Trevino marveled at the audacity of the assassins. He was pleased he had taken no action against them. But who were they? How did they learn of Gilberto Garza’s clandestine role as partner in the Lorenz cartel? Exactly how did they pull it off?
He retreated home to Colonia de los Kickapoo, where Caballo Galindo welcomed him. He asked if it was time to have a feast to celebrate his return.
“Not yet,” Trevino replied.
“Ah, I see,” Galindo said. “A brief visit.”
Trevino nodded. “Yes, and a request. I’d like to have Jose Hernandez assist me for a few days in Piedras Negras, if you can spare him from the colonia.”
Galindo raised a cautious eyebrow. “Would he be in danger?”
“Not at all. I need him to watch and report what he sees, nothing more.”
“He will willingly oblige.”
“Good.”
Galindo nodded. “I’m sure you have heard we now have a young family living at the hunting ranch. Their summer home is complete, and they have done much to remove the debris caused by the fire. I will go there next week to dedicate their house. Friends and relatives will go with me and we will feast on a deer harvested from the ranch. The very first.”
Trevino smiled. “I am pleased to hear it.”
“When will you leave?”
“In the morning. When I next return, my journey will be complete.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.”
Across the street from Shen’s Famous Chinese Restaurant stood the old Hotel Castillo. A long, two-story brick building that harkened back to an earlier, more peaceful era in the city, it had arched windows and a row of large ceramic planters filled with miniature trees on either side of the covered entrance. It was hardly a castle, nor was it a dump. Mexicans coming from the surrounding villages loved it; tourists from north of the border ignored it.
Trevino installed Hernandez in a second-floor front room with direct line of sight of the restaurant’s front door. He gave him a burner phone with pictures of Sammy and Longwei Shen, Lorenz, and Juan Garza, and told him to memorize the faces. He handed him a pair of binoculars along with instructions on how to observe without being detected.
“Call me whenever any of these men come to the restaurant,” Estavio instructed.
From behind the curtain Hernandez peeked out at the street below. “What if I’m sleeping or hungry?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll relieve you so you can sleep, and food will be delivered. Only let me or the maid in, but do not leave the room, understood?” Trevino had secured the hotel owner’s cooperation with a handsome bribe and substantial tips for the maids.
Hernandez nodded. “Okay.”
Two days passed with only Longwei showing up or leaving. Midmorning on the third day, before the restaurant opened for lunch, Hernandez reported the arrival of all four men, plus an unidentified woman.
“Who did she come with?” Trevino asked. He was staked out two doors down from one of the safe houses that had tunnel access to the restaurant.
“Sammy Shen.”
In front of the safe house, two armed gang members lounged at the rear of a pickup, smoking and joking with the gunner of the fifty-caliber mounted in the bed, who perched on the tailgate. The boredom of a dull routine could be lethal. In this instance particularly so.
“Describe her,” Trevino ordered.
“Brown hair, maybe five feet four or five, pretty.”
Carmella Schuster, Trevino guessed. Her first appearance, as far as he knew. “What’s Sammy driving?”
“Blue Audi, parked outside.”
“Leave the hotel, destroy the phone, and go home.”
“Now?” Hernandez asked.
“Right now.” Trevino stepped into the open and killed the three thugs quickly, the pop of his silenced weapon barely noticeable. He used the fifty-caliber to blow open the front door. Inside the house, he killed a man cowering in a bathroom, cleared the rest of the house, removed a timed explosive device from his backpack, and set it at the tunnel entrance to detonate in five minutes.
He sprinted the length of the tunnel to the basement room, crashed through the door, rolled on the floor, and shot the two armed guards before they could pull their weapons. Lorenz and Juan looked surprised when he stood and carefully shot them in the head where they sat, frozen.
Longwei, Sammy, and Carmella were motionless in their chairs. They didn’t utter a sound.
“I should kill you all,” Trevino said. “But right now I do not have the inclination.”
