Chapter Nine
Rodriquez couldn’t recall ever seeing such a large cluster of bright stars high above him. The clear Mexican night skies kept staring down at him and his would be executioners in the wide compound in the dark. The cold air was filled with potent marijuana scents. It felt so cold that he could see his breath. His face and body screamed with pain as he tasted the blood on his lips. He had been savagely beaten that he could barely walk. Still, his captors kept ‘encouraging’ him with shoves and kicks pointing him in the right direction. Painfully he moved forward, his swollen face surveying the vicinity. Behind him was the house in which he had endured a beating like no other that for a moment he thought he might die from the brutality mitted out on him. To his left, he caught a glimpse of another structure a few yards away. It looked similar to the one behind. Just then, he felt a hard blow to the back of his head.
‘Stop’ ordered the tall masked man at the rear. The one they called Hernández. He seemed to be in charge. He shoved the M4 Carbine into the back of Rodriquez. Its cold muzzle tip pressed hard against his flesh. They were now standing in the cold about fifty meters away from the warehouse. Rodriquez knew it was pointless trying to negotiate with these men to spare his life. They were so loyal to their master. These were the master’s hounds, stereotypes, usually recruited by the Cartels in their teens, possibly from rural marginalized communities, then thoroughly indoctrinated, drugged and forced to kill. They were also handsomely paid for their loyalty and for murdering members of rival gangs or anyone perceived a threat to their master including fellow comrades accused of treachery. All this was done with promises of rise through the ranks to run things just like their master was doing now. To such men, loyalty to their master came first above everything else, even above their very own lives.
‘Pull the hatch!’ the man ordered. He was pointing with his free arm to something on the ground, the other arm firmly on the trigger. Rodriquez painfully bent down. His hands felt something hard, cold. It was a square metal plate fastened into the ground. He felt something else, something hard and pointy. He grabbed and pulled at it. It was firm, immovable and his entire body ached.
‘I said pull, idiot!’
Then it gave way. It was a pitch black hole in the ground but before he could straighten himself back up, he was shoved from the back and sent crashing onto a hard wet slippery surface head first. A bolt of excruciating pain surged through his entire body that his vocal cords let out an involuntary cry. His nostrils were suddenly accosted by the most pungent smell. It smelt like the inside of the Adventista morgue but only worse. His eyes began to water from the overpowering toxic stench. A sudden rush of spittle accumulated in his mouth and his stomach constricted. Steadying his frail limbs into a sitting position in the darkness, he next heard boots drop heavily onto the wet surface and a bright light came on. He tried in vain to shield his eyes with his hand against the sudden bright assault but there, right in front of him stood the tall masked man pointing the M4 Carbine into his face. Rodriquez paled. The other two masked men with Ak47 rifles strapped around their shoulders stood next to their comrade, one to his left and the other to his right.
‘Get on your knees.’ The tall one in the middle commanded. Rodriquez obeyed pinning his knees painfully onto the wet surface. He could see what appeared like two black plastic gallon barrels sitting in the darkened corner. The man cocked the Carbine before steadily pointing it at Rodriquez. Seconds ticked by to what would be his final moments alive. His stare was met with the Carbines’ black hole sending his heart thudding violently and his mind flooding with images of Natalia, her beautiful radiant face smiling invitingly at him. He was about to join her. Goodbye painful world, welcome Natalia.
Three rounds swiftly fired, three explosions sounded. Rodriquez slumped on the slippery surface. The three men groaned slamming their masked frames heavily next to him. He hadn’t been shot. He nervously looked about. The shots had come from an AR-15 semiautomatic rifle. A figure emerged from the dark holding what looked like a drawn weapon aimed straight at him. It was Ramona. ‘Quick, undress him’ She said pointing at the tallest man who lay dead on the ground closet to Rodriquez.
‘Put his stuff on and help me lift him into the drum.’ she commanded. Flooded with relief, Rodriquez obeyed on cue.
He swiftly took off his bloodied grey sweater, exchanging it for a bullet riddled black leather jacket stripped off the dead tall man; it clung to him like a wet blanket and quickly, he wrapped his face in the dead man's dark earth cotton scarf. Its oppressive fetid smell enveloped his nostrils. Ramona strapped the AR-15 on her back and beckoned to Rodriquez to help lift the now half-naked man. They dropped the dead man head first into one of the black plastic barrels that contained a dark corrosive liquid. Rodriquez’ eyes immediately stung and his lungs contracted.
‘What chemical is this?' He asked.
'Sodium hydroxide,' Ramona hissed, 'nothing dissolves flesh and bones faster. Hurry, the other one, we don’t have much time.’ They carried the second man who surprisingly seemed heavier than the first into the same liquid plastic barrel, they then proceeded to rashly stuff the third man, boots and all into the second toxic filled barrel.
‘Pick up one of those and let’s go.’ She said pointing her lean arm at the M4 Carbine on the wet floor before she raced up the metal railing towards the surface. Rodriquez grabbed the M4 and hastily followed her up before lurching out of the pit onto the surface.
