Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  He dropped it on her desktop in front of her. “If you can think of somebody who might’ve wasted Rakowski, get on the horn to me.”

  “The list would make you dizzy.”

  Brody decided to beat it.

  He wondered if Quester could have had anything to do with Rakowski’s death. Could she have decided to have him whacked for not paying his half of the rent? Have him whacked in Cabo to direct suspicion away from her and thrust it on a foreigner? The fact that she was in another country at the time of the murder was a perfect alibi.

  If she was Rakowski’s killer, it would explain how she got ahold of his body parts to send to the Foxes. But what was the motive? wondered Brody. Why was she terrorizing the Foxes? Just because Deirdre Fox was one of Rakowski’s clients? He couldn’t put his finger on it.

  As he stepped out of Quester’s office and stood on the landing of the cement steps to the street, a motorcyclist in a black helmet drove by on the street and let loose a shot at him with a silenced pistol. The bullet sang past Brody’s face an inch away from hitting his cheek and tore into the building’s façade behind him.

  Brody crouched behind the staircase’s cement newel.

  He considered giving chase to the motorcyclist, but it was out of the question. Brody had parked at the other end of the strip mall’s parking lot. By the time he got to his car, the motorcyclist would be long gone.

  He stood up and watched the motorcyclist disappear around a corner.

  MS-13 wasn’t done with him, he decided.

  Chapter 61

  In his rambling yellow stucco hacienda on the hilly outskirts of Guadalajara, Gaetano Ramirez, aka “El Padre,” sat at a mahogany table near the cement deck of the kidney-shaped turquoise pool that spread in front of him. He was eating a papaya as he watched assorted stacked twentysomething girls in their bright-colored thong bikinis pad around the pool in their bare feet searching for a chaise longue to lie down on and soak up the afternoon sun’s rays under the hazy porcelain blue sky.

  Fifty-two, with a half-inch-long beard, Gaetano was of medium stature with black eyes that were constantly aware of their surroundings as if he expected to be attacked any minute. He wore a lime guayabera shirt, chinos, and huaraches, a glass of tequila sweating on the tabletop before him in the muggy weather. Flanked by two lieutenants in his Jalisco New Generation cartel, he was waiting for his men to escort two business acquaintances to his table.

  A beautiful twenty-year-old brunette laughed and dove into the pool in front of him. Gaetano smiled at her. Her name was Valentina.

  He had more important things to think about.

  Armed with AK-47s, half a dozen of his men appeared at the end of the pool escorting two unarmed newcomers toward Gaetano. Members of Los Zetas cartel, the two were the businessmen he was waiting for.

  “Sit down, my friends,” Gaetano told the two.

  They smiled and sat across from him at the table.

  “We are grateful for this meeting,” said the skinny one, who wore jeans, a white Ralph Lauren T-shirt with a big blue image of a polo player and his pony on the chest, and a black ball cap. “I am Pablo.”

  “What is the nature of this meeting?”

  “We need to discuss our supply routes, Don Gaetano,” said Pablo’s roly-poly partner Guillermo, who wore a maroon Lacoste polo shirt and black jeans. “I am Guillermo.”

  “What about them?” said Gaetano.

  “Your men are charging us a 10 percent tax whenever we pass through Tijuana to make deliveries.”

  “That is our territory so you must pay a tax.”

  “With all due respect, it’s not your territory.”

  Gaetano raised his bushy eyebrows. “Then whose is it?”

  “It belongs to us, Los Zetas. We took it from the Sinaloa cartel.”

  “You are mistaken, my friend, about two things.” Gaetano took a sip of his tequila and smacked his lips. “First, Tijuana belongs to the Jalisco New Generation cartel. Second, the tax is 25 percent, not 10 percent.”

  “That’s outrageous,” said Pablo, dumbfounded.

  “You owe us 25 percent tax for any shipment that passes through Tijuana.”

  “But it’s our territory,” blurted Guillermo, beside himself with anger.

