Ash Vengeance

by Samson Weld

  “What about money?” Osorio asked. “Did the cops find a large sum of money?”

  “I haven’t heard anything about finding any money on site.”

  Osorio seethed for a moment. Then he cursed in Spanish a moment more.

  “It’s in a brown Chevy van with a million seven hundred thousand inside,” Osorio said. “I want it back! Find my money, Cagle. And I want the motherfucker that’s killing my men.”

  Cagle brightened up. “We might be on to something there. My partner might have figured out who the vigilante is. She was about to tell me everything she has so far when you called.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Someone named Ashley Wexler. That’s all I got before you called me away.”

  Chapter 28

  The sounds of brakes filled the interior.

  Ash’s eyes popped open. The seat next to him remained empty, for which he was glad. The bus was only three-quarters full and most of the people sat closer to the front. He chose the next to last row, next to the window.

  The Houston bus station greeted him. They were an hour behind schedule, so the passengers for the return trip were already gathering impatiently. Ash stood and stretched, before grabbing his ruck and following the other passengers out. The temperature in Houston was a balmy sixty-five degrees.

  I wish Osorio had moved here instead of Dallas, he dreamed.

  Ash found both Lone Star Cab and Yellow Cab taxis waiting. He grabbed the first one in line, a Lone Star Cab. The vehicle was a Dodge minivan and spacious for a single passenger. A driver had a distinct African accent and was quite cheerful and chatty. Ash enjoyed an interesting conversation about the local basketball team.

  “Thanks,” he said, giving the driver a twenty-dollar tip. It was Osorio’s money, after all. Then he turned to the used car salesman approaching. “Hello. Are you Billy Cooper?”

  They shook hands. Billy squeezed hard.

  “I am,” the middle-aged white man said. He was decked out in full drug-store cowboy regalia: big white Stetson, western cut brown suit, and cowboy boots. He even wore a bolo tie. “You look like a pickup kind of guy. Ford, Chevy, or Dodge? You’re a Ford man, am I right? I can always tell these things.”

  “Actually, I bought the 2012 Aston Martin Virage from you online,” Ash said. “I’m Barry Hawthorne.”

  Billy’s face lit up. “Oh! Yes, welcome, Mr. Hawthorne. Come this way.”

  The used car lot owner led him around back. Ash grinned when he spotted it. It wasn’t easy finding a metallic burnt orange 2012 Aston Martin Virage. It still wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough for his purpose.

  Ash quickly slipped behind the wheel and then Billy handed him the keys. The 490hp V6 engine roared to life. The black leather interior looked immaculate and quite luxurious. Yeah, he was going to enjoy the drive back to Dallas. He glanced at the odometer: 17,255 miles, just as advertised.

  “It’s perfect,” Ash said. “Shall we get the paperwork finished up so I can get this beauty out on the open road?”

  While Billy finished up the receipt and state-required bill of sale. Ash started pulling stacks of one hundred dollar bills out of his ruck. The used car salesman did a double take.

  “You’re paying cash? Eighty-five thousand dollars in cash?”

  “Actually, eighty-four thousand, five hundred,” Ash said. “And then whatever the tax, title, and license come out to be.”

  “This is, um, unusual,” he said, looking uncertain.

  “I guess you don’t do much business with rappers,” Ash quipped. Like a rich rap star would buy a used car. “Anyway, I thought paying cash would speed things up. No need to wait for money to transfer or anything. Was I wrong?”

  “Yeah, a check would’ve been fine,” Billy said, and then shrugged. “I guess I’ll be making today’s bank run a lot earlier than usual.”

  The paperwork was promptly signed. Ash used his fake identification, along with Consuelo Gomez’s actual address. Yeah, Ash would like to see him explain that if Osorio ever traced the car back.

  Ash already had an appointment with another shop, just five miles away. He drove over and pulled into the Clarence’s Auto Shop. They specialized in tinted windows, and badass stereo systems. He called ahead to ensure Clarence and his team were ready when he arrived.

