The Black Hornet: James Ryker Book 2

by Rob Sinclair

  Ryker held his tongue.

  ‘Yes? You killed Luis Jiménez.’

  ‘No,’ Ryker said.

  ‘No? Why not?’

  ‘Why not what?’

  ‘Why didn’t you kill him? Jiménez was a rat. A traitor. He deserved to die.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘He was your friend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yet you were with him when he was killed.’

  ‘I’m with you now, are we friends?’

  Lozano looked at Ryker blankly and Ryker wondered whether his Spanish had been right.

  ‘If not you, then who shot Jiménez?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ryker lied. There was no need to go mentioning Comisario Vasquez. Ryker knew so little of the PF officer and why he had set Ryker up, he was best pleading ignorance as far as he could. Especially as he didn’t yet know who Lozano was connected to on the outside – who his allies and enemies were.

  ‘But you were there,’ Lozano said.

  ‘Yes. But I don’t know the man who shot him.’

  ‘The man that wasn’t you.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why were you meeting with Jiménez?’

  ‘For coffee.’

  ‘You came a long way for coffee.’

  ‘I like coffee.’

  Lozano smiled, but Benito looked up at Ryker, and the angst on his face suggested he didn’t think that Ryker’s sarcasm was the best course of action given the circumstances. Ryker disagreed.

  ‘Okay,’ Lozano said, then paused. ‘Okay. Maybe I should explain the situation to you.’

  ‘Maybe you should,’ Ryker said. ‘Like what are you doing in my cell.’

  ‘Your cell? Nothing in here is yours. Everything in here, in this whole jail, is mine.’

  ‘You should take better care of your belongings then, because this place is one of the biggest cesspits I’ve ever seen.’

  Lozano's face twisted just slightly but he managed to hold his anger in. Ryker wondered how much more goading El Jefe would take before he reacted. Ryker felt in the mood to find out.

  ‘Let me start again,’ Lozano said. ‘Jiménez was a rat. If you were meeting with him – for coffee – that suggests to me maybe you are a rat too. Do you know what we do to rats around here?’

  ‘No,’ Ryker said, pursing his lips and shaking his head. ‘You eat them? Good source of protein and probably beats the crap I’ve been given so far.’

  ‘No. We cut off their heads.’ Lozano let those words sink in. Ryker didn’t doubt the threat, but what did Lozano expect him to do? Suddenly fall to the floor and start grovelling?

  ‘Let me ask you again,’ Lozano said when the silence had dragged on enough. ‘Why were you meeting with Luis Jiménez?’

  The conversation thus far did at least suggest one thing to Ryker; Lozano wasn’t just a prison gangster, he was connected with the cartels somehow. He had to be. How else would he know – or care – about Jiménez?

  ‘I’m only going to ask one more time,’ Lozano said, still sounding cool and in charge. His continuing icy manner was starting to unsettle Ryker. He’d thought Lozano was a simple thug. Had he misread El Jefe? ‘Why were you meeting with Luis Jiménez?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  With his words, Ryker felt a pang of guilt. He’d barely thought of Lisa since his incarceration, his mind too busy with the immediate problem. Yet it was through looking for her that he’d wound up in jail in the first place, and he certainly wasn’t giving up on her now, despite his predicament. He’d be damned if he’d rot in a Mexican prison, unable to find the answers he craved.

  ‘Looking for who?’ Lozano asked.

  ‘A friend. Someone you don’t know. Someone who is nothing to do with you. Whoever you are, I’m not a threat to you.’

  Lozano laughed, a deliberate and mocking laugh. His two buddies echoed their boss like the good little lapdogs they were.

  ‘That’s nice to know,’ Lozano said.

  ‘I’m serious. I don’t know why Jiménez was killed, and I don’t know why I’m in here. But I don’t see any reason why I should be a problem for you. Not unless you make me one.’

  ‘Okay, that’s fair.’ Lozano nodded. ‘But I don’t believe you. And I will find the truth about what you are doing here, in my country.’

