El Machete Book Submission 11-01-26

David W Hobbs
DavidWHobbsJr@hotmail.com
about 41,000 words
“EL MACHETE”
Hobbs / El Machete / 2
Table of Contents
“El Machete”
Chapter One “A day, like any other day…”
1
3
Chapter Two “the awakening”
10
Chapter Three “I don’t understand”
13
Chapter Four “it’s okay to cry”
16
Chapter Five “where’s the justice”
19
Chapter Six “the outsiders of time and place”
28
Chapter Seven “living is the hard part”
35
Chapter Eight “another dimension of reality”
44
Chapter Nine “…”
49
Chapter Ten “…”
66
Chapter Eleven “…”
81
Chapter Twelve “El Gallo is dead”
87
Chapter Thirteen “in breaking news…”
93
Chapter Fourteen “My name is Villegas, but I am not”
99
Chapter Fifteen “they are waiting for you”
107
Chapter Fourteen “…”
111
Hobbs / El Machete / 3
Chapter One “A day, like any other day…”
Jackson Billings woke early (again), to the cool morning sea breeze of the Pacific Ocean. It
was nearly 6 a.m. and the brisk autumn air sharpened his thoughts and allowed him to envision
the day. He would wake, have some coffee, no more than two cups to avoids the jitters, and run
on the beach at 7. He was determined to get back into shape after nearly five years of neglect.
His mind continued to formulate the day’s potential events and realized it was not his decision,
Jenn, his wife of 12 years, would soon rise and change everything, more appropriately dictate the
day. Jackson, long since a neutered man, would resolve to himself his plans had little merit in
their relationship. She would point out a few tidbits and begin to inflict her long-suffering
manipulation tactics on him and he would ultimately follow blindly along with “the plan.”
“Fuck-it” he thought and went back to sleep.
Jenn entered the bedroom for the third time, however, this time there was no attempt to be
quite. Briskly closing the closet door with no regard for the noise, she stared at Jackson and with
mild disdain for his lack of adventure she announced, “Jackson, we are leaving now. We will be
back this afternoon, please take care of the firewood it will be cold tonight and I want a fire for
dinner. We’ll pick up some movies from the flea market. See you around 5.” A peck on the
cheek was all that was left and she was off.
Upon hearing the front door clasp, he opened his eyes. “Now what?” he thought. The
morning is shot, I’m sure she left more than the firewood for me to do, no doubt a note with a list
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of expectations to be accomplished by day’s end, followed by, “I love you” at the end – “did
she?” he thought. He languished in bed thinking about her.
They had met while still in college in D.C. while he was attending the University of
Maryland – much to his father’s dismay. He was studying Information Technology and
microbiology and she was at Georgetown University on a Public Relations scholarship. They
met in a small Georgetown pub following the two schools playing in the NCAA sweet sixteen.
Maryland placing a sweet ass-whooping on Georgetown gave him the courage to approach her.
CHANGE THIS TO THEY ATTENDED G’TOWN TOGETHER AND MET IN THE DRAMA
CLUB. SHE WAS A “SMALL PART” ACTRESS AND HE SPENT HIS SUMMERS AS A
STAGE HAND, AND SET DECORATOR. JACKSON JOINED THE DRAMA CLUB TO
MEET AND BE AROUND HOT GIRLS AND IT WORKED HE MET JENN THERE. HE
GATHERED PARTS AND MATERIALS AT LOWES AND HOME DEPOT TO MAKE THE
SETS. BECAUSE THEY HAD A SMALL BUDGET FOR SET DESIGN, THE DRAMA
TEACHER HAD WORKED OUT A DEAL WITH THE LOCAL HARDWARE AND
ELECTRONIC STORES TO HELP OFFLOAD THEIR INVENTORY TRUCKS BUT THEY
GOT TO PICK THROUGH THE WOOD CRATES AND BOXES AND PACKING
MATERIALS BEFORE IT WAS SENT OFF FOR RECYCLING OR THE GARBAGE.
JACKSON ADMIRED THE DRAMA TEACHER, GARY RICHARDS, BECAUSE HE
COULD SEE “WHAT WAS NEEDED BEYOND WHAT WAS AVAILABLE,” A SIMPLE
GLUE GUN, SOME PACKING BUBBLES OR FOAM, PAPER MACHE THIS OR THAT
SOME PAINT AND YOU ARE DONE. SOMETHING OUT OF NOTHING WAS ALL IN
THE MIND. THE DRAMA TEACHER TAUGHT THEM HOW TO THINK ABOUT HOW
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TO MAKE THE SETS BY USING EVERYTHING THEY SEE AROUND THEM AND HOW
LITTLE IT TAKES TO CHANGE THOSE THINGS INTO WHAT YOU NEED. “THE
ILLUSION OF THE PLAY WAS NOT ONLY IN THE ACTING BUT IN THE SET DESIGN
AS WELL” HE WOULD SAY.
At first she was put off by his arrogance, but his self-deprecating humor quickly eased the
tension and they talked. Surprisingly to Jackson, Jenn did not really caring about the outcome of
the game and only went to be with friends and for the experience it might bring – this should
have been a warning sign. But all Jackson truly noticed were her great tits, lushes lips and
intelligent charm and whit – but mostly her tits. They talked for hours and she teased him
incessantly with her breasts, leaning over allowing him to see her deep cleavage, brushing them
against his arm while they chatted closely. They fucked hard and long that night, often she
would give him directions on what she wanted with specific details on what she liked and didn’t.
He responded by pleasing her again and again as she climaxed several times during the night.
“Finally”, he thought, a woman who can tell me what she really wants – this should have been
another warning.
Jackson finally rose from the bed and turned on the shower, he would masturbate before
allowing the rest of the day to crush his will and his gorging pecker.
Jennifer Billings was in her element now, or one of the many elements she felt most
comfortable with. If it wasn’t with her daughter 11-year old Elizabeth whom she loved so
dearly, it was at work surrounded by those that listened intently on her every word, or in virtually
any social setting where she was the life of the party always having a witty line or cordial
sentiment. Jenn and Elizabeth enjoyed their time together shopping along the Rosarito tourist
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strip. Their never-ending decorating and redecorating process of the new Baja cabin kept them
busy every weekend they came down from L.A. Jenn had promised this would come to an end
as soon as they found the right matching pottery for the new cactus in the front. Elizabeth didn’t
care if they ever finished, she only loved that her mother treated like a friend while they were in
Mexico, not the budding adolescent girl who needed to be aware of everything and everyone
back in the U.S. She truly relished her time here and gave up many activities back in L.A. so
that her parents would have no excuses but to come down on a regular basis.
The shopping duo spent their day rummaging through the slightly and vigorously used
trinkets and knick knacks available at the flea market. The Mexican flea markets provided a
staple income for many Mexican families and offered significant purchase options for the
consumers, the last remaining win-win in a down-turn market. Virtually anything could be
found here, from pirated DVDs of movies video taped in theaters with hand held cameras to old
pots and pans but mostly used clothing. They giggled like school girls when they would find a
used blouse they may have owned years earlier. Their search today was originally designed for
ornate ceramic planters for outside the house. They attempted to stay with the beach house’s
current theme of terracotta but they soon looked at the colorful blue and yellow fire kilned pots
and of course, as in the past they soon lost their way and purchased a mixed batch of several of
each… they would make it work or buy more later.
It was nearly 5 p.m. when the girls piled all their treasures into the Explorer and headed back
to the beach house. The drive home would take 30 minutes along the scenic route and 15 to 20
minutes along the less scenic toll road. They rarely traveled the toll road because it seemed to
take away the true reason they had their second home in Mexico, to experience the life, the ocean
Hobbs / El Machete / 7
and the freedom all of which the toll road seemed to lack. Today was different, they were both
exhausted and looked forward to getting home quickly preparing a nice dinner, and snuggling up
next to the fire Jackson should have going and watching either of the two pirated videos they
purchased.
They barely chatted as they normally would, more intent on getting home. They reached
their exit off the toll-road and pulled into the traffic line for the military checkpoint, about one
kilometer from the beach house, normally they were glad to reach the checkpoint, as this meant
two key things, the first being that 25 Marines – the untouchables of the Mexican military were
present – the second was they were almost home. They had joked about buying the beach based
on the armed Marines as 24-hour security, a little excessive for a $59,000 dollar home. Today
the girls were eager to move through the checkpoint which seemed surprisingly slow for only a
few cars in front of them.
They commented the Marines must be looking for someone specific today. They rarely had
any concerns with the checkpoint because the Mexican Marines were known for their complete
lack of corruption to the drug cartels and politicians.
As slowly as their line was the line to the right moved along quickly. Within minutes a black
Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows pulled up along side them. A chill crawled up Jenn’s
spine as she looked over at Elizabeth. They both knew it was a drug dealer but neither had the
courage to speak. The Marine, a well trained professional also knew, his attention, physical
stance and demeanor all changed accordingly.
Jenn’s first concern was to ensure Elizabeth’s safety, and yet nothing had happened, nothing
until a second Escalade quickly changed lanes pulling up behind them. She felt trapped, in
Hobbs / El Machete / 8
danger and very alert to the impending scenario. As they pulled up to the Marine, he quickly
ushered them through and they felt relieved as they attempted to drive away quickly, however,
the car in front was barely moving. As soon as the guard passed them through, he stepped
between their moving car and the upcoming Escalade. Jenn’s emotions began to scramble
between fear and panic, yet attempted to remain calm as nothing had happened and there may be
no cause for alarm. She took several deep breaths as the small Honda in front of them moved
slowly as the driver grinded the metal on metal gears of the transmission. Jenn looked in the rear
view mirror in an effort to gauge the true danger they were in and could see the Marine standing
abreast the on coming Escalade with hand outstretched palm up. She knew he wasn’t there just
to protect them, the Americans, from the potential of danger by the drug cartels, but was thankful
he was there nevertheless.
They continued to creep slowly away from the checkpoint, they had only reached a three car
length distance when Jenn saw the black barrel of the gun through the passenger-side window
and her heart plunged. The first shot dropped the Marine and ripped through the tailgate door of
their Explorer, bringing screams and shear terror between the two of them. The second and third
shots came from other line guards into the Escalade. Within seconds shots were coming from all
angles, Jenn could barely think about which way to drive, she looked over at Elizabeth
screaming for her to get down when the shattering of the back window broke her words. The
bullet pierced through her back puncturing her aortic artery. Her screams were partially stifled
by the blood pouring in her throat, she jammed on the gas and the SUV surged forward
slamming into the Honda directly in front of them. Their vehicle bounced off hurling them into
Hobbs / El Machete / 9
the intersection and oncoming traffic, instantly being met by the full force of delivery truck
cruising along at 30 MPH.
The impact slammed them into the guardrail crushed by the full weight of the truck. Jenn
barely conscious could see Elizabeth was also badly injured but alive and awake. Elizabeth’s
seat was dislodged and turned almost 90 degrees facing Jenn with the seatbelt dangling over her
shoulder. Jenn was thankful for a brief moment realizing she would have been killed instantly
by the belt had it not broken. She reached over to her, yet could no longer speak. Their eyes met
with fear and pain, tears and blood strained their vision and they held each other’s hands as they
slowly faded into unconsciousness.
Hobbs / El Machete / 10
Chapter Two “the awakening”
Jackson was sitting on the rooftop patio sucking down his third Corona enjoying a late
summer Santa Anna breeze when his neighbors Ron and wife Gloria came screeching up to the
house. They had been three cars behind the Escalade and were waved around after all the
shooting. They had reached Jackson’s beach house within minutes of the shooting and crash.
They could see Jackson sitting on the rooftop patio, shirt off and slumped in the beach chair, his
moment of serenity was soon about to be destroyed. They yelled up to him several times before
Jackson became aware of their presence, he yanked the ear-buds from his iPod off and stared in
emotional disarray.
“Jackson, come with us there’s been an accident at the checkpoint!” Ron yelled trying to
remain composed and yet express the sense of urgency for the situation. Jackson still dismayed
by the situation and still in a slightly buzzed state of mind, could only respond with, “huh?” and
“what?” He stumbled down the stairs nearly falling twice and jumped into their car. They
quickly sped off back to the crash site but with the continuous screaming of, “what happened,”
and “we’re not sure” Jackson seemed more lost in the moment then concerned. All he clearly
understood was there was an accident with a truck and the girls were not out of the SUV yet.
Jackson’s mind raced between images of really bad and potentially dyeing to them standing by
the SUV yelling at someone for wrecking their new SUV.
Ron and Gloria had not told Jackson of the gunfire for fear of dashing any hope he might
have had and he would see things for himself in a few moments anyway. By the time they
Hobbs / El Machete / 11
reached the accident, an ambulance and doctor were on scene assisting his family. Jackson ran
from the car even before it had fully stopped, his heart pounding with unbelievable thoughts
racing through his mind as the gravity of the situation was beginning to set into his reality. He
could see their SUV crushed on the passenger side “oh dear God, my Bethy” he thought. The
SUV was sitting slightly lifted from the impact of the truck and the driver’s side pinned next to
the guard rail, he didn’t notice the bullet holes in the back, nor the Marines scavenging through
the other black SUV 20 meters away. His only intentions were to get to his family and free
them. A few feet before he could reach them, a paramedic and Marine grabbed him in an effort
to stop him telling him they were both gone. His heart stopped. He could hear nothing else as if
all senses had left him and he was alone in a horrifying world. He could no longer focus on what
had happened he could only stare at the remains of this moment.
It took several moments before he could regain his senses and stop struggling with the
Marine enough for him to release his grip on Jackson’s arms and begin to walk him over to the
SUV. Jackson had no hope of a final miracle that maybe they could still be alive, he was sure
they were both dead because he felt life had left him as well. As he neared the Explorer the two
paramedics were attempting to place plastic covers over their bodies to hide them from reporters
and on-lookers. Jackson reached out for the paramedic on the passenger side – his Bethy’s side –
and gently pulled him back from the vehicle. He slowly yet methodically looked inside at the
blood and shattered glass and could see their hands were clasped together. This was their
moment of good bye, and now his as well. On the other side, another paramedic stopped his
attempts to cut Jenn’s seatbelt away allowing Jackson his moment.
Hobbs / El Machete / 12
Jackson stood looking through the window and gazed at his family in this horrific site. He
could no longer feel himself breathe or even think, he just continued to look, taking in every
blood spatter, every shard of glass, their blood-soaked clothes, their tussled hair, and their still
opened eyes bloodshot and teary. This was his moment to say good bye and if their spirits were
still here they would feel his love for them, they would share one last moment together
regardless of the place or circumstance. He stared at the remains of his family and his life for
several minutes, alone and absorbing every ounce of their remaining presence. There was no
flood of memories, or convulsions of pain, not even anger, there was just loss.
Minutes later, as he began to break away, he could see through Jenn’s side of the car window
the Pacific Ocean and the waves breaking without pause. The sun nearly completely set lit up
the sky in orange and red and brown. “I hope this sunset was the last thing they saw,” he thought
peacefully.
Hobbs / El Machete / 13
Chapter Three “I don’t understand”
It took nearly two hours for Jenn and Bethy’s bodies to be released from their internment.
He sat despondent on the side of the highway. He was completely broken, or so he felt. His
mind scrambled and raced and stopped all at once. He could no longer focus on individual
thoughts he could only feel pain and loss. It consumed him physically and emotionally. He
struggled with an overwhelming feeling of vomiting as his stomach churned. Ron and Gloria sat
beside him on the roadway trying to provide comfort in anyway they could but soon realized he
was beyond consoling and found that just being with Jackson was what he needed at this time.
It wasn’t until he was at the hospital before he glimpsed his life without them. He was
shaken to the core with grief. After waiting nearly an hour the ER doctor came out to confirm
what was already known by everyone, but needed to be done nonetheless. Surprisingly, the
doctor’s English was excellent and seemed to pride himself on being able to talk with Jackson so
eloquently. He explained with limited detail how the girls had died.
“Sir, your wife was killed from a bullet rupturing her aortic artery and she bled out. Your
daughter from massive internal organ failure causing her heart to stop,” he calmly explained.
“Bullet?” Jackson questioned, “what bullet?”
“Your wife was shot in the back and it passed through her ribs and ruptured the aortic artery
exiting out of her chest, she died almost immediately, certainly within minutes,” the doctor
explained.
“She was in a car accident, she wasn’t shot,” Jackson confusingly responded. His faced
grimaced with confusion and despair as he exclaimed, “What the hell is going on here! How
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could she have been shot? Who shot my wife?” Despair turned to anger as he realized his wife
and daughter were killed by someone else… “They were murdered!” he thought.
The doctor, in an empathetic voice responded, “sir, I don’t know what happened, maybe the
police can tell you more. We will be taking them to the morgue soon, would you like to see
them before they are moved?”
“Look Doctor, I still don’t understand, who shot my wife?” he yelled.
“Maybe I can help,” said a tall slender American woman as she stepped away from the
nurse’s station.
“I am terribly sorry for your loss Mr. Billings, I am Rebecca Henson, I work for the State
Department. We are called in whenever an American is killed outside the United States. I
happened to be in Tijuana when I was told about this situation and decided to drive down since it
was only 30 minutes away,” she explained as if seeking an appreciative gesture from Jackson.
“What the FUCK is going on lady?” Jackson demanded.
“First I’m told she is in car accident, and then she’s dead, now I’m told she was shot and now
someone from the fucking State Department is here,” he sniped without concern for his language
or tone.
“Mr. Billings, here is what I know from talking with the Chief of Police and the statements
from the Marines, your wife was pulling away from the checkpoint when her vehicle was shot
from either the drug cartel in the SUV behind them or by a stray bullet from the Marines, we are
not sure which at this point,” she explained.
“We are working closely with the police and IEU, that is the Mexican FBI, and should have
more information tomorrow,” she explained in a tone typical of a lifelong bureaucrat.
Hobbs / El Machete / 15
The ER doctor unable to provide any further assistance to Jackson and feeling overwhelmed by
the potential volatility of the situation quietly excused himself and quickly descended back
through the stainless steel doors of the ER.
Jackson stood confused and dazed in the lobby as Rebecca continued to explain how the
process of the information would come available to her and him and how he should let her take
control of the situation from this point forward. Her professional and yet seemingly uncaring
demeanor nearly set him into a tailspin of rage. She had obviously done this far too many times.
Her words rehearsed her responses short and direct to his questions.
“Mr. Billings I will be in touch with you in the morning with details on when the bodies will
be released from the hospital,” she stated calmly as she slid away into the hospitals cold walls.
Within minutes it was over, he was told everything he needed and yet unable to process any of
its scope or magnitude. There was no humanness to the situation. Jackson stood in the lobby
alone, not knowing what to do, where to turn, emotionless and lost.
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Chapter Four “it’s okay to cry”
The phone rang at 10 a.m., Jackson had still not slept, unable to think nor eat, and yet he was
able to drink half a bottle of scotch. His still drunken and half hung-over mind slowly engaged
as he scrambled for the phone and with his voice graveled from the night before he barked out,
“Hello, who is this?”
“Mr. Billings this is Rebecca Henson, we met last night at the hospital. Again sir, I am
terribly sorry for your loss,” she stated in her business as usual idiom.
“I have a few issues to work through with the hospital but we should be able to have the
bodies released later today,” she continued.
“Sir I know this is an extremely tragic event for you to comprehend, but I want you to know
your country will be there with you throughout this ordeal. We will take care of all the
arrangements to have them transported back to the states,” she paused as if waiting for a
response.
“Mr. Billings, do you know where you would like their bodies sent?” she asked.
Jackson paused, still consumed by the loss, on the verge of rage, he took a deep and soul
searching breath, and responded.
“DC, there’s a big funeral home just off of M Street, her family lives there.”
The silence continued for several seconds, Jackson unsure what to ask and whether he really
wanted to know or could actually handle any further information. Rebecca, in full “state
department mode” senses he has not grasped the situation yet and lowers her tone.
Hobbs / El Machete / 17
“Is there anyone you would like us, uh…, would you like me to contact?” she asked softly.
“No, I’ll deal with the notifications of her family,” he said as he attempted to find himself.
The pause continued and seemed palpable to both. Rebecca knew her work was done, Jackson
knew his life was over, yet neither felt the conversation was completed. Several moments passed
as Jackson, coughed and cleared his throat. Rebecca waited patiently, sensing the pain and
despair that must be consuming him.
“Wait, I… I need to know what happened,” he stated in his first real attempt to accept his
new reality.
“Mr. Billings, as I told you last night, it was a shootout with Marines and a drug cartel. We
have statements and video which corroborate the story. I’m terribly sorry, it seems your family
was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she attempted to speak in a consoling manner.
Her words ripped through him, “wrong place, wrong time,” what the fuck could that mean? She
couldn’t be just some emotionless callous bitch telling him I’m sorry your life is over, but
“wrong place, wrong time.” He rubbed his face, and took several more deep breaths trying to
find the right question to ask.
“I don’t know what I do now,” were the only words he could expel.
“I’m sorry,” she state in an empathetic voice.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he replied in a lost and scared voice.
The pause between them continued, she knowing it is up to him to pull himself together and him
looking for any help he can find. He was completely lost, searching for a rope to pull him out of
this abyss he had fallen into.
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“Mr. Billings, sir, why don’t you call your family, I’m sure they will be able to help you get
through these next few days. If you need any help dealing with the police, your insurance, the
funeral home or the hospital, please call upon me,” she stated back in her business tone.
“Yeah, okay, I’ll do that. Thanks,” he nearly silently replied.
“I’ll contact you with the details of their transport as soon as it is available, probably
tomorrow, okay?” she replied.
“Yes that will be fine,” he stated and paused. “Look, one more thing…. Who were they?
What drug cartel? Who were they and where were they from, and what were they doing there,…
then?” he asked.
“Mr. Billings, I’ll call you tomorrow with the details on the transport,” she spoke with a
dangling pause to her words, “I’ll know more then and will tell you all I can.”
As Jackson hung up he turned away from the kitchen to see the firewood piled in the fireplace
and he began to weep. Ravaged by the pain, despair, confusion and rage of the last nearly 24
hours, he sank to the floor and wept.
Hobbs / El Machete / 19
Chapter Five “where’s the justice”
Notes
Rebecca tells him who he can talk with about the cartels and what is being done to find them.
She explains the chief of police in Rosarito can be trusted along with the General in charge of
the Marines, but that no one in Tijuana, with the exception of the Marines can be trusted.
Jackson called Rebecca to apologize after finally sleeping for a few hours, his mind still
unfocused, his heart still too deep with despair to comprehend the last 24 hours, and yet he
needed a voice of reason. Calling his family, primarily her family left him feeling it was his
fault; he was to blame for the loss of “their daughter and granddaughter.” Arrangements had
begun at the Oakmont Funeral Home in DC, and Jackson felt he needed to confirm with Rebecca
when their bodies would arrive and attempt to find out the next steps in the police action – or
even if there was a police action at this point.
