Flash Fire

by Dana Marton

  None of this was a good idea. But Walker trusted the fact that nothing around here ever worked the way it was supposed to.

  On the other hand…if the cops had a warrant for his arrest… He’d seen a Mexican jail up close and personal before. He didn’t care to repeat the experience.

  “If they ask me to step out of the car, duck. I’m going to gun the engine and make a run for it,” he said as he rolled up to the barricade.

  The cops looked right at him but didn’t stop him. They waved him through instead, and Walker let out the pent-up air from his lungs.

  “You’ve done the cartel a favor,” Santiago had said. Looked like the favor was already being paid back. Obviously, the cops had been told to back off Walker.

  Clara was gaping at him as he drove off. “How is that even possible?”

  He grinned at her. “It’s good to have friends in high places.”

  “Criminal places or government places?” she asked.

  “Around here, it’s all the same.”

  An ambulance whizzed by them, sirens blaring.

  Clara watched it tear down the road. “What do you think happened?”

  Walker shrugged and drove in silence. He rolled his window down and listened. No gunfire peppered the night, a good sign. Looked like he’d timed their drive right. The armed confrontation was over, cleanup in progress, but not yet finished.

  They drove by more police cars as they reached Furino. Nobody bothered him. Then they saw ambulances and beat-up old fire trucks.

  They were close to the middle of town when they saw the first bodies. Town police were busy bagging and tagging in the light of their high beams, gurneys waiting and ready.

  He slowed down next to one of the cops. “Qué pasa?”

  The man waved them on without looking up or answering.

  Walker drove to the other end of Furino, toward the guesthouse where Clara had been staying. That section of town seemed the worst hit. Blood congealed on the street in dark pools, bullet holes peppering the guesthouse’s front door, two of the windows shot out. Yet, as battle beaten as the place looked, the cantina across the road looked worse.

  The bandits’ favorite hangout had been reduced to little more than smoldering remains. Walker saw his Jeep in the side parking lot, burned out. He swore. He’d liked that car. It’d taken jungle roads well. But a single look told him the Jeep was beyond salvaging. He’d have to go see Jorge for another.

  Emergency vehicles surrounded the place: three police cars, two fire trucks, and two ambulances. A dozen bodies lay on the ground, all blackened, some still smoking, as if they’d been recently dragged from the building.

  Margarita, the buxom waitress, was coming on to one of the cops, caressing his arm. She’d probably shot someone. Walker had no doubt she’d get off and didn’t waste time worrying about her.

  He stopped the pickup, and they got out. He watched Clara stare at the bodies being gathered up and zipped into body bags, her face a carefully schooled mask he suspected she’d developed for work.

  He walked up behind her, noted the slight tremble that ran through her, and felt like shit for making her see the carnage. But he had tried to get her out of here before things had come to this. Now he was out of time, and they had to do things the hard way.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “Looks like the gang wars reached Furino. Listen, you have to get out of here. It’s the wrong place at the wrong time. Rosita Ruiz is probably as dead as these men. Will tracking down her body make that much of a difference? Are you willing to die for it?”

  “I need to find her,” she said without looking at him, staring straight ahead.

  The sight was truly gruesome, turning even his stomach. The cantina had been a war zone at one point today. A man sprawled in a pool of blood, half his face missing.

  Guns had carried the day, but the machetes must have come out too, because he could see several unattached body parts. A severed hand lay next to what might have been a foot. Then half an arm, chopped off at the elbow, a clean cut. People kept their machetes sharp; no sense having it any other way.

  Walker looked back at Clara. He didn’t like the way her lips thinned. He’d brought her here specifically to show her this, to shock her, but now he turned her away from the sight until she faced him.

  “You need to stay alive so you can save more people,” he told her, as logical and reasonable as he could be, because she was most likely to respond to that. “If you stay, you’re going to end up in one of those body bags.”

  “Rosita might still be alive.”

  His hands tightened on her shoulders, frustration filling him. “Have you taken a good look around this place?”

  She drew a slow breath. Didn’t look back at the carnage.

  Good. He hoped the images had been burned into her brain. “How about we go into the guesthouse, gather up your things, then you get out of here?”

  She raised her gaze to his. Then she pointed at the blue Ford Fiesta by the curb, tires and windows all shot up. “That’s my rental.”

  “I’ll drive you to Tuxtla Gutiérrez.”

  She drew a deep breath.

  He hated the haunted look in her eyes, even if he’d worked hard to put it there. She looked ready to go, finally. But before he could push his advantage, his cell phone rang in his pocket.

  He picked up the call.

  “You in one piece, you pasty-ass gringo?” Jorge asked on the other end.

  “So far. You?”

  “Bulletproof, hermano.” Jorge gave a dark laugh. “You in Furino? You really caused all that shit?”

  “Just got in. Cops are bagging the bodies. What do you know about it?”

  “They say Pedro fucked up. Santiago figured it out. He ordered you to take out Pedro yesterday. Then Santiago’s boys hit the rest of the Furino teams today.”

  “People say all kinds of things.”