  ‘Your country? You branched out from owning this jail pretty quickly.’

  Lozano shook his head. ‘So we’re done here. For now.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Except for one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You owe me ten thousand dollars.’

  Ryker said nothing.

  ‘For the fight yesterday. You lost a lot of money for me. I want it back.’

  ‘I don’t have any money on me. And there’s no cashpoint in here.’

  ‘Not my problem. You’d better find it. Everyone in here pays. You could call it protection, if you like.’

  ‘I don’t need your protection.’

  ‘Believe me, Carl Logan, in here, you really do.’

  Ryker felt his heart lurch at the mention of the name. He’d felt in charge of the conversation with Lozano but that had just changed. First Vasquez, now Lozano – two men whom Ryker had never met before but knew far too much about Ryker’s past. And they weren’t revealing their full hand. Lozano was playing Ryker.

  Just how much did he know?

  Yet if Lozano and Vasquez were in bed with the cartels, and somehow knew of the damage Ryker had caused them the last time he’d been to Mexico, why was he even still alive? Why hadn't they already taken him out to the desert, cut off his head and buried him like they did to so many of their enemies?

  ‘We’ll be seeing you,’ Lozano said.

  He took a step forward. Ryker heard clunking behind him as a guard unlocked and opened the cell door. Lozano walked past. Ryker held El Jefe’s stare until he was out of the line of sight. Then he turned to the goons. They were both eyeballing Ryker too. As they moved past, Ryker prepared himself for an attack, in some ways he wanted it...

  He realised it wasn’t coming. Not this time anyway. Regardless, Ryker jerked his head toward the Beast, who flinched and side stepped away. Ryker smiled. The Beast carried on out, embarrassed at his reaction, and clearly unwilling to make a move on Ryker without the order from his master.

  Seconds later, with the cell door locked once more, the guards and Lozano and his goons were out of sight.

  Ryker slumped down onto the bunk next to Benito.

  ‘You like trouble,’ Benito said in English.

  ‘No,’ Ryker said. ‘But trouble seems to like me. When’s breakfast? I’m starving.’

  12

  Pachuca, Mexico

  The warehouse was quiet and virtually empty once again. The lights were on even though it was daytime – the few dirty frosted windows in the building let through little natural light. The goods received the previous evening were gone, dispatched onward to their next destination. Vasquez had returned with a smaller crew this time, just three of his most trusted men.

  But the four men weren’t alone. Vasquez had asked for leverage, and Hector had duly delivered.

  Vasquez strode forward and placed the laptop computer onto a rickety wooden table. He opened the lid, pressed the power button, and heard the hard drive and the fan whir into action as the system booted up.

  He turned back to his men. ‘Put them there,’ he said.

  Hector dragged forward one of the prisoners and pushed him down onto one of three metal chairs that sat in a neat line five yards in front of the laptop screen. The prisoner’s hands were cuffed behind his back and a dirty sack was tied around his head. He was whimpering and moaning – just like his two friends. The beatings the prisoners had already taken and the morphine that had been plunged into their bloodstreams at least made their cries pathetic and low key. Vasquez had a stinking headache from lack of sleep and residual anger from last night’s shipment, and he
couldn’t have stood these three gringos screaming.

  Hector barked orders to Vasquez’s other men and soon the three prisoners were all seated in a row. Vasquez looked over at Hector. At five feet eight, he was hardly an ominous presence. He wasn’t that big in the frame either, though Vasquez knew he was muscly and sinewy, and what Hector lacked in sheer size he more than made up for in animal instinct, savagery and, to perfectly match those traits in Vasquez’s eyes, elite training. Hector was a highly skilled soldier, one of Mexico’s best, a veteran of the Cuerpo de Fuerzas Especiales – Mexico’s equivalent to the British SAS and the US Green Berets. Despite his talents, Hector had turned his back on the military for good. Their loss was Vasquez’s gain.

  ‘Keep them quiet,’ Vasquez said to Hector.

