Whitewater (Rachel Hatch Book 6)

by L T Ryan

  The dog licked its chops, running its tongue around the sharp edges of its teeth while making eye contact, or seemingly so, with Rafael.

  "I would never—"

  Hector held up a hand, his index finger pressing Rafael's lips closed. "Shhh. Words matter little, my son. Worth is only found in deeds. Honoring me and our family means doing whatever it takes. I keep the promise made to my father. And you'll keep the one you make to me. There will come a time soon where I will ask you to prove that you're ready to lead this family.

  “The seat I hold is a fragile one, and people are always looking to dethrone me. My life might not be the one you envisioned for yourself, but it is the future I ask you to accept. You're a thinking man. And that's good. This family needs that. But it also needs a man of action. Our greatness was not built on charity and good will. Will you bear the burden and responsibility of carrying the Fuentes family into the future?"

  Rafael opened his mouth to speak, not sure what he intended to say. His mind still reeling from his mother's murder. Now that murderer was asking Raphael to fill his shoes. Rafael was grateful his father continued his pontification.

  "I know you've got the intelligence. Hell, you're smarter than me. That's not where my concerns are rooted. In the Fuentes Family we act. Are you willing to do the things that I have had to do to get us here? Because the only way we will ever be able to maintain our power is through demonstration of that power. Do you have the strength to plunge your blade into an enemy's gut when the time comes? Everything I've built, and my father before me, depends on the answer you give here and now. Are you ready to kill, if need be, to protect all that you hold dear?"

  Rafael saw only his mother. But his mouth uttered words that betrayed his heart and he felt a piece of himself die as he spoke his answer. "I am."

  "What a relief that is to hear, my Rafa. When your opportunity presents, be a man of action, act swiftly and decisively. Matters of life and death are not to be taken lightly." Rafael heard the words, but his mind kept taking him back to the sound of his mother's choked gasps in the minutes she sat dying while strapped to a chair.

  One of the twelve cell phones neatly arranged on a nearby table vibrated. Hector's assistant answered and then walked it over to his boss.

  "Sir, it is one of your friends." Even in open air conversation, surrounded by guards and a walled fortress and acres of land enclosed with the Fuentes compound, they spoke code. The veiled speech was done more out of habit, but there was always the looming fear a government agency or rival cartel was eavesdropping.

  Hector took the phone. Rafael remained within earshot to pick up both ends of the conversation. If his father hadn't wanted him to hear, he would have sent Raphael away. The fact that he didn't meant he wanted Raphael to listen.

  "An American woman by the name of Daphne Nighthawk was poking around the department lobby this morning." Both men stood shoulder to shoulder and listened as the informant spoke. "She's looking for that girl. The redhead we moved through here the other day."

  "And where is she now?"

  There was a long pause. "I'm working on that as we speak."

  "I pay you good money to handle these problems. I might be forced to seek assistance elsewhere." The threat unspoken, lingered in the air.

  "Mister Fuentes, I tried. I did. I offered to have her come in to make a statement. She got spooked and left."

  "You should've stopped her. You're a big strong guy. Couldn't stop a little woman from slipping away."

  "She's not little. And besides, that loony reporter was in the lobby again."

  Hector sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Find her. No excuses."

  "And how would you like her handled?"

  "I'd like to have Juan Carlos speak with her before she sets sail for the afterlife. Keep me posted." Hector ended the call and tossed the phone to his assistant who caught it in midair and then returned it to its rightful place. He then turned to his son. "Seems like your opportunity to prove yourself may rise quicker than I expected."

  "Do you think it would be best handled by The Viper?" Raphael asked.

  "He's returning from cleaning up that mess in Arizona. Plus, it gives me a chance to see you in charge. I'm leaving you as oversight on this problem. It should be a good warmup for things to come. How much trouble can one woman be?"

  "I won't let you down." The words sickened Raphael. All his planned resistance to his dad's pressure folded the instant Hector confronted him.

  "This will be your first test. And please, whatever you do. Don't fail me."

