The Black Hornet: James Ryker Book 2

by Rob Sinclair

  ‘I thought we’d try having our friendly talk again,’ Lozano said in Spanish.

  Ryker grunted but didn’t say a word. At that moment, he was more concerned about breathing than talking.

  ‘Who is the woman?’ Lozano asked.

  Ryker couldn’t have answered even if he wanted to. This simple fact seemed to dawn on Lozano, who nodded to whoever was stationed behind Ryker. The arm was loosened just slightly.

  ‘Who is the woman?’ Lozano asked; it was almost a snarl this time.

  ‘Your sister,’ Ryker said.

  Apparently that was the wrong answer. Lozano lunged forward. Ryker hadn’t seen until that point but Lozano was gripping a metal knuckleduster. He swung his fist forward and the metal slammed into Ryker’s jaw, sending his head wobbling and his eyes rolling. The blow took out a tooth and split the inside of Ryker’s mouth. Blood dribbled from his lips, down his chin.

  It took Ryker a few seconds to recover from the blow before he found the strength and focus to spit out the broken tooth and the mouthful of phlegm and blood that had built up.

  ‘Let me try one more time,’ Lozano said. ‘Who is the woman?’

  Ryker wasn’t a glutton for punishment. There wasn’t any point in holding out unless he needed to.

  ‘I don’t know her,’ Ryker slurred. He cleared his throat. Spat out more blood. ‘She said she’s from the British Embassy. I’m British. I’ve been locked up here. Go figure it out.’

  ‘No,’ Lozano said. ‘Not her. The missing woman. The one you came to Mexico to look for.’

  This time Ryker did hold out. Partly because he was once again taken by surprise that Lozano knew so much about him, but also because he was slightly ashamed of himself. His immediate response to Lozano’s question had been to think about Willoughby, not Lisa.

  Lisa. She was the sole reason Ryker had stepped foot onto Mexican soil after so many years. He’d known the risks of coming back, particularly on his own, unprotected by the JIA. Ryker had ignored those risks. Lisa was worth it. He had to find her, whatever it took, and punish whoever had taken her.

  If he was just given the chance.

  ‘Tell me about her,’ Lozano said. ‘Tell me the connection I’m missing. Why here?’

  Ryker kept his bleeding mouth shut. Lozano would have to try harder than that. The boss came forward again, another strike with the knuckleduster. Ryker bowed his head when he saw the fist coming and his skull rather than his face took the brunt of the blow. It was a reflexive reaction more than anything, to save his face, but the strike caused his brain to rattle inside its cage, making Ryker feel nauseous.

  Lozano threw his fist forward again. Not a head shot this time, but to Ryker’s chest. Ryker’s ribs offered some protection but the blow still forced the air out of his lungs and sent his heart beating out of time.

  Ryker tried to lift his head. He coughed. He spluttered. His eyes were rolling again. He tried to catch his breath, rasping and wheezing. He couldn’t manage it.

  With his eyes sloshing around like they were no longer attached, Ryker’s head collapsed forward. His body slumped down, every muscle suddenly relaxing, his mass only remaining suspended because of the men who were still holding onto him.

  But Ryker wasn’t just unconscious. He’d stopped breathing.

  At least that was the cheap ploy he was trying. He had to try something.

  Ryker’s body was loose and still. He held his breath. The only indication he was still alive was the pulse of his heart. Would the men notice that? The throbbing in the side of his neck?

  Or would they release their grip on Ryker to check him properly?

  Fortunately for Ryker, it was the latter. It was the sensible course of action for the men to take.

  ‘Let go of him!’ Lozano shouted.

  He sounded rattled. Clearly the intent hadn’t been to kill Ryker. Not without any useful information, or any money coming Lozano’s way.

  Which told Ryker a lot.

  Apparently Lozano wasn’t the brutal sociopath he wanted others to see him as. They could have strung Ryker up and cut off his fingers one by one if they really wanted the information. Instead they’d tried beating it out of him. Ryker had been subjected to much worse treatment than that and had held out. Lozano wasn't on that level, Ryker now believed, which was a good thing. He was just a thug of a businessman who wasn’t very good at spotting the difference between a dead body and a live one.

