The white guy handed the gun to the driver and then reached for a machete. His eyes were wild as if he had been on meth for days. Tattoos swirled up his skinny arms. Roger counted seven piercings in his face, lips, and cheeks. He watched Roger, nervously.
Roger spoke into the phone. “Who is this?”
“Roger! Roger! Help me. Don’t give in to these animals!” It was Manuel’s voice, trembling as he tried to stay calm. Roger knew it wouldn’t take much to break him.
“Son, you’ll be OK. Have they hurt you?”
“Yes!” Manuel started crying like a child.
Roger went from being choked up to seething in anger in a second. He was still a kid as far as Roger was concerned.
Before Roger could speak again, the phone went dead. “No service.” He wondered if Dark Cloud was jamming the signal.
The white guy snatched the phone from Roger. Dreadlocks, flopping around like a snake, pointed the machete at Roger and snarled, “He’s OK.”
“I have to go get the four million dollars,” said Roger flatly.
The van moved down a one-way street to an intersection. The driver stopped at a traffic light and began to load a pipe with weed. The driver smoked his bowl, oblivious to any onlookers, and handed it to his obese partner.
Not good, Roger thought.
“First of all, it’s seven million now,” said the skinny white guy, “because you killed two of our boys. And second of all, you won’t be delivering it.”
“I won’t?” asked Roger.
“Nah, you gotta die, you fuck. That’s the price—your life for his.” Everyone laughed except Roger.
The fat guy in the passenger seat let out his smoke with a loud laugh that turned into a strangled cough. “You stupid fuck, screw that little puta boy!”
“You’ll never get paid,” said Roger calmly.
The fat man in the passenger seat turned around, aiming a .357 at Roger. “Bull. Lie down on your face!”
Roger narrowed his eyes and looked at the gun. He was past his tipping point and about to snap.
“We do this all the time, you idiot. They always pay!” taunted the skinny white guy.
“Ha-ha, your life ain’t worth shit!” said the fat one. “They pay, you see.”
Everyone laughed again except Roger, mainly because he was now looking from his perch in the back of the van through the driver’s window. Something even more odd than the three punks grabbed his attention.
The van was still stopped at the light. Through the driver’s open window, Roger watched a large black Ford Expedition pull up next to them and pause. Too obvious, he thought.
The tinted window on the passenger side of the Ford slowly rolled down, and for a second Roger thought he saw a short-haired girl wearing a baseball hat. She was ducking.
Then he understood.
“Duck, Roger.” Mia sounded calm and sexy in his ear, like she was telling him it was time to be kissed.
The sounds and smell of exhaust and the busy city seemed to recede. Horns began to honk, and somewhere in the distance, tires squealed.
Roger backed up.
The white guy with dreadlocks lunged with the machete, and the fat Mexican tried to get a clear shot. “Move so I can shoot.”
Roger recognized the zip-like pop of a silencer and knew that it came from the SUV. He grabbed the skinny guy’s dreadlocks and the arm holding the machete. The left side of the driver’s head exploded, sending brains and a red spray into the air. There was the smell of gunpowder, pot, blood, and sweat.
The fat guy fired the .357, but the bullet hit Dreadlocks in the shoulder and he screamed, “Ah, fuck!”
A second round from the SUV hit the skinny Mexican driver in the face, and he crumpled. The exit wound made his cheek look like a juicy watermelon. The van began to roll forward slowly into traffic. Roger calmly wrenched away the machete and shoved it down the skinny white guy’s throat. Dreadlocks stopped moving.
Horns honked, the light was green, and cars drove around them, oblivious to the situation.
“Get out of the van, Roger,” Mia said urgently.
Roger started to open the van’s side door when he saw a solid-looking man in a ski mask open the driver-side door. The masked Dark Cloud operative held a long pistol with a silencer under his jacket.
“What took you so long?” grumbled Roger, wiping blood off his face.