They had agreed to meet at a diner near Jackson; he was unable to muster the neither strength
nor mindset to drive much further. He arrived late, an extremely rare occasion for him,
unshaven, un-showered and probably smelling to high heaven. He wore the same shorts and tshirt from the day before and could taste the scotch in the back of his throat, he knew he wreaked
and could care less how anyone, even his neighbors or other expatriates might see him.
Jackson found Rebecca in a booth near the door; she looked different to him, slightly more
personal, less with her off-setting-business-as-usual manner. She was dressed in jeans and a
button down shirt. He could actually see her features and nearly didn’t recognize her. She was
even thinner than she seemed at the hospital, almost gaunt, with long bony fingers and a gangly
chicken neck.
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They greeted each other warmly, warmly for two people having met only once before and
under extreme conditions. Jackson quickly apologized again for his outbursts and was gracious
for Rebecca’s assistance. Rebecca conceded she should have been more humane in the
delivering of information and the delicate process he was up against. They smiled to each other
and ordered coffee.
“Mr. Billings, there is not much more to this process, I will personally ensure the bodies
arrive on time to the funeral home. They will be given a police escort from Reagan International
if you would like to travel with them, I can arrange for that as well,” Rebecca calmly and
empathetically explained.
“Please, call me Jackson, I need a normal voice in my head and anytime I hear Mr. Billings,
it just seems unnatural,” he interjected.
“Of course Jackson, and please call me Rebecca,” she insisted
“I appreciate your professionalism and care for the details through this, but you haven’t
mentioned what the police are doing, are they doing anything?” he asked.
With a deep and slow sigh, clearly dreading the next phase of this impending conversation
Rebecca responds, “Jackson, this part of my job is the absolute most difficult for me, I never
know how to talk with people on this level, given what has happened to your family here in a
foreign country. I never know when to open up with information which may cause more pain for
the family and when to just be a sympathetic shoulder.”
Rebecca paused, hoping for a response from Jackson, who although clearly still distraught
seemed to only have one glimmer of focus on his mind.
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“Rebecca, please just explain everything you know. I’ve already lost my family…. My life is
over. I just want to know what is being done about it,” Jackson quietly and painfully asks.
“Alright, at this point the police have closed the case. You see from their perspective the
four drug dealers opened fire on the Marines and were killed. Inside their cars were about
40Kilos of marijuana, some guns and about $10,000 in cash. They have no reason, nor evidence
to further any investigation,” she said ending with an unspoken “but” at the end.
“The police have closed the case?” Jackson questioned
“What about the cartels? What are they doing about them? There’s obviously more, what is
the U.S. doing about this?” Jackson questioned more directly and with much greater passion.
“There is not much I can tell you, well not much I am allowed to tell you. I’m sure you
understand the U.S. and the Mexican governments are constantly seeking out the cartels and
implementing laws and personnel to deal with them…. “ Rebecca paused, looked down at her
coffee and with a fiery stare looked back up at Jackson.
“I’m sorry. That was bullshit and certainly not what you want to hear,” she emphatically
apologized.
“Look there are anywhere from 25 to 40 thousand Americans living in Baja fulltime; mostly
retirees, living on the low cost of living and relatively good healthcare. There are likely as many
members in the drug cartels – there will be an incident,” she explained.
Jackson was slightly taken aback at her words and tone. He could see how her business-like
nature and bureaucratic demeanor could be very effective in her role with the State Department.
She certainly was not one to be taken lightly. He almost seemed impressed with her candor and
Hobbs / El Machete / 22
honesty. He knew she would divulge more and would not interrupt unless he needed to prompt
her.
“Here is what I know, and some of this I shouldn’t be telling you, so please keep this
between us. I may have mentioned at the hospital the IUE was involved, they are the FBI of
Mexico. They have the videos taken from the checkpoint and know which cartel was involved.
And, well…” she paused, seemingly fearing telling him anymore.
“Rebecca, please go on, I don’t care if it hurts more because I can sense that is what you are
going to say to me next. Just tell me, please,” Jackson implored.
“Okay, the cartels are always moving. Always looking for new ways to move their product
and always looking for new entry points. Often they will go back to previous places to see if
things have changed and it appears that is what they were doing when your family was killed,”
she explained without hesitance.
“What the hell are you saying, my family died because the fucking cartels were testing the
waters?” Jackson demanded.
“Sort of, yes,” she responded while gingerly nodding her head.
Rebecca allowed the pause in her response to give Jackson time to comprehend and assimilate
the information, and possibly even understand the gravity of the situation. Hopefully he would
understand there is little that can be done and the sheer scope of the international situation goes
well beyond the death of his family, however, tragic and senseless.
“Jackson, I know nothing I tell you will make the situation any easier to accept, nor will I try.
But you must understand the U.S. and Mexican governments are doing all they can to stop the
violence caused by the cartels,” she explained.
Hobbs / El Machete / 23
Jackson’s body slumped in the booth, maybe he didn’t need to know, maybe he shouldn’t have
asked. He certainly didn’t feel any better or able to accept their deaths with any ease. Now it
just seemed the gravity of their death was shrouded by the struggles of two governments ability
to stop the flow of drugs and the innocent lives impacted by them. The word “innocent” kept
running through his thought process. “Innocent” led to “victim” which led to “justice.”
“Is there any justice for them?” Jackson calmly questioned. His words seemed to pair off
from just his family and his loss, but to the many unnamed and unknown victims he certainly
knew there were.
“Will there be any justice for them?” he continued.
Rebecca sat without a gesture and certainly not feeling attacked by his question.
“Someday… yes, someday I think there will be. Maybe not in the form of all the cartels
being captured or killed, but maybe the people able to influence the strength of the cartels will be
held accountable,” she replied.
Her words seemed like a misdirection attempt – somewhat prophetic.
“Look Jackson, there is only so much I can tell you, and truly only so much you can absorb
or need to know right now. This is a dangerous situation for both countries, neither can wage all
out war against the cartels because of the collateral and potentially devastating damage it could
cause.” She paused to collect her thoughts.
“The cartels in most large or tourist cities in Mexico and nearly all border cities, have a
strong hold on the police, the politicians and to some degree the people. They control the police
with bribes and if they don’t take a bribe they are killed or their families are killed, but the point
is made and the next police chief or detective will have no choice but to comply with them. The
Hobbs / El Machete / 24
same goes for the politicians. They are either put into office with drug money, or controlled
through extreme intimidation. Those that refuse to comply are tortured and or killed or their
families are killed. Even the people of Mexico refuse to engage in dealing with the situation.
Take for example if you lived in San Diego and you thought your neighbor was a drug dealer,
you would call the police or the FBI and tell them what you know and have a level of comfort
knowing you could remain anonymous or at a minimum have protection. That does not exist in
Mexico. Not only is the culture different, but the intimidation and fear factor far exceeds any
vale attempt to stop the cartels.”
Rebecca paused, as if to ascertain whether she should continue or allow Jackson to merely
accept his family’s death as a byproduct of an international incident and move on with his life, or
push for more details. Rebecca’s 12 years dealing with U.S. and Mexican politics often made
her cold and callused, but specifically her last 6 years directly focusing on the cartels have made
her bitter to questions about the U.S.’s role and the innocent American victims impacted by the
results. Her claws were out – well maybe only partially out and she knew she could pull them
back in based on Jackson’s response. She needed him to understand all that could be done, was
being done. He gave no response for her to stop, so she continued.
“Allow me to put it another way, as I said before, there are nearly 40 thousand Americans
living in Baja fulltime, with another 50 thousand having second homes here. At any one time
during the Spring through Summer months there could be as many as 500 thousand Americans
here. That is not just an economic point of view to see, it could be catastrophic if the cartels start
kidnapping these people – not to say that doesn’t happen, it only happens on a very small scale.
My point being, if the U.S. takes the stand Mexico is unsafe until the Mexican government can
Hobbs / El Machete / 25
resolve this crisis what do we do with those that will remain here in Mexico? I’m sure you
understand that those retirees aren’t going to leave, they can’t nor will they leave their homes
here,” pausing for affect and allowing Jackson to visualize all the retired Americans he knows
that live as neighbors near him.
“You know they would stay, but what about those they would leave and abandon their life’s
savings, what do they do next? Then there is the economic impact to the Mexicans that have
created a life supporting the Americans here. All their livelihood is gone, too. Where will they
turn? What will they do? It all leads back to the cartels. And so it is the strategic strikes by the
Mexican government, with information, tactics and equipment all provide by the U.S.
government that is the only way to deal with the cartels. There truly is only a limited plan that
can be developed to deal with them without creating a much worse and longer lasting problem,”
she explained.
Rebecca’s words were clear and poetic in nature. She had given this speech many times and
placed emphasis in all the right places. Jackson was reeling from the impact of having his eyes
forcibly opened to the real Mexico. A Mexico much different from the quite walks on the beach
with his family, or the mom and pop taco stands on the corner, or even the swap meats – a
Mexico with a gruesome quite side that was no longer quite.
Jackson’s mind continued to gauge her words against into his questions, and realized all that
remained was blame. He had to blame someone and their needed to be punishment for that
blame.
“If you knew Mexico was so unsafe why didn’t the government stop us from buying down
here?” he questioned.
Hobbs / El Machete / 26
“Jackson, there have only been 10 Americans that have been killed in Mexico over the last
five years, which may seem like a lot, but let’s put it into perspective. You live in LA, 10 people
killed in one month would be normal. What about in DC where your wife’s family is, that would
be a bad weekend,” she responded.
“I don’t want this to sound like some statistical rational, but there is no longer a place
anywhere in the U.S. or much of the world where people are not impacted by violence in some
form or another, it’s just the world in which we live in now,” Rebecca continued.
They sat quietly for the next several minutes as each absorbed the conversation and its relative
impact. Neither ordered breakfast when the waiter returned to refill their coffee, the silence had
consumed the moment nor; all Jackson wanted to do was leave.
“Rebecca, thank you for all your help, and well, your straight forwardness. Truly I
appreciate it, I guess I need to digest this and figure out how to move on,” Jackson lamented.
“I don’t know where I’ll go from here; I’m still in a state of shock from it all. I would like to
travel back with their bodies if you could make the arrangements,” he said as he gathered is keys
from the table and began to get up.
“Just one more thing, you mentioned a video… can I see it?” he asked.
Rebecca reached into her portfolio and pulled out a disk and slid it across the table toward
Jackson. She gave him a consoling yet very serious look and said, “You didn’t get this from
me.”
Hobbs / El Machete / 27
Hobbs / El Machete / 28
Chapter Six “the outsiders of time and place”
The cool fall day cut through Jackson’s mind and briefly allowed him to focus on the
moment. Yet his attention span was brief and without merit. His mind consumed and yet empty
all at once. As they left the cemetery he began to realize he was alone in this. Friends and
family hugged each and walked closely back to their cars, Jackson continued to sit staring at
their caskets. The funeral albeit the saddest moment of his life, seemed beautiful, reflective of
the two brilliant lights it represented. He didn’t speak at the funeral home, nor at the cemetery.
No words could capture his pain. Eulogies were given by family and even friends who had
traveled from the West coast to share in the “celebration” of their lives. He was briefly left alone
with his thoughts, “my wife and daughter were loved so much, why wasn’t it me and spare all
this pain for everyone?”
When they arrived back at Jenn’s parent’s house he first noticed the pristine white linen table
cloths placed over the buffet tables in the dining room. He thought how absurd this all was, they
were dead and these people felt the need to break out the fine china. “Is it me or have they lost
their fucking minds?” he thought. “Hold it together and this will be over soon,” he lamented to
himself.
He tried greeting family and friends from the funeral but could never find the words, “Jenn
would know how to handle this, she would have been a wonderful host even in this situation,” he
thought. Eventually he found himself sitting quietly alone in the in the sun room as the wake
continued into the evening. He nursed his fourth scotch and water and stared into the backyard
Hobbs / El Machete / 29
of her family’s house. It had been two days since he brought their bodies back East and he
longed for a time when he could be alone. “The good thing about family is they are always
there, the bad thing about family is they are always there,” he thought. He needed this moment
of alone, to comprehend and assimilate, but he only felt lost, not just the “confused and don’t
know what do to next” lost, but rather the complete void of emotions, desire even pain.
Occasionally someone would check on him and attempt a conversation or relive a memory or
story about Jenn and Bethy, but it was rare. He was sure her family and their friends must have
found his behavior to be cold and callused, for that matter he was equally sure his parents were a
little embarrassed. It didn’t matter, he was the outsider, or so he felt. There was nothing that
could be said or done to change his heart right then.
His thoughts raced between the pain of losing them and feeling that he had somehow taken
them away from “their friends and family.” He was the outside element here, even from his own
family. His father barely offering a consoling word, his mother’s first words “oh Jackson, why?”
when he told them of their death pierced him sharply and he could not let it go. His brother,
never close, always making him feel second in line to him offered to help pay for the funeral,
another painful reminder he was far more successful then Jackson. Jackson was outside looking
in on the death of his family and no longer cared. Maybe it was the consolation that he knew and
loved them intimately far beyond what others saw and they loved him as well that kept him
going. Jackson often thought Jenn may have “married down” with him, but there was still love.
He had always felt he had let people down, never living up to what he was supposed to have
become and this was that transcending moment of realization. He is what they all thought he
was – less then what she deserved.
Hobbs / El Machete / 30
He heard from the living room a mild commotion, “look, here it is” someone said as the
volume of the TV was raised. Jackson could hear the news reporter and he knew it was from
Fox News because that was the only news allowed in Jenn’s parent’s house. He gathered
himself for a brief moment and moved into the living room to see the report but as he passed the
threshold into the living room he felt the overwhelming power of their eyes as he walked into the
train wrecked remains of his life.
“A State Department spokesperson has confirmed two Americans were killed over the
weekend in a shootout between Mexican drug cartels and Mexican military forces at a
checkpoint in Baja, California, 15 miles south of Tijuana. The State Department spokesperson
declined to provide a statement, pending notification of next of kin and that additional
information would be made available later. However, the spokesperson did confirm the two
Americans, a 32 year old mother and her 11 year old daughter while vacationing in Mexico near
Tijuana were innocent victims when gunfire broke out between Mexican officials and drug
cartels from Juarez, Mexico in an apparent attempt to bring drugs up from Baja, California.“
The reporter continued with her report talking about numbers of deaths in Mexico each year and
most particularly in the border towns, yet Jackson’s only thoughts were to Rebecca, he was sure
she was the spokesperson and was thankful, at least for now that, Jenn and Bethy’s names were
not included in the story. It would have made it far too real, even more so than the reality he was
struggling to accept.
The mingling and whispers had died down as Jackson left to return to the sun room. Pastor
John, or so he was called by his parish followed along.
“Jackson may I sit with you,” he asked.
Hobbs / El Machete / 31
Jackson gave him a nod and reached for his scotch which by now was well watered down by
the ice leaving a ring on the table. Pastor John sat across from him and pulled from his jacket a
flask.
“Care to share” as he offered to Jackson.
“Sure,” as a brief grin and slight chuckle came from Jackson.
They traded sips from the flask, Jackson thought but dare not comment on the high quality of the
whiskey. He wasn’t in the mood for the “all things happen for a reason” or the “they are in a
better place” sermon for which he was sure to get. But he waited for it nonetheless out of respect
for Jenn who often spoke about Pastor John. He married them, but Jackson always found an
excuse to avoid attending service while they dated and never really knew him.
“They are quite a group aren’t they?” Pastor John stated.
“How do you mean?” asked Jackson, not sure where the conversation would be going, yet
hesitant nonetheless.
“I mean, albeit a terrible time, they still put out the red carpet with all the trimmings,” stated
Pastor John.
Jackson, snickered as he both noticed the seemingly inappropriately lavishness of the setting and
the mixed metaphor the Pastor used.
“You know sometimes they drive me crazy with their control and over zealousness with the
things they do at church events,” Pastor John continued. “It’s funny they relish the opportunity
to take charge and bask in the essence they create. I often have to tell myself why they do it,” he
said as he raised his eye browse and shook his head.
Hobbs / El Machete / 32
“You see a man feels his reward from his work and family, a woman, on the other had, if she
doesn’t work, receives hers from her family, home and these events. Whether it’s a funeral or
wedding, Christmas or Easter, it’s their Super Bowl if you know what I mean,” Pastor John
proclaimed.
Jackson sat without expression but could not resist the temptation to agree completely with him.
“Jackson you feel lost here don’t you?” Pastor John stunningly asked.
“You probably are feeling like an outsider and truthfully, I think you know you are. But
remember both Jennifer and Elizabeth loved you so dearly and it was the family that the three of
you created that made them most happy. You were as much a part of them as they were of you.
So you see in essence it is those people in the other room that are outsiders, not you,” he spoke in
an assuring voice.
Jackson broke a slight smile and offered a delicate head nod at confirmation of Pastor John’s
words. They sat still for a few moments as the words and realization of the concept sank in for
Jackson.
“You know I feel guilty for many things right now, most of all, I feel I didn’t protect them.
But I can’t accept the blame for moving to the West coast. It was Jenn’s idea to chase her dream
career. I was along for the ride, as was with most things in our marriage,” Jackson stated as he
lowered his head and in a manner more to give himself some relief than to make a point.
“I know, she told me before you guys left,” Pastor John assured.
“They know too,” as he looked into the living room, “and I don’t think anyone feels it was
your fault,” Pastor John continued.
Hobbs / El Machete / 33
“So tell me why do they call you Pastor John,” Jackson asked, although partially dreading an
answer which might resemble the teachings of John the Baptist or something.
“I’m Polish and my last name is Blagoavich, and everyone just butchers the hell of it, so it’s
Pastor John,” he replied.
“Jackson, I can offer you words of encouragement from the Bible, and even more generally
from life, but I think they would fall on deaf ears right now and I’m also a little too buzzed. But
I will offer this, deal with this on your time schedule, and in your place of reality, and let
everything else wash away like the rain.” Pastor John said as he drank the last sip of whiskey and
put the flask back in his jacket pocket.
“Please allow me a moment to tell you something about myself,” he said as he repositioned
himself in the wing-backed chair.
“I was in my first year of residency at Jefferson Memorial and I thought I had life just about
where I wanted it… little did I know I would find out just how far away from it I actually was.
A man came into the ER with his young son who was very sick after undergoing chemo for
leukemia. The man was nearly out of his mind with grief and yet after we got his son stabilized
there was no relief for him, then it hit me… he had no insurance and was buried under a lifetime
of debt from his son’s illness. He no longer could focus on his child, or even why he was a
father in the first place,” Pastor John paused, to look up at Jackson and moved to the edge of the
chair.
“Now you are probably thinking much like I did, that he was some sort of self-absorbed
asshole (forgive me father) but no, he was a caring and loving man just destroyed by the world in
which we live in believing that he must cover his debts, take care of his family, give them the
Hobbs / El Machete / 34
best he can. He was so far out of focus on what was truly important he tried to kill himself later
that night so that his family could get the life insurance and start over.” Pastor John leaned back
in the chair and looked outside.
“I was still in the ER when he was brought back in, he was in a coma from the pills he had
taken but there was a striking difference in him… he had a sense of peace about him. He no
longer cared about himself or what he was supposed to do with his life, he had given in and let
go. God spared him in that moment and he would recovered. That was also my moment; my
time to see that all that I was doing was for others, not for me. It wasn’t my place in this world,
so I left medical school and entered the seminary. I felt God’s peace for that man and wanted to
help people find that peace in their everyday life.”
Pastor John quietly and seemingly finished making his point raised from the chair and
reached into his pocket and gave Jackson his card telling to call anytime if he needed anything.
Jackson stared at him in a different perspective, one more of understanding and appreciation and
less contempt for the clergy as he most often had throughout his life.
Before Pastor John left the room he turned and looked directly at Jackson in a manner more of a
coach motivating his players and with a tone of confidence he said, “we all have a time and place
to be who we really are, and whether God talks to you or whether or not you listen when he does,
you will know yours. Time and place, Jackson. Time and place.”
Hobbs / El Machete / 35
Chapter Seven “living is the hard part”
Jackson and his father arrived at Reagan International Airport two hours before his flight was
due to depart for L.A., his father’s demands to be there two hours early always grated on
Jackson’s nerves. He was, however, grateful that security measures would not allow nonpassengers to go past the initial checkpoint into the airport and he would soon and finally be
alone, well alone with 5,000 other travelers. Their small talk from the house had seemed
meaningless and Jackson was somewhat thankful for it, although, he didn’t quite understand it
from his father. Sure his father loved him and rarely dared to dive into the deep end of a
conversation that he couldn’t completely control the outcome, but this seemed different.
As the car stopped and his father put the Buick in Park, Jackson quickly grasped the door handle
in an effort to keep the momentum of his successful trip to the airport without incident going and
turned to exit the car when his father grabbed his arm…. “here it comes” Jackson thought.
“Son, I want you to know you don’t need to go back to L.A., you can stay here for a while
and heal,” he said in a rather fatherly manner.
“I know Dad, but I need to deal with this while I can.” Jackson responded quickly with a
slight effort to get out of the car.
“Jackson, take your time with this. Look, I know it was never your decision to move out
west, so stay here. You could work at the firm until you get settled in again,” Jackson’s father
spoke with a slight rise in his voice of concern.
Hobbs / El Machete / 36
“Dad really I’ll be fine, and I need to do this on my terms,” responded Jackson with a
more urgent tug away from his father’s grasp.
“Just think about it, okay?” said his father as he let go of his arm.
They both exited the car and made their way to the trunk for Jackson’s bags. Jackson could see
there was more coming from his father and quickly searched for a Skycab as an excuse to
extricate himself from the pending final words.
“Jackson, look I didn’t want to talk to you about this now, but if you stay and work at the
firm, I know several Senators that we could line up to take a stand against the illegal drugs
flowing into this country. We can make a difference with your help Jackson, their deaths don’t
have to be in vane.” He proclaimed.
And there it was, Jackson completely unaware his father would take that approach, but not
completely surprised by it either. He paused, stricken by both anger and disgust. How could his
father think that one, Jackson would ever work for his conservative lobbying firm, but more
importantly, how could his father use the death of his family as political pawns to move along an
agenda. He felt too raw from the past week’s events to lash out as he normally would have, and
merely took several deep breaths. As he collected himself visions of Jenn and Bethy streamed
through his consciousness giving him strength and oddly patience.
“Dad, look I appreciate your concern for me, but I will never allow you nor anyone else to
portray their lives as solely about their deaths and how they died. Damn it, Dad, they lived a
beautiful life and that’s how people need to remember them not on some fucking brochure to
raise money for border patrols! Fuck!” Jackson yelled as he grabbed his bags and stormed off
into the airport.