He ordered them facedown on the floor, zip-tied their hands and feet, smashed their cell phones, and fished Sammy’s car key from his pants pocket. “What are you driving and where is it parked?”
“Blue Audi, out front.”
In the dining room, the waitstaff was setting up for lunch while the armed doorman and a hostess chatted at the front of the house. Trevino killed the doorman as he reached for his handgun, and coldcocked the hostess who came at him with a knife. He ordered everyone else into the kitchen, told them not to move, and set a second explosive at the front entrance timed for three minutes,
He stepped outside, expecting to be gunned down. He was halfway to the Audi when a car veered onto the sidewalk behind him. He turned and shot the driver through the windshield. The car careened across the street, smashed into the planters in front of the hotel, and came to a stop. Trevino shot the thug in the passenger seat before he could get out.
He made it to the Audi and did a tight one-eighty just as a second car slammed into his rear end, crumpling the trunk. He floored it. Ten feet past the front of the restaurant it blew up, shattering plate glass and spewing debris into the street. The concussion from the blast knocked the car behind him onto the sidewalk and into a lamppost.
He reached the outskirts of town with no one chasing him and relaxed behind the wheel. It was time to disappear again into the Bolsón de Mapimí. For several months at the very least. He looked forward to the solitude that awaited him there. Then, when he was ready, he’d return home for good.
CHAPTER 24
The explosion forced Longwei to close the restaurant for repairs. The news media reported a gas leak had triggered the blast, but there had been no injuries. The knife-wielding hostess who failed to stop El Jefe vanished. It was surprisingly harsh treatment for a woman who’d once been Longwei’s favorite mistress.
To keep the murders under wraps, Sammy let it be known to the cartel members that Juan and Lorenz were safe but incommunicado for the next several days. Everything remained calm.
That evening, Longwei hosted Sammy and Carmella at his estate outside a small farming village south of Piedras Negras.
“Trevino has done us a favor,” he said, accepting tea from his concubine. He’d brought her from China soon after the death of his wife ten years ago. “Now we can take over the cartel’s heroin and cocaine trafficking network and use it for fentanyl distribution as well.”
“A smart move,” Sammy said. “However, Trevino should not be left unpunished. He might find a reason to come back for us.”
Longwei waved his concubine from the room. “It’s a question of timing. The most pressing matter is controlling the cartel before it breaks into factions and total chaos ensues.”
“That will not be without difficulties,” Sammy cautioned. “Mexicans like their drug lords to be mestizos at the very least, not Chinese.”
“A mixed-blood who is part Caucasian would be more than acceptable,” Longwei noted. “Which is why I think Carmella should serve as titular head of the cartel.”
“Titular?” Carmella snapped. “I will not serve as your token anything.”
Longwei lowered his gaze. “I apologize for my poor choice of words. You will have a voice in all decisions. But we must protect you, as Lorenz did his brother, only be much better at it.”
“I’m listening,” Carmella said.
Longwei used a remote to turn on a wall-mounted television. “Vito Torres
, Lorenz’s numbers man, is an accountant by training.” A short video of Torres and his family enjoying a backyard barbecue played across the screen. His two young twin sons and a slightly older daughter smiled happily at the camera while his pretty wife looked on.
“He’s a perfect choice. Levelheaded, calm by nature, and well regarded by the cartel rank and file. He’s a family man, not a killer. If we put him in charge right away, he’ll do what we ask of him.”
“Are you sure?” Carmella demanded.
Longwei smiled. “Torres has provided valuable cartel information to me for a number of years. You could say that we own him. Or I should say that you own him.”
Carmella nodded at the concession. “How will we explain the disappearance of Juan Garza and his uncle?”
“A coup led by Torres and a mysterious powerful associate, rumored to be a woman.” He smiled at Carmella, who nodded her agreement. “We will move the cartel away from murder and intimidation and make life less hazardous for us all.”
