8 P.M. MST, MONDAY, OCTOBER
27
SAN CARLOS, OUTSIDE GUAYMAS, MEXICO
ChiChi Bernal always beat the odds. That’s why
he’d lived this long. But right now things
weren’t looking too good. He felt the pull of
two innocuous suitcases, one gripped in each
meaty fist. They were heavy mothers, but he held
them easily. He was a stocky man whose squat,
round body hid hard muscle beneath a genial
layer of belly flab.
He was late but dared not rush, running the risk
of unwelcome attention. San Carlos was a quiet
seaside resort that attracted tourists like
yellow drew bees. They moved with the languid
ease of the balmy weather, gawking at the sky,
sipping umbrella-topped alcoholic drinks, and
fending off persistent vendors who offered
everything from handwoven blankets to plaster
statuettes of the Virgin.
A soft hum of conversation surrounded Bernal,
English and Spanish blended with German and
Japanese. Being a seasoned traveler, he
understood snatches of it as he moved through
the crowds with watchful eyes.
The aquamarine bay glimmered in evening
sunlight, hinting that the tropics extended to
northern Mexico. ChiChi walked through the maze
of dissecting piers that comprised the big
marina, hard black eyes searching out the
longest one—his rendezvous site was at the end
of it. A maze of sailing masts and power
antennae jutted against the orange-gold of the
sky as hundreds of yachts bobbed on the incoming
tide, obscuring his view. He cursed silently and
kept walking.
He’d dressed like a tourist, in a floral print
shirt and linen slacks, but his casual jacket
concealed the .25-caliber pistol strapped
beneath his arm. If anyone wondered why a
heavyset man perspired in a linen coat, Bernal
saw no evidence of it. He’d made a life’s work
of blending in. As he neared his destination,
the sun sank slowly into the bay, gilding the
jagged twin spikes of old Tetakawi, the highest
landmark in the coastal range.
From halfway down the pier, Bernal could at last
see the opening from the bay to the ocean
beyond. “No boat coming in,” he muttered to
himself. His gut clenched.
Cabril’s man, Felix Ortiz, had spotted him in
Ciudad Obregon that afternoon and smelled a rat.
ChiChi was supposed to be in Culiacán, two
hundred kilometers to the south. Had Felix
intended to cut himself in on Bernal’s action,
or had he reported Bernal’s whereabouts to
Cabril? He’d had no time to find out.
Ortiz and two of his men lay dead near a rest
stop forty kilometers south on Highway 15. That
had added an hour to this leg of Bernal’s trip.
It took time to dispose of the bodies, wash away
the blood, and change clothes. If Ortiz had told
Cabril ChiChi’s destination before he died,
ChiChi was screwed. He set one case down on the
dock and looked around, feeling the weight of
the Colt under his jacket. In spite of the cool
breeze off the ocean he was now sweating
profusely.
Cabril must be the reason the damn boat wasn’t
here. Bernal looked around the marina crowded
with pleasure crafts. Maybe he could steal one,
but even after serving three years in the U.S.
Navy and seven in its Mexican counterpart, he’d
never learned to operate so much as a dingy. He
was a cook by trade, not a boatswain mate. His
only option would be to kidnap an owner and
force him to head out to sea. Bernal didn’t like
the odds on that. Cabril’s outfit had spy planes
patrolling the coast regularly.
Scanning the crowd of tourists and vendors, he
saw no one suspicious until two big, blond Anglo
types approached him, splitting up casually as
they drew nearer. The hair on the back of his
thick neck prickled. Like him, they wore jackets
on this warm night when most men dressed in
short-sleeved shirts.
Shit! He picked up the cases and walked as fast
as his short legs would carry him, heading to
the end of the crowded pier. He knew without
looking that the gringos were closing the
distance between them. Still no sign of his
contact entering the narrow neck of the harbor.
Much as he disliked using some frightened
hostage as a pilot, he might not have another
choice. The pier he was on ran parallel to three
others, all crowded with boats of various sizes.
He glanced into each cabin as he walked past,
looking for one that was occupied, but quickly
abandoned the idea. It would take far too long
to ease a boat from its berth.
Decision time.