Hobbs / El Machete / 37
It would take nearly 30 minutes to get through the security checkpoint, but the standing and
shuffling seemed to allow him to vent his pain and frustrations with his father. Jackson, knew
deep inside his father was a good man, a man with great convictions, just not Jackson’s. By the
time he reached the security scanners and had to nearly undress for the TSA agent he was nearly
normal again. Maybe the pain and despair of the past week had taught him to let go more easily
now. He could certainly remember times when his father would say something that would so
infuriate him he might not speak to him for months at a time. But this time it was different,
maybe the shear scope of what his father said seemed beyond belief or the fact it came from his
heart as well. Jackson thought, after all “he did lose his daughter-in-law and his very loving
granddaughter, but sometimes he can be the biggest, most obnoxious ass.”
His plane was delayed and he found a wireless internet site in one of the airport bars. He
chuckled at the name of the bar, “it’s noon somewhere” which seemed the most apropos name
for a bar in a major airport. Although it was only 10:00 a.m. it certainly was noon somewhere
and he ordered a 22oz Corona and shot of tequila.
He sat quietly allowing the beer and shots to take their intended affect and scanned his email
for nothing, but felt the need to do it just the same. It was by a shear instinctive desire when he
opened up a “Google” search page and typed in “Mexican Drug Cartels.” To his shock over 1.5
million results turned up from newspapers, news reports, FOX News, MSNBC, CNN, BBC, NY
Times, LA Times, Mexican news papers, and even YouTube. He scrolled through the top page
of most recent and tagged articles like Wikopedia and found one that struck his interests more
than the others. “La Familia drug cartel leader killed,” an MSNBC report on the death of the La
Familia drug cartel leader after two days of shooting and clashes with Mexican police and
Hobbs / El Machete / 38
military across the entire western state of Michoacan. His heart began to pound and his hands
shook as he continued to read. His fear felt real and yet he was only reading about something
that had happened nearly a year ago. As he continued to read he learned about how they came
into power, by breaking away from the _____ cartel and announced their presence by throwing
severed heads into a nightclub. Jackson’s fear continued as he read more on the cartels and yet
he could not stop. He was drawn to follow link after link of stories of devastating terror and
violence imposed by the cartels. Each cartel had a different region of the country and each
region had a different method of trapping, controlling and inflicting tremendous violence against
the people.
His flight had been boarding for nearly 10 minutes when he heard “final boarding” and
slammed shut his laptop, through a $20 dollar bill on the table and raced for his gate. He was no
longer angry with his father; he was consumed by the need for more information on the cartels.
As he finally reached his seat he realized his mind was awash by the flood of information and
pictures and images he just witnessed, seemingly as if they had just happened. He couldn’t
believe all that was out there and yet he had known so little but more importantly he had allowed
his family to be so near to all. He would have to learn more, and would not stop until he had a
full understanding of all elements of the cartels, their impact on life both in Mexico and within
the U.S.
Over the next five hours until he landed in LAX International, Jackson seemed lost in the
barrage of impressions pounding through his inner most thoughts. Pastor John’s words of “time
and place” kept running through his head like an out of control freight train. “What the fuck was
he talking about again?” he kept thinking as he tried to remember the message behind his
Hobbs / El Machete / 39
pseudo-sermon. He struggled to gather his luggage and hailed a cab outside the airport. He had
forgotten his father had sent a car for him and walked right past the driver holding the “Billings”
sign as he left the airport.
It had taken nearly an hour after leaving the airport to get home and as he glanced over at the
meter to be shocked at the $127.73 it displayed, then it hit him, “Fuck the car service!” “Oh,
well I’ll deal with that later,” he thought. Without speaking a word the entire time from the
airport and he went into a quick panic mode realizing he probably didn’t have $20.00 on him to
pay the cab.
“Excuse me, I’ll need to stop at an ATM to get you some cash, so when you get off the
Interstate, there’s a convenience store right on the corner, please pull in,” he muttered to the
driver.
“Hey man, it’s no big deal I take credit or debit cards,” responded the driver.
Jackson thought for a moment and realized he would want more beer and for some reason he
really wanted a cigarette.
“No that’s okay, please pull in anyway,” Jackson insisted.
As the cab pulled into the OXXO station Jackson momentarily created a shopping list but
realized he couldn’t focus well enough to remember anything of what he had at the house nor
what he wanted and quickly jumped from the cab and scrambled into the store in a frenzy. He
found the ATM in the far corner of the store and briefly thought of the science of “locations of
ATMs within a convenience store,” and realized, “fuck I am losing it.” He punched in his code,
took out $400.00, stuffed the receipt in his pocket along with the money, and grabbed an 18-pack
of Heineken, a bag of chips and rushed to the counter. The attendant, a young Mexican-
Hobbs / El Machete / 40
American girl in her 20s, waited patiently for him to arrive at the counter and asked if he needed
anything else, and he realized, “oh yeah, let me have a pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter,” he
said, knowing no one could bitch to him about smoking again and it made him feel good.
It only took 10 minutes more to arrive at the house and Jackson could hardly wait to bust
open the beers and fire up a smoke… “Damn I’m 16 again,” he briefly thought. He gathered his
bags from the trunk of the cab and lumbered up to the door, his hands began to shake as he
fumbled for his keys, as this would be the first time he had been home since their death. He
quickly scanned the mailbox for mail and realized his neighbor Ruth would have picked
everything up and since she had a key she would have laid everything on the countertop, neatly
organized by the days in which she came over. As he entered the alarm chirped loudly and
startled him, before he could come to grips with being in the house alone, he had to punch in the
code. That seemingly simple mental break from reality forced him for a brief moment to come
to grips with the realism of it all and took several deep breaths as he scanned the house. He
stood quietly, motionless for several moments and could visualize Jenn and Bethy coming to
greet him from a business trip. He noticed everything, seemingly for the first time. He stayed
still in the vestibule and listened, smelled, relived their life there together.
He finally made his way into the kitchen and placed the beer in the fridge and was caught off
guard by the smell of two-week old food sitting, but made no effort to clean it out. He pulled a
beer from the box, through the remains in the fridge and shut the door, “something to do later,”
he thought regarding the smell.
He took a deep gulp of the beer and leaned against the counter, the house looked as if a maid
had just been there and wondered how long this clean look would last – he knew he was going to
Hobbs / El Machete / 41
have the house looking like shit within an hour or so. He grabbed the pack of cigarettes and
without hesitation ripped off the plastic pulled one out and lit it…. Four years had passed since
his last one and he had no regrets. It burned his lungs as he inhaled deeply, it stunk
tremendously bad and yet he didn’t care. “There must have been a reason I loved smoking for
all those years,” he thought and took another drag. He quickly became dizzy and light-headed by
the time he took his second large gulp of beer and third drag from his smoke, so he shook his
head and walked to the sink to put it out. He ran the water to extinguish it and tossed it in the
garbage under the sink to hide his evidence. “Now what?” he thought. He glanced over at his
luggage still at the foot of the stairs and he had no intentions of taking them upstairs yet, then
looked for the mail which was likely to be quite large after two weeks. He found it neatly piled
up on the dining room table, all by day it was brought into the house, along with a card sitting in
front. Ruth was a dear woman that had been their neighbor since they moved in five years ago.
She sort of ran the cul-de-sac and took care of the holiday block parties, the collection of
seasonal gifts for the mailman and garbage-men and was great at watching your house if you are
gone longer than a few days.
He read her card and was touched by the kind and sweet words. It was easy to tell she was
well educated and sophisticated, a woman of social conscience. Jackson would hug her tightly
the next time he saw her, but that was later and now the mail. He had a feeling a dread which he
neither understood nor had planned for as he fingered his way through the stacks. He chose to
go oldest to newest and found the six stacks all bundled in rubber bands with a yellow sticky
attached indicating the date Ruth had come over.
Hobbs / El Machete / 42
He fumbled through everything and laid out the four bills he had to deal with, cable/internet,
cell phones, “shit I’ll have to cancel two of them,” he thought, electricity, and water. He was
thankful that Jenn handled most of these bills online and even more thankful she had showed him
everything about where they were, and even the passwords to the accounts. It wasn’t until he
reached the final stack of mail that it hit him. Amongst the normal crap of the impending
holiday shopping season were two large envelopes, Jackson felt a pang of emotion roll over him
as he opened the first, never looking at the return address but knew it was something related to
the girls. Contained within the large manila envelope were eight death certificates.
“What the fuck, why are there eight death certificates?” he muttered aloud, confused by the
number.
There were two Mexican death certificates from the hospital in Rosarito, one for each of
them, and six from the State Department. Inside he found a hand-written note from Rebecca
expressing her condolences, and telling him that the six death certificates should cover any legal
needs he may have but if he needed more to call her. She also included another business card
which on the back she had written her personal cell number and note to call anytime. He was
grateful to her for her candor and professionalism while in Mexico. He would call or send an
email later thanking her. He paused as he slowly set the documents on the table surprised by his
lack of emotions, “is it the beer, or the exhaustion,” he thought. Thankful that he could continue
without breaking down, he grabbed the next envelope. This time he did look at the return
address, “shit it’s the insurance” and his heart began to race again. “They better not fuck with
me, not now,” he thought with an angry heart as he hated all insurance companies.
Hobbs / El Machete / 43
Within the envelope was a cover letter, saying that within the package was a bank transfer
notice showing they had wired the $250,000.00 life insurance policy into his checking account
and enclosed a check for their SUV which was made out to him and the Bank to cover the total
loss of the vehicle. He stood back from the table and realized that was it…. They were gone and
everything was closed out. He thought about Bethy’s school and realized he had called them
from DC, and they would send over a letter for him to sign removing her from the roster. He
thought about Jenn’s work and remembered her boss and several of her coworkers flew out from
L.A. to attend the funeral and even gave him a package from their HR department, along with a
bank notice showing payment for the rest of the month, her vacation days and a separate set of
documents to transfer her 401K into his account.
“It’s done? It’s all done, holy shit it’s all fucking done,” he said allowed. Seemingly
shocked by the simplicity of the process, and yet overwhelmingly grateful he had no battles to
fight over obtaining the death certificates, or dealing with the dreaded insurance company. He
set the remaining letters on the table and walked back into the kitchen and slowly took another
beer. He was confused, almost lost by the smoothness of closing out someone’s life.
“How can someone die, and in a few days, everything is closed out?” he thought.
“How can it be so simple?” he questioned to himself.
“Living is the hard part, it’s so much easier to die,” he said allowed and drank the remainder
of his beer.
Hobbs / El Machete / 44
Chapter Eight “another dimension of reality”
Notes:
KEY THINGS TO DEAL WITH, HIS LONLINESS, DESPAIR FOR LOSING HIS FAMILY,
DESIRE TO RETURN TO MEXICO WHERE THEY WERE HAPPY AND RESEARCH ON THE
CARTELS WHICH LEADS TO REVENGE.
Talk about their courtship, how it began, their discussion of children and how things have
changed over the past 10 years and how their life’s had begun to become so routine his will was
broken. He must return to Mexico with an initial plan to bring their things home and sell the
house.
He misses their home in Baja in some way because it was the only place they all seemed happy,
in their own simple way. The two girls together and him left somewhat alone with his thoughts.
Talk about his father, a strong military man who later got into politics, once running for
governor of Virginia. Talk about his brother, older wiser and more successful than he was.
Jackson finds himself obsessed with the details of his family’s death and continues his research
to find the true impact of the drug cartels’ impact on Mexico and the U.S. which leads him to
Isabella Salazar, a Mexican-American journalist hiding from the drug cartels after writing a
series of devastating articles on the brutality, victimization, and corruption of the cartels. He
finds her through his research on the Internet, her articles are the most informative and
influential. They seem to capture the essence of the “jefes” of the cartels and most particular
Juan Carlos of Tijauna.
links that provide information on the individual cartels and the types: some are just growers,
some are only traffickers (which move the drugs from the growers to the distribution cartel) and
some are end-to-end. He is able to find the cartel that was responsible for killing his family.
Jackson arrives home to find he can barely tolerate the loneliness and sadness of not having
them with him. He considers suicide for the first but not the last time in phase of weekend
drunkiness and pain. He then determines if suicide is a viable plan, why not go on a suicide trip
to kill the leader of the cartel.
Jackson found sleep extremely difficult throughout the night, visions of their life’s together
flashed through his head. Focusing on any one vision became nearly impossible as they would
meander into another like walking through a forest that one would have walked through a
thousand times and each opportunity to take a new path brought up new memories of what lay
ahead. He rarely found himself crying, but mostly despair. His life had become “their life”
Hobbs / El Machete / 45
together and he no longer knew who he was, certainly even more so without them. He had bouts
of anger and rage even, but mostly the loss of self seemed to be the prevalent emotion.
He tried to allow himself to go down a “mind trail” now and again and found pleasure in the
memories. He thought about the first years with Jenn and how they were so adventurous
together. Soon he realized it was Jenn that was adventurous; he was merely along for the ride.
Maybe it was his nature to allow her to take control of their life together. Maybe it was that
formula that made them work so well, Jenn taking the lead and Jackson being supportive riding
shotgun. He recalled many great times they had in the DC area after college and shortly after
they got married. She always had a plan for them and stayed focus on it throughout their life.
His plan, was, well to follow along with hers it seems. He took the first job out of college as an
advertising research assistant, all on the recommendation of Jenn. She knew although he
probably would become bored with it, if Jackson worked for a large firm he could find structure
and move along at least on a path of potential success.
Jackson broke from his mental meanderings to get up and make some coffee. Today was his
first true day of being alone and he already feared the unknown. It was after 10 a.m. when he
finally got down to the kitchen. He was so used to Jenn already having the coffee ready and half
drunk by the time he got up he found another reason to feel their loss.
He sat quietly sipping his coffee when he saw the cigarettes on the counter and knew they
would give him shit for smoking again, which just spurned more feelings of profound loss. He
was slowly and painfully moving away from the man he was with them into someone he didn’t
know. Someone alone, lost, without guidance or love. “If this is the beginning of my life
without them, then how much worse can it get?” he thought. He reached for the box of smokes
Hobbs / El Machete / 46
anyway and lit one, somewhat in defiance of what Jenn or Bethy would say, or maybe because
he needed to do wrong so that he could find what was right? He was bewildered by his own
behavior, and yet took another drag.
From his vantage point in the kitchen he could see all of the dining room, the backyard and
patio, and the living room. There had not been a sound in the house since he got home and he
relished the quietness of this time. He could see them in everything he looked at, but it wasn’t
the visions he wanted. He saw the furniture which he never cared for and was always concerned
about how much it cost. He saw the 42” plasma TV mounted on the wall, and although he loved
it he remembered how he felt when Jenn had to have it even though she rarely watched TV. He
looked into the dining room and saw the contemporary style oversized dining room table which
they had to have because it matched the new furniture which they couldn’t afford and it went on
and on. He was realizing something, something he feared more than anything. Maybe they were
not a family and he was just there with the two of them to fulfill a quota. “But what about
Mexico?” he thought.
“We always seemed to find our way when we are together down there. Why couldn’t we
find it here?” he said aloud. His mind wondered between the warmth of their family life down
there and the cold, seemingly fake lifestyle they had in L.A.
Jackson tried to find a rational reason for the disparity between the two lives and attributed it
to “being on vacation.” The more he thought of Mexico the more images of Bethy came to
mind. She was always the one to push another weekend down there, always pushing for an extra
day. Both Jackson and Jenn wondered why a young girl as precocious and outgoing like her
would want to spend all her time with her parents and not with her friends – but they were
Hobbs / El Machete / 47
grateful nonetheless. A smiled graced Jackson’s face as he continued to think about his baby
girl. She seemed like a dream child, smart, beautiful, inquisitive of life and empathetic all in
one. He replayed her amazing moments of childhood and pre-teen antics in his mind and
couldn’t help but smile and feel the warmth of her tender heart and youthful soul.
His moment was dashed when he was startled by the phone ringing bringing him back to
reality. He snatched the cordless phone from the base and prepared to bark at whomever it was
calling for interrupting this moment with his Bethy.
“Hello,” he said in a loud and assuming voice.
“Jackson, this is Bill, I… uh… just wanted to check on you to see if there is anything you
need,” asked his boss in that inquiring tone that said, “are you coming back to work tomorrow?”
Jackson quickly realized he was at the end of his two week bereavement leave from work, and
scrambled to think about what he was going to do. There was no way he could go back to work
tomorrow and face all those people he could barely tolerate in the best of times.
“Bill, yeah, I’m okay, but I’m going to need some additional time to deal with a few things,”
he said, knowing that he could get a two week extension without having to use his vacation time.
“I’m going to take the full four weeks of bereavement leave if I can?” he stated, putting Bill
in a position that only an unsympathetic jackass would turn down.
Jackson paused; he had nothing further to say, and waited for the confirmation so that he
could get off the phone as soon as possible. He had no inclination to spend one moment longer
than necessary talking to or even thinking about his job.
“Well, okay, yeah that will be alright. Is there anything we can do for you here?” Bill
responded having the wind quickly and surgically taken out of his sails.
Hobbs / El Machete / 48
“No Bill, I’m okay, I just need more time to deal with things down in Mexico, you know
State Department and the police, and all,” he said as he avoided rambling on with his lie.
Their conversation ended nearly as abruptly as it had begun. Jackson savored the moment of
telling his spineless, mindless, company-man boss what “HE” was going to do and it felt good, it
felt right for once. He had worked for Dunning and Dewitt for nearly 10 years since they moved
to L.A. and it was Jenn’s idea (of course) to stay with advertising after his five years back in DC.
He had no passion for the industry and spent most of his time working as a middle manager
ensuring the creative types completed their tasks that the business types had developed for the
executive types to present to customers and the Board of Directors. He didn’t quite hate it, but
truly had no passion or spark. Yet at this moment he was thankful Jenn had pushed him towards
accepting the job, the pay was good, but the benefits and bonuses were the reason he stayed.
And now one of those benefits was four weeks of bereavement which would be taken to the
fullest.
Jackson spent the rest of the morning trying to find that place again where he could feel
Bethy’s love and tenderness. Where he could see her playing and growing, it was this moment
when he realized something about his angel, she would have come up to him and kissed his
cheek and said, “You know why I love you so much, Daddy? Because you are who you are for
us.” Those words always seemed strange coming from a young girl, but it was becoming clear to
him now. The words of Pastor John, “time and place,” it had meaning, now. It wasn’t his time
to do something he loved, or feel challenged or be a success nor was it his place to be a strong
leader within his family. It was his time and place to allow them to flourish, and be the brilliant
lights they were, his place was to be who they needed him to be – and he was.
Hobbs / El Machete / 49
Chapter Nine “…”
Notes: Jackson’s extensive research becomes addictive and seems to find a cause in his life. He
receives the life insurance settlement and decides he will take some time away from work so
instead of selling the beach house in Baja, he sells the house in L.A. and has a moving company
put all their things in storage – he finds he cannot return to L.A.
Jackson learns that Isabella’s articles are the most in-depth and informative. He learns her life
is in danger based on the very detailed articles about the cartels. She has a source within the
cartels and has been forced to live her life anonymously and use a pen name in her articles.
He decides to contact Isabella to get more information as revenge against the cartels has crept
into his mind. His personality has begun to transform from the man that was beaten down by
other’s ambition to one where his sole focus is to take control of the remains of his life. He
considers suicide but decides that instead of killing himself why not take out the cartel leader
that caused the death of his family – death without cause is just dead.
He calls Isabella and learns about the Jaurez cartel, and she even provides him with videos
taken from police stakeouts (she received these from her source who paid off the police to
provide them with the surveillance information).
Jackson spends the next two days lost in his research about the cartels. He found each article
more engrossing then the last; he is amazed by the increasingly harsher tactics they take to
control people. The macabre nature of their acts is what catches Jackson off guard most. He
reads about beheadings and rolling the decapitated heads into a bar to announce that a new cartel
is taking over a region in Michoacan. He finds stories of woman who are raped and branded
with letters carved into their skin for being involved with traffickers from rival gangs. The
cartel’s influence seems to have no bounds on the officials within a city or state and even entire
regions of Mexico. They extend in every element, through mostly the police and politicians, but
also in the military. There are stories of politicians that support the cartels either by informing
them of impending police actions and even sometimes as direct members of the cartels. The
stories of the corrupt police include police chiefs, and senior officers warning the cartels, and if
Hobbs / El Machete / 50
captured, they are rescued by the cartels and work directly for them no longer hiding behind their
fake badges. The stories reminded Jackson of the ‘70s and ‘80s when it was common place to
find entire police precincts on the take in large American cities. He shakes his head in disbelief
as that was twenty years ago in America and these stories are only five years old in Mexico.
“Did they learn nothing from our failures?” he thinks.
Of all the research he did he found most prominently the writings by Isabella Salazar, a
Mexican-American living in California, who wrote several articles detailing the inner workings
of the cartels. Surprisingly she provided in-depth information, “she must have an inside source,”
Jackson thought.
Her most prominent article was published in the NY Times outlining the Mexican drug
industry from the perspective of someone who knows. It also seemed to challenge the
government officials. In a sense she was saying here is all the information you need to know,
take some action. Her article was truly an A to Z, describing the rise of the cartels from the role
of providing transport of Pablo Escobar’s Medellin Columbian cocaine safe passage and entry
into the U.S., to the creation of the Cartels in the early ‘80s starting with Felix Gallardo the
original Mexican Godfather. She explained in intricate detail how Gallardo, in fear of losing his
entire empire in a simple police action, created a network of cartels, in a sense privatizing the
drug trade in Mexico. Jackson seemingly transfixed by her words read aloud:
“Gallardo assigned regional and border control to the specific cartels, all with agreements
between them. The Tijuana trafficking went to the Villegas brothers, Juarez was controlled by
Carrillo Fuentes (“El Gallo” as he was called), Miguel Caro Quintero would run the Sonora
corridor. The control of Matamoros, Tamaulipas (later becoming the Gulf Cartel) was directed
Hobbs / El Machete / 51
by Juan García Abrego. Finally, the Pacific coast operations became the Sinaloa Cartel run by
Joaquin Guzman Loera and Ismael Zambada Garcia. These cartels worked together based on
their overall control by Gallardo, yet in 1989 when he was arrested along with several others, and
coupled with the greed associated with the immeasurable amounts of money the fragile
agreements were soon and often broken. This gave rise to the inclusion of a new cartel, Los
Zetas, made up of elite former soldiers which had previously been a “murder for hire” and
kidnapping and extortion gang, but now they would work exclusively for the enforcement and
protection of the Gulf Cartel. As with all businesses, a counter-offer was given to Los Zetas and
they shifted allegiance to the Sinaloa Cartel against the Gulf Cartel.”
Jackson seemed lost in the flood of information and reread the article again and again,
digesting, and visualizing the regions of Mexico. He pulled up the associated map of the cartel’s
regional control and memorized each region. At first they seemed like names to a country or
state, somewhat like memorizing the governors of each state, then it dawned on him, “knowing
the cartels isn’t the story, knowing the impact of these cartels is the story she is trying to tell.”
