single-story adobe building was that the station windows were either filthy or painted to be opaque. Peter walked along the broken sidewalk and entered the door-less front where a single rumpled officer was slumped at a desk. Stopping about ten feet away, Peter made a noise, awakening the cop who immediately looked behind to see if there were any other officers around, but none were there. “Como Señor?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
The man answered in broken English, “There is no one, Señor.”
“I want to speak to Commandante Padilla.”
At the mention of the name, the officer sat upright and looked around again nervously. He said, “The Commandante is no here.”
“When will he return?”
“Is not known. He comes sometimes.”
The officer started to use the phone when Peter responded, “I’ll come back later today.” He walked to Guy’s car while the officer was dialing frantically.
Guy started the car immediately when he saw Peter. After climbing into the front seat he said, “Drive down the block, I want to see who shows up.”
“Si, Señor.”
In less than thirty minutes, two cars arrived. The first contained four men with long guns. The second car was driven by a stocky man who buttoned a suit coat while walking briskly into the building. Within ten minutes two of the gunmen departed, but the rest remained. Peter and Guy parked undetected in an alley several hundred yards away. He then asked, “Guy, do you know a hotel that is safe around here?”
“Señor Peter, no hotel is safe, but I take you to the best.”
It wasn’t far away from the station and Peter was able to awaken the clerk and secure a room. Guy agreed to return at 1300 (1:00 PM). Peter had his pick of the rooms in the two-story structure and selected one with a clear landing area if he had to jump. He needed rest and also to get some information.
He dialed her number and she answered immediately, “Peter!”
He felt renewed energy hearing her voice. “Hi.”
“Did everything go all right? Are the Texas people helping?”
“It’s about what I expected.” He told her about meeting with the three bureaucratic musketeers. Then he told her about being in Mexico.
“Oh, Peter. Why is it always you alone?”
“Rachael, I’m tired and have a headache. I need you to use your CIA connections.”
“Anything, Peter.”
“Okay, I need to know what you can find out about a ‘Commandante Padilla’ with the Mexican Federal Police in Juarez.”
“Okay, what should I try to find out.”
“I don’t know, but I think he’s on top of John’s disappearance. Find out where he lives if you can.”
Commandante Padilla was born in the eastern town of Panuco and had joined the Mexican Army to get out of town, then later transferred to the Federal Police. As a Federale, he progressed rapidly with help from drug smugglers and participation in kidnappings, killings and extortion.
He was stationed in Ciudad Juarez through the influence of Alejandro Cardenas. In addition to detaining, torturing and killing rival gang members, Padilla made additional money through extortion of minor smugglers by planting drugs on them, then demanding bribes to avoid prison.
At about 12:30 El Paso time, Rachael called Peter. He had rested but hadn’t slept, thinking about John. Seeing her name in the display, he said, “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself. You sound sleepy.”
“Oh, not really. My body says sleep, and my mind won’t let me.”
“Hey, I’ve got something for you.”
Sitting up with a notepad, “Okay. Shoot.”
“First of all. This guy Padilla is one of the worst in a country littered with corruption. He’s a remorseless killer. Nothing unusual there, many of the Federales are hired killers in their spare time. The U.S. FBI demanded his investigation after concerns that Padilla accepted bribes to allow terrorists and shipments through Juarez without police interference. He also frequently gives bribes to U.S. Customs Agents and Deputy Sheriffs. Only in Mexico would he still be in a position of Authority.”
Peter rubbed his temples, “This is actually good news. I don’t think there’s any way he’s not involved with John.”
She agreed, “Yeah, it sure seems that way.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
She hesitated for a moment, “Peter, this is really dangerous. He doesn’t travel alone much and always has guards at his house. He lives in a small hacienda outside of Juarez, on the South side.”
“Rachael, you know I’ll be careful.”
She reluctantly gave him Padilla’s address.
He thanked her and was going to say goodbye, when she said, “Peter.”
“Yes, Rachael?”
“Be careful. I ... just be very careful.”
He savored the sound of her voice. “I will, and thanks.”
