Recluse:The Induction

  Chapter Eight

  Somewhere in México

  It was late evening. The orange sun rays were spread out across the Mexican skies behind the high Sierra Madre Mountain ranges in the distance. Below in the valley, headlights from a Metallic black Ford Ranger pickup truck with no license plates also beamed following a yellow strip on the black tarmac. It was heading for the mountain ranges. The road was deserted except for a few road side houses that occasionally appeared and vanished as the truck sped along to the agreed rendezvous location.

  An hour later, the car slowed down, its headlights flashing onto a wooden sign post on the left side of the tarmac. On the signpost were scribbles in Spanish - Ley y orden no son toleradas aquí- ‘Law and order are not tolerated here.’ Turning left off the tarmac, the car descended into a single-track dirt road. Another twenty minutes further, another wooden sign post emerged, this one ordering the occupants out of the vehicle.

  ‘It’s a check point. We need to get out.’ Ramona said bringing the huge truck to a slow halt. She turned the car engine off, its headlights, and stepped out. Swallowing hard, a nervous Rodriquez too opened the passenger door and stepped out into the cold darkness. His brown baroques firmly leaving imprints in the powdery soil underneath as he made his way to the front of the truck where Ramona stood. A chilly dry wind fiercely rushed against his face bringing along with it exotic scents. It was very dark out here. He could hear loud cricket chirps ring about him. One couldn’t be sure if they were being watched or guns leveled at them. This was México after all.

  Earlier, the helicopter ride had taken a little under two hours before dropping them at an abandoned ironclad curved warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Inside, hidden from prying eyes, a black ford pickup truck had been readied to transport them. Rodriquez thought they’d been dropped near the city of Culiacan but Ramona had instead driven them into another city, Chihuahua. Upon arrival, Ramona had had them booked into an eighteenth century weathered plastered building located in a poorly lit filthy back street.

  ‘Welcome to Casa Del Nopal guest house.’ a jovial looking heavy set ponytailed man dressed in light brown pajamas had gleefully addressed his guests. The man had exhaled an overpowering tobacco breath too. Rodriquez suspected he had been expecting them. Inside the cramped dim lobby, Rodriquez had noticed a black WASR-10 rifle placed in a corner behind the brown counter. The man, Rodriquez guessed, wasn’t one to take chances either. Smiling profusely though, the host had led his exhausted guests to a door which opened into an enclosed courtyard and had pointed to two adjacent rooms at the extreme end.

  ‘Keys are in the door locks, goodnight.’ He’d muffled before wobbling off back into the bar area.

  ‘We will set off tomorrow, four o’clock, goodnight.’ Ramona had said before shutting the door behind her. From the time Ramona had identified herself up until then, she had barely spoken more than a few sentences to him which made things a little easier on his part. So far, she seemed more concerned with making the drop than engaging her ‘package'. She looked drilled for these kinds of assignments. The pony tail, lean army green Capri pants, and a black tank top, trainer shoes and the pensive, expressionless face, all put together, confirmed Rodriquez’ theory. So far, he too had managed to keep silent throughout the journey. A lengthy conversation with her could invariably raise suspicions regarding his true identity. He didn’t want to think of the ramifications. He would either have to kill her or be killed.

  He had dropped on top of the bed exhausted, but failed to sleep. Images of Natalia had filled his mind. Her lifeless body slumped on the morgue tray, her ghostly eyes staring back at him. 'What kind of person strangles someone already in a coma?' he had mused sadly. He was certain the four had been sent by Marcelo. A deep sadness had engulfed him. He recalled sadly that he never got to say goodbye to either Natalia or Mariana. He had never felt more alone in this world. His beautiful family destroyed by a drug lord, Marcelo. Rodriquez knew Marcelo’s gang Amigos dos Amigos were an extension of the Sinaloa Cartel. The Sinaloa’s drug empire had extended its tentacles to Brazil too. He would attack Marcelo at the source. He would take away all that Marcelo held dear. He wanted Marcelo to suffer too just like he was suffering even if it might cost him his life. He was determined to see it through. Its why he had risked coming this far and as he had continued to stare onto the darkened stale room’s ceiling, he knew come tomorrow, Marcelo’s life would never be the same again.

