The Traveler Page 7

  The young man turned to face the front just as his heart fell through his belly to his ass. “Oh, my God, what are you going to do?” he asked as his voice broke just as he was pushed forward following the long line of fifteen condemned men.

  “Shut up while I figure a new way to get us killed in the next few minutes.”

  As they broke into sunlight after the warden’s order to bring them into the yard, the tattooed man quickly scanned the area. The prisoners were of no help as a chain-link fence topped with razor wire held them in check. The three guard towers oversaw the entire area, including the exterior of the prison. One benefit he immediately noticed was that the three armed guards had their attention focused on the activities inside, not out. One break, but he needed more as he again quickly evaluated this new situation that had changed drastically this morning when it was announced that the mysterious and hard-to-corner cartel leader was arriving early. Thus, plan D.

  “Shit, man, is that son of a bitch going to film my death?” the young man asked as the men in the balcony applauded the condemned men as they entered.

  The gold-toothed inmate looked to the balcony and saw the two men. One was a cameraman and the other a soundman. The camera and telescopic sound boom was extended over the balcony as they filmed the men below. The tattooed man exhaled the breath he had been holding as he took in the scene. He halfheartedly smiled in relief that his message earlier that day had been received.

  “Yeah, I guess they are going to film it … news at eleven, huh, kid?”

  “Dude, you need to work on your sense of humor, my man.”

  “Just wait for the punch line before you judge my comedic talents, son,” the man said as he brought the wheelchair to a stop on the broken asphalt of the exercise area.

  As the seventeen prisoners watched on in fear, they saw the horse trailers being backed up to the enclosed yard. Several guards stood by the rear doors of each of the four battered and old trailers.

  The blood of each man in hearing distance froze as the roar of a wild cat sounded from the first enclosure.

  “Man, this is fucking medieval,” the young man said as his eyes widened at the thought of what they were to face.

  The tattooed man said nothing as he realized the truth of what the FBI and DEA had explained in their reports. The man Gutiérrez was as insane as they come.

  * * *

  The man and woman waited just outside the office area of the registration wing of the prison. The white-haired man sat with a large black doctor’s bag between his feet. His round, brown-framed glasses were perched on the end of his nose as he watched the three secretaries at their desks. The woman next to him was attired in green nurse scrubs and sat stoically as she too waited.

  The secretary on the phone looked up from her desk and studied the two for a long moment, making both feel uncomfortable, the same feeling they had for the past twenty minutes as they had been forced to wait. The secretary spoke Spanish into the phone and then hung up and stood. She approached the two as her colleagues excitedly stood and hurriedly moved to the window. One of them turned as he moved.

  “Hurry, they are bringing them out,” the girl called out to the first.

  The first secretary stood before them and looked as if she wanted to hurry. Her Spanish was rapid-fire and the two had a hard time keeping up. They both now knew that the recommendation by the linguistics department had been right on; they should have brushed up a little more with their chosen second language.

  “Apologies, but the entire staff is unavailable for at least an hour, Doctor. Warden Ramirez says that you will be called when needed in the yard.” Without waiting and in a hurry to get to the window with her friends, the woman started to turn but stopped and turned back to the white-haired man in the rumpled suit and the small woman sitting beside him. “The warden inquired as to what happened to Dr. Torrez—he was scheduled for rounds this afternoon.”

  The white-haired man wanted to face his companion but decided he would act his role out and be brave simply because when this was over he was going to get killed by men other than the maniacs in this prison—men with a lot more talent for killing. He gave the secretary a stern look.

  “The good doctor became aware of the scheduled activities this afternoon and decided he was losing his stomach for it, thus I am here in his place as a favor”—he smiled as if he enjoyed the conversation, making even his small female companion suddenly fearful of his demeanor—“as I have no such qualms concerning what’s happening out there.” He nodded toward the window where the other two women stood.

  The secretary decided she wanted to hear no more from this strange white-haired doctor and hurriedly joined her excited friends at the window who were examining the inmates as they entered the yard below.

  “They’re not going to go outside like we were told they would,” the small woman said out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Well, the briefing by our man at the FBI was hurriedly put together, I imagine. I’m sure he wasn’t expecting for us to make an attempt while so shorthanded in the security department.”

  “Charlie, if they don’t go outside I have to place them into submission,” the woman said as she felt the fanny pack she wore. She slid it along her belt until it was in the front where she could reach it quickly. “Just how important is this aspect of the plan?” she asked as the three women by the window started making jokes on who would last the longest in the arena.

  Professor Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III watched the three secretaries for the briefest of moments before he frowned and then faced his acting nurse.

  “Then what are you waiting for? Drop them. They’re personal assistants to that brutal son of a bitch out there.” He nodded toward the balcony beyond the office wall. “To hell with the gentle approach. Teach these ladies they should have far more compassion for their fellow man.”

