Page 28 of Vaquero
Chapter Eleven
On ground level now, Julio stayed to the shadows, using his binocs to recon the camp. Someone had started a bonfire between the Russians’ and Oz’s soldiers’ tents. Next, a camp stove appeared out of nowhere, then pans and large, white coolers. Camp chairs. Two muscular soldiers carried a giant pig, already skewered on an iron rod, over to the fire. The comradery on the Brazilian side of the camp grew loud and boisterous. This wasn’t just dinner. This was a party.
But not on the Russian side. There were six of them, all dressed in matching black coveralls, with Mother Russia’s flag emblazoned on their left pecs. They stood together like an attack force, shoulder-to-shoulder and hip-to-hip. Not sprawled on the ground by the fire. Not chatting up the Brazilians. Finally, the tallest Russian, a blond man with a square chin and crewcut, stepped forward. He lifted the large liquor bottle in his hand, probably vodka. He stuck his chin out at someone, and out of the crowd stepped—Orlando Zapata.
Julio hissed at his first sight of Domingo’s baby brother. It’d been years since he’d seen this upstart. Orlando and his brother shared many physical traits. Same psychotic need to make their victims bleed. Same short, stocky build. Same ink all over his face, neck, probably on the bald head under his cap, too. Same flat-black eyes beneath soot-black brows.
But while Domingo preferred tattooed sixes, snakes, and Spanish hexes all over his body and scalp, Orlando preferred tattoos of naked females and female body parts. Breasts. Backsides. Mostly eyes. Not the evil-eye symbol thought to reflect evil back onto the person cursing you, though. These eyes were all wide and expressive, the lashes around them lush and intensely feminine. All sad. All in pain. Tears. Orlando liked tears, too. They rained out of those sad, sad feminine, tattooed eyes…
Domingo was also known for his cruelty, but he’d never used guns. He preferred close and personal time with his victims. To that end, he’d used knives, switchblades, and razor-sharp scalpels. He’d also used his teeth, all filed to vicious points intended to tear flesh and muscle. To chew the fingers and toes of the living—and the dead.
Julio’d seen his work before. That time, Domingo had painted his face, neck, and chest with the blood of his victim, a kidnapped French diplomat. A kind, white-haired elderly gentleman, known the world over for his discretion, his negotiating skills, and philanthropy. He’d given millions to charities in Africa. But he hadn’t been able to negotiate with the likes of Domingo. Zapata had sent a selfie he’d taken to the diplomat’s family once the deed was done. He’d painted his face with the blood of the unfortunate man and used the diplomat’s displayed, butchered body for a backdrop.
Cold-blooded killers. Mad dogs. That’s all the Zapata brothers were.
But the scene by the firepit was almost comical. A tall, lean foreign mercenary standing over his stubby frenemy. Julio had forgotten how short in stature the Zapata brothers were. How stout. Like Domingo, Orlando stood maybe five-eight, five-nine at the most. Also like his older brother once, he wore the uniform of a wannabe guerilla commander. Camouflage cap. Sweat-stained BDU shirt and dirty trousers. Tan, desert combat boots. Black mustache. Shit-eating attitude. Blatant disregard for everyone. Plenty of ego. A sneer. Probably got the entire get-up off eBay.
The need to strike at the bantam-weight peacock nearly did Julio in. Oz was right there, out in the open. Sure, he was surrounded by his army, but he was still a hard hit to walk away from. One round was all it would take to end this despicable tyrant. Julio’s trigger finger twitched to make it so. Why not? Orlando was just standing there. Shaking hands. Making nice with his Russian buddies like he had nothing to worry about.
But all hell would break loose the moment Julio fired, and he’d surely die instead of Zapata. This mission would end before he accomplished what he’d set out to do. What Americans and Brazilians needed him to do. More women and children would die at Oz’s filthy hands. Sullivan would be pissed. Julio bowed his head, resigned to a night of patience and thoughtful strategy. He had to find Oz’s enslaved workforce first.
The distinct rustle of pebbles sliding over dirt and stone somewhere behind him caught Julio’s attention. He glanced over his shoulder. Perhaps one of Oz’s guards? Didn’t matter. Julio couldn’t risk being seen. Thinking fast, he ducked behind the two dozing guards, and into the northernmost tunnel, the same tunnel where Oz’s guards had gone earlier. Just that fast, Julio was out of sight, and out of his mind. But possibly, finally on the right track.
A faint light glowed far ahead in the carved stone tunnel. Buttressed at intervals with frameworks of four-by-four timbers, piles of shovels and sledgehammers lay to his left. He’d expected mine carts to haul whatever Oz was mining, but there weren’t any. No rail tracks for carts to roll on, either.
