Cold Fire

by Dustin Stevens

  The heavy brow of Pavel furled as he looked at Hutch, mistrust on his face. “Yes, that is a good one. I agree.”

  A smile curled up the corners of Hutch’s mouth as he leaned back a few inches and said, “My name is Don Hutchinson, United States Drug Enforcement Administration.”

  The corners of Pavel’s eyes twitched as he looked back at him. “DEA?”

  Hutch had used the full title to gauge Pavel’s familiarity with the organization. The fact he knew the acronym in under a second said he was familiar with their work and what they did.

  “That’s right,” Hutch said. “Tell me, Pavel, does the name Mateo Perez mean anything to you?”

  The folds of skin around Pavel’s eyes relaxed a fraction as he stared back at Hutch. His features flattened out, his face taking on a look that bordered on serene. “No.”

  “No? Nothing?” Hutch pressed.

  “I live in New Mexico,” Pavel said. “I’ve known a lot of Mateos, a lot of Perezes, but the name Mateo Perez doesn’t come to mind.”

  “Okay,” Hutch said, nodding. “How about Manuel Juarez?”

  The serene look receded even further, taking on a pose that appeared almost catatonic. His eyes glazed over as he stared at a point just above Hutch’s left shoulder, focusing on nothing. “Never.”

  “Carlos Juarez?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Hutch stared back at him a long moment. He looked right into Pavel’s eyes, searching for any flash of recognition, any form of outward sign, but there was nothing.

  “Okay,” Hutch said, slapping his palms together and standing. He left Pavel sitting at the table without another word, striding from the room and shutting the door softly behind him. He stepped out into the hallway and leaned against the wall, his hands back in his pockets, and waited for Cofey and Latham to appear.

  It took them less than ten seconds to emerge from the viewing area, both men almost tripping on one another trying to get out into the hall, expectant looks on their faces.

  “That’s it? You’re done?” Cofey asked.

  “No point in going further,” Hutch said, his voice deadpan, almost resigned. “He’s already told us everything he’s going to.”

  “He’s already told us . . .” Cofey began, letting the comment drift off. “So far he hasn’t told us shit!”

  “Exactly,” Hutch said, nodding in agreement. “Everything he’s given us so far came from things he didn’t say. Now that those are exhausted, we’re done here.”

  Both Cofey and Latham stared at him with jaws agape, glancing at each other before looking his way, their faces almost pleading for him to explain.

  “First thing,” Hutch said, “is he basically told me his entire backstory is bullshit. Anybody who’s ever even driven through New Mexico knows red or green is the universal question for how you like your sauce, from red or green chilies. Can’t even order without it coming up.

  “When I asked him that, he looked at me like I was crazy. If someone claiming to be a chili farmer doesn’t know that, then his whole damn story is bullshit, no point pushing it any further.”

  Cofey and Latham both stared at him, their expressions unchanged, waiting for him to continue.

  “Second, the moment I started asking names, his gaze shifted away from my eyes and his face went blank. Too blank. He knew exactly what I was talking about, he just couldn’t look me in the eye and making a convincing case that he didn’t.”

  With that, Hutch pushed his backside against the wall and drew himself up to full height. He nodded at the two of them and said, “Thanks for your help, gentlemen.”

  Turning on his heel, he kept his hands in his pockets and walked down the hall toward the front of the building, his mind already formulating his next move, cringing at the new journey that lay ahead.

  “Hey, where the hell are you going?” Cofey called behind him, his voice echoing through the narrow corridor.

  “California,” Hutch whispered without looking back, pushing through the door at the end of the hall and stepping out into the cold Montana air.

  Chapter Twenty

  Carlos stretched out across the backseat of the Crown Vic, his legs spread wide, one foot tucked beneath the driver and passenger seats. He raised his arms and spread them wide along the bench extended from one side to another, his reflection staring back at him in the rearview mirror.

  He seemed to be enjoying himself as we drove out of San Diego, the uneven skyline of San Diego receding from view, the city growing smaller behind us with each passing second. Vents blew cold air up at us from the front dash as we went, chilling the inside of the car.

  The look on his face when he walked out of the visiting room was priceless. We had caught him completely unawares, shock and confusion jockeying for the primary position on his features.

  Diaz was early, but she was expected. He knew it wouldn’t be long after his chat with Manny before she showed up, poking around, wanting to know what was going on. That was part of the reason he’d asked to see her in the first place, knowing she would follow up on whatever was going on.

  I was the part that had thrown him off. He must have figured Mateo going to Yellowstone had to do with me, but my arrival, unexpected and unexplained, caught him by surprise. In less than thirty seconds we could almost see the various thoughts running through his mind, from thinking maybe Mateo was nearby, to my showing up had to mean he didn’t make it.

  To his credit he rallied fast, the initial shock rolling off him by the time we got to the parking lot. Within three minutes he made the journey from unaware and cooperative back to his usual cocksure self, complete with faux bravado.

  Diaz had tried to warn me beforehand how much it could grate on the nerves, but a quarter hour into the drive I was already starting to see how much of an understatement that had been.

