Border Crossed - Chapter 11

Taylor paced back and forth in the Ruiz’s cramped office, his agitation growing with each pass around the small room. His fingers twitched and flexed as he expelled the restless energy that coursed through him. Watching him, Whitaker sat patiently in one of the chairs facing Ruiz’s desk as Taylor lapped around her again and again.

“You need to settle down,” she finally said. “Wearing a hole in the floor won’t make Ruiz get here any faster.”

Taylor paused, rolling his shoulders in an effort to release the tension that had his muscles tightly coiled.

“I know,” he said, biting back the harsh tone he didn’t want to direct at her. “We were so damn close and he got away again. I can’t fucking believe it.”

The echo of boots on concrete had Taylor spinning toward the door, but it was just a couple of uniformed officers passing by. He barely suppressed a snarl of frustration.

“For God’s sake, John! Sit down before you stroke out,” Whitaker said wryly.

Taylor dragged out the chair opposite her and dropped into it as he forced himself to take deep, measured breaths, willing his pounding heart to slow.

“They’re on the run,” Whitaker said. “They’re not going to be careful and Ruiz seems to know what he’s doing. We’re going to find him.”

“That’s just the first step, you know,” Taylor said. “He’s getting a lot of stuff out of defense contractors he shouldn’t be able to get, which means we’ve got bigger problems. And Matthews is our only lead. If he gets away, or if the cartel decides he’s more of a liability alive than he is a help, we’re going to have a hell of a time finding out who his contact is.”

“If that happens, we’ll deal with it like we always do.”

Before Taylor could reply, the door swung open and Ruiz strode in.

“Tell me you got something,” Taylor said, jumping out of his seat.

“A possible lead. A man named Diego. He’s not officially part of the cartel but he moves in their circles. What I think you Americans would call a money guy. There’s no guarantee he knows what we need, but he’s probably our best shot.”

“Where is he?”

“Interrogation room. I’ll take you there now.”

They followed Ruiz through a warren of halls and rooms, passing uniformed officers and plainclothes detectives going about their business. Taylor ignored all of that, focused on Ruiz and getting the information he needed. Ruiz led them into a small, windowless room, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent bulb. A metal table and three chairs were the only furnishings. A thin man with sallow skin and darting eyes sat in one of the chairs. His knee jiggled with nervous energy as he twisted his hands together on the table.

The man looked up at Ruiz and the two Americans. Taylor returned the favor, looking the man over. Diego was in his mid-thirties and had no obvious gang ink. Everything about him said accountant, not muscle. Good. Diego was sweating and nervous.

Ruiz remained standing, looming over the seated man. Taylor pulled out the chair opposite Diego and sat, leaning forward with his forearms on the table, while Whitaker sat more calmly next to him.

“I’m looking for an American named Ryan Matthews. Word is he’s fallen in with your people,” Taylor said.

Diego’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I don’t know anyone named that.”

“But you might know where they’d take someone like him? Someone bringing supplies in from across the border, who was helping them with their tunnel.”

“I cannot help you,” he said.

Ruiz stepped forward and leaned over, his mouth close to Diego’s ear, whispering in rapid-fire Spanish. Taylor didn’t speak the language, having focused on Arabic and other Middle Eastern languages, but he could make out the clear threat in the words. Diego got the message, his nervous energy doubling.

Diego grimaced, biting his lip before finally speaking.

“I don’t know anything about this Matthews guy specifically. But I’ve heard that the Vargas Cartel has some private properties just outside of town, up in the hills. Places where the big wigs go when they’re in town.”

“And you think maybe they would have taken someone like Matthews there?” Whitaker asked.

“I don’t know, but there aren’t many other places they could go. I heard about their big operation near the border shutting down, and their people have been talking about the warehouse shootout all morning. You have to understand how fragile they are here. They only took Juarez from the Cárdenas Brothers a year ago, and they’re still trying to get a foothold, so losing their big project and then their main warehouse has them panicking. I heard they’re shutting down everything here in Juarez and trying to lay low, at least for a little while.”

“If you don’t know where the properties are, and they’re shutting everything down, who would know where they might take the American? Surely they haven’t had time to get everyone out of town yet?” Whitaker asked.

“I don’t know. I just handle money,” Diego said.

“Then you do know, or you know who would know,” Taylor said. “The money guys know everyone involved.”

Diego hesitated. Taylor could practically see the calculations running in his head, weighing his options.

“There … there might be a place. There’s an auto mechanic shop on the east side. But it’s not really a shop, more of a chop shop.”

“A chop shop working for the cartel?” Taylor asked.

“No, well, kind of. They’re in the cartel’s pocket, although they were around before the Vargas people showed up. They take cars stolen and brought across the border; strip them down for parts. It’s small time compared to the drugs, more of a side business for the cartel, but definitely connected to Vargas.”

“And it’s still operating, even with everything else shutting down?” Whitaker asked.

Diego shrugged. “I think so. Like I said, the cartel doesn’t run it directly, they just work with the guy who does. And there are still plenty of cars being taken from over the border.”

“What’s the name of this place?” Taylor asked.

“It doesn’t really have a name. Officially, it’s Auto Repair Solutions, I think, but no one calls it that.”

“Where is it located?” Whitaker asked.

Diego recited an address on the east side of the city, which Whitaker dutifully scribbled down.

Taylor rose from the table, leaving Diego behind. Whitaker followed him out of the room, while Ruiz leaned down to whisper something to Diego before joining them in the hallway.

“So we’re heading there now, right?” Taylor said. “Wherever they’ve taken him, they’ve got a hell of a head start. We need to hurry.”

