Face of a Killer

by Robin Burcell

Except the wind gusted in that one moment.

  Rustled the plants hanging down the sides of the boat. In that split second, her foot poised, her body braced, she read two words: Cisco’s Kid.

  And she thought of the picture in her pocket.

  And allowed the man to place her in the car.

  “Who are you?” the driver asked. “And did you come alone?”

  Hispanic man, maybe late forties, he eyed Sydney from the rearview mirror, waited for her to answer, and she thought he looked vaguely familiar, at least the two square inches of him she could see in the mirror. She glanced at the man seated beside her, didn’t recognize him at all, thirties, also Hispanic, busily searching through her backpack. He opened her wallet, bypassed her money, and pulled out her license, reading her name, then replaced it. So this wasn’t robbery. “Sydney Fitzpatrick, and yes, I’m alone.”

  “And what are you doing in Ensenada, Senorita Fitzpatrick?” the man beside her asked, as he eyed the suicide note, then shoved it into the backpack, before he took out Arturo’s phone, pulled it apart, examined it. He dropped it back into the pack, not bothering to put it together.

  “Searching for that boat,” she said, nodding out the window, thinking about the picture of it that was in her coat pocket, something her captor didn’t appear too interested in at the moment. “You don’t happen to know the owner, do you?”

  No one answered her. Instead the driver shifted into gear, took off. She watched for street signs, tried to remember the direction, in case she was able to call for help. Several minutes later, as he wound his way in and out of the narrow streets, around corners, it was clear he was trying to keep her from recognizing a location, or keep someone from finding them. Or both.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  As if in answer, he slowed, checked his mirrors, then made a quick left turn into an arched drive that led into the courtyard of a salmon-colored villa. A tall blond man stood in the center of the brick-paved courtyard, holding what looked like an old leather bank pouch. His bearded face was deeply lined, darkly tanned, his collar-length hair bleached from the sun. She put him in his mid-fifties. The car slowed just long enough for him to get into the front seat, and the moment he did, they exited.

  “Were you followed, Tomas?” he asked the driver as they pulled out.

  “I think we lost them. She says she came alone.”

  The blond man turned in his seat, looked right at Sydney, his gaze searching her face. “You look like him. Your father.”

  She eyed him for a moment, decided that the sun had aged him more than she’d expected, but he was probably the man in the photo. “You’re Robert Orozco?”

  “I am.”

  “Boston?”

  He smiled. “Not a name I’ve heard in a while. So, little Sydney, why is it you are here, asking about Cisco’s Kid, a boat that I sold twenty years ago, after your father was killed?”

  “I remembered it from a photo of my father’s, a trip we took.” She removed the scanned photo from her pocket, showed it to him. “You disappeared the year before he was killed. I think you have answers.”

  “That will only lead to more questions, I’m afraid.” “And I’m willing to take the time.”

  “Which we don’t have. You think that no one knows you are here? You came to my charter boat office. Do you not recognize my driver, Tomas?”

  She glanced over, and this time the driver turned, looked right at her. The man from the pier who had thought the boat looked like something from Puerto Nuevo.

  “You were being followed even then, which is why he sent you into the fish market. The men approached him, asking about you, what you wanted. Tomas sent them on a wildgoose chase in the opposite direction that he sent you. They are, we hope, checking out a boat to the south in Punta Banda, no doubt wanting to get to it before you. We hope they don’t figure it out too soon, since we did not expect you to stop for tacos.” His eyes sparkled, despite the concern that laced his voice.

  “Do you know who these men are?” she asked. “Who they work for?”

  “I can only surmise.”

  She had so many questions for him that she wasn’t sure where to start. “You heard about McKnight?”

  “Yes.”

  “He mailed me a photo of all of you. And he left a suicide note.” She took that from her backpack, gave it to him.

  Orozco looked at it, handed it back, and she saw a glint of red from the ring on his right hand, one like her father used to wear. “So that’s what started it. Twenty years of peace gone because some guy wants to clear his fucking conscience. Iggy and company have got to be sweating bullets right about now.”

  “Iggy?”

  “Iggy Ignoble. Your senator.”

  “About what?”

