Blood Tide Page 7

  Caitlin laughed. “I should have guessed it would be something like that. But maybe I can help? Go on a date with that Santiago guy?”

  Chris looked appalled. “Absolutely not.”

  I was a bit more diplomatic. “That could jeopardize our investigation.”

  “Come on. I flew all this way to be with you all. Now you’re placing an embargo on me?”

  “No embargo,” said Chris. “You wouldn’t listen if we did. We’re going to have a week of fun, but just ignore these cartel guys. That’s all we ask.”

  Caitlin nodded.

  “Is it OK if someone here teaches me how to surf?”

  Caysee thought for a while, and it seemed she decided that if everything was going to be put on hold for the next week, that would be a good idea. The hijos had already seen her with us in any event.

  “It will have to be Kelly,” she said. “Carl is my boyfriend. In theory anyway.”

  “Cool,” I said. “First lesson will be tomorrow, as soon as you’re up.”

  “Great. I’m a bit jetlagged, so I’ll get some shuteye.”

  Chris left with her. I grabbed four cervezas from the fridge.

  “Hate to say it, but Caitlin could be a huge asset. Did you see how Santiago was ogling her?”

  Carl agreed. “Sure, but we dare not exploit that. She’s a civilian.”

  Caysee looked at Nick. “Maybe you had better follow her instead of me for the next week? I think Miguel will cool it for a while. It’s not as though he’s short of groupies.”

  Nick nodded. “Kelly has a point about Caitlin. We don’t use her as bait, but just including her in the group will open us up to the hijos. They certainly like having blondes hanging around.”

  The one beer turned to several and I had to be woken by Caitlin shaking my bed. “What happened to my lesson?”

  We hit the beach after a quick mug of Oaxaca coffee. The surf was small, and I started her on two-foot shore breaks.

  I had her standing within twenty minutes, and after an hour she could ride the foamy and kick out without falling off. She was a natural, and I told her so. She smiled and briefly hugged me. I almost fell off my board — in shock more than anything else.

  I noticed a figure watching us from the road parallel to the beach and first thought it was Nick shadowing Caitlin. But the man was much younger.

  It was Santiago.

  “So you two now know each other,” he said, looking directly at her.

  “I saw him surfing this morning and asked if he would teach me.”

  Santiago smiled with obvious disbelief.

  “You should get a real surfer to do that. He was knocked out early on Saturday. And he also is a cheater.”

  I said nothing. Instead, Caitlin came to my defense. “Maybe, but he’s a good teacher. I’ll stick with him.”

  Santiago turned to me. “Come and surf with us this afternoon. Bring your student, if you want.”

  He turned and left.

  We returned to the apartment. Caysee was there, and told us the others had gone fishing.

  They arrived an hour later with an eight-pound yellowtail that Caysee declared would go with her ‘world-famous’ tacos for lunch. Chris also had caught a roosterfish, and said it was one of the best angling experiences of his life. I nodded when he said he released it alive.

  “How did you catch it?”

  “Simple. Just looked at the stick-sized poppers in your spinning gear, and dug out a fly that looked most like them. In this case a type of mullet. Stripped it faster than a pole dancer’s G-string, and eventually hooked one.”

  “Big?”

  “Say ten pounds.”

  That was a good first fish, but Chris was an expert. I didn’t tell him that I never deliberately fished for roosters as they are great fighters but taste gamey, and the Murdochs only fished for food. A sports fisherman like Chris would never consider killing a roosterfish in any event. They’re far too valuable as game fish.

  But anyway, Chris had come to Mexico to catch roosters rather than narcos, and now that he had done so, he could go. I didn’t mind that, much as I loved the guy, as we could then get on with our job. I would be far sadder to see Caitlin go.

  That afternoon we went surfing with the hijos. We paddled out to sea at the north end of the beach as the waves were breaking from the left. Miguel tried to impress Caysee by muscling Carl out of the way at every given opportunity. It was a joke, as Carl could crush his neck in a heartbeat, but instead Patricio the Hollywood legend — as the hijos liked to joke — fearfully paddled out of the way whenever Miguel came near.