  Feeling through his trouser pockets for his passport, Rodriquez felt relieved it was still intact. Then almost instinctively he placed his hands inside his pale grey sweater again feeling for the flash. It too was still there. A minute went by in silence. What were they still doing out in the cold? He wondered. Adjusting his eyes to the darkness, he could faintly see Ramona’s head cocked, listening for a signal of some sort. He wanted to ask the brunette where they were but was cut short by a sound close by, a low whistling sound. It was melodic, distinct. One could easily have mistook it for sounds coming from the Pichichi, a black bellied whistling duck, a native bird in these parts. Ramona promptly returned the signal with a whistling sound similar to the one Rodriquez had just heard. Next, he heard crackling sounds, footsteps.

  Narrowing his eyes, he tried to make out what was headed their way, his heart racing. He glanced towards Ramona, she hadn’t moved. He didn’t want to show her he was afraid. Just then, seven or eight figures holding what appeared like sticks or guns emerged from the darkness closing in on Rodriquez and Ramona.

  Ramona saluted the men before turning to face a frightened Rodriquez.

  'These men,' she said, 'will take to you to El Chapo. Do take extra precautions or else you will answer for any flaws in the security detail. So, follow their orders.’

  Rodriquez was body searched, blindfolded and frog marched through prickly vegetation and sifting soils up through steep slopes for almost thirty minutes before being halted and his fold removed. He was standing in front of a steel reinforced door.

  He was led through the steel door, through a narrow dark corridor, past another heavily barricaded door into what looked like a living room. Upon entering the room, he was immediately accosted by a stale repugnant odor similar to a cat’s urine. Silver paper foils lay starched into the room’s windows reflecting back light from a round bulb hanging above his head on a badly painted white ceiling. Below the covered windows in the corner, sat a visibly old gloomy green sofa set. Closer to Rodriquez, was a rugged looking coffee brown table and a lean brown chair right next to where he stood. Across the coffee table and facing him, sat a man staring intently at him. His narrow brown eyes were intense. His hair was hidden under a blue baseball cap. The man, Rodriquez observed, had thick cheeks and a thick black caterpillar moustache. His long sleeved shirt, white in color, was slightly folded at the wrists and in its front pocket were dollars bills peering through visibly. Behind him stood three figures with faces firmly wrapped behind multicolored bandana folds. Rodriquez could see that the two who stood on the right held AK-47’s and the third man on the left who appeared remarkably taller than the other two stood brandishing an M4 Carbine with a Beta C-Mag double magazine. Rodriquez guessed the seemingly very powerful weapons had possibly been smuggled across the American border or had been stolen from the Mexican police or military.

  ‘Señor, you are welcome to Santa Gertrudis. Please, take a sit.' The seated man with a moustache said without extending his hand. He addressed Rodriquez in fluent Spanish. He then made a hand gesture to the men who had brought Rodriquez in. These promptly retreated shutting the door behind them.

  Santa Gertrudis- Rodriquez recognized the name at once. Santa Gertrudis was known as the heart of the golden triangle of narcotics, a pioneer area of poppy cultivation and cradle of drug capos internationally renowned.

  ‘I like to think of this place as my small kingdom. Look around, with money you can buy an entire town.’ The man said proudly, ‘My mother once told me, I would never have money because I was a
lways giving it away.’ This, he said flashing a smile across his huge face.

  ‘Señor,’ the thick mustache continued, ‘I may be many things to many people, but first and foremost, I’m a farmer. You see, I once worked on a plantation with my father and brothers and in a way, I have remained true to my calling of producing stuff.’ He said gazing pointedly at Rodriquez, ‘I now feed the world on heroin, marijuana, and Ice-crystal methamphetamine. Tú entiendes –you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’ Rodriquez replied feigning a smile.

  ‘I am Joaquín Guzmán Loera, lord of Sinaloa federation.’ The man said. His eyes did not seem to blink. ‘So El matimatico, you say you have something that might interest me.’

  ‘I do.’ Rodriquez replied.

  ‘Go on, show me.’

  Rodriquez reached into his pocket retrieving the 32GB white flash driver, but froze when he found himself staring at three drawn gun muzzles.

  ‘Calm down Señor.’ Guzman interjected beckoning with his hand to his men to put away their guns. ‘My men, just like me, trust no one. What is on it?’ he asked, his face grinning.