With Ruiz and his men as an escort, the trip to the east side of town didn’t take long. While Taylor found the traffic in Mexico to be downright terrifying and arguably more chaotic than anything he’d experienced in the Middle East, the locals did have a strong respect, or at least fear, for the police and moved out of the way. Ruiz and his men flew through the streets, ready to run over anyone who might take too long to get out of the way.

Within ten minutes, they pulled up to a worn down-looking auto-body shop on the outskirts of Juarez. It was nestled between other dilapidated structures containing equally shady-looking businesses. The whole block looked ready for demolition.

Out in the open like this, they didn’t have time to stage or prepare themselves. Ruiz and his men jumped out of their vehicles practically before they stopped moving and rushed towards the open bay doors. It was late and Taylor would have thought the shop would be closed, but maybe this time of day was perfect for a place like this to operate. Taylor stopped their SUV and he and Whitaker pulled their sidearms as they rushed to follow Ruiz and his men.

Two men who had been standing outside the shop turned and ran inside, probably to give warning of what was coming, not that it mattered. Ruiz and his men were barely a handful of steps behind them.

Inside, the chop shop was a maze of stolen cars in various states of disassembly. Men were standing all around the cars, holding a variety of tools, looking completely shocked as a bunch of armed federal police burst through the doors.

Ruiz yelled at them in Spanish as his men pointed weapons at everyone they could see. Taylor saw a few of Ruiz’s people running into rooms near the back of the shop, probably offices of some sort. For a moment, Taylor thought they might do something, draw weapons or attack with the tools they were holding. But then, a wave of rationality seemed to hit all of them as hands went up and tools hit the floor.

Ruiz barked orders in rapid Spanish while his men spread through the chop shop, rounding up the workers and pushing them to their knees with hands clasped behind their heads. One burly officer yanked a man wearing a grease-stained jumpsuit to his feet. The man sputtered protests until Ruiz silenced him with a glare.

“Quién da las órdenes aquí?” Ruiz said in a commanding tone.

The greasy man jutted his chin towards an office door at the back. Ruiz nodded and the burly officer hauled the man across the shop floor, while Ruiz, Taylor and Whitaker headed toward the office. Inside, a heavy-set bald man sat behind a cluttered desk, an officer stood across from him. The man looked more annoyed than afraid, in spite of the officer pointing a gun at him.

“Me puede explicar qué rayos es esto?” the man said angrily.

“Don’t act offended,” Ruiz said in English. “We both know what this shop is.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the man said in heavily accented English, his eyes sliding to Taylor and Whitaker as he checked out the Americans in the room.

“Let’s skip the bullshit,” Ruiz said. “This shop is a cartel front and I could throw you in jail for ten years for all the stolen cars you have out there.”

“None were stolen here,” the fat man said.

“And you think that gives you some sort of protection? I can probably find one or two that our system shows were stolen here. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

The wolfish grin Ruiz gave the man left no doubt to anyone that he’d find it, no matter where those cars were from. Taylor saw Whitaker frown and could practically hear her tut-tutting in disappointment, but frankly, he approved. These guys were clearly lowlifes who preyed on their fellow citizens, and Taylor had no problem with bending the law to ensure they got what should be coming to them.

“I see,” the man said, glaring.

Not that it moved Ruiz at all.

“I’ll ask one more time,” Ruiz said. “And then everyone’s headed to prison. There’s an American, ex-military, who recently came to see some Vargas people. We know he was at their warehouse, and they smuggled him out, which means he’s presumably still with them. I want to know where he is, or where they’ll take him.”

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Ruiz held up a finger, “Think carefully. One chance. One.”

The man fidgeted, probably working through the odds of how much danger he would be in by crossing the Vargas people versus how long he’d have to spend in prison.

“I … may have heard some rumors.”

“Good,” Ruiz said. “Rumors are good.”

Everyone knew that was an explicit way to not say anything specific, in an attempt to skirt around betraying anyone, and no one cared. At least, not if they got what they wanted.

The man licked his lips and said, “The cartel, I’ve heard they sometimes use a compound in the hills west of the city. I understand it’s not small, not a cabin or anything like that. I’ve heard it referred to as a compound. Remote. A good place to hide someone important.”

“Do you know where this compound is?” Taylor asked.

The man shook his head, “Not exactly. But west of the city, up in the hills.

“What else?” Ruiz asked.

“Nothing, I swear it,” the man said quickly. A little too quickly.

In two long strides, Ruiz closed the distance between them and grabbed the man by his grease-stained shirt.

“Do not insult me by lying again,” Ruiz said in a low voice.

“Okay, okay! I heard that someone’s coming into town soon to get things under control until everything settles down. I guess, and to fix the issues caused after you shut all of their business down. Someone high up,” the man sputtered.

Ruiz released the man and stepped back, straightening his jacket.

“Good, that’s very helpful,” he said briskly. “Now, my men will escort you downtown so we can have a more in-depth conversation.”

Two officers grabbed the protesting man by the arms and hauled him out. Taylor glanced at Whitaker, who pressed her lips together but said nothing. Heading out of the office behind them, they saw that Ruiz’s other men were placing all of the assembled criminals in cuffs.

“Any idea where this compound is?” Taylor asked Ruiz.

“Maybe, but we’re going to need more men than I have here. Let’s head back and I will call in the army. They sometimes lend us personnel when we need it, but it will take a little time to put together.”

“Fine, then let’s hurry. The sun’s about down, and this will probably be easier at night anyway. Besides, if Matthews is there, he won’t be for long,” Taylor said.

“Fine. Back to the station then.”