Mission Mayhem

by Michael Cross

  “From what I understand, Vargas is paranoid as hell,” she replies. “So maybe it’s him who doesn’t feel safe at McGregor’s compound.”

  I nod. “That makes sense,” I respond. “Hey, I’m sending you some video footage.”

  “Of what?”

  “I paid a visit to McGregor’s trucking company the other night.”

  “Trucking company?” she asks, the surprise in her voice evident. “I didn’t know he had a trucking company.”

  “It’s buried under a bunch of legal crap. Not worth going into since it’s something I’m sure you can dig up later now that you know what you’re looking for,” I explain. “The only important point is that although he’s not the owner on record, it’s still his company.”

  I jump into the chair and power up my laptop. Once it’s good to go, I send the file to her and wait on the line while she watches.

  “Whoa. That’s a lot of firepower,” she comments. “And a hell of a lot of drugs.”

  “You were right,” I confirm. “He’s working with Vargas to move big amounts of drugs and weapons across the border. It goes both ways, to and from Sonora.”

  She lets out a whoop of delight. “I have been looking for a smoking gun for a long time. I haven’t had anything solid until now,” she says. “You have given me what I need to take this asshole out.”

  Sadly for her, she’s not going to get the chance to take him out. I can’t tell her that though. At least she’ll be first on the scene to shred the soon to be dead man’s reputation. That’s got to count for something.

  “Hey, tell me something,” I start. “In all of the digging around you’ve been doing on this guy, have you found any connection to the Hellfire Club?”

  “No, not a one.”

  “So as far as you know, he’s just some random, unaffiliated bad guy?”

  “Yeah,” she responds. “Which begs the question—what is your group’s interest in him?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” I reply. “Honestly, I really don’t know.”

  There’s a brief pause in the conversation as this new information spins through my mind. Why did they greenlight somebody who’s not even a member of the Hellfire Club? My mind flashes back to Delta’s insistence that Vargas wasn’t to be harmed, and I start to realize there is something bigger at play here. Something I wasn’t told about.

  I don’t yet know what it is, but it’s clear I’m expected to do my part by taking McGregor out. But why not Vargas, too? What does he mean to Delta and Temperance? Why is he being spared?

  “They didn’t tell you anything?” Publius’ voice cuts into my thoughts.

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  She lets out a breath. “Huh. That’s interesting,” she says. “So what do you have planned for McGregor?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  Publius pauses again, and when she speaks, her voice is slow. Thick. “Are you there to kill him?”

  “Like I said, I can’t get into mission specifics with you,” I remind her. “I told you back in Chicago that you were going to have to make peace with that.”

  She laughs softly. “True. But I’m a journalist. It’s my job to ask questions,” she responds. “You can’t blame me for trying.”

  “No more than I can blame a dog for licking its balls,” I say.

  “Gee, thanks. What a flattering comparison.”

  I laugh. “Listen, I gave you the video,” I tell her. “The rest of the story, I trust you to figure out on your own. But you promised to wait until I gave you the all-clear.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she replies. “I’m starting to think I should regret that.”

  “You’ll still have a story,” I insist. “Just maybe not the story you were thinking you would.”

  “Comforting.”

  “Reality,” I say. “Anyway, I have to go. Things to do—”

  “People to kill?”

  “Nice try,” I laugh. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  I disconnect the call and drop the phone onto the table. It probably wouldn’t hurt anything to tell Publius that I’m going to kill McGregor. In fact, she likely already knows. And I could help shape the narrative in a way that benefits the Tower. It’s something I think about as I start making my preparations for the op; I can still work this to our advantage once this is over, and I speak with her again. I’ll just need to figure out how.

  For now though, I push it all out of my mind and focus on the task at hand.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What in the hell did you do to her?”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “The High Priestess,” Justice says. “She’s in a seriously bad mood.”

  I’m in my car in the parking lot of the Grand Valley Hotel, getting a feel for the grounds. I need to have a good grasp of the lay of the land and know what the terrain I’ll be fighting on is like before I make a move. I need to know what to expect.

  I watch as groups of men and women walk through the parking lot, some of them on their way to the golf course adjacent to the hotel. It seems like the hotel itself is doing a pretty brisk business, and judging by the number of cars in the lot, has to be close to capacity.

  “What makes you think I have anything to do with her moods?” I ask.

  “Because the only times she’s in a huff like this, it’s usually because she’s talked to you.”

  I laugh. “Why am I surrounded by smartass women?”

  “Because it’s better than being surrounded by smartass men?” she fires back. “We tend to be a bit smarter about things.”

  “I’m sure that’s it,” I say. “Are you in the system yet?”

  “I have been for a while now,” she chirps. “I just wanted to spend a little time busting your balls.”

  “Thanks for that,” I chuckle. “What have you found?”

  “Javier Vargas is due to arrive tomorrow,” she says. “He’ll be staying in the VIP suite on the top floor. Room 1103.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Oh, it says here it’s got a lovely view of the golf course and sunset view,” she says. “It sounds nice.”

