by Samson Weld
“That’s information is need-to-know only,” Steinberg replied. “You don’t need to know what’s on the drive to do your job, Carpenter.”
“I disagree. If he’s hiding it so well, defending it so well, I need to know why,” he said. “Wexler has unknown abilities that are keeping us from successfully completing our mission. So spill it.”
“It’s not just the hard drive. The information could be on a laptop or other computer, too,” Steinberg said. “He could’ve copied the information onto a USB drive or DVD.”
“I did recover a laptop from his place,” he said. “But that was the only piece of computer equipment we found.”
“Have you shipped that laptop back to me yet?”
“No,” he said. “But it’s a brand new laptop, with almost nothing uploaded onto it yet. I don’t think it has what you’re looking for.”
“Then why are you wasting time talking to me?”
Carpenter regarded him coolly. “You forget who you’re talking to, Steinberg. If I can’t be trusted, who can you trust? After all, you wouldn’t be the great and celebrated businessman everyone loves and admires, if not for a very unsavory job I performed for you.”
Steinberg’s face paled. As it should. It was Carpenter, fresh out of the Marines, who had sabotaged the container ship. The ship Steinberg’s wife was sailing on. The wife who’d just asked for a divorce before setting sail for China.
Steinberg’s eyes narrowed. “Are you blackmailing me?”
“No. If you go down, then I go down,” Carpenter said. “But I need all the information you have on Wexler if I am to succeed.”
“Hold a sec.”
Steinberg hit mute and half-turned to discuss something with Fiona. Mostly, she shook her head, rather adamantly at times. Then she turned away to bury her nose in her phone, while he turned back to Carpenter.
“Okay, all I can say on this unsecure line is Mr. Wexler was involved in the investigation of that accident that took my wife’s life six years ago,” Steinberg said, the words coming out slowly and carefully. “There may be information on the hard drive he took when he vanished five years ago that could prove inconvenient to me.”
“Why did you wait so long to do anything about it?”
“Actually, I foolishly hired some stupid street thugs to take Wexler out and make it look like an accident,” Steinberg said, looking disgusted.
“And?”
“The gang screwed it up royally, killing everyone in Wexler’s family, but not the man himself. He was badly wounded but he made it through. The thugs got away and the danger passed. Before I could find someone else to finish the job, Wexler vanished, taking all of his possession with him. Just vanished off the face of the earth.”
Fiona leaned over Steinberg’s shoulder and said, “Now that you failed to kill him and secure the drive, Mr. Wexler might decide going public is to his best interest. You have to take him out ASAP, but make sure you get your hands on that hard drive first.”
“If you accomplish this task within a week, I’ll double your payment,” Steinberg added.
Carpenter’s eyes narrowed as he leaned in, “Consider it done. Wexler is a dead man walking.”
Chapter 15
Ash sat in his Royce City farm, east of Dallas. The old farmhouse felt like an old friend. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it until his return. All of his old computers waited, abandoned after completion of his life’s mission. After Osorio’s death, he didn’t think he needed the farm anymore, or anything in it.
“Researching people is so much easier,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair and looking around.
The farmhouse’s office also served as his old armory. Racks of deadly weapons surrounded him, covering three walls. A large map of the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex was on the other wall.
He’d spent the morning cleaning all of the neglected rifles, pistols, and shotguns. There were fully automatic weapons, as well: Uzis, MAC 10, and even an AK-47. He owned bump stocks to make his AR-15s full-auto. Not everything was legally acquired. Even Texas had some laws limiting what citizens could buy and own.
After lunch, he went out to the barn and ensured all of his vehicles started. He’d put battery chargers on them the previous night. They all started without problem. Well, the thirty-year old Jeep CJ7 did balk a bit before the engine turned over.
Now it was time to find his attackers.
It’d be even better to figure out who they were, or who had hired them, if that was the case. Ash suspected the latter. They gave him the impression of professionals. Probably not Bellucci’s home invaders, but he hadn’t ruled that out completely. He liked to keep his options open.
