Chapter 10
“What do you mean Altamar is missing? What the fuck does that mean? Missing?” Jorge Encarlo screamed into his cell phone. “Does that mean he decided to disappear and bang a fifteen year old for a few days, or does that mean he’s mulch in a tomato field?”
“Jefe, I’m telling you everything I know. I heard from a friend of a friend that he went missing yesterday and his organization is scrambling to find him. Doesn’t sound like young love to me…,” the voice on the phone advised.
Encarlo was a bulldog of a man, heavily muscled with a buzz cut and a closely cropped four day shadow. “Is there anything else? God damn it, get some more information. I don’t care what you have to do. This could be really big if someone’s taken the cocksucker out,” Encarlo snarled.
“I know. I’m on it. But you know how this goes. Nobody’s going to talk if they think they could wind up beheaded for doing so.”
“Right. I get it. The problem is that if Altamar’s been taken out, we need to move rapidly – or we’ll all be as good as dead,” Encarlo warned.
“I’m doing everything I can. Really. Give me some more time and I’ll find out more. This just came in, and it’s not easy getting anyone on his crew to talk. They’re not chatty types, if you remember.”
Encarlo silently counted to three. “Look. I’m not paying you to tell me how hard it is to do your job. I’m paying for you to do it. So do your fucking job and get me some intelligence, or I’ll find someone who can.” Encarlo was fuming and had nobody to take his anger out on. He stared at his little Motorola flip phone, the latest model, and snapped it closed in frustration.
What the hell was going on with Altamar? If he was really missing in a way that suggested he would never be reappearing except as pieces floating in the river, then Encarlo needed to get positioned to take action against the other lieutenants. That was how it worked. If the king was dead, long live whoever was left once the smoke cleared and they hosed the blood off the sidewalks. He didn’t make the rules, but he was a survivor, nonetheless. At thirty-one, he was already reputed to be a mover and, even by cartel standards, was utterly ruthless. He’d learned early that shock and awe went a long way towards moving you up the food chain, and so he was prone to violent outbursts of slaughter at the slightest provocation. That was his modus operandi and it had served him in good stead.
Encarlo owned a recycling plant that shipped its product to the United States once it was processed, which had provided excellent cover for shipping other items north as well. His operation was one of many responsible for the growing methamphetamine traffic that was slowly displacing crack cocaine in many areas of the U.S. It was a booming market with a rock-bottom production cost, so the profits from trafficking in the synthetic drug were swelling his accounts. It made the cocaine trade seem like small potatoes, if the growth curve kept up.
He picked unconsciously at a scabbed area above his left ear. It was a nervous tick, one of many he’d developed from the constant pressure to stay one step ahead of the rest of the wolf pack. Encarlo used his own products and consumed a fair amount of both meth and cocaine in a cocktail of stimulants that enabled him to sleep only four hours at a stint. He firmly believed that much of his success was thanks to the long hours he worked, in addition to an innate cunning born of the streets. Those traits, combined with a relentless sadistic bent and a sociopathic streak that would have been the envy of any serial killer, made him the perfect mid-level cartel functionary. His men and his competitors were terrified of him, for good reason – the chemical supplementation often resulted in erratic mood swings; he could be set off on a bloody tirade by virtually anything.
Right now, his antennae were picking up the vibrations of opportunity from the early news of Altamar’s mysterious disappearance. He knew that if he could confirm that the man was actually gone for good, he’d be perfectly positioned to capitalize on the situation and take out his rivals before they knew what had hit them. It only got dangerous if all facts were known by all the lieutenants at the same time – that’s where it became a killing field until only one was left standing. He’d gone through that multiple times and there was never any guarantee that you would make it through the next one, no matter how much of a badass you were.
The idea of creating a loose coalition like Altamar had never entered his head. Why would he look to his weaker competitors for cooperation when he could simply eliminate them and claim their networks for his own? The outreach approach had worked for Altamar, but in Encarlo’s opinion it was the flawed plan of a weak man, which would be evidenced by his having been taken out after only two years at the top of his little hub.
He needed to know what was going on, and he needed to know now. The anxiety was building and he knew from harsh experience that he had to do something salient. Anything. Sitting waiting for feedback was too reactive for his tastes.
Restless, he tapped out a line of cocaine to help him focus, and quickly snorted it using a gold tube he carried for the purpose. He brushed a little on his gums, and shook his head, as if to clear it.
The drug now coursing through his system, Encarlo resolved to see if he could shake loose some information himself. He’d hit the street and see if anything came back from his personal contacts. He had confidence in his men but he couldn’t just sit still and wait. Glancing at his watch, he noted that it was already nine-thirty in the morning. Time to move. He stabbed at the keypad of his office phone and barked orders into it, calling for his car to be brought around. He next dialed his second in command and told him to get three men, packing heavy heat, to meet him at his vehicle in five minutes. Encarlo opened his file cabinet, retrieved a Glock 26 9mm pistol and slipped it into his windbreaker pocket. It was a small gun but packed a decent wallop, and he hated having to wear a shoulder holster like some undercover cop. He’d tried an ankle holster, but it had bothered him; it was easier to carry the thing in his pocket.
Encarlo made his way downstairs to the ground level and strode through the office doors, past the heavy industrial equipment in the yard, toward his truck – a silver fully loaded Lincoln Navigator with custom rims and steel armored plates welded into each of the four doors. Three men joined him, all toting a variety of submachine guns. He didn’t like to screw around when he went out on the town, and believed in being prepared for an assault at all times. It wasn’t so much paranoia as occupational hazard, and it had kept him alive so far. His driver nodded at him as he climbed into the passenger seat, the three enforcers climbing in behind him. One of the reasons he liked the big SUV was because it had enough room for three grown men in the back.
The truck moved toward the front gates, which opened via a configuration of hydraulic pistons activated by the security guard in a booth by the street, and then exploded in a blossom of orange fire. The concussion from the plastique affixed to the gas tank shattered the windows in the nearby buildings as pieces of the truck spiraled through the mushroom cloud of black smoke above it, before inevitably dropping like Icarus back to earth. Nothing survived that sort of a blast, and the men that came running did so with slim hope of salvaging anything.
El Rey took several snapshots with his little camera from across the thoroughfare. He put the Ford Lobo into gear and pulled away down the road to his final destination for the day – the third target, who at this point was already as good as neutralized.
Night of the Assassin Page 13
