The White Cockroach

THE WHITE COCKROACH By William m. Barnes ORDER AT http://www.booklocker.com/books/3991.html OR http://www.amazon.com/WHITE-COCKROACH-William-MBarnes/dp/1601458177/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UT A DEA agent makes Darla McCargo an offer. Seduce a dangerous Mexican drug baron, arrest his boss and the U.S. Government will pay off her New Mexico ranch. Sound easy? She doesn’t count on falling in love. About the Author William M. Barnes attended college in Alpine, Texas. His first novel, Running on the Edge, took place in and around the Big Bend Park. The White Cockroach picks up where Running left off and expands to the drug scene on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande where an all out war between rival drug cartels threatens to spill over into the United States. Barnes is also the author of a book of short stories, the Nonesuch Chronicles. He lives in Conroe, Texas with his wife, Margaret. SAMPLE CHAPTER CHAPTER NINE DARLA – CHUY The cornered rattlesnake coiled and dared Darla to come closer, its buzzing defense mechanism giving her fair warning. She had spent most of the morning cleaning the adobe shack. She knew Chris had warned her about the place but, like so many times in her life, she ignored advice when it didn’t suit her purposes and she had a purpose for this house. “I know you were here first, mister,” she told the snake. “But it’s either you or me and I’m bigger’n you.” The slug from her Beretta blasted a hole through the snake’s head and the buzzing stopped. She snatched the convulsing reptile with a gloved hand and carried it to the door where she tossed it on a growing pile of dead varmints, which included rats and other snakes. After cleaning and patching a few holes in the floor, she stocked the shelves with canned goods, bottled water and diapers. She admired the sign she had painted: “¡Recepción, peregrinos!” and tittered. She knew the U.S. government in its wisdom would take a dim view of her humanitarian gesture of “welcoming pilgrims” but she didn’t care. Oh, some of the immigrants going through here would be crooks or even killers but from her experience back in New Mexico, most of them were risking their lives to find a better life for their families and many brought their babies. All the guns and Berlin–type walls in the world would never stop them. She figured her little attempt to help someone along their way wasn’t going to affect this cold, hard fact one bit. Besides, it felt good. *** The Don Carlos ranch house was built around an open courtyard like an adobe fort. The concept was comforting to Darla. Being a lone woman in a foreign land didn’t bother her so much as not being able to predict the actions of Señor Chuy Dominguez. She’d already pissed him off. Will he strike back? If so - when and how? she wondered. “He’ll find you.” Chris had told her. With those chilling words in mind, she’d tried to secure the exterior doors but the locks were rusted and inoperable. So, until the carpenters and locksmiths could remedy that problem, she’d barricaded herself in and slept with a Beretta

under her pillow and her thirty-o-six rifle nearby. Not that she’d slept much. In addition to all the problems she’d dealt with and the danger in which she found herself, the feel of Chris’ arms around her and the memory of that unexpected kiss still haunted her. She kept telling herself it didn’t mean anything to Chris – he was just being a good handler. But the tenderness, the lingering perception of solidity - that somebody, somewhere, cares gave her an invisible cocoon she could wrap herself in when she felt lonely and afraid. She scolded herself for acting like a silly schoolgirl with a crush. It had been a long day. She’d risen before the sun and the workmen arrived shortly after with the new stove and the propane tank. The roof-repair job was going well and she was pleased with the colors she had chosen for the interior. The painters were almost finished. Things weren’t progressing as fast as she’d like, but she couldn’t complain. Darla had fed the newly-purchased horses, giving the line-back dun an extra ration of oats. She was eager to get acquainted with each mare and she especially wanted to ride the dun. She was pleased that he seemed to take his role as stud seriously. She sat in the kitchen, nibbling on a peanut butter sandwich and gazed at the lengthening shadows across the wall as the late-afternoon sun dipped toward the west. Later, Darla sat on the front porch in the twilight, inhaling the dry, cooling desert air and sipping brandy. Randy Travis sang “Too Gone for Too Long” on her new short wave radio. Somehow that song seemed appropriate at the moment. The view of the western mountains was nice but it wasn’t like Jicarita. The thoughts of her New Mexico mountain home flooded her mind with memories of Traction. God, she missed that dog. She was about to call and remind Chris of his promise concerning Traction, when a tendril of dust on the horizon caught her attention. “This could be trouble.” She drained the glass and hurried