The computer chip he had found in his apartment was made by Texas Instruments, which was a local company. Pretty big company, too. If he understood it correctly, they were one of the first computer industry companies. So he decided to check them out.
Interesting, he thought, finding that a TI engineer had invented the integrated circuit, which made everything from personal computers to smartphones possible. But did they manufacture the chips in Dallas? Was there an old warehouse where they were stored, where someone might have accidentally picked up a discarded chip?
Ash discovered that TI had many factories in and around Dallas. Several close to his apartment complex. For the next hour, he searched for closed and abandoned factories.
“Bingo,” he whispered to himself, finding one on Forest Lane, not too far west of his apartment. Perfect hideout for a team of assassins out to kill me.
Ash was convinced they were there to kill him. But why? Again, he wondered if it was drug related. The Russian mob had it in for him, and maybe even some of Osorio’s drug smuggling associates. Which brought back the fact that those people all liked to take care of things themselves.
It didn’t make sense they would contract a hit out.
And to make it worse, now both Dale and Deanna were in danger. Dale would leave town after his convention, but Deanna wasn’t so lucky. She lived here. She was always with him. He couldn’t forgive himself if they became collateral damage, killed by men gunning for him.
Ash armed himself with a Glock 19 and ten full magazines. His maroon polo was long enough to hide the pistol. He needed to blend in, since the area on the map looked mixed office, industrial, and residential. That also kept him from taking more effective weaponry. A firefight might hurt innocent bystanders in the neighborhood.
After setting his security system and locking up, Ash headed to the barn. The day was warm and clear, maybe eighty degrees. Spring had long since appeared and he could smell the new growth all around. The surrounding fields had lain fallow for decades and small trees had begun to grow. In fifty years, it would be a nice little mesquite forest. At the moment, it was mostly weeds.
The barn was old and dusty, but sturdier than it looked from outside. Five vehicles waited inside. All but his new Ford F-150 needed to be washed. The CJ7 waited first in line, with its canvas top removed. Next to it sat the Honda motorcycle. The bright red and white CRF450RX was really more for fun and blowing off steam around the farm. Last, was the silver 2002 Mercury Sable. That had been his workhorse, along with the Dodge pickup he’d lost.
He couldn’t drive his F-150 for this. It was his personal vehicle. He needed something under the radar in case it all went to hell. Ash opted for the 2013 Mazda 3. The blue, four-door sedan would be practically invisible in that area.
The trip seemed long after moving into Dallas three months back. The longest stretch was the trip from the farm to I-30 West and then across Lake Ray Hubbard, and through Rowlett, Garland, and Mesquite. He turned right on I-635 and headed for Forest Lane. Traffic was light and moved quickly the entire way.
The old TI factory looked nice from the road and only the empty parking lot declared it abandoned. The structure stood about two stories high, with a nice brick and stucco façade.
Weeds were starting to come out through the cracks in the parki
ng lot. Ash checked it out carefully, and failed to find any cars or other indication that anyone was using the facility. He cautiously pulled up to the docks and parked.
Ash hastily scanned the building, looking for any signs of forced entry and of security. He spotted mounts where cameras used to be, but they were long gone. There was no other sign of security.
He checked the dock bay doors first. Three were the kind an eighteen-wheeler would back up to, with a lone drive-in bay door. That’s where he spotted squashed wildflowers. Exactly what he’d expect if a vehicle had driven over them.
His blood ran cold before adrenaline started pumping. Ash drew his Glock, made sure a round was chambered, and then tested the bay door. It was locked. He slid over to the door into the shipping office. It remained locked as well, but he had skills.
Ash pulled a small plastic wrapped packet out of his back pocket. His lock-picking tools shined in the sunlight as he dropped to one knee before the door. It took a few minutes longer than normal, mostly because he was trying to unlock the door as quietly as humanly possible.
