The Rebel of Goza Read online

  Carlos kills the engine. “Time to gear up.”

  He’s just started to pull a canvas bag off the bed of his tow truck when his cellphone vibrates.

  He glances at it. “It’s my brother.” He taps the screen. “Hello, Ezekiel?…yeah, timing is fine. We didn’t know if you could do it at all…No, it’s not too late. Yes, we could definitely use the information. How many signals are you getting?…Damn, are you sure?…Wow, okay. Good to know. Thanks, brother.”

  He ends the call and turns towards us. “Thirty-four.”

  Miguel doesn’t flinch. He adds, “Plus anyone who doesn’t happen to own a cellphone.”

  “Probably they all do. They’re in that business for the money, so they’ll want to use it. You know they’ll spend it on cellphones. But to be safe, we say maybe thirty-five guys in and around the distillery.”

  “Sounds about right,” says Miguel. “It’s more than we thought, but better to know going in what we’re up against. And know about how many are left when we’re inside.”

  “Anyway, it doesn’t change the plan we discussed at your house,” I say to Carlos. “It just means there are more narcos to take out.”

  And considering we’re outnumbered more than ten to one, we need to have as many tools for the job as possible. Removing Abuelo’s agave-harvesting equipment from the tow truck’s bed, we lay it out on the ground. First, each of us cinches a thick leather belt around our waist. A sheath attached to the belt holds a razor-sharp machete normally used to hack off the leaves of the agave plants. We examine the coa poles and pick the ones with the sharpest blades.

  On the surface, it sounds crazy: blades against narcos bristling with rifles and handguns? But our weapons carry the advantage of virtual silence. Even if we had access to guns, firing them would give away our presence on the first shot. No, stealth and guerrilla tactics represent our only hope of success. Plus, we’ve been training with the machetes and coa poles in Taekwondo classes for years. In our hands, they’re just as deadly as rifles—and much quieter.

  Of course, I do have a weapon of last resort. I pat the back waistline of my jeans. Yes, the Sinaloa narco’s handgun is still lodged there, hidden underneath the folds of my untucked shirt.

  “Oh, I can’t forget this,” says Carlos, returning to the truck’s cab to pick up the small glass bottle he brought from home. “Speaking of drinks, let’s all drink some water. It’s still hot, and there’s no telling when we’ll have a chance to get more.”

  He retrieves the six-pack I acquired at nearly the cost of my life, and we each take a long pull.

  As we finish, I turn to my comrades. “This is going to be incredibly dangerous. If either one of you doesn’t want to do this, I won’t hold it against you.”

  Miguel snorts. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Carlos produces a gentle smile. “We’re both in.”

  Trying to ignore the lump in my throat, I continue. “I’ve been thinking…we have to use the same killing techniques cartel members would use: lethal and no mercy.”

  “As long as we kill them, why does it matter?” says Miguel.

  “We have to make it look like a gang hit. That way, Volante’s Brotherhood Cartel will blame the Sinaloa Cartel. No one will suspect a bunch of locals were trying to rescue a teenage hostage.”

  “Good point,” says Carlos, nodding. “Really good point. The cartels are always having wars for some reason—turf…drugs…money…occasionally women. They kill each other all the time. It’d seem natural that this was another conflict between the cartels, especially after the gun deal that fell apart last night.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “And the cartels are infamous for killing people different ways. Using knives to take out Volante’s thugs won’t look any more unusual than the acid the New Generation Cartel used two months ago. If we can make The Brotherhood narcos who aren’t here think their people in the distillery were killed by the Sinaloas, they’ll go after the Sinaloas and leave us alone…I hope.”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” says Carlos. “Let’s roll.”

  CHAPTER 36

  We leave the shacks and continue down the dirt path, headed on a parallel course to the road that leads to the distillery. Between us and that road lie hectares of agave fields.

