by Jordan Dane
Three dead bangers and the only witnesses were both likely to be CIA. Gonzales looked at him with narrowed eyes.
“What were you doing here, Mr. Teflon? Playing referee?” The detective holstered his weapon. The beautiful Asian woman wandered into the shadows until he lost sight of her. He wasn’t likely to get an introduction, but given the body count, he had other things on his mind.
He owed Mercer Broderick after the man rescued a good friend of his from a Mexican jail on a bogus drug charge. Mercer’s only payment was for him to return a favor with no questions asked. Gonzales always paid his debts, but it looked as if Mercer would push his limits.
“I saw intel from Mexico about a meet with el jefe. These guys are from the Galvez cartel across the border, at least that’s who they were supposed to be. After this, I’m not so sure.”
“Are you saying the Jaguar was supposed to show here on U.S. soil, their boss and head of the cartel?” He shook his head, but before he let Mercer answer, he had a more concerning question. “What interest does the CIA have here? The agency doesn’t have criminal jurisdiction on domestic soil.”
***
The detective thought he still worked for the CIA and Mercer wouldn’t correct him.
“We don’t have time for this, Santiago. I don’t know who these dead men are, but I need you to keep me out of this. Maybe they’re from a rival cartel, here to take out the Jaguar and anyone meeting with the Galvez crew, but if no one called off his noon meet, el jefe might still be on his way. He could be here any time.”
“How did you hear about this meeting? The agency shouldn’t have an operation here.”
“I have my resources. I followed leads that started in Mexico and they brought me to El Paso.”
Gonzales looked at him sideways. He needed more convincing.
“You’re right about the CIA not having jurisdiction here, but that’s why I called in the favor you owe me. Don’t let these dead bangers screw this up because they were playing catch with bullets. You can legally take down one of the FBI’s Most Wanted. I couldn’t take credit, even if I wanted to.”
“Do you think he’ll still show?”
“That depends. You feelin’ lucky, Santiago?”
Mercer breathed a sigh of relief when the detective retrieved his cell and gave orders for backup. His people would set up a covert perimeter, without lights or sirens or uniforms, to arrest a dangerous man. If the head of the powerful and ruthless Galvez cartel showed his face now, the mysterious Jaguar would walk into a trap—and Mercer could begin the next phase of his plan.
Chapter 2
Deserted Cement Factory
El Paso, Texas
11:45 a.m.
Santiago’s handpicked team arrived within minutes—three men and a young female. Mercer stood beside Detective Gonzales with Keiko to his right. As promised, Keiko hadn’t said a word since the police arrived, but every man noticed her.
“We parked down a few blocks with our vehicles hidden, like you said. What’s up, sir?” A tall, lanky young man, clean shaven with a high and tight military haircut, wore a navy EPPD cap and windbreaker. The name embroidered on his jacket was Purdue.
“This is Mercer Broderick, and his associate. CIA. They’re witnesses to what happened, but we have another priority.”
When they saw the dead bodies, the detective’s people looked confused, especially after Gonzales gave his orders.
“Set up a discreet perimeter around this facility.” He gave assignments where he wanted his team positioned. “Stay out of sight and follow my lead. Use your ear pieces to communicate if you see anyone approaching.”
“Why aren’t we processing the scene?” one of his men asked.
“We’ll get to that, but we’re expecting company. Get moving.”
Keiko gave Mercer a sideways glance and a faint nod before she left his side. She worked best alone and he trusted her instincts on where to be. Gonzales’s team settled into their assigned positions, while Mercer stayed hidden near the bodies with Santiago.
Mercer hated stakeouts, but nearly thirty minutes later—after high noon—Keiko’s sultry voice whispered in his ear.
“We have a vehicle approaching. East side.”
“We only have one shot at this, people.” Detective Gonzales alerted his team. “Look sharp. Let them approach. Wait for my order.”
Mercer peered through the carcass of the abandoned factory, his eyes searching for signs of movement.
