The Rebel of Goza Page 3
I break into a laugh, then fall silent.
He studies me for a second. “What is it?”
“It’s just…it’s a lot to do. Not that I mind the work,” I hasten to add. “There’s so many things that must be done. I’m not sure where to begin.”
Abuelo strokes his chin, his longtime habit when pondering a decision. “It’ll take some time to weed and prepare the fields. Why don’t you start with that? Then move on to preparing the oven and boiler just before you harvest.”
I nod. “You don’t have any coas, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. You know the shed behind the main buildings? It houses the tools of the field. As to its key…” He looks around the room. “It’s somewhere around here. I’ll have to find it. Why don’t you meet me at the basilica at nine o’clock? I’ll give it to you then.”
My arms wrap Abuelo in a bear hug. “Thanks—for everything.”
I hurry home, anxious to draw up a timeline for my first production run. From harvesting to preparing and using the facilities and equipment, it will all take time. But that’s no problem. Until yesterday, time was the only commodity I had too much of: an endless succession of days and nights with no real objective beyond sustenance.
Not anymore. I’ve never been so excited, so filled with a sense of purpose!
And I still owe Alex an answer to his proposal.
I shake my head in disbelief. For the first time in my life, everything seems to be coming together.
CHAPTER 8
The next morning, I arrive at the fields of El Caballo Negro before the sun has cracked the eastern horizon. A pair of beetles fly nearby. They appear to enjoy the comfortable predawn climate as much as I do.
“You’re here early,” says my boss Eduardo, who is preparing a water cooler on the tailgate of a pickup truck.
“Yeah, about that…”
Eduardo stops his work and looks up. “Yes?”
“Any chance I could move my shift up a couple of hours?”
“You want to come this early every day?”
“Yes, if that’s okay. Maybe I could set up the cooler and lay out the coas, so you wouldn’t have to.”
Eduardo grins. “That’d be fine with me.”
“I’d need to leave earlier, too. Is that cool?”
“Sure, Gabriela—as long as you get your hours in.”
“Thanks. I’ll finish the cooler, if you like.”
That was easy—the perks of being pretty. I wonder if he would’ve been so agreeable if one of the boys had asked for the schedule change.
But no matter. Now I’ll have time to work my own fields in the afternoon but still arrive home at my usual hour. I can’t afford to raise any suspicions in Papi’s mind, not before I’ve produced my first barrels of Goza Tequila.
Will this schedule change give me enough time to manage my clandestine project? Probably not. For a moment, I consider cutting back my Taekwondo training schedule, but I don’t have the heart to do that. There are no more instructors in town. Carlos and Miguel can barely squeeze in the lessons between their day jobs, meaning my white and yellow belts would be left without an instructor. No, I’ll have to think of something different. Or resign myself to a long-haul approach to this project.
Still, even an extended project beats none at all. I’d recruit Oscar to this project, but he’s still in school through two o’clock, then off to the agave fields ‘til late. But perhaps he could help occasionally, when Papi isn’t at home to notice his son’s absence.
Over the next four afternoons, I work my secret field, beginning with weeding and applying insecticide. Mature agave plants grow there already—otherwise, my project would involve years, not months. Normally, we’d eventually sell these plants to El Caballo Negro to be used in their massive production-line distillery, where a less-than-perfect harvest is par for the course. To stand out, Goza tequila must use premium agave, free from pests and weather damage. So I cull out unhealthy plants and tend to those that remain. Good thing Abuelo put me on to the tools in his work shed. Without them, I’d be asking to borrow the ones from work, an inquiry sure to raise eyebrows.
Oscar is willing to help but hasn’t yet had an opportunity. For once, Papi has remained at home every night this week rather than joining his friends at El Vaquero Solitario, the town’s only air-conditioned bar. Does he suspect what’s going on? I don’t think so. But best to keep a careful eye on him, just in case.
On the fourth afternoon, the preparations of my field draw to a close, as does the day. The sun has just sunk over the western foothills, dropping the temperature to a comfortable level. I pull a dirty cloth from my back pocket and use it to wipe my even dirtier face. A swallow of water from my canteen and five minutes of rest are all I need to tackle the next phase of my project.
Now the real work begins: preparing the equipment inside the distillery buildings to be used for the first time in decades. Who knows in what condition I’ll find them?
Father has finally left for the bar tonight. But it’s already late, so I don’t bother to make the round trip to the house to bring Oscar out here. Instead, I’ll check out the state of the equipment and see what’s in store for us. There’ll be plenty of chances for my brother to pitch in over the next few months.
In the light of the newly risen moon, I pull Abuelo’s keyring from my pocket. According to him, the dull gold-colored one fits the lock on the distillery building’s main entrance.
I exit the agave fields and tread across the hard-packed road to the distillery, a two-story structure. Years of dirt obscure the original color of the stucco used to finish the building. Now its dull, beige color matches the earthy fields surrounding it.
I approach the main entrance to discover the door’s padlock is missing. No big surprise. Papi could have needed something out of there years ago and broken the lock rather than discuss the taboo subject of the distillery with Abuelo.
