by James Samuel
Sinclair flew to the table he’d cleared of the free hotel coffee. His two brand new laptops hummed and whirred, powering up Sinclair’s software. James understood nothing about technology. The whole setup confused him.
“These are the satellite pictures of Romero’s mansion.” Sinclair brought them up. “Anyone can get these. The problem you have is the area he lives in. It’s like a fortress. Billionaire Bunker has a permanent security force, including around the island itself.”
James looked over each aspect of the satellite photos. He could only see one way in by land. A simple bottleneck, but no man could hope to break out of it. A billionaire colony’s private security force wasn’t exactly a set of Walmart security guards.
“What do you think, James?” asked Sinclair.
“I think you know my answer.”
“I thought so. It would be rank stupidity to try to break in like that. I suppose we could have tried the old pretending to be a landscape gardener trick, but that’s amateurish. A professional security force in the 21st century would never fall for that. But I found something else.”
Sinclair clicked on another tab on his computer. The face of Romero’s mansion appeared. Like the rest of the homes on the island, every mansion came with its own little dock. Romero had an enormous blazing white yacht sitting in his private marina.
“This is the back of the house.” Sinclair marked out the garden. “My contacts indicate he tends to spend a lot of time there.”
“Your contacts?”
“That’s what Raul didn’t want to tell me before. He called me during the night. Anyway, that could be the shot you need.” Sinclair brought up another image, this time of a skyscraper. “This skyscraper is situated across from Billionaire Bunker. A standard office building. They’re adding more floors on top, so the upper levels are something of a construction site. If he’s in the garden, you could get a shot on him.”
James’ mouth dropped open. “That’s almost a mile away in range if you look at it on the map.”
Sinclair threw his head in disgust. “An American sniper in Afghanistan made a shot of almost three miles. With your training, you don’t need to be a professional sniper to make that shot.”
James shook his head. He didn’t like the idea. He had used sniper rifles in the past, but he would only get one shot at Romero. If he missed, he wouldn’t get another chance. Romero would flee within minutes if it went wrong.
“This has a low chance of success. I wouldn’t even get a chance to get my range by making a few shots first. It would need to be perfect, even if it isn’t the most difficult shot in the world.”
“It’s the best option we have. We don’t have time to find a team and try to raid Romero’s mansion directly. He made an intelligent decision by choosing this place. He didn’t even need to hire his own men to manage security.”
James bit the inside of his cheek as he considered it. The personal risk was lower with the sniper shot, but if he missed, it was over. Romero would escape to rebuild his operations. Nothing less than perfection would suffice.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Guanajuato, Guanajuato, Mexico
Blake cleared his throat as he threw one leg over the other. He sat on a cherry leather sofa in the living room of an ordinary Mexican suburban home. The white, minimalist interior boasted glass doors stretching from the ceiling to floor, allowing the light to filter onto the varnished wood.
“Fernando,” said Blake without turning around. “What’s up?”
Fernando entered through the backdoor. Blake had seen him coming through the reflection on the other window. The challenger for the throne of Santa Maria de Guadalupe came alone, per the arrangement.
Blake turned to the man he’d helped elevate to within a fingertip of power. Dark circles underneath Fernando’s bloodshot eyes and pronounced lines on his forehead betrayed the burden of power now thrust on his shoulders.
“We can’t find Quezada,” said Fernando.
“Sit down.” Blake gestured at an oak dining chair. “Quezada is used to war. He’s smart and he knows how to survive. It’ll take time. You just have to be patient, that’s all.”
“Patient? It’s a bloodbath. Montoya is pushing against us and there’s nothing we can do about it. He’s going to pick up what’s left of us unless we do something now.”
Blake nodded. He knew full well that Fernando and Quezada were tearing each other apart. Santa Maria de Guadalupe would lose the whole state if they didn’t unify and consolidate their holdings soon. Still, it didn’t matter to Blake who won. He’d already picked the right horse.
“I want your help,” Fernando continued. “We’ve gone this far.”
“My help? What can I do? I’m only one man. I can’t give you an army to fight your battles.”
Fernando gritted his teeth. “I don’t need a gringo to fight my battles for me. I want you to find Quezada for me. I know you could do it. You found him before, and you found me.”
“You’re right. Yeah, you’re right.” Blake got up and paced through the open plan kitchen. “I’ll help you.”
The kitchen of the house didn’t look like it had ever been used. The dark counters gleamed. Blake opened one of the drawers and took out some papers, which he held up for a moment, before dropping them on the counter.
“I’ve got something for you that I think will solve your problem with Quezada.”
Blake pulled out the suppressed Beretta 92 pistol from underneath the papers. He whirled around and fired. The suppressed boom from the pistol released the bullet that put Fernando down with a scream. He clutched his thigh and thrashed around as blood spurted across the floorboards.
Blake didn’t even look at Fernando as he put the suppressed pistol back on the table and sent an SMS message. It didn’t take more than a minute for the front door to open and Quezada to enter the house with a smile plastered across his face.
