Silver Lead and Dead (Evan Hernandez series Book 1)

by James Garmisch

  The gangsters all spoke English and had mannerisms as if they had been educated by rap videos.

  Sebastian watched a well-dressed man brush past the crowd and into the bathroom. He was talking on a cell phone and avoided eye contact with the gangsters. The crowd seemed to be clearing out of the restaurant, afraid of its bold new inhabitants.

  Sebastian suddenly had an idea and took a deep breath. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  The Turtle sat across from Sebastian, putting a beer in front of him. He stared at him for a long second and then shrugged and spoke. “So what? Go, freak!”

  Sebastian stood up. “Watch my bags?”

  “Get the f…Yes, go!”

  Sebastian separated himself from the table and quickly walked into the bathroom. He breathed deep and tried to calm his nerves. He first contemplated asking the man with the cell phone to call the police, but the ramifications of that would be too difficult to sort out. He had heard of a story recently of three teenage girls who had been raped by cartel members down by the Guatemalan border. They had escaped and sought out the local Mexican police for safety—only, the police were owned by the cartels and turned the three right back over to their captors. They were burned alive.

  “Excuse me?” Sebastian’s Spanish was very proper, and he was sure that he had an odd accent because Mexicans always looked at him funny when he spoke.

  The man in the suit who had just been talking on his iPhone was washing his hands. He looked up. “Sí?”

  “I am planning a surprise party for my friends and am supposed to call my friends to show up, only I forgot my cell phone.”

  The man looked uneasy for a second and reached for some paper towels.

  “I know this is weird. Men don’t usually talk in bathrooms. Could I use yours, make a quick call in here? I cannot call out there. It will ruin the surprise!” Sebastian pulled out a one-hundred-dollar US bill.

  “You are not a fag, are you?”

  “No.” My God, why do people keep saying that? Sebastian thought as he handed the man the money and took his offered phone.

  “So, Ivan, what’s your story?”

  “Too many volumes to even begin, sweetheart.” Evan looked out the window of the taxi as it sped through the streets of Veracruz on its way north to the hotel.

  Tommy was in the front seat, talking a million miles an hour with the cab driver. Evan barely noticed the malls, billboards, people, or restaurants. His mind was trying to slowly ease into character.

  “Short version,” Mia said with impatience. “They say you are unstable, not cut out for this.”

  “Who are they? Someday I will find them.”

  Mia laughed. “Roger trusts you, and I think you’re OK. Let’s just watch each other’s backs in there.”

  “Sure, honey.”

  “You gonna call me honey all night?”

  “No, sweetie,” Evan quipped.

  “Shut up.” Mia laughed and punched him in the arm.

  “So are you up for this?” she asked.

  Evan nodded. “We are going to have our hands full, extracting Tanya, making a deal with Jorge, and trying to plant devices on the yacht.”

  “We will be fine,” she said smoothly.“We will just follow the script. But don’t call me sweetie or honey!”

  “One thing worries me, Mia.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Andre Pena. What if he shows up? And, for that matter, what if the real Mario shows up? On that note, what if I am recognized from the Juárez operations? Sometimes I think Nathan wants me set up.”

  Mia whistled and looked at her nails. “That’s like three things—pick one.”

  “Getting recognized,” he said quickly.

  “Intelligence puts Andre Pena somewhere in Mexico City. They think he is involved in some recent political bombings. The real Mario has been spotted in about three different places throughout Mexico. Of course that’s common; he has doubles. No reason anyone should recognize you from Juárez.”

  Evan packed a dip in his mouth and smiled. “Angel, you familiar with the word snafu?”

  She looked puzzled. “No.”

  “That’s my life verse. I should have a sign that says, ‘Keep back one thousand feet.’”

  “You need professional help, sweetheart,” Mia said and laughed.

  Sebastian quickly made his phone call in the bathroom to a number provided to him by Tanya. He explained to an answering machine what time it was, were he was, how many people he was with, and where he was making the drop. He then added that he was terrified and wanted out now.

  “They are going to kill me!” he whispered into the phone.

