Failed State (A James Winchester Thriller Book 1) (James Winchester Series)

by James Samuel

  At the bus stop, he fought his way through the crowds trying to get on the rickety local bus that would take him to the meeting. The bus growled like a powerlifter as it pulled away from the curb. Its long shot suspension bounced and jarred with every corner and bump as it made its way to the station. The sheer number of people crammed into the bus made it impossible for him to observe everyone, which added to his uneasy feelings about the job.

  Mercifully, the bus began to empty as they closed on their destination. James had enough breathing room to inspect the people before him and scan his surroundings for threats. None of the passengers gave him a second look.

  By the time they pulled into the intercity bus station on the edge of town, night had almost fallen, and the streetlights blazed into life. Shadows covered the niches of the station and the surrounding fields grew in menace.

  James climbed off the bus with a great puff of his cheeks and settled into a shady nook next to the main doors. He lit a cigarette and kept checking the time on his phone. He had timed it, so he’d arrive only minutes before Mario. That old familiar nervous beating of his heart surfaced, as it always did during the minutes and seconds before a mission officially began. During the mission, he felt nothing. He became cold, merciless, an ambassador of death itself.

  Down the road, a car turned the corner. The gaudy S550 Mercedes-Benz cruised down the road, standing out against all others. The waiting taxi drivers turned their heads at its exquisitely polished rims and blacked-out windows. James didn’t need a signal to tell him the narcos had arrived. He approached the car with as much confidence as he could manage.

  The window of the rear seat rolled down and Mario stuck his head out. “Get in the other side.”

  James rounded the car and climbed into the back. He sank into black leather seating, as soft as a cloud.

  “Were you followed?” asked Mario.

  “No. I came by bus to make sure.”

  “Good.”

  Next to the driver, a narco sat in the front in designer jeans and a sports jacket. The passenger, Mario’s lieutenant brother never looked around at him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see,” said Mario.

  Banda music boomed from the car’s stereo system. Nobody spoke. They cruised away from the station and through the tollbooth marking the boundary of Guanajuato City. The driver put his foot down and the S500 sped up. The narcos didn’t care for the rules of the road as they passed vehicle after vehicle, even if it meant weaving across the oncoming lane. Each time they committed a traffic offence they smirked.

  James gazed through the dark-tinted window. He wondered if he’d made the correct decision after all. Would they try to execute him when they got far enough away from civilisation? The prospect of death didn’t scare him, having faced it so many times. He approached the thought like some people approached a crossword puzzle.

  After about twenty minutes of speeding down the highway towards the city of León, the car slowed. The empty, featureless landscape made James wonder as the S500 turned onto a dirt road. A brick building soon appeared out of the darkness, illuminated only by a small lamp hanging from the front door.

  “Get out,” said Mario.

  James did so and found himself standing in a small, dusty patch of land. He gazed up at the building. It had no signs indicating what it was, but heavy curtains blacked all the windows. Based on his experience of Mexico, he figured it must be one of the Mexican brothels that lined the road from Guanajuato to León.

  The narcos got out and Mario sauntered up to him with a click of his tongue.

  “What do you want me to do?” said James.

  “All in good time. This is one of our businesses. Go in. We’ll show you what you have to do. It won’t take long.”

  James entered the building and came into what looked like a reception room, where a seemingly ordinary woman in a t-shirt and ripped jeans sat at a desk.

  The passenger issued a waterfall of orders to the woman. He spoke in such fast Spanish James couldn’t pick up any of the words. His voice rose and fell like the crest of a whitecap. The man gestured at the door as he shouted.

  “These women are lazy,” the man declared.

  “Francisco, are they here?” asked Mario of his brother.

  Francisco Seco nodded. “In the back. Come, take your friend.”

  Mario beckoned James to follow him. They entered the room characteristic to every brothel in the world. It contained a few sofas, where girls would issue forth from a room opposite to parade themselves in front of potential clients.

  A man emerged from one of the backrooms. His rotund belly threatened to burst his belt. The man’s grey hair stuck out at all angles and a great big smile covered his face from sideburn to sideburn.

  “Francisco, Mario, how are you?” The man took his coat from over his arm and slung it around his shoulders. “I haven’t seen you since last year.”

  “Ocampo,” Francisco grinned. “How’s the police?”

  James’ eyes widened. It didn’t surprise him to know about a corrupt police officer using a brothel owned by the narcos, but he’d never witnessed it for himself. So, the stories were true, after all.

  “Same as always. The state governor is up for re-election this year, so he’s pressing us to cut down on crime. You tapped a few too many fuel pipes this year in the state.” He wagged a finger at them. “He wants action.”

  Francisco nodded. “What are you going to do?”

  “Pick up a few people and that should keep him quiet for a while. Don’t worry, if we get any of your guys, we’ll release them. It won’t mess with the arrest figures.”

  Francisco clasped hands with Ocampo and patted him on the back. Their driver held the front door open for Ocampo.

  “Who was that?” asked James.

  “None of your business,” Mario hissed.

  Francisco glared at his brother. “You want to ruin this deal?”