“You killed his men, right?” asked Blake.
“Quietly,” said Quezada.
“He’s all yours. You finish him off however you want. We’ve got what we needed here. You won’t hear from us again.”
Quezada nodded and squatted down next to Fernando. He scrambled up against the wall, making an awkward attempt to prop himself up in the face of the boss he’d betrayed.
Quezada slapped Fernando like a naughty child. “Hey, look at you now, cabron. Look at you. I made you. This is how you repay me.”
Fernando just glared into Quezada’s eyes. Blake observed the pure hatred emanating between them. He just shrugged and leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Make sure he doesn’t scream,” said Blake. “Good people are living around here and we don’t want any attention.”
Quezada didn’t take his eyes off Fernando. He slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. The gold ring on Quezada’s middle finger cut into his cheek.
“Why?” Fernando appealed to Blake. “I thought we were working together.”
Blake blinked at him. “Friends? You were useful at the time. But the nature of my mission changed, and you weren’t much use to me anymore. Like a dog who’s too old to rustle sheep, you need to be put down.”
Fernando made a concerted effort to spit at Blake’s feet. The gob of spit didn’t even make it halfway.
He knew what would happen to Fernando now. The Mexican drug cartels didn’t kill traitors, they tortured them. They wouldn’t even leave a body behind for their mothers to grieve over.
“It shouldn’t take you long to finish off the rest of his men,” said Blake. “Then you can get right on with your business. My mission is almost over.”
Quezada drew himself up to his full height again. His lips were thin like he’d sucked on a lemon. Blake felt the hostility radiating from Quezada.
“We want you to go. You’ve caused enough damage to my business and my country, like you people have done for centuries,” said Quezada. “You gave me this traitor, and so I will let you go.”
“I’m still standing.”
Blake didn’t immediately reply. He knew he had to choose his words carefully. These drug lords didn’t act logically or with any rationale.
“You still want to kill me?” Quezada held his hands wide like he wanted Blake to take him on.
“No.” Blake shook his head. “My boss is pulling out. The client is a liability to us now. You made a deal with Winchester. To kill Roberto Romero, right?”
“You know about that?”
“Sure. He’s going to kill Romero sooner or later, and that’ll fulfil the terms of the deal. Romero was the client who hired us to kill you in the first place, but I’m sure you already worked that out.”
“That’s how you treat people who give you money?”
“Normally, no, but in this business, there are no guarantees. Circumstances on his side changed, so we can’t pretend like everything is hunky-dory, can we? Romero is finished, so my organisation has altered its plans.”
“Just… don’t contact me again.”
Blake grinned as he took out his phone. “I’m deleting your number as we speak. When you leave this house, we’ll never see each other again.”
Quezada nodded.
Moments later, a shot from a suppressed pistol slew Quezada where he stood. The bullet left a gaping hole in his throat. Blake tilted his head.
“You can come down. He’s gone.”
From the hallway on the second floor, Montoya leered over the balcony into the open-plan space below. Only Blake and Montoya remained unhurt. Montoya could have killed him then and there if he’d wanted.
But he didn’t.
The leader of La Familia entered the lounge area. He extended his hand to Blake in a signal of friendship, which he took.
“You can do whatever you want with Fernando. I’d tie up these loose ends if I were you.”
“That was the deal,” said Montoya. “You give me Guanajuato and I’ll kill Quezada and Gomez for you. I don’t know why you were so interested in Quezada if you didn’t have to fulfil your contract anymore.”
Blake flicked his eyebrows. He’d already said enough about the nature of his work. Ordinarily, he would have never revealed his true business to an outsider, but he had to in order to get Montoya and his men onside. He could have never killed Fernando and Quezada without great personal risk to himself. Now, with the contract fulfilled and Romero about to expire, Blackwind could extract itself. Gallagher would be delighted.
“You heard what I said to Quezada, right? Killing him means nobody can say we didn’t complete the contract. When we promise to get the job done, we get it done.”
“Sure, well, we’re both happy, then. One other thing. Did you ever find out where my sister went?”
Blake’s eyes widened in surprise. He didn’t like Montoya’s tone. Did he suspect he had something to do with it?
“Who knows? Nothing to do with me. Now the war’s practically over, she’ll turn up soon enough. How far could she possibly get anyway?”
Montoya nodded and grinned down at Fernando. If Montoya were in a good mood, he might die quickly.
Blake snatched his suppressed pistol off the table and disappeared through the backdoor. He wanted to get away from the scene before Montoya had a chance to think about his sister. Jessi Montoya was alive and well, and Blake knew exactly where she was.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Miami, Florida, United States of America
The skyscraper office block across the main road running adjacent to Billionaire Bunker overlooked an enormous swath of the most exclusive area of Miami. A large, electrified fence protected the entrance from the water, strategically covered by a selection of bushes and palm trees. Every few minutes, a speedboat would pass, piloted by men in dark glasses and grim expressions.