  Sebastian was done with this mission, he wanted out.

  He spoke quickly in English. He began to sweat with tension as he said bye to the man with the phone and then went into a bathroom stall. Sebastian felt his heart pounding as he stuck the Chap Stick underneath the toilet tank with some adhesive that he had hidden in his shirt pocket. He dropped the empty container of Dermabond and quickly bent down to pick it up from the tile floor. The Chap Stick was secure.

  Three things happened at once that just about caused Sebastian to have a heart attack.

  The door burst open, and he heard the Turtle’s voice. “Hurry up, Fat Man! Food’s getting cold, and we gotta go!”

  He had also dropped his suicide liquid into the toilet. When he had bent over, it had plunged into the water.

  “I am coming!” Sebastian cursed and left the stall and started to leave the restroom.

  “Wait!”

  He froze, terrified that death was coming. “Yes?”

  “Wash your hands, Fat Man. You’re sick!”

  The Turtle held the door for him and waited till he was done.

  Roger set down a large bowl of beans with rice and chips topped with guacamole and homemade pico de gallo. He went to retrieve his coffee.

  The men at the makeshift safe house were grateful as always and devoured anything that he made like locusts. They kept the fact that he wasn’t Mexican and could cook Mexican food quiet.

  “Hey! We got a situation.” Miguel walked into the room wearing a wireless headset. He was holding a cell phone and had an iPad mini in his arm.

  “What you got, lad?”

  “We have contact with one of Tanya’s team.”

  “Sebastian?” Roger growled.

  “Yes. Using some guy’s phone in a bathroom, sounded hysterical—he dropped off our intel in a bathroom. Got the address!”

  Roger stood up and grabbed his radio and then he looked at the map with the other team members, and within a few moments, they had a plan. The only problem was that they were spread thin.

  “We got six safe houses in this area and about seven parked cars set up for emergency evacuations.” Miguel spoke rapidly and pointed with his pen at the map of Veracruz. “Problem is, Teams One and Two are converging on the area up here where Ivan and Mia are going. Most of our other assets are at the hotel as well.”

  “So it’s just us?” Roger asked.

  “Yes. We can triangulate the call; we have the number and location,” Miguel said.

  Roger began to feel nervous as if something was about to go wrong.

  “Gentlemen,” Joaquin began, “my team suggests we rescue Sebastian. Snatch and grab. They may take him back on board, or kill him. They recognized some of his escort. They are errand boys, unstable and show-offs. Not pros, which you know makes them shifty.”

  “Shit!”

  “Here, you see over here!” Miguel pointed on Google Maps and then moved over to point at the map on the wall.

  “Well, holy shit. Sebastian is about a block away from us! Let’s go get him. We can’t wait!” Roger walked to a large plastic box, opened it, and grabbed a folding stock MP-3.

  No one spoke for a second.

  “Roger, you have already been spotted by these men once, back in Mexico city.”

  Roger shrugged. “That was weeks ago and hundreds
of miles ago. Scotsmen are a dime a dozen around here. I need to get out the house. You guys stay here.” Roger pointed to Miguel and Francisco.

  Joaquin nodded and put down his cup.

  The two men strapped on bulletproof vests and loaded up weapons and ammo. Joaquin pulled on a Federali Police uniform, just in case.

  “You drive,” Roger grumbled and headed out the door.

  Evan and Mia pulled up to the hotel, tipped the cab driver, and got out.

  “Here we are,” Tommy said quickly as he lit up a cigarette.

  Evan looked around the empty parking lot, the marina, and the hotel, which towered over them. There was a traffic circle in front of him with a light traffic and pedestrians walking along the seawall. Evan thought for a moment that this could be a romantic venue if it wasn’t for the fact that he was about to meet some of the most hardened killers in the world.

  “Here they come,” Mia said.

  Mia squeezed Evan’s arm and pulled him toward a pier that jutted off from a private marina landing. Only a few small boats were moored at the pier, and other than two teenagers talking on their scooters and an old man fishing, the scene was fairly empty.

