by London James
Unfortunately for him, I didn't die. But Walt's warned me over the years, that they've heard chatter, and Hernan knows that I'm still very much alive – which means that eventually, he's going to come calling to finish the job he started. Unlike his father, Hernan is patient. Calculating. Osvaldo is crafty and cunning, but he's prone to fits of rage, and will sometimes drop everything, just to pursue a vendetta.
Not Hernan though. He's a cool customer who bides his time. He waits for the opportune moment, and then he strikes. And when he strikes, he is almost always lethal. I've kept up on him over the last few years, offering unofficial consults to Walt in return for access to the Marshal Service's database. While I have no desire to be out in the field again, I have no problem offering up my thoughts and opinions – anything to help bring some of these scumbags to justice and help save lives.
“Damn,” I say. “Nothing like being collateral damage because your brother made shitty life choices.”
“Tell me about it,” Walt says. “Zavala got to the brother. Gunned him down outside the courthouse the day he was supposed to testify.”
“Shit,” I respond.
“Yeah, so I had to pull the girl out of her last WITSEC location and decided to put her here.”
It's only then that I realize what's been staring me in the face this whole time – it's not a coincidence that Walt placed her here in Grizzly Ridge. Yeah, the Marshal's do their best to put their charges in out of the way places, and spots where the people gunning for them might be less likely to look. Sometimes, they put witnesses in big cities and hide them in plain sight. Other times, they stick them in remote locations.
But usually, not places as remote as Grizzly Ridge – and that's when it hits me.
“You dirty, dirty son of a bitch,” I say, and chuckle.
He looks over at me, and though he can suppress his smile, he can't hide that sparkle in his eyes he gets when he's up to something. Yeah, he knew exactly what he was doing when he dropped her here. Since I have refused to rejoin the Marshal's, Walt figured he'd bring the job to me.
“I don't know what you mean,” he says.
“Yeah, you do,” I reply. “And it ain't gonna happen. I'm done, Walt. Seriously. I don't know how many times I need to tell you that before you understand. I'm no good to anybody out in the field.”
“I happen to disagree,” he tells me. “But, that's neither here, nor there. I'm not asking you to come back to the Marshal's this time.”
“Ahhh, so you're just asking me to provide cover off the books.”
He shakes his head. “All I'm asking is that you keep tabs on her,” he answers. “One of Zavala's guys has a trial coming up soon, and you know that's when the shit usually starts popping off.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Anyway, we've been picking up some chatter. Zavala is getting nervous about his guy and sees the girl as a loose end. He thinks her brother passed on some damning information to her – information that could deal a big blow to the cartel. They're gonna take a run at her. I can feel it.”
“I get the impression you think she has whatever information has put a bug up their asses.”
“I don't know what she has,” he replies. “But, I'm pretty damn sure she's got something she's not telling me about. She seems to think that if she doesn't turn it over, it's somehow going to keep her safe from these animals.”
I shrug. “Maybe it might,” I say. “If they think she's not going to help you – which in turns, keeps her from hurting them – maybe they'll just let her be.”
“You know as well as I do, that's not the way they work.”
I nod and take a sip of my beer. “Yeah, I know.”
“It's one reason I put her out here in this podunk little town,” he says. “Because who would think to look here?”
“Exactly right. And how will they be able to find her way out here?” I ask, gesturing to the wide-open wilderness that surrounds the walls of my property.
“I fear they have their ways,” he says softly. “But really, the only way to protect her, and keep her safe, is by rolling up the iron cartel in its entirety. And we can do that if we have whatever information her brother had on them. Information, I think she has.”
“Yeah, no question about rolling up the cartel,” I agree. “But, if she's not going to play ball, you can't force her to.”
“I know,” he seethes. “I just – I need to keep this woman safe.”
Walt lets out a breath and runs a hand over his face. I can see that he's troubled by something – that something is really weighing down on him right now. And something that has nothing to do with whether or not she's holding back information.
“What is it, Walt?”
“I think we've been compromised,” he says bluntly. “Truth is, I think we've always been compromised. I know somebody inside is feeding information to Zavala, and who knows the fuck else.”
“That's probably how they knew which safe house to hit the night they came for Marco,” I say.
He nods. “Yeah, probably,” he replies. “After that clusterfuck, we reformed security protocols. Information is more compartmentalized and secure. We've had fewer incidents, but I know they've still got their hooks into some of our guys.”
“I don't doubt it,” I say.
He turns and looks me dead in the eye, holding my gaze firmly. “It's why I need your help here, Baker. I don't know who I can and can't trust inside. I can't let anything happen to this girl. It's not her fault she's in this shit, kid.”
“Come on, Walt. I'm out of the game,” I argue. “I can't help anybody. If I try to help, I'm more than likely going to get this girl killed.”
He shakes his head. “All I'm asking is that you just keep an eye on her. From a distance,” he amends. “You know the town, and I'm sure strangers tend to stick out around here. I just want you to –”
“Can't do it, man,” I say and laugh. “I'm sorry, but what you're offering is like the gateway drug. It's that first hit you're trying to give me to get me hooked again. I know how you operate.”
