by James Samuel
Romero clasped Hawkins’ hand. “How are you?”
“I’m good.”
“Nothing special to tell me?”
“Nothing, Mr. Romero.”
Hawkins didn’t talk much. In many ways, Romero got the impression that Hawkins both worshipped and feared him. Just the way he liked it.
The inside of the bungalow was a drug depot ready to go, drug runners waiting to deliver, and cash in used notes. Romero eyed a table filled with thick wads of US dollars wrapped in plastic.
“The police?”
“Nothing, Mr. Romero.”
Romero nodded. “Look, I came here to tell you that it’s time to expand our operations. Street dealing is a thing of the past for us. It’s, as you Americans say, small change. I will start rolling our operations out on an industrial scale.”
“That sounds good, sir.”
Romero nodded and smiled at him. “Is there anyone else here?”
“Just two. They’re in the back.”
He followed Hawkins’ directions and checked the back room. Soiled mattresses covered the floor of the room. A couple of needles rested next to the two men. Their heads rested listlessly against the wall, drool dripping from their mouths. If it wasn’t for their tiny twitches, Romero would have assumed they were dead.
“How are our supplies?” asked Romero.
“Good, sir. We’ve got plenty of Fentanyl. It’s letting us make more from what we have. I’m sure you know that profits are up, and it’s not just due to what’s coming in.”
“Excellent,” said Romero.
“So, this industrial-scale stuff.” Hawkins fell onto the sofa and switched the TV off, which had been showing some cop show. “What do you mean by that?”
Romero smiled and clasped his hands behind his back. He’d always liked Hawkins; he could count on his loyalty.
“Political support. My operations in Miami have the backing of some very powerful people, including people who have influence in Washington. I’ve also been working on gaining that same support within California. Only there are certain complications…”
“Like what?”
“The state governor is opposed to drugs in every way. No matter how much money I offered him, he would never help us. Unfortunately, he’s one of those men of principle, which is something we can’t work with.”
Hawkins readjusted himself. “What’re you going to do?”
“There are politicians lower down who have already agreed to work for me. We can deal with the governor by stopping him from the bottom. I now have influence all over Southern California. But to really launch this I need a different type of man working for me.”
Hawkins’ face broke out into an enormous smile. “People like me?”
Romero grinned back at him. “Businessmen. I don’t want any dealer with a direct line to me. That’s for personal protection. If they don’t know who I am, they can’t do anything against me.”
Hawkins thought about it. “I can be a businessman.”
Romero’s fist tightened behind his back. “I’m sure you could.”
He whipped out his Glock 22 pistol and shot Hawkins in the chest three times. The enormous black man slumped to the side, taking up most of the sofa, his lifeblood seeping into the fabric.
The front door swung open and Romero’s butler, Scott May, entered. He looked on impassively at the scene before him.
“Is there anything you need, sir?” asked Scott.
“We have three more of these before we go home. The sooner we dissolve our relationships with these people the sooner we can be safe.”
Scott nodded. “And the money?”
Romero glanced back at the notes wrapped in plastic. Scott had been his most loyal servant. Money was useful, but he wanted to transform it into a lightning rod for an empire that would stretch across North America. Keeping Scott onside was vital to his plans.
He shrugged at his butler. “Take as much as you can carry, it’s yours. All used notes. No questions asked.”
Scott’s greedy eyes glinted at that. “Thank you, Mr. Romero. Thank you very much.”
Romero allowed his butler to grab a bag from the car and fill it with as much money as he could. The more money he paid Scott the more his loyalty grew. He couldn’t afford to underpay his staff or one day they would turn on him. A king relied on his subjects.
He crossed back to the room where the two junkies enjoyed their high. Romero went to stand in front of them. Their eyes didn’t move to acknowledge him. They hadn’t heard anything of what had transpired there today.
“Scott, come here.”
His butler returned with a half-full plastic bag. “Yes, sir?”
Romero cleaned the Glock of his fingerprints and pressed the gun into the hand of one of the junkies. “Remember to call the police when we’re out of Korea Town. Tell them you heard gunshots from this house. Give them the address.”
“Very good, sir.”
Romero left the house in high spirits. He’d removed a major cog in his former drug operation, and he had the perfect pair of fools to pin the whole thing on. Just another three visits and he could rest easy.
Chapter Twenty
Guanajuato, Guanajuato, Mexico
Diego had decided to recuperate at Dr. Silva’s house. A quick bribe to the doctor for rent and expenses and James knew Diego would be safe. With Quezada now aware of Diego’s involvement, he couldn’t risk going home to convalesce. Diego couldn’t even shoot with anything more than a pistol.
“Tell me, who is Rosher’s wife?” James leaned over the shoulder of Sinclair. “I never thought to ask her name.”
“We know that.” Sinclair never took his eyes from his computer. “You were foolish. You focused far too much on Rosher.”
James shrugged. “How was I supposed to know the wife would be the one we would need? I trusted Rosher. He seemed so genuine. I didn’t think they’d ever manage to get out of that bordello.”
