“Murray!” the elderly woman next to him scolded. “Don’t go telling people our business.”
“Hell, I bet half the people on this bus are going down there just to get a hard pecker again,” Murray replied. The woman hit him with her purse.
“Well,” General X-Ray said, “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the new border crossing regulation known as rule five-two-eight stroke K-forty-nine. I’ll need all the male passengers to forfeit their passports for a pre-border inspection, inspection. Please have them available as I come by. May I see your documents, sir?” the General asked the man sitting in the first seat.
“We never had to do this before?”
“I know, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience, but regulations are regulations, and this will save you a lot of time at the border. Now hand them over.”
“Why only the men?” the man asked.
“Because it’s an even-numbered calendar day. Ladies are scheduled for tomorrow. It’s in the manual.” The elderly man begrudgingly passed over his documents. “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you. Thank you for your patience. Thank you very much.” The General collected the passports from all the male passengers as he walked down the aisle. Heading to the back to the front of the bus, he heard Private Foxtrot yodeling. “Okay, folks, I’m just going to run these through the computer machine real quick, won’t be just a minute. Thanks again, and God bless America,” he said as he waddled out of the bus as quickly as he could.
“Yodel-ay-hee-hoo!” the Private called out again, louder this time. The General made it back to the men just as the tour bus driver came out of the main depot building.
“Let’s move out!” The General quickly led his men away from the bus station and into a quiet alley a few blocks from the border crossing. He began fishing through the passports, looking at the photos. “No.” He tossed one aside. “No.” He tossed another aside. “No…no…wait.” He stopped and held a passport up to Fire Team Leader Bravo’s face. “Not bad,” he said. “Same nose.” He handed the passport to the Team Leader.
“General, this guy has lost most of his hair.”
“Don’t worry about it. They probably aren’t even going to check. It just needs to be close.” Fire Team Leader Bravo showed the picture to Private Tango.
“I don’t know,” said Tango. The General kept shuffling through the documents until every man had a document with a photo containing at least one similar facial characteristic. The biggest problem was that the tourists were all a good twenty years older than the men of STRAC-BOM. The General was unfazed.
“It’s all about confidence, men. Just follow me, walk straight across the border, go right past the officials, and don’t act nervous. If they call you over, just act old.” The men followed the General a few blocks to the border crossing. From the U.S. side, people streamed into Mexico with no problem. On the other side of the border, frustrated travelers stood in a long queue waiting to get into the United States. The General led his men to the spinning gates with heavy horizontal bars that marked the entrance into Mexico. An official closely watched the men as they passed. The General was the first through the spinning turnstile, followed by Private Zulu, Fire Team Leader Alpha, and Private Foxtrot.
“Pardon me, sir,” the border official held up the palm of his hand to Fire Team Leader Bravo. “May I see your documents?” Fire Team Leader Bravo fidgeted as he handed over his passport. The rest of the men hustled their way past and through the spinning gate as the official examined the document. “Thank you Mr. Bleaker.” The official looked at the photo and then up at the Fire Team Leader.
“Just heading over for the cheap pharmacies, officer.” The Fire Team Leader rubbed the top of his head. “Those pills and foam, they really work.” The border official looked at the photo again.
“Have a nice day,” he said as he handed the passport back. “Be sure to declare your purchases on the way back.”
“You bet.” Fire Team Leader Bravo went through the gates and joined up with the other men.
