by Evan Graver
Guerrero studied the man. Orozco was loyal and had a respectable record, but Guerrero knew he cared more about money and power than about the business.
Arturo said, “We will continue this battle, José Luis. We’ll take down these Yanquie dogs and beat them over the head until they give us back our lands. We must reclaim our heritage.”
Orozco shook his head. “It’s over, Patrón. Look around, no one cares about our heritage. They care about feeding their families and getting a job at the Ford plant.”
“You do not understand,” Guerrero thundered. “The people care about their heritage. We must take back everything those white devils have stolen from Mexico in the name of manifest destiny. You can’t see it, but we’re already doing this. Look at the population explosion of Latinos and Chicanos who are flooding across the border.”
“Then let them,” Orozco shot back. “In a few more years, we’ll have control and there will be more mouths for our product. Let them be slaves to the needle and to the white powder. Stop this nonsense about armies and bombs and ISIS. We don’t need them.”
“That is where you are wrong, my friend,” Guerrero said. “We need to restore our heritage and reclaim our lands.”
Orozco half-shouted, “All we will do is destroy what we’ve already built. The U.S. Army will tear it down. They’ll shatter us. The other cartels will take our place because we have become weak with your ideas of building an army to fight for an imaginary land. We must focus on our core business. Forget about this other nonsense!”
“We are arguing about the same thing,” Guerrero said. He glanced at the other two men who had remained silent. “We want to pour our product across the border and put guns in the hands of our people. Forget what you think. I have forgotten it already.” Guerrero’s voice rose with passion. “I am telling you what you will think, and la Revolución will continue. I will discuss it with you no more.”
The two men glared at one another for half a second before Guerrero turned to the phone and calmly asked. “Professor, are you ready for the next phase?”
“Yes. Everything is in place.”
“Excellent.” Guerrero picked up a smoldering cigar from the ashtray beside him. He puffed on it to reinvigorate the flame.
Orozco shook his head as his boss said, “Make California burn.”
Chapter Fifteen
Ryan Weller met Emily Hunt in the arrival terminal of General Wayne A. Downing Peoria International Airport outside Peoria, Illinois. She’d flown commercial from Tampa and he’d arrived on the Beechcraft piloted by Chuck Newland.
They picked up her suitcase from the carousel and walked out the front doors where they headed to the first taxi and climbed in. Ryan gave Nagel’s address to the driver who typed it into a GPS unit and started the meter before pulling away from the curb. The cabbie gave them a detailed narrative about the city of Peoria and its history, pointing out landmarks along the way. When he pulled the car to the curb, they were in front of a newly renovated eight-story brick building in the Peoria waterfront district. They skirted the first-floor storefronts to a lobby entrance and rode an elevator to the top floor.
During the cabbie’s occasional pauses, Ryan had given Emily a brief on Nagel. Nagel had made it big during the real estate boom of the early 2000s, buying and selling residential and commercial real estate. He’d been an early prophet of the 2008 real estate crash and had divested himself of much of his holdings before the market turned down. He had also advised his clients to sell at lower prices just to get out before the crash.
With a nest of cash, he’d swept up prime properties in Peoria and Chicago at discount prices when the panic selling began. He’d held many of the properties until the market rose again and then sold them off to make an even larger fortune. Nagel had retired three years ago, but he still retained a silent partnership in his brokerages and helped manage a large portfolio of rental properties.
Emily knocked on the intricate, frosted glass inlay of Nagel’s penthouse door.
Nagel swung the door open enough to see them and asked who they were.
“I’m Ryan Weller and this is Emily Hunt. She’s with Ward and Young, the insurance company for your old sailboat, Misty. May we come in? We have some questions for you.”
Emily held up a credential pack with a company ID card showing.
He swung the door open for them to enter. Nagel was tall and slim with dark brown hair fringing a balding crown. He had brown eyes and a wide smile, showcasing chemically whitened teeth. He wore a white dress shirt with gray trousers, brown Gucci loafers, and a matching belt.