  Clarence proved to be a tall, skinny African-American. His deep voice over the phone had Ash expecting a much larger man. The shop owner put six men on the task.

  First they washed the car, before applying more soapy water. Then Ash directed them on exact placement of the purple racing stripe decal and they worked in pairs from that point on. Two men worked on the hood decal, two on the roof, and two on the rear end. They quickly applied the racing strip, squeegeed it down to remove all bubbles, and dried it with hair dryers.

  Once it was done and dry enough to drive, Ash paid the hundred and fifty dollars, push fifty dollar tips each for the workers. Again, it wasn’t his money. And just to be sure, he stopped for lunch and parked the car in the bright Houston sun to ensure it was completely dry and wouldn’t come off at highway speed.

  Ash ate his burger and fries at a bench overlooking the street and his new purchase out front. He noticed a lot of scruffy men and women out and about, and then finally realized there was a homeless shelter and kitchen across the street. He noticed a Catholic church next to it.

  A shouting match started up before he finished. Ash watched warily. He didn’t need any trouble bringing the authorities around. So he quickly finished and headed back to his car. But when a priest came out to stop the fight, two other homeless men held him back. That’s when Ash noticed one of the combatants had a knife.

  “Hey there!” Ash shouted. “What do you think you’re doing? Are you crazy? You can’t fight in front of a church.”

  He rushed over, more concerned for the priest than the homeless men. Both were middle-aged, bearded, and didn’t look particularly dangerous. Well, except for that ten-inch hunting knife one of them had pulled.

  “He stole my beer,” the knife-wielder cried. “I want it back.”

  “I drunk it, you old fool.” He stood straight and reached for his zipper. “Here, I’ll give it back. Got a bottle for me to piss in?”

  “I’ll cut you, boy!”

  Ash moved between them, facing the man holding the knife.

  “Put that up, mister.” He pulled out his wallet, handing both men twenty-dollar bills. “Here, go your separate ways and let’s forget this ever happened.”

  The homeless men brightened up, each snatching their twenty out of his hand. Ash ushered them away in different directions, and then shooed away the other homeless gathered to watch the fight.

  “Thank you, brother,” the priest said, looking quite relieved. “That was a wonderful thing you did. If only more people were like you, choosing peaceful solution over violence.”

  Ash glanced at his new car and thought about what he planned to do with it. A little guilt seeped in around the edges as he waved the priest’s praise away, and backed off. Driving away, self-doubt filled his thoughts.

  Was he really doing the right thing? Would Milly approve? Did becoming a vigilante put him at the same level as Osorio?

  “Damn, it’s going to be a long drive back to Dallas.”

  Chapter 29

  Bellucci paused just outside the auto repair shop’s gate and frowned. The place was packed with cars and pickups needing repair, even some looking beyond repair. Uniformed officers were still looking through them all in the never-ending search for evidence.

  She already knew from the buzz back at headquarters that it was a major drug bust, so why had they called her over? After all, Homicide detectives Kilgore and Tran had been given the case before the drugs were found.

  Gravel crunched under her feet as she made for the only open bay. Paul Tran was speaking to the Watch Commander just inside. The Vietnamese-American detective was about her height, slim, and always very serious. He acknowledged her wit
h a nod and pointed at Kilgore.

  Bellucci headed that way, noting all the men and women in FBI and DEA coats. The Feds were out in force. She had to watch were she stepped. Evidence markers were everywhere, mostly indicating the location of shell casings. When she looked up and around, she noticed all of the vehicles, walls, and even the ceiling were riddled with bullet holes.

  “What’s the deal, Kilgore?” she asked. “Too many dead for you and Tran to handle alone?”

  “Not when they’re all bad guys,” he said. He looked past her, and then all around. “Where’s your partner?”

  Her frustration spiked, but she remained calm outwardly. “Good question. I’d just started briefing him on what I’d found out over the weekend when he got a call and decided he needed coffee. That was two hours ago.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  He smiled. “No comment.”

