Haunted

CHAPTER 26

THE VILLAGE IS MORE PRIMITIVE THAN I IMAGINED. It’s like something from the nineteenth century. A well stands in the middle of a courtyard from which four dirt roads radiate outward like the points of a compass. There are no more than a dozen houses—shacks really—scattered off the roads. Simple wooden structures each with a patchwork garden in front and chickens pecking in pens on the sides. The only vehicles I see are two ancient trucks with wooden beds parked side by side near the one brick structure in town. A church—a tiny church with a steepled roof and bell tower.

Good cover for a drug kingpin used to living in luxury. It’s unlikely the cops on either side of the border would think to search for him in a place like this.

Still, I can’t imagine Santiago living like a peasant in one of those shacks. There must be more to this village.

Or one of those simple structures has an underground mansion like Ramon’s underground cave. Money makes all things possible. Big money works miracles.

I keep to the shadows, out of sight of prying eyes. The presence of a stranger, especially a gringa, would certainly attract attention. So I circle the village in a wide arc, keeping to the trees and whatever scrub brush I can use for cover.

It’s fast approaching dawn. The village is still asleep, no stirrings at all from any of the houses. There are several more shacks separated from the cluster around the courtyard. They look no different from the others. No big black Escalades parked in front, no AK-47 gun-toting toadies standing guard, nothing that shouts major narco kingpin in residence here.

Well, this scouting trip has been a bust.

And I have to wait until nightfall for Culebra.

I hunker down in a cluster of bushes, hoping the green leafy ground cover under my ass isn’t poison oak or ivy. Vampire or no, an itch is an itch. I burrow in like a fox until I’m sure no casual passerby can spot me. I have a semi-clear view to the center of the village and a better view of the shacks on the outskirts.

Nothing to do now but wait.

And think.

Is Ramon really launching this preemptive strike to protect his family from Santiago’s wrath? Or is it something else? How much does Maria know about the death of Rójan? About Ramon’s part in it? She seems to take his word as law. Gabriella is far less accepting. She hasn’t romanticized her father the way Maria has. Still, they are blood. It would be a mistake to look on her as an ally.

I wonder if Maria would have shot me to keep me at the cave simply because Ramon told her to. I’m glad I told Culebra to keep an eye on Ramon and to protect Max. I can’t shake the feeling that Culebra is more a pawn in this game than a partner. And I believed Maria when she said Max was expendable. What she and Ramon don’t realize is that Max and Culebra are a formidable pair. More than a match for Ramon now that they have been warned.

The far-off sound of a motor snaps me to attention. It’s full light out now. A plume of dust rises from the eastern radial of the roads stretching from the well. The timbre and decibel level of the engine marks it as a big vehicle—a truck, maybe. I lean forward to get a better look.

And pull back immediately. From my left, from one of the shacks closest to my hiding place, a man sticks his head out a window. He watches the truck approach and when it has reached the center of the village and come to a stop by the well, he leans back inside and yells.

“Las muchachas. Ahora.”

The door opens. A man steps out first, an AK-47 strapped bandolier style across his chest by a loose cord. He’s barrel-chested and squat, hair secured by a handkerchief tied around his head. He wears sweatpants and a T-shirt straining over a big belly. He’s barefoot.

The toadie I’ve been looking for?

He has a cigarette in his hand and he waves it in a come-along motion. He stands beside the door and barks something sharp.

As if propelled from behind, three young women stumble out. They blink at the light and clutch at blankets thrown over their shoulders. They are barefoot and dirty, hair unkempt, faces smudged. None of them could be older than sixteen. They cower together, eyes on the toadie. He gets behind them and uses the stock of the rifle still tied across his chest to move them forward.

“Muévan, putas,” he says.

They remain close, moving as one, trying to keep as far away from the guard as they dare. He keeps prodding them toward the well and the waiting truck.

The arrival of the truck has awakened a few of the inhabitants and curious faces poke from windows and doors. As soon as they see who is behind the wheel, see who is approaching from the shack with the girls, they disappear back inside like wisps of smoke.

The driver’s door opens and a man who could be the toadie’s twin—overweight, dirty T-shirt, jeans hung so low I can’t imagine what’s holding them up—jumps to the ground. They embrace, patting each other on the back, mumbling something in Spanish too rapidly for me to catch. Then they go to the back of the panel truck and the driver opens the rear doors.

“¿Cuatro este vez, huh?”

“Al jefe le crece el apetito por las chicas. Esta aburrido,” the toadie replies with a laugh.

I understand the boss is bored but he wants four this time? Four what?

In a moment, I know. The driver yells something through the open doors and four girls appear from inside. Roughly, the driver drags one after the other to the ground and shoves them toward the waiting toadie. The girls are all dressed in simple dresses, sandals on their feet. They are thin, young, younger even than the three standing in the front of the truck, and big-eyed with fear.

The toadie steps up to each, and in turn, lifts a chin, cups a breast, runs a hand up between legs and pinches. The startled girls yelp and pull back. The toadie grins and spits out his cigarette.

“El Jefe estará contento,” he says. He jabs a thumb toward the front of the truck where the other three girls wait, their faces drawn with uncertainty. “La basura está lista para hechar afuera.”

The garbage is ready to be taken out. My guts churn as the two pigs laugh. Another round of backslapping and jokes aimed at the “education” the new girls are about to receive and then the guard moves the new arrivals back toward the shack.

The driver watches a moment, then he snaps at the three to come to the back of the truck. He lifts each one into the back, a hand snaking under the blanket of the first, pulling it down to expose the breasts of the second and finally ripping the blanket completely off the third. He bends that one back against the bumper, grinding himself into her until she cries for him to stop. He laughs and turns her around, using a hand under her ass to propel her roughly into the truck. “Más adelante, chica,” he says, slamming the door.