Matt placed the key in the ignition and started the car. There was really nothing to think about. He had to do what he had to do.
He reversed the Ford out of the parking space and began making his way out onto the main road. There was a big shopping mall about a mile away that had dozens of ATMs scattered throughout its premises. He would drive over there right away and try to withdraw another two thousand dollars. If he managed to do that, and he had no reason to doubt that he wouldn’t, he would give Cory a call and let him know that he was quitting. Then hopefully by the end of the week, he would be somewhere on the West Coast with a new job as an instructor at a local dojo.
He leaned forward and turned on the radio, and as he entered the southbound lanes of the highway, he started tapping his hands on the steering wheel and singing along to the music that was blaring out of the speakers.
This had turned out to be an excellent day, and if Lady Luck was on his side, it would continue to remain so.
It was a beautiful morning in the little town of Hermosa Vista in the foothills of the Sierra de los Tuxtlas Mountains in southern Mexico. The sun, which had appeared over the horizon a few hours earlier was now shining down from a cloudless sky and making the still ocean in the distance glisten, as if someone had sprinkled tiny diamonds on top of its blue surface.
The town was a traditional fishing village, where the men would venture out on the ocean early in the morning in brightly colored fishing vessels, and make a living from whatever they could haul up from the depths of the sea.
The beaches surrounding the town were spectacular, and on windy days they would offer the perfect conditions for surfers, with wave after wave crashing in on the hot sand.
It was a place that should have attracted a reasonable chunk of the hundreds of thousands of wealthy tourists from north of the border, who each year paid the country a visit in search of a temporary reprieve from the mad rat race. But the big multinationals that specialized in catering for the well off and discerning travelers, had for some reason never paid any interest in the town. And that suited Senor Emilio Martinez just fine.
He was sitting at the table on the balcony of his massive hillside mansion that was overlooking The Gulf of Mexico. In front of him on the round, metal table was a strong cup of coffee and a newspaper that he had put there a few minutes earlier. On a normal day he wouldn’t have bothered with the newspaper. He would’ve just gazed out over the ocean and the old fishing village further down, while sipping on his coffee and savoring the scenery. But not today. Today his mind was somewhere else, and the spectacular view couldn’t have been further from his mind.
There was potential trouble brewing north of the border, quite possibly serious trouble. He didn’t have all the details yet, only what he’d read in the article in the newspaper, and what Sanchez had told him on the phone late last night.
That annoyed him, because he was a man who liked to have access to all the information and be prepared to deal with any situation that could affect his business. And this situation certainly had the potential to do so. But still, he had no idea what had caused it, or whether things would spiral out of control as a result of it. He hoped that it wouldn’t, because that would be bad for everyone. And not knowing made him apprehensive and nervous.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Jimenez, the head servant approach his table.
“Senor Martinez, he’s here. Do you want me to bring him over to the table?”
Martinez nodded.
“Yes, show him in, Hector,” he said without looking up at the other man.
Jimenez nodded, turned around and walked back into the house, and returned a minute later with a tall, thin man that looked like he spent most of his time in the company of thick, boring books.
“Senor Martinez, you sent for me,” the tall visitor said as he walked over to the table and stopped a few feet away from the middle aged Mexican.
This time Martinez turned his head and looked up at the man that had just addressed him. He nodded, and gestured with his hand for the other man to take a seat, which he did. Martinez then turned toward Jimenez and waved the servant away with a single flick of his hand.
Martinez waited until they had the balcony to themselves before he started talking.
“I want you to fly up to the states today,” he said to the other man, who he only knew as El Juez, the Spanish word for judge.
“Of course, is there anything in particular you would like me to take care of when I’m there?”
Martinez nodded and felt a shiver run down his spine as he gazed into the eyes of the man next to him. Despite being one of the most powerful individuals in this region of Mexico, he always felt slightly ill at ease in the presence of the other man.
Behind the innocent exterior hid a ruthless killer who had assassinated more than two hundred individuals, many of them with his bare hands, and often after having tortured them for hours on end.
The round, hippie spectacles in the gold frame, the short trimmed hair and the fancy suit made him stand out from the other contract killers that Martinez used. Nor did he have the rough edges, and what Martinez liked to think of as a killer face. Dead soulless eyes, a weathered face and the cold aura that most contract killers acquired after a few years in the game.
No, with El Juez it was the exact opposite. He had the look of an academic, a completely harmless person that no one had any reason to fear. And that’s what made him so scary, not to mention highly effective.
Because of his benign looks, the victims never saw him coming. They saw him as a harmless person that wouldn’t hurt a fly without first asking his mother for permission. But little did they know.