The door protests a bit as I swing it open, sending a rusty groan into the night air. Item number one on my hit list: lubricate the hinges.
I make my way into the gloom of the interior. The musty odor of age and decay reaches my nose. Rows of wooden barrels used to age tequila line the walls.
I fumble around for the light switch and toggle it.
Nothing. Further into the building, a few dim lights glow, but this one doesn’t work—not too surprising considering its many years of disuse. I may have to enlist Abuelo’s help fixing this problem.
Using the old-model iPhone Carlos gave me last year as an act of charity, I cast a feeble beam of light around the room. Spider webs cling to the windowsills and float across the high ceiling.
At the far end of the building, barely discernable through a series of doorways, a coating of dirt clings to fermentation tanks and to a row of brass stills constructed in the traditional alembic “copper pot” style. I nod in approval. Abuelo’s operation was small, but he opted for the best equipment. Thankfully, all of it looks salvageable.
I make my way into the heart of the building, towards the “aging room” where the final product is stored in wooden barrels for months until it has reached the peak of flavor.
As I enter the room, the light from my phone fades. A glance at the screen reveals a remaining battery life of only five percent. I knew I should have used the charger in Eduardo’s truck to power it up before I left work. Looks like I’ll have to check out the rest of the building tomorr—
A voice! Coming from the far end of the room!
I drop to a crouch.
A second voice answers the first—two young men. They engage in an animated conversation. From their limited vocabulary and preference for swearing, they don’t sound like the kind of pair I’d want to introduce myself to, even if they weren’t sneaking around my family’s property without permission.
Time to get the hell out of here…before I’m discovered. A shaft of moonlight piercing through a grimy window reveals enough of the building’s interi
or to light my return route. I hug the wall as I crawl, placing my knees and hands forward as lightly as possible to avoid making any noise.
A flashlight beam plays across the floor to my left. The two men are headed my direction. Time to pick up the pace.
A walkie-talkie squawks. One of the men answers it. How many of these guys are in here?
No time to worry about that now. The two in here continue to advance.
I scurry across the brick floor, ignoring the growing pain in my knees as they scrape along the hard surface.
The walkie-talkie sounds again. I can’t make out the entire transmission, but one word comes through loud and clear: talco.
Cocaine.
My blood freezes. Narcos—drug dealers—here in Capilla de Guadalupe. Not only in my town, but on my family’s property.
Escaping has become even more important. These outlaws are infamous for their ruthless treatment of anyone seen as interfering with their vile trade—including those like me who have witnessed their activities and could potentially report them to the authorities.
The rest of my escape route out of this building, where the floor meets the wall behind a row of barrels, lies shrouded in darkness—thank God.
Still, there’s no time for lingering. I plunge into the dark path, trying to balance speed and stealth.
The pair of narcos stop so one of them can listen to an incoming transmission.
Now’s my chance. I double my speed towards the door while the noisy walkie-talkie masks the sound of my movement.
The entryway looms. Thankfully, I left the door cracked.
The narcos’ transmission stops.
I resume my slower, cautious movements. Only a few more feet, and I can flee.
The noisy triple-chime of an incoming text reverberates from my cellphone.
I freeze.
From the shadows, I swivel my head towards the narcos—and see two angry faces staring in my direction.
CHAPTER 9
Do they see me?
I remain frozen, scarcely breathing.
The beam of a solitary overhead bulb casts a spotlight on the two thugs. One with a face blemished by acne scars scans the building left to right. His companion, a scrawny teenager, cranes his neck to study the far wall. Both of them sport military-grade rifles.
Acne nudges his companion and points to the side walls. With a head nod, Scrawny takes the left wall, while Acne takes the right one—the one next to which I’m hiding.
They’ve left the center of the spacious room wide open.
Now’s my chance.
Rising from the floor, I race across the floor and fly out the door.
Simultaneous shouts rise from behind me. I angle to the left and rocket into the field. The agaves have grown tall enough to conceal me. But in this moonlight, the narcos are sure to spot my movement as I dart behind the plants.
The shouting continues. My two pursuers are joined by several others from around the building’s right side.
Now the voices come from both sides, left and right. My pursuers are fanning out.
I don’t want to die like this…
…murdered by a bunch of narcos with scarcely more intelligence than the agave plants I’m hiding behind. But even these goons would have found me already if clouds hadn’t obscured the night’s full moon.
If these pendejos do catch me, death might not be the only consequence. They’re not known for their gallantry. A woman fleeing this gang has more than her life to worry about. Any group of thugs willing to set their enemies ablaze while alive won’t hesitate to rape me before devising some sadistic method of execution.
I lie face down on the volcanic soil, breathing in its fecund aroma as the shouts of my pursuers echo through the fields around me.
Taking a moment to catch my breath, I scan the farmland. The goons have fanned out across rows of plants, each of them grasping a rifle or sidearm at the ready. The moon’s pale glow lends the scene a surreal quality. How did I get in this mess?
