He was known as El Barquero, “The Ferryman,” because of the particular delivery service he provided for a Mexican drug cartel. In Mexico, drugs and money were easy enough to procure, but guns were more difficult. This was his specialty, supplying the firearms that made the violence possible. It was good business. The vast majority of the firearms seized by Mexican authorities combating the drug cartels came from the United States. Guns from South America smuggled through Guatemala and rifles from Mexican soldiers who defected to work for the cartels for better pay were also available, but guns from the United States were still the primary tools of slaughter. Drugs and smuggled humans leached north; firearms passed them on the journey south.
His name, El Barquero, had a second meaning as well. “The Ferryman” might just be the last person seen before crossing into the next world, particularly if he wasn’t paid.
Tonight’s work was a side job. He made his living acquiring and delivering guns to a Mexican drug cartel. The cartel’s territory stretched across most of the Caribbean coast of Mexico and the eastern half of the Mexican border with Texas, but the recent bloody fighting between rival cartels for control of the coveted Juarez smuggling routes, the largest source of illegal drugs and human trafficking across the entire Mexican border, had created a dangerous but intriguing opportunity.
El Barquero had recently intercepted drug shipments from both of the largest cartels in the Juarez region, knowing that each would blame the other for the losses and the bodies. No one would ever assume a single individual had the audacity to challenge two of the most violent criminal organizations in the world. However, if they found out, he would die, and more than likely, not quickly. Even his relationship with the cartel he worked for couldn’t protect him. In fact, if his extracurricular activities came to light, they’d have their own deadly plans for him. His employer had enough issues with infighting, internal corruption, and the increased efforts of Mexican and United States officials targeting the most senior levels of cartel authority. One of their own moonlighting as an independent assassin and thief targeting their chief rivals was the last thing they needed. The peace between the rival cartels was uneasy enough, and retribution was hardly an eye for an eye. Payback scaled geometrically. If someone dies, then someone else’s family dies, along with every family on the block. No, he needed to make sure that no one knew what he was doing. That’s why the informants from whom he extracted information regarding shipment routes never showed up again. Most likely, if you ever met El Barquero, you only met him once.
Tonight’s job was perfect. It was a small shipment. Escalated border patrol activity in this part of Texas had led to the increased use of one- and two-man mule teams to move the valuable product to rendezvous points inside the border. Inevitably, shipments would be interdicted, and the risk of losing substantial amounts of product in a single failed smuggling attempt made small shipments attractive from a risk-return standpoint. It also made intercepting them easier. The mules would most likely be untrained and unarmed, not valuable cartel soldiers. El Barquero wasn’t taking any chances tonight.
A faint movement caught his attention. Was it a man or something blowing in the wind that was starting to build as the storm approached? El Barquero slowly reached for the rifle resting beside him. He extended the rifle’s bipod and pushed his burly shoulder into the weapon. The Barrett sniper rifle was an evil-looking tool. Nearly five feet long, the ominous black weapon effectively fired a fifty-caliber projectile at targets over a mile away. Capable of disabling vehicles or punching through concrete walls, it hit a man like a deadly anvil. He moved his eye to the rifle’s day/night optic and scanned the valley floor, where he spotted the movement. He could clearly see the two men hunched over with their heavy loads, advancing up the east side of basin. They would have to traverse the terrain directly in front of him to reach the path up the west side of the ridge. As they started up the path a half mile below, they would be coming directly toward him. Everything was going as planned. This was going to be easy.
The two men had slowed their pace as the ground began to rise.
“Where are you… where are you going to go once we are finished?” Ernesto asked, pausing to catch his breath.
“Head west to Phoenix. I have some friends that can help me with documents for work,” Victor replied, looking back at his companion. “How about you? Any family here?”
“No.”
“What will you do, then?”
“Try to find work,” Ernesto said. “Then buy a car, a really fast car. A real man needs a car.”
“Cars are cheaper in Mexico.”
“I know,” Ernesto said despondently. He looked up at the dark, stormy sky. It seemed to go on forever. He imagined all the possibilities for him in the United States. “But a man with a car in America lives a better life than a man with a car in Mexico, even if the car costs a hundred times more.”
“Well, I hope you get your car,” said Victor.
In the darkness below El Barquero, the two men had paused for a minute before continuing to make their way to the cut in the ridge. El Barquero had worried for a moment that the men were lost and would backtrack down the valley. He didn’t want to chase them. As they reached the western side of the valley and headed toward him, he chambered a round in his weapon. He preferred to only fire once. The rolling thunder would help to cover the sound of the rifle, but its report was loud, and anyone in the immediate area would notice. He had scanned the area earlier and hadn’t seen any evidence of others, but with border patrol and even civilian militia groups active along the border, he wanted to be careful. His targets were walking one in front of the other. The men wove back and forth between the brush and rocks, one passing in front of the other every few seconds. He released the rifle’s safety, placed his finger on the trigger, and relaxed into the long gun. A roll of thunder rumbled across the desert. In between heartbeats, just before the men crossed each other’s path, he fired. The recoil drove down his spine as the bullet left the barrel. The two men had their heads down, watching the trail. They didn’t see the muzzle flash, and they wouldn’t hear the sound of the gun before the deadly fist of a projectile reached them.
Ernesto was walking behind Victor. He heard a dull thump in front of him, and then everything went black.
The roar of the gun mixed with the rumble of thunder and faded down the valley and into the night air. Both men were down. El Barquero watched and listened for a minute. Nothing. He rose from his position and slung the heavy rifle over his shoulder. Pausing briefly to retrieve the spent shell casing, he headed down the trail to retrieve the shipment.
As he cautiously approached the bodies, he continued to scan the horizon for movement. As he came closer, he heard faint breathing. The man in front was clearly dead. The round had entered his sternum and nearly torn him in half, but the second man was still alive. The heavy bullet had passed through the first man and hit the second man in his shoulder. The young man was trembling and struggling to breathe as the shock of the impact began to wear off.