The innocuous appearance also made it easier for El Juez to avoid attention from the local police authorities. Not that it was all that important here in Mexico. Here the police knew when to look the other way. They knew who the untouchables were and they knew what happened to police officers who were stupid enough to go after them. But in the US, where law enforcement agents were a lot harder to bribe, it was most definitely an advantage. It also made it easier to cross back into Mexico again.
Martinez leaned forward and slid the newspaper toward the other man. Then he tapped his finger on the article he’d just finished reading.
“I want you to find the one who’s responsible for this,” he said.
El Juez held his gaze for a few moments, then lowered his eyes and started reading the article.
Five minutes later, he pushed the newspaper back toward Martinez and sat up straight in his chair. He then casually grabbed the white, handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, and started dabbing it on his forehead where droplets of perspiration had started to form.
“Do we know who did it?” he asked, the same courteous smile was still on his face.
Martinez took a sip of the coffee and shook his head.
“No,” he said as he put the cup down and gazed out over the ocean far below him.
“All I know is what is written in the paper. You’ll have to do some digging, figure out who’s responsible and act accordingly.”
He looked back at El Juez again.
“I take it that that is not going to be a problem?”
El Juez, shook his head, and the smile on his face widened.
“No, not at all,” he said. “I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“Good. Let me know when it’s done,” Martinez said and finished the rest of his coffee. Then he turned toward the ocean again.
El Juez took the hint and stood up. And before he started walking back toward the open bi-folding doors leading into the house, he gave Martinez a courteous bow and bid him farewell.
Ten minutes later, he was cruising along on the highway in the old Cadillac toward Perote, the closest big city. There he would catch the first flight to Mexico City, and from there he would fly onward to Phoenix and deal with the problem that his boss had asked him to take care of.
El Juez looked out th
e window at the dry hillsides and the weeds that were rushing by his window. He hoped that it would be a straightforward assignment, and that he would be home again by the end of the week. But something deep inside him told him that he wouldn’t, and something told him that it would be anything but straightforward.
The flight from Mexico City to Phoenix was uneventful, and he spent most of the three hours it took reclined in his seat listening to Miles Davis on his iPhone. As soon as the plane was airborne, he placed the earphones in his ears and closed his eyes. And the handful of times that the young air stewardess had come around with her trolley to offer him a meal and drinks, he had politely declined.
After disembarking and picking up his luggage, he had quickly made his way over to immigration and been allowed to enter on his fake US passport without the female immigration officer raising a single eyebrow.
Then he had picked up the pre-ordered rental car from the Avis desk and driven into the center of Phoenix, where he had pulled into the parking lot of a Wal-Mart store.
Fifteen minutes later a black Crown Vic pulled up next to him, and El Juez quickly got out and climbed into the passenger seat.
The man behind the wheel was in his fifties and dressed in a suit. His lower right arm was leaning out the window, and in his hand was a half finished cigarette. He gave El Juez a quick nod when the Mexican got in and quickly tossed the cigarette on the ground and closed the window.
Then he leaned back in his seat and rubbed his face with the hand that had just let go of the cigarette.
El Juez studied the man whose name was Jim Ryan for a few moments, and thought that it was true what they say, that most cops can be spotted from a mile away. It was definitely the case with Ryan. He had cop written all over him.
His features were sharp and defined, and he had that hard look in his eyes that most cops develop after a few years in the force. And despite the man’s unhealthy cigarette habit, which El Juez knew amounted to close to forty a day, he was extremely tan. No doubt a result of the sunny weather that this city was blessed with all year round. El Juez could easily have mistaken him for a Hispanic had he passed him on the street, despite Ryan being of Irish American stock.
“So what can you tell me, detective Ryan?” El Juez said after having studied the man in the other seat for a couple of seconds. “Do the police have any suspects?”
Ryan let the hand that was rubbing his face fall down into his lap, sighed and shook his head.
“No, at the current stage we have no suspects. Nor do we have any witnesses or surveillance footage of the shooter. It’s like the guy was swallowed up by the earth itself after he fired that rifle.”
Ryan leaned across and removed a file from the glove compartment, which he handed to El Juez.
“Everything we know is in that file,” he said. “The higher ups in the department are leaning towards the theory that this was a dispute between rival drug cartels, which makes sense given the victim’s connections with the Meridional Cartel.”
El Juez nodded as he casually leafed through the report, which consisted of a dozen or so pages. There was a picture of the victim taken at the scene, and El Juez could clearly see the hole in the back of his head and the blood that had gathered on the ground next to him. At least the coroner wouldn’t have any difficulties establishing the cause of death.
“Is that your theory too, detective Ryan?” El Juez said without looking up from the folder.
Ryan cleared his throat, and from the corner of his eye, El Juez could see that he was tapping his fingers nervously against his knee.
