The Black Hornet: James Ryker Book 2

by Rob Sinclair

‘You know you could spend the rest of your life in this jail.’

  ‘It seems that way, doesn’t it. Except you were going to spring me out, I thought.’

  ‘I said I can. But only if you’re working with me.’

  ‘I’m not sure yet which is the best option.’

  ‘Seriously? You want to die in here?’

  ‘No. But I can think of worse situations to be in.’

  ‘You must have seen some hellholes then.’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘You’ve been to Mexico before. I know you have. I know a lot about you, Ryker. Things about your past. But I’m banking I know this rotten place better than you do.’

  ‘Poor you.’

  ‘What you’ve seen so far in here, it’s only the beginning. You know this prison has one of the worst human rights records of any prison anywhere in the world? Nearly half the men here are still awaiting trial, like you. Some of these poor bastards have been here for more than ten years. Imagine that: potentially innocent men stuck in here more than a decade. The prison is overrun by the cartels. I’m sure you know that already. They run this place. They can have whatever they want shipped into here: money, cigarettes, drugs, knives, guns, prostitutes. The guards are all in the cartels’ pockets. I’m surprised anyone even bothers with the pretence. They may as well just knock down the walls and put the prisoners back in the outside world and be done with it.’

  ‘Yeah. Except I guess someone, somewhere still gives a damn. Not everyone in this country, in this jail, is corrupt.’

  Powell shrugged. ‘I guess you must be right. But make no mistake, the cartels are already onto you, Ryker. They have an inkling of your past. And what do you think they’d do if I gave them the full story on you?’

  Ryker glared daggers at Powell. It looked like the cordial approach had just ended. The situation was just as Ryker had first feared. Powell was a man who operated on the borders of right and wrong, in that vast grey area in the middle where morals blur, often beyond recognition. He would have no qualms about making Ryker’s life even more miserable than it already was if it suited his agenda.

  ‘If they find out the truth about you, a knuckleduster to the face will be the least of your concerns,’ Powell continued. ‘The cartels will skin you alive.’

  Ryker said nothing, though he didn’t doubt Powell’s words.

  ‘You’re giving me the silent treatment now?’ Powell asked with a smirk. ‘Tell me about your cell mates. You enjoying life down there?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a real holiday. You should try it.’

  ‘Any problems with the locals?’

  ‘I’m guessing you know the answer to that one already.’

  ‘Didn’t you wonder why the block you were put in was so cushy?’

  Cushy? Ryker would hardly have called it that. Though Powell’s words did take Ryker back to when he’d first been introduced to Benito. He’d said Ryker must have friends in high places, or something to that effect. Powell? Was he the friend?

  ‘Yeah, I see the pin finally dropping,’ Powell said, clearly more amused. ‘That cell block is five-star luxury in this place. The other blocks are like medieval concentration camps. Twenty, thirty men to a shitty cell, not a bunk in sight. Urine and faeces and vomit and all other manners of bodily fluids covering the walls and floors. Filth and disease and misery. But you, you got five star.’

  ‘Because of you?’

  ‘No, actually, not because of me. Because of the cartels.’

  ‘Lozano?’

  Powell laughed. ‘Miguel Lozano? El Jefe. Lozano is just a gangbanger, the face of the Santos cartel on the inside.’

  Powell’s response was both confusing and intriguing. Ryker was familiar with the Santos cartel, at least in name, but he was less familiar with its operations. It was one of the many newer and smaller cartels that had sprung up in just a few short years following the Mexican government’s renewed war on drugs that had dismantled many of the biggest cartels of years gone by, a war Ryker had played a key part in. Lozano wasn’t the leader of the Santos cartel. So who was?

  Ryker wondered again about that tattoo – the black hornet. Was that the symbol for the Santos cartel?

  ‘They wanted you on a short leash,’ Powell said. ‘They wanted to know what kind of threat you, and others like you, posed to them. I understand Lozano had you roughed up a bit...’

  Powell emphasised the words with a mocking English accent. It was the choice of words that irked Ryker more than anything though. Roughed up a bit? The many injuries he’d suffered amounted to something a bit more serious than that.

  ‘But it was only on the order of his boss,’ Powell went on, ‘the real El Jefe. You’ve met him already.’

  Ryker frowned. ‘Who?’

  ‘Benito Flores,’ Powell said. ‘Your cell mate.’

  Ryker hid his surprise at Powell’s revelation. He had to admit, he’d never have suspected. If what Powell was saying were true, then Benito was a one cool character. He’d played Ryker, that was for sure.

  So Benito – if he was the leader – and his cartel had been keeping Ryker on a short leash. Scoping out the threat of the gringo who’d been thrown into their kingdom. Trying both good cop – Benito – and bad cop – Lozano – to find out what they could about Ryker. That would explain some of the things that had happened to Ryker in the jail, but not everything.

  It certainly didn’t explain why Ryker had been banged up in the first place.

  ‘Okay,’ Ryker said. ‘You’ve set the scene. Now it’s time for you to get to the point. What do I have to do to get out of here?’

  ‘What you’re good at,’ Powell said with a wry smile. ‘We want you to work for us. A mission.’

