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

by Dustin Stevens

  His grip on the cigar tightening, Ruiz felt his features harden. His eyes narrowed, his head turning a half inch to the side.

  Sensing the shift, seeing the cues, Mejia raised his hand from the arm of the chair, flashing his palm.

  “Tres knows the rules. He didn’t reveal anything, would never think of cutting a deal.”

  Lowering the hand back into place, he added, “Bastards cut his phone privileges. It was the only way to get word back down here.”

  The statement did little to alleviate the clench in Ruiz’s chest. With it went any taste for the cigar, his focus solely on the man across from him.

  “What word?”

  “He knows.”

  Simply two words, they were all the explanation Ruiz needed. In an instant, he knew both who was being referred to and what it was he knew.

  “It seems Tres left something at the house of the team leader,” Mejia said. Breaking eye contact for the first time, Mejia glanced out to the windows.

  “He was there that night. In Baja, when you were taken away.” Shifting his gaze back, he stared across at Ruiz. “He saw what happened, heard the offer you made to them.”

  He went no further, though he didn’t need to.

  Hundreds of times in the preceding years, Ruiz had played back that evening in his head. One time after another on loop, every detail forever ingrained in his memory, all of it in vivid color.

  Memories he would carry with him to his grave, no matter how long he might live.

  “And?” Ruiz asked.

  “He left a bullet and a coin on the mantle in their living room.”

  The words were delivered as little more than a whisper. Brimming with pain, they matched the look that flashed behind Mejia’s eyes, grief and realization mixed in equal parts.

  The kind only a father realizing a fatal mistake had been made could have.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  When Pally had first started digging into Tres Salinas, he hadn’t found much of a backstory. No property holdings, not even a record of high school graduation. Nothing more than a birth certificate and then nineteen years later the driver’s license that had enabled us to begin piecing things together.

  The story behind his younger sister Juana was a bit more fleshed out.

  Four years younger than her brother, she had been born in Mexico, never crossing north into America until a month after our raid. A minor at the time, she was granted temporary citizenship to live with her mother in the San Diego suburb of Chula Vista. There, she attended Olympian High School before moving just a few miles north to attend San Diego State University.

  After graduating from there with a degree in finance, she had gone to work for a real estate firm in La Mesa, still residing in the apartment she’d used throughout her final three years of college.

  The very same apartment that stood before us as Diaz and I exited the same sedan we’d used earlier in the day. Not wanting to arrive with too strong a display of force, or to have to explain away two former agents, it had been decided that Diggs would remain behind at the headquarters.

  Intent to grab a quick shower in the locker room and wash off whatever lingered from his quick trip back from the jungle, from there the plan was for him to get with Pally and continue gleaning everything they could on all parties involved.

  After that, hopefully we would add it to whatever Diaz and I were about to find and have a clear path moving forward.

  Hopefully.

  Otherwise, there was no guarantee that the concentrated angst Diggs and I were both feeling wouldn’t cause us to simply go find the biggest guns we could and start mowing things down.

  A plan I still wouldn’t go as far as to have relegated to Plan B status.

  “Just like last time?” I asked, falling in beside Diaz as we followed the sidewalk along the front of the small apartment building Juana Salinas called home. Making the corner, we hooked a right onto the concrete path leading up to the building, the place looking like a thousand similar structures throughout the area.

  Two stories in height, the place was covered in wooden siding painted dark brown. Through the center of it rose a single staircase, a pair of entrances to either side at ground level, a matching set sitting at the top.

  Encasing the walkway on both sides were small patches of grass in dire need of water, twin palm trees rising from the center of either one.

  Tucked into a small lot off a side street, it wasn’t hard to see why Salinas would have chosen the place. Several blocks away from the main SDSU campus, it was shielded from the sounds of the freeways nearby, well away from the usual foot traffic associated with the school.

  Instead, the area looked like a pretty standard neighborhood, the place almost quaint as it began to transition toward evening.

  “We’ll start that way,” Diaz said, answering without glancing my way. “How it goes from there...”

  Leaving the statement to dangle on insinuation, she increased her pace slightly. Going straight for the staircase rising before us, she pounded straight ahead, the soles of her shoes thumping against the wooden planks.

  Taking them two at a time beside her, we reached the top landing at the same time, both glancing either direction to check numbers before turning toward the unit on the left.

  Matching the entrances on the ground level below, apartment C used a metal storm door. Behind it, a solid wooden inner door stood open, the latticed metal giving us a partial view inside. A standard living room for someone just a year removed from college, a futon and armchair were formed up around a coffee table, a television on a nightstand opposite them both.

  That much we both saw and dismissed, instead focusing on the smell of cooked vegetables wafting our way.

  And the accompanying sound of Latin music.

  Or, more aptly, the young lady singing along to it.

  “At least we know she’s home,” Diaz muttered.

  Grunting a small response, I watched as Diaz leaned forward and lifted her fist, pounding it against the edge of the storm door. Setting it to rattling, she had no more than stepped back when a shadow crossed into the living room.

