by Tom Fowler
“A girl can miss her mother and her favorite uncle,” George said, chuckling at his own observation. He was her mother’s only sibling. Her dad had a brother, too, but James lived most of the way across the country and never seemed interested in coming back east. Still, James was merely aloof, not a grifter and a thief, so he earned the title of favorite by default.
“How often do you visit, Uncle George?”
He shrugged. “I guess once a week or so.”
“You two email back and forth a lot?” Lexi asked.
Rachel looked from her brother to her daughter. “What’s going on? Alexis, why do you want to know how often we talk?”
“I’m just wondering when you two hatched your plan to go after my dad’s pension.” To their credit, both remained silent, even when Rachel’s wide eyes betrayed her. She’d never been great at hiding what she felt. It was probably why she ended up in prison while her brother remained free to cook up another scheme. “Don’t sit there and act dumb. I mean . . . you are for thinking you’d get away with it, but give me a little credit.”
“What are you talking about, kiddo?” Uncle George asked with smooth innocence. He’d probably enjoyed lots of practice with the question.
Lexi glared at him. “Don’t ‘kiddo’ me, you prick. I saw your record. You’ve got a nice string of arrests for attempting to defraud people out of their pensions.” She turned to her mother, who couldn’t meet her gaze. “I actually thought better of you, Mom. I know it didn’t work out with you and Dad, but he was always good to us, and he gladly took me in when shit went south with you. He shielded his retirement from you for a damn good reason. Why would you make a play for it now?” George tried to get a word in, but Lexi cut him off with an upraised hand. “I’ll bet if I look at your search history, you’ve contacted a bunch of shady lawyers.”
“I’m going to need money when I get out,” Rachel said in a small voice.
“Get a job,” Lexi said. She glowered at someone gaping at her from a nearby table, and the mousy man quickly looked away. “Dad’s leaving his benefits to me. You never considered that, did you?” They both remained silent. “Or maybe you did, and you just didn’t care. Whatever. I don’t give a shit anymore.” She stood. “You two deserve each other.” Lexi stormed out of the door opened by a watchful guard, ignoring her mother calling after her as she left. She got back into her Accord, pounded the steering wheel a few times, and sped away from the jail.
Tyler knew he’d asked a lot of Rollins already. When their comms went dead in Houston, he’d feared the worst. It nearly happened, and Rollins still wasn’t fully recovered. This last request would be easy. “What do you need?” Rollins asked.
“Your sewing skills.”
Rollins cocked his head to the side. “Really?”
“It’ll all make sense once I explain what I have in mind.” Tyler laid the idea out for him, and Rollins bobbed his head as he listened. At the end, Tyler asked, “What do you think?”
“It’s got a little risk,” Rollins said, “but so does every plan. I think it’ll work.”
“Great. You just need a needle and thread.”
“I like how you assume the gay guy knows how to sew.”
“You’ve gotta be better than me,” Tyler said.
Rollins grinned. “I am. Even have a machine, but I think doing this one by hand is the way to go. You get your stuff set up. I’ll be back soon.” His large pickup rumbled to life as he drove away. Tyler walked back downstairs and unlocked his secret room. The claymore mine had long been a part of the US military arsenal before Tyler signed up. Special Operations Command developed a smaller version only about three inches tall. With less C4 inside, its lethality covered a shorter distance, but it would still be plenty adequate for Tyler’s purposes. Best of all, they could be detonated wirelessly. SOCOM thought of everything in this case.
Rollins returned about a half-hour later. Tyler set a large gym bag on his table. It was about twenty inches long and a foot deep. Unmodified, it would hold most of the money. With the alterations Tyler planned, all the cash he planned to give to Héctor should fit. “I’ll need some materials to make the new bottom,” Rollins said. “Something like a gym shirt’s probably good.”
“Can do.”
“We need to support it somehow, too. I guess you’re planning to glue the claymores in?”
“Yeah,” Tyler said. “I think I have something for the rest, too.” He walked upstairs and returned a minute later with a black gym shirt and a foam roller. “It’s long enough to cut into pieces for the false bottom.”
