Wild Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 6)

by Dustin Stevens

  Grunting out a soft reply, Latham nodded before shifting his gaze back in my direction. “How’s Kaylan doing?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The air was redolent with fresh pine wood. The kind used for boxing and transporting wine, thin slats that housed the bottles, allowing them to breath.

  A most vital aspect when operating under the intense blaze of the Southern California sun.

  Mixed in with the smell was the cornucopia of usual scents that always accompanied Ramon Reyes’s trips to the warehouse. Diesel fuel and exhaust from the forklifts that lifted and moved the pallets of wine. The sweet underlying smell of grapes that seemed to linger on the periphery, a result of the rare occasional breakage.

  Sawdust. Manure. A hundred other things that also came with owning a vineyard.

  Walking in tandem with Arlin Mejia, Reyes crossed out of the bright morning sun and into the shade of the warehouse that served as the shipping hub for his operation. Large enough to house the better part of a football field, the place was made entirely from corrugated metal. Gaps were cut from the ceiling, enormous paddle fans turning overhead used for ventilation.

  Beneath their feet was brushed concrete, stripes of rubber from the forklifts streaked across it. In equal amounts were bits of mud and straw, Reyes careful to lift his feet over them, not wanting to ruin the polished look of his loafers.

  Not so early in the day, with so much still left to do.

  Given his preference, Reyes would still be posted up in his office. He would be staring at the phone, or – better yet – a video feed from Hector as he closed in on Junior Ruiz.

  As he put an end to the newest threat to the empire Reyes was working so hard to build.

  Such a thing would never abide, though. Not for someone like Reyes, that prided himself in being hands on. Always in control, not even wanting his people to see him diving haphazardly into his morning coffee.

  They had to know that he was put together. That he had the best interests of all in sight, the work they were doing in service to someone that was working even harder.

  That he had a plan, a vision for how things were going to run.

  For things such as the warehouse they were now standing in, the vineyard spread for acres in every direction around it. All part of the relocation and expansion project he had undertaken in recent years, a concerted effort not just to stay with the times, but to be out in front of them.

  To set the market, letting others fight in vain to keep up.

  A clean start, on the north side of the border. A clear demarcation from the old regime with a new business model moving forward.

  And a way to make sure he didn’t make the same mistakes as his predecessor, dropping onto a radar that would one day land him in prison as well.

  Keeping all such thoughts sealed tight, his features neutral, Reyes walked across the open end of the warehouse. Barely aware of Mejia keeping pace beside him, he moved by the small office carved out from the front corner. His stride never broke as he went past the steel holding tanks lining the wall, his focus unwavering as he headed for the cargo truck sitting along the rear wall.

  With the rolltop door on the back-end pushed all the way up, a forklift sat just off the rear bumper. A full load balanced across the tongs, the machine held it six feet off the ground, a trio of men inside the truck making steady trips to unload it.

  Moving with practiced precision, the men said nothing. Never did they slow, one trip after another after another.

  With the temperature already starting to warm inside the confines of the warehouse, Reyes could see perspiration forming on their dark skin.

  “Good morning!” Reyes called as he approached, drawing the attention of the men in the truck. In turn, each raised a hand to their brow, mumbling their greetings.

  Never did they slow, the ritual one that occurred with practiced regularity.

  In their stead, the man tasked with driving the forklift slid from his seat. No more than five-six in height, he was dressed in jeans and a blue canvas work shirt, a crumpled hat balanced across his dark hair.

  Moving in a quick shuffle, he shot a hand down along the inside of his waistband, straightening his shirt, before thrusting the same hand out before him.

  “Buenos días, Signor.”

  “Good morning, Manny,” Reyes replied, making a point of doing so in English.

  It was no secret that every man there spoke Spanish, the native tongue for all present, Reyes included.

  A fact that made it that much more imperative that they speak English whenever possible. The more they did, the more comfortable they became.

  And the more comfortable they became, the wider the possibilities became for the operation, the less obvious they were to anybody that might be paying attention.

  Ignoring that the man had just shoved his hand around the inside of his jeans, Reyes reciprocated the shake of his warehouse foreman. “How are things going this morning?”

  “Good, good,” Manny replied, the words heavily tinged with accent. “We’ll have this truck loaded and headed to the airport within twenty minutes. The next one will be here on the hour.”

  “Headed where?” Mejia asked. His hands clasped behind his back, he made no effort to step forward, to offer any kind of greeting to Manny.

  Something Reyes was long past trying to force onto the two of them, so long as that was the extent of their open defiance of one another.

  Especially in moments like this, while in the presence of others.

  “Split load,” Manny replied. “Half to Phoenix, the rest to Denver.”

  “How many bottles?” Reyes asked.

  “Six hundred total,” Manny answered.

  Always careful to keep his responses muted, Reyes gazed past Manny into the open maw of the truck. Three hundred bottles served as a nice sale. A couple years prior, when they were just starting to dabble with this and looking to scratch out a platform, they would have been happy with a fraction of that.

