by James Samuel
Failed State
A James Winchester Thriller Book One
Copyright © James Samuel 2021
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CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter One
Mexico City, Distrito Federal, Mexico
Charcoal smudged the bloody sky as the sun set over Mexico City. The slums stirred to life as criminals went to work. The streetlights switched on all at once, lighting the way down the main avenues. In the safer northern borough of Gustavo A. Madero, a young, little-known senatorial candidate, climbed down from a train at the La Raza metro station. The newspapers deemed her the favourite to take the senate seat in next month’s election.
“That’s her,” said Fernando Gomez.
“Go.” Alex Parejo, his boss, touched him on the shoulder.
Despite the setting sun, most Mexicans had barely finished work. La Raza’s usual chaos spiked as a great mass descended on all platforms and clogged the tunnels leading to the surface. This part of Mexico City experienced little serious crime. The elderly populated this district, escaping the notice of drug smugglers and hitmen.
Fernando butted people out of the way with his shoulder as he shadowed Luna Carrea. Few knew the candidate by her small stature or dark eyes, which is why she walked around in public at all. No easily recognisable Mexican politician would be stupid enough to walk the streets alone.
Carrea strode through the long tunnel decorated with images of space exploration on her right flank. She didn’t look over her shoulder, safe in the knowledge that La Raza posed no danger. Fernando had followed her for the past couple of nights. Strictly speaking, she only came to Mexico City to visit her mother, but his bosses knew what else she was up to.
The crowds blocked the stairs, and Carrea slowed to try to force her way through the mob of Mexicans hurrying for the buses. It gave Fernando the chance to hover within a few feet of her. Her jet-black hair hung halfway down the back of her smart business suit. He thought he detected a hint of lavender wafting from her skin.
Fernando slowed to avoid overtaking her. He felt Alex watching him closely. If he carried out this job correctly, he would certainly get his promotion to the sicarios, and then who knew how far he would go?
Carrea pushed her way onto the street above. La Raza exited onto a long avenue, with two lanes of traffic on each side. Fernando knew he had to take care. There were few places to hide on this avenue. Carrea turned the corner and Fernando lingered, allowing her to gain some distance.
“Should I call the car?” Alex loomed up behind him.
The streetlight above shined directly on Alex, his tattoos appearing like bands of leather wrapped around his neck and face.
“Five minutes.” Fernando nodded. “It’s too dangerous on this street. There are too many people and nowhere for the car to stop. This is where the police patrol.”
“It’s your job.” Alex leered at him. “Just remember, there will be consequences if things go wrong.”
Fernando straightened up and tried to look determined. He knew the penalties for failure within the Santa Maria de Guadalupe cartel. The upper echelons of the cartel hierarchy had hesitated over entrusting the job to him in the first place. Only Alex’s intervention had given him the opportunity his peers spent a lifetime waiting for.
“I don’t understand why we’re doing this,” said Fernando without thinking.
A stream of slurs whistled between Alex’s clenched lips. “She’s no friend of ours. We want friends in high places. She won’t cooperate, so we solve the problem. That’s all you need to know.”
He cowered at Alex’s eruption. No, it didn’t matter whether he understood or not. It wasn’t any of his business. Whatever his bosses wanted he would carry out without question.
“Go, you don’t want to lose her.”
Fernando continued tailing Carrea with Alex’s rebuke ringing in his ears. Even though she wore heels, she had travelled almost four blocks by the time he resumed the hunt. He eyed the police station huddled underneath the bridge. Those were no mere police officers but the Federal authorities; much harder to corrupt and far better trained.
His gaze didn’t linger long enough to risk attracting the attention of the officers smoking outside the station. The entrance to the highway bordered him on the left. He looked around him and jogged a little as a line of cars zoomed by. With only a couple of blocks between them, he tried to count the seconds in his head. The car would arrive in approximately three minutes. He couldn’t afford to get his timings wrong.
Fernando increased his pace until he came so close he could almost reach out and touch her. He gritted his teeth as he prepared for the final act. Carrea turned around.
He almost stopped too, caught in her suspicious eyes. By the grace of God, he carried on walking like she hadn’t spooked him. Fernando came level with her. He stared straight ahead and kept moving. Fernando mouthed a silent curse. She’d rumbled him. What was he supposed to do now?
Time was running out. He couldn’t risk her running. He took a right into the residential streets. Dogs barked as he moved past the high buildings. The thick jowls of the half-starved guard dogs snapped at him from their rooftop sanctuaries. His pulse quickened.
