Evan’s most recent ex-girlfriend had scammed him by opening several credit cards in his name. She had seemed so needy, so innocent, and so eager to please. He had been fooled.
“Stay away from younger girls, Zeus,” he cautioned. “Be careful what trees you pee on!” The dog barked, and Evan stood up to get his food ready.
“Pretty lousy spy, huh? Got scammed by a twenty-eight-year-old Brazilian babe with an expired student visa and an Obama sticker.” Evan sipped his coffee and said, “But I’ve turned over a new leaf, Zeus. You’ll see. When I was on my game, before all this pity-party nonsense, I was sharp—a motivated marine, a cunning agent. We have to get out of here!”
Evan had made his decision. “Build a damn bridge and get over it!” He knew there was no stopping him.
The phone rang. He jumped and looked suspiciously at the caller ID on his home phone. Private caller. Evan fought back the cynical fear that it might be a trick.
“What? Answer it? Zeus! Stop barking. I have to think. What if they use a code word, and I go on a shooting spree?” He laughed, halfheartedly believing his own propaganda. He knew that experiments had been done in the 1960s under the MKUltra projects to implant memories and suggestions into people’s subconscious without them knowing. The Manchurian Candidate stuff.
“Nothing compares to the crap we can do today,” he told Zeus. The phone rang ten times. Finally, Evan shook his head and ignored his overactive imagination.
“Hola?”
“Hola, Bro. Want to meet for coffee?”
Evan paused—he hadn’t spoken to his brother for three months. His dad’s funeral had not been a pleasant family reunion.
“Estas bien?”
“Can’t say over the phone, Bro.”
Evan’s mouth went dry, and he thought about his boat, scrapbook supplies, and everything else he had to do. He hated surprises.
“Can we meet at Starbucks?”
Evan frowned and looked at his dog. “You know I don’t buy anything I can make myself,” he said. “Their coffee is overpriced and burnt.”
He heard his brother take a deep breath and sigh. He knew what his older brother was thinking: Evan, so freaking difficult and picky.
“Lo siento,” said Evan.
I’ll come over there,” replied his brother. “Clear off a space so I can sit!”
“Funny. Just cleaned the place,” Evan said, tilting a chair to let books and a pair of boots slide onto the floor. The line went dead. Evan looked out the window and began to feel nervous.
Mexico City, Benito Juárez Airport, Men’s Room
The gun made a metallic click and misfired. The large African’s eyes were wide and bloodshot as if he were on a dozen different drugs. He cursed in an unintelligible language, and Roger seized the second with a new vigor. He clamped the African’s throat with one hand and his tattooed bicep with the other. With a twisting motion, like turning the wheel of a huge ship in a storm, Roger drove the African’s head, arm, and shoulder downward. For a brief second, the man canted and was off-balance. Roger’s leg swept out, and the African went down, his head bouncing off the tile. The man lay still, and the gun skidded across the floor. Roger felt something like a bat or a pipe hit him in the back of the head. His ears began to ring, and he knew another blow like that would take him out.
Roger kicked backward like a mule and connected with the smaller Mexican. Roger spun around and faced the other attacker. Roger focused intensely, but he felt like the bathroom was moving slightly. “Fucking cracked my skull!”
The smaller man swung the bat again. But Roger was ready. He trapped it with his arms and jerked it out of the Mexican’s grasp. The man screamed as if on the verge of panic when Roger reversed the momentum of the bat and cracked him in the face and then shoved him into an open stall.
Roger knew the man would not be down for long. Roger was not sure how he managed to drop the bat, but he did when he felt the big African’s arms around his legs, trying to bring him down. The African was having a hard time getting up, so he would bring Roger down to him.
The gun was gone, and the bat lay somewhere on the floor, which was slick with blood, urine, and water. Roger knew he had to finish this quickly; he was in no condition to fight two men. He leapt on the African, punching and elbowing him. He wanted to keep the big guy on the defensive so he could finish him off.
