“Yes,” Mejia replied. “The guards are all in position.”
“And the holdovers?”
“Everybody who ever worked for Ruiz – myself excepted, obviously – has been sent home for the evening.”
Grunting softly, Reyes pushed himself upright. Turning, he leaned his backside against the stucco railing, his arms folded.
On the opposite side of the balcony, waiting just outside the threshold of the office, Mejia stood with his hands clasped before him. Dressed in his traditional dark dress shirt and slacks, a suit coat had been added to the ensemble for the evening, the front buttoned.
“How do you see this going?” Reyes asked.
If given his preference, the meeting would not be occurring at all. He, and the organization he now oversaw, had moved on. It had grown, shifting from the cowboy days of the old cartels, when exorbitant bribes and heavy casualties were the price of doing business.
Any means justified in reaching the ends.
There was no place for a man like Ruiz in today’s industry, let alone what Reyes had built in his wake. No need to offer him face time, to even let word get out that the two had gotten together for a parlay.
A sign his competitors would almost surely take as a show of weakness.
His immediate reaction to hearing Ruiz’s request was the same one that he had had when Hector first mentioned seeing him walk out of jail the day before. To put a bullet in his head and dump his body in the desert, the man to survive as nothing more than a name from the past.
A thought that still seemed appealing, no matter how much he knew it would only serve to undermine his standing.
“However you would like it to,” Mejia said. “The most important thing here being to remind him you are in charge. He is no longer El Jefe. You are no longer some employee.”
Reyes had known exactly how Mejia would answer even before he asked, though he still appreciated hearing the words.
More than once he had seen similar situations play out. Instances where no matter how high an employee ascended through the ranks, they were never actually seen as anything more than what they had originally been.
Like some younger sibling, always relegated to second tier status.
A dozen other questions all came to mind in order, things he wanted to ask, thoughts he’d had since first discovering Ruiz was about to be free. Each and every one he pushed aside, there being no point in asking them.
Whatever he needed to know would come forth soon enough.
“Make the call.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Junior Ruiz wasn’t sure which part of the scene before him he found more humorous. The enormous gate with brick columns and a polished gold finish that blocked the entrance to the driveway of the address he’d been given. The motorized golf cart sitting on the opposite side of it, ready to receive him.
Or the bevy of guards lining it, all with automatic weapons held across their waists. Dressed in black suits and sunglasses despite the hour, they looked like a team of miniature Hispanic Terminators for hire, all staring directly at the rented SUV he arrived in.
Fighting the urge to openly laugh, to allow his lips to curl back in a smile at the unnecessariness of it all, he instead turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. Hands empty and held to his side, he waited as one of the guards stepped forward, clearly the designated leader of the group.
Shifting his rifle to one hand, he cradled it into the crook of his elbow, leaving the barrel pointed toward the sky. The other he used to jerk open the front flaps of the suit jacket Ruiz wore, brusquely feeling along his ribs and waistline.
Finding nothing, he grabbed a shoulder and turned him to the side, completing the impromptu frisk before taking a step back.
“Mr. Reyes has asked that you leave your vehicle here. The cart will take you the rest of the way up to the house.”
Resisting the urge to make a comment, to crack wise at the bluster of everything going on, to maybe even inquire as to what their boss felt the need to compensate for, Ruiz offered only a nod. Lowering his hands to his side, he left the rental where it was, keys still in the ignition.
Falling in behind the same guard, they marched through the narrow opening in the gate, taking up spots beside each other on the front seat of the cart.
Rifle still tucked into his elbow, the guard angled himself toward Ruiz, gripping the bottom of the steering wheel with one hand. Saying nothing, he punched the gas hard, the cart lurching before leveling out, sending them hurtling down the paved drive.
Wind hitting him full in the face, Ruiz sat and stared straight ahead. On either side, he could see palm and fruit trees flying by, the place a veritable agricultural haven, a far cry from anything else he’d seen so far south.
Largely ignoring it, he instead focused on the home growing steadily larger before him. Two stories in height, it looked like a cross between a Spanish mission and a southern plantation, a mix of white stucco and towering columns.
A central section provided the bulk of the front façade, matching wings extending wide to either side. Scads of windows lined both floors, every last one seeming to have the lights on, the place lit up like a beacon, likely visible even to most aircraft flying above.
Yet another move Ruiz couldn’t help but smile at.
The last Ruiz could remember of Ramon Reyes, he was a product of nepotism. Someone that had traded on his family name and his uncle’s political position to garner jobs and contacts he had no business being near.
Spots much like the one that he had landed with Ruiz.
Unaccustomed to having to do anything on his own, he had accomplished little in his time there. Treading water, he waited on more to be given to him instead of taking responsibility and going after it.
All things that made his being the one to emerge after Ruiz was sent to prison that much more shocking.
And the extreme pretension on display before him not surprising in the least.