  “Well sunrises and sunsets are pretty spectacular out here.”

  “Vargas has a number of legitimate businesses in Tucson, so he’s ostensibly there to check on them,” she notes.

  “And to also meet with a crooked DEA Chief to ensure his pipeline of drugs and guns stays open.”

  “That’s the thing about working with crooked people. You can’t trust them and have to constantly check up on them,” she muses. “It all sounds a little too high maintenance for me.”

  “Then you shouldn’t go into business with crooked people,” I offer.

  “Good thinking.”

  I purse my lips as a thought occurs to me. “Hey, can you insert a note into their reservation?”

  “What kind of note?”

  “Something like sending a courtesy bottle of wine or champagne to the room after he checks in?” I ask.

  “Ahhhh, now that’s excellent thinking,” she says. “That gets you into the room. That is brilliant.”

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” I laugh.

  “Done. One of the finest bottles of champagne will be sent to the room after he checks in,” she says.

  “Excellent,” I say. “Thanks, Justice.”

  “Anytime.”

  I click off the call and get out of the car, then walk into the hotel. The blast of cool air in the lobby feels nice. The first thing I do is take the elevator up to the eleventh floor and get a feel for it. I locate the room and make note of the access to the stairwells and any other features I need to be familiar with.

  With that bit of recon done, I take the elevators down to the ground floor and find my way back to the kitchen. The place is busy with room service attendants bustling about, getting their deliveries ready. I make special note of their uniform: black slacks, white button-down shirt,
black bow tie, and a white waist apron.

  Satisfied that I’m good to go, I leave the hotel and head into town to pick up what I need to pull this off. After that, I go back to my hotel and prepare myself. I clean and oil my weapons, making sure they’re in pristine condition. I can’t afford a jam or for anything else to go sideways. My stomach churns with the anticipation of the op, and I feel that familiar surge of excitement coursing through my veins. That familiar rush of adrenaline that lights me up.

  I still haven’t figured how I’m going to play Vargas yet. If I’m not supposed to kill him, I don’t know what to do with him. It might be easier just to kill him and be done with it. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, after all. Besides, a guy like that might not leave me any choice. He might force me into a confrontation. If he reaches for a weapon, what am I supposed to do? Let him take my life in exchange for his? Hell no.

  But of course, I know they’ll expect me to find a way to preserve his life as well as my own. They’ll expect me to find a way to disarm him and keep him under control without having to resort to violence. They gave the order and will definitely expect me to keep the man alive, no matter how badly I want to put a bullet in him. He’s a killer. A poisoner. He floods our streets with nothing but addiction, violence, and death. He deserves a bullet.

  But I don’t know that I want to irritate Delta any further than I already have. Or Temperance for that matter. I have no idea how they’d respond to my disobeying a direct order like that. It’s possible I could end up with Tower operatives on my ass as well as operators from the Hellfire Club.

  I don’t like being kept in the dark about my mission specifics. I don’t like walking into a situation like this and having restrictions placed on me with no reason given for it. Why are they so invested in keeping Vargas alive? What do they want with him?

  Cleaning my weapons is automatic for me. It’s like a calming routine, the familiarity with it leading me to an almost Zen-like place. It helps clear my head and allows me to think.

  I don’t know what they want with Vargas, nor do I know how I’m going to play him yet, but I’ve got a little bit of time to figure it out.

  And I intend to spend every second I have.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I watch from the parking lot as three black SUVs pull to a stop in the hotel driveway. Men in dark suits pile out of them and gather beneath the hotel’s long, wide portico. Bellhops scramble to get the luggage out of the cars, and valets quickly drive the SUVs off to the private VIP lot. And flanked by four very large men who are no doubt armed to the teeth, Javier Vargas walks into the Grand Valley hotel, disappearing from my view.

  I glance at my watch. It’s ten to noon. It’s been ten minutes since Vargas walked into the hotel, and he’s no doubt already ensconced in the luxury suite. I wait another five minutes before I see the pair of SUVs belonging to McGregor pull to a stop beneath the portico. He gets out and, flanked by his own security personnel; he too enters the hotel.

  “Showtime,” I mutter to myself.

  Looking at myself in the rearview mirror, I slip on a bald cap to keep my hair down. Next, I slide the styled blond wig on over the bald cap and situate it atop my head. After that, I put on a pair of dark-rimmed glasses over my eyes that are now blue thanks to my contacts, and my transformation is complete.

  My stomach churning wildly and adrenaline searing my veins, I climb out of my car and make my way to the rear of the hotel. Dressed the part of a room service attendant, I enter through the employee entrance and quickly find my way to the kitchen. It’s a hive of activity. A hundred different aromas fill the air around me. I find the line of carts with food and drinks lined up against the wall, waiting for delivery. I quickly locate the cart for Vargas’ room and pull it away from the wall.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” a voice shouts after me.

  A Hispanic man in his late fifty’s strides over to me. He’s got dark hair shot through with gray, a thick mustache, deep lines etched into his face, and a sizeable paunch around his midsection. He stops before me, looking me up and down.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks again.

