by Samson Weld
“I don’t have time, Sokolov,” he insisted. “If I can’t deliver, they will find other suppliers.” He leveled cold eyes on the Russian. “I never had any problem getting as much heroin and cocaine as I asked for from the Mexican cartels.”
One of Sokolov’s men said something in Russian. They laughed. Osorio narrowed his eyes on the Russian mobster.
“Be patient, my friend. We are expanding our distribution network. There are bound to be glitches from time to time.”
Osorio wondered if the recent drug bust in San Diego had anything to do with Sokolov’s glitches. The DEA bust had netted them a ton of heroin, and almost as much coke. None of the news reports had said who the smugglers were, but he assumed it was one of the Mexican cartels.
“No problem, until your glitches turn into my supply issues,” he replied. Consuelo’s phone rang. He glanced at his chief lieutenant, before turning back to the Russian. “If you can’t deliver, I’ll find someone who can. Comprende, amigo?”
“Do not threaten me, Osorio,” Sokolov said, eyes narrowing and voice dropping. “We have an agreement. I will hold you to it.”
Osorio glared at him. Sokolov had him over a barrel in many ways. The Russians had bankrolled his startup costs when he’d moved from Los Angeles to greener pastures in Dallas. They considered him one of their people now. He didn’t agree, but the cartels in Mexico weren’t happy with him, since he’d abandoned them for the Russians. They might not work with him, or make expensive demands.
“Just get me my shit,” he said. He might be loath to back down, but keeping the Russians happy was imperative. At least for now. “I can sell all you can supply. And—”
“Osorio,” Consuelo whispered, moving up close. He leaned in to whisper in his boss’s ear. “Charlie Cox left on his route on time, but missed his drop.”
Osorio’s blood ran cold because the implications were clear. Somebody had attacked his convoy and stolen his merchandise. His dark eyes bore into Sokolov.
Was it the Russians? The Cartels? Another player moving in on his territory? Charlie’d been with him for ten years, and had come from LA to Dallas with him. He was reliable, steady as a rock.
He looked at Consuelo. “Find him.”
“Problems, my friend?” Sokolov asked, smirking.
“There are always problems in this business, amigo,” he said. “I excel at dealing with them. In a very final manner.”
The Russian lifted a glass of vodka and saluted him. “We are very much the same in that regard, Osorio. We don’t like troublemakers.” He glanced to the right. His girlfriend came bouncing up. “You may leave.”
“You just uphold your side of our deal,” he said, and stood.
Osorio led his men back out to their vehicles. The drivers had stayed behind to guard the SUVs. They got behind the wheel as soon as he came out. And then Consuelo’s phone rang again.
He stopped and waited while his lieutenant spoke with the ice cream plant manager. The drug lord raised an eyebrow at Consuelo’s frown as he put his phone away.
“They found Charlie dead beside his truck about five miles from the plant,” Consuelo said.
“His shipment?”
“Still in the truck.”
“Good.
“No, not good,” Consuelo said. “The police found Charlie. And the drugs.”
Osorio’s hands curled into fists. “Find out who killed him. I want to see his head in a bucket.”
Chapter 4
Southbound traffic was light on State Highway 67, what people in Dallas called Marvin D. Love Freeway. Most of the drivers were headed north into downtown or beyond. Anna Bellucci rode shotgun in the white unmarked Dallas PD Dodge Charger. Her partner of just a week drove.
“Ledbetter is the next exit,” Detective Cagle said before merging into the right lane without signaling.
Detective Bellucci didn’t like riding. She’d always driven when she’d worked for the New York Police Department, even as a rookie. A twelve-year habit was hard to break. Also, Cagle’s casual, good ole boy indifference to other cars on the road grated on her. She knew she was a better driver, but he knew the city.
“We’re going to spend a lot of time in South Dallas, so pay attention to where we are,” he continued.
She slanted an annoyed look at the fifteen-year veteran cop. Cagle was tall, dark, and not quite handsome. He kept his hair military short, with an amused look on his face most of the time. As far as she could tell, he only owned two suits: blue and brown. He chose brown that day.
