The Black Hornet: James Ryker Book 2

by Rob Sinclair

  From the ground, Ryker looked over to see Lozano still standing on the bleachers, away from the scuffles; he was too big and important to fight. His eyes were locked onto Ryker and a wicked grin covered his face.

  Whatever small victory Ryker had just gained, he was sure his battle inside Santa Martha was far from over.

  8

  Pachuca, Mexico

  ‘You have him in custody?’

  ‘All taken of,’ Comisario Vasquez said. ‘Why would there be a problem? It was easy.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be in touch.’

  The call ended and Vasquez muttered a slur in his native tongue as he put the mobile phone back in his pocket.

  ‘We’re good?’ Chavez asked.

  Chavez. A necessary evil. Or at least his money was necessary. The businessman was worth something like one hundred million dollars and there was no way Vasquez could ever have got the operation going without his dollars upfront. The cartels hadn’t been willing to bankroll the deals themselves for fear of it coming back to bite them somehow. Everything so far had gone smoothly though, and now they were finally coming around to the idea. Vasquez was becoming a rich man with every deal made, and soon his – and the cartels’ – need for Chavez would run its course. Then Vasquez would be able to despatch of Chavez’s assistance permanently.

  That said, Chavez did have a wily old accountant who was expert at creating complex webs of transactions to keep money trails deeply hidden. Of course Vasquez could still employ his services, even if Chavez were to have a freak accident one day.

  The corners of Vasquez’s mouth turned up slightly at the thought.

  ‘I said, we’re good?’ Chavez repeated.

  ‘Yes, hombre. We’re all good.’

  Vasquez turned and walked off across the near-black warehouse grounds toward the outer gates. He’d made the short trip from Ciudad Neza to the warehouse on the outskirts of the nearby city of Pachuca not long after Carl Logan, aka James Ryker, had been taken into custody. The call for assistance had been an impromptu one, but Vasquez had done what he’d been asked to. He knew little of Ryker but from what he’d been told, the man deserved what he was about to receive.

  Now it was back to the job at hand. Vasquez would much rather have travelled to the port city of Tampico himself to greet the arrivals but the Ryker snatch had made that impossible. Tampico was a seven-hour drive away and Vasquez hadn’t had the time. Being in Tampico would have avoided the need to stand with Chavez. Vasquez gritted his teeth.

  ‘Was that them?’ Chavez asked, coming up behind. ‘They should be here by now.’

  ‘No. It wasn’t them.’

  ‘No? Then who was it?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  Vasquez felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He lifted it out and pressed the button to accept the call. He didn’t say a word, just listened to the voice on the other end. Then he ended the call and put the phone away.

  ‘Five minutes,’ he said to Chavez.

  Vasquez turned and shouted over to the other men congregating in the yard behind him. There was a hubbub as several shadowy figures moved about in the darkness. The warehouse was located on a long straight connector road that ran between the city and a nearby motorway. There were no lights on the road and no other buildings within five hundred yards – just jungle. The only light source was the full moon, shining brightly in the night sky. The road was quiet at this time of night and even if they turned on the lights in the warehouse grounds, they would likely not be seen by a single soul, but still, they moved about in the dark.

  Always better to conduct such business that way.

  Before long, Vasquez heard a thumping noise as the convoy made its approach. He shouted over to the men at the entrance who rolled open the metal gates.

  A few moments later, the thin darkness was pierced by the yellow beams of headlights.

  A military truck pulled in from the road. In the night time, it looked beastly and black but Vasquez knew it was a regulation green painted truck operated by the Mexican military. Three more identical vehicles followed, and when all the trucks were in position, backs facing the warehouse, the engines were shut down, the lights clicked off, and the warehouse grounds returned to darkness.

  There was a flurry of activity as men lifted boxes from the trucks. Two forklifts whizzed and whirred by, taking larger crates and carrying them into the open warehouse.

  ‘Comisario,’ came a voice from the darkness.

  Vasquez turned and saw the military-fatigue clad figure approaching.