He found other articles from her that outlined the depth of corruption; she even made seemingly
outlandish claims of named police and government officials that worked directly with the cartels.
Jackson thought about this at length, and could not understand how a major news paper would
write something in a manner “confirming” the corruption of someone unless there was
irrefutable proof. She clearly had someone on the inside of the cartels that gave her this
information but it had to go beyond mere hearsay, it had to be proven, but how can you prove
something like this? He continued to read through her stories, article after article. He found two
Hobbs / El Machete / 52
major elements in her writings, the detailed “insider” information and the impact on the people.
Her words were poetic and he could see her reading them on a grand stage, like the U.N.
“The overwhelming concern for most innocent Mexican families is that they are trapped in a
near terrorist state. The cartels of Mexico are gaining and maintaining power through their terror
and corruption similar to that of the tribes of the middle east, where the people and laws are
controlled by the clerics and their extremist views. The people of Mexico are drowning in the
blood of death, torture, fear of reprisal and corruption all at the hands of the cartels and yet they
wait. They wait for the nearly impotent Mexican government to stop them and begin the process
of healing and rebuilding. Generations are being lost like the souls on a sinking ship without
adequate lifeboats as the corrupt Mexican government steams by on lavish cruise liner. How
much longer must they wait?”
Jackson is in awe at her words and feels an immediate and deep connection to her. She has
written about his loss on a grand scale. Revealing the words he could never say about the justice
he seeks. “I have lost my family and my life, how much longer must I wait?” he says out loud.
It was getting late when Jackson finally closed his laptop, he was drunk again, this time he
was near fall down drunk and realized he had sat at his computer for almost 15 hours, most of
that time spent drinking and reading. He couldn’t remember if he ate anything since breakfast
that morning. His eyes burned from the HD screen on his laptop, that and of course the whole
pack of cigarettes he had smoked. He was falling deeper into depression and couldn’t seem to
see a way out. He made several attempts to shift his mind onto something other than the girls or
their death, but had found that all he was really able to do was read more about the cartels. He
remembered talking with his father and proclaiming their lives would never be solely about their
Hobbs / El Machete / 53
death, and yet that was all he could focus on at this point. He remembered some kind words
from Jenn’s sister, who had lost her husband to cancer a few years ago, when she said, “it will
take time, even when you are completely lost, allow yourself some time and it will gradually
become easier to breath.”
The days seemed to roll together as the cycle of despair gripped him from all angles. After a
week of being alone it was evident to him, he must do something other than sit in the house all
day reading about the cartels and missing his family. He no longer even listened to the
answering machine let alone actually pick up the phone when it rang. The thought of suicide had
become a part of his daily norm, and he felt shame for allowing it to creep into his
consciousness. He never understood before how someone could allow themselves into such a
state of depression that they wouldn’t seek help and yet here he was all within a few weeks of
their death. He knew he should reach out to someone for help, but had no inclination or desire.
He never thought about the specifics of how he would do it, nor when, just that he wished he
could die… here and now.
It was Friday, two full weeks since their death. He had been alone for a week, and was
showing all the signs of a man lost. He couldn’t remember the last time he showered or shaved,
he didn’t even brush his teeth on a regular basis. It was only when the grime and grit from food
would stick to his teeth that he would brush them. He had finished rereading excerpts from
Isabella Salazar’s articles when he saw her email address. He instantly opened his email and
began to type. He did this without thought of what he might say, nor did he have any specific
questions, he just needed to know there was a real person at the end of these stories about the
animals that took everything in his life away. He wanted her to know he had read her articles,
Hobbs / El Machete / 54
and that it touched him to know someone was putting their life in grave danger to tell the rest of
the world what he had recently learned. He rambled for two pages on how her stories had
touched him, how she had captured the essence of the people impacted by the cartels and the
wake of destruction they left behind. He told of how much loss he felt with Jenn and Bethy
gone. The words seem to roll from his mind to his fingers, yet when he felt he had said enough
he reread his words and nothing made sense. His drunkenness had blurred the lines of
communication so badly, it was just the ramblings of someone, without focus, seemingly without
a life. He clicked “cancel” and closed the laptop for the day. He was done, he felt his words
would have no meaning and certainly not to someone who had apparently lived it in some form
on a far greater scale. He had merely lost his family, which could have happened anywhere or
by anyone. His loss albeit great to him was nothing compared to the loss of an entire generation
as she had written.
The next morning, as Jackson woke up realizing his hangover was much worse than expected
from the night before, he decided he would write to Isabella. He would compose an articulate
message of thanks and tell her his story. He needed someone to tell, someone outside his world,
someone that had more than a passing understanding of the impact the cartels had on real life.
He didn’t really care if she responded back, but that he had to reach out from his living
nightmare to the world.
When he had finished composing his email, he reread it twice to ensure the words conveyed
his pain, his sorrow, and his thanks. She had become someone larger than his miniscule world
could imagine. In his mind she was the truth when the rest of the world only saw the half truths.
He even felt a sense of pride within himself, not for his words, but merely because he had written
Hobbs / El Machete / 55
to her. He had reached out, hell he had done something, anything was better than nothing at this
point of his despair. When he finished he hit send and it was gone. He strangely felt like a new
beginning had emerged from within. He needed more new beginnings before he could feel life
again, but he also knew it began with one step, something more than a fleeting thought, it took an
action and he had done that. He rose from the counter to make coffee and possible wash his
nasty ass, but maybe that would wait until tomorrow.
He spent the rest of the day, doing simple things, taking the clothes out of the suitcase which
was still sitting on the edge of the bed. He had been living on one side of the bed with the other
covered in his clothes and the suitcases from the funeral. These simple tasks gave him strength
and a small amount of vitality. He knew he had so many more things he needed to get done,
including dealing with the house in Baja… but that was way down the road he was sure.
As the day carry on, he turned on the TV in the kitchen just to have some noise in the house –
assuming that would give him a sense of normalcy. He never checked the channel nor cared, he
would attempt to clean the disaster that was his kitchen. It was about an hour into the cleaning
when the reporter got to a “follow-up story” about Mexico’s drug war. Jackson immediately
stopped what he was doing and turned up the volume. The reporter told of an elderly business
man in a small town outside Acapulco. Apparently a small faction of a new cartel wanted the
man’s ranch to run their operations from and told him to leave; after the man refused several
times they gave him a final warning and told him they would return that night to take it from
him. The old man had had his ranch for over 50 years and had grown his business from a small
vegetable stand to a chain of produce stores throughout the area. He told his employees he was
going on vacation to visit his grandchildren that lived in Mexico City and would not be in to
Hobbs / El Machete / 56
work for a few days. When the cartel came to take his land that night they were in for a huge
surprise as the 72 year old man opened fire on then killing three immediately and wounding two
others. The gunfight continued for nearly an hour before the cartels finally killed him. The man
left a note carved into the door of his house, “you can take my land, but you will never take my
heart.”
Jackson’s eyes welled with tears as he stopped to listen to the story. He was amazed at the
courage of an old man. Someone living alone, probably scared beyond belief, and yet not
willing to give up something he had worked for his entire life. He thought of the man’s message
and anger grew within him. An old man was willing to stand up and say “enough is enough,”
when it seemed like an entire nation was sitting idly by as the violence and corruption choked the
life out of the country. Jackson pondered about his options at this point, he knew something was
brewing yet unsure he could actually do anything.
As evening approached and Jackson had spent the bulk of the day cleaning and tiding things
up in the house, if for no other reason than the therapeutic benefits manual labor provide he felt
good, literally good for the first time in two weeks, maybe months. He thought of the old
rancher often throughout the day. His mind played out what he would have done to surprise the
cartels if they came knocking on his door. Then he remembered he had sent an email to Isabella
and wondered if she might have responded. He quickly opened his laptop and scanned his email
for a response. He was shocked to see she had responded and felt his heart pound as he read
aloud her reply.
Hobbs / El Machete / 57
Mr. Billings, I am terribly sorry for your loss, I am most certain no words could ever lessen
your grief. I do however, thank you for your kind words, I had never imagined my writings
could help someone deal with such a tremendous tragedy, but am grateful they have brought you
some level of peace.
Sincerely, Isabella
Isabella’s response albeit polite seemed out of place, as if she had never written to someone
that had lost anyone, and yet every detail of her articles were about loss in some form or another.
Jackson had hoped for something more from her, he just wasn’t sure what. Her response stayed
in his head the remainder of the day, and most prevalent during his run. He had chosen this day
to begin his venture into getting back into shape as the cigarettes and beer, lack of a balanced
diet and certainly no exercise at all were taking a toll on him physically and emotionally.
As he took off on his walk, he popped in his ear buds from his iPod and found some
motivating music to listen to during the next 30 to 40 minutes. He would walk around Santa Fe
Park which was only a half mile from the house and the trail leading up into the canyons would
probably be around 4 miles, hopefully that wouldn’t be too much for his first day.
He kept replaying in his mind the response from Isabella and realized a couple of things, one,
she has felt loss it wasn’t she did say, but more of what she didn’t. And two, she was living her
life under an assumed name, “holy shit” he thought, how difficult would that have to be?
Hobbs / El Machete / 58
Chapter Ten “…”
Notes:
He placed the gun under his bed, initially, then he could feel Jenn’s rage at placing it under
“their bed” and so he moved it to the garage, he could hear her plane as day, “get that fucking
gun out of this house!” He searched for nearly an hour as to where to hide it in the his Volvo
wagon. He found the carpet which went up the backs of the back seat could be removed fairly
easily since it was only glued into place, he slid the gun there, added a long beach towel rolled
up to place on top which made the transition of angles blend easier. He grabbed the glue gun
and within five minutes had the gun in the back behind his back seats and even he couldn’t notice
anything strange, certainly no Mexican border patrol would notice.
Jackson had convinced himself that he would take action to gain, regain or find some
semblance of life. He paced the kitchen determined to make today the day it would begin. He
paced and thought, attempting to rationalize the only element he had left to deal with – revenge.
Today would be the day he would put into action his rebirth. And he paced. His legs wobbled
from the exertion of his first day of running. Although Jackson only ran three miles he felt
tremendous and yet hurt virtually everywhere below the waist. His emotions seemed muted,
possibly by the exertion of the run, or the acceptance of his future – neither mattered since his
emotional state had little merit to the past it was the future that needed his focus. If the rest of
his life was to be spent as an emotionless drone going through life without a heart, without
passion, no desire, nothing, well then he would do the one thing that might change all that… kill
the fucker that took his family.
“All the great success of a man begins with a plan,” he remembered reading somewhere and
so he would plan. The essential elements of the plan:
-
He knew who the cartel was
-
He knew the name of the leader
-
He knew where he lived and even three of the five houses he had
Hobbs / El Machete / 59
-
He knew how he was going to kill him
-
He knew how he would get the gun
-
He had a general idea of how to get it across the border
The elements still missing were what scared him.
-
Would he have the courage to buy the gun
-
Would he have the courage take it across the border
-
Would he have the patience to sit and wait for the right opportunity to kill him
-
He didn’t know if he could find the “perfect shooters location”
-
He needed a get away plan
-
He needed an apartment or house near the target
Then there were all the things he didn’t know, the things he didn’t know he didn’t know and
they scared him the most. But one thing was certain, he would take this one step at a time,
neither moving forward nor moving backward without a focused conscious plan in place. He
would think through each unknown element with zeal and patience. He would not jump to any
conclusions or make any assumptions that couldn’t be substantiated. He would run risk
assessments start to finish. His plan would be clean.
By the time Jackson had convinced himself he was ready to begin his new life, he had one last
looming concern. “What will Jenn and Bethy think of me?” he said out loud.
“Will they still love me? Will they understand I need to do this? Will they still need me, do
they need me to do this… for them? He continued to talk to them and could feel their presence
with him. He was sure of that; he knew they could hear him. But there was no answer, only his
words and thoughts filled the room and yet he could feel them there with him. He sank down
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against the cabinets and sat on the floor. He closed his eyes and held his head. He could feel
them there with him on the floor as he planned the execution of the leader of the drug cartel that
killed them.
He languished on the floor for what seemed like an hour, but was more likely only 20
minutes. Jackson was done waiting for his life to begin, if he needed to kill the son of a bitch
that took his family, then he would put things into action today. He thought back to his planning
criteria… assess all risks, don’t over react, stay focused.
He gathered his clothes and toiletries and was quickly out of the house headed to Arizona to
purchase the rifle that would give him back his life. He would not return to L.A. until he was
done. Phase one of his plan was simple, purchase the gun, drive back into California and down
to Baja. Practice with the gun in the desert east of Ensenada, about an hour southeast of the Baja
beach house. When he was ready, he would rent a car in Tijuana and drive to Juarez, locate the
town where “El Gallo” lived in and begin Phase two, monitoring, tracking and preparing for the
kill.
He drove along I-8 for hours, a good portion of which he could see the Mexican desert. He
longed to get back to Baja, the last place he felt peace and love. “Just one more thing to do, then
I’ll be back sitting on the patio, sucking down a cold Pacifico,” he thought. He reached the
California-Arizona border quicker than expected and felt relieved that things seemed to be well
on track. He crossed into Yuma, and turned south for about 5 miles to the outskirts of the city.
And there it was just off of highway 95, in lush green farmland, amidst a budding “snow bird”
village, was the “Open Air Desert Market Shopping Center.” This open air market was built
under a giant circus tent, holding over 500 vendors, mostly a farmer’s market and tool supplier,
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but also western clothes and some used appliances. Jackson set out, isle after isle looking for the
gun shop. He wondered how oppressive the heat must be in the summertime, but obviously
business was good as all shops and stations were taken. It took nearly 20 minutes to reach the
southeastern edge of the market, but in the back corner sat the “American Gunnery” shop right
next to a liquor booth, and he chuckled. He thought there should be a sign between the two of
them, “if you can’t fix one problem, you can fix the other,” but it was likely no one would have
understood. There was however, a sign posted on the divider between the two stores that gave
Jackson a chill, “No discount for ammo: trespassers will only be shot once, but survivors will be
shot twice.” These people are seriously deranged, he thought.
He entered the store and was amazed at the number of guns available in this 20’ by 20’
space. He was gestured in by an elderly man in his mid 60s, with a full beard, pot belly and wide
suspenders holding up his worn jeans. The best part of this character was his t-shirt, “if God
didn’t want me to own a gun he wouldn’t have given me a scope for Christmas.” Jackson had a
surreal feeling, as if the clichés were part of the marketing. They talked for a few minutes, and
although Jackson already had researched what he was looking for he wanted to see if the owner,
Jared, had anything different that might interest him.
“What are you looking for in the weapon,” asked Jared, in a voice that surprisingly lacked a
southern drawl.
“Something that would take down a large animal from 100 yards,” Jackson said short and
curtly, giving out only the information necessary, as if to say, “I’m going to kill someone, I know
it, you know it, so just point me in the right direction.”
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“I have several that can bring down, lets say a bear,” he said offering “air quotes” for
emphasis. Is there a chance the bear might have friends that could, I don’t know, throw bear shit
at you?” he responded in his own brand of humor.
“Semi-automatic, 10 to 15 round cartridge, with scope,” Jackson replied in a voice that
seemed more, “I read it on the Internet…” than “I’m actually going bear hunting.”
Jared recommended three rifles, all with scopes, all long range, and all with tremendous stopping
power. His personal recommendation was the AR 15, with 7.62mm barrel, 10 round cartridge,
scope and flash suppressor for night firing.
“It’s perfect for a novice shooter and will bring down anything as large as a bear from up to
about 500 yards,” Jared declared.
Jackson feeling far more comfortable with Jared and the seemingly “lost in the old west”
atmosphere responded, “fine, can you show me how it works?”
Jared spent the next 10 minutes showing Jackson the weapon. He explained in detail how the
scope had already been calibrated and that could be easily removed without affecting the
accuracy. Then he showed Jackson the “owner’s manual” and explained the various areas of
care for the rifle, it was when he told him about the three shooting modes that Jackson become
most interested.
“First there is the ‘safety,’ the weapon does not fire in this mode, then there is the ‘semiautomatic’ mode, allowing the shooter to fire a single round after each pull of the trigger, and
finally, there is the ‘burst’ which is the same as semi-automatic only that it fires three rounds at a
time,” Jared explained.
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Jackson liked this additional option and declared, “I’ll take it, but I’ll need a case as well,
something hard for traveling.” He was impressed by Jared’s knowledge and had a whole
different view of him than from the persona he portrayed. He was obviously well educated in
guns, knew the laws of both California and Arizona and had a passion for his trade – something
to be respected he thought.
There was little discussion on the price, Jackson paid the $1,700.00, which also included 50
rounds of ammunition and two 15 round magazines. Jared placed the weapon in the case and
closed it, accepted Jackson’s Visa, placed the magazines and ammunition in a brown bag with
“American Gunnery” emblazed on the sides and looked up at Jackson, with one final comment,
“good luck bear hunting Mr. Billings.”
Jackson found Jared’s simple understated sense of humor very approachable, he left the Open
Air Market and strode out toward his car with a flair of confidence in him, it was obvious he had
purchased a rifle by the shear size of the case and the “American Gunnery” bag. He felt manly at
this point, maybe for the first time in his life. He chuckled as he walked past a group of men in
their 50s as they tipped their cowboy hats to him as if to say, “howdy partner, goin huntin?”
The drive back to San Diego seemed to take forever, the two and half hours it took to get to
Arizona was now nearly three and he was still 45 minutes from San Ysidro and the border.
Traffic was brutal as he neared the city, but he had a bad ass semi-automatic rifle in the back seat
and he enjoyed the calming affect it provided. He could barely keep the smile off his face the
more he thought about the weapon. He began to think about crossing the border. He had never
been stopped in nearly a year of traveling down there, but did once see an American getting their
vehicle searched. If he was to go to jail, he would much prefer it be in the U.S. than a Mexican
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jail. He decided to stop at a rest stop along I-8, just outside of San Diego and reposition the rifle
under his suitcases and groceries so that the only way the border guard could find the rifle is to
pull everything out of the car, something he knew would never happen.
It was another hour before he reached the Mexican border and he breezed right through, the
random “green” or “red” light to indicate whether a vehicle was to be searched, indicated green,
and Jackson thought, “have I ever seen it red?” and what happens if it does? He quickly made
his way on the toll road head south to Rosarito. “Another 45 minutes and I’m home.” “Home”
he thought, about the girls and felt the pain of disappointment from them. “Girls, I’m sorry, but I
need to do this,” he said as a tear rolled down his cheek.
His excitement grew as he got closer to the beach house. And then, there it was, completely
unexpected the “checkpoint.” His heart pounded causing his hands to shake violently. He had to
get control of himself, his shaking could give him away and the Mexican Marines might search
the car more thoroughly and find the rifle. “Oh my God,” he said aloud, “what if I get caught
with an assault rifle at the exact same spot where my wife and daughter were killed.” He had
three cars to prepare himself, his mind scrambled for some way to make his hands stop shaking,
“keep them gripped to the steering wheel,” he decided.
He approached the first Marine, who with a quick glance motioned him along. He sighed
quietly. Two more cars ahead was the main checkpoint. On one side there was a delivery truck
with no markings which quickly drew the attention of the Marines. As he approached the
Marine, his hand extended and with a cold stair he said, “Basta.”
Jackson’s mind began to ramble between what he would do if asked to pull off to the side,
and then without hesitation the Marine motioned for another Marine to assist with the inspection
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of the delivery truck and he was only stopping Jackson to allow him to crossover in front of his
vehicle. Jackson’s heart skipped a beat and he felt nauseous as he was gestured through the
checkpoint.
“Holy fuck me in my shitter, that was close,” Jackson said as he drove on. He reached the
house within two minutes and was shaking violently from the adrenaline release. He raced from
the car into the house and grabbed a beer from the fridge; his first gulp was his only as he
downed the entire beer. Sweat pouring from his face and armpits gathered onto his t-shirt.
“Fuck, this may not be my sport,” he mumbled wiping the sweat away and reached for
another beer.
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Chapter Ten “…”
Jackson after recovering from the heart pounding checkpoint ordeal realizes he must prepare
better, leave nothing to chance. If it is his life that he wants to restore he must protect it better.
He spends a great deal of time researching the houses of “El Gallo” and uses Isabella’s police
videos scanning them like a CSI might to find landmarks. He notices several key points of
interest, buildings, parks and churches all should provide enough details to use “Google Earth” to
find these places in Juarez.
He found that by opening several “Google Earth” pages at a time he can find the towns and
even streets where “El Gallo” is staying, it only takes a few hours before he can pinpoint all three
homes. He prints out pages of the maps and pictures and develops folders he will carry with him
when he gets there. He writes out detailed driving directions with landmarks as several of the
streets do not have street signs and he wants to avoid any confusion or frustrations when he gets
there. He looks for vantage points and find several atop homes and businesses that could
possibly provide for a clean shot with a quick get away. He would then retrace using “Google
Earth” street view to determine where to place a car, and where to access the rooftops. He feels
good about his plan, and yet decidedly not convinced. It will take several days of walking
through the details in Juarez before has any certainty and assurances.
Later in the afternoon, Jackson takes the gun out for his first “live fire.” His two years in the
Army Reserves taught him how to be comfortable around a weapon, but he is still surprised by
the ease in which the AR-15 feels in his hands. He has no apprehension about firing the weapon
as he thought he might. He thought back to how badly Jenn hated guns, he never had that
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feeling. Jackson was always on the fence with the second amendment and understood both sides
quite well. His feelings aside at this point, he was in a totally different world from that now, he
needed this weapon now for his life, it was now his job.
He slammed the fully loaded magazine into the stock, chambered the first round, aligned the
scope to his target, and “click.”
“Shit the fucking safety,” he said as he exhaled deeply.
He placed the weapon in “semi-automatic” mode and took aim again. The weapon gave an
instant jolt of response when he pulled the trigger, his eyes closed by instinct as the bullet ripped
through the tree he was aiming at. His aim was significantly off, but he felt comfortable with the
weapon nonetheless. He ripped off three more rounds in an effort to give him ease with it, more
than to find his accuracy. His accuracy he knew would come as soon as he could keep his eye
open when shooting.
He practiced for several days and was falling into a routine which he found was more
blessing than curse – as the last routine of his life was a stalling marriage. He would wake early,
run, practice shooting in the afternoon and drink beer and research the cartels or Juarez City on
the Internet in the evening. His nights were spent on the rooftop patio reliving his life with the
girls. He would explain to them again and again, why he has to do this so that he can be free.
Free to find himself so that he can move on with his life, but he always assured them he would
never be without them.
After a week of practice and preparation he felt he was ready and began his next Phase. He
reserved an SUV from a rental agency in Tijuana for the following Monday, he would have two
days to finalize anything else he needed to do. He developed a detail plan on his laptop, much
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like a project plan he would have used at work. He tied the tasks together based on time to start,
time to finish and dependencies on other actions. He was impressed by his thoroughness
impressed, and wondered if maybe he had put this much effort into the advertising business he
might have moved up quicker with the firm – but quickly dismissed that thought. He would
review the plan often throughout the day, writing notes as he would find additional information
or completed a task. He felt ready, well ready to travel to Juarez anyway.
