Just Add Trouble (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 3)) (33 page)

“Where is the school house?” I asked Chino’s grandmother.

Shaken, but suddenly understanding that I knew more about the situation than she’d thought, she scooped a terrified, bleating goat kid from her yard and yelled, “Follow me.”

As we ran through the village, Chino’s grandmother told others to follow, and they did. Some brandished machetes, and a pitch fork or two put in mind an old vampire movie where the villagers finally get up the gumption to storm the monster’s lair. Problem was, our monster was probably packing an AK-47.

Granny Yee stopped suddenly and motioned for quiet, then she waved me forward. The explosions had stopped for the time, and it was eerily silent except for the distant croon of Elvis. The red glow of the fire in the hills painted our faces red, bringing to mind a Heironymus Bosch rendition of Hell.

I could no longer see the fleet, but hoped they were rapidly breaking ranks and heading for sea. As I crept behind Chino’s grandmother, my knees quaked and our footfalls, to me, sounded like drumbeats. No, wait, that was my own heartbeat drumming in my ears.

Stopping again, my guide pointed. “There.”

The schoolhouse was a small square building surrounded by a chain link fence. Ominously, the top of the fence, normally angled to keep out intruders, was reversed to detain the occupants. The windows were boarded shut. From within, we heard children wailing with fright and beating on the door.

With a huff of disgust, Granny ditched the goat, scaled that fence like a mountaineer, and dropped to the other side. I followed. After getting cut all to hell, I plummeted ungracefully into the school yard, and was gasping for breath when I saw, a little late, that Grans Yee had unlocked and opened the gate.

Parents rushed through the gate and pried the schoolhouse door open. No guards appeared, and within minutes we were all sprinting for the beach. Bless their souls, the boaters had separated from the raft-up, but waited in the harbor. Within minutes, all the children and some adults were headed for the boats. I estimated there were about twenty-five kids, and nearly a hundred adults. We had fifteen dinghies, with the average capacity to safely carry four people. The math told the story; it would take awhile to get everyone off the beaches and onto the boats.

The first group had barely reached the cruisers when we heard a burst of gunfire. It was then I learned that most Mexicans, especially those from fishing villages, don’t swim. “We live on the water, around the water, but few of us ever learn to swim. We rely on our pangas,” Granny Yee explained when the people refused my suggestion to swim for it. “You go. We will wait for the boats to return.”

“Truth is, I can’t really swim, either.” Which is true, but more importantly the idea of getting into that dark water, scratched and bloody, had little appeal. Not only would it sting, I’d be like so much chum.

Her face broke into a brilliant smile. “Maybe you are Mexican and don’t know it.”

I laughed and petted her goat. “Actually, my family were Mexican citizens at one time. Maybe that’s it. I know I like
cabrito
, roasted slowly over mesquite,” I teased.

She held her goat tighter. “Not this one. He is my pet.”

Our light patter took my mind from our plight, and after all, what could I do, anyway? I only hoped that Nacho had taken care of business and removed the bad guys. I was sure he was the one who blew the lab, a mite ahead of the drug lord’s schedule. Weeweechu a Merry Christmas, indeed.

Smith returned to the beach on one of the first dinghies, and took on a load of folks destined for
Raymond Johnson
. I groaned inwardly when Granny Yee stepped in with her goat, followed by the toothless old man cradling a chicken under one arm and a duck under the other. Was there a forty day and night rainstorm in the offing?

As the other dinghies took on passengers and left, I was soon alone on the beach, waiting for Smith to return for me. In truth, I had waited to see if Nacho would appear. Not that I really cared, of course.

Another series of smaller explosions startled me. I turned to look in the direction of the noise and saw, coming toward me from the houses, a man. Backlit by the fires raging over the hill, I couldn’t make out who it was, but I could see, from his silhouette, that he was packing. Frightened, I backed toward the water, determined to dog paddle for it if I had to.

Something large splashed behind me. Now scared out of my wits as the dark figure approached, I was still even more afraid of whatever sea monster lurked in the dark depths behind me. I’ll take a known threat to an unknown threat any day.

“Stop,” I yelled, “I have a gun.” I held out my hand and pointed my finger.

“Don’t move, Hetta.” Nacho ordered.

Relieved, I took a step toward him.

“I said, stay where you are,” Nacho growled, and pointed his weapon straight at me.

“Gee, I think I’ll return your Christmas present,” I said, trying to sound tough, but my voice quavered, betraying my bravado.

“Shut up.” He raised the gun and fired.

My last thought as a tremendous blow slammed into my shoulder and the sand came up to meet my face was, “Men are scum.”

Chapter 43

“Hetta?  Hetta, wake up.” Someone gently patted my cheek and flicked cool water onto my face.

“Can’t. I’m dead. Nacho shot me.”

A familiar voice asked, “Who’s Nacho?”

Another answered, “Drug dealer friend of Hetta's.”

I shook my head, still refusing to open my eyes. “No friend, he shot me.”

“Hetta, this is Jan. You aren’t shot. I think you fainted.”

I raised my arm and groped my shoulder. “Is that blood I feel?”

I sensed a flashlight beam aimed at me. “Yes, but not yours.”

I opened my eyes. Hovering faces came into focus. Jan, Chino, Martinez, and Jenks. Jenks!

“Jenks? You’re really here?” I put my hands on his face, then grabbed him in a neck lock that threatened to topple him headlong into the sand with me. He got his balance and pulled me to my feet. I clung to him as if he would disappear if I let go.