  ‘Coronel,’ Vasquez said as he reached out his hand to greet Colonel Orozco of the Mexican army. ‘Everything arrived?’

  ‘All checked at the port.’

  ‘Very good, then let’s go and see what we have.’

  Vasquez and the Colonel retreated into the warehouse’s black interior.

  It wasn’t long before the thick metal doors were rolled shut and finally the lights were switched on. It took Vasquez’s eyes a few seconds to adjust to the sudden brightness, then he looked around.

  Inside the warehouse were ten large wooden crates plus close to thirty smaller boxes – some plastic, some metal.

  Along with Vasquez – still wearing his black PF uniform, he enjoyed the authority it gave him – there were ten men around him in plain clothes, mostly cartel soldiers. They looked somewhat out of place alongside the military uniforms of Orozco and his half dozen crew of army personnel.

  ‘Give me the list,’ Vasquez said, holding out his hand. One of the soldiers stepped forward and handed Vasquez a small bundle of papers.

  Vasquez took them and spent just a few seconds scanning.

  ‘Get them open,’ he said, passing the papers over to one of his comrades. ‘Check everything again.’

  And with that, his crew set to work with crowbars, opening each of the boxes while Orozco and his soldiers stood watch.

  Vasquez walked around the room, inspecting the open boxes and their contents. At first, Vasquez’s eyes widened as he ogled the treasures inside, but as he moved from box to box, a lackey by his side ticking the items off the list one by one, it didn’t take long for Vasquez’s mood to flip from excitement to confusion, then to anger.

  ‘What is this?’ Vasquez shouted as he stared over to Orozco.

  The Colonel – a proud man, Vasquez knew, and not one who enjoyed his authority being challenged – stood in a rigid military pose: arms folded, legs apart, a sour pout. Orozco was the tallest man in the room at six feet, and in his fatigues it was clear he was deeply muscled. He was a presence for sure in the Mexican military where title and rank meant so much. But Vasquez wasn't the Colonel’s subordinate, and his forthright tone with Orozco made everyone in the room stand still.

  A flicker of unease passed across Orozco’s face. Around the warehouse, the men shuffled into position, the soldiers behind their leader, the plain-clothed men behind theirs – Vasquez.

  One of Vasquez’s men rushed up to his side and held out a checked-off list. Vasquez took it and stared down, feeling his bubbling anger rising. Not even half of the lines had a tick next to them.

  Vasquez held the papers up for Orozco to see. ‘You said you checked everything?’

  ‘I did, I–’

  ‘Then where are my weapons?’ Vasquez screamed.

  Vasquez pulled out the Beretta sidearm – which he’d earlier taken from James Ryker – from the holster on his hip and pointed the barrel at Orozco’s face. There was a deathly silence. The soldiers in the room all looked at each other, unsure of how to deal with the situation that was unfolding.

  Then one of the soldiers made a big mistake. He went for his gun. There was a clunking and clicking as suddenly every man in the room, bar Orozco and Chavez – who was cowering in a corner – brought out a weapon. Handguns, assault rifles, shotguns.

  The mood in the room was charged. The uneasy truce between the Mexican military, the PF and the drugs cartels on the brink of being shattered. Yet the lo
oks on the army men’s faces suggested they knew they were outgunned, and they were not prepared for the firefight that was one trigger pull from taking place.

  It crossed Vasquez’s mind that maybe Orozco was playing him. Maybe he’d pilfered the missing goods himself. But no, the Colonel didn’t have the balls. He wouldn’t dare. This was the American. The American was fucking with them. Still, Vasquez needed to vent at someone. Someone had to pay for this.

  ‘Well?’ Vasquez asked. ‘You said you checked everything.’

  ‘Not me,’ Orozco said, his voice calm and assured, his body stiff. ‘My captain.’

  ‘Then where is he?’

  Orozco looked to his right, to the man standing by his side.

  ‘And this is?’ Vasquez asked.

  ‘Capitan Borgetti.’

  ‘Tell your men to lower their weapons,’ Vasquez demanded.

