The Black Hornet: James Ryker Book 2

by Rob Sinclair

  The Black Hornet

  James Ryker Book 2

  Rob Sinclair

  Contents

  Also by Rob Sinclair

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  A Note From Bloodhound Books.

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 Rob Sinclair

  The right of Rob Sinclair to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Also by Rob Sinclair

  Have you read the first James Ryker thriller? The explosive and best-selling The Red Cobra is available now.

  The Red Cobra

  Rob's Books:

  Dark Fragments

  The James Ryker series:

  The Red Cobra

  The Black Hornet

  The Enemy series:

  Dance with the Enemy

  Rise of the Enemy

  Hunt for the Enemy

  Brother, this one is for you.

  Prologue

  Ryker killed the call, and felt a sickly, unfamiliar feeling. Was it worry, sorrow, or guilt, or all three? He painstakingly searched the rest of the house. There was no fresh food or milk in the fridge, nothing to suggest she’d been there recently. All of her clothes and her few belongings appeared to be in place. There was no sign of a struggle, a break-in either.

  In a moment of doubt – or was it hope? – Ryker wondered whether maybe she’d walked out on him, run away to start a new life on her own. He couldn’t fathom why she would do that, but it was surely a better outcome than the other possibility. Could his going to Spain have caused her to leave him?

  He returned to the bedroom, looked in the bedside drawer. Found her passport in the name of Lisa Ryker.

  No, she hadn’t run. One way or another, Lisa was in trouble. Winter had already tracked them down, despite their best efforts at hiding. Ryker’s only conclusion was that someone else had found them.

  And Ryker hadn’t been there to protect her. He felt a flood of guilt. While he’d been busy chasing an old flame through Spain, the love of his life had come to harm.

  He didn’t know who was responsible or why, but he would do everything he could to find out. To save her.

  Ryker moved quickly through the house, collecting the few possessions he needed: weapons, IDs, money. After opening the front door, he then turned to look back at his home, a place he had truly believed would become his sanctum. Their sanctum.

  Whatever had happened to Lisa, he knew that dream was gone.

  Ryker flicked off the lights and stepped out into the night. He shut the door behind him, and walked away.

  1

  Mexico City, Mexico

  James Ryker had bought the car – a rusted old Chevy – for one hundred US dollars, cash. It was a nineties model, Ryker thought, though it could have been as much as thirty, thirty-five years old, given the level of deterioration both inside and out, with large patches of rust that bubbled around once-glossy paintwork like welted sores on eczema-covered skin. Perhaps it was the unrelenting heat and humidity that had baked the car’s metal shell to the point of melting. The city was stifling, with thick smog that stuck in Ryker’s throat, filled his nostrils and made his eyes sting.

  He was surprised the Chevy’s engine had started first time. The heap of junk was one of the most rundown models in the makeshift forecourt he’d bought it from, and certainly the cheapest. But it would do. It was moving Ryker from A to B, and for now he needed nothing more. Plus it was far better to buy a car outright, for cash, from a discreet car salesman operating on the borderline of questionable and downright illegal, than to head to the local Hertz. There were many reasons it had been several years since Ryker had last set foot in Mexico, and he wasn’t about to leave a trail of his presence with rental and insurance documents and credit card transactions.

  Although he had enough cash to have bought a far better model than the Chevy if he’d wanted, he was hoping his trip around the vast dustbowl of Mexico City would be over by nightfall, and he’d be heading back toward the border the same way he’d come. Once he was out of the country, he’d dump the car and carry on his way.

  Ryker fought through the clogged traffic of the inner city, then onwards and outwards through seemingly never-ending sprawl that was far more vast than he’d remembered, the skyline all the time becoming more low rise and the buildings more decrepit.

  Soon Ryker was adjacent to Neza-Chalco-Itza, a ‘mega slum’ where some four million inhabitants were cramped into a few square miles of ramshackle buildings.

  Ryker wasn’t travelling into the heart of the slum. Doing so would be too dangerous, an unnecessary risk that he wouldn’t have taken even if his contact had wanted to meet there, and even though Ryker had armed himself for the brief rendezvous with a Beretta M9 pistol, together with three fifteen-round magazines. Cholo gangs ran the slums and Ryker had no need to stir up trouble where it wasn’t needed. Instead, he was heading into the centre of Ciudad Neza, a city in its own right, but technically within Mexico City’s municipal area.

  As Ryker wound the car through the city, what he saw of Ciudad Neza felt indistinct – a smaller version of the metropolis he’d left behind a short while earlier. Ryker eased the car down narrow streets before pulling over to the side of the road a few hundred yards from his destination. He got out of the car, feeling the slightest relief to be out in the scorching heat rather than the tin can oven that passed as a motor vehicle.

