CHAPTER 8
The soft, middle-aged flab of Javier’s half-naked body sickened Fausto, who insisted his hostage get dressed. Minutes later, Javier stood inside his sizable bedroom closet, with Fausto and three of his sullen and silent minions keeping careful watch. Javier trembled putting on a dress shirt, and his hands shook too violently to do up the buttons, so he exchanged that outfit for an easy-to-slip-on black T-shirt and baggy gray sweatpants.
Fausto bristled at the final clothing choice. He preferred finer-looking fashions, but this was an American look through and through. Almost everything about the country displeased him-the women being the notable exceptions.
“¿Dices que eres mexicanoamericano?” Fausto said to Javier as he watched him fumble with his clothes. (“You call yourself Mexican American.”) “Pero, ¿qué es mexicano de ti? Nada. Eso.” (“But what is Mexican about you? Nothing. That’s what.”)
“I love Mexico, Fausto, and, believe me, I am committed to the cartel’s mission. Please, you must know this.”
Javier knew to speak only in Spanish.
“You are committed to nothing but your disgusting self,” said Fausto. “If you loved Mexico so much, why not visit there? Why not live there? Oh, are you worried about the murders? The crime? Please, Javier, you of all people should know it is mostly just drug dealer against drug dealer. The finance types like you, they live a life of luxury. You listen too much to the media, my friend.”
Once Javier was dressed, Fausto escorted him from the bedroom to the dining room, with the other men in tow. The dining-room chairs were heavy black lacquer over oak, and suitable for Fausto’s purposes.
“Did you know,” said Fausto, running a hand along the smooth finished surface of one of the chairs, “Cancun and Cabo San Lucas have murder rates lower than Arizona? Lower!” Javier did not seem impressed, and this made Fausto angry. “Washington, D.C.-four times the number of murders in Mexico City. Four times, Javier. But you, you’re an American. You’ve lost touch with your people, your heritage.” Fausto crowded Javier and gave his cheek several patronizing pats with his hand. “But your heritage is about to reach out and touch you real hard. Pick up that chair. Carry it downstairs for me. You can call it exercise.”
Fausto would have two more chairs brought down in addition to the one Javier had carried. He would have three hostages here soon enough.
The unfinished side of the basement was nothing special, just a concrete room with a water tank, furnace, and a lot of ductwork. Javier kept his tools down here, however, and it was among them that Fausto had found the drill.
In a matter of minutes, two of Fausto’s men had lashed both of Javier’s ankles to the legs of the chair. Right away, the ankles began to swell. Javier’s arms were wrenched behind his back and secured with rope.
Slapping the tip of a twelve-volt Black & Decker power drill against his meaty palm, Fausto hovered in front of Javier’s chair and appraised his hostage thoughtfully. The drill had an orange plastic casing and a dull silver bit, which Fausto enjoyed spinning. The whir put a smile on his face and gave Javier a flash of the assassin’s gold metal mouth.
Four armed men from Sangre Tierra accompanied Fausto in the basement. They had all crossed the border on false passports, along with Fausto, and had spent days together in a van. The van was the best way to transport the assault rifles the men had picked up in San Diego, along with other weapons concealed in various pockets and belts of their tactical clothing.
Upstairs, three other members of the cartel waited. They had come by plane, and they would greet Stacey when she arrived home from work and Gus when he returned from school.
Fausto had Javier’s phone. He looked up Stacey’s number in his contacts. “I’d have you send the message, but maybe you have a code word or something established for a situation just like this,” Fausto said. “Who knows? You could be very well prepared. What do you call your wife, other than her name? Is it sweetie? Darling? Honey? Don’t lie to me. Bad things happen to people who don’t tell the truth.”
“Honey,” Javier said. “I’d say, ‘honey.’”
“Oh, how sweet,” said Fausto, sounding sincere.
To Stacey, Fausto typed in English: Come home honey! I’ve got a big surprise for you. We’re taking a vacation. Bags are packed. We’re leaving soon so hurry home!
Thirty seconds later, Stacey typed back: OMG!!! Are u serious?
There was some back and forth texting, half of it written by Fausto, but guided by Javier. Stacey needed a little cajoling to become convinced she could act so spontaneously. Eventually, she decided that she could.
Stacey’s last message read: I’m so excited. Leaving work now. Love U!!!
Fausto sent a similar text message to his son and told him to take a cab home. Gus’s reply came back quick: No WAAAAAAAYY so pumped!! Love you Pop!
Fausto showed the replies to Javier. Everything needed to hurt.
“Soto doesn’t explain stuff to me,” Fausto said. “He tells me to go get his money, but he doesn’t tell me how. So you’ll tell me everything I need to know, deal?”
Javier’s chin was touching his chest in defeat.
Fausto lifted his head, using the tip of the drill. He wanted the eye contact. “Educate me.”
“What do you want to know?” asked Javier.
“Everything,” Fausto said.
Javier tried to speak, but an unexpected sob choked his voice. Fausto looked annoyed. To quiet the man down, Fausto slipped the drill bit into Javier’s ear. Out of instinct, Javier pulled his head to one side to dislodge it, but Fausto grabbed hold of his chin and held him in place.
“Ssh, ssh, ssh, my friend,” Fausto said. “Calm down or something messy could happen here. My finger could slip.”
Javier stopped thrashing. The tears dried up enough for him to find his voice. Many years of experience had taught Fausto that terror was a special kind of motivator.
Javier explained everything. When he finished speaking, Fausto extracted the drill from Javier’s ear canal. “These bitcoins,” Fausto said. “They don’t exist? They’re not real?” His curiosity was earnest.
“No,” Javier gasped, and spat. “They’re… real.”
“So I can buy things with them? Clothes? A car? That Dunkin’ Donuts coffee you all drink?”
Javier tried to answer, but again the words got stuck in his throat. He shut his eyes tight. Then, like a free diver before making a descent, he took in several readying breaths.
“Just relax,” Fausto said. “I won’t hurt you if you help me.”
Javier nodded several times. He’d be compliant. “You can buy things, yes,” Javier said. “Or exchange them for other types of currency.”
“And this kid you mention, he exchanged the bitcoins for real cash?”
“Not all,” Javier said, his voice still shaky. “It was only a couple thousand dollars’ worth, but it was a dumb thing to do.”
“Why ‘dumb’?”
“Because we could trace the coins to the new owner,” Javier said. He stopped speaking to look once more at the empty chairs next to his. “The seller used this thing called a proxy server to mask his IP address, but my computer consultant said it was an ‘unsophisticated means of tunneling.’ Those were his exact words.”
“Who is this consultant?”
“He calls himself The Lion. I can get you in touch with him.”
“You will.”
“Please, Fausto,” Javier said. “Keep my family out of this. I’ll help you. I promise. I’ll do anything. Just leave them alone.”
Instead of the ear, Fausto set the tip of the drill against Javier’s leg, directly at midthigh. The leg began to buckle and shake in a grand mal seizure way, but Fausto kept the contact point.