Chapter 21: El Jeffe

On first impression, Palacio de Oro was one of the ritzier structures in the city, standing out amidst the surrounding low-rise buildings that served as business suites and offices for a myriad of commercial concerns. To the more discerning eye, it became apparent that the highly touted ‘party palace’ was little more than a worn-down 24-story complex with a fresh coat of paint covering the drab exterior. Only the top penthouse was noteworthy because it had been revamped at some expense into an opulent expression of Aguilar affluence.

“So that’s where Angelo and his bitch hold their parties, eh?” Peter grumbled from the passenger seat of the detective’s Oldsmobile. Maggy sat in the back behind him and peered across the street at the quiet building.

“It’s become popular in the last few months since he renovated the top floors,” Ramirez replied. He drove slowly past the building to give them time to scrutinize the layout. “Want me to go back around?”

Peter shook his head, “No. if they’re paying attention, it might jeopardize your anonymity.” He looked at the sergeant. “Take us back to the hotel.” He looked back at Maggy. “Tell the second team to roll.”

She nodded and pulled out her phone. Since their arrival, a second four-person security team, including Kennedy, Dante, Pat, and Little John, has been on standby in Phoenix. Little John was a recent addition, a Navajo from Gallup who served nearly ten years in the Army special forces. He is a decorated combat veteran and Ranger.

They were almost back at the hotel when Peter’s cell phone chirped. He answered it. It was Iggy.

“Just heard from Digs, boss,” he stated hesitantly. “I’m heading to the waterfront to meet him.”

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, sensing the man’s reticence.

“He found where they...” the security man hesitated, “murdered your friend, sir.”

South of Ensenada was an L-shaped lagoon, listed as Laguna del Arenosa, emptying into All Saints Bay. Locals called it ‘Bota de Mujer’ or ‘Lady’s Boot’ after its shape. The ‘heel’ was adjacent to a prominent point of land called Punta Brava.

“Here,” Diego said, pointing to a spot on the map spread over the hood of the beat-up Ford Maverick he had procured. They were in an empty gravel lot serving as the trailhead parking lot for the Punta Brava State Park hiking trails. Beside his worn-out vehicle were three other cars parked nearby with a group of sketchy-looking fellows smoking and talking in low voices. Detective Ramirez cursed under his breath when he pulled into the lot, muttering, “Pandillero.”

Peter bent over to look at the nondescript warehouses against the swampy lagoon boundary near the ‘ankle.’

“The entrance descends through a gate here and curves right into a loading area,” the Hispanic bodyguard indicated, the building furthest from the main road and closest to the swamp. “It’s been unused and abandoned for years. But the gate remains shut and functional. Ricky...” he nodded back toward the mercenaries, “says this warehouse in front is still occupied and used to store smuggled goods like cigarettes, booze, and pharmaceuticals.”

“How did you get in?” Maggy asked, blowing out a cloud of smoke, ignoring the leering glances from the nearby thugs.

Dig’s grinned at her while Iggy snorted. “I’m a ninja,” he quipped. Then his smile faded. “They ... didn’t clean up after themselves, boss. It’s awful to see,” he muttered. “And it’s pretty obvious your friend wasn’t the only victim to be...”

“How did you learn of it?” she persisted.

He turned to the group standing apart and called out a name. A thin, nervous man separated himself from the others and stepped timidly over to the car where Peter and Maggy stood with Ramirez, Diego, and Iggy. “This is Carlos,” he introduced the sickly-looking man. He appeared to be in his forties but had not aged well. He had a protracted limp, and drugs and poor nutrition had ravaged his body. He kept his hands before him and rubbed them nervously like he was washing them.

“Carlos,” Peter greeted calmly.

“Buenas tardes, senor,” he replied quietly.

“Carlos saw your friend brought into the warehouse. He was heavily drugged when they tied him up,” Diego stated. “Go on, Carlos, tell them what you saw.”

“I’m so sorry for your friend, senor,” he almost sobbed. His face was pinched, and he began trembling as he spoke. “I was made to watch ... I didn’t want to, I swear!” He looked up, startled when Maggy offered him a cigarette. He accepted it appreciatively and bowed to her after she lit it, “Gracias, senorita.”

“Go on,” Digs prompted.

“She is an evil ... awful witch!” the man stammered, drawing on the cigarette. He peered back at them with a haunted expression. “She stripped naked before she...” he swallowed harshly. “They woke him with smelling salts and cut his clothing away so she could ... he was held down on a table on his back, and she ... mounted him after she...”

Peter felt the cold rage simmering closer to the surface as he pictured the sickening ritual. He glanced around the sunny clearing and noticed nine newcomers had grown quiet as they listened to the wretched man’s description.

“She screamed in a language I don’t know,” the man said fearfully. “It was the devil’s tongue, I’m sure. She rode him like a wild bull until she was satisfied. Then she collapsed on him and whispered things that made him scream like he was mad.” Carlos dropped his cigarette and rubbed his face. “She ... she was like a demon,” he hissed, scrubbing his greasy hair. “She moved like a snake over him as she rose. I’ve never heard a sound like when she grabbed his face with her awful hands...” He began shaking, nearly collapsing, until Diego caught his arm. “Her nails were like the talons of an owl, and she ... she...” he whimpered, closing his eyes tightly.

“She clawed his eyes out,” Peter said harshly.

Maggy wailed and stepped back, bumping into Sergeant Ramirez, who had lost all color in his face.

