Page 1 of Maddy's Justice

ONE

Javier was seething. On his best day––if there ever was such a thing as a best day for Javier––he was a psychopathic, bubbling cauldron of murderous fury. Tonight, the volcano looked ready to explode.

Javier Lopez was a lieutenant in the Sinaloa Cartel. Barely twenty-four-years-old, he had been a soldado––soldier––since he was fourteen. Javier had earned his way in by putting a bullet in the forehead of a minor police official. He had not asked why or hesitated when his mentor handed him the gun and told him to do it.

They say you never forget your first time, and this is true of murder as well as sex. Javier stepped right up to the terrified, pleading man, pointed the gun and pulled the trigger. This act, a simple squeeze of the trigger, had unleashed the devil inside Javier. Now, ten years later, Javier could not possibly remember how many murders he had committed.

The dozen guards with Javier were mostly milling about trying to keep their distance from him. Every few minutes he would look at his watch and scowl.

A couple of the men carried H & K MP5 fully automatic submachine guns. These two men were older than the others. One was even several years older than Javier. They were comfortable enough not to turn away when Javier scowled at them.

The others were all younger. Some as young as sixteen. They were armed with shotguns. They were trying to earn their way into permanent membership of the Cartel. Despite the short life expectancy––Javier knew he would not live to see thirty ––there was no shortage of applicants.

They were in a transit station approximately ten miles south of Mexicali. The area resembled a large bus or truck stop. Which it was2, sort of. There were a couple dozen vehicles of various types and sizes. They were all here for one purpose; to smuggle contraband across the border into California. Contraband of both the humankind and contraband of the drug kind. Along with the vehicles were three to four hundred desperate, hungry, raggedy-looking people. Most of them were of Hispanic origin. Of late, there were more and more people of other ethnicities, especially Muslims from Africa and a few dysfunctional Middle Eastern countries.

Javier and his crew were a couple of hundred yards away from the hustle and bustle of the main transit yard. Under the glow of a single fluorescent light, they waited for their special cargo; a single, comfortable, air-conditioned bus.

“He’ll be here,” one of the men, the older one, said to Javier in Spanish.

“He’s thirty minutes late,” Javier snapped back at the man.

The man, Berto, patted Javier on the shoulder while saying, “Jose is slow, but reliable.”

Berto was almost like a big brother to Javier. In fact, Javier’s immediate superior had placed Berto with him to calm Javier’s worst impulses. Of the men waiting for the bus, none except Berto would dare to show such intimacy.

“I don’t like it,” Javier replied. “You know I like things to run smoothly.”

“And here he comes,” Berto said pointing at a bus moving slowly past the main terminus.

Berto heard Javier exhale a sigh of relief then Bertosaid, “I’ll move the vans into place. Don’t be too hard on Jose. I’m sure there is a reason for the delay.”

To this last statement Javier only grunted a reply.

There were three, large, dark gray vans parked thirty to forty yards from the light pole. While Javier waited for the bus, Berto went to the vans to get them moving. The drivers and guards who would ride with them were already climbing into them. These were special vans with fully electric, extremely quiet motors. They were designed to move human cargo undetected by way of tunnels under the border going into the U.S.

Jose parked the bus with the exit door in the dark facing away from the crowded area. The vans were backed up to the bus and their back doors were open. Before anyone did anything, Javier wanted a word with the driver, Jose. As soon as the bus’s door was opened, Javier looked at Jose and indicated he should follow him. With Berto hurrying after them to save Jose’s life if necessary, they walked away from the others.

“Well?” Javier asked.

“We were stopped by the policia. The federales. A man whose name is Gallego. Phillipe Gallego,” Jose started explaining, nervously rubbing his hands together.

“What did he want?”

“Money and…” Jose said hesitantly.

“Go on, what else did he want?” Javier asked sensing there was more.

“He walked up and down, looking over the cargo, making lewd comments and scaring them. He was hinting about where they are going. Some of them became frightened and started crying.”

“How much money?” Javier asked.

“Ten thousand, American,” Jose said.

Javier said to Berto, “Do you know this fool, this pig federale, Gallego?”

“Yes, jefe, I know who he is,” Berto replied.

“All right,” Javier said. “See to the transfer. Thirty-three is that correct?” Javier asked Jose.

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