  Eleven

  The cigarette remained carefully balanced between Kyle Moss's trembling lips as he stared down the barrel of the silenced pistol used to kill his attorney, Neil Taylor, a second ago. Moss was paralyzed. Not frozen. Literally paralyzed to the point of needing to make a conscious effort to breathe.

  The shot had been fired just as Moss lit the cigarette. Both his hands hovered just above the table as if somebody hit pause on his life. A fragment of Taylor's skull was stuck to his face, the blood and brain matter served as a glue, adhering it to the right side of his cheek. Kyle wanted to wipe it off. He wanted to put his hands down. He wanted to get to the gun on the bed. None of his brain's requests were being honored by his body. His state of disconnect left him rigid.

  The black semi-automatic pistol in the killer's hand seemed to grow bigger with each passing second. The frozen Moss took shallow breaths of the smoke-filled air, waiting for the gunman to kill him. But as precious seconds ticked by, no shot came.

  "You may relax your hands, Mr. Moss, but please keep them on the table where I can see them." The man in the dark wide brimmed hat and suit of matching color lifted the rectangular leather case, then set it on the table before him without moving the muzzle off its intended target, Moss's forehead.

  A worn leather bracelet clung to the gunman's wrist just beneath his suit sleeve. A long rattlesnake's tail dangled freely from it. The sound of its rattle as the killer set the leather case down didn't bother him. But the rattle from inside the case nearly caused Moss to vomit.

  "I don't understand. I called you." Moss found the courage to speak but the words came out in clunky spurts as if his mind were trying to assemble each word letter by letter before releasing them.

  "You have stolen from Mr. Fuentes. I am here to collect that debt. Now let's get on with this unfortunate business. And who I am is not of consequence to you. And it will soon not matter to either of us that I tell you. I am Alfredo Perez, but few know it. To those who stare at the case, I'm called El Vibora, The Viper."

  "Wait! What? Stolen? I didn't steal anything from Mister Fuentes. Absurd! Are you kidding me? Get your boss on the phone." The ice in his limbs began to melt away as his paralyzing fear gave way to anger. Getting the gun from the bed was becoming a more possible opportunity.

  "Maybe your idea of theft is different from Mister Fuentes’. Was there not a contractual arrangement made?"

  "Yes," Moss said. Buy time. Get the gun. He knew what The Viper meant by contractual arrangement. Selling his stepdaughter into slavery had turned out to be the worst financial decision in Moss's long list of mistakes. It had been a hail Mary pass to save a dying business. And it backfired catastrophically. The climactic end of that karmic fallout was standing less than six feet away from him and holding a gun.

  "So there it is, an arrangement was made. Money changed hands. Deals were made. Deals were broken. I am the one who repairs the damage."

  "It wasn't my fault. And I never stole the money. You gotta believe me!"

  "It doesn't matter what I believe. The call was made. I am here. Nothing short of a miracle will stop what comes next."

  "You don't speak like a killer." Moss felt the statement slip out. Even offered an apologetic look to accompany it. But it was true. His English was soft and fluid. Educated in the US. His skin was pale. Hard to tell if he was even Mexican. His dark wire thin mustache and wide eyes gave him a Doc Holiday sort of
look. None of it mattered. Kyle couldn't help but stare at the ghost-like marks underneath his right eye.

  "Do you know a lot of killers, Mr. Moss?"

  "Well—eh—no."

  "Well, I do. And one thing I can tell you is that each of them approach death as uniquely as a set of fingerprints." He moved his hand toward the leather case. Three brass snap buckles separated the serpent inside from Moss.

  Stall. Business 101. "Look, I told whoever I spoke to on the phone that I was planning to wire the money back as soon as the Feds unfreeze my accounts. My attorney was going to handle that," Moss shot a glance at the recently deceased Neil Taylor, "but not to worry, I can hire another."

  The gun remained leveled at Moss's head, but The Viper didn't continue his reach for the case. "Even now, facing the tragic consequence of your life's decisions, you still cannot speak the truth. Sad really, if you stop to think about it. But you won't have long to ponder. So, please make use of the time you have left on this earth."

