by Chuck Dixon
“Who was that?” the voice said on the other end asked.
“Some puta,” Rolo said. “Who is this?”
“Honesto Camarillo.”
“Do I know you?” Rolo prodded the whore’s ass with a toe and motioned for her to get him a towel. He sat on the edge of the bed to light a smoke and listen to this cabron’s story.
“We know the same people. Charlie Ruiz gave me your number.”
“You’re friends with Charlie?”
“We have an understanding.”
“Sí. Sí. Claro.” Rolo took a towel from the whore. Her face had become a clown mask, streaks of mascara running from her eyes. She was maybe sixteen. Early in the game for her. A year or more, and she would learn to take a beating with a smile.
“I need you to find a girl for me.”
“I am not a pimp.”
“A particular girl. She’s run away, but I know where she is.”
“So, go get her back.”
The viejo on the other end sighed. “It’s complicated. I need a hunter. Charlie says you’re the best.”
“Is someone holding her?”
“No, but she might be hard to reach.”
“You have an address?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure it will be helpful.”
“Is it on Google Maps? I can find it.”
“Google Maps is not to be trusted.” The viejo chuckled at a private joke.
“Tell me more,” Rolo said and lay back on the bed to blow smoke at the popcorn ceiling. The whore was in the shower, washing off her jet-black tears.
Rolo found Jerry Ramos at the iHop. What kind of man ate pancakes in the middle of the day? Jerry looked up, mustache dripping syrup, as his partner slid into the booth across from him. They were a study in contrasts. Rolo, snake-hipped in a black rodeo shirt, skinny jeans, and lizard skin boots. Jerry, big-boned and rangy in baggy Levi’s and a cotton work shirt, dusty chukkas on his feet. Rolo with his carefully trimmed goatee and bird-like moves and Jerry with his droopy red Zapata mustache and reptilian energy, only moving if he needed to.
They’d first partnered down in Medellin. They had been kids then, hungry and wild and willing to do anything for cash. When the opportunities dried up there, they moved north to Panama, and then Mexico. They had crossed the border in Arizona three years back, ready to do the jobs Americans wouldn’t do. They never allied themselves, remaining fiercely independent and loyal only to one another.
Their only separation in all those years had been when Jerry did some time at Topo Chico until Rolo could work up the cash to pay for his release. That was how brothers rolled, although they weren’t brothers, or even cousins. Not in any way. Rolo was dark and pure Indio. Jerry was half-Irish. One of the jefes down in Medellin had tagged them as “the Spic and the Mick.”
“There’s a job for us up in Alabama,” Rolo said. He helped himself from the carafe of coffee.
“That’s a long drive,” Jerry remarked around a mouthful of double-blueberry flapjacks.
“Nothing for us here right now in J-ville.” They’d been in Jacksonville since August, picking up a collection job here, a muscle job there. The last paying work they’d had was an arson job on a dry cleaner’s plant. Since then they’d been drinking, sleeping, and fucking. Spending, not earning.
“What’s the job?” Jerry said.
“A girl. A kid. A plaza up there paid for her and she’s rabbited.”
“We need to hunt for her, or do we know where she is?”
“Might be a little of both. She’s in the mountains at some fucker’s house. Hillbilly shit.”
“Like home,” Jerry said, his mouth crooked.
“Yeah. Like home.” Rolo returned the grin.
They’d both grown up in the foothills of the Andes that lined the Aburrá Valley. Rolo was one of eight children, and they all cut coca in the hidden clefts high above Caldas. Jerry’s parents were schoolteachers in Envigado. Both boys had found themselves in Medellin after running away from their homes. Rolo, little more than an indentured servant, had fled the backbreaking labor at the start of the narco chain. Jerry wanted to be far from an abusive alcoholic father and aloof mother.
What brought them together was their ruthless determination not only to survive but to triumph. They backed away from no one, and took on work the other grasping young men blanched at. Their masters, the men in the expensive clothes and cars, saw the value in these boys and put guns in their hands.