  Six hundred had to be one of their best loads ever.

  Things were coming along. They were moving in the right direction, finally putting together what they deserved.

  Which made handling the situation with Junior Ruiz quickly and efficiently all the more imperative.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Eight years, Junior Ruiz had called the inside of a prison cell home. Fifteen feet in length, half that in width. Every single day shared with another human being.

  Arguably sixty square feet to himself.

  And even that had felt less confined than the interior of the Chrysler.

  “You alright over there?” Esmera asked. Glancing over from the driver’s seat, she had one hand wrapped around the outside of the steering wheel. The opposite was running back through her hair, red fingernails flashing against dark locks. “I don’t remember you being so fidgety.”

  For only an instant, Ruiz felt acrimony flash inside him. A quick flare that rose fast, making it as far as his eyes before dying out as suddenly as it had arrived.

  Absolutely no good would come from lashing out at his sister. It wasn’t Esmerelda he was upset with, it was the fact that she was right.

  Once upon a time, the drive south wouldn’t have bothered him in the slightest. The front seat would have been perfectly comfortable. The faint melodies on the radio a nice undercurrent to the ebb and flow of conversation.

  Now, all he could concentrate on were the semi-trucks bunched tight to either side. The way cars seemed so close outside his window he could reach out and touch them, all moving at eighty miles an hour. The way his backside bunched against the padded springs of the passenger seat.

  The myriad of questions that he still had, with no clear way of knowing when – or even if – he would ever get answers to them.

  And everything he needed to do in the coming days, where to begin one of many things he’d been chewing on since first meeting Jones and Smith.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Just didn’
t remember the drive being quite so long.”

  “It’s usually not,” Esmera said. “It’s because they released you at the crack ass of dawn and that meant we hit LA right at morning rush hour.”

  Flicking his gaze to the dash, Ruiz took in the time, just minutes after eight, before shifting back to the world outside. Already, the sun was well above the horizon, streaming in over his sister’s shoulder. Warming the confines of the car, he would guess that they would hit the mid-seventies by afternoon, if not a little higher.

  The first time in ages he didn’t openly loathe the thought of sunshine or the warmth it brought with it.

  The choice to leave at dawn was his. Prudence would have said that he should wait until eight or nine in the morning, but prudence hadn’t spent the last eight years pinned up tight. It hadn’t constantly had an eye out, even in the presence of the closest things he had to friends.

  Even if he’d known Esmera would be the one dragged out to come get him, he still would have picked the same time.

  The car ride now through traffic was miserable. That much was obvious. As was the fact that his clothes stank. And that he had a lot longer to go on the path to reintegration than he’d ever realized.

  But it was still better than sitting another minute inside.

  “Ought to try making it twice in ten hours,” Esmera added. “Longest two-hundred-mile trip of my life.”

  Ruiz rolled his attention away from the window. He bunched his gaze tight against the sun streaming through, extending a hand and balancing it on her shoulder.

  Truth was, he hadn’t quite known what to expect when he’d stepped out. As far as he knew, outside of a couple calls placed via Burris, nobody else was even aware of his release. The night before was the first time he’d even mentioned needing someone to come and get him, but that had been more for the sake of challenging them.

  Not once had he actually expected it to be her, nor would he have even believed it possible.

  So much so that in the moment he’d been surprised to see her standing there, but now with the benefit of hours in the car to consider it, he had to admit it was perfect.

  Even if it had sparked just as many questions in her as the last week or two had for him, the open-ended statement she’d just floated likely the closest she would get to actually voicing them. Nothing more than a gentle nudge, letting him know anything he was willing to share, she was willing to hear.

  A response couched in years of having a sideline seat to his business dealings.

  “Two hundred miles,” Ruiz said, repeating the last part of her statement. “That would mean we’re headed...”

  “Home,” Esmera replied. Glancing over his way, she added, “San Diego. Or just north of it in Escondido, rather.”

  The last Ruiz had seen his sister, she was still in college at UCLA, living in the heart of Los Angeles. From there, she’d stayed in the city after graduation, working as an assistant at one of the myriad production houses in Culver City, before finally cashing out and heading south.

  All of that he was intimately aware of, making sure his sister was watched over a demand he had taken great pains to ensure long before he went inside.

  A fact he would never dream of mentioning out loud.

  “Home,” Ruiz whispered instead, repeating the word, placing it out there gently, as if tasting it for the first time.

  Not in a long time had he had any concept of such a thing, all thoughts banished, pushed away in a desperate attempt at self-preservation.

  “Yeah,” Esmera replied. Turning her chin an inch toward him, she kept her gaze on the road, making sure her lane was clear, before chancing another glance his way. “I mean, if you want. I don’t know what your plans are, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

  This time, there was no hiding the parade of thoughts, feelings, that spiked within Ruiz. Beginning with shock, it immediately passed into surprise before finally ceding to something else entirely.