“Never back down—always move forward,” his dad used to yell during Roger’s wrestling matches. He used to pin people quickly just to get his dad to shut up. Now he thanked his old man.
Roger was trying to get his arms around the African’s neck when he felt teeth sink into his arm. Roger dug with his fist into the man’s jaw and then carotid, causing extreme pain and reduction in blood flow. The African cursed. His face and hair were bloody. The teeth let go.
“You dirty bastard!” Roger said, groaning. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man with the red baseball hat scrambling around looking for the gun.
Roger had the big African pinned to the floor, head and upper arm immobilized. He had his arm around the man’s neck and felt him gasp. The big man was having trouble breathing and kicked wildly. He punched with his free hand and connected a few hard blows to Roger’s face. The African was in full panic now, and though he was stronger than Roger, lack of oxygen was causing him to fade like an empty lighter.
“You hit like a girl!” said Roger, spitting blood and a tooth. He did not want to hold the man forever; this was not a wrestling match. He used every ounce of weight he had and broke the big African’s neck. He felt the first and second cervical vertebrae pop as they separated.
The body went limp.
Roger’s heart was pounding in his ears, and he knew time was running out. The guy who used to be wearing the red baseball hat had blood streaming down his face, and his clothes were torn. He favored one leg and could not breathe through a broken nose. His jaw looked fractured; bloody drool was spilling over swollen lips. His eyes were wild and darting from side to side.
Roger stood up straight, looking like a character out of Macbeth. His long brown hair was now stringy and dripping with blood. He smiled ominously and said, “Didn’t turn out like you hoped, you little wanker!”
“Gringo!” said the Mexican, finding the jammed gun and raising it.
Roger grabbed his wrists firmly with two hands. Time seemed to stop. “You just can’t seem to hold on to things,” Roger growled.
“Kill me, an’ you no see Manuel again!” His English was rough, but Roger got the message.
“This is where you lose!” said Roger as he broke the man’s wrist and elbow and then flipped him in one fluid motion. The cracking bones reminded him of chicken bones being pulled apart. Roger stomped the Mexican’s face until he stopped screaming and moving. “You won’t be around to find out, you shit!”
Roger knew the police would be in within seconds. Loud voices and a rush of people started to storm the bathroom. He stomped the man’s bloody head one more time before it was too late.
He did not resist the police or paramedics.
CHAPTER 3
Best Laid Plans of Vice and Men
Evan knew his brother had arrived when Zeus began barking. “Zeus misses you,” he said, opening the door. “He’s going to follow you around the whole time you’re here, just be warned.”
“Animals always seem to know who’s allergic.” Jack petted Zeus and watched the dog’s waving tail knock magazines off a low table. “Why did you get such a big dog?”
Evan shrugged. “I don’t know. Small-man complex?”
“You’re six one! Nah, you got issues.”
Evan walked into the kitchen and got the DEA coffee cup reserved for his brother. Jack was a career DEA agent and had been at headquarters in DC for the better part of ten years. Evan figured he was, if anything, the best-dressed special agent in town. Jack loved clothes.
“How many of these books have you actually read, Evan?”
“Most of th
em. I usually read about four at a time—too many interests, that’s the problem. I got ten times that many on my Kindle.”
“How’s work on the house?” asked Jack.
Evan poured coffee and added cream. He glanced out the kitchen window and spotted a pair of deer. “It’s going. I want to sell in the spring. Break even, pay off debt, and get out of here.”
“Houses out here are selling pretty high, Bro,” said Jack.
“The whole county is nuts—nine hundred thousand in this area can fetch what? A three-bedroom dump. Go someplace you can buy a freaking ranch with a pool and a staff.”
“The price of living where there’s lots of money and power,” responded Jack.
“And that’s why the country is jacked up. Idiot academics educated beyond their intelligence. Government is just massive legal organized crime! Oh, except the DEA, of course.” Evan grinned.