To Rolo and Jerry, the Spic and the Mick, it was an adventure. They were campañeros, hermanos, like the partners in the movies and comic books. Riggs and Murtaugh. Batman and Robin. Tough hombres who inspired fear in the enemies of their masters. The lives and the pain of others meant nothing to them. Everyone else, the men they killed, the women they fucked, were extras in the movie of their lives.
At least, that was what it was like when they were young. They were in their forties now, and it was all just a job. They were every bit as dangerous as before, but maybe a bit slower, moving with determination rather than passion. And because of their reputation for success, guaranteed results, they could ask for more money now. That meant more downtime between jobs for putas and pancakes.
Rolo played with his phone, then held it up for Jerry to inspect. The image was a satellite shot, all green trees but for a string of white road to a small clearing at the foot of an incline. A few rooftops sat at the edges of the clearing.
“Nothing around there but trees and shit,” Jerry said.
“That means we can make as much noise as we want,” Rolo shot back.
“When do you want to leave?”
44
Gunny Leffertz said:
“A little chaos goes a long way.”
The sun was low in the sky. Flurries of snow swirled in the air, and the dark-gray clouds building to the east promised more. Prisoners had lined up before the dining hall for their evening meal. The final football game was done, and the players trotted toward the showers.
Levon met the Chechen’s entourage returning from the pitch. The big man with the little head, his nose still covered in a plaster splint, carried the cooler and the lawn chair. Ball Boy walked with the net bag of balls over his shoulder. Between them, the Chechen puffed on a black cigar, huddled under a stadium blanket, his fedora pulled low on his brow.
Ball Boy separated himself from the group to intercept Levon.
“He does not wish speak to you,” Ball Boy said in his tortured French.
“It’s you I wanted to talk to.”
Ball Boy shifted the load of footballs on his shoulder and tilted his head to hear more.
“Sadıkoğlu is still here,” Levon said, stepping close. “I can still get to him. But I need a blade.”
“What is difference?” Ball Boy’s fixed scowl weakened and his eyes narrowed.
“I need that phone your boss promised.”
Ball Boy shrugged and dug into a pocket of his coat. He came out with the duct-taped hilt of a blade in the palm of his hand. The spade-shaped blade was a four-inch length of white metal honed to a ragged edge on either side. It looked to have been made from a piece cut from a bunk frame. Ball Boy stepped close to hide the handoff from prying eyes.
Levon took the blade’s handle in his fist. At the same time, he reached out to grip Ball Boy by the back of the neck. His fingers closed hard on the man’s nape, his thumb driven into the soft tissue of Ball Boy’s throat.
With a single motion, he pulled the smaller man to him and drove the blade again and again into Ball Boy’s chest just under where the ribs met. The first blow snapped the xyphoid process from the tip of the sternum.
The blade, not long enough to reach the heart, tore into vital vessels that fed that organ. Ball Boy sagged against him, seconds from cardiac arrest.
The net bag fell to the ground, spilling open to send dozens of footballs rolling over the yard. Idle prisoners chased them over the gravel, kicking and tossing the balls in an impromptu foo
tball melee.
The Chechen turned in response to the hoots and cries of the men kicking balls, his balls, along the lane between the huts. He failed to notice the humped figure of his man lying dead on the ground. Too late, he saw Levon striding toward him. The man’s face was a mask, and his shirt was black with blood to the elbow. A dripping blade was held close by his side.
“Yuri!” he called the big man’s name.
Yuri turned in time to meet Levon’s first assault. The big man raised a hand to block the opening lunge, taking the point of the jagged spade deep in the palm of his hand. Levon drove his forehead into the already-ruined flesh of the bigger man’s nose. The cartilage snapped anew, sending blood in a jet from under the bandages. Levon twisted the blade and yanked it from the flesh of the man’s hand. The second knife thrust was deep into the flesh under the point of Yuri’s jaw. This blow was delivered with Levon’s full weight and carried both men to the ground.
Levon rolled off the big man’s still body.
The yard was chaos now, prisoners fighting over the footballs while guards raced in to break up the scrums that were turning into fistfights. The loudspeaker squawked to life and screeched orders for the men to return to their huts immediately. A guard, racing to join the fray, tripped over Ball Boy’s still form and went sprawling.
