CHAPTER 22

Dave, Meet the Cartel

“That pinche gringo Pete has split with fifty kilos of our pot, patron,” Sanchez announced to Jesus, as he was eating lunch at a posh restaurant in Tijuana, Mexico. The drug cartel leader put down his fork and dabbed his mouth with a napkin, while his eyes grew dark and narrow.

“You know what to do, Sanchez, when you find him. Meanwhile, watch all his main dealers and do what you have to do to find this gringo son of a bitch.”

Sanchez was a trusted enforcer for the cartel, and he moved quickly to track down Pete or anyone else thought to be an accomplice. He was particularly interested in Dave, because Pete had often bragged about the jock from Escondido who sold more pot than any other dealer. Sanchez had gringo dealers all over San Diego County willing to watch Dave like a hawk, with the promise of getting Pete’s territory. It wasn’t long before word got back to Sanchez that Pete had gotten himself murdered in Tucson. The cartel rules were explicit. If you couldn’t get Pete, you got his closest associate. The rip-off could not go unpunished. At that point, Dave’s life was worthless.

A white van with FTD painted on the sides drove up to Dave’s house at about 10 p.m. A lone driver walked up to the front door and rang the bell. After a few minutes, the delivery driver tried the door handle and discovered it was unlocked. He waved to the van and two more men walked quickly to the door, where all three entered the house, holding drawn pistols.

They found Dave crashed out in his bedroom. He was quickly tied up and duct tape wrapped around his head and mouth. The men carried Dave to the van, deposited him in the back, and covered him with flowers. The abduction was quick, almost noiseless, and efficient. No one on the block heard or saw anything except for Sanchez, who was parked halfway down the block in a nondescript car. Both vehicles headed south on Highway 395 toward San Diego, and a half hour later they were headed east on Interstate 8 toward El Centro. After driving an hour and a half, the van and car crossed the Mexican border without incident and pulled into a gated compound close to San Felipe.

Dave regained enough of his senses to understand something was very wrong. He couldn’t move his hands or feet, and his mouth was bound so tightly that making a noise was impossible. David heard a garage door open as the van drove inside a building, and then the door closed noisily behind them. The men carried Dave out of the van and dumped him like a sack of shit alongside a large hole in the earthen floor of the garage. The dirt smelled putrid, and it was far worse than anything Dave had ever smelled. The men started talking in Spanish, while laughing at the teenager lying in the filthy dirt.

Dave started shaking uncontrollably and he urinated in his pants, at which point Sanchez leaned over and simply said, “Adios, gringo.” The men began kicking Dave until he fell into the hole and landed on his face and chest. He wanted to scream, but no sound could escape the tape’s grip. He felt something being poured on his back and head. Soon, the powdery substance trickled down the side of his face and caused a burning sensation so intense that Dave started to convulse like a worm in a hot frying pan. The men finished pouring the lye mixture over Dave’s convulsing body and then shoveled dirt to cover the white, squirming mound until it reached the floor level and there was no longer any movement.

Sanchez was pleased with the night’s work. He left the garage and headed for a phone booth anticipating the report he would give Jesus. Unfortunately for the parents of Dell and Dave Wilson, they would have to continue life without either of their children. Dave thought of that, just before his light faded to darkness.