  Vasquez moved back up to the computer and clicked open the secure internet browser. He then spent two minutes carefully working his way through various layers of security until finally he opened up the live video streaming app that would leave no record of use on any hard drive or any server anywhere in the world.

  He inputted the details for the American and hovered the cursor over the green call button. Vasquez hesitated for just a second. He knew he was at a crossroads with two very different paths, neither of which would be easy, both of which would result in many deaths. Yet no matter how many times Vasquez deliberated, he saw only one acceptable choice.

  Vasquez held his nerve and pressed down on the touchpad, then stared at the computer screen while he waited for the call to connect.

  After a few seconds, the dial tone stopped and the black screen came to life. The image that appeared was grainy, it flickered and stuttered; the connection was weak because of all the layers of security eating into the laptop’s processing power, and compounded by the call’s distance. Yet it was clear what the screen was showing: a shadowed portrait of a person – head, neck, shoulders. No features of a face visible.

  ‘Comisario,’ came the disguised voice through the raspy laptop speakers.

  ‘Yes,’ Vasquez responded. He didn’t have a name with which to refer to the American. He had no idea of the American’s true identity, had never seen the man’s face, never heard his real voice – it always being synthesised through a voice distortion device whenever they spoke either via video or voice call, as was Vasquez’s on the other end.

  Vasquez and his crew had discussed many nicknames for the American, most of them derogatory, but none had stuck. El Americano. It had a nice ring to it anyway. Plus, to Vasquez, it was derogatory enough – he hated Americans with a passion, even though they were a necessary evil for these business ventures.

  The American wasn’t his boss though, or even his peer, and Vasquez was about to show exactly who wielded the power in this relationship.

  ‘What seems to be the problem?’ the American asked, sounding almost disinterested.

  ‘You know,’ Vasquez said, trying to remain calm and composed, though he was still seething over what he saw as a clear betrayal of trust. ‘My weapons. Where are they?’

  ‘You got what you paid for.’

  ‘But not what we agreed.’

  ‘The deal changed.’

  ‘No, it didn’t.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do. You want more, you pay more.’

  ‘That’s not how we do business here.’

  ‘Except I’m not there. And you’re not here. I’m selling to you, and you buy at the price I say or not at all.’

  No, it was no good, Vasquez was about ready to explode. He clenched his teeth as hard as he could for a second or two, channelling some of the anger into pain.

  ‘How much?’ Vasquez asked.

  ‘Two million will get you the rest of the order.’

  ‘One.’

  ‘This isn’t a negotiation.’

  ‘It’s too much.’

  ‘The risks have increased.’

  ‘What risks?’

  ‘Nothing to concern you. It will be taken care of. But our expenses are more than expected now, as a result. Two million will complete your original order. We will have more goods ready for you soon, if you need more. Unmarked bills too, for a very good price.’

  Vasquez turned over the words in his mind. More weapons was good, but not at any price.

  ‘Two million is the price,’ the American said. ‘No less.’

  ‘I think you may be forgetting who you are dealing with here,’ Vasquez said. ‘You do not give the orders–’

  ‘Yes, I do. If you want the goods, let me know. Goodbye, Comisario.’

  Vasquez held up a hand to the screen before the call was disconnected. ‘Let me try that again. And please, don’t interrupt me this time.’

  Vasquez took a step to his side.

  ‘Take off the hoods,’ he barked to Hector in Spanish. Hector did as he was told.

  Vasquez reached forward and nudged the laptop a couple of inches to the right. The small square in the bottom of the screen showed him that the laptop’s inbuilt camera was now focused directly on the three battered and bloodied figures languishing in the chairs.

  ‘I said I think you may be forgetting who you are dealing with here,’ Vasquez repeated. ‘So let me remind you.’

  ‘This will not change the terms of our deal,’ the American said. The voice was still calm. For now.

  The three prisoners stared, petrified, at Vasquez then at the laptop screen. The two prisoners on Vasquez’s left were men, the other was a woman. Of the three, she had the most steel remaining in her eyes. Vasquez was impressed.

