Noble did one more lap around the block and told Alejandra, “Climb into the backseat and get down.”
“Why?” she asked.
“You stand out,” he said.
She scrambled over the seats, into the floorboard.
Noble held Hunt’s Kimber next to his thigh. He pulled over at the curb, buzzed the window down, and waved the watcher over.
Her eyes narrowed. Her face was just short of beautiful but her body made up for it.
Noble gave her a big, toothy American grin. “Hola, señorita.”
She sauntered over and stuck her head in the passenger side window, giving him a generous view of her cleavage. “Want some company, handsome?”
Noble showed her the gun. “Get in.”
If she was a pro, the sight of the gun would have sent her screaming. Instead she pressed her lips together, opened the door, and climbed in.
Noble pulled away from the curb. “Let’s have it.”
She spread her legs. The leather skirt rode up to reveal a nickel-plated .38 revolver strapped to the inside of one thigh.
Noble said, “Get that for me, would you, Alejandra?”
Alejandra sat up and the prostitute gave a start. She let Alejandra reach between her thighs and remove the revolver. The snub nose barrel had been drilled to dampen the sound. The chambers were loaded with sub-sonic ammunition—a poor man’s silencer.
“Is Santiago and his crew at the bar?” Noble asked.
The prostitute crossed her arms over her breasts and looked out the window.
Noble said, “Shoot her in the knee.”
Alejandra ratcheted back the hammer and pressed the barrel against the prostitute’s kneecap.
“Yes,” she said.
“How many?” Noble asked.
“Five, including Santiago.”
“How were you going to make contact when you spotted me?”
She reached a hand into her tank top.
“Slowly,” Noble said.
She gave him a baleful look and brought out a cellphone.
Noble thrust his chin at the open window.
She tossed it.
He parked on a deserted side street away from the spill of the street lamps. “Get out.”
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“Less than you had planned for me.” Noble popped the trunk and followed her around to the back of the car. “Inside.”
She threw one leg over the lip of the trunk. “Machado is going to cut your heart out, bastardo!”
“I haven’t got one.” Noble tore off the emergency release tab, tossed it over his shoulder and slammed the trunk on the cartel assassin.
“Are you sure she can’t get out?” Alejandra asked as they climbed back in the car.
“No,” Noble admitted.
“Where are we going now?”
“Shopping.”
He used his phone to bring up a list of hardware stores and found one open until nine p.m. That gave him an hour. He told Alejandra, “This could get ugly.”
She pointed to her face. “I’m already ugly.”
“Fair enough.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Santiago held the phone two inches from his ear. Machado’s screams distorted the speaker. The only thing coming out was static. Santiago didn’t need the particulars. Blythe was splattered all over the sidewalk in front of a hotel and Machado was on the warpath. Santiago grunted occasionally to let Machado know he was still listening. The ceiling fans rocked on their mounts, stirring up the heat, making his blood sluggish and his thoughts slow. The line went dead and Santiago dropped the phone on the tabletop. He looked around at his crew and said, “Blythe is dead.”
Esteban stopped peeling the label off an empty beer bottle and whistled.
Jorge asked, “How?”
“Someone threw him out a window,” Santiago said.
“The gringo?” Esteban wanted to know.
“Who else,” Santiago said.
“What are we going to do?” Lorenzo wanted to know.
Santiago rubbed the back of his neck. “If we don’t put that gringo in a body bag soon, our heads are going to be on the chopping block.”
They exchanged tense looks.
The door opened and El Lobo entered. A bib of sweat had soaked through his gray shirt. He saw their expressions and asked, “What happened?”
Santiago shook a cigarette from a pack, stuck it between his lips and flicked his lighter. “The Americano killed the accountant.”
El Lobo cursed. “Does Machado know?”
Santiago exhaled. “How do you think we found out?”
Jorge thrust his chin at El Lobo. “What are you doing to find him?”
The rest of the crew turned to the Wolf.