  “I assumed you knew.” He held up the pouch. “Why else did you come down if not for this?” he asked as Tomas whipped the car around a corner, then accelerated. “Everything you wanted to know about just how dirty your government really is.”

  “And just how dirty are they?”

  “You’ve heard of companies like TriAmeriCon? “Aren’t they into construction?”

  “Multibillion-dollar worldwide construction and shipping firm, based in the good old U.S. of A. They’re the superman of global companies, able to leap U.S.-imposed sanctions and embargos with one simple phrase to the country they need to enter: Look the other way and we’ll make it worth your while.”

  “BICTT? Part of the scandal twenty years ago?”

  “It wasn’t a scandal, it was the tip of an iceberg so large, they didn’t dare let the American public know the truth. With companies like TriAmeriCon, Blienett Subsidiaries, KeenAnex Oil, to name a few, it was in their best interest to whitewash the entire affair. This pouch has key information that would literally cripple corporate America if the public knew what these companies were really involved in, and end treaties between a number of countries. It’s like the little black book of corrupt governments and corporations. If there’s a country that needs to be rebuilding due to war, or a war that needs starting to drive economy, or drugs traded for arms, arms traded for oil, or money paid to revolutionists to protect foreign enterprise, you name it. One of these companies has their hand in it, all with the blessings of the government, sometimes even the manpower of black ops teams, and the public has no idea.”

  “So if they closed down the bank, exposed those involved in the Senate hearings twenty years ago, made laws that prohibited dealing with terrorists and the like, why the interest now?”

  “Because BICTT was only one small part of this, like I said, the tip of the iceberg. BICTT’s Black Network is still operating today, still has ties to governments around the world. In here is a peek at what’s below the surface. What’s still going on.”

  She looked at the pouch. “In there?”

  “ If you can break the code. The government prefers to whitewash it all to keep the economy stable. Just like they did the first time. Because in the end it’s all about money. And don’t expect a miracle if you get this information back home. They’ll pick some schmuck of a corporation, force it to pay a hefty fine once it’s discovered they were playing with countries in the evil axis, invite the press to watch, and that’ll be the last you hear of it until some other idiot blows his brains out, leaving incriminating letters behind.”

  Tomas said, “I think we’re being tailed. They either have more than one team, or they didn’t buy my story.”

  Robert looked back, eyed the cars behind them. “What are our options, Tomas?”

  “The boat is still the best option. It’s fueled and ready.”

  “Get us there,” he said, then pulled a Beretta from beneath the seat. “Return her weapon, Jose. She’ll need it.”

  Jose withdrew her weapon from his waist, handed it to her. She checked to see it was still loaded, then glanced behind her. A black Mercedes was gaining, then had to back off as another car changed lanes. “This is going to sound like a dumb q
uestion, but who are these guys?”

  “My first guess? The Black Network. If not them, maybe a team from the CIA, trying to get this info. Either way, they’re men who can follow orders and not ask questions. That was part of the problem for Frank and your father, too. Didn’t like going into anything blind. If your father hadn’t been killed in that robbery, chances are he would’ve ended up dead anyway, because he balked at keeping it quiet. He got emotionally involved after the explosion, then insisted it was no accident. Didn’t help that he blamed McKnight for his sleepless nights and missing digits.”

  “Was my father blackmailing him?”

  Robert scoffed. “Your old man was guilty of a lot of things. Nature of the job. But blackmail? I don’t think he saw it that way. His problem was that he started a family. Changed his way of thinking. Same with Frank, though his old lady was smart and never married him to begin with.”

  This was the second time he’d mentioned that name. “Frank?”

  “Frank White. Kind of a misnomer. Half Puerto Rican, half black. Our fifth team member,” he said, and she made a mental note on the name. “Having a family didn’t do him or your father much good in the end. Too many ties. Too much to lose. Which is why I set up a safety system that would set things in action if they came after me,” he said, holding up the bank pouch. “Insurance, if you will. And I made sure everyone knew my connections to the press, and just what would happen to this info on my demise. Bought me twenty years…” He seemed to give himself a mental shake. “Now that McKnight’s dead, it’s a hell of a lot easier for them to send in a black ops team, take me out and get rid of this pouch. That’s the problem when your only contact in the States is playing both sides, and the remaining guy you had planned on as part of your insurance plugs a bullet into his own head.”