  Evan looked up at the hotel and hoped that he was being watched by his team. Not that it would do any good. No communication, no weapons, no nothing—this is it.

  Mia seemed to read Evan’s thoughts and walked close to him to stay warm.

  “Here.” He stripped off his Windbreaker and gave it to her.

  “Thanks.”

  Tommy, Mia, and Evan moved down the wooden dock and watched a fairly large, flat-bottomed party boat pull up to the end. Six well-dressed men in their midthirties jumped off and held the mooring lines. They did not bother tying up the boat.

  “Tommy?” Jorge waved and yelled.

  Tommy waved in recognition and smiled. “Hola, Jorge. We going to party out on the town first or what?”

  “Not tonight, my friend. Have some sad news and some issues.”

  A well-built man in his fifties stepped onto the pier and waved for Tommy and his friends to come close. They did as told. Evan sized up Jorge Valdez and his men in a matter of seconds. His henchmen were not your poor gangsters from the slums or rejects from the prisons that were so often used as hired guns by the cartels. These men had shifty eyes, deep intelligence, and seemed awkward in suits, like special-forces operators who had to wear their uniforms once a year.

  These men were undoubtedly the Scorpions.

  “Ivan, this is Jorge Valdez,” Tommy said. “Jorge, this is Ivan and his secretary, Mia.”

  “Come aboard, and let me offer you a drink.” Jorge guided his guests over to a tiny glass table and pulled the chair out for Mia. He then sat down at its head and motioned for Ivan and Tommy to sit. “Bring the lady some of my wine. I have a vineyard in Italy, sweet and smooth like you.” He smiled at Mia and squeezed her hand.

  “Tommy, I know what you drink—pretty much anything, like a vulgar American. You, Ivan, you are hard to peg. Half Cuban and half Russian, eh? Mojito or vodka? I can tell a lot about you by what you drink.” Jorge smiled. He let the back of his hand slide across Mia’s breasts ever so smoothly as he reached for an ashtray. “Excuse me. Sorry.”

  “That’s OK. They are big and get in the way.”

  Jorge about choked and began to laugh. Evan was impressed. By not being too prudish and having a good sense of humor, she had won him over.

  “I prefer mescal,” Evan said flatly. What he really wanted was a rum and Coke and a dip.

  The drinks were served, and the boat gently began to move away from Veracruz until the streetlights began to shrink and glimmer and only a white-foam wake glowing in the moonlight connected them to land.

  “Jorge, you said you have bad news. The sub deal?” Tommy started.

  Evan nodded and thought, Good, don’t waste my time. Get to the point.

  “No! No, my friend! The deal is on. I was visited by Mario Jr. earlier today, and he said we can pay you for it.” Jorge suddenly frowned. “Unfortunately, he and the helicopter he was flying on never made it back to shore. We suspect they crashed, weather or mechanical problems.”

  “That’s horrible! Mario must be upset to lose a son!” Tommy said with sincere sympathy.

  Jorge drank his mescal and looked out to sea and then back. His eyes did not blink, and he smiled. “Yes, terrible. I told his father that his son wanted the sale to go on as soon as possible. He would have wanted his father to have this big toy for his birthday. We will celebrate Mario Jr.’s life and Mario Sr.’s birthday on the same day this year.”

  “We can wait, Jorge. My God!” said Tommy.

  “No, no. We will talk on board. Mario will want to speak with you, both of you. I think the sale is best, and we will have a big party when we deliver it. This may be what he needs.”

  Tommy looked around the boat and at his hands and then drained his glass.

  “Let’s have a toast to Mario Jr.!” Tommy exclaimed.

  “Yes!” Jorge agreed.

  Sebastian settled into the backseat of a black Humvee with cushy leather seats and tinted windows. He could not find the seat belt, and when he could not figure out what to do with his hands, he just folded them in his lap.

  The Turtle sat next to him smoking a cigarette while the other gangbangers sat in the front seat. The music was so loud that Sebastian could barely think, and the smoke made him cough. The Humvee moved out into traffic and started heading back north toward the marina.

  “Hey!” the Turtle said. “Turn it down.”

