The Manuscript (3 page)

The car blew apart in a fireball, seeming to draw in a breath as first it crumpled and then erupted up and out, the blossom of flame blinding the woman as the heat from the blast seared her skin. She watched in horrified amazement as the driver’s side door flipped endlessly through the air, then came down to earth with a crash as it landed in the large circular fountain that was the showpiece of the faux-Tuscan entryway.

********

The cleaning crew worked methodically from one end of the restaurant dining room, the hunched woman mopping as two young men washed and wiped down the table tops. They chatted in animated Spanish, laughing their way through the mundane drudgery of scrubbing and spraying.

At the far end of the vacant area, the cashier went over the night’s receipts with the owner, a Caucasian man in his early fifties. It had been a good night following a remarkably good year. Even though the country was impoverished and the average peasant barely made a subsidence-level income, the burgeoning new middle class was prospering and spending freely. After years of war had punished the region and the death squads had disappeared into the night, a new period of peace had taken root and the focus had shifted from executions to capitalism.

The restaurant was a typical example of the success that could be had, of using one’s wits versus bullets. A popular American southwest franchise, it was cheerfully incongruent with the dense jungle and dirt roads only a stone’s throw away, outside the city’s limits. But inside, it could have been Anywhere, U.S.A. and the menu was faithful to the original franchise concept. Even in San Salvador, families liked fajitas or half-pound cheeseburgers served by perky, uniformed female staff. On most weekends, the place was awash with milkshakes and root beer and blended margaritas.

Once the armed conflict had ended and the civil warriors had laid down their guns, a fair number of the Americans who had come on behalf of shadowy clandestine groups decided to stay – comfortable after years, or even decades, in the region. Many had local girlfriends or wives and had become accustomed to the local beat, so they chose to remain to build a promising future in the brave new world.

For those like the owner, the thought of returning to his native Michigan after thirteen years in-country held no appeal. Instead, he’d imported a little slice of American apple pie for local consumption. The result was an instant hit. Hotel traffic was building, and many
Gringo
franchises flourished as the population, hungry to play catch-up to the rest of the continent, embraced the U.S. consumer culture that it both feared and envied. Even the poor, as they trudged to their laborer jobs on muddy dirt tracks from shanty-towns, were as likely to be wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt as native garb.

The night’s take accounted for, the owner went into his office and deposited the cash into his floor safe, in readiness for a trip to the bank the next morning. An armed security guard would remain on duty throughout the night and be replaced by another armed guard during business hours. Even in the capital city of El Salvador, San Salvador, the rule of the gun outweighed the rule of law, although that was slowly changing.

The owner poured himself a Heineken and sat at the bar, alone, watching the music videos his cousin sent him every month to play on a continuous loop throughout the day. What the hell anyone liked about the new generation of rap performers beat the hell out of him, but that was what was hot in the U.S., so that’s what he played on the TV. There was an endless demand for everything American, and he was making a fortune catering to it. The world was infinitely strange.

After downing the remainder of his beer, the man scratched his week-old stubble and decided to call it a night. It had been a long and rewarding day, but he was beat and wanted to get some shut-eye before tomorrow arrived with its own set of challenges. He waved at the guard and unlocked the front door, locking it again with a roll of keys once he was outside. The air smelled like jungle and exhaust, with just the faintest hint of sewage masked by smoke from a distant wood fire. He watched with satisfaction as the restaurant’s marquis sign lights shut off and the exterior illumination shifted into ‘closed’ mode.

The owner approached his Ford Explorer and slid behind the wheel, shifting his holstered Colt .45 automatic so that it didn’t cut into his hip as he drove. Side arms were still a mandatory precaution – he’d been wearing one for so long it was almost second nature. Violent assaults and robberies were endemic to Central America, especially since hundreds of thousands of weapons had been shipped from the U.S. and the Soviet Union to fuel the seemingly perpetual wars. Those weapons remained after the ‘advisors’ had packed up and gone home.