“Hope you have a lot of glue,” Rollins said.
“You just make it look good and convincing.” Tyler held the remote detonator. “I’ll work on making it go boom.”
38
Tyler checked the bag one more time. Rollins did a hell of a job. Héctor and his lackeys would be too busy gawking at the stacks of cash to notice they didn’t quite go all the way to the bottom. The drugs took up another two bags Tyler didn’t care about. He expected everything to either explode or burn. The detonator—the same model he’d used in Afghanistan—was clipped onto Tyler’s belt. He brought the Sig even though he expected someone would disarm him. A vest, however, would be pushing it. They wouldn’t let him in dressed for war. As it was, Tyler wore all black, including the thin gloves covering his hands.
He drove the 442 north to Bel Air. Evening traffic was light, and Tyler hit the neighborhood ten minutes early. It gave him a chance to poke around. He didn’t see any guys stashed at Windholm’s model house. A search with night vision binoculars showed no one lurking in the trees behind Héctor’s property. He probably didn’t have enough men left to get cute in how he deployed them. At the appointed hour, Tyler guided his car up Héctor’s driveway and stopped at the gate.
A Spanish-accented voice came over the intercom. “What do you want?”
“Héctor’s expecting me.”
“What’s your name?”
“If he doesn’t want his stuff back,” Tyler said, “I’m happy to leave. I’m not going to sit here and play your little games.”
No reply came. The gate swung open a moment later, and Tyler drove up the rest of the driveway and stopped alongside the house. He watched the barricade close in the rearview mirror. He was committed to this plan now. No early escape. No easy way out.
Exactly like he wanted it.
Two slender Latinos emerged from the side door, both of them training their guns on Tyler. “Out of the car,” one of them said.
Tyler got out and turned so he presented his side to the duo. “Stuff’s in the trunk.”
The one who spoke took a few steps forward. His pistol was about three feet from Tyler’s face now. “Maybe we kill you and take it.”
“Héctor and I had an arrangement,” Tyler said. “I expect him to live up to it.” There had always been a possibility he wouldn’t, of course. Tyler readied himself to make a grab for the gun. One step to the left would allow him to use one man to screen the other. He didn’t want to do this outside, but if Héctor and his paid idiots forced Tyler’s hand, he would. After another few seconds of staring and posturing, both men lowered their weapons.
“We gotta search you,” the pair’s apparent spokesman said.
“I figured you would.” The guy patted Tyler down. He found the M11 right away. “You can just toss it in the car.” Like a good lackey, he threw the gun through the 442’s open driver’s side window.
“What the hell is this?” The man said as he felt the outline of the detonator.
“I’m diabetic,” Tyler said.
“Fine.” He finished the mediocre patdown and stood. “Let’s get the stuff inside.”
Tyler opened the trunk, set the two bags of coke down, and picked up the one with the cash. He pushed the lid closed again. “I’m carrying the money,” he said. “You two can bring the other stuff.”
“I ain’t here to carry your shit,” the second man said.
The two looked at each other and turned up their hands. They held a short conversation in Spanish before each stuffed a pistol into their waistbands and hoisted a bag. Tyler followed them inside. Héctor’s massive kitchen could hold the first floor of most Baltimore houses. White granite countertops gleamed in soft overhead light. All the appliances were stainless steel. The rest of the first floor looked like it came from a luxury furnishings catalog. Two more Latinos stared at Tyler from a sofa.
They walked through the kitchen, and the guy in front of Tyler opened a door in the main hallway. He gestured for Tyler to walk down the stairs. He did, and both men followed him. The main area of the basement held another couch, TV, and a foosball table where two more guys played a game. Another door was open to a large room. Tyler’s escorts led him inside. A well-dressed man sat behind a huge wooden desk. Most of the floor space was empty save a smaller desk and chair on the opposite wall. “You must be Héctor.”
