Ash Vengeance

by Samson Weld

  Squeezing off three to five round bursts, Ash sprayed the front of the shop until he ran out of ammo, and then he hit the gas. The Aston Martin tore out of there. He stayed on Miller to I-635. Traffic proved pretty heavy all the way to Central Expressway, where he turned south toward downtown and the Mix Master again.

  Ash couldn’t wait for the next morning, when he could stake out Osorio’s ranch and watch all the activity. That murderous bastard was going to be beside himself. And there was more coming.

  “I’m going to make you crazy,” Ash muttered.

  Two hits on his drug dealing businesses in one day added a new dimension to it all. Ash wondered what upset Osorio more, killing his closest and oldest associates, or crippling his cash flow by stopping the drug distribution and sales.

  “And this beauty added another angle, too,” he said, patting the steering wheel. “A very expensive angle, at that.”

  He regretted the car’s fate more than anyone who chose to work for Osorio.

  The drive down Central Expressway ended up one of the most pleasant since his arrival in Dallas. With most of the traffic headed north to the suburbs, he could cruise at highway speed. He had to be careful and keep the speed within limits, because getting stopped for speeding might end in his arrest.

  The Mix Master didn’t fail to frustrate, but he managed to get into Oak Cliff as planned, so he then drove to Mountain Creek Lake. It was a small lake, maybe a few miles long. He drove past the dam and down to the Mountain Creek Lake boat ramp on the eastern side.

  First thing, Ash checked to ensure the bicycle he’d previously positioned at that location was still locked up and waiting. It was indeed. So he rolled down all of the Aston Martin’s windows, drove down the ramp to the edge of the water, and set the emergency brake. Ash left the car running.

  He removed his ruck and Uzi and then leaned in to release the emergency brake. He felt a twinge of regret as that expensive luxury car slowly rolled forward into the water. It continued on, lights on, but the engine died pretty quickly. Ash stood and watched until it was completely under and gone.

  He knew it would likely be found in the next few days when someone tried to launch a boat. It was possible the grade was steep enough the car would continue rolling down a good ways, but he didn’t count on it.

  Let’s hope Osorio does something stupid before the cops find you.

  Shouldering the ruck, Ash fetched his bike and headed for the Westmoreland bus station. The all-important van was still waiting. And all that money. He could only imagine how Osorio reacted to losing all the ill-gotten cash. Now it was time to put that money to good use.

  And really make the bastard crazy.

  Chapter 31

  The heavy bass thumped at his chest. Osorio moved to the intoxicating music, his blonde and redhead dance partners rubbing their young, firm bodies against him. The women were half his age, just the way he liked them.

  Visions of a hot threesome danced in his head.

  “You are such a good dancer,” Gigi purred sexily. The blonde beauty bit her lip, while rubbing her butt against his thigh and looking back at him over her shoulder. “So macho.”

  Osorio’s reply died on his lips when he spotted Consuelo moving toward him. His lieutenant shoved dancers out of the way, a dangerous look on his face.

  “We have a problem,” Consuelo said, and turned away to head off the dance floor.

  “Go back to the table,” Osorio told the women, before following his top lieutenant to a private, dark corner. “What happened?”

  He wondered who was dead. Most of his top men were with him at the club. Who was left that he would care about? Raphael? Vivienne? Oscar?

  “I got a call from Juan,” Consuelo said. “He said Sokolov drove past right after closing. Drove by real slow.”

  “So?”

  Osorio didn’t see a problem. Sokolov loved his expensive Aston Martin and had it detailed twice a week. He had even personally visited the Executive Detail Shop a few times.

  “I just got a second call from Juan,” Consuelo said. “Sokolov drove by again and opened fire on them with an automatic weapon. Three of the men were slightly wounded. No one was killed.”

  Osorio’s blood ran cold. Were the Russians behind all of the attacks? Were they just trying to make it look like some kind of whack job who wanted revenge on him? He couldn’t stop thinking about how Sokolov so casually dismissed their own inability to get him all the drugs he needed. Maybe they weren’t satisfied with a piece of the pie and wanted the whole pie?