One of the gang’s flunkies races by, oblivious to my presence. I could take down any one of them, but not the entire pack. Stealth is my only hope of escape.
Once a dozen or so thugs move past my position, I sprint through the agave fields in the opposite direction.
Are the narcos following? I can’t spare the time to glance over my shoulder to find out. I focus on running like my life depends on it—because it does.
Without breaking stride, I silence my phone. Wish I’d thought of that back in the distillery when I first saw the intruders.
I keep to the field, running parallel to the road leading away from my house. I can’t risk heading home…not yet. No way do I want these sicarios—teen killers hired by the cartels—knowing where I live.
Fear carries me across the field. My feet fly over the soil, again and again, leading me away from danger.
After ten minutes that feel like sixty, I turn onto a new field, one running next to the town’s main road.
At last, I stop running but continue in a determined walk. My breath comes ragged. The surge of adrenaline has worn off, leaving me trembling.
My mind races. The narcos normally operate in the northern states. What are they doing so far south? The only gangs that have ever operated in the state of Jalisco are the New Generation Cartel and the Sinaloas, but neither have ever been spotted anywhere near Capilla de Guadalupe.
Are the thugs back there part of one of these organizations? Or has some other drug cartel moved into Abuelo’s old distillery?
What do I do now? I’ve got to think.
I can’t involve Abuelo. He’s too old to put up much resistance to the narcos. And if he decides to take them on anyway, I’ll have the additional burden of keeping him safe.
Father? No—definitely not worth the shitstorm it’d produce. Even if I managed to calm him down after explaining my clandestine activities, what could he do? Nothing much more than Abuelo.
My mind lands on Alex. His dad has a lot of pull in this town—and a lot of investments to protect. He probably wouldn’t like the idea of narcos moving in.
I quicken my pace. Time to talk to the only family in town with enough pull to resist this new threat.
Three quarters of an hour later, I pace the floor in Alex’s spacious room.
He sits on the bed, observing me for a minute before running a hand through his hair. “What were you doing there…in your abuelo’s old building?”
“Remember how I told you he used to make his own brand of tequila? The brand I wanted to start making again? Those buildings were his distillery.”
“I didn’t think you were that serious. All you do is work. Why would you want to take on another project, especially one so big?”
“You’re not the only person in this town with aspirations,” I tell him. “I’d like to do more than harvest someone else’s agave all my life. And I’m tired of being poor.”
Alex looks hurt. “You think I can’t take care of you?”
“You probably could, but when? You can’t yet.”
“But I will. I told you that.”
“You also said you didn’t want to move out of your dad’s house until you could take care of your own family, not be a burden to your parents. You think I don’t feel the same? This was my chance—as least I thought it was.”
He nods. “I see what you’re saying. But after tonight…?”
Funny how danger can change your perspective in a moment. “After tonight?” I sigh. “I’d be happy to turn back time, go back to last week—when I didn’t have to worry about drug dealers on my family’s property. But what are they doing there? It’s not like we’re growing weed or poppies.”
“What do narcos do anywhere? You said you heard them talking about coke, right? They must be using the building to store their product.” He locks his eyes on mine. “Gaby, you need to stay as far away from there as possible. I know this was your dream and everything, but it’s not worth the risk.”
He wraps me in a comforting embrace. I rest my head on his shoulder.
My mind whirls. Re-starting the family business had seemed so exciting, so purposeful. But I’ve opened a hornet’s nest and see no way to close it again. Even if I keep away from the old distillery, the narcos will still be operating from our family’s buildings. And will they figure out the intruder was one of the property owners? Maybe. Alexander is right. I need to stay as far away from the distillery as I can.
I sigh. A few days ago, I thought that living in poverty meant you had nothing to lose.
I was wrong. There’s plenty to lose: your life, and the lives of the people you love.
CHAPTER 10
Marcos Volante surveys the old distillery. It reeks of age and decay, the kind of decrepit building respectable people avoided—making it the perfect way station for his product as it travels north.
The grimy floor prompts a wave of unpleasant memories. Volante grew up dirt poor—literally. Earth covered the floor of the hovel he called home. Not that it felt like a home in any traditional sense. It was the place he slept, and where his drunken father beat his submissive mother time and again.
As a teen, he promised himself he’d never be that poor again. And he kept that promise. Over the past two decades, he overcame every obstacle. Whoever couldn’t be bribed was eliminated. And if that included academics or entire families, so be it. It was their lives forfeited, not his. They should have shown more wisdom than opposing one of Mexico’s most ruthless drug gangs.
Volante has long admired history’s greatest military commanders. As he rose through the cartel ranks, he studied those historical figures…seeking to understand the source of their genius. Like those tactical savants of old, Volante employed a combination of strategic thinking and ruthlessness to rise to the top echelon of Mexico’s brutal drug cartels, leading the infamous La Cofradía—The Brotherhood.
“Ramirez!” barks Volante.
“Sí, Granjero?” replies the lieutenant, addressing Volante with his gang name of “The Farmer.”