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Authors: Brad Taylor
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frustrated, she knelt down and peered underneath the bed. And saw something metal, hidden in the shadow. She lay down and stretched her arm out, batting the object until she could reach it from the side. She pulled it out, recognizing the device as a battery-operated digital recorder.
She stared at it for a good five seconds, afraid to hit the “play” button. Afraid it would display a disgusting amateur sex video. Or worse, a snuff film of her brother. She worked up her courage, opened the lid, and turned it on. What played was neither raunchy nor ghastly. A Caucasian man talking about information sharing with someone off the screen. She let it continue, confused as to why her brother would have made the recording—if he did. The men weren’t discussing drugs or anything about the cartels. It wasn’t until the end, when a new man’s voice came on, begging for his life, that she was sure. Whatever had happened here, it hadn’t been innocent. The man’s pleas testified to that. The screen went blank, and she considered her options.
Pike had admonished her about going to Mexico alone—in fact, had forbidden it—but the phone trace was all she had left. She’d talked to the police, aggravated to receive the same answer as her mother. No amount of pleading did any good. The police would do nothing for forty-eight hours, until Jack was considered truly missing. Forty-eight hours she could not afford to let slip. She found the answer idiotic.
There’s a damn TV show called
The First 48,
done by murder investigators who know that if they don’t solve a crime in forty-eight hours, they never will.
And now, with the hotel a dead end, she’d have to wait forty-eight hours to even begin.
She’d researched Ciudad Juárez, and all indications were that current conditions belied its nickname of
Murder City
. Drug violence was a third of what it had been only a year ago, and investors were returning. Surely she could drive over there in the daytime. Pinpoint the location of the phone. Just for atmospherics. Something she could use when the police were engaged.
At least that’s what she told herself.
13
C arlos waited for Eduardo to turn back from the window, wishing he had more information to provide. As the
plaza
boss for the Sinaloa cartel in Juárez, Eduardo had a very low tolerance for failure. It wasn’t that he was overtly sadistic, looking for something or someone to lash out at. In fact, he was more intellectual than most. It was simply a function of the job. Failure implied weakness, and weakness bred insurrection. To prevent any moves on his position or his terrain, he would show strength. Carlos knew it didn’t matter if the reaction had any bearing on the failure. It was the show that was important. The perception that the boss hadn’t grown weak, but that instead the men below him had, and thus were dealt with.
Luckily, Carlos had shown his own strength on numerous occasions and had rarely failed. He couldn’t easily be replaced, and he knew it. He also knew that Eduardo wasn’t prone to outbursts of violence, unlike the crazies who had preceded him. Eduardo preferred to analyze before striking, but that only went so far, and Carlos knew that his head was possibly on the block.
Eduardo said, “So do you think it was American Federales or someone else?”
“It’s too early to tell. All I know for sure is that he was taken. I don’t know if he’s even alive.”
“But who would have taken him in El Paso if not the Americans?”
“You could be right.” Carlos held up a smartphone. “He placed one call on this right before we got to him. The number is some random American company, but it could be a cover for an American agency. I have our contact checking it out, but the evidence from the hit doesn’t feel like American authorities. Everyone was killed, including the two watchers outside. If it was the Americans, they would have simply rolled up and surrounded the place. Instead, everyone
She stared at it for a good five seconds, afraid to hit the “play” button. Afraid it would display a disgusting amateur sex video. Or worse, a snuff film of her brother. She worked up her courage, opened the lid, and turned it on. What played was neither raunchy nor ghastly. A Caucasian man talking about information sharing with someone off the screen. She let it continue, confused as to why her brother would have made the recording—if he did. The men weren’t discussing drugs or anything about the cartels. It wasn’t until the end, when a new man’s voice came on, begging for his life, that she was sure. Whatever had happened here, it hadn’t been innocent. The man’s pleas testified to that. The screen went blank, and she considered her options.
Pike had admonished her about going to Mexico alone—in fact, had forbidden it—but the phone trace was all she had left. She’d talked to the police, aggravated to receive the same answer as her mother. No amount of pleading did any good. The police would do nothing for forty-eight hours, until Jack was considered truly missing. Forty-eight hours she could not afford to let slip. She found the answer idiotic.
There’s a damn TV show called
The First 48,
done by murder investigators who know that if they don’t solve a crime in forty-eight hours, they never will.
And now, with the hotel a dead end, she’d have to wait forty-eight hours to even begin.
She’d researched Ciudad Juárez, and all indications were that current conditions belied its nickname of
Murder City
. Drug violence was a third of what it had been only a year ago, and investors were returning. Surely she could drive over there in the daytime. Pinpoint the location of the phone. Just for atmospherics. Something she could use when the police were engaged.
At least that’s what she told herself.
13
C arlos waited for Eduardo to turn back from the window, wishing he had more information to provide. As the
plaza
boss for the Sinaloa cartel in Juárez, Eduardo had a very low tolerance for failure. It wasn’t that he was overtly sadistic, looking for something or someone to lash out at. In fact, he was more intellectual than most. It was simply a function of the job. Failure implied weakness, and weakness bred insurrection. To prevent any moves on his position or his terrain, he would show strength. Carlos knew it didn’t matter if the reaction had any bearing on the failure. It was the show that was important. The perception that the boss hadn’t grown weak, but that instead the men below him had, and thus were dealt with.
Luckily, Carlos had shown his own strength on numerous occasions and had rarely failed. He couldn’t easily be replaced, and he knew it. He also knew that Eduardo wasn’t prone to outbursts of violence, unlike the crazies who had preceded him. Eduardo preferred to analyze before striking, but that only went so far, and Carlos knew that his head was possibly on the block.
Eduardo said, “So do you think it was American Federales or someone else?”
“It’s too early to tell. All I know for sure is that he was taken. I don’t know if he’s even alive.”
“But who would have taken him in El Paso if not the Americans?”
“You could be right.” Carlos held up a smartphone. “He placed one call on this right before we got to him. The number is some random American company, but it could be a cover for an American agency. I have our contact checking it out, but the evidence from the hit doesn’t feel like American authorities. Everyone was killed, including the two watchers outside. If it was the Americans, they would have simply rolled up and surrounded the place. Instead, everyone
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