Bernal went with his gut and jumped onto the
small Sea Ray directly beside him. He landed
with surprising agility for a stocky man
carrying such a heavy load. He could hear his
pursuers’ footsteps break into a run as he
regained his footing on the rocking deck and
flattened himself behind the cover of the cabin.
The soft ping of a silenced bullet ricocheted
off the metal rail to his right as he moved to
the stern of the boat. He held his breath and
threw the cases onto the bow of a large Bayliner
moored beside it.
The next shot missed his head by an inch. One of
the men fired from the stability of the pier
while the other jumped onto the boat, causing it
to rock violently under his weight. A tall man
with a high center of gravity, he lost his
balance and pitched forward. When he seized hold
of the rail, ChiChi fired a single shot. The
gringo tumbled over the edge and dropped with a
loud splash into the water.
Down the pier a woman screamed. Bernal swore as
he sighted in on the second man who dived behind
the gate of the Bayliner. He fired when the
blond head appeared over the edge of the stern,
then jumped to the bow of the Bayliner,
flattening himself at another popping sound. It
was a standoff now. Both men were pinned down on
the same boat, but Bernal once more held the
suitcases.
At the opposite end of the pier a crowd gathered
for the impromptu entertainment. He could hear
the sound of angry voices and women’s hysteria.
Soon the police would arrive. In a rich tourist
area like this they were uncharacteristically
prompt. ChiChi looked at the alloy metal cases
and went with his gut again.
Using them as a shield was his only option.
Would his enemy fire and risk hitting one? He
had no time to consider because the man he’d
sent into the drink surfaced, bloody but
decidedly alive. And still armed. He climbed
over the bow of the Sea Ray with the business
end of a Browning pointed directly at Bernal.
ChiChi could see his finger, glistening with
water, tighten on the trigger. “Son of a bitch,
die!” He raised the suitcase to his chest and
fired his Colt at the same time. The gringo’s
slug hit the metal case and knocked the air from
his lungs. His ears rang. He shook his head,
rolling with the case clutched to his chest,
ready to fire again, but his target went down,
this time falling across the narrow bow of the
Sea Ray.
The big man didn’t move but his companion did.
Bernal could hear him climbing around the far
side of the cabin. He could also hear the clump
of police boots running down the wooden pier.
Lots of them. He shoved the Colt into his belt
and seized both cases, then jumped to the next
boat, a two-story yacht bigger than the house in
Detroit where he’d grown up. It provided him
enough cover to clear another craft before
Blondie followed.
Now they were playing the same game. Elude the
cops first, then settle who got the cases. To
keep the police from outrunning them to the end
of the pier, both antagonists fired at them.
Brown uniforms hit the ground like cow shit
plopping on a flat rock. The harbor cops found
cover on the boats just as the gunmen had done.
Bernal stayed a couple of boats ahead of Blondie
as they continued the deadly game of leapfrog.
He watched the bay and prayed for a miracle.
Then he saw it. A small fishing boat cut like a
knife across the calm water. His ride had made
it! All he had to do was reach the old shrimper
alive with the suitcases. He considered throwing
one to his pursuer.
“Five million bucks. Fuck him,” he muttered and
held on to both of them as he made another leap,
this time almost missing his footing between
decks. The big Anglo was gaining on him when he
landed on the last boat at the end of the pier,
a small Monterey providing little cover. The
shrimper was close now. He just might make
it—unless the Harbor Patrol boats got in on the
act. Or Blondie got lucky. He crouched and
waited, peering out from behind one of the
cases.
He could hear the roar of the powerful engine
concealed beneath the beat-up old boat’s
weathered hull. So close. Sounds of orders
barked sharply in Spanish led the more foolhardy
of the police to dash down the pier. Blondie had
finally calculated the odds and knew there was
no way he was going to recover the suitcases and
elude the authorities with them. The big man
dove into the water and vanished in the
gathering darkness.
Bernal watched for him to surface at the next
pier. “Come on . . . come on.” Then he grinned.
His target slid over the side of a small
powerboat. ChiChi took careful aim. In spite of
the wake created by his approaching rescuer, he
hit the mark. As the man went down, he fired
again, knocking him back into the water.
One piece of business finished. He couldn’t have
anyone reporting back to Cabril, who would
recognize a description of the shrimper and know
its captain—that was, if the big blond worked
for Cabril. He might have worked for the ...
HOMELAND
SECURITY