inside to retrieve her rifle. Soon, two pickups full of men slid to a stop in front of the house. Two men jumped down, hefting rifles. They separated, walking silently past her, around both sides of the house. She considered ordering them to stop, but decided she had enough trouble without asking for more. The moment had finally come. Six months of training just to prepare her for this moment. Was she ready? She cradled her rifle in her arms and waited, trying not to reveal the cold fear that gripped her heart. A sound from inside the house made her jump. The taller one emerged. “Es seguro. Nobody else here.” He returned to the trucks. The other man remained out of sight somewhere behind her. She hated the vulnerable feeling that gave her. Darla rallied her courage and called to the faceless pickups, “Tell your other flunky to get out of my house. What the hell do you want?” A harsh metallic taste of fear filled her mouth. She licked her dry lips and waited. A door opened. Chuy Dominguez stepped from one of the pickups and swaggered up to the porch. Darla braced herself. His gaze riveted on her, he slowly removed his white straw hat and dusted his blue denim jeans with it. The pearl-handled automatic she remembered so vividly protruded from his belt. A disheveled shock of black hair flecked with white alkaline dust covered his furrowed brow. “You bet the races very well,” he said. “Just lucky,” she replied. “You also bid the horses pretty good.” “So?” His eyes darted to the corral. “Where is my stud?” She shifted her rifle and glared. “He’s not your stud. Neither are the mares.” He glared back. “I don’t give a shit about the mares. I want the stud.”

“Well, you’re not getting him.” After a moment of silence, his dark brown eyes darted past her into the dim interior of the house. He glanced along the length of the porch, before slowly appraising her body. ”Why you come here?” “I live here.” She was sure her voice sounded squeaky. “¿No tiene esposo?” His eyes filled with ridicule as they scanned her body again. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m divorced.” “Can’t keep a husband?” He asked with an arched eyebrow. “No, I just can’t tolerate assholes.” He snorted, flashed a cruel smile. “Nobody else here?” he asked. “Do you see anybody else here?” His head jerked and his eyes again locked on hers. “This place belong you?” “You’d better believe it.” “You’re breaking the goddamn law, you better believe that,” he said. “Foreigners owning land in Mexico is not legal.” She folded her arms around her rifle. “You don’t know jack - shit about the law and you ask too many questions that are none of your goddamned business.” Anger contorted his face. His hand made a threatening move as if to backhand her. She managed not to flinch. His voice was low and chilling. “Last week, a sumbitch talked to me like that. I dragged him behind my truck until his guts fell out.” Bracing herself for a blow that could come at any moment, she kept her voice steady and low to match his. “You make a lot of threats for a man who hasn’t done a thing yet.” He shouted a command. “¡Rubin. Agarrar el caballo!” A man walked from the pickups toward the corral. He held a coiled lariat. “Don’t you touch my horse.” Darla commanded the man to stop. “¡Alto!” He gave her a sneering look and proceeded. She aimed her rifle and fired. The man’s hat flew off and he fell to the ground. Dazed, he sat and stared at her. Surprise replaced the sneer on his face. The pungency of gun powder in her nose, Darla jacked another cartridge into the chamber. The empty shell hit the floor and rolled toward Dominguez. He picked it up as Darla pointed the rifle at him. She glanced past Dominquez and saw the men in the pickups reaching for weapons. He slammed the empty shell to the floor of the porch. “You nearly killed my brother.” “If I’d wanted him dead, it wouldn’t have just been ‘nearly.’ The next round will be in your gut.” She waited for a response. It was a long time coming. Slowly, a row of white even teeth flashed beneath his bushy mustache and his weathered face wrinkled into a lop-sided mischievous grin. A soft chuckle broke the strained silence. It slowly built into a loud laugh. His men lowered their guns and joined in. Everyone laughed except the brother named Rubin. His hate-filled eyes warned her she hadn’t heard the last of him. Dominguez finally spoke. “Your well is fucked up.” She relaxed a little but the rifle didn’t waver. “I know that.” “So,” his chin rose defiantly. “What you gonna do for drinking water?” She pointed to a small cluster of willows. I’ll divert that spring and run it through the house.” He peeked through the screen door. “How the fuck you gonna run a spring under your stinkin’ house?” “You come back in six months and I’ll show you.” He snarled. “You ain’t gonna last six months.” “Come back in six months and say that.” He waved his hand at the skyline. “I own every fucking thing between here and Ojinaga.” Darla pointed a finger at him. “Not all of it, mister. What you’re looking at is mine – all fifty thousand fucking acres of it.”