  Orozco hesitated, his hard stare fixed on Vasquez. Then he reached out with a hand giving a signal to his men. The soldiers slowly lowered their guns.

  Vasquez turned his attention to the army captain. ‘Tell me, Capitan Borgetti. What happened?’

  The captain opened and closed his mouth but no words came out. He looked petrified, a stark contrast to the composed Colonel. In that moment Vasquez understood one thing – Orozco was the real deal after all. He knew this business. He knew the stakes. Captain Borgetti, on the other hand, was way out of his depth. He had no chance.

  Orozco turned and shouted to his captain, demanding an explanation.

  ‘I ch… checked two of the big boxes,’ Borgetti stammered. ‘We didn’t have time to check everything at the port. It was too risky. It would have taken too long. But the paperwork was all there.’

  ‘The paperwork?’ Vasquez turned back to Orozco. ‘Shoot him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you think this is acceptable? Do you think this is how we run business?’

  ‘No, Comisario.’

  ‘Then take out your gun and shoot your captain in the fucking head.’

  As angry as he was, Vasquez was almost smiling as he watched Orozco’s superior stature slowly melt away. Orozco reached down to his hip for his sidearm and lifted out the gun.

  ‘Shoot him!’ Vasquez shouted.

  Borgetti was whining, pleading for his life.

  ‘Shoot him, or I’ll take every single one of your heads off!’

  Orozco lifted his gun. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Borgetti.

  Orozco pulled the trigger and finally the smile broke loose on Vasquez’s face as the army captain’s body crumpled.

  ‘Take him away,’ Vasquez demanded. ‘Get your men and your trucks out of my sight. You’ll be hearing from us.’

  Orozco turned and he was the leader again, barking orders at his soldiers who sprang into action.

  Vasquez turned to Hector, his most trusted soldier, a former military man who was stronger than an ox, more ruthless than a mercenary, and more loyal than a dog.

  ‘Get the weapons out of here, then find out what happened. Find me some leverage before we go back to the American.’

  ‘Leverage?’

  ‘I think you know what I mean. Heads will roll because of this, Hector. It’s time to show the American just what we’re capable of.’

  9

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Ashford’s eyes were fixed squarely on Caroline’s bouncing breasts, just inches from his face as she rhythmically writhed her toned body up and down on top of him. He tried his hardest to enjoy the moment, to let himself go like he’d been able to so often in the past. Yet even with Caroline’s pert beauties right there in front of him, he just couldn’t get into it.

  He looked up at her face. Caroline’s mouth was open as she murmured and moaned in pleasure, her eyes half shut. She made eye contact with Ashford and held his gaze as her movements became faster and faster. Her moans grew louder, the bucking of her hips more frantic.

  Ashford couldn’t take it any longer. He reached out and shoved Caroline off him and she fell to his side, bouncing on the soft mattress.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  He turned away from her and sat up in the bed, his penis shrivelling almost instantaneously.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the matter, baby?’ Caroline purred as she moved up behind him and reached an arm around to his front. ‘You don’t wanna play?’

  ‘No,’ he said and swiped her hand away from his groin. He shot up from the bed. In the mirror he saw Caroline huff and fling herself down onto the bed.

  ‘No need to be such an asshole,’ she grunted.

  ‘Oh, shut the fuck up.’ He grabbed his underwear from the floor.

  ‘Prick!’

  Luckily for Ashford, he saw in the mirror the ashtray flying through the air toward him. He ducked just in time and it crashed against the wall, exploding into hundreds of small glass shards.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you!’ he shouted.

  ‘I’m not some whore you just get to screw whenever you want,’ Caroline blasted.

  This conversation, a familiar one, was the last thing Ashford needed right now. ‘No, you’re not. A whore wouldn’t give me this same shit all the time.’

  He pulled on his shirt and did up the buttons. Caroline, face like thunder, jumped from the bed and grabbed her pile of clothes from the floor. She made for the bathroom.

  ‘You don’t get to treat me like this,’ she shouted. ‘Just remember, I can hurt you way more than you can hurt me.’

