Sins in the Sun: A Vigilante Series crime thriller

by Claude Bouchard

  “I know that,” Martinez retorted. “What I don’t get is where you come in. How are you or were you involved in any of this? Who am I supposed to be introducing to Gomez?”

  “Me,” Chris replied then smiled. “Dennis, as in Dennis Roy.”

  “Scorpion?” Martinez exclaimed. “You want me to introduce you as Scorpion?”

  “I think you’re catching on,” said Chris. “What’s the problem?”

  “You don’t look anything like him,” Martinez replied, “And he just disappeared when everything went down last year. He could be anywhere.”

  Chris gazed at him and said, “Trust me. You really don’t have to worry about that. Had Gomez ever met Scorpion in the past?”

  Martinez stared back and shook his head. “No, at least not that I know of but I doubt it. Dennis kept a low profile and had guys like me, and others, dealing with the daily crap. As far as Gomez went, he dealt with me and a guy named Moreno in Venezuela.”

  “There you go,” said Chris. “There’s no reason why you couldn’t introduce me as Scorpion.”

  “Too many things could go wrong,” Martinez argued. “I got a chance at a second life here and I don’t want to screw that up by ending up dead.”

  Chris gestured to Chen and Washington. “You think my friends here would let anything happen to you? Of course not. Anyhow, you probably won’t even have to be around much, if at all, once I’ve met Gomez.”

  “Look, I hope I don’t have to decide anything about this right now,” said Martinez. “I need to think about it but I can tell you, I don’t like it.”

  “Of course, we’ll give you time to think about it,” Chris replied. “But we have to get moving with this so we’ll need an answer by the morning.”

  “Jesus,” Martinez muttered. “I’m not going to sleep all damned night.”

  “Listen, you have to be okay with doing this,” Jonathan stepped in. “If you agree to go along and then fall apart on us, things can get ugly real quick. If you’re in, fine, but be damned sure about it. If not, no problem. We’ll find another angle to get to Gomez and you can go back home to South Dakota as if nothing happened.”

  “Aww, fuck,” Martinez muttered again before taking a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll do it but I’m not doing nothing with any of this before tomorrow. I’ve got to think this over right and get some ideas going. Okay?”

  “Can’t do this kind of thing without planning,” Chris agreed. “Are you sure about this?”

  Martinez sighed and nodded. “I want to get on with my life and doing so four years sooner appeals to me so, yeah, I’m sure, but I’ll definitely need something from you guys for now.”

  “What’s that?” asked Jonathan.

  Martinez raised his empty bottle and replied, “More of these.”

  Chapter 6 – Friday, December 12, 2014

  Boca Chica, Dominican Republic, mid-morning

  Pedro Gomez gazed about the area surrounding the pool of his most recently acquired adult-only resort, slated to open December 29th, in time for the New Year festivities. Men were working at refinishing the pool while others laid the granite slab terrace at a sedate pace.

  Turning to the anxious contractor, Gomez said, “You do realize you’re almost a month behind schedule, right?”

  “There were delays with some materials,” the man whined, “And trained labour is not easy to find.”

  “You should have known that when you submitted your bid,” Gomez shot back. “When will the work be complete?”

  “In two weeks,” replied the contractor. “Maybe less.”

  “One week,” said Gomez with finality. “I will return to inspect the finished work at the end of the day next Friday. I will be satisfied with what has been done, we shall share a drink to celebrate and then, over dinner, we shall agree on applicable penalties to compensate for the delays.”

  The contractor stared back at Gomez for a moment then nodded, his expression reflecting a blend of anger, fear and submission.

  “That’s all,” Gomez snapped, dismissing him. “I’d suggest you do something useful and go tell these lazy bastards to move their butts.”

  With a curt nod, the contractor turned and stormed off as Gomez’s mobile began to trill. Not recognizing the displayed number, he answered with an abrupt, “Who is this?”

  He heard a chuckle followed by a vaguely familiar male voice. “Is that any way to greet an old friend and associate?”