He turned toward her quickly. She stood firm, fighting to keep from recoiling. He pushed the rifle barrel aside and gripped her arm with a strong hand, his eyes impaling hers like steel rivets. “Gringas don’t live long in this country.” She jerked her arm away. “This one will.” He stepped from the porch and walked toward his truck. She called after him. “I can take care of myself, pal.” As the words left her mouth, she realized they sounded hollow. He turned and looked back at her. “I still want that horse.” Darla watched as the trucks disappeared into the gathering darkness. Would they come back after she went to bed? It was a tall order, but she managed not to cry. ### CHAPTER TEN TO KILL A DEER The sun peeked over Solitario Mountain, turning the eastern sky to bright yellow. After hours of restless dozing, Darla had finally drifted into a deep sleep when a familiar bark woke her. She hurried to the back door. Traction was tied to a fencepost, struggling to get to her. A bowl of dry dog food and a pan of water sat nearby. She looked quickly from side to side but saw no one. Darla rushed to the excited animal and held him in her arms, thoroughly enjoying his wet kisses. Finally, she wasn’t alone. As she hugged the big Lab to her breast, her eyes searched the trail toward the border, seeing nothing. “I don’t know how you did it, Chris Vargas. But thanks.” *** At mid-morning, Traction ran to the front door, barking. An elderly couple stood on her porch. They carried several bundles, a shovel and an old suitcase. Doffing his hat, the old man said, “He say we work for you. He pay.” “Who said that? Who’ll pay?” “Chuy pay.” “Chuy Dominguez?” The old man pointed. “He own ….” “I know,” she smiled. “Everything between here and Ojinaga.” The woman walked past her into the house. “¿dónde está la cocina?” Still stunned by this unexpected turn, Darla could only point the way to the kitchen and wonder. “She is my wife, Anita,” said the man.”She doesn’t speak as good English as I do. I am Chapo. She cook, I clean out the well.” Traction wagged his tail, apparently approving of the new help. Darla could only shake her head in wonder. “Chuy, you are a piece of work. First you threaten me - now you send this charming little couple to do your spying for you. ” *** SIX MONTHS LATER Dating back several generations, the Dominguez family had smuggled medicinal herbs, religious peyóte, even Confederate cotton. They had run sotol, candelilla wax and illegal arms, along with Prohibition booze. When World War Two came along, they switched to black market cigarettes, sugar and tires. It seemed if the voracious Big Brother to the north decided he wanted it bad enough, he would deem it illegal. Then the Dominguez family smuggled it.

