Stone Cold

by Kristi Belcamino

  8

  I tried to tamp down my fury in front of Rosalie and Dante, but the reality was that I wanted to strangle that old woman with my bare hands.

  That bitch was lucky that Jonah hadn’t been seriously hurt. The paramedic said he might have been knocked out by an injection of etorphine. They’d found a syringe on the ground next to him.

  Jonah was able to tell me a little bit about it before the ambulance left. He said he’d been unlocking the front door when he’d felt a gun prod his back. He was ordered inside the building and told to unlock the storage room. Once he had, the woman had ordered him to step inside. Then he felt a sting on the back of his neck and didn’t remember anything else until the paramedics revived him.

  She’d lied. He hadn’t been at risk of dying. She’d been trying to scare me. But why?

  After the ambulance left, I returned upstairs. Dante was in front of my laptop, which was still open, showing all the building’s security cameras.

  I quickly filled him in.

  “So, he found you.”

  “And Rosalie.”

  El Jefe Grande finding out that his daughter was alive had always been a lingering concern. One that I’d consciously—maybe foolishly—chosen not to dwell on for the past two years.

  We’d been safe, incognito, for so long. Something had happened. But what?

  Hopping online to search El Jefe, I saw immediately what it was.

  His wife had recently killed herself.

  She’d been keeping the secret for years. But what had happened? Was it a deathbed confession?

  In reality, it didn’t matter. What mattered was keeping one of the most powerful men in the world away from the girl I now considered my own child.

  After Dante read the article he stood. “I’m taking her to Calistoga with me right now.”

  “You think that’s safer than here?” I looked around at my fortified loft.

  “Only because they know about this place now.”

  “But still.”

  “What are you going to do? Stay as a prisoner in your own home while the cartel hunts you? They will kill everyone in your building to gain access. Jesus Christ, Gia, this is the goddamn cartel. He will land a squad of helicopters on your roof!”

  Dante thought swearing was uncouth, so for him to drop a “goddamn” was serious business.

  “Okay, okay. We’ll come with you.”

  “I’ll go pack,” he said.

  “I’ll wake Rosalie.”

  I crept into her darkened room. The ceiling was lit up with a revolving kaleidoscope of the galaxy. The soft sound of rain filtered out through the noise machine on her nightstand. Before waking her, I crept around and packed her small suitcase with all the things I knew she loved: her favorite clothes, her favorite sweater, a soft lamb I’d bought her for Christmas. After packing, I sat on the edge of her bed.

  “Rosalie?” I said, stroking her hair back from her face until her eyes flickered open.

  “Gia?” She sat up in alarm.

  What else had I expected? Her life had been one of horrible mid-night awakenings.

  “We are going to go stay with Dante. As soon as you are in the car, you can go back to sleep. Django will be with you guys, and I’ll be behind you in the Jeep, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I helped her dress and led her to the private elevator that went down to the garage.

  I turned to Dante. “Wait for my call. I’ll leave the garage first and make sure that bitch doesn’t have others staking out the building.

  “Surely, she does, though, right?”

  I paused. “I don’t think so. I think she thought I was some average woman who was raising Rosalie and she could waltz in here and bully me into giving her up.”

  “That doesn’t sound like very intelligent work by the cartel,” he said.

  “No, but I think that woman is a long way from home. I don’t think they had time to research me before she made a move. They were careless and acted rashly. But I also figure this is the last time that will happen. So, you’re right, it’s time to move now before they rally the troops.”

  Once I’d loaded two duffel bags full of weapons and a few clothing items into my Jeep, I scanned the cameras outside the garage door. They showed an empty, quiet street. I flashed my lights at Dante and Rosalie, who were in his Range Rover, and opened the heavy steel garage door. It slid open and I slipped out first, staying parked in front of it until the door closed behind me. I again scanned the street. There were no silhouettes in parked vehicles. I took out my binoculars and glassed all the windows of the surrounding buildings. Nobody peeked out. Then I saw Jimmy, a homeless guy I knew, sitting across the street. He was leaning against a building, tipping back a bottle. I pulled my Jeep over beside him. He jumped up and ran over to my open passenger side window. I reached over and handed him a hundred-dollar bill.

  “Hey, buddy. What’s cooking?”

  “You tell me, Gia.”

  “Oh, you saw the ambulance?”

  “Woke me up.”

  “There was a woman, an older woman, here. She hurt Jonah and threatened to take Rosalie away from me.”

  “Wow. That’s rough.”

  “Right?” I said.

  “I was sleeping until the sirens.” He knew I was going to ask if he’d seen anything.

  “What about after?”

  “Couldn’t get back to sleep. The booms never stop. They keep on coming. I close my eyes and BOOM. They got me. Again. It’s Skuli. He just looks at me, and I can’t help him, Gia. I can’t do nothing.”

  “Sorry man. I know it’s rough. You are a hero. Thank you for your service.”

  Jimmy was haunted by flashbacks of Iraq. Booms referred to the roadside explosives that had killed his fellow soldiers. It was a damn shame. Every time I said “Thank you for your service,” his shoulders went back, and the haze seemed to lift and bring him back to the present. Broke my fucking heart.

