by Carolina Mac
Blaine took a step closer, showed his creds and the big man perused them carefully. He pushed the pack back towards Blaine and said, Aw, si, Texas Ranger. Bueno.”
The smile left the Chief’s face as he questioned Victor in staccato Spanish.
Victor turned to Blaine and translated. “The questions are these: Why do you want to go to Hernando compound and who sent you to Columbia?”
“Personal reasons. My friend was staying with Senor Hernando and I need to find her.”
Victor translated, and the Chief stared at Blaine. Senorita Fabiana?”
“Si.” Blaine’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of her name. “Do you know her?”
“We have met,” the Chief said in English. He turned to Victor and rattled off more Spanish.
“There is no one left alive at the compound.” Victor
translated the Chief’s words, his young face wearing a fearful expression. “Only bodies. All dead. You can look.”
“Gracias,” said Blaine. “I have to be sure.”
The Chief added one more thing and Victor smiled when he translated for Blaine.
“Among the dead, the Chief did not see the body of a woman.”
Blaine let out a breath.
FOLLOWING THE CHIEF’s squad car along a narrow jungle two-track, they reached the Hernando compound in a few minutes. Not more than a couple miles outside of Santa Boria, but difficult to reach using the primitive trails snaking through the rugged terrain. The rainforest protected Hernando’s operation and rendered it invisible to all those who didn’t know its exact location.
Humid jungle air, saturated with smoke and toxins, hung thick and heavy over the compound like an ominous cloud. All that remained of the Hernando estate was masonry—the adobe of the outer walls and the stone portions of the house, charred to black—the rest was rubble. Without a fire department and a water supply, what could be done?
A crew was on site dealing with the dead. The unmistakable odor of decomposition, amplified by the hundred-degree heat was overwhelming. As the temperature rose throughout the day, the stench would ramp up.
Insects hummed in the canopy while iguanas croaked on the ground. Flies buzzed and laid their eggs on the corpses. The men shouted to each other as they hurried to perform a task so loathsome it was sickening to watch. Two men on tractors, equipped with front end loaders, shoveled bodies into a long, shallow ditch and others with shovels covered them with dirt.
The Chief pointed at the massive grave and Blaine nodded.
“A freakin massacre,” said Farrell in a low voice. “Must be fifty dead, at least.”
Blaine turned away from the burial detail and motioned to his crew. “Let’s look through the house.” He threaded his way across the compound, avoiding huge chunks of charred metal with stinking, smoldering tires attached—vehicles in a former life. Trucks or Jeeps for the rough terrain.
They trudged through the detritus inside the stone walls of the mansion and there was nothing left. Everything had been reduced to ash.
Farrell pulled his bandana up over his nose and followed.
“This was a huge house,” said Blaine.
Travis nodded. He glanced around to find Jesse, who’d fallen behind. Travis turned and pointed to the Rubicon parked on the road. “Wait out there, boss.”
Jesse nodded and turned around.
With nothing to be gained from the rubble where the house had once stood, Blaine joined the police Chief.
The Chief stood shaking his dark head as he supervised his men. Blaine asked questions. Victor asked the Chief in Spanish, then gave Blaine the answers. A process where facts could be lost or distorted, but a necessary process all the same.
“What are all those steel buildings next to the trees?” Blaine pointed to the six identical buildings fronting a narrow dirt path.
“Storage sheds. For the coca.”
“And the coca is gone?” asked Blaine.
Victor asked the Chief and then nodded. “Stolen.”
“Does the Chief know who did this?”
“Everybody know,” said Victor, “Juan Sanchez tries to take Hernando’s business. War and fighting for long time. Everybody know that.”
“Everybody but me,” said Blaine. “How many men does Sanchez have?”
Victor asked the Chief. “More than a hundred.”
“Where is he?”
Victor shook his dark head. “Nobody go there. No
policia.” He held up a bony little hand. “Stay away.”