  Walker had been pretty sure Santiago would take credit for unmasking Pedro as a traitor. A shipment had been lost. Even Santiago had a boss. Shit happened on his watch, he needed to fix it before the boss got angry. He needed points for at least figuring out who’d taken the shipment.

  In any case, word was out now that Pedro’s death had been a sanctioned kill. Which meant nobody could come after Walker for it. That included not only the police, but whatever was left of Furino’s bandits. He breathed a little easier.

  “Santiago said you lost good men last night,” he told Jorge. “I’m sorry, man. I hear you’ve been told not to hit back at Hernandez. That’s tough.”

  Silence followed his words before Jorge said, “The angel of death is on the wing. There’s no telling when and where he’ll land.”

  Meaning, if Jorge saw an opportunity, he was going to take it.

  Walker had expected no less. “Let me know if you need anything. I have a friend who has some extra explosives. He owes me a favor.”

  Jorge gave a dark laugh. “Yeah. Thanks. But these guys, I want to beat the life out of them with my bare hands. More satisfying that way.” He paused. “So, a gesture of goodwill for a gesture of goodwill. Listen, hermano. I might have something on the chica you asked about.”

  Walker stepped away from Clara to make sure she wouldn’t overhear. He had no intention of telling her of any new developments that might keep her here.

  “What is it?”

  “I put out the word to friends and family, and something came back. I have a cousin in Furino. His seventeen-year-old daughter went to school with a Rosita Ruiz many years ago. She says this Rosita’s parents died and her aunt took her to the States.”

  That had to be the same girl. Furino wasn’t that big. But how Rosita had gotten to the States made no difference. “Anything else?”

  “Ruiz was her mother’s second husband. Her first husband was Petranos. She had a son with him, Rosita’s half brother. Carlos.”

  Everything inside Walker went still. His fingers tightened on the phone.

  “Carlos Petranos
?” he asked under his breath so only Jorge would hear.

  “You need to stay away from this, hermano.”

  A hundred thoughts pinged around in Walker’s brain like ricocheting bullets. “Yeah,” he said absently, his mind shuffling puzzle pieces.

  “About the other thing,” Jorge went on. “The noseless guy. I got nothing on that. I’ll keep asking.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You try and stay alive, all right?”

  “I’ll take a stab at it. You do the same.”

  He ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket.

  Carlos Petranos.

  Rosita Ruiz’s half brother was the head of the Xibalba cartel. Santiago reported to Carlos, in fact.

  Walker swore under his breath. He stared into the night and saw all his carefully laid plans crumble.

  Rosita Ruiz was a curve ball that could ruin two years’ worth of hard work on his part. He put all his frustration into a single, succinct swearword that he hissed under his breath, then he turned to look at Clara, who was watching the body bags being loaded.

  He had a very bad feeling about Rosita Ruiz’s disappearance.

  And to confirm his suspicions, he needed Clara’s help.

  Which meant he couldn’t let her go. He swore again.

  He watched her for another moment before he walked back to her, swallowing the regret that bubbled up his throat. She should have left while she’d had the chance. He’d told her to go. Hell, he’d damned near begged her to leave.

  She should have listened.

  “Anything important?” She watched him with trust in her eyes, thinking he was there to help her.

  Her problem, not his. “Why don’t we go inside?”

  She nodded briskly and followed him.

  They walked inside together, straight into a large dining room that held a dozen tables with chairs. The family who ran the guesthouse—mother, grandmother, three teenage daughters—greeted them, but they were too busy cleaning up broken glass, all wielding either brooms or pans or garbage cans.

  “Did anyone get hurt?” Clara rushed to ask, sounding genuinely concerned.

  “No, señorita,” the younger woman, Consuela, in her early forties, replied.

  The older woman was her mother, the three girls her daughters. Walker knew nothing more of them. They weren’t players in any of the criminal enterprises in town, so they didn’t concern him.

  “We clean up quickly,” Consuela said, apologetic, as if somehow the shootout had been her fault. “No worry. Dinner in twenty minutes, sí?”

  “Why aren’t they more upset? How often does this happen here?” Clara asked quietly as she took the stairs up to her room.

  “Not that often. But they’ve seen enough to become resilient.” Walker followed close behind, thinking over what he was about to tell her.

  Clara too fell into silence for a few seconds.

  Then she repeated his earlier words, “Wrong time, wrong place,” as she walked down the upstairs hallway and stopped in front of the last door.

  She pulled a key from her pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped into the room. Walker followed and locked the door behind them.

  He’d stayed at the guesthouse for a week when he’d first come down here and was familiar with the rooms. They were all the same: bed, table, nightstand, and dresser. The two communal bathrooms were at the end of the hall, one for men and one for women.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” He leaned against the door.

  He waited until she lowered herself to the edge of the double bed. She looked a little lost, for the first time. The scene outside had gotten to her. She should have left when he’d first told her. But the fact remained, she was still here.

  The question was, was he willing to sacrifice her? Then again, maybe the question was, why was he even thinking about this still, as a self-professed conscienceless bastard?

  “Who called?” she asked as she folded her hands on her lap.

