For every question I’d had just moments before that was now answered, it seemed handfuls more surged in to replace them. Together they congregated at the front of my mind, all adding to the enormous tangle that had been there since first leaving The Smokehouse.
Before I could so much as voice a single one, the color on the faceplate of my phone shifted. Drawing my attention downward, I glanced to my lap just long enough to see I had an incoming call, the familiar string of digits telling me that at long last, Latham was getting back to me.
Raising my voice slightly, I cut in before Pally could share any more, my heart rate again managing to lift a bit higher.
“Let me hit you right back. I’ve been waiting on another call to come in, and something tells me he won’t be so easy to get ahold of again.”
Chapter Forty-One
The call from Pally had been a bombshell. Completely unexpected, it was like a thunderbolt from the clear blue sky. Barely was I able to process what he was telling me and pay attention to the road, being extremely fortunate that the route was straight and traffic non-existent.
There was no way to know what the second incoming call might hold, but before I even attempted to accept it, I knew I needed to get off the highway. Every minute that I continued moving away from the city put me that much closer to the vast expanse across the center of Washington, much of it with cell reception that was patchy at best.
As much as I hated the notion of stalling my progress for even a moment, right now I needed to get on the horn and gather more information while I still could. And I needed to do so without worrying that some volatile mixture of anticipation and anger was going to cause me to end up in a ditch or as a greasy spot along the interstate.
Turning on the flashers, I made sure I was several feet removed from the rumble strips lining the highway and jerked the gear shift up into park. I left the engine running and accepted the call. Lifting the phone to just inches from my lips, I snapped, “Tate.”
A bevy of voices was the first sound to respond. None of them seeming to be aimed in my direction, they were little more than background chatter, like the person calling me was standing in the middle of a crowd.
A fact that proved the wisdom in my choice to park before accepting the call, my left hand wrapping around the top of the steering wheel and squeezing tight.
“Hawk?” Sheriff Latham asked after a moment, as if he hadn’t heard my original greeting. “You there?”
“Yeah,” I said, raising my voice, the phone coming a bit closer to my mouth. “Sam, you there? Can you hear me?”
“There you are,” he replied, the cacophony of background noise receding a bit. In their place came the sound of boot heels on tile, as if he were marching away to find a quiet place to speak.
“Sorry it took me a while to get back to you. Things got a little crazy around here.”
Flicking my gaze to the rearview mirror, I watched as a pair of headlights appeared. Sitting up high and square, they looked to be on a semi-truck, a long-haul trucker moving across the state, probably singing along to the radio, thumping along with the beat against the top of the steering wheel.
Feelings I could only guess at right now, my own temperament on the extreme opposite end of the spectrum.
“How bad?” I prompted.
“You ever seen a monkey shit fight at the zoo?” Latham replied.
The clamp of my left hand grew tighter on the steering wheel, knuckles white beneath the skin. “Aw, hell.”
“Yeah,” Latham agreed, “and that would be an improvement at the moment.”
The last time I had spoke to him, he’d gone tearing back inside to find out who was there posing as the attorney for the man that had tried to kill me and nearly did get Kaylan. Based on his demeanor and the cryptic phrasing of his first couple of lines, it had gone exactly as I’d originally feared.
“How many dead?” I whispered.
Latham let out a long sigh, the simple sound seeming to bear out a mix of resignation and self-loathing. “One. Luis Mendoza, the guy that you called us about last night.”
The name was a complete fabrication and we both knew it, though neither objected to its use, needing to refer to him as something.
“How?” I asked.
“Shot between the eyes,” Latham replied. “Small caliber, looked like he was already on the floor when it happened, most of the blowout on the tile beneath him.”
Picturing what he was describing in my mind, I tried to envision how they might have ended up in such a position, the list of possibilities preciously thin.
“Ferry?”
“Unconscious by the time I got there, but alive,” Latham said. “Thank God.”
“Thank God,” I echoed, adding what I was just told to the mental imagery I’d already put together. “Anybody else?”
“No,” Latham replied. “There was a doc that was in there for the initial examination, but he’d stepped out after giving his diagnosis to let them decide how to proceed.”
My focus aimed out the front windshield, I tried to put myself into the scene Latham was describing, gleaning as many details as I could while I had the chance.
“Nobody heard anything?” I asked.
Another long sigh met my ear. “Not until it was too late. When I went running inside, there were two orderlies banging on the door, asking if everything was alright.
“By the time we made it in, the damn side window was standing open and Juan Perez was gone.”
Clamping my teeth down tight, I peeled my lips back, sucking in air. Beginning with my left hand, my entire upper body clenched, muscles knotting into tight balls. Keeping them that way until a faint burn traversed the length of me, I slowly released, wanting nothing more than to replay the scene from earlier and begin flailing at the seatback beside me.
Once, twice, I pulled in deep breaths, forcing my heart rate to slow, my mind to make sense of what I was being told.