The Chechen was hobbling toward the safety of the crowd that was exiting the dining hall to watch or join the growing brawl in the main yard.
Levon caught up with him, clutching him close in a choke hold and at the same time driving the point of the blade into the top of the spine where it joins the skull. The Chechen went limp, limbs quivering as the last signals from his brain reached them. He followed his fedora to the ground.
The crowd of hooting and laughing prisoners grew silent and backed away from the bloody man now crouched over the Chechen, rifling his pockets. The Chechen had no friends here. His corpse, lying in a lake of blood spreading across the dirt, meant debts forgiven and obligations lifted. No one called out in alarm. The clutch of men closed back in to create a sheltering curtain around the murder they had just witnessed.
His fingers found the phone in the Chechen’s coat pocket, an older Galaxy with the battery at half-charge. He pocketed it and parted the ring of men standing around him to run into the dining hall. The cook staff had joined the lookie-loos outside, leaving the kitchen unattended.
Levon vaulted a steam table to open the larder and pull out plastic jugs of vegetable oil. He used a carving knife to slash them open and threw them to the floor, where a shiny lake spread across. He turned on all the burners on the propane stove, then found a tin of stick matches by the steam tables and lit the end of a folded apron that he tossed on the floor. He was out the door while the spill of oil smoked and then ignited.
He ran through the chaos in the yard and had gotten halfway to the shower building when the flames reached the cloud of propane. All eyes, guards and their charges, turned as ten-foot gouts of flame exploded from the doors and windows. With a kettle-drum roll, the propane tanks ignited one after the other, sending an orange glow across the camp.
By that time, Levon was in the latrine and up into his hideout above the shower room.
He crouched on a beam and wiped the blood from his fingers to use the touch screen. He accessed the Vodaphone account and tabbed in an international number.
He was paying for the cake all over again.
Brett Tsukuda’s oldest daughter had a birthday that day. Twelve years old. The big One-Two. They celebrated with dinner at Carrabba’s and a monster birthday cake from Miller’s. Brett had one too many pieces. On top of the pasta at dinner, it was way too much wheat gluten for this Japanese boy. The reflux roused him from a sound sleep.
While the rest of the family slept, he was down in the kitchen munching Gaviscon tablets and sipping ice water. He heard the phone ringing somewhere, never good news at—what was it?—four in the morning? Jesus. He recognized the ringtone. It was that phone. Where did he leave it?
He trotted to the laundry room and retrieved his agency phone from the pocket of the pants he’d worn to work that day.
“You’ve got Tsukuda,” he said.
“Hold for Centcomm,” a female voice replied.
Centcomm. Not good. He padded back to the family room to flick on the TV. A Tucker Carlson rerun was on Fox. On CNN was a panel on gender discrimination in the entertainment industry. Jesus, didn’t the news channels have news anymore? A male voice came on the phone.
“Deputy Director Tsukuda? This is Colonel Tim Reese, Central Command, MacDill.”
“How can I help you, Colonel?”
“We got a phone call to one of our classified contact numbers. An older one. The man on the other end mentioned your name and asked us to relay a series of texts that followed the call after he broke contact. Your office referred us to you.”
“Did caller give his own name?”
“He said his name was William Hogue, and he would be contacting you through the Canadian consulate in Ankara.”
“I don’t recall him. The Canadian consulate?”
“Yes, sir. He said you had a mutual acquaintance. Barry Saref?”
Abd al Bari Sarraf, late of ISIS. Very late, since a Tomahawk missile had decisively ended the mass murderer’s career three weeks earlier in an attack signed off on by Brett himself.
“He also asked if you still liked coffee with your sugar.”
“Holy shit.”
“Then you know the caller?”
“I damn sure do. When did this come in?”
“Just after noon yesterday. We only found it twenty minutes ago.”
“Damn. You relayed those texts to my section?”
“Already done, sir. Just letters and numbers.”
“Delete them on your end. Forget this call. Forget William Hogue.”