He chuckles. “Not what I was going for, kid. I give you my word,” he says, his tone growing serious again. “I just really need to make sure this girl is safe. I can't explain why, but I feel like she's my responsibility.”
“But, she's not mine,” I tell him. “Walt, you know I can't get pulled back into that shit. It's not where I am anymore, and I'm more apt to get her killed if things go sideways, than I am to save her, just because my head isn't in it anymore.”
As I speak, images of Jenny flash through my mind. The toughest part of my rehab and recovery from my wounds was dealing with the grief of her loss. The void she'd left in my life is a hole I don't think can ever be filled. I think the best I can do is cover it up and pretend it doesn't exist. It's gotten easier over the months, and years, but it's still there. I can feel it gnawing in my gut.
More than the love I lost though, her death – and the way that whole evening played out – is enough to make me realize that I can't do the job. Not at the level, I expect of myself. The fact that I couldn't protect our witness – or the woman I loved – shows me that I can't be responsible for anybody else. Not again.
“Why can't you assign one of your guys to the area?” I ask. “Have them keep an eye on her.”
“Because there's nobody I trust more than you,” he says flatly.
I run my hand through my hair and take a long pull from my bottle. The last thing I want to do – the last thing I can afford to do – is let myself be drawn back into this. Especially knowing the Zavala Cartel is involved. Sons of bitches almost killed me once as it is. Tangling with them again isn't exactly on my bucket list. Oh, I'd like to put a bullet into Hernan, no question about it. I'd rather enjoy putting him down like the rabid dog he is. But, I'm also smart enough to know that unless you can roll up the entire cartel permanently if you leave even the smallest ember burning, they will reorganize, and reignite in a flash, and they will
never stop coming. Ever.
It's not a fight I want in my life. I just want to live in peace.
“Look, I'm sorry, man. I hate the idea of saying no, but I –”
Walt holds up his hand and nods, cutting me off. I can't help but see the disappointment in his face, but this really is not my fight. Not anymore. And I think he knows and understands that.
“It's okay, kid,” he says. “I shouldn't be pressing you too hard on this anyway.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, each of us sipping our beers, lost in thought. I can see how important this is to Walt. Can see how seriously he takes keeping this woman safe, and what it means to him. It's an impulse I understand all too well. Walt and I are a lot alike, in that we invest all of ourselves into the job. The job is us, and we are the job. It's the way it was when we were in the Corps, and it was the same as Marshals – still is for Walt.
Which is why I can't get involved. I can't let myself get that invested again.
“Glad you're here though,” I say. “It's damn good to see you, man.”
Walt raises his beer bottle in salute. “Damn good to see you too again, kid.”
“How about I take you down to one of the finest restaurants in town, for one of the best steaks I've ever had?” I say. “My treat.”
“Damn right it's your treat. I'm a lowly civil servant, you've got more money than God,” Walt laughs.
I laugh along with him, and for a moment, it feels like old times. Walt's one of the only people who knows about my background, knows that I have money, and about the family company. He's never judged me for it, or treated me differently, and has said before that he respects the fact that I didn't take the easy road in life but went out and made a name for myself.
Those kinds of affirmations from him – a man I respect more than just about anybody else on this planet, now that my father has passed away – mean the most to me.
We drain the last of our beers and head out. He follows me down to the local steakhouse, which honestly, has some of the best food I've ever had. I swear to God, it's like home cooking. The conversation is free, light, and easy – a staple of my relationship with Walt. We talk about everything, and he shows me some pictures of his kids.
I actually expected him, at some point, to take another run at getting me to watch over this woman. To my surprise, he didn't though. Not once through the whole meal, did he bring her up, or ask me to play babysitter again. Which is a good thing. Given the importance of Walt in my life, I have a feeling if he'd kept the full-court press up, my resolve eventually would have weakened, and I would have given in, if for no other reason, than my love for, and loyalty to, this man.
After dinner, we go over to Frank's, and have a couple of beers, just to finish getting caught up on each other's lives. Or rather, so I can get caught up on his life, since my life pretty much consists of chopping wood, reading, walking Stabler, and an endless amount of checking, and double checking all of the security systems in place around my estate. And because this woman is here in town, and could be a magnet for the cartel, I make a mental note to check them all again tomorrow.
Full, and caught up with each other, we walk across the parking lot. The night is growing cold, and our breath comes out in plumes of vapor. I look up and admire the thousands of stars that adorn the nighttime sky. They gleam like bits of diamond set against the black velvet of the night. This is one of the things that I will never grow tired of about Grizzly Ridge – the natural beauty of the place.
“You're welcome to crash at my place tonight,” I offer.
“Wish I could, kid,” he says. “Gotta take a red-eye back to Arlington. I'm babysitting some Mafia Don tomorrow.”
“There's still Mafia Dons around?” I say and laugh.
“I know, right? Surprised the shit out of me too.”
“Well, it was great to see you, Walt.”