“Don’t hold back, Bro,” Jack said, reaching for the mug Evan handed him.
Evan sat on the couch across from his brother, thinking that Jack had not said anything about the mess or critiqued the yard full of lumber and unfinished projects; he wondered what he Jack up to.
“I love this spot, Jack,” he said. “They can’t build anymore—it’s a nature preserve. I can canoe in the morning, see osprey, eagles. I can fish. And if I need to go sit in traffic for a few hours, I can go do that too. Solitude, it’s all here.”
“Working any, Evan?” asked Jack.
“Part time. One of my retired friends has a judo and jujitsu dojo in Woodbridge. I teach there for fun, and I’m doing some contracting work, electrical stuff and so on.”
“Like it?” persisted Jack.
“Love teaching the kids. They are so enthusiastic; everything is new. Should have been a builder instead of a government type, much more peaceful.”
“So you got your driver’s license back then?” Jack asked cautiously, not wanting to stir anything up.
“Yes. DUIs destroy your bank account. Of course, so do girls!”
“I see,” Jack said and nodded.
“Anyway, soon as I get things together, I’m moving,” said Evan flatly.
“Where you thinking about moving?” asked Jack.
Evan drank his coffee and looked at his brother. Something seemed wrong, very wrong. Jack sat stiffly, turning the coffee mug nervously.
Feeling edgy himself, Evan blurted, “Got a few options. Leaving the country to travel for a bit.” He wasn’t ready to disclose where, even though he knew. He cultivated an aloof, free-spirit facade. But that only masked meticulous plans, countercontingencies, and backups. He wanted to leave the States and soon. A nagging burn in his stomach told him he was no longer safe.
“Evan…” Jack began and trailed off.
Evan watched him carefully, remembering that he needed to be the one to break the ice.
Honesty, no games—my new motto, he thought, looking directly at his brother. “Jack, I apologize for the way I have been acting over the past year. Withdrawn, selfish, and lost. Forgive?”
Jack coughed and choked on his coffee. “Holy crap, Evan. I don’t think I have ever heard you apologize for anything.”
Over the next forty-five minutes, the two brothers talked about their quirky father, their rock-steady mother, sports, politics, and then back to their father’s predictions of the decline and downfall of America. The topics changed and wound around until they were back where they started.
“Dad was a wise old guy,” Evan said and then counted the silence.
Jack abruptly put his empty cup on the table and stood. Stepping over the sleeping dog, he walked over to collections of photos hanging on the wall. He paused in front of a picture of an old man, probably from the early 1900s. “Who is that?” he asked.
“Jigoro Kano, founder of judo. I have some of his books in Japanese if you want to borrow them.”
“No thanks. But what does this say?” Jack pointed to some Japanese writing along the bottom of the photo.
“A classic Kano saying,” said Evan, reciting, “‘Walk a single path, becoming neither cocky with victory nor broken in defeat, without forgetting caution when all is quiet, or becoming frightened when danger threatens.’”
Jack nodded and turned to face his brother. “Evan, how do you feel about doing something dangerous and possibly illegal?”
Evan stared at his brother for a moment, and then asked him to repeat what was just said.
Mexico City, 0900
Masked police drove Roger about twenty minutes north of the airport to Hospital Juárez de Mexico. Now they waited. Roger grumbled and tried to engage the two stoic police officers in conversation. They said nothing. The men were fairly tall and athletically built. Roger regarded them with interest. They had to be members of some elite unit, but they wore no insignia or patches. Both men wore black ski masks, black body armor, and tactical gear down to black kneepads and steel-toed boots. Roger looked at their weapons and nodded.
The men silently looked back from behind their shades, as if in a staring contest.
Roger groaned at the pain in his face. He said, “I been here for two years and never had the police help me with anything—just take a couple of bribes to tear up bogus tickets. Now, I got what? The SWAT team?”
He sipped some water, winced at the sting, and looked around his private treatment room. A doctor had sewn up his head, given him some ice, and taken x-rays several hours ago. His passport and luggage had been taken, and now he waited, like a prisoner.