  And Lozano had just given Ryker the opportunity he needed to turn the tables on all six men in the grimy cell.

  When the arm was taken away from around Ryker’s neck, he felt like breaking out into a smile. When his arms were released a moment after, he actually did.

  Ryker’s loose body began to crumple to the ground. Before he hit the mottled concrete floor, he made his move. In a blur of action, Ryker spun, swiping at the legs of one of the guards who’d been holding him. The guard was falling as Ryker continued in a fluid motion. Ryker’s knee caught the falling guard under his chin, then, up in a half crouch, Ryker sent his elbow crashing into the throat of the inmate who’d been holding Ryker’s neck.

  The second guard was pulling on his baton. By now he’d had enough time to realise what was happening, but not quite enough time for the motor cortex in his brain to send the signal into his spinal cord and onward through synapses and motor neurones to muscle fibres to get his muscles and limbs to do what he needed before Ryker attacked. Probably only two tenths of a second too slow, the blink of an eye. Springing upright, Ryker grabbed the guard’s wrist, twisted, took control of the baton and slammed it into the back of the guard’s neck.

  In the time it had taken Ryker to get up from the floor, he’d taken out three men, who were now on the ground, unconscious. And Ryker was armed with a baton. The remaining grunts in front of Ryker weren’t about to stand by idly watching, though – they were already coming forward.

  Lozano was the only one not joining the fight. Not a problem. Though the next two guys would be a bit trickier, because both were armed. One had a shiv – a rudimentary scalpel-like weapon put together from what looked like a toothbrush and a razor blade. The other man had a pocket knife with a three-inch blade.

  The weapons alone were a problem, but the men also had a time advantage on Ryker, who’d already had to contend with felling three men. The guy with the shiv came forward with Ryker still readjusting from the last blow he’d delivered. His only option was to throw up his forearm in defence. The blade of the shiv slashed across Ryker’s arm.

  Not a second later though, he’d sidestepped and caught the man’s wrist, snapped it, and taken control of the weapon. He sent a punishing head butt onto the crown of the guy’s nose. He was out of the fight just like that.

  Out-positioned again, Ryker could do nothing as the other guy slashed the pocket knife across his back. Ryker grimaced and spun. He saw the knife coming for him a second time, toward his belly. Ryker had just enough time to dodge it. He shimmied and slashed with the shiv, across the guy’s shoulder. He continued spinning and slammed his elbow into the back of the guy’s head.

  That was now five men down and out. Just Lozano remaining.

  Ryker glared at El Jefe, chest heaving, blood pouring from his mouth, his arm and his back. Lozano stood there, no look of concern. The confidence he saw in Lozano’s eyes sent a wave of doubt through Ryker. Had he underestimated Lozano somehow?

  There was a brief and silent standoff. Was Lozano just going to stand there? However much Ryker wanted to take the guy down, he wasn’t about to attack unless he needed to. He’d already made his mind up on day one that his only fighting in the jail would be in self-defence. He would stick to that as long as he could. Lozano had to make the first move.

  Lozano’s eyes shifted from Ryker to the floor, just the briefest of glances. Ryker knew what he was looking at. The pocket knife. Ryker was almost willing Lozano to go for it. He was certain El Jefe wouldn’t make it.

  That’s when Ryker heard the
whistles. Then the boots of the guards. Then their shouts. Ryker didn’t move. Neither did Lozano. A wide grin now covered El Jefe’s face, though Ryker didn’t buy that Lozano was genuinely pleased with the outcome of the meeting.

  ‘Drop the knife!’ a guard shouted to Ryker.

  Ryker did as he was told. He turned round, hands above his head, to find himself staring at a mini army of uniformed guards, a rifle barrel inches from his face.

  If you put it right there, Ryker thought, it’s not going to be yours much longer.

  But Ryker didn’t try anything, as easy as it would be to take control of the weapon. He didn't believe the guard was about to blow his brains out and Ryker couldn’t kill every man in sight. Maybe he could, but he wouldn’t try. Not today.

  Seconds later, Ryker was in cuffs and the guards dragged him along the concrete, his ankles scraping painfully as they moved toward the exit of the cell block.

