For seven months, there was quiet, and — as the war between the cartels and the Mexican government reached a fever pitch — Guerrera came to realize that ensuring safe passage across the US border could be more than simply a profitable, if risky, sideline, it could be a public relations coup. A service the cartel was in a position to provide that the government could not. A way to influence public opinion that slowly turned the populace so thoroughly against them that even fear could not be expected to keep them all in line.
His higher-ups reluctantly agreed, so long as he oversaw the operation himself.
The bodies found on I-83 represented his first shipment.
What the authorities did not realize is that one of the four main spokes to the system let out a mere hundred yards from where the bodies had been dumped, into a storm drain which ran perpendicular to the highway just below. It was as Guerrera and his charges were exiting that the creature struck. And once it took the heads and hearts it came for, it was into that storm drain, and back into the depths of Mictlan, a shattered Guerrera watched the beast return.
Which meant if I was going to kill it, I’d have to go in after it.
When I told these men — Castillo, Alvarez, and Mendoza, as it turns out, the latter being the only English speaker in the group, and therefore my de facto translator — what I needed from them, they balked. I mean, they were happy enough to sketch out a rough map of the tunnels, for no paper map existed, thus ensuring only those familiar with them could successfully navigate their winding, booby-trapped passageways, marking the location of the collapsed side-tunnel and the storm-drain outlet for me as best they could. And they seemed content to part with grenades and additional ammunition as well. In part because I’d presented myself as an American cartel operative embedded as an immigration officer, and in part because they were so scared shitless of what was down there — and of their post directly above it — that they would have clung to any method for eliminating said threat as if it were a life preserver. And you couldn’t blame them. The tunnel system had only five entrances: one here, and four on the Texas side of the border. Which meant these poor bastards stood a one-in-five chance of being this thing’s next meal once it’s stomach started rumblin’ and it caught on they wouldn’t be sending down any more deliveries.
But when I told them they were coming with me, they weren’t too keen.
Guess the way they figured it, that bumped their odds from one-in-five to sure-fucking-thing.
What they didn’t get was I wasn’t asking.
“I do not understand why we cannot simply blow the tunnels,” said Mendoza, “and bury this beast for good.”
“Yes you do. You know damn well it didn’t work before. What makes you think you’d kill it this time?”
“But you cannot expect us to come with you. It is too dangerous.”
“Funny, you seemed just fine with me going down there all by my lonesome.”
Mendoza shrugged. “Whether you live or die is of less consequence to me.”
“And what of the people who will die if this thing gets loose?”
“So long as I am not among them, it is not any of my concern. I would prefer to take my chances on the surface.”
We were sitting around the wooden cable spool that served as the bar’s sole table, drinking tequila from filthy shot glasses as we spoke. Castillo and Alvarez watched the conversation as if it were a tennis match, occasionally interjecting with rapid-fire Spanish that Mendoza would then translate, or requesting that he do the same of my comments for them. Outside, shadows grew long as the fire of day was extinguished, the sun snuffed out like a spent cigarette by the desert sands. Between the tequila and the thought of the job to come, I was hankering for a smoke something fierce, a jones not helped any by the fact these three puffed away like goddamn steam engines. Which, upon reflection, may have had as much to do with inspiring my little demonstration as did their obvious reluctance.
“Look, I don’t think you get it. Guerrera’s orders–”
“–were heard by you and you alone, and that is not enough to convince us to risk our lives.”
“Is that right? Then maybe I can find other means of convincing you.” I pushed back from the table, toppling the rusty folding chair on which I was perched. Mendoza did the same, drawing a 9mm from the small of his back as he did. Castillo and Alvarez were a half-second behind. Three guns trained on me, and my own weapon a good ten feet away atop the bar.
I raised my hands, all casual-like, and smiled. Mendoza smiled back, predatory and triumphant. We were separated by a good six feet of plank floor, and a table far too bulky to be easily tossed aside. They were armed. I was not. The situation didn’t look too good for me.
Which meant I had them exactly where I wanted them.
“Perhaps next time you choose to make a move, you will first consider where your weapon is,” Mendoza said, cigarette bobbing in his mouth as he spoke.
“Perhaps,” I echoed. “But I figured instead I’d just use yours.”
Mendoza eyed me quizzically. His cohorts looked first to me, and then to him, trying to suss out their next play. Their trigger-fingers were getting itchier by the second, their faces ever more worry-lined.
I drew the moment out as long as I could stand, letting the situation simmer. And then I hurled my meat-suit to the floor. And then I struck.
My consciousness hit Mendoza so fast, I scarcely felt the last meat-suit drop away before I was inside. So fast, the Solares body was still falling when I took control. Solares wailed in fright as consciousness returned to him, and covered his head with his hands, waiting for the shots he was certain were to come.
But they didn’t come. I made sure of it.
Mendoza’s stomach clenched. Bile and tequila splashed his boots. His buddies turned toward him instinctually, and I took full advantage. Castillo was to my right. I twisted toward him, and pressed the barrel of Mendoza’s piece to his temple. His gun clattered to the floor. Alvarez stepped in to stop me, and I buried my hand inside his chest. I grasped tight his soul, gave it a little tug. He squealed like a stuck pig, and then collapsed, eyes showing white, fell so fast I almost failed to release his soul in time.
Woulda sucked if I’d held onto it. The boy wasn’t mine to collect. Though the life he led, my guess is he’ll be somebody’s to someday.
Alverez was out. Castillo stood frozen, eyes clenched in anticipation of my bullet. I was puke-streaked and gasping from the sudden exertion, Mendoza’s smoker-lungs struggling to keep up with the demands I made on them. Which reminded me. I looked around, saw his butt lying in a puddle of sick, more tequila than stomach acid. I ground it out with the toe of his boot. Wouldn’t do to have the place go up in flames. That’d attract all manner of attention I’d just as soon avoid. But it did bum me out to have to waste the smoke.
“Siddown,” I said to Alvarez. “I’m not gonna kill you.”
His eyes widened when I spoke to him in unaccented English, but he didn’t listen. He didn’t listen because he didn’t speak a lick of English, but it took me a minute — and a prompt from my former meat-suit — to catch on.
“You know he can’t understand you,” said Solares, eyeing me cautiously from the floor. His English was less stilted and less accented than was Mendoza’s. His face was no less hard. As I watched, his gaze flitted from me to Alvarez’s piece, which skittered to a spot on the floor maybe four feet from where he lay once I kicked it aside.
“I wouldn’t,” I told him. “You’ll make me do something we’ll both regret.” His attention returned instantly to me. “Now, tell this one to take a seat. Tell him I’m not going to hurt him.”