  Relaxing his tone a touch, Gomez replied, “That all depends on the old friend and associate.”

  In response, the caller parodied the first line of a Steve Miller hit. “Some people call me a fake cowboy.”

  Gomez remained silent for a moment; ‘Fake Cowboy’ was a nickname he had attributed to Pablo Martinez, the L.A. Latino based in Texas. “I’m surprised to hear from you. It’s been a while.”

  “Yes, it has,” Martinez replied. “Some business ventures I was involved in fell apart and since, I’ve been running around to line things up for my future. My apologies for not staying in touch but I’ve been rather busy and on the go. There are only so many hours in a day and work takes up a lot of them.”

  “I understand,” said Gomez, “And I am pleased to learn you’re back on your feet. I noticed you’re calling from a Dominican area code. Are you visiting our beautiful country?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” said Martinez. “I’m taking a few well-earned days off in Puerto Plata to relax a little before more busy times ahead.”

  “Perhaps we could get together to catch up while you’re here,” Gomez suggested. “It would be much more pleasant than a phone conversation.”

  “That’s actually what I was calling about,” Martinez replied. “I have some free time and was hoping we might have a chance to meet, even if it’s just for a drink or two. I know you’re a busy man as well.”

  “Never too busy for an old friend,” said Gomez. “Listen, I’m on my way to Santiago for a lunch meeting and was then planning to go to Paraíso de Ángeles, my resort at Playa Dorada, for the weekend. Could you meet me there around three o’clock this afternoon? I can send someone for you if that is more convenient.”

  “It would be my pleasure and there’s no need to send anyone,” Martinez replied. “I have a car at my disposal.”

  “Very well, my friend,” said Gomez. “I look forward to hearing about what you have been up to.”

  * * * *

  Paraíso de Ángeles, Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic, 3:04 p.m.

  “You’re good?” asked Washington as Chen parked the Cadillac Escalade in the guest lot, having refused the valet service.

  “Yeah, I’m into this now,” Martinez confirmed. “In the end, this is nothing compared to the shit storm I created last year so you have nothing to worry about.”

  “And you’re comfortable you can convince Gomez this is all kosher?” asked Chen as he cut the engine.

  “Guys, I’ve been convincing people one way or another my whole life,” said Martinez. “The way I see it, this is as real as it gets. How well I do with this gig determines my future. It’s all good.”

  “One last thing,” said Washington. “Give me your wrist, the one with the band.”

  Martinez complied and watched in surprise as Washington unlocked and removed the tracking device and passed it up front to Chen along with a fob he had pulled from his pocket.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Martinez asked as he watched Chen store the items, including his own fob, in a central console compartment. “How are you going to find me if I make a break for it?”

  “Not taking chances with any electronics,” Washington replied as he handed his mobile to Chen as well. “Anyhow, if I get the impression you’re even thinking something stupid, I’ll snap your spine in half.”

  Martinez grinned and said, “I understand you guys might not believe this but when we go in there, I’m counting on you to protect me should anything go wrong. I hope you’re planning to play the role of my b
odyguards like it’s the real deal.”

  “It is the real deal,” said Chen. “We’re not playing any roles. You ready?”

  Martinez nodded. “Let’s do this.”

  They got out of the SUV and headed toward the lobby, Martinez striding with purpose, exuding confidence, Chen and Washington following half a step behind on either side, eyes coolly surveying the area, pros at the ready to protect their leader. Once inside, Martinez strolled to the main desk, looking every bit the powerful man he had been fourteen months earlier before his arrest.

  “Hola, bella dama,” he greeted the attractive woman behind the counter. “I am Pablo Martinez. Señor Gomez is expecting me.”

  “Si, Señor Martinez,” the gorgeous Latina replied, flashing a dazzling smile. “I will let him know you are here.”

  She picked up the phone and made a brief call, announcing his arrival.

  “It won’t be long,” she informed him once her call was completed. “You may sit if you wish.”

