Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1)

by Cameron Curtis

  I tell myself Hamza is not insane. He is completely rational in the context of his belief system. That is why his fighters are committed and dangerous. I fix my eyes on him. “You killed Mary and Donnie.”

  “Yes, Breed.” There is pride in Hamza’s voice. How can a man take pride in mutilating a woman and her child? “They were Keller’s. I should have taken them as captives of my right hand. It was not convenient.”

  Garrick scowls. “He wanted to kill them the night we got Keller. But the shipment had to go out. It was dawn by the time they finished. Later, I tried to talk him out of it. I knew from your friends they didn’t know anything. But Hamza and the cartels don’t like loose ends.”

  Hamza sneers. “Only a fool leaves an enemy’s boy to grow into a man.”

  I address Hamza. “Reckon the sheriff is all about the money.”

  “This work sure enough does pay well.” Garrick grins. Flashes two rows of perfect pearly whites. The pistol does not waver. “Everyone has their motives. Hamza here—a true believer. Bledsoe, he does like them little girls. My motives are my own. You chew on ’em the little time you got left, boy.”

  My phone buzzes.

  Garrick’s face is ghoulish in the Jeep’s headlights. “Did you call Stein?”

  I say nothing.

  Rifle in hand, Hamza circles me. Those eyes. A snake waiting to strike.

  Garrick’s voice is cold. “What did you tell Stein?”

  “Enough.” With his rifle, Hamza clubs me. The small of my back explodes with pain. I grunt, fall to my knees. Another blow, between my shoulder blades—I pitch onto my face. Paralyzed.

  Hamza throws himself on me. Crushes me with his weight, pins my arms under his knees. He twists his left hand in my hair, pulls my head back. The blade of his knife is cold against my throat.

  “I killed your woman, Breed. Now you die.”

  Fucker knows what he’s doing. His blade, razor sharp, cuts into my neck. Draws a trickle of blood. My head is tilted back, eyes staring into the muzzle of Garrick’s Beretta. I’ve seen men beheaded alive. I want the bullet.

  “Hold on a minute.” Garrick addresses Hamza, but his eyes are fixed on me. His gun hand is rock steady. “Don’t you want to know what he told Stein?”

  Before drawing the blade across my throat, Hamza freezes. “I understand their silly laws. Without him, they have nothing.”

  “You willing to take that chance? I’m not. We’re in this together, boy.” Garrick looks as hardened a killer as Hamza.

  Hamza takes the knife from my throat, rises to his feet.

  He spits on me. “Kafir.”

  My face is in the dirt. I turn my head, look up at Hamza.

  “It is almost dawn.” Hamza plants his boot on the side of my face. Crushes my head against the gravel. “These vehicles will be visible from the air.”

  “Let’s take him inside,” Garrick says. “I’ll make him talk.”

  Hamza lets out a harsh cry of frustration.

  “I will dispose of his vehicle.” The Quds jabs the point of his knife at Garrick. “You find out what he has told Stein. No mistakes, my friend. If there is any reason to delay the shipment, call me.”

  “Y’all got nothing to worry about.” Garrick chuckles. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Hamza kicks me. “Get up. Give me the keys.”

  Awash in pain, I struggle to my feet. Hand over the car keys.

  “Make him beg.” Hamza turns and walks to the Taurus. He puts the AK47 in the car. Fires up the engine and drives away.

  My back throbs with pain. “How did he get here?”

  “Y’all are a bit slow today, Breed. I dropped Hamza a quarter mile up the road. He worked his way around while we were talking.”

  Garrick keeps his distance. Six feet. An easy pistol shot, far enough not to be taken by surprise. “Let’s go inside,” he says. “I don’t want to leave a mess out here.”

  We climb the steps to the porch. Mirasol, tiny at the best of times, is a crumpled doll.

  Garrick gestures with his pistol. “Drag her inside.”

  I defy the sheriff. Carry Mirasol in my arms, lay her on the sofa.

  “I figured you’d be done in by a skirt,” Garrick grins. “Didn’t think it’d be for a beaner.”

  Garrick takes a step back, opens the distance between us. “You called Stein, didn’t you?”