“Did you happen to see which way he went?” I asked. “A license plate on the car he was driving?”
“No,” Latham replied. “Some sort of sedan. Silver. Had the window stickers of a rental, though beyond that, I didn’t even think to...”
Letting his voice trail away, it was clear that he was now doing what we all had at one point or another. The crushing weight of guilt was closing in, making him analyze everything through the benefit of hindsight, every misstep becoming that much clearer.
Just like I’d spent all last night doing in the wake of what happened on my front porch.
Knowing better than to offer any sort of condolences, any empty platitudes about how it wasn’t his fault, I instead focused on the matter at hand. On anything that he might be able to add that would help us moving forward.
“You guys are out at the clinic on the west side?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Latham muttered.
“That means he’d either have to go back through town or west into the mountains, right?”
Chapter Forty-Two
The look on the man’s face had been nothing short of priceless as Junior Ruiz walked up to the unassuming blue Honda parked five doors down from Esmera’s house. Sitting on the opposite side of the street, the guy had at least had the good sense to be looking the other direction, using the mirrors for coverage instead of staring directly at the house.
Not that it had mattered. After a lifetime spent doing what Ruiz had, he was accustomed to being aware of his surroundings at all times.
Especially after spending the last eight years in jail, nearly every single person he came in contact with someone capable of coming after him at any time. Even a few years removed, El Jefe would be a major get for someone looking to make a name for themselves, more than a couple having done just that over the years.
Not that it had ended well for any of them.
And not like he hadn’t had a bit of a head start on this particular sighting.
Exiting the front door of the house, Ruiz had kept the post-it note pressed aga
inst his index finger. The rest of it remained tucked into his palm, his bare feet not making a sound as he padded down the sidewalk.
Drawing even with the Honda, he had turned and stared directly at the man through the passenger window, seeing the shock register on his features.
Middle-aged, with dark tan skin and a heavy thatch of curly black hair on his head and lining his jaw, his eyes had gone wide, his mouth sagging open. Upon being spotted, his right hand had shot out, pawing at the tangle of keys hanging down from the ignition.
Despite every internal reaction being to crack a smile – if not openly laugh – at the display before him, Ruiz had kept his features neutral. Making a hard left, he’d crossed out into the street, walking directly up to the passenger window.
Giving no effort for the handle, he merely curled a single finger, using a knuckle to tap on the glass. Using his left hand, he made a circular motion, gesturing for the man to roll it down.
A move that the guy seemed to sit and openly contemplate for several moments before eventually doing just that.
“Si?” the man asked, his voice heavily accented.
Still on his face was a hint of the surprise he’d been wearing when first spotted, no matter his best efforts to keep it hidden. Twisted up in the front seat, he kept his right hand on his thigh, ready to reach out and turn the keys in the ignition if need be.
His left he kept hidden from view, most likely with some form of weapon tucked away between his seat and the door.
A position Ruiz had to admit was reasonable, if extremely unnecessary.
“You’re one of Reyes’s guys, right?” Ruiz opened.
Knees bent, he glanced along the street in either direction. On both sides, homes much like Esmera’s were crowded onto small plots, the development meant to maximize what little usable land the desert landscape provided.
All single story and designed in the old Spanish mission style, they had stucco exteriors with red tile roofs. The yards were filled with rock gardens and succulents of various colors.
Very few had grass or trees to speak of, the murderous cost of water in the area forcing people to try alternative forms of landscaping.
Pausing, contemplating the question, the man said nothing, merely sitting and staring.
Pulling his attention away from the neighborhood, Ruiz had looked back at the man. Shaking his head slightly, letting the annoyance he was beginning to feel be noticed, he said, “You’ve been on me since leaving Lompoc, right? Parked in the third row? Followed us clear down the 101 to the 5?”
A single muscle twitched in the man’s face as he stared back, his features otherwise hard, giving away nothing.
Not that Ruiz needed him to. He’d spotted him the instant he walked out the gate that morning, less than a minute after he’d seen Esmera. Just as he’d known he was a quarter mile back throughout the entire drive, that being the reason he hated spending so much of it boxed in on the highway, feeling like it made it too easy to set a trap.
There was no need for Jones or Smith to be following him. They knew where he was going.
Ruiz had known word would get out about his release. In a place like Lompoc, information as a currency was worth its weight in gold. People would be lining up to get on the horn and tell whoever they thought would care that he was leaving.
But of the myriad people that might be interested, Reyes would be the only one sufficiently paranoid and with enough to lose to actually have someone waiting for him.
If not of his own accord, then with the help of a small nudge.
Extending his hand before him, Ruiz peeled the note from his finger. Mashing it onto the headrest of the passenger seat, he’d made sure it stuck before retreating a step.
“Tell your boss to give me a call at that number. I’d like to talk to him.”
Saying nothing more, he’d turned on a heel and walked away. Retraced his steps across the street and down the sidewalk, entering through the front door and going back to the same seat he’d had in the kitchen when Esmera left.