  "Why don't you just shoot me and get it over with?" Frothy spit shot from his mouth, knocking the cigarette onto his lap. The hot cherry embers burned into his crotch. Moss snatched it by the butt and dusted the ash onto the floor. "Why don't you just put that bullet in my head right now?"

  "That is not how it works, Mr. Moss. My employer, Mr. Fuentes, believes in clear and objective standards for all his employees. A task is given, a task is completed. No excuses tolerated, not ever. A simple but effective business plan."

  "What else can I offer you that you don't already know?"

  "Excellent question, Mr. Moss. Now you're getting in the spirit of things."

  Getting in the spirit of things? This guy's insane. But he's still human. And human beings have weaknesses. Those weaknesses can and should be exploited. See, you smug son-of-a-bitch, I'm a businessman too? Fuentes isn't the only one who knows how to go to war.

  "It is important to my employer, and so it is important to me that I investigate how far we have to go until all loose ends are clipped."

  "You killed my attorney! Was he a loose end?"

  "Yes, as was your accountant and your security guard."

  The room spun. "You killed Teddy?" His accountant, Clarence Park, was a good enough accountant, but Moss held no personal feelings for the father of four. But Teddy had been a childhood friend before Kyle brought him in to work the cush gig of gate guard at his Hermosa Valley estate. Not so cush now. Ever since that Nighthawk woman showed up and ripped a gaping hole in his life.

  "By you calling your attorney and bringing him here, you just saved me a day of work. That leaves more time for you and me to get acquainted."

  "I've got money." What the hell does a cartel hitman make, anyway? "The bag down by my feet has two-hundred-fifty thousand in it." He watched as The Viper shifted his head and eyed the duffle. Stall. "A quarter million dollars is sitting right there. Take it. All of it. Just leave me enough to get across the border."

  The Viper was silent for a moment before responding, "What you see as a last-ditch effort to weasel your way out of another mess, I see as weakness. Even facing certain death, you still lie."

  "Lie? There's two-hundred-fifty thousand American dollars in that bag. Why don't you open it and count it yourself if you don't believe me?" The stalling was working. The snake was in the case and the bullet remained in its chamber. Each minute alive fanned his hope of escape. His wife had called him a cockroach the last time he struck her. Maybe he was a cockroach. And just maybe, under these circumstances, being a cockroach was a good thing. Hard to kill a cockroach. He remembered reading roaches could survive a nuclear blast. That's the kind of luck Kyle Moss needed right now.

  "You’re a businessman, Mr. Moss, yes?"

  "Yes. Yes I am." He sat up a little straighter. Keep him talking. That's where deals were made. And he was a deal maker. Money is the universal language and Moss spoke it fluently.

  "And in the business world, what happens when you underestimate your competition?"

  "I capitalize on it." Moss replied.

  "In your desperate plea to make a monetary trade in exchange for your life, you failed to consider a few very important things. To put it bluntly, you underestimated me."

  "I think we're getting our lines crossed here. Not sure what you're getting at or what I'm missing. You said I lied."

  "You did. You told me you had a quarter-million dollars for me. But there's three hundred thousand dollars in this motel room."

  The color drained from Moss' face. His limbs were once again paralyzed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Even your voice betrays you. But yet you continue to lie. Were you going to tell me about the other fifty thousand? You offered me two-fifty."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered the lie.

  "Confronted with the truth that is quite literally at my feet, soaking up the dead lawyer's blood." The Viper kicked the brown paper bag toward Moss. "Count it if you don't believe me. Isn't that what you said to me?"

  "How did you…"

  "You weren't directed to come to this motel by accident. Who do you think owns The Sunnyside Motel?"

  Moss scanned the room as if the drapes would have a tag that read Owned and Operated by the Fuentes Cartel, knowing full well the meaning of the assassin's comment.