“That’s the second time you said that, just today,” she said. “And believe me, your South Dallas is a resort compared to some of the barrios in New York.”
He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. She fidgeted, tugging on her stylish black leather jacket. She wore a white button down shirt under it, paired with dark slacks. Her shoulder length blond hair was pulled back in a bun.
“You’re such a badass, Bellucci,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “I’m so lucky to be stuck… to be graced with you as a partner.”
The thirty-six year old shook her head woefully. He could be such an ass. Still, he’d proven he knew his job as well as anyone she’d worked with in the NYPD.
“Bless your heart,” she said, in her best imitation of a southern drawl.
He barked a laugh and took the next off-ramp. They turned left on Ledbetter Drive, heading into the rising sun. Thankfully, it was late enough in the morning that she didn’t have to lower her visor. Sunglasses helped.
Bellucci spotted the refrigerator truck a mile from the freeway, the El Diario Creamery logo on the side. It sat there, flashers on, DPD patrol cars boxing it in. A cop directed traffic around the crime scene. Cagle drove past before parking on the other side.
They got out and headed back. Bellucci took the lead. She couldn’t be seen holding back, riding Cagle’s coattails. But then a patrol cop held out a hand to stop her.
“Bellucci, Homicide. He’s Cagle,” she said, pulling her jacket aside to show him the badge clipped to her belt to the right of the buckle. Her pistol rested in its holster next to it as well. “What do you have?”
The cop nodded and walked beside her. “It’s the truck driver. African-American male, mid-fifties. Stabbed multiple times with a pair of ice picks.”
“Nice,” she said. “Do we have a name?”
“Not that I know, Detective.”
A pair of crime scene boys were kneeling beside the victim, while others scoured the immediate area. One of them was looking through the victim’s billfold. He looked up and nodded.
“His name is Charlie Cox, a resident of Oak Cliff,” he said and then rose. He stood a head taller than Bellucci, looked early fifties, with balding brown hair and jaded brown eyes. “I’m Henry Michaels, my partner is Jeff Border. Hi, Cagle. New partner?”
“Yeah, Miss Bellucci is just off the plane from New York City,” he said.
“New York City?” Jeff said as he stood and faced her.
Another cop she couldn’t see piped in with, “Get a rope.”
Everyone laughed, except Bellucci. Why did they keep saying that? It wasn’t that funny, but everyone in Texas always laughed.
“You guys are hilarious,” she said, squatting beside the corpse.
The victim was on his back, eyes still wide open in a surprised expression. She hated the way open eyes looked after death, especially here, quickly drying up in the dry Texas air. The ice picks still stuck in his head and heart made her grimace.
“Robbery, or something personal?”
There wasn’t as much blood on the victim as she expected. One side of his shirt and jacket were bloody, but not much more. She didn’t see much blood on the ground. Apparently, ice pick wounds didn’t bleed as bad as bullet and knife wounds.
“Not sure yet,” Henry said. “The inside of the cargo area was torn up a bit. Odd, that.”
“How so?”
“Whoever did that fo
und what he was looking for, but didn’t take it.”
The CSI guys led Bellucci and Cagle to the back of the ice cream delivery truck. The rollup door was still up and Bellucci could see ice cream starting to drip out the back. There was a single open box centered in the door. She looked inside.
“Drugs?”
“Heroin, to be precise,” Jeff said. “We suspect there is a lot more inside, too. But our killer didn’t take it. I think he wanted us to find it.”
“Why frame the victim after you kill him?” Cagle asked.
“That’s your job to find out,” Henry said.
“Great,” Bellucci said. “How long has he been dead?”
“Couple of hours.”
Bellucci shook her head. How long had he lain dead on the side of the street before someone finally called the police? Dallas was as bad as New York. Worse, because she doubted anyone walked down that sidewalk more than a couple times a week. Texas people drove everywhere.