  Ryker brushed his hand over his hip, checking the Beretta was in place –
an involuntary action. Then he set off on foot along the city streets. The buildings either side of him were little more than bare concrete shells – some with real glass windows, many with holes covered by makeshift drapes. Many of the properties were dwellings where, undoubtedly, large numbers of people were crammed into small, inadequate spaces. Tatty signs hung outside other buildings which passed as shops and cafés and all other manner of small businesses trying to make ends meet.

  Ryker walked casually but kept alert, aware that eyes were on him. At six feet three and with mousy brown hair, pale skin and green eyes, he was hardly inconspicuous in his surroundings. The suspicious and slightly hostile gazes he received were nothing more than he’d expected, and he saw no threats. Just wary locals unsure why a gringo had descended upon their corner of the world.

  Taking a left turn, Ryker came out into a surprisingly pleasant square – at least it was pleasant compared to the streets he’d just come from. A stone church – handsome but in need of better care – stood at one end of the square, and in the centre was a ten-foot fountain, dry and dusty, but decorated with various nubile forms that stood proudly. Around the other sides of the square, tables and chairs were placed sporadically outside cafés on a mishmash of cobbles, slabs and sun-baked muck, under dirty canopies and shady palm trees.

  Ryker had arrived thirty minutes before the planned rendezvous, but it didn’t take him long to spot that the man he was due to meet was already waiting. Always cautious, Ryker much preferred to arrive at any meeting of that nature first: scope out for threats and find a position of his suiting. Not that he would let the man’s early arrival knock him. Ryker had travelled to the square the day before to perform a full recon of the area, noting exit routes and potential hazards. He was well enough prepared if the meeting were to take an unexpected turn for the worse.

  Unexpected? No, very little was unexpected to Ryker. Preparing for the worst was a way of life. It had to be. Because the worst had a habit of happening.

  The man was sitting on a red metal chair, reading a newspaper, an espresso coffee cup set on the table in front of him. Aviator sunglasses covered much of his face and together with his slick black hair, thick stubble, white cotton shirt, cream trousers and brown loafers, he looked the part. A local businessman, perhaps, or even a ranking member of one of the gangs or cartels – someone who’d started off in the slums and managed to crawl out and make some money for himself, but still felt rooted enough in his beginnings to go for a morning coffee in his old haunt.

  The appearance wasn’t too far from the truth. The man – Luis Jiménez – was well connected, no doubt about it. That was the reason Ryker had travelled all that way. He needed answers.

  Six months. That’s how long he’d been searching. Six long, tiring months, moving from location to location. Edging ever closer to the truth – and much more quickly to the life he thought he’d left behind. The ghosts of his past were pulling him in, his many enemies baying for his blood.

  Yet James Ryker had to follow the trail, wherever it took him. However dangerous, however deep into the cesspit of human life it led. Because he had to do everything he could to find Lisa. To find those responsible for taking her from him.

  To find out why.

  To make them pay.

  Jiménez looked up as Ryker made a beeline for him. As he walked he could feel the weight of the Beretta against his hip. It was there if he needed it.

  He could only hope he wouldn’t.

  2

  Jiménez got to his feet as Ryker approached and extended his hand. The Mexican was a few inches shorter than Ryker and had a slight frame, but his hands were large, his fingers thick and strong, and he gave Ryker’s hand a bone-crushing shake.

  ‘It’s been a long time, buey,’ Jiménez said when he let go of Ryker’s hand.

  Buey. The Spanish word for ox. Also an informal word for friend in Mexico. Ryker wasn’t sure his relationship with Jiménez was that close, so perhaps Jiménez was referring to Ryker’s comparative size. Or maybe the Mexican saw Ryker as nothing more than a hulking dumb animal.

  ‘Yeah. A long time, friend,’ Ryker said in return. ‘You alone?’

  ‘That’s what you asked for.’

  Despite his strong accent, Jiménez’s English was good. Better than Ryker’s Spanish. Jiménez indicated for Ryker to sit and he did. A plump middle-aged lady came out of the café with a half-smile.

  ‘You want anything?’ Jiménez asked Ryker.

  ‘A water would be good, I’m parched.’ He’d finished off a two-litre bottle of water in the car but was already feeling dehydrated again from his short walk through the searing heat. ‘But I’m guessing you wouldn’t recommend it straight from the tap around here.’

  Jiménez smiled. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t drink anything around here unless it’s boiled or brewed.’

