by Peter Nealen
Of course, that also meant keeping a tight grip on Gomez’ emotions, keeping an eye on him and making sure he didn’t go overboard.
He wished that they had more men, that he could afford to spread out, keeping an eye on every thread they had to follow up. But they didn’t; they had ten. And between Bianco’s little cell phone tracking scheme and the cousin, those were their best bets at building a target deck quickly. As much as it felt like a step back, they needed to grab that cousin and squeeze him dry.
What they were going to do with him afterward was another question, one that he put aside to deal with after they had more answers.
***
Bianco turned his phone on as he climbed into the truck behind Flanagan. A missed call from Hart immediately popped up, and he hit the call back button.
“Hey, Vinnie,” Childress answered.
“How are you doing, Sam?” Bianco asked him.
“I’m doing better, actually, now that I’ve got something to do,” Childress replied. “Gets tough sometimes, between the pain and the nausea, but it helps. Not something I’d have thought I’d be doing in a million years, but it’s something.” He sounded rough, tired and hoarse, but that probably went along with his recovery. “I’ve got some info from your buddy,” he said. “I’ll send the detailed data by email, but the short version is that those phones are showing up in clusters. Most of them on the US side of the line are in Lordsburg, Las Cruces, and Silver City. The biggest cluster is somewhere in the Ascensiòn Mountains in Chihuahua. It’s kind of a blob at the moment, but it should give you a zone to look at, anyway.”
“Good deal,” Bianco said. “We’ll get on it. Especially Las Cruces. Sounds like we’ve got a person of interest up that way.”
“I’ll keep in touch and send along what I get, as long as I’m awake to do it,” Childress said. He really sounded tired. “Don’s taking a nap; he’s been up most of the night. He’s trying, but he’s not quite as good at finding some of this stuff.
“You guys need to watch yourselves,” he continued, getting even more serious. “There’s not a lot in general news, but a few of the narco watchdog sites have been talking about the Espino-Gallo gang for a couple of months. They got kicked out of the Sinaloa Federation for going after more than their share of the pie; in fact, it sounds like some of their former confederates tried to wipe them out. They got tipped off, or something, and pulled a fighting retreat, while launching attacks of their own. Some of the stories circulating about what this El Destripador did in Cuidad Juarez before they disappeared will make Roger’s hair curl. Sounds like the guy’s the perfect narco psycho.”
“We’ll step carefully, Sam,” Bianco said. “You keep digging, but more importantly, get better. You sound like hell.”
“Been busy,” Childress said, “but it’s a good thing. I’ve been taking my naps, though, if only to keep the nurses from scolding me too much. If one of ‘em was hot, I might not mind so much, but I’ve got a dude and a fat battleax who looks like she’s just about fifty.”
Bianco laughed. “Good to hear, buddy,” he said, and he meant it. Childress clearly had gotten his second wind, at least mentally and emotionally. He still had a long way to go, physically, and he’d never be the same, but he didn’t sound like he was circling the drain and thinking about slitting his wrists anymore. It was good to hear. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Stay safe, brother,” Childress said. Bianco hung up and started pulling up the email, as Flanagan threw the truck in gear and headed north.
Chapter 15
“There’s that little shit,” Gomez said.
Gomez’ choice of words aside, Antonio Gutierrez wasn’t a particularly small man. He looked like he was in his early twenties, and wasn’t so much heavyset as he was fat. He walked like he thought he was tough, though, and he was well-dressed, at least so far as gangbanger chic went.
Gomez and Flanagan were waiting in Flanagan’s truck, outside the local Save Mart in Las Cruces. The gray, blocky building wasn’t especially impressive, and Gutierrez didn’t seem too interested in it, anyway. He was meeting the three young men and the girl in the crop-top and fur-lined jacket in the old but garishly decorated Buick in the parking lot.
“I thought the drug-dealer-mobile had gone out of style,” Flanagan muttered.