“One man approaching.” Keiko sounded as if she were on the move. “He’s alone.”
Mercer heard footsteps, shoes scuffing on dirt. The shadow of a man emerged from behind a metal girder. The short balding man walked down concrete stairs with a slow steady gait. His eyes darted from one direction to another.
No one knew what the Jaguar looked like. The FBI had only captured his blurry image in profile, but something felt off. A cartel boss had to be ruthless and willing to kill to retain control of his dangerous empire. This guy looked as if he’d whine about a paper cut.
Mercer stepped from cover with his gun drawn. Keiko had stalked the intruder and came up behind him with her Beretta aimed at the back of his head. Mercer glared at the odd little man, dressed in a cheap three-piece suit and garish tie, wearing thick black-framed glasses that dwarfed his glossy head.
“Who the hell are you?”
***
12:18 p.m.
After Detective Gonzales gave the order, his team swarmed the man with their weapons drawn. The guy threw his hands up and trembled enough to nearly lose the glasses off his face. Mercer had a bad feeling they’d blown their cover for nothing. Surrounded by police, the man didn’t look like a threat to anyone. He looked like a bug-eyed Barney Fife at a church social, about to piss in his drawers.
“El Paso police. Tell us your name.” Detective Gonzales kept his gun aimed while one of his men frisked him.
“My name is…” He winced and cleared his throat as if it hurt. “Elliot Ziffle.”
“No weapons, sir, but the guy has a cell phone and a bottle of meds, for his stomach.” After the officer shook the bottle of pills, he noticed something dangling from the man’s vest. He pulled out a vintage pocket watch on a gold chain and flipped the timepiece open. The hands were ticking down the seconds.
“That’s a family heirloom, belonged to my deceased father. I use the watch to know when to take my pills. I need them both.”
“Confiscate the phone, but return the pills and his watch,” Detective Gonzales said.
The officer handed the pills and the vintage timepiece back.
“What are you doing here, Ziffle?” Mercer lowered his weapon.
“Ziffle is a condition, not a name,” Keiko muttered under her breath.
“I’m just a tourist who got lost. I swear.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “My GPS led me here by mistake. This is all a big misunderstanding.”
“The deserted cement factory didn’t give you a big enough clue, genius?” Detective Gonzales wasn’t buying it. “You had to walk in here to figure that out?”
“Okay, I’m supposed to meet a friend, but I must’ve written down the wrong address.”
“Let me guess.” Mercer cocked his head. “This is where you ask for a lifeline and you want to phone a friend.”
“Look, I obviously walked in on something that’s got nothing to do with me.” The man looked over Mercer’s shoulder and his eyes widened. “Are those men dead? Oh, God. Please don’t shoot me.”
“I’m Detective Gonzales with the El Paso PD. No one’s gonna shoot you.”
“I’d shoot him, just to take him out of the gene pool.” Keiko crossed her arms. “Whoever he is, we’ve dropped our pants for this? If we’re expecting more company, it will not happen now.”
“You came here for a reason,” Mercer said. “You’re involved with the Galvez cartel. Were you meeting the Jaguar?”
“Don’t think about lying again,” the detective said. “Or you’ll regret i
t.”
“If he bought that tie, he doesn’t know the meaning of the word regret.” Keiko glared at the man.
“Who killed them? I need to know.” Ziffle’s voice cracked.
“If they hadn’t shot each other, do you think they would’ve used you for target practice?” Mercer didn’t wait for him to answer. “What do you do for the Jaguar and his cartel?”
Ziffle shut his eyes tight. He looked as if he’d puke. Mercer didn’t see any harm in letting the man dwell on his dangerous liaison and what could’ve happened. Until he knew more about what had transpired within the ranks of the Galvez cartel—and the hidden agenda of the Jaguar for this meeting—Mercer couldn’t confirm or deny the little man would’ve been next.
“I’m his accountant. I handle his U.S. taxes. Whenever he’s in the country, he arranges a face-to-face meeting with me.”
