The Chupacabra: A Borderline Crazy Tale of Coyotes, Cash & Cartels (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Information

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One: Blood in the Desert

  Chapter Two: They Don't Name Emperors Buddy

  Chapter Three: Bingo!

  Chapter Four: The Padre's Border

  Chapter Five: Spherical Bastards

  Part Two

  Chapter Six: I Walk the Line

  Chapter Seven: You Go, Girls!

  Chapter Eight: The Chupacabra

  Chapter Nine: Firefight

  Part Three

  Chapter Ten: Motel Hell

  Chapter Eleven: Road Trip

  Chapter Twelve: Showdown

  Chapter Thirteen: Midnight Run

  Chapter Fourteen: It's Not a Party Until Someone Gets Shot

  Epilogue

  THE

  CHUPACABRA

  A Novel by

  Stephen Randel

  Knuckleball Press

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Stephen C. Randel

  Published by Knuckleball Press

  All rights reserved

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of Stephen C. Randel except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For Jill and Nancy

  In memory of Kip Rylander and George “Dark Star” Chapple

  Introduction

  Chupacabra - A legendary creature believed to inhabit parts of Latin America, particularly Mexico. Its name translates to “goat sucker.” The name comes from the creature’s reported habit of drinking the blood of its victims.

  While the chupacabra may or may not exist, the violence in Mexico is very real. Despite efforts by officials on both sides of the border, more than fifty thousand drug-related murders were reported between 2006 and 2011. Many of the victims were tortured first. Many were women or young people. The overwhelming majority of the weapons used in these crimes came from the United States.

  “Let’s just say that if complete and utter chaos were lightning, then he’d be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armor and shouting, ‘All gods are bastards.’”

  —Terry Pratchett

  Prologue

  Midnight was approaching, but the normally quiet residential street was alive with sirens and flashing lights. Several Austin police department officers filed in and out of the large white house facing the cordoned-off street. Standing in the middle of the street, two detectives surveyed the chaos.

  “So, Frank,” the taller of the two said. “What you got for me?”

  “Well, not exactly your typical scene.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yeah. This one is a hell of a mess.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Well, boss, for starters, over here we’ve got a car turned over on its side.”

  “I noticed,” the taller detective replied, glancing at the green sedan next to the curb precariously balanced on the driver’s-side door.

  “It’s full of cash. Big bills. Scattered everywhere.”

  “Okay.”

  “And a couple blocks from here we’ve got another car, partially burned out, with a trunk full of heroin.”

  “What about inside?” The senior detective nodded toward the house, sipping his coffee.

  “It’s bad. Real bad. Patrolman shot dead at close range. Died instantly.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Dale Clarke. You know him?”

  “Yeah. Damn.”

  “Inside we’ve also got the traumatized family of the retired doctor who owns the place and a bunch of little old ladies, friends of the family. One of them tried to bite me.”

  “Bite you?”

  “The feisty one did. You’ll spot her. The whole thing was some kind of home invasion. They were all tied up.”

  “Jesus.”

  “They saw Dale executed. Happened right in front of them.”

  “Can they I.D. the shooter?”

  “Absolutely. Hispanic male, and he’s really big. Actually, the best description is from an El Paso border patrol agent who was in the house also.”

  “El Paso border patrol? Up here?”

  “Yeah. I told you this was a mess. She claims to have fired at the shooter and hit him twice. Don’t know how she could have hit him, though. She’s got one arm in sling. Says the suspect is most likely a member of a Mexican drug cartel. Says this big fellow shot her and her partner a few days ago along the border during a surveillance operation. Says she was up here to question the doctor’s stepson about a string of murders and stolen narcotics out in West Texas. Thinks he might know something.”

  “Christ almighty. How the hell did these folks get messed up with cartels?”

  “Don’t know yet. Oh, and one other thing.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s kind of weird.”

  “What is it?”

  “In the back bedroom up on the second floor there’s a dead, hairless coyote wrapped up in duct tape.”

  “And why wouldn’t there be?” the senior detective replied sarcastically.

  “Boss, you ever see anything like this before?”

  “Nope.” The tall detective ambled slowly toward the house. “But it makes perfect sense.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s Monday.”

  “Monday?”

  “Yep. The really weird shit only happens to me on Mondays.”

  • • •

  Five days earlier…

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Blood in the Desert

  The two men shuffled through the scattered underbrush. Moving as quickly as possible with their awkward baggage, they wove their way toward the high ground that would mark the final part of their journey. Distant lightning cast crooked shadows that danced across the desert floor as the men pushed forward, wondering, if only for a second, whether the shadows were truly shadows or obsidian-colored serpents preparing for a venomous attack.