“Well, they did. And now I’m here trawling through slow Mexican news sites to find a picture of his wife. I would have thought, based on your description, that Rosher would attend more events with her. Apparently not.”
James paced around Sinclair’s hotel room. Situated halfway up the valley of Guanajuato City, above their heads the little hotel lay in the shadow of the enormous statue on top of the El Pipila; below their feet ranged the colourful buildings of downtown.
“Your place is nicer than mine,” mused James.
“Shhhh… look at this. I think we’ve found something.”
James rushed to the screen of Sinclair’s high-powered laptop. He saw not the wife of Rosher but Rosher himself shaking hands with the chief of police, Ocampo. The same Ocampo James had encountered on the night Francisco and Mario had taken him to the bordello. It was a press release from the governor’s office.
“What’s this got to do with me?”
“Rosher has come out of hiding. I suppose it makes sense when you read this article.” Sinclair pointed his index finger at the screen. “He’s going to tour the police training academy. About the only place Rosher can feel safe in Guanajuato now. If anyone tries to attack him, he’ll have enough men.”
“Great. How does that help me? You’re not suggesting I try to kill him in front of the police, are you?”
Sinclair laughed. “It would be a challenge, but no. I think subtlety is the order of the day. This may be your chance to do something without anyone dying.”
“I’m all ears.”
Sinclair swivelled his chair away from the computer screen, his back to the colourful city beyond the small window.
“I took the liberty of performing some research, on his regular staff specifically –”
“How would you know anything about Rosher’s staff?”
Sinclair looked at him as if he were stupid. “We’re part of the most advanced private military organisation in the world. We can find out anything about anyone. Remember, we have a surveillance team that can
tap into all but the most secure databases on this planet. If Rosher went to the bathroom, I could tell you what he was doing in there and the exact time he went there.”
James rolled his eyes. “Go on, then.”
“Rosher has had the same driver his entire political life. A man named Paulo Sarmiento. He’s getting on in years now, but he’s competent enough. He would have been driving the car when you took Rosher. And I suspect that Sarmiento will be driving the car again when he visits that police academy.”
James shrugged, unsure of what Sinclair was getting at.
“What do all drivers do when their bosses spend their time visiting somewhere? They make themselves scarce. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sarmiento went to some local taco stand or the bar.”
“It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility.”
“And if you can follow Sarmiento, you may be able to gain access to the car and…” Sinclair paused. “Who knows what possibilities you might have?”
James’ grin extended from ear to ear. He had never considered attacking Rosher through his staff. Despite how irritating Sinclair could be at times, he remembered why he was thankful to have him as his partner.
He paced around the room, thinking and formulating how to do it. The ideas fanned out before him, the entire plan coming together in his mind.
“I’ll follow the driver when he drops off Rosher at the police academy. Then I can take Sarmiento out and steal the car. This is the governor of Guanajuato, not royalty, so I’ll never need to get out of the car before he gets in. He won’t even think to look at me, and even if he does, I’ll have the doors locked so he can’t jump out.”
Sinclair gave him a little clap. “By George, I think he’s got it.”
“Pull up the road map for the police training academy. I want to get him out of there in one piece.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The police training academy lay outside the downtown area of Guanajuato on the border of a little neighbourhood named Mineral de Agua. This neighbourhood had only appeared in the last twenty years, built on scrubland. The growing Mexican middle class resided here.
James went ahead to scout out the area well in advance of the governor’s arrival. He inspected the fortified police training academy building from the front and the vast open fields at the back, which served as the firing range. The academy had a main road in front, with electrified fences protecting most of the compound. Armed officers toting shotguns guarded the main entrance. Most of them slumped against their posts, bored and inattentive.
As he studied the academy, he spotted the weakness in its defences. Cars that pulled up had little protection, other than the on-duty officers. The governor had to come out into the open for a brief moment to get into his car.
“No questions.” James handed over a wad of 500-peso notes, nearly a month’s pay, to the taxi driver who had brought him out here. “You’re mine for the day until I tell you to leave. You never saw my face and you don’t know who I am.”
“Okay,” said the taxi driver without looking at him.
The little green-and-white Tzuru idled across the way from the academy. Taxi drivers had a habit of parking wherever they wanted and hanging around for as long as they wanted. James wouldn’t look suspicious by sitting in the back of a taxi, with its tinted back windows.
“You want me to do anything?” said the driver.
“What’s your name?”
“Miguel.”
“Okay, Miguel, you can do whatever you want around here. I stay in the back of the car. When I tell you to do something, you do it. You’ll get double what you have now if you do everything right.”
James watched Miguel’s eyes light up in the rear-view mirror as he agreed to the bargain.
The wait set in. James kept checking his phone. He counted down the hours and the minutes, watching the sun trace its path across the sky. Miguel regularly got out to smoke and chat with his fellow drivers at the little taqueria a couple of blocks down the busy road. James never took his eyes off the police academy fifty feet away.