  I say nothing.

  “Y’all been watching too many Gary Cooper movies.” Garrick shifts to a two-handed grip, a perfect isosceles. “Here’s the game we’ll play. One chance—a knee or elbow. Starting now.”

  In the half-light, Garrick raises his pistol. Points it at my left knee.

  Crack.

  The picture window explodes in a shower of glass.

  Garrick’s head jerks toward the sound.

  A perfect cone of white light fixes itself on the sheriff’s face. His eyes widen.

  Two more shots follow in rapid succession.

  Crack-crack.

  Two black holes appear in Garrick’s forehead. The expression of astonishment is frozen on his face. He crumples to the floor.

  The light remains fixed on the sheriff.

  A figure in black raises a leg and steps over the low windowsill. It’s a woman. Careful not to cut herself on the jagged glass.

  Cautiously, Stein steps around the sofa. She holds the SIG in her right hand, supported on her left wrist. Her left hand holds a flashlight.

  “Breed, get the lights.”

  Not bad, Stein. Where’d you learn those moves?

  I flick the light switch at the entrance. Blink as the lights come on.

  Stein stands over Garrick. With the toe of a perfectly polished dress shoe, she slides the Beretta away from his body. Turns off her flashlight, holsters the SIG. She drops to one knee, turns the dead man’s pockets inside out. Recovers two mobile phones.

  Broken glass litters the floor, lies on Mirasol’s body.

  “We have to get back to Salem,” Stein says. “You can thank me on the way.”

  “Give me your jacket, Stein.”

  Stein shrugs off her suit coat.

  Gently, I cover Mirasol.

  39

  Lazy K, 0500 Hrs Thursday

  Stein’s Civic is cool and comfortable. I like the new-car smell. In the east, the sky is lightening. The dashboard thermometer reads ninety degrees external temperature. The SIG P226 Legion is holstered at Stein’s hip.

  Sexy and stylish. She knows how to use it.

  “There’s Kleenex in the glove compartment,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Your face, Breed.” Stein’s voice is gentle. “You can lose the war paint.”

  Hamza wiped Mirasol’s blood on my face. I open Stein’s glove compartment. Tear fistfuls of Kleenex out of an open box. Scrub my face.

  Stein glances at me. “Let me see.”

  I turn my head to look at her.

  “It’s dried.” Stein shakes her head. “Leave it. You can wash in the hotel.”

  I’m not too concerned about my appearance. “It was Garrick all the time.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Everything came together at once.” Stein hands me one of the cell phones she took from Garrick’s corpse. “That’s the burner. An hour and a half ago, it came alive.”

  I suck breath.

  Stein smiles. “Can you remember what happened an hour and a half ago?”

  “I called Garrick.”

  “You called Garrick. And he used that burner to call Hamza. I had my phone on silent. You’re lucky my team messaged me online. Pulled me out of my presentation.”

  “You couldn’t have known it was Garrick using the phone.”

  “No. But—the burner was active. My team used active cell towers. Triangulated it real time. The transmission originated from Salem County’s sheriff’s station. I rushed over, but Garrick was gone.”

  Stein’s eyes are fixed on the road. Once more,
she is all business. “I commandeered Garrick’s office. Instructed my team to track the phone. They were already spinning up all its previous contacts.”

  “You got in your car and peeled rubber.”

  “Not yet. Nothing was conclusive. It would have helped if you’d told me where you got the damn number.”

  Stein’s tone is accusatory. I refuse to be baited. “So. You sat and waited.”

  “My team was collating intel. All we had were pieces. I sat behind Garrick’s desk. Kept myself awake by rocking and making his stupid chair squeak. Then—I saw it.”

  “Come on, Stein. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “Shoe’s on the other foot now, isn’t it? I’ll trade you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Where did you get the number?”

  “Two soldados sent to kill me, after we visited the plant. They coordinated with Garrick. That’s why he helped arrange the tour. They planned to kill me afterward.”

  “Figures. Where are they now. No—don’t tell me.”

  “I told you last night, you didn't believe me. They’re vulture food.”

  “How many people have you killed in the last twenty-four hours, Breed?”