Settling down on the hardwood chair, he’d stared down at the phone, his pulse raised just slightly. Fingers laced before him, he’d been prepared to wait as long as it took, suspecting that Reyes would drag it out most of the evening, trying to assert some level of dominance over the situation.
To his surprise, it took just twenty minutes, the phone springing to life before him.
With the ringer turned up, the sound was loud and shrill inside the quiet confines of the house. Shifting only his eyes, Ruiz had looked down at the screen, the word RESTRICTED stamped across it.
Letting it go to three rings, ignoring the small jolt that moved through his core, Ruiz extended a hand. Lifting the phone, he accepted the call, pressing it to his cheek.
“Mr. Reyes.”
“Mr. Ruiz.”
The last time Ruiz had heard the voice was eight years prior. At the time, Reyes had been with the organization less than two years, a mid-level employee that he had taken on as a favor to an influential member of the community.
A nephew in need of work. That sort of thing.
In the moment, never would Ruiz have imagined him being the one to rise in his wake, nothing more than a cocky kid just north of thirty.
Yet another point in favor of the cliché about time changing everything.
“I take it you wanted to speak with me,” Ruiz said. “And this seemed easier than having you leave a man outside my sister’s house.”
Said without change in tone, Ruiz knew it would still manage to get his point across, letting Reyes know that he had been onto his presence all day.
On the opposite end of the line, Reyes paused. Choosing his next words carefully, he eventually settled on, “Can you blame me? Quite a curious thing, wouldn’t you say?”
To call all that had transpired curious would be a gross understatement, though Ruiz wasn’t about to state as much. Not now, and certainly not to this man.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied. “I served my time, kept my head down, and the review board determined that was sufficient.”
A faint snort could just barely be heard, quiet enough not to be obvious, but plenty loud to be heard.
“Just like that?” Reyes countered. “Eight years into – what was it – a forty-year sentence?”
Every word used was meant to be a barb. No doubt, the intent was to elicit a response, get Ruiz’s ire up, provoke him into disclosing something foolish.
All tricks that long predated them both, so easy to spot they were almost laughable.
“All I know is what I told you,” Ruiz said.
Again, there was a small snort. “Right.”
Handfuls of responses came to mind. Remarks Ruiz could make, banter that could be lobbed between the two men.
None of it would really serve any purpose, though.
“The reason I gave you my number was to suggest a parlay,” Ruiz said. “A chance on neutral ground to sit and discuss things. Air any grievances. Make it so you’re not looking over your shoulder for me, and I don’t have one of your guys parked outside my front door.”
In the wake of the offer, Ruiz fell silent. In response, nothing but dead air came back for the better part of a minute. Long enough that he could picture Reyes on the other end, features scrunched up in thought, trying to determine how to respond.
Determined not to add another word, to give the man as much time as he needed, Ruiz sat completely still. His focus glazed over, entire attention on the phone and whatever words came next.
“A parlay,” Reyes eventually said, the word sounding closer to a question than a statement, disbelief, disdain hanging from it. “To clear the air.”
“That is still how things are done, is it not?” Ruiz replied.
Again, a pause. “It is.”
Ruiz could tell there was more the man wanted to say, additional things he was thinking. Remaining silent, he waited as Reyes continued, “But this one will be different from others. T
here will be no meeting on neutral ground, some place where you can get your people in place or bring in an army.
“You want to meet, you have to come here to me.”
Regardless of what tradition dictated, Ruiz had expected the move, yet another attempt by Reyes to exert himself as the dominant party.
“When?” Ruiz asked.
“Tomorrow night. Ten o’clock. You will receive the address one hour before.”
The line cut out the instant the last word was delivered. A small sound was all that could be heard, though the finality of it was more than enough to signal that they were done.
Slowly pulling the phone back from his face, Ruiz looked down at the screen, seeing that the call had lasted less than five minutes, most of that spent in silence.
Still, it had given him far more information than he had any right to hope for prior to receiving it.
Using his forefinger, Ruiz cleared the call from the screen. Going back to the keypad feature, he punched in a new series of digits, inserting them from memory before hitting send.
Letting it ring just once, he hung up.
Keeping it in hand, he stared at the screen, counting seconds.
Ultimately, he made it no further than six before it lit up again, a call coming in from the same number he’d just dialed. Feeling the corner of his mouth curl back, he accepted it, returning the phone to his cheek.
“Burris? It’s me.”
Chapter Forty-Three
The name Juan Perez was clearly bullshit. It was nothing more than a lowest common denominator, the type of thing someone that had spent their life in northern Mexico or southern California would tell people in Montana, figuring that they wouldn’t know the difference.
And to some degree, they might even be right.
If not for the fact that there were at least a few residents that had spent significant time in other parts of the world. Places where Spanish wasn’t just a spoken language, it was the only language.
Spots like those that I spent almost a decade working throughout before retiring north to the mountains.
Wild Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 6) Page 17