Bare electrical wiring stretched from one overhead beam to the next. No light sockets, though, and no lightbulbs. Not yet. The deeper he went, the cooler the air became and the more overpowering the scent of dirt. More and more dust clogged the air. Which meant there had been a recent explosion, but not here. The packed dirt pathway was still too smooth and clear.
He kept going toward the glow at the end of the tunnel, thinking about canaries, the early warning system in American coal mines, with every step. For all he knew, this tunnel could be full of deadly vapors. Ruthless men didn’t care if their workers died from carbon monoxide or other toxic gasses, as long as they dug, clawed, or scratched precious gold, gems, and other worthless shit out of the earth. As long as those poor workers made their bosses wealthy at the end of the day.
So Julio ventured onward. As he stepped quietly, he snorted at the utter stupidity of mankind to value rocks—to value anything!—overfamilia.Diamonds. Gold. Didn’t matter. They were nothing compared to the one thing he’d never truly had. Made him sick.
Madre de Dios!Familia! Since the day his parents died, all he’d wanted was his family back. But no. His greedy parents destroyed theirs when they’d been shot during their last robbery—of stones! Okay, jewels, according to Mexicanpoliciareports. But stones, nonetheless. Rocks. They’d died for a few handfuls of rocks.
Julio’d fled northward into Southern California then. His sister, Paloma had lingered in Mexico with their grandmother. But that hadn’t lasted long. Still just a teenager, she’d applied for work in America with the CIA and disappeared into the world of undercover work and espionage. That hadn’t worked out for her, either. Which was why she’d fled to Mexico. She’d killed her CIA handler, not that he hadn’t had it coming. But, yeah… The Juarez family seemed destined for misery and loneliness.
Then along came Bianca…
Dios!Julio should’ve known the night he’d proposed to her. The night she’d demanded he prove his love by buying her a bigger diamond. A nicer band.
Do you think I’m easy? What are you, cheap? Don’t you care? Don’t I deserve the best?
He should’ve realized then that Bianca had also loved cold, dead stones.
With every step into the unknown, Julio remembered. The dear, sweet wife he’d loved with all he had. Only she’d said she loved himafterhe’d gone into serious debt for the one-carat solitaire she’d adored and absolutely had to have. Then and only then was she so ecstatic she’d screamed with what he’d thought was joy. Now he wondered. Was it joy or was it greed? Had she ever loved him? Or Tomas?
A dark doubt threaded its malicious toehold into Julio’s already deep depression. He’d never understood how Domingo Zapata had known where to find Bianca and Tomas. They’d been living in off-base housing near Naval Base San Diego, pending availability of something better. But Bianca had never been happy there. She’d always wanted better, and she’d hated being tied down. She’d insisted they move into a better neighborhood because she’d hated the appearance of their first bungalow on low-income military housing. Said it made her feel inferior to the rich, white celebrities of San Diego. But she hated the other Navy wives too, which was just plain wrong. Those women supported each other while their men were OCONUS, out of the country.
But because of plastic facial surgery she’d insisted she’d needed, elective surgery on her brows, breasts, and buttocks, Julio’s debt ratio climbed until they were payment poor. He’d demanded they tighten their belts. Again, Julio had foolishly considered those expenses the cost of loving such a beautiful woman, just another sacrifice to be made for his dearly beloved.
He’d thought he was lucky to have Bianca. Until he thought back on her words.Always something better.You must work harder. You must use that brain of yours.So Julio had done anything and everything to keep her happy.
Had she been looking forsomeonebetter, too? Was that someone Domingo Zapata? The thought of his wife with that inked snake of a man curdled Julio’s blood.
At last, the tunnel branched, pulling him back to his mission. The darkened way continued straight ahead as far as Julio could see, but the overhead electrical wiring didn’t. He turned left, toward the barest sign of light. This was the glow he’d been tracking. Julio ended in a fully-lit cavern the size of a football stadium. That one electrical wire overhead had now branched into dozens of spotlights, all aimed at hundreds of workers bent over and hard at work. He’d found Oz’s enslaved workforce.
None of them had seen him yet. But what a desperate, sorry sight. The workers were filthy, their clothes tattered. Most were barefooted. Most men wore no shirts. The women fared no better. Some were in shorts, others in ratty skirts. Torn blouses. No shoes.
But the children... Julio’s heart broke at the tender ages he saw working on their hands and knees. Some were so small and slight, they could only be three, maybe four years old. All kept their eyes down. All were so thin.