  “Personally?”

  “Do you miss Afghanistan?”

  Need to think about that one. “Yes. I miss the clarity. Your turn.”

  “Jesus. That’s why they put war dogs down.” Stein fishes in her shirt pocket. Hands me a black-and-white photograph. “Recognize this?”

  “I don’t have NODs, Stein. Do you have a light?”

  The sky behind us glows salmon pink. Stein’s still driving with brights. She flicks a switch and the ceiling light comes on.

  I stare at the photograph from Garrick’s trophy wall.

  High in the Rockies. Two hunters posing at the gate of a ranch. Stetsons, rifles, long sheepskin coats.

  Doug Garrick and Paul Bledsoe.

  Stein turns off the ceiling light.

  “I can’t believe I missed it,” I say.

  “Don’t feel bad. We both stared at that photograph. The significance didn’t sink in because we hadn’t met Bledsoe.”

  “Find out who owns that ranch. El Diablo.”

  “My team is working on it. There is so much intel now, we are stretched thin. I expect the prints from the shell casing soon. We’re checking Garrick’s finances. He lives closer to El Paso than Salem. Probably to conceal his lifestyle.”

  “You know Mirasol was trafficked from Mexico. She was held at a ranch in Colorado.”

  Stein looks at me. For the first time, her eyes show empathy. “Yes. I read her file, her statements. I was prepared to share that with you last night. Of course, there is no guarantee she was held at El Diablo.”

  “She told me Bledsoe was the man who tortured her.”

  Stein raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Breed. Mirasol wasn’t involved. I didn’t try to involve her.”

  “No.” Now I understand why mourners rend their clothes. “I did.”

  Stein’s voice goes cold. “Square yourself away, soldier. Mirasol Cruz involved herself.”

  We ride in silence.

  “Thank you, Stein.”

  Stein acknowledges with a curt nod. “My team tracked Garrick. He picked up Hamza at the plant, then doubled back to the Lazy K. I called El Paso for reinforcements. They were half an hour away, so I drove out myself. I tried calling you, no answer.”

  “I was otherwise occupied.”

  “Obviously. I parked off the road in a gully. A car ripped past, so I started running.”

  “How fast do you do the mile?”

  “Five minutes. What did they say before I got there?”

  Not a hair out of place. Not a drop of sweat.

  Stein isn’t human.

  “Hamza killed Mirasol,” I tell her. “Garrick told him to get rid of my car. The one that passed you on the way in. Hamza and Bledsoe are arranging a shipment for early tomorrow morning. Quds, women, drugs. Garrick was going to kill me, then make sure there were no roadblocks in Hamza’s way.”

  “Cocky bastards.”

  “With me dead, you wouldn’t have enough for a warrant.”

  “The United States will kill the Iran nuclear deal as scheduled,” Stein says. “Our sources in Caracas indicate Colonel Faisal Hamza is in Chihuahua. He is preparing to move on Monday or shortly thereafter. You are the only person who can confirm Hamza’s presence in Juarez.”

  I slump with physical exhaustion, and the loss of Mirasol. “What do you want from me, Stein?”

  Stein pulls off the highway and turns toward Salem. We drive past the Dusty Burger. “As soon as we get back, you’re going to give me a signed statement. That you saw Hamza at the Bledsoe plant and La Cueva. That you saw them loading girls into that truck. As soon as I get the green light from Washington, we’ll go to federal court in El Paso. I’ll get that damn warrant. When they try to move the Quds tomorrow morning, I’ll hit them with an army.”

  The woman’s ambition is demonic.

  “Why don’t you send a Hornet. Drop a couple of GBU-28s on Bledsoe and La Cueva,” I tell her.

  The GBU-28 is a five thousand pound, laser guided bomb. A “bunker buster” designed to take out hardened underground command and control centers. It’s the perfect weapon with which to seal a tunnel.

  Stein’s forehead furrows. “Management will never let me wipe out five square blocks of Juarez.”

  My God, she took me seriously.

  “All right,” I say. “I’ll give you a statement.”

  “Hamza thinks you’re dead, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Turn that burner off. You’re going to stay dead.”