Jesse walked over and listened to Blaine question the Chief. “The police know he did this, and they won’t confront him?”
Blaine took Jesse’s arm and steered him back to the Jeep. “We can’t confront him either with four men. Let’s go back to the hotel and make a plan.”
BLAINE PARKED BEHIND the Hilton and the boys spilled out of the air-conditioned Rubicon. Late afternoon and the temperature had peaked at a hundred and twenty-three sticky
degrees.
“Takes your breath away,” said Farrell, wiping his
forehead. “I’m going inside for a beer.”
Victor stepped in front of Blaine. “I work hard. You pay me now. American dollars.”
“How much do I owe you?” Blaine asked with a grin. “I’ll see if can afford you.”
“Veinte.” Victor held out his hand.
Blaine reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash. He peeled off a bill. “Twenty it is.”
“Good work, Victor.” Travis patted Victor on his bony shoulder. “You did okay.”
“Gracias, Senor, Travis. You okay, too.”
After a couple of beers, the boys ordered the special—ribeye steaks with baked potatoes. Blaine’s cell rang, and he nodded. “It’s Scott, maybe he’s got something.” He had never once called the Governor by his first name to his face, even though he had been invited to. Blaine stood up and walked to the lobby to hear more clearly. The connection wasn’t
optimum. “Yes, sir. Glad you called.” He brought the
Governor up to date on the drug raid and the burning of the
compound.
“My God, son, those people are animals. Now this Sanchez guy has her?”
“She wasn’t among the dead, sir, so we’re guessing Sanchez took her. His cartel is even more powerful than
Hernando’s and he has a guerrilla army protecting his compound, according to the police. They’re afraid of him.”
“I have a contact number for you. Maybe it will help.”
Blaine let out a breath. “Thank you so much. You don’t know how much I need that.”
“Call me after you talk to this guy. I want to know his
impression of Markwood. I’m seriously considering taking steps to have him removed.”
“You’ll hear from me,” said Blaine, and thanks again. You’re my life line.”
Blaine stepped outside the front doors of the hotel and punched in the number the Governor had just given him.
A deep voice answered on the first ring. “Enright.”
“Mr. Enright, this is Blaine Blackmore-Powell. I’m here in Columbia looking for Fabiana Flores and I wonder if you would meet with me.”
“Sorry, wrong number.” He hung up.
Blaine pressed redial and waited. On the third ring, Enright answered. “Yeah, what?”
“This is the number Governor Richardson gave me, and it was supplied to him by Phil Markwood.”
“Fuck. Where are you?”
“Hilton in Rionegro. In the dining room.”
“There’s a bar two blocks from there called Villa Ranchero. I won’t be there for at least an hour.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll wait there.”
Blaine returned to the table and the boys were already digging into their food. “Your steak is getting cold, bro,” said Farrell. “What took you so long?”
“Got good info from the Governor and I called the contact. He’s meeting us in an hour.” Blaine chugged half hi
s beer feeling more hopeful than he had all day.
THE VILLA RANCHERO was more bar and grille than bar alone. The décor was upbeat and modern—all black and chrome. The smell of grilling meat filled the air, and the place was packed with eager customers.
“Mmm… I could eat again,” said Farrell as they stood in line to get into the bar section.
Jesse hadn’t said much through dinner, and Blaine sensed he was exhausted from the heat and the stress of the day. “I hope this won’t take too long, Jesse. You look like you could use some sleep.”
“I’m okay. I’ve been like this for a while now. Getting used to being a slug.” He managed a weak smile.
One of the tall round tables opened up in the bar room and the hostess showed the boys in. They ordered drafts and
settled in to wait for Jacko Enright.
Blaine had placed an order for the third round of draft when a man approached their table. He wasn’t tall. Under six feet. He wasn’t handsome, but not ugly. Ordinary looking. Deeply tanned skin. Dark hair, medium length and brown eyes. The type of guy who could blend in and not be noticed.
