Surviving the Dead (Book 4): Fire In Winter

by James Cook

  On any corner you looked, mashed and melted together, stood these living embodiments of the pretense, extravagance, desperation, and pressure-cooker ferocity that comprised the beast called Manhattan. A land of tall buildings, taller egos, high art, high corruption, and some of the toughest, most hardnosed people you will ever meet. For a big heap of a country boy like myself, it was quite possibly the most unappealing of the great American cities. Then again, most New Yorkers probably thought Kentucky was pretty damned unappealing.

  “I’m assuming the room is clean?” I asked.

  Tolliver waved his hand toward a duffel bag on the bed. “It is, but I know you’re going to check it again anyway. Knock yourself out.”

  I opened the kit and took out the necessary equipment. Starting with the camera detector, I swept every square inch of the room, taking my time and being careful about it. Nothing showed up in the viewfinder. Next, I switched on the bug detector and made another thorough sweep. It chirped near Tolliver’s cell phone, but that was to be expected. The man was right. The room was clean.

  “You’re getting faster,” Tolliver said. “That only took an hour.”

  “In our line of work, there is no such thing as too careful.”

  “Indeed. I’ve noticed you are a very careful man, Mr. Garrett. Now, if it’s not too much trouble, could you sit down so we can cover the briefing?”

  “Just a minute.” I opened the minibar, took out two mini-bottles of 10 Cane rum and Coca-Cola, concocted a Cuba Libré, and took a seat at the table.

  “Okay. Now I’m ready.”

  Behind his square-cut Armani glasses, Tolliver’s eyes narrowed in irritation.

  His hands went to his briefcase and began turning the combination dials. The briefcase looked ordinary, just a rectangular box encased in lustrous Italian leather, but that was where the normalcy ended. Rather than wood, the frame and casing were made of titanium, complete with a locking system impervious to nearly any breaching method short of a hydraulic press. And even if someone did somehow manage to pry it open, a small thermite bomb rigged in the housing would ignite, destroying the briefcase and the documents within, and causing grievous bodily injury to anyone standing within three feet. Just being near the thing was making me nervous.

  Tolliver completed the unlocking process without incident, took out a manila file, and slid it across the table. I picked it up and read the stamp across the front.

  “Operation Dragonfly. Very elegant. Who comes up with these code names, anyway?”

  Tolliver took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “As usual, you’re coming in at the tail end of a long investigation. Just read the file, please.”

  I opened the packet to the first page. Miguel Santiago Villalobos, age 48, currently residing in Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico, stared at me from a glossy photograph, the same photo I would find on his passport. There were other photos of him sitting, standing, walking, even a couple of shots from behind. Villalobos was short, maybe five-five, five-six at the most, bald, thick white mustache, slight paunch, the kind of middle-aged man you would walk right by on the street without noticing. But there was something in his eyes I didn’t like. Something hidden. Something dark. Something that spoke of a casual indifference beyond the level of merely jaded, strongly into the territory of dispassionate. There was none of the usual light in his eyes, not like you see with normal people. His gaze was dead and blank and utterly without warmth. Like a shark’s eyes.

  I flipped through the rest of his file, memorizing the details. My memory trick is not automatic, it requires concentration, but I had honed the ability to a fine edge and could absorb written data much faster than most people can read. The key is to block out other input, let my eyes flow over the pages, and let the words etch themselves into my mind. Once registered, I could recall them at any time with precise clarity. A very useful skill to have in my line of work.

  While most of the details of the investigation had been redacted, I gathered he was quite wealthy, born in a wealthy family, educated in California—Berkeley, specifically—and was the owner of Rezteca Holdings, a private equity firm headquartered in Guadalajara. He had inherited the business from his father, as he was the oldest of three sons.

  I said, “I’m guessing Mr. Villalobos has been a bad boy.”

  Tolliver nodded. “You’re not holding his file because he forgot to return a library book. He owns, among other things, several chains of hotels and car rentals. Quite a number of them, actually. All over Mexico. Charges exorbitant rates.”

  “Let me guess. Despite his exorbitant rates, his cars are always rented out, and all his hotels are constantly booked.”

  “Exactly. Typical money laundering scheme.”

  I put the file on the table and sipped my drink. “So which cartel is does he work for? And why don’t they just buy him out? I’m guessing he gets a cut for his trouble. Why not eliminate the middle man?”

  “That’s a very good question. A question our analysts and investigators have been trying to answer for quite a while now. You see, the cartel pays him in cash for all the hotel rooms they never visit and the cars they never pick up, which is normal. Then he deposits the money in his accounts, puts it on the balance sheets as revenue, and tells the auditors, ‘Hey, I don’t discriminate. If someone wants to rent a room, I rent it to them. It’s not my fault if they never show up.’ Also normal. It’s all done through his very modern and very thorough accounting systems, and unfortunately, it’s all perfectly legal.”

  “So how does he funnel the money back to the cartel? And which one does he work for? You never said.”

  “Las Sombras. The shadows.”

  “I know what las sombras means.”

