Bloody Basin

by John R Cuneo

  BLOODY BASIN

  JOHN R CUNEO

  First Edition: June 2021

  Copyright 2021 by John R Cuneo

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Thank you to the following individuals for their artistic and professional help.

  Cover Design: Francavilla Raphael / rafido designs

  Editor: Alexandra Ellis

  Book Design: Jessica Slater

  Table of Contents

  Prologue5

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 310

  Chapter 412

  Chapter 5 14

  Chapter 6 16

  Chapter 7 18

  Chapter 820

  Chapter 922

  Chapter 1024

  Chapter 1126

  Chapter 1228

  Chapter 1330

  Chapter 1432

  Chapter 1534

  Chapter 1636

  Chapter 1738

  Chapter 1840

  Chapter 1942

  Chapter 2044

  Chapter 2146

  Chapter 2248

  Chapter 2350

  Chapter 2452

  Epilogue54

  About The Author55

  Special thanks to my wife Carolyn and our son Phillip for their support and encouragement. Without them the story would not have been finished.

  Prologue

  At the close of the 1980s, there was a group of men dedicated to the wellbeing of the United States. They were taught their lethal skills as members of clandestine military units during the Vietnam War Era. These patriots work behind the scenes and outside of official government channels. The men referred to themselves as “the team”. Their first unofficial mission was to track down a mole working within the FBI, discover their identity and put an end to their activities. They would soon realize that when drugs were involved there were also huge sums of cash. The individuals that control the cash were powerful, ruthless and dangerous. In the months that followed members of the team would find themselves in life and death situations in which there lethal training would make them the victors.

  Chapter 1

  Thunder and Lightning

  “Thank God for hot coffee.” That is all I was thinking about as I drove north on I-17 that wet, cold morning. I was out of work, my son was in his last semester at Arizona State, and my wife had been the breadwinner for the past few months. To say tensions at home were sometimes high would be an understatement. Thank God we had rather good savings habits and a simple lifestyle. But most of all, we supported each other. The rain was coming down too fast for my windshield wipers to do their job.

  Where in the hell did this storm come from? I wondered. Not that it made any difference one way or another. I just had to get away for the day and walk in the desert, even in the rain. The farther I drove north that morning, the worse the weather got. I had not seen it rain like this since the big flood in 1983, the hundred-year flood they called it.

  Damn, it was cold and wet. My shoulder was killing me. The air blowing out of the vents on my truck was not hot enough, and the windshield kept fogging over. This was starting out to be a real shitty day. Cold, rain, cannot see a darn thing—maybe I should just hit the Waffle House and wait for sunrise before heading up I-17?

  Oh hell, I just keep going. I had nothing else to do that day, so I might as well head for the wet desert. The rain fall slowed near Black Canyon City, so the wipers were just able to keep the windshield clear. I had to slow the truck down because the roadway was so slippery and there were standing pools of water everywhere. At this speed, it would take me another forty-five minutes to reach my exit.

  I was looking forward to my time alone in the desert. I could think and relax and have some peace and quiet. Even in bad weather, the desert was a beautiful place to escape to. It always amazed me how much wildlife lived there, from the small and night-dwelling creatures to the large mule deer and mountain lions. It was an amazing place and still is. Some folks like the beach; I like the desert.

  Five Days Earlier

  In an apartment complex outside Miami, Florida, Mateo Mondaca was planning to buy another shipment of cocaine from his friend and longtime boss, Nicolas Salazar, who lived in Los Angeles. To be honest, Mateo never had any real friends and no real family, at least not anymore. All he had were customers, people who were just like him, living on the dark edges of society, doing whatever they could to make money. Mateo and Nicolas went way back in their business dealings; both came from families that had migrated north from Central America. Their families had worked hard to get ahead to do the right thing, which were to pay taxes and to raise their children, but that was not enough for Mateo and Nicolas.

  Mateo had been going his own way the last few years, disregarding orders from Nicolas to keep a low profile. It was not in Mateo’s nature to take orders from anyone for very long, and now he was going to change the working relationship with Nicolas. It seemed that recently Nicolas was getting tired of Mateo’s side deals, and there were rumors that Mateo was even talking to the feds, trying to save his own ass by cutting a deal that would put Nicolas behind bars for the rest of his life or six feet underground. Both options were bad for Nicolas.

  Nicolas was right to suspect something was wrong. Too bad, he did not realize just how wrong. Mateo had no intention of paying one cent to Nicolas at their upcoming meeting.

  “No fucking way I’m going to take any more crap from that pox-faced bastard,” Mateo told his men.

  Yes, they were men, at least on the outside. Most of his lowlife gang was made up of degenerate drug addicts and sex offenders, people that lived for today and only valued how much cash they had in their pockets. These people were all losers, had done jail time from an early age, and were uneducated and unable to hold down a normal job. They sat around the table, listening to Mateo as if he were a preacher on Sunday morning.