  Nervous, Rodriquez began to explain what was contained on the flash.

  ‘It’s a video recording of one of your former lieutenants, José Vázquez a.k.a Wild Boar. It shows a visibly drunk Vasquez in what looks like a bar or in a night club in Rio de Janeiro speaking to a DEA informant. In the video, José Vázquez talks about tactics and strategies employed by your cartel to evade detection in their operations, also the command-and-control stations placed along key highways for monitoring cameras. He speaks of weapons smuggling rings spanning from California, Detroit, Atlanta, Las Vegas, and Chicago to Texas operating unhindered with the cooperation of local police in those cities. He goes on to list local Mexican politicians on the Sinaloa pay role all the way from local, state to federal levels. Vazquez also gives a detailed account of the logistics involved in fighting with other cartels including leaking rival leaders’ possible hideouts to the authorities in return for immunity and impunity in your own operations and how the Sinaloa is paying massive bribes to US border patrol.’

  Rodriquez’ Intel had informed him that until his arrest, the man known as the Wild Boer- José Vázquez was in charge of the Cartel’s weapons shipments, controlling drug trafficking routes from Colombia, Brazil, and Venezuela through México to the United States. So, he was an asset to Guzman.

  ‘I’m going to tell you one thing, Señor.’ The man finally spoke, ‘I’m responsible for the blood alliance and Federation of the Sinaloa. That’s me. But right now, I’m fleeing and moving from place to place for many things they blame us for. Who blame us?’ His eyes narrowing even further.

  ‘We are blamed by the entire media fraternity, the DEA, and the bloody Mexican government. They, my friend are the goddamn criminals. I’m sick of making payments to the DEA for shipments and monthly payments to the federales. You understand?’

  Rodriquez could sense he was getting agitated.

  ‘Well, you see Señor in this business you can’t trust anybody.’ Guzman continued, ‘There are too many snitches swirling around, you understand?’

  Rodriquez could also sense the anger in his voice.

  ‘This organization to which I belong like all, has its structures, its congress and we don’t do what I order or what I say but we do what we believe is convenient to the interests of all stakeholders, but,’ pointing to himself, ‘we are also a necessary evil. Unfortunately or fortunately, we are here. If we weren’t, another group would come and take our place and who knows what would happen next? Someone has to regulate the sale and flow of Naco into the Promised Land, and in a sense, keep the peace on that side of the pond. But if José was a snitch like you say, then all I can say is, he was a trusted member in the Sinaloa, one I entrusted delicate information. But look Señor, we are not here to fix the world. It’s just business. There are people who dedicate themselves to this kind of business and I just happen to be one of them. You understand?’

  Rodriquez understood. He knew Guzman was being vague, smart and cunning. Rodriquez also knew he had to be careful around this man.

  'I must get him to see things my way. The problem is how.' Rodriquez silently pondered.

  ‘If I may ask, how did you come across this vital information?’ Guzman asked his unlined face fixed on Rodriquez.

  ‘I have my own way of doing things, gathering information.’

  ‘And these ways of yours, are quite effective?’

  ‘I suppose they are.’ Rodriquez said pointing his right hand index finger at the white flash he had placed on the coffee table a few inches from where Guzman sat.

  ‘Okay, what is it you want?’ Guzman suddenly asked.

  ‘I am not done yet, there is something else.’ Rodriquez replied.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Jose Vazquez was set up.’

  ‘So you have reason to believe José was betrayed?’ Guzman asked, his narrow eyes widening to reveal a red pigment. Rodriquez could see his face had changed expression, he was now brooding.

  ‘Yes, by someone inside the federation, a snitch.’ Rodriquez affirmed.

  ‘There are things in our codes that can and cannot be done.’ Said the man, ‘We are conscience of our brand image if I may put it that way, you understand? Here my friend, everyone can do what they want but the only things we don’t allow is consumption of ice, rape, kidnappings, extortion and most of all, being a bloody snitch. I can’t forgive you if you break these codes, you understand?’ Guzman’s face had turned darkly. ‘I believe you’ve heard of the legend of Heraclio Bernal, the Sinaloan bandit.’ Guzman inquired.

  ‘No, am afraid not.’ Rodriquez answered. He hadn’t expected the conversation to switch so drastically.