  “I repeat, the tax is 25 percent. Your shipments do not pass unless you pay us the tax,” said Gaetano, his face stony, his voice calm.

  Guillermo stood up. “I’ll have to discuss this with my boss. I’m sure he will not be happy.”

  “We feel insulted,” said Pablo, getting to his feet. “We came here to bargain in good faith, not to take orders.”

  “We are bargaining,” said Gaetano. “You wanted to pay 10 percent tax. We bargained over the amount and decided 25 percent is more appropriate.”

  “We cannot make that decision on our own. We were authorized to get rid of the tax completely. Maybe you didn’t understand our bargain.”

  “I understood it perfectly,” said Gaetano, and took a bite of papaya. “My men will show you out,” he said, making a sweeping gesture with his arm to his men.

  Pablo and Guillermo started to leave.

  Gaetano licked papaya juice off his hand, slurping noisily. “One more thing. Where did you learn how to bargain?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t even bother to look at them. Instead, he waved his hand in dismissal.

  The six armed CJNG men escorted Pablo and Guillermo toward the other end of the pool, hoisted their AK-47s, trained them on the startled Zetas, and cut them to pieces with a fusillade of bullets that all but cut the two in half and flung their blood-soaked bodies splashing into the turquoise pool, where two clouds of blood bloomed and intermingled in the clear, chlorinated water.

  Valentina, who was backstroking in the pool, screamed, clambered out of the pool, and pelted away, droplets of water flying off her slick butt as she churned her legs.

  “This is how you bargain,” said Gaetano, his face impassive as he eyed the pool efflorescing carmine.

  His five-year-old boy Juan churned the pedals of his chrome blue tricycle around the perimeter of the pool and ended up in front of his father’s table, his face beaming from the exertion of racing his tricycle.

  “Good boy, Juan,” said Gaetano, smiling. “You’re getting faster.”

  Juan’s rosy-cheeked chubby face smiled in return. Yelling, he pedaled away.

  Gaetano turned to the lieutenant on his left, Arturo Casa, who, at over six feet with a drawn face and a two-inch-long scar on his cheek, cast an intimidating aspect. He looked older than his thirty-five years.

  “Do you have the train to Laredo loaded?” said Gaetano.

  “It is done, patrón.”

  “The fentanyl is well hidden?”

  “The DEA will never find it. We hid contraband guns on top of the fentanyl, which is hidden in a false bottom of one of the railroad cars. When the cops find the guns, they’ll think they found the smuggled stash and stop looking for anything else.”

  On account of Arturo’s brutish mien, people made the mistake of underestimating his keen intelligence, to their detriment, Gaetano knew.

  “What about the sniffer dogs?” said Gaetano.

  “We smeared the plastic bags containing the fentanyl bricks with Cosmoline to throw off the dogs’ sense of smell.”

  “Good work, Arturo.”

  “The DEA, the federales, the cops—nobody’ll ever find the fentanyl.”

  “What about Jorge? Why is it taking him so long to get back here?”

  “He’s waiting for us to ID the target.”

  “Haven’t we figured out who it is yet?”

  “Not for sure, but we suspect it’s the Hollywood PR guy Fox. Jorge is working on getting him to talk.”

  “Tell him to work faster. We need the package. It will cause problems if we don’t get our hands on it.”

  “Sí, patrón,” said Arturo, fixing to stand up.

  “Remove those bodies and drain the pool first,”
said Gaetano, watching the blood permeate the pool. “Then refill it. I want to go for a swim.”

  He yawned and stretched.

  Chapter 62

  Fully clothed, except for their shoes and socks, which they carried in their hands, Brody in jeans and a grey polo shirt and Peltz in his suit strolled along Sunset Point Beach in Pacific Palisades. A sailboat with billowing black sails was plying the water half a mile from shore.

  “There’s a reason I asked to meet you here,” said Peltz.

  “Go on,” said Brody.

  “I believe your apartment is wired. We can’t talk there in private.”

  “Who would wire it?” said Brody in surprise.