• • •
The Padre lay on a dirty, bare mattress deep in the bowels of a dilapidated apartment complex in the heart of Monterrey. Outside, his men kept watch. Surrounded by stained walls and a single flickering bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, he actually felt at home. It reminded him of when he was young. He’d started in the business as a lookout and courier for the Colombians, not far from here. His training for the job was unique. After being raised by his parents in a small, devout home for a life destined for the church, an approach by a degenerate priest intent on abusing him in the most unspeakable and horrific ways had led him to question his faith. Beating the man who touched him to death with his fists cemented his decision to leave the church and his home. Fresh blood still on his clothes, he ran from the church. With no one to believe his story, he roamed the streets of Monterrey looking for work, for food. The Colombians always needed someone, and he was poor, young, hungry, and motivated. He’d placed his whole existence in the hands of the church. When it abused his trust, he swore he’d never serve God again. Now he served the South Americans. They were the new masters of his universe. He moved up the narcotics food chain quickly. He was smart and resourceful. He was only apprehended once, for allegedly killing a man his employers wanted dead, and even then he didn’t talk. After he’d spent a few months in jail, the local police couldn’t hold him anymore. The day he got out, an associate of his local handler put him on a plane to Cartagena. It was the first time he’d ever flown. When he landed, he was introduced as a young man who could be trusted. He’d killed for the Colombians and didn’t talk. The drug business was still in its infancy. The raw product came directly from South America. The hard part was moving it into the United States undetected. The Padre outlined his plan for using the loose border security along Mexico’s eastern border with the U.S. as a major delivery route. For some reason, they believed and trusted in him. When he flew back to Monterrey, his pockets were full of cash and his head full of ideas. He built his team from the street urchins of the mean city. He knew that some could be trusted and some couldn’t. So he ruled with an iron fist. Of all the young men he recruited, he ended up killing many of them himself. Soon the word got out. The Padre could be trusted to pay well, and he could also be trusted to kill quickly if he was crossed. He took the name “the Padre” because he wanted to set himself apart. Despite his young age, he understood the importance of branding. Even though he wasn’t much older than many of his soldiers, he did act as a “father” to them. When their families were sick, he sent a doctor. When someone’s sister got married, he paid for the wedding the parents could never afford. Over time, his success with moving product into Texas reached a point that the Colombians couldn’t ignore. He’d spent a tremendous amount of time and money in the States, cultivating relationships and distribution channels. He’d traveled as far north as Chicago to meet with gangs that dealt drugs. He convinced them to buy from him. He was charismatic, charming, and smart. Most gangsters had never worked with a Mexican before, but this one delivered on time. His employers kept paying him more and more money, but the Padre wanted more than just cash. He wanted a part of the business. After one fateful trip to Cartagena, he came home a bitter man. By that point, he was in his late twenties and tired of just being an errand boy, taking all of the risk and only being thrown the scraps. Over the years, on his trips to Colombia, he’d met a number of people involved in the manufacture of cocaine. They were weary of being strong-armed by their current employers. The Padre offered them better terms. Soon he was buying directly from the suppliers, and his financial take exploded. He hired more men and began purchasing guns in large quantities. He knew his former bosses would eventually come after him. The Padre was going to be prepared. Eventually, the war did come, and it was bloody. Both sides lost many men. During the wars, no one made much money. Then the miracle happened. The United States declared a war on drugs against the Colombians. His former employers were at the center of the bull’s-eye. It gave him and his men a chance to regroup, but their product was now at risk. Cocaine wasn’t easily coming out of South America anymore. He had built a massive distribution network but had nothing to distribute. One night, drinking mescal with a prostitute in a hotel room not that different from the one he was in now, it came to him. He needed a new product. Marijuana was cheap to buy in Mexico and move across the border. The margins were shit compared to coke, but he had money to invest. As he watched the Colombians over the years, it became clear to him that the only people who make money in the drug game were the people who controlled the entire process from manufacture to distribution. The margins might be worse, but the chance to head his own organization was intoxicating. The vast expanses of land in the Mexican wilderness made cultivating the plant relatively easy. In rural areas, a few pesos bought a great deal of silence. Hell, in most places the work he offered was welcomed. Over the years, the business grew, and his product line expanded. Whatever the end client wanted, he provided. Now it was methamphetamine, and he was ready. Leaning back on his greasy, cold pillow, he thought about his contacts in India.