  ‘Well, you see Señor, Heraclio Bernal was a thief from southern Sinaloa in the late eighteen hundreds, a popular thief I must add. He stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Later, he became an anti-government rebel. The governor at the time called Cañedo, a jealous power hungry man offered a hefty reward for Heraclio Bernal’s capture. For a while, the locals protected him until a colleague betrayed him.

  ‘That was very unfortunate.’ reasoned Rodriquez out loud not knowing what else to say or what Guzman was alluding to.

  ‘The question I put to you Señor is this. Could José be a reincarnation of Heraclio Bernal and you, El matimatico, his murderous colleague?' Guzman asked. His face was now expressionless. Rodriquez’ heart leaped.

  ‘I cannot say I know the man,’ answered Rodriquez, ‘because I never met him in person, but what I know for sure is this. The DEA informant he met with was a young Brazilian woman called Isabella.’

  ‘Where then might we possibly find this Isabella?’ asked the Cartel kingpin.

  ‘Unfortunately, she was murdered last week in the Rochina favela of Rio de Janeiro by a priest called Aurelio.’

  ‘Ironic I must say,’ said Guzman, ‘but not at all farfetched. Information reaching me from Brazil is quite astonishing. Our people are fighting each other for control of the market, and most dealers are high on crack. They seem to forget the number one rule in this business,-Nunca fume su propia mercancía -Never smoke your own merchandise- and for this reason, I would love to pay Rio a visit, establish a market for ice instead. However Señor, you say this Isabella girl was murdered by this priest Aurelio, no?’

  ‘Yes she was.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He knew she was in possession of the information on this flash,’ answered Rodriquez, ‘and she was going to pass it on to someone else. He had strict orders to intercept her before she made the drop.’

  ‘Who was she to pass the information to? And who sent this ‘priest’ after her?’

  ‘The same Man who had Jose Vazquez set up. That same man works also for you.’ Rodriquez affirmed.

  ‘Am intrigued Señor, I want to know who this sophisticated man in my organization is.’

  ‘His name is Alfonso Marcelo, the Le
ader of Amigos dos Amigos gang.’

  The Sinaloa boss’ face turned bug-eyed, and almost immediately, he let out a crackling sound. In his long career with the Polícia Civil criminal division, Rodriquez had been in countless bizarre situations. His boss, Delegado Antonio always said, ‘In our profession, expecting the unexpected is to be expected.’ Rodriquez sensed that this was about to turn into one of those situations.

  His mind began reeling. The man seated right across the table seemed to doubt him. The Cartel kingpin had in fact laughed it off, something Rodriquez hadn’t expected. If his assertion wasn’t being taken seriously, now was the time to test that theory.

  He reached out his hand to withdraw the flash disk he had placed in the middle of the table between himself and Guzman but was met by a grave stare from his host. Instinctively, he withdrew his arm without retrieving the flash. What was he to do now? Rodriquez mused. He knew that dealing with such men was always a dicey affair, in most cases one was certain to end up dead, a violent death. After a sustained glare fixed on him as though the man was trying to read his mind, the Sinaloa drug Tsar finally spoke.

  ‘You see Señor El matimatico, for a moment you almost had me fooled, or should I call you Detective Rodrigo Rodriquez.’

  Rodriquez tensed.

  His cover had been blown, but how? He hadn’t told anyone back in Brazil where he was going, and had also been careful not to leave any traces. Someone must have been trailing me. He had gone off the grid, damped his phone and avoided using any of his numerous undercover identities known to his superiors. He also had had all his Raven-black hair shaved off, worn a fake brown moustache and inserted fake teeth into his mouth. The transformation had been remarkable. He had gone on to take a passport snap using a Polaroid instant camera, meticulously slide it into a genuine dark green Mexican Pasaporte acquired on the morning of his flight day after greasing some hands at the Mexican consulate in Rio de Janeiro. No, someone knew who he was long before he landed in Mexico. Ramona! Who was she anyway? She had deliberately selected a flight sit next to his, which meant she knew exactly who he was. She must have been trailing him all along. His head began to hurt.