  “The next time I see him, I’ll kill him and whoever he’s with!” ranted Mateo. “The son of a bitch treats me like I’m his el criado, and with all the business I give him, he charges me full price. He gives me no respect. His days are numbered. I will cut him down like the dirty silk-shirt-wearing pimp that he is.”

  The room was full of laughter and encouragement, emboldening Mateo to keep going, to keep complaining, to keep telling them what was going to happen to Nicolas. As Mateo continued, he pounded the table with both fists.

  “He thinks he’s so fucking smart, that no one can touch him, but his time is coming to an end. I want you guys to keep it together while I am gone. Don’t say a word to anyone, don’t start any shit with anyone, and when I get back, all of us will party, because we will be running the whole goddamn show!”

  The room erupted, as his men cheered when they heard that they would be in charge.

  On the other side of the country, Nicolas Salazar sat in his plush office in a high-rise in Los Angeles that he owned. In all, Nicolas owned several buildings in Los Angeles. He was a smart businessman. His office was on the fourth floor of the upscale building he had renovated. The ground floor housed one of LA’s finest gentlemen’s clubs, and the second floor housed a restaurant and several small professional businesses consisting of CPAs and real estate brokers. A
nyone walking down the street would just think it was another group of moneymaking businesses, and that was how Nicolas wanted it to look.

  As he pondered the upcoming deal with Mateo, Nicolas knew what he needed to do, and this time he planned to make the “delivery” to Mateo personally.

  “I can’t take any more chances with that crazy loser,” said Nicolas under his breath. He was lost in his thoughts as he planned his next move. It had to be quick, and no damn witnesses.

  Just me and that asshole Mateo alone together in the middle of nowhere. I know just the spot to meet him, Nicolas thought. It would be under a lonely, deserted overpass north of Phoenix. Back in the old days, they would meet there and conduct their business together. Nicolas looked up and saw his lieutenant, Jose Vega.

  “I’m going away for a few days, and I want you to keep everything in order for me,” said Nicolas.

  Nodding his head, Jose said, “I’ll take care of everything.” Jose had been Nicolas’s number-one lieutenant for over three years. He knew the operation better than anyone did, but he did not know everything, and that was the way Nicolas wanted it. Nicolas let the phone ring for a long time before he answered it. “Yea?” was all he said into the receiver. “I understand you need a clean car to use for a few days,” uttered the gruff voice over the phone.

  “Yea, that’s it. Drop it off tomorrow before nine,” Nicolas said.

  “You got it, boss,” was all the gruff voice said, and then they both hung up.

  Nicolas and Jose spent the next few hours discussing business. Jose liked it when Nicolas was out of town, and he enjoyed playing the boss. He liked the power and the fear he wielded that came with the job.

  Nicolas was many things: a crook, a dope dealer, a pimp, and a killer, but most of all, he was a cool-headed thinker. He could have been anything he wanted. Why he chose crime, no one would ever know. When Nicolas wanted someone gone, that was it, they were gone. Nicolas was so careful that the FBI and local law enforcement never knew what he was doing or what he had planned until it was all over, and even then, they were left guessing. Nicolas had people, mainly relatives, that would call and pass messages along in so many different directions that no one ever really knew what was going on or where he was.

  He would switch cars several times before leaving California, and then he would get another car in Nevada before continuing his trip to Arizona. Nicolas had made his plans. He was going to show everyone in the business that he was still the undisputed boss and would always be the boss. Nicolas was an expert at covering his tracks and hiding his deals. He had been around too long to start getting sloppy.

  During his drive from California over to Arizona, his people would call in from all over the country, giving false messages just in case someone was listening—and someone was always listening. He had vehicles and safe houses all over the country, and he was the only one who knew all the safe locations. He also had piles of cash hidden in plain sight, hundreds of millions of dollars hidden from coast to coast that were his with some stashed for business partners. His stash locations were so simple the feds were never able to figure them out. Everything to them was a mystery. In their minds, it had to be the work of a third-world mastermind with unlimited resources and power; in reality, it was always just Nicolas.

  Mateo, on the other hand, was as wild as you could get. He flashed his money and never tried to cover the fact he was a big-time dealer, a real punk. He paid off the cops and local politicians and rewarded his people for their loyalty and protection. But given the business he was in; he was always one step away from being stabbed in the back. Mateo was happy to meet with Nicolas, to settle old scores and try to step up to the number-one position in the country. When Mateo left Florida, everybody knew about it. He had filled his suitcase with cash and had a .45mm in his waistband. Mateo never tried to cover his tracks; he would party all the way to Arizona, then he would disappear just before his meeting with Nicolas.

  The rain was not letting up. If anything, it was getting worse. The flashes of lightning lit up the sky, and the thunder crashed, sending shock waves across the desert. I should have turned around and gone back, but I was almost to my exit. Just a few more turns, and I would be out of this mess. For the last half hour or so, I had not seen another car on either side of the freeway, or why should I? The rain was relentless. Who in their right mind would be out in this stuff?