  “You seen anyone suspicious around tonight, Jimmy?”

  “Nope. Except for the sirens and lights. Not a soul. Been quiet. Too quiet, even.”

  He’d been sleeping when the woman came and went. Too bad. He was my unofficial lookout. My eyes on the street. When he was paying attention, he was good. Damn good.

  “Okay, thanks. Take care of yourself. I won’t be around for a while. You got my secret number if you need to talk to me, right?”

  He put an index finger to his forehead. “Right here. I got it memorized.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy. Stay safe out here.”

  I rolled up the window and waited until he settled back down on his stack of cardboard boxes that made up his bed before I texted Dante, who was waiting in the garage for my signal that it was safe.

  “Let’s roll.”

  9

  Nico was up early. By the time the sun rose, he’d already reviewed emails and texts from all his top men scattered in major cities around the world. He’d input the sales and expense numbers into reports and then sit back, staring at the numbers that populated before him.

  His business was insanely profitable. He had more money than he knew what to do with. He had decided to give the majority of it away. The zoo was just the beginning. He had a lot to make up for. For years, he’d been profiting without giving back enough. Sylvia had often talked him out of his inclination for charitable giving. That was over now.

  After Sylvia’s passing, his attorney had called him and asked what he wanted to do with the $500,000 Sylvia had been spending each month on designer shoes, clothing, jewelry and expensive month-long trips to Paris, Rio, and Monte Carlo.

  “How in God’s name did she manage to spend that much each month?” he’d asked, sitting back in shock.

  Anthony had cleared his throat. “There may have been some gambling debts involved.”

  Nico was stunned. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Does she owe money now?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Good God.”

&nb
sp; “Don’t worry,” Anthony said. “If you like, I can make the transfer from your account and pay off all the debts immediately.”

  Nico exhaled and closed his eyes, asking, “How much?”

  “Four million dollars.”

  “Do it.”

  He could afford it. It would make a dent in his bank account, but he had it. He wanted a fresh start. He could not be known as someone who owed money. It would tarnish his reputation.

  He’d also ordered Anthony to sell all of Sylvia’s belongings, especially her jewelry. All money from that, he said, would be earmarked for a Mexico City charity that helped homeless teenagers.

  “Very well,” Anthony said.

  In addition, Nico ordered that the $500,000 that had been Sylvia’s so-called “allowance” should now go to feed starving children in Mexico. The attorney had two days to come back to him with worthy charities in Mexico to be considered.

  “One more thing,” Nico said. “Do you think this is why Sylvia fired the accountant last month and started doing the work herself?”

  Anthony paused for a second and then said, “I suspect this is so.”

  “Find a new accountant. Bring me three names. I want the financials gone over with a fine-tooth comb. When I make a bid for the avocado holdings company, I want everything to be above board. A legitimate business. Everything must match up and be legitimate. We start fresh from here. I want everything reconciled. Do you understand?

  “Yes.”

  Sipping his second café con leche, Nico used a top-notch secure SAT phone to call one of his men in the jungle overseeing three opioid manufacturing operations along the coast.

  As soon as Carlos was on the line, Nico spoke:

  “Did you take care of our problem?”

  “It is over.”

  “What did the other men do?”

  “They spit on his body.”

  “Good.”

  The traitor in question had been siphoning off amounts of the finished product and smuggling it out of the jungle to dealers who were selling it to the Rivas Cartel, the rival drug operation in Mexico. Nico had been trying to ruin the Rivas Cartel, which had gotten out of hand since its leader had ended up in an American prison. Rogue members had started committing some truly heinous crimes. Nico had heard they were targeting children and teenagers for sex trafficking. It was evil. If he could, he would destroy the Rivas Cartel so there was nothing left.

  A few weeks ago, Nico had gotten wind of a traitor who was funneling not only money, but information, to the rival cartel.

  Anthony had come to him with a pale face and shaking hands to tell him.

  “It is Paco Gomez.”

  “Take care of it.”

  The plan had been for his head man in the jungle, Carlos, to take out Gomez and his contacts from the rival cartel.

  “What about the others?” he asked Carlos now.

  “They were strung up in the trees of the jungle. When the courier comes to pick up the shipment tomorrow the message will be clear.”

  “Gracias.”

  “El gusto es mio” —the pleasure is mine—Carlos said as Nico hung up.

  The traitor had been a childhood friend of Nico’s cousin’s. It was one of the reasons the man had been in a position of power in the operation, where he would actually have enough access to the drugs to steal them. It was a shame he’d decided to misuse that trust and betray Nico.

  Despite Nico’s cousin’s begging, the man had to die. Gomez had to be made an example of what happened to those who tried to steal from Nico Morales.

  Nico glanced at his watch. Anthony would be here any second. He straightened his shirt cuffs and stood to pour a second cup of coffee for the attorney, who walked in just in time to be handed the steaming mug.

  “I don’t have great news,” Anthony said, setting his briefcase on the ground beside a chair.

  “Let’s sit,” Nico said.

  The older woman had underestimated the situation in San Francisco.

  She’d been forced to leave without the girl.

