your contacts on the ground. Then we offload and return the way we came in.”

“You make it sound simple,” said Apostles.

“’Cause it is.”

“Do not trust him,” said Perez.

I ignored Arty. “I can do a trial run. Maybe land close to Austin or Houston — anywhere you’ve got people on the ground who can take delivery.”

“I don’t like it.” Perez wasn’t going to let it go.

Addressing Apostles, I said, “Okay, yes, you risk losing a plane and its cargo, but I’ll be on board the aircraft. It’ll be my ass going to prison if things land in the toilet. If it works, and I know it will, you can start flying in tons of product securely, a regular service virtually door-to-door. But there’s a catch.”

Perez glanced at Apostles. “And that is?” the boss asked.

“No one gets killed. If we leave a mess for the authorities to clean up, they’ll figure it all out and do whatever it takes to close any loopholes I find and you’ll be back where you started. The deal is we tiptoe in and leave the same way. We can’t have anything happening like the shit that went down at Horizon Airport.”

“We had nothing to do with that,” said Apostles. “I’m a businessman. That’s all I care about — business.”

“I don’t trust him,” said the broken record beside him, glaring at me with those unblinking pits.

“What do you need, apart from the airplanes and crews?” Apostles asked.

“A check on the navigation systems your aircraft use, charts to plan the route, a departure point, the delivery destination and a briefing session with the pilot.”

“And what do you want for this?” asked Perez.

“Two and a half percent,” Apostles replied. “Correct?”

I nodded.

“So we put twenty million dollars’ worth of cocaine in a plane with him and he flies off into the sunset,” said Perez. “Twenty million dollars and a plane worth whatever it’s worth. That’s a better return than two and a half percent. And he just has to do it once. With that kind of money, he can disappear. What’s to stop him?”

Apostles turned to his pal. “We put some reliable people on board. If there’s trouble, they bring him back and I give him to you. Fair?”

Perez nodded. He liked the sound of that. He showed me his teeth, small, sharp and yellow like rat incisors.

The twins appeared, their high heels clattering on the stonework like four sticks on a snare drum. I had no idea who was who. Daniela, or maybe it was Lina, wore a skin-tight burgundy dress that came to just below the knees and several carats of solitaire diamond around her throat. Lina, or maybe it was Daniela, wore the same outfit in a dark chocolate flavor, along with a similar-size rock at the base of her long neck. The makeup for both was smoldering, accentuating the lights in their eyes. Their hair was worn loose and a little wild.

“Can we go now?” asked the eye candy in burgundy.

Go? If Apostles and I could trade places I’d head straight for satin sheets and a bottle or two of chilled vintage French leg opener.

A man in his mid-twenties in a Bull’s T-shirt came in behind the twins and nodded at the boss — a signal.

“Si,” said Apostles, grunting the old-man-grunt as he pushed himself up off the couch. “Vamos.” We go. He turned to me and said, “Tomorrow, we will have work to do. Tonight, enjoy a little more of my hospitality.”

Waiting out front were two regular-size white Hummers with heavily tinted windows, accompanied by a pickup full of armed security bringing up the rear. Apostles and his twins got into the lead Hummer and closed the doors.

“There,” said Perez, motioning at the second Hummer for my benefit. I opened the door and climbed in. Perez entered from the other side and took the seat opposite.

The Hummers rolled, the pickup following.

“Where are we going?” I asked Perez.

He looked at me, said nothing.

“If it’s dancing, I’ll probably hang back,” I said. “I’m not a fan. How about you? You look like you could dance okay, being short and round and just a little chubby. I can see you doing the Chicken. You know that one?” I moved my arms like they were chicken wings.

No response from Perez.

“Yeah you do. Everyone knows the Chicken.”

“Creo que me voy a matar,” he growled — I think I’m going to kill you.

Maybe he disliked dancing more than I did.

The drive across town was uneventful. Perez stared at me. But maybe he was asleep and could do it with them open, like a horse. Whatever, I tried to ignore him and took in the passing view out the window. Juárez by night was mean and depressing. It was also largely deserted, odd for a city with around a million and a half people. I guessed the cartels and the gangs owned the hours between sunset and dawn.

We eventually arrived at a bustling parking lot managed by muscle-bound guys in suits with ponytails, directing arrivals. Our vehicles were ushered to the entrance where a VIP pit stop had been set up. This was some kind of event. The vehicle doors opened. Perez and I got out and together with Apostles and the twins were rushed by Apostles’ bodyguards through the crowded entrance. There was no wedge or protection diamond, which told me his security team had no real idea about how to provide close protection. Instead they kept behind our party, leaving us open to a frontal assault. Obviously Apostles had never been hit by pros. He was vulnerable.

