Birds of a Feather. Don Easton

if he were seen secretly meeting a gringo there would be serious questions. If the gringo was identified as a U.S. Customs agent, he knew any lie he could come up with would likely not be accepted and would result in his execution. He also knew Adams realized the danger. What has happened?

      Adams sat low in his seat as he slowly drove down the alley in his white Celica. His windshield was tinted, making it difficult for people to see in, but the other windows were clear. There were few gringos in this part of the city, but it was also an area not known to be of interest to the cartels. Rubalcava stepped out from an alcove and Adams unlocked the passenger door.

      “Amigo,” said Rubalcava with a worried smile on his face as he got in the car. “It is always good to see you.” As usual, Rubalcava made no comment about the extreme risk in which Adams had placed him and instead treated their meeting like a friend who was happy to see him.

      Adams didn’t take the time to exchange niceties. The words tumbled out of him as if he were an auctioneer.

      Rubalcava’s face darkened. “This house, with the Mercedes that your partner followed. Which cartel did they belong to? Guajardo or Sinaloa?”

      “I don’t know. We were still trying to find out. An anonymous phone call complained of lots of men coming and going at all hours of the day and night. Lots of souped-up cars being driven by Mexicans who look like gangsters. Greg and I spent the last couple of nights trying to identify who they were.”

      “I do not have much that could help you if it was the Sinaloa cartel, but if it was the Guajardo … it could explain why some men in my office were whispering and smiling about something an hour ago.”

      Adams checked his watch. “It was an hour and twenty-five minutes ago when Greg was grabbed. Maybe they heard the news. It fits. Would Rafael Guajardo be directly involved? If we locate him —”

      “No, he would not risk being involved. Besides, Guajardo has been meeting some other drug lords in Cancun this last week. He has not returned yet and may not even know about it. The two jackals he left in charge, Vicente Carrillo Fuentes or his brother, Amado Carrillo Fuentes, could have okayed and planned the kidnapping on their own. Even then, they would have turned it over to someone else to complete. Do you know what colour the Mercedes is?”

      “Green. Why?”

      “Now it is coming together in my mind. Below the Carrillo Fuentes brothers, there are three lower bosses, who also happen to be brothers. One of them, a big fat man by the name of Chico, drives a green Mercedes. Chico controls much of the prostitution and collects money from the pimps who work for him. He often goes into El Paso to collect money from pimps who operate out of some strip bar. The Red something.”

      “The Red Poker Saloon?” asked Adams.

      “Yes, that is it. You know the place?”

      “I’ve been there. It’s full of pimps, drug dealers, bikers, you get the picture. Does Chico control a particular police station here in Juarez?”

      “Not him, directly … but of course the Guajardo cartel controls many,” replied Rubalcava.

      “Do you think the police who grabbed Greg would take him back to their station?”

      “Possibly. If they don’t intend to keep him alive long they might take him there. If they plan on torturing him over a period of a few days they would take him to some place more remote. Probably outside the city.”

      Adams winced. “What police station would you suspect the most?”

      “If he was taken to a police station, I think it would be one of two. Both are small and in outlying areas. The captains in both stations, along with their men, are firmly in the pockets of the Guajardo cartel.”

      “I’ve got a map of Juarez in the glove box. Dig it out and show me where the stations are.”

      Rubalcava spoke as he unfolded the map. “The first station is on the northwest side of the city. The police at that station specialize in kidnapping people for ransom. I believe there are about two-dozen policemen who work out of that office.”

      “So they are experienced at snatching people,” noted Adams. “Sounds like it could be them.”

      “Perhaps … although they do not use marked police vehicles when they kidnap. The captain there is very short with a pockmarked face.”

      “He’ll have more than pockmarks on his face if he is responsible,” said Adams tersely, patting the Heckler & Koch P2000 semi-automatic pistol tucked in the holster on his belt.

      “The other station is on the southeast side,” continued Rubalcava. “I believe there are about seventeen officers who work out of that station.”

      “If we find him, will you get any heat over how we knew where he was?”

      “Nothing I can’t handle. Lots of policemen will know about it. Any one of them may have talked.”

      “Thanks, my friend,” said Adams.

      “I am sorry I cannot help you further.”

      “I already have backup on this side of the border. Four FBI agents.”

      “That is not many.”

      “It’s not like we have the time … or the authority. I don’t even know how far these FBI guys will go. They’re feds. I can’t count on them to break the rules.”

      “Then I wish you luck. If you find him and somehow rescue him, do not use the border crossings going back. They will be waiting for you.”

      “Thanks. If we manage to retrieve him, I know several places the illegals use. We’ll use one of them.”

      “Now you must hurry. If he is at one of the stations and is still alive, he will not be for long.”

      “Let’s hope he is only being held to inconvenience him,” offered Adams.

      “No, my friend,” replied Rubalcava sadly, giving Adams’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “If that was simply the case, the men in my office would not even have been told … let alone be as pleased as they are.”

      Adams called the four FBI agents. One of them, Antonio, was of Mexican heritage and suggested if he took off his suit jacket and tie, he might be able to blend in enough to do some close-up reconnaissance. The decision of what to do was given to Adams, as Patton was his partner.

      The FBI agents were still in the heart of Juarez and with the amount of traffic it would take them about an hour to check out the police station in the southeast. Adams was about forty-five minutes away from the northwest station and an hour and a half away from the southeast station. He decided to send the four FBI agents to the southeast station while he headed in the opposite direction.

      During the forty-five-minute drive, Adams thought of what he would do if he believed his partner was inside. Adams had been trained by the United States military as a Special Forces commando and was an expert marksman with a variety of weapons. His talent in that regard was still used. He was a reservist and was occasionally called upon for brief missions.

      Adams’s plan was simple. If Greg is there I’ll bust in and take him out … the Mexicans are lousy shots, anyway …

      When Adams arrived, he drove past the station and saw it had its front door propped open. People casually visited with one another near the entrance while citizens were coming and going out of the building.

      He’s not here!

      Adams gritted his jaw, determined to fight back the tears of frustration as he spun his car around and raced back across the city to the southeast section.

      Antonio walked down the block toward the southeast police station, his eyes taking in the situation all the while. A woman ahead of him tried to open the front door of the station and found it was locked. She peered in through the window, then quickly stepped back and hurried off down the sidewalk.

      When