He didn’t smile. Someone in Héctor’s position couldn’t afford to. He’d taken a bad deal because the alternative was even worse. “Mister Tyler. You’re carrying the money, I presume?”
“I am.” He set the bag in front of Héctor, making sure to point the business side—the one with the logo—toward him. “Your guys have the drugs.”
Héctor nodded. His workers set their bags down nearby and flanked their boss. “I know how much money Windholm had at his company,” Héctor said. “How much will I find here?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Tyler said. “I never counted it. I just kept a little to compensate me for my annoyance.”
“We’re going to see how much is here.” One of the two guys who had been playing foosball approached Héctor and whispered something in Spanish. He repeated himself louder when the main man didn’t respond. “I heard you, Rodolfo. If I need you, I’ll call you.”
Rodolfo turned away and glared at Tyler. “Hi, Rodolfo. How’s it feel to be the one who screwed your cousin?”
“Ignore him,” Héctor said as Rodolfo seethed. One of the other guys led him from the room and closed the door. “You don’t mind staying while we count, do you?”
Tyler felt he didn’t really have a choice in the matter, but he was happy to stick around. “Sure. Can I sit at the other station?”
Héctor turned up his hand, and Tyler crossed the room and sat behind the smaller desk. Maybe Héctor employed a secretary in the past. Perhaps this was the room where the men counted the money in one spot and divided up the drugs in the other. One of the lackeys opened the bag and whistled. It was the reaction Tyler hoped for. He reached toward the contents, but Héctor slapped his wrist. “We’ll take our time and see how much is here. This isn’t a race.”
Both guys removed some stacks from the bag and counted. A lot still remained. Tyler wanted them to pull a few more out before he got on with the plan. The less weight on top of the claymores, the better. A few minutes later, they grabbed several more piles each. Tyler put his left hand under the desk, grabbed the detonator with his right, and scooted back an inch in the chair. His thumb popped the hinged cover up, exposing the circular button. A tiny red light pulsed to indicate a connection to the explosives.
With everyone distracted by the money, Tyler flipped the secretary table forward. When the three men looked up at him, he hit the button.
39
Tyler ducked behind the desk when the blast went off. Claymores used C4 to propel small metal balls at high speeds in about a sixty-degree arc. Anyone caught in the radius would likely die a gruesome death. A hard enough surface could deflect some of the balls, especially if they had to cover yards of distance. Drywall at six to ten feet would take it all. The room shook like an earthquake rocked the area. The lone painting on the walls crashed to the floor. Tyler's ears rang, but he was unhurt. A white cloud of cocaine covered the front part of the room, and smoke billowed from the rear of the ruined gym bag. Tyler left the desk in place and moved around it toward the carnage. He locked the door on his way. Héctor and his two stooges got shredded in the explosion. Tyler held his breath while he searched the bodies for a gun and found a Glock in good working order.
Someone pounded on the door and hollered in Spanish. Tyler unlocked it again as he moved past. A man pushed in and gaped at the scene. Tyler shot him in the head. The gun worked. He backed toward the far wall and kept an eye on the door. Tyler crouched behind the desk. Rodolfo ran in unarmed. "Héctor!" he yelled. He turned toward Tyler. “¡Puta! You're dead.”
"Still think you should've killed Alice?" Tyler asked.
"The hell with her."
"Wrong answer." Tyler shot Rodolfo once in the chest and a second time in the head. He collapsed in the doorway. Tyler heard more footsteps running their way. Some of the charred remains of the money on the floor smoldered. It would make the second part of Tyler's plan easier. Another ran in, nearly tripped over Rodolfo's body, and stared at the grisly spectacle at the main desk. When his head turned, Tyler put a bullet directly above his right eye. Counting the two killed in the explosion, it made five lackeys down.
No one else advanced on his position. Tyler inspected the money for any which remained intact. A few stacks did, and he tucked them away. He piled up more scraps near the smoldering pile, took a lighter from his pocket, and set the whole thing ablaze. Tyler swatted some airborne powder away from his face as he knelt at the bodies. He touched the lighter's flame to Héctor's tattered shirt. It caught, and a small blaze crawled up his mangled body.