  “It could be the SVR. Or it could be someone else.”

  “Like who?”

  “There are more players than I first thought. The deep state has a lot of different actors in it.”

  “I thought you said it was the SVR that was after Fox.”

  “It could be the deep state or the SVR, or a combination of the two after him or after his wife. Or they could be after both the husband and the wife.”

  “Why?”

  “They all want those secret docs Fox has.”

  “Do you know what the docs are?”

  “No. But if the deep state’s involved, it stands to reason the docs could bring down the current newly elected administration.”

  “Do they want these docs bad enough to kill the Foxes for them?”

  “I believe so.” Peltz paused. “But they don’t know where the docs are, so killing the Foxes wouldn’t help them get their hands on them.”

  “Which is why they’re terrorizing the Foxes. To get them to reveal the location of the docs.”

  The surf crashed and thundered to their left under the westering sun. A pelican dive-bombed into the ocean, opened his bill, scooped up a fish in his throat pouch, and soared away. A thirtysomething guy in crimson trunks jogged past Brody and Peltz on the sand, breathing through his mouth, holding his limp hands in front of him, his strides tiny, dead with exhaustion.

  “Do you still have feds protecting Deirdre’s house?” said Brody, after the jogger passed and proceeded out of earshot.

  “Absolutely,” said Peltz.

  “How do we deal with the deep state?”

  “The same way we’re dealing with the SVR. We have to get the docs before either of them do. It’s the only way to stop them.” Peltz faced Brody. “Do you have any idea where the docs are?”

  Brody considered telling Peltz about Lyndon’s blue suitcase that had gone missing. In the end Brody decided not to. The blue suitcase didn’t necessarily contain the docs.

  “No,” he said.

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Peltz, looking glum. “I have a feeling they’re gonna make their move on Fox soon. And it’ll make what’s happened already look like an episode of Romper Room by comparison.”

  “What’s keeping them back?”

  Peltz shrugged. “They must not be convinced Fox is the one that has the docs.”

  Brody could see thunderheads gathering in the offing. The wind was picking up along the shoreline.

  “What do these documents look like?” said Brody.

  “You’ll know them when you see them.”

  “Do you have any idea what they’re about?”

  “I suspect they have something to do with the deep state’s plot with Vice President Dealey to remove the president from office using the Twenty-fifth Amendment.”

  “Who are these deep state operators?”

  “They’re a shadow government of unelected movers and shakers. They’re the real power in Washington, not figureheads like the president. Some of them aren’t even Americans. The only requirement is that they have money. They’re all filthy rich or have access to money, and they can buy politicians. They can do anything, including removing a sitting president, and they’re accountable to no one.” Peltz paused for effect. “And they have a cabal inside the FBI.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Certain. They’re the ones we really have to watch out for, because they have the power to arrest anyone they think is working to expose them.”

  “If they’re so powerful, how can you hope to stop them?”

  “The truth will stop them. We must bring the truth about their plot to light. The best way to kill bacteria is with sunlight.”

  “Why doesn’t the Bureau arrest Lyndon Fox and force him to give them the secret docs?”

  “We have no proof,” said Peltz, stopping in his tracks and facing Brody. “That’s where you come in. You get us the proof. Then we can haul him into court.”

  “I’m doing my best.”

  “Then we’ll have to deal with another problem—ID’ing all of the members of the cabal entrenched in the Bureau. First we need proof.”

  Two jet skis driven by suntanned bare-chested young men shot across the ocean paralleling the shore about a mile out, cutting two wakes of white foam.

  Brody retained doubts about Peltz’s revelation of a deep state conspiracy. Brody had his own views on who was targeting Fox. Brody thought Rakowski’s killers were the ones going after the Foxes, but he decided not to voice his opinion to Peltz. Brody didn’t like Peltz’s methods, namely Peltz’s sandbagging him into signing an NDA, and didn’t fully trust the fed.

  But then again, the Bureau had resources he couldn’t begin to dream of.