  Mario wore a mask of confusion. “What?”

  “You know how much we’re getting paid for their help? You know how much money we could make if this foreigner and his organization kill Quezada for us? And you want to treat him like a piece of trash?” Francisco redirected his gaze back to James. “I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester. This is why Mario is a cockroach.”

  Mario’s nostrils flared with anger, but he backed down against his older brother.

  “It doesn’t matter. No harm done.”

  Francisco laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll get what you want, and we’ll win this war yet. But you understand that this is a dangerous business. We can’t just trust anyone, so we need you to complete a small test for us. Just a little thing.”

  “No problem,” said James.

  “Okay, come with me. Mario, you stay outside. I’ll talk to you later.”

  A murderous look flashed across Mario’s dark eyes. He flung himself down on one of the leather sofas in a sulk.

  Francisco led James down a corridor. Some scantily clad girls jumped from their beds and peered out of their rooms, expecting to see clients. A sharp word from Francisco forced them to slam their doors shut again. James followed Francisco to the door at the very end of the corridor, where Francisco pulled out a key. He unlocked it to reveal a set of steps delving into the basement.

  “Is there a light?” said James.

  “No, use your phone.”

  James turned up his nose at the 1980’s décor of the brothel, noting the exotic wood panelling that gave way to bare concrete walls and stone steps as they descended. He switched on the light on his smartphone and shined it behind Francisco. The musty smell grew stronger as they descended. James wrinkled his nose as he detected the stench of human waste.

  Francisco stepped to the side. As the light from the smartphone flooded the bottom of the stairs, it settled upon a man sitting on the ground. His face, marked with bulbous blue and purple bruises, pleaded for someone to put him out of his misery. Yet the captive could onl
y make grunting sounds due to the gag in his mouth.

  “Who is he?” asked James.

  “A captive from the war. He’s one of Quezada’s boys. We caught him in Celaya. Shame he didn’t have anything useful to say.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  Francisco took out his own phone and activated the light. He then used his other hand to remove a Beretta 92 pistol from inside his sports jacket. Holding the gun out to James, with the barrel pointing back at himself, he only nodded.

  James inspected the prisoner. He noted the festering wound on his ankle, clearly from a gunshot. The prisoner would likely die soon enough from infection anyway.

  He took the handle of the gun without question. Francisco had made it clear he trusted him. James could have shot him there and then.

  “Is it cold?” asked James.

  “Never been used before. You don’t have to worry about being tracked down. It’s yours. We scratched the serial number off and the police wouldn’t be able to connect it to anything.”

  No more words needed to pass between them. James knew what he had to get to Quezada and complete his mission. The silence, broken only by the frantic grunts of the condemned man, gave him time to think. Too much time to think.

  James levelled the weapon at the narco. He fired a single time into the head of the prisoner. He didn’t shudder or shake as the sound amplified off the walls. The body fell backwards. Now, just another dead drug dealer.

  Chapter Six

  Miami, Florida, United States of America

  Indian Creek Island, known as Billionaire Bunker, consisted of just 0.4 square miles of prime real estate. With 40 homes, the most exclusive neighbourhood in Miami lay cut off from the rest of the world. The permanent security contingent patrolled the island on the water and on land with their intimidating jeeps and speedboats. Senator George Black crossed the bridge from Bal Harbour.

  George had spent his career as a politician who squeaked through close elections, and that had given him a smug arrogance. When not facing awkward questions from journalists, he wore a half-smile upon a marble mask plumped up by little pieces of plastic surgery here and there. His grey-black hair held a permanent sheen reflecting the relentless Florida sunshine.

  “This place is like Fort Knox,” remarked Jack Hewitt in the passenger seat of George’s white Lincoln Continental.

  Jack scratched some of his scraggly pieces of grey hair. A lifetime of stress had prematurely aged him, leaving him with a pockmarked face and permanent five o’clock shadow.

  “Sure,” said George. “Even most former presidents couldn’t afford to live in a place like this. Nearly everyone here is a celebrity or a criminal. Sometimes both.”

  Jack smirked at that. “So which mansion is Roberto Romero’s?”

  “Right down here.”

  George steered his beloved Continental around the curved road, which traced the island’s borders until it ended at a huge black steel gate. A security guard moved out from his position beneath a palm tree flitting in the breeze.

  “Senator Black?” the man said tonelessly.

  George showed his ID to the security guard.

  He repeated his name on the radio. The crackly response returned with an “okay” and the gates opened onto a long driveway. The mansion embraced the colonial style of old Spanish America, with white pillars covering the veranda and blue shutters on the upstairs windows. The whitewashed stone of the mansion glowed in the afternoon glare.

  George parked his Lincoln in the centre of the driveway. The immense car collection of Roberto Romero hid inside the seven-car garage attached to the abode. A couple of gardeners dressed in white tended to the manicured lawns and the splotches of colour in the flowerbeds.

  A figure emerged onto the veranda. Roberto Romero wore a pink shirt with gold rings, a gold necklace, and even gold on the frames of his designer sunglasses. The slicked-back hair of the middle-aged immigrant caught the light as he stepped into the sun.