Tyler left the room with the stolen Glock leading the way. As he crossed the basement, someone came running down the stairs shouting curses in Spanish. Before the man got a chance to lift the large automatic weapon he carried, Tyler shot him in the neck. He fell and sprayed the ceiling with a hail of gunfire as he died.
He was probably the last guy, but Tyler didn't rush up the stairs. He cleared the living room and kitchen on his way out and didn't see anyone else. With the coast clear, Tyler tossed the gun into the trees past Héctor's yard. He climbed into the 442 and approached the gate, which withdrew automatically as the car tripped its sensors. The neighbors might be used to certain activities at Héctor's, but if any of them heard or felt the explosion, the police could be en route.
Tyler hit the street and got on the gas but not enough to draw attention by speeding out of the neighborhood. At the end of the main drag, he turned onto Route 543 headed toward the highway. About a mile down the road, three Harford County Sheriff’s Office cars zoomed toward Talbot Lakes. Once they were in the rearview, Tyler sent a text to Lexi. Everything is done. Come home anytime. Love you.
Before he merged onto I-95, his phone buzzed with a reply. See you tomorrow, Dad. Love you, too.
Tomás Quintero frowned at his phone. All his calls to Héctor still went straight to voicemail. It would be about ten in the evening in Maryland, and Héctor kept whatever hours the cartel demanded of him. He should pick up. Tomás tried again and got the same result. To make things a little bit worse, Bernardo Espinoza stepped into the office. He’d demand an update, and Tomás would need to provide one. Héctor wasn’t worth lying to the man in charge.
“Any word from Héctor?” Bernardo asked. He sat on the edge of Tomás’ desk rather than use any of the three chairs set in front of it. It allowed him to look down at his subordinate, and Tomás swallowed hard before he answered.
“Five times now . . . right to voicemail.”
“You think he’s ignoring us?”
“He knows better,” Tomás said.
Bernardo nodded absently as he looked out the window. “He does. Héctor’s been having problems recently. I wonder if you’ve told me everything?” Bernardo’s eyes turned from whatever he looked at outside and bored into Tomás’s.
“I’ve told you whatever Héctor has told me.”
“Ah,” Bernardo said. “Easy to cover a lie of omission, th
en.”
“I’m not—”
Bernardo cut him off by waving his hand. “I think you’ve been telling me the truth. It’s Héctor I wonder about. He’s family, but he’s always had some . . . interesting ideas. The past week has made me wonder if I was wrong to buy into his expansion plan.”
“Maryland is quite a bit farther north than anywhere else we’ve gone,” Tomás offered.
“Yes, I know. I, too, can look at a map.” Bernardo rolled his eyes. “Did Héctor get the shipment?”
Tomás sighed. “I don’t think so. He told me it was coming, but he sounded a little evasive. None of the men we sent with it have come back, either.”
“I saw your message earlier,” Bernardo said. “What happened to Héctor?”
“My understanding is his cousin killed his girlfriend, and it pissed someone off.”
“Someone very dangerous, it would seem.”
“Yes,” Tomás said. “We could try the house’s cameras.”
“Do it.” Bernardo moved off the desk and stood beside Tomás, who fired up his laptop. He opened an app, and a moment later, security images from Héctor’s house filled the window. “Do we have footage of what happened earlier?”
“No. Only live. It’s how Héctor set it up.”
“Did you try—”
“I had a few people try,” Tomás said. “We can only get the live feed.”
Bernardo grunted. Tomás knew his boss wasn’t used to hearing no. “Let’s look at some other cameras, then.” It took a moment, but Tomás found one for the basement. It showed the large common area. A man lay dead near the stairs. “Shit,” the boss muttered. It got worse when Tomás switched to another device. It depicted Héctor’s large downstairs office where money came in and drugs went out. The disarray made it look like a bomb went off in there. Mutilated bodies burned near the desk, and more flames lapped at piles of money and drugs. Others lay dead from gunshot wounds near the door.