  “Sure was sweet of you guys to drive all the way to San Diego to pick me up,” Carlos said, his head bobbing a bit as he talked, staring out the window. “Just felt like getting out for a drive, I take it?”

  Beside me Diaz glared at him in the rearview mirror, her frown deep set, but she said nothing.

  “I mean, if you needed me to stop by the office for a chat, I would have,” Carlos added. “But this is much better. Now we get to spend some quality time together, get to know each other, then have our little discussion. I like it.”

  Once more Diaz cast her gaze at him through the mirror, but remained silent. That was the arrangement we had worked out on our way in, figuring out how to best approach Carlos.

  In the preceding months, Diaz had been forced to work with Carlos a great deal, however tenuous such a relationship might have been. Over that time they’d gotten used to each other, figuring out what buttons to push, how to try to get under the other’s skin.

  I was a complete wild card, though. Carlos didn’t know me from Adam, didn’t know how long or short my leash might be, didn’t know how I reacted when provoked.

  There would be no good cop in our temporary partnership we decided, something more along the lines of bad cop/scary cop, with me playing the latter. It was a role I hadn’t taken on in quite some time, but something I figured I shouldn’t have much trouble slipping right back into.

  “Just three friends, some old, some new—”

  “Shut up,” I said from the front seat, making my voice sound as bored as possible. “You talk too damn much.”

  “Shut up?” Carlos repeated, his voice incredulous. I didn’t bother looking back at him, but I was sure he was checking Diaz through the rearview mirror. “And I talk too damn much? Isn’t that the reason you came and got me? So you could take me back, put me in that big room, make me spill my guts?”

  I rolled my head along the back of the seat to Diaz and said, “You were right. He isn’t very damn bright.”

  “Not very—” Carlos began to pro
test again, his voice rising in protest.

  “Shut up!” I snapped once more, cutting him off. “This is the talk, you dumbass. So shut the hell up for five seconds so we can get this over with.”

  Behind me I could sense movement, the natural reaction of any person who felt they were being attacked. I could imagine him pulling his hands in from either side and folding them across his torso, drawing his legs up tight. It was the body’s instinctive reflex, to make a small target of oneself, give an enemy as little surface area as possible.

  “Man, I don’t know who the hell you think you are,” he started again, strain in his tone. He was a man that was used to having control, being able to use his quips and braggadocio to steer a conversation. Already he was on his heels, hopefully more focused on winning the situation than the words coming out of his mouth.

  “You know who I am,” I said, keeping my gaze aimed out the front window. Beside me, Diaz remained quiet, her hands locked at ten and two, attention on the road ahead. “You knew it the second you stepped out of that room. It took you a moment to place me, but you knew.”

  On the way in we’d discussed how to handle it. We knew he would probably recognize me, and that my presence would catch him off guard. The question we faced was in trying to play ignorant and work around that, or smack him in the face with it and hope it opened something up.

  Subtle was never my style, and Diaz seemed to operate much the same way, so we opted to go right at him and see where it went.

  If nothing came of it, it wasn’t like we couldn’t find him again.

  “I, uh,” Carlos managed in the backseat, the cockiness gone from his tone.

  “Shut up,” I said again. “Don’t even try lying to us—we both saw it.”

  I paused a long moment, waiting to see if he would try a response, some blatant falsehood to attempt and reestablish the upper hand. To his credit, he remained silent.

  “That’s what I thought,” I said, nodding, letting him see me smirk. “So tell me, Carlos, why the hell did you guys send Mateo, your third in line, to find me?”

  The world outside transitioned from urban to open desert in a matter of minutes, city streets and mini malls giving way to sunbaked stretches of earth punctuated only by the occasional tufts of sage grass. A stiff wind blew in from the ocean, whipping sand along the ground, stirring what little foliage dotted the landscape.

  “Our third in line?” Carlos asked. “Man, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” I groaned, again shifting my head over to look at Diaz. “He’s really going to make us do this, isn’t he?”

  “Apparently,” she said, her voice resigned, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head. “I think I’d be a little bit more enthused to help if it was my ass on the line, but that’s just me.”

  “Me too,” I said, looking away, staring out at the side window.

  It was a pretty thin tactic, an obvious bit of bait to make him snap at, but given the situation we didn’t see where he had many options. He had brought himself in, because he knew he was in trouble. Diaz had humored him the first night, because she needed to know what had him spooked, but it was now time to take back the upper hand.

  If we were going to figure out what had Mateo on the run, what made Carlos jumpy, we needed to be in control.

  From the backseat, we could hear clapping. Slow, mocking slaps of Carlos smacking the palms of his hands together. “Oh, wow,” he said. “I mean, really, bravo. Quite the performance you two just put on there.

  “So let me get this straight. You guys mention Mateo, say I should be worried, then I suddenly start spilling my guts? That how this works?”

  In one abrupt movement I spun around in my seat, rising up so my knees were in the well of it, my torso pressed against the seat back. I gripped the headrest with both hands and snarled down at Carlos. His entire body recoiled into the space behind Diaz as I spoke.