“Roger!” said Victor Rosa, Manuel’s uncle, as he burst into the room. Victor waved at the two armed men and spoke to them.
“Fuera de aqui!”
The two men left without a word.
“What are you doing here? Am I under arrest?” Roger asked angrily.
Victor Rosa was high up in the Mexican Federal Police—maybe a detective, Roger thought. And he knew Victor had pull, but not like this.
“My bags, Victor?” Roger asked.
“No worries, my friend. Taken care of. You hear that Manuel was kidnapped?”
Victor had an urgency and stress to his face that put Roger on edge. He had only seen the man on weekends, usually with a beer in his hand and a smile on his face.
“Aye, I heard,” said Roger. “They are one for one. They kidnapped him but missed me.”
Victor nodded and said, “Last year, two men dressed as doctors came into this very hospital and killed a top narco hit man.”
“That’s reassuring!” Roger grumbled.
“And a few months ago, narco hit men dressed as Federales gunned down six police officers at the airport.” Victor continued as if he were talking about the weather. “You are missing some teeth, eh?” He walked close and stared sadly at Roger.
“Aye.”
“Let’s go. Quickly!” said Victor. He handed Roger a ski mask, a bulletproof vest, and a large blanket. “Put this on.”
Roger put on the vest and stood slowly, his whole body aching.
“Roger, my friend, we must leave before the actual police get here. They are who we are trying to avoid!” Victor said with a laugh that trailed off into a cough.
Roger froze. Then he put on the black mask and gulped. His stomach tightened, and his mouth went dry. “What are you talking about?”
“No time to explain, amigo,” said Victor. “Right now I am not with the police!” He looked at his watch. “I will explain all in the car.”
“Am I avoiding the police or the kidnappers?” asked Roger.
“Both!”
Roger left the hospital treatment room. He stumbled as a group of six armed men led and half pulled him through back hallways and staff exits out into a parking garage.
“Darse prisa! Hurry up,” urged Victor.
Mason Neck, Virginia
Evan looked at his brother for a minute and then spoke slowly. “You’re serious?”
“Evan, you’re the only one I know who could help me pull this off,” said Jack urg
ently.
“You’re not talking about robbing a 7-Eleven, right?”
“Sophia Gonzales, my housekeeper—” said Jack.
“I am confused. You want me to rob your housekeeper?”
“Evan, I am serious,” Jack replied. “Sophia’s father, Armando Gonzales, was kidnapped a few days ago in Juárez, Mexico.”
“That sucks. He’s dead by now, Jack. You know the stats!”
Jack nodded, and the color seemed to drain from his face. “Sophia’s like family. She’s been with us for ten years. She’s got five kids, all in high school, and they are all a wreck. They clearly can’t go to the police.”
Evan stated. “No. Half the time it is the police. Proof of life confirmation?”
“Yes,” Jack said. “Yesterday, a recorded message saying, ‘I am old. Don’t pay these animals.’”
“What else?”
“Her father was kidnapped yesterday while on his way to work. The kidnappers mistakenly think that he has a lot of money since his daughters live in the United States. They want fifty thousand dollars in three days, or he’s dead. They gave instructions—what to do and where to go.”
“Juárez, eh?” Evan mused.
Jack leaned forward and spoke quickly. “I clearly can’t let her or any of her family go there. They are adamant about taking their life savings, selling their cars, business, whatever it takes, to go down there and get, well, ambushed. I saw this play out dozens of times in Arizona and Texas when I was stationed there. Whole families wiped out.”
“He’s dead, Jack—been dead.”
“And if it were our father?”
“Does she do windows?” Evan asked, trying to lighten things up, but Jack didn’t smile.
“I need you to be my alibi,” he said. “I’m taking ten days’ leave and fifty thousand dollars of my own money and going down there.”
Silver Lead and Dead (Evan Hernandez series Book 1) Page 3