Monday came sooner than expected and yet he was still focused and his will unwavering.
Before he would leave for Juarez he needed to ensure he had enough cash on hand. He drove to
San Diego to the first Bank of America, or “Bank of Satan” as he referred to them, and withdrew
$5,000 in cash. This would give him ample cash on hand to deal with any unexpected issues.
He returned to the beach house in Baja and caught the bus back up to Tijuana before noon.
The car was ready for him, and he had to return back to the beach house to load it up. He felt
tired from all his travels and yet had truly gone nowhere. His plan to be on the road by 3 P.M
was still reachable if he hurried loading the car. His only concern was hiding the rifle. He found
the Chevy Blazer had a Velcro carpet piece over the back of the back seats, however, when the
seats where in the upright position he could easily place the rifle there and it was concealed.
“Smoother than expected he thought,” and shut the hatch of the vehicle.
He reached Mexicali shortly after dusk, he was on schedule. His plan was simple at this
point, stop only in border towns where it was common to see Americans and there was greater
security. Pay using only cash, and never pull out of your pockets more than $50.00 at a time.
Hide wallets, cell phone, laptop and cash in the vehicle. Keep a close eye on everyone and never
leave the vehicle out of sight. He found a Best Western one block from the border, and checked
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into a first floor room facing the street. He grabbed his overnight bag, money, laptop and cooler.
He ordered a pizza and a six pack of Indio beer which were soon delivered by two different
delivery services. He was asleep by 11 p.m.
He was on the road by 5 A.M., well on schedule. He felt no nervousness even though it was
his first night in Mexico in a different city and alone. He was focused on his task and would not
allow simple things to get in his path. There was about 12 – 14 hours of driving to be done
today, most of which would be in the desert without seeing a car for miles and hours. He had
laid out Isabella’s notes on the cartels, along with notes he had printed on his research.
Additionally, he had placed his detailed map with his reservations at the Holiday Inn in Juarez
City. He was prepared, yet he knew things could go wrong. As he drove he thought of the
“what if’s….” First there was the most likely, the car breaks down. A simple solution, the rental
agency had a “triple A” type service, he had water and cell service on most of the drive. The
next was what if the police pull him over? He determined unless they were going to kidnap him,
he would simply pay them a hundred dollars or so and be on his way again. He separated three
stacks of his cash, $100.00 in twenties in the glove box in an envelope, $250.00 in fifties in the
console on his money clip, $225.00 in his wallet in mixed denominations, the rest stashed under
the passenger side seat carpet. He was content with paying a nominal amount to keep moving if
it came to it. He would not stop for anyone except the police as he had read of several
kidnappings and robberies on the highway using young girls as staged decoys.
Jackson spent the remainder of the uneventful drive talking with the girls. He explained over
and over again, how he had to do this. It wasn’t for their revenge but moreover to free him – he
had no choice. He felt they understood and were justifiably worried for him. He knew they were
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as scared as he was and patiently told them of his plan. He carefully and methodically walked
through each element and as they infused questions or concerns he addressed them on the spot.
By the time he reached Juarez City, he felt they were with him and supported him in this venture.
Jackson drove directly to the hotel. He was nearly exhausted mentally from the drive and from
the explanation to the girls. Within minutes he was unpacked with the rifle safely inside, along
with all his personal belongings. He had initially worried about how he would get it into the
room, but used a luggage cart and by placing it on the bottom and surrounded it by other luggage
it was concealed. He turned away the bell hop and unloaded everything himself. He feared this
might draw attention, but realized that he probably thought this arrogant American didn’t trust
the Mexican bell hop more than he had something to hide. Everything was going as planned; he
was pleased but knew the most trying moments would come tomorrow.
He awoke at his usual 6 A.M., but resisted the temptation to get up because he needed to
change his personal time zone to that of “El Gallo’s” who lived during the night and early
morning. They were on nearly opposite times, so Jackson went back to sleep until 9 A.M. He
would go for a long run, to calm his nerves and get a clear understanding of the neighborhood he
was in, just in case he needed to retreat on foot.
At 9:30 A.M. Jackson was up and out the door on his run. He ran at a smooth pace, mentally
detailing the access points to the hotel, how the main road came in and the nearest cross streets.
All seemed normal, yet he noticed the graffiti on the homes was not that of unmanaged
teenagers, but from gangs. This meant he would have to be careful while running and anytime
he was out of the car he would have to be extremely vigilant. He felt prepared, safe even, and
kept running. He knew if he crossed the street he would be within two blocks of “El Gallo’s”
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Thursday night house. He fought off the temptation to take a peak, and soon realized it was the
correct move. On the opposite corner was a young boy about 10 playing with a soccer ball,
alone, with a cell phone attached to his pants, he was a “Hawk,” someone that calls in any
suspicious activity to the drug dealers. Jackson stayed straight on his path and kept within two
blocks of the house as a precaution. At the end of the street Jackson glanced down the avenue to
see three maybe four more “Hawks” all with cell phones. “This may be more difficult than
expected,” he thought. He could see the house and just beyond it was a small butcher shop
giving Jackson the idea that it would likely be closed around 8 or 9 P.M. and could be an
excellent vantage point to the target. He would check it out later tonight.
Jackson finished his run, and was surprised his had completed 6 miles while still pulling in
significant streams of information on the target. He sat down and began writing notes to
coincide with his action plan. His first concern was the “Hawks,” how to deal with them, when
where they there, what time was shift change – if there was one. He opened his laptop to the
“Google Earth” maps he had saved of “El Gallo’s” house and attempted to guess where the
“Hawks” would be positioned to best protect the house. He could see a four block area that
provided 360 degree protection for the house, and Jackson must assume the “Hawks” are at least
on these corners. He decides he’ll drive by the house tonight to confirm his assumptions and
gather more information. He spends the rest of the day reviewing his notes, the police videos,
Isabella’s articles on “El Gallo,” and documenting his new information and questions.
Jackson’s focus is keen, more than sharp, he methodically reviews and documents all he
knows, and all he needs to learn onto his plan. He is not surprised the list of “assumptions
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requiring confirmation” is long, nor is he surprised his risk assessment plan is only halfway
complete. “One task at a time, stay focused and on track,” he tells himself.
At 6 P.M. he decides it is time for his first “site visit” and he will use the cover of going out
to eat as his reason for leaving the hotel. He has all his maps and “assumptions requiring
confirmation” in a folder neatly tucked between the driver’s side seat and the console. Because
the house is only two blocks from a main thoroughfare he can make several short drives near the
house and get back onto the main road without drawing attention to himself. Within 20 minutes
he has confirmed the locations of the “Hawks,” but annotates, “confirm they are always in these
locations.” He has also confirmed the operating hours of the butcher shop 8 A.M. to 8 P.M. and
that there is an easy access point in the back if he can scale a small chain link fence that backs up
to a park. He drives around the park, and is surprised by the amount of trees it has, and also its
decrepit state. He tries to recognize the graffiti style to determine if there is a predominant
group, such that could mean a single gang hangs out there, or is it just kids with a can of spray
paint without parental control. He makes the assumption, it is a mixture, but needs to confirm it
later. He fights off temptation to leave the SUV and walk the back of the butcher shop to see if a
clean access point is there, but realizes waiting till 10 or 11 P.M. tonight is better.
After driving around for an hour, he feels he has gathered enough information without
alerting the “Hawks” to his infiltration. He returns to the hotel to document his findings and take
a short nap in preparation for his next recon at 10 P.M. He realizes and quickly is pleased with
himself that he did not think about the girls while he was out.
“Girls, I’m sorry, but I can never let you out there with me,” he says aloud. “It’s just too
dangerous for us, and I can’t have my mind focused on anything but this right now.” Jackson
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continues his conversation with for nearly 30 minutes, explaining all he has found out, answering
all their questions and reassuring them he can do this. He realizes their nervousness and fear has
connected them to him in a way far deeper than anything before and he feels even closer to them.
Jackson wakes shortly after 10 P.M. and jumps into the SUV to begin his night time recon, but
soon realizes he doesn’t need to rush and potentially make any mistakes. He has two major
focuses for tonight: check out the butcher shop and confirm the “Hawks.”
He reaches the park and drives around it twice to see if there are any additional “Hawks” he
has not accounted for and finds his path to the back of the butcher shop unopposed. He decides
to park the SUV at the park where there are several other cars parked yet there is no one at the
park. Likely they are there from the houses across the street and his would seem as normal as
they appear. Quickly he makes his way to the back of the Butcher shop and finds the chain link
is old and would likely make significant noise if he tried to jump over the top. He can see
several of the clamps on the side of the fence are broken and rusted and have been replaced by
wire. If he can snip the wire and replace it with zip ties he can quickly get it, replace the zip tie
and no one would notice. He makes a mental note to go to Home Depot in the morning. He can
see into the back of building there are about 10 cases of coke which could provide him a lift to
jump onto the 5’ wall then belly flop onto the roof. He feels confident he would be able to do
this even with a backpack of supplies and the AR 15. He continues to look for ways in which he
might be seen and can’t seem to find any. His excitement swells to near uncontrollable levels as
he makes his way back to the rental.
He slips out of the neighborhood as quietly as he came in. Along the road to the hotel is a
PEMEX gas station, “ah smokes and beer,” he thinks and turns in off the main road. He notices
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as he is walking back from the beer coolers to the front counter there are some tools, including
wire snips and garbage bags with zip ties included, so he grabs them and heads to the counter.
He is so excited by this find, he doesn’t want to wait until tomorrow to put the plan in place. He
mentally walks through the potential risks and feels this is likely safer to return tonight then
tomorrow because he knows there is no one out there right now.
He pulls the SUV to the same spot he used earlier. He spends a few minutes preparing the
himself, he must first break open the snips and retrieve the zip ties from the bottom of the
garbage bags box. He feels confident his plan will work and he can hopefully test it out and be
on the roof of the butcher shop within minutes. He reaches the fence pausing to ensure
everything is still quite and he cannot be seen. He makes two quick snips on the makeshift wire
holders and he slips into the back of the shop. He decides not to use the tie zips now, but will
when he has the rifle with him. For now it is a quick attempt to get on the roof and determine if
there is a shot. He slowly and quietly attempts to pull the crates of coke next to the stucco wall,
but the grinding sound is too loud. He stops to look down and examine his options. He sees that
several cokes are not completely empty and pours out the remnants on the ground allowing him
to move the crates quietly and with ease. He builds two stacks, one of two crates giving him
about a 30” lift, and the second with four crates providing clear access to the top of the wall.
From there he can reach the rooftop for balance. He turned around to face the rooftop and with
one quick effort leapt onto the roof landing cleanly on his stomach. Surprised by the impact and
loosing his breath for a moment.
Jackson lay motionless for several seconds as he caught his breath. His listened for any
response he might have caused by the noise of his landing. He allows himself to lift his head to
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get a better view of his surroundings. The light from the street lamp, although mostly blocked
private adequate ambient light to see easily that he has maybe 10’ to the right of him leading to
the front of the butcher shop, about 4’ straight ahead to the 50KW transformer mounted on the
roof, and another 10’ to the rear of the roof. Jackson is somewhat surprised there is nothing
stored up on the roof as is the case in most Mexican stores, but is thankful nonetheless.
After a few short moments, he pulls himself the rest of the way onto the roof and crawls to
the front of the shop. Although there is some light he is weary of things that may cut his hands
or knees as he crawls. Deep inside he has this feeling of childlike giddiness, as if he was playing
out a war game, and yet this is very real. As he nears the front edge of the 2’ wall, he pauses to
assess his position. His goal now is to determine if others might be able to see him. There are
four small trees, yet the canopy cover up most of the top of the wall, so it would be very difficult
for someone on the street to be able to see him, unless he made a noise as they happen to pass by,
he determines. There are only two houses that are two stories that are nearby, one has no
windows facing his position, the other has a bed sheet for a curtain, meaning it is not likely to
ever be opened.
Jackson slowly and as quietly as possible crawls to the façade edge, placing his head next to
the wall. This 2’ wall should provide the cover for him, but he will be completely exposed when
preparing for his shot. His nervousness has increased greatly as he pulls his body up against the
wall. “First things first, confirm the view to “El Gallo’s” bedroom,” he thinks to himself. He
continues his slow and steady movements rolling from his butt and back to the wall, to his knees
and slowly lifts his head. From his position he can see “El Gallo’s” house and bedroom, yet the
leaves of the tree block it somewhat. He will have to makes some determinations, “is it better to
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sit here partially hidden or move to the corner of the building where there are no obstructions yet
the potential to be spotted is greater?” He adds that to his mental list of risk assessments.
Jackson takes his time looking and inspecting his position, he mentally devours the view to
“El Gallo’s” bedroom. He can clearly see over the 10’ wall surrounding his corner house. The
two palm trees that frame the window should not be a problem if the wind is blowing slightly.
He adjust his position to a shooter’s one knee stance and places his arms out in the position of
holding the AR 15 to confirm his kill shot view. The top of the trees should not be a problem if
there is no wind. He has a clear line of sight to the window. From here he takes another look
around to see who might be able to see him from the street, using the concept of “if I can see
them, they can see me.” He feels confident that unless someone is directly in front of the butcher
shop, he should be concealed from their view. He couches down, placing his back up against the
wall again – this will be his resting position.
From this position, Jackson will be able to sit and wait; he is not concerned about how long
he will be up here waiting, as he knows it will be several hours. He can bring water and an
energy bar to keep him comfortable. If he needs to piss he can use the water bottle. His mind is
slowing down from the adrenaline rush of getting onto the roof and peering over the top. Now
he must focus on the minute details. Can he find a comfortable place to sit for five or six hours?
But more importantly, can he handle the boredom for that long? He is convinced he will have
enough room to stretch out and lie on his back relieving the pain on his butt and if he continues
to make small adjustments in his position he should be able to withstand the uncomfortable
concrete; as for the boredom, he’ll just have to ‘man-up.’
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He spends the next 20 minutes reviewing all the “assumptions” he can remember from his
list, and wished he had it up here with him. He visualizes the list and scrolls through it as if it
was on his laptop and right in front of him. His mind is sharp and focused, when the girls enter.
“Please girls, not now,” he implores in his mind. This time they listened, maybe for the first
time, maybe because they understand the seriousness of the situation, maybe it is their turn to
support him. He shuts his eyes trying to refocus and find his “assumptions” list again. “Ah, the
location of the ‘Hawks,’” he remembers.
Jackson crawls back to his knees and peers over the wall again, now he must try to look
down the street toward the target house. Keeping in mind if he can see them, they can see him.
Just across the street on his side of the street he finds one about a block and a half away. He
determines as long as he stays down he shouldn’t be spotted by this one. Now to the right, about
three blocks away, however, this one may be more difficult to conceal from as the angle view is
further away and opens up more. He adds this to the “risks” list and will have to address the
potential problem later. He slides back into his “waiting position.” He can’t think of any other
“assumptions” or “risks” he needs to confirm from his shooting nest, and makes his way back to
the side of the rooftop. As he nears the edge of the house he realizes he has no easy way off this
roof.
“Oh fuck,” he whispers in near silence. He had jumped and belly flopped onto the roof, but
made not mental thought of how to get off. From his knees he could lean over the edge and see
that the wall was about 5’ down and at least 30” out. There was no way he would feel
comfortable jumping, certainly not without making some noise. He scanned his options, for both
his immediate concern and later after his kill shot is made. He recalls when he was on the wall
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preparing to jump onto the roof and remembers his position, he was standing on the wall, his
hands were able to grab the roof and with a jump and slight pull with his hands he landed safely,
but how does he reverse that? He concedes this is another item to add to the “risk” plan. He
searches around for anything that might aid him, and soon discovers he will have to take the risk
of making noise. He rolls over onto his stomach, gradually easing his legs off the edge of the
roof. He pauses several times to look for the wall, as he reaches the point where his belt assists
in holding his body on the roof he can clearly see his feet are about 2’ from the top of the wall.
If he keeps his body erect, one quick push with his hands should force his feet directly on top of
the wall, but if he misses he will fall straight down on top of the cases of coke. He momentarily
considers adjusting his position to a different location away from the cokes, but realizes his body
is slipping off the roof, it is now. He must make his move now or fear losing this excellent
location. He takes a deep breath, pulls his legs under the rooftop and as he swings them outward
toward the wall he pushes with his hands and lands firmly on the wall top. His hands continue to
hold the rooftop edge as he gathers himself.
“You’re a bad mother fucker,” he thinks to himself as he smiles and nods his head in
approval. He quietly steps on the coke cases and they rattle lightly but not enough to concern
him. He slides the cases back into their original position and heads to the chain link fence. Once
through the fence he pulls out his zip tie and fastens two quickly placing the fence back into its
normal state and steps onto the sidewalk heading back to the park.
Jackson is well pleased with himself, not just for having the balls to climb up there, but more
importantly for taking the time to review his tactic, review his plan, do some true assessments
and confirmations. He also realizes, he is proud that he didn’t panic while trying to get off the
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roof. He made a logical decision and committed himself. As he reached the park he notices four
young boys sitting on a bench, likely smoking weed, Jackson thought. He was immediately
concerned they may have seen him but more importantly, he was unaware they were there which
could cause a problem later. They do not appear to be “Hawks,” because they are not paying
attention to their surroundings. “Just teenage boys hanging out on the streets at 11 P.M. on a
Tuesday night, what could be the harm in that?” Jackson mused.
As Jackson approached them, he could see they noticed him and as one of them started
towards him he had a slight hesitation, not of fear, but to develop an excuse for why he was in
this part of the town and at this park.
“Hey Gringo, what’s up man?” said the young boy of 13 or 14. He was small, but beamed of
personality and confidence.
“Nothing man,” Jackson responded in an avoiding manner.
“You looking for something? My name is Pepe, I can get you whatever you need,” he said
with great emphasis on “whatever” and “need.”
Jackson’s concern grew as it was apparent Pepe was not going to leave him alone as he
walked along side towards the SUV.
“Really man, I can get you what every you need,” Pepe said in a whisper.
“No, I’m good, just out for a walk,” Jackson responded becoming somewhat perturbed.
“You need some smoke? Maybe some blow, or H-train? Man I can get it all for you. Just
give me a little money.” Pepe paused, moving in front of Jackson and looking directly at him.
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“You want a girl? I know some girls. You want an old gordo with some big chichis?” Pepe
continued using his hands to form the outline of huge breasts. Jackson continued to walk, trying
to ignore the young boy’s persistence.
“You want a young girl, Julio’s sister is hot. She’s only 15 and will let you fuck her in the
ass for twenty bucks. Just let me know what you need, I’m your man,” Pepe proclaimed.
Jackson completely shocked by the words and a little stunned by the young boys lack of any
social conscious shook his head in disbelief and continued to the SUV. As reached the vehicle
he felt he couldn’t open it quickly enough when one final barrage came from Pepe.
“Dude we are here every night, so if you need anything, just let me know, okay?”
“Sure little man, I’ll let you know if I ever feel the need to fuck a 15 year old in the ass for
twenty bucks. Holy shit what is wrong with this fucking country?” Jackson thought to himself
and climbed into the SUV.
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Chapter Eleven “…”
Notes:
He develops a simple of wait and shoot. He spends nearly a week on the rooftop of his adjoining
neighbors house tracking the movements and finds that at between 1 and 2 a.m. each night he
comes home, has sex with a young girl, likely a hooker, stripper or some type of narco-groupie.
He finds that he likes to fuck his girls from behind up against the window of his bedroom. An act
of arrogance and power, but giving him a perfect shot from the rooftop.
Jackson has spent the last two days, rehearsing his attack, from the intelligence he received from
Isabella, he feels confident, “El Gallo” will be at the El Chaparral Western Bar on Thursday
night, and if according to all past references he will return around 3 A.M. to his house on with a
stripper or some other narco-whore and Jackson will have his clear shot into the second story
bedroom window. His plan has been played out in his mind nearly a hundred times over the last
few days and there could be very little room for any mistakes, mistakes that either he has made
in assessments or mistakes which crop up at the last minute. He is neither proud of his planning
or his intentions, he is only driven to kill him.
He was shocked to learn that after 6 P.M. the young boys were replaced by Police Officers or
older boys in their late teens. He confirmed this when he actually saw them hand over their
Nextel cell phones. First amazed at the openness in which they operated and then not surprised
either. This could make things more difficult, but only his arrival and departure since the
butcher shop provided excellent cover from the street and there were no homes nearby that were
two levels, giving Jackson a near perfect attack point.
He misses on his first shot and draws significant attention to his position, he quickly takes a
second and third shot, however, this time the target is moving. He finally hits his target along
with both guards that are waiting outside by his SUV as the jefe is trying to escape the house.
Jackson is overcome by the emotions of being near-death in a shootout with cartel warlords and
barely makes it back to his house. He shakes and vomits for hours then proceeds to get drunk
and cry the rest of the night.
Jackson arrives back at the hotel in a state of disbelief. His mind is racing, he’s sweating
profusely and yet his heart rate seems normal. He pulls into the parking stall, kills the engine
and pauses in an effort to gain control. He breathes deeply several times and focuses his mind
only on the bogenvilias that are draped over the fence in front of him. He can go through all that
has transpired later when he is alone in the room, but first he must compose himself before
entering the hotel. He can’t risk being noticed and in this state he surely would be, at a minimum
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by the security guard at the front door. So he waits, and focuses on the blossoms, the vines, the
thorns, he stares so long he feels he can smell them from inside the SUV. He is ready now.
Once inside the room, he grabs a warm beer sitting on the table and downs the remains. To
say he is shocked goes beyond words. The focus and triumphant glee he felt after leaving the
roof was soon dashed by the horrific words of a young teenage boy. He feels a sense of shame
for the boy’s parents, if he even has any. How can a young boy be so far removed from society
and social norms, and then it hits him, “what fucking social norms?” It is apparent this is the
social norm for this kid. This city is filled with or built around drugs and the supporting cast of
kidnappers, murders, corrupt police and politicians, who knows what his parent are like or if they
are even present in his life. He feels sorrow and guilt for growing up in a completely different
world.
Jackson spends the rest of the night documenting his assessments and as he worked through
his list he found he only needed to confirm a few more things. Primarily he needed to confirm
the location of the “Hawks” at different times of the day. He saw that one had been replaced by
a uniformed Police Officer, so there could be more that are off-duty cops. He also needed to see
his position in the day time to see how far back someone could see onto the roof of the butcher
shop. By the time he had detailed his findings he was well on his way through a second six pack
of beer and it was nearly 4 A.M. He was pleased with himself for his diligence and that he was
now accustomed to the different time.