  “Jorge.” He paused. “How about we both lay our cards on the table?”

  “Does cards on the table mean that you’re actually going to answer my questions now? Because I have a few— Wait.” Her head snapped up, her body language changing from numb shock to hopeful. “Did Jorge call about Rosita?”

  Walker shoved his hands into his pockets. “Rosita Ruiz’s half brother is Carlos Petranos, head of the Xibalba cartel.”

  Clara leaned forward, her mouth dropping open. She closed it as she stared at him, her eyes growing wide. “Are you sure? Nothing like this came up in my investigation.”

  “I’m guessing it’s not common knowledge. Rosita and Carlos have different fathers.”

  Clara nodded, her eyes unfocused, as if her brain was churning through this new bit of data, trying to figure out where it best fit into those damnable spreadsheets in her head.

  Then she blinked, determination sharpening her gaze. “So now I have a definite lead. I’m going to follow it. Thank you.”

  She smiled at him, blissfully unaware that she’d very likely just signed her own death warrant.

  She had no idea what she was getting herself into.

  And he felt sorry about that. But not sorry enough. He shut out all doubt, all emotion as he filled his lungs. “So this is the plan—”

  Chapter Twelve

  Clara inhaled the mouthwatering aromas that filled the guesthouse’s dining room, but she couldn’t relax as she sat at the table. For one, the massacre outside had spoiled her appetite. And even without all that, her mind was too busy. She finally had a clue. The fact that Rosita’s half brother was head of a cartel was significant. Possibly a game changer.

  Carlos Petranos. She had a serious clue at last, and Walker seemed ready to help. With the gang war in Mercita and the violence in Furino, she was ready to stop pretending that she didn’t need him. She was a big enough person to admit that she was out of her depth here.

  He’d been about to tell her his plans up in her room when Consuela had interrupted to let them know that dinner was ready. Since they couldn’t talk openly where they could be overheard, Clara accepted that her curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied until later.

  They were the only guests, but the family hovered in the background, along with a handful of chickens and an evil-looking black rooster. The back door always stood open, so the poultry went in and out as they pleased. If a crumb fell onto the floor, they were there in a flash to clean up. Maybe that was why Consuela let them in.

  Clara put a forkful of empañadas into her mouth on autopilot, her mind going a hundred miles an hour.

  She swallowed her food and drank, then looked at Walker over the rim of her glass. He’d said cards on the table. Had that meant personal cards too? Cards unrelated to the mess they were in? Best way to find out was to ask. “Where are you from?”

  “All over.”

  He really was allergic to being specific. Which didn’t stop her from pushing. “Where did you grow up?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Who says I’ve grown up?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Obviously not mentally.”

  He puffed out his chest, not that it wasn’t distractingly wide already. “I’m glad you’ve noticed that I’ve grown up in body.”

  “It’s not going to work,” she told him as she set down her glass.

  “What?”

  “You using sexual innuendos to distract me when I’m doing something you don’t want me to be doing.”

  His chiseled mouth curved into a smile, the kind that reached his eyes. He had to stop doing that.

  “I haven’t really used sex yet,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I could sidetrack you, if I put my mind to it.”

  She didn’t protest the point. They both knew he was right.

  “You’re from the East Coast,” she said instead, pretty sure from his accent. “Me too. I grew up in DC.”

  “Big political dynasty family?”

  “Is this your way of asking whether my daddy got me
the job at the DOD?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Touchy subject?”

  “New England or Mid-Atlantic states?” she asked instead of answering. “Cards on the table.”

  “Grew up mostly in a small town near Abingdon, Maryland,” he said. “But I traveled around.”

  “You think you’ll ever go back?”

  “Nothing to go back to.”

  “No family?”

  He shook his head. “No family left, and not much of the town left worth bothering with either. It’d gone downhill the past decade. Drugs moved in. The criminal element pretty much took over.”

  His expression was neutral, as if he wasn’t affected by his hometown’s demise, but she caught tension in his tone—something subtly dark and menacing—and wondered what that was about.

  “You were in the navy, right?” Her father had told her earlier, but she didn’t want to say that, so she said, “I saw your trident tattoo.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You looked that carefully, did you?”

  Heat crept up her neck. “More of a cursory glance.” She cleared her throat. “So you were a SEAL?”

  She would have been lying if she said she wasn’t impressed. Navy SEALs were tough operators, the US Navy’s principal special ops force, part of the Naval Special Warfare Command and the United States Special Operations Command. She knew SEAL stood for Sea, Air, Land. They’d parachute into places like rivers, swamps, deltas, coastline areas like the Persian Gulf where water depth barred submarines and large ships. They could pretty much operate in any kind of environment, the insertion team of choice for small-team commando missions.

  No wonder he hadn’t been scared of the jungle. She tried to think back to the few times her father had mentioned the SEALs, and wished she’d paid more attention. “What does B E N mean? The letters under your trident tattoo? Is that a navy acronym?”

  His expression closed, hardened. She expected him to end the conversation, but after a tense stretch of silence, he said, “He was my brother.”