  The sun rests low in the sky. We walk in silence—well, almost silence. Nocturnal insects begin the first notes of their usual evening hum, creating a peaceful scene at complete odds with my mental state: a jumble of thoughts and emotions, an impossible tangle that could paralyze a person who isn’t careful to keep them in check. How did my life transition so quickly from a new career and husband to scrambling to prevent another family member’s death at the hands of narcos?

  Do Carlos and Miguel have as many thoughts running through their heads as I do? If so, they’re doing a better job masking it than I am.

  I glance at Miguel, who gives me an encouraging smile. I should be the one doing that—giving reassurance. After all, it’s my brother we’re going to save.

  I take a deep breath, then exhale it slowly—the same technique we teach our Taekwondo students. Stay relaxed. Stay calm. Stay focused.

  “There’s the turn,” I say, pointing. Starting now, we’ll limit our talking to an absolute minimum. All communication will be made via hand signals whenever possible.

  We take a right on a dirt trail scarcely more than a person wide, a path for farm workers to make their way in and out of the surrounding fields. In our case, it will lead to the access road…forty meters shy of the distillery if we followed it to the end. But for obvious reasons, we won’t. Instead, we’ll turn off and navigate through the agave plants as we approach.

  The sun sinks low on the horizon, its bottom edge touching the foothills. Agave plants cast long shadows across the tilled fields. In minutes, night will fall.

  Knowing the slightest noise could give us away, we slow our pace. Every step must be measured.

  The distillery’s silhouette appears beyond the agave plants…as does the outline of a narco at the trail’s exit.

  Carlos motions for us to disappear into the agave plants. Once behind a mammoth plant, he gives me and Miguel an upward palm, the “remain here” hand signal. We comply, knowing he’ll execute the first part of our strategy.

  Carlos moves a few rows into the field and vanishes behind the multitude of plants.

  I peer from around my plant. The tip of a lit cigarette glows orange in the near darkness. The narco isn’t taking his guard duty too seriously.

  The wait stretches. Surely Carlos should have reached the sentry by now. Has he run into a problem? If so, that would be a bad omen.

  Even though my gaze is fixed on the sentry, the thrust of Carlos’ coa is so fast I hardly see it. The blade penetrates the man’s back and flicks back out of sight.

  The narco lets out a wail.

  The coa swings around from the side and delivers a punishing blow to the man’s temple, sending his head snapping sideways. As he collapses to the ground in an unconscious heap, the cigarette tumbles into the sod but continues to glow.

  A pair of hands reach out and grab the narco’s arms, then yank the entire body back behind a plant. The head shot must have killed the thug. It’s a brutal way to die. But our strategy calls for us to show the narcos as little mercy as they showed Abuelo: none, to be exact. Not that I feel bad about that. These scumbags deserve their fate. Unlike my abuelo, who didn’t deserve such a grisly demise.

  But with the elimination of the first narco, we have a problem. The man shouted just before dying. Did anyone hear him? No matter. We can’t stop now. We have to press ahead and pray our cover isn’t blown before we’ve scarcely gotten started.

  CHAPTER 37

  None of us move.

  We watch, still and silent, to see if other gang members will rush to the aide of their fallen comrade.

  One minute ticks by…two.

  Nothing.

  Time to advance. Miguel and I inch forward
. At the edge of the agave field, we meet up with Carlos.

  The three of us study the distillery and its surroundings in the last vestiges of twilight and the glow of a nearly-full moon. Two thugs with rifles slung over their shoulders guard the main entrance, the nine o’clock position under our system of navigation.

  No guards are stationed in the back. Looks like Volante is counting on the padlocks keeping out intruders from there.

  That leaves about 33 other men. Piece of cake, right?

  Time for the next part of our plan. Carlos hands me his coa, then removes from his pocket the small glass bottle he brought from home.

  That’s a cue for me and Miguel. With a nod to Carlos, we creep along the edge of the agave field, using the last row of plants to shield our movements.

  The rendering of the distillery and fields in the silver sheen of moonlight brings on a shiver. Forty-eight hours ago, I was running for my life through these very fields. Never thought I’d be back so soon.

