He jumped into the Jaguar and started the engine. Stressed and freaked out, he neglected his customary look into the back seat. In the moment before he shifted the car into drive, he felt an arm around his neck and a gun barrel pressed into the back of his head. “Drive,” the man who owned them said.
As soon as they got moving, the man relaxed his grip, but Ned knew the gun was still aimed at him. “Are you a Tortured Soul?” he asked.
“What the hell kind of question is that?” came an answer in heavily accented English.
Ned couldn't help but laugh a bit. What he asked must have sounded absurd. He switched to Spanish. “Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want from me?”
“Never mind. I am here to find El Espagueti, take him to Coronado.”
Ned knew he was lying. Weasel was supposed to go with him to Coronado. There no way this guy was going to pop out of the back seat on both of them. That would have been suicide. He knew this guy intended to put a bullet in him as soon as they got away from witnesses. “Whatever they're paying you, I'll double it, triple it, quadruple it,” he said. “Whatever you want.”
“Can't do it,” the man said. “They have my son. Unless I show them pictures of your body, they won't let him go. I'm sorry.”
Ned recognized something in his accent. He took a quick scan of the back seat in his rearview mirror. He couldn't make him out well enough to identify in a police lineup, but he could tell the man was Mayan.
And for the first time since this whole adventure began, Ned came up with a real plan. “Do they call you ‘El Chango'?”
The man in the back moved so that his eyes met Ned's in the mirror. “Yes, yes they do.” Ned could hear emotion in his voice.
“And you hate it, right?”
“What man wants to be called a monkey?”
“You speak Q'eqchi'?”
“No, but you're close. My native tongue is Poqomam—from Guatemala. How do you know about these things?”
“I know because I've been down there and seen how they treat your people. Do you think they'll let you and your son go after this? Don't you think you will always be owned by them? Is that how you want your son to grow up? Ask yourself this: what do they call him?”
“El Changito,” the man said.
“And what happens when they let him go, if they actually even let him go?” Ned asked. “They will own you. You know as well as I do that once a criminal gets something from you, they keep taking and taking until there is nothing left to take. And then they put you to work. You will always work for them, and so will your son. Is that what you want?”
“It is a tragedy, but what can I do?”
“If you help me,” Ned said. “I can get you all the money you will ever need.”
“What good is money without my son?”
“I have an idea that could free your son and give you enough money to escape Mexico,” Ned said. “Do you have any serious training as a sicario?”
“Better,” the man said. “I am a Kaibil, Guatemalan special forces, one of the few clean ones left. When they finally realized I would not take their money, they took my son.”
* * *
Believing that he and Weise were close to finding Aiken, Tovar had contacted the local police and state troopers about what the Heinz woman had told them, and they had set up surveillance at every Dave's location in the area. He was surprised to learn that the ATF had already alerted the same organizations about Ned Aiken earlier that day.
At the one Dave's location on North Campbell where Aiken had been positively identified, Tovar began to question the staff about him. None of them claimed to recognize his photo.
After Weise called Philadelphia to tell them what he and Tovar had learned, Meloni had promised to fly out later that day. Tovar welcomed the additional manpower.
* * *
Speedy got tired of waiting at Ned's house. He had long since realized that Ned wasn't coming home, but decided to wait until morning to make his next move. He collected his gear, left by the back door, and went back to his car. He thought he would find Ned at the Cossacks' clubhouse, and even if he didn't, he could discuss with Weasel what the changes in Mexico meant for them all. With Poco Loco, Crash's one and only supporter, out of the picture, it could be the opportunity he was waiting for. And if Weasel didn't like the way things were shaping up, Speedy could go see the Tortured Souls.
* * *
Although he was still far from sure that he would get out of the day alive, Ned had encouraged this latest El Chango to put his gun away and move up to the front seat. They spoke about their mutual hate for the cartels and the tragedy that had befallen Mexico and how it had affected their own countries.
