The Polaris Protocol (4 page)

T
he
sicario
puttered in the northbound traffic on the Paso del Norte Bridge, seeing the line of cars snaking out before him. He’d done his research and knew it would be at least a two-hour wait. While the bridge operated twenty-four hours a day, he’d decided to cross when traffic was heaviest, giving the men working border control less of an incentive to focus on him.

Inching forward every few minutes, surrounded by all manner of cars, some seemingly held together by duct tape, he reflected on his future. Or more precisely, his lack of one.

From the beginning, the cartels had led a Darwinian existence of dog-eat-dog, with only the strong surviving. Even Osiel Cárdenas, the man who had created the original Zetas enforcement arm, had the nickname El Mata Amigos—the Friend Killer—because he had executed his partner to seize control of the Gulf cartel. Back then, though, there were lines. Reasons for the violence, with a degree of logic, because random killing was counterproductive for business. The
sicario
had seen that change.

The leadership of Los Zetas had become paranoid. Or maybe they were simply crazy, with the calculated thinking of the original members lost to the savagery of the animals who took over from below. It really didn’t matter why. In the past the
sicario
had killed for a purpose. Sending a signal to the authorities, getting revenge for transgressions, or simply showing the consequences should someone interfere with cartel business—it had all been designed to retain control. The killings were thought out before they were ordered, with potential repercussions discussed at least as much as the operation itself. Now Los Zetas butchered anyone suspected of working against them based on rumor alone, with no thought given to the fallout.

The man the
sicario
had boiled was one such target. Two days ago, he’d been a valued member of Los Zetas. Yesterday, he had become a target, simply because his boss, El Comandante, had heard he might be turning informant.

The
sicario
was sure El Comandante was crazy. He was like a dog that had been whipped, beaten, and thrown into fights to the death for so long he had lost all sense of what constituted reality. Sooner or later, it would be the
sicario
’s turn. Of that he was absolutely positive. The only reason it hadn’t happened yet was because he had never once shown anything but loyalty and had never indicated an interest in greater riches or power.

That, and because the
sicario
had been Los Zetas far longer than anyone else. Longer even than El Comandante. He was one of the few members of Los Zetas still alive from when they were the pipe swingers for the Gulf cartel. One of the original
sicarios
—and that fact, along with his reputation for brutality, held some importance.

He wondered if he himself was crazy. He thought he could discern it in others but wasn’t sure about himself. He didn’t believe he was, but in his heart he couldn’t see how anyone who executed such heinous deeds couldn’t be. He should have been eaten up with remorse or fearful of the afterlife. But he wasn’t. The acts, like the one earlier today, never bothered him. Didn’t that make him loco?

There was only one action that haunted him. Made him worry about where he would spend eternity. During the latter stages of the Guatemalan civil war, his Kaibil unit had been sent to “pacify” a village. They had slaughtered every man, woman, and child. After everything he had done since in the name of Los Zetas, this was the one event that haunted his dreams. Made him sweat when the memories surfaced. The
campesinos
running left and right like rabbits. The machetes falling. The blood. The stench of spilled intestines and chopped meat. It all returned at night while he slept.

The aftereffects of that operation had driven him into the arms of Los Zetas. He told himself it was because they paid infinitely more than the Guatemalan army, but in reality, he had decided that if he was going to kill, he wanted to kill someone who wasn’t innocent. As if Los Zetas knew the difference.

Loco thoughts
. He rubbed the little statue of La Santa Muerte on his seat, saying a small prayer for his soul. Wondering if the man he had boiled had also prayed to the patron saint of death. And whether that made them both insane.

* * *

Driving into the El Paso neighborhood known as Eagle, the
sicario
reflected that it didn’t look a whole lot different from Juárez. Very few trees, cinder-block houses with yards full of rock and dirt, and adobe dwellings interspersed with seedy automotive repair shops and convenience stores. Situated along the Chavez Border Highway, it was literally a stone’s throw from Mexico, butting right up against the Rio Grande River. The thought brought him some comfort that perhaps he could get away with what he’d been tasked.