Jenks gave me a light kiss on the cheek, but I wanted more. I traded the neck lock for a lip lock until I heard Jan say, “Oh for heaven’s sake, get a room.”

I broke off the smooch, but still kept a steel grip on Jenks. “How did you get here? And what took you so long?”

Jenks rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Sorry I was so late to your latest disaster, Hetta, but I just spent over twenty-two hours in the air and, thanks to Chino, arrived just in time for your little fireworks display.”

“It wasn’t my fireworks display. Oh, never mind, I’m just glad you’re here. I’m sorry I dragged you into another mess.”

“Apology taken, for now. Hetta, listen to me. Did you shoot this guy?”

“What guy?”

Jan piped up. “Paco. He was laying right next to you, big old hole in his forehead. Jenks dragged him down the beach. We’re afraid the Mexican navy is going to show up any minute. We heard them talking on the radio. They are sending boats to investigate the explosion, so we gotta scram. But first we need to get rid of Paco, and the gun. Where is it?”

“I didn’t shoot him. I didn’t even know he was—Oh.”

“Oh, what?”

“Nacho. I thought he nailed me, but he must have seen Paco coming up behind me and shot him, instead. Maybe Paco, when he fell, pitched forward, collided with my shoulder on his way down. I felt the blow and thought I was shot. I guess I fainted, after all. Lord knows I was scared enough.”

“I didn’t think you had it in you to carve him up like that.”

“Carve? I thought he was shot.”

“And whittled. Someone sliced a big Z in Paco’s back, and I don’t think Zorro’s anywhere around here.”

I struggled to my feet and walked over to check out Paco’s body. Sure enough, he was on his stomach, his shirt gone, tattoos showing, and a bloody red Z was cut into his back.

Chino knelt next to the body. “I think it is a Zeta sign, a warning from a gang member to others. This Nacho, do you think he did this?”

“I don’t know why he would.”

“Gang members leave signs like this as a warning. Or a message.”

Aha! I smiled. “Yes, I think it means I can sleep at night.”

Jenks looked puzzled, but I didn’t feel like explaining right now.

“Let’s douse the lights on the boats and get the hell out of here. Leave Paco lay, the
federales
will deal with him. I think it’s safe to bring back the people who live here, then we need to boogie.”

Epilogue

My boat smelled like a zoo.

Auntie Lil agreed to turn both Iggy and Trouble over to Rancho Oberto. She returned to Texas to do volunteer work at the VA Hospital. No doubt to be near a good source of drugs and husbands. Her latest amour she’d gone to Mazatlan with, Fred, returned to rehab, and decided she was a bad influence.

Granny Yee stayed aboard with her goat until we reached Puerto Escondido, then returned to Lopez Mateos. Said she’d grown tired of her new love interest, who didn’t have the balls to stand up to a bunch of LA punks. She and Auntie Lil traded notes on finding love on the Internet.

Trouble got his wings clipped. It took four of us, and a few of Aunt Lil’s more potent prescriptions, but we did the deed. No, we didn’t give them to
him
. Although he can no longer fly around at will, he is a TV celeb with his own fan club, and an unlimited amount of jerky. Because he frequently appears at children’s functions and fundraisers, he is undergoing etiquette lessons from a world renowned bird trainer. The trainer is on Valium.

Marina the dock dog and Mr. Bill the cat also found temporary home at Rancho Oberto until Smith could pick them up.

Jan and Chino reconciled their differences and returned, with Grans Yee, to Lopez Mateos. Jan will remain on the dive team, but all talk of marriage is out.

Martinez, after reluctantly telling me Arizona no longer had any interest in my so-called crimes, presented me with a fat bill that included a ferry toll to retrieve his pickup from San Carlos, and travel expenses to get back to his new home in Baja. He didn’t invite me to visit.

There was nothing in any of the newspapers about the incident at Agua Fria. Bad for tourism, you know.

It was CNN International that broke the story following an anonymous tip. A four-state border bust netted hundreds of meth-smuggling illegals, along with millions of dollars worth of drugs. Many of the hapless illegals reported horrible abuse at the hands of the gangsters who told them when and where to cross the border. Some of the smugglers were taken to US hospital and treated for knife wounds, most notably Zs carved into their skin.

Another agency reported a shootout between the Mexican army and hired hit men from a drug cartel calling themselves Zetas. Over a hundred gang members were killed, but not before they branded Zs onto the backs of their hostages.

News agencies speculated the two incidents might be related. Duh.

Jenks and I, after fumigating
Raymond Johnson
, are taking some time to cruise around the Sea of Cortez until we both have to go back to work. To keep the peace, we agreed not to discuss my activities over the past month. He did mention that I seemed to go to great lengths to get a New Year’s Eve date, though.

And Nacho? Only The Shadow knows.

Weeweechu a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.

~End~

About the Author

Award-winning author Jinx Schwartz has spent most of her life traveling the world for work and pleasure. She spends as much time as possible afloat in the Sea of Cortez and pulls adventure from her boating experiences there. She also writes destination articles for boating magazines, and is a member of Sisters in Crime. When not in Mexico, Jinx finds herself high and dry in Arizona.

www.jinxschwartz.com

[email protected]

Twitter: @jinxschwartz

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Book 4 in the Hetta Coffey series

Just Deserts

With her floating home drydocked for repairs in Mexico, Hetta Coffey needs a place to live, and a job to pay the boatyard. Landing a project at a mining operation not far from her boat, Hetta finds herself on the tumultuous Arizona/Mexico border, where all hell is breaking loose—even
before
she gets there.