He looked straight at Blaine and asked, “Powell?”
“Yep. Pull up a stool.”
“I knew you were young, but I wasn’t ready for it.”
Blaine ignored him. He was sick of people equating youth with lack of experience. It just wasn’t true. Not in his case. He took a breath and played nice. “Drink?”
“Glenfiddich. Neat.”
Once the drink was ordered, Blaine asked, “When was the last time you spoke to Fab?”
“Day before yesterday. She was in panic mode because Sanchez was attacking the compound every night and
Hernando’s men were barely holding them off. Every night they brought more men, until last night—well, you saw what happened.”
“How do you know I was out there?”
He shrugged.
“Why didn’t the DEA go in and take the product?” asked Blaine. “The police Chief told me the storage sheds were full.”
“I had only half enough men. Markwood promised me two
dozen more plus automatic weapons, after Fabiana called and told me the time was right. I was ready to go in with my crew. We went to the airport where the others were supposed to land, but the plane didn’t show. I called Markwood for an explanation—Jesus, we’ve been working on this for months—and he tells me the bust was on hold until further notice.”
“Why?” asked Jesse.
“The ‘why of it’ isn’t in my pay grade,” said Enright. “I follow orders.” He finished his drink and stared at the empty glass.
“Her life was on the line,” said Blaine. “Didn’t that count for anything?”
“Hey, it counts with me.” He shook his head. “I’m… never mind. There was nothing I could do, and believe me, I wanted to. It would have been a monster bust.”
CHAPTER NINE
Thursday, March 9th.
FABIANA’S WRISTS stung as the plastic bindings dug in and ripped strips off her skin like cheese strings. She could feel herself unravelling, one piece at a time. One of Sanchez’ filthy guerillas dragged her out of Sanchez’ private quarters and onto the balcony. He beamed a lecherous grin at her, taking pleasure in securing her to the railing with as much brutality as he could muster. She twisted and spit at him and he reciprocated with a smile and a calloused hand rubbing her ass.
He pointed and spewed out the words in Spanish. “Look down there and you will see your lover die. Maybe that will
encourage you to please Senor Sanchez a little more.” Tears rolled down her face as she watched Lucho dragged across the compound by two of Sanchez’ soldiers dressed in faded camo.
Lucho could barely walk. They must have beaten him badly. He collapsed into the dirt, and the soldiers hoisted him up, one under each arm, and stood him in front of a firing squad—six men with automatic weapons, grinning, chatting to each other and waiting to fire on command. In their world, the value of life was zero.
Lucho was head of a huge cartel and not a good man by some standards, but he was not all bad either. He had been kind to her while she’d been a guest in his home. He loved his children and professed to love her, and Fabiana had no reason to doubt him. Somedays the guilt built up inside her and overwhelmed her. Lucho trusted her, and all the while she secretly planned to take his operation down and ruin him. Keeping her job from becoming personal was uppermost in her mind, but often her heart didn’t listen. In her line of work, often the end did not justify the means. In the name of law enforcement, she ruined lives, tore men apart and broke their hearts. Too often she broke her own as well.
She turned her head away when Sanchez yelled, “Disparar.” She couldn’t bear to look.
Why didn’t she listen to Blaine and take the job he offered to keep her safe? Swallowing a bit of pride wouldn’t have been that hard. Blaine loved her and didn’t want her with other men. She understood his point of view. He had solid morals and an unwavering sense of justice. It would have been so easy to give in, and yet she refused. Why was she hell bent on self-destruction?
“The fireworks are over.” The bearded soldier laughed in her face, and his breath stunk of tobacco and peppers as he freed her hands from the railing. “Now, Senor Sanchez will make you comfortable in your new quarters.” He dragged her off the balcony, through the room she had slept in the night before with her maid, Angelique, and down a long marble corridor. He opened carved double doors and said, “In here.” He scooped her up in his arms and tossed her like a rag doll onto the king-sized bed. His orders carried out, the big oaf turned and left.