To Ryan, the apartment looked like a fashion magazine layout with its contemporary decorations. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, they could see the Illinois River and Lake Peoria.
“She works for Ward and Young.” Nagel pointed at Ryan. “Who do you work for, Mr. Weller?”
“I work for Dark Water Research, a commercial dive and salvage business contracting with Ward and Young.”
“Are you attempting to salvage my boat?”
“Unfortunately, the pirates stripped her bare, cut off her masts, and sank her.”
“After that bloody pirate incident, my wife doesn’t even want to look at another boat. You can have her.”
Ryan grinned. “Your wife or the boat?”
A sly smile crept across Philip Nagel’s angular face. “Since my wife isn’t here to defend herself, you, sir, may take your pick.”
Emily stepped into the conversation. “We went to the Dry Tortugas to look at your boat. Ryan found some of your belongings while we were scuba diving on her.”
From his briefcase, Ryan produced the journal and pistol, which Chuck had thoroughly
cleaned and oiled.
“You may keep the pistol. I took it with us for protection, but I couldn’t take it out of its hiding place at most of the ports we visited. When I needed it the most, I was afraid to get it out and use it.” Nagel picked up the journal and fanned through its pages. Five one-hundred-dollar bills fell onto the counter. He scooped them up and slipped them back into the book.
Emily glanced at Ryan as he put the gun back in his briefcase. Later, he would tell her Nagel would have known they’d kept the money if it wasn’t in the journal. Returning it would create a bond of trust between the salvor and the former boat owner.
“Tell us about your time aboard Misty,” Ryan prompted.
Nagel sat down on a bar stool at the kitchen island and ran his hand across the cool white granite. “It was always my dream to sail around the Caribbean, and I talked my wife into it over several years. We bought the boat in Chicago, sailed out of the Great Lakes, down the St. Lawrence Seaway and out to Bermuda. Our first ocean passage.” He smiled at the memories. “For two inexperienced sailors, crossing the Gulf Stream was rough. But we made it and we convinced ourselves if we could do that, we could survive just about anything. After Bermuda, we sailed down to the Bahamas and bounced around the Caribbean, enjoying the good life. We decided to head back north. Mary wanted to come home. We planned to sail right up the Mississippi to the Illinois River and complete the Great Loop.”
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Ryan said. He knew the Great Lakes, Saint Lawrence Seaway, Mississippi River, and Intracoastal Waterways formed the Great Loop. Connecting those waterways allowed boaters to circle the eastern half of the United States.
“I would like to complete it one day,” Nagel said wistfully. “Perhaps by powerboat.” He got up and poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher in the refrigerator. Holding it up, he asked, “Would you like some?”
Both of his guests declined.
“As I was saying…” He sipped the water as he sat back down. “We left Cancún with a full head of sail headed for New Orleans when we saw a boat. I thought it was the Mexican Navy making a patrol. They hailed us, boarded us, and, well, our lives haven’t been the same since. My wife is in therapy as we speak.”
Ryan asked, “Why did you think
it was the Mexican Navy?”
“I saw the Navy operating around Cancún while we were there. The men who boarded Misty had a similar boat and uniforms.”
“Can you describe any of the men who took you?” Emily asked.
Nagel shook his head. “They wore balaclavas, and black bulletproof vests with a patch saying Marina across the front.” He slid his finger across his chest to show where it was. “They had M16s or whatever our troops carry.”
“Not AK-47s?” Ryan asked.
With a roll of his eyes and an exasperated tone, Nagel said, “I’ve seen enough news to know what weapons our troops carry.”
Ryan held up a picture of an AK on his cell phone.
“No, not it.”
Ryan paged to a photo of an M4 carbine. Nagel nodded. “That’s it.”
