The Covert Element (22 page)

Authors: John L. Betcher

When he arrived at the farmstead, the party was already
underway.

* * *

When the last of them had fallen dead, Raphael Santos sat
down on the dirt outside the house and wept. He wept for causing
this massacre. He wept for the endless cartel killings. Most of all, he
wept for the souls of the men he had just poisoned. They were
young, foolish. They knew of no opportunity but to join the cartel.
Yet they were old enough to know better. And such were the
soldiers Santos needed to defeat if he was to dismantle
Los Cinco
.

He still held in his hand the bottle of tequila he had lifted when
the young men had lifted their tainted bottles in toast to him . . . to
the cartel . . . to Mexico. He threw the bottle at the house, shattering
it on a foundation stone.

Still sitting cross-legged in the dust, his thoughts tormented
him.

Was he up to this task? Or was he Don Quixote, tilting at
windmills? A fool who had wasted his life living with his enemies,
only to become one of those he had so despised? Would destroying
the cartel win him redemption? Even a small measure?

He didn’t think so.

He remained unmoving in the dirt until the sun had set and a
chill had fallen upon him. When he looked up from the ground, the
sky was dark. It was time to finish the job.

He struggled to his feet, standing on legs that had no will to
walk. Whatever mistakes he had made . . . whatever wrongs he had
committed . . . they would all be for naught if he did not finish this
job.

Moving mechanically, he arranged the bodies on the lawn.
When all twenty-three were laid out, he twisted the sound
suppressor onto his 9 mm pistol and shot each one in the head,
stopping once to reload.

His mind was numb now. But his body pressed on.

He doused the house with gasoline, set the delayed fuse, and
departed the farm by the way he had come.

This day had not gone as he had seen it in his mind’s eye those
many years ago. Less a triumph than a curse. Less a victory than a
horror.

Que Dios se apiade de mi alma! May God have mercy on my
soul!

CHAPTER THIRTY

Present day, outside Red Wing.

Master Sergeant Juan Fuentes had actually been in Minnesota
for several days before calling Bull. His stated arrival date of this
coming Saturday was arbitrary. He’d also lied about his purpose for
coming to Minnesota. It was not to seek refuge
from
the cartels, but
to bring his personal fight
to
them.

He had become aware through reliable sources of the lab’s
existence. And he knew before the meth lab was even built that
someone would have to do away with it.

This facility had been bought and paid for – and unless
someone from the outside intervened – would soon be operated by,
the
Los Cinco
drug cartel . . . the same cartel his father had died
fighting. The same cartel he had devoted his extensive military
training to hamper, and hopefully, to defeat. It would be entirely
within his life’s mission to rain hellfire on the lab and its occupants.

So the fact that shortly after his arrival in Minnesota,
authorities had found the meth lab burned to the ground, and its
drug cookers dead, gave the Sergeant no small amount of
satisfaction. It didn’t even matter whether he had carried out the
deed himself. Hell’s Angels, or some Latino or Asian gang could just
as easily have done the heavy lifting. The main thing was that there
was now one less
Los Cinco
operation, and twenty-three fewer
Los
Cinco
minions, that no one would ever have to deal with, or suffer
persecution from, again.

It was puzzling to him that the local press hadn’t picked up on
the story of the executions. But that mattered little to the Sergeant.
The lab was done for. The
Cincos
were dead. That was good enough.

But eradicating that remote drug lab was only one of the
reasons he had traveled to this northern territory.
Los Cinco
was
operating an even larger drug production facility in this area. Even
with the small lab gone, he still needed to exterminate the larger
evil. And that was a job he would need help to accomplish.
Experienced help. Reliable help. Someone exactly like Red Feather.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

While Gunner and I continued to separately mull over the
BCA’s evidentiary stockpile, time moved on and, just as the
calendar had predicted, Saturday morning arrived on Jefferson
Avenue.

Today was the day that Bull’s former Sergeant was supposed to
be arriving in Red Wing. I was anxious to meet him for many
reasons, not the least of which was his claim to knowledge
regarding the perpetrator of the "Mexican Massacre." But there
were other reasons, too. I hoped he would reveal more of Bull’s
past. Or maybe Bull would open the door a crack in the presence of
his old comrade-in-arms.

It was hard to say how this day might go down . . . but I was
pretty certain it would be damn interesting.