Jackson woke late, nearly noon, and while his head pounded from the sugary beers, he knew
he needed to get up and finish his daytime recon. This would allow him time to take a nap later
before going out to confirm the night time locations of the “Hawks.” He felt concern that he had
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been using the same vehicle to drive around the neighborhood for fear that someone might have
noticed him. He also had concerns about the location of where he would place it during his “kill
night.” He pondered the situation for quite some time and concluded two vehicles would be
better. He would rent a second vehicle there in Juarez, use that today and tomorrow night stage
it in the park since the boys had not seen that vehicle.
Jackson took a cab to the airport and picked up a Chevy Malibu which he felt would fit
perfectly. He drove directly to the butcher shop and surveyed it from several distances and
angles while still remaining in the car. He could see the “Hawks” and didn’t want to spend too
much time there, but if he was to be spotted he would clearly be looking at “Gonzalo’s
Carneisera.”
Later that night he went back to the neighborhood one last time to confirm the locations of
the “Hawks” and with minor differences they were in the same locations as before. He
continued on to the butcher shop and parked the car at the park near where he had parked the
SUV, he would then only need to find a place to park the SUV on Thursday night when he would
climb onto the roof and kill “El Gallo.”
Jackson woke at 11 A.M. nervous, nearly shaking from the anticipation of that day. He
would need to steady himself, it was going to be a long day, he was sure of that. He laced up his
running shoes and took off down out of the hotel. He would not go anywhere near his target
today, there was no need to take any chances. He ran along the main road but felt too
uncomfortable with the cars so close to him and decided to break off to the back streets of
Juarez. He ran and listened to music on his iPod. He was alive, he was vibrant, he could breath.
Mile after mile brought about new sites, woman sweeping the fronts of their houses, garbage
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trucks clanking as the men emptied the cans in the truck and causing car alarms to go off as it
drove near them. This seemed normal and Jackson wondered if Pepe lived here but quickly
washed the thought away as he was certain these people cared about their lives and likely their
children as well.
Jackson returned to the Hotel after only 5 miles, he didn’t need to be strained later in the day.
He spent the remainder of the afternoon reviewing all his material and watching TV. He needed
simplicity and calm; he knew he would have enough excitement tonight. He sat talking with the
girls for several hours and yes he understood their concerns, but he could prove to them he had
things well in hand and he was both mentally and physically prepared. It took some time, but
they conceded and gave their support. Jackson was relieved and drifted off to sleep around 5
P.M.
He woke at 8:15, and quickly showered. He grabbed three one liter water bottles and opened
them then retightening the lids. He then grabbed four chocolate granola bars and tore off the
plastic packaging and placed them in the backpack along with the water. He would take no
chances trying to open something on the rooftop that could make noise. He was ready, mind
focused, it was his day. Before he left the room, he thought briefly, what if I’m shot or caught or
should I pack the SUV and leave tonight directly after the kill? He rationalized quickly if he’s
shot, he’ll likely die and therefore identifying his body was a mute point. A packed up SUV
parked on the street would certainly draw attention, no, he would return after the kill, and leave
tomorrow.
He reaches the park shortly after 9 and drives around it only once, to avoid drawing attention.
The “Hawks” are all posted, there is no one in the park, and no one on the streets, it’s go time.
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He parks the SUV four houses down in front of a house where music is playing loudly, and can
use the cover of their party to hide the vehicle. He grabs the backpack and rifle case and makes
his way quickly to the back of the butcher shop. He feels confident no one has seen him. Two
quick snips of the zip ties and he swiftly moves to the side of the wall, he can hear children
talking and his concern level heightens. He moves the coke cases into position and scales the
side wall grabbing the rooftop in nearly one motion. He pauses to ensure he remains invisible to
the street and anyone passing by. He slides the rifle onto the rooftop, pushing it to the right
allowing him room to land. He bends his knees slightly and leaps pulling with his hands as he
jumps. His left hand slips out from under the gravel and dirt on the roof and he lands on his
faces scraping his noise and chin as they grind along the surface of the roof. “Fuck!” he yells
under his breath. The pain is strikingly strong, but he immediately realizes there is no reason to
stop and gathers himself to his knees for the crawl to the front of the roof. Once there he pauses
allowing the slight commotion to calm down, if there was any chance of him being noticed he
wanted to know it now, not four hours from now. He quietly slips the backpack off setting it
beside him, he barely even moves, not even his head. He feels a stinging burn on his face but
resists the temptation to wipe away any gravel or blood that may be there. He waits and listens.
After nearly ten minutes, he feels it is safe to continue his preparations. He crawls back to
the side of the roof and grabs the rifle, he lifts it carefully placing his right hand on the handle
and left on the case to ensure there is minimal noise from the gravel. Once he reaches the front
of the roof, he moves to his shooters corner and places the case down gently. He reaches for
clasps and with firm hands slowly releases them. As he opens the top of the case the foam inside
makes a slight noise as it leaves the impression of the rifle, but he is sure it is only a sound he
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could have heard. He reaches for the rifle and takes his shooters, checks the safety, and takes a
shooters position. This is the first time he has ever held a weapon with the intention of using it
on a living thing and yet he is not scared or nervous. He raises the weapon up, placing the stock
on his shoulder and lowers his head to look through the scope. He is composed and no longer
feels the sting on his face. He scans for the window and quickly finds his target shot; amazed at
the clarity, as if he is standing three feet away and staring into the window. He purposefully
scans the entire house to ensure there are no other guards. He finds nothing unusual and slowly
lowers the weapon. And now the wait really begins.
Jackson has no illusions that he will get lucky and “El Gallo” will come to the house early
and he can be done in an hour, no, instead he will be lucky if he comes there at all. He is
prepared to wait until 5:30 A.M., and then leave to come back tomorrow night. His will is
strong, his mind focused, he will be patient and ready. “Only God can save you now, you piece
of shit mother fucker,” Jackson thinks.
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Chapter Twelve “El Gallo is dead”
Jackson patiently waits, he finds different positions to sit and rest, he stretches regularly and
resists the temptation to keep picking up the rifle and looking through the scope again and again.
He is disciplined with his determination. He keeps busy as the hours pass thinking about the
girls, but will not talk with them. They cannot be up here with him – he is afraid they will break
his concentration or worse, talk him out of what must be done. He rarely checks his watch,
fearing the boredom may deter his commitment.
He had never checked on the scrapes on his face, but since they no longer stung he was
certain it was not too bad. He wonders if there will be scares, but truly doesn’t give it much
thought. His mind has begun to wonder and it worries him. He adjusts his position again, trying
to find something comfortable, but not too comfortable as he is becoming increasingly more
tired. His eyes have begun to burn as they strain to see in the darkness.
LATER IN THE CHAPTER
The first black SUV drives by at nearly 2:30 A.M., he can tell it is “El Gallo’s” by the
loudness of the music. According to the intelligence from the police reports, it should drive
around the block once or twice then wait on the corner opposite the house. From there they will
call to “El Gallo” and he should be here in ten minutes. Jackson swiftly moves to his position,
grabs a final swig of water and reaches for the rifle. He removes it quietly from the case and
kneels. He knows it is not likely “the target” will get out on the street, but rather will go in
through the garage, so a clear shot will have to take place only through the bedroom window. He
estimates the time it will take, ten minutes for them to arrive, maybe another two or three to get
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into the house, a few minutes downstairs getting a drink, in total, 15 to 30 minutes before he has
his shot.
“Only 15 to 30 minutes before you die,” Jackson says slowly and quietly.
Nearly on queue, ten minutes later Jackson can see the caravan driving quickly down the
street, far to fast for a neighborhood even at this early hour. The garage door begins to open
while the two SUVs are still 100 meters away, alarming Jackson as to the potential of someone
else inside the house, but he accepts that it was opened from the SUV waiting at the corner.
The two SUVs whisk into the garage and it closes behind them, the third pulls up and blocks
the driveway. Jackson pulls the rifle up and looks through the scope. He can see lights coming
on and even hear music getting cranked up. He could not see how many men, or woman for that
matter, were in the vehicles but can assume at least two men in “El Gallo’s,” along with his
whore, then at least three, but more likely four in the second vehicle. There would likely only be
two in the outside vehicle guarding the house.
Jackson takes this moment to scan for the “Hawks,” to determine if they have changed their
positions. He can see that nothing has changed on the street; strangely everyone has accepted
this ritual as the norm of living next to a murderous, extremely dangerous narco-psycho.
Jackson returns the scope to the window and prepares himself. His adrenaline has begun to pour
into his veins and he can feel it and see it with the shaking of the lens. He adjusts his position
placing the barrel on the ledge to ensure he can keep it steady. He is cramped in this lower
position, but has remained a clear shot into the window, he only needs “El Gallo” to show
himself.
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Inside the house there is yelling, but the Spanish is so fast Jackson cannot understand what is
being said. Within seconds the front door opens and three guards come out, as if they were told,
“get the fuck out!” or “make yourself useful and guard my house bitches!” Jackson imagines.
Moments later he sees the light come on in the bedroom, “it’s time,” Jackson says in a voice
louder than he would have liked. His heart begins to race, his hands no longer shaking, now they
are sweating. He can feel the sting and itch of his scratched up face, but remains focused.
“You have about ten minutes, Puto, make it good,” Jackson says in a whisper.
With that he readjusts himself to a more comfortable position, one he can withstand for the
next ten minutes. He is ready. Seconds later he sees the girl for the first time, she is young, of
course, and quite beautiful. She has long curly black hair, he can’t see her face clearly but can
see her body from the waist up. She is wearing a short skirt, much like a school girl’s uniform
with a white shirt nearly completely unbuttoned to show off her giant tits. She walks across the
room and Jackson knows “El Gallo” is certain to follow, “maybe this is my shot,” Jackson
thinks. And there he is, “El Gallo” walks into the center of the room and grabs the girl, kissing
her deeply and hard. He has what looks like a tequila bottle in his right hand and grabs the girl’s
ass with his left. He breaks from the kiss and takes a deep swig, then grabs her face and forces
her to take one as well. “This is a fucking animal,” Jackson thinks.
Jackson can feel himself becoming absorbed in the action of the room, and moves his eye
away from the scope to clear his thoughts. He is here to kill this man and nothing else. “Focus,”
he tells himself.
Hobbs / El Machete / 90
Just then, “El Gallo,” grabs the girl from her neck and pushes her to the window. He slams
the tequila bottle on the window sill causing some to splash out. From behind her “El Gallo”
kisses he neck and massages her breasts; Jackson begins to become aroused himself.
“God damnit, focus,” he says again, only this time loud enough to hear.
“El Gallo” continues his way with the young girl, now forcing her hand down to his crotch.
Jackson scans for a shot as his heart rate increases dramatically. He removes the safety and puts
the weapon in semi-automatic mode. The sweat beginning to well in his eyes and his vision is
becoming blurred. He pulls back to wipe it away with his sleeve then resumes his position. He
watches as “El Gallo” rips open her shirt with both hands and slide is hands under her bra. “Still
no shot,” Jackson thinks. “El Gallo” then reaches under her skirt and yanks her panties off.
Jackson’s heart is pounding now. He watches as the man that killed his family unbuckles his belt
and shakes his jeans down.
“Still no fucking shot,” Jackson mumbles with teeth clenched.
With one quick move, one he has likely made hundreds of times, “El Gallo” rips off her bra
and slams her face and chest against the window forcing her to bend slightly at the waste.
Jackson can see he has entered her by the grimace on her face.
“Mother fucker, you’re gonna die before you pop a cap in that skanky whore’s hootchie,”
Jackson says loud enough to be heard from ten feet away.
With that Jackson determines to shoot, “find the shot,” he thinks, “wait, for it.” He feels he
may lose control of his ability to shoot if he doesn’t take the shot immediately.
The shot appears as “El Gallo” moves slightly to the girls left side opening up a clear chest
shot. Jackson’s hands are throbbing and shaking violently as he takes a deep breath, “steady,
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aim, FIRE!” he tells himself. The bullet rips through the barrel, while the shock of the recoil
causes Jackson to lose his site. He hears the window shatter and the young girl scream. Jackson
quickly regains his site on the target. He can see the girl has blood on her face but cannot see “El
Gallo.”
“Did I hit him? Is he dead?” Jackson said in a low dull voice.
He remained poised as the guards jumped from their vehicles with guns out. They did not
see where the shot came from and two of them aimed their guns down opposite ends of the
street. Jackson quickly regained the window in his scope and could see the girl becoming
hysterical. Her head was moving from side to side as if someone was moving in the room.
“Fuck I missed” Jackson whispered. His heart pounding nearly out of his chest and he felt
nauseous from the adrenaline rush. He certainly couldn’t last much longer and the desire to
scurry down from the rooftop and jump in the SUV and get the hell out of there was becoming
overwhelming. “Stay focused, you can get one more shot,” he thought.
“El Gallo” could be heard yelling in Spanish to his men, and then popped his head out the
shattered window, quickly, too quickly for a shot.
“One more time, bitch,” Jackson said.
“El Gallo” yelled at the girl and she ran across the room, as he crossed in front about ten feet
from the window obviously thinking the shooter was on the street and couldn’t see him. It only
took Jackson a second to see his final opportunity to kill the man that had taken his life.
“Crack” as Jackson could see it flash from the barrel penetrating “El Gallo” in the chest and
throwing him back several feet. He was dead, Jackson was sure, he could feel it, and he knew it
without question. Within seconds the guards began shooting in nearly all directions either in an
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attempt to protect themselves or to draw out return fire and the shooter’s location. Jackson
remained in his poised shooter’s position more out of shock than to get caught up in a gun fight.
His mind was calming and slowing, yet his body was still full of adrenaline, an overwhelming
level and without warning he puked on himself. Laying the weapon down quietly to avoid
giving away his position he vomited again, this time louder. Jackson’s concern for his safety
was becoming heightened. He reached for the water bottle and took three small sips, just enough
to calm himself and clear his throat. He waited only about five seconds before he began his way
to the side of the roof. He had never intended on taking the weapon nor the backpack with him
as he only had two things in his pocket, his keys and a small amount of cash. His descent was
quick and sure, he got to the fence all within seconds and was out onto the sidewalk and could
see the SUV. He tried to remain casual about his walk, but could hear people beginning to make
noise as the gunfire on the other side of the block continued. He had only 50 meters to go, and
then 30, then 10; he finally reached the SUV nearly holding his breathe the entire time. He
slipped in without being noticed. The party that he had parked near had people scrambling out of
the house, but they were going towards the other end of the street and did not see him as he
pulled away from the curb and slipped into the night.
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Chapter Thirteen “in breaking news…”
Jackson woke from a drunken slumber, the first real deep sleep he had had in over three
weeks, but this time it wasn’t from the “piece of mind” he had found, no, it was from the
exhaustion of over-adrenalized puking, drinking until he was numb and begging the girls for
forgiveness till late in the morning. His “piece of mind” will come later he assures himself, but
today he needs to leave this city. He came here for one purpose, which he had hoped would give
him back his life, or allow him to start a new one – either way was fine with him, he merely
needed change from where he was after the girls died. He was still in shock as he rolled out of
bed, a bit more than disgusted with himself, he had no feelings of glory for his kill, although he
was sure he made the city of Juarez a better place, maybe even the country of Mexico and
possibly the U.S. as well. He was neither proud nor relieved, but he was no longer angry.
Maybe the other emotions would come along later as well, he assumed.
When he arrived back to the hotel he raced to his room, more driven by fear than a concern
someone would notice his appearance, sweaty, dirty, face skinned up, vomit on his shirt and
pants, he most certainly looked like an American who had a good time in Juarez. He had not
showered nor taken a good look at his injuries yet, but like his emotions he was sure they would
heal later. But he did stink, a smell Jackson had never smelled on himself before. Maybe
because he went into the depths of the “shit” in Juarez and brought some back out with him.
Jackson would clean that “shit” off later, first he needed coffee, an aspirin, likely two and a
smoke.
Jackson took his time in the shower, hoping the warm water would wash away his pain and
guilt, and it did in a small yet not insignificant way. He still had not looked at his face, and it
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wasn’t until he finished his shower did he see the scratches that extended from his forehead to
his chin, and he chuckled because the only words that came to mind were, “oh, that’s gonna
leave a mark,” thank you Chris Farley.
He was ready to leave ten minutes later, his bags already packed from the previous night, he
only needed to add the toiletries from today and he was headed downstairs. He was tempted to
turn on the news to see if “it” had hit the American news wire yet, he assumed it had since there
were so many Americans living here in Juarez and “El Gallo” was a pretty famous drug dealer,
but he resisted. He resisted because he needed to be away from it, he needed time to digest it
first, then he would watch it on the news – “hell I had lived it, all the news reporters could do
was fuck up the truth,” he told himself.
He had paid his bill, in cash as planned, and easily slipped into the noontime traffic of the
city. He had ensured the tank was full, in case he needed to drive through the night, so there was
no reason to stop, well except he was in dire need of another cup of coffee. He pulled into a
PEMEX station adjacent to the highway entrance mentally preparing himself for a 10 hour drive
back towards Baja. Maybe he could make the 14 hours today, but likely he would be too tired.
He parked on the side of the building which ensured a quick shot onto the highway, “just in
case” he thought.
“I need to get these fucking paranoid, ‘what it’ thoughts out of my head and start living
normal again!” he thought harshly.
He purchased a large coffee, a cinnamon pastry and a pack of smokes and was headed back
to the car. Jackson fumbled with his coffee while making his way around the front of the store
and nearly collided with an older boy, maybe 19 or 20, leaving the bathrooms and equally not
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paying attention, trying to pull up his shorts. The boy had a slight build, maybe 5’7” and skinny,
wearing baggy plaid dress shorts and a matching oversized shirt, his “truckers” hat sized to just
barely rest on his head and of course partially sideways. Neither was paying attention and
certainly didn’t expect someone to be walking on their direct path. Their near collision sent “Tehas” as most people would refer to him in Mexico, a wannabe “gangsta” of no significance, into
an immediate thug-like role. He pushed Jackson spilling his coffee on him and muttered
something in unintelligible Spanish.
Jackson’s first instinct was to excuse himself for not paying attention, yet when the boy
pushed him and pumped out his chest as if to say, “what mother fucker, whatchu gonna do?”
Jackson had a different response. He looked down at the spilled coffee on his shirt and took a
deep patient and long breath through his nose, as his jaw clenched tightly. His anger was
focused and his mind cleared from his previous hung over state. Little “Tehas” not liking
Jackson’s calm yet disgusted look at him through out his arms and stepped toward Jackson. The
wretched stench of an all night of partying, a mix of beer, weed and tequila filled the air between
them. Jackson could see in his nearly closed blood shot eyes this boy had one weapon,
intimidation and he was not going to bite. But, if he didn’t back down, little “Tehas” was going
to learn of Jackson’s weapon, two inches taller and probably 75 pounds more of one angry “not
taking any shit from some pussy-ass wannabe thug” Gringo! Jackson held his stare, his heart
rate barely changing, he could see the boy’s mind begin to rationalize with the situation he was
in, and possibly had he not been so wasted he would have made a better one choice than to reach
for his pocket in a quick move. Jackson, without hesitation grabbed his arm with his left hand
and planted his forearm deeply into his chest, driving him nearly off the ground into the wall
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about three feet away. Little “Tehas” slammed into the wall with such force, it knocked the air
out of his lungs and Jackson grimaced at the stench of his horrid breath. Jackson then slid is
forearm up to his throat driving it deep into the soft tissue of his neck and holding it there for
several seconds under all the pressure he could muster. His airway would soon be cut off if
Jackson didn’t allow him to breathe. Jackson stared at him and without words gently and slowly
let the pressure off from his neck. Tears began to well in the boy’s eyes as he struggled slightly
and gasped for air. Jackson still holding his right hand high above his head and with enough
pressure on his neck to let the boy know he better not try anything else or he’ll likely get his
“thug choked out of him.” Jackson slowly released his left hand and slipped it into the oversized
shorts of the boy retrieving what ever it was he was going to use as a weapon. Jackson pulls out
a small paring and snickers inside thinking, “you want to act like a badass with a fucking paring
knife, you truly are the pride of a nation.”
Jackson released his hold on the boy and jammed the knife blade into the crease between the
bathroom door jam and the door. He slammed his hand hard against the handle snapping the
blade like a twig and handed the broken handle back to the boy, turned and walked away.
Jackson sat in the rented SUV for several minutes gathering himself and wondering why
there was such a stark difference between his Mexico in Baja, or to be more specific in Rosarito,
and here. His mind kept flashing through the scenes played out over the past week and then it hit
him, “what if I was in DC, or Atlanta, or New York, the same things would have happened, only
I would have likely been killed or at least gotten my ass kicked.” It seemed to make sense at this
point, “poor people often live and act like animals but not all of them,” he concluded.
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As Jackson pulls onto the highway he realizes an important moment of his life, he has
changed, he has changed dramatically, but was it the change he expected or wanted? His week
in Juarez, albeit successful in one aspect left him decidedly more lost and unsure. He was sure of
one thing; he would take control of the rest of his life. He had the money from Jenn’s life
insurance and that would last at least a year before he had to find another career. He could
always go back to the firm, the partners understood his need for a leave of absence, yet truly
wanted him to return as soon as possible. “I have options,” Jackson thinks and smiles.
Nearly two hours into his silent drive, Jackson relives the past several weeks and through it
all is amazed at not only all that has happened but the change in him as well. He has become
someone committed and driven. Even in the most dangerous of situations, he remained focused
and planned each element with tremendous precision. He was unsure where his newly
discovered talents would take him, yet he knew the girls were proud of the change, albeit not the
method used to learn these new traits. He spent the next two hours talking and laughing with the
girls, with Jackson repeatedly telling them, “did you see how I handled little Tehas? I bet his
pissed his pants,” he proclaimed proudly time and again.
He stops only to fill up for gas and grab some food, no incidents this time, thankfully.
Jackson, seemingly talked out, turns on the radio and finds an AM News station. Having not
heard any news in the last 24 hours, he wonders if the story has broke about “El Gallo,” and
whether the reporters will actually get all the facts correct. His excitement builds as he waits
through the sports, then weather, and realizes he has to wait for the cycle to run through before
getting back to the important news, maybe even “Breaking News,” Jackson thinks. He faintly
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listens for the next ten minutes until it reaches the top of the hour and goes to commercial.
Jackson can hear the news reporter begin the story and he quickly turns up the volume.
“In breaking news this hour, shooting erupted in Juarez, just across the border in Mexico,
between rival drug gangs killing at least ten people. Reports are unconfirmed, that “El Gallo”
the reputed drug kingpin of the Juarez Cartel was killed by a rival gang in the early morning
hours. Mexican police officials have confirmed nine civilians were killed including three
teenage boys playing in a nearby park.”
