by Samson Weld
Osorio tightened his jaw. Nothing aggravated him like running from a fight. Yet, Consuelo ran cooler, thought more rationally. He was usually right. The Russian mob was larger, more powerful. They had resources he could only dream of having someday.
His ranch in the Mexican state of Chihuahua was the safest place to go. On top of that, he could reach out to the Mexican cartels. Maybe work out a deal with one or more of them. The Russian drugs had dried up. He needed a new supplier and he understood Mexicans better than Russians.
“I don’t like leaving while Wexler is still alive.”
“We can deal with him from Chihuahua,” Consuelo said. “I’ll personally take care of it. There will be a contract on him within an hour of landing in Mexico.”
“And?”
Consuelo grinned. “His head will be delivered to you in a bucket.”
One of his bodyguards came over. “We’re ready. Everything’s packed and loaded into the trucks.”
Osorio had to calm himself. He wasn’t running from a fight. It was a tactical withdrawal to his place of power. A safe haven in Northern Mexico. And with modern communications, he could run his North Texas empire from that ranch as easily as he ran it from this one.
It shouldn’t take long for his lawyers to clean up the mess he made. The cops and politicians he paid so well had better come through. Or he’d have their heads in buckets, too.
“Cagle?”
“He’s going to meet us at the airport,” Consuelo said.
“Good. I want his partner, Bellucci, on my team, or I want her head.”
“I’m sure Cagle can convince her,” he replied. “And if she won’t play, then he is more than capable of delivering her head.”
After one last look around, Osorio headed for the front door. He heard a commotion outside as he reached the door. They were pointing toward the gate. They could barely see it through the winter bare trees and bushes. He froze when he spotted what had his men riled up.
“Who is that?” Osorio asked. “Why are they backed up against my new gate?”
More than that, he could hear the engine running, pressing hard against the gates. They were holding, but barely.
“Open it,” Osorio said, pulling out his Desert Eagle. He chambered a round. “I really want to meet that pendejo.”
His driver used an app on his phone to open the gate. The van surged through and up the drive, but veered off the driveway and slowed to a stop on the steep incline.
Osorio took careful aim, and fired. His men all opened fire on the van as well. They riddled it with holes and one shot from Osorio’s .50 cal pistol killed the engine.
“Is that…?” Consuelo asked. “That looks like the van stolen from Oak Cliff.”
“The courier’s van?” Osorio asked. “My money?”
He reloaded with a full magazine and then he directed his men in slow and cautiously. They watched the destroyed van like hawks, moving closer and closer. Osorio took the lead, going straight to the passenger side window and…
Finding the driver’s seat empty.
“How did he get out?” Osorio demanded, looking all around. “Check the back. Is he inside?”
One of his bodyguards moved up and jerked the back door open. Nothing. No driver. There was no corpse, either.
“Where the hell is the driver?” he demanded.
“Wait. Osorio, is that… Is that the stolen money?”
That’s when Osorio realized what he was looking at. A small fortune in cash was stacked before them. It was just about the right size to be one million, seven hundred thousand dollars, too. A smile started to spread across his face. There was a God after all.
“Do you smell gas?” Consuelo asked.
Something clicked inside the van.
Ka-boom!
“Shit!” he cried, knocked down by the forced of the explosion.
The detonation wasn’t colossal but fire spread quickly, engulfing every single dollar bill. There was no way to salvage anything. Osorio gawked at the van, and all of his money, burning before his eyes. Almost two million dollars destroyed. What kind of idiot destroyed that much money?
“We have to get out of here before the gas tank explodes,” Consuelo said, helping to drag Osorio back to his feet. “Hurry.”
“This is Wexler’s doing!” Osorio screamed. “I want his head!”
Chapter 45
The look on Osorio’s face when his money blew up gave Ash the warm fuzzies. It was positively sweet! The man had lost the one thing he actually cared about. It was better than he imagined it would be.