El Chango III told Ned his real name was First Lieutenant Luis Yrigoyen. He had grown up poor in Guatemala and joined the army as soon as he could. He showed great aptitude, spirit, and athleticism as a youth, and eventually found himself in the Kaibiles where he was promoted very quickly. He had even served as part of a UN-sponsored peacekeeping group in the Democratic Republic of Congo. His unit had been ambushed and five of them were killed. He himself had lost a toe. If it had not been for the quick work of a Tunisian combat surgeon, he would have died or at least lost a leg.
By the time he returned to Guatemala, things there had changed. The Mexicans were in charge of the drug trade and they were more aggressive and less tolerant than the Colombians. They had infiltrated every part of Guatemalan society through bribes and violence, including the Kaibiles. Yrigoyen saw many of his fellow officers and men fall victim to assassinations or change sides due to bribery or threats. He vowed to stay true to the cause of a free and independent Guatemala until his only son, eleven-year-old Anibal, was kidnapped.
He received a package at his office containing Anibal's baby finger and the address of an online video. The video showed about a dozen masked men holding guns pointed at Anibal, who was seated on a chair. The spokesman claimed to represent the Rincon-Bravo Organization, and demanded to meet him at a restaurant in Veracruz. There, nine armed men gave him his instructions: all they wanted was a picture of El Espagueti's corpse and Anibal would be set free; otherwise they would continue to send him parts of his son until there were none left. Yrigoyen had no choice.
Yrigoyen's story made it official: with Poco Loco out of the way, the Jaliscos were out to kill him. Since Yrigoyen was either going to do the job he'd been sent to do or be his partner in crime, Ned felt that he had nothing left to fear. So he shared as much of his own story as he remembered. He had been holding so much inside, been lying for so long, he knew he needed someone to tell. Telling the story from the start was an immense relief, although he could see that this man of principle considered him nothing more than a common criminal.
When they arrived at Maria's, Ned was not surprised. It was an old storefront covered in hand-painted signs in Spanish, many of them faded, peeling, or obscured by wrought-iron bars protecting the door and windows. His stomach sank, though, when he saw about a dozen tough-looking guys out front. At least three of them were visibly carrying weapons. They all stared at Ned as he parked the Jaguar, but none of them said anything. He and Yrigoyen got out of the car and walked toward Maria's door.
As they approached, the men surrounded them. The biggest and nastiest-looking one stood directly in front of Ned, just inches from his face. “May I help you, Jefe?” he asked in English.
Ned smiled. “Yes, I'm here to see Abuelita.”
All the men laughed. “Stupid Guero and little Chango want to see my grandma. I don't think so.” Ned could hear guns cock behind him.
Ned blanched. “I was sent by El Martillo.”
Yrigoyen put his hand into his pocket. More guns cocked. The men started yelling warnings in Spanish. Yrigoyen did not stop. Instead of the gun everyone was expecting, he pulled out a small gold figurine. It was Santa Muerte. “We are here to give her this gift.”
The big man in front of Ned smiled broadly. “Hey, Chango, you're o
kay,” he shouted.
The guns dropped and the men moved out of the way. Ned and Yrigoyen entered the shop. It was packed full of religious icons and statues, many of them depicting Santa Muerte. They were led to a back room that smelled heavily of incense, weed, and age. In the middle of the room was an elderly woman seated on a pillow and sucking on a bong three feet tall and shaped like Santa Muerte.
Yrigoyen approached and handed her his gift. She looked at it intently. “You must leave, Mayan,” she croaked in Spanish. “This is not work for honest men.” Two of Abuelita's men escorted Yrigoyen out of the room.
She beckoned for Ned to approach her. “You, there, the white one with no soul,” she forced out in English. “Take the bags and the villainy they contain. Take them and never come here again. Leave this place, leave this land.”
Ned didn't know what to say. “Thank you?” he offered. He felt hands on his arms, leading him out of the room.