“Depends on where you are, and how safe they feel,” Gomez replied. He was glowering at his cousin, even though they were across the street. “Apparently, these Espino-Gallo assholes feel plenty safe.”
“Apparently.” Flanagan left it at that. Gomez was clearly on a rage bender; he’d been a man of very few words before; he probably had gotten through his first mission with the Blackhearts, in Burma, without speaking more than a couple dozen words. His current verbosity was odd, and a little concerning.
Gutierrez was leaning against the side of the sedan, talking to the young men sitting in the front seat. He reached inside, took something from the guy in the passenger seat, and stuffed it in his pocket.
“That look like cash to you?” Flanagan asked.
Gomez was squinting toward the car. “Maybe,” he murmured.
There was another exchange of words, and then Gutierrez straightened and swaggered—or tried to; he wasn’t built for a proper swagger—toward his own car, a bright orange Civic Type R, with what looked like an after-market spoiler on the back. Gutierrez was clearly enjoying what he considered the high life.
Flanagan watched him lever his bulk into the small car, reflecting on the fact that he wouldn’t be caught dead in a little rice burner like that.
Despite the fact that that had looked very much like a semi-operational meet, with instructions given and money passed, Gutierrez apparently couldn’t help himself, and burned rubber on the way out of the parking lot, his engine screaming and the souped-up “fart can” of a muffler amplifying the exhaust rather than muffling it. He revved the engine again as soon as he was on the road, accelerating hard away from the parking lot.
“Jackass,” Flanagan muttered, as he put his own truck in gear and started to follow. There wasn’t a lot of traffic to hide in at that time of the morning, but he could afford to stay well back. That obnoxiously colored and noisy car wasn’t going to be easy to lose.
Gomez was checking his CZ P-01, drawing the slide back just far enough to see brass in the ejection port. Flanagan glanced over at him. “We need what’s in his head, and I don’t mean spattered all over the driveway,” he said.
“I know,” Gomez said, slipping the pistol back into its holster. “I’m not going to kill him. Just put the fear of God into him.”
Flanagan frowned as he divided his attention between his partner, the road, and their quarry. That little display had been unnecessary, and like this unaccustomed loquaciousness, out of character for Gomez. He’d always been the quiet, patient hunter, perfectly comfortable with staying stock-still for a long, long time. There had been an unspoken rivalry going between Gomez, Childress, and Flanagan for who was the best stalker and woodsman, who could be quieter and sneakier. But now, Gomez was being downright fidgety by comparison.
“I need to know you’re good, man,” Flanagan said. “I know it’s gotta sting, knowing your own blood sold your family out and profited from their murder. Hell, if I was in your shoes, I’d probably be looking for a rope and a tall tree, myself. But we’ve got a job to do, if we’re gonna get your sister back.”
Gomez just stared at the little orange car ahead of them as it turned left, his face blank, saying nothing. Then he took a deep breath through his nose, his mouth still tightly shut, and nodded.
“You’re right,” he said. “I want to stake him down over an anthill, like my ancestors used to do. But that’s not going to get Sonya back. At least, not unless he talks first.” He turned his head to look at Flanagan, his black eyes still cold. “Like I told the Colonel, I’m good. I’ll do what we’ve got to do.”
Flanagan spared a second to meet his gaze. Then he nodded. “Good enough for
me,” he said.
Gutierrez had turned off the main road past a Kia dealership, and was heading into the residential neighborhoods. Flanagan sped up a little to close the distance; that car might be easy to spot, but a residential neighborhood could get tight, and he might lose it in the turns.
As soon as they were past the dealership, he saw the little orange car go around a corner toward the east. The house on the corner lot was set back from the street, a rusted-out, beat-up old two-door coupe sitting on a trailer on the corner itself. He eased off the gas just a little, slowing to residential speeds. He didn’t want to close the gap too much, not at this stage. Once they knew where Gutierrez was going, then they could close in. Besides, visibility back there wasn’t bad; almost all the houses were one-story ranch style structures, mostly red brick or brick plastered to look like adobe, with a handful of trees planted in brown yards.