  If it was up to him, Brody would fly down to Cabo to investigate Rakowski’s murder. There was one problem with that course of action. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Deirdre alone, especially when the attacks on her were reaching a boiling point.

  Chapter 63

  Under the exposed lacquered pine crossbeams in the cathedral ceiling of his hacienda’s bedroom Gaetano was lying naked on his stomach on his bed eying a mirror mounted on the white stucco wall that reflected the image of a door opening slowly behind him.

  He saw the half-naked shapely Valentina open the door and enter his room. Her big blue eyes were crystal discs of ice.

  She eased the door shut behind her and walked toward him.

  He could hear her boots clacking against the hardwood floor. He felt a frisson of pleasure as he anticipated what she had in store for him.

  She was wearing a black leather halter and a matching thong, glossy black vinyl jackboots that reached just under her knees, and a black Nazi SS general’s hat that had on its crown silver insignias of an eagle gripping a swastika in its talons and a silver death’s head beneath the swastika. Under the death’s head a pair of silver braids ran along the top of the shiny black bill where it met the crown.

  In her hand she gripped a black riding crop.

  He heard the heels of her jackboots clacking inevitably toward him and felt himself becoming aroused.

  “It is time,” she said, coming to a halt beside his bed, pouting with her full lower lip.

  He enjoyed the image of her reflection in the mirror as she stood beside him eying herself in the mirror and raised the leather and fiberglass riding crop above her head.

  She turned toward him and thrashed his naked buttocks with the crop till they became flushed and raw.

  He gnashed his teeth in ecstasy as the whip slashed his flesh, inflaming it.

  “All I want is to be loved,” he said, grimacing, his face flushed.

  “I know what you want,” Valentina hissed, and scourged his flesh again.

  She was the only one who could understand him, decided Gaetano, feeling the whip sting his gluteals. It was simple, but nobody else seemed to understand, which was why he had to keep seeking love all over the world. He wouldn’t be happy till he had earned everybody’s love. And the only way he could earn it was by conquering more territory and expanding his empire.

  In the mirror he thought he saw the image of his wife Carmen opening the door, peeping into the room, and hastily closing the door. But the sting of the crop commanded his attention.

  He would never be happy till every
body understood his need to be loved. He was El Padre and he could never let anybody forget it.

  He groaned in ecstasy and rolled over onto his burning flesh.

  That couldn’t have been his wife, he decided. He must have been imagining it.

  Dropping her crop to the floor, Valentina shed her thong and halter, sprang onto him like a black panther, and mounted him, her SS cap looming over him as he gazed up at her as she bounced up and down on him . . .

  It was maddening.

  Her pendulous breasts . . .

  Up and down . . . up and down . . .

  He couldn’t stand it any longer . . .

  Up and down . . . up and down . . .

  Chapter 64

  Valerie and her boyfriend Nick were sitting in Valerie’s bedroom on her bed using plastic straws to snort lines on the coffee table’s glass top as they listened to Rihanna on the stereo.

  “Wow, this blow is outta this world,” said Nick, sniffing and holding his head up. “I never had stuff this good. Where’d you get it?”

  “From a friend,” said Valerie, cut another line on the tabletop with a razor blade, and snorted it with her straw.

  “You gotta introduce us. I know people who’d pay good money for this.” He snorted another line. “Zero zero zero.”

  “What? Are you tripping?”

  “Zero zero zero. It’s pure blow. I never had it, but I heard of it. I thought it only existed in urban legend.” He sniffed. “But I bet this is it.”

  Valerie lay back on the bed, feeling like she was flying, her eyes tearing.

  Nick snorted another line and lay back beside her on top of the world.

  “Somebody killed Busby, you know,” said Valerie.

  “What?” said Nick in amazement.

  “It’s true. Then the sicko sent Busby’s head to us in the mail.”

  Nick jackknifed upright on the bed. “That’s horrible. Who would do something like that?”

  “A douche bag.”

  “Bad news.”

  “Maybe it was that lesbo Barbara at school,” said Valerie, thinking of her enemies.