by Tripp Ellis
At the first floor, the goon pushed into the lobby. I reached the landing not far behind him, then followed.
He twisted around and aimed his pistol at me. His shirt was soaked with blood, he clutched the wound with one hand. He squeezed the trigger multiple times, and several bullets rocketed from the suppressor. They snapped across the lobby like angry hornets with a helluva sting.
44
Guests in the lobby shrieked in horror as they witnessed the shocking scene. They darted for cover behind furniture.
I squeezed the trigger and pumped two rounds into the thug, finishing the job. He fell to the tile with a thump, and blood erupted from the gaping wounds in his chest. His grip went slack, and his weapon clattered away.
I rushed toward him and arrived just as the last gasp of breath rattled from his lungs. I pulled off his ski mask, and sure enough, it was Remy.
There was no doubt in my mind that Armando had ordered them to kill Shiloh, probably at the behest of the cartel bosses. Shiloh had become a liability. The fact that she had antagonized Armando only sweetened the pot.
Soon the place was swarming with deputies and first responders. Stunned guests gawked at the horrific scene as hotel staff and management tried to calm them. I'm pretty sure that all the guests that witnessed the shooting got comped a free weekend at the hotel. The manager repeatedly assured the guests that this type of activity wasn't usual—though this hadn’t been the first time an assassination attempt had taken place at the posh hotel.
I gave Daniels a recap of the situation when he arrived. Erickson and Faulkner took a frazzled Shiloh to the station, where she made a statement about the events.
The forensics team snapped photos and chronicled evidence, pulling slugs from walls and from the desk inside Shiloh’s hotel room. The place was trashed. It looked like a rock ’n’ roll band had ravaged it. Brenda examined the bodies, and they were taken to the morgue.
There was a somber mood among the deputies as Pierce’s body was rolled out on a gurney.
“You find the son-of-a-bitch behind this,” Daniels said to me. “I don’t care what you have to do.”
After we wrapped up at the scene, the cleaning staff had the unenviable job of putting the room back together. It wouldn’t be ready for guests for quite some time.
I headed to the station and filled out an after-action report. I surrendered my weapon for evaluation. It was protocol to be put on administrative leave, but that usually didn't last more than a day. The typical investigation into an officer-involved shooting consisted of Daniels looking over the evidence and, more often than not, clearing the deputy.
Daniels told me to take the rest of the day off and make the standard appointment with the head shrinker. "Go home. Relax. Get your head clear."
"My head is clear."
"You know the drill."
I was used to it by now.
"That's not gonna be the last attempt they make on Shiloh," I said.
"I know," Daniels said.
I left the station and headed back to Diver Down. I pulled into the lot, parked the bike, and strolled the dock to the Avventura. I called JD and told him what happened.
Adrenaline still coursed through my veins. I was ready for a hot shower and a cold drink. JD suggested a night out on the town to blow off steam.
“I’ll consider it,” I said. “I’ll give you a shout later.”
I wasn’t much in the mood.
“I’m telling you, nothing more relaxing than a little lady to soothe your troubles. I’m sure we can find a few willing companions.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I said. Though my recent experience with a particular lady had been anything but relaxing.
I noticed something odd as I strolled the dock.
Buddy was out wandering by himself. I glanced around, looking for Teagan, figuring she might have taken him out. But I didn’t see her anywhere.
I told Jack I’d call him back, then knelt down and petted Buddy. "How did you get out, boy?"
The little Jack Russell followed me back to the boat. We crossed the gangway and stepped to the aft deck. I pulled open the sliding door and stepped into the salon, and I knew instantly something was wrong.
Buddy took off running.
I could smell the faint traces of perfume in the air.
It wasn't Teagan's perfume.
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Buddy raced across the salon, his paws clattering against the deck. He darted up the steps.
I followed.
He arrived on the scene before I did, and his snarling and growling confirmed my suspicions. By the time I reached my stateroom, Buddy bared his fangs, barking incessantly at Phoebe.
She held Teagan at gunpoint—with one of my guns, no less.
"Phoebe, how about you put the gun down?" I suggested carefully.
Her face was tortured, and her eyes crazed. Her hair was disheveled, and after a night in jail, she looked like she’d been through the ringer. “If you just tell me the truth, I could forgive you. Just admit that you slept with her, and we can work through this."
Buddy kept snarling and barking.
"Buddy, stay!” The last thing I needed was for the situation to escalate. I grabbed him by the collar and held him back. I didn't want him to get shot by the crazed maniac.
I coaxed him into the en suite and closed the hatch, putting him out of harm's way.
"Phoebe, there's nothing going on here. I'm gonna ask you again to put the gun down."
Her unsteady hand kept it aimed at Teagan. She lay in the bed, and I'm sure to the casual observer it looked like we had hooked up the night before.
"Phoebe, point the gun at me,” I said.
"I'm not going to let her get in between us," Phoebe shrieked.
"There's nothing between us, Phoebe. Point the gun at me. Let's talk through this."
"I know you love me. We are meant to be together. Nothing's going to keep us apart."
I decided to use a different tactic. “You're absolutely right. The only thing that is gonna keep us apart is you," I said, playing into her delusion.