  “That’s right. You speak Spanish, don’t you?”

  “Can we stay on topic?”

  “Right. Las Sombras has been around a long time, mostly operating in the disputed territories southeast of Juarez. But now we suspect they’ve managed to muscle in on the Gulf Cartel’s operations from Ciudad Acuña all the way to Nuevo Laredo. It seems they took a page out of the Gulf Cartel’s own playbook and started hiring soldiers from elite military units. But in this case, it’s not just Mexican special forces. They’re hiring from all over the world. Their head of security is former SAS.”

  I whistled, shaking my head. “Sounds like the fucking Zetas all over again.”

  “Worse. They already own the police departments in their territory, and half the people living there either work for them, or know someone who does. They have eyes everywhere. Nobody gets in or out of their dominion without their knowledge. And they have zero patience for the other cartels operating nearby. There have already been more than a dozen beheadings. The videos were posted to Youtube.”

  “They sound lovely. How does Villalobos tie in to all this?”

  “The money from the hotel and rental car operations goes to bank accounts in the name of Rezteca holdings, then it gets filtered through a dizzying array of subsidiaries to offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. When we started digging through those accounts and the various businesses to which they were registered, we made a few enlightening discoveries.”

  I grinned and shook my finger at him. “Our guys hacked his account information, didn’t they? Impressive. Those Cayman banks don’t mess around when it comes to network security. Must have recruited some new talent down there at Langley.”

  Tolliver winked. “Need to know, Gabriel. Need to know.”

  “Right. You were saying?”

  “The accounts in the Caymans are not solely held by Rezteca and its subsidiaries. There is another company listed on them. The Smith Group.”

  “And they are?”

  “Ghosts. Ink and paper, nothing more. The Smith Group is a shell company owned by a vast array of other shell companies, all of them with Swiss bank accounts. It took years for our forensic accountants to track them all down, but when they did, they noticed a startling fact. Miguel Villalobos’ name, or
one of his many aliases, is on all of the paperwork. He’s a control person on all the corporate charters, a principle in all the partnerships, a majority shareholder for all the publicly traded companies. He has his fingers in everything.”

  I sat back in my chair and let the weight of what Tolliver was saying sink in. “So he doesn’t just work for Las Sombras, does he?”

  Tolliver smiled, his teeth like fangs in the dim light. “No, he doesn’t. Miguel Villalobos is Las Sombras. And he’s coming here.”

  “To New York?”

  “To the Waldorf Astoria, specifically. A three-day investor conference, hosted by Citadel out of Chicago. Heard of them?”

  “Big hedge fund, right? Celebrity manager, always on CNBC?”

  “That’s the one. They’re looking for new clients. Doesn’t happen very often. The conference is invitation only.”

  “I’m assuming I’m invited?”

  “Citadel has been most cooperative.”

  “How much do they know?”

  “Only that a piece of favorable legislation is getting ready to expire, and if they allow a certain influential US senator’s nephew and two of his associates to attend the conference, they can expect his vote, and those of his party, when the bill comes up for renewal.”

  “Sounds like a good cover. Except for the part about the two associates.”

  Tolliver sighed and rubbed his forehead, his tone hardening. “You will be working with a team on this one, Gabriel. It is not optional, nor is it open to discussion.”

  “Tolliver…”

  “I know you prefer to work alone but this is a big one. We need this guy alive. He’s not coming here without protection. He’s not that stupid. A man like him has more enemies than he can count. He’ll have his own security detail, and with his kind of money, you’ll be facing a small army. A well-armed and highly-motivated army, comprised of at least a few special operations types. You’re going to need help with this one.”

  I tossed back the rest of my drink, glared at Tolliver, and set it down hard. “Fine. But they better not be rookies, or I’m walking.”

  “Both are experienced and highly trained, just like you. In fact, you already know one of them.”

  “Who?”

  “Anthony Rocco, formerly of the United States Marine Corps. I believe you two worked together in Fallujah, did you not?”

  “We did. He’s the one who got me this job.”

  “Excellent. Then I should expect this operation to go smoothly, right?”

  I got up and started mixing another drink. “Don’t ever say that, Tolliver. It’s bad luck.”

  FOURTEEN

  Deputy Reid kept his eyes straight ahead on the drive back to town.

  There was no doubt he knew the mayor of Hollow Rock was weeping in the seat behind him. But to his credit, he didn’t say a word. Not a backward glance, or even a look up into the rearview mirror. He stayed quiet and drove, once having to swerve around a walker that wandered out into the road. The young deputy may have been green, but he was not stupid.

  Elizabeth got it together before we reached the gate, though her eyes were still puffy and red around the edges. After the usual inspections, Reid drove us to my house and pulled into the driveway.

  “Do you mind if I stay a while?” Elizabeth said, reaching for my hand.

  I said I didn’t, but it was a lie. Montford’s killer was still out there, and it was only a matter of time before another body showed up, or worse. The sooner I picked up his trail, the better. But to do that, I needed to outfit myself with the proper weapons and equipment, and then I needed to get back to the crime scene. It would be dark soon, and I sincerely doubted the sheriff would risk having his deputies out after nightfall. Or so I hoped, anyway.

