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

by Dustin Stevens

  In the busyness of the last hours though, I had completely forgotten there was a third person I was waiting to hear back from, that name the one staring back up at me.

  Latham

  Accepting the call, I lifted the device to my face. Drifting to the side, I rounded the corner of the building, walking on until I was on the far side of my truck before saying, “Tate.”

  Lingering just past the door, I leaned against the bed. Keeping my head aimed forward, I managed to clock the interior of the police station in my periphery.

  “Hawk, Sam Latham, over here in West Yellowstone.”

  “Hey, Sheriff,” I replied. My voice I kept low, not even considering going to the speakerphone. “I’m glad you called, I was actually going to reach out here shortly.”

  With everything else that had just happened, circling back with him wasn’t real high on the list, but it was there.

  That was all he needed to know.

  “That’s why I’m calling,” Latham replied. “Wanted to let you know, we got an ID. Luis Mendoza.”

  “Luis Mendoza,” I repeated. Letting the name linger a moment, I tried placing it. Both parts fairly common – especially in many of the countries we had been in – the full title didn’t really bring anybody in particular to mind.

  “Doesn’t ring anything,” I said. “You eventually got him to talk?”

  Earlier that morning, standing behind the one-way glass, the man had been the poster child for defiance. Or, at least what he thought such a thing should look like.

  Even with his nose mashed down into a nub, blood still crusted on his clothes, he’d sat and stared resolutely ahead. He had apparently refused water or medical aid.

  There was a chance that now, twelve hours later, the pain or dehydration had gotten to him.

  But something told me there was more to it than that.

  “Not exactly,” Latham said. “His lawyer showed up a little bit ago, told us who he was and asked to speak with him.”

  My grip on the phone tightened as pinpricks started in my core and rippled upward, rising to my scalp in record time.

  “His lawyer?”

  “Yeah,” Latham said. “Guy named Juan Perez. Little on the young side, didn’t get here until late in the afternoon. Said he was coming over from Seattle, which was what took so long.”

  All previous concern for who might be nearby, for who may be listening, bled away. Turning my focus to the side, I stared at the windows lining the outer wall of the police station, my own reflection faint against the backlighting of the building interior.

  Every concern, every innate response that had risen a moment before, began to explode at once. Like fireworks dancing across my mind, they appeared behind my eyelids each time I blinked, as if I’d been staring directly into a bright light.

  Juan Perez was the effective Spanish equivalent of not even having a name. Dozens of times before we had been handed the moniker by people that didn’t want to answer questions. Or were simply hoping that the Americans down in their corner of the world wouldn’t know the difference.

  Taken alone, it would be cause for concern. Partnered with the facts that he was young and confessed to having come over from Seattle meant something much worse.

  “Did Mendoza call for him?”

  “Asked that too,” Latham replied. “Said he had called and told him before the fact he was about to do something and might need help.”

  By the last few words, hints of disbelief seemed to be creeping in. As if hearing them out loud unlocked their true meaning, Latham barely made it to through the sentence.

  Drawing in a sharp breath, he asked, “You think it’s bullshit?”

  I didn’t think so.

  I knew so. Emphatically.

  People like this weren’t used to running unsuccessful plans, but even still, they always had a failsafe.

  Odds were, two people had been sent north in tandem. One had gone for Martin, the other for me. If either were to come up short, the other was to make their way across the gap and ensure that all holes were cauterized.

  “Where is Mendoza now?” I asked, already knowing that the name was fake, that no amount of searching would turn up a thing.

  “He’s just inside,” Latham said.

  “Inside where?”

  “West Yellowstone Med,” Latham replied. “Lawyer took one look at things and demanded that he be moved for treatment on that nose.”

  “Is anybody in there with him?”

  “Yeah, Ferry,” Latham replied.

  With each exchange, the feeling passing through me grew more pronounced.

  “Where’s the lawyer?” I asked.

  As if finally putting together everything I’d asked, the events of the last eighteen hours aligning in his mind, Latham said, “He’s in there with them. You don’t think...”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Arlin Mejia held the base of the bottle in one hand, the rounded curve cupped into his palm. The neck of it he laid back against the indent of his opposite thumb, presenting it as if he were a waiter in a high-end restaurant.

  Extending it out over the desk, he pitched forward a few inches at the waist, holding it above the oak top. “Manny just sent this over from the warehouse. This is the first of the new vintage, complete with the redesigned label.”

  Seated with his body turned to the side, one leg raised to the opposite thigh, Ramon Reyes glanced up from the miniature laptop balanced across his thigh. On the screen was a spreadsheet detailing the latest transactions, numbers playing out exactly what they had discussed that morning.

  Shipments were increasing. In the last six months alone, demand had gone up by a factor of three.

  With the introduction of this newest line, it wasn’t difficult to imagine even greater growth in the year ahead.

  Shooting out a hand, Reyes closed the screen of the laptop. Without the bright glow of the spreadsheet, the office seemed to grow much darker, his focus so intent he had barely noticed that late afternoon had slipped into evening.

