by Glenn Trust
“I trust everything went well through the night,” Chico said.
Garza ignored him and opened the rear door of the car. Luis Acero stirred, lifting his head, his eyes half open for a second before they glazed over and he dropped back onto the seat.
Garza reached in and pulled him upright by the arm. “Help me get him into your room.” He turned to Roman. “You too.”
“Give me your key,” Garza said and Chico fumbled in one pocket for the key while he held onto Acero.
Garza checked the key for the room number, and then turned to the door a few feet away. The two drug lords supported Luis under the arms and dragged him through the parking lot toward the motel room door, the toes of his shoes leaving a trail in the gravel.
“Hey!”
The three men turned toward the shout. The motel clerk stood on the cracked sidewalk outside the office staring at them.
“What’s wrong with him?” the man called out.
Garza turned, a friendly smile on his face. “Just had a little too much to drink last night. We want to put him to bed,” he said in perfect English.”
“Well …” The clerk wrinkled his pudgy brow as if considering a puzzle and added, “But you can’t all be in that room.” He nodded at Chico. “He paid for a single.”
“I will be happy to pay for the additional guests,” Garza said amiably. “In fact, we’d like another room with two double beds. I’m afraid we may all have had a bit too much to drink last night. If you’ve got the room, of course.”
The deserted parking lot was evidence that there were rooms available, as many as they wanted.
“Okay,” the clerk said, nodding. “I suppose that’ll be alright.”
“Fine,” Garza said with a smile. “I’ll be right there to register and pay for the rooms and guests.
“Okay. I’ll be waiting right here.” The clerk gave a firm nod as if he had won some sort of victory and turned back to the office door.
Garza turned back to Chico and Roman. “Get him inside on the bed.”
While Roman and Chico carried Luis Acero inside, Garza paid for the rooms. At the sight of the wad of cash in the stranger’s hands, the clerk instinctively inflated the price of the rooms, adding on a special handling fee.
Garza thumbed through the bills. The clerk’s lips moved, counting as each bill was placed on the counter. He could have kicked himself for not overcharging even more. When the office door closed behind the stranger, he pulled two twenties from the pile of cash and stuffed them in his pocket.
Garza returned with a second key and handed it to Chico. “You two will take the second room. Get some sleep. Later, we have work to do.”
The two underlings nodded and entered the room next door. Five minutes later, they lay sprawled on the two double beds, snoring.
Garza went into the first room where Luis Acero had flopped face-first on the lone queen-sized bed. There was no room for Garza, but that was of no consequence. He had no intention of sleeping.
Taking a seat in the plastic chair by the small desk, he took out his cell phone and punched up a familiar number. Bebé Elizondo answered immediately.
“I will be home soon,” Garza said.
“Excellent,” Elizondo beamed back.
“First, there are a few arrangements to make.”
“Tell me what you need.”
Garza explained for several minutes.
“It will all be done,” Elizondo said as his deputy summed up what was required. “We look forward to your return, Alejandro.”
Troublesome Old Man
“I want to help.”
“You have no idea what you are saying.”
They spent the night speaking about the letters Clara and Monty exchanged over the years. The conversation was tender at times, tense occasionally, and painful a lot. By the end of the night, Sole’s anger had dissipated. Acceptance set in.
He found himself able to see the old man through softened eyes. His war had been fought almost five decades earlier, but was Monty much different from any other veteran suffering from PTSD? A pang of guilt knifed through his heart, and he regretted the hatred he had harbored for the man over the years.
“I may be old,” Monty said as dawn was breaking. “But I figured out you have a problem, that you are on the run from something or toward something,”
“Nothing for you to worry about.” Sole shook his head.
“Maybe, but like it or not, you are my son. I’ve followed your trail … the bodies left behind, the timing after the murder of Shaye and the children. You disappeared, and it all started. It took time, but I had plenty of that, and I pieced it together.”
Monty’s eyes locked on his son’s. “She was my daughter-in-law. They were my grandchildren. I want to help.”
“No.” Sole shook his head again. “This is my fight. I have to fix things, and this time I can’t put someone else at risk … not even you.”
“So why did you come back here?” Monty persisted. “Coming here means you had a change of plans, something that took you away from your mission. I didn’t expect to find you here, not really. I came here to get those.” Monty nodded at the letters stacked in rows on the bed.
“You have things pretty well figured out.” Sole shook his head a final time. “No. I won’t bring anyone else into this.”
“Don’t you think I want justice for my family?” Monty asked softly. “We aren’t so different in that. Someone should make things right for what happened to your family … our family.”
“And what does that mean to you … make things right? How would you have any idea what I intend to do to make things right? You never even knew them… our family. Never saw your grandchildren, never met my wife, the woman who brought them into the world.”
He regretted the words as soon as he spit them out. Monty’s head lowered, avoiding his son’s stare.
“I was a terrible father and worse grandfather,” he whispered, then looked up. “Maybe it’s my way of asking for atonement. Not even sure myself. I only know that I’ve stopped running from the past now. You are my son, and I want to be with you and part of what you are doing.”
