by Rob Sinclair
Ryker didn’t know exactly what role, if any, Jiménez still had with the CIA, or the JIA, or any other intelligence outfit. Maybe none. But then Jiménez did know of Lisa, so it seemed he had inside sources within the intelligence services.
Either way, Jiménez had never truly been on anyone’s side. His loyalty had always been only to himself.
‘You know I can’t believe that the infamous Carl Logan finally got shacked up,’ Jiménez mocked.
‘People change, Jiménez. And Carl Logan is dead.’
‘No, you’re wrong. People don’t change. Not really. They just learn to adapt. Many people want to change, they may even be so good at pretending they’ve done so that they have everyone fooled. Maybe that’s you. But the facade can never last.’
Jiménez’s words swirled in Ryker’s mind. Ryker wondered whether Jiménez even noticed the irony in what he’d said.
‘If you know anything about me, Jiménez, then you’ll know that I’ll get to the bottom of what happened. I’ll find her, one way or another. And I’ll track down everyone responsible for taking her from me.’
‘And you’ll beat them, and you’ll torture them, and you’ll slit their throats, and you’ll cut off their heads, and you’ll piss down their necks to make them pay for what they did. Yeah, yeah, heard it all before, Ryker. You’ve got big balls, so what?’
Ryker clenched his fists at Jiménez’s nonchalance but didn’t rise to it. Every word that had passed Ryker’s lips about seeking the truth – and his revenge – was true. It wasn’t just bravado. Lisa had been taken from him, and he would never stop until he found her, and found out who was behind it and why.
For the last six months, Ryker had moved from location to location, refreshing ties to his old life. The answers Ryker needed lay with these shadowy characters. Ryker’s trail had brought him to Mexico. And here, Jiménez was a man who could help.
‘Are you going to help or not?' Ryker asked.
‘Tell me what you know first,’ Jiménez said. ‘You’re coming back into my world after many years of silence. Mexico is a dangerous place, I live a dangerous life. Therefore I’m a cautious man. It’s not that I don’t believe this story of a missing woman, but I’d like to know where all the dots are connected and how you think this could lead back here. To me.’
‘Not to you. If I thought you had something to do with her disappearance then coffee in the sunshine wouldn’t have been my favoured form of communication.’
‘No. You would have beaten me, tortured me, blah, blah, blah.’
‘Don’t forget who I was, Jiménez.’
‘Who you are, Ryker. Stop pretending.’
‘Fine. Who I am.’
‘Good. That’s better. So then, spell it out for me. How can I help you? And we’ll take it from there.’
Ryker paused and held Jiménez’s eye for a short while. He wouldn’t give Jiménez the backstory of how his and Lisa's lives had first collided in Paris, when she’d still been an FBI agent, and he’d been working for the JIA. Maybe Jiménez already knew that part. Ryker had a hard time explaining quite how his outlook on life had changed so quickly when he’d met her. The simple answer was he’d fallen in love. Despite their combined troubles, the two of them had fought together to forge a new life. She was worth fighting for, and Ryker wouldn’t stop.
He laid out the facts for Jiménez: He and Lisa were living in a far-flung location – a remote Pacific island. No one there knew their true identities. Their home was isolated and disconnected, off the grid, near a small town cut off from modern life and where few outsiders ever ventured. There, everyone knew each other and Ryker and Lisa were undoubtedly the black sheep, but it had felt safe. A world away from their former lives.
That had all changed the day Ryker had come home to an empty house. But Lisa wouldn’t have left him. Like him, she had nowhere, and no one else to go to.
No longer caring about keeping a low profile, Ryker had rampaged through the local town, finding out everything he could about what people had seen and heard.
What Ryker had found had been spurious at best, pure fantasy at worst. But he had to start somewhere. Some of the locals had seen an unfamiliar car heading to and from Ryker’s home that day. Nothing unusual, until he started digging. The car had rental stickers, someone had said. Therefore the car wasn’t from the town; there were no rental shops. So Ryker had spread his search further afield. Eventually he found where the car had come from. He elicited the name of the man who had rented it, and got a CCTV snapshot of his face from a shop around the corner where the man had bought cigarettes.