Ryan accessed the search engine again and looked up Mexican Navy boats. They went through pictures, Ryan standing beside Nagel, until they came upon a center console, twenty-five-foot rigid-hulled inflatable boat marked with Marina down the inflated tubes. An aluminum tower in the rear, built over twin outboard engines, sprouted a radar dome and several antennas.
“They had a Mexican flag patch on their sleeve,” Nagel remembered.
“According to the news, Mexican Federales have been finding caches of fake Army and Navy uniforms in some of the drug cartel busts,” Emily informed them.
“Was there anything else distinctive about the uniform?” Ryan asked.
“One man had a strange patch on his shoulder. When we returned to Peoria and got everything sorted out, I looked it up on the internet. I couldn’t find the patch, but I found something similar.”
Nagel told his guests to wait where they were while he went into another room. He came back carrying a three-ring binder. “I made a file of everything pertaining to the incident. As you might well know, I’m waging a war with the insurance company to get back the ransom money I paid.” He leafed through the pages. “Here it is. The patch looked like this.” He turned the binder, so everyone could see. “I colored in the areas to make it look like the patch.” Mexico was in tan, the United States in a light gray. “This portion here.” He pointed at an area shaded red. “That represents Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Nevada, and Colorado. There wasn’t any wording, just a picture.”
Ryan and Emily were both puzzled.
“The red area represents Aztlán,” Nagel continued. “Legend has it Aztlán is the ancestral home of the Aztecs before they migrated into Mexico. After the Mexican-American War, the U.S. paid Mexico for the land which now comprises the Southwestern United States. Chicano independence groups are claiming these lands are their ancestral heritage and the U.S. should return them to Mexico to create the Republica del Norte, or Republic of the North.”
Ryan leaned on the counter. “These groups believe America stole land from Mexico even though we took it fair and square.”
“Fair and square have many definitions, Mr. Weller,” Nagel said.
“We paid Mexico for those lands and assumed Mexican debt to U.S. citizens. Is that not fair?”
“Not according to these people. Some don’t care, but others do, and my wife and I have been caught in the crosshairs of this little skirmish. It appears the two of you are now involved as well.”
“Where did they hold you hostage?” Emily asked.
“They blindfolded us and took us to a ship. They referred to it as buque madre.” Nagel shrugged.
“Mother boat,” Ryan repeated to himself. He’d learned Spanish from Mexican construction workers his father had employed at many of his construction sites.
“They took us to a ship and locked us in a cabin. They brought us just enough food and water to keep us healthy. The only time I was allowed out of the cabin was to use a computer to transfer money. When they confirmed the wire transfer, they blindfolded us and took us ashore. They left us on a deserted Mexican beach. We had to walk to a small town to get help. I called the authorities to report the kidnapping and then we came home.”
Ryan asked, “Any idea what the name of the ship was?”
“No. I’ve been over and over this with the insurance company. They even tried to trace the money, but those… pirates… had transferred it out of the account I’d wired it to. From there, it disappeared. My insurance company believes I made this transfer in an effort to defraud them and move money out of the United States. It’s a lot of money and I understand what they are saying, but it’s the principle of the matter. Miss Hunt’s company paid for our sailboat after someone found it in the Florida Keys. I remember speaking to you, and you were more than helpful. Thank you for that.”
“I was glad to be of assistance, Mr. Nagel.” Emily pulled a card from her briefcase and laid it on the granite. “Call me if you think of anything else that might help.”
“Thanks, Mr. Nagel,” Ryan said, extending his hand.
They left the apartment, rode the elevator down, and walked out on the street.
“What now, detective?” Emily asked.
“We eat,” Ryan said, pointing across the street to another brick building. At one time it had been a train station, but now it housed a barbecue restaurant and a bar. “I’m a barbecue connoisseur. Let’s see how this stuff compares to my favorite North Carolina barbecue.”
While they waited for their order, Ryan called Chuck and asked if he wanted them to bring him a to-go box. Chuck said he’d already eaten at an airport café, but he would have rather eaten barbecue.