Bellucci and Cagle looked around the crime site. The engine was still running.
“Where is the El Diario Creamery?” she asked.
“Not far,” Cagle said, frowning as he stared at the truck. “Their plant is just a few miles away. This guy got his ass killed before his first stop.”
“Looks like we need to check out the creamery and its owner. It looks like someone’s distributing drugs out of his plant and on his delivery trucks.”
“Yeah, well, I can save you a little time. Mateo Osorio owns the creamy,” Cagle said, turning toward their car. “And he’s what you would call a local drug lord.” He grimaced. “If someone’s broken the peace…”
“So you think a rival did this?” she asked. It could get bad fast. “If so, who?”
“That’s the million dollar question,” Cagle said. “Osorio is a hothead. He won’t take this sitting down. He will strike back, and then we’ll have a drug war on our hands.”
Chapter 5
The local ten o’clock news barely covered Charlie Cox’s murder. Ash thought it would be a bigger deal.
Maybe it was the wrong side of town? People kind of expected murder in South Dallas. At least the wealthy and news outlets did. Besides, that was yesterday’s murder. They had new murders to yap about.
“They probably won’t care about what I do tonight, either,” Ash muttered. “Same part of town.” He smiled. “Osorio cares about what happened to Charlie and he will care about what I do tonight. And that’s all that matters.”
Picking up the remote, he clicked off the TV mounted on the wall. He looked around his home gym, trying to decide what to do next. Ash moved over to the corner with the speed bag since he’d just finished working on his legs. He went over his plan for that night as he taped his hands.
The big thing was getting there and out again without being identified.
It wasn’t a neighborhood forty-year-old white men visited, especially after dark. He had his route down, had driven it a dozen times to get the timing down right. The man he wanted would arrive at midnight, sharp. Hector would only stay long enough to pick up the money, give Osorio’s orders, and he’d be gone.
Maybe I should go back to the idea of sniping him when he arrives.
That was the safest path to take, but not the most satisfactory. Worse, the impact might not hit Osorio as hard. He had to hit Osorio where it hurt the most. Right in his backyard, on his turf.
Ash tore into the speed bag, though not as hard as usual. After all, this exercise session was to warm up before the main event. After a few minutes, he pulled the gloves off and jumped on the exercise bike. And then he ended with his post-workout stretches.
Look what you’ve turned me into, Osorio, he thought. I was a happily married father of two, going to seed, and a good turn-the-other-cheek Christian. And now all I do is exercise, practice my martial arts and weapon skills, and plot to destroy you and everything you love.
Maybe not that different from the street pusher turned drug lord.
He headed for the bedroom to change. There would be time to shower after the deed was done. After Hector Corredor was dead and gone.
Ash dressed in a military-style black SWAT uniform. A double shoulder holster went over that, with a pair of Glock 17 pistols. Ammo pouches with two full magazines each clipped to his belt.
It’s time.
Looking at his smartphone, Ash checked his perimeter. He accessed his security cameras outside to ensure no intruders were present. He then turned off the motion detectors.
Picking up the AR-15 leaning against the wall, Ash headed for the backdoor. His rental didn’t have an attached garage. It was an old farmhouse, on a hundred acres.
It wasn’t cheap renting a farm, but it was out in the country east of Dallas and close to Interstate 30 for easy access to the city. He’d built a firing range onsite and didn’t have to worry about bothering any neighbors. It was perfect for his purpose.
Three thirty-round magazines sat on the kitchen table. They were taped together to form a “Y” shape, arranged so he could quickly eject an empty, swivel it around, and slam in the next full magazine. That gave him ninety rounds to fire quickly. He didn’t expect the fight to take long enough to expend all ninety rounds.
Ash paused in the cold, crisp air and looked around. The farm always had a calming effect on him. It was over a hundred years old and had huge live oaks all around the house and barn. Corrals lay unused, the white rail fences bright in the moonlight. Tan, dormant grass covered the backyard, but it transitioned into white gravel between the house and white painted barn.