He pulled out of the parking lot and cranked the stereo. Aerosmith’s
Walk This Way
blared from the speakers, and for just a few moments, he was back in high school sneaking a joint with the little hottie he’d been trying to coerce into his van for most of the summer.

A stream of white-hot slugs sliced through the cab of the SUV and shredded his torso, tearing the interior to pieces and causing the truck to careen into a utility pole at the roadside. He heard running footsteps approaching as he fumbled with useless hands at the safety strap on his holster, and then a deeply tanned man with a military buzz cut fired a bullet into his skull through the shattered driver’s side window at point blank range. Joe Perry’s guitar pyrotechnics wailed from the vehicle as a grenade clattered through the missing windshield – the whump of the detonation signalled the end of the music, forever.

Prologue

Present Day

The rickety seventies-era van bounced its way down the washboard dirt road, its mismatched tires throwing up a cloud of dust visible for miles, which in this case meant visible to the odd lizard sunning itself between the sickly cactus and shrubs in the barren landscape. The suspension creaked ominously whenever an axle slammed over a particularly ugly rut, the shocks long ago having lost any capacity for softening the ride.

Calloused hands gripped the grimy cracked-vinyl wheel, directing the vehicle’s journey ever further into the nothingness that characterized the U.S./Mexican border as it meandered away from the cool coastal breezes of the Pacific Ocean and wound east towards Arizona. It wasn’t unusual for the temperature to hit 120 or higher in late summer, and this year was no exception.

If the driver felt any discomfort from the heat, he didn’t show it, other than to occasionally mop at the network of pock marks and small scars on his face with a soiled black bandana. His gritty countenance betrayed nothing and was unmoved by the meager relief from a sweltering breeze wafting through his lowered window. The air-conditioning had ceased working about when every gauge on the dashboard had failed a decade before, so blistering heat in the cab was a given in September.

The drone of the tired motor drowned out most of the lone stereo speaker’s strident melody; an accordion, tuba and out-of-tune voice bemoaning the loss of sincere love in a cruel and uncaring world. An occasional ‘
Corazon
’ made it over the labouring of the engine, causing the driver’s companion to smile. The air might be arid and hot as a blast furnace, and the uneven surface of the rural track they were hurtling down might be pummelling his sacroiliac and kidneys like he was in a bar brawl, but as long as there was unrequited love memorialized by dissonant guitars and trumpets, life still had hope.

Which wasn’t the case for the family of five bound and gagged in the rear of the van. The youngest, a toddler of four, had lost consciousness when her head smacked into the van roofline as she was bundled into the back along with the others, which was a blessing of sorts – she was mercifully oblivious to the scorching stagnation of the unventilated area. A makeshift plywood wall separated the rear from the two passenger seats, leaving the cargo compartment bereft of fresh air, which created a preview of hell for the unfortunate abductees. After forty-five minutes on the unpaved trail, the stink of proximity and failed attempts to contain their bodily functions was overwhelming – the cross ventilation from the open front windows failed to evict the stench wafting from the rear compartment.

“Look, there’s the spot,” the driver muttered in Spanish as he pulled onto an even more rural satellite road marked by an ancient rusted road sign peppered with bullet holes.

“About time. Let’s get them out and get it over with,” his companion replied in Spanish. His leg was stiff from the drive and hurting like hell from lack of movement.

They drew to a stop behind a silver Ford Lobo crew cab with Sonora plates. Upon spotting the van, three men exited the pristine truck and donned cowboy hats, hoping to shield their faces from the worst of the midday sun. As the dust settled around the assembled group, the van’s occupants got out, nodded at the three, and went to the rear to unload their unfortunate cargo.

The driver and his companion unceremoniously dumped the family onto the hard-packed dirt; with an exclamation of pain, the little girl momentarily regained consciousness from the impact.