And just then I bumped into a woman, part of the crowd heading in the opposite direction. For the briefest instant her heavily made-up eyes met mine as I felt something pressed into my hand. She was compact, wearing a micro mini that revealed smooth athletic legs. A black leather vest and push-up bra, a blond wig with large gold hoop earrings completed her look. I recognized the big brown eyes first. Claudia: Panda’s friend, former French CIA assassin, with the garrotte. With everyone distracted by the jostling crowd, I took a moment to glance into my hand to see what I’d been palmed: a small biscuit with the word CHEST burned onto it in capital letters. I crushed the biscuit to crumbs and let them scatter through my fingertips. Chest? What the hell was that about?

Inside, bright overhead lights illuminated a boxing ring and ear-splitting rock music boomed in the air. The seats, which tiered up to the roof, were filled with a shouting, beer-soaked crowd. Our seats were ringside, among cigar-smoking creeps accompanied by much younger women: nieces, the high-maintenance kind. Apostles and the twins fitted right in. I had no choice but to sit with Perez and hope nobody got the wrong idea.

I looked around, for all intents and purposes to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. In fact, I was looking for Claudia. It didn’t take long to find her, sitting close by, playing the role of a paid escort. I recognized her current employer without too much trouble, despite the ridiculous pin-striped suit, sunglasses and cigar — Panda.

A promoter jumped into the ring and welcomed the crowd, which went wild. A large banner dropped from the ceiling, unfurled and proclaimed that this was Death Match II. The announcer explained for the one person in the room who had no idea what was going on — namely, me — that this was an unsanctioned lucha libra match where two men would settle some score and literally fight to the death. But first, the preliminary bouts. The spotlight hit a door in the side of the venue and a guy in a gold cape and gold mask walked into it. Much of the crowd surged to its feet and the fighter raised his golden-gloved fist high. He walked toward the ring as the spotlight hit another doorway and a man in a black leotard with a black and white mask, the eyes outlined with circles so that the expression seemed permanently startled. His appearance was greeted with boos. He was a bigger build than the golden guy and he roared animal-like at the crowd, which didn’t appreciate it. The boos flooded back at him, louder. Goldie leaped agilely up and over the ropes and into the ring, full of confidence. The black guy started to walk toward the ring and then broke into a run while still some distance from it. And then he dived under the ropes, did a forward roll and carried the momentum into a high leap. Poised seemingly in midair above his quarry for a frozen second or two, he then came down with a vicious elbow on the crown of Goldie’s head. The blow took the guy completely by surprise. He stood there, not moving, and then collapsed onto the canvas as rigid as a tree, face first, apparently unconscious. The crowd, incensed, went berserk at this atrocity. Other wrestlers — all masked — surged from the doorways and charged the ring. The black guy pounded his chest and looked, well, startled. A costumed World War III was fought in the aisles by the wrestlers supporting the protagonists in the ring, while paramedics attended the downed fighter who was moving now, but as if his limbs were made from rubber.

I looked across at Apostles. He was shaking his head, as unhappy about the result as everyone else in the venue who were pretty much all baying for the blood pumping in the veins of the fighter in the black mask. The result had gone against the script. The golden guy was supposed to win — the triumph of good over evil and so forth. The guy in the black mask had caused the universe to tilt on its axis. Well, folks, not everything goes to plan. Or, in short, shit happens. I took it on board as an omen and wondered if Juan de Apostles was doing the same.

Several masked avengers went at each other over the next hour, leaping off turnbuckles, being slammed to the canvas, having shoulders pinned to the mat and then not pinned to the mat, back and forth. The fighters mostly danced rather than fought. It made me think that perhaps the opening fight had been staged too. The crowd enjoyed it but perhaps Panda and Claudia hadn’t; glancing over in their direction I saw that their seats were vacant.

Before the main event began, Perez got up from his chair and walked off, I presumed to the john. The twin in the chocolate dress beckoned me to close the gap. I moved across and took Perez’s seat.

“So, what do you think?” said the twin over the noise of the crowd.

“I think you’d go well with two shots of vodka in a martini glass,” I told her.

“What?”

She wasn’t sure she’d heard me right, over the racket, but then it clicked.

“No, not me,” she said, grinning. “This — the fights.”