Osorio and his gang of killers were quite entertaining, shouting at each other when not staring at the burning van. Then Consuelo rushed up to Osorio and ushered him toward the waiting SUVs. The men all piled in, with Osorio and Consuelo riding in the backseat of the middle Escalade. Right where Ash expected him to ride.
Ash had to zoom back out to watch via his remote-camera app as they drove around the burning van, and all but burned rubber fleeing the scene. They turned toward Wylie as expected, so Ash put the phone aside and started the Camaro.
He pulled onto the road well ahead of his targets. He hit the gas, making it to Wylie and westbound FM544 long before the Mexicans.
Once on the wide, six-lane road through Wylie, Murphy, and Plano, Ash slowed down to the speed limit. He kept to the right lane and soon spotted Osorio’s little convoy coming up behind him. They were going fast.
They moved over to the other lane to pass him, driving about five miles an hour over the posted speed limit. Ash let them get further ahead before speeding up to keep pace. He almost lost them when a red light stopped him, but they stayed on that street. He caught up just as they passed over Central Expressway and continued west on Plano Parkway.
What did they have planned?
He figured Osorio was going into hiding. Ash knew of some of their safe houses, but doubted he knew them all. When they turned south on Preston Road, he felt confident it was one of two luxury condos in Uptown. But then they turned west on Lovers Lane.
“Where are you going, Osorio?” Ash muttered. He could only think of one significant location ahead of them. “Love Field?”
That wasn’t good. He hadn’t anticipated Osorio leaving the area. Where would he go? Houston? San Antonio? Back to California?
Or Mexico?
Osorio leaving Dallas did not work for Ash’s plans. The police might catch up to him before Osorio returned.
He had to kill him. Today.
Ash pressed down on the gas, closing the gap. His first instinct was to open fire on them, but that could start a firefight in the middle of a residential area. It was essentially what had gotten his family murdered and created this mess in the first place. No way he was ever doing that.
At any rate, there were a dozen cars between him and Osorio and the street was too narrow and crowded to pass them. He did pull the heavy coat off the weapons arrayed on the passenger seat.
His first choice was the Scorpion, though he had an Uzi, too. He didn’t bring the AR-15, since it was too long to wield while inside a car. But he did have the 30-06 on the back seat, just in case he needed to snipe Osorio.
“No,” Ash screamed, pounding the steering wheel when a red light caught him behind four other cars. Osorio’s little convoy continued on. “Son of a bitch!”
Seeing an opening in the oncoming traffic, Ash spun the wheel, hit the gas, and raced up to the intersection. A minivan with a soccer mom at the wheel turned onto Lover’s from the northbound lane of the crossroad, blaring the horn. Ash swerved right, shot the gap, and hit the gas to blast across the intersection.
Wheels squealed, horns blasted the calm morning air, but he made it through without being hit. Flooring the gas pedal, he tried to close the distance and prayed that all that chaos hadn’t alerted the mobsters ahead.
Only a pair of noncombatant vehicles remained behind Osorio’s Escalades by the time Ash caught up. He thought all was well with the world a
gain, until someone leaned out of the back driver’s side seat and started shooting at him.
Oh shit!
Two rounds struck his windshield. The safety glass shattered in its tight spider web pattern, making it almost impossible to see through. And then the two cars of innocent bystanders screeched to a stop, forcing him to a stop as well.
“Jesus Christ,” Ash snarled.
He released his seatbelt, scooted over toward the middle, and kicked the shattered windshield over and over, until he loosened it. A final powerful kick sent it sliding across the hood and away. Better.
There was too much oncoming traffic, so Ash turned right and up into someone’s front yard. Gunning the engine, he tore up a lot of beautifully manicured lawn, but got past the cars blocking his way.
“The police will respond quickly in this part of town,” he grumbled.
Love Field’s main entrance came into view before he spotted the three Escalades. Osorio had turned away from the terminal, heading north on a side road. Ash followed and quickly came under fire again. Two men hung out the back windows and fired at him. He swerved back and forth and gunned the gas again.
They turned into a side gate, hitting the gas as they did so to avoid hitting traffic. That caused a car wreck.
