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

by James Samuel

  James and Diego grunted in agreement. Finch had worked with Blackwind for much of the last decade. The notoriously reclusive hacker rarely left his home, and few had ever met him in person. He hacked not for gain but enjoyment. Like Gallagher had done for James, he’d extracted him from the clutches of British justice.

  “I asked for authorisation to gather information about the goings-on in Mexico. In a bid to get some more information about Parejo and Vargas, in particular. Gallagher authorised it, and Finch hacked the Mexican government’s computers, including the computers of the Federal police.”

  James ignored the long snake of ash about to crumble from the end of his cigarette. Getting authorisation for Blackwind to actively hack a government’s systems took a lot of legwork. Now he understood why Sinclair had rarely been in contact during the past few weeks.

  “It turns out the Mexicans know more about Vargas than we first thought. Apparently, an investigation was carried out and completed into the bus massacre in Celaya. They just never made it public. Vargas was the man behind it.”

  “Yes, we know that.” Diego’s tone betrayed growing impatience. “And it’s not something we care that much about. We want Vargas or Parejo and then we find Jessi Montoya. Nothing else. We’re not the police.”

  Sinclair turned to James. “Did you know the Federals also have an address for Vargas’ family?”

  “Interesting.”

  “In particular, they know where his mother lives. She lives across the border in Michoacán, in a place called Pátzcuaro. Have you heard of it?”

  James shook his head.

  “No, of course not, because James doesn’t like tourism and never likes to explore the country he’s in. Stupid question.” Sinclair cleared his throat. “Pátzcuaro is a city on Lake Pátzcuaro. That’s where Day of the Dead originated. There’s always a big festival there every year. She lives in a house on the lake. That’s the address the Federals wrote down for Vargas.”

  “Obviously, it’s not where he actually lives, though. But if they wrote down that address it must mean he visits regularly.”

  “That’s something you must understand about us Mexicans,” said Diego. “We men are very close to our mothers, even narcos. A son will scream and fight his father all day, but his mother is the queen. Even cartel leaders fear their mothers.”

  James nodded. The way forward was clear. If they could target the mother of Vargas, it would draw him out of hiding. Thus far, they hadn’t managed to pin him down. But if he believed his mother was under threat, he would have to respond.

  “How bad could it get?” asked James.

  Diego guffawed. “Bring an army. Vargas will bring his.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Miami, Florida, United States of America

  Romero struggled to hide his distaste for the man in front of him. Senate Majority Leader Phelps reclined in his garden like he owned the place. The wrinkles and spots on his face made him resemble a melted candle. Every kind word that passed this man’s lips dripped with insincerity. Yet Romero knew he needed him to cement his place as the most powerful underworld figure in North America.

  “Have your butler bring me some more whisky,” said Phelps. “It’s a fine whisky. The very best.”

  Scott remained impassive, but Romero knew he boiled inside at Phelps’ arrogance.

  “Go on,” said Romero to Scott.

  Phelps waited for Scott to disappear before leaning forward, his expression positively salivating at what he knew of Romero’s proposal. “So, are you still backing what you told me before?”

  Romero gave him a cool look from behind his sunglasses. “Leader Phelps, everything I said before still applies. But you know what I want in return. This must be a collaborative effort. You need to tell me what you can do for me.”

  “What I can do for you? Well, you know I can continue stalling Congress. I can make sure nobody bothers you or your operations. Every state governor of my party will do exactly as I say, because they know they won’t get any more funding for their election campaigns if they don’t.”

  Romero nodded. “What else?”

  “What else?” Phelps spluttered. “What more could you need from me? Grinding the entire Federal government to a halt should be more than enough for what you need.”

  “I need more, Leader Phelps.”

  Phelps’ nostrils flared. “Alright, I have a direct line to the president of this country, you know that? He’s the president of my party. I’m the reason why the opposition can’t lay a finger on him. I’m the reason why he can appoint justices to the Supreme Court. Without me, the president wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing.”

  Romero sipped at his whisky. “I assumed that would be a natural part of the bargain anyway, as it would be in your interest just as much as it would be in mine.”

  “Then tell me what you want.” Phelps raised his voice. “I didn’t come here to play games. You know I took a risk in coming here. If the media – or any of my staff – knew I was meeting you it would be a national scandal.”

  “And I thank you for trusting me enough to come here without the usual security arrangements. It’s a real honour, Leader Phelps, but we came to talk business, and your family have always been smart businesspeople.” The words pouring out of his mouth sickened Romero as he said them. “That’s why we are negotiating. I was hoping we could go beyond the usual arrangements. Give me something special and your payoff will be worth many times more than it already is.”

  Phelps’ eyes glinted at that. “Many times more?”

  “The biggest import exporter in both the US and Mexico will have the budget for that. You’ll wonder why you spent so many years in Congress. Your family won’t have any debts to pay ever again.”

  Phelps nodded. “Okay, what I can do is pass legislation to take attention away from Mexico. I could even tell the president to start a small war in the Middle East to distract the public from what’s going on. If I can divert those resources away from tackling drugs and arms, you can make as much money as you want.”