  Ashford knew exactly what she meant by that. It wasn’t the first time she’d levelled that threat at him; going to the papers and announcing their affair in order to ruin not just his marriage but likely his political career too. He was in no mood to take her crap.

  As Caroline scuttled for the bathroom, Ashford launched himself toward her and grabbed her by the neck, pushing her up against the bedroom wall.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he said, his snarling face just inches from hers. ‘I can hurt you in ways you can’t even imagine.’

  Caroline looked shocked, and afraid. A tear escaped her eye and she sobbed – from fear or from hurt Ashford wasn’t sure, and he didn’t particularly care right then. He’d increasingly come to the conclusion that his relationship with Caroline was well beyond its best before date. He’d been sleeping with her for nearly three years, ever since she’d returned to his hometown unexpectedly after almost twenty years. They’d been childhood sweethearts once, many moons earlier, and when she’d resurfaced unexpectedly Ashford had still seen the sweet and kooky teenager he’d once lusted over.

  At first, the affair had been exhilarating, a breath of fresh air in the stress-filled world Ashford inhabited. Their relationship had nowhere to go, and yet Ashford had always felt he had no way out. Caroline had her talons wedged deep into Ashford; the threat of what she might do if he ended their relationship was always there at the back of his mind. Until now he’d remained content that at least the sex was still worthwhile, but lately he’d begun to question even that. Today though was the first time he'd ever levelled a threat back at her.

  Ashford let go of her neck and saw the rings of white flesh on her skin from his tight grip. She slumped down, her sobbing getting louder. Ashford suddenly felt remorse. He wrapped his arms around her and she buried her head into his chest.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sounding and feeling more genuine than he’d expected.

  ‘I know you love Nicole,’ Caroline said through her tears.

  ‘I always will.’

  ‘But I never understood why you can’t love me too.’

  He didn’t know the answer. He’d tried, in many ways he’d wanted to love her, but he just didn’t.

  Ashford heard a phone vibrating. Caroline lifted her head and Ashford let go of her as he walked over to the dressing table. No, it wasn’t his personal phone. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. He reached down and fished in the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out the cheap pay-
as-you-go handset he’d purchased two days earlier. Only one person had the number: Aaron Mitchell, Ashford’s wingman and the head of his security team – at least that was the official term for those who asked. Mitchell was a former army ranger who’d long operated in the grey area of society, both within the military and since retiring. He knew how to get answers to unwanted questions quickly and quietly.

  When Ashford had returned home from his run the previous evening, he’d been in two minds as to what he should do about the mystery women and her threatening note. He didn’t know who the woman worked for – it could have been anyone: FBI, CIA, their Mexican equivalents, the police, even the cartels themselves. Everyone of those groups was involved in this one way or another, and much of the time there wasn’t a good side and a bad side. All Ashford knew was that the woman was a problem.

  She must have come onto the estate somehow. CCTV might have picked her up, one of the security guards or other residents might have spotted her. If Ashford could find an image of her he could work on identifying her. It wouldn’t be hard for him to have done that himself, but Ashford was a Congressman. He couldn’t get his hands dirty. So he’d left the problem with Mitchell and his team, trusted men who Ashford and Mitchell had lived and fought with, side by side on the battlefields. Mitchell would still risk his life for Ashford, and vice versa, and there was little Ashford wouldn’t ask Mitchell to do.

  ‘Yeah,’ Ashford said as he answered the call. He looked over to Caroline who was on her feet, pulling on her knickers. She wasn't looking at Ashford and she likely wouldn't be able to hear whatever Mitchell had to say, but he still felt uneasy about having the conversation in front of her.

  ‘I’m outside,’ Mitchell said. ‘By the fire escape.’

  Ashford was about to leap into a series of questions: how did Mitchell know where he was, what the hell was he doing coming to him like this? And he would have done too if the call hadn’t ended before he got a word out.

  Ashford stared at the phone for a few seconds while he thought, then he stuffed the device back in his pocket and finished dressing.