Cartel: A Jason King Thriller (The Jason King Files Book 1)

by Matt Rogers

  22

  It had been the most precarious conflict of his short but storied career. Four men were dead, and he was unhurt. Now that he had time to think back on what had unfolded, it surprised him just how long the ordeal had felt. It couldn’t have taken more than a minute from the time he was forced off the road for the battle to reach its violent resolution.

  In the heat of the moment, it had seemed like an eternity.

  He stayed underneath the truck, listening out for any sign of reinforcements. He doubted that Ramos had any more men in the area — it seemed that the man had known where his truck-from-hell was stationed in Tijuana and had lured King into the mountains under the guise of fleeing in a random direction.

  King didn’t expect any more resistance.

  Yet, he didn’t want to take any chances. He rolled onto his stomach and shimmied himself out from underneath the truck, darting his gaze left and right in search of anything out of the ordinary.

  The valley was dead quiet.

  A droplet of blood ran down through his brow, blurring his vision. He lifted the sleeve of his shirt and wiped his face clean, wincing as the material dragged against the open cuts. He didn’t imagine he would look pretty tomorrow. Staring wide-eyed at the crumpled Chevy and the now-dormant dump truck, he shook his head in disbelief. He slotted the safety lever on the side of the Five-seven into the “on” position and tucked the gun into the rear of his waistband.

  He was alive.

  But Ramos had escaped.

  He peered up at the twisting mountain road halfway up the hillside, where occasional bursts of traffic were the only sign of civilisation for miles around. He crossed the valley floor to where the Chevy lay and ducked back into the wreckage. Locating the duffel bag, he swung it over one shoulder, then checked the interior of the car for anything he might have left behind. Satisfied, he began the ascent, trudging delicately up the slope, the ground under his feet dotted with loose pebbles.

  As he walked, he considered his situation. Any contact with Lars would spell disaster. He would be forced to reveal that Ramos had identified him as an imposter and made it out of harm’s way. Lars — or whoever was in charge of this black operation — would almost certainly call him back across the border. He didn’t think that four dead henchmen and two beat-up enforcers would provide the results that his superiors had been searching for.

  They wanted Ramos’ head on a platter.

  King decided to make one last attempt at finding the cartel leader. It would be nigh-on impossible, given the fact that he knew King’s face. He also knew that there was an elite operative searching for him, and when news spread that the occupants of the dump truck had been brutally gunned down in their vehicle, he would high-tail it out of Mexico before King could act.

  King remembered what Lars had said about the cryptocurrency wallet they had briefly located — apparently Ramos was sitting on fifty million USD in assets. That was enough to provide him with a life of luxury for the rest of his days.

  He didn’t need Tijuana.

  If he thought his life was in danger, he would disappear.

  Or would he?

  King wasn’t certain. The young psychopath had sported all the characteristics of a committed leader, cutting a wave of bloodshed through the ranks of Tijuana’s authorities in an attempt to seize the upper hand. Perhaps Ramos wouldn’t be fazed by King coming after him.

  Maybe he was enough of a lunatic to welcome it.

  As King stepped out onto the mountain road and stuck out his thumb to wave down a passing car, he found himself plagued by the hunch that Ramos wouldn’t leave so soon.

  King hoped that the man stayed.

  It would be a foolish decision, but Ramos clearly hadn’t ascended to the position of power he currently held by playing it safe.

  That would give King a chance. A slim one, but a chance nonetheless.

  It also meant that he would have to go on the offensive if he wanted to ascertain the location of Ramos’ hideout.

  His palms tingled in anticipation.

  He realised that he had no hope of voluntarily hitching a ride in his current state. His face was covered in dried blood, which had seeped into the collar of his shirt. Dust and dirt from the valley floor coated his exposed forearms. The Five-seven was tucked away in his waistband, but that didn’t make him any more visually appealing to passing cars.

  He would have to do things the old-fashioned way.

  A rust-coated minivan came into view further down the road, heading back into Tijuana. It would pass him by in a few seconds.

  King stepped out into the middle of the road.

  The minivan screeched to a halt, slowing from sixty miles per hour to zero in the space of a few seconds. He expected a torrent of abuse from the driver, but when he looked through the windscreen he saw a Latino woman in her fifties staring at him like she’d seen a ghost.

  He crossed slowly to the driver’s window — rolled all the way down to cool the interior — with both hands raised and spread wide in an attempt to defuse the tension. The driver didn’t budge. King stared over her shoulder to see two young dark-skinned boys in the back seats, both clutching small figurines of famous soccer players.

  He smiled warmly to them, aware that his teeth were likely blood-stained.

  ‘Hello,’ he said simply, unsure if he was going to have to try to surpass the language barrier.

  ‘I speak English,’ the woman said.

  ‘Oh. Great.’

  ‘Please don’t hurt us. I’m bringing them home from their match.’

  King glanced at the two boys again. ‘Soccer?’

  The woman nodded, still looking petrified.

  ‘This isn’t what you think,’ King said. ‘I’m an American tourist. I fell down that slope back there. No funny business.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  He wasn’t sure if she believed him — likely not. ‘Look, I just need a ride back into town. You can drop me at the first street corner you see. I’ll sit in the passenger seat and I won’t say a word the whole time. I don’t want to cause any trouble. I just need to get out of here.’

