“His day is coming,” Chris promised. “Gomez is exactly the type of person we specialize in dealing with and believe me when I tell you we don’t stop until we attain our objective. All we need to do now is determine how we want to nail him.”
“This practice of sending his whores out to resorts like this one is something I may be able to work with,” Ortega suggested. “By soliciting customers outside Gomez’s property, he cannot argue they are simply employees at his own resort.”
“I guess you could go that route,” said Chris, “But based on what you’ve told us, for all your efforts, he probably wouldn’t even get a slap on the wrist. I think we need to get him with something much bigger, something serious enough that his connections will step back and refuse to help him.”
Ortega sighed. “That means we will have to wait until he gets involved in narcotics again. Trafficking activities seem to have been increasing slowly in recent months and we suspect he has been working on developing new sources. However, building sufficient trust takes time so it may be a while before he actually becomes active again.”
“I’m not sure we’ll have to wait that long,” Chris replied. “I have an idea I want to discuss with Jonathan and, if he agrees, we’ll have to convince others to help us out. This may take a few days but let us look at a few things and we’ll get back to you once we have something to work with.”
“I will be waiting for your call,” said Ortega. “If you can find a way to put that animal in prison, I promise you will get all the assistance I can provide.”
Chapter 4 – Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Yankton, South Dakota, 2:47 p.m.
“Torres,” came the call from the entrance to the music room. “McKinley wants to see you in his office.”
Alonso Torres kept up with his guitar riff for a moment before snapping back, “I’m busy, Jimbo. What does he want from me anyhow?”
James Murdock crossed his arms and smiled before replying, “Don’t make me take away your guitar and send you to your room, asshole.”
“Bastard,” said Torres with a grin as he set his guitar in its stand before strolling over. “Seriously, any idea what this is about? I’ve been a good boy, haven’t I?”
“A real prince,” the guard replied as they headed down the hallway toward Warden McKinley’s office. “And, no, I don’t know what he wants. Maybe somebody mailed in a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card with your name on it. I’m hoping, for my sake.”
“Ha,” Torres snorted. “You’ll be heartbroken when I leave here.”
Precisely fourteen months earlier, Alonso Torres, then legally known as Pablo Martinez, had been looking at a bleak, and short, future due to an iron-clad case against him for first degree murder and the promise of the needle. But miracles can occur, particularly if one happens to be in a position of power with access to and knowledge of information deemed vitally important by others. As things had turned out, Pablo Martinez had been exactly in such a position.
A career criminal, Martinez had risen from the street gang scene of Los Angeles to become one of the top men of the Devil’s Delight, a finely tuned international crime organization specialized in drug distribution. Though not from lack of trying, authorities had never succeeded in cracking the drug ring, particularly at its upper echelons, mainly due to its multi-tiered structure where most had no idea who actually ran the syndicate to begin with.
All this had changed when Martinez, long suspected of being a high-level member of the Devil’s Delight, had ordered the successful hit on a rival distributor. Unfortunately, murder for remuneration is a capital crime in Texas and when the hired killer had been nabbed, he had offered solid proof of Martinez’s involvement in exchange for leniency.
Martinez had been arrested, made to understand the seriousness of his predicament and offered options. The first was death by lethal injection, which the prosecutor had promised would be fast-tracked. The second was a sentence reduction commensurate to the assistance he could provide to take down the Devil’s Delight. The information Martinez had supplied had resulted in the annihilation of the criminal organization. In exchange, Pablo Martinez had become Alonso Torres and, following a recuperation period in relation to cosmetic surgery, he had moved to Federal Prison Camp, Yankton, SD, to serve a five year sentence for fully documented though fictitious tax fraud charges.
Though technically in prison, life in the minimum security facility wasn’t bad, certainly much better than the conditions he would have endured on death row while waiting to be executed. Many of his fellow inmates were in for white-collar crimes, much as he supposedly was, and most were rather intelligent with a high percentage of them well educated. Violence was non-existent unless the occasional argument on the basketball court or softball diamond qualified. The food was quite good and, since the facility had once been a college campus, inmates were housed comfortably enough in the former student dormitories. Most had at least part time jobs and various activities, including the music room, were available to pass the time. It was even possible to go into the community for volunteer work at local non-profits.
Having lived all of his life in the southern part of the country, the only thing which bothered Martinez/Torres, barring his current lack of freedom, was the South Dakotan winter and accompanying cold. Following his arrival in late January, he had only set foot outside when obligated to until April when temperatures had started creeping up into the fifties. His second stint at hibernation had begun in November when the thermometers had dipped into the dismal forties.
“Go right on in,” said the warden’s assistant as they entered the anteroom which served as her office. “He’s expecting you.”
Murdock nodded and strode across the room with Torres following, knocking on the warden’s office door before opening it.
“Afternoon, chief,” he said. “Torres is here to see you as requested.”
“Thanks, Jim,” the bear-like warden replied from behind his desk. “Come on in, Alonso.”