Fabiana heard the lock click and she let out a breath. With bound hands, she struggled to sit up and reach her shoe. She reached in, retrieved her cell and pressed the number.
ONE OF THE TECHS in the Austin crime lab glanced at the far side of the long evidence table when the cell rang. “Somebody is calling the dead guy’s cell,” she said to the technician at the next station.
The guy grinned and jogged over. “Could be interesting.” He grabbed up the cell that hadn’t yet been dismantled and said, “Hello?”
“Help me, Zahn.” The voice was no more than a whisper. “Sanchez has me. Hurry.”
“Hello? Hello? Who is this? Where are you?” He turned to the female tech and said, “She’s gone.”
“You better tell Lopez,” she said, “He’s the lead on Zahn’s murder.”
AFTER THE LITTLE ONES left for school on the bus, Annie sat with Race at the harvest table and sipped her second cup of coffee. Why did Jesse insist on going with Blaine? He could die in that godforsaken jungle and she’d be miles from him. What the hell was she going to do?
Race clunked down the hall in his Harley boots and she steeled herself for another day with him. Every day seemed to present a new and bigger problem for her to deal with. After his near-drowning and the resulting neurological damage, she’d become used to him being a quiet, withdrawn person—that was the person she’d invited to live at the ranch and be with his son. Not the Race of old that she’d loved with a passion hard to forget—a silent, deadly gang leader—and not the man who was emerging since she returned from her honeymoon.
Now he was remembering bits of the past, talking openly about his memories—something Race would never do—and trying to deal with them. She was on edge thinking he’d soon be putting moves on her, and how would she deal with that development? With Race and Jesse both living under the same roof, it would be an impossible situation for her.
He leaned down and kissed her neck, then sat down next to her at the table. “Good morning, girl. Do you know how much I love you?”
Annie didn’t answer. She stared at the handsome face she had fallen for years before, when she believed with all her heart that Race was the one—the only one she wanted. She had been blinded by her love for him and only saw what she wanted to see. Wearing the blinders of love, she ignored the violence, the manipulation of those around h
im, the jealousy, the arrogance, the power he commanded and the mayhem he brought down on all those who didn’t bow to his wishes. Race Ogilvie’s dark persona lurked just under the surface, hidden by his smile.
They had a son they both adored. She had to come to terms.
“How about some breakfast?” she jumped up and walked across the kitchen to the warming oven. “I think Rosalie saved you some ham and eggs.”
Race grinned. “She knows what I like.” He lowered his voice and whispered, “Just like you, girl. You know everything I like. You always have.”
Annie shook her long black hair. “Race, we can’t live in the past. We have separate lives now. I’m married to Jesse. We can’t go back.”
He walked to the stove and put his arms around her. “I don’t want to live in the past. I want to fix things between us. Make us like we were before.”
Annie turned and stared. “You mean you can remember when we were a couple?”
He didn’t even know me when he was in jail the last time.
“Parts of it.” The smile vanished. “Enough to know, I fucking well want it back. I’m not settling for anything less.”
What am I going to do? Wish Jesse was here.
She removed the plate from the warmer, grabbed cutlery from the drawer and took Race’s breakfast to the table. “Here, sit and eat. I’ll get you a coffee.”
Race leaned down and kissed her while she held the plate in her hands. Heat raced through her like it always had when Race was near her. Would she ever stop loving him? She had a new husband now. A good, kind person—the polar opposite of Race Ogilvie. Race was history. She was toast.
“Morning, Miss Annie.” Declan, her medic on staff, walked into the kitchen and took stock of the situation. He grinned a sly grin and said in his Irish lilt, “And what is Mr. Race up to this morning?”
“He’s remembering a few more things, Dec,” said Annie. “I think he should have a checkup at the neurologist.”
Race sat at the table and forked eggs into his mouth. “No need, girl. I’m right as rain.”