  “Senator Black, welcome,” said Romero as he came down the steps to greet them. “How are you, my friend?”

  George forced a smile and shook his hand with as much warmth as he could muster. He despised these new money immigrants. The way they butchered the English language with their Hispanic accents and the flashy ways they showed off their wealth made him want to vomit. It wouldn’t have done back in the old days, back in his father’s day.

  “Meet my associate, Mr. Jack Hewitt. Jack, this is Mr. Romero.”

  Jack shook Romero’s hand as a butler emerged to stand to attention on the veranda.

  “Please, join me out back. I can have anything you like delivered to you.”

  “A whisky wouldn’t go amiss,” said George.

  “Okay, I have the finest whisky from Japan. You’ve never tasted anything like it, trust me.”

  Romero clicked his fingers at his butler to spur him into action. The butler disappeared in a flash without any emotion on his impassive features. Romero guided the two of them around the side of the house. The veranda joined with another corridor, held up by stone pillars, leading them around to the back of the house.

  “What a lovely garden you have, Mr. Romero.”

  George’s compliment rang hollow, but nobody could deny the stunning landscaping. The patio took in multiple levels, with a swimming pool on the level below, and a private marina near the water. Mock alabaster statutes rimmed the main garden displaying some of Europe’s greats, including a Venus de Milo and a statue of David.

  The staff had already set the table with a white cloth and pink cushions set in the wrought iron chairs. Pieces of metal had formed to give the impression of vines wrapping around the arms and backs of the chairs.

  “So, Senator Black, what brings you here today? How long has it been?”

  “Not since last year, around Christmas.” George settled into his chair as the drinks arrived. “Business, of course. I understand how dangerous it can be for us to be seen in public together.”

  “Dangerous for you, not so dangerous for me,” said Romero. “You know how the media like to snap their photos and write all sorts of lies on their websites and in their newspapers.”

  George, Jack, and Romero raised their glasses in a toast, before sipping from crystal-cut glasses.

  “Dangerous for the both of us,” said George. “A scandal could cause problems for you as well as me. Washington is coming under more pressure to stop the violence spilling out of Mexico. The public is starting to notice the drug war. The mass shootings around the US, mysterious deaths in Mexico. It’s getting hotter.”

  “Well, what can we do?” Romero gave a relaxed shrug. “Politics is your part of the deal.”

  “I know, I know, but I need your cooperation, or this could get out of hand. I’m only a senator, not a member of the government.”

  Romero sank further into his chair. His hands twitched like he didn’t understand.

  “Mr. Romero, you’re importing and exporting too much. There’s only so much money you can wash and so many guns and drugs you can smuggle in. Joe Public is becoming aware, and when Joe Public becomes aware it’s my ass.”

  “Senator Black, how can I help that my business is so successful?”

  “You have control. Like OPEC, they increase and reduce the production of oil when they need to. To cover themselves. The more you flood the market, the more you bring attention. The more attention on you, the less willing Washington is to pretend nothing is going on.”

  The butler reappeared and whispered in Romero’s ear.

  “Gentlemen, I hope you’ll excuse me. There’s a call I need to take. Give me just a few minutes.”

  Romero got to his feet with a smile. When he’d made it just ten feet away from them, George heard Romero’s raised voice speaking Spanish. George didn’t speak Spanish. He’d never spoken Spanish on principle, but he imagined the call wasn’t a welcome one.

  “I don’t think he’s going to cooperate,” said Jack.
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  “No, I don’t think so either. These wetbacks think they own the world because they got rich in a couple years. Romero will be dead or in jail within five years, I guarantee it. Until then, we’ll just have to bite our tongues. If not, there’s always an exit strategy.”

  Jack frowned. “Do we have one?”

  “Jack, you’re responsible for inspecting and providing state oversight for every port in Florida, you can close the gates and open them as you want. If that’s what it takes, I’ll squeeze Romero by the balls just so he understands.”

  “Yes, but it won’t take long for him to know that as well. It would only be a matter of time before he suspected you were working against him.”

  George sighed. He knew blocking the ports and having more shipments of guns and drugs intercepted would only serve as a Band-Aid for their problems.

  “What about Rasgado?” asked Jack.

  “Rasgado is the exit strategy. We can use him to get rid of Romero if we have to, but I’d rather not bring him into it. Like in America, politicians are best left to one side.”

  Romero reappeared at the top of the steps. He descended them with that same cocksure smile he always held.

  “I hope there were no problems,” George pried.

  “Not at all. Only an ill-timed call when I have important guests. Remind me, what were we talking about?”

  “You need to cut back a little on your imports and exports, just for a few months. That way we reassure the public and the government can get back to ignoring the problem.”

  “Why would I care about that?” asked Romero.

  George drained the last of his whisky. “Look, Mr. Romero, I know exactly how many shipments are stopped by the Coast Guard. One in every six. I know that you more than make up for that, but what happens if they start taking it seriously? What if they stop two in every six, or half of all your shipments? I know you don’t have those sorts of margins to work with.”

  Romero steepled his fingers in front of his face. “What are the chances of that?”