El Lobo spread his hands. “He’s a ghost. Santiago, I’m telling you, no one has seen this gringo anywhere.”
“Blythe saw him,” Santiago said.
El Lobo went behind the bar and poured himself a drink. “Every cop and crook in Mexico is looking for this guy. What can I do?”
“You never failed before,” Santiago pointed out.
El Lobo drank the head of foam off his beer. “You know what I think? I think Machado is losing his hold. First he let a Norteamericano spy into the organization and now his accountant is dead. Maybe it’s time for new leadership?”
Santiago pulled his Glock from his waistband.
“You going to shoot me?” El Lobo asked. “Go ahead. But you know it’s true, amigo. Machado has lost a step.”
The door opened and Lucita limped in looking like she had just crawled out of bed. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were rumpled. One shoe had lost a heel.
Esteban laughed. “He must have been one horny customer. You need an ice pack?”
She flipped him the bird and said, “The crazy gringo kidnapped me and stuffed me in a trunk.”
Santiago took his feet off the table. “What? When was this?”
“An hour ago,” she told him. “Right out front. He drove up and waved me over to his car, then forced me into the trunk at gun point.”
The rest of the crew was already checking their weapons.
“How did you get away?” Santiago asked.
“He drove somewhere, stopped for forty minutes, and then he let me out six blocks away. He wants you to know he’s at the construction site half a mile north, across from the abandoned shopping mall. The Domingo woman is with him.”
Jorge said, “It’s a trap.”
“Of course it’s a trap,” Santiago said.
“What are we going to do?” said Lorenzo.
“What we failed to do the first time.” Santiago scraped his chair back and stood up. “Break out the hardware.”
Esteban reached under the bar top, brought out an AK-47, and tossed it to Santiago.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Fifteen minutes later, Santiago and his crew stood on the street in front of the abandoned construction site, peering through chain link at a darkened warzone of half-finished storefronts, discarded building materials and hard-packed earth crisscrossed by bulldozer tracks. Cones of yellow light from street lamps made the shadows deeper and distance hard to judge. Santiago scanned the dark landscape for movement. At his back was an apartment building. The residents, sensing trouble, had drawn the curtains and turned out the lights.
Jorge shifted his weight from foot to foot. Sweat gathered on the tip of his long nose and fell in heavy drops. “I don’t like it,” he said. “We should call Machado. Get a dozen more guys out here.”
“We aren’t calling anybody.” Santiago turned his head and spit. “The gringo killed Ramone and made us look like fools.”
“He’s right,” said Esteban. “Let’s go get this guy.”
Lorenzo nodded in agreement. “There are five of us and two of them.”
“Don’t forget the girl is blind in one eye,” Santiago pointed out. “She can barely walk.”
He hauled
open the gate with a rattle of chain link. The noise underscored the pressing silence. Without speaking, Jorge and Lorenzo took the east side. Santiago, along with Esteban and El Lobo, took the west. The plan was to squeeze the Americano in the middle, catch him in a cross fire.
Santiago and his team moved in a crouch toward a block of low concrete structures. Jorge and Lorenzo sprinted for a stack of abandoned lumber next to a rusting concrete mixer. They had covered half the distance when a loud pop shattered the silence. Jorge lay sprawled in the dirt, writhing in pain. Lorenzo clutched a bloody arm, but was still on his feet.
The rest of the crew opened fire on the empty storefronts. They sprayed full auto bursts through open doorways and dark window cavities. Bullets chewed through cinder block walls, kicking up tiny dust storms. Santiago waved his hand and yelled. “Hold your fire!”
It took several attempts, but he finally got the message across. Silence crowded in around them as the last echo of gunfire drifted across the rooftops. Brass shell casings winked in the dirt. Esteban swapped mags. Smoke drifted from the barrel of his rifle.
Santiago, his nerves on high alert, waited and watched. No one was shooting at them. The explosion had been a simple IED designed to thin their ranks. It worked. Jorge pressed both hands over a chest wound oozing blood. His eyes bulged from their sockets. He wasn’t getting up.