  Romero flashed his teeth at that. “That would be tremendous. I just have one small concern about this plan. What happens if you’re no longer the majority leader in the Senate? Your power would be gone. The polls don’t look good.”

  He chuckled at the idea. “Son, I’ve been in politics for the last fifty years. I’ve seen them all come and go, and yet I’m still there. Trust me when I say this, I’ll be the majority leader of the Senate for the next few election cycles yet.”

  Romero knew Phelps would react like that. The man did have some strength about him. Regular low approval ratings in Virginia had had people prophesising his demise for the last ten years, yet he always found a way to win.

  “It’s still a great risk to me. It could leave my operation stranded if your party fell out of favour with the wider public.”

  “God damn it!” Phelps slapped the table, sending whisky shooting into the air. “I’m telling you what I know. I’m not going to be lectured by some wetback who only stepped foot in this great country of mine five minutes ago. Take it from an expert that I know what’s going to happen.”

  Romero sat frozen in his chair. Every instinct encouraged him to get out of his chair and strike Phelps across the face. Nobody had spoken to him like that since he was a child, and he wouldn’t take it from some old white racist with delusions of grandeur.

  “I do have certain sources in US politics.” Romero measured his words. “And they do know certain things about you, personally.”

  Phelps’ droopy eyes lifted to meet his for the first time. “Whatever they’re saying they’re wrong. Now, where is that damn whisky? What sort of lazy cretin are you hiring here?”

  “They say you’re done, Leader Phelps.”

  “Do they really? And what do you think of that?”

  “I believe them.”

  Romero reclined further in his chair, letting his head descend beneath the backrest.

 
The sniper shot came swiftly, sending the chittering birds fleeing from the trees. Phelps fell backwards, a bullet straight through his eye. Romero stood with a vicious grin on his face. Phelps had made a fatal mistake today by trusting Romero enough not to bring his security detail.

  Romero turned back to the house and gave a thumbs up to Scott in the annex of the house.

  “It’s a shame you didn’t know that if you left here today, I would have leaked it to the papers. You’d have resigned by tomorrow and your family would have become the nothings they should have been long ago.” Romero gave the prone mess that was once Senate majority leader Phelps a sharp kick in the stomach. “Pendejo.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Pátzcuaro, Michoacán, Mexico

  Michoacán state marked the beginning of the drug war all those years ago. Former President Felipe Calderón had launched his attack on the narcos in Michoacán days after taking an office. Since then, the drug war had never ceased.

  They drove Diego’s Land Rover down from Guanajuato. Rather than the burnished golden ground and scrubland bordering every highway, Michoacán gleamed luscious green forests with towering mountains. The mists shrouded the hearts of each mountain, leaving only the peaks visible in the cloud-filled sky.

  “Why does Sinclair never come with us on these missions?” asked Diego as they tackled the undulating hills outside the centre of Pátzcuaro.

  “I never asked.”

  “You should. He’s trained as a field agent. There’s nothing stopping him from doing this. Just because he’s in intelligence doesn’t mean he can’t help.”

  James glanced over at Diego. “What are you implying?”

  “Nothing. I’m just speaking aloud.”

  It had dawned on James in the past that Sinclair avoided anything in the field. He tended to melt into the shadows until everything was said and done. He had always put it down to Sinclair being more skilled in the arts of intelligence and planning than shooting. Not everyone had the stomach for looking into the eyes of the dead.

  The winding uphill road took them into the heart of Pátzcuaro. The white-faced buildings and dark signs created a rustic standardisation across the town. In many ways, it resembled Guanajuato with all the colour drained away.

  Diego struggled to fight his way through the traffic to their hotel. The complex one-way system meant Diego regularly rolled down the window to scream at someone who had done nothing wrong. He cursed to himself in Spanish as he took James on an unwelcome tour of the centre of town.

  “What’s the plan?” asked James to try to get Diego to stop yelling at the people of Pátzcuaro.

  Diego grunted as they came to the uppermost road and found their hotel opposite the faded cathedral, with its tower puncturing the gathering clouds. He parked his car directly in front of the hotel doors, two wheels on the path and two on the road.

  “More action, I assume.”

  “That hardly narrows it down, does it?”

  “We could always kidnap the old woman. That should bring him out of hiding.”

  James scoffed at the idea. “Kidnapping an old woman? What, are you going to tie her up and waterboard her as well?”

  “Maybe.”

  James didn’t like the sound of that, but Diego had already ventured into the hotel, ending any further possibility of conversation. The sad thing was James believed that Diego would follow through on his threats if Vargas didn’t show.

  After a couple of hours showering and checking their gear, the two agents reconvened in front of the hotel. Neither of them trusted staying in one place for too long anymore. The cartels could be watching the hotels across Central Mexico. Their reach extended everywhere in this land.

  He scanned the street in front of him. Worn market traders and old women in church clothes hurried about their business. James saw no immediate threats, but he couldn’t trust peace. Fits of peace were when things went wrong.

  “Let’s go,” said James. “We don’t have the time.”