Out in the sunshine, he saw that the men had four black athletic bags. The leader of the group told Ned that he could probably only fit two in the trunk, so the others would have to go in the back seat. Ned said that was fine and double clicked on the Jaguar's key fob to open the trunk lid and doors. The men dutifully loaded the car and went back to where they were before Ned and Yrigoyen arrived.
* * *
Driving past XXX-Caliber, Speedy noticed it was closed. Although he did think it odd, he did not investigate, instead attributing it to Scruffy's death. He knew Stew Bob and Scruffy had been close, and didn't think it would be out of the question for Stew Bob to close up shop that day. As he turned around the corner, he was relieved to see that Weasel's truck was there and Crash's Jaguar wasn't. He took no notice of the presence of Stew Bob's Harley. Before he entered, he called Weasel's cell phone. Tensions were high among the Cossacks and he did not want to set anything off by entering unannounced. There was no answer. But that wasn't too strange. Weasel tended to ignore his phone when he was busy.
He went in the back door, announcing his arrival by shouting: “Weasel, it's just me, man. Speedy,” he said. “We have things to talk about.” Not hearing an answer, Speedy walked toward the office's open door. “Seriously, man. We need to talk.”
As he rounded the corner, three shots hit him in the chest. They were absorbed by his Kevlar vest, but the force of them knocked him violently to the ground. Regaining his senses, he desperately pulled his gun. But it was too late. Quickly aware of why Speedy wasn't dead, Big Red aimed for his head and shot him again three times. One of the bullets severed his carotid artery, sending a cascade of blood in the air and ending his life.
* * *
One of the regulars from the downtown Dave's location came forward and said that she knew the man in the picture, not just from the restaurant, but also from his morning jogs. They had hit it off and had some long conversations about nothing in particular. She said his name wasn't any of those listed on the poster. Instead, he had introduced himself as Colin McCarthy. Tovar pointed out that when someone has that many aliases, one or two more didn't hurt.
The woman—a 21-year-old bank teller named Inez Velasco—said that she first noticed Colin because of his black Jaguar. It was a nice car. She later saw where he lived because she had seen it parked outside.
Tovar froze. If what this woman was saying was true, they had found Aiken's home. He asked her to submit to a formal interview, but first asked if she could take him to the house.
“Sure,” she said, “It's up on North Meyer, right by where I live.”
* * *
After dragging Speedy's body into the shop and shoving it on top of the others, Big Red ran back to the laptop. When it indicated Ned was driving by, he looked out the window and saw the Jaguar head down the laneway and park. Ned walked out and opened the trunk. He picked up the two black bags full of cash and started to carry them in.
Ned paused when he saw the pool of Speedy's blood on the floor. “Never mind that, some asshole getting up in my business, no loss,” Big Red said. “Now, open the bags.”
He did as he was told, then shouted “Ahora!” Big Red dropped his guard and two shots went into his forehead and out the back of his skull.
Yrigoyen, who had crouched down in the passenger seat when the Jaguar drove by the clubhouse window, snuck out of the car when Ned was entering the building. As soon as Ned had shouted their agreed-upon codeword, the former special-forces soldier jumped into the doorway and made a pair of expert shots.
Big Red was dead. Ned and Yrigoyen had $18 million in cash, but were in a nearly unimaginable amount of trouble.
Chapter Twelve
Ned couldn't help but smile as he watched the waves crash against the miles-long sand beach. He was lost in daydreams when he heard his girlfriend yell at him. “Get to work,” she shouted with a smile, her German accent still striking him as humorous. “You have customers waiting.”
He worked at Marta's scooter-rental shop not because he needed money, but for an air of legitimacy and to help her out. Money wasn't an object for him at all. All he could carry on his person was about $5 million, and he still had most of it left.