“Taxes?” Mercer grinned. “I bet he’s a model citizen.”
“Translation? He launders his money.” Detective Gonzales holstered his weapon.
“That’s not true…exactly.”
“Handcuff him,” the detective said. “Take him downtown and put him in an interrogation room until I get there.”
Mercer didn’t hesitate to pull Detective Gonzales aside, out of the earshot of his men.
“If we work this right, we can still get el jefe. You heard the guy. The Jaguar must have a way of communicating with him. If we can keep it a secret that we have his accountant, we may still entice the Jaguar to show himself. You have to get Ziffle to tell you how they communicate.”
“I can do that.” Gonzales nodded. “But are you saying we use him as bait?”
“Maybe it won’t come to that, but we should do whatever it takes to chop off the head of the snake.”
As the detective stared at his team working the crime scene, Mercer gave him something else to ponder.
“After you put pressure on the Galvez money man, you know he’ll want immunity to testify.”
“We’d have to get that through the U. S. Attorney General. It’ll take time to arrange a deal for him.”
“How bad do you want the Jaguar?” Mercer asked, without expecting an answer. The detective heaved a sigh and nodded. “We need to arrange for a safe house, something off-book from the EPPD.”
“What do you mean off-book?”
Mercer had to finesse the detective, but he didn’t have time for full on, kiss-ass diplomacy.
“We can’t be sure how many people know about the safe houses the El Paso PD has. The Jaguar has a far reach. No offense, but he could have cops on the payroll right under your nose.”
As expected, Gonzales glowered at Mercer as if he’d spat on his shoes.
“I know you have connections to the Equalizers. I do, too,” Mercer said. “I’ve worked with some of them. They’ll have safe houses, bet on it. We can do a joint op, but if we do, you can’t let anyone on your team know the details, not even your top brass.”
“You’re not asking for much.”
Gonzales looked skeptical, but he didn’t say no.
The Equalizers were a private security outfit, started by Kyle Chancellor, the Governor of Texas. Mercer and his number two man, Stetson Debenham, had a history with Chancellor’s security agency, but Mercer and his team played by a different set of rules. Mercer had a wealthy host of benefactors across the globe, headed by a powerful Danish woman named Eva Henriksen.
Eva had helped him build Zion, the fortress that he and his team called home in the Laramie Mountains in Wyoming. Forming the Alliance with him, she had invested in his vision of swift justice, unrestrained by jurisdictional or international borders. She had a network of high-powered people of influence across the world that would disavow him in public, yet secretly turn a blind eye to his vigilante ways. Mercer straddled a tenuous line between law enforcers and lawbreakers to do what police and Feds couldn’t. At odds with both sides, he’d have a collective bull’s eye on his back if the public knew.
“Bringing down the Galvez cartel and the Jaguar, it calls for more than standard operating procedure,” Mercer said. “We need a tight lid on it.”
“Don’t make me regret this, Mercer.”
The detective didn’t wait for his answer before he headed toward his remaining team, directing them to process the dead bodies at the crime scene. Santiago had a solid reputation, but too much was at stake for Mercer to let his guard down.
“Can’t make any promises, Santiago,” he muttered under his breath.
Keiko stood at Mercer’s side and knew better than to ask questions.
Chapter 3
El Paso Police
Central Regional Command
Interrogation Room 3
Detective Santiago Gonzales fixed his gaze on the man sitting across from him at the interrogation table. Under the fluorescent light, the man’s glasses reflected a glare that made his eyes disappear behind the dark frames. His face had twisted into a ball of worry, making him look like Hank from King of the Hill with the meat sweats.
Elliot Ziffle had asked for something to eat, but turned his nose up at what one of Santiago’s men had bought off a taco truck in front of the courthouse.
“You’re in El Paso, Ziffle. Eat the damned tacos. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
The man grimaced and shoved the food away.
“This beggar can. I have an irritable bowel.”