‘Follow me, act normal, and blend in. We are on patrol. Got it?’ she whispered as she stood in the freezing cold waiting for him to replace the metal lid, her weapon drawn. Rodriquez could see she looked composed. She was an expert, an assassin. She wore that same expressionless face. She had cut down the three men in extraordinary fashion. He wanted to ask her how she had gotten into the dungeon just in time to save him but was cut short by a bright flicker in the dark. Someone had just lit something a few yards away, a cigarette maybe or weed. Rodriquez’ nerves tightened. He knew that this place had to be swarming with more than a dozen armed men. Ramona proceeded to light a stick of her own. The distinct stingy scent of bangi filled Rodriquez’ nostrils as they began walking leisurely towards the curved building to the right.
A pungent odor of dead rats welcomed them as they stepped on noisy rusty nails littered on the hard concrete floor inside the dark dilapidated warehouse whose metallic doors were covered in dust. He could see a stack of shadows possibly old beer crates or weapons caches stack up at one extreme end. The warehouse’s creaking broken glass windows swayed at the slightest whistling of wind outside. Rodriquez was surprised to see an ultra-light aircraft parked in the center of the warehouse with its propeller nose facing him directly. The small plane’s high wings gave the aircraft an aura of timelessness. A thick metal plate welded under the nose sat between two big rubber tires giving the small plane an aggressive posture. He also noticed blue and white markings with the Mexican government crest painted on each side of the plane probably meant to wade off scrutiny from Mexican security.
‘Get in the back.’ Ramona whispered to him in the dark, ‘It’s your only chance to make it out of here alive.’ Her distinct sharp spicy odor filled his nostrils.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ He whispered back realizing she was hesitant to follow him to the plane’s latch.
‘No am not.’ She replied.
‘But I don’t know how to fly.’ Rodriquez replied nervously.
‘Neither do I, but someone else will fly you outta’ here in the next five minutes or so.’
‘Are you going to find us a pilot?’ he asked.
‘No!’
‘Then how the hell I’m I supposed to fly this thing?’ He asked.
‘El chapo is supplying the Columbian FARC rebels with portable, shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles to counter the Bogotá government’s air war against them. In return, the rebels will pay the Sinaloa cartel in kind, with cocaine. Before his arrest, José Vazquez was meant to deliver these weap
ons. Another man will do the delivery in his place. He is to board this plane shortly. So, hide in the back and hitch a ride.’
‘Thank you.’ Rodriquez said.
‘Never say that again.’ She shot back angrily. ‘Those men back there trusted me and I killed them to save someone I hardly know. You have risked my life and cover, so do me a favor, get in the goddamn plane.’
The inside of the small plane was dark and its cockpit looked dim. Strong gasoline fumes filled the cabin. Creeping between two passenger seats, Rodriquez squeezed into the narrow back and hunched next to what looked like hard cold metal rods. He held firmly on to the M4 Carbine ready to use it if discovered. He heard the latch shut firmly from the outside. Peering through the plane’s foggy window, he was able to catch a glimpse of Ramona’s shadowy figure disappear through a window to the left. A second glance at the metal rods on the planes floor sent shivers through his entire body. They seemed long and a foot in diameter each. Looking closer, he recognized what they were. He couldn’t see the warheads although the fins that act against air resistance to change the direction of the missiles were protruding through a creased polythene covering. Ramona was right.
He crouched lower, waiting for any signs of movement outside. His entire body hurt from the beating, the dead man’s jacket and scarf felt uncomfortable, sticky and smelt pungent. Rodriquez’ heart quickened when he heard the sound of loud squeaking. Someone was opening the main warehouse doors. Peering again through the plane window, he spotted two figures briskly walking towards the plane. His nerves jolted as he ducked his head lower. A few seconds later, he heard the plane’s latch squeak open. Heavy footsteps approached near to where he hunched. His heart thumbed wildly and he felt his hand tighten around the M4 Carbine ready to squeeze the trigger.
‘Eh senor, put the bloody light on.’ came a hoarse voice in Spanish close by. Rodriquez held his breath. He certainly was exposed inside this small cabin and could easily be spotted. A yellow light came on right above him.
‘Light up this old lady.’ again the hoarse voice commanded. A sharp spirit breath mixed with tobacco hit Rodriquez. Then he heard a whirring sound, followed by a jerk, and finally loud rumblings of an engine. The loud engine sounds shook the entire plane causing a rattling of its entire aluminum body. He noticed they were slowly beginning to move. The speed increased as did the rattling sounds, on what seemed like gravel. He found his free hand holding tightly onto some metal so as not to tip over backwards from the sudden gradient shift skyward.
Rodriquez quickly learnt from the two men seated at the front that they were headed to San Luis, Arizona to drop pounds of drugs and fly back into Mexico, refuel at some name he didn’t recognize before heading for Colombia to deliver the four Surface- to Air-Missiles (SAMs). The two men continued to bellow noisily above the engine rattle oblivious to his presence. The pilot bragged about how he'd never been caught on his several trips across the border to drop drugs, his passenger on the other hand spoke fondly of the ranches he owned around Santa Ana, near the Arizona border. A few more minutes of that blubber went on then the voices went silent. He didn’t know where they were or how high they were flying. The pain in his head and ribcage continued to increase. He’d been kicked repeatedly, ferociously stumped on and savagely knocked about that he wondered how he’d managed to somehow stay alive. He knew he needed urgent medical attention or else he would pass out at any moment now. He had lost a lot of blood. He had to stop the plane, he had to hijack it.