The concrete, steel, and glass behemoth above offered exclusive office space. Multiple cranes tended to it like architectural nurses. James and Sinclair spent the day scouting out the location in their Mazda. The more James thought about the scene in front of him, the more he doubted whether he could make the shot.
“Worst case scenario, you miss, and we have to think of a new plan,” said Sinclair in the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry about it.”
Those words didn’t reassure him as he stared out of the passenger window. He could only think of the consequences and what it might mean if he allowed Romero to escape. The damage he would cause after he rebuilt his operations from afar.
The night couldn’t come quick enough. James knew it was suicide. When the time came and the sun fell from the sky, Sinclair started their drive towards the skyscraper. When the office night lights switched themselves on, he knew his opportunity had arrived.
“Check your earpiece,” said Sinclair. “And good luck.”
James affixed the earpiece in the car before climbing out and opening up the trunk. Inside, the case for the sniper rifle. The L115A3 Long Range Rifle was enormous and required multiple parts to assemble. The premier sniper rifle in the Middle East was famous for its involvement in long-range kills.
“Can you hear me?” Sinclair’s voice burst into his ear.
“I can hear you.” James fiddled with the volume button of his earpiece. “Let’s hope that Romero is where he should be, or this was a complete waste of time.”
“This is your operation. You could have always killed Quezada and then we wouldn’t have to do this at all.”
James didn’t dignify Sinclair’s barb with an answer as he slammed the trunk closed and made his way across the road to the skyscraper’s parking lot. Apart from the cars whizzing past and the sound of a plane in the distance, James couldn’t spot any serious security threats.
“See anything?”
“No. Where am I going?”
“Follow the parking lot to the end and follow the path,” said Sinclair. “You’ll need to go through reception. Expect to see some sort of security. I don’t know what their security procedures are like here.”
“Reassuring.”
“They should be the same as every other skyscraper in America. Some security guard working for nothing who’s not going to risk his life to save the rich bastards inside. Just put him out. Don’t kill him.”
James left the parking lot and stepped onto the path, flanked on one side by neatly trimmed lawns and gorgeous flowerbeds lit by the floodlights on the side of the building. He had no intention of killing anyone but Romero tonight if he could help it.
He came to a small door leading into a reception area. A security guard sat at a table playing on his phone. James knocked on the door. The guard almost fell off his chair. James looked him up and down with curiosity and gave him a toothy smile. His smart clothes would dispel any fears that he was a common criminal. As predicted, the security guard pressed a button. A large buzzing sound signalled the door unlocking.
“Evening, sir,” said the security guard. “What can I help you with?”
“Nothing much,” James said. “I work here.”
“You got ID, sir?”
James sighed and put down the case with the rifle inside. He reached into his dark grey sports jacket and pulled out the suppressed Glock 19 he’d received from Raul.
“Oh shit.” The security guard threw himself back against the wall with his hands raised. “Wait, wait, wait…”
“Shhhh… don’t worry. I have no interest in killing you. Just pretend nothing’s happening. Come out from behind your desk. I know you have a panic button underneath.”
The security guard trembled as he shuffled out from behind the desk, knowing enough not to make any sudden movements. It was like Sinclair had said, a security guy earning nothing wouldn’t risk his life for any of these people.
“How many people are working here tonight?”
“There’s someone on every floor. Every fl
oor except the 26th and up. They’re still under construction.”
“I see. They all like you?”
“I… don’t understand.”
“You’re not going to die for these people.”
The guard looked sheepish but nodded.
“Good. Is there a storeroom or something here?”
“Follow me, sir.”
With his hands in the air, the guard walked across reception to a bank of elevators. A few metres away, a nondescript white door set into the wall appeared anonymous and forgotten.
“I need to lower my hands, sir, if you want me to open it.”
James grunted his permission. The overweight guard dripped with sweat as he fumbled with his ring of keys. He took a few seconds to fit the right key into the lock. Turning it, the guard revealed a standard storeroom. Shelves of tools, tins of paint, and unrepaired furniture littered the tiny room.
“Give me your phone and the keys,” said James. “I’m going to lock you in. I trust you not to start shouting and screaming. Wait until the end of your shift and I won’t have to hurt you. You understand?”
The guard turned out his pockets and gave James two cell phones. James had to hand it to him. He’d expected to have to play hardball. At least the guy was honest.
“Thank you, sir. I won’t say anything, sir.”
“If anyone asks, you can say I knocked you out and threw you in here. I wouldn’t want you to lose your job over something that has nothing to do with you.”
“Thank you. Oh, just to tell you, take the elevator to the 27th floor. The 26th floor is where most of us go for smokes. You don’t have to worry about cameras. All the screens are behind my desk.”
“You’ve been a great help.”
After locking the guard inside, he returned to the desk and picked up his sniper rifle again. He cleared his throat and headed for the bank of elevators. So far so good.
“What’s happening? I heard you talking,” said Sinclair from afar. “I’m across the street from you. Nothing out of the ordinary. I can see the lights from the island. Romero might be in the garden now, but I can’t tell from here.”