He’d had no trouble crossing over and was glad he’d kept his passport up to date. He’d never used it to come into the United States but had always treasured it as a final out, a wild card that might come in handy should he be picked up by Mexican authorities—or should he need to run from other, less forgiving types.

The Paso del Norte crossing was northbound only, but he was sure the southbound crossing at Stanton Street would, if anything, be easier, since he would be headed into Mexico instead of the United States.

He turned left off of the Border Highway onto Park Street and began looking for the skate park. He crossed three intersections and started to wonder if the intelligence was wrong. At the fourth, he saw the corner of the park. He turned left again, now scanning for atmospherics.
So far, so good.
The Eagle neighborhood had a very high crime rate, but he wasn’t looking for police. He was searching for the street gang that owned this barrio and would be acting as lookouts for the Sinaloa cartel.

He took a left on South Hill Street, boxing his route in, and saw a tattooed hood wearing a dingy white wife-beater and jeans. He was lounging against the front wall of a meat market and talking to another street thug sitting on an overturned plastic bucket. The conversation stopped when his car came into view. They both eyeballed him as he turned, and the
sicario
wondered if this neighborhood was so close-knit that they’d know he didn’t have any business here. He ignored them, getting a quick glance at their side of the street, then driving past and looking to the left, away from their eyes so they couldn’t see his face. Giving them only a view of the wig and hat he wore.

Seventy-five meters down and he saw the safe house. It was a one-story brick structure with two windows, one on either side of a single door. Small, maybe three rooms total, butting right up to the sidewalk. No yard to speak of, which meant no chain-link fences to contend with. All in all, a plus for the
sicario
.

It was getting to be late afternoon, and while the
sicario
would have liked to wait until darkness, he wasn’t sure when the Sinaloa transporter would arrive. Once the reporter was loaded, there would be no chance of taking him. He drove around the block, passing the skate park again. This time, instead of continuing on, he stopped at the alley that ran behind the safe house, a dirty, narrow strip littered with trash. He backed up to the skate park and wedged his car in between two pickup trucks, getting it out of view.

He walked toward Hill Street, scanning left and right. When he reached the alley, having seen nothing alarming, he shifted left and went down it at a rapid pace, walking all the way to the next block. When he passed the safe house, he saw a back door, but it was heavily barred with a wrought-iron grate. Not an entrance, but it would work as an exit.

He circled back to his car, coming up with a plan. It would have to be quick and dirty, but with only one lookout position, they weren’t expecting trouble. At most, there would be three men inside to contend with. None would be expecting a threat, but that would change when he knocked on the door. They would arm themselves out of reflex. Unless . . .

T
he
sicario
picked up his pace and reached the skate park and his car. He drove it to the mouth of the alley, backing the vehicle just inside and off the street, but not close enough for the safe house to hear the engine. He threw his wig and hat into the backseat, lifted up a special compartment in the right rear door panel, and pulled out a suppressed Sig Sauer P226 nine-millimeter pistol. The weapon was bigger than he would have liked, made larger still by the five-inch suppressor, but it was necessary. He donned a specially made shoulder rig, seated the pistol, then put on a cheap nylon windbreaker to cover it.

He exited the car and began walking back around the block, toward South Hill Street and the meat market. He knew that the lookouts would focus on his bald skull and scorched forehead, and the image would preclude their brains from making any connection to the man who had just driven past. Which would cost them.

He turned the corner and walked with purpose straight toward the meat market, both gang members staring at him intently. He ignored them, stopping short of the building proper and veering toward a gate in the wooden fence that ensconced the market’s property. He opened it like he belonged and went through a six-foot-tall barricade that would preclude anyone from seeing what he was about to do. He searched the area with his eyes and saw nothing but old washing machines and beer cans. No windows on the building or witnesses in the yard. He knelt and called out in Spanish.

