ALFONSO DEL RAYO TOOK THE FIRST FLIGHT FROM SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS, TO Oklahoma City. He still had the muzzle-shaped scars on his forehead and his broken fingers were in a splint. His right eye was bloodshot; the blood vessels had burst in his eye when his abductors had hit him with their rifle butts. His black hair, now down to his shoulders, was slicked back, but he hadn’t shaved in days. He’d always been an extrovert. Now he looked haunted. He noticed people staring at him in the airport.
He waited for two hours at the Oklahoma City airport before Nayen and two other men arrived. Nayen introduced his younger brother Antonio and Fernando Garcia, who he said was a friend. They drove to an Embassy Suites. The horse auction would be the next morning at a place called Heritage Place, Nayen explained. That night they stayed together in a two-room suite. Nayen and his brother slept in the same room with del Rayo in case he had any second thoughts.
The next morning they parked in a massive lot filled with horse trailers and farm trucks, then made their way up to the white colonnades at the entrance of Heritage Place. Behind the building’s colonial façade were an indoor exercise ring and an air-conditioned amphitheater where horses were paraded around a horseshoe-shaped stage for buyers. The building was packed with prospective bidders for the winter mixed sale. Del Rayo had never been to a horse auction. In the clubhouse bar he saw wealthy Argentines, Mexicans, and Brazilians huddled around tables debating bloodlines and racing stats over Bloody Marys and micheladas.
Del Rayo found it hard to believe he was there as Fernando Garcia showed him a thick black sales book that listed each horse and its hip number, as well as its breeding lineage and racing record. Garcia explained that the horse they wanted him to bid on was called Blues Ferrari, and that he’d be sold near the end of the three-day auction, which would be tomorrow.
Blues Ferrari had a top-of-the-line pedigree but had been a disappointment on the track. Ramiro Villarreal had bought the horse in 2008 for $15,000 at the Lucky 7 Ranch in Oklahoma and named him after Miguel’s favorite sports car, then entered the colt in a Los Alamitos futurity trial in California, where he’d failed to qualify. In two years, the horse hadn’t won more than $20,000. Then he’d suffered a leg injury.
The stallion had been registered in March 2010 to an LLC called Fast and Furious. Later that same year, Tremor Enterprises purchased the horse for $50,000. Del Rayo had no idea, but Miguel, José, and Nayen had decided to sell the horse because of his poor performance. Forcing del Rayo to buy Blues Ferrari would inject more clean money into Tremor Enterprises’ bank account. Miguel hadn’t ordered del Rayo’s kidnapping, but once Nayen had told him about it, he’d seen how another wealthy business owner could be useful to their plan and had given the order for him to be spared.
Garcia led del Rayo to the sales arena where the horses were being paraded before the buyers and explained to him how the bidding was done. Del Rayo could scarcely decipher the staccato droning of the auctioneer or the nearly imperceptible gestures of the bidders. A wink of the eye could mean a $10,000 bid or a speck of dust in someone’s eye. Garcia told del Rayo not to worry. “Just raise your hand when the bidding starts,” he instructed. “Keep bidding until the horse is yours—no matter what.”
The next morning at the auction, Nayen’s little brother, Antonio, followed del Rayo everywhere, even when he went to the bathroom or outside to smoke a cigarette. But Nayen and Garcia were taking pains not to be seen anywhere near him. Del Rayo just wanted the bidding to start, so he could go home. He had no idea how much he was expected to spend on the horse. He hoped he’d have enough cash to cover the sale. Most of his money was tied up in a golf resort development in Veracruz.
In the late afternoon, Blues Ferrari was finally brought into the sales ring. The horse’s ribs stuck out and they hadn’t even bothered to brush the mud off his legs. Every other horse del Rayo had seen in the sales ring had been impeccably groomed, but not this one. The auctioneer started it off with a $5,000 bid. Del Rayo raised his hand as he’d been instructed. Soon they were at $175,000. Del Rayo couldn’t tell who was bidding against him, but whoever it was, the price was rapidly increasing. He raised his hand again and again as he’d been warned. They were now at $300,000.
“Do I hear 310, 310 . . . ,” the auctioneer called.
Del Rayo raised his hand again.
“I’ve got 310, 310 . . . how about 320, 320 . . . ,” droned the auctioneer.
