Suicide Mission Read Free Page B

sound.
    â€œDo you know how many bones there are in the human body?” Alfredo asked. “No, of course you don’t. But there are hundreds, and every one of them can be broken. It would take many hours to break all of them . . . but it can be done. It will be done unless you tell me what you know about El Nuevo Sol.”
    The DEA agent shook his head and said, “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
    His eyes told a different story, however. Alfredo could tell that the man had at least heard the phrase before.
    â€œThis is the last chance,” he said softly.
    The prisoner just stared at him.
    â€œThe last chance for your friend, I should have said,” Alfredo went on. He nodded to Pablo again, then turned his back and took off his glasses. He took a fine linen handkerchief from his shirt pocket and began polishing the lenses as more screaming began behind him.
    It took hours, as Alfredo had said, and the Hispanic Border Patrol agent died before they were finished. The DEA agent would be permanently crippled if he lived, which was highly doubtful. But when the questioning was finished and Pablo came to the guest room where Alfredo was staying, he had the information they needed.
    â€œI want to hear it for myself,” Alfredo said.
    â€œI think he’s still conscious,” Pablo said. “But we should probably hurry.”
    They went back to the room next to the courtyard. The floors here were tile, too, like the patio, and the blood might not be easy to clean from them, but that wasn’t Alfredo’s worry. He hitched up his trousers slightly so that he wouldn’t ruin the line of them as he knelt next to the broken heap of humanity that had been the DEA agent.
    â€œTell me what you know about El Nuevo Sol.”
    â€œJust . . . just rumors,” the prisoner gasped. “Something big in . . . in San Antonio. We were on the trail . . . of a man named Chavez . . .”
    Alfredo’s face was unusually grim as he glanced up at Pablo. Chavez was one of the cartel’s computer experts . . . if the prisoner was talking about the same Chavez, which seemed likely. He had handled many of the details of communications with the cartel’s partners in this operation, routing the emails through so many anonymous digital pathways that no one could ever trace them.
    But in order for that to be possible, Chavez had to be privy to a great deal of sensitive information.
    â€œIs he here at the villa?” Alfredo asked.
    Pablo looked distinctly uncomfortable as he said, “He works out of his own place. He has an apartment over the club where his girlfriend works. She’s a, uh, stripper.”
    â€œBring him here,” Alfredo ordered. “We need to find out if he’s had any contact with these men.”
    â€œChavez would never betray us.”
    â€œYou’ll pardon me if I don’t take your word for that, Pablo. I want to talk to him myself.”
    â€œOf course, of course, Alfredo, right away.” Pablo made a sharp gesture to his men. “Take care of it! Find Chavez and bring him here.”
    Alfredo looked down again at the DEA agent, who was gasping for air through his broken mouth and nose.
    â€œWhat is El Nuevo Sol?”
    â€œI . . . don’t . . . know.”
    Alfredo believed him. And so there was no more point in keeping the man alive. Alfredo took a small .25 caliber semi-automatic pistol from his jacket pocket, placed the muzzle against the DEA man’s right eye, and pulled the trigger. The little bullet wasn’t powerful enough to penetrate the skull, so it just bounced around inside the prisoner’s head, scrambling his brain and making him twitch like a broken puppet for a moment before he died.
    Alfredo stood up and handed the pistol to Pablo. Even though only one shot had been fired from it, he didn’t want to put it back in his pocket.
    â€œClean that,” he said. “While