But if he was worried about Gutierrez trying to evade them, he didn’t need to be. With another obnoxious roar, the Civic sped down the street, then swerved abruptly into a driveway in front of a white-painted house, stopping with a squeal of rubber.
“He sure likes to wear those tires down, doesn’t he?” Flanagan muttered.
Gomez said nothing, his eyes like chips of obsidian as he stared at his cousin’s house.
They slow-rolled past. Flanagan wanted to get a look at the place before they pulled right up to it. Gomez had never been to his cousin’s place; they’d apparently never really gotten along. So, he didn’t know the exact layout. And the last thing Flanagan wanted to happen was for Gutierrez to run out the back when they pulled up to the front, turning this into a chase.
Of course, they weren’t alone. Gomez lifted his phone to his ear. “We’re passing it right…now,” he said.
Flanagan couldn’t hear Wade’s reply, but he could just see the other man’s black rental Durango just entering the neighborhood behind them. The vehicle rolled past their target street and disappeared around the corner. Wade and Jenkins would be on back door duty. If Gutierrez bolted before Flanagan and Gomez could grab him, Wade and Jenkins would be waiting on the other side of the block. Curtis, Javakhishvili, and Hancock were in another vehicle a half mile away, and Brannigan, Bianco, and Santelli would be circling around to the east, just in case.
It was a heavy team for a fat piece of shit like Gutierrez, but it always paid to be prepared.
Reaching the end of the block, Flanagan kept going. He planned to circle the next block and then come back in, returning the way they’d come instead of coming back the same direction they’d already passed.
It was a quick turn, and then they were on the final approach.
He rolled up to the house sedately, turning into the driveway like he was just there to visit. It wouldn’t be a good idea to go kinetic with this any sooner than they absolutely had to; they couldn’t expect the law in Las Cruces to be on their side, especially when they were about to kick a man’s door in and kidnap him, even if he was a gangbanger shithead.
He stopped, put the truck in park, but left the engine running. They might need to leave in a hurry. Reaching back to make sure his STI Tactical wasn’t tangled up in his shirt, but still covered by his jacket, he opened the door and stepped out.
Gomez was already halfway around the hood, heading for the front door.
Flanagan took two long steps to catch up. Gomez’ assurances that he was in control aside, Flanagan didn’t want to take chances.
It was a little unnerving, trying to hold his teammate back, even though they were doing all of this for him. Gomez was their brother, and it was his family that had been torn apart. But here they were, pursuing vengeance for him, while simultaneously trying to restrain him.
Would you want them to do the same if it was Rachel?
He didn’t have an answer.
Gomez got to the door first and knocked. At least he didn’t go straight to mule-kicking it. His hand loose and ready to reach under his jacket and snatch his pistol out, Flanagan waited just behind him, slightly offset from the door.
The door opened. Gutierrez had shed his jacket, and was now just wearing a t-shirt that was really too small for his girth. He blinked as he stared at the hard-featured man standing on the front step.
“Hey, cousin,” he said, holding his fist out, though there was a noticeable catch in his voice. “Didn’t expect to see you around here.”
“Didn’t see you at the funeral, Tony,” Gomez said quietly. “Thought I should check up on you. Thought maybe you were too broken up about what happened, maybe in some trouble.” He didn’t blink as he stared at Gutierrez. “Doesn’t look like I needed to worry, though.”
Gutierrez was scared. Flanagan could almost smell it. His eyes were a little too wide, and he was breathing a little too fast. He glanced back and forth from Gomez to Flanagan, the question of who the black-bearded white guy was plain on his face, though he didn’t dare ask it.
“Uh, well, I was kinda…” he was searching for a reason he hadn’t made it to his aunt and uncle’s funeral, but his nerve was failing fast.
“You were kinda what, Tony?” Gomez pressed. “And are you going to keep me and my friend out on your front doorstep?”
“Uh, this isn’t a good time…” Gutierrez temporized.