Beth was attending a step aerobics class at the YMCA. I had
cleaned the house pretty thoroughly on Wednesday and had some
nervous energy to burn off. So I hit the weights in the basement
laundry room to work up a sweat. After an appropriate number of
reps in each position, I moved to the Stair Master. I was just
completing forty-five minutes of climbing the Statue of Liberty
when my cell phone rang. It was Bull.

"Good morning, Bull," I said, my breathing somewhat labored.
"Heard anything from your buddy?"

"He’s here."

"Great. When should I come over?"

"Now’s good."
Click.

"Okay." I held the phone out to confirm that Bull had hung up.
Yup.

"
I think I can make that work," I said to no one. "No . . . short
notice is no problem. I’ll grab a quick shower and be right there. See
you soon. Bye for now."

I shook my head.
Typical Bull
.

* * *

Bull’s place was nearly a twenty minute drive from Jefferson
Avenue. I know that may seem like a long way given the other
distances I typically travel around Red Wing. But his home
was
in
Wisconsin, after all.

I had only been to Bull’s house once before. It was a celebration
of some sort. Might have been Bull’s birthday. He didn’t say what
we were celebrating. It was a good time though. Got to meet lots of
folks from the local Prairie River Reservation. That’s where Bull
grew up. It’s just outside of Red Wing and next door to the nuclear
power plant.

For some reason, the party was a males-only affair. I suspected
the prevalence of cigars, alcohol, and smart talk may have been the
reason for excluding the women. Or maybe it was the result. Hard
to say.

Bull didn’t say much, of course. His friends made fun of the
sunburn I was sporting that day. I participated in what I could only
assume was a traditional Dakota drinking ritual. After that, I mostly
felt like resting.

Today’s visit would be a whole different situation.

As I turned the Pilot up the long, shaded drive, a deer trotted
across the gravel in front of me. I stopped to allow the doe to pass.
Experience has taught me that, when one deer crosses the road,
another isn’t far behind. I waited a bit longer. After a moment, a
smaller deer scampered out of the brush, across the drive, and into
the thick woods on the other side.

I resumed my progress along the winding path until I could see
Bull’s cabin in the clearing ahead.

Bull’s house wasn’t really a cabin, at least not as most folks
would understand that word. It’s more of a log-style home. Two
stories. A full basement. Maybe three thousand square feet. And of
course, all the amenities that any upscale, middle-class dwelling
would have to offer.

There weren’t any cars in the driveway. Bull’s was likely in the
garage. Sergeant Fuentes must not have driven one here.

As I approached the open front porch, Bull appeared in the
cabin doorway.

"C’mon in."

"Thanks. Don’t mind if I do." Bull stood slightly to one side and
I squeezed past him into the great room. I looked around, but didn’t
see the Sergeant.

"Where’s your war buddy?"

"Not here yet."

"Whattya mean he’s not here yet? When you called you only
said two words – ‘He’s here.’ What? Did he leave already?"

Bull closed the door and sat down in what was plainly "his"
chair – an oversized, upholstered job with thick legs and huge,
rounded arms. I was still standing.

"You want to sit?" he asked.

I breathed deeply. Twice. Nothing I had said seemed to have
made a dent in his mood or demeanor.

After a few seconds, I grabbed a spot on the couch opposite
him. I decided I’d try to start over. Whining wasn’t getting me
anywhere.

"So . . . when do we expect our guest to arrive? Do we have any
idea at all?"

Okay. I was still whining . . . but less.

"
We
. . . figure any time now."

I was familiar with Bull’s concept of time. "Any time now"
could literally mean
any
time. From my limited experiences, it
seems to me that some American Indians don’t buy into western
concepts of time and scheduling and always hurrying to get to one
place or another. Everything happens when its time arrives. I’m not
making a judgment here. I’m just observing Indian folks I know.
For some of them at least, time has a will of its own. It’s an elegant
concept if you think about it.

At the moment, however, Bull’s concept of time was pissing me
off.

"So what did you mean when you told me on the phone, ‘he’s
here’?"

"In Red Wing."

"Oh." That wasn’t too bad. "Shall we go pick him up? Or does
he have his own car?"

"Don’t know. Just said he’s coming here soon."

I wasn’t sure what to do with that.

Bull stood. "You want tea?"

At least I couldn’t fault his hosting.

"Yeah. That’d be great. Thanks."

He went to the kitchen and poured us each a huge insulated
cup of iced tea, garnishing both with slices of lemon. He picked up
his tea and sat down.

"Ready," he said.

Apparently, Bull’s place is self-serve. I stood up, retrieved my
beverage from the kitchen counter, and returned to the couch. I
sipped the tea.