After many searches, Ryker concluded the name was bogus, but using his old contacts he’d uncovered further CCTV images of the man entering the country at the nearest airport three days previously, travelling with another male. Through further searching and bribing and calling in favours, Ryker had found the various names the two men had travelled under, and traced their originating movements back to Mexico City.
Ryker had so far found no trace that the men had returned to Mexico after Lisa had been taken. The identities were fakes, but the men weren’t. The men were real. Now, Ryker explained to Jiménez, he needed to find out who the men were, and what they’d done with Lisa.
Jiménez looked uneasy. ‘You found that out all on your own?’ He sounded sceptical.
‘Of course not. I just know how, and who, to ask.’
Jiménez raised an eyebrow and glared at Ryker but didn’t say anything.
‘I’m not working for anyone other than myself here,’ Ryker assured him, ‘if that’s what you’re worried about. This isn’t about you. It’s about me.’
‘But you must have some friends, somewhere, to have uncovered all that information.’
‘It’s taken me six months to get this far. If I were working for the JIA or the CIA or anyone else, I’d have had it in days. And I wouldn’t have needed to come to the slums to have coffee with you.’
Ryker saw a look of offence in Jiménez’s eyes. He hadn’t intended to piss off the Mexican, but Jiménez was pushing and Ryker’s natural response was to push back.
It appeared Ryker’s forthright manner did the trick. Plus both men knew Jiménez owed Ryker. Otherwise Ryker wouldn’t have been there.
‘The two men you’re looking for,’ Jiménez said, ‘give me the names you have for them. If you have copies of the passport pictures, that will help more. I’ll find out who they are. But that’s it.’
‘That’s good enough for me. Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me yet. You don’t know where this will lead you.’
Ryker reached into his trouser pocket and pushed the folded papers across the table. Jiménez took them without looking and put them into his own pocket. He opened his mouth to speak. A gust of wind blasted across the square. Dust plumed up into the air and Jiménez spluttered. Ryker waited a couple of seconds, expecting the dust to settle.
It didn’t.
The wind only grew stronger, swirling around and around, creating a vast cloud of grit that smacked Ryker in the face, the fine particles making his face sting and eyes water.
Then he registered the noise. The roar of a combustion engine. The whir of metal blades rotating at several hundred RPM.
Ryker looked up. A helicopter. Just a hundred yards up, maybe less, and still descending. As Ryker gazed, a series of ropes whirled down.
Not a second later, the whole ground shuddered from the mechanical vibration, the tiny coffee cups jiggling and clanging on their saucers. As well as the helicopter, Ryker knew vehicles were approaching. Heavy vehicles. More than one.
Ryker looked back at Jiménez. A startled look was plastered onto the Mexican’s face. Had Jiménez set Ryker up? No, Ryker didn’t believe so. Jiménez looked too scared for that to be the case.
‘Run,’ was the only word Jiménez said.
And that was exactly what Ryker did.
3
It was a raid. No doubt about it. Ryker’s immediate th
ought as he raced off toward the near corner of the square was that the surprise attack was being orchestrated by one of the cartels – a tactical raid involving helicopters and vehicles and armed soldiers was well within their capabilities. And Ryker certainly wasn’t in the cartels’ good books, no matter how many years had passed since he’d last set foot in their homeland.
Ryker soon realised it wasn’t the cartel’s soldiers that were descending this time though. As he bounded away from the café, a blacked-out military style truck – its narrow windows covered with metal grilles as though whoever was driving expected an onslaught from an armed rebel force – came crunching to a halt at the opposite side of the square. Emblazoned on the truck were two words: Policía Federal – the force responsible for the never-ending war on drugs.
A moment of doubt flashed in Ryker’s mind. Why were the police – the PF – coming for him?
Or maybe it wasn’t him, but Jiménez – a cartel member – they were after?
No, that would be too big a coincidence for the PF to have come for Jiménez today, surely? For whatever reason, Ryker was the target.