  “Great. He didn’t get stuck with me, it’s the other way around,” she said, and Kilgore didn’t disagree. “So why am I here?”

  Kilgore indicated all of the bodies then led her over to the corpse next to the open bay door. He lay on his back, one hand inside his coat. Kilgore pulled back his coat so she could see he had his pistol half-drawn.

  “I think this one died first when the gunman or gunmen charged in upon that motorcycle,” Kilgore said and pointed at a Kawasaki street bike off to the side. It looked totaled. Then he indicated the dead man at her feet again, pointing at his other arm which was extended to the side. “See the skid marks? I think our killer escaped in a car parked here and ran over this poor sap’s arm on the way out.”

  “Fascinating, but I ask again. Why call me in?”

  Kilgore grinned. “Because this auto repair garage is owned by one Mateo Osorio. Well, he owns the property, but rented it out to Hernandez and Alba.”

  “Another vigilante hit?”

  If so, it was the biggest and bloodiest of them all. Seven dead. There could be others he wounded, but they’d fled the scene. This said, if he was trying to hurt Osorio, why leave the drugs behind. The police had found a cache of drugs worth millions while searching the crime scene.

  “Another thing,” Kilgore said. “This isn’t just a drug distribution site, or even an auto repair shop. This is a chop shop. No one here was repairing anything.”

  Bellucci looked around, wondering if Ash was responsible. She thought she’d made an impression last night. Despite looking pretty tough, the antithesis to a mild mannered accountant, she didn’t think he looked ruthless enough to raid and murder seven men. But vigilantes were a different breed of men.

  I should’ve arrested him, she thought. Dammit.

  Her mind drifted back to the office, moments before Kilgore and Tran had called her over. A very disturbing call had come in from Chicago PD.

  They’d finally IDed the decapitated body found Saturday as a wealthy stockbroker named Rodney Kingston. That morning, his widow found a galvanized steel bucket on her front porch. Kingston’s head was inside. And that was Osorio’s calling card.

  Bile scalded her throat just thinking about it. Maybe Wexler has it right.

  And that thought worried her. Bellucci had always been a very by the book kind of cop. Any deviations from proper procedure and protocol were forbidden. She understood other cops were not so hardnosed. Maybe she was wrong after all. The world was becoming increasingly more dangerous and lawless, bloody and vicious.

  Fight fire with fire? Or in this case, firepower with firepower?

  Kilgore and Tran left. That case wasn’t really Bellucci’s and Cagle’s, but it was part of their investigation. She spoke with the lead FBI and DEA agents on site, before her partner finally arrived.

  Cagle marched up to her with a determined look. She did a double-take.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  A big, bloody knot bulged out on his right temple, just above his eye. He hadn’t even bandaged it yet.

  Cagle touched it gingerly. “I, uh, tripped on the curb and did a header into a wall.”

  “Ouch!”

  He just looked embarrassed, and then looked around at all the activity inside the shop.

  “What do we have here, Bellucci?”

  She looked around, and shrugged. “I don’t know. Could it be a crime scene? Maybe? Where the hell have you been? It doesn’t take two hours to get coffee.”

  “Ha. Ha. You’re funny. Can we get back to business?” Cagle said, now looking more frustrated than anything. He fidgeted, looking all around. What was wrong with him? “So, did the vigilante do this? I can’t imagine some chick could kill all these men.”

  “What? Do you ever listen to me?” she said. “Ashley Wexler is a man. There are parents who give their sons names like Ashley, Shannon, and Marion.”

  “Sick,” he muttered. “Okay, it’s a man. Did he do it? Is the money still here?”

  “What money?”

  “The million, seven hundred thousand that…” he started, before his words petered out.

  “How would you know there was any money, having just got here, much less how much money?”

  Cagle waved his hand, indicating everyone. “I heard chatter, that’s all.”

  Bellucci looked around. She’d been there over thirty minutes, had spoken with Kilgore, and numerous FBI and DEA agents, and no one mentioned anything about money to her, much less a million, seven hundred thousand.