  Where exactly they were headed now, Ryker didn’t know.

  16

  Comisario Vasquez sat down on the bench in Chapultepec Park in the heart of Mexico City, unable to hide the anger from his face, despite the serene surroundings. He was fuming from the secret meeting he’d just come from with the bosses of the Araujo, Zavala, and Campos cartels – the Axis, as they liked to call themselves.

  Did these people not realise Vasquez had an actual job to do for the PF? Sometimes it felt like the cartels thought he was theirs, as though he just sat around all day and night at their beck and call. The fact was Vasquez was forced to operate with the Comisionado General of the PF forever wedged halfway up his rear end. Not to mention the crew of little lap dogs who probably washed and polished the big dog’s ball sack and rectum for him every evening.

  Vasquez was the proverbial piggy in the middle. He had to show results to the PF, he had to keep the top brass and the politicians in check, and the only way to do that was to keep doing his bit in quashing the cartels.

  Vasquez had to do that, there was no other way. With the cartels other than the Axis three, Vasquez had free reign to do whatever the hell he wanted. He had free reign to be the Comisario the outside world believed him to be. He could target and arrest cartel members – and often kill them – with impunity.

  For the Araujo, Zavala and Campos cartels though, the situation was a thousand times more complicated. There were too many people to keep happy. Vasquez still had to show results to the Comisionado General, to the bureaucrats and to the judiciary, and the only way to do that was to be seen to be taking action against the Axis. The cartels themselves would regularly purge, identifying particular reps or soldiers or drug runners or even entire factions who they were happy to give up. In return for the sacrifices, Vasquez promised the high-ranking members immunity – as far as he, on his own, could guarantee that, at least.

  Vasquez took sizeable kickbacks for his efforts, but he was becoming increasingly disgruntled in this area. His sizeable kickbacks were not quite as sizeable as he felt he deserved, given the extra efforts he was now going to in his dealings with the American.

  In any case, that simple quid pro quo was how Vasquez’s arrangement with the Axis had begun. Vasquez wasn’t a man to sit and let a good position stagnate though. Which was why he was now branching out – dealing with the American – and using his position of power, both in relation to the cartels and the PF, to maximise his monetary returns.

  The price to pay of course was that Vasquez had sold his soul. Being in bed with the cartels, operating on their level and according to their terms, meant being as ruthless and violent as them. Vasquez didn’t relish carrying out acts like hacking off the heads of Americans. It was, however... necessary, the only way to be taken seriously by the cartels and others.

  And the cartels certainly should take Vasquez seriously. After all, he had identified the weapons deal opportunity with the American through his own network of contacts. He’d put in place the logistics. He’d even found the money to help finance the first deals – not that they needed Chavez’s money as such anymore, but his accountant remained exquisite, forever putting in place multiple layers of spurious transactions to further separate both Vasquez and the cartels from the illicit transactions.

  Everything about the arms dealing was down to Vasquez, and yet were the cartel bosses thankful for his intervention?

  Of course they fucking weren’t. All they ever wanted was more, more, more, and all they wanted to pay was less, less, less.

  Vasquez’s mobile phone rang. He looked at his watch. There was still five minutes before his next meeting with Hugo Nava – a senior prison guard at the Santa Martha prison. He hoped the incoming call wasn’t from Nava, trying to bail on the rendezvous. Vasquez was taking time out of his already busy day to meet with that little worm.

  Vasquez took the phone from his pocket and looked at the caller ID. No. It wasn’t Nava.

  ‘Si,’ Vasquez said as he answered the call.

  ‘The second parcel arrived for you,’ Hector said.

  Vasquez knew exactly what Hector’s carefully chosen words referred to. Vasquez had sent his man direct to Tampico to receive the weapons from America this time. Rather than having to wait several additional hours for the goods to arrive in Pachuca, he’d wanted to know immediately if the American had let him down again, and if further heads needed to roll.

  ‘And?’ Vasquez asked.

  ‘Everything’s in order,’ Hector said. ‘Actually, they sent a couple of extras. Free of charge. Nice kit.’

  Vasquez almost felt himself smile. Almost. ‘Good. I’ll call you later.’