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Chapter Fourteen “My name is Villegas, but I am not”
Notes;
Introduction of Lucho, a Mexican born American with impeccable resume. Born out of poverty
in L.A., working hard in school to gain scholarships into UC Santa Barbara and then USC Law
School. He chose corporate law, vice civil litigation because of the stigma of “ambulance
chaisers,” and worked in Anti-money laundering and regulatory banking with the “big boys” of
New York for several years, “cutting his teeth,” in corporate and legal banking. He then accepts
a job with smaller, yet up and coming bank in California to be closer to his mother who is ailing.
He is a strikingly handsome, Andy Garcia type. The eternal bachelor, with immaculate
appearance and grooming, not a metro-sexual type, he is too manly for that. He has it all, the
good looks, the intelligence, and the big successful corporate job. He has never been married
but occasionally dates. He is quite and thought of more as a professional than a friend. It was
considered a step down leaving N.Y. for L.A., but he sold it as something he needed to do for his
mother who had sacrificed so much to get him his life, he would spend the rest of hers taking
care of her.
Esteban Villegas arrived at the front security desk of the American Bank Building
precisely at 6:55 A.M; he would be signed in and up to his office promptly by 7, as always. His
Brooks Brothers ashen-gray pin striped suit hung on his athletic build as if it had been taken
directly off the perfectly shaped mannequin, yet he made it look even better.
“Good morning, John” he said to the security guard at the front desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Villagas” the guard responded, with the incorrect pronunciation of
the Mexican name.
Esteban, with a slight chuckle and smile, corrected the guard.
“No, it’s Be-ya-ges, and pointed to the sign-in sheet, in Spanish the V is a B sound and
the double LL is a Y. Think of it as Be-ya-ges, Beyages,” he corrected with a smile and without
any sense of condescension.
“Oh, Be-ya-ges, I’ve heard of that name before. Sorry, I won’t mess it up again, sir” said
the guard in a cordial and professional manner.
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“Thanks, no problem, have a good day,” said Esteban as he smoothly walked to the
elevators.
“You too, Mr. Be-ya-ges,” saying it without a pause in the syllables.
Esteban reached the fifteenth floor exactly at 7 A.M., he impulsively felt the need to rush
to his office, he preferred to be logged in by 7, but resisted his controlling obsessive compulsive
desires. As he walked to his office, he thought about the guard and correcting the pronunciation
of his name, he initially was going to say nothing to him, but the guard seemed like a nice hard
working man, and he didn’t want someone else to correct him who wouldn’t have done it as
nicely. After all this is California and even a white person should know how to pronounce
Villegas, certainly when they are an Executive Vice President and Assistant Director of the
Legal Department. Esteban felt it was his responsibility to explain it, not someone else’s, as with
all things in his life, he would ensure it was done correctly and professionally.
He removes his jacket, as always, grabbed the hanger from behind the door, slides one
side into the jacket, then the other, adjusting the shoulders to fit perfectly on the hanger before
replacing it on the door. Within minutes he has settled in for the long day, by opening his
calendar and reviewing his day, two meetings back to back at 10 and 11 AM, followed by
another at 3 with senior executives on the status of the merger with West Coast Savings and
Loan. He would need a few hours to review and prepare for this meeting. He was equally sure
his staff although quite competent would need to complete some additional final fixes to the
material he would present and therefore he would review with them at 12:45.
It was nearly 8, before he set out for one of his two cups of coffee, he knew it was an
addiction for most, but he mostly drank it to fit in with the others. He rarely even finished his
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coffee but felt it made him appear more common and approachable within the office setting. As
he left his office, Leslie his secretary which he had inherited when he took the position six
months ago, had already settled in for the day and greeted him,
“Good morning, Esteban. How did it go last night?” she said in a very inquisitive voice.
“Good morning, it was… it was nice. My mother will never quit trying to fix me up with
daughters from the woman of her church, I just wish she knew Selma Hayek’s mother,” he
responded in a soft engaging manner.
“You know I have plenty of friends if you are interested,” she impulsively responds.
“So you have mentioned more than once, no thansk, but thank you all the same,” Esteban
insisted as he made his way to for his “commoner’s coffee.”
Esteban quickly returned to his office without comment to Leslie, who always made him
feel uncomfortable. It was the way she talked about him to the other secretaries, when she
thought he couldn’t hear them, or maybe she wanted him to hear. The comments would range
from, “he’s not gay, he’s too manly for that,” to “I’d do him in front of my husband just so he
could watch a real man make me quiver.” Esteban would smile and think of them as harmless
schoolgirl comments and yet Leslie was nearing 45 and likely on her third marriage. He had
accepted her as his “inheritance” of the new EVP position. She was certainly competent and
quick with a joke so he kept her. He didn’t like the fact that she had blind copy to all his emails,
“to assist him with his workload” he was told, yet he was at work before she arrived, and stayed
long after she left.
It was nearly after 8:30 when he finally opened his email; he scanned for anything urgent
from the only three bosses left in the company that were senior to him. He found nothing and
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ventured into the courtesy copies of emails he gets from the many projects, mergers and tax
questions the legal department handled on a daily basis. His morning would be spent reviewing
each email, ensure one of his many young lawyers were engaged, and if not he would assign to
his legal assistant. He had spent nearly 30 minutes reading when he found an alarming one:
“Mr. V. I found several samples of tile for the new bathroom, can we meet today during
lunch to discuss and confirm which ones you want?
Thanks, J
Esteban’s heart began to beat rapidly and quickly responded:
“I’ll meet you at 12 for lunch.”
Esteban eased through the rest of the morning with anticipation for his lunch. He left his
11 o’clock meeting early giving him time to return to his office, check for any messages and
head out for lunch. As he left his office, Leslie chimed in…
“Who is J? And will you be back from lunch in time for the meeting with the staff about
the merger?” Leslie asked.
“J, is my contractor, I’m building out a new bathroom for my mother and I need to finish
the selection of tile today so he can finish it this afternoon,” he said in a prepared statement.
”And yes, of course I will be back in time for the final walk through meeting,” he
responded, however, this time in manner that said, “stop reading my personal emails.”
Esteban reached the “In and Out Burger” fifteen minutes after leaving the office. He took
a seat in the first booth available away from the parking lot and waited. Minutes later a beautiful
Hispanic woman in her early 30’s approached from behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder
to announce her presence.
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“Hola, Esteban, como este?” she said with a large smile showing her brilliantly white
teeth.
Esteban, startled and yet grinning with excitement nearly jumped from the booth to greet
her.
“Hola, bien, bien, y tu?” Esteban responded with a lavish smile across his face.
They both chuckled as they hugged and kiss each other’s cheek. The only time they
spoke Spanish to each other was during their greetings and the occasional joke that would lose its
humor if spoken in English.
“Maria, it’s really good to see you again. You look great” he remarked. He quickly took
her in from head to toe, building a mental picture of her and comparing to it to the last time he
had seen her. Her glistening black hair seemed longer and he loved it when she straightened it,
she wore only a slight amount of makeup, as she didn’t need it, her clothes were stylish and yet
age appropriate and hung on her curvy figure like a silk curtain. His gaze was broken when she
responded.
“Thanks, you too, you are always so sweet with me,” she said as she smiled at him.
“Wow it’s been probably six months since we’ve talked, how is your life, and how’s the
baby?” Esteban said with clear emphasis on the “baby.”
“She’s almost three, so I don’t know if you can still call her a baby, but I guess she’ll
always be my baby. She’s doing great; she has this strange new habit of staring at people. Like
a new toy, when she sees someone she doesn’t know, and just stares and smiles at them. It’s
quite bizarre,” Maria responded.
“Ah, that’s great. I see she gets her inquisitive nature from her mother,” he replied.
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Their small talk continued for several minutes and there was virtually no intention of
ordering lunch. They quickly caught up on the last six months each knowing there was very
limited time for an in depth discussions about their lives. Their meetings had become semiannual over the past couple of years and a routine had settled in for them both: a tender yet
heartfelt greeting, a brief update since the last time they met or talked, followed by a discussion
on the purpose of the meeting, then the graceful and inevitable goodbye. It was all they could
have together, yet they both cherished it deeply.
“I know you don’t have much time, so I’ll get right to it,” Maria quickly broke the
moment.
“Go ahead,” Esteban responded with a simple head nod.
“I’m worried, there’s something going on, did you hear about Juarez? El Gallo is dead,
but the news is saying it was from rival gangs. What rival gangs? Nobody is taking credit, not
even the Zetas. There were only civilians, some from a party and some kids at a park,” she
explained in a voice that was out of place for her normal in control manner.
“Yeah, I heard about it last night. To me, it looks like the government is finally really
doing something, isn’t that what you wanted?” he asked in a calm and disarming voice.
“It’s not the Mexican government, I’m hearing rumors the policia found an assault
weapon on the roof across the street along with a backpack,” she stated with increasing concern
in her voice.
“If it was the government, they would have killed all of them and taken staged pictures
for the press,” she interjected before he could speak again.
“So what’s the problem, someone killed the piece of shit. Who cares?” he asked.
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“Something’s not right and I’m concerned, 10 innocent people were killed,” she said with
full concern in her words even drifting into a whisper as she mentioned the “10 innocent people.”
Esteban sat quietly for a moment and allowed her words and emotions to sink into his
mind as he scrambled for any ideas.
“I haven’t heard anything, I can reach out to him,” Esteban replies pausing to display his
concerns with that idea,
“We haven’t talked in a couple of months so it would look like I’m just checking in,” he
replied showing concern for both her and the potential impact of his intentions.
“No, no, no. Don’t do that, I just wanted to know if you knew anything?” she asked.
“Nothing, but I usually only hear about things in the planning stages, never after the
fact,” he lamented.
They both sat without speaking for several minutes, both staring off in opposite directions
with an attempt to think of the next step.
“Look, honey, I have to get back, are you really worried about it?” he finally asked.
“Yes and no. I know you have to get back, just… I don’t know, let me know if you hear
anything, okay?” she said as she reached her hand out across the table to his.
Her gesture lightened the moment and allowed them to enter the final phase of their
meeting.
“I will baby,” he said as he smiled and tenderly stroked her hand.
They hugged tightly and kissed each other’s cheek. There time together was passing and
always seemed far too short, but it was their time nonetheless.
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Esteban returned to the office at nearly 1, almost fifteen minutes late for the meeting he
had called and yet he didn’t care. He entered the conference room where his staff was waiting
patiently, apologized, took his seat at the head of the large conference table and declared the
meeting would begin with his simple words “Go ahead.”
The rest of the day would have been mind numbingly boring had it not been for his
meeting with Maria. He was concerned for her, because she was concerned and yet there was
nothing he could do. He had relived this feeling for nearly ten years now, and although it was
the only relationship he could have with her, he cherished it fully.
As early evening crept in and darkness filled his large window overlooking the rows of
empty parking stalls, he closed his laptop and sat quietly in his oversized leather chair while the
memories of his childhood trickled into his consciousness. He could recall when he lived in
Mexico and the other children wouldn’t let him play with them, “Eres un Villegas, no puedes
juegar con nosotros,” (You are Villegas, you cannot play with us). He felt the shame and anger
of his name again, but quickly dismisses it, thinking, “that is my name, not who I am.”
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Chapter Fifteen “they are waiting for you”
Notes;
Jackson is aghast as he listens to the news. Shocked by the words and barely able to continue
listening as his mind races through what could have happened and what did happen and what he
must have caused to happen. He slams his hands on the steering wheel several times nearly
breaking it loose from the column.
“No fucking way!” he screams.
“It’s got to be the fucking reporters, they’re lying,” he yells in an effort to minimize his
disbelief.
He replays in his mind over and over all the details, then realizes the position of “El Gallo’s”
crew, the people leaving the party to see where the shooting was coming from, yet he never saw
nor heard anything from the park, but was certain the boys were probably there.
“Holy fucking hell,” he yells again.
“How could I have been so stupid?” he thinks to himself in a near blind fury. “I planned out
everything to a “t” and yet never thought about what would happen later. I’m such a stupid
mother fucker!” he slams his hand against the steering wheel again as he continues to rant within
the confines of the SUV causing it to swerve violently on the near empty highway. Realizing he
can’t continue to drive in this state he pulls off the road to the dirt shoulder and slams on the
breaks, sliding and skidding almost out of control, yet he has no concern for his safety at this
point. When the vehicle finally stops he is only partially on the shoulder with the tail hanging
Hobbs / El Machete / 108
out onto the highway at least two feet, he jams the gear in Park, unconcerned by the potential
danger he presents. His mind is racing with the images of last night and his complete and utter
failure. His intentions were so selfish he had no idea he would have caused the situation to be
worse than it was, and yet it is, ten times worse, one for each innocent person that died.
Jackson sits in the vehicle unable to move, he had clicked off the radio when he parked the
SUV, and now the silence was filling the cab – the silence and his distress. Sweat from the anger
and disappointment began to form on his forehead and well under his eyes. His heart continued
to pound for several minutes as he felt the life was being choked out of him – again. The life he
had planned on recovering was slipping away – again. The girls were not with him now, and yet
he was thankful, he could never let them see him in so much pain and despair, and never as such
a horrific failure.
Time had no meaning for Jackson now. He had only his emotions. He only had his
overwhelming desire to die – again. He couldn’t cry but wanted to so badly. He thought deep
within his mind, “if I could cry, I could get over this,” and yet there were no tears. His deepest
despair was back, back with an unquenchable vengeance.
After nearly 30 minutes of painful suffering, Jackson hears the horn of an approaching tractor
trailer and looks in the rear view mirror. He can see the truck is coming up quickly and blocked
by another vehicle in the left lane.
“God let it end now, please,” Jackson pleads, gripping the steering wheel and closing his
eyes.
He can hear the desperate attempts by the trucker to honk his horn and blow the baffles of the
engine as the vehicles gain ground.
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Jackson releases his grip on the steering wheel and empties his mind. He is ready. He can
feel the ground begin to tremble under the SUV and hear the fast approaching car and truck. His
heart does not race – he is ready. All at once he can hear screeching of truck tires, horns blaring
and whoosh they blow by him shaking the SUV violently from side to side as the wind exhaust
passes him. He looks up to see the truck swerving back into the right lane allowing the smaller
pickup to move back off the right should onto the highway. There is dirt flying everywhere and
he can smell the pungent odor of the truck’s air breaks. He neither feels joy of living or remorse
for nearly causing their deaths either. He is without thought of life.
Moments later Jackson feels Bethy’s tender soul touch him.
“Daddy, it’s okay, come back to the house. We are waiting for you.”
Jackson pauses for a time, only allowing the thoughts of the girls to fill his mind. It takes
several more minutes and then without hesitation, he reaches for the gear shift, places it in Drive
and eases out onto the highway. Although emotionally exhausted he drives and will continue to
drive throughout the day and night. He will not stop until he is home with the girls in Baja. He
needs them now, more than ever, more than he has ever shown, more than he understands.
The night drags on as Jackson reaches the coast; he passes south of Tijuana and comes over a
crested hill to glimpse his first view of the Pacific Ocean. His anguish subsides slowly and he
exhales softly. He is no where near normal and unsure if “normal” will ever be a feeling he
understands again. Although at less than a quarter tank of gas, he cannot fathom stopping again
and continues onward towards home. He needs to be alone with the girls, he needs to feel their
presence, their love and he needs them to heel his heart and soul.
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Within an hour he has reached the house and quickly gets out, he has nothing left in his mind,
body or soul and only seeks the shelter of the house. He races to get in, fumbling with the keys
as his heart begins to tremble along with his hands. He can only focus on one thing, “get inside,
they are waiting for you inside.” After several attempts he finally gets the correct key in the
lock, turns it quickly and pushes open the door. He falls in and crawls on the floor to the rug in
the center of the living room, curls up in the fetal position and begins to cry.
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Chapter Fourteen “…”
Notes;
He reaches out to Isabella again, this time he learns about the people that make up the cartels,
where they come from, their tactics of forcing people to be quite and even to become part of
them. He reveals to Isabella what he has done, she does not believe him, so he sends her (via
the internet) hours of video tapes he has taken. She asks why is he telling her this and he tells
her he is going to do more. He needs her to write about his actions, this time telling the truth, or
actually his portion of the truth. “El Machete” is born. He will use a “calling card” of a
picture of a Machete used in the bingo-like game of Lottery. He decides on the machete from
watching the Discovery channel and see Philippine farmers use a similar tool (called a parang)
to clear a path in the jungle and for clearing away bad jungle growth allowing new growth from
plants they can sell in the markets. This seems an appropriate and iconic tool to clear away the
bad and allow for new paths.
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SECTION THREE CHAPTER X1
1. Targeting the money leads him to a small beautiful town outside of Monterrey which has been
inundated by the cartels. They have changed the lifestyle for everyone. The tourism is down,
the sleepy old Mexican town known for is beauty, century-old buildings begins to show signs of
brothels, bars and even a casino is being discussed to be built. The mayor quietly tries to stop
the cartels but the corruption and intimidation within city officials have overrun his influence
and power. He fights back in a bold statement to the media and is kidnapped, tortured and
killed. The cartels have nothing holding them back.
A young man is working his way through the cartels ranks quickly and will soon become
a lieutenant managing a stash house – used for stashing money and kidnap victims. He
will have limited security guarding the house for fear of monitoring by federal police.
His job is simple, guard the house and the money. Jackson finds him by accident, he
moves into the town posing as a photographer – a common occurrence, and while
drinking in a local cantina, Raul comes in flashing his money, new truck and girlfriend.
It is obvious he is with the cartels, but what role is yet to be determined. After following
him for a few days and seeing that he is checking out homes to rent, Jackson determines
his role must be to maintain a stash house. He continues to follow him and discovers the
location of the Jefe and spends the next week tracking both of them. He is careful not to
talk to anyone, and uses his Italian heritage as a disguise to blend in as much as possible.
He returns to the U.S. to buy the supplies he would need to get the information necessary
to build his plan.
He buys long distance high zoom cameras and very small wireless listening devices. His
cameras will be placed on adjoining rooftops to capture the front entrance, into three
bedrooms, the kitchen, living room and pool. His listening devices must be closer, he test
how they can be used and what quality he can obtain by taking them to a park and
dropping them on the ground next to a bench. No one notices them and the quality is
good up to about 20 feet. He continues testing them on his own house and finds that a
child’s spring loaded sucker gun can be used to affix the bugs on the to the arrow-like
projectile and adhesive from a hot glue gun it will stick to stucco. He tests this on his
own house and finds that if he can stick one near the window of the living room and
kitchen windows he should be able to hear most of the discussions in those areas. He
continues to test his shooting accuracy with the bugs which are camoflauged by toilet roll
cardboard holders cut up to and painted with the device inside that resemble a pipe
sticking out of the wall. He calculates his distance and makes simple adjustments to the
spring to gain distance and velocity on his shooting.
His weapon is a much more difficult decision and plan. He remembers watching CSI
Miami where an assassin used a remote controlled rifle to kill someone. He begins his
search on the internet and cannot find anything similar and realizes it is not something
one my advertise because it is likely only allowed for military and CIA type forces, then
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an advertisement for “Paintball Wars” comes up showing a complete package to modify
any paintball rifle to a remote controlled rifle. It is simple to install on any laptop with a
wireless connection of up to 50’. There are only three parts to the kit, the scope, the
tripod and trigger module, all adjustable to fit any paintball rifle.
He finds an automatic rifle with a ten-shot magazine with silencer online which can be
configured for the remote firing kit. He orders his the kit and drives to Texas to purchase
the gun; he waits only 24 hours for his gun permit and purchases the gun, returning all
within 72 hours.
He begins to put together the remote kit on the rifle and to his amazement all the pieces
connect just as advertised. He is careful not have the gun loaded as he remotely squeezes
the trigger and hears the click of the firing pin. He has to adjust several settings on the
software to control the amount of fire and is concerned that if he runs out of ammunition
before they are all dead he will have failed completely. The next step is to calibrate the
scope and test it end to end. His concerns deepen when he has to takes several
measurements from the gun barrel, but the associated worksheet gives him places to
make all his notations and seems fairly easy as he works through the details. He
measures the width of the barrel to be 10 milimeters and annotates on the worksheet, next
he attaches the scope and measures from the top of the barrel to the red line indicator on
the scope which indicates the center of the scope and finds 27 milimeters, he now adjusts
the manual adjustment for 5 millimeters for half the width of the barrel. “This can’t be
that easy, hell anyone could do this,” he thought. He drives out to the desert only 5 miles
away from the town. Sets up the gun and takes the associated target 10 meters away –
this is the distance most paintballs are fired from without losing any velocity and drop in
decent. He will use this to calibrate the weapon, then extend it out allowing for the
increased velocity of the firepower of a real gun. A few minor adjustments at 10 meters
and he is off hitting targets accurately up to 75 meters which is about 20 meters further
than he expects he will ever have to shoot.
During what appears to be a fiesta at the Jefe’s house it is apparent the guest of honor is
Raul who proudly introduces his girlfriend to the Jefe. It is long known the boss has no
boundaries and loyalty, above is expected. There were rumors of the tests the boss would
impose on his newly ordained lieutenants and apparently this night would be one of them.
As Jackson watched hidden from a hilltop with a large zoom video camera he could see
into the
Hobbs / El Machete / 114
SECTION FOUR CHAPTER X1
2.
Isabella begins to write a series of articles and names the assissin “El Machete” because of the
use of the machete by farmers to clear the land of unwanted weeds which strangle off the good
growth. She eloquently ties the growth and future of a nation to the people and their need for a
governmental “machete.” Her words will be read and believed by the readers because of her
reputation as a writer of the truth. She thinks back, long before she was had to spend her
career-life in anonymity for fear from the cartels. Her original works as a freelance reporter
fresh out of journalism from USC she wrote several articles about the cartels and their
cancerous growth on a nation. Although her stories were well read and respected nothing was
done as she had hoped and intended. She continued to write from the safety of the U.S. and
published a series of articles outlining how the cartels were organized and how their corruption
and terror reigned on the people of Mexico. She had an inside source within the cartels and
revealed the inner workings of leaders, their fights both within and from other cartels. Because
of her in-depth writings she was forced to write them using a pen-name and could never openly
take credit for her work out of fear of reprisal. She knew this when she began her career but
hoped someday she would be able to make an actual career out of writing. She has spent the
last 15 years writing local L.A. news stories about city planning, local politics and business, but
when necessary and information became available would write about the cartels. “El Machete”
would be her final group of articles. She had a family now and of course they didn’t know about
her writings and how she had met her insider.
As she writes the articles she is extremely concerned for not only his safety but those of the
innocent victims which most assuredly will be impacted by his actions. She also realizes it is vital
the Mexican people see and realize their life’s do not need to be controlled by the cartels, their
future is not controlled by the cartels and they can break the bonds. She reminds her readers
of the insiders that want out of the cartels, that felt they never had a choice in the life and will
help when they feel it is safe.