Now the merchandise had changed to immigrants and drugs. Smuggling was a way of life in the hard-scrabble desert. Chuy Dominguez was a smuggler. He knew nothing else. One of his favorite pastimes was driving his pickup too fast along a rough rocky road with a cold beer resting between his legs, cooling his cojones. He liked to sing along with blaring Tejano music at the top of his off-key voice. But today, that goddammed gringa had moved onto his ranch and it pissed him off. He’d given up trying to buy Rancho Don Carlos long ago. Not that he didn’t have the money. Hell, he could buy it twenty times with pocket change. But clearing a fucking title that had been clouded for over a century wasn’t worth the effort. He’d used the caves in the mountains on the ranch for storing marijuana and cocaina ever since he took over the plaza. So why buy it? If he used it, he owned it. But to have a woman - especially a goddamned gringa - move in and take over like a squatter was an insult. The marijuana crop in the western mountains was good and Chuy expected the first shipments of the season to arrive soon. The Don Carlos caves would be full and distribution to the States would soon follow. The woman must be gone by then - it’d been six months. She’ll beg him to take that shit hole off her hands. His hand pounded the steering wheel. His foot tromped the accelerator. *** As he drove into the yard at Rancho Don Carlos, Chuy was surprised at the improvements the gringa had made to the place. The broken down fences had been rebuilt, Chickens and turkeys roamed in a new pen. The mares and a milk cow stood in the corral. His eyes scanned the pens for the dun but he didn’t see him. He sped to the house and braked to a stop. Chapo came out on the porch. “Where is she?” “Not here.” Chapo aimed his chin toward the mountains. “Did she ride the dun?” “She drove the truck.” “Then where is the dun?” The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Pasture.” “Why the hell did she go out there?” Chuy demanded. Chapo pointed to a paper target on a post in the distance. “She sat on the porch and shot her rifle all day. She walked to that damn target, looked. Walked back. Shot again. She left before sunup. I asked her where she go. She say, ‘To kill a deer.’” Chuy said, “She’ll be gone by nightfall. You and Anita pack up and get out.” Chapo gazed out over the land. “She stay. We stay.” “Suit yourself. But she won’t be staying.” Chuy counted three hundred paces to the small target nailed to a post. Four bullet holes were aligned from the upper right-hand corner of the paper toward the center of the target where they joined a tight cluster of holes. He smiled at the memory of his brother’s hat flying off his head. “The bitch can shoot.” The smile faded. “She’s got to go.” He stormed to his truck. *** Chuy found her near the base of a low limestone bluff, next to a new Ford 250 pickup. She held a skinning knife. A braid of hair hung from under her large straw hat. A black dog faced him and snarled. The carcass of a twelve-point mule deer lay belly-up at her feet, a single bullet hole in his shoulder. Clean shot, he conceded. Chuy had to admit, this gringa was one fine-looking woman. He wondered what other surprises she had up her sleeve. He looked closer at the deer. A neat shallow cut ran from his sternum to his anus. Severed testicles and a penis lay on the ground where she had tossed them.

“You shoot ‘im?” he asked. Wiping sweat from her forehead, she said. “No, you idiot. I fucked him to death.” She gestured. “Grab his horns and help me lay him on this tarp.” As he helped her, she said, “Too bad you didn’t get here sooner, you could’a helped me carry him back to the truck.” “How far you drag ‘im?” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “Not far - other side of that hill.” They rolled the animal over on his side and the entrails began to shift. She stuck her knife into the anus and cut carefully. The odor of bowels struck Chuy’s nostrils. “What the hell you do?” he said. She answered without looking up. “Gotta be careful or I’ll bust his bladder. Piss spoils the meat.” She looked at him curiously. “Didn’t you know that?” “Of course I knew that. I was just testin’ you.” She pointed to the tail gate. “Hand me that bone saw.” She began separating the ribs from the breastbone. “Why you not bleed him? You supposed to hang a deer up and cut his throat so he’ll bleed.” “Do you see a frigging tree around here? What would I hang him on – a sky hook? I don’t usually bother with that anyway if I can get him home, quarter and ice him down quickly. Blood helps cure the meat.” He was incredulous. “You got ice?” She looked at him and sneered. “Didn’t I just say I had ice?” She stood back and looked at the carcass. “Besides, I don’t want to damage the cape by cutting his throat. I’m gonna mount this gentleman. His head will decorate the fireplace of my lodge and inspire my guests.” “You ain’t got nothing but a rundown old shack in the middle of the desert. You ain’t got no ice! What guests? And what