by Rob Sinclair
Soon after escaping the PF, Powell took Ryker back to the hotel that he’d earlier run from. This time he complied and went inside. Hotel was quite a loose term for the establishment; it was more like a safe house, Ryker reckoned. There was something about the guy on the reception, and the faces of the people he saw inside. Not tourists. Not business people. These were all spooks, or at the least people that Powell was paying off.
When Ryker got to his room, two guys, each armed with handguns, set up shop outside. Ryker wouldn’t call it being imprisoned exactly, but it wasn’t far off. Ryker believed he could take them on, if he had to, but for now he decided to comply and remain inside.
Ryker certainly wouldn’t call the room they gave him luxury, but compared to what he’d become used to at Santa Martha it could well have been the Ritz. There was an actual bed with an actual mattress, covers, and a pillow. There was an en-suite bathroom with fresh running water and soap and shampoo. Ryker spent nearly an hour in the bath that evening, just enjoying the feeling of the warm water soothing his muscles that were tired and stiff, even though they’d gone largely unused recently – save for the odd brawl and motorcycle chase here and there.
The knife wounds Ryker had taken to the arm and back were sealed up, the stitches dissolved, though the area around the wounds remained swollen and tender and the scars were fresh and stark against the dulled look of Ryker’s many older blemishes. His body was still covered in remnants of bruises – blacks, purples, yellows – plus scrapes and grazes to his knees and elbows from falling off the moped. His face didn’t look too bad now though. The cut above his eye – stitches just about gone – was the only obvious defect remaining. Altogether, his body was something of a patchwork quilt of injuries and scars, but he’d heal.
After bathing, Ryker dressed in the clothes Powell had provided at the prison and he moved over to the window. There was no air con in the hotel – it wasn’t that plush – and even with the overhead fan whirring around at full speed, the air inside felt thick and claggy. Ryker opened the creaky, paint peeling window and the noises from the bustling street two storeys below – cars, vans, mopeds, horns – was suddenly amplified. He took a breath of the fume-filled air from outside. Hardly fresh, but far better than smelling other people’s vomit and sweat, piss and faeces twenty-four hours a day like at the prison.
Ryker looked around the room. He moved over to the phone on the bedside table, a touch phone that was probably as old as he was. He picked up the receiver. No dial tone. Not a surprise. Why would Powell give Ryker access to the outside world? And who would Ryker call anyway?
He could call Peter Winter at the JIA and ask for his help. Ryker dismissed that thought. He was out of prison now and he wasn’t sure making himself indebted to the JIA was the savvy thing to do. He was already indebted to Powell and just look at where that relationship was headed.
Plus, he couldn’t talk to Winter in private. Ryker had spotted the tiny camera hidden in what looked like a sprinkler on the bedroom ceiling. Powell was certainly intent on keeping a careful eye on Ryker.
With little else to do, other than sleep and watch Mexican programmes on the crackly portable TV, Ryker set about scouring the material that Powell had provided to Ryker on a thumb drive. Ryker plugged the drive into the laptop Powell had left – no internet connection.
Minutes later, he was busy scanning the documents inside which supposedly told the tale of the arms dealing taking place between Congressman Ashford, Colonel Lincoln of the US Army, and Comisario Vasquez of the Mexican Policía Federal.
There was plenty to see: biographies of the key parties, their families and associates, photos of clandestine meetings, authorised shipping lists for the transportation of legitimate goods (largely electronics), lists of the actual illegitimate goods those shipments were believed to have contained, bank statements, money transfer receipts, corporate documents for the many shell companies used to try to hide the transactions and their nature.
It all looked cut and dried. Too cut and dried.
Ryker had no knowledge of who had pulled this information together or how, and he had no way of verifying the data. It wasn’t exactly hard to doctor photocopies and any old fool could produce a spreadsheet that randomly listed out a load of weapons. What Ryker was looking at was not conclusive proof of a secret arms smuggling ring. Really it wasn’t proof of anything. It certainly wasn’t strong enough evidence for Ryker to pull the trigger on all those involved, even though he’d killed with far less to back up his orders in the past.