  40

  Salem, 0600 Hrs Thursday

  We pull into the hotel lot, and Stein parks next to Keller’s truck. I get out of the car, notice the absence of Mirasol’s Camaro. The urge to tear at myself overwhelms me. I force myself to straighten and follow Stein into the hotel.

  I must be a sight. At the front desk, the blond girl’s eyes widen.

  “Meet me in the dining room,” Stein says. “Half an hour.”

  In my room, I refuse to look in the mirror. Go straight to the shower. When I am clean, I dry myself and pull on fresh clothes. I reach into my duffel bag and retrieve the Glock. It’s been out of my sight, so I check its load. Stuff it into my waistband, straighten my shirt.

  My phone’s battery is low. I plug it into a wall charger and collapse into a chair. Outside, the sun’s rays bathe main street in a warm glow. The shadows are long, there is little traffic.

  I dial a number.

  The voice on the other end is familiar. I feel like I’m calling home. “Lenson.”

  “It’s Breed.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I know where they are.”

  No elaboration is necessary. “Where?”

  “A hotel in Juarez. Half a dozen Quds, twice as many cartel shooters. Suicide vests, small arms. They plan to infil early tomorrow morning.”

  Lenson doesn’t hesitate. “Roger that. I’ll call Hancock.”

  “I will send you a link and photos of the ground floor. I will call again in a few hours.”

  The photographs I took of La Cueva pack a single email. I type in Lenson’s address and click send. Message him, “You’ve got mail.”

  I return to the gallery and swipe through the photos. We can breach La Cueva.

  The last photographs are the selfies I took with Mirasol. I’m smiling. My mind is on the background, the bouncers and Quds who are my subjects. Next to me, Mirasol looks shy. Her hand is on my arm, her eyes on my face. She looks like the fifteen-year-old girl Papi stole from the maquila.

  Hamza is a walking dead man.

  I check my phone. The battery is half charged. I set the alarm to wake me in an hour. Stretch out on the bed, close my eyes.

  Can’t sleep. I swing my legs off the bed. It’s still early. The sun’s rays shine through the window at a flat
angle. Like a prism, the glass casts the light against the wall. Bands of copper, bronze and gold.

  Barefoot, I step into the hall.

  Quiet. No one about. With a measured step, I walk to—

  Room 210.

  I push the door open, step inside. Swing it shut behind me.

  Mirasol is sitting on the edge of the bed. Her legs and feet are bare. Smooth skin, the color of milk chocolate. Long black hair, a fan about her shoulders. Her lips part, a hesitant smile.

  She wears only a loose t-shirt. Eyes all pupil, she stares at me. Slowly, she rises. Folds herself into my arms. I am dizzy with her coconut scent, the hard-soft feel of her flesh against mine.

  “Breed,” she says. “Breed.”

  The buzz of my phone wakes me. “Breed.”

  It’s Stein. “Breed, where are you? It’s eight o’ clock.”

  Shit. “Good morning to you too, Stein.”

  “I need your statement. Now.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  I disconnect the call. Phone’s charged. I unplug it from the wall, put it in my pocket. Go to the sink and splash water on my face.

  Mirasol’s scent is still with me. The sensation of holding her in my arms. The taste of her kiss.

  I’m dreaming again.

  The girl at the desk greets me as I step out of the elevator. “Is everything okay, Mr Breed?”

  Innocence should be rewarded. There is so little of it these days. I smile. “Everything's fine, just needed some sleep.”

  “A whole hour and a half?”

  She cares.

  “Better than nothing. Any breakfast left?”

  “Buffet closes in an hour. You have lots of time.”

  Stein is at the window table with three men. They are clones. Short hair, dark suits, jackets draped over chair backs. Their laptops are open on the table. I wave to Stein, go to the buffet, and load up a plate.

  Breakfast in one hand and a pitcher of orange juice in the other, I find a table for one. Kitty-corner to Stein and the clones.

  Stein sighs, gets to her feet. Motions to a blond kid with red suspenders and a Cross pen in his shirt pocket. The SIG P226 on his belt is not a Legion. He does not have Stein’s panache, her sense of fashion. The pair come to my table.