  “No you little shit, this is how it works. You’re supposed to tell us everything because we’re protecting your ass right now. You’re supposed to tell us everything or you can go out on your own like Mateo. You’re supposed to tell us everything or you can end up exactly the way he did.”

  I left the last part vague, wanting, needing him to at least reach for that little morsel. Beneath me I felt the car slow, just as we had planned, nothing but a lonely, desolate strip of highway visible in either direction.

  Fear flashed behind Carlos’s eyes as he looked back at me. “What happened to Mateo?”

  I met his gaze a long moment before letting a snort curl my head toward the ceiling. “The last time I saw him, a nine-millimeter parabellum shell had taken the entire back half of his skull off.”

  His eyes and mouth formed into three perfect circles as he stared back. “You do him?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Believe me, if I do any of you guys, it won’t be that easy.”

  I was careful to use the present tense, wanting him to pick up the insinuation. If he recognized me, then he knew who I was, knew my story.

  “Then who did?” he asked, uncertain if he believed me or not.

  “That’s what you should be worried about right now,” I said. “Now get the hell out.”

  Opposite me Diaz unlocked the doors, the clicking sound of the locks releasing ringing out around us.

  “Wait, what?” Carlos asked, pushing himself down lower in his seat. “You guys can’t do that. Where the hell are we right now?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said, still glaring at him. “I told you, this was the talk. Since you’re not saying anything, this is where you get out.”

  Carlos looked at me like I was crazy, like there was a third arm growing from my forehead. Any hope he had of trying to control the situation was long past, fear splayed across his features as he looked up at me.

  “Hey man, you crazy,” he muttered. “Diaz, this guy is crazy.”

  “You had your chance,” she responded, her voice void of emotion.

  “You guys are agents—you can’t do this!” he protested, looking from me to the back of Diaz’s head.

  “No, I was an agent,” I said, leaning forward a few inches over the headrest. “But you and your boys put an end to that, didn’t you?”

  His eyes grew a touch larger as he looked up at me. I could tell he knew exactly what I was referring to, his mouth opening and closing a half dozen times, no sounds coming out.

  “Get the hell out,” I said, motioning with my head toward the door. He stared back at me, unmoving, for a long second, until I drew the Glock Diaz had loaned me from my hip holster and aimed it at him.

  There wasn’t a single bullet in the entire weapon, but he didn’t know that. All he saw was the polished steel tip of a gun aimed at his head.

  Moving slowly, he reached out with his left hand and popped the door open. He stepped outside one foot at a time and shut it behind him. Diaz sped away the instant he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The scent of pine wafted up out of the fireplace, perfuming the entire office as Sergey Blok sat in his armchair before it, staring at the flames. Most years the Russian winter could be relied on to show up by late November, the bitter kickoff to a season that would last at least six months, bringing with it blowing snows and Arctic chills. This year it was a full three weeks early in arriving, pulling down icy temperatures from the north, sending homeowners scrambling for firewood and boiling-water-based heaters.

  Being on the upper end of the social spectrum, Sergey was fortunate. He had two warehouses sitting full of firewood, product culled from the great forests on the western plains. One was exclusively for the use of his home and businesses, a cheap source of warmth that would keep his empire running through the long winter months. The other he would let sit until February, waiting until the wood had become a precious commodity, and th
e price had skyrocketed, before selling to the locals.

  The mere thought brought a smile to his face as he extended his feet out over the edge of his ottoman and felt the warmth of the flames licking at his toes. He kept his digits close to the fire until he could stand it no more before pulling them back and pressing them into the velvet footstool, trapping the heat there.

  Sergey rubbed his palms over the arms and thighs of his velour sweat suit, stirring warmth in his extremities, before taking up the phone on the stand beside him. He called up the number he was seeking with a single button, the smile fleeing his face as he pressed the device to his ear and waited.

  The phone rang seven times before going to voice mail.

  Sergey killed the call and looked down at the display on the phone. The digital readout informed him it was just shy of eleven o’clock in the evening.

  “It’s noon there, dammit,” he muttered, pressing the same button to call again. “Where is he?”

  This time the phone rang six times, just short of again going to voice mail, when the voice of his nephew came on the line.

  “Hullo?” Viktor mumbled.

  “Viktor!” Sergey snapped. “Where the hell are you?”

  There was a momentary pause, the sound of feet shuffling barely audible over the line.

  “I’m at home, working,” Viktor replied. “Why? Where should I be?”

  Sergey again could hear his nephew moving about, the din of a door opening finding his ear. “Why the hell didn’t you answer the first time I called?”

  “I was taking a piss,” Viktor said. “I don’t carry my phone at all times.”

  The backs of Sergey’s teeth ground together as he stared into the fire. He pressed his lips into a tight line and blew an angry sigh out through his nostrils, squeezing the phone in his hand.

  For the first few years, the decision to appoint Viktor as the head of his operations in North America had proven a shrewd one. The young man was eager to prove himself, hungry and driven. He had worked long hours and brokered solid relations, taking over for the existing regime there with surprising deftness.