The farm didn’t have a garage, but the barn more than served his purposes. Ash owned six automobiles and two motorcycles. The only vehicle registered in his real name was the full-sized Ford F-150 parked in front of the house, and that linked to a rented commercial PO box. Everything else was purchased under aliases. By the time the state figured something was amiss, if they ever did, he will have finished, or been killed trying.
“Jesus, it’s freezing tonight,” he grumbled, pulling the woolen ski mask down over his face as he headed the twenty yards to the barn. “I swear, I’m moving to Florida when this is all over.”
Once inside the barn, Ash rolled the ski mask up and out of his face. Then he flipped on the light and looked around. Five choices, since he couldn’t take a motorcycle with an AR-15 strapped to his back into the city. All were “throwaway” vehicles in his mind, and couldn’t be traced back to him.
He kind of wanted to take the 1980 Jeep CJ7, but it didn’t have a top. The 1998 red Chevy Camaro called to him in another way, but speed wasn’t the objective. The old Dodge Ram was too big and the Mazda too small.
Ash got into the silver Mercury Sable. It was an old 2002 model, a little battered, but drove well. The engine and drive train, at least, were solid. More important, the heater worked and the AR-15 would lay flat on the bench seat beside him.
The drive into Dallas on I-30, past downtown, and then south to the Oak Cliff crackhouse took thirty minutes at that late hour.
Ash parked on the other side of the intersection, glancing at the dashboard clock: 11:51 PM. There were a few old cars in front of the even older, more rundown two-story house with a deep front porch. Even in the dark, he could see the place hadn’t been painted in a couple of decades. Hell, it’d probably been abandoned for the last twenty years. But it had electricity, and most of the filthy windows glowed with dim lighting.
He watched a few people stagger away, while another couple entered. All were African-Americans, mostly men. There were a few women, including the one being screwed loudly in the middle of the front yard. Everyone just ignored them. Ash shook his head.
Right on time, Ash thought to himself when he spotted headlights turning his way at the intersection on the other side of the crackhouse. He recognized the Yukon’s headlights.
And Hector Corredor drove a Yukon.
I love it when people are punctual.
Ash waited to see Hector get out.
Three other Hispanic men got out with him, but he didn’t recognize any of them. That made them locals and not directly subject to his vengeance, other than working for that scumbag Osorio.
All four headed for the front door. His eyes narrowed, rage seething within. He remembered Hector so clearly. The short, stocky bastard had such a look of wicked glee as he’d gunned down Ash and his family. The others looked angry.
I hope you enjoy dying as much as you do killing innocent bystanders.
Chapter 6
Easing the car into drive, Ash gently pulled away from the curb and turned left. He drove to the alley behind the houses, turning off his headlights as he entered. It was a really old neighborhood, so the “alley” was really just a strip of dirt separating fenced backyards. The Sable drove through the waist-high weeds effortlessly.
He stopped behind the crackhouse, picked up the AR-15, and chambered a round. Slinging the semi-automatic rifle across his back, he jumped the five-foot chain link fence, ran across the backyard, and passed through the open gate to the side yard.
Drugged out idiots, Ash mused, noticing the couple screwing in the front yard were still at it.
Was coke like too much alcohol, making it hard to finish? Worse, two other coked-out jerks were standing next to them and asking if they could be next. Ash pulled the ski mask down to cover his face. He bet they’d still be banging when he came back out.
Ash pulled the AR-15 back into his hands, took a deep breath to steel himself for the onslaught of death and violence, and then took off running for the door. The two would-be lovers cried out and ran away. He charged up onto the porch, disturbing more intoxicated men, and then slammed into the door, smashing it open.
A dozen men and women lay about the living room, some on the floor, all in drug-induced dazes. The lights were low, but he could see their faces easily enough.
“Get out!”
He squeezed out a five-round burst over their heads. They screamed and scrambled for the exits. He fired again, just to ensure they didn’t forget why they were running. And then a young Hispanic man came running round the corner with a pistol in hand, firing before he even had a target.