  ‘Too early for beer. I’ll settle for coffee.’

  Jiménez made the order and the woman retreated inside.

  ‘Carl Logan, eh?’ Jiménez said. ‘Wasn’t sure I’d ever be seeing you again.’

  ‘I’m not Logan anymore.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard something about that. So what should I call you now?’

  ‘Call me whatever you want.’

  ‘What does your passport say?’

  ‘Which one?’

  The woman brought out two espresso cups half-filled with treacly coffee. She set them down on the rickety table then made herself scarce. Ryker looked around. The square was quiet enough, just a half dozen other people scattered about. Nobody looked out of the ordinary and no one was paying Ryker and Jiménez any attention, nor were they within earshot. Which was good, because Ryker knew sooner or later the two old acquaintances had to get down to business.

  ‘I go by James Ryker now.’

  ‘Nice,’ Jiménez said, with a smirk. Ryker didn’t know why and didn’t care to ask.

  Ryker picked up his cup and took a sip. He noticed Jiménez staring at his hand. At the lumpy circular scar left by the drill-bit that had been punched right through from one end to the other - one of Ryker’s more recent ordeals and wounds in an increasingly long line. Several months had passed but the bones and muscles and tendons in his hand still ached and stung. Jiménez looked away without saying anything.

  ‘You grew up here?’ Ryker asked. He could only assume this was an area Jiménez was familiar with, yet it certainly wasn’t where Jiménez lived anymore. He had far too much green paper for that.

  ‘Yes,’ Jiménez said. ‘Some of my family still live here. I come often. But let’s not lose ourselves in small talk, Ryker. You don’t give a shit about my family, and I won’t waste my time telling you about them. So why don’t we just do what we need to do and then move on?

  ‘Fair enough. I don’t want to be here, and you don’t want me here. But I’m hoping you can help me.’

  ‘Help you with what?’

  ‘Information. On some Mexicans.’

  ‘There are plenty of them around here.’

  ‘So I can see.’

  ‘But you said this is to do with a missing girl?’

  ‘A woman.’

  ‘She was your wife?’

  ‘She is my wife.’

  ‘Angela Grainger,’ Jiménez said and Ryker sensed himself tense. Angela Grainger. Lisa’s real name. How did Jiménez know that?

  ‘Lisa Ryker,’ Ryker said.

  ‘A woman with many names, many faces. Kind of like you, then. And me.’

  ‘Jiménez, like you, I’m not here to play games or catch up on years gone by. If you want to enjoy some sort of power trip because you know more about my situation than I’d expected, then go ahead. But it’s simple. I need help. And right now, I’ll take it from wherever I can get it.’

  Both men went silent, and Ryker studied Jiménez’s face. He looked noticeably older than when Ryker had seen him last – his face more lined, and more rounded from the extra weight he was now carrying. Ryker was sure he too had aged, but his ch
anging appearance was as much to do with the many traumas he’d suffered over the passing years.

  Jiménez was older than Ryker, in his late forties. At one time, the two men had worked together. Or put more aptly, their lives had collided. For many years, Ryker had been an agent for the clandestine Joint Intelligence Agency – his role akin to that of an elite military unit, or a black ops intelligence agent, taking out the bad guys by whatever means possible, all under the official radar. It was a secretive and deadly life that Ryker – together with Lisa – had tried to run away from, but which kept drawing him back in, one way or another.

  Jiménez was something different altogether. In his late teens, he had started working errands for the local Cholo gangs, the street-level operators and soldiers for the powerful drug cartels in Mexico. By his late twenties, Jiménez was a core member of the Beltrán-Leyva cartel. With his growing stature and wealth, he’d been targeted relentlessly by the authorities – both Mexican and American. The cartels made much of their profit on the US side of the border, and eventually Jiménez had been turned by the CIA as they squeezed the cartels wherever they could for worthy informants in their constant war on drugs. In a short time, Jiménez had become an invaluable asset and made himself a very rich man by batting for the CIA.

  His path crossed with Ryker’s when Ryker was sent on an undercover operation to strike at the cartel’s core, getting his hands dirty – and bloody – in ways that the more mainstream authorities were unable to. The two men had never been friends, but they had worked closely together on the inside and come to know a lot about each other.

  Because of the efforts of a handful of agencies, including the JIA and the CIA, the Beltrán-Leyva cartel had eventually been wiped out, all of its leaders either killed, jailed, or sent running. But Jiménez was going strong. He’d since switched allegiances to another cartel that had sprung up to fill the gap left behind by the collapse of the Beltrán-Leyva empire.