He pulls me into a tight embrace, giving me a few hard thumps on the back. “You too, kid,” he tells me. “Be in touch, you hear me?”
“Roger that,” I say.
I watch as Walt climbs into his rental and drives away. And as I watch his taillights dwindle in the distance, I can't help but feel like an asshole for saying no to him. I drive home, still trying to keep myself from feeling like an asshole about it all. Walt's never asked me for much, but this is something I just can't involve myself in.
Stabler greets me at the door, and as I follow him toward the back for his nightly potty run, my eyes fall on something sitting on the dining room table. I walk over, and pick up the thick file sitting there, a picture of a red-headed woman with piercing green eyes clipped to the front – it's a copy of the U.S. Marshal's file on one Isla Nelson.
“You dirty, dirty son of a bitch,” I mutter to myself.
Chapter Ten
Hernan
The sound of tires chirping on another floor echo around the underground parking structure. I'm with my guys on the bottom level, waiting. It's the only level of the structure that doesn't have functioning cameras – I had my guys disable them, so we could conduct these clandestine meetings unobserved.
I'm growing agitated and frustrated the longer I stand there waiting. I check my watch – again – and growl to myself. It's a quarter past midnight, and I told him to be here at twelve on the dot.
“Fucker's late,” I snap. “Does he not realize who he's fucking with here?”
Antonio, one of my two bodyguards, looks at me but says nothing. Not that it's unusual for him. He's paid to take a bullet for me, not to give me his pearls of wisdom. Hector, my other bodyguard, stands near the black SUV, keeping a watchful eye on things. Both men appear relaxed, but I know they're ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. They're good at what they do.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and stab the button. Holding the phone to my ear, I listen to it ring once, then twice, and a third time before it goes to voicemail.
“Son of a bitch,” I hiss.
After listening to the greeting, the tone sounds, and I debate with myself for a minute about whether or not to leave a message. I decide that I need to, just so he can hear how pissed off I am.
“You're late,” I say, my voice colder than an Arctic glacier. “I don't like to be kept waiting, puto. You had better either call me or get your ass here in the next fifteen minutes or your fucking life is over. You hear me? I will destroy you, asshole. You do not fuck with me.”
I disconnect the call, and despite a sudden urge to throw my phone against the wall, I take a deep breath, let it out, and slip it into my pocket. I definitely inherited a temper from my father, but at least I know how to control it, unlike him.
My footsteps thud hollowly off the concrete floor, and echo around the structure, as I continue to focus on calming myself down. I need to start thinking of contingency plans. My father is not happy that Isla Nelson is still in the wind. He's convinced she's got the silver bullet that's going to take down our whole empire. And to that end, I need to appease him and make him happy. I need to keep him on my side for a little while longer. At least, until I'm ready to make my move, and make a regime change at the top of our power structure.
U.S. Marshal Marc Cullen is currently my only source of information about people in witness protection. The Marshals are a surprisingly tough unit to crack into. Their guys have proven harder to flip than some of my informers inside the ATF, and FBI. And though I'm working angles with a couple of other guys, as of right now, he's the only one I have leverage against, so if he doesn't come through, I'm going to be left standing there with my dick in my hand when I have to talk to my father.
The sound of a car coming down the ramp draws my attention, and I turn to see a standard unmarked car rolling slowly down toward us.
“About fucking time.”
Cullen parks his car and gets out slowly. He eyes my guys as he crosses the lot, then stands before me, looking nervous. With his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, he pulls it a little tighter around
him. Antonio steps forward, his hand slipping beneath his jacket, but I wave him off.
“It's okay, Antonio,” I say. “Marshal Cullen isn't stupid enough to take a shot at me. Are you?”
He licks his lips, his eyes moving between the large man to my left, and then back to me. He doesn't say anything, but he lowers his eyes, shakes his head. I can't help the smirk that tugs at the corners of my mouth. If not for Antonio and Hector, I actually believe Marshal Cullen would have indeed tried to shoot me.
Not that I blame him entirely. I mean, I do have him by the balls, and the power to bring his life down in a crumpled heap of flaming ruin, at the snap of my fingers. And when somebody has control over you like that, of course, the natural impulse of a man is to do what he can to get out from under.
But I also know that Marshal Cullen isn't stupid. A coward, among other things, yes, but he's not stupid. Nor is he actually dedicated enough to his job – or the people he's sworn to protect and defend – to risk being killed. And he would most assuredly be killed if he tried to kill me. Antonio and Hector would cut him down before his gun even cleared his holster.
No, Cullen was all about himself and protecting his own ass and interests. He wouldn't risk doing something that monumentally stupid. This much about him, I know.
“You're late,” I say.
“I got hung up –”
“I don't want your excuses,” I interject. “I want results. Do you have what I asked for?”
He lets out a long breath, his eyes shifting to Antonio and Hector, before returning them to me. He clenches his jaw, and lifts his chin slightly, as if trying to put on an air of defiance. It's cute that he still thinks he has some semblance of control here.