  "The Fuentes business model also doesn't rely on trust. It's not reliable. Who am I to say?" He cocked his head, tipping the wide brim of his hat to his shoulder. His facial expression never changed. The slithered tongued of the Viper's voice remained ever steady and had an almost hypnotic quality. "The motel may look cheap, and it is. But the surveillance system is first rate."

  "You've been watching me?" Ice ran down Kyle’s spine.

  "Knowing that, would it change your offer?"

  "I—well—of course." An empty offering. The leverage of advantage was lost. Moss felt the tipping of the scale. His ploy failed. Because he underestimated his adversary. Business 101.

  "This is a special room. And it should have special meaning for you. Well, it would if you were a caring, compassionate human being. Which I can clearly see, you are not."

  "Who the hell are you to lecture me about compassion when you stand over the dead body of my attorney while pointing a gun at my friggin' head! And that—that case! Are you insane?" Moss was unraveling. Sweat poured from his brow as he ripped a long drag from the cigarette.

  "This is the same room your daughter stayed in after you sold her into slavery. The girl you failed to ensure was delivered to us without issue. Instead, you not only failed to deliver what was promised, your incompetence resulted in an additional loss."

  "It was that stupid bitch! The Nighthawk woman. She's the one who ruined everything. That's who should be in this room right now sitting across from your damned snake in the box. She's the one you need to be looking for."

  "I'm sure steps have already been taken to handle that situation. Regardless, it's of no matter to you." The Viper sidestepped a foot's distance, giving way to the growing pool of blood leaving the gaping exit wound in front of Taylor's forehead.

  Moss shot a glance at the gun on the bed. He wasn't a gun guy. Actually he'd only fired it once. The day he bought it, he went to the range and put a box of ammunition through it. Shooting wasn't his thing. Concern crept in. Could I dive the four feet to where it lay before the professional killer got off a shot? Doubtful. Even if I did manage to get to the gun before he fired a shot, what's the chance I can fire a shot before he does? Slim. And the likelihood that shot hits the target I'm aiming for? No chance in hell. Moss could barely hit the paper target at five feet. And he hadn't been diving and rolling like a stunt double in a John Woo film. In his world of financial risk analysis, Moss weighed those principals against the circumstance he now faced. His calculation put his percentile of chance in surviving this encounter at zero. It was the first time Moss had been honest, with himself or anyone else.

  The Viper's eyes followed Moss' and the
path led him to the gun on the bed. "Survival's a curious thing. People think they are more capable than they are. Most go their whole lives thinking they will fight back if ever confronted with death and never get tested. I am in a unique position, one where I get to witness firsthand the answer to that question. Do you want to know the truth about people in those most dire of moments?"

  Moss shrugged. His words no longer mattered. Stalling failed. A terrible trembling jackhammered inside him, spreading out from his rapidly beating heart. He read somewhere that often people falling from great heights would have a heart attack before hitting the ground. Moss imagined the feeling he was experiencing to be comparable.

  Sun slipped through a gap in the curtain, finding its way under the brim of The Viper's hat. The beam stung his right eye and it immediately began to water. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and, with a gloved hand, dabbed under his eyelid. The gun moved off target while the killer cleared his vision. Moss saw his fleeting window of opportunity and chose to ignore it. Maybe a trained assassin in the same position could've seized the advantage. But he was not that person, no matter how much he wished he could be.

  "Are you ready to honor your debt and obligation to my employer?"

  Moss' answer came in the warm urine soaking through his jeans. The pungent liquid leaked steadily from the end of his pantleg, pelting the frayed carpet below.

  The dripping was the only sound filling the stagnant air until The Viper unlatched the first buckle on the case.

  The snake's rattle sang out its deadly hymn through the reddish-brown leather of the case, drowning out everything, to include the beating of Moss' heart.

  Twelve

  Hatch found Club de Fuego easily, operating on the intel provided by Ayala. She'd turned down the quirky press agent’s ride offer, not wanting to involve him beyond his initial help. From experience, Hatch had learned the assistance people provided her often had negative and potentially life ending consequences. She wanted his good deed to go unpunished. Hatch had, however, accepted his business card with the promise of calling him should the need arise.