The driver tore the duct tape off the mouth of the father, perhaps to offer him an opportunity to speak, or beg for mercy. Instead, he spat a bloody tooth at his assailant and uttered a venomous curse in a hoarse rasp. The driver instinctively backhanded the man, gashing his cheek with the sharp edge of one of his nugget rings.

Bueno
. So be it.

The driver’s companion limped to the passenger side of the van and returned moments later with a machete. As the driver maintained the gaze of the bound father, the machete made an arc through the air, terminating when it intersected with the young boy’s spinal cord.

Necks could be a problem. It often required several attempts to completely sever the head.

The driver stepped aside a few feet in a practiced move to avoid the arterial spray, his eyes never leaving those of the father.

Next was the oldest daughter, who was maybe eleven, and then the mother. Throughout it all, the father’s glare radiated fury and cold hatred, but he uttered not a syllable, even when it was his turn for the filthy blade’s caress. He understood the code, and there was nothing he could say or do that would save their lives, so he used his final moments to silently condemn his executioners to eternal damnation.

One of the men from the truck approached the still bound toddler and kicked her head. “This one’s a goner,
compadre.
Do
El Jefe
over there and let’s get out of here before we get snake bit,” the man said, his Spanish tinged with a South American accent.

The father expended his last breath insulting the men in an explosion of Spanish, which was abruptly terminated when the battered blade severed his throat with a brutal swipe.

“Hey, look at that…I finally got a clean one!” the executioner exclaimed as he watched the kneeling torso fall slowly over, absent the head, which rolled a few feet before coming to rest near the van’s back tire.

The men exchanged glances then returned to their vehicles for the long drive back, leaving the remains to the efficient ministrations of the desert scavengers. Whenever the remains were discovered, there might be enough left for whoever found them to notify the authorities; their identification would serve as a cautionary tale for others considering betraying their employer. It was all a necessary day’s work, one of thousands of mass slayings every year in the land of tacos and mariachis – an episode so unremarkable it would barely warrant mention in the local papers.

Such was the reality of the increased competition for turf dominance – brought about by the heightened war on drugs; an inevitable by-product of trafficking a thousand percent profit substance in a country where the average worker made four dollars a day.

The buzzards were already descending as the trucks spirited the men into the shimmering heat of the horizon. Nature wasted nothing in the brutal, arid wasteland they called home.

Chapter 1

It pissed Michael off when the hot water went cold for several seconds then came back boiling hot, seeming to choose its random oscillations at moments that would create maximum annoyance – such as when his eyes were filled with shampoo suds, or he’d gotten the temperature perfect and cautiously stepped under the stream.

It never failed. He’d spend several minutes fine-tuning the ancient hot and cold levers, waiting patiently for them to stabilize, then wait a bit more lest they trick him right as he got in. But the precise moment his most delicate attributes were within the shower’s reach, he’d get geyser-scalded or slammed with a sheet of ice-water.

He’d complained a dozen times to the super, who unfailingly promised to investigate potential solutions, none of which ever manifested as anything but an expectation of larger Christmas bonuses each year.

Michael shut off the stream, any pleasure inherent in the bathing process ruined by the shower’s bi-polar thermal swings, and regarded himself in the partially-steamed mirror, fingers moving automatically over the scar on his abdomen; a memento from errant shreds of shrapnel from a long-ago conflict few remembered or cared about. Michael knew he looked unremarkable – early-forties, good looking without being noteworthy; a pretty much standard-issue, relatively fit Caucasian male who’d watched his weight and avoided the worst of the world’s vices.

Just plain folks, really. Except that as he scratched at his face with a disposable razor, Michael wasn’t running the details of his morning’s client presentation or ad campaign through his head – rather, he was considering the minutiae of corporate espionage countermeasures, kidnapping or assault scenarios, wiretapping, and all the rest of the fun that comprised his world as a small-time private security provider for a few exclusive clients in the Big Apple.