  ‘Call an ambulance.’

  ‘I don’t have travel insurance. And I’m almost broke as it is.’

  He laced his tone with desperation, and it seemed as if something in his voice caused the woman to reconsider. She reacted to the revelation that King had money troubles.

  He wondered if she could relate…

  ‘Get in,’ she said.

  He nodded his thanks and jogged around the hood, taking care not to let the FN Five-seven’s grip sticking out the back of his pants show. He opened the passenger-side door and clambered into the seat, trying to mask the adrenalin still flooding through his body. His attempts to still his shaking nerves could only go so far. He had been in a life-or-death situation just minutes previously.

  The woman accelerated wordlessly, peeling off the shoulder and heading back onto the mountain trail. King hoped that she didn’t take a look down the hillside and see the dead bodies sprawled around the armoured truck at the bottom of the valley.

  Thankfully, she was too occupied with the road ahead. As the sun dipped in the sky, heading fast for the opposite skyline, they roared down the road toward Tijuana.

  23

  Dusk had settled over Tijuana by the time the minivan made it back inside the city limits.

  King stayed silent throughout the journey, electing to bother the woman across from him as little as possible. She was doing him an enormous courtesy by lending a helping hand — even though he imagined she hadn’t wanted to risk it with two young boys in the car. He wondered if they were both hers, or rather she was shepherding her son and a friend back and forth from their game.

  He didn’t bother to try and find out. Their personal business was their own. He had his own problems to mull over.

  Namely, the fact that he had nowhere to be, and nothing to d
o. Aside from being murdered by Ramos’ thugs, the day could not have unfolded worse. The lone man he was responsible for eliminating had gotten away, and he was left grasping at straws in order to find him.

  There was a surefire way to increase his chances. That would be to trawl the streets of Tijuana, showing his face to every gangster in the city until one of them recognised him as the man after Ramos’ and they attempted to kidnap him.

  Highly dangerous.

  Almost sure to get him killed.

  But his only feasible option.

  The minivan pulled to the side of the road as they reached the city centre and the woman nodded a half-hearted farewell. She probably wanted nothing to do with him. He glanced around at the sidewalk he would be exiting onto. The coast seemed clear — a handful of tourist couples strolled tentatively from their hotels into the nightlife district, but otherwise there was no sign of hostile activity.

  King nodded back to the woman, and waved politely to the two little boys in the back seat. They ignored him.

  Unsurprised, he pushed the door open and stepped out into the orange-tinged evening.

  The sunset melted piece-by-piece into the horizon, rapidly accentuating the shadows. The minivan peeled away and King focused on putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to draw attention to himself just yet. He wanted to get his bearings, and make sure that he would be prepared in the event that he was spotted by one of Ramos’ goons.

  Quickly, reality set in. Tijuana was enormous and gravely dangerous at this point in time. As he strolled slowly through the largely-deserted streets of the inner city, he realised just how unlikely running into one of Ramos’ men would be. Like Lars had said, the man barely focused on maintaining a street presence, due to the majority of his business being conducted online.

  In the end, King had more of a chance of being stabbed by one of the Draco cartel’s thugs before the night had drawn to a close.

  Nevertheless, he decided to persevere. He had little other options — yet now it began to set in that the freedom this operation provided was also a disadvantage. He had no clear idea of where to go next, and at twenty-two years of age he found himself second-guessing his every move.

  Break it down piece by piece, he thought.

  First — cleaning up.

  He found a public restroom after several minutes of searching and took a deep breath before heading into the men’s section. Sure enough, the entire place was absolutely putrid, the floor littered with syringes and excrement and the walls scrawled with obscene graffiti. He crossed to one of the dirty, broken sinks and ran cold water from the tap. He splashed it over his face, taking care not to touch the sink itself at the risk of contracting a cocktail of diseases.

  When his face was clean, he rinsed the dirt and gravel off his forearms and shook himself dry. He studied his reflection in the cracked, fingerprint-stained mirror.

  Good enough.

  He looked relatively presentable, albeit with a handful of long slashing cuts across his cheeks and forehead. A nasty purple bruise had started to form on his right arm, but otherwise he looked okay. He could easily have been mistaken for a young, seedy U.S. tourist in search of cheap thrills in Tijuana’s world-renowned pleasure district.

  He didn’t care what people thought of him — as long as their judgment didn’t get him arrested before he could accomplish the task at hand.

  The sudden solitude gave him time to ponder the mistakes he had already made. Back in the apartment complex, he hadn’t expected Ramos to move so fast. The man had exploded into action like a bat out of hell when the fighting broke out. King had figured he could take out the two bodyguards before dealing with Ramos, because they were armed and ready to shoot him dead.

  By doing so, he’d let Ramos escape.

  On top of that, he’d failed to frisk search any of the four bodies in the valley. They might have been carrying vital information that would lead him to the whereabouts of Ramos, although he doubted it. The man seemed to run a tight ship. He would be impossible to find. King could already tell.