“This isn’t about giving you a way to atone. It’s about …”
“Justice … balancing the books for what they did,” Monty said, his voice firmer now. “I’m not going anywhere, son. I found you once. I’ll find you again.”
“You are a troublesome old man,” Sole sighed.
“That sounds like something your mother might say.” Monty smiled. “And true, so tell me why you came back.”
“Alright,” Sole sighed. “I’ll tell you. Then we part company, at least until this is over.”
“No promises,” Monty said with a smile, “But I’m listening.”
Sole explained. Monty listened. The morning sun sent a shaft of light through the slightly parted curtains. The time had come to depart.
John Sole stood and faced his father. The bag holding the Monty’s and Clara’s letters lay on the bed, each letter carefully refolded and placed in its envelope.
“Take the bag. I brought it for you, for the day when I would find you,” Monty said. “I found you.”
“No.” Sole shook his head. “They’re yours. She wrote them for you. You wrote them to her. It’s enough to know that you have them … that you kept them.”
“Alright.” Monty nodded. “But they’re yours any time you want them.”
“Someday, maybe.” Sole reached for the door, paused and turned to his father. “I’m glad that you found me, Monty. I won’t say that being abandoned by you is forgiven.” He shook his head. “It’s not, but I understand now what happened.”
“Will I see you again?” Monty asked.
“One day.” Sole nodded. “I have your cell number. Keep it, and I’ll call when I can.”
He turned, opened the door, and walked out into the day. Monty Sole sat on the bed, the bag of letters beside him, and wept.
“Goodbye, son.”
Crisp morning air blew down from the Georgia mountains. Sole sucked it in to clear his head. Part of him wanted to stay with the old man for a while longer, but that was impossible. Three days had passed since he received the cryptic message from Luis Acero that they had to talk.
Sole went to his pickup, sat behind the wheel, and pulled out his phone. Dialing into the voice mailbox, he left a message for Luis.
“Arriving Richmond tomorrow.”
He ended the call and dialed another number. When it was answered he said simply, “I’m in town.”
“Here? In Gainesville?” Billy Siever was surprised.
“Close enough. Can we get together?”
“Yes, sure, of course. I’m just surprised you called?”
“Wanted to thank you.” Sole didn’t add that the odds were high he might never be able to see his friend again.
“You did?”
“Spent the night with my father talking.”
“Get things worked out between you?”
“Worked out?” Sole thought for a second. “Not sure that’s how to describe it. More like an understanding.”
“That’s good,” Billy said sincerely. “Guess I’m a bit surprised you called me on this phone, violating your protocols.”
“Figured this once would be alright. I’ll get another burner and trash this one when I hang up. So, when can we meet?”
“I’m in court this morning,” Billy said. “How about this afternoon, say five, the place we used to go?”
“I’ll be there.”
The place was the bar where they had met and reconnected after his mother’s funeral. Growing up in Cassit Pass in the seventies and eighties, it was the only place in the county to get a beer legally, although he and Billy had used fake IDs to get beers illegally more than once. But the old place remained in business, thriving in the midst of a community of bible thumpers and holy rollers, or maybe because of them.
After a quick trip to the electronics department of a local big-box store to pick up another prepaid phone, he drove from Dahlonega into the surrounding mountains. He had hours to kill before meeting Billy, and there was someone he wanted to visit.
Understood
Had Alejandro Garza known that his adversary was only twenty miles away his plans would have been different. As it was, he had no idea the man he sought was in a nearby motel room rehashing life with his father. By necessity, the strategy he devised grew in complexity and involved more people than he would have preferred.
He spent the morning arranging one of the most critical elements of the plan, an important rendezvous for the evening. The need to travel undetected within the United States coupled with the usual requirements for weapons, operational security, and escape and evasion contingencies complicated things, but if all went as planned, John Sole would come to him.
At one-thirty in the afternoon, he decided that his assistants had slept enough. He picked up his phone and punched in a number. A groggy Roman Madera answered.
“We leave in ten minutes. Get Saludo and come to the other room.”
He ended the call and turned to examine the rat still lying on the bed. Luis Aceros’ eyes were open now, the effects of the drug wearing off. Garza went to his briefcase and took out the syringe, filling it from a bottle procured legally in Mexico.
Luis’ eyes widened. His head moved feebly side to side, but he was powerless to prevent Garza from plunging the needle into his bare arm. He was unconscious again in seconds.
There was a brief tap at the door. Garza opened it, and Chico and Roman hurried inside. Neither had any idea what Garza planned or their role, and neither was thrilled at the prospect of being involved. Overseeing the cartel drug sales in Atlanta and Richmond was undoubtedly safer.
“Here is what we will do,” Garza began.
It took only a few minutes to outline everything. When he completed the briefing, neither man dared offer up their concerns, although there were many of those. North America was not Mexico. Law enforcement would not look the other way if they happened upon them as they executed Garza’s plans. Prison in America might not be as harsh as prison in Mexico, but it was still prison, and the State of Georgia still had the power to impose the death penalty.