  The music went off, and Sebastian listened to the conversation between the three men.

  “Take a side trip to the garage.”

  “We got to get back, bitch!”

  “After we do a little something.”

  “We just ate. You gotta shit already?”

  “You got the blowtorch in the back?”

  “Always.”

  Sebastian suddenly realized this conversation was scripted as if they were purposefully building him up for something. He realized he was never going to leave the Humvee alive.

  Roger and Joaquin parked on the curb at the intersection of Xicotencatl and Francisco Javier Mina and casually walked into a tiny glass-front café that had seen better days.

  “In my opinion,”—Roger spoke in English, which is what Joaquin insisted he speak in—“the places that look like dumps like these are usually the best.”

  “True. Fish tacos to go are their mainstay, but everything is excellent. Been here years ago.”

  The small café had a single glass door, which was propped open with a milk crate, and a glass front, which afforded a view into the restaurant. There were about five cheap plastic tables, which were occupied, and a wooden counter with a cash register on top.

  Roger immediately realized they had missed Sebastian. “He is not even in there!”

  “This is the place. Our backup should be here in about ten minutes.”

  The two men walked into the café, and all motion seemed to stop.

  Roger about knocked over a well-dressed man who was talking on an iPhone. “Excuse me.” Roger was about to let the man walk politely by when Joaquin seized him.

  “Back inside!”

  Roger stood half in the door and half on the street, his MP-5 ready, not really caring right now that they were completely blown cover-wise.

  Joaquin quickly held up his Federali identification and let his MP-5 hang on its shoulder holster. He spoke in rapid Spanish. “This is a police matter. Stay calm, but put that phone down! That’s better. No one move. We are looking for a short, fat Australian. He’s white. He would be with four men he should not be with!”

  No one spoke for a second. Roger eyed the well-dressed man, who was looking a little gray.

  “That man was talking to the narcos. We know who they are!” A pregnant teenage girl behind the counter spoke up. “He was in here with the Turtle, who comes in here every week or so. Scares customers, bu
t tips well if I show him some smiles.”

  “Go on.”

  Roger watched the tables. People seemed to be ignoring them and going back to their eating. They didn’t touch their phones or text anyone. Roger felt foolish for not having the equipment to jam signals; however, that probably would not matter anyway if someone on the street spotted the police. Lookouts for the cartels were everywhere.

  “Sir, excuse me!” the well-dressed man said.

  Roger looked at the well-dressed man whom he had stopped at the door. He took a step back into the café and sat down on a stool. He seemed to be sweating. Roger nodded.

  Joaquin looked critically at the man in a way that made Roger uneasy. Roger figured that Joaquin probably was a real cop; he handled himself just like an asshole.

  “Talk!” Roger said.

  “I was in the bathroom, and this gringo gave me one hundred dollars to use my phone. He said it was about a surprise party. I thought he was gay at first, but he was nervous.” The man paused to pull out a cigarette and light it with shaky fingers. “I came out, bought a pack of smokes from Maria there.” He pointed at the pregnant teenager. “I laughed and told her what happened.”

  Maria, who was overly enthusiastic, chimed in. She was short and not ugly, but one would have guessed she was much older. “The narcos overheard him! That’s when they left. Grabbed the fat white guy and took off in their truck! I knew they were mad. I think they were kidnapping him. The Turtle works for the Gulf Cartel, gangster wannabe!”

  “Shut up, Maria!” A customer stood up. “You and your family are dead talking this way!”

  Roger pointed his weapon at the young male who had suddenly stood up. He was skinny, and his pants had to be constantly pulled up.

  The teenager started talking again.

  “I don’t care! We all know! They took that man out of here. The police never do anything around here. I was raped last year in his brother’s garage. Said he would change my oil for free! Liar! No police ever did a thing—laughed at me, said I begged for it ’cause I have no money. I have a job! Screw all of them. Curse them all!” She began to scream hysterically and cry.

  A few customers tried to stand up and comfort her, but she would have none of it. She just screamed and confessed all of the wrongs that had been done to her.