  ‘You know these people?’ Vasquez asked, directing his question to the American.

  ‘No,’ said the crackled voice. ‘And it doesn’t matter what you do to them. The price is set. The order is ready when you are.’

  ‘They are Americans,’ Vasquez said. ‘Like you. And not just any Americans. These are your soldiers. The people you had escort my goods. Or some of my goods, I should say. We didn’t get what we asked for, so we’ve had to renegotiate the terms. We got half of our goods, you will get half of your soldiers back.’

  Out of sight of the laptop screen, Hector pulled on the cord to start up the small petrol engine on the chainsaw. The engine cracked and buzzed into life and the chain whizzed around in a blur, the sound of the machine echoing in the near empty warehouse.

  ‘We’re not animals,’ the American snapped. ‘This is not how we do business.’

  ‘A deal is a deal. Would you like to know about these people first?’

  Vasquez paused. There was no answer from the American. For a moment, Vasquez wondered whether the call had already been disconnected – the image of the American just a frozen screenshot before the browser closed down – but then, above the noise of the chainsaw, Vasquez heard breathing coming through the laptop’s tinny speakers. It sounded heavy. He smiled.

  ‘They are all family people, like me,’ Vasquez said. ‘Sam Urwin, Texas, twenty-four, married two months ago. Dylan Nash, New Jersey, thirty, one daughter. Lucy Quaid, twenty-eight, from Ohio. She’s married, has two sons. One is only ten months old. Such a shame, think of the anguish and torment those children will face now.’

  Vasquez strode up to the woman. She had a cold stare fixed on Vasquez. He liked her determination. She would be the last to go. He pulled on her hair, lifting her head back.

  ‘Her sons will never see their mother again. I doubt they’ll even remember her. Her blood will be on your hands. Do you understand what I’m saying? Three Americans will die here today. Because of you.’

  Vasquez heard a click and he looked over as the browser screen went black. This time he knew for sure the American had gone. He was slightly disappointed about that. Not that it would change what was about to happen.

  ‘Do it,’ Vasquez said to Hector. ‘Send the video to the American and the heads to their families.’

  Now, despite the drugs, the prisoners wailed. They were screaming and shouting, begging and writhing against their restraints with everything they had.r />
  But it was too late for them.

  Vasquez wasn’t squeamish, but the noise – of the screaming and the high-pitched chainsaw engine – was too much for his stabbing headache. He walked toward the warehouse doors, opened them, and stepped out into the fierce sunshine, just as he heard the stutter and churn of the metal chain as it sliced through the first of three American necks.

  13

  Mandeville, Louisiana

  Sweat dripped down his brow as Douglas Ashford stared at his laptop screen. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He didn't want to watch, yet he was frozen, unable to turn away from the horror.

  This was too much. Ashford was a strong and determined man, and from his time in the army he certainly didn’t believe himself to be squeamish – he’d seen blood, he’d seen dead bodies, he’d seen his own colleagues gunned down. But he was getting in way over his depth now. What had started out as nothing more than a side project – a window of opportunity that had presented itself at a convenient moment – had quickly morphed into a situation that was out of control.

  Despite his public image, he wasn’t a squeaky clean, law-abiding, lily-white citizen, and he wasn’t unused to violence. Yet he was increasingly questioning whether this was a world he belonged in.

  Having put himself in there of his own accord though, and for his own selfish reasons, he couldn’t walk away now. It was too late. He would have to find another way out.

  There had to be another way.

  Mitchell had already warned Ashford that morning of the impending fallout from the deficit in the last shipment. But this latest gruesome turn of events was unexpectedly severe. Exactly where Ashford went from here, he didn't know.

  Ashford nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a floorboard creak outside the office doorway. He put his hand down to the desk drawer – where he kept one of his three revolvers – as he looked up to the door. He saw Nicole standing there and he took his hand off the drawer’s handle, heaving a sigh.

  ‘What are you doing, sat here in the dark?’ Nicole turned on the main light.