Fernando took a hard left in an attempt to circle back onto the avenue without arousing her suspicions again. He knew from the previous nights, Carrea would keep moving down the avenue to her mother’s apartment.
He stopped on the edge of the street and peeked around the corner. Carrea came into view again. She moved faster than before, probably convinced the man who had passed her wasn’t just an innocent bystander.
When she strode out of view again, Fernando sprinted up the street. The dogs burst into their vicious song again as his sneakers slapped the dirty concrete. He stopped and dipped his head around the corner. He had the young candidate in his sights again.
To his surprise, Carrea didn’t continue her normal path. She stopped at a taqueria and disappeared inside. Fernando couldn’t believe his luck. He had her right where he wanted her. Wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans, he pulled out his phone and pressed his finger to the number he’d saved just hours before.
“Yes?”
“Stop for me. I’ll be on the side of the road,” said Fernando.
“What are you doing? That wasn’t part of the plan. We can’t stop.”
“Yes, you can,” Fernando spoke faster and faster. “She’s in the taqueria, she’s not going anywhere. I don’t want to be seen, so I’ll do it from the car.”
The driver didn’t reply. Fernando heard loud chattering in the background, with plenty of curses. Fernando clutched the phone to his ear like a raft in the middle of the ocean. Sudden changes of plan weren’t welcomed in the cartel.
“Fine, fine. We’ll slow down and pick you up. If we miss you, we won’t be able to get around. This is a one-way street and there’s too much traffic.”
The line went dead with a small two-tone beep, and Fernando headed out into the street. In the darkness, they would struggle to see him, so he stood facing the traffic, leaning against the lamppost.
A rickety Nissan Tzuru sedan pulled over. Once the workhorse of the Mexican taxi fleet, this retired rust bucket had been sprayed silver when it entered private use.
Fernando jumped into the backseat of the Tzuru. The driver and his accomplice in the front seat didn’t look back at him.
“Where is she?” asked Alex.
“In the taqueria.” Fernando gestured ahead at the little family-run taco restaurant. “There.”
“He’s going to get us killed, Alex,” the driver barked. “There’s a police station just down the road.”
“Shut up and do your job. We’ve got her now.”
The driver went silent. Alex outranked all of them. The men were sicarios, but Alex was a lieutenant reporting directly to the drug lord Quezada himself.
“Are you ready?” asked Alex.
Fernando nodded and removed the Glock 17 9mm pistol from inside his belt.
“Use this instead.” Alex dove down inside the footwell and pulled out a modified Colt AR-15 A3 Tactical Carbine with basic iron sights. “It’s been converted to automatic fire. You know what to do.”
The driver cruised down the road, hugging the righthand lane. Fernando rolled the window down. He’d practised with the AR-15 before. Alex had taught him how to shoot it and how to ensure he left no witnesses. The car cruised until it came level with the taqueria. He had only seconds to make things happen.
Carrea’s head snapped up from the little plastic table in the shadow of the doorway as the car threw its two wheels onto the curb. Fernando felt her eyes lock with his in surprise. He pulled the trigger, and the AR-15 unleashed its murderous spray.
The woman went down, falling underneath the table. Fernando tensed his arms to control the sheer power of the weapon as he angled it up and to the side to slay everyone else in the shop. They couldn’t afford witnesses. They couldn’t let anyone write down their license plate.
“Go!” Alex yelled.
The driver slammed the ancient Tzuru into gear. The wheels skidded as they struggled for purchase on the road before they all jerked forwards and the car zoomed away, weaving through the traffic as they headed for the highway out of Mexico City.
Chapter Two
Guanajuato, Guanajuato, Mexico
The bus station of Guanajuato City had but a single terminal surrounded by desolate wasteland. The Mexicans who got off the bus from Mexico City fought to get on the local bus into town. The richer folk headed for the taxi rank. James Winchester watched the scene play out as he tucked into a plate of Enchiladas Suizas in a ramshackle restaurant at the side of the road.
His bright green eyes were an oddity in a country where most locals bore an unremarkable brown. James’ handsome countenance and hollowed cheeks told the story of a high-stress lifestyle. His shirt traced the outlines of rippling muscles held to a sturdy yet slim frame.
Sitting on a blue plastic chair and trying to make the plastic cutlery cut through a tough piece of chicken, he kept glancing up at the door. James never entered a restaurant where he couldn’t sit and see the door. His acquired behaviours made him look strange, but, he reasoned, this was a natural consequence of immersing oneself in the business of death. It kept him alive.