  Temper flaring, Osorio slammed a fist into the wall next to Consuelo. Those damn Russians! He knew they’d be trouble eventually.

  “Where’s Sokolov now?”

  “It’s Monday night,” Consuelo said with a wicked grin. “That means he’s at his gentlemen’s club over on Harry Hines.”

  He gathered his men up, and hit the road. Sokolov’s Players Gentlemen’s Club wasn’t that far away. As they drove south on Harry Hines, Osorio spotted scantily clad women on the side of the road, some in very dark and deserted stretches of the road.

  “I see Raphael has the girls out in force tonight,” Osorio said.

  The cops had forced prostitution off Harry Hines, but Raphael and a few other pimps had recently moved back in. The customer base remained there. So many in Dallas associated Harry Hines with strip clubs and hookers that it was a no brainer.

  He started spotting lesser, sleazier “titty bars” as they drew closer to downtown. Sokolov’s place was new and quite large by that street’s standards. Osorio still hadn’t figured out what the Russian had on Dallas city council members to pull off getting a permit for a new strip club. Dallas politics tended to be very conservative and even the liberals in town hated strip clubs.

  Players was brightly lit up, with palm trees out front. The parking lot was large, with a valet service at the entrance. Osorio spotted Sokolov’s distinctive car parked in his reserved spot: dark orange Aston Martin Virage with a purple racing stripe. Two big Russians stood nearby, guarding it and the dark green Land Rover next to it.

  Osorio’s blood boiled as he gazed at the car.

  He paused to smooth down his expensive charcoal gray suit, covertly patted the heavy bulge under his left arm. Then he headed toward the front door, three bodyguards leading the way. Sokolov’s minions guarding the door gave them dirty looks, but they were all familiar to each other. One of the Russians slipped inside to warn his boss.

  The Mexican drug lord wanted to walk past the Aston Martin and feel how hot the car’s hood felt. There hadn’t been enough time, despite the winter chill, for the car to cool down. A warm hood would confirm Sokolov’s guilt. But the Russians moved between him and the car. He had no choice but go straight to the man himself.

  Four more Russians came out the door. Osorio thought they might shoot it out right then and there, but the doorman opened the door for them. The four Russians followed Osorio and his men inside.

  They headed straight to the VIP Lounge on the second floor loft overlooking the main stage. Osorio found himself impressed, as always.

  That had to be the largest strip club in Dallas, maybe even Texas. It was the largest he’d ever visited. Over a hundred and twenty dancers worked there, not all at the same time. Sokolov had once told him that he kept a minimum of fifty girls working during the day, and up to a hundred on the club’s busy nights.

  The interior was dark, with most of the light coming from the many small stages. Everywhere he looked were skimpily clad women, most wearing lacy lingerie or bikinis. A good dozen dancers strutted around in nothing but jewelry and heels. He spotted dancers at tables, chatting up the customers. A few were giving lap dances.

  They headed up the stairs, passing strippers going down to the main floor. Each and every one was drop dead gorgeous. Yeah, Sokolov knew how to pick them. The idea of buying his own strip club came to mind, as it did every time he visited Players.

  Sokolov sat upon a leather couch in back
, flanked by topless women. He had a good view of the main stage from that vantage point, as well as a small round stage with a stripper pole next to him. Osorio saw a familiar woman humping the stripper pole.

  “Hello, Kennedy,” Osorio said, checking out her naked breasts. “I see Sokolov has finally found a job you’re good at.”

  The blonde beauty glanced at him, her eyes glazed and a beatific look on her face. He smiled, recognizing the look on her face. Kennedy’s drug of choice was Ecstasy. And she looked like she was really enjoying that stripper pole.

  Osorio stopped before the Russian mobster. He checked out his companions on the couch. One of them was familiar to Osorio.

  Katia was a very sexy Latina, with long black hair, smokey brown eyes, and a body to die for. She sat there wearing nothing but black thigh boots and a black leather thong. The other woman was a hot redhead, with a sassy bob, wearing a skin-tight, lacy white teddy, white fishnet hose, and stiletto pumps. Both had drug-glazed eyes.