* * *
After Yrigoyen shot and killed Big Red, he and Ned quickly stripped off his shirt. With a black Sharpie, Yrigoyen quickly re-created Ned's tattoos on Big Red's arms and chest. Ned darkened Big Red's hair with shoe polish and, to make him even less recognizable, Yrigoyen shot Big Red in the face again, this time with an AR-15 that was in the office. Even though most of the face was obliterated, they were careful to leave Big Red's blue eyes intact and open as further evidence that the body was actually that of the man the people who paid the Mayan wanted to see dead. Then Yrigoyen and Ned hastily shot a video that showed the body in detail, Ned's Jaguar, and the inside of the Cossacks' clubhouse. As soon as they finished, they posted it to YouTube.
The plan was to have Yrigoyen take half the money with him back to Mexico, show the guys at the ranch house the video, get his son, and escape. The chances of it working were slim.
* * *
The FBI found Aiken's house empty. As they left the building, Tovar's phone rang. It was the local police telling him about the shootings at the Cossacks' clubhouse.
* * *
Over several years, the investigation concluded that Big Red had been murdered in a gunfight with the Cossacks, although he managed to take a few out with him. The only person missing from the picture was Aiken. Since he was known to be a Cossacks associate and to have the means and motive to kill for his freedom, a warrant was issued for his arrest.
Forensic investigators noted hundreds of inconsistencies with evidence, but with all witnesses dead or on the run, there wasn't anyone to make a big fuss. The drawn-on tattoos and hastily darkened hair on Big Red's corpse raised questions, but they were brushed aside over time; he received a posthumous commendation from the ATF. The Cossacks decided to shut down operations in the Tucson area.
The Kuzik investigation went on, but with a new set of junior officers. Frustrated with the FBI, Meloni went to teach criminology at Coastal Carolina University. O'Malley stuck it out, but moved to forensics and away from the field. Due to his connections there and ability to speak Spanish fluently, Tovar was transferred to Phoenix. He accepted under the condition that he could take Weise with him.
* * *
As soon as he could, Yrigoyen set off for the border, which he would try crossing that night. Ned hid in a cheap motel at the Nogales airport for a few days, bribing the owner to keep his mouth shut, and then escaped Arizona through one of the holes in the fence near the Coronado bathtub. He took a bus from Heroica Nogales to Acapulco and hung around the port until he could bribe a freighter's captain into letting him pose as one of the crew. He didn't look much like a Bashir Ibrahimovich, but for the duration of the voyage, that's who he was. He worked hard, but he never, ever took his backpack off or spent a moment without his gun at his side.
When he arrived in Mumbai, he threw his gun in the bay.
The immigration officers had no problem with his passport—they still used typewriters and dial telephones, so detecting the expertly done alterations was well beyond them—but they made a huge fuss over the fact that he had not applied for a tourist visa. After hours and hours of debate, he paid a fine of 1,600 rupees with $40 in U.S. currency. The officials were vehement he take his change, even though it amounted to less than a dollar.
From his first impressions, he hated Mumbai. It was hotter than Mexico, crowded, and indescribably filthy, at least where the freighter landed. But it seemed safe somehow, with none of the sinister stares he knew from Mexico. After a few days in Mumbai, he started hanging around with the tourist and expat bar crowd and began to get used to their lifestyle. He even warmed up to the city. But a pair of couples from New Zealand who were traveling together told him that the place to see on India's West Coast was Goa, so he took a train there with them.
He fell in love with the place almost as soon as he stepped off the train. It was full of resorts, nightclubs, and open-air markets on streets that felt safe at any time of the day or night. Ned decided to stay. He met Marta at a fish curry house, hit it off, and eventually moved in with her. Her Belgian ex-husband had gone to prison for insider trading, but she was allowed to keep her business in Goa because she had bought it with her own money, which she had earned as a graphic artist. Her scooter-rental stand was steps away from Vagator Beach and did a decent business. Ned enjoyed working there, dealing with tourists from all over the globe and working on the bikes.
Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle Page 58