  “Delivering this cart to room 1103,” I feign confusion, making a point of reading the card on the tray.

  “Who are you? I don’t know you,” he says.

  “Just started today.”

  “I didn’t hire you,” he sneers. “I’m the kitchen manager and I—”

  “Hey, listen man, Mark hired me,” I offer. “I know it’s on account of the fact that we’re college buddies, and I was down on my luck and all. I just got laid off and—”

  “They didn’t inform me of anything.”

  I shrug. “Talk to Mark,” I say. “He gave me a chance because I needed a job—”

  “Who in the hell is Mark? I don’t know any Mark.”

  “That ain’t my fault, man. I do know Mark, and he hired me.”

  “Nobody in management told me anything.”

  “Do you know everybody in management?” I ask. “Like everybody?”

  He sighs. “Well no, not everybody,” he admits.

  “He’s in management, man. You know how they are,” I say. “I just saw him last night, and he confirmed that I should be here. Wanted me to start on delivery to get a feel for things.”

  Another voice calls out to him from across the kitchen, and the man turns to look. I see him tensing as he weighs out the pros and cons of continuing to bicker with me or seeing to somebody who sounded like they really needed him. I need to sway his decision, so I apply a bit of pressure.

  “We can go talk to him right now,” I offer. “I saw him right before I got here. Funny story really, I stopped for coffee and—”

  He waves me off. “We’ll talk to him after your shift. We’ll get this cleared up,” he hisses. “I’m supposed to be the one in charge of the kitchen staff.”

  I shrug. “We’ll clear it up after my shift.”

  “Fine, go deliver the cart, then come right back,” he snaps. “We have a lot of deliveries to make.”

  I nod and push the cart out of the kitchen, breathing a silent sigh of relief. Thank God for territorial disputes among middle management. He seemed more focused on Mark—wholly a creation of my mind—crossing into his sphere of influence than on me. Which works to my advantage.

  I take the service elevator to the eleventh floor, and on the ride up, I secure my weapons to the bottom of the cart with a little tape. The chime rings, and I step off and push the cart down the hallway, all of my senses on high alert. I turn the corner and see four of the hulking bodyguards in the hallway and feel that churning in my gut grow a little wilder.

  Two on either side of the door and two across the hall from them. They’re all engaged in a silent, stony stare down with each other. No doubt it’s a pair of McGregor’s bodymen and a pair of Vargas’. A little mutually assured destruction to keep everybody honest.

  Of course, that’s four. There are at least four other bodyguards—two from either side—unaccounted for. It makes me wonder what I’m about to walk into. I have no idea what I’m walking into.

  The other guards could have been sent back down to the cars, out to lunch, or to Disneyland for all I know. Or, there could be four very large men armed to the teeth just beyond that door. I’m good, but I’m not invincible, and I don’t like those odds. Not in the least. It makes me wonder if I should pull the pin now and get out of here. Live to fight another day.

  But if I do that, I may not get another bite at this apple. McGregor doesn’t stick his head out of his well-protected hole like this very often. I can’t pull the pin yet. If I get inside and don’t like what I see, I can leave the champagne and back out of the room and figure out another way to hit him. No harm done.

  Clenching my jaw, I push on and stop before the door. I feel the eyes of all the bodyguards on me.

  “What’s this?” asks the one to the right of the door.

  “Compliments of the h
ouse,” I tell them. “To thank Mr. Vargas for his continued patronage of the Grand Valley Hotel.”

  “Just leave it here,” he growls.

  I give him a pained look. “I’m afraid I can’t. It’s a hotel policy,” I say and lean close, whispering conspiratorially as I roll my eyes. “They say it’s for customer service, but it’s really just a liability issue. They’re afraid somebody will trip on the cart or something.”

  The man looks unmoved, but one of the men on the other side of the wall chuckles. “Fuckin’ lawyers,” he grumbles. “Make it so you can’t do shit without worryin’ about gettin’ sued.”

  The other men grumble and agree with the sentiment. If there’s one thing we can all rally around, it’s our mutual dislike of lawyers. Seems to be a universal thing. Lucky for me. The big man beside the door produces a keycard and inserts it into the lock. A moment later, a small beep sounds, and the light flashes green. He jerks his head toward the door.

  “Be quick,” he tells me. “My boss is in an important meeting.”

  “Yes sir,” I nod.

  He holds the door open for me as I push the cart inside. It closes behind me with a resounding thump, sealing me inside with nothing more than my wits, my weapons, my uncertainty, and my determination to get the job done.

  Come what may.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The first thing I see as I push the cart down the short hallway and into the living room area is McGregor and Vargas out on the balcony. The door is closed, so I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’re both leaning across the table, engaged in what looks like a heated and animated conversation that doesn’t look entirely friendly.

  One of the remaining bodyguards is seated on the sofa, and directly across from him in a large, plush chair is another. They both turn to me in unison as I enter the room, pushing the cart ahead of me.

  “What’s this?” asks the one on the sofa.