  “Who was your contact?”

  “Becky Lynn McKnight. She’s great when it comes to getting passports and fake IDs, but after that, wouldn’t trust her for a second.” He gripped his gun, shifting in his seat to face the back. “I’d suggest the two of you duck way down in the back. They want what’s in here real bad, and they’re playing for keeps.”

  Tomas stepped on the gas, made a quick succession of turns, staying out of the crowded areas of the city. She gripped the doorframe, leaned into a turn. “So what’s in that pouch besides bank info on BICTT?”

  “Account numbers and identifiers from all the major players. This bank financed some of our major ops, and a lot of terrorist stuff all over the world. Stuff our government knew about, stuff our government wanted done. We knew this when it first tried to take over a savings and loan in Texas. They needed legitimate businessmen to facilitate the opening, get past the governmental red tape. That’s where McKnight and I stepped in. To lend our business names, well, his. Mine was more of the security side of things. The computers. One of my specialties back when your dad and I worked together. Breaking into places, hacking computers. Which is how I ended up with the info in this pouch, and how I know their Black Network is still operating. Proof’s in here.”

  Tires screeched as they skidded around a corner. “Hold on,” Tomas said, slamming on the brakes. The antilock kicked in, the brakes thumping as they took hold. The scent of burning rubber filled the car as he waited until a truck passed, then gunned it, squeezing into traffic.

  “When the shit hit the fan,” Robert continued, “I had a feeling that we were going down hard to save some political ass. Didn’t want to end up on the bottom of that dog pile, because it was either prison or a coffin. Either way, I didn’t like the odds.”

  The car jerked as Tomas switched lanes. Sydney glanced behind her in time to see the black Mercedes speeding up after them. “Might want to sit even lower,” Robert said, shifting in his seat, to keep an eye on that back windshield.

  Tomas gunned it, turned again, and now they were on the open road, heading north up the coast. “Why now?” she asked.

  “Because Willy McKnight couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie. No one cared as long as it remained buried. When he wrote that note before he killed himself, he stirred up more shit than he could fit on the end of his stick.” Robert ejected the magazine from his Beretta, checked to see if it was full, then slapped it back in. “Ripple effect.”

  “Why didn’t you just testify back then?”

  He looked over at her. “Like I said, BICTT had their Black Network, and they tried to kill me. That’s when I took off. Haven’t been back since.”

  The rear windshield shattered. “Stay down!” Robert yelled.

  Sydney and the man beside her ducked. Robert aimed, returned fire. The shot deafened her. Tomas drove as fast as the winding coastal road allowed. “About two minutes,” he yelled to Robert.

  Robert fired a second round. “We’re going to turn into a dirt lot,” he shouted back to her, over the roar of the wind that rushed in. “Tomas is going to slide the car in, and we’re going to use the dust as a cover. So hold your breath, grab onto Jose’s hand, and trust him like you’ve never trusted anyone in your life. Got it?”

  Like she had a choice?

  Tomas made a sharp left onto a dirt road, and she caught a glimpse of a cliff and the ocean below. “ Now! ” Tomas said, whipping the car around. Dirt sprayed out behind the wheels; a cloud of dust mushroomed up.

  “Go!” Robert yelled.

  Jose threw the door open, grabbed Sydney’s hand. She had enough sense to grab her backpack as they slid out. Her throat constricted on the dust. She glanced back, caught a glimpse of the Mercedes through the dust cloud, and Tomas hit the gas, racing straight for it, kicking up more dirt, completely obscuring her vision.

  Her eyes stung; she couldn’t breathe. Jose pulled her straight toward the cliffs. “Hurry,” he shouted. And the next thing she knew, he dragged her over the side. She felt nothing for a moment, a freefall, then her feet hit solid dirt, her back end slammed into the cliff’s side. Down, down, she slid. Her heart thumped and she could hear the ocean pounding below them. Her eyes watered from the dust and the wind, and she tried to see through the blur. Wondered if she’d stop before she plunged straight into the jutting rocks below.