The masked man chuckled and reached into the rolling van to yank the gearshift into Park. The van jolted to a stop.
“You have an odd sense of humor, Roger,” he said. “Help me move this, amigo grande.”
Cars continued to honk and weave around the parked van.
Roger helped the Dark Cloud operative drag the body out of the driver’s seat and pile him with his fat friend on the sidewalk. Operational security was blown at this point. Both men were breathing heavily and cursing at the weight of the two younger men.
“Like moving a freaking walrus,” Roger said and groaned. “What if the police show?” Roger asked the Dark Cloud operative.
The operative paused to rip the mask off his sweaty face. He produced a police badge, which he quickly shoved back in his pocket. “Federal Police. That better, Roger?”
“Aye. Now I feel freaking safe,” Roger shot back sarcastically. “Ye know my name. What’s yours?”
“We got to go!”
Within a few minutes, Roger and the man, whose name he still did not know, were speeding down the street, cutting off cars and sideswiping trash cans until they had gained some distance.
“How much time do we have before the kidnappers figure things went wrong?” Roger asked.
“Not sure. Is the Explorer still behind us?”
Bracing himself, Roger looked out the rear windows of the van. The seat was soaked with blood, and he cursed. “I’d better not catch something from this fuck’s brain matter!”
“They behind us, Roger?”
“No. Slow down,” ordered Roger. “And what’s your name? Tell me, or I’ll start calling you Zorro or something worse.”
The Dark Cloud operative slowed the van, turned into an alley, stopped, and said, “We have to wait for them.” The man lit another smoke and blew a large cloud into the van. “Name is Carlos,” he said, wiping sweat from his face.
“We should call them. They may be lost.”
Carlos laughed and fixed his eyes on the rearview mirror. They waited in silence for a few minutes with the engine running.
Carlos began to speak in decent English, like someone who’d picked it up, not learned it formally. “We have three chase vehicles. They’ll make sure we are not followed.” He rolled down the window and tossed out his Lucky Strike. “They are jamming cell phones, about three square miles’ worth, so even if people witnessed the little show back there, they will not reach anyone for a while. This buys us time.”
Roger nodded. “You got some bank to get that kind of technology,” he said.
“Sí. The Americans give it to the Mexican military, and we steal it before they sell it to the cartels,” said Carlos. “OK, they found us.”
Roger laughed and asked, “Now what?”
“We ditch the van, amigo, and then track our money. We have two live ones captured at a safe house.”
“Manuel?” Roger asked as he and Carlos got out of the van and stood in an alley watching three Dark Cloud members pile out of the SUV. Roger repeated his question. “Manuel?”
Carlos spoke slowly and deliberately. “There are things going on behind the scenes. I can’t answer too many questions about our methods. I already gave away a little.”
Roger looked around at the scene and just shook his head. “Hell, you guys saved my life.”
An hour later Roger and the three Dark Cloud members were sitting in a black, armored truck that had probably belonged to a cash courier service at one time. He was cramped, hungry, and smelled bad, but he was pleased to be sitting. He watched Mia and two slender men hunched over laptops. She wore a
headset and stood over the men as they worked. The only light in the rear of the truck came from the computer screens.
“Never been a computer person,” mused Roger.
He was amazed at how much technology had spoiled and changed the whole nature of warfare. With the right gadgets and computers, anybody could be an effective killer or spy or just eavesdrop on someone. He closed his eyes for a second and thought back to the massive radios he used to carry on forced marches in cold, wet Scotland. He favored the practice of training as if you had none of the high-tech crap, and then you would appreciate it more. The Romans had conquered the known world wearing sandals and marching around with no GPS.
“Have you found Manuel, or did we blow the whole damn operation?”
Mia looked at him and frowned. She was about five feet one and not intimidated by Roger in the least. She was athletic and voluptuous at the same time. Usually a woman was one or the other. Roger was not attracted to skinny, wispy runner girls. Roger stopped staring at Mia and started to repeat his question.