  A moment later, a young woman appeared. Dishtowel clutched before her, she seemed to be drying her hands as she stared at each of us in order.

  On sight, the smile she’d been wearing faded, a scowl twisting her lips into something approximating a snarl.

  “Good evening,” Diaz opened. “Are you Juana Salinas?”

  Once more, the young lady flicked her gaze between us, the curl of her lips growing more pronounced.

  “Aw, shit. What the hell did they do now?”

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  The young woman sitting before us seemed to be a bundle of contradictions. Her hair and makeup were fully done, applied with a touch that bordered on professional. Dark curls cascaded down onto her shoulders. Eyeliner and mascara accentuated chestnut colored eyes.

  To look her full in the face, it appeared that the girl was a television newscaster, coiffed and ready to sit in front of the camera.

  From the neck down though, she was dressed as if she had spent the day on the couch. A baggy SDSU Aztecs tank top hung from her slender shoulders, tilted to one side. Beneath it was a pair of cloth shorts, her tan feet bare and curled up under her.

  Definitely fitting with the twenty-three years of age we knew her to be, her features were vibrant and youthful. No lines or blemishes marred her skin. Just the right amount of sunshine graced her visage.

  Again, a harsh contrast to the scowl on her features.

  A look that, for quite possibly the first time in the history of the DEA, didn’t seem to be aimed directly at us.

  Seated in the living room of Salinas’s apartment, Diaz and I were perched on the front edge of the futon. Across from us, Salinas had taken the armchair. On the coffee table between us were a couple of bottles of water she had set out, though nobody had asked for or yet touched them. In the warmth of the apartment, condensation dripp
ed down their sides, rings forming on the dark wood.

  “Ms. Salinas,” Diaz said, “it doesn’t seem like you’re that surprised to see us here.”

  It wasn’t quite phrased as a question, though still it got a reaction. Snorting loudly, Salinas let her head rock back. Her eyes rolled to the side, her gaze fixing on the darkened television.

  “Should I be?” she asked.

  Employing arguably the best tool an interviewer had available, Diaz opted to remain silent, letting it settle between the three of us.

  After a moment, Salinas pulled her focus back our direction, the scowl still very much in place.

  “Look, I don’t even know who you guys work for, but I know I didn’t do anything. The only reason you could possibly have for banging on my door is them.”

  Pausing there, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Who do you guys work for?”

  Even before she responded, I could sense a bit of hesitance from Diaz. The girl’s initial comments alone were enough to establish lingering hostility.

  Finding out who we were was only going to heighten that.

  “DEA,” Diaz replied.

  On cue, the girl threw her hands up. Lifting her gaze with them, she raised all three toward the ceiling, letting them linger before dropping down, her hands slapping against her thighs.

  “Well, hell. There you go. Eight years of this shit. Different name, different country, and still it comes and finds me.”

  Not yet had we asked a single question, and already she was dropping morsels too large to ignore. Open hints practically begging us to inquire further.

  All things that my mind was already working to tie to our reason for being there. Tiny strands of connective tissue, fusing disparate bits of information in my mind.

  “What do you mean by different name, different country?” Diaz asked.

  Fixing her stare on Diaz, the look fast approaching a glare, Salinas let out a long sigh. “If you’re DEA, then you’ve seen the file. You were there that night.

  “You know it was my party you guys crashed.”

  Flicking her gaze between us, she added, “I mean, isn’t that why you’re here now? Something else has happened and you figured it worked once, why not try again?”

  Scads of new questions floated to the fore. So many things I wanted to ask, the topics varied, almost too great to even know where to begin.

  Beside me, Diaz seemed to be working through the same process in her head.

  A combination that again led to our silence, Salinas attempting to wait us out before finally saying, “Okay, fine, play it dumb. Pretend that you didn’t know that when my brother and I were born, my father was so concerned about our well-being that he had us take our mother’s name. Or that after what happened at my quinceañera, he sent us both north to live with our mother - who had the good sense to leave his ass years before – even though it meant I had to apply for citizenship and learn the damn language.”

  Every word seemed to be tinged with bitterness. A faint sheen rose to the bottom side of her eyes as she shifted to face the black mirror of the TV screen again. Pausing, she waited until the bit of emotion passed before turning back to us.

  When she did, gone was the momentary break in resolve, again returning to the same anger she’d carried since we arrived.

  “Do you know what all that does to a person? A quinceañera is supposed to be a big deal. It’s supposed to be the night a young girl becomes a woman.

  “It was supposed to be my night to put on the white dress and walk out in front of everybody. Instead, it just became more of the same old shit.”

  “What shit is that?” Diaz asked, her voice lowered to match Salinas’s.

  The young woman’s eyes bulged slightly as she replied, “The great Junior Ruiz. My life got turned upside down, but all anybody noticed was what happened to him.”

  Recalling what her brother had mentioned, the reason for us being there, I asked, “What was your connection to him?”

  “To who?” Salinas asked, jerking her attention toward the sound of my voice, the first words I’d spoken since arriving.