Her face twisted with confusion.
"If you hurt her, you’ll go to jail,” I said. “How could we ever be together?”
Phoebe thought for a moment.
"You're right,” I said. “I made a huge mistake. I'm sorry. I don't know how I couldn’t see it before. You’re definitely the one for me.” I tried to sound sincere.
Her face softened for a moment, then it twisted again with rage. “You’re lying. You’ll say anything to save your precious little whore. You’re all the same!”
She swung the barrel of the pistol around to me. I wasn’t thrilled to be on the business end of it, but better me than Teagan.
"You said we could work through this,” I said in a delicate tone. Calm and soothing. “Let's talk. Put the gun down."
"Stop telling me what to do!"
"I know you don't want to hurt me. How could we be together then?"
I knew I was in trouble when she said, "We could be together forever."
Tears spilled down her cheeks, and her finger tightened around the trigger.
Bam!
Bam!
The deafening bang rattled the stateroom, and Buddy howled and wailed in the en suite.
A look of terror washed over Phoebe's face. Her blouse blossomed with crimson. Her eyes swirled, and the pistol dropped from her hand, clattering to the deck. She followed, collapsing to a sack of bones.
Teagan sat up in bed holding her pistol, smoke still wafting from the barrel. She had pulled the weapon from her purse on the nightstand, and just as she had trained, squeezed two rounds that hit Phoebe’s center mass.
Teagan's eyes were wide, and she trembled. She set the gun down on the bed, and I advanced toward Phoebe, kicking the weapon away for good measure. I knelt down and felt for a pulse, but she was gone.
I looked at Teagan. "Are you okay?"
She nodded. "I can't belie
ve I did that."
"Everything's gonna be okay," I assured her.
I called Sheriff Daniels and told him to send Brenda and a forensics team. It wasn't long before the Avventura was swarming with deputies and county officials.
We made statements, and the team took photographs and documented the evidence. No charges would be filed against Teagan, but it would take some time for her to come to grips with the situation. Taking someone's life is never easy, even when your survival depends on it.
After the circus left, I cleaned up, trying to get the bloodstains off the deck and the bulkheads.
"Is it too early to start drinking," Teagan asked.
I chuckled. "It's 5 o'clock somewhere."
I finished up in the stateroom, and we moved down to the main deck salon. I poured us both a glass of whiskey.
"Nice shooting."
"Well, I certainly wasn't gonna let her kill you. I'd be out of a job,” she said dryly.
I forced a grim smile. Teagan was taking the whole thing in stride.
"Did you see that coming?"
She shook her head. "I've been getting bad vibes this whole week, but I couldn't quite place it. I'm almost beginning to wish my psychic powers would come back. Almost." She paused. "Do me a favor..."
"Anything."
"Don't date women like that anymore?"
I laughed. "We were never dating."
She lifted her glass. “Hell of a Valentines Day.”
We clinked glasses and sipped the fine whiskey. Hell of a Valentines Day indeed.
46
Isabella called a few days later. “I’ve got an operative in Mexico that has a visual confirmation on Armando.”
That got my attention. “Where?”
“Juan’s bar. Armando’s prepaid cellular hasn't popped up on the network. I'm sure he’s ditched it by now and has another one."
“How long ago?"
"Last night."
"Think he’s still in the area?"
"Hard to say. But if you want to find him and bring him back, I wouldn’t waste any time."
"Is that an offer of support?"
She paused for a long moment. "I can lend some assets. But you need to do a favor for me."
"Just add it to my tab."
"Your tab is getting quite large, you know that?”
"I know."
Fugitive recovery was the job of the US Marshals. Over the years, they had received varying degrees of assistance from the Mexican government. Mexican law prohibited foreign military and law enforcement agencies from operating within the country, but that didn't mean it never happened. There were long-standing rumors of armed Marshals acting in cooperation with Mexican Marines to recover high-profile fugitives. But I had my doubts that Armando would ever be recovered if we didn't do it ourselves.
I knew what JD's take on the situation would be before I called. He was more than eager to go down there, kick ass, take names, and bring the scumbag back to face justice. If something happened to Armando along the way, so be it.
The last time I was in Mexico, things hadn't gone so well. I had made an unplanned visit to the ER with a gunshot wound. Technically, I died. It was an experience I cared not to revisit. Not until my number was actually up.
Traveling to Mexico with weapons is a dicey proposition. And something best not attempted. More than a few unsuspecting Americans have spent time in a Mexican jail for having a handgun in their glove box when they traveled across the border.
If we decided to proceed with this ill-advised adventure, we’d be solely dependent upon Isabella and her support services. I had no doubt she could provide us with whatever we needed when we were in country. But still, if anything went wrong, it wasn’t like the Calvary would be coming to save us.
Isabella arranged transportation. A guy named Wyatt Jamison flew us across the Gulf to a little strip of tarmac in Playa that masqueraded as an airport. We swooped over the teal water and white sand beach and touched down on the runway. The tires barked and bounced a little. After several hours in a four-seat prop-engine Cessna, I was ready to find a restroom.