  Before she could question Cagle further, an excited shout went up. Everyone rushed over. Two DEA agents had found another secret room filled with drugs. From what Bellucci could hear, it was an even larger cache than the first one they found.

  “Let’s go back to the office,” Cagle said. “I need Mr. Ashley’s address, phone number, and anything else you have on him.”

  “Why the sudden interest?”

  “I’m just trying to get caught up, is all,” he said, but averted his eyes. “I realize I’ve taken this case too lightly, but that all changes as of now.”

  That would be nice for a change. Yet, he seemed out of sorts. Was he keeping information from her?

  “Let’s go,” she said. “We need to figure out the vigilante’s next move. You know Osorio and his lieutenants better than me. So who do you think will be his next target?”

  “Good question. This son of a bitch isn’t taking his time, either,” Cagle said. “It all started last Monday, about the same time. Is the vigilante working for another gang? Has he begun his end game? Is Osorio next? We better figure this all out fast, before we have a gang war, or worse, on our hands.”

  Chapter 30

  Juan set the case of Budweiser on the concrete floor of the outdoor customer lounge in front. The workers quickly gathered around to get a can and found a seat.

  The large patio heaters hissed as they warmed up the area. It had been another long, busy day at the Executive Detail Shop in Garland. Osorio would be pleased. They’d sold a helluva lot more than usual.

  The Mexican-American grinned as he looked around. Teaming up with Osorio had been the best thing he’d ever done. For thirteen years he scraped by selling pot and coke on the street, but then Osorio had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: work for him running his auto detail shop on Miller Road, just off Jupiter.

  While taking care of normal customers who just wanted a clean car, they could deal drugs on the side. It was the perfect setup. The customers came to him and they could launder the proceeds from the drug sales through the shop.

  The operation was genius. Their buyers paid for the drugs by paying for higher levels of detail, depending on their drug of choice and the quantity. Their “order” was covertly placed in their glove compartment during the car washing process, so there was never any person-to-person exchanges for the cops to film. Everything happened behind the scene, with just a few code words spoken when paying.

  He and Osorio made a killing and their buyers even got their cars detailed.

  The workers were all
smuggled into the US by Osorio. They mostly came from Guatemala, with a quite a few from Honduras and Mexico. Few spoke any English. They were the perfect workers since they worked hard for every little, and had no other options. Still, Juan tried to treat them with respect, paying them enough to ensure their loyalty if caught by ICE and questioned.

  Carlos and Gabriel began arguing, as was their wont, about fútbol. Juan opened his mouth to interject something sure to set them both off when a car slowed as it passed by. Not unusual, since they’d only closed ten minutes earlier. Except that was a very familiar car. An orange Aston Martin, with a distinctive stripe.

  He pulled his phone out and took a picture before sending it to Consuelo.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Ash sped up once he’d passed by the car wash. He’d noticed several of the workers taking note of his passage, so he didn’t need to make another pass.

  He pulled into a parking lot half a mile up Miller Road. His ruck sat on the passenger side floorboard. He pulled out an Uzi, racked the charging handle, and placed it on the seat next to him. Then he rolled down the passenger side window.

  “Sorry, boys, but when you work for the devil, you’re gonna get burned.”

  Traffic on Miller was light at the moment, so he just waited until he could time a pass by the detail shop so there were no other vehicles around when he drove past again.

  Seeing a window in the traffic coming, he eased up to the lot exit and waited. He glanced at the submachine gun on the seat next to him, causing a memory from earlier that day. The homeless shelter fight. The priest thanking him, praising him for stopping the fight without violence.

  The memory made him hesitate and Ash almost missed his opening in the traffic. He shook that worrisome thought away, hit the gas, and the engine revved up as he pulled onto the street. Did it warn the car wash drug dealers? Would they heed that warning?

  Ash slowed when he reached the Executive Detail Shop, picked up the Uzi, and pointed it at the front of the shop. The workers were still sitting in the outdoor customer lounge and socializing over beer. He didn’t so much aim as point his weapon in their direction.