In any event, their concerns were irrelevant. Elizondo and, by extension, Garza and Los Salvajes, owned them. They had no choice but to accept their assignments.
They nodded and replied in unison, “Entendido, jefe.” Understood, boss.
Savages
“What do we do now?” Roman Madera leaned forward, peering through the SUV’s windshield.
“We wait,” Garza replied.
In the back seat, Chico Saludo said nothing, silently whispering a prayer that they could quickly do what Garza wanted and get back to the much safer and predictable business of taking money from people in exchange for drugs.
Roman decided not to ask what they were waiting for. One question was sufficient.
They didn’t have long to wait. As he watched, a portly man with a round smiling face came from the office, got into a car parked in front and backed out carefully. Sam Goodwin drove past the SUV, unaware of the three men watching his office.
“Drive to the front door,” Garza ordered. “When we get out, go to the rear of the shopping center. There will be a driveway there, and the back doors are numbered.” He nodded at the number over the glass front door. It read Suite 204. “That number, 204, will be stenciled on the back door. Wait there for us.”
“Right.” Roman nodded and pulled to the front of the Goodwin Insurance Agency.
Garza exited the SUV, followed by a reluctant Chico Saludo. They were through the front door as Roman made the turn to circle to the back of the shopping center. Isabella looked up from her desk and smiled.
“May I help you?” The smile faded. The tall man’s intense stare and his companion’s nervous glances through the front window immediately telegraphed that these were not ordinary insurance customers there to see Sam. “Mr. Goodwin is out just now, but if you will come back later …” She slid the center drawer of the desk open as she spoke, her hand poised to reach for the small pistol Sam had placed there for her protection when he was out.
The tall man stepped forward before she was able to lift it. His movements were incredibly quick, practiced and confident. He had done this before.
Grasping her by the throat, a powerful hand closing off her trachea so that she could make no sound, Alejandro Garza physically lifted Isabella from her chair. He motioned to Chico.
“Come.”
Chico scurried forward and followed them into Sam Goodwin’s adjacent office.
“Sit in the chair,” Garza ordered.
Chico sat in a chair facing the desk. Garza spun the struggling woman and pushed her down onto Chico’s lap.
“Now place your arm around her neck. Hold her tightly and wrap your legs around hers so that she cannot struggle.”
Chico complied. As he adjusted his arm around her neck, she gasped for air and tried to scream. Panicked, Chico clamped his arm tighter, and she choked, struggling for air, but with his legs wrapped around hers, she was nearly immobile.
It wasn’t a very dignified manner of restraint. It felt awkward and ridiculous, but Chico found that the woman’s struggles subsided as she used up the oxygen in her lungs.
With her rump pressed into his lap, their position was almost sexual. She was a very attractive woman, with curving hips and long legs. In other circumstances, her body pressed against him in that manner, she would no doubt have become aware of his erection building.
But there was no erection. Chico was almost as terrified as she. What if someone came through the door and discovered them? He knew what would happen. Garza would dispatch them in his efficient manner, and that terrified Chico even more.
As he held the woman, who was barely moving now, Garza took a hypodermic syringe from his pocket. It was already loaded with the drug he had used to quiet the rat, Luis Acero. Garza uncap
ped the needle, ripped up the woman’s sleeve, and plunged it into a vein.
Within seconds, her struggles ceased completely. Chico worried that she might be dead, that Garza had used too much of the drug. Then he felt the gentle rise of her chest as she breathed.
“You can release her now,” Garza said and pulled Isabella’s limp form from Chico’s lap. “Help me take her to the back door.”
They dragged her through the small office to the rear, her feet bumping limply over the floor. Garza pushed open the door, looked outside, nodded and then pulled her out into the sunlight.
Chico was relieved to find Roman waiting there with the SUV as ordered. He had feared that his counterpart might be tempted to say, to hell with this, and drive away as fast as possible. But Roman would never dare defy Garza any more than Chico would.
Chico opened the SUV’s rear cargo door. Garza lifted and tossed the woman in beside Luis Acero’s unconscious form. Chico thought they looked like a couple, lying peacefully together after making love.
Garza climbed in the front passenger seat. Chico sat behind him. They had been inside no more than two minutes. As the office’s back door closed, they heard the phone ringing. Eventually, someone would report that the woman was missing. By that time, they would be far away.
“Drive,” Garza said calmly, and as Roman stepped hard on the accelerator, he added, “Not fast. Do nothing to draw attention to our vehicle.”
They may have been skilled drug dealers, but his assistants were clumsy in this sort of work. Even so, the plan had begun successfully, and the critical part was that they had the woman. Garza held no illusions about executing the next part of the plan. It would be unavoidably messy.
Blood pounded in Roman’s ears. He licked his lips. The plan was for him to follow Garza inside this time while Chico waited in the SUV with the engine running.
Pulling up the driveway of the old stone house that served as Billy Siever’s office, Chico backed the SUV around so the nose pointed toward the street, ready for a quick exit. Garza got out, followed by Roman, and walked to the door at the side of the house. A few seconds later, Chico flinched in the seat, ducking his head behind the wheel for cover.
