Vigilante Dead

by DV Berkom

  Years ago, an old man in Mexico had told me bad spirits surrounded me, that I wouldn’t be rid of them until I had lost everything.

  He’d been wrong.

  I’d lost everything many times over. No matter where I went or what I did, bad luck followed me. And God help anyone who was a friend of mine.

  A soggy blanket of depression enveloped me, dampening my already low spirits. I turned away from what was once going to be a bright, shiny future and started the Jeep.

  What the hell was I doing? My life stood for nothing. I stood for nothing. I was a waste of space. A living, breathing bag of flesh and bones. That was it.

  Screw that.

  Pushing away feelings of self-pity and hopelessness, I pulled away from the curb and into traffic. My confidence grew as I planned my next steps. I was going to make a difference.

  And I was going to start with Chacon.

  Nineteen

  MY CALLS TO Ernesto, the owner of a hotel in the Yucatán who could usually find Quinn, went nowhere. The woman who answered the phone at the Hotel Maya didn’t sound familiar. Like the manager before her, she displayed the same fierce protectiveness of Ernesto.

  Time was running out. I didn’t have the luxury of traipsing down to Mexico to try to find Quinn and his group of commandoes. That could take days, possibly weeks. Quinn wasn’t one to stay in the same place for long. Depending on which cartel he was targeting, he’d break camp every few weeks or so. His life’s work of eradicating the ranking members of powerful Mexican drug cartels took him and his recruits into some seriously gnarly situations, which I knew from first-hand experience. If it hadn’t been for Quinn, I never would have broken free of Salazar’s or Anaya’s murderous grip.

  I poured myself a third glass of wine and checked my watch. It was past midnight. Sam was pulling all-night surveillance for a new client who wanted proof his wife was having an affair with his business partner. Neither Sam nor I enjoyed taking those types of cases, but they were the bread and butter of a private investigation agency and every once in a while it had to be done. I was glad it was Sam’s turn.

  The wine was doing a fine job of helping me forget how my little sister’s life had shifted forever and how frustrated I was waiting for the DEA to bring the perpetrators to justice. Again, I’d asked Sam to teach me lethal combat, knowing that he wouldn’t. Which led to my attempt to contact Quinn. I knew if I asked, he’d agree to teach me what I needed and not only because I’d pay. When I left Mexico two years before, he’d offered to help anytime, anywhere.

  Since that hadn’t worked, I had to think of a plan B.

  Who did I know that would train me to kill? The idea sounded ludicrous. Even though I’d shot three men, in my heart I wasn’t a murderer. Far from it. But if I wanted to go after criminals like Chacon, I needed them to be afraid of me.

  And I needed to be able to kill them if I had to.

  I got onto my laptop and surfed the dark web using encrypted technology to hide my identity. Soon, I veered down the rabbit hole that led me to a place where a girl could get herself into some pretty serious trouble if she didn’t know what she was doing.

  Good thing I knew what I was doing.

  With a few clicks I accessed a message board that Sam and I had stumbled across in a previous case. We’d been trying to prove a client’s change of heart in contracting a hit on her husband, and had left a message hoping to get in touch with the alleged contract killer. She’d filed for divorce, but the husband had balked at signing the papers. It turned out that the wife had, in fact, contacted a hit man through the message board but changed her mind before any money exchanged hands. The assassin corroborated her story, and we were able to convince the husband not to press charges. Immediately afterward, the husband signed the divorce papers.

  The hit man had been congenial and quite helpful, and claimed that he was available for a consult, should we ever need his expertise in solving a case in the future. He’d served in the military, claiming to have been a member of an elite black ops force, and had decided to continue to work as the killer he’d been trained to be.

  The wine was doing its thing by erasing any semblance of caution a normal person might have. So, using the fake name I’d given when we interviewed him, I posted a request for the hit man to contact me regarding a case ASAP.

  I was having a hard time staying awake, so I turned off the laptop and went upstairs to bed, not giving another thought to my late-night request.

  The next morning I eased out of bed, trying not to wake Sam. He’d come home a few hours earlier, obviously exhausted, stripped off his clothes, and fell into a deep sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. I padded along the hallway and down the stairs to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. As I passed the office, I paused, remembering the message I’d posted the night before.

  My brain still fuzzy from the wine and barely awake, a jolt of fear kicked me into overdrive.

  I had to delete the message before anyone took it seriously.

  Why on earth did I think getting in contact with a hit man was a good idea? I hurried to my laptop, brought up the encryption app, and clicked over to the message board to find my request. There were four replies.

  I took a deep breath and opened the first one.

  My name Bob. I help. Where we to meet?

  Obviously it wasn’t the man I was looking for. He’d used the name Ron and could write in complete sentences. I opened the second and third replies. One was an advertisement for a male enhancement remedy, and the other was a rant from some sociopath incensed about the United States government who was trying to drum up subscribers for his hate-filled vlog.

  Relieved that no one seriously considered my impulsive request, I clicked on the last reply.

  Ron is currently indisposed, but I may be able to help you with your case. Depending on your requirements, my fees are considered reasonable. Results oriented, with nearly 20 years in the business and a close rate of 99%, I am one of the best in the field.

  The respondent listed a contact email, and signed off with the name Lucy.

  I sat back in the chair, pondering her reply. A female assassin? The way her message read, she was a businesswoman with a penchant for killing.

  Stop it, Kate. Are you seriously considering working with a complete stranger? Even I thought I was nuts. With a shake of my head, I deleted both my request and Lucy’s message and shut down the laptop.

  That was the stupidest idea you’ve ever had.

  I hated when I was right.