  ‘You want me to kill someone,’ Ryker said, and the look Powell returned suggested he wasn’t far off the mark.

  It wasn’t the first time in Ryker’s life that he’d been given the option of a release from prison in exchange for him killing someone. The last time was when he’d been held in an off-the-grid gulag where the Russian FSB had tried to persuade Ryker to kill his old boss and friend, Charles McCabe. Ryker hadn’t stooped to that level then, and he wouldn’t now. He wouldn’t kill anyone just to save his own skin. But he wouldn’t refuse such a proposition outright either. His answer was largely dependant on the target.

  ‘Who?’ Ryker asked.

  Powell reached down into his satchel once more. He came out with another piece of paper which he slid across the table. Ryker looked down. It was a black and white photo of a man Ryker had never seen before.

  ‘No,’ Ryker said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘You don’t even know who that is, do you?

  ‘You’re right. I don’t know who he is, and that’s the reason for my answer. You want a mercenary to carry out your dirty work then go find one. I’m not it.’

  ‘His name is Douglas Ashford. He’s American. A Congressman, in fact, in Louisiana. He’s a key target in our operation.’

  ‘I’m not doing it.’

  ‘Don’t you even want to know why?’

  ‘No. We’re done here.’

  Ryker got to his feet and moved over to the door.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Powell asked.

  Ryker knocked on the door. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Okay. So be it,’ Powell said. ‘Time for you to go and have some more fun with the Santos clan. I may be back before they hack one too many pieces off of you. If you’re lucky.’

  ‘No. Luck doesn’t come into it.’

  20

  Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana

  Ashford’s horrendous work schedule was draining enough even without the problems brewing south of the US border. Having been a Congressman for a little over four months, he was still making his way through his first round of semi-annual Town Hall meetings in each of his district’s eight parishes. During his long-drawn election campaign one of Ashford’s key selling points – ot
her than his military past and his conservative views that appealed so naturally to the largely Republican voters – was his charisma and his ability to gain the trust of people from all different walks of life.

  He’d set out on day one with the best of intentions of hearing the many issues and concerns of the people of his district, but already, just five Town Hall meetings later, he was starting to doubt just how long he could keep the good guy act going.

  Of course, there were the big issues to deal with – those issues that had been a core part of his election campaign – immigration, energy costs, healthcare, the second amendment. But those big ticket items were just the beginning and he’d barely had time to properly devote to any of those because of the menial problems that arose on a near-daily basis. It wasn’t that he didn't care about the people, just that he didn’t have the time to care about everything, all of the time.

  At this latest meeting, in the Plaquemines parish, there had been some two hundred people squeezed into the hall for the planned three-hour session that had soon turned into closer to five hours.

  Ashford had to listen with apparent intent while they talked the overlong agenda, painfully slowly, to death; hearing complaints about everything from the sluggish rebuilding of the area following Hurricane Katrina, to the quality of oysters, to alternative energy, to dredging, to gas prices, to home loans, to police brutality, to health care availability, to new roads, to insecticides being used on strawberry farms.

  Granted, each of those issues had some importance within the local area – Ashford wouldn’t have allowed the items on the agenda in the first place otherwise. In particular, the devastation of the community by Hurricane Katrina some years before was still painfully evident. Many residential streets in the community resembled nothing more than ghost towns, destined to become unintended museums showcasing the destructive and indiscriminate power of Mother Nature.

  Ashford had sympathy for these communities, but still, hearing the ideas and complaints of the often seriously ill-informed members of the public was excruciating. And Ashford couldn’t help feel that the proceedings, as cordial as they had been, had likely left most parties feeling dissatisfied and with little resolution in place.

  Still, Ashford had done his best to keep a smile plastered on his face, to sound interested, to nod, and to answer back with his pre-planned words where he could, or to promise to look more closely at the precise issues on the occasions where he didn’t know what the hell people were talking about. His responses seemed to do the trick, the meeting had remained calm and friendly, but Ashford wasn’t sure how many of these days he could bare, or how he was ever going to get around to satisfying all of the various concerns of the residents.

  At least, following this town hall meeting, he only had one more appointment left in the day, after which he’d head back to his office in Mandeville to blast through some admin before making his way home for supper. If all went to plan, that would make it three days in a row where he’d made it home for food – something of a record for him. Unfortunately that low number was likely to stay a record for some time, given his numerous upcoming trips to Washington, together with his many further duties that were dotted around his district and beyond.

  As Ashford scurried from the building out into the street, his personal assistant, Ed Carter, caught up and thrust a small bundle of papers across to him.

  ‘For your next meeting,’ Carter said.

  Ashford took the papers, barely looking at them, and then carried on toward the waiting black sedan that was parked at the side of the road. He just wanted to get into the car and get out of there before any members of the public accosted him to further discuss their issues.

  Carter edged in front of Ashford to open the rear door and Ashford sunk down into the sumptuous black leather seat. Carter joined him on the other side and the driver – one of three regulars that Ashford used – pulled the sedan away from the curb, the cabin of the luxury cruiser almost silencing the engine and road noise outside.