  Me, that’s who, I thought.

  Finally, at my exit, I pulled off the freeway and eased my way down to the stop sign. The road was wet and slick. Fast-moving rivers of water flowed across the access road. I did not think I would be able to stop in time to make my turn back under the freeway. The flashes of lightning lit up the sky, and thunder rattled my truck. Pulling up to the stop sign, I noticed to my left what looked like bursts of lightning coming from under the bridge. At first, I thought lightning had struck just off the roadway. Going forward, I saw two cars, one parked on either side of the underpass, their driver’s doors open, several bags lying on the ground, and what appeared to be a man sitting on the wet ground against one of the cars. What the hell is going on here?

  I sat in my truck for a long time, trying to decide what to do. Both cars also had their trunks open. I turned off the access road and inched my way closer under the bridge. Then I noticed that the man on the ground had a gun in his right hand. I thought about leaving, but I could not. Maybe there was something I could do. Maybe I could help. I kept my truck moving, and by now I was almost directly between the two vehicles, looking down at the man, who was obviously badly hurt.

  Oh shit, what have I stumbled into?

  To my surprise, the man, an older late sixty-something-year-old with a darker completion and neat gray hair who had rugged facial features of an Aztec warrior, looked at me and started to raise his hand. I always traveled in the desert with a gun, and today was no different. On my lap was my .357, loaded and ready. I put my truck in park, turned on the emergency flashers, and carefully opened my door. The sound of the rain hitting the overpass was almost deafening. Water flowed down the embankment, washing dirt and rocks everywhere. The man on the ground looked at me.

  “Help me, please help me,” he said. With all the noise from the heavy downpour, it was only as loud as a whisper.

  “What the hell happened here?” I asked.

  “That bastard shot me first, so I killed him, sending him straight to hell!”

  “You killed him,” I said. I started to shiver wondering if I was about to get shot at.

  “He shot me first,” said the older man.

  “Take it easy,” I said.

  The person was in bad shape. Blood was coming out of his mouth and nose, and he kept looking up and starting praying. At least, that was what it sounded like. There was a duffel bag lying in the roadway. Maybe there was something in it I could use to stop his bleeding. I grabbed the bag and opened it.

  “What the hell?” I said to myself. The duffel bag was full of money—not just loose folding money but neatly wrapped packages of what appeared to be hundred-dollar bills. Holy shit!

  The man yelled at me, “Take it all. It is yours. I have more—lots more. Take it, just help me….”

  Then I could barely hear him speak. He lowered his head and closed his eyes. His right hand was on the ground, still holding his pistol.

  Those were the last words he spoke to me. He gasped and died there on the rain-soaked roadway. I never touched him, and I never tried to take the gun out of his hand. I just let him sit there.

  The duffel bag was heavy and weighed around forty pounds. I could not imagine how much money was there. I stood up and walked over to the other car. The man behind the wheel, another gray-haired, bearded sixty something a little bit younger looking than the fellow on the roadway, was bleeding from the side of his head. I saw that he had been shot just once in the left rear of his head. Blood was everywhere inside the car; it l
ooked like a can of chunky tomato sauce had exploded.

  The trunk of his sedan was open, and several bags were visible. I don’t know why I did it, but I opened the bags. One of them was full of neatly wrapped twenty-dollar bills, the other with neatly wrapped hundred-dollar bills, just like the other man had. Without thinking, I grabbed the bags out of the trunk. Looking around to make sure I was alone, I walked back to my truck and tossed them into the bed, then I went back to the center of the roadway and picked up the other duffel bag. I tossed that one into the wet bed as well.

  The rain seemed to be coming down even harder now; a waterfall raced down the sides of the embankments and was washing dirt and debris all over the roadway. I went back and closed the trunks of both vehicles, making sure that I used my coat-covered arm and not my hand. Then I got into my truck and drove out from under the overpass and into the downpour of cold rain. Looking back, I could see that in a matter of moments the entire area would be washed clean of tire tracks and footprints.

  The lightning and a loud crash of thunder brought me back to reality. Two men were dead, one of them was lying on the rain-soaked roadway, and the other had the back of his head blown off. I had hoped that I would never see anything like this again. My body was numb, and I still could not comprehend what I had seen, all I could think of was getting a cup of hot coffee and the cold chill out of my bones. I wanted to yell—to scream. I wanted to talk to someone, but I was so focused on processing what I had seen and done that I just drove back into the storm.

  Did I think it was an underworld drug deal gone bad? You are damn right I did.

  I slowly made my way back onto the freeway. This time I headed south. Still no traffic on either side of the road. I was shaking, I had tunnel vision, and far to the south, I could see the glow of lights over Phoenix. I was going to stop at the first exit that had a restaurant and just sit for a while.

  It seemed like an eternity getting back into the valley. The rain was still coming down hard. Finally, up ahead in the distance was the exit I had been waiting for, with a dry, warm place to calm down, get hot coffee, and some quiet repose.