Suddenly automatic gunfire blasted. Ryker hunched down as though being three inches shorter would protect him from the barrage of bullets that whizzed and ricocheted past his ears. He pumped his arms and legs even harder. The world around him seemed to jump and shake as he bounded along. He glanced sideways as he ran. He spotted dark forms dropping from the sky like giant spiders crawling down the lines of a web. He also spotted Jiménez, two steps behind him. It would have made more sense for the men to split up, but Ryker was at least in front, taking charge.
He made it to the alleyway that, he knew from his recon the previous day, soon became part of a series of twisting, narrow streets. But then, as Ryker was about to take a right turn, Jiménez shouted out.
‘Not that way! Go left.’
Ryker was ready to ignore the instruction – he didn’t fully trust Jiménez and didn’t want to be led astray – but as he moved off to the right, he heard and then saw the great black hulk of another truck, forty yards away, coming to a stop where the narrow streets opened onto a main road. The truck couldn’t get any closer, it was too large, but it was still too close for comfort, and the men inside it would no doubt soon be on foot and on the hunt.
Ryker headed left, Jiménez almost by his side. Both men were panting heavily from exertion. Both had drawn weapons, though if it came down to a firefight, they could never win. Not two men against a mini-army who had vehicles, at least one helicopter, and two-dozen armed soldiers with full tactical gear. The only hope was to somehow lose them. Ryker realised that was an almost insurmountable task.
‘Follow me,’ Jiménez said, edging in front. ‘I know this area. We have places to hide. Tunnels. Bunkers. I’ll get us safe.’
Could Ryker trust Jiménez? No. But did he have another choice?
The din of the helicopter grew louder in Ryker’s ears. Soon the dust around him was swirling as the powerful rotors moved overhead. The men the helicopter had carried were already dispatched to chase Ryker down, but in the air the pilot still had a job to do in tracking the evaders.
‘What do they want, Jiménez?’ Ryker blasted.
‘How the hell should I know!’ Jiménez shouted, his voice barely audible over the helicopters rotors. ‘This way.’
Ryker again wondered about Jiménez’s loyalties. Was the Mexican in bed with the cartels? A true enemy of the state?
Jiménez shot off to the left and Ryker – trying to push away the doubts – followed. What other option did he have?
Ryker was now two steps behind. Jiménez may have been a few years older than Ryker but he was fitter than he looked, and more used to the debilitating heat. Being so tall and weighing over two hundred pounds, it took a lot more effort to keep Ryker moving over distance. They took the next left onto a narrow alley that led between two apartment building blocks.
Moments later, two black-clad figures, assault rifles close to their chests – they looked to be US made AR-15s, but at a distance Ryker couldn’t be sure – came around a corner in front. The sluggish reactions of the policemen suggested they hadn’t expected to be running into their foes so soon. That was the only thing that saved Ryker and Jiménez.
Jiménez lifted his handgun and fired a shot before the policemen even realised they had their targets in sight. The bullet hit one of the PF officers in his chest. The officer went down, though Ryker was sure his Kevlar vest would mean he was only out of action temporarily. Ryker chose to aim lower with his weapon. He fired and the bullet hit the other policeman in the leg, a second before the guy pulled on the trigger of his rifle. The man cried out and collapsed as bullets sprayed upward from the muzzle of his rifle.
Two down, thirty more to go, Ryker thought wryly. Not forgetting the helicopter and trucks. Piece of cake.
But there would be no such heroics. Not this time.
Barely a second later, four more PF officers bounded out from around the same corner, rifles held up to their faces, the barrels pointed directly at Ryker and Jiménez who slid to a halt on the dusty surface. Both men were panting. Ryker’s face was pouring sweat and he could feel his cotton shirt was wet and sticking to him.
Ryker turned to see another group of policemen entering the alley behind. There was nowhere to go, no point in running. Or fighting. Ryker dropped his weapon and threw his hands in the air even before any requests from the many PF officers. He had no cause to fight these men. Did he?
Jiménez on the other hand appeared to be up for the fight still. He was spinning this way and that, gun held out, though not pointed directly at anyone. The PF officers remained steady and unmoving, their weapons locked on the two targets.