  Miguel and I stop directly across from the rear of the building, the three o’clock position. Running along the building’s back wall is an enormous oven. This kiln-like space is used to cook the “piñas,” the exposed cores of the agave plants after workers use coas to hack off the leaves. The oven is huge, an enclosed container two meters wide and four meters long—big enough for a person to walk through. To withstand the pressures needed to cook piñas, its walls and ceiling are constructed of solid brick and the two opposite-walled doors—one for entry, one for exit—of heavy steel.

  After a careful scan of the area, we bolt across twenty meters of open ground and head directly through the first oven door, then approach the heavy metal door on the other side with a light tread. We peer around the second doorway into the collection zone, where the cooked piñas are removed from the oven and loaded onto carts to take them to the fermentation tanks.

  Good—as expected, no one is here.

  We return to the first door and give the prearranged “go” hand signal, a wave from left to right.

  Carlos emerges from the agave field onto the cleared border that surrounds the distillery. He holds the tequila bottle loosely and staggers across the dirt-covered clearing. At the moment, he’s at the eleven o’clock position, closer to the main entrance but ambles toward the building’s rear. As planned, he moves into the guards’ line of sight.

  One of the sentries starts, then punches his companion on the arm.

  Looking grim, they level their AK-47s and shout something unintelligible his direction. But seeing Carlos stagger and weave, they chuckle and shoulder their rifles as they move towards the “drunken” intruder.

  Carlos pretends to notice them for the first time, then breaks into a drunken trot, leaning off-kilter so far it’s a miracle he doesn’t actually fall over. I’d swear he was wasted if I didn’t know better. Never knew my mentor was such a good actor.

  Miguel and I scramble back through the oven and exit from the second door into the collection zone, an open area where the cooked piñas are piled after removal from the oven. He positions himself behind that door, while I work my way around the outside of the oven until I’m behind the first one.

  Looking through the crack along the door’s hinges, I make out Carlos’ form approaching.

  He staggers into the piña-drying oven. Once inside, he bolts across the space and sprints through the second door. A moment later, I hear the clang of Miguel’s door closing.

  I ready myself. The guards flash by my door, heading into the oven to collect the wayward drunk.

  I slam my door shut. As I rotate the wheel lock to seal it shut, the steel faceplate begins to vibrate. The thugs are banging on the door, trying to escape. But it’s a lost cause. This oven’s construction is solid. Nothing can escape—not even noise.

  Too bad the ovens aren’t active. I’d cook these fuckers if doing so wouldn’t draw unwanted attention. Maybe they’ll run out of air and die the kind of horrible death normally reserved for their victims.

  As we join Miguel in the collection zone, Carlos is shaking his head and frowning.

  “What is it?” I whisper.

  “They had walkie-talkies.”

  “Is that bad?” I motion towards the oven. “A signal couldn’t get out of there, could it?”

  “I don’t think so, but what if they have scheduled check-in times? If that’s true, the others will sound the alarm the first time these two miss their check-in. And that means we’ll have even less time to find Oscar than we thought.”

  CHAPTER 38

  I grimace. “All the more reason for us to get going before Volante’s crew makes that discovery.”

  We’ve yet to examine the entire south side of the distillery’s exterior. So the next phase of our mission involves clearing any remaining guards outside the building. Only then, when no patrols can spot us, will it be safe to enter.

  I glance to the moonlit field from which we came, the one o’clock position, to the six o’clock side, where the building throws longs shadows into the agave field.

  I motion to the six o’clock side, and the others nod in agreement.

  We travel single file, pressed against the wall, as we move around the other side towards the main entrance. We’re just short of the eight o’clock position when Carlos holds up a clenched fist, the “stop” signal. We duck behind the nearest agave plant’s cluster of leaves.

  Two narcos patrol the building’s perimeter, an AK-47 hanging from each man’s neck. The patrol strolls past us and continues towards the ovens.