  Santiago tried the same with me to impress Caitlin, and I too paddled away with a shit-eating grin on my face.

  Afterwards, we were invited to a party at the Rosarito Beach penthouse. Or at least the girls were. When Caitlin asked if I could come, Santiago shrugged with “if he has to” nonchalance.

  We went back to the apartment. I was fuming. “I know nothing is going to happen until Caitlin leaves,” I said. “But after that, how long do we have to put up with this bullshit?” I ranted.

  “Patience. Something is going to break soon,” said Caysee.

  “Yeah. Me,” I said.

  “What do you suggest?” ask Carl.

  “We get into a fight, beat the shit out of them, and then flee across the border. We then taunt them on social media about how we slapped the pussy-whipped hijos around. Then let them come and try and get us.”

  “Too dangerous,” said Caysee. “They’ll just send over an army of hitmen to take you out.”

  “We have to get some respect or else they will ride roughshod over us. Which they are already doing.”

  Carl and Caysee considered that. Caysee nodded. “OK, you try a little pushback with Santiago. But I think it’s better that Carl continues his peace-bro’ hippie-surfer act. That gives me more of a chance to work on Miguel.”

  There was a knock on the door. It was Chris and Caitlin. She wore a red dress that clung to her like a rose petal. A small one. It was beautifully simple, yet stylishly sophisticated. I stared.

  “Do I look all right?” she asked, noticing my stunned expression.

  “Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.”

  She looked surprised. And pleased. “Thank you.”

  Chris took me aside. “Look, I have been in tight situations with Carl and Nick before, so I have complete faith in you guys. Just don’t let her out of your sight. OK?”

  “Don’t you want to come as well?”

  “I’ll be with Nick, watching from the beach. Speed dial us if necessary.”

  At the hotel’s penthouse entrance, a guy with bulging biceps in psychedelic baggies insisted we snort a line of coke. It would have been suspicious not too, so we did as we were told. I felt the instant hit of wellbeing, something I remembered from snorting the odd impure line in the trashy sections of beach parking lots in my teens. My mom and dad hadn’t been averse to the odd line of Colombian blow, not to mention a deep toke of Baja bhang, but not me or my sister. It was a rare case of the kids being less hip than their folks.

  Caysee had warned us about this, and Carl was particularly concerned about adverse neurological reactions as he had recently come off strong painkillers after battlefield-wound surgery. But we had no choice. At least we knew this would be the cleanest coke in the world, sourced from the belly of the beast itself. It would not be cut with junk street toxins.

  After that, bottles of Gran Patrón Burdeos appeared and disappeared with equal alacrity. Caitlin and I slugged back a couple, and with high-octane alcohol sparking up the coke buzz, I felt on top of the world.

  We had just hit the dance floor, where some disco setup with multiple strobe lights blared out Mexican heavy metal, when I felt a steely hand grip my arm.

  “I am dancing with this chica.”

  It was Santiago. I stared back. “Ask her,” I said.

  Caitlin shook her head.

  Santiago tried to shove me away, and seemed su
rprised when he was unable to do so. Instead, I place my leg inside of his, and using his grip on my arm as a fulcrum, flipped him like a burger patty. He somersaulted, then sprang up like a cat and came at me. I could see he was a veteran street fighter, jabbing with his fists rather than swinging wildly. But this is what I did for a living. I glided out of reach with my hands held wide.

  “Amigo, what’s wrong?”

  Caitlin grabbed the sicario’s arm. “Please stop. We don’t want trouble. I will dance with you.”

  Santiago glared at me, eyes boring lasers of hatred. “I will deal with you later,” he hissed. “But first your chica will dance with a real man.”

  I liked the fact that he thought she was my girl. No one else did.

  Caysee rushed up with Miguel. “Please stop this.”

  I spread my arms apologetically. “He came for me.”

  She put her arms around the head hijo. “I will be with you tonight. But please stop it.”

  “Hermanos, no fighting,” Miguel ordered. We both nodded, glaring at each other. We were not hermanos — brothers — but would do as Miguel instructed.