  Vasquez took the phone away from his ear, ended the call, and placed the device on his lap. He looked out across the scorched grass to Lago Menor, the largest and most picturesque lake in the sprawling urban park.

  The sky overhead was a powder blue and the midday heat was oppressive even for Vasquez. At least in Chapultepec the air somehow remained fresh and clean despite the smog-filled city encircling the park like a cancer.

  Vasquez took deep lungfuls, feeling himself calm a little. He was alone on the bench, but just yards away locals and some brave tourists were strolling around in the harsh sun. Vasquez watched them from his shaded position. His eyes flicked from scantily clad ladies to the several men he had brought with him to the park for protection who were casually – though not particularly inconspicuously – milling about, ready to jump to action should they be needed. Not that Vasquez felt the meeting he was about to have would be dangerous – the guards were simply a routine protocol for the PF man these days.

  A couple of minutes later, Vasquez spotted Nava approaching, about a hundred yards away. Vasquez’s men loitered with more purpose, as though preparing themselves for a sudden ruthless attack from the lone man.

  No such improbable strike came.

  Nava, who was tall and thin framed but overweight, walked up to Vasquez and took the seat next to him. He was wearing casual and light clothes but his brow was covered in sweat and Vasquez noticed he was slightly out of breath. Too many cigarettes – he stank of tobacco – too many tacos, and not enough exercise, judging by his skinny-fat gut, Vasquez decided. All in all, he was a clumsy mess of a man who was lucky to have found himself a job as a lowly prison guard in that stinking hell-hole at Santa Martha. His recent promotion with the prison had come about because of Vasquez’s connections, making Nava an even more useful asset – yet he remained ridiculously cheap to buy.

  ‘You have some news for me?’ Vasquez asked, as usual not even attempting any pleasantries.

  ‘They’ve got him in Block B,’ Nava said.

  And just like that the slight calmness that Vasquez had enjoyed for all of two minutes was gone.

  ‘That’s not what we agreed,’ Vasquez said.

  ‘I know, but there was really nothing I could do.’

  Block B was run by the Santos cartel, probably the largest of the cartels that Vasquez had no influence over. Vasquez had specifically ordered that his prisoner, James
Ryker, aka Carl Logan, not be taken to Block B. The guy had been ambushed and thrown into Santa Martha as a favour for an old acquaintance. Vasquez personally knew little of who Ryker was, or what he’d done in the past – although he’d heard rumours. He did know one thing, though; Ryker being in the hands of the Santos cartel could only spell bad news.

  ‘You need to try harder,’ Vasquez said.

  ‘To get him moved? You don’t think I tried? The Santos clan are taking over in there. Every day they’re becoming more powerful. It happens every time a boss comes in.’

  ‘I know,’ Vasquez said. ‘But they don’t run the whole prison, so do the damn job I’m asking.’

  ‘They don’t run the whole prison? I’m not so sure about that right now. I don’t know where they start and where they end anymore.’

  ‘You’re saying they’re getting help from someone at the top?’

  Nava nodded. Vasquez knew that the regular guards on the Santos block were in the cartel’s pockets, but it was big news if their reach had stretched out of Block B to the other wings, and, perhaps more worryingly, to the previously legitimate higher ranks of the prison service. The Axis would not be happy to hear their own power was on the wane. Perhaps it was inevitable though, given that the Santos’s head honcho was incarcerated there now and would likely spend the rest of his life in that jail.

  ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes,’ Vasquez said.

  ‘What?’ Nava asked, sounding and looking as dumb as he undoubtedly was.

  ‘Who will guard the guards,’ Vasquez said. ‘It’s a Latin phrase, quite apt here, I think.’

  ‘Never heard it.’

  ‘No? But I’m sure you can understand the sentiment.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Actually the original context of the quote was quite different to what you might think. It was to do with the impossibility of forcing moral behaviour onto women.’ Nava looked disinterested, or maybe just too stupid to understand what Vasquez was saying. ‘But that’s beside the point. You need to find out more. We can’t lose Santa Martha, and we certainly can’t lose James Ryker to Santos. If that happens, whatever trouble comes my way, you and your family will suffer ten-fold.’