  Catching Sokolov’s eyes, Osorio casually unfastened the button keeping his suit closed. He wanted unimpeded access to his weapon. His heart began to beat faster as adrenaline flooded his system.

  “What’s going on, Sokolov?” Osorio said, eyes narrowing. “My people tell me that you just shot up one of my places in Garland.”

  The big Russian gave him a dirty look, before his eyes returned to Kennedy on the pole. The other Russians stirred and the men on both sides prepared for a fight.

  “So you believed them?” Sokolov said in his slow Russian drawl. “People are idiots. And you are a bigger fool for believing them.”

  “The drive-by was done from an orange Aston Martin Virage with a purple stripe,” Osorio growled. “I can’t imagine there are two such cars in Dallas.”

  “When did this so called drive-by take place?”

  “Less than an hour ago,” Consuelo said, looking just as pissed as his boss.

  The Russian looked at his men and shook his head. “I’ve been here since before dinner. Neither I nor my car had left this club in the last three hours. Look somewhere else for your shooter, Osorio.”

  Osorio seethed. He didn’t know what angered him more, Sokolov’s casual disregard or the fact he denied the truth.

  “Don’t lie, Sokolov,” he snapped. “You’ve wanted to take over my territory for years. The so-called vigilante is someone you hired.”

  The Russian neither denied nor confirmed Osorio’s accusation. He glanced at Kennedy again, before leaning over and kissing Katia, groping her naked breast. And then, after taking a sip from his drink, Sokolov turned scornful eyes on Osorio.

  “If I ever decide I want to take over, you will be gone five minutes later,” he said, tone low and bored. “You are too easily angered, my friend. Think. Be rational. You are useful to us, so we have no need or desire to get rid of you. Yet.”

  Osorio bristled, but the Russian held up a hand to keep him from replying. Then Sokolov held out his hand to a bodyguard, who placed a pistol in it. Osorio tensed, noticing the long silencer screwed in the end of it. And then the Russian shot Antonio right through the heart.

  The loud music covered his murder.

  “I am a very protected man, my friend. Do not anger me again,” he said, handing the weapon back. His eyes then bore into Osorio. “I work for men in Moscow so powerful that your puny brain couldn’t handle knowing their names.”

  Still, Osorio couldn’t let it go. “If not you, then who? Who shot up my place?”

  Sokolov let a little impatience taint his face. He looked at one of his lieutenants.

  “As a show of good faith,” he said. “I’ll look into it personally, my friend. Now leave.”

  Osorio looked around. He and his men were surrounded by Russians, with their hands inside their jackets. It was a no-win situation. Fists clenched and having no choice, he turned and marched out. But it wasn’t over.

  Not by a long shot.

  Chapter 32

  Bellucci arrived at work bright and early Tuesday morning to find Cagle already at his desk and staring intently at his monitor. She glanced at the clock, afraid she was late. Nope. Fifteen minutes early, in fact.

  “What’s wrong, Cagle?” she asked. “Did your wife finally wise up and kick you out?”

  “Ha ha,” he said, cutting her a dirty look. She looked over his shoulder, discovering her partner had finally taken an interest in their case. “You should turn in your badge and become a standup comedian.”

  “I would, but then how would you find another partner willing to do all the work?” she replied, to which most of the other detectives laughed. “You’d miss me and my weird Yankee workaholic ways.”

  “Not as much as you think,” he said under his breath. Then in a normal voice, “I don’t see a phone number in his record and that Richardson address is just one of those mailbox stores.”

  She already knew that, but that was the address he’d given the ER. Wexler was either paying cash for everything, or using aliases. Probably both. That did not help his case.

  Cagle’s cell phone rang before she could respond.

  “Cagle speaking.” He listened a second, stiffened, and glanced at Bellucci. Why did he look so guilty? “Okay. No problem.”

  Bellucci waited for him to explain, but he just pocketed the phone and continued scrolling through the file. After a moment, he looked up at the clock again and stood.

  “I need coffee. Anyone need anything from the Java Shop?”

