by M C Rowley
The oldest Founder looked up from the balance sheet. “A month isn’t all that long.”
The others looked up. One of the Silicon Valley kids (he was in his thirties) said, “No, it isn’t. I say we stay cool and wait.”
Grunts echoed around the boardroom.
The oldest man said, “How many times have you tried contacting Reynolds?”
The men answered, one by one. Some had sent one encrypted email, others a maximum of three. One of the Founders stayed quiet.
The oldest man looked at him. “And you? Have you reached out to Reynolds?”
The man, named Sebastian Thomas, shook his head. “No,” he said.
“Okay then. Let’s hold our horses. No panic yet. I’ll keep trying to contact Reynolds. I’m sure it’ll be okay. Agreed?”
Nods and grunts around the room.
But not from Sebastian Thomas, who got up as soon as he could without being impolite and made his excuses and left the boardroom, then the office, and then the building, and walked into the street, his blood pressure rocketing, and hailed a cab.
Sebastian had once used a driver of course; if the other Founders knew he was riding in yellow cabs, they would definitely know something was up.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and brought up the number he knew he had to dial. He waited until the cab made it downtown and then told the driver to stop. He got out and walked into the park, where the hustle and bustle of tourists and New Yorkers provided the kind of privacy he needed. And he made the call.
The voice on the other end answered in Spanish. “¿Bueno?”
“It’s me,” said Sebastian.
“Walk to Waverly and 6th. We’ll pass by for you.”
Sebastian did as the Mexican told him, walking through the crowds of oblivious tourists, cops, and businesspeople going about their busy day, to the corner indicated. Sure enough, a black town car pulled around and stopped in front of him. His head was pounding, his hands shaking, as he grabbed the door handle, pulled, and got in.
The Mexican he had spoken to sat at the other side of the seat. The driver was a huge guy and next to him, riding shotgun, was an equally muscled individual.
“Hello, Mr. Thomas,” said the Mexican. It was the first time Sebastian had seen the man. The new leader of Código X. He was a stout guy, in his late forties perhaps, with a short, stocky body and big arms.
“So? Is the money gone?”
Sebastian nodded. “It seems so. But the others don’t want to admit it. They agreed to wait for Mr. Reynolds to make contact again.”
“He won’t,” said X04. “We will have to get it back ourselves.”
Sebastian nodded again.
X04 was still smiling at him. “And you’re going to help us.”
Sebastian said, “I’ve never met Reynolds. No one has. I don’t see how I can help.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine, Mr. Thomas. Not like you have much of a choice.”
Sebastian looked down at his feet. The Mexican was right. He had made his own promises to other dangerous people, about getting their money back, paying debts. As it was, he had lost everything. He had no option at all.
“No,” said Sebastian. “I don’t.”
“Good,” said X04. “So this is what we’re going to do…”
And Sebastian listened to the instructions because his life depended on it.
Thousands of kilometers south, Mr. Reynolds was tying up a loose end. Not the final loose end, but an important one nonetheless. The operation had moved too fast for his liking over the last few weeks. He did not trust Jairo Morales one bit. But they needed each other, and when that was the case, it was vital to have leverage. Which was what he was securing now. He had never wanted to harm anyone unless it was vital. And that had proven to be the case. He had harmed people, lots of them. He had killed. What was one more life?
Now, he stood in front of two women in a small, dark bedroom. No windows, no natural light. He wore no mask, had no voice distorter. He was out in the open.
Jairo’s child lay on her back, drugged to high hell. No kind of reliable witness at all.
One of the women was elderly. The other was Luciana.
“Forty-eight hours then,” said Reynolds in Spanish.
The old woman nodded gravely. Luciana had a blank look on her face.
“Luciana,” he said. “The antidote.”
Luciana nodded and pulled a syringe from her pocket and handed it to the old lady.
Reynolds passed an old burner cell phone to the lady.
“Understood? If I don’t call, inject her with the poison. If I call, use the antidote.”
The old lady nodded.
Luciana and Reynolds walked outside.
They got in their car and pulled out of the village. The nearest airstrip was forty minutes away.
Reynolds turned to Luciana. “Now, go find Jairo.”
“Yes,” said Luciana.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jairo had to work fast. He had been in a store when he heard the radio announcement. And he’d left sharpish, as soon as it finished. He took the risk and walked back to the motel, shaved off his beard, changed his clothes, and left the motel without checking out.
The Super 8 Motel was situated on a two-lane highway in an industrial area of town. No residential housing, and not many places to hide either. Jairo walked across the road and scanned his options. Across the highway was a company’s large premises protected by fencing. The rest was open ground, totally exposed. He looked to the right of the motel and saw a car park belonging to a removals company called All My Sons. He looked to the left of the motel and saw a narrow side street, and on the opposite corner to the motel, a Buick dealership.
Not many options.
He decided to go for the side street and head to the back of the motel on one side and the back of the Buick dealership on the other. Once he was behind the motel he noted that its car park was big at the rear. On the other side, behind the Buick dealership, was their service mechanic’s shop and a sea of parked Buicks, new, semi-new, and old. Between them, in the middle of the side street, where it ended, were two recycling skips, rusty and orange. And perfect for hiding.