Ash turned into Love Field behind them, spotting a Gulfstream IV waiting. The Escalades skidded to a stop beside it and a silver Dodge Ram pickup.
“Jesus, he could flee to Argentina in that,” Ash cried.
And then Osorio and his thugs piled out of their vehicles, one and all opening fire on him. Countless rounds slammed into his car.
“Shit!”
Spinning the wheel, Ash zipped behind cover. He grabbed the Scorpion and slithered out of the vehicle. He ran as fast as he could to the corner overlooking the G4. Osorio was halfway up the airstair.
Ash braced the Scorpion against the building, took careful aim at Osorio, and opened up with five-round bursts. The drug lord’s bodyguards started dropping, tumbling back down the stairs. But two of them fell upon Osorio to protect him with their bodies.
“Osorio!” Ash shouted. He paused to pump a few rounds into the Escalades and Dodge pickup. “Do you remember me now?”
The remaining bodyguards opened up on him. Ash had to duck behind cover a moment. Everyone was behind cover when he finally peeked around the corner again, and Osorio was nowhere in sight.
Dammit. Was he up in the jet? Or back down with his minions?
Redirecting his fire, Ash shot out some of the jet’s windows, including the pilot’s windshield. Then he focused on the landing gear, popping at least half of the tires. There was no way that jet was going anywhere after that. And just to make sure, he pumped his last five rounds into one of the Gulfstream’s twin engines.
When the engine started smoking, making a high-pitched whine, Ash grinned and hurried back to his car. He needed more magazines for the Scorpion. He’d brought twenty this time. He wasn’t going to run out of ammo again.
Hearing the squeal of tires, Ash dropped down to the ground behind the Camaro. But no Escalades came around the corner after him, so he jumped behind the wheel and took off after them.
The Gulfstream’s engine was fully engulfed in flames as he passed by. Its crew was racing away on foot. A lone white man stood behind the Dodge pickup and fired at him as he passed by.
“You won’t escape justice this time, Osorio,” Ash whispered, spotting the fleeing vehicles turning between two hangers.
And then the G4 exploded behind him.
“Damn. That’s going to make the evening news, maybe even CNN.” He grinned. “I think I ruined more than just Osorio’s travel plans for today.”
Chapter 46
Bellucci glanced at Cagle’s empty workstation. She stopped at her own desk to stuff her purse into the bottom drawer and then headed for the coffee.
Detective Johnston was pouring herself a cup when Bellucci stopped beside her.
“Did Cagle wander off because I wasn’t here to corral him?” she asked.
“Huh? Wander off? Corral? Sweetie, you’re trying too hard to fit in here in the Texas,” Johnston said, and they both laughed.
“It’s still better than, get a rope,” she said, quoting an expression she had recently heard.
“True. But no, Cagle is a no show so far,” Johnston said. “Captain is not a happy camper, either. Cagle’s not answering his phone.”
Bellucci froze. Had Osorio or the Russians killed him? Cagle was playing a dangerous game. She was eager to tell Johnston, the captain, someone what she knew about Cagle, but she still stung from the last time she’d ratted out another officer back in NYPD.
“How does he keep his job,” she muttered instead. “If it was me, I’d be on the street already.”
Returning to her desk, Bellucci pulled up her e-mail before starting on the paperwork for the club shooting. One e-mail with multiple attachments glared at her immediately. Subject line: Deep Ellum Murder Most Foul.
The sender’s name was a phone number. She’d have to trace that number, but first she clicked on the accompanying attachment. It was video of Club Wild Child’s VIP Lounge.
No sound, and the video was black and white, not the best quality. Still, she recognized Pyotr Sokolov sitting with a pretty young woman, stern looking men standing around him. And then Osorio and some other Latinos walked up. It got heated real fast.
“Johnston, I think I received a video pertinent to your Club Wild Child shooting,” she said. Bellucci clicked back to the beginning of the video while Johnston walked over. “Watch this.”