Vasquez on the other hand? Ryker had already seen what that scumbag was capable of. He had what was coming to him. But the others... if Ryker was going to see this job through, he’d need more.
There was a knock on the door and Ryker looked at the clock on the laptop screen. One minute past seven. One minute later than when Powell said he’d return. Presumably it was Powell at the other side, but Ryker wasn’t exactly a trusting sort of a guy.
He got up from the chair and moved toward the bed, out of the firing line of the bedroom door.
‘Who is it?’ he shouted in Spanish.
‘Who do you think?’ Powell shouted back.
Ryker moved from the bed and glanced out of the window. No sign of threats – the police or any hit squads – down below. He went to the door, and stood to the side as he cautiously reached out and opened it. Powell was there, on his own.
‘Burritos,’ he said, holding up two silver foil-wrapped rolls. ‘Nothing like putting differences aside over hot sauce and chargrilled meat wrapped in a tortilla.’
‘You forgot the beer.’
Powell indicated down by his side. A plastic bag was on the floor with six bottles in it. Ryker smiled and grabbed it.
Five minutes later, Ryker had finished his food and was drinking his second beer as he sat waiting for Powell to get back on track.
‘You looked at what I left for you?’ Powell asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘And?’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Pretty compelling, isn’t it.’
‘Depends for what purpose. A lot of circumstantial crap in there. Certainly not compelling enough to secure criminal convictions. Which may explain your presence, and mine.’
‘You want a piece of shit like Vasquez to go to jail?’
‘Better than him running free.’
‘But not better than him having a hole in his head and being buried six feet under.’
Ryker said nothing, though he did agree. Some people were beyond saving. As far as Ryker was concerned, such people deserved straight-forward punishment, not rehabilitation. He wanted to believe Vasquez fell into that camp, but that belief was motivated almost entirely by selfish reasons so far.
‘I’m sensing some doubt,’ Powell said.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You want to believe these are bad guys, don’t you? Because that’s the only way you can trust me. If these guys aren’t bad, then what does that make me?’
‘That’s a good question.’
‘So I need to convince you somehow. But you’re not the type of man to believe me just from looking through a few photos, invoices, and bank statements.’
Ryker didn't respond, though Powell was pretty much spot on.
‘That’s fine,’ Powell said. ‘I’ve been here in Mexico for two years, living and breathing this cartel shit every day. I’ve been on this arms smuggling operation for nearly six months now. We’re playing a long game here. I’m not asking you to go in there right now and take out every last one of them. We’ve got time on our side.’
‘How much time?’
‘Enough to fully convince you.’
‘I’m still not sure why I’m the guy you need. Why me? What do I have to do with any of this?’
‘Good question. And I wish I could give you a full and honest answer. But I can’t. You know how it is, Ryker. There are a lot of moving parts that brought me into this world. I
can’t give you any more than you need to know. For my own sake, and for the sake of the people I work for.’
While it wasn’t an answer that filled Ryker with much confidence, he could at least understand Powell’s point. It was the same way the JIA operated. Virtually every agent, every operation, was run with siloed mentality. That was the only way for an underground agency to perform effectively. Everything was about plausible deniability – not just for the agency as a whole but for every single person who worked for it.
‘All I’ll say is this,’ Powell carried on when he’d chewed through a mouthful of burrito. ‘You’re the right guy for this job. You’ve got the skills, and you’re far enough removed.’
‘Far enough removed? You want me to go after Vasquez and his gang. That’s not far removed. The guy had me set up for murder. Or have you forgotten that?’