  “Ruiz,” I replied.

  “Me?” Salinas asked. “Absolutely nothing. That was all my father’s doing. He worked for him, set the whole thing up.

  “Kept going on about it being the biggest and best for his daughter, but that was such a crock. It was about him trying to curry favor with the man he practically worshipped.”

  Looking away again, she snorted softly. “Hell, still does, from what I hear.”

  Fireworks of various size and shape began exploding across my mind. Igniting behind my eyelids, they seemed to pulsate with every blink, the new information she was lobbing our way almost too much to process at once.

  I had to give Tres Salinas credit. Two nights before, I had taken him out into the woods and done things that I wasn’t quite proud of. Not one of them would I say I regretted, but I wouldn’t readily admit to them if standing in front of my late wife and daughter either.

  Throughout, he had given up plenty, but not once had he mentioned any of this.

  “Your father?” Diaz asked. “He worked with Ruiz?”

  Same look still in place, Salinas jerked her gaze over to Diaz. Pulling up short, her mouth formed into a circle, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Not with him, for him.” Flicking her gaze between us, a slow dawning seemed to set in. “But you guys didn’t know that though, did you? That’s not why you’re here.”

  Any word of the father was completely new to me, but based on what she’d just shared, that wasn’t surprising. Using different names, there would have been no reason for us to delve further in our previous surveillance.

  “We’re here about your brother,” I said. “A couple nights ago, he was arrested in Montana.”

  It was clear there were questions Salinas wanted to fire in response, but Diaz beat her there, adding, “For murder, in connection to Junior Ruiz.”

  Mouth open half an inch, Salinas dropped any pretense of trying to speak. Her eyelids fluttered shut, all air expelled from her lungs as she sat, accepting the information.

  “That stupid, stupid son of a...”

  Lifting her chin toward the ceiling, she remained that way for several moments. Like some sort of new yoga pose, she held the position, pushing and pulling air through her nose, before finally lowering her face.

  Slowly opening her eyes, she whispered, “What can I do to help?”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  It didn’t seem to matter that it was the second time that day the young attorney was inside the interrogation room with Tres Salinas. Nor did it have any sway on him that Deputy Ferry was standing just inside the door. Having learned from his earlier mistakes, he had shed his jacket and stood with one hand on his weapon, holster unsnapped.

  Not even the fact that Tres was back in handcuffs, clasped to the ring rising from the center of the table, his total range of movement no more than a few inches, managed to put the young man at ease. Barely able to contain his fidgeting, he was unable to so much as look at Tres for more than a few moments at a time.

  A fact that was no doubt a mix of Tres’s appearance and the full litany of charges that were being levied on him.

  Both items that Tres could not care less about at the moment, his entire focus on feedback from their earlier meeting.

  Much like the fact that he knew the kid had offered his name earlier, but he couldn’t have been bothered to remember it. Not with something so much more pressing at the front of his mind.

  “Were you able to get word out?” Tres asked, barely waiting until the young man had taken a seat across from him.

  Ignoring the question, the young man positioned himself in the chair. Squaring the lapels of his jacket, he straightened his tie before reaching into the satchel on the floor by his feet. Drawing out a yellow legal pad, he placed it before him, a blue ink pen beside it.

  Folding his hands atop the uneven writing scrawled acros
s the page, he focused on the center of the table, careful to keep his eyes averted as much possible.

  “Were you?” Tres asked a second time, careful to keep as much of the angst as he could from his voice.

  To the side, he could hear the deputy take a step forward, his every movement punctuated by the groan of his belt.

  “Yes,” the attorney replied. Overhead lights shined off the sweat collecting on his forehead as he flicked his gaze up. Meeting Tres’s glance for just an instant, he immediately pulled it back down.

  Looking to the notebook before him, he pretended to be reading through things, lifting the top sheet before returning it.

  “Though I don’t know that it did a lot of good. Entire conversation didn’t take much more than a minute or two.”

  The words Tres had opted to convey were meticulously chosen. Meant to be as innocuous as possible, he knew Ferry had likely gotten a copy of what was shared, attorney-client privilege be damned.

  As had the DEA. And likely the bearded man from the woods a few nights before.

  Each syllable was selected to be vague to the point of uselessness to anybody that wasn’t privy to everything already happening. Barely enough to tell the story he needed them to.

  Just as he knew that any message coming back the other direction would be much the same.

  “But you were able to speak with him? And share exactly what I instructed you to?”

  Again, the man chanced a quick glance.

  “Yes.”

  “And did he have a response?”

  Lifting his hands, the attorney studied his notes for a moment. A look that relayed pure dread passed over his features, his head remaining down for almost a full minute before finally he looked up.

  “He said to tell you, farewell.”

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  “Good God, she just told you all that?”

  The surprise in Carl Diggs’s voice pretty well matched what Diaz and I had felt sitting in Juana Salinas’s living room. Once we’d gotten past the vitriol boiling just beneath the surface, had navigated a few tough moments in the opening, the proverbial gates had opened.