She put her finger to her lips and whispered, “Stop talking, Roger. We’re busy.”
“Lo siento,” Roger mumbled.
The money had been tracked to an auto-body shop on the outskirts of the Narvarte neighborhood in the central-southern section of the city. Roger had been in this part of town before. It was safe enough during the day, depending on how you acted. His favorite meals came from street vendors and small, crowded cafés along the narrow, busy streets. All windows in Mexico City had bars across them, yet people would leave their bikes unlocked and let their dogs roam free. The neighborhoods reminded him of old pictures from the 1950s but with more color.
His stomach growled, reminding him how long it had been since he’d eaten.
“Roger!” Mia said urgently. “Two SWAT teams are going in.” Then she swore. “Why are our men doing security?” She spoke in English for Roger’s benefit.
“I thought this was your operation?” he asked.
“It’s complicated, Roger. Politics and turf wars in the city.” She spoke with exasperation. “They want to be on the news. We don’t.”
Two police SWAT teams entered the warehouse, and a small firefight began. From what Roger was able to understand, the Mexican Federal Police had either inserted themselves into the Dark Cloud operation or were invited. Either way, it was over in a few moments.
Roger closed his eyes. The stress and pace of the last twenty-four hours made him feel as if he were submerged in the deep end of a pool. His mind began to process the events. He had survived being attacked, had been escorted from a hospital by what can only be called a highly sophisticated mercenary group, and then had been woven into their plot to rescue the boy he had come to Mexico to cook and care for.
“They found him. He’s OK.”
Roger rubbed his eyes, which burned from lack of sleep. “Thank God.”
CHAPTER 8
The Hombres of Walmart
February 15, Juárez, Mexico, 0800 Hours
Evan woke up. He felt as if he had just swum to the surface from miles beneath the ocean. He gasped for air and felt his heart pounding. He stood up and looked at his hotel room. For a second he felt shock—where was he? He was sweating and began to calm his breathing.
“I need a drink.”
The distant pop of machine-gun fire made Evan jump, and he cursed.
Evan washed his face and remembered that he was in Juárez, Mexico, with a job to do. He turned on the TV. He hated silence, and he hated being alone with himself.
He walked to the hotel gym, adjusted his iPod, and thought about his loose plan. Contact Armando’s aging brother and make himself known to the kidnappers as someone who is terrified and willing to do whatever they say. Acting like a badass or a hotshot negotiator in his position would just freak the kidnappers out. They were expecting a normal person to deliver the money, preferably the maid.
Evan started walking and then jogging slowly on the treadmill. He ran over possible scenarios in his head; many of them did not end well.
He hoped to just give them the money and get the old man. He was willing to pay twice as much but was not going to offer that up easily. He just hoped these guys were idiots and not pros. Pros would have never picked Armando in the first place. Evan kept the kidnappers in the idiot category.
Francisco and Miguel pulled into the parking lot of the hotel where they had seen Mr. Z drop off the big American late last night.
Francisco slowed down and let Miguel out of the green F-150 pickup.
“Go watch the lobby. Text me when you see the American.”
“Raul from Team Two should be leaving his room. He will meet you and give you a report.”
“Sí, I could not sleep last night. Did I tell you how much I hate surveillance?”
“Only about a hundred times, Miguel. My back is killing me from sitting. You are young, my friend. They have coffee and breakfast. Don’t be spotted.”
“Whatever.” Miguel took his briefcase and paper and walked across the parking lot to the hotel.
Francisco placed his cell phone, walkie-talkie, and binoculars on the seat next to him. He picked up his magazine and looked through it once he was parked.
His phone rang.
“Hola?”
“Nathan here.”
“Sí?”
“Any news?”
“No. Nathan, we must talk.”
“We are talking. What?”
“Well, quite simple. We have three teams of two people. Only six guys.”