Santiago looked at Lorenzo. “You okay?”
Dark red blood had soaked his forearm from the elbow down. He switched his rifle to his left hand and nodded. “I can fight.”
El Lobo grabbed Santiago’s shoulder. “The American had an hour head start. He could’ve rigged dozens of booby traps.”
Esteban said, “He’s right. We don’t even know if he is really here. He might be leading us on a wild chase. Let’s get out of here, Santiago.”
There was no point in wading through a minefield. The gringo had killed one and wounded another without firing a single shot. Santiago cursed and motioned for a retreat.
Gunfire erupted from the row of apartment houses behind them. Bullets burned through the air, kicking up divots in the turf. A slug hammered Esteban’s shoulder. He fired blindly at the apartment houses. Windows blew out of their frames. People screamed.
Santiago sprinted through the construction site for the safety of the half-finished storefronts, where at least he could find cover. The others followed. They hadn’t gone twenty feet when another loud pop assaulted Santiago’s eardrums. Shrapnel buzzed overhead. He didn’t stop. He forced his legs to move faster. Air burst from his lungs in panicked gasps.
A third explosion lifted Esteban off his feet. He went down flat on his back.
Santiago sprinted through two more explosions with bullets chasing him the whole way.
There was an open doorway directly ahead and Santiago knew it would be rigged. He slowed down, letting Lorenzo overtake him. They had been friends a long time, him and Lorenzo, but now it was every man for himself. Lorenzo dashed through the open door. An earsplitting bang flung him aside like a rag doll. He landed in a jumble, like a broken marionette.
Only Santiago and El Lobo remained. They leapt through the opening into the dark interior of the half-finished building. The shooting stopped. El Lobo was cursing and dancing a jig, holding onto his butt. Blood stained the seat of his pants. His face pinched. He limped around in a circle until the pain subsided. When he had mastered himself, he pointed at Santiago’s forearm. “You got clipped.”
Santiago looked down. He had a bloody hole no bigger than a BB in his forearm and seeing it made the pain set in. “Bastardo!”
El Lobo put his back to the wall. His face was pale. “We have to get out of here, amigo.”
Santiago spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m not leaving until I kill the American.”
“There’s only two of us,” El Lobo said. “We’re both wounded, and the police will be here any minute.”
Santiago shrieked in rage and frustration. El Lobo was right. The American had dismantled his entire crew with a few fireworks. This fight was over. He nodded. “Okay, let’s get out of here before the police show up. See if you can find a back exit. I’ll cover you.”
El Lobo moved deeper into the darkened retail space. He was limping from the shrapnel in his butt. Santiago stayed several meters back on the pretense of guarding their rear flank. They passed a frightened hobo, cowering in a corner, surrounded by the detritus of homeless life. El Lobo located a back door and threw it open. A bright flash slammed him into the doorframe with bone crushing force.
“Sorry, old friend,” Santiago muttered and stepped over El Lobo’s broken body. He sprinted across seven meters of open ground, then scaled the chain link and disappeared into the neighborhood.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Noble had purchased ¾ inch plumber’s pipe, caps, ball bearings, fishing wire and household chemicals from the hardware store. Building a pipe bomb is relatively easy; rigging trip wires in the dark took more time.
When they finished, Alejandra had located an empty apartment in the building across the street. Noble bought a filthy overcoat and a moth-eaten cap from a homeless man living in the derelict construction site before advising him to clear out. Then he laid down under a moldy tarpaulin and watched as Alejandra herded the cartel enforcers through the deadly hail of shrapnel. Only two of the assassins had survived, Santiago and the long-haired guy in snakeskin boots that Alejandra called the Wolf.
They walked right past him in their hurry to escape. It took all his willpower not to gun them down, but he waited, betting his last little surprise would cripple both. No such luck. Santiago let the Wolf go first.