  Placing the device down on the desk, he slid off the pair of wire-rimmed glasses that nobody outside of Mejia ever saw him in, dropping them bottom-up atop the computer.

  Not bothering to rise, he extended a hand, accepting the bottle.

  “How many?” Reyes asked.

  “This is the only one right now,” Mejia replied, retreating back into his customary seat. “Manny said that once we give final approval, they can begin rolling them out. Could be ready to ship as soon as this weekend.”

  Grunting slightly, Reyes drew the bottle over, balancing it across his thigh.

  To look at it, there was nothing particularly remarkable about it. Standard size and shape, the glass had been darkened to the color of wood smoke, a wide bottom funneling upward to a half-inch neck. More than a foot in height, the top was enveloped in a wax seal.

  On the side was a square white sticker, announcing that it was a 2019 Cabernet Sauvignon. Along the top was the name Fruit of the Desert Vineyard, the moniker given to the spread they were now seated on.

  Serving as the centerpiece was a re-creation of a pencil drawing they had had commissioned of rows of grapevines extended into the distance, framed by scattered cacti and a rising sun in the background.

  A bit heavy on the cheese factor perhaps, but that was hardly important.

  Every single thing listed on the label save the name of the place was fictitious. And even that was only for shipping and tax purposes, needing to maintain the veneer of a legitimate business entity.

  And just like the label, the liquid rising to just millimeters from the top was disingenuous as well, closer to grape juice than any Cabernet that a human would ever actually drink, let alone purchase.

  “Outside looks good enough,” Reyes said. Giving the bottle a complete revolution, he saw nothing glaring that would cause anybody to take a second glance.

  “Dogs?”

  “Passed two different tests,” Mejia replied. “One a
German Shepherd, another a schnauzer. Placed the bottle in the middle of the warehouse floor, neither animal even paused.”

  Grunting once more, Reyes lifted the bottle. Giving it one more full turn, he passed his gaze quickly over the exterior, going through the paces he knew were expected of him, before setting it down beside the computer.

  “And the product itself?” Reyes asked.

  What the bottles, or the labels, or the boxes they were shipped in, or any of the other crap that came with their new venture, looked like, Reyes didn’t much care. None of it actually mattered, little more than window dressing for the new direction of their enterprise.

  That was where his concern really lay. Making sure that they hadn’t gotten overly creative, their attempts to work below the radar didn’t accidentally undercut their entire purpose for being.

  “Clean,” Mejia said. “Early returns show this works out even better than the Sauvignon Blanc.”

  Flicking his gaze up from the bottle, Reyes felt his brows rise just slightly. The Sauvignon had been by far their biggest seller. It alone seemed to be driving the sharp incline in distribution, responsible for most of the numbers on the spreadsheet he was just consulting.

  If what Mejia was now saying was true, that could mean big things for them moving forward.

  “Tell Manny it looks good. Begin filling orders as soon as possible.”

  Leaving the bottle in place, Mejia nodded. “Will do.”

  For a moment, neither man said a word. Each stared at the bottle, contemplating what it would mean, putting it in context against the various other machinations currently swirling around them.

  The ascent to where the organization now sat had been an arduous one. Beginning more than half a decade before, it had been a steady slog, a battle fought on multiple fronts.

  Developing their new product. Staving off attempts at encroachment from other organizations. Carving out their own territory.

  Forming a network. Complying with everything necessary to give the impression of a legitimate business entity.

  Rinse and repeat, day after day, for what felt so long.

  Making what was happening now with Junior Ruiz all the more important, a toehold on a precipice they could tumble from under the slightest nudge. A feeling that Reyes hated, as much for it at face value as for the simple fact that even after so many years it still got to him so much.

  The sooner it was behind him, Ruiz and any threat he represented snuffed out, the better.

  “How long before Hector checks in again?” Reyes asked.

  Showing no surprise at the question, Mejia replied, “Twenty-three minutes.”

  Nodding slightly, Reyes leaned his head back against his chair. He allowed his gaze to lift to the ceiling, watching shadows play across the inset woodwork.

  “No point waiting. Go ahead and call him now.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Not once since Tres Salinas had arrived in West Yellowstone had Luis said a word. Not sitting in the holding cell at the Sheriff’s Department. Not as Tres demanded he receive medical treatment for his shattered nose.

  Not even as the doctors and nurses had examined him, at that point content to let Tres act as his spokesperson.

  The closest thing there had been was a flicker behind his eyes the first moment Tres stepped inside the interrogation room. A look of momentary buoyancy, as if help had arrived. A flash that was extinguished just as fast, realization setting in.

  Much like it would have if the situation had been reversed, Tres the one sitting in the holding cell when Luis arrived.

  Despite the silence, Tres held no preconceived notions. Just because Luis had pushed himself to the periphery, that was only in the presence of the sheriff and his deputies. For the purposes of the initial medical examination.

  The entire time, his eyes had been moving, tracking the conversation, always aware of what was occurring.

  Just as Tres was aware that from this moment forward, his focus could not only be centered on Deputy Ferry.