“Well, until we have more evidence to go on, there isn’t really any basis for suggesting one thing or the other. But I don’t think it’s an implausible scenario.”
Ryan turned his head and looked at El Juez for the first time since the Mexican had gotten into the car.
“I mean members from the various cartels have it out with each other on an almost daily basis around these parts. Hell, just a few days ago members from Los Nortenos executed a young couple in Glendale for not honoring a drug debt. These people are not afraid to use violence, and that’s probably what happened here too.”
El Juez closed the folder and looked at the other man.
“That may very well be the case, detective. But at the same time, that leaves me in a bit of a predicament. You see, if you don’t have any suspects, and from what I can gather, you don’t seem to think that that will change anytime soon, I won’t have anyone that I can go after. And as you know, my boss has instructed me to find the shooter and deal with him accordingly. Now if I can’t find him, my boss is going to be very upset, and that is the last thing I want. Do you understand what I am saying, detective?”
Ryan lifted his hand up to his throat and started to adjust his tie, and El Juez could see his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat.
“I’m doing all I can to come up with a name,” Ryan said. “I have contacted all my informants, and if it indeed is a cartel job, or someone locally who fired the shot, they’ll soon find out about it. And when they do, I’ll forward that information to you straight away.”
The detective was looking El Juez straight in the eye, as if he really wanted to convey the sincerity of his words. And after a few seconds, El Juez turned his head and gazed out at the ugly Wal-Mart building sixty yards away.
“You be sure to do that, detective. My boss wants this taken care of as quickly as possible, and he is not a patient man.”
Then he opened up the door and stepped outside without saying goodbye.
A few minutes later, he was back in his own car, driving toward the scene of the crime. He would spend a few minutes there looking around. He knew he wouldn’t find any new clues, but perhaps by visiting the scene of the crime, he could get a sense of what type of person the shooter was. Maybe that would point him in the right direction, or at least give him some new ideas.
For the time being, he was completely in the dark, and he had to come up with a lead soon, something he could look into and follow up on.
He leaned forward and inserted a new Miles Davis disc in the CD player and turned up the volume, and felt slightly more at ease when the sound of Miles’ trumpet filled the car. He tried to relax, but the edginess was still there.
Normally these types of jobs were taken care of within a day or two. And if luck was on his side, that would be the case this time as well. But for the time being it didn’t look too good.
4
Michael Hicks read the email three times before he finally turned away from the screen and stared absentmindedly at the space above the partition wall in the tiny cubicle in the newsroom of the Phoenix Star. He was trying to make sense of the information in the email, but it was difficult given that his mind was racing along at breakneck speed. If the information was accurate and the newspaper was to print it, it would be the scoop of the year. Not to mention beneficial for his career, which was still in its infancy.
He looked back at the screen again, and his eyes fell on the sender’s email address. It was a Gmail account - [email protected] - which meant that it was most likely a dummy account, and thus had probably been sent from some public building or Internet cafe. And that was a bad thing, because it meant that the sender would be impossible to identify, even if he got one of the tech guys to check the digital fingerprints. And what would be the point of geo-locating the computer it was sent from if it didn’t get them any closer to the author of the email?
Then another thought made its way to the forefront of his mind, and it was one that had first popped into his head when he’d finished reading the email the first time. The information had to be fake. Someone had decided to pull his leg, and in the process create some major problems for an individual that had no involvement in the incident. Either that or the author had a score to settle, and figured he should get a journalist in the biggest newspaper in Phoenix to help him achieve this.
But, then again, what if it wasn’t a hoa
x? What if the person who had written the email actually knew what he was talking about, and what if the information turned out to be correct?
If that was the case, could the paper just go ahead and print it? Michael didn’t think so, and that put a dampener on things. The legal experts were guaranteed to put up a stink and advice his boss not to run with it. And Michael had no problems seeing it from their perspective.
If they decided to print it, and if it turned out to be incorrect, every defamation lawyer within a five hundred mile radius would bend backward in order to get the opportunity to represent the wrongfully accused individual. And when the lucky slimebag had finally managed to sign up the client, he would have a field day and sue the paper for every cent it had ever made.
Michael leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, and stared up at the fluorescent light tubes just above his head. It was almost beyond cruel to dangle such a meaty bone in front of his face, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to touch it. He closed his eyes and muttered a muted ‘damn’ under his breath. So close, but yet so far away.
He of course knew what he had to do next, and it bothered him, because he realized that it meant that he wouldn’t be able to write the story itself if the paper decided to pursue it. He sat in his chair for a few more minutes, trying to process it all. Then he leaned forward and pressed Control P on the keyboard.
A few seconds later the printer came to life and started spitting out a copy of the email he’d just read. He snatched the paper, gave it a cursory glance and got up from his chair and left the cubicle.
Shock and Awe Page 3