“Is that what they’re doing?” I grinned back. “So which one are you? Daniela or Lina?”

“Guess.”

“I can’t,” I said. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“Daniela. We’re actually easy to tell apart, once you get to know us. In the meantime, I have a mole behind my ear and Lina doesn’t.” She showed me, sweeping her hair to one side and lifting the back of her ear. It was more of a freckle than a mole. “I’m the imperfect one.”

The announcer reached up and pulled the mike down as it descended from the ceiling. The place fell silent, the air crackling with electricity. The sound system boomed with the announcer’s voice. It was main event time. The crowd jumped to its feet and roared with expectation. The challenger’s legend came first. All I got was the name, “Blue Mystery”. Everyone cheered. El Bruto’s feats came next and everyone booed.

“Do you know what’s going on here?” Daniela asked.

“Someone’s making a lot of money,” I said.

“Aside from that.”

I shook my head. “No.”

The spotlight hit the door and a big man in a blue and white leotard appeared. The crowd welcomed him with boisterous enthusiasm. He held up his fist and walked toward the ring.

Daniela had to yell. “Technically speaking, this is an illegal bout. It’s un-sanctioned. No rules, anything goes. El Bruto is a rudos or bad guy and the Blue Mystery is a técnico — a good guy. The two have battled their whole careers with neither really getting the upper hand. They are both gods in Mexico. Then about a month ago, there was a lucha de apuesta or ‘match with wager’ between them. The winner got to unmask the loser, which is a huge insult. El Bruto won. Today is the rematch. It’s a máscara contra cabellera match or ‘mask versus hair’. Traditionally, in this kind of fight, if the hair loses, he must shave his head to display his humiliation. If the mask loses, he must remove his mask. But this is an unsanctioned event, so there’s a twist. If El Bruto loses the fight, he loses his mask. But if the Blue Mystery loses, then he must retire for good. Understand?”

“I’m a bit hazy on why Blue Mystery and not some other color.”

“It’s a mystery.” Daniela grinned again. “As I said, he’s a very popular fighter. It would be a national disaster if he loses.”

Perez returned and stood in front of me. He wanted his seat back and he wasn’t going to move. I shifted over, checking with Daniela as Perez’s bald head settled in between us. She shrugged.

The fight went on. And on. And on some more, every hold, leap and eye-gouge choreographed. But then, just when everyone thought the Blue Mystery was going to triumph over his old nemesis, El Bruto turned the tables on him — actually picking up a table from ringside and slamming it against the guy’s skull, which allowed him to pin the Mystery’s unconscious blue shoulders to the floor — and won. It was the end of the road for the blue guy. He had to hang up his leotard and cape. The crowd didn’t like it. Cans and empty Corona bottles were thrown from the back stalls toward the ring. I glanced at Apostles. He was smiling a private smile. The crowd might have lost, but he’d won. I wondered how much. Security materialized with umbrellas, defense against the rain of Corona, and held them over us as they jostled us toward the exit.

“Juan de Jesús del Los Apostles de Medellín!” I heard someone shout. There was a challenge in it, malice.

I turned around and saw … shit, it was Hector Gomez. He was standing side-on, maybe thirty feet away, dressed as a local in old jeans and stained Corona T-shirt. “Juan de Jesús del Los Apostles de Medellín!” he repeated. “Usted es un asesino!” You are a murderer, he said. And then a black pistol appeared in his hand.

Someone screamed. Realization dawned on Apostles and Perez, and on Apostles’ security. I froze along with everyone else, waiting for the shot.

And then Gomez shifted the angle of his gun from Apostles to me. I unfroze. My hand snapping back and finding the Sig. My reflexes weren’t going to hang around to get shot, even if the rest of me was. There had been the bump from Claudia. The small cookie in my hand — Chest. I fired twice. The shots went high, shattering glass panes above and behind Gomez. Dropping the sight, I fired again — twice. Hits. The rounds ripped into Gomez. The first caught him in the gut. The second in the rib cage, spinning him around. Blood sprayed across the concrete floor and Gomez fell to the ground. After a moment of silence like a collectively held breath, a couple of women screamed and the crowd broke into a stampede. Apostles’ security tried to get to Gomez but they couldn’t penetrate the masses surging out of the exits. So they did the next best thing and almost carried us to the Hummers.

I found myself in the vehicle with Apostles and the twins, all of whom were nervous and anxious. Shit. I’d just killed a buddy and that buddy was a Texas Ranger.