‘It’s far removed from my operation still. It gives you good cover for wanting to kill him, and that only further distances you from me. Plus, what I really mean is, you’re removed from the US side of this mess. That’s the real catch here. A corrupt Congressman. A bent army Colonel. When we go after them it’s going to cause one hell of a shit storm. Getting to Vasquez is just the starter here.’
Everything Powell said made sense, yet Ryker still felt suspicious, and he wouldn’t trust Powell not to make Ryker the fall guy somewhere down the line. Ryker had to be prepared for that, but he had to stick with this for one reason. No, two: Vasquez, and Lisa.
Sure, Ryker could attack Powell again, he could hold him captive, torture him for the information he claimed he knew on Lisa’s disappearance, but Ryker wasn’t at that level of desperation, and he didn’t believe Powell deserved that treatment. Yet.
‘I can sense you’re still not convinced about this,’ Powell said.
Ryker looked away, out of the window.
‘Lincoln and Ashford have both been corrupt for a long time, but both are more powerful now than they’ve ever been, and their power is about to grow further. Ashford is a Congressman. He’s supposed to be there to support his people. Lincoln is a Colonel in the army. He’s supposed to be there to protect his people. They both need to be stopped.’
‘What do you mean their power’s about to grow?’
‘Camp Joseph is expanding. Wanna guess why?’ Powell swigged his beer and Ryker said nothing, assuming the question was rhetorical. ‘Lincoln’s been doing such a great job, and the US is bringing in more and more spoils, so they’re gonna expand Camp Joseph. Send more goods that way. That means more weapons making it down to the cartels here. And that’s not good for anyone.’
‘Except for Ashford and Lincoln and Vasquez and the cartels.’
Powell huffed. ‘Perhaps this will help to convince you.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out another thumb drive, identical in appearance to the one Ryker already had plugged into the laptop.
‘What is it?’
‘Take a look.’
Ryker stood up and took the drive from Powell. He moved to the computer and switched out the one that was hanging from its side, then he clicked through menus until he’d opened the single folder on the device. Inside was just one file, a video.
Ryker looked over to Powell who nodded. Ryker double-clicked on the icon and a video screen opened up. The file played. The image was grainy and jumpy and dark, the sound muffled, but there was no doubt who the man in shot was. Vasquez. After talking for a few seconds, Vasquez reached around the camera – maybe a laptop webcam, judging by the quality of the picture – and shifted the view to show two men and a woman tied to chairs.
‘US citizens,’ Powell said, over Ryker’s shoulder. ‘Contractors. Part of Colonel Lincoln’s set-up.’
Onto the screen came a squat masked man, a blaring chainsaw in his hands. Ryker already felt sick; he knew what was coming. Yet he felt compelled to watch. He had to see. He had to know for sure.
All of a sudden, the muffled noises in the video turned to sharp and ear-piercing screams. Ryker winced and he finally shut his eyes, but there was nothing he could do to stop the images burning into his mind, or to stop the sounds – those agonising cries and the desperate last calls for help – that were still coming. Ryker forced himself to look one more time, but he lasted barely two seconds. He wasn’t squeamish but he didn’t need to watch that.
Moments later, everything went quiet. Ryker turned to Powell.
‘Talk to me,’ Ryker said, he was almost shaking with anger and revulsion.
‘Those people were part of the crew that helped deliver a shipment to Vasquez. But Vasquez wasn’t happy. This was his message back to the American, showing him who’s in charge. We don’t yet know how Ashford and Lincoln will respond. It could start a war between the two sides.’
‘Is that good or bad? For you, I mean.’
‘A war may help to eliminate some of these assholes, but nobody wants to see more videos like that.’
‘You said those three were Americans?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it hasn’t come out in the open, back in the US, that they were killed like that?’
‘No. I know what you’re thinking. Three US citizens brutally murdered on film. It’s a story that would play out all over the world. But not this time.’
‘Why? How?’