  Miguel shouted for more tequila and Caysee brushed me and whispered, “Have you seen Carl?”

  I hadn’t, which surprised me. He normally would have appeared the instant the fight started.

  The phone in my pocket buzzed. It was Chris.

  “Get outside now. Two guys have just dragged Carl out of the hotel. One tried to knife him, but Nick shot him. The other escaped. Get Caitlin and Caysee out!”

  I grabbed Caysee’s arm, whispering in her ear. “They tried to kill Carl. I’m getting Caitlin out now. You do the same.”

  I walked up to Santiago dancing with Caitlin. “Sorry amigo. But you are an asshole.”

  He lunged at me. I punched him on the point of his jaw and he went down. Hard. I grabbed Caitlin.

  “We have to go quickly. Big trouble.”

  The hijos rushed us. I got to the lift first, fists swinging, but was unable to slam the door as two sicarios forced it open. I kicked one in the crotch. His eyes popped out in the most quintessential male agony. The other instinctively stepped back in sympathy. The door closed.

  It was ten stories to the ground floor. It seemed to take forever. As the lift opened, I rushed out, punching anyone in the way. Caitlin followed hanging onto my now torn T-shirt.

  We reached the hotel’s revolving entrance, but a bouncer managed to block it from the outside, using his weight to counter the rotation. We were trapped. I saw another bouncer draw a pistol from his shoulder holster. We were sitting ducks in a glass coffin.

  Suddenly the revolving door spun again. I saw the bouncer go down as Nick punched him full-force in the throat, while Chris hit the gunman in the nose. He didn’t go down, but Chris’s punch — which was pretty damn good — sent him staggering into the gathering crowd.

  As the door freed, we bolted up the street. Thankfully our motel was barely five hundred yards away. Nick and Chris hauled Carl, who was still unconscious. Caitlin hung onto me as we sprinted for cover.

  We slammed the apartment door and Nick gave Chris his pistol to protect Caitlin. She was our priority; this was not her fight.

  “Keep guard. I’m going back for Caysee.” He turned to me. “Kelly, there’s a body you have to get rid of. Near the path in front of the hotel.”

  I ran to the beach, arms pumping like an Olympian, found the still-warm corpse and hid it under an overturned skiff above the high-water mark. It would be found in daylight, but maybe would buy us some time while we dashed for the border. One thing for sure, we had to leave Mexico right away.

  Nick was back when I returned. There was no sign of Caysee.

  “I can’t get into the penthouse,” he said, as breathless as I was. “The hijos are going ballistic, harassing all gringos. John Peters and the DEA are on their way to get her out. But we have to go now.”

  We carried Carl into the car. As a battlefield paramedic, I could see straight away he had been drugged. Miguel must have ordered his drink to be spiked then instructed his henchmen to kill him outside the hotel. Luckily, Nick and Chris had been watching.

  We packed everything into the hired car except, to my regret, the surfboards. There was no room.

  As it was nearly three a.m., the San Ysidro border was relatively quiet. It was only a ten-minute wait.

  An hour later we were at my parents’ beach cottage in San Diego.

  Chapter Nine

  I COULDN’T SLEEP. I ambled onto the beach, which basically was the front garden of my folks’ cottage, and saw Carl standing there.

  Sunrise streaked across the horizon, illuminating Mount Soledad. To me, that beautiful shadowy outline as a teenager waxing my board before a pre-dawn session symbolized everything beautiful about San Diego. But not today. We had people in trouble.

  “We have to go back for her,” said Carl.

  Carl, hardcore as a Viking, had shaken off the effects of the narcotic, which was almost certainly Rohypnol. The hijos would have no shortage of date rape drugs. It would have been child’s play for one of Miguel’s bootlickers to slip some powder into Carl’s drink.

  I nodded. “They probably would have found the body by now as well.”

  “Body?”

  “One of the hijos was about to knife you. Nick shot him, fortunately with a silencer. I hid the body under a boat on the beach. Problem is the dead guy was last seen carrying you out, so the hijos will put two and two together and Caysee will take the heat.”

  “Shit. We have to go now.”