  ‘Señor, you don’t look well, anything the matter?’ Guzman asked while gently stroking his thick black moustache. Rodriquez remained frozen on the seat. Turning, Guzman gestured to the armed guard standing to his right and the hooded man proceeded to hush some incoherent words into a mobile phone. What had initially appeared to Rodriquez like another metallic barricaded window on the left rattled loudly, and a man’s face came into view. Rodriquez felt a jolt in his spine as their eyes met recognizing the man instantly.

  The stranger had a distinct receding hairline and mud-brown eyes which seemed to flicker mischievously. As the man calmly strode to where Guzman sat, Rodriquez nervously scanned his every movement. The man bent low whispering into Guzman’s ear. A moment later, the stranger was handed the modem the kingpin had retrieved from the coffee table. He straightened his frame, dusted something off his black buttoned-down shirt and khaki trousers before stealthy vanishing through the same door. Rodriquez was more than certain he’d seen the same man in the favela on the night Isabella was murdered. Oh! The man with the wine bottle! Rodriquez tried recalling the name inscribed on the bottle, Cabernet Sauvignon.

  The same man had shown up again at the Hospital in the company of three other men that same night his beloved Natalia was strangled and now, he was here too. Who was this man? It was inconceivable he could have tailed Rodriquez all the way from Rio de Janeiro to isolated Santa Gertrudis in Mexico but he was here all the same. Maybe again, it was he who had revealed Rodriquez’ true identity to the Sinaloa boss. Rodriquez was now certain that this man, whoever he was, worked for the Sinaloa Cartel and the Sinaloa cartel had something to do with the murder of the girl in the Rochina.

  Rodriquez recalled that before had snapped the neck of the deranged priest, the crazy man had screamed out,

  ‘I know who you are Rodriquez, you, you are El Matimatico!’

  He had also raved about how he knew Rodriquez worked for the Sinaloa cartel in Mexico and how they were desperate to get their hands on the modem.

  ‘I even know your password, you fool. I know it.’ The priest had gone on to reveal the password, the same password Rodriquez had used to log into the Cartel’s site. It was now plausible the Cartel also knew about the murder of the priest. Maybe the stranger was here to avenge the murder of the priest. Rodriquez’ body stiffened. He also had failed miserably. He had sought to avenge his family’s murders but instead was now staring death in the eye. His lifeless body would no doubt be damped in a shallow unmarked grave, somewhere in Santa Gertudis. His only consolation was he would soon be reunited with his wife and daughter in the nether world.

  Standing up, the Sinaloa drug lord appeared remarkably shorter in stature than his three guards. His round waist revealed a Silver metallic pistol tucked inside his beltless faded blue Jean trouser.

  ‘I’m a busy man Señor. I would love to stick around and chit chat but duty calls.’ He said rubbing his thick hands onto his protruding belly while smiling at Rodriquez.

  ‘You see, the flash also happens to contain coded messages from José about vital shipments which my men will deliver to our friends down in Colombia.’ Guzman said smiling.

  Rodriquez’ eyes widened and his mind became clouded. An M4 Carbine was leveled at him by one of the guards and Rodriquez could see that the man’s hands were steady, a trained killer with menacing eyes waiting for a signal to send him off.

  ‘José Vázquez wasn’t framed,’ Rodriquez noticed the Cartel capo was still speaking, ‘he was way too smart. He knew the girl worked for the DEA and the Mexican army was hot on his tail. Very soon he would be captured or killed. So, he figured out that a ‘confession’ was the safest and surest way of contacting me. Jose knew the video would make its way back to me through my contacts in the DEA’s office. He was instead using the unsuspecting authorities to pass on the coordinates where we could drop the delicate cargo. Clever chap, don’t you agree? I don’t know when he will be out so we can celebrate. The girl was simply a conduit and so were you. I must admit though am a bit surprised by you detective Rodriquez. This was meant to be a straight forward job but you kept showing up everywhere like a fly on poo. Thinking about it now, if you weren’t such a Poo fly, maybe you could have worked for me.’ Guzman said as his eyes glowered.

  Turning to face his guards, the Sinaloa Drug Lord ordered.

  ‘Do not make a mess of my living room Hernández, you know how I feel whenever you do. This time, when you’re done, turn him into Pozolé–Stew. I don’t want any loose ends.’

  The barricaded door shut loudly behind him and a cold fear gripped Rodriquez as the three masked men converged on him.