  “Rest assured, this is just a minor delay,” Anthony said. “Now that we know she is alive and exists, there is nothing that will stop us from bringing her home to you, sir.”

  “I can’t believe that my own daughter was living in San Francisco the entire time. Sylvia told me she was dead.”

  Anthony gave him a pitying look.

  Nico stood. “It’s hard to accept that everything Sylvia said is now suspect. It’s difficult for me. What if you had found out that everything your wife had told you for fifteen years was a lie?”

  “I’d kill her and never feel an ounce of regret.”

  Nico shot him a look. Sometimes his attorney’s cold-blooded attitude was disturbing. Even to Nico, who’d taken his own fair share of lives to get to where he was today.

  “What next?” Nico said.

  “I’ve sent Manuel and Lenny to San Francisco to assist.”

  “I don’t want the woman harmed. If she’s been raising Rosalie, I don’t want to traumatize the child by having the woman murdered.” He paused. “At least not in front of her.”

  “Very well.” Anthony stood to leave.

  “Please report back with everything you can find.”

  “I expect to have all that information by this afternoon and hopefully news that we have her in our custody,” Anthony said. “Shall we meet at, say, four? For a cocktail and briefing?”

  “Very well.” Nico said. “Any news on possible accounting candidates?”

  Anthony cleared his throat. “We are vetting several right now. The challenge is finding one who is both honest but also willing to turn a blind eye to some of the businesses you are involved in, Nico. It might be a lengthy process.”

  Nico sighed. He had expected as much.

  “Even so—try to expedite this. The attorney for the avocado holdings company is asking for a date to meet, and I don’t want to leave her waiting too long.”

  “These things take time,” Anthony said and turned to leave.

  After the door to the study shut, Nico stared after the man for a few seconds. Anthony was his most trusted employee and confidant, but then a thought struck Nico. One he’d never had before and one that shook him to the core: Did he even like the man?

  Everything he’d once believed was in question now.

  Maybe concentrating on Rosalie was exactly what he needed to ground him again.

  One thing was certain, being a father was the thing he wanted most in the world right then. It was what got him out of bed each morning.

  And now it was so very close.

  10

  Before I pulled into Dante’s garage in Calistoga, I circled the block twice, looking for possible escape routes and traps.

  His house was among a few others on a hilly street slightly above the surrounding vineyards. Once I was sure nobody was looking out the dark windows, I pulled my Jeep into the garage. I’d keep it hidden there during my visit.

  Dante had known his neighbors for a few years, and they were trustworthy. But he still had no intention of telling them Rosalie and I were hiding at his house. We would keep a low profile and lay low when he went to work at the restaurant each day.

  After we pulled in, I got Rosalie settled into bed. Dante turned in as well. I was restless and also didn’t feel safe going to sleep. I’d sleep the next day. I needed to remain on guard. At least to make sure nobody had followed us. After that, I would be comfortable leaving Rosalie here for a few days. I would head back to the city where I would hopefully find and confront the Mexican woman. I wasn’t sure what would go down when I found her. She’d claimed she didn’t want anyone to get hurt. All of this behavior seemed somewhat at odds with the image the media portrayed of El Jefe Grande.

  Everything I’d read painted him as a ruthless killer.

  I had become complacent. I hadn’t kept tabs on him for months. I figured that if he hadn’t known about Rosalie by then, he would never know. That his w
ife would keep her word.

  With everyone else in the house asleep, I sat on Dante’s couch with my feet up on the coffee table, my laptop open in my lap, and a glass of wine at my side. Soft music filtered through his sound system, and the lights were dimmed. I sank into the cushions and sighed. Then I took a sip of wine and started my research.

  The number of articles about El Jefe was astonishing. His real name was Nico Ortiz Morales, but everyone called him El Jefe. He’d gone from being a potentially dangerous contender in the drug war to the DEA’s top priority. Holy fuck.

  There was a $10 million international reward for his capture and arrest.

  The articles I read said he was worth billions of dollars and was extraordinarily intelligent and savvy. He never would’ve been able to rise to where he now was otherwise.

  What had taken the rival cartel leader nearly a lifetime of work had taken El Jefe less than five years.

  Unlike the other cartel leader, Morales kept a low profile. He wasn’t out in Mexico City clearing out fine restaurants so he and his posse could dine. Instead, he remained cloistered in one of his rumored five homes spread across the world. His wife had often traveled and attended events with an army of mercenaries guarding her, but he was rarely seen.

  In fact, before the few blurred shots of him at his wife’s funeral, the only known photo of him was from five years prior. It was in profile. I studied it. He was an attractive man, at least from what I could see. And he looked older. He had risen in the ranks quickly, but he wasn’t a young pup. I wondered what he’d done before taking over the cartel.

  I did more digging, reading magazines and newspaper articles, even blog posts. I found that some people viewed El Jefe favorably because he gave millions to charity. Others hated him, blaming him for the overdoses and violent drug deaths of loved ones.

  One article’s headline was “El Jefe Grande: Angel or Devil?”

  The way I figured it, he probably was a little of both. Sure, he could make those massive donations to help his public image, but I got the feeling he really didn’t care what other people thought of him.