The Polaris Protocol - Страница 6

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“So don’t get caught, Pelón. It’s just across the border, in an area nobody controls. It will be easy.”

Despite his fearsome reputation, the sicario still worked for a boss, was still subservient to the Zetas chain of command, and he knew exactly why he was being given the task. Someone would need to penetrate the border into El Paso, capture the guy, then return. Someone who had the ability to avoid a majority of the scrutiny at the bridge. Someone who knew how to get around in America.

The sicario didn’t fit the last requirement. He hadn’t been across to El Paso in over thirty-five years and had no idea what the city was like. But he did have the ability to get back and forth, since he had an American passport.

Because he’d been born there.

8

The sicario puttered in the northbound traffic on the Paso del Norte Bridge, seeing the line of cars snaking out before him. He’d done his research and knew it would be at least a two-hour wait. While the bridge operated twenty-four hours a day, he’d decided to cross when traffic was heaviest, giving the men working border control less of an incentive to focus on him.

Inching forward every few minutes, surrounded by all manner of cars, some seemingly held together by duct tape, he reflected on his future. Or more precisely, his lack of one.

From the beginning, the cartels had led a Darwinian existence of dog-eat-dog, with only the strong surviving. Even Osiel Cárdenas, the man who had created the original Zetas enforcement arm, had the nickname El Mata Amigos — the Friend Killer — because he had executed his partner to seize control of the Gulf cartel. Back then, though, there were lines. Reasons for the violence, with a degree of logic, because random killing was counterproductive for business. The sicario had seen that change.

The leadership of Los Zetas had become paranoid. Or maybe they were simply crazy, with the calculated thinking of the original members lost to the savagery of the animals who took over from below. It really didn’t matter why. In the past the sicario had killed for a purpose. Sending a signal to the authorities, getting revenge for transgressions, or simply showing the consequences should someone interfere with cartel business — it had all been designed to retain control. The killings were thought out before they were ordered, with potential repercussions discussed at least as much as the operation itself. Now Los Zetas butchered anyone suspected of working against them based on rumor alone, with no thought given to the fallout.

The man the sicario had boiled was one such target. Two days ago, he’d been a valued member of Los Zetas. Yesterday, he had become a target, simply because his boss, El Comandante, had heard he might be turning informant.

The sicario was sure El Comandante was crazy. He was like a dog that had been whipped, beaten, and thrown into fights to the death for so long he had lost all sense of what constituted reality. Sooner or later, it would be the sicario’s turn. Of that he was absolutely positive. The only reason it hadn’t happened yet was because he had never once shown anything but loyalty and had never indicated an interest in greater riches or power.

That, and because the sicario had been Los Zetas far longer than anyone else. Longer even than El Comandante. He was one of the few members of Los Zetas still alive from when they were the pipe swingers for the Gulf cartel. One of the original sicarios—and that fact, along with his reputation for brutality, held some importance.

He wondered if he himself was crazy. He thought he could discern it in others but wasn’t sure about himself. He didn’t believe he was, but in his heart he couldn’t see how anyone who executed such heinous deeds couldn’t be. He should have been eaten up with remorse or fearful of the afterlife. But he wasn’t. The acts, like the one earlier today, never bothered him. Didn’t that make him loco?

There was only one action that haunted him. Made him worry about where he would spend eternity. During the latter stages of the Guatemalan civil war, his Kaibil unit had been sent to “pacify” a village. They had slaughtered every man, woman, and child. After everything he had done since in the name of Los Zetas, this was the one event that haunted his dreams. Made him sweat when the memories surfaced. The campesinos running left and right like rabbits. The machetes falling. The blood. The stench of spilled intestines and chopped meat. It all returned at night while he slept.

The aftereffects of that operation had driven him into the arms of Los Zetas. He told himself it was because they paid infinitely more than the Guatemalan army, but in reality, he had decided that if he was going to kill, he wanted to kill someone who wasn’t innocent. As if Los Zetas knew the difference.

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.

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