  Carlos makes a hand motion, starting with his palms together, then separating them. Miguel and I nod. We discussed this contingency during our planning—splitting up and ambushing the target from both sides.

  As soon as the patrol disappears around the building’s corner, we spring into action.

  Carlos heads to the right, positioning himself behind a stack of bleached-out wooden crates piled alongside the building’s corner. That corner happens to protrude towards the agave field, leaving only four or five meters of dirt border. Miguel and I veer left, crouching behind an especially large plant growing within a couple of meters from the crates.

  We draw our machetes and wait.

  A minute ticks by…two minutes.

  A bead of sweat trickles down my neck. My breath sounds impossibly loud in the still evening. What am I, a wind tunnel?

  A commotion in the field behind me sends a momentary chill up my spine, until I recognize the sound of a hawk pouncing on one of the many nocturnal feeders in this area. Once tonight’s events are over, which category will I fit into: predator or prey?

  I squint into the darkness. No sign of the patrol. At their steady pace, they shouldn’t need more than five or six minutes to make a lap around the building, but it already feels like twenty. Turns out waiting is the most agonizing activity of the night—so far.

  The image of Abuelo’s corpse flashes unbidden through my mind—not the first time that’s happened today. I fight to control a sob. Why does the ache of grief come on so suddenly?

  The faintest sounds reach my ear, pulling me back to my surroundings.

  Shuffling, followed by a conversation in hushed tones.

  They’re coming.

  I steel myself, hoping my muscles haven’t cooled so much in this cramped position that they’ll hinder my movement.

  The pair round the far corner and come into view. Another thirty seconds of trudging across the main entrance’s wall draws them near.

  “…because El Granjero said we have to, that’s why,” says a grossly fat narco resting his arm on the stock of the downward-pointing AK-47 strapped around his neck.

  “It still doesn’t make any sense,” replies his partner, a pock-marked twenty-something whose clothes look like they haven’t been washed since his arrival at the distillery. “We haven’t had any trouble since that girl ran away. No one’s gonna bother us. It’s stupid to be walking in circles like this.”

  “You want
to tell the boss that? ‘Cause I’d love to see you—”

  Carlos’ flashing blade ensures the thug never finishes his sentence. It slices deep into his windpipe, eliminating the chance of the man crying out for help.

  A fountain of blood cascades onto the ground. The thug grasps his throat, and another machete strike sends his lifeless corpse slumping onto the dust.

  The second narco fumbles to unstrap his rifle. To distance himself from his friend’s attacker, he steps backwards…towards us.

  Miguel lashes out with his coa, plunging its blade into the sentry’s side. Staggering, the narco swings up his rifle. I step forward and slash down with my machete, hacking deep into the man’s firing arm. He drops the rifle and turns to run.

  The narco raises the first note of a warning shout when a second thrust from Miguel’s coa deep between his shoulder blades sends him tumbling to the ground in a silent heap.

  Carlos motions for us to move the bodies into the agave field. As we get started, I notice copious blood soaking into the ground. Nothing we can do about that. If more of Volante’s gang come looking for the patrol, we’ll have to hope they don’t notice the curious discoloration in this spot.

  We drag the limp corpses over the loose soil, depositing them behind the fourth row of agaves. It’s hard work dragging dead weight so far, but leaving the bodies any closer to the distillery invites their discovery. To have any chance of rescuing Oscar and getting out alive, we need to stay under the narcos’ radar as long as possible.

  Speaking of that, I need to be careful to keep my mental tally of narcos updated. Twenty-nine left. Hopefully, we won’t have to face all of them to get Oscar back.

  We tread lightly through the field until we’re back at its edge, looking at the distillery’s main entrance.

  The patrol’s AK-47s lie on the ground.

  “We can’t leave those lying around,” murmurs Carlos. He scans the area for gang members, then darts over to retrieve the rifles. On his way back, I grab his arm and use my head to motion to the weapons.