‘Because they were dirty. I’m not saying they deserved to die like that, or that they deserved to die at all, but they weren’t squeaky clean. Vasquez killed them to make a statement to the American, not to make the CNN headline news. The American – we believe it’s Ashford – together with Lincoln, they’ve found some way to cover up the deaths. I don’t know what or how. You’re one of the few people on this planet who knows the truth.’
‘Why did you show me?’
‘Why? Because I felt you needed some help to get you over the line here. And because it’s relevant. If you ever had any doubt as to what Vasquez and the cartels he supports are capable of, hopefully those doubts are gone now. He’s an animal, pure and simple. He needs to be stopped.’
‘The man who did it, who is he?’ Ryker asked through gritted teeth.
‘Hector Sanchez.’
Ryker recognised the name from the information he’d already waded through. One of Vasquez’s henchmen.
Ryker squeezed his fists together, an attempt to channel his anger that rarely worked but was at least worth a try.
‘Now that you’re properly on board, let’s talk logistics.’
‘Go on,’ Ryker said, with little hesitation.
‘There’s a shipment coming tomorrow night. They always take the goods to the same place – a remote warehouse about an hour’s drive from here. Vasquez and Hector will be there. It’ll be as good an opportunity as any to take those two out, under cover and out of sight. With them gone, we should at least stop business for a while allowing us to properly target the Americans.’
‘Tomorrow. I thought you said this was a long game?’
‘It is. I also said Vasquez is just the start.’ Powell paused as though he was expecting Ryker to say something. ‘You’re on board for this, Ryker, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Ryker said, those grisly and harrowing images from the video flickering in his mind. Vasquez, Hector too, deserved everything they were about to get.
34
New Orleans, Louisiana
Douglas Ashford loved being a Congressman. Or at least, he was increasingly realising, he loved the idea of being a Congressman. He relished the power and authority it gave him. He delighted in the recognition he got walking down the streets, and the applause, admiration, and dedication he received when addressing a room packed full of his supporters.
Put simply, Ashford was an egomaniac, but at least he knew and accepted that. He definitely didn’t love all of his Congressional duties though. Worst of all was having to always try to please everyone. He’d just spent the last two hours speaking about gun crime at a hastily arranged press conference. It was nothing more than pure shitty luck
that forty-eight hours earlier three black men had been shot dead in the heart of New Orleans by a crazy white man claiming to be a messenger from God.
The press and even the police had labelled the attack a terrorist incident. It was yet another of many either racially or religiously motivated shootings that had occurred in the US over a short period. Each incident heightened tension between communities, and led to further angry debate about racism, policing, religion and the Second Amendment. In the melting pot that was New Orleans, Ashford could almost sense that something was about to give. Riots had already broken out in numerous US towns and cities in recent years, and he would put money on New Orleans suffering the same sooner rather than later.
Ashford’s official stance was simply that everyone should remain calm, but in the charged atmosphere that existed in the city and around, that was nigh on impossible. Ashford felt himself being pulled this way and that as every side in the complex saga vied for his opinions and advice, only for half to then laud him and half berate him whenever he tried to speak his mind.
Feeling beaten up, Ashford made his way out of the hotel lobby, through the revolving doors, and out into the thick, humid city air. Dark clouds filled the sky and it looked like a thunderstorm was only minutes away.
With Carter by his side, Ashford made a beeline for his car, doing his best to offer pleasant apologies to the many people baying for his attention – press and members of the public alike. He just wanted to get out of there.
Nonetheless, Ashford found himself centring in on one man in particular as he hurried along. The man was shouting out Ashford’s name, trying to get his attention. He was middle-aged, with wispy hair and a Roman nose that dominated his otherwise-rounded face, and he was wearing a loose-fitting suit, plain shirt and tie, and scuffed brown leather shoes. Despite his loud calls, he looked pretty unremarkable all told, just another face among many others who wanted another minute with the Congressman. Yet this man had Ashford’s attention because of the small wallet he was brandishing in the air as he spoke.