“You still need me?” asked Murdock, stepping aside to let Torres by.
“No, that’s it for now,” said McKinley. “Thanks, Jim.”
He waited until the door closed behind the guard then looked at Torres and said, “Take a load off.”
“Thanks,” Torres replied, settling into one of the visitor’s chairs across from the warden. “What’s this about?”
McKinley smiled and shrugged as he reached for the telephone. “Frankly, I don’t know. All I can tell you is someone wants to talk to you. Give me a minute. The call is expected so it shouldn’t be long.”
He glanced at a slip of paper on his desk then dialed a number and waited, possibly two or three rings, before saying, “McKinley here, FPC Yankton… Yes, he’s here with me… Sure, I understand. No need to apologize. Hang on.”
He stood and held the phone across toward Torres. “Somebody who wants to speak to you. I was asked to give you some privacy so I’ll wait outside while you take the call.”
Torres took the phone and watched the big man stride across the room. Once the warden had stepped out and closed the door, he raised the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon, Pablo, or should I say, Alonso,” said a familiar voice. “Craig Cunningham here.”
Surprised, Torres remained silent for a moment. Cunningham was the senior prosecutor with the Attorney General of Texas office who had represented the various government agencies involved in Torres’ arrest and subsequent deal the year before.
“Torres, are you there?” asked Cunningham.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m here,” Alonso replied. “I just figured you and me were done so you caught me off guard.”
“I didn’t think we’d be chatting again either,” said Cunningham. “You’re a Fed case now, after all, and as far as our office is concerned, you never existed. However, some people requested your help and, seeing as you and I hit it off so well the last time we worked together, I was asked to give you a call.”
“Things could have turned out a lot worse,” Cunningham countered. “For example, you could have been dead by now.”
“You’ve got a point,” Torres admitted. “So, what’s this about someone needing my help? Seems we had a deal and I delivered more than anybody could hope for. Might be best if we leave things as they are. I’ll do my time, it ain’t too bad here, and by the time I’m out, I’ll be fifty-four, not a bad age to retire. All I’ll need is a little house and a boat somewhere and I’ll be in paradise.”
“If that’s what you want, I won’t argue with you,” said Cunningham. “It’s probably the smartest decision you could make. I just called to make the offer but if you aren’t interested, things will stay the way they are. We do have a deal and nothing will change that.”
“You say you called to make the offer,” said Torres, his curiosity piqued. “What exactly are you talking about?”
“A transfer from Yankton to FPC Pensacola,” Cunningham replied. “Once there, you would serve six months and get on with your life.”
“Are you serious?” Torres exclaimed. “Six months in Florida and I’d be done?”
“That’s what I was asked to tell you,” Cunningham confirmed.
“Holy crap,” Torres murmured. “What would I have to do to get this deal?”
Cunningham paused for effect then said, “This is where it gets interesting. You'll have to meet with a few people who will explain the finer details. Are you okay with spending a bit of time in the Dominican Republic?”
Chapter 5 – Thursday, December 11, 2014
Gregorio Luperón International Airport, Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic, late afternoon
“There they are,” said Jonathan from the back of the stretch limousine they had requested Roberto use for their outing.
He and Chris watched as the three men, one Hispanic, another, Asian and the third, a huge African American, followed a driver to a waiting Chrysler 300. Once their luggage was stored in the trunk, two of the men entered the vehicle but the black giant remained behind, watching as the car pulled away. Roberto let a moment pass then drove the short distance from where they had waited and pulled to a stop before the man.
Opening the door, Chris smiled at the man and said, “Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Washington. Care for a ride?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Jeremiah Washington replied as he climbed into the limousine. “Especially if you’ve got a cold beer in here to offer me. It’s damned hot out there.”
“But it will do wonders for your tan, Jerry,” said Jonathan, pulling out a bottle of Bohemia from the fridge as the limo started to move.
Jon and Chris had worked with American operative Jeremiah Washington as well as Steve Chen, the Asian man who had left in the other car, the previous year in Vietnam where their mission, a successful one, had been to track down and eliminate Dennis ‘Scorpion’ Roy, the head of the Devil’s Delight.
Washington grinned and replied, “There is that,” taking a long pull on the frosted bottle before continuing. “I also didn’t know if I’d ever get to see you guys again so I was damned pleased when I got the call to babysit Torres on this trip.”
“We’re surprised you’re actually here with him,” Chris admitted. “When I suggested my idea to Jon, I knew it was a long shot though it made sense that, in his former life, Torres might have known Gomez. Past that, we both expected getting the U.S. to go along with our plan would be a huge hurdle if not a concrete wall. Jon was very clear this wasn’t an official assignment.”
“You guys impressed a hell of a lot of people with your work in Vietnam last year,” Washington explained. “Taking down an organization like the Devil’s Delight is nothing to be sneezed at.”
“But that wasn’t our doing,” Jonathan interjected. “Sure, we took Scorpion out but that was a small part of a massive operation.”