“And the sicarios?” Sammy asked.
“We will keep them close at hand as our peacemakers.” Longwei rang the bell on the side table. “Let’s have a brandy together before this old man goes to his bed.”
Danny Fallon sat at the desk in Harjo’s El Paso house and read through the file he’d found in the top drawer. In it were documents that appointed him executor of Harjo’s estate with power of attorney, a signed, notarized property deed transferring ownership of Harjo’s mortgage-free house to Fallon, and instructions on disbursing the remainder of his assets to Mark Villalobos’s parents. A note left with the documents read:
Danny,
If you’re reading this I’m dead. There’s not much in the house worth anything, so keep what you like and give the rest away. My sister may want a few things, so check with her before you toss stuff out. I wrote her phone number on the front of the file folder. Call her after you’ve gone through everything. She’s the primary beneficiary on my insurance policy, government retirement benefits, and pension plan, which means you’re probably going to have to fill out paperwork swearing to my untimely death. Sorry to put you through the bureaucratic BS. Samantha Hodges, SA in Charge El Paso, can help you get the ball rolling. Use the photographs in the manila envelope if you have to.
No death notice, obit in the papers, press release, or teary-eyed DEA memorial service please. If my body is ever recovered, have it cremated. Make it clear to Hodges and anybody else who asks that these are my wishes. Mail the two addressed letters by overnight express. The one to my sister is just to say goodbye and tell her of my wishes. The one to the woman in Bermuda—well, that isn’t your business. One more thing: my neighbors and good friends, Henry and Fiona Saenz, should be told that I’m dead. He’ll be knocking at the door soon, maybe before you even finish reading this. Be nice to them and let them be nice to you. And thanks.
Bernard
The manila envelope contained a half dozen date-and-time-stamped eight-by-ten black-and-white glossy photographs of Samantha Hodges and a younger man making love. From her expression, she had enjoyed the experience. On the backside, Harjo had written the man’s name, along with a notation that the photo had been taken while he’d been a special agent under Hodges’s supervision in the El Paso office before transferring to another district.
Fallon put the photo aside and called Harjo’s sister. As he explained that Harjo had died in the line of duty while on an undercover operation, he almost cried with her. He reassured her that her brother hadn’t suffered and promised to express-mail Harjo’s letter to her. It would arrive tomorrow.
He hung up and the front doorbell rang. He opened it and greeted a smiling Henry Saenz, whose happy expression quickly vanished.
After consoling the grieving Saenzes for several hours, Fallon mailed the letters and met with a pricey lawyer on how to proceed as Harjo’s executor. Back at the house, he prepared a fictitious account of his activities searching for Harjo in Mexico. It took deep into the night to finish it. He ordered takeout from an open-late Chinese restaurant, returned to the house, poured some of Harjo’s good scotch to go with it, and ate sitting in the living room watching an episode of a SWAT crime series that was hysterically funny.
Morning coffee revived him along with a hot shower and fresh change of clothes. He finished an early breakfast at a family-run diner and found a used-car dealer willing to buy the Chevy for cash. He rented a car, drove to the El Paso DEA Division, and cooled his heels for a half hour waiting to see Samantha Hodges.
She appeared, brusquely ordered him into her office, sat behind her desk, and launched into a frontal attack. Harjo’s corpse had been fished from the Rio Grande south of Eagle Pass. A DEA investigation determined that Fallon had reported his rented car stolen in Piedras Negras prior to the assassination of Gilberto and Carmen Garza. Clearly, he’d been Harjo’s accomplice. Admit it now, resign before charges were brought, and avoid the disgraceful mess of a trial and possible prison time.
Red in the face with righteous anger, Hodges paused, glared, and waited for a response.
“Finished?” Fallon smiled pleasantly and placed the manila envelope on the desktop. “My turn. Take a look inside. I have a number of requests, so you may want to use pen and paper.”
Hodges looked at the photographs and sank back in her chair, wrath deflated.