About thirty minutes before the governor was due to arrive, the driver returned to the taxi as the police presence grew. The couple of men on the gate and the few students eating at a taco truck to the side of the academy grew to encompass a small personal army of Federal police.
His pulse accelerated with every passing second. As always in the final minutes before an operation began, strong feelings of nausea gripped his stomach. Rolling down the window slightly, he lit a cigarette to try to control the stress that threatened to derail his nerve.
The convoy arrived just as James finished his cigarette. He stubbed it out in the ashtray and stared, unblinking, at the activity before him.
“Get ready,” James said.
Rosher met several local police dignitaries at the entrance, shaking hands and posing for the assembled photographers. James didn’t see Rosher’s wife, but his security detail stuck close to him. They raked the scene like hawks.
“Did you see the car that man got out of?” asked James. “The man taking all the pictures and shaking everyone’s hands.”
“Yes.”
“I want you to follow that car when he pulls away. Stay at a distance. Try to get one or two cars between him so he doesn’t suspect anything.”
“Yes.”
James didn’t know if Miguel really understood. Each time he responded it sounded so nonchalant, like taking a normal fare.
After Rosher made his way through the open gates, with his security detail in tow, his car trundled away. To James’ surprise, the cars didn’t move in convoy now. One stayed behind and the other went in a completely different direction.
“Keep on him.” James practically stood up in the taxi as he watched the front window over Miguel’s shoulder.
Sarmiento drove down the road and took a turn onto a small street. James’ taxi inched forwards toward the turning. A furious blare of the horn from the car behind didn’t rattle Miguel.
“Hold,” said James.
James observed the black car ahead as it made its way down the little road, before pulling over to the side. A number of taxis congregated there. James didn’t need to ask questions. He knew Sarmiento had stopped off at a taco stand at the side of the road. Now he knew what he had to do.
“Alright,” said James. “Drive right up to them. I’ll get out of the car and then you can go, understand?”
“Yes.”
James passed the other half of the promised bounty across the seat to Miguel. He stuffed it inside his shirt pocket greedily.
James slid across the backseats to the door that would take him out right next to Sarmiento. He had the old driver’s image imprinted on his mind. He wouldn’t forget it in a hurry. The taxi driver drew parallel with the rear car at the taco stand, and James jumped out, his Glock 19 by his side.
James spotted Sarmiento standing at the taco stand. Even if he didn’t know his face, he recognised the driver. They’d forced him to wear a stupid peaked cap and a black jacket, like an American limo driver.
The old man whirled around at his footsteps, fear etched on his face. His eyes darted to the gun hanging at James’ side. In that instant, he knew. James never took his gaze off Sarmiento’s eyes. A man’s eyes could tell everything about the next turn his life would take. Sarmiento didn’t want a fight. He was too old for fighting.
“Sarmiento, that’s your name, right?” asked James.
Sarmiento nodded in resignation.
“Good. I’m going to need you to cooperate. If you do everything I say, you’ll be fine. If not, then…”
“Yes, yes.” Sarmiento gulped. “I understand. You’re the gringo, aren’t you? The one who kidnapped Alfredo the last time.”
“I am.”
“Are you going to kill him?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you want from me?”
James loosened the grip on his gun, realising Sarmiento wouldn’t put up a fight
now. The couple of taxi drivers sitting at the plastic stools and tables kept their heads down. Mexicans knew what to do when guns came into play. Pretending that nothing ever happened could mean the difference between life and death.
“Give me your hat, your coat, and the keys to the car.”
Sarmiento obeyed, handing them over with shaking hands.
“Now I need you to tell me the procedure for this. When Rosher leaves that academy, what are you expected to do? Do you normally open the door for him?”
“No, no, none of that. I’m just his driver. One of his assistants will do that for him before they get into the other cars. You saw the other two cars protecting Alfredo’s car, didn’t you?”
“Good. So, there’s no reason to believe he’ll suspect anything when he gets into your car, correct? He’ll assume that you’re the one driving him.”
“I suspect so.”
“Give me your phone.”
“My… phone?” Sarmiento’s voice quivered at that.
“Yes, your phone. Give it to me.”
Sarmiento hesitated. James couldn’t help but let out a little smile, knowing full well that Rosher’s driver would faithfully call to warn him the moment he left. That was why the old man had complied so readily, after all.
James raised the gun towards Sarmiento.
“Wait, wait. Okay, you can have my phone.” Sarmiento hurried to seize it from his pocket. “Here, my friend. Just… please don’t hurt me.”
James held the phone in his hands, carefully inspecting it before depositing it in his pocket. James suspected something was amiss and ordered Sarmiento to turn out his pockets, which he did. He soon took possession of the backup phone Sarmiento carried.
Satisfied that Sarmiento had no further use, he gestured at him to leave, which he did. He started walking, back straight and chest out, before he broke into a run. James eyed the driver as he went, fleeing further down the side street and into the neighbourhood of Mineral de Agua.