  They were scared, but only the younger of the two showed it on his face. It was a gamble sneaking across the border and into the United States this way. Most immigrants gladly paid the professional “coyotes” three thousand dollars to ferry them across the border to safe houses where they could contact friends or family to begin life anew away from the violence of their homeland, but these two men didn’t have the money. Instead, they agreed to carry these heavy burdens across the river and deliver them to a stranger. A drug cartel soldier waited for them a two-hour hike past their crossing point. In exchange, they would be rewarded, or at least they prayed it would work that way. They didn’t know what their parcels contained, but they could guess.

  The desert night air was cool, but both men were sweating profusely and breathing heavily. At night, the desert is alive with noise, but neither man heard anything except their labored breathing and the sound of their stumbling strides. The quicker they could make the top of the ridge, the better. The rendezvous spot was a half mile from there.

  “Victor,” Ernesto whispered. “How much furt
her?”

  “Not far.” Victor stopped to catch his breath.

  Moving alongside him, Ernesto wiped his brow. “Are you sure they’ll pay us what they promised?”

  “What do you mean?” Victor asked, noting the concern on the young man’s face.

  “I hear stories. Sometimes they don’t pay. They just kill you and leave your body for the coyotes once they have what they want.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Ernesto,” Victor scolded. “When we get there, let me do the talking. You say nothing. Come on, keep moving.”

  • • •

  El Barquero lay silently under the stormy sky of the Chihuahuan Desert. Three miles inside the United States border with Mexico, he continued his patient wait for the arrival of the cartel mules carrying their burden of burlap bags.

  Even prone on the desert floor, the bulk of the man was impressive. “Biggest damn Mexican you ever done saw,” more than one person had whispered. Standing six and a half feet tall and weighing more than two hundred and fifty pounds, every bit of it sculpted muscle, the bronze-skinned giant with a shaved head and pencil-thin mustache drew stares when he entered a room. But the stares never lasted long. It was his eyes. Dark and lifeless, a glimpse of them made even the most brazen of men avert their gaze as the uncontrollable desire to slink down and cower like a submissive dog overcame them. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, this man’s spirit was empty. Their coldness was matched by the malevolent and raspy growl of his deep voice.

  His vantage point on the ridge allowed full view of the valley below. He allowed himself to relax into a semi-meditative state, focusing on a single point at the far end of the basin. From years of killing in the dark, he knew the primary weakness of central vision was the lack of color cues at night. By focusing on a single point and shifting his concentration to the peripheral, he was more likely to spot the movement of the couriers. The valley floor was littered with creosote and mesquite trees. As a result, the mules could not march a straight line up to the cut in the ridge to meet their contact. And, of course, their contact wouldn’t be waiting for them like they expected with cold Jarritos, cash, and a ride to a motel room. El Barquero had taken care of that earlier. There would be no contact, only him. He would spot them as they wove through the rugged desert terrain. It was only a matter of time.

  He was known as El Barquero, “The Ferryman,” because of the particular delivery service he provided for a Mexican drug cartel. In Mexico, drugs and money were easy enough to procure, but guns were more difficult. This was his specialty, supplying the firearms that made the violence possible. It was good business. The vast majority of the firearms seized by Mexican authorities combating the drug cartels came from the United States. Guns from South America smuggled through Guatemala and rifles from Mexican soldiers who defected to work for the cartels for better pay were also available, but guns from the United States were still the primary tools of slaughter. Drugs and smuggled humans leached north; firearms passed them on the journey south.

  His name, El Barquero, had a second meaning as well. “The Ferryman” might just be the last person seen before crossing into the next world, particularly if he wasn’t paid.

  Tonight’s work was a side job. He made his living acquiring and delivering guns to a Mexican drug cartel. The cartel’s territory stretched across most of the Caribbean coast of Mexico and the eastern half of the Mexican border with Texas, but the recent bloody fighting between rival cartels for control of the coveted Juarez smuggling routes, the largest source of illegal drugs and human trafficking across the entire Mexican border, had created a dangerous but intriguing opportunity.

  El Barquero had recently intercepted drug shipments from both of the largest cartels in the Juarez region, knowing that each would blame the other for the losses and the bodies. No one would ever assume a single individual had the audacity to challenge two of the most violent criminal organizations in the world. However, if they found out, he would die, and more than likely, not quickly. Even his relationship with the cartel he worked for couldn’t protect him. In fact, if his extracurricular activities came to light, they’d have their own deadly plans for him. His employer had enough issues with infighting, internal corruption, and the increased efforts of Mexican and United States officials targeting the most senior levels of cartel authority. One of their own moonlighting as an independent assassin and thief targeting their chief rivals was the last thing they needed. The peace between the rival cartels was uneasy enough, and retribution was hardly an eye for an eye. Payback scaled geometrically. If someone dies, then someone else’s family dies, along with every family on the block. No, he needed to make sure that no one knew what he was doing. That’s why the informants from whom he extracted information regarding shipment routes never showed up again. Most likely, if you ever met El Barquero, you only met him once.