“If I had to be around you 24/7, I’d be irritable, too.” Santiago grimaced.
“At least get me a glass of water. I need to take my pills. It’s time.” Ziffle reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of meds.
Santiago grabbed the bottle from his hands and read the label.
“For IBS and painful bowel spasms.” He winced and handed the medicine back. “You wouldn’t last two minutes at my family’s house. My mother makes the best menudo. That’d grease your insides.”
“Grease is the last thing I need, Detective.”
After a knock at the door, a uniformed cop entered the room with a paper cup of water.
“Your men must be mind readers. I didn’t hear you give the order to bring me water.” Elliot nudged his chin toward the two-way mirror. “I suppose my misery is a source of entertainment for whoever is behind that glass.”
Ziffle took his pill and drank from the cup.
“Let me ask you this. Would you rather be dead or have diarrhea?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“Listen up, Elliot. You’d be worse off if we let you go. Making it rain from your ass would be a blessing by comparison.”
“Please stop saying that. I’m a visual person.”
Santiago rolled his eyes.
“You were right about the Jaguar. Something is up with the cartel. The men you saw dead? They gunned each other down. If your boss asked for a meet, you were probably next. The way I see it, we’re your best hope to survive this cartel melt down.”
“I can’t do time in prison. You know what they’d do to someone like me in there.”
“Who said anything about prison? I could make a case that since you’re involved in a cartel from another country, you could be considered a terrorist. No trial required. I can have your sorry butt shipped off to Guantanamo and have you interrogated for what you know. In that hellhole, water doesn’t come in a cup. It comes in a bucket. Once you go in, I got money that says you won’t come out.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me.”
Ziffle looked as if he’d blow chow.
“You don’t have anything on me. So what? I showed up at that cement factory, by mistake. I did nothing wrong.”
“You’re right, but do you really want to fly solo without police protection? You’d be taking a chance when there might be a target on your back. If that argument doesn’t convince you, I could make sure the cartel knows you’ve been our cooperative guest.”
“That’s blackmail. Look, I got sucked into doing things for him. By the tim
e I realized who and what he was, I had no choice. He would’ve killed me if I refused. I’m an accountant, for Christ’s sake, a number cruncher. I’m not a criminal or a terrorist.”
“If you cooperate and help us bring the cartel down, we’ll protect you. You’ll have to testify, but I can get you immunity. You can become a law abiding citizen again, Ziffle, and start over. You can walk away from this.”
Sweat beaded on the man’s upper lip. His face lost color.
“I can’t testify. He’d kill me. What if I gave you the name of his number two man? I guarantee he knows more than I do about how the Jaguar operates.”
“I already have that name. Victor Rangel.” Santiago gathered his notepad and pen and stood. “I’m not wasting any more time with you, Ziffle. I’m calling Homeland and booking you on the next flight to Guantanamo. Have a nice life.”
The detective headed out the interrogation room door and shut it behind him, but only two steps down the corridor, he heard Elliot Ziffle yell through the walls.
“What if I told you where to find Victor Rangel? I know how to reach him.”
Santiago turned on his heels and headed back into the room. He tossed his notepad and pen onto the table and slid them toward Ziffle.
“Tell me how to reach Rangel, and I want the Jaguar’s cartel accounts, anywhere he has assets.” Santiago returned to his seat. “We’ll check things out. If you’re honest with us, I’ll speak to the Attorney General on your behalf. You’ll get your deal in writing.”
Elliot Ziffle’s shoulders slumped as he pulled the pad of paper toward him and reached for the pen, but the man shot him the stink eye when Santiago grabbed one of the tacos, took a big bite and spoke with his mouth full.
“Delicioso.”
***
El Paso Police
Criminal Investigations Tactical Unit
Late afternoon
Detective Santiago Gonzales stared out the window of his office onto the county court house and the jail as he flicked a pen between his fingers.
He didn’t know if he could trust Mercer Broderick.