  The relationship with his sister – with his entire family, for that matter – had been rocky, even in the best of times. Now almost a decade removed, there was no denying how much some things had changed, how many things he still needed to get caught up on.

  Despite the appearance of happiness on Esmera’s face as he stepped out that morning, there was no way of knowing just how she’d receive his sudden release. The fact that she was present was a start, but that was before considering whatever had been done to get her there.

  “Thank you for doing this,” Ruiz said. His voice low and even, he was careful to keep away any of the various emotions he felt. “I know these last years, things couldn’t have been easy.”

  Shrugging her right shoulder, Esmera pressed her cheek against the top of his hand. Pressing it tight, she held the pose a moment before releasing.

  “You’re welcome, big brother. And no, they haven’t been. But if that shiner you’ve got is any indicator, I’d say they’ve been hard on us all.”

  Letting his hand fall away, his fingers slid down over her arm before recoiling back to his lap. Turning back to face forward, he felt his features harden slightly. His vision blurred as he stared at nothing in particular.

  He’d done what he could in case something like what happened eventually came to pass, but there were some things no amount of money and planning could accommodate.

  Hearing his sister’s words only confirmed as much.

  There would be plenty of time for her questions. Maybe with enough of it, he might even begin to give her some of those answers.

  The rest, he would still need to cull together for himself.

  Until then, his focus had to be on other matters. On looking forward, trying to make the most of the situation that had been placed before him.

  “Tell me about them,” he whispered, ignoring her remark about the bruising still covering his face.

  “Them what?” Esmera asked, dark hair flashing as she looked his way.

  “The last years. And please, leave nothing out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The drive from West Yellowstone to the town of Snoqualmie, Washington was listed as eleven hours. Even driving slightly above the speed limit, taking advantage of the lax stance of Montana Highway Patrol on any truck bearing local plates, the best I could do was ten.

  Under most circumstances, I probably would have opted to fly. If the goal was merely to go for a visit, or even to get there as fast as possible, I would have driven the hour and change up to Belgrade. From there, I would have caught a quick plane over to Seattle, rented a car, and driven due east.

  Assuming that flight schedules lined up, I could have been there in somewhere between five and six hours. Technically less than that, counting the time difference.

  But these weren’t most circumstances.

  For starters, I knew Martin was already dead. That if someone had wanted Serra and the children gone as well, they would already be as well. Based on what little Pally knew, the opportunity had been there many times over.

  In fact, the intruder had gone out of their way to render Serra unconscious without killing her.

  Point being that my getting there four hours faster really wouldn’t mean a great deal to the Martin family. As much as it probably didn’t feel like it - probably wouldn’t ever again - there was no immediate threat.

  I also knew that whoever it was had likely put five hundred miles between them and the Martin house by now. This wasn’t a thrill killer, wasn’t someone that would get off on waiting around to watch the first responders arrive. Damned sure wouldn’t stand by the driveway with concerned neighbors, wondering what happened, offering to be of service.

  Largely because there weren’t any neighbors. This wasn’t a random incident, certainly not a stranger selected from a pack to fulfill some inner longing.

  This was a carefully chosen and planned attack. Just like the one that had occurred at my office the night before.

  All of that taken together meant
that opting to drive was the best path. Still having no idea what I might find, who might be out there targeting our team, the truck gave me the option of bringing along whatever toys I needed. It ensured that unlike the night before, I wasn’t caught empty handed again.

  That whenever the next person showed up looking to finish the job, I wouldn’t be left with nothing more than misdirection and luck to make it through.

  Something that simply wouldn’t be possible on an airplane.

  The second benefit of driving was the time it afforded me. Nothing but hours of open highway. The ability to set the cruise control, point myself toward the western horizon, and get lost in my thoughts.

  The last time I had seen Shawn Martin was six years before. On hand the day I had turned in my badge and gun at the DEA Southwest Headquarters, he hadn’t tried to talk me out of it. Hadn’t said a word, in fact.

  He had known my wife Elizabeth. And my daughter Alice. He’d been one of the first to arrive at my house the night they were taken from me. Had sat with Diggs by my side through those first long days, when I was nothing more than a shuffling zombie, my cheeks encrusted with ash and soot, streaked by tears.

  Just as he’d known what their loss did to me. The fact that there was no way I could ever go back to work, pretending that it wasn’t the very reason they were gone.

  Instead, he’d merely given me a hug. Not the sort of quick, one shoulder, side bump that people like to do today.

  An actual embrace. The type that grown men so rarely share.

  One that told me in an instant that he was there for whatever I needed, wherever I ended up.

  Hour by hour I pushed west, crossing from Montana into Idaho. Another hour after that, I moved into Washington, breaking in Spokane for fuel and gas station food before getting on my way again.

  A mile at a time, I watched the world peel by on either side, the sun catching me from behind, eventually moving out ahead of me as I drove. Around me, the landscape moved from mountain and forest to agricultural. Orchards and open pastures with enormous irrigation pivots pushed in tight along the road.