  “There is no way we are sending this man up to Big Sky,” Ferry stated. Barely waiting until the door had closed behind the doctor, he positioned himself as one point in a triangle, equidistant from Tres and Luis both.

  Shoving his hands inside the bottom hem of his jacket, he placed them on his hips, peeling the coat back to make sure the breadth of his belt was visible. A classic power stance, it was obviously meant to exude dominance, his feet spread apart, toes pointed wide.

  What it really did was show Tres that he was not carrying a baton or nightstick of any kind.

  And that his gun was still secured.

  At no point was Tres going to be left alone with Luis outside the confines of the interrogation room where they’d already met. A solid block room that locked from the outside, it had one-way glass overlooking everything and probably microphones embedded in the walls. Even if he was somehow able to do what he needed to, there would be no getting out of the room.

  Let alone the building.

  The same applied for anywhere else in the world they might be, the odds of ever being left alone with Luis nil. Even if he was posing as a lawyer, there would always be some amount of law enforcement present, in observation if not direct interaction.

  In the hour and a half that he had already been there, this was the first time that the sheriff hadn’t also been in the room.

  Based on the debate that was now happening, things didn’t promise to change for the better moving forward. The options were either for them to go straight back to the holding cell, or for the officers to load Mendoza up and take him up the road to Big Sky.

  A large hospital with plenty of people and cameras covering every square inch of the grounds.

  Never was he going to get a better chance than what he had right now.

  A conclusion Mendoza had to no doubt be reaching at the same moment.

  “You heard the doctor,” Tres replied. “He is of the opinion that this could cause permanent damage.”

  The words slid out without much thought. The sound of his own voice became distorted, even to his own ears. His focus shifted, not from the conversation at hand, but to the room around him.

  The night before, he had had the benefits of being tucked into the woods, staring at a target that had no idea he was present.

  Now, he was in an enclosed space. His weapon was stowed inside a briefcase a few feet away. One opponent was standing across from him, a weapon on his hip that would take at least a moment to retrieve.

  A second opponent was just beyond reach, most likely even more dangerous than the first, weapon or not.

  Tres could feel a sheen of sweat appear on his face. The t-shirt he wore beneath his suit stuck to the small of his back, his mind putting together a plan, his features remaining absolutely still.

  “Permanent damage?” Ferry scoffed, giving an exaggerated eyeroll for effect. “This is Montana. Every man here has had a busted nose at one point or another. It’s not like he was in a motorcycle accident or something.”

  The words landed, though they barely resonated. In their stead, Tres could only feel his pulse increasing. The adrenaline that always seemed to precede violence seeped into his system, every sense becoming heightened.

  He just needed to figure out the best way to leverage the situation. Right now, he was staring at an armed deputy. In his periphery was a man he could imagine was aching for any opening to slide away.

  And once he did, there would be no doubt he was gone forever.

  Mind racing, Tres took a step back. Continuing to face forward, he bent at the knee, hand extended for his briefcase resting upright on the floor.

  “It seems we aren’t getting anywhere with this conversation, so maybe I should call in the sheriff and get his take?”

  Time seemed to slow as Tres felt his fingers slide over the brass handle of the case.

  The instant his fingertips felt cold metal, he caught a flash of movement, eyes flicking to see Luis rise
from the edge of the bed. Moving in one quick pulse, he pushed off both palms, flinging himself forward, feet extended.

  Focus aimed squarely on Tres, he appeared to hang suspended in the air. Time seemed to slow as he landed, both feet smacking the tile. The instant they did, his body twisted to the side, both hands curling into balls.

  In unison, a few feet behind him Ferry’s mouth and eyes all formed into congruent circles, surprise and realization hitting him hard.

  An inch at a time, Tres saw it all, as if watching how things were about to play out.

  A scenario that lasted only a moment before things snapped back into place, everything returning to real time, a sensory overload smashing down at once.

  Grasping the handle of the briefcase, Tres yanked it up in one fluid motion. Bringing his other hand in behind it, he held it like a shield, extending it at arm’s length, getting it into place just as Luis’s fist came crashing down.

  The force of the blow twisted the makeshift block in Tres’s hands, his arms acting like shock absorbers, feeling the weight of it travel clear to his shoulder. Spinning his body out to the side, he held tight, using it to direct Luis on by, opening a gap between them.

  The instant he was past, Tres’s first thought was on popping open the hinges. On getting inside, grabbing hold of the suppressed Sig Sauer, and doing to both of these men what he had done to Shawn Martin the night before.

  But there was no time. No space.

  No chance to get inside before one or both of them was on him, taking him down or alerting someone outside what was happening.

  For the time being, this was what he had, forced into close quarter combat while wearing a suit.

  So be it.

  Shuffling to his right, his focus shifting, Tres grasped the briefcase on either edge. Aiming for the deputy, he swung it in a sharp underhanded angle, rotating it so the short side was square with the man’s chin.

  Twisting upward, he pushed on, swinging with all he had, Ferry jerking himself into motion just in time to lean back a couple of inches.