  Tonight’s job was perfect. It was a small shipment. Escalated border patrol activity in this part of Texas had led to the increased use of one- and two-man mule teams to move the valuable product to rendezvous points inside the border. Inevitably, shipments would be interdicted, and the risk of losing substantial amounts of product in a single failed smuggling attempt made small shipments attractive from a risk-return standpoint. It also made intercepting them easier. The mules would most likely be untrained and unarmed, not valuable cartel soldiers. El Barquero wasn’t taking any chances tonight.

  A faint movement caught his attention. Was it a man or something blowing in the wind that was starting to build as the storm approached? El Barquero slowly reached for the rifle resting beside him. He extended the rifle’s bipod and pushed his burly shoulder into the weapon. The Barrett sniper rifle was an evil-looking tool. Nearly five feet long, the ominous black weapon effectively fired a fifty-caliber projectile at targets over a mile away. Capable of disabling vehicles or punching through concrete walls, it hit a man like a deadly anvil. He moved his eye to the rifle’s day/night optic and scanned the valley floor, where he spotted the movement. He could clearly see the two men hunched over with their heavy loads, advancing up the east side of basin. They would have to traverse the terrain directly in front of him to reach the path up the west side of the ridge. As they started up the path a half mile below, they would be coming directly toward him. Everything was going as planned. This was going to be easy.

  • • •

  The two men had slowed their pace as the ground began to rise.

  “Where are you…where are you going to go once we are finished?” Ernesto asked, pausing to catch his breath.

  “Head west to Phoenix. I have some friends that can help me with documents for work,” Victor replied, looking back at his companion. “How about you? Any family here?”

  “No.”

  “What will you do, then?”

  “Try to find work,” Ernesto said. “Then buy a car, a really fast car. A real man needs a car.”

  “Cars are cheaper in Mexico.”

  “I know,” Ernesto said despondently. He looked up at the dark, stormy sky. It seemed to go on forever. He imagined all the possibilities for him in the United States. “But a man with a car in America lives a better life than a man with a car in Mexico, even if the car costs a hundred times more.”

  “Well, I hope you get your car,” said Victor.

  • • •

  In the darkness below El Barquero, the two men had paused for a minute before continuing to make their way to the cut in the ridge. El Barquero had worried for a moment that the men were lost and would backtrack down the valley. He didn’t want to chase them. As they reached the western side of the valley and headed toward him, he chambered a round in his weapon. He preferred to only fire once. The rolling thunder would help to cover the sound of the rifle, but its report was loud, and anyone in the immediate area would notice. He had scanned the area earlier and hadn’t seen any evidence of others, but with border patrol and even civilian militia groups active along the border, he wanted to be careful. His targets
were walking one in front of the other. The men wove back and forth between the brush and rocks, one passing in front of the other every few seconds. He released the rifle’s safety, placed his finger on the trigger, and relaxed into the long gun. A roll of thunder rumbled across the desert. In between heartbeats, just before the men crossed each other’s path, he fired. The recoil drove down his spine as the bullet left the barrel. The two men had their heads down, watching the trail. They didn’t see the muzzle flash, and they wouldn’t hear the sound of the gun before the deadly fist of a projectile reached them.

  • • •

  Ernesto was walking behind Victor. He heard a dull thump in front of him, and then everything went black.

  • • •

  The roar of the gun mixed with the rumble of thunder and faded down the valley and into the night air. Both men were down. El Barquero watched and listened for a minute. Nothing. He rose from his position and slung the heavy rifle over his shoulder. Pausing briefly to retrieve the spent shell casing, he headed down the trail to retrieve the shipment.

  As he cautiously approached the bodies, he continued to scan the horizon for movement. As he came closer, he heard faint breathing. The man in front was clearly dead. The round had entered his sternum and nearly torn him in half, but the second man was still alive. The heavy bullet had passed through the first man and hit the second man in his shoulder. The young man was trembling and struggling to breathe as the shock of the impact began to wear off.

  El Barquero stared into the panic-stricken eyes of the young man as he knelt and carefully placed his heavy rifle on the rugged ground. Slowly he reached behind his back for the two curved metal blades in the waistband of his black trousers. They flickered in the strobe effect of the half-light and lightning. He would go to work on the bodies. He would start with the man who was still alive.