Del Rayo looked around for the other bidder but couldn’t tell who it might be in the crowd of strangers. Nayen, his brother, and Fernando Garcia were nowhere near the sales ring, as far as he could tell, but he knew they had to be watching. “Sold for 310!” the auctioneer yelled and gave a sharp whack with his gavel. Blues Ferrari was his.
JASON HODGE AND ONE of the task force officers from the squad who had volunteered to go along for the surveillance watched from the sidelines. Two guys who looked too young to have that kind of money were also bidding, driving up the price until the auctioneer struck his gavel at a final sale of $310,000. Graham walked Blues Ferrari out of the sales ring and back toward the stables. They watched as Fernando Garcia and another younger guy led the man who had just bought the horse up a flight of stairs to the sales office. A few minutes later they were relieved to see Tyler Graham make his way up the stairs after them.
Del Rayo hadn’t known how much he was expected to pay for Blues Ferrari, only that he had to buy the horse no matter the cost. Now he’d have to scramble to come up with the $310,000. It was the biggest sale of the auction and Jeff Tebow, manager of Heritage Place, moved to shake del Rayo’s hand but stopped when he saw how badly bruised and swollen his fingers were. He took note of the scars on his forehead and his battered appearance.
Del Rayo smiled awkwardly at Tebow, who he could tell was now scrutinizing him more closely. He explained to him that he’d need to write two checks, but only one could be deposited that day. The other check would have to wait for at least a week until he could move more funds into the account. Tebow nodded and said that would be fine. Del Rayo wrote out the first check for $150,000 but his hand shook and he was having trouble holding the pen because of his damaged fingers.
“Were you in an accident or something?” Graham asked.
“Um . . . yeah, a golfing accident,” del Rayo stammered, keeping his eyes on the check he was filling out.
Graham and Tebow looked at one another. Tebow had gone from being excited about the sale to being alarmed. It was an awful lot of money for a horse that hadn’t run well and looked underweight. One horseman watching the auction that day would later say that Blues Ferrari had looked like “death eating a cracker” in the sales ring. And Tebow had never seen del Rayo at Heritage Place before. He was starting to worry that the check might not clear the bank. Without del Rayo noticing, Tebow snapped a photo with his cell phone of him writing out the check. He could feel that something wasn’t right with the sale. And he wanted some kind of evidence if the money never materialized.
The winter mixed sale of 2011 would turn out to be the highest-grossing auction in thirty-three years for Heritage Place. “The international demand for the Racing American Quarter Horse is unbelievable,” noted Tebow afterward in a triumphant press release. Tyler Graham, who had served not only as the selling agent for Blues Ferrari at the auction but also as a bidder for José, was heralded as the sale’s top buyer in the same release. But later he would complain to Lawson that he wasn’t given enough time to prepare Blues Ferrari for the sale, nor did he have any idea that José was going to sell the horse to himself. They both suspected that Alfonso del Rayo was yet another Mexican businessman doing Miguel’s bidding and helping him build his racing empire in America. In Laredo, Lawson added Alfonso del Rayo to the growing list of suspects in the case file.
THE MORNING AFTER THE auction, del Rayo flew back to San Antonio with Nayen, Antonio, and Garcia. Del Rayo owned a large home in a gated community in San Antonio, which he kept as an investment and a place for his family to vacation. He’d left his wife and kids there for safety while he was in Oklahoma. When they arrived at the airport, Nayen told del Rayo he wanted to see his home in San Antonio. Del Rayo felt it would be unwise to say no—he was still thankful to Nayen for saving his life. He knew he’d be dead if Nayen and his boss—whoever he was—hadn’t intervened. He drove them to his house in his rented minivan and Carolina served the men drinks while they looked around the well-appointed home. When they were done with the tour Nayen smiled. “Now I know where you live,” he said in such a way that it could only have been interpreted as a threat. Then he asked del Rayo to drive them to Retama Park, a nearby racetrack.
Anxious to be rid of them, del Rayo did as they asked. When they pulled up to the front of the track, a group of men were waiting for them at the curb. Nayen got out from the front passenger seat and immediately began giving orders to them in Spanish. They walked away in a pack, trailed by Garcia and Antonio. As del Rayo pulled away from the curb he took a deep breath. He hoped that whatever debt Nayen’s boss felt he was owed had now been paid in full. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d soon see Nayen again.