Noble heard the earsplitting pop of the pipe bomb and threw off the musty overcoat. By the time he reached the back door, Santiago was gone. The Wolf lay writhing in pain, clutching a pair of bloody legs.
Noble had used an old cinderblock to direct the blast at knee height. The Wolf’s lower legs were mangled, but he would live. He held up one blood-soaked hand as Noble approached. “Wait! I didn’t off Diaz.”
Noble hunkered next to him. “Who did?”
“He offed himself,” he said through clenched teeth. “We had him cornered in a hangar and he shot himself. I swear on my mother’s grave.”
Noble took the key out of his pocket. “What’s this go to?”
The wolf looked at it with genuine confusion, shook his head. “Don’t know.”
“Let’s talk about Machado,” Noble said. “How do I get close to him?”
“You don’t,” he said. “His house is a fortress.”
“He has to leave sometime,” Noble said.
“He’ll kill me if I talk.”
Noble stood up and stomped the Wolf’s injured knees.
His eyes bulged and his mouth stretched wide in a scream. It took a second for the sound to catch up. When he finished, he took a deep breath and managed to say, “He scheduled a meeting.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Noble said and motioned for the Wolf to continue.
He rattled off an address. “Tomorrow night. Top floor. Penthouse. All the cartel heads will be there.”
“What’s the security situation like?”
“The rank and file will be in the parking garage,” he said. “Only the cartel heads and their bodyguards are allowed in the penthouse.”
Noble pressed his gun to the Wolf’s forehead. “You sure that’s everything you know?”
“I’m just a foot soldier,” he said. “They tell me when and where.”
Sirens screamed in the distance. Noble took the gun out of the Wolf’s face and stood.
“Wait,” the Wolf gasped. “Don’t leave me here.”
“Police are on their way,” he said. “They’ll get you to a hospital.”
“Exactly,” He said. “Machado finds out I talked, I’m as good as dead. Please, don’t leave me here.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Sam capped off an extra long workout by pummeling a heavy bag until
she split the knuckles on both hands. Blood soaked through her wraps. A meathead on the squat rack had been trying to catch her eye for an hour. She ignored him. Even a polite smile would bring him over and then she’d never be rid of him. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, went to the locker room for her gym bag and left without bothering to shower. She could do that at home.
The sun had gone down, but hadn’t taken with it any of the heat gripping the Foggy Bottom. Sam tossed her gym bag into the passenger seat of a gray Volkswagen. Her hands shook so badly it took two tries to slot the key in the ignition. She finally managed and the engine hummed to life. She cranked the air up and aimed the vents at her chest.
There was a knock on the window.
Sam jerked and closed her mouth on a scream. One hand darted into her gym bag, for her Smith & Wesson M&P. She recognized the meathead from the squat rack. He gave her a smug grin.
She buzzed the window down a crack and said, “Not interested.”
He laughed at that, like she had told a joke. “I saw you checking me out back there.”
“You got that backwards, champ.”
“Some friends of mine are throwing a party. You like to party, don’t cha?”
“I said I’m not interested.”
“Don’t be like that.” He frowned. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know your type,” Sam said and buzzed the window up.
“Damned tease.”
Sam took her phone out of her gym bag. She wanted to pull the gun, but that might get the cops involved and she didn’t need any more trouble. The sight of the phone was enough to send him packing. He called her a slut and stalked back the gym on legs the size of tree trunks.
She watched him go and then noticed she had a text. It read, Wizard would like a word.
Her stomach did a nauseating summersault.
Getting summoned to a late night meeting with the DDO was not good. Sam put the Volkswagen in gear and backed out. Her shower would have to wait. She tried Burke’s cell and got no answer. By the time she slotted the VW into a spot in the parking garage beneath Langley, her knees had turned to Silly Putty. Sam walked to the elevators in yoga pants and a sweaty tank top, blood caked on her knuckles.
Noble Vengeance Page 18