  Despite his shortcomings, King experienced a strange sense of gratitude for being in the position he was in. There were no military officials twenty years his senior waiting to chew him out, driving home all the mistakes he had made in an attempt to rattle him. He wasn’t operating alongside fellow soldiers, all at least a decade older than him, silently judging him for his youth. He used to find it incredulous when — at the age of twenty — he had made it into the Delta Force while still not being able to legally purchase a beer in the United States. He couldn’t imagine how the other operatives would have felt, when they themselves all had to spend years and years making their way up through the ranks in gruelling fashion.

  Natural talent had its disadvantages, at least in a social setting.

  That thought stirred something in him. Alcohol made conversation flow. It led to mistakes. He decided his first port of call would be to trawl the dozens of bars in the multiblock strip dedicated to Tijuana’s pleasure playground. He recalled a visit to the Avenida Revolución the last time he had visited Tijuana. It had ended in a hangover still yet to be rivalled.

  He would have to be a little more responsible this time.

  He composed himself, splashing a final handful of water across his face, and headed back out into the streets. By now, the sun had fully set. The deep neon lights of Tijuana’s nightlife flickered into existence. It was a warm night — just as all the nights were in this arid portion of the continent.

  The first bar he visited proved unsuccessful. It was a wood-panelled room set underneath a bright green neon sign, low-ceilinged and stretching deep into the building. King bought a glass of tequila on the rocks and sipped periodically at the beverage, letting the sharp tang snake its way down his throat and settle his racing heart. He tried in vain to strike up a conversation with a collection of locals around the bar, but they shunned him off.

  Dejected, he drained the glass and headed back out onto the Avenida Revolución.

  The street was filthy — it seemed that any attempt to keep it respectable in appearance had dismally failed. King eyed two long rows of brothels and strip clubs, their entrances dark and shadowy and drenched in the glow of neon. The bustle of tourist life picked up. He merged into the crowd, many of whom were heading straight into the various sex shops dotted along the avenue. King kept his chin up, scouring the crowd for any sign of hostility. He wasn’t hiding from anyone.

  He wanted to be found.

  After ten minutes of inactivity, he spotted a cantina set between a pair of seedy-looking brothels and glanced in through the open storefront. A fair crowd had gathered within, many lining the artificially-backlit oak bar running the length of the far wall.

  Good enough.

  He took his chances and stepped inside.

  24

  Upon entering the bar, King found himself fed up with how the operation had stalled. He elected to be brash, taking a few chances to try and find someone who could connect him to the elusive cartel leader.

  He ordered a second tequila from a disinterested bartender and rested his elbows on the countertop, stationing himself next to a pair of mean-looking young Spanish men. They were deep in conversation, talking in low voices. King received his polished glass of tequila, downed the shot, and noted the scorpion tattoos snaking their way up the forearms of the pair.

  He didn’t know what that meant, but he could hazard a guess.

  He hoped they were affiliated with a gang that knew of Ramos.

  ‘Joaquín Ramos,’ he said quietly, barely audible over the loud cantina music drifting through the room.

  They completely ignored him. Unsure of whether they had heard him or not, he leant a little closer.

  ‘Joaquín Ramos,’ he repeated.

  One of the men stared up at him, scowling. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘You want something?’ the second guy said. He seemed to have a shorter fuse. K
ing got the sense that the man would make a lunge at him in any moment.

  ‘Have either of you heard that name?’

  ‘Who said you could talk to us, gringo?’ the first man said.

  ‘I just want to find my friend.’

  ‘Your friend?’ the second guy cackled. ‘Esé, he ain’t your friend.’

  ‘So you know who he is,’ King said.

  ‘Everyone in Mexico knows who he is. Doesn’t mean you go throwing his name around. That could get you killed.’

  ‘Good,’ King said. ‘Get me killed. Point me in the direction of someone who could take me to him.’

  ‘You think we’re fuckin’ stupid?’ the first guy said. ‘You think Joaquín Ramos is fuckin’ stupid, too?’

  ‘If you can take me to him,’ King said, ‘I might think otherwise.’

  The first guy let out a laugh that resembled a hyena’s cackle, loud enough to attract the attention of every patron in the bar. ‘You’re out of your depth, esé. Get the fuck out of here.’

  King shifted a little closer. ‘Tell me anything about him.’

  The second guy shoved King hard in the chest, almost knocking him off his feet with the force of the push. He had put everything into it. King stumbled, righted himself, then took a deep breath.

  ‘Look…’ he started.

  By that point, the second guy was manic. His eyes had widened considerably. He looked ready for a fight to the death. King tensed his body like a coiled spring in anticipation, but the preparation for a brawl was cut short by a firm hand clamping down on his shoulder from behind.

  ‘Come with me,’ a deep older voice said. ‘Right now.’

  King turned on his heel to meet the furious gaze of an elderly Latino man wearing an oversized floral shirt and a pair of brown corduroys. He had lost almost all of his hair and sported the expression of a man who life had simply passed by. Deep wrinkles were set into his cheeks and his brow looked to permanently furrowed. His hazelnut eyes bored into King, analysing him, sizing him up.