the vehicle was shot to hell, every man in it with multiple wounds and every pistol still in its holster, that’s how quick and hard they got hit. Automatic weapons, 5.56 black-tip rounds, diagonal enfilade from both sides. Fast and slick. They did the hit, ripped the cargo, got the fuck out. And as far as the Zetas are concerned, I can tell you that they’re not going to want their money back, they’re going to want what they paid for. We either recover that cargo for them very damn soon or order a replacement of it from Charlie and eat the cost.
Yeah, that’s how it’s looking, Mateo says. I’ll start nosing around about the other pickup crews right away. There can’t be too many guys among them who’ve worked Boca Larga before Alberto’s crew took it over. If the tip to the hijackers was from one of our guys, I’ll know his name before the sun comes up. On the off chance he’s a Texan, Charlie will root him out pretty fast, too. We find the insider, we’ll find out who did the hijack, I’ll run their asses down and get the goods back. If they still got them.
There’s a plan. Get on it. I’ll call Charlie.
Charlie Fortune Wolfe awakens to the vibration of the cell phone under the corner of his pillow. The riverside night is still and clammy, ringing with frogs, the screened windows are black under the dense overhang of trees. The red numerals of the bedside clock radio read 1:46. He sees that the caller is his cousin Rodrigo Wolfe.
“Rigo. What is it?”
Rodrigo tells him, speaking in English.
“Alberto?” Charlie says. “Ah, Jesus . . .”
In response to Rigo’s question, Charlie tells him the only ones who knew about the run’s cargo or schedule were himself and the crew.
“Who’s the chief on it?”
“Eddie Gato.”
“I still haven’t met him,” Rodrigo says. “Frank and Rudy I know, but Eddie not at all. Alberto mentioned him many times. Close cousin, right?”
“Right. Been working with me three years and been my Boca Larga man since last year. I broke him in on that run myself. Listen, Rigo, I know what you’re wondering, so I’ll tell you right now—Eddie wouldn’t sell us. Neither would any of his crew. Those guys have been with me for years. And there couldn’t have been anything odd about the transfer or Eddie would’ve clued me, but he called in an all clear after the drop. If somebody’d been holding a gun on him, he would’ve used a different code to tip us off.”
“Hey, Charlie, you vouch for them, that’s it. Man, if I stopped trusting you, who the hell could I trust? Lot more likely the inside rat is somebody on our end. Mateo’s out there right now trying to ID him. We have to find the son of a bitch and get the cargo back before it ends up who the fuck knows where.”
“Let us help, Rigo. Frank and Rudy are on the body run your guys gave us, but they’ll be back tomorrow . . . hell, it is tomorrow. They’ll be back this afternoon and I’ll keep them on hand. Hey, man, I want those bastards as much as you do. It was my shipment and Alberto was my blood and bone, too. Just give the word and we’re on the way.”
“I know it, Charlie. I’ll be in touch as soon as Mateo has something.”
His name’s Donasio Corona and he was in Alberto’s crew, Mateo says. Twenty-six years old. Came to us three years ago after doing two and a half at Veracruz state for robbery. We put him on various small duties the first couple of years—runner, street lookout, driver—some of those jobs for Alberto, which is how they got to know each other. Last year one of Alberto’s crewmen got killed in a bar fight and he took Corona on in his place. Anyway, he’s our guy. No doubt about it.
It is nearing dawn. Mateo arrived at Rodrigo’s estate in the city’s Chapultepec district a short while ago. They’re taking coffee in the softly lit courtyard gazebo, well distanced from the house and all servants’ ears.
I’m impressed you ran him down so fast, Rodrigo says.
All it takes is talking to the right person, Mateo says, but you never know who the right person is till you talk to him. I been going around all night to see those of our people who know about Boca Larga, asking them all the same question and doing a lot of tap dancing to avoid telling any of them about the hijack. I think it’s best we don’t let word of it get out just now. Might put the guys who did it on sharper guard.
I agree. So who was the right person to talk to?
Ignacio Verdes, another of our crew chiefs. He said it was odd I should ask if he’d heard or seen anything out of the ordinary about any of the guys in the transport crews. Said Alberto called him yesterday morning before he left on the Boca Larga run and asked if he could borrow a man. One of his guys, Donasio Corona, had called him before sunup saying he was sick as hell, shitting and puking since three in the morning, probably because of some bad menudo he had for supper. Alberto told him to see the company doctor as soon as the office opened, then called Ignacio, who let him have Neto Valles, one of his best men. Like some of the others I talked to, Ignacio was curious about why I was asking, and I told him I couldn’t say at this time. He’s going to be awful damn pissed about losing Valles.
And Donasio Corona has of course disappeared, Rodrigo says.
Wasn’t at home. Didn’t go see the doctor. Isn’t in any hospital or jail. I sent his picture and prints to our network guys with connections to the passport office and access twenty-four seven, and they reported that the prints aren’t in the files, so he’s never been issued a passport under any name. I ordered our border crews to post lookouts with all the wetback smugglers in case he should try crossing with one of them. On the off chance he’s still in town, I have people keeping watch on all the joints where he’s known to hang out. My guess is he got out of Mexico City but will stay in the country.
And Corona knows the Larga run pretty good?
The whole crew did. Alberto’s been collecting all of Charlie’s deliveries there for about two years steady now and mostly with the same guys the whole time, except for Corona just the past year. They were a good crew and he had no reason to mistrust any of them. They knew that guns are the only cargo ever delivered there, and the load’s usually American military rifles and pistols and that every so often it includes machine guns, sometimes foreign subs. Since Corona’s been with the crew, and not counting last night’s pickup, they’ve made seven collections at Boca Larga. That’s enough for him to have learned that run real good. He knew the exact distance from the junction road exit to the trail entry, which is impossible to spot at night unless you know just where to look. He knew the best spot to hit the crew on its way out. He knew there’s no room on the trail to hide a vehicle and that there’s only one spot just wide enough to make a U-turn without getting stuck. He knew everything you’d need to know for a hijack plan, and he laid it on somebody looking for weapons. And those motherfuckers took out our guys and stole our goods.
What’s your read on them? Rodrigo asks.
I figure a young bunch. They’re very good and they’re full of themselves. Probably looking to make their mark in weapons retailing but not flush enough yet to invest in top-grade guns. But even if they could afford a load like this one, they might be the kind who think stolen fruit is sweeter than bought fruit. A lot more satisfying to rip a load than buy it. Not a very smart outlook as a long-term business practice, but not uncommon in