the fuck you need horses for? And by the way, my dun wasn’t with the mares.” “You didn’t think I’d leave him there for you to steal, did you? He’s someplace safe. And there you go again - asking your stupid questions. You haven’t been around for awhile, have you? “ “No. So what?” “I hauled in a hundred pounds of ice from Pequiña a couple of days ago and now I’ve got me a walk-in freezer.” His jaw dropped. “What the fuck you want with a freezer? You ain’t got no electricity.” “Oh, yes I do. Had me a generator and a lotta other stuff trucked in.” “How’d you do that without me knowin’?” “Anita and Chapo love you. Don’t get them wrong. But they love me, too. You don’t pay them enough to tattle on me.” She pushed up her sleeves. “Hand me that other knife and sharpen this one.” She threw it, expertly sticking it in a sack near his leg, making him jump. “Whetstone’s in the truck.” She dropped to her knees and thrust both hands into the deer’s cavity. He started to say something, then shook his head and stalked to the truck for the whetstone. The dog followed him and sniffed his pants-leg. Suddenly, he heard a loud “whoosh.” “What the hell was that?” The dog snarled a warning as he hurried back in time to see the guts roll out, leaving the cavity empty and clean. She stood up and grinned, shaking a bloody finger at him. “You’ve never dressed a deer, have you?” “Well, no,” he admitted, weakly. “I never had to ….” She moved closer. “Did you ever shoot one?’ “Course I have. I’ve shot a lotta deer.” “You’re lying. If you did manage to hit one, you never had to dress it.” She laughed. “What’s the matter? Big bad drug lord got a weak tummy?” “Look, bitch,” he yelled. “I’ve killed more men than anybody in the whole fucking

state of Chihuahua.” “Oh?” She smirked. “You kill a lotta people alright but I bet you’ve got flunkies to bury ‘em for you.” He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to him. “What you gonna do with a fuckin’ walk-in freezer – start a fuckin’ undertaker parlor?” Canine teeth sunk into his leg. Blood suddenly wet his jeans above his boot. “¡Ching gao!” He cursed and reached for his .45. “You pull that gun and you’ll draw back a nub.” She suddenly held her rifle with bloody hands. When he froze, she said, “I’m gonna fix that old house up and turn it into the best damned hunting lodge in all of Mexico. Then I’m gonna blade me off a landing strip and fly in two-three hundred rich gringo sumbitches every year and show ‘em some of the best goddammed deer and antelope huntin’ this side of Wyoming. You got a problem with that?” She shifted the rifle, aiming it squarely at his chest. Dammit! That was the second time she’d gotten the drop on him. He rolled his pantleg up. Blood streamed from two puncture wounds. “Your fuckin’ dog bit me.” “Lemme see.” She wiped her hands with a rag and peered at his calf. She tossed a first-aid kit to him. “Put a Band-Aid on it. You’ll live. He’s had his shots.” While he mumbled and attended to his wound, she pulled a drawstring bag from her shirt pocket and poured a substance into a sleeve of paper. She licked the paper and rolled the cigarette. “Where you get that sorry shit?” he demanded. She lit the cigarette with a Zippo lighter, inhaled deeply and let the smoke out slowly. “Why? Is marijuana against the law in Mexico? If I thought you needed to know, I’d tell you.” “From now on, you don’t get no weed from nobody but me, you got that?” He jerked the sack from her pocket. “This shit ain’t nothing but twigs off the goddammed stalks. It ain’t worth a gourd fulla spit.” He tossed it away. “You got anything better?” she demanded. “You fucking well know I do.” “I know you talk a lot, that’s all I know.” She took another drag, leaving the joint hanging from one corner of her mouth. It made her look even tougher – and, he hated to admit, more desirable. She stared him up and down. “You got any whores in Ojinaga?” “Yeah, ‘Boys Town’s got the best whores this side of Juarez.” “Can you produce ‘em for a party?” “They do anything I say.” “I’ll tell you what, Frito. You supply me the best whores your Boys Town has got and a little quality weed and coke, free of charge, and I just might allow you to keep on storing your precious dope in my caves.” His mouth flew open. “How the fuck did you know about them caves?” “You didn’t think I’d buy a ranch without examining every square inch of it, did you?” She wiped the knife on her jeans. “Now help me load Rudolph onto the truck.” They loaded the deer and she slammed the tailgate shut. She then handed him the half-smoked roach. “You look like you need this more’n I do.” She spoke to the dog. “Traction! Truck.” The dog jumped in the back. She drove away, leaving him in her dust. He stood frozen, holding the smoldering roach, and watched her disappear. Suddenly the coals burned him and he threw it to the ground. He rubbed his fingers and then rubbed his throbbing leg. “¡Chiuela, Chihuahua!” *** ORDER AT http://www.booklocker.com/books/3991.html OR

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