We were both dressed casually—JD wearing his typical Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, and me with an I’d rather be in Mexico T-shirt. We looked like every other American tourist. I carried a backpack with toiletries, a few days worth of clothes, and plenty of cash—both USD and pesos. Isabella had arranged fake passports, and we breezed through customs.
Wyatt knew the drill. If all went as planned, we would need to leave at a moment’s notice once we had acquired the target. I wasn’t quite sure how the local officials would take to us escorting a man in handcuffs back to the States, but I figured enough cash in the right palms would cause authorities to look the other way. Keep the wheels greased, and the machine would run smoothly—or so I hoped. I had a little over $20,000 for emergency expenditures. It was probably overkill, but better safe than sorry.
I was traveling under the name Ted Wimberly, and JD’s passport identified him as John Dougherty.
We met Isabella's contact at the airport. His name was Dean Anderson. He had short dark hair, a round face, and a slightly round body. He had a light dusting of freckles on his forehead and cheeks, and he looked like your average beer-drinking expat.
"Welcome to Mexico!" he said with a warm smile.
We shook hands, and he escorted us to his car. We climbed in, and he drove us toward our hotel.
“I’ve got a duffel bag of goodies in the trunk that I think you'll enjoy," Dean said.
"Thank you,” I said, looking at his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Much appreciated."
JD sat up front in the passenger seat of the small silver 4-door.
"I saw your target at a local bar not far from here,” Dean said. “Chica Loca. It's part nightclub, part brothel. It's owned by the cartel and under the control of Juan Valverde. The cartels have their fingers in everything here. If they don't own a place outright, they are extracting a high percentage for protection. You need to be careful. There are several warring factions in the area, and at times, it can get quite bloody.”
Dean drove us to a luxurious five-star hotel on the beach that was all-inclusive—not that we were here to spend time at the infinity pool, frequenting the swim-up bar, but I didn't know how long our stay would be. Why not stay in style?
Rows of luxury hotels lined the beaches. There were plenty of bikini-clad beauties, swaying palm trees, and blinding tropical sun that glistened toned bodies.
We checked in and made our way to our suite. It had a full kitchen with granite countertops and full-size appliances. The living space was luxurious with leather furniture, a flatscreen display, and sliding glass doors that opened to a balcony offering a stunning view of the turquoise water and white sand. JD and I each had a private room with an en suite and a queen bed.
“Is this a snatch and grab?” Dean asked, “Or a target elimination?”
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"Snatch and grab," I said.
"But we may call an audible on the fly, if necessary," JD added.
Dean unzipped a duffel bag full of goodies. Inside there were several 9mm pistols, extra magazines, flash-bang grenades, and smoke canisters. I snatched a pistol, slapped in a magazine, and pulled the slide, chambering a round. I flipped the weapon on safety, holstered it, then stuffed it in my waistband and covered it with my shirt.
JD did the same.
"I hope everything is to your satisfaction," Dean said.
I smiled. "Yes. Thank you.”
"When I saw Armando at Chica Loca, he was with a couple of cartel heavy hitters, including Juan Valverde. They were accompanied by a security team of foot soldiers. It’s a regular hangout for those guys. Juan is in there almost every night. He likes to fancy himself a singer, so he gets up on the stage with the band and does horrible renditions of American pop and rock songs. I've been keeping tabs on Juan Valverde for some time now. Isabella updated me with your target and asked me to keep an eye out. When I saw Arman
do, I contacted Isabella immediately."
"What’s your interest in Juan Valverde?" I asked.
"I'm not at liberty to discuss that." He paused. "Look, I just gather intel and help with logistics. That's all I do. I leave the shoot ‘em up stuff to guys like you."
"I understand,” I said. “How long have you been down here?"
"Almost a year. I know this place pretty well. My guess is that Armando is staying at Juan's compound. It's heavily guarded, and I don't recommend any type of takedown there. Plenty of thugs with fully automatic machine guns. Unless you're into that kind of thing."
I exchanged a glance with JD. He shrugged.
"I can show you the compound.”
"Sure,” I said.
"I gotta tell you, these cartel guys never go anywhere without heavy protection. It's too dangerous. They travel in armored cars. They always have goons with Uzis. It's like a war zone right now. All the cartels are fighting over this patch of turf. You need to pick a very precise window to snatch Armando, and even then, count on it getting messy."
"You don't sound optimistic," I said.
"I'm a realist. And I think you boys should know what you're up against. I mean, how bad do you want this guy? Is it worth it?”
At this point, it was the principle of the thing. I wouldn’t be able to sleep easy knowing Armando was walking the streets a free man, enjoying the pleasures of life south of the border. "One way or another, justice will be served."
Dean shrugged as if to say it’s your funeral. "I'll do whatever I can to help."
We grabbed something to eat at the hotel restaurant. We sat outside, watching the waves crash against the shore. A warm breeze blew throughout the resort. At 84 degrees, it felt downright hot compared to Coconut Key.
After our bellies were full, Dean chauffeured us through town. Juan Valverde lived in an affluent neighborhood. His two-story home had a Spanish tile roof and a large white wall that surrounded the compound. The estate spanned an entire city block. It was a small fortress.