“You can add,” Nathan said sarcastically and then sighed. He sounded annoyed this morning.
Francisco hated sarcasm; he hated arrogant people even more.
“You have us spread too thin, Nathan. You want us to watch this man. I know nothing about him. No plan. You also want us to watch and possibly grab Gerard and watch Mr. Z. We are tired, worn out. You need to either make a decision or fill us in.”
There was a long silence. Francisco could tell that Nathan was getting angry.
“You must remain flexible.”
“We need a plan.”
Again the standoff.
Francisco was tempted to just make a decision and forget the American.
“Francisco, look, I apologize. Let me lay it out like this—Forget Mr. Z.”
“OK, Gerard?”
“Team Two and Three are going to resume surveillance on the store. I just landed and can only send two more as backup. Gerard is my first priority. I want him taken as he is leaving for the airport. You, I want you to watch the American. I may want to speak with him. I just don’t know how. I know he is not on vacation. Watch, wait!”
Francisco burned his lip on his coffee and cursed. His back was aching from an old bullet wound and a car crash years ago. He shifted in his seat and thought about what to say next. Nathan Rock spoke first.
“His name is Evan. He was a shadow warrior for the agency.”
“And?”
“And he is mentally unstable. He did things in Colombia. He is unpredictable, smart, and can be, let’s say, dangerous. He worked for me. Last I heard he was fired; nasty fellow.”
“And big,” Francisco added. He had to admit the big American scared him. “He knows you, Nathan?”
“May not remember me; however, I have to establish two things. One, is he here with the American government, and two, why?”
“I don’t have the time to figure that out, Nathan, with all due respect. Gerard is a valuable target. He is sloppy and has a very false sense of security.”
“Yes, we get Frenchy!”
“Then forget about this Evan person, Nathan!”
“He could be an ally or our worst nightmare.” Nathan sounded stern.
Francisco doubted that. The American was only one man and not bulletproof.
Nathan spoke again. “Humor me. I can tell you more; believe me, there is more. Treat him as an enemy until you know.”
“Engage him? Talk to him
? If you know him, we can be frank.”
“And you can get killed or expose something and draw attention to us. We don’t want heat.”
Francisco spoke. “Fine, boss. We will follow him. If my other two teams need me though, when Gerard’s mission goes down, I am forgetting about your friend.”
“Fine.” Nathan sounded reluctant and knew better than to push the point with Francisco. “Watch him just till the other operation goes down.”
Francisco smiled. “Thank you.”
Nathan hung up.
Francisco’s walkie-talkie clattered; it was Miguel.
“He is on the move. Carrying a motorcycle helmet.”
“Can you make it back to the truck?”
“Try.”
1000 Hours
Evan walked through the hotel lobby carrying his backpack and a motorcycle helmet. He was feeling jet lagged and still a little sluggish—entirely unmotivated.
He paused near the front desk and spoke briefly with a pretty, young desk clerk.
“I don’t want anyone going in my room today.”
“Sí, señor.”
“Coffee?”
“The café, sir.” She smiled and pointed across the lobby toward the café.
Evan nodded, got some coffee, and looked around the lobby. He watched businessmen chat at wooden tables and hotel employees sweep floors and empty trash. Evan paused for a second and watched a small man in a business suit who was looking straight at him. The man looked away.
Was he watching me?
Evan finished his coffee, tossed the foam cup in a trash can, and walked outside into the murder capital of the world. The sun was shining, and the street was packed full of morning traffic. White school buses painted with green stripes served as public transportation. He observed VW bugs, BMWs, and motor scooters. On every corner there were people moving about, some in business suits chatting on cell phones and others in old cowboy hats and jeans. Even in this more upscale section of Juárez, he could spot the division between those who had money and those who had nothing.
Now I know where all the old VW bugs go when they die.
Silver Lead and Dead (Evan Hernandez series Book 1) Page 7