  Bellucci drank the squad room’s coffee as much as possible. Coffee shops charged too much. Everyone else still hadn’t drank what they’d come in with either. After a moment, Cagle departed, leaving her a little confused.

  “Has he always been like that?” she asked. The others just shrugged or nodded.

  First thing, she called the ER to see if they had a phone number from Wexler. They did. Bellucci scribbled it down, but got another call before she could input that data into the system. It was Garland PD, Detective Roberts.

  “Good morning, Detective Bellucci,” Detective Roberts said. “I’m fixin’ to send you some information about a shooting we had last evening. I think your vigilante struck a detail shop here in Garland last night. Look it over and let me know what you think. I’d also appreciate anything you have on him, too.”

  “Will do,” she said. “What are the specs?”

  “Drive-by shooting. Workers are all illegals, mostly from Central America,” he said. “Our responding officers failed to find anyone on site when they arrived, but did find fresh blood and beer everywhere.”

  “Beer?”

  “Yeah, it looks like some kind of after work get together that someone crashed,” he replied. “The place was locked up tight and there wasn’t any indication any customers were present. It’s a commercial and industrial area, so no other witnesses at that hour.”

  Not unlike the Hernandez and Alba Auto Repair shootout early in the day. “This is getting more and more interesting, Detective.”

  “But that’s not the most interesting part, and the reason I called you,” Detective Roberts said. “We’ve suspected for a while that Mateo Osorio was selling drugs at the Executive Detail Shop. It’s pretty small time compared to the Oak Cliff repair shop shot up yesterday morning.”

  The Feds had alerted the news organizations, making it seem like their bust all the way. Irritating, but that’s what they did. It was all about the PR.

  The files Detective Roberts sent over appeared in her inbox. Bellucci clicked on the e-mail and started opening the files as they discussed what little evidence Garland had. It wasn’t much.

  “Thanks, Detective Roberts. Let me check out what you sent over and I’ll get back to you,” she said.

  There wasn’t anything to link the drive-by to the vigilante except the fact that the shooter hit one of Osorio’s places. Of course, it could be rival pushers, or a drug deal gone bad, too. She found it interesting that zero shell casings were found. That meant that all the casings h
ad stayed in the vehicle and the workers hadn’t return fire.

  “Was he after one of Osorio’s lieutenants?”

  Didn’t matter, really. If Wexler had shot up both the auto repair shop in Oak Cliff and the detail shop in Garland, then he had to be stopped as quickly as possible. She glanced at the phone number she’d written.

  A plan began to form to lure Wexler in so they could apprehend him.

  “Cagle’s never around when I need him,” she grumbled, grabbing her brown leather jacket and heading for the door.

  The Java Shop sat a block over from Dallas Police Headquarters. Bellucci moved with purpose, glad she’d chosen to wear nice jeans instead of slacks. It wasn’t cold by New York standards, but still brisk. Fortunately, she wore her hair down that morning so the wind wasn’t murdering her ears.

  Rounding the corner, she spotted Cagle standing just outside on the sidewalk, coffee in hand. Why was he just standing there? Then she realized he was staring rather hostilely at the large man getting out of an orange Aston Martin.

  Purple racing stripe?

  No accounting for taste, she thought. But orange and purple?

  “Good morning, Detective Cagle,” the man said with a thick Russian accent.

  Bellucci froze. Russian?

  “Yeah, yeah, what’s so important you had to meet face-to-face, Sokolov?”

  That got Bellucci’s attention. A Pyotr Sokolov headed the Russian Mafiya in Dallas and was thought to be in league with Osorio, if not his biggest backer. Why was Cagle meeting with a Russian mobster in secret?

  Bellucci moved into the doorway of the sandwich shop next door and listened from cover, praying she wouldn’t be discovered.

  “I need your help,” Sokolov said.

  “I only work for Osorio,” Cagle said.

  That froze Bellucci’s blood, and her heart. She couldn’t move. Hell, she could barely think or breathe. Her partner was on the take?! Cagle worked for Osorio? She recalled how he, and he alone, seemed to be aware that a million, seven hundred thousand dollars was stolen during the auto repair shop shooting.