  First Lieutenant Sarah McIntire of the United States Army was shocked at the coldness of the proposed edict from cryptozoologist Ellenshaw. Most of the Group back at Nellis had seen the change in Charlie ever since the death of Pete Golding at the hands of a murdering ex-CIA operative. The change was enough to have most concerned. That was why she had been surprised that the colonel had allowed the scientist to take part in the operation. But she suspected what Ellenshaw needed was to occupy himself with other duties, and so Jack allowed Charlie this one slot in the rescue attempt to vent some of the pent-up emotion he was feeling. Being a cryptozoologist didn’t prepare you for the shock of sudden death at the hands of your fellow man.

  Sarah easily removed the six-barreled electric stun gun from her pouch. With one last look at Ellenshaw, who was waiting with anticipation, she stood and moved toward the window as if she were only curious as to the activity outside.

  The woman who had spoken to them a moment before turned with a large smile on her pretty face because she had just chosen the young inmate in the wheelchair as her bet as the first to fall. She saw Sarah approach and her smile slowly faded as she saw the large plastic stun gun in her right hand.

  “Compliments of the doctor,” she said as the first electrical barb shot free of the barrel and connected perfectly with the dark-haired woman’s right shoulder. The ten-thousand-volt jolt shook the secretary in almost hilarious spasms until she dropped to the tiled flooring. The next two happy women were taken down without even as much fuss as the first. All three lay at the base of the window. Charlie stood and walked over to Sarah and looked down.

  “I guess you were the first one to go down … I win.”

  “Do you have the music Jack gave you for the PSYOP portion of this screwed-up plan?”

  Charlie felt his pockets in his wrinkled black suit. “Of course, that was my only responsibility.” He felt his pocket again and brought out the encased compact disc. He blinked when he thought he remembered it being in a different colored case—this one looked like one of the CD cases from his own collection. He shrugged his shoulders and then replaced the disc in hi
s pocket as he turned for the warden’s office. “Well, shall we start the dance?” he asked Sarah as he moved.

  “Let’s just hope the participants in this little shindig are ready, because all hell is about to break loose.”

  Outside, the dabbling of applause from the balcony announced that, indeed, the festivities were about to begin.

  BROWNSVILLE, TEXAS

  The three young boys had every possession they owned in two overstretched garbage bags. They crossed the border early this morning and waited until the U.S. Border Patrol’s change of shift. They had waited in the shadows and now moved easily from small arroyos to deep cuts along the worn trail coming in from Mexico. The three had the promise of ranch work farther north in Alvin.

  “This is the safest time to move over empty land, Jime,” the oldest of the three said as they came to the rising end of an arroyo, where they stopped. “There’s no green-suited boogeymen out here. Just two miles and we can reach the main highway and once there we will wait until near dawn and then jump the Northern Pacific all the way into Houston.”

  “The emptiness of this place gives me the creeps,” the youngest said as he waited in the shadows for his two friends to move to the next cut of arroyo for cover.

  “Yeah, that’s why it’s a good route to take, not many would chance crossing with no water until you reach Brownsville.” The oldest immigrant looked at the young and inexperienced boy and rubbed his head, knocking the green ball cap off. “Besides, the Americanos don’t have the equipment to cover every square inch of desert. There’s nothing out there but us and the open road. Now let’s go.”

  The three young men climbed the rise, readying themselves for the sprint over into the next arroyo. When the oldest stopped dead in his tracks at the top of the rise and the other two ran into him their world became instantly surreal. Evidently the Americans had recently allocated far more funds to this area of the border.

  “Pinche vato,” the oldest said as his eyes widened at the sight before him.

  Between the arroyo they had just left and the second sat three U.S. Army Apache Longbow AH-64 attack choppers. The six men who crewed the gunships were standing in front of the giant attack birds and were looking straight at the three illegal immigrants as they stood atop the rise in shock. The weapons officer of one of the ships raised a gray-colored gloved hand and waved at the three, who simultaneously felt their hearts drop. The oldest boy swallowed hard as his right hand slowly came up in greeting.

  “Oh, yeah, there’s nobody out here,” said the youngest.

  Suddenly the aircrews below heard the loud beeping coming from their communications gear. The three aircrews ran to their Apaches. The three stunned boys watched as their four-bladed rotors started spooling up. Once more their hearts stopped when all three twenty-millimeter chain guns on the nose of each attack ship started rotating as the weapons officers made sure their main armament was functioning correctly.

  “Madre de dios,” mumbled the oldest as the first Apache lifted free of the Texas scrub and then the other two birds quickly and noisily followed suit. All three rose, dipped their noses hard forward, and then shot into the air, hugging the ground as the United States Army crossed the border of a friendly nation for their role in Operation Alcatraz. The boys didn’t know that five miles away to the east another group of helicopters was lifting off and heading to the same coordinates. Only these ships were a lot larger.

  It was the youngest of the three who spoke. “I think I want to go back home.”

  THE UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF STATE (FOGGY BOTTOM)

  The secretary of state waited to deliver his prepared speech to the man who was now being escorted into his large office. The older man smiled, trying to disarm the man before he even sat down. He rose and moved to the front of his desk to greet the visitor.

  “Mr. Ambassador, so nice of you to come on such short notice.” He shook the smaller man’s hand and then gestured to the other occupant in the room, a well-dressed younger gentleman in a perfectly pressed black suit. “I don’t believe you have ever met the director of our FBI, Brenton Branch.” The large black man stood and offered his hand, which the stymied ambassador from Mexico slowly took with apprehension. “Please, sir, have a seat. We have much to pass on and very little time to do it.”