Keeping all such thoughts tamped down, Ruiz fixed his gaze straight ahead. He waited as the guard followed the drive to the front corner of the spread before looping out wide, pulling the passenger side of the cart up parallel to the front steps.
Hopping off the front seat, he secured the rifle with both hands, using the muzzle to motion Ruiz out of the cart as well.
“Go.”
Doing as instructed, Ruiz stepped down onto the first step. Taking a moment, he brushed the dust from the drive in off his suit, waving the front lapels of his coat.
Once he was reasonably certain the charcoal material looked something close to its original color, he began his ascent, a new pair of guards waiting on the top step for him.
Their expressions hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, the one on the left took the lead. In moves that made the entire sequence appear it had been rehearsed many times over, he turned for the door. Pushing the oversized gate open, he jerked his head back over a shoulder, signaling for Ruiz to follow him.
Marching inside, he made it no more than a few feet past the door before turning, his rifle angled toward the ground before him.
Taking it as a signal to move forward, Ruiz took a couple steps further. Behind him, he could hear the other guard enter as well, the enormous door swinging shut in their wake, the sound echoing through the cavernous space.
Using a wide and open floorplan, the front foyer rose the full two stories above them. Hanging down from the ceiling was an enormous chandelier, dozens of bulbs illuminating everything in a bright glow.
Around them, every last touch had been made for the place to resemble something from an architectural magazine. Paintings in gold filigree frames lined the walls. Narrow tables with expensive pottery and sprays of flowers were positioned in even intervals.
Rising from either side of the floor was a sweeping staircase, the effect to create an inverted horseshoe, one unending piece arc with a wrought iron railing.
All of it meant to convey a very specific look. A geom
etric design meant to sweep the gaze upward, funneling it inward to a central figure now standing ten feet above them.
His features neutral, both hands clenched the top of the railing in a death grip as Ramon Reyes stared down.
Yet another thing that gave Ruiz the urge to smile.
“Ruiz,” Reyes said, voice much louder than necessary in the quiet of the foyer.
“Reyes.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
The air outside San Diego International Airport was approaching forty degrees higher than when I’d flown out of Bozeman that afternoon. After catching five hours of sleep in the chair beside Kaylan’s bed and spending another hour sitting by her side as she continued to rest until the first shift of the protection detail Latham had put together arrived, I’d made the short jaunt from Big Sky to the airport.
Taking off at three in the afternoon, I’d caught a direct down to Los Angeles and then a short hop to where I was now standing, arriving with a duffel bag carrying little more than a change of clothes and a toothbrush.
Items I’d only brought along because I’d heard many times over never to travel completely empty handed, as it only managed to raise suspicion.
Something I sorely did not need at the moment, with no idea how the coming days might play out.
The instant I stepped out into the night air, I could feel the warmth swirl around me. On contact, it managed to lift my body temperature, a thin veneer of sweat rising to my face despite the recent loss of so much hair.
Peeling away my coat, I stood in a t-shirt and jeans, the smell of the sea nearby filling my nostrils. Pulling it in, I waited on the curb, needing just a couple of minutes before a nondescript black sedan sidled up beside me. Appearing to have rolled off the assembly line specifically designed for government vehicles, it eased to a stop without a sound.
Remaining where I stood, I watched as the tinted passenger window buzzed down to reveal Mia Diaz behind the wheel.
“Somebody call for an Uber?”
Making no effort to hide the smile that split my features, I pulled the door open and slid inside, the two of us negotiating an awkward front seat hug. Holding it only a moment, we both pulled back, each openly assessing the other.
A year and a half had passed since the two of us had been in the same place, yet somehow, she seemed to have pulled off reverse aging. The same dark hair still hung in ringlets to her shoulders. A heart shaped face still featured sharp cheekbones and full lips.
Unlike the last time we’d encountered each other, though, there was a bit of color on her skin, the tan obscuring any sort of bags that might be underscoring her eyes.
“You look well,” she said, checking the rearview mirror before easing us away from the curb. “Healthy, and all that.”
“So I look fat,” I replied. “Thanks.”
Glancing my way, she said, “Or that you seem surprisingly upright and uninjured for someone with such a high propensity for being shot at.”
Immediately setting myself to launch back into a rebuke, I pulled up, unable to mount much of an objection.
In the five years following my departure from the DEA, I had lived a life that bordered on hermetic in Montana. Summer months were spent as a guide, taking tourists into Yellowstone. Winters, I was holed up in a cabin I built myself outside a map dot called Glasgow.
Not a single regular human interaction besides Kaylan six months of the year.
During that time, not once had a single round been fired my direction. Nor had a punch or kick been thrown. The closest I’d come to an altercation was when a hiking party I was with stumbled onto the fresh kill of a mountain lion.
Over the last two years, I had managed to break out of the funk, slowly reacclimating to the world around me.
A trend that had somehow also seen a sharp uptick in the amount of physical violence I was privy to.