  26

  “There’s a path down here,” Robert Orozco called out to Sydney as she slid down the side of the steep hill. “My boat is at the bottom in the cove.” And sure enough, two seconds later, her feet found solid purchase. She slung her backpack over one shoulder, gripped her gun tightly in her right hand. The path was carved into the dirt and stone of the cliff, narrow and treacherous. Jose was in front, Sydney behind him, and Robert took up the rear. A sharp crack rang out, echoed on the cliffs. Robert fired back. Another crack. Dirt sprayed up in front of them.

  Ten more feet to a large rock outcropping. She turned. Fired two rounds, then raced for the rock. Robert fired off several rounds, then stumbled after them. Blood soaked his pants leg. “They shot my fucking knee.”

  Several sharp cracks followed. Jose said, “We can carry you to the boat.”

  “We’ll be Swiss cheese before you get me down there.”

  “I can’t leave you, Tio.”

  Robert looked at Sydney. Dust streaked his face, covered his once blond hair. “You drive a boat?”

  “Not in a while.” She’d grown up in boats, first with her father, then with Uncle Leland.

  “Hasn’t changed that much. Just a lot faster.” He took the leather bank pouch, handed it to Sydney. “This is what they want. Take it. Go!”

  “I can’t leave you here.”

  “The hell you can’t.” He stopped, listened. The faint sound of a siren could be heard over the top of the cliffs. “I think Tomas made it. Help is on the way. Even if it isn’t, they’ll think it is. You do this, maybe I get another twenty-year reprieve.”

  Still, she hesitated.

  “Jose and I will hold them off. Take that thing out of here. Make sure you wave it around so they see it.” He grinned. “They’ll start shooting at you, instead of me.”

  Two sharp cra
cks echoed from the cliff tops. It was all the convincing she needed, and she shrugged her backpack securely over both shoulders, grabbed the pouch, ran down the path, only to hear him shouting, “Watch out for choppers,” before he and Jose fired off several shots, buying her a few seconds.

  She hugged the cliff side, trying not to expose herself. Gunshots cracked and echoed around her. At the bottom was a small strip of white sand and smooth pebbles, then tide pools and rocks. No boat.

  She looked up, saw the two men on the cliff top, saw Robert and Jose firing at them, diverting their attention, Robert leaning heavily on his nephew. Her ears rang with each shot fired, the waves roared, crashed beside her, sending a spray of water across her face.

  Cove. He’d said something about a cove, and she raced across the thin stretch of sand, eyeing the cliff, the rocks to her right. And there it was, a sleek Cigarette Gladiator racing boat, custom painted in shades of black and gray, which meant one thing in her mind: speed and control under the cover of darkness. Pirates. Robert Orozco probably had no intention of leaving here in broad daylight. Not until she’d led his enemies right to his doorstep. And now here, bobbing in a small cave, protected from the waves that crashed just the other side of the rocks, moored to a piece of jutting rock out of sight from the men shooting above, was a boat worth as much as the finest villa on the rocky shores above her. Knowing Robert’s background, she pictured this as some sort of smuggler’s cave, wondered how far it went back beneath the cliff. Was she supposed to drive inward, find some secret exit?

  But no, he would have said something. Unless he was distracted. Being shot will do that to a person, and she eyed the cavern, before turning her attention to the narrow mouth. If the only way out was via the front, the question was, how to get it out of there and not be smashed into the rocks? It wasn’t until she waded to the boat, gun high up in one hand, the pouch in the other to keep them dry, that she saw the channel between the rocks, only visible between waves, as she tossed in the two mooring ropes. She had to assume that if someone drove the boat in there, it could be driven out. Whether she could drive the thing remained to be seen. It was far more boat than she was used to. Hell, the cockpit looked like it belonged in a jet. The basics were there, clearly some extras. Throttle, bilge pump, blowers, oil and temperature gauges, and the tachometer. The keys were hanging from the ignition, and she hit the switch, turned on the bilge blowers, and gave it as long as she dared to clear fumes from the motor compartment, using the time to secure Robert’s bank pouch inside her backpack, then sliding it onto her shoulders. Whatever was in there was too important to chance losing it, she thought, pulling in the docking bumpers, then running through the check of the instruments, putting the throttle in idle, gearshift neutral. She tried to listen, couldn’t hear any shots, shouts, sirens, or any other noises down here, and hoped it was the same, that no one up there could hear her. Maybe she’d have a chance after all.