The door finally swung open silently and it didn’t cause any commotion inside. He pocketed the case and moved inside behind his pistol, all senses on alert.
So far, so good, he thought with an optimistic grin. Knock on wood.
It proved quite dark inside. The only sunlight came in from the open door behind him. As far as Ash could see, there were no windows. Most of the walls on his end of the factory were long gone, and the exposed walls on the other end looked ragged. Wires hung loosely from the ceiling and he heard dripping off to his right.
The Enterprise rental car he’d noticed in his parking lot the night of the attack waited to his front left, parked parallel to the remaining walls. Silver Nissan Maxima, parked close to the end of an exposed hallway.
Someone flushed a toilet.
Ash froze, eyes locked on the hallway where the sound came rolling out of. He moved sideways in the dark to get a straight on view down that passage. A moment later a tall, dark-haired man stepped out of a door, crossed the hallway, and entered another room. The man wore black slacks and a white button-down shirt, with a shoulder holster over it.
Ash hesitated. Should I call Bellucci and have the cops handle this?
That’s what a good, law-abiding citizen would do. It was the police’s job to handle the heavy work like that. Yet, Ash wouldn’t get any real answers this way. Another assassin would just be hired.
I need answers.
He eased up to the car and placed his palm on the hood. Stone cold. The doors were unlocked so he quickly searched the Nissan. Nothing in the interior except an empty Coke can. He popped the truck and looked inside.
These boys are armed for bears, he mused, finding three large gun carrying cases.
He opened the top case. There were three pistols, a Beretta M12 submachine gun, and assorted knives. Ash holstered his Glock, pulled out the M12, and checked to ensure the twenty-round magazine was full. It was, but there wasn’t another magazine.
Ash carefully moved into the hallway, M12 held at the ready, finger a fraction of an inch away from the trigger. The select fire was set to full auto. He heard the deep voices of men before he reached the closed door.
Dropping to one knee, Ash pressed his ear to the door and listened.
“…have to find him,” someone said.
“I’m working on it, boss,” another replied. “Wexler is like a ghost. He doesn’t leave much evidence of his presence in the world. The man is definitely in hiding.”
“Then he knows,” the first man said.
“It’d be easier if we didn’t need to take him alive,” yet another man said.
“Just until we get the work hard drive he brought from LA,” the first man said. “Then…”
Ash’s phone rang. Shit!
The ring tone indicated it was Deanna calling. The melody wasn’t particularly loud, but it was loud enough. It might as well been thunder.
He heard chairs scraping and overturning inside that door. They knew he was here. Ash rushed back the way he came. A fraction of a second later, men exploded out of the door amid curses and the sound of racking weapons.
Stopping at the end of the hallway, Ash turned and faced his attackers. Three men, all tall, athletic looking, and dark haired. They had confident, determined expressions. Holding his breath, he swung the M12 around and squeezed the trigger.
Ratta-tat-tat-ta! Ratta-tat-tat-tat!
Two five-round bursts sent them diving for cover, allowing him to race toward the shipping office door.
One of them opened fire with an automatic weapon before he got halfway to the door. Ash dodged left, racing away into the darkness.
He heard their running footsteps closing quickly so he found an exit and hit its long perpendicular handle at a full run. The door burst open and sent him bouncing off into the bright sunlight.
He rounded the corner, spotting his Mazda. Only one of the men stood behind it and Ash opened fire. The man dropped behind the car. Since that was his escape vehicle, Ash avoided firing into it. Instead, he reversed direction and ran up the side of the factory. Then another man stepped out of the open exit, pistol in hand.
Ash opened up with three to five-round bursts, forcing the other man back inside. Instead of pursuing, Ash continued running. A moment later, two men came out and followed.
Damn, this isn’t going well, Ash thought.
All that gunfire would bring in the police. No one got to have a firefight without the police joining the party. Minding their own business wasn’t their way. He had to get the hell out of Dodge, and fast.