  Diego set his GPS and drove them towards the nearby shore of Lake Pátzcuaro. His GPS drew out an arterial line cutting through the town. Pátzcuaro sat on the southern edge of the main lake. From the town, a mountain towered above them. Most of the time, an immovable mist shrouded the peak.

  “It’s not far from town, so it gives us an advantage,” said James as they sailed down the hill out of Pátzcuaro. “If it was in the middle of nowhere, it would be far more difficult to watch the house without looking suspicious.”

  Diego kept checking the point he’d placed on his GPS as they approached the vicinity of the address. Every so often, he would look around for any major landmarks for them to follow going to and from the house. Sinclair had given them an address and a photo of the house, but addresses were rarely accurate outside the hearts of towns and cities.

  The house in question took up a position on the lakeshore. These homes all had balconies and bay windows looking out onto the majesty of the lake and its islands in the centre. From the rear, they happened upon large remote-controlled gates, walls topped with broken glass, and featureless driveways.

  “Neighbourhood looks quiet enough,” James remarked.

  “No, no, these are just big houses. They don’t have the same level of security as the homes of Montoya and Quezada. For a start, they won’t be surrounded by large groups of armed men. I would be surprised if Vargas’ mother has any security at all, unless they have a dog.”

  “That doesn’t sound likely if Vargas is fond of his mother.”

  “It’s his mother. A lieutenant’s mother isn’t a target in war.”

  James ran his tongue across his teeth. “Does this mean we’re marking a new low in the drug war?”

  “Potentially.”

  “This could cause more problems than before. We’ve already caused enough damage without giving Quezada and Montoya a license to start targeting the elderly.”

  Diego chuckled at that. “Quezada already did that when he took Jessi Montoya. She never had anything to do with the business, and he kidnapped her anyway, remember? And now he’s trying to marry her. That was already a new low in the war.”

  “But aren’t we better than that?”

  “You and your conscience, Winchester.” Diego pulled over at the side of the road. They’d reached their destination. “It’s not our place to start judging morality. Our only orders are to get the job done. The methods are dealer’s choice.”

  James shook his head. He knew Diego had a point. Blackwind had never troubled itself with means only ends. Still, James preferred to keep his work as clean as possible. He wanted to sleep at night.

  “We need to get the lay of the land before we make a move,” said Diego. “Let’s go to the gate and see if we can get in touch with her. If she’s as old as Sinclair said, it shouldn’t be too much trouble to get inside.”

  James and Diego got out of the car and crossed the road. Every gate had an intercom all visitors had to buzz before they could gain entry. Diego pressed the button on the little metal box. The sound of a ringing phone blared from the speakers.

  A woman answered, careful and measured. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, I’m here to deliver a message from Vargas to his mother. Sorry to bother you.”

  “Oh, his mother will be so happy to hear from him. He hasn’t visited for a month. She’s been worried about him. Let me press the button and open the gate. I’ll make sure she’s ready to see you.”

  The voice disappeared with a static crackle and the gate slid open. The gate inched forwards at a painful pace.

  “Is she really that trusting?” asked James.

  “She’ll be nothing more than a cleaner for the mother. That’s why she’s so trusting. She won’t understand anything about who Vargas is or about his business.”

  As they walked up the concrete driveway, James’ senses pricked up. This had all the makings of a trap. He gazed up at every window and across the lawn, searching for any signs of activity. He nev
er took his hand away from the gun hidden inside his coat.

  Diego strolled towards the front door as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He lagged behind him a couple of steps, ever alert.

  A short, stout woman answered the door. She had a friendly face and lips smeared with bright red lipstick.

  “Good morning,” said Diego. “My name is Diego Gutierrez. As I said before, I’m sorry that I had to bother you, but I drove a long way from Guanajuato to get here.”

  The woman nodded. “No problem. She will be excited to hear from you. Come on, I’ll take you to the lakeside room. She’s almost ninety now and she spends most of her time sitting and watching her telenovelas.”

  Diego turned to James. “This is an associate of Vargas. He’s foreign and doesn’t speak Spanish.”

  The nurse inclined her head slightly but didn’t question the gringo who had turned up at her door.

  The home of Vargas’ mother came with a mixture of the modern and the traditional. Authentic wooden beams running along the ceilings smelt of fresh varnish. The perfectly finished plastering on the walls looked freshly painted. It resembled an ordinary hacienda with a couple of glass cubes stuck thoughtlessly on top.

  “Juliana,” she called. “Your son’s friends are here with a message.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” said James in English.

  “Just go with it. This doesn’t need to be violent. We just need to get Vargas here… then we can deal with him. I won’t hurt the mother.”

  James gulped as they ascended the steps to the modern room with the lakeside view. A plasma TV stood in front of the window. Within a well-used blue armchair, a woman resembling a starving crow in an oversized dress never took her eyes away from the screen.

  Their steps echoed and creaked as their leather shoes hammered on the floorboards. The woman jumped to Juliana’s side to get her attention.

  “Juliana, did you hear me?”

  The crone lifted her head. She had a coldness in her eyes, like she’d given up on living long ago. Her skin stretched across her cheekbones, giving her sharp features and enhancing her hooked nose.