  “We’ll need guns. There’s no way we’ll get her back without a shootout. Let’s phone John Peters.”

  Peters was as concerned as we were. “We arrived after hotel management called the cops. All the hijos had left. So had Caysee. She went willingly, or otherwise.

  “But what I don’t understand is the body of Miguel’s cousin, Che, was found under a boat on the beach. What’s the story there?”

  “Two guys tried to kill me. Nick shot one. The other one fled.”

  John whistled through his teeth. “Shit. Che was Pancho Guerra’s youngest brother’s son. This will not go unanswered. They will take it out on Caysee.”

  “Kelly and I are coming back. Can you get us a couple of untraceable pieces? There’s going to be a shootout.”

  “Stay where you are. We need to track Caysee down first.”

  “Give me five minutes with Miguel and we’ll know exactly where she is.”

  “No. We can’t get close to Miguel anyway. Stay put until you hear from me.”

  “John, we’re not waiting. We know where to find these assholes on the beach.”

  “Just give me an hour.”

  We waited. When John phoned back to say there was no update, Carl and I took matters into our own hands. We didn’t want to use Delta equipment, and didn’t want to take Nick’s gun in case he needed it in getting Chris and Caitlin out of the city. Sicarios may have followed us across the border.

  First stop was a gun dealer in the San Ysidro ghetto where we bought two Saturday Night specials. Then, at the dealer’s recommendation, we hired a rent-a-dent with questionable license plates and crossed the border.

  There were no hijos on the Rosarito beach when we arrived, which we expected. It would be asking too much to bump into Miguel conveniently waiting for us to answer any questions. However, I recognized one of the surfers who was a hijo gofer carrying boards and fetching tequila. He was surfing south of the pier, so Carl and I entered the water about five hundred yards on the other side. We swam past the backline, which fortunately only had two other surfers. I distracted them, asking about surfing conditions and other inanities, while Carl yanked the hijo gofer off his board and held him underwater.

  He rose spluttering. Carl held a knife under his throat while waving me over.

  “If you struggle, you die,” I said in Spanish.

  I could see he recognized me, and nodded. We swam out to sea, and Carl all
owed him to get back onto the board while I held the ankle leash.

  “Where is the gringa Caysee?” I asked.

  He shook his head. He didn’t know.

  I grabbed his wrist, slashing the ulnar artery.

  “You will bleed out in fifteen minutes. If you tell us, you will have time to get the beach and bandage the cut. If not, you die here in the sea. Where is the gringa?”

  I could see he was not hardcore. This was not a difficult question.

  “She went with Miguel.”

  “Willingly?”

  He shook his head.

  “Where did they take her?”

  “To his father’s house. That’s where they go when there is trouble.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I do not know.”

  Carl looked at me. It was unlikely that an errand runner would know where a cartel boss’s house was. But John Peters would.

  “Stay here until you see us reach the beach. They you can come ashore. If you do so before, we will kill you. And if you tell the hijos about us, the DEA will say you are a snitch.”

  The look of terror in his eyes was enough. There was no greater crime in narco-land than being an informer. Even if not true, the mere whisper was a death-sentence. His lips were sealed.

  We reached our car and Carl phoned Peters.

  “Where are you?” asked the DEA man.

  “Rosarito.”

  “Shit — I told you not to cross the border.”

  “Yeah, right. Anyway, we’ve got some intel. Miguel took Caysee from the hotel by force and apparently to his father’s house. Do you know where that is?”

  “He has several that we know of. Probably more that we don’t. But for something like this, he would probably use the one in the Sonora desert about fifteen miles inland of Tijuana.”

  “Can you send me the coordinates?”

  “Yeah, but only if you promise not to do anything until we get these.”

  “How long will that be?”

  “Two hours. I’ll bring some trusted Federales along.”

  We plugged the coordinates into the Satnav. Fifty minutes later the machine took us off Federal Highway 2, and along a small side road. A few minutes later we reached a massive wrought-iron gate with at least four gunmen standing at the entrance. This was Pancho Guerra’s desert hacienda. No doubt about it.