  “If it is no trouble,” Martinez replied with a wink, “I prefer to stand here and admire your beauty.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” said the hostess with a wink of her own as a door to her left opened and two hundred pounds of Dominican muscle sporting a tailored, light-weight suit emerged.

  “Señor Martinez?” the man called as he approached.

  “Si,” Martinez replied, turning toward him.

  “I am Hector, Señor Gomez’s assistant” said the man. “He will see you now.”

  “Excelente,” said Martinez then gestured over his shoulder. “And these are my assistants.”

  “Gentlemen,” Hector acknowledged Chen and Washington with a nod. “This way, please.”

  He led the way back from where he had come, through the door, which clicked locked as it closed, then along a wood-paneled corridor, its walls punctuated by the occasional door. At its end, the hallway widened into an alcove furnished with a couple of leather armchairs on either side. Set in the end wall directly ahead of them was an imposing set of solid oak double doors which Hector opened with a flourish before stepping to one side, allowing the three men to enter.

  He closed the doors to the vast den-like room behind them before announcing, “Señor Martinez and guests are here, Señor Gomez.”

  Gomez appeared through open French doors on a wrought-iron railed mezzanine above to their right and hurried down the spiral staircase to the ground floor.

  “Welcome to the Paradise of Angels, gentlemen,” he said as he strolled across the floor toward them. “Pablo. It is good to…”

  He slowed his pace then stopped as he gazed intently at Martinez.

  “Pablo?” he questioned, his tone one of puzzlement, curiosity and sufficient concern for Hector to draw a handgun from under his jacket.

  “Sorry, Pedro. I forgot to mention my face has changed some,” Martinez replied, his demeanor relaxed. “But I remain the ‘Fake Cowboy’ on the inside.”

  “The voice sounds the same,” Gomez cautiously admitted. “But the different face is too much for comfort. I will ask you all to remain very still. Hector is a very good shot.”

  Pulling his mobile from his shirt pocket, he moved back several steps and made a brief, hushed call. Fifteen seconds later, two Hector clones entered the room behind the three guests and stood in silence, awaiting orders.

  “I apologize for this unusual welcome,” said Gomez, “But until I am convinced of who you really are, I must take appropriate precautions.”

  “I understand, Pedro,” Martinez replied. “I would be concerned if you did otherwise and I assure you of our complete cooperation. For starters, let me confirm, as you must suspect, that my assistants are armed. However, surely like you, I’m not.”

  “Thank you for being candid,” said Gomez. “But first things first. Luis?”

  One of the new arrivals, who had been scanning the air behind the three guests with an electronic handheld device, shook his head and said, “They’re clean. No bugs.”

  “Very good,” said Gomez before addressing the three Americans. “Now, my men will frisk you to retrieve whatever weapons you are carrying. Once that –”

  “Sorry, sir,” Washington interrupted. “But that’s not going to happen.”

  Gomez’s expression hardened as he stared at Washington. “You are not in a position to decide what happens here. A simple nod on my part and you’re a dead man.”

  Washington shrugged. “You can have me killed. I can kill you. We can all pull out guns and kill each other. Whatever. Point is, my job is to keep Mr. Martinez safe and I plan to do my job.”

  Martinez chuckled as he gazed at Gomez. “Come on, Pedro, you’ve got to give my man some points for dedication. Listen, I can clear this whole thing up easy if you’ll let me.”

  Gomez maintained his glare at Washington for a few more seconds then turned his eyes to Martinez. “Go ahead. Clear this up.”

  “Do you remember that time at your place in Punta Cana, about two years ago?” asked Martinez. “That little lady, I think her name was Juanita, asked me why I never took my shirt off. What did I tell her?”

  Gomez smiled and seemed to relax somewhat. “You told her you had an ugly back.”

  “That’s what I said,” Martinez agreed. “But she wouldn’t hear it, kept on asking how my back could be ugly so, what did I do?”

  “You took your shirt off,” Gomez replied, now beaming broadly.