Then two of the policemen moved aside and through the crowd strode a solitary figure. A short, plump man. He wore the same tactical gear as the other officers but instead of a helmet with visor he wore a cap, and he walked casually with his hands behind his back. Certainly no sign of an assault rifle on his body, likely he just had the sidearm that was holstered and bouncing on his hip.
The man walked toward Jiménez and Ryker, then stopped a few yards in front of them. He had weathered features, a thick moustache, and eyes set back so deep it was like looking at two black holes. He stood tall, a steely expression on his face. Ryker had no doubt this was the guy in charge.
‘You?’ Jiménez said in his native tongue. ‘What the hell do you want?’
Ryker’s Spanish wasn’t fluent, but he understood Jiménez’s plain words just fine. Whatever was happening, it appeared Jiménez was none the wiser as to the reason for the police’s presence. This wasn’t a set-up. At least not by Jiménez. That didn’t explain why the PF were there though. Or whose side they were on.
‘Carl Logan. Welcome back to Mexico,’ the PF leader said, speaking in accented English.
Ryker said nothing, but his mind was on fire. It had been years since he’d last put a foot down onto Mexican soil. Yes he was sure he had enemies in the cartels, but what was this?
‘Best welcome I’ve ever had,’ Ryker said, remaining calm, at least on the outside.
‘I’m Comisario Vasquez, of the Policía Federal.’
‘Nice to meet you. James Ryker.’
‘Really?’
‘If this is about him,’ Jiménez said, ‘then I suggest you let me go. Do you know who I work for?’
‘It’s about both of you,’ Vasquez said. ‘You just shot two of my officers. You should probably drop that weapon now.’
Jiménez huffed but then did as he was told. Vasquez carried on walking closer toward them. With a heavy black boot he kicked Jiménez’s weapon out of reach. The gun clattered across the ground, toward the four officers stood behind. Vasquez then bent down, carefully, his head up, eyes on Ryker and Jiménez the whole time. He grabbed Ryker’s Beretta then straightened himself up again.
‘On your knees,’ Vasquez demanded.
Neither Jiménez nor Ryker made a m
ove.
‘Put your hands on the back of your heads then get down onto your knees,’ Vasquez said, his tone harder. ‘Then we’ll handcuff you and move you into a van.’
Ryker gave Jiménez a questioning look, then they both carefully lowered themselves down. Jiménez was fuming, Ryker could see that on the man’s face. Ryker kept his own expression calm, but inwardly his heart was thudding and his brain was a mess. Rarely had he been in a situation where the odds were so stacked against him, yet he was still looking for any opportunity to turn the tables. If he were given the chance...
Vasquez smiled revealing yellow and misshapen teeth. He lifted the Beretta and pointed it at Ryker’s head.
‘You shouldn’t have come back here,’ Vasquez said. His smile grew wider. ‘But I’m glad you did.’
That was it, Ryker had to take action, while he still had a chance. It was now or never. He was heavily outnumbered but it had to be possible, and Ryker had fought against the odds for years. From his position, he could easily take Vasquez down, no problem. The real threat was in the other armed men that surrounded him. Would the confusion of the situation be enough for Ryker to get the upper hand? Maybe. Plus there was the fact that the men at either end of the alley were facing each other. If they fired their weapons in a sudden onslaught, they’d essentially be firing at each other.
The best option was to grab Vasquez and use him as a human shield. The other officers surely wouldn’t use their boss as target practice.
Ryker had to try.
He was about to spring up. Then it happened.
Vasquez turned quickly and pulled on the trigger of Ryker’s Beretta. The muzzle flashed and the bullet tore out of the barrel, hurtling the short distance to where Jiménez was kneeling. The projectile smashed into the Mexican’s forehead, bored its way through skin, skull and brain, and then skull and skin before it crashed out the back of Jiménez’s head. His body slumped to the ground.
Ryker was moving. Vasquez wouldn’t get another shot. But as Ryker reached out to grapple with the PF boss, he was surprised when he heard the pop-pop of rifles with silencers. Were these men really risking taking out their boss, and each other?