  I unlocked the door and held it open for Elizabeth. She walked inside, took off her boots, and lay down on the couch. The house was cold, with that brittle, hollow quality a room acquires when it has been empty for too long. The walls a little too close, echoes a little too loud.

  There was a quilt in the coat closet, so I took it out and draped it over Elizabeth, careful to tuck it in around her feet. When I was finished, I leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, brushing her hair out of her face. A pair of dark, sad eyes opened as she reached up to me, fingers trailing across my jaw, thumb tracing over my lips. I knelt beside the couch and held her gaze, smiling, feeling a warm tightness in my chest.

  There were narrow little crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, hairline fractures in the skin surrounding her mouth, thin creases along the borderland between her graceful jaw and strong, slender neck. It struck me as strange how, as a younger man, I found those small, superficial wrinkles unattractive. But now that I was older, I could not imagine being with a woman without them. They made a statement. They told me this woman had lived a while, and she knew things. That she had laughed, loved, made mistakes, succeeded, failed, and mourned. That she had known pleasure, and pain, and sacrifice, and indulgence, and all the thousand other things that add richness and texture to a life. Those little lines were perfect in their imperfection, beautiful in their unloveliness. They were the marks of a life lived with courage and grace through loss and hardship. They said this woman was no sheltered youngling with shallow concerns and an empty heart. This woman had depth, and sensibility, and strength of character, and if she cared about me, if I was lucky enough to have her in my life, then I was very fortunate indeed.

  “You take such good care of me,” she said.

  I kissed her again, on the lips this time. “You earn it, lady. Every day.”

  I left her lying there and went into the kitchen to check the stove. A few embers still remained, glowing deep orange against the dark soot-stained metal. The addition of a few twigs and a little encouragement from the bellows sprang a new fire to life. I kept adding wood until it was a proper conflagration, then stacked larger logs around it. It wouldn’t warm the house very much, but it was better than nothing.

  The woodpile was low, so I replenished it from the shed out back, and then returned to the living room. Elizabeth’s breathing had slowed, and she had wedged a throw pillow under her head. I touched her shoulder, eliciting a startled jerk.

  “Sorry. Were you asleep?”

  “Almost. I’m exhausted, Gabe. I have a hell of a day ahead of me tomorrow. Do you mind if I just rest for a while?”

  “Not at all. You should move to the bed, though. You know how your back gets when you sleep on the couch.”

  She let out a weary sigh. “Yeah. You’re right.”

  I followed her to the bedroom, tucked the blanket around her, gave her another kiss, and told her I might be gone a while. She mumbled a sleepy acknowledgment and rolled over, pulling the comforter tight around her shoulders.

  I stood and watched her for a long moment, a little voice in my head telling me what a bastard I was. That instead of blood, I had the distilled essence of son-of-a-bitch running through my veins. That I was a miserable liar, and I didn’t deserve a good woman like Elizabeth at my side.

  I told that voice if there was one thing I was good at, it was keeping secrets. If things went smoothly, I would be back before morning. Maybe even before she woke up. If she questioned me, I would come up with some kind of excuse. Tell her I couldn’t sleep and had spent the night double-checking the inventory logs at the warehouse. Something like that. As busy as she would be tomorrow, I doubted she would make much of a fuss. She would never be the wiser.

  Assuming I didn’t get hurt, of course. Or killed.

  There was a moment of doubt. The nagging little voice grew louder, more insistent, raging at me to wake her up and confess, confess, confess. But I didn’t. Because a man has a right to his secrets, and his shame. Because I was going to end this quickly and quietly, and there was no reason for Elizabeth to know what I was about to do. It was my problem and no one else’s.

  Such was my justification. Such was my stupidity.

  I should have known better.r />
  *****

  When I bought the warehouse, back when it was still an auto repair facility, it boasted two offices.

  One of them was fairly small. Just a desk, chair, a few shelves, and space for customers to sit down. I left it as it was. The other, much larger one—where all the paperwork, money, and an assortment of used auto parts were kept—I modified.

  First, I cleaned it out and built the appropriate shelving and racks. Then I scavenged a heavy steel security door from the back of an abandoned restaurant and installed it in place of its flimsy aluminum predecessor. Next came the thick steel bar, held in place by metal brackets mounted to the concrete wall and secured with a massive padlock. I also set a couple of traps in the room that only Eric and I knew about. Entry into the room required two keys, which only Eric and I possessed, and knowledge of how to bypass the traps.

  The first trap was simple. A string stretched from the door, to a pulley, to the trigger of a double-barreled shotgun. The shotgun was loaded with double-ought buckshot and mounted on a low table. Open the door too fast, and the shotgun goes off at about kneecap level. The perpetrator screams, cries, and bleeds until someone happens along and hears them. Then, assuming they survive their injuries, it’s off to jail. Unless, of course, no one ever hears them. In that case, they bleed to death.