  The ambassador to the United States from the nation of Mexico was perplexed as he had only met the American secretary of state one time, and that one time was not a pleasant experience. The old man was just plain mean in his estimation.

  “Directly to the point, Mr. Ambassador, the FBI has come into some rather disturbing intelligence concerning one of your major headaches. Mr. Richie Gutiérrez.”

  The ambassador froze at the mention of his name.

  “Yes, we thought that would get your attention right off the bat. I’ll let the director tell you.”

  “Sir, we in the United States government understand that you are having one hell of a time containing this Gutiérrez and his rather lucrative business. Now if this is because you are unable, or unwilling”—the secretary of state gave a wry look at the head of the FBI—“does not concern us at this time.” The director held up his hand as the ambassador started to protest the insult hurled at his government. “We have asked your government for three days to act upon this man for the kidnapping of an American citizen, one Xavier Morales, age twenty-five.”

  “My government cannot act on information provided by a foreign nation without adequate investigation. I am afraid my hands in this matter are virtually tied, Mr. Secretary.”

  “This is not a meeting that was intended to consult you or your government, Mr. Ambassador. We are here to simply inform you of a covert military action intended to free our citizens from illegal internment.”

  “Covert military action?”

  “Simply stated, you won’t act, so we will, sir.”

  The secretary of state was relieved when he saw the wheels start turning in the young diplomat’s head. He had been briefed that many in the Mexican government were in favor of moving against Gutiérrez and his cartel and smash them with an iron fist, but there were too many men in government who owed the cartel’s leader enough to become one of his puppets. But the United States knew that there was a newer, bolder form of Mexican citizen rising from the old—and this man and many others was one of them. The ambassador saw what was happening; the United States was giving his government and the current administration in Mexico City an out. They wouldn’t have to raise a hand to assist, nor to apologize if something went wrong. Enlightenment crossed his features like a window being opened to the world. He caught on and caught on quick.

  “Oh, but we must protest this action,” he said without much enthusiasm. “I must report this incursion immediately.” The ambassador stood as did the director of the FBI.

  “Before you report to your president, may I offer you some lunch?” he asked as the ambassador buttoned his coat.

  “I must report this.” The man looked at his watch.

  “But it’s chicken-fried steak day here at Foggy Bottom.”

  The Mexican ambassador allowed his lips to form a wry smile. “Well, how can I say no to that.” The ambassador allowed the head of the American FBI to escort him to the cafeteria.

  The secretary of state lifted his phone and then waited. It was answered on the first ring.

  “It’s done, Mr. President. Maybe you can explain to me later just why this American citizen is important enough to invade a friendly country.”

  The President of the United States never answered the secretary. He just said thanks and hung up the phone with the hopes that his friend Niles Compton knew what he was doing.

  RIO NATCHEZ CORRECTIONAL FACILITY, NORTHERN MEXICO

  Richie Gutiérrez stood with glass in hand. He puffed on his cigar as all eyes were raised to the balcony. He quickly noticed something in the yard below.

  “Why are there sixteen inmates when the order was for fifteen?” he asked as his glass lowe
red and he looked at the warden, who had been caught off guard by the quick observation.

  He scanned the exercise yard and saw the man who was not on the list given to him that morning by Gutiérrez. He pointed at the small man standing behind their prized inmate, Morales. The tattoo made the man easy to spot.

  “You, who are you?” the warden called down. Every prisoner in the yard looked around, thinking that the warden was talking directly to them.

  Commander Jason Ryan, United States Navy, smiled as he released his grip on the wheelchair handles. He smiled his gold-plated smile at those shocked inmates around him. Then Ryan turned his attention to the balcony rising above him and the others. He hoped the inside team was ready because he was about to kick this show off to a great start—a start that if it didn’t work would ensure that he and his rescue element would never leave northern Mexico with breath in their lungs.

  “Me?” Ryan asked, looking around as if confused. He took a few steps beyond the chair. He didn’t use Spanish or anything near that language’s accent. “I’m nobody compared to the great Jefe, Señor Gutiérrez,” he said as he half turned to the kid in the chair. “Make sure your parking brake isn’t on, kid.”

  “What?” Morales said as he watched the confrontation frightened out of his mind. He had thought he was brave enough to get through this but the continuing roar of the caged animals made him weaken at the prospect of Gutiérrez justice. “Who are you?” he hissed.

  Ryan took a few more steps forward.

  “My boss told me to pass along to Mr. Gutiérrez a message,” Ryan called up, and then waited for a smiling Gutiérrez, who was curious as to the delay, but not angered—yet. The cartel leader stood with his chipped-ice glass of tequila still in hand.

  “And who is your boss? If he is the one responsible for getting you drunk and forcing that tattoo on you, I must say he’s not much of a boss, or has a far better sense of humor than even myself.” He laughed as did everyone in the balcony with the exception of the cameraman and soundman, who were still busy doing their jobs.