“Help me. Please come help.”

He waited, then repeated the call. Eventually, the one he’d seen on the bucket came through the gate, saying, “What do you want,
cabrón
?”

He jammed the suppressor into the thug’s throat and said, “Call your friend.”

The man splayed his hands out in a gesture of surrender.

The
sicario
waited a beat for compliance. When it didn’t occur, he twisted the barrel, pushing it deeper into the soft folds of flesh. “Call. Your. Friend.”

The man did, bleating like a goat. The
sicario
shot him from under the chin, the bullet going through the brain and taking out a section of skull as it exited the top. The body hitting the ground made more noise than the suppressed 226. He waited.

The wife-beater rounded the corner cursing, walking with a swagger. He saw the body a split second before he felt the suppressor at the base of his jaw, just below his ear. He, too, held his arms out.

The
sicario
said, “Do not talk. Just nod yes. You know the house you are protecting?”

A nod.

“We’re going over there, and you’re going to knock on the door. Get them to open it without alerting them something is wrong. If you fail, you will die. If you succeed, you can run away down the street. I’ll do the rest. Do you understand?”

Another nod, but this time with a snarl on his face.

Trouble.

“Put your arms down. Look at me.”

The man/boy did so, glaring at him with a challenge, showing he wasn’t concerned.

“I know whose house that is, and they are of no help to you. I am a Los Zetas
sicario
. Do you know what this means?”

The toughness cracked and the thug tentatively nodded.

He jammed the barrel deep into the soft fold of flesh beneath the jaw. “Do you
understand
what this means? For you?”

The gang member became visibly scared, staring at the molten scars on the
sicario
’s forehead.

“I have made many men such as you cry for death. Weeping and begging for their mothers. Your next few minutes will decide if you do the same. Let’s go.”

This time the gang member nodded vigorously. He’d heard the stories. Maybe even seen the pictures. He’d played at being tough in his own little fishbowl, had dealt out his own version of justice in the barrio, but understood the man with the gun operated in a whole different universe of pain.

They crossed the street, the wife-beater walking in front. When they reached the brick of the house, the
sicario
stopped just outside the left window, his pistol down and hidden between the wall and his left leg.

Wife-beater looked at him once, a mixture of fear and resignation on his face, then knocked on the door. When someone answered from the other side, he stated he was making another run and wondered if the
jefe
wanted anything from the store.

The
sicario
admired his courage. It was the perfect story but was predicated on an answer. If the man behind the door said yes, he would have accomplished the mission. If he said no, the door wouldn’t open, and he would be dead.

The man said yes.

The
sicario
had counted the locks earlier and seen three. The gang member glanced at him, holding his position in front of the peephole and waiting on permission to run. The
sicario
strained to hear the locks. When he heard the second one click open, he shot wife-beater in the temple, the man crumpling to the concrete without a sound. By the time the third lock had turned he was standing over the body. When the door cracked an inch, he kicked it hard, throwing the man back.

The
sicario
stepped inside and drilled the guard twice in the face, causing him to slam against the wall and fling the wallet in his hand into the hallway. The
sicario
moved forward, training the Sig on every crevice. He saw doors to the right and left before the hallway spilled into an open den. He heard someone say something behind the door to the right. He kicked it open and found a man sitting on a toilet, his pants around his ankles. The man uttered something unintelligible, pure astonishment on his face, a newspaper in his hands. He tried to stand and the
sicario
put two rounds above his nose.

He raced to the den and found it empty but identified the back door in the center of the wall. He went to the cubby used as a kitchen and found it empty as well. He shuffled back to the final door, readied his pistol, and kicked it open.

On the floor was a Caucasian man, bound up like a calf at a rodeo. He held his hands out in front, shouting, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

When the
sicario
holstered his weapon, the man’s demeanor changed, and tears formed in his eyes. He began to chant, “Thank God . . . thank God . . . thank you . . . they were going to take me to Mexico . . . thank you.”