They discussed the case while they ate. Ryan tried to keep his professionalism but could not stop her from holding his hand during the ride back to the airport.
In the terminal, Emily looked at her watch and said, “I wasn’t sure how long this would take, so I booked a flight for tomorrow morning. I do have a surprise for you.” She set her briefcase down on a counter and opened it. She retrieved a file folder and handed it to Ryan.
He opened it and read the cover sheet. It was another sailboat theft Ward and Young had yet to pay on. According to the incident, the owner, a Mango Hulsey of Port Aransas, Texas, had fought off the pirates when they tried to take his wife hostage. They’d escaped in their dinghy after Mango had shot two of the pirates and then turned the gun on the RIB boat, deflating the tubes and disabling the motor.
“Abandoned?” Ryan asked.
“Ward and Young has classified it as an abandonment since they could have sailed away from the pirates but chose to escape in their dinghy.”
“That’s harsh,” Ryan said. He handed the file back. “Want to go talk to them?”
“Yes,” she said, with a nod.
“Do you want to cancel your flight reservations?”
Emily shrugged.
“Did you make flight reservations?”
She struggled to keep from smiling and shrugged again.
Ryan snorted. “Presumptuous, aren’t you?”
She grinned as she shrugged.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
In the airplane cabin, Chuck asked Emily, “Are we taking you to Tampa?”
“No, I’m going with you guys to Texas.”
Chuck looked at Ryan and gave him a grin that split his face from ear to ear.
Ryan shook his head and handed the Browning pistol to the pilot. “Nagel said you could keep it. He doesn’t want it anymore.”
“I hate to see a party break up, but this is a lovely parting gift.”
“I’ll give you a kiss on the cheek, on my way off the plane, for being a good boy,” Emily promised, and Chuck blushed.
He glanced at Ryan, who shrugged.
Chapter Sixteen
Ryan took Emily to his office in Texas City after they got off the plane.
“I thought this place would be bigger.”
Ryan smiled. “This is just my office. DWR headquarters is a few miles south of here.”
He gave her a quick tour, leaving out the gun vault. Together, they went over what information they’d co
llected and collated it into a report for Floyd Landis and her employer.
“All work and no play made Ryan a dull boy,” Emily said with a lascivious grin.
Ryan stood and walked over to the couch. He gave it a nudge with his knee. “I was just thinking we should test this thing out.”
Emily locked the door and then stepped into his arms. “We’ll just have to consider this a business liaison.”
When the phone rang, Ryan had to untangle himself from his lover and fell on the floor. She laughed as he grabbed for the phone. He pulled the handset and cradle down to the floor to answer the phone.
“Turn on the news,” Greg said. “ISIS just set off a bomb in Los Angeles.”
Ryan jumped up and found the remote. He turned on the television and changed to a cable news channel he favored.
“Reports are coming in now,” the brunette anchorwoman said. Helicopter footage of the smoking wreckage played in the background. “Sources say a van drove into the skyscraper Constellation Place, formerly the MGM Tower, before detonating. We go now to our on-scene reporter.”
The footage cut away to show a man standing in a street, the air thick with smoke. Ryan turned off the sound before the man could speak. Both he and Emily remained transfixed on the screen.
“Ryan. Ryan,” Greg barked.
Ryan realized he was pressing the phone into his ear so hard it hurt. He eased his grip. “I’m here.”
“These are the same guys who killed my mom and dad,” Greg growled.
“We don’t know that.”
“I can feel it. I wish I was still walking around. I’d hunt those sons-of-bitches down.”
Ryan said, “I’m sure the FBI is working on it.”
“They couldn’t find their backside with both hands.”
“I agree.” He wondered what Greg would say if he knew he was talking to a naked man. But he didn’t need to worry as Greg continued to belittle and berate the country’s intelligence sources and agencies.