  “Damned right I did,” Martinez retorted. “After that, the little lady didn’t want to have anything to do with me, even with my shirt on, but I didn’t blame her because, as you know, I have an ugly back.”

  “A damned ugly back,” Gomez concurred. “So, take off your shirt.”

  “If you insist,” said Martinez, grinning from ear to ear.

  With deliberate slowness, he unbuttoned his colourful Tommy Bahama shirt then pulled it open before shrugging it off his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor.

  “Ay Dios mio,” Hector exclaimed while Luis shuddered and their counterpart averted his eyes.

  “Do you really want to see it, Pedro?” Martinez taunted smugly.

  Gomez smirked and nodded though he was already convinced. “I asked for it. Turn around.”

  Martinez turned, allowing Washington to see his back in the process.

  “Holy crap,” Washington muttered.

  Gomez glanced at Martinez’s back, winced then laughed before addressing his men. “It’s okay, guys. You can go. This guy is who he says he is.”

  “You’re sure you’re convinced?” asked Martinez, his back still facing Gomez.

  “I’m sure,” Gomez replied. “Now, put your damned shirt back on.”

  Martinez bent over to pick up his shirt, giving a now curious Chen the opportunity to see the infamous ‘ugly back’.

  “Whoa, boss,” said Chen as he caught a glimpse. “What happened to you?”

  “You work for this guy and you’ve never seen his back?” Gomez asked in surprise.

  “I don’t take my shirt off for just anyone,” said Martinez.

  “Tell them the story,” Gomez suggested. “I’ve heard it but I’d love to hear it again.”

  “It’s like this,” Martinez started. “I was nineteen at the time. Me and two buddies had lined up this electronics warehouse to hit. The place had an alarm system but we’d gotten the code and there were no guards or nothing. We had a van and it was supposed to be an easy job, get in, load up on TVs and VCRs and get out. Turned out though, the place had been hit a few times and they’d added a guard and a couple of Dobermans to the décor.

  “We didn’t know this so we show up one night, pop the lock on the gate and drive on in. My buddy jimmies the lock to a side door, punches in the code and the alarm goes green. It’s all good. They start working on moving some TV sets to the van while I go further back to where they stored the VCRs. I find a hand truck and as I’m loading it up, I hear a shout and a couple of gunshots. Not so good anymore.

/>   “I don’t know what’s going on but I’m getting the hell out of there. I see this exit sign near where I am and go to the door, hoping it’s not locked from the inside. I hit the push bar, the door swings open and I’m outside. I hear an engine start up and turn around to see our van taking off in the other direction then a guard come out who starts shooting at it. I start running toward the back of the place and I’ve gone about fifty feet when I hear the barking. I look over my shoulder and it’s the two Dobermans I mentioned.

  “I’m running like a son of a bitch and getting closer to this fence at the back of the lot when I notice it’s topped with three strands of barbed wire, angled inward. I’m sure I’m screwed when I realize the bottom strand is missing on the section right in front of me. There is a God. I should be able to get through that space okay if I can make it up without being mauled to death.

  “Anyhow, as I jump onto the fence, with the two dogs on my ass, the van rips around the corner and they see me because they come right at me. One dog jumps and gets my leg but I kick it off, pull myself up and get my head in between the top of the fence and the barbed wire. That’s when I realize I won’t quite fit after all. The barbs ripping into my back tip me off. By then one of my buddies is standing in front of me, screaming at me to move it while the Dobermans are jumping at me and snapping at my legs, with some success, I might add.

  “That’s when I hear a shout and my buddy screams, ‘the guard is coming.’ The next thing I know, my two buddies are up on the other side and grabbing me. They get a hold of my arms and start yanking me through the opening but have to push back and pull a few times because of the barbs jammed in my flesh. I think I passed out about then but they told me the shriek I let out scared the Dobermans off and stopped the guard in his tracks.”

  “Wow,” said Washington. “What happened after that?”

  Martinez looked at him with a solemn expression for a moment then broke into a smile. “I stopped ripping off warehouses and started selling dope.”