“You found the bastard and made him disappear for good,” Washington countered, “Halfway around the world in less than a week. If he had gotten away, he’d probably have a whole new network in place by now. Your efforts were recognized by some heavy-hitters so, if you ask for a hand to take out some scumbag, they’ll go to bat for you.”
“We appreciate it,” said Chris, “And we’ll do our best to not screw up.”
Washington laughed and replied, “I doubt that happens very often.”
“We stay healthier that way,” said Jonathan. “So, what does Torres know so far?”
“Only that he’s coming to meet some people who will explain how he can make his life rosier sooner,” said Washington. “He didn’t even bother trying to pump Steve and me for any information on the way over. Seemed to prefer getting some sleep instead.”
“Well, he’ll know soon enough,” said Chris, glancing out the window. “We’re almost there.”
The limousine turned into the entrance of the exclusive Club-Style Villa Resort, stopping only long enough to allow the gate to rise before threading its way through the massive property. A few more minutes went by before it pulled up behind the Chrysler 300 at one of a multitude of lavish villas.
Washington whistled as he climbed out of the car. “If this is where I’ll be living while we’re here, I’ll kindly ask you gentlemen to take your sweet time doing whatever it is you have to do.”
“You should be comfortable here,” said Chris. “There are over a dozen restaurants on the premises and you also have an on-call in-house chef if you prefer to eat in. You have a private pool and, as you can see, each villa is enclosed in privacy walls which will make it easier for you should Torres suddenly get an urge to run.”
Washington let out a rumbling chuckle. “Our friend has a fancy titanium alloy band locked onto his wrist, fully loaded with GPS and a one hundred twenty-five decibel alarm if he gets more than fifty feet away from one of these little gadgets Steve and I are carrying. Bastard won’t get far if he tries anything stupid so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Chris replied. “With you and Steve looking after him, worrying is the last thing we plan to do. Let’s go in and meet the man.”
They strolled up the walk to the villa, thanking the driver of the Chrysler on his way out from having brought in the luggage, and entered the vast foyer.
“Anybody home?” Washington bellowed, nodding in approval as he took in the comfortable surroundings.
“In the kitchen, getting some beers,” Steve Chen called back.
They followed his voice to the kitchen, a task made easy by the open-air design of the villa, where they found him at the refrigerator, examining the assortment of beers within. The Hispanic man, for his part, stood before the French doors, gazing out at the terrace, his back to the arriving visitors.
“Good to see you guys again,” said Chen in greeting. “What can I offer you to toast the occasion?”
“Whatever you’ve got,” Jonathan replied. “Good to see you as well.”
Chen pulled out a few bottles which he passed over the counter then said, “You want a beer, Alonso?”
Torres turned toward him and shrugged. “Sure, if that’s permitted.”
He stepped to the counter and nodded in thanks at Chen as he took the beer then turned toward Chris and Jonathan. Raising his bottle, he said, “I’m somehow guessing you’re the guys I’m here to meet. I don’t know what you want from me and I don’t know if I’ll agree to do whatever it is. However, here’s to you for getting me over here because it’s damned cold in South Dakota this time of year.”
Both men raised their bottles as Jonathan said, “We’re hoping you will agree to help us out. I understand it would result in your getting away from the evils of winter permanently.”
Torres nodded. “As long as I keep out of trouble going forward which is definitely what I plan to do.”
“Why don’t we go sit down and discuss what this is about,” Jonathan suggested, gesturing
toward the terrace.
“Fine by me,” Torres replied, turning to the French doors and leading the way out.
“Maybe we can start with some introductions,” he said once the group had settled around the patio table by the pool. “You gentlemen obviously know who I am but I don’t have a clue who you are.”
“Fair enough,” said Jonathan as he extended his hand across the table. “I’m Jon.”
Torres gazed at him for a moment then smiled and shook his hand. “Not a common name, John, but I’ll try to remember it.”
“And you can call me Dennis,” said Chris, saluting from the far end of the table.
“Dennis, got it,” Torres replied. “Thanks for all the input, gentlemen. Now I practically feel like we’re brothers.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Jon, remaining deadpan. “It is important we know each other if we’re going to work together.”
Torres laughed and said, “I think I just might like you guys. Why don’t you tell me more about this working together you have in mind?”
“Sure thing,” Chris agreed. “But let’s start with some basics. Do you know Pedro Gomez?”
Torres’ expression grew serious. “I did when I was Pablo Martinez, but you probably already know that. Now I understand why we’re in D.R. but what’s this about?”
“I’ll give you the short version for now,” Chris replied. “I want you to introduce me to Gomez and help me convince him to start moving coke for us again, just like old times.”
“For us? Just like old times?” Torres/Martinez repeated. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Gomez was receiving coke from Colombia,” said Chris. “And moving it on to you, that is, until you helped take the Devil’s Delight apart.”
Sins in the Sun: A Vigilante Series crime thriller Page 3