“Si...” the man whispered despondently. He shook his head violently to rid his mind of the image. “But that was not the worst of it...”

As the wretched man continued, Peter was no longer concentrating on his face and body. He only heard the words describing the horrific events, relaying to his mind as a dark and shadowy screenplay he couldn’t control or avoid behind his eyes.

La Bruja arched her back, relishing the screams as she braced her pelvis against the man’s thrashing body. She spread her arms wide and raised her maniacal eyes to the dark ceiling, crying out in dark ecstasy as she crushed the gelatinous orbs in her fists and spread the contents across her naked breasts and throat. Chanting in her demonic tongue, she slithered onto his trapped legs and dragged her fingers down the victim’s chest and abdomen toward his spent and shriveled manhood. The evil glimmer in her black eyes, devoid of sanity, gripping his scrotum in one hand while she bent over his groin.

The man’s screams erupted into shrieks of agony and terror as her long hair draped over his pelvis while her head bobbed and twitched. The spectators in the shadows dared not flinch or look away for fear of what could happen to them. Blood sprayed across the naked chest of the bound man when La Bruja suddenly drew back with her slender back arched again. Her jaw contorted as she worked her mandibles like a cow chewing cud. She touched her lips with a bloody hand and made a sinister smile as she finished chewing and swallowed. An awful belch escaped her lips as she peered back down at the bloody remains between her victim’s legs. She held out a hand, and was handed a wicked-looking knife—

“That’s enough!” Diego commanded darkly as he shuddered nearby. “Everyone here knows what the cartels do with their enemies’ testicles,” he stifled the urge to punch something. “Jesus Christ!”

“I’m sorry,” the decrepit man whispered miserably.

The security man pressed a wad of bills into the man’s shaking hands and turned him toward the dirt road. “Go, disappear. Get far away from here if you know what’s best.” He watched the man stumble away and turned back to Peter. “What now?”

“I’m not waiting til tonight,” he stated firmly. He had a possessed look, and sweat coated his face. “I’m going in there now.”

“Boss, we will be detected,” Iggy argued. “A small group after dark, maybe...”

“They know we’re here,” Peter interrupted. Everyone stiffened. He turned to Maggy, who looked pale. “Think about it,” he stated. “The Basilisks set up the Tiburón cartel to capture and murder Alan to make a statement. That statement shows we’re still vulnerable, and they will exploit every weakness until they get to me.” He stabbed his finger into the map. “They will have told Angelo and his bruja wife that I will be coming for revenge. They’re expecting us.” He looked at the gathered men. “Is this the best you could come up with?”

“No, boss,” Iggy replied quickly. “We’ve hired them and six others so far.” He glanced nervously at the detective.

Peter nodded. “Detective Ramirez, I think it’s best to part ways until this ends.”

The Sergeant snorted with disgust and turned toward his car. “I don’t want to be a part of it anyway.”

“It’s better this way, Franky,” he added, causing the man to freeze before opening his car door.

Ramirez turned back. “You know where I stand on ... this.” He waved toward the mercenaries, and then his face changed. “But I understand. I hope you achieve what you came here to do.”

Maggy kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Franky,” she said softly. “Peter’s right. We don’t want anyone to learn of your involvement. I’ll contact you in a couple of weeks.”

“Vaya con Dios.”

“Goodbye,” she said, touching his arm before rejoining Peter and the group.

“I’d like you to meet somebody,” Digs stated after the detective left. He gestured, and a peculiar individual stepped away from the mercenaries, approaching the four of them with a swagger. He was darkly handsome with sharp aquiline features. The man was young, probably in his twenties, but carried himself with the confidence of an apex predator. “This is Arturo Espinoza,” Diego introduced. “His uncle is Manuel Abaroa, the...”

“The Headsman!” Peter smiled in recognition. He reached out to shake the man’s hand.

“Mucho gusto,” Arturo smiled back. He gave Maggy a head-to-toe glance without masking his admiration.

“My condolences to your uncle,” Peter continued. “I’d like to speak to him to see if we can get him out of...”

“That won’t be necessary, amigo,” the young man smirked. “He is already free.”

Peter gawked back at him, “Say what?”

“Oh, he never made it to the airport to be transported to Cereso Nogales,” the man continued smugly. “He was let out on a street corner in Valle Dorado, walked to my Abuela’s house, where he changed clothes and disappeared.”

“Whoa!” Maggy quipped as she tapped another smoke from her pack. The dashing young man stepped forward with a click of his zippo to light it for her. She regarded him as she took her first drag and let out a lungful of smoke, “Thank you.”

“Does Angelo know this?” Peter remarked, shaking his head in amazement.

“Oh, he will, Senor,” the young man grinned, “Believe me, he will.”

As the group dispersed, Peter was determined to visit the abandoned warehouse where Alan was murdered. He agreed to let Diego accompany him with a few mercenaries while Iggy took Magdelaine and the rest to relocate to another safe house.

“Give Tito the bailout signal,” Peter ordered. “Once I torch that warehouse, the sharks will know we are close. He will be vulnerable.”

“Boss, Tito knows what he’s doing,” Digs argued. “We should let him make that call.”

Peter stared back at the man, “I don’t want to risk it,” he countered firmly. “We know what they do to their enemies...”

“Boss!” Iggy interrupted. “Digs’ is right. This is what you pay us for,” he insisted as Maggy stood beside him. “You have to trust him.”