“Sorry for the wrong number, sir.” The connection ended.
Brett ran from the family room, detouring through the kitchen to snap up the Gaviscon. He munched a fistful while he dressed in his closet, phone on speaker. His wife Tonya, still half-asleep, picked out a shirt and tie for him.
“I need a secure room. Who’s on duty tonight? Highest clearance. Have them meet me there. Both of them. Isolate and lock down all communications to me from Centcomm this evening. It’s to be marked classified, eyes only, me and the two on-duty officers joining me. Thank you, honey. No, that was for my wife. I’ll be there in twenty.” He signed off.
“Is this a national or international emergency, or some interagency bullshit?” his wife asked, pulling his collar to straighten it.
“Interagency bullshit,” he said, plucking his car keys from a tray.
“You could have worn a sweatshirt and sneakers, then.” She followed him to the front door in her slippers and robe. He shrugged into a woolen coat as he walked.
“Shirt and tie’s good. It’s gonna be a long day,” he said, turning to peck her cheek before leaving the house.
A long fucking day, he thought as he tapped his Audi to life and crossed the snow-slick driveway in his flat-soled oxfords.
45
“Do we walk, or do we ride?” Jerry Ramos asked.
“They would hear us coming on that road,” Rolo Moreno said.
“Then we walk.”
They were parked on the narrow country road where a crushed stone driveway began. A rusty, battered mailbox sat atop a leaning post; CADE was neatly painted on the box in block letters. The sky was low, clouds touching the treetops. It was just past noon, but it looked like dusk.
Rolo pulled their truck, an F-150 stolen outside Macon, onto an apron of dried grass under the shelter of some beech trees. They got out, shrugging into heavy winter coats. The air was dry and cold, bitter after the muggy heat of the truck cab. The lenses of Rolo’s Wayfarers misted over and he tossed them back onto the driver’s seat.
Jerry pulled rifle cases onto the tailgate and unzipped them. One was a Savage bolt action in .308
, the fat barrel of a heavy scope mounted atop it. The second rifle was a Marlin lever-action in .357. No scope.
Not their usual weapons of choice, but they were common enough hunting pieces. They’d draw no suspicion or notice this time of year, especially not in this part of the country. That would allow them to move in close and keep the gunplay to a minimum. Less risk to their quarry; that was key. The girl had to be returned unharmed, or they could kiss the five thousand dollar payday adios, amigo.
They turned toward a crunch of tires on the road behind them. A Tahoe with rust-rimmed wheel wells pulled to a stop on the roadway.
“You goin’ for deer?” the driver called once he had his window down. Older guy with gray whiskers and a SKOAL cap with a curved bill.
“Just back from hunting.” Jerry shrugged.
“No luck, huh?” The driver smiled, lower lip bulging with a bite of chaw.
“Guess not.” Jerry shrugged again. He took lead. His English was fluent and his accent flat.
“Good thing, too. Repeater and bolt-action season ended a week ago. It’s percussion now through Christmas.”
“That so? We’re from out of state.”
“Saw the plates. Don’t you Georgia boys wear orange vests? Warden sees you with those rifles and no license pins, he’ll take a shit on you.”
“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t see any deer.” Jerry left his rifle on the tailgate to walk toward the idling truck.
“Just taking your gun for a walk.” The driver grinned and nodded.
“And my buddy in his city shoes. You know the best barbecue around here?” Jerry leaned, a grip on the bar of the outsized trailer mirror frame.
“Depends on which way you’re headed from here,” the driver said.
“It would depend on that.”
Jerry leaned closer, sticking his hand, with the snubby revolver tight in his fist, deep into the driver’s down vest below the man’s armpit. Three trigger pulls, the explosions muffled by the thick fabric and padding. He yanked the door open to use his booted foot to roll the driver to the other side of the cab. The door open, he put the Tahoe in drive and aimed it toward the side of the road behind their truck. He drew the lever to neutral and stepped clear. The SUV rolled on through the brush and deeper into the trees, twigs and branches snapping until it came to rest out of sight.