Choosing not to comment on Diaz’s last statement, I instead offered, “You look good as well. Nice to see you finally remembered that you live in Southern California.”
Alternating her attention between me and the road, a crease appeared between her brows. Seeming to consider the statement for a moment, I saw as dawning set in, her eyes widening slightly.
“Oh, you mean this,” she said, motioning to her face. “No, this was from a case that we just wrapped a few days ago. Idiots trying to pass bricks of product through the slats in the border wall in broad daylight.”
A sharp crack of laughter spilled out in response, the sound gone before I even realized it. Extra loud in the small space, I made no attempt to walk it back, shoulders shaking slightly with chuckling.
“You’re shitting me.”
“Like I said – idiots.”
Linking up with the freeway, she pushed us south, sweeping past downtown and the first buildings taller than three stories I’d seen since being in Nashville last spring. Even with the clock now pushing past ten, many of the windows in them were still aglow, the workday lasting long enough to soon be running into the next one.
Peeking between the occasional gaps in the buildings, I could see the ocean in the distance. Out there, a handful of liners moved slowly along, everything from barges carrying supplies to the local Navy base to cruise liners ferrying passengers off to exotic locales.
Neither of which seemed too appealing at the moment.
Letting the curve of the freeway funnel us to the east, I shifted my focus out through the front windshield, our twin reflections just barely visible against it, lit up by the control panel of the dash.
“Thank you for picking me up. I could have easily gotten a rental.”
Rolling her head along the seatback, Diaz flicked her gaze my direction. Holding the pose long enough to let me know I was being ridiculous, she said nothing, shifting her attention back to the road.
When I had left the DEA, Hutch was still the director of the Southwest field office. In addition to overseeing our FAST team, he also coordinated more than two dozen other agents, all covering a variety of topics and investigations throughout the region.
Although I was the first of our core to step aside, within two years both Martin and Diggs left as well. A year later, Pally transitioned into the private sector.
Without us, Hutch had migrated east, taking up a permanent post with the Administration’s headquarters in D.C.
In the wake of his leaving, Diaz had been inserted as the acting director. Long after the fact, I caught wind that the rumor at the time had been it was because of her gender and ethnicity, the powers-that-be tapping her early on to be one of a handful of poster children for the new direction of the organization.
Having worked with her myself on multiple occasions, I knew that to be bullshit, nothing more than the sour grapes of people that hadn’t been good enough to keep up in their own right.
Folks who needed an excuse because they couldn’t hold a candle to the new girl.
“Okay, well at least let me thank you for helping me last night,” I said.
Again, she rolled her head my direction. A hint of confusion was visible before she grasped what I was alluding to. “I didn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “but it doesn’t mean I didn’t need to hear it.”
Especially from someone I trusted.
Keeping her attention rolled my way, she dropped her gaze to my hands, no doubt clocking the assortment of scabs covering my knuckles.
“How did it go?”
“He’s alive.”
“And the information you were hoping to get?”
Tres Salinas hadn’t been quite the fount of data I was hoping him to be, but that was because he simply wasn’t privy to the highest levels of decision making.
Based on what I put the man through, there was no way he could have possibly been holding a single thing back.
“Nothing about how the hell Junior Ruiz is suddenly a free man, if that’s what you’re asking. You?”
Dropping her bl
inker, Diaz shifted us into the outer lane. Changing freeways, she adjusted our direction to the southeast, pushing out toward the desert and the DEA office tucked away well beyond the city limits.
As she did so, the traffic around us grew thinner. City lights fell further behind us, the late hour and government tags allowing us to move with impunity.
“Same,” she answered. “Lot of dead ends and brick walls.”
Resetting the cruise control, she cast another glance my way, the numbers of the dash casting a faint green hue across her face.
“But that wasn’t specifically what I was asking,” she clarified. “Did he have anything you were looking for? Anything that could help us?”
For just a moment I let the question linger before turning to meet her gaze.
“Salinas was there the night when we took Ruiz down. Turns out, it was a quinceañera.
“For his sister.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
The pair of guards that had led Ruiz through the front door knew to stay behind in the hallway. As did the pair that were standing on either side of the doorway leading into the office.
All briefed well in advance, there was no need for verbal commands. Nothing that even intimated that this wasn’t how things were normally conducted, Ramon Reyes operating with complete control at all times.
Forming a half arc, they stood silent, sentries with assault rifles resting across their waists. A personal private army, all in matching attire, right down to the reflective sunglasses they wore.
A move that might have been a touch overkill, but did manage to convey the message Reyes wanted.
That Junior Ruiz was in over his head. Whatever time he might have had was gone, the operation moving ahead while he rotted away in prison.
Careful to stay a few paces out ahead, to let it be known that Ruiz was a guest and the two were not equals, Reyes stepped into the expansive spread that was his office. Essentially the nerve center for everything he did, it spread wide in either direction.
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