She thinks of “Lucho” as the young, strikingly hansom Mexican attending USC with her in the
‘70s. He was a law student as she studied journalism. They would spend hours talking about
their life’s growing up as Mexicans in the U.S. It wasn’t until her senior year of college, long
after their relationship had flourished into a dream of the future had he told her about his past.
She recalled nearly every minute of that night. It began with him calling her in the afternoon
and asking for her to meet him at Jockos Bar after his 7 o’clock class. She could tell by his walk
which lacked the normal flow of confidence he usually had. She knew instantly there was
something wrong, but hoped it was minor in nature. When Lucho sat down, he spoke quickly
and surprisingly quite, he had rehearsed his words carefully and it was apparent.
“Mi vida, (my life), we have been together for nearly two years and it is time I tell you
who I am,” he said calmly. They rarely spoke in Spanish to each other, mostly only to tell jokes,
and use loving pet names. Isabella didn’t speak, didn’t move and never changed her gaze at
him. She was locked on his words, patiently waiting for the bomb.
Hobbs / El Machete / 115
“This is going to be very difficult for me and I want you to know first off, I love you, and I
have loved you from the moment I met you” he continued.
“There are things about me you need to know, my family, well actually, my uncle
“Baldo” in Tijauna is ‘Jefe de Jefe’ (boss of boss) of the Villegas Cartel.” His words were soft with
deep emotional pain, much like those of a man telling his spouse of his infidelities.
“I have to tell you this about me so that you can make your decision about us tonight.
Right here, right now,” he said in an authoritative manner.
“I am a part of the cartel and I will be for life. My role is simple, legitimize the money.
My entire life has been away from anything illegal, so that I can go to the best schools in the
U.S., and find ways to integrate the drug money into legitimate businesses. I am expected to get
married and live the American Dream. And then I found you, and realize you are the American
Dream and I am just a fraud destroying the life’s of my countrymen and the future of a nation. I
don’t want to do it anymore, but there are no other options,” he explained.
He continued describing how the cartel started in the ‘70s with his father Santos and uncle
Baldemero who sold weed to Americans out of their father’s garage. When they were in their
early 20s they realized they couldn’t make a living taking over their father’s garage and turned to
trafficking up to the U.S. In 1978 his father was arrested and sentenced to five years in the U.S.
for attempting to smuggle 50lbs across the San Diego border. While in prison in California he
was killed by a Southern Mexican gang member. This was the catalyst to the Villegas Cartel
becoming one of the most violent and controlling cartels in Mexico.
The MEETING of the three of them.
Jackson was already seated in the booth at the far left of the door (as he instructed he would
be). He was wearing his Yankees cap so they would know who he was… he thought it was
funny, yet not alarming to wear a Yankees cap in “Dodger country.” Isabella came in first, and
he was impressed with her looks. She was neither perfectly dressed in the latest fashions like a
real estate agent nor locked into a business suit of a reporter; she was strangely a mixture of
both with a flare of casual. Her long black hair hung over her shoulders and she seemed to walk
with a level of life experience and confidence. She didn’t seem of this world but more of her
own but without arrogance. She walked in and within one glance around the room she came
directly to the back booth and introduced herself. They greeted each other and commented on
what they thought each would look like. Jackson asks how long they will have to wait for Lucio,
and Isabella replies he already here sitting at the bar. He texted me when you came in and he
felt you were alone. Jackson looks over to the bar and through the mirror behind it he sees
what appears to be a businessman drinking a beer looking at them through the reflection.
Esteban gives them a head nod and spins around to come over to the table.
Jackson is immediately impressed by how handsome Esteban is, as if to think “how is this guy
involved in the cartels, he should be a movie star or model somewhere.”
Hobbs / El Machete / 116
The introductions are simple and although quite apprehension seems pervasive with the table
the true ice is broken when Esteban speaks about the Yankees cap.
“I guess you thought you were being funny wearing a Yankees cap here,” he said in a
matter-of-fact tone.
“I mean here in Dodger town.”
“Well yes,” Jackson replied, feeling a little interrogated by the comment.
“You’d be surprised how many Mexicans are Yankee fans, so it really isn’t that ‘out of
place here,’” he commented.
“So are you a fan,” I asked?
“Of course, you see I like most everyone else appreciate greatness, not like the Dodgers
or Giants or even the Padres. Sure they all win the pennant now and then, and maybe
they put together a good team for a couple of years and maybe even win the World
Series but they are not really serious about their commitment to greatness, “ he
lamented.
“So which is it, the power and rewards that come with ‘greatness’ or ‘the commitment
to excellence’ you like best?” Jackson responded somewhat daringly.
“It’s always the commitment to excellence, you see those will go the distance, the
rewards come to them later, maybe even in another life,” he stunningly remarks.
“Are you willing to go the distance or are you just here for the rewards of a good
season?” he coldly asks.
Jackson realizes his question isn’t about whether he can be trusted or even his commitment to
their next strike, no it is much more. Esteban’s question asks about his life, is he willing to put
it on the line forever. Jackson seemed to understand more in-depth about the plight of the
Mexican people, it is not one act of courage it is a deep-seated believe that must be held long
before one can face off with the cartels.
FURHER IN THE MEETING after several beers and they become comfortable with each
other….
“How did you get involved with writing about the cartels?” Jackson asks Isabella. “I
mean you must have had many options and of course you knew the danger, so why go up
against them. I guess what I’m saying is you are a beautiful woman, you could have had
a job in broadcast news in the U.S. or in Mexico, hell you could have been the ‘leg
show,’” referring to the super hot short skirt wearing weather girls of Mexican news
stations.
“Te las comas puto,” Isabella exclaims and jabs her fingers into her ribs and gestures
them to me as she walks off to the bathroom.
Hobbs / El Machete / 117
Esteban spews the beer from his mouth and begins to laugh uncontrollably. He puts a hand up to
gesture Jackson to wait as he gathers himself.
“What did she say, my Spanish isn’t that good,” Jackson said, knowing he had jokingly
insulted her.
“It seems all this testosterone filled man-jabber has removed her lady-like qualities,” he
said as
he regained control of his beer. “She said, ‘suck my dick, bitch!’”
While Isabella was in the bathroom, Esteban feels it is his place to tell of the impact of the cartels
to Jackson.
“The better question is how cartels have impacted her life, because that is the true
question of all Mexicans. It’s not the why are you involved, but moreover, what impact
have they, or better yet, what was the severity of impact on your life that would compel
you to do something?”
He spoke in a lecturing tone, both showing his outstanding American education but mostly his
intimate knowledge of all Mexican people.
“She lost two of the most important things in her life to the cartels, but ironically, both by
choice,” he explained while staring at his beer. There seemed to be a deep emotional tie
to his words.
“She lost her first true love and her career.”
The words seemed flat, as if they didn’t require special emphasis of emotion; they could stand
alone on their own merit – deeply profound, wounding even. Jackson intrigued but unsure how
to respond sat quietly waiting for Isabella’s return, feeling it would be her place to tell more if
she wanted. And the story of how the cartels so gravely impacted Isabella’s life and compel her
to write articles about would remain unspoken for now.
The three had drinks until late in the evening, all unsure of the next step, Jackson, although
enjoying himself for the first time in nearly a year was becoming unnerved even after the nearly
six-pack of beer he had consumed.
“I have several important things to do tomorrow and a hangover isn’t really in the cards for
me,” Jackson declared.
“I agree, we have enjoyed the night and we should meet later in the week to discuss more any
next steps,” responded Esteban, seemingly quick to leave.
The mood change seemed immediate and without resistance from anyone. Their evening had
been spent getting to know each other, drinking, a little laughter, but mostly a realization they are
all in this together regardless of where it goes.
Hobbs / El Machete / 118
NOTES
His targets:
1.
The trafficking Cartel, “El Jefe,” because he was responsible for his wife and daughter’s death
a. Killed by assault rifle, very messy and dangerous
b. Key points:
i. He realizes he is not made out for a direct assault on a cartel. He is mostly lucky
and they were careless.
ii. He learns that the cartel retaliates against a rival believing they are the ones
that killed El Jefe, six innocent people die, his efforts caused a bad situation to
be worse.
iii. He contacts the reporter, tells her what he has done and seeks more
information on who to strike next. She explains how the cartels work with and
against each other.
iv. “El Machete” is born, a calling card will be left on his next strike.
2. Small town cartel, because they have destroyed a beautiful small tourist town and all the
families that live or have lived there have been impacted by the drug cartel. Key target is the
newly appointed lieutenant that guards the stash house and steal the money which will replace
the money he has spent and allow Jackson to move on with his life since he has left his job and
spent much of the life insurance money. They use kidnapping of tourists as their original money
seed and use corruption of government and police to keep things going. To avoid suspicion the
cartels use little security but also only allow him to protect about $1,000,000.
a. Killed by automatic weapons remotely controlled from rooftops using laptops. Less
risky, but expensive to buy, difficult to travel with and nearly impossible to recreate.
b. Key points:
i. His discussion with the reporter reveals he has done nothing to curb the cartels,
“the ripple in the pond calms quickly,” she tells him. The money is still with
them and more can be made.
ii. He develops his next strike at the money. He learns how the cartels hold their
cash in remote nearly empty houses guarded by one or two young soldiers
hoping for a larger role within the cartel. The money is often hidden in fake
walls or buried on the property.
iii. He learns of the brutality and intimidation of the cartel leaders. The overriding
desire for wealth and power within the cartels will allow virtually any behavior
by the jefe to go unquestioned.
1. The near rape of a newly promoted lieutenant.
3. Next target is the young money guard, who impresses hookers and strippers with his cash. He is
easy to follow and track to his home because he buys trucks and toys and throws parties at the
cartel money house.
Hobbs / El Machete / 119
a. Killed by siren gas (information on how to make it was found on the internet). A remote
controlled gas powered helicopter drops balloons on the rooftop AC unit. He waits and
sneaks in over the walls using a gas mask. By monitoring the guard from the rooftop
using high tech surveillance equipment he finds the money is in a fake wall and buried in
the cement floor. He takes the money from the wall and sends photos to the reporter
who sends it on to the police.
b. Key points:
i. The money he gets and the police response is still not even a minor dent.
ii. Money and power are the driving force of the cartels. The power is driven by
the money and intimidation and fear of reprisal.
iii. The money and large amounts must be taken along with simple uprisings by the
people to put a dent in the cartels strength.
4. The final target. Isabella introduces him to Raul, the nephew of Jaun Carlos, Jefe de Jefe of
Tijauna. Raul’s father Augusto and Jaun Carlos began the cartel when they were in their 20s,
selling pot out of their auto repair shop which their father had left to them when he died. When
Raul’s father was killed in prison by southern Mexicans Jaun Carlos vowed to ensure he would
take care of Raul and his mother by keeping them from the violent side of the business. Raul
was sent to the best schools in Mexico and even went to college in the U.S., graduating from
USC with a law degree. His job in the business was to find and build legitimate businesses for
the family. The problem they found was that with over the last 10 years anti-money laundering
laws were dramatically impacted any type of businesses from getting started. The cartels, albeit
cash rich with hundreds of millions of dollars, could only legitimize about 20 cents on the dollar
and even that would take years and years to get into the Mexican or American banking systems.
All his life he had known his father and uncle were major drug kingpins, and it seemed normal,
he was proud of them. They had money and power and lived a life no Mexican kid could ever
dream of living. Even at a young age he was respected and feared not for anything he had done,
but because of his father and uncle. It wasn’t until he was in law school in the U.S. did he realize
the impact of his families role on his country. They had destroyed a nation, paralyzed the
people by impacting businesses from going to Mexico for fear of the cartels. His family had
been a part of the generation scare on an entire nation… for the first time in his life he had felt
shame. He knew deep down he would change all this, at first maybe he would legitimize the
businesses and be a part of the rebuilding of Mexican society and international businesses, but
over the last 10 years he grew to realize he was only perpetuating the existence of fear,
intimidation, and choking off the people of his country. And then he read about “El Machete”
and he knew his time had come. He knew the money, the problems cartels had with the money
and laws that precluded getting any bulk input of cash into the Mexican or American banking
systems. He wanted to meet with “El Machete” through Isabella to help.
At first “El Machete” is extremely reluctant to meet with him, however Raul makes a bold move
$500,000 to show his support, knowing that if it is discovered and eventually it will be, so now
Hobbs / El Machete / 120
Raul is out it is just a matter of time. They meet and together they devise a plan to essentially
steal at least $100,000,000 from his uncle’s empire.
He researches thoroughly how to break through and hurt the cartels, it is money laundering
that is their greatest ongoing concern. They have small businesses and casinos in Mexico to get
their money into the mainstream, but that is limited when they have hundred of millions of
dollars to move. He reads up on money laundering laws to see what holds them back from
getting the money into the U.S. and realizes it is not just the U.S. that have restricted laws, only
the Caiman Islands, Dominican Republic and the Swiss allow money to be deposited without
concern for it’s origin. He develops a plan to steal $100,000,000 from the cartels by convincing
them he has a friend that works in the banks and does international banking transfers which is
not monitored by the U.S. federal government. His plan includes laying the idea of the cartels
opening an account in the Dominican Republic or Caiman Islands and allowing him to transfer
money (a small amount of 10,000,000) to show them
Hobbs / El Machete / 121
Hobbs / El Machete / 122
FINAL CHAPTER
Jackson, Isabella and Raul sat quietly without speaking for a long time, their only movements
and sounds were of the sipping of their wine. They watched the waves crash on the rocks
glistened by the falling sun. The Pacific Ocean in the summer time was a sight to be seen and
never explained, Jackson thought. It was Isabella that spoke first, “Jackson, what is next for
you?”
“I don’t know, I feel free now and maybe that is enough.”
“Freedom never comes without a price, as your country knows, but now you know that my
country truly knows it as well,” said Raul. “You know, too many Mexicans believe in a false
“American Dream,” he said in air quotes. “The American Dream is not money, or having things,
or even opportunity – which honestly most people are not willing to work hard enough to
succeed at anyway, the American Dream is freedom.”
“What is next for you now that your uncle is dead?” Jackson asked.
“There is no next for me, there is only a continuation of now,” Raul said quietly in a softer
voice. “Now is all I have left, I wasn’t given any opportunity as a child to choose my life, and
when I learned of what my family truly was, I still did nothing. I waited for years to find an
opportunity to change things, but my hands are still just as bloody as my fathers and my uncles
and everyone that has ever worked for them. You see, no one is innocent in Mexico or the U.S.,
no one. There is enough guilt going around to share for generations to come, and maybe that is
how long it will take to clear out all the cartels and their influence. I waited quietly inside day
after day, year after year and I never knew what I was waiting for, I only knew that I was
compelled deep within to wait,” Raul lavished his point with deep emotions in his voice.
“Why did you wait, what could possibly have kept you from doing something to help your
countrymen?” Isabella said with a mixture of disdain and empathy.
“I was waiting for a Machete”
Jackson Billings woke early (again), to the cool morning sea breeze of the Pacific Ocean. It was
nearly 6 a.m. and the brisk autumn air sharpened his thoughts and allowed him to envision the
day. He would wake, have some coffee, no more than two cups to avoids the jitters, and walk on
the beach at 7. He was determined to get back into shape after nearly five years of neglect. His
mind continued to formulate the day’s potential events and realized it was not his decision, Jenn,
his wife of 12 years, would soon rise and change everything, more appropriately dictate the day.
Jackson, long since a neutered man, would resolve to himself his plans had little merit in their
relationship. She would point out a few tidbits and begin to inflict her long-suffering
manipulation tactics on him and he would ultimately follow blindly along with “the plan.”
“Fuck-it” he thought and went back to sleep.
Hobbs / El Machete / 123
Jenn entered the bedroom for the third time, however, this time there was no attempt to be
quite. Briskly closing the closet door with no regard for the noise, she stared at Jackson and with
mild disdain for his lack of adventure she announced, “Jackson, we are leaving now. We will be
back this afternoon, please take care of the firewood it will be cold tonight and I want a fire for
dinner. We’ll pick up some movies from the flea market. See you around 5.” A peck on the
cheek was all that was left and she was off.
Upon hearing the front door clasp, he opened his eyes. “Now what?” he thought. The
morning is shot, I’m sure she left more than the firewood for me to do, no doubt a note with a list
of tasks, followed by, “I love you” at the end – did she, he thought. He languished in bed
thinking about her.
They had met while still in college in D.C. while he was attending the University of
Maryland – much to his father’s dismay. He was studying Information Technology and
microbiology and she was at Georgetown University on a Public Relations scholarship. They
met in a small Georgetown pub following the two schools playing in the NCAA sweet sixteen.
Maryland placing a sweet ass-whooping on Georgetown gave him the courage to approach her.
At first she was put off by his arrogance, but his self-deprecating humor quickly eased the
tension and they talked. Surprisingly to Jackson, Jenn did not really caring about the outcome of
the game and only went to be with friends and for the experience it might bring – this should
have been a warning sign. But all Jackson truly noticed were her great tits, lushes lips and
intelligent charm and whit – but mostly her tits. They talked for hours and she teased him
incessantly with her breasts, leaning over allowing him to see her deep cleavage, brushing them
against his arm while they chatted closely. They fucked hard and long that night, often she
Hobbs / El Machete / 124
would give him directions on what she wanted with specific details on what she liked and didn’t.
He responded by pleasing her again and again as she climaxed several times during the night.
“Finally”, he thought, a woman who can tell me what she really wants – this should have been
another warning.
Jackson finally rose from the bed and turned on the shower, he would masturbate before
allowing the rest of the day to crush his will and his gorging pecker.
Jennifer Billings was in her element now, or one of the many elements she felt most comfortable
with. If it wasn’t with her daughter 11-year old Elizabeth whom she loved so dearly, it was at
work surrounded by those that listened intently on her every word, or in virtually any social
setting where she was the life of the party always having a witty line or cordial sentiment. Jenn
and Elizabeth enjoyed their time together shopping along the Rosarito tourist strip. Their neverending decorating and redecorating process of the new Baja cabin kept them busy every weekend
they came down from L.A. Jenn had promised this would come to an end as soon as they found
the right matching pottery for the new cactus in the front. Elizabeth didn’t care if they ever
finished, she only loved that her mother treated like a friend while they were in Mexico, not the
budding adolescent girl who needed to be aware of everything and everyone back in the U.S.
She truly relished her time here and gave up many activities back in L.A. so that her parents
would have no excuses but to come down on a regular basis.
The shopping duo spent their day rummaging through the slightly and vigorously used
trinkets and knick knacks available at the flea market. The Mexican flea markets provided a
staple income for many Mexican families and offered significant purchase options for the
consumers, the last remaining win-win in a down-turn market. Virtually anything could be
Hobbs / El Machete / 125
found here, from pirated DVDs of movies video taped in theaters with hand held cameras to old
pots and pans but mostly used clothing. They giggled like school girls when they would find a
used blouse they may have owned years earlier. Their search today was originally designed for
ornate ceramic planters for outside the house. They attempted to stay with the beach house’s
current theme of terracotta but they soon looked at the colorful blue and yellow fire kilned pots
and of course, as in the past they soon lost their way and purchased a mixed batch of several of
each… they would make it work or buy more later.
It was nearly 5 p.m. when the girls piled all their treasures into the Explorer and headed back
to the beach house. The drive home would take 30 minutes along the scenic route and 15 to 20
minutes along the less scenic toll road. They rarely traveled the toll road because it seemed to
take away the true reason they had their second home in Mexico, to experience the life, the ocean
and the freedom all of which the toll road seemed to lack. Today was different, they were both
exhausted and looked forward to getting home quickly preparing a nice dinner, and snuggling up
next to the fire Jackson should have going and watching either of the two pirated videos they
purchased.
They barely chatted as they normally would, more intent on getting home. They reached
their exit off the toll-road and pulled into the traffic line for the military checkpoint, about one
kilometer from the beach house, normally they were glad to reach the checkpoint, as this meant
two key things, the first being that 25 Marines – the untouchables of the Mexican military were
present – the second was they were almost home. They had joked about buying the beach based
on the armed Marines as 24-hour security, a little excessive for a $59,000 dollar home. Today
the girls were eager to move through the checkpoint which seemed surprisingly slow for only a
Hobbs / El Machete / 126
few cars in front of them. They commented the Marines must be looking for someone specific
today. They rarely had any concerns with the checkpoint because the Mexican Marines were
known for their complete lack of corruption to the drug cartels and politicians.
As slowly as their line was the line to the right moved along quickly. Within minutes a black
Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows pulled up along side them. A chill crawled up Jenn’s
spine as she looked over at Elizabeth. They both knew it was a drug dealer but neither had the
courage to speak. The Marine, a well trained professional also knew, his attention, physical
stance and demeanor all changed accordingly.
Jenn’s first concern was to ensure Elizabeth’s safety, and yet nothing had happened, nothing
until a second Escalade quickly changed lanes pulling up behind them. She felt trapped, in
danger and very alert to the impending scenario. As they pulled up to the Marine, he quickly
ushered them through and they felt relieved as they attempted to drive away quickly, however,
the car in front was barely moving. As soon as the guard passed them through, he stepped
between their moving car and the upcoming Escalade. Jenn’s emotions began to scramble
between fear and panic, yet attempted to remain calm as nothing had happened and there may be
no cause for alarm. She took several deep breaths as the small Honda in front of them moved
slowly as the driver grinded the metal on metal gears of the transmission. Jenn looked in the rear
view mirror in an effort to gauge the true danger they were in and could see the Marine standing
abreast the on coming Escalade with hand outstretched palm up. She knew he wasn’t there just
to protect them, the Americans, from the potential of danger by the drug cartels, but was thankful
he was there nevertheless. They continued to creep slowly away from the checkpoint, they had
Hobbs / El Machete / 127
only reached a three car length distance when Jenn saw the black barrel of the gun through the
passenger-side window and her heart plunged.
The first shot dropped the Marine and ripped through the tailgate door of their Explorer,
bringing screams and shear terror between the two of them. The second and third shots came
from other line guards into the Escalade. Within seconds shots were coming from all angles,
Jenn could barely think about which way to drive, she looked over at Elizabeth screaming for her
to get down when the shattering of the back window broke her words. The bullet pierced
through her back puncturing her aortic artery. Her screams were partially stifled by the blood
pouring in her throat, she jammed on the gas and the SUV surged forward slamming into the
Honda directly in front of them. Their vehicle bounced off hurling them into the intersection and
oncoming traffic, instantly being met by the full force of delivery truck cruising along at 30
MPH.
The impact slammed them into the guardrail crushed by the full weight of the truck. Jenn
barely conscious could see Elizabeth was also badly injured but alive and awake. Elizabeth’s
seat was dislodged and turned almost 90 degrees facing Jenn with the seatbelt dangling over her
shoulder. Jenn was thankful for a brief moment realizing she would have been killed instantly
by the belt had it not broken. She reached over to her, yet could no longer speak. Their eyes met
with fear and pain, tears and blood strained their vision and they held each other’s hands as they
slowly faded into unconsciousness.