Maybe something shifted in Gomez’ expression, or maybe Gutierrez just lost his nerve. Sheer panic suddenly flashed across his face, and he stepped back, trying to slam the door shut.
Gomez simply kicked it open contemptuously as he stepped inside, his hand flashing under his jacket and coming out with the CZ pistol. With a muttered curse, Flanagan drew his own 2011 and followed him inside.
Gutierrez was trying to dash for the back of the house, but he was in a blind panic and tripped over the sofa in the living room. Scrambling like a desperate animal, he crabbed for the kitchen, but Gomez was already coming around the sofa at him.
Rolling onto his back, Gutierrez threw his hands up, screaming thinly, but Gomez kicked him in the stomach and he doubled up. Flanagan stepped around the other side of the sofa and put the cold steel of his pistol barrel against the back of Gutierrez’ skull.
“You’re coming with us,” Flanagan said grimly. “You can either cooperate, or we can knock you the hell out and drag you with us. Your choice.”
But Gutierrez was beyond reason at that point. Shaking his head violently, all he could come out with was a continuous, whimpered, “No, no, no.”
Flanagan grimaced, then cocked his arm back and pistol-whipped Gutierrez at the base of his skull. The spot was sometimes called “the reset button.” Gutierrez was out like a light, his head bouncing on the floor as he went limp.
“Hopefully I didn’t just scramble his brains too much,” he grunted, as he and Gomez stepped in to lift the young man’s bulk. “Otherwise this was a complete waste of time.”
“Not quite a complete waste of time,” Gomez said, as they heaved Gutierrez’ limp form up between them, each man getting under a fat arm. Together, they started toward the door, having to edge around the sofa as they went. There were only a few feet between it and the very expensive entertainment center against the wall.
They got outside and headed for the truck. Gutierrez was coming to, starting to moan and shift, but he wasn’t quite cognizant enough to struggle yet. Flanagan peered around the neighborhood, but it was a weekday morning, and the place looked mostly deserted. The honest citizens, who might call the cops, appeared to all be at work.
They shoved Gutierrez into the center seat, Gomez quickly squeezing in beside him and digging the muzzle of his P-01 into his ribs. The fat young man was mostly conscious by then, enough to know what that hard prod in his side meant. He was clearly terrified, though Flanagan was thankful, as he circled back around and got behind the wheel, that he wasn’t so far gone that he’d lost control of his bowels or bladder.
That part could well come later.
“We’re going to go for a drive, cousin,” Gomez said, as Flanagan
threw the truck in reverse and backed out of the driveway. “We need to have a long family talk.”
***
“You don’t understand, Mario,” Gutierrez blubbered. “I didn’t have any choice. Do you know what these people are like?”
They’d barely gotten onto I-10 before the kid started talking. But he hadn’t said much useful yet. He was mostly trying to justify himself.
Gomez didn’t reply. But he might have jabbed Gutierrez in the ribs with the pistol again. The kid flinched, and Flanagan hoped that he didn’t figure out that it was a hollow threat, at least at the moment. That pistol was also pointed at him. Gomez wasn’t going to risk shooting Flanagan just to kill his cousin.
“They’re savages, man!” Gutierrez protested. “They’d kill me if I didn’t do business with them!”
“And how did they pick you in the first place?” Gomez asked. “I know they don’t just go around threatening randos on the street to make them work for them. ‘Hey, ese, guess what, you’re gonna work for us now. Don’t tell the cops or anything.’” He stared at Gutierrez. “Doesn’t work that way. Try again. I’m not getting any more patient.”
Gutierrez squirmed. Gomez clearly wanted to kill him, and wasn’t taking any of his excuses. “Okay,” he said. “I started hanging out with this group a while back, you know? Bonifacio and Dario were kind of the ringleaders; they were the guys who had the money and people looked up to them. I did too; why not? They had it made. They were real gangsters, they had money and they didn’t give a fuck what anybody thought. I wanted to be friends with them, and they thought I was cool enough. Then they offered me a chance to make some money. So, I took it.”