Danny spelled out Harjo’s final wishes and decisions one by one. He made it clear any death-in-the-line-of-duty payments were to go to Harjo’s sister. All paperwork to disburse his retirement and pension funds to his sister was to be expedited, and Harjo’s remains were to be brought to El Paso for cremation as soon as possible.
“There will be no memorial services or official announcement of his passing,” Fallon added, placing a legal document on the desk. “My sworn affidavit that I witnessed his death should be sufficient substantiation of fact.”
Hodges, head buried over a lined notepad, had scribbled down Fallon’s bullet points. She looked up and read the affidavit. “Is that all you want me to do?”
“No, I understand you’re in line for a big promotion to assistant chief of operations in D.C.”
“That hasn’t been officially announced.”
“It will be soon, I’ve been told. I want to be posted as resident agent in Eagle Pass effective immediately.”
Samantha grimaced. “I can’t do that right now.”
“Either you do it right now, or you can waste away here in Tequilaville until retirement. Make the call.”
“You’re asking me to completely whitewash your involvement in this.”
Fallon grinned. “That’s the bottom line. Let’s say I was sent under deep cover by you personally to find rogue Special Agent Harjo and return him for disciplinary action. Learning Harjo had been killed and fearing for my safety, you waited until my return from Mexico to reveal the operation.”
Hodges shook her head. “That’s a stretch.”
“No, it’s not.” He handed her a DEA file folder. “Here are my complete case notes and final confidential report of my effort to locate Special Agent Harjo in Mexico and stop his attack on Gilberto and Carmen Garza. Unfortunately, I was too late to prevent his death. It’s all the documentation you need.”
Hodges paged through the paperwork. “Unbelievable.”
Fallon retrieved the photographs and stood. “Are we good?”
“Leave the photographs.”
He dropped them on the desk. “They’re yours. Once you’ve done what I’ve asked, I’ll send you the remaining copies. Promise.”
“Break it and I’ll destroy you,” Hodges snarled.
“No doubt,” Fallon noted. “Again, are we good?”
Hodges nodded. “Give me twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Fallon stopped at the Intelligence Unit on his way out to get caught up on what was happening in Piedras Negras. Shen’s Famous Chinese Restaurant was still closed for repairs. The bomber had yet to be ident
ified. Juan and Lorenz remained in hiding. Vito Torres was running the cartel in their absence. Brains over brawn? Fallon didn’t think so, not completely. Controlling the cartel required muscle and the ability to provoke fear. There had to be somebody else pulling the strings. He advised the analyst to have Intel dig deeper. He suggested Garza and Lorenz were dead, killed by Estavio Trevino, aka El Jefe.
“That’s pure speculation,” the analyst replied flippantly.
“Always trust what the boots on the ground tell you or you’ll never win the war,” Fallon advised.
“What?” the confused analyst replied.
Outside, El Paso was blinding under a clear sky and hot sun. He had one more stop to make. In the parking lot he called ahead to the Doña Ana Sheriff’s Office and set up a meeting with Detective Istee. ETA one hour.
Clayton said little during Special Agent Fallon’s briefing, surprised to be so shaken by the news of Agent Harjo’s death and how it occurred. Was there much of a difference between Fallon, Harjo, and Trevino? The lines seemed blurry. He listened intently as Fallon recounted what he’d uncovered in Mexico with Harjo and his suspicions that El Jefe was responsible for the disappearance of Juan Garza and Luis Lorenz.
“Only Trevino could have pulled it off,” Fallon concluded.
“Yeah, El Jefe strikes again,” Clayton wisecracked. “You know, I talked to him on the phone.”
Stunned, Fallon blinked. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope. I tracked him down with the help of our cybercrimes expert.” Clayton handed him Confessions of a Marine Sniper. “He talked to the retired Marine who wrote the book. There’s a chapter about El Jefe in it.”
Head Wounds Page 26