They chased him all of the way around the factory. He came charging out onto the docks, surprising the man hiding behind his car. They exchanged a few shots, which forced the other guy to run for cover inside the shipping office door. Just in time, too, because the M12 was out of ammo.
Ash tossed the submachine gun aside, jumped into his car, and tore out of there.
Chapter 16
Bellucci stared at her monitor. Her eyes ached, as well as her shoulders.
God didn’t design us to spend hours on a computer, she thought, sitting up and stretching her arms. She twisted and turned in her chair, trying to stretch out as many tight muscles as possible.
Officer David Boone walked in and smiled sympathetically. “Why don’t you take a break, Detective? Maybe take a walk over to the coffee shop for a latte or something?”
Last time she’d walked over to the coffee shop, Bellucci had overheard her then partner talking to a Russian mobster. Yeah, that was the end of that unlamented team-up. Oddly, she kind of missed Cagle. She still didn’t have a full-time partner.
“I’m fine, Boone. I just need a moment to stretch my old bones.”
The rookie cop chuckled. He stepped up and placed a stack of files on her desk. He’d been seriously injured in his first month as a patrol cop and was on desk duty until fit to return to the street. He’d taken that time to help the men and women in Homicide whenever possible, occasionally letting drop how much he’d like to be a detective.
That was me ten years ago, she thought.
“Any luck, Detective?”
At five foot eight, they were the same height, but he had a stout build. No fat on Boone, and he looked strong. He wore his light brown hair high and tight, probably due to being fresh out of the Marine Corps. He’d mentioned more times than necessary that he had been a Marine MP. Emphasis on Marine.
“Call me Bellucci,” she said. “It’s easier to say.”
“They’re both three syllables,” he replied.
“Ah, but I’ve been told Bellucci rolls of the tongue rather nicely,” she said and immediately felt a little self-conscious. “Besides, that’s how you Marines like to address each other, by your last names. Right?”
He smiled. “Bellucci it is, Detective.”
She did a double-take and then shook her head. Turning back to the monitor, she started scro
lling down through a list of possible suspects. The home invasion murders case was driving her crazy.
“Haven’t found a lead yet?” Boone asked.
“Maybe,” she said. “I found one thing to tie all of the victims together. Each of them had visited Locastro’s Restaurant prior to being attacked.” She indicated the screen. “I’m trying to tie a possible suspect to the restaurant at the moment.”
“Locastro’s? Never heard of them.”
Boone was from the suburb of Grand Prairie so he probably knew Dallas better than she did. Maybe Locastro’s was new? She pulled up her browser and started typing.
“It’s a fancy Italian restaurant over in the West End,” she said as she pulled up Locastro’s website.
The West End wasn’t far, just on the west side of downtown Dallas. The Jack Evans Police Headquarters building, and her office, lay south of downtown and on the other side of I-30. The Dallas Convention Center was just down the road, too. She could pop over to the West End easily enough and check out Locastro’s.
“It’s not a Mexican restaurant with that name?”
Bellucci slanted a look at him. Was he joking? “Locastro is Italian.”
“Oh. Sorry, Bellucci. Nothing personal, but it kinda sounds Spanish. You know, Castro.”
“Uh huh.”
He turned to leave. “If there’s anything you need, just ask.”
“Thanks. I appreciate…” her voice faded. One of the names of ex-cons jumped out at her. Gaytan. Miguel Gaytan to be specific. She clicked on him. “Oh my. This is interesting.”
“What did you find?”
Bellucci read on a moment longer, before pulling up a list of Locastro employees. And there it was: Miguel Gaytan. He worked as a bus boy and dishwasher. His start date was six months back. So she checked to see when Miguel Gaytan had gotten out of prison. Seven months earlier.
“There’s an ex-con working at Locastro’s as a bus boy and dishwasher,” she said. “He got out seven months ago and started at Locastro’s one month later.”