He walked briskly to them, opened the first, and found cardboard. He opened the second and it was almost empty, so he jumped in. Once inside, he grabbed an old can, opened the lid half a foot, and placed the can there to keep it open.
He checked the view. He could see the entire back end of the motel, its main car park, and the side street ahead. Not bad, he thought. Now he would wait for his old colleague Rafa. Who would come, he knew.
Eventually.
Half an hour after the first broadcast went live, Rose, Jean, Eleanor, and I headed to the Super 8 Motel. We knew, of course, that Jairo would be gone. But we guessed he would stay in the area, given that his cover was blown open. Other motels were hardly an option. And Rose agreed with me that this Rafa Casas guy would be curious if he’d heard the broadcast. I imagined a man bored out of his skull finally hearing something of his colorful past and feeling the old thrill flood his veins.
So we got takeaway coffees and drove to the car park of the Super 8 Motel and found a spot behind the place, ten rows of the car park back from the building, and we sat there watching. Jean went to the front of the Super 8 to scope out that side. Rose stayed with Eleanor and me in the back.
Once in place, we kept our eyes open for anything.
It was 2 p.m. and the sun’s heat was relentless. Rafa had parked two blocks down from the Super 8 Motel. There was a burning anxiety throbbing inside Rafa’s chest. He knew Jairo Morales was here. He had seen him. And now he needed to know why.
He had to admit to himself that a large part of him was afraid. He hadn’t exactly left the cartel with an honorable discharge—he’d put a few of them in jail. He was a snitch. A rat. But he also knew the Sons of No One cartel was no more. It had no money, no structure, and he’d heard that it had been replaced by the vici
ous new organization Código X.
In short, Rafa had no idea why Jairo Morales was here.
Finally, he got out of his truck, closed the door, and started walking the two blocks to the Super 8 Motel.
I saw the man first. He was in the industrial park space behind the Super 8 Motel, a couple of blocks down. He could have been any guy from that distance, but something about the way he was standing outside his truck, like he was deliberating, made me stop and stare. I said nothing to Rose or Eleanor, who had failed to notice the man at all. When he started walking toward the motel, my hunch was confirmed. The same man from the photograph. White hair, black eyebrows. In his fifties. But later fifties now.
I was looking at Rafael Casas. No doubt about it.
I became conscious of Rose in front of me, behind the wheel. He wasn’t looking toward Casas. And I wanted to keep it that way. Because a plan was starting to form in my head. And Rose keeping me under arrest was not going to work.
After hours in the recycling skip, Jairo was pretty damn sick of it and was about to give up when he spotted Rafa—walking across the parking lot of the motel, toward the back entrance, taking slow, methodical, and labored steps. Uncertain and nervous.
Jairo sighed deeply. It was almost over.
Slowly, he lifted the lid of the skip and removed the can, and then he hauled his left leg to the lip and slid out like a human snake until his boots hit concrete.
Rafa walked slowly and steadily, hyper-conscious of his presence at the scene of a crime that had yet to be committed. He felt the thrill back, but his heart was not up to the nerves as it had once been. He’d gone soft. He walked toward the motel with no plan or idea or anything.
What did he expect? Jairo Morales to call over to him? To come out of nowhere?
Which was exactly what happened next.
He felt a hand fall on his right shoulder. He turned slowly, and another hand grabbed his left arm and held it tight.
Rafa had closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw a face he knew well. A face he had seen grow up from a baby into a boy and then into a man. The face of one of the youngest capos to ever get “made” by a cartel. His old colleague.
“Rafa, cabrón, what a surprise to see you here,” said Jairo Morales.
Chapter Thirty
Rose saw them at last, his head darting to the right, toward Jairo walking briskly across the car park to the man by the motel.
“There,” he said, his voice a couple of octaves higher than usual.
Eleanor and I looked at the scene and watched as our son stalked up to Casas and then put a hand on his shoulder. We were less than a hundred yards away but couldn’t hear a thing. We watched as Casas turned, shock on his face. We couldn’t see Jairo’s face.
I turned my gaze back to where Casas had parked his truck, in the next lot. I saw Rose’s right hand begin to drop to his side and the pistol he was carrying.
Time had run out. And I couldn’t let our son get shot before we had heard his defense. Somewhere, deep inside me, our blood connection forced my brain into protection mode. To protect my own blood.
I lunged forward and grabbed the pistol before Rose got within a foot of it and pulled it out of the holster.
“What the —”
Rose turned, his eyes stretched open as he felt his firearm slip away. I brought the butt of the gun down on his right temple. He slumped to the side, out cold.
Eleanor stifled a scream. “What the hell, Scotty?”
I looked at her. “Trust me. This is the only way. He was going to shoot our son. He wants Casas, to get to Reynolds. Jairo is a pain in his ass now. We can’t let that happen.”
Eleanor processed the information. Then she nodded.
“Look,” I said. “Stay here. I saw the truck came in. I’m pretty sure that’s the ride he and Jairo will use to get out of here. I’m going to make a run to it.”