Johnston pulled a chair over and sat. They watched as Osorio and friends arrived, and the men began to argue. It looked like it was over, at least Sokolov was waving Osorio away, when everything went downhill.
Weapons came out and they clearly saw Mateo Osorio murder Pyotr Sokolov. And his girlfriend, too. It was a scene of utter pandemonium after that, bullets flying everywhere.
“Wow. We got him,” Johnston said. “We’ve been trying to nail his ass for almost four years and I think that video will be the thing to put Mr. Osorio behind bars.”
“Awesome,” Bellucci said. “You want to me to click on these other videos? Or just forward the whole thing to you?”
“Go ahead and click on them,” Johnston said. “There has to be a reason it was sent to you, after all.”
The next two videos were shot from different security cameras, showing Osorio’s violent departure and how innocent patrons were gunned down in cold blood. But both women gasped and sat up straight ten seconds into the last video.
“Cagle?” Bellucci whispered. “What’s he doing there?”
“Nothing good,” Johnston said, sounding grim. “Oh my god, he’s helping to clean up the crime scene.”
Specifically, Cagle and three other men were taking away any of Osorio’s men killed in the gunfight.
“Bellucci!” Captain Perot called as he strode out of his office. “Your lazy ass partner just called in. He’s taking a personal day.”
Bellucci and Johnston just stared up at him. Then Johnston pointed at the monitor. Captain Perot leaned over and watched a moment. The blood instantly rushed out of his face.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded.
“I just found it in my e-mail, along with other security videos of the Club Wild Child shooting,” Bellucci said. “I don’t recognize the sender, but I’ll find out who that phone belongs to, Captain.”
“Forward that e-mail to me,” he said.
And then another detective rushed past them, up to the TV, and turned it on. Before anyone could ask what his problem was, the local news bulletin appeared on the screen.
“A private jet blew up at Love Field. Patrol units are on site and have reports of a shooting that caused it,” Detective Tran said. He caught Bellucci’s eyes. “The news people have already identified the jet as a Gulfstream IV owned by the notorious Mateo Osorio.”
The anchor was yammering aw
ay excitedly, while a live shot from the station’s helicopter zoomed in on the scene. Bellucci noticed a Gulfstream jet fully engulfed. Or what was left of the jet, anyway. It’d unmistakably been blown to pieces. Then she noticed a silver Dodge pickup next to it, also on fire.
“That looks like Cagle’s…” Johnston said, voice fading away when the camera shot moved to one side and there stood Detective Cagle speaking to a trio of uniforms.
“Why the hell is he there?” Bellucci asked. “If his truck is on fire, then that means…”
“He was there prior to the incident,” Captain Perot finished. He looked grim, and angry. “Bellucci, Johnston, go fetch Detective Cagle and bring him back here. In handcuffs.”
Chapter 47
Osorio had a good head start, but there was no way for them to outrun Ash’s Camaro. He raced back up to Lover’s Lane and turned east after them. Ash blew through red lights, leaving nothing but chaos behind.
Traffic on Lover’s Lane kept their speed down. It was an old neighborhood, with treelined streets and cars parked along the curb in some stretches. Ash’s frustration welled up. He could see them up ahead, well within range, but he couldn’t fire at them out of fear of hitting an innocent bystander.
Twice, police cars raced by heading for the airport, emergency lights flashing, sirens wailing. His eyes remained on the three Escalades up ahead.
Where could they be headed?
Ash thought of all of Osorio’s businesses and safe houses. He probably would never know every place the drug lord had bought over the years, but he’d discovered quite a few. There was one up ahead, in University Park. Plus another south of their location, in Uptown. Hell, Osorio owned a home or business in just about every suburb of Dallas and Fort Worth.
And then the Cadillac Escalades turned south on Preston.
“The Belvedere?”
Rush hour traffic on Preston was pretty thick, but it still moved faster than the speed limit. Ash had to hang back to avoid a running firefight, but he managed to keep pace with them despite the traffic light system trying so valiantly to separate them.