James stopped to squeeze half a lime into the zesty salsa verde pooling around his enchiladas like a swamp. The buxom cook emerged from her kitchen, wiping her hands on the floral apron that barely made it past the top of her thighs, under which she wore a short denim skirt. He observed her for a moment as she moved outside and lit her cigarette.
He stabbed his fork into a piece of wayward chicken and held it in the air as a new arrival caught his eye. A tourist in khaki shorts, sunglasses, and a camera hanging around his neck gave a polite greeting to the bored-looking woman.
James lowered the food pinned to the end of his fork. He knew full well who the tourist was, and this most certainly was no tourist.
“Why are you dressed like that? “said James, half in bemusement and half in disgust.
Sinclair Wood, the overweight middle-class intelligence agent from England’s home counties, walked across the small restaurant and perched himself on a plastic chair. “You never heard of blending in, James?”
“There’s blending in and then there’s looking like that. You look like an American snowbird. All you’re missing are the white socks and the knee brace.”
James shook his head as he looked Sinclair up and down. His best friend in all the world. A level of seriousness always tempered by the mischievous glint in Sinclair’s pupils. Ever sarcastic but professional, Sinclair readjusted his chubby frame in his cheap, wobbly seat.
“I thought I looked rather realistic.”
“Nobody is denying that. Now, what do you want?”
“Not much for small talk, are you?”
“You’re the one who dragged me here to the bus station,” said James.
Sinclair sighed. “Fine, I know you’re the type who doesn’t like humans.” He pulled out his smartphone. “I sent it to you through our secure app. Just read it and tell me what you think.”
James felt the characteristic vibration of his smartphone against his leg. He left his meal to go cold and pulled out his phone. He hovered his finger over the button and unlocked it. Clicking on the app developed just for them, he found a link inside, with the URL directing him to the servers of Blackwind.
“How many files do you want me to look through?” James asked. “I’ve told you before, just tell me what I need to know and nothing else.”
“Click the first one. Anything else you need we can go through it later.”
James tapped his thumb on the uppermost file on the largely blank page. It opened to reveal the face of a Mexican with a thick black moustache, large jowls, and a stubby nose. According to the file, the man in the picture was Alberto Cardoso Quezada.
“Quezada?” James said under his breath.
“That’s the one. The leader of the Santa Maria de Guadalupe drug cartel. Do you know anything about them?”
James shrugged. “Cartel? I don’t watch the news here.”
“If you did watch the news, you would know that Guanajuato state has now become the frontline of the drug war in Central Mexico. La Familia from Celaya has run Guanajuato without too much trouble for years, even from the Michoacán crowd. Now they are moving in
from the north. You would notice if you ever left downtown Guanajuato.”
James quickly scrolled down the page, absorbing little snippets of information about Quezada. It was true. He had rarely ventured outside downtown Guanajuato since arriving in Mexico. After his last job, he had wanted to get away from everything, and he chose the farthest place possible from England. Only the Blackwind private military organisation knew of his exact location.
“You never called me after our last job.” James didn’t look up.
“I believed you needed some time to rest. That was a big job in Hong Kong. The last thing we want is to overwork people in our line of business. That’s when they make mistakes. Why, did you gamble all your money away, or something?”
James smirked at that. Field agents of Blackwind were paid ungodly amounts of money. They hid behind an apparently legitimate private security company, of course, but Blackwind only dealt with the major offensive operations, typically on behalf of governments and other shadowy figures.
“So, what’s the job?”
“Liquidation.” The whites of Sinclair’s eyes appeared to glisten. “The usual.”
“A matter of simplicity, right?”
Sinclair shook his head. “Narcos don’t continue to survive just because of the incompetence and corruption of the Mexican authorities. They are not all as stupid as they seem. Quezada is someone you seldom see in public. That picture I showed you is from fifteen years ago, before he came to lead his own cartel. I believe that’s a police photograph from some minor assault outside a bar.”
“So, first of all, I have to find him and hope he hasn’t changed his appearance. Then I have to somehow get to him and liquidate him.”
“Precisely. You will have all the usual methods of support, so no need to worry there. Anything you need you can have. This is Mexico, after all.”
James nodded and locked his phone. Sinclair always made it sound so easy, but he never had to do any of the work on the ground. He only served as the intelligence partner for James, providing distant support through his network of contacts and computer wizardry.
Sinclair switched to Spanish as the woman sauntered up to their table. “Get me the same as him.”