He pressed the “end” button reluctantly, then got ready to meet Guy downstairs.
A few minutes later, with his bag in hand, he started down the main stairway, but noticed two tan-uniformed officers talking to the clerk. He stepped quietly back up the stairs and went to the back staircase, which exited on the side street. The empty police car was parked nearby. He called Guy to meet him around the corner. They left without being seen.
Artillery
Driving out of the central sector of Juarez, Peter received a call from his oldest Army buddy. “Josh, what’s up man?”
“Looks like you better call me ‘Sergeant,’ Major.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, some fool let you go into the Bad Lands unarmed with no backup. You’ve done this before, Major.”
“Josh, this isn’t the time for rhetoric. What’s up?”
“I thought you could use some help. So I’m in El Paso.”
“Josh, this isn’t a frontal assault, not yet. I don’t think we should be risking another casualty.”
“What if I’m carrying the tools of the trade?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I called a Top (slang for Top Sergeant) friend at Bliss and did a little walk through the armory, how about a Barrett with night scope?”
The semi-automatic Barrett M82 was introduced to the military in the early 1980’s as a heavy SASR (Special Application Scoped Rifle). It’s the most powerful military rifle ever developed, firing .50 caliber (12.7 mm) ammunition. Some international treaties have attempted to ban the weapon.
“That would be awesome, but you can’t walk across the border with it.”
“Wait, it gets better. How about a couple M4s and an M14 with scope?”
“Okay, now I’m salivating, but you still can’t get to me.”
“Surprise, buddy, I’ve got some connections. It seems like a Lt. Gormam knows where to cross the border at night heading in your direction. Seems that the patrols only look for northerly traffic. No one’s trying to smuggle back into Mexico.”
“You guys will get your asses handed to you!”
“No we won’t. If we come back with Captain Stokes and more, we’ll get medals. Hell, there’s no one in Mexican politics with enough balls to complain about our little adventure. Hell, we go into Pakistan and Yeman, why not Mexico?”
“Man, you’re unbelievable. So’s Gorman!”
“Okay, before we get all blubbery, where should we meet?”
Padilla
Padilla lived in a comfortable ranch house at the farthest southern fringe of Ciudad Juárez with a clear view of the mountains to the east. Technically, he only owned a small amount of land, but isolation made it appear larger. Through fearful officials, the land around him never would be occupied. He had a few hours until dark before he would escort a line of trucks for Hector Cardenas, so he planned to enjoy a meal at home and admire the sunset.
His car was driven by a uniformed Federale with another plain-clothed officer in the front. Approaching the
house, the passenger exited first and circled around the house, peering inside. The guards were not allowed indoors. After two minutes, the officer waved them into the courtyard. Padilla waited for the rear car door to be opened then passed by both men without a word, as he walked to the entry door to unlock and disarm the security system. He lived alone in his sanctuary except for an occasional paid female house guest.
Laying his coat and tie across a chair, he went to the refrigerator for a beer. His guards took chairs in front and behind the house. Padilla sat on a couch and turned on the television to watch the end of his favorite program, Mr. Ed. The beer was cold and refreshing, lasting only five minutes. When the program ended, he pressed the controller “off” then went down the hall to his bedroom to change clothes.
Partway through dressing, he was standing in front of his closet mirror admiring his image. He didn’t look fat if he sucked in his gut. Fortunately, he still had a full head of hair. He tried looking at a couple different perspectives, never taking his eyes from the reflection when a head blow jolted his whole body. He fell awkwardly to the floor, gripping the bedspread. Then a second blow to his temple paralyzed him. He blacked out.
When he woke, he was sitting, tied to one of his kitchen chairs. His head pounded and his vision was blurred. Stars seemed to float in circles. A Caucasian man in military desert fatigues sat opposite him. Padilla struggled against layers of tape binding him to a chair.
“Who, who are you? Do you know who I am?” He screamed for his guards.
There was a calm reply, “It’s not important.”
Padilla screamed, “I have the highest friends in Mexico that will burn you alive after removing your