  Seconds later, Carter pressed the button to raise the divider between the front and back seats, to give him and Ashford some privacy for the trip. They had some distance to travel, and plenty to talk about, as they headed northwards into the hinterland of the district, which largely consisted of farms interspersed with a number of backwater – and occasionally charming – small towns.

  ‘That went well,’ Carter said.

  ‘You think?’ Ashford said doubtfully.

  He looked over at Carter. The young man was fresh-faced and clean-shaven, with slicked hair, designer glasses, and a tailored suit. Ashford scrubbed up pretty well himself when he made the effort but in his mind he was a regular laid back guy and still an army rat at heart. Carter was quite the opposite – everything about him was so formal and professional and... a little bit dull. Ashford reckoned Carter probably went to bed in his damn suits and woke up in the morning with his hair still neatly coifed.

  Carter was a smart kid though, there was no doubt about that. Way more intelligent academically than Ashford. He was twenty eight years old, a politics graduate who was more passionate about the subject than anyone Ashford had ever met.

  Ashford was a Congressman, politics was his life now, but his rise was all about personal ambition and a desire to be seen as a big deal. Carter on the other hand was an ideologist. Not a problem for Ashford, and actually it meant – privately at least – that Carter was a good foil for Ashford’s often uninspired political views. Despite their differences in personality and outlooks on life, Carter was damn good at his job, and Ashford respected him and trusted him.

  At least he trusted Carter to do his job and watch Ashford’s back, but Ashford didn't trust him with quite everything. Not yet anyway.

  ‘The people like you,’ Carter said, pulling Ashford from his thoughts. ‘You don’t have to agree with everything they say, but as long as they believe you’re on their side, everyone’s a winner.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess. But if I have one more person complain to me that the last oysters they bought from Walmart tasted like shit, like it’s my damn fault...’

  Carter chuckled. ‘But Louisiana oysters are supposed to be the best.’

  ‘And as Congressman clearly I have the responsibility for quality controlling every damn mollusc that comes out of the ocean.’

  ‘And not forgetting the crustaceans too,’ Carter said with a wry smile. ‘So how do you wanna play this next one?’

  Ashford looked down at the papers on his lap, at the Great Seal of the United States at the top of the first page, denoting both the origin and the importance of the papers he was holding. Talk about a spectrum of duties – from oyster quality to highly confidential federal government business, just like that.

  ‘I’m not sure I know yet. Let’s just keep our mouths shut and any opinions to ourselves until we fully understand the lay of the land.’

  Carter gave Ashford a quizzical look but he didn’t press for further explanation. The thing was, Ashford already knew far more about this bubbling issue than he ought to, and as close as he was to Ashford on official work business, Carter was in the dark on that. He would remain in the dark, too, unless Ashford saw a reason to bring Carter into the fold. He doubted such a reason would ever arise. There wasn’t any role for Carter – the straight-laced, squeaky clean rising political star – in the dangerous world that Ashford was already neck deep in.

  ‘Okay. I’ll just follow your lead.’

  They carried on the journey on safe ground, analysing the meeting they’d just come from. When he was done dissecting his own performance, Ashford spent the rest of the journey time pretending to peruse the papers that Carter had given him, but there was nothing else about this situation that Ashford needed – or wanted – to know.

  When Ashford saw a road sign out of his window indicating they were a mile out from their destination, he pushed on the button in front of him, and with a mechanical whir, the dividing wall came down.

  �
��When we arrive at the gates, let me do the talking,’ Ashford said.

  The driver just nodded.

  Not long after that, the car pulled to a stop at a red and white barrier that was flanked either side by a green-painted wooden security hut. Ashford pushed the button for his window and the tinted glass slid down out of sight. Ashford was left staring up into the hardened glare of a green fatigue clad soldier from the US Army.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Ashford said.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ the soldier said. ‘Welcome to Camp Joseph.’

  21

  Ashford did the necessary talking, explaining who he was and who he was there to see, and moments later, the barrier swung up. The driver pushed on the gas and the sedan moved forward into the military facility. Its current use was a training ground for the Louisiana National Guard, but if the Army got their way, the camp was soon to be a substantially expanded and fully running military base with some quite questionable operations. Not that the general public knew of those operations. But Ashford did.

  The driver parked up, and Carter and Ashford got out of the car. A private escorted them across the grounds of Camp Joseph, toward a low rise block of wooden buildings that looked like they had originally been erected – maybe twenty or thirty years earlier – as temporary facilities, but had since received haphazard additions to make them into a more permanent fixture.

  Once inside one of the hodgepodge structures, Ashford and Carter were taken to a small waiting area that consisted of four red plastic chairs placed next to each other in a bland internal corridor. The door in front of them had a silvery-plaque in the central slider stating that the current occupant of the room was Colonel Lincoln. The private knocked on the door, entered and left Ashford and Carter hanging.

  ‘Have you been here before?’ Carter asked.

  ‘No,’ Ashford lied. ‘First time.’

  ‘You were in the army, I thought maybe–’

  ‘I was in the regular US Army. This place is mainly just the Louisiana National Guard.’