“But Scotty…” said Eleanor.
I put my hand on her leg. “I love you, El. I know our son is a lost soul. But we need to find our granddaughter. And I will not let Jairo get killed. I just bloody won’t.”
Eleanor nodded again and then shooed me away with a hand gesture.
I looked up quickly. No sign of Jean. Rose was KO’ed. And Jairo and Casas remained in deep conversation.
I held Rose’s gun in my hand and got out of the car. Once out, I skirted around the back of the car park, along the perimeter and into the next block, then ran through that to Casas’s truck. It was a big Ford model, a few years old. It had a large cargo bed full of boxes and cans of gas. Some sort of fishing equipment. I shot a look back at the Super 8 Motel car park and saw Jairo and Casas turn and start to head toward me.
I jumped over the tailgate, moved some boxes, and lay down, covering myself with the boxes.
After a few long minutes, I heard two men getting closer, speaking rapidly in Spanish. The driver door open. Then the passenger door. Then the engine started.
I gripped the pistol tight and closed my eyes.
The truck started to pull away, and then I felt us meander through the lot and accelerate onto the road.
I breathed out hard. The noise from the road and the massive Ford engine filled my ears. And then the cabin window directly above my head opened up and I could hear my son’s voice and then Casas’s. I closed my eyes and listened hard.
The Spanish was slang-filled and fast, but after a few minutes I got into the rhythm and understood it.
Jairo was saying, “It’s easier, Rafa. I promise you.”
Rafa said, “Like I said, Morales.” He paused, “Put the gun down, will you?”
I heard nothing in response.
Then Casas spoke. “Okay. But cut me in on the deal.”
There was a pause from Jairo, “We can talk about that.”
I listened to the rolling road and silence from the cabin.
Casas spoke. “Who’s organizing this? I know the other boys are retired. What gives?”
Jairo said, “Doesn’t matter to you. Who cares when we’re talking billions? Not millions, cabrón. Billions.”
It was the first time I had heard passion in my son’s voice. Not when he had mentioned his daughter, or when we had found his girlfriend dead. But when he spoke of money. And I felt a part of my heart die again. I thought about what it meant.
Money?
With Reynolds.
Nothing made sense anymore.
The Sons of No One cartel was over. They had no money. Casas was in the witness protection program. He had nothing to give, surely. Whatever way I looked at it, nothing made sense.
The rest of the way, Jairo and Casas remained silent. I lay flat and breathed and worked the facts I now had through my mind. We rode for another thirty minutes or so by my reckoning. My back was in agony from lying on metal and being jostled around.
Finally, we started to slow and I felt the Ford take some turns to the left, then a curve, and then come to a stop.
“You get down first,” said Jairo.
I heard the driver door open, then the passenger door, and boots on gravel. I could smell water in the air. Not the sea; that was impossible. But a lake of sorts. Something like that. A humidity anyway.
Then I heard the footsteps walk away.
I gave it thirty minutes before I even moved more than a shuffle. First I turned onto my stomach and felt relief as the blood shifted the other way. Then I started to rise up to a seated position. The afternoon was turning into sundown and the heat had dropped off at least ten degrees. As soon as my eyes met the level of the tailgate rim, I peeked over and saw a one-story, red, wooden house with a generous garden, and behind it, a lake. Dark, murky, green water.
I turned 180 degrees and saw the next house at least 500 yards away. The FBI didn’t hold back the purse strings when placing a snitch in witness protection.
I turned back to Casas’s house and strained my ears but heard nothing.
I went to shift up further, but then stopped.
<
br /> Because I’d heard footsteps.
I went back down, slowly but steadily, and listened. Someone was walking about ten meters from the truck on the left-hand side. The footsteps were lighter than Jairo’s or Casas’s and more determined. There was no skip in the step. No hesitation. Like a predator moving through long grass.
I heard the person move in front of the truck. Slowly, I sat up again and turned to look over the cabin roof.
There, approaching the house, a gun in one hand and a small leather bag in the other, was Luciana.
Chapter Thirty-One
Eleanor only moved to adjust Rose’s head. He was still unconscious. She felt bad for how Scott had left. And she waited for Jean to come back.
It didn’t take long. Agent Jean Santos came sprinting towards the car, urgency and stress on her face. Which changed to confusion, then disbelief. She got to the window and saw Rose slumped over and Eleanor sitting tight on the back seat.
She said, “What the hell happened?” Then she held a hand up before Eleanor could reply. “Forget it. I saw them. Leaving. They left. We have to follow. Casas and Jairo. What the hell happened?”
Then it dawned on her. “Where’s Dyce?”
“Get in,” said Eleanor. “I’ll fill you in.”
After much arguing, they drove out of the lot. Jean thought they still had a chance to catch up with Casas’s truck. But in the end they gave up and agreed to take Rose to the nearest hospital. A flash of the badge got them seen pretty fast and they settled into an open ward, where Rose was left to come back around while a doctor checked him for signs of concussion. Eleanor and Jean sat on chairs for visitors. Jean had not stopped grilling Eleanor since the motel car park.
“And you honestly believe your husband and son are not involved?”