  That still left me with the problem of what I could do to stop Chacon from releasing his little pills of death onto the street. What I really wanted to do was find out who his supplier was. That way, I might be able to figure out how to stop the drugs at their source. A normal criminal would worry that he was killing his customers, but if Chacon was linked to a Mexican drug cartel, normal didn’t enter into it. The way they figured, their customers wouldn’t dry up anytime soon—there were always more where they came from. Especially in the US.

  No, it was mainly the little guy who wanted to hook his or her customer and keep them coming back for more. There was so much money changing hands in the illegal drug trade, the big players never concerned themselves with small-time hustler priorities. And it was the big distributor’s call which drug the street hustlers got to sell.

  Chance had gotten the DEA to assign another case manager to me, but it was obvious that the contact was only there to keep an eye on me when I became impatient at how long things were taking. The Whitmores had all but given up on Akiaq Investigations, and it bothered me that we couldn’t do more for them. I couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for them to know that their son was just another number in the DEA’s investigation. Sam took it all in stride. Having been in law enforcement, acceptance of the time it took to close a case as well as dealing with the inevitable restraints of a federal investigation was easier for him. He knew what it took to build a case that would hold up in court
.

  I’d never been accused of being patient.

  There had to be some way I could help bring closure to the Whitmores in the death of their son and do something to avenge Lisa’s overdose by finding out where the deadly painkillers were coming from.

  Restless, I poured myself a cup of coffee and went into the den. I grabbed the remote, turned the television on, and clicked through to one of the 24-hour news sites.

  CNN was running a story about a recent murder in downtown Portland, Oregon. The reporter used the word “peaceful” when referring to the state of the victim, and “clean” when describing the method of murder. Indeed, when the camera panned over the crime scene, all that was visible was the deceased sitting on a bench with his eyes closed and his hands folded neatly in his lap. There was no blood, no signs of struggle. In effect, “clean.”

  Cycling through a few more stations, I was about halfway finished with my coffee when a red banner with the words “Breaking News” scrolled across the bottom of the screen. I turned up the sound as the news anchor reported fourteen confirmed overdoses in Seattle in the previous twelve hours. Most, if not all, were thought to be the result of painkillers laced with contaminated fentanyl. Three of the victims had died, with two others in critical condition. Heart skipping, I leaned forward in my chair.

  Three more people died because I haven’t done anything.

  Anger burned in my chest at the thought of Chacon enriching himself by selling deadly drugs to unsuspecting addicts—many of whom became dependent because their doctors overprescribed opioids when something far less addictive would have done the job.

  I couldn’t blame the DEA for not arresting Chacon. There was no proof that he’d been involved. My testimony wasn’t enough to put him behind bars. Although Chacon was laying low as a result of the botched raid on his home, my DEA contact assured me that they were watching his network, waiting for him to make a mistake.

  Maybe I could help them out.

  Twenty

  I HAD IAN make plans to meet Momo the next afternoon for a buy similar to the one I’d done before. It was possible Chacon’s boys put the word out that they’d had a problem with a woman fitting my description, so I thought it best to use a go-between. Ian was to wait for Momo at a park a few blocks from the wine bar where he worked. Guilt about Lisa’s condition weighed heavily on his conscience, and he appeared eager to make amends.

  Half an hour before the scheduled time, I parked Sam’s new Tahoe at a strategic location, giving me a good view of the surrounding area. The Jeep would stick out among the other vehicles parked along the street, and even more so if Chacon’s thugs had circulated a description. To counteract any unwanted attention, I wore a big pair of sunglasses, a Mariners ball cap, and had tied my hair back, altering my appearance just enough to throw off suspicion.

  The day was warm and sunny—one of those glorious, blue-sky days prized by those who live in the Pacific Northwest. Happy children dressed in bright-colored clothing played on the jungle gym while their minders looked on. Ian had taken a spot on a park bench and was checking his phone. A gentle breeze floated through my open window, bringing with it the faint scent of garlic and onions from a nearby Italian restaurant. An idyllic afternoon, soon to be marred by a drug deal. Sure, it was possible the people taking advantage of the park and the lovely day wouldn’t notice the illicit activity. All the same, acid churned my stomach at the dirt bag conducting business so close to so many kids. The idea of getting enough information on Chacon so that he’d spend his days behind bars helped assuage the anger.

  The hairs along the back of my neck prickled, and I scanned the vehicles parked nearby. No one was visible, but that didn’t mean a lot. I slumped in my seat and pulled the ball cap lower on my forehead, and at the same time brought up my phone to make it look like I was checking the screen.

  Right on time, Momo pulled next to the curb, his window rolled down. Ian grabbed his messenger bag and got to his feet, then strolled over to the dark gray Acura. He reached the car and rested his forearm on the roof as he leaned down to speak to Momo.

  The buy happened in a matter of seconds. If I hadn’t been watching the transaction take place, I doubt I would have even noticed. Ian straightened and slipped something into his bag before zipping it closed. Then he backed away from the car and gave Momo a quick nod as the dealer pulled away from the curb. I waited until a couple of cars were behind the Acura and followed.

  This time, instead of the park where he had met the van before, Momo drove to an industrial area along Highway 99 and turned into a dirt lot. An old brick warehouse stood near the back. A cream-colored van and an older model Buick were parked near the entrance. Concertina wire had been installed along the top of the chain-link fence, giving the place an unfriendly vibe.

  I continued past the property for a short distance, pulled to the side of the road, and shut off the engine. Checking to make sure no one was nearby I waited for a line of cars to pass. Not seeing anyone, I took my gun out of the console, shoved it into my shoulder holster, and exited the Tahoe, making sure that the gun was somewhat concealed by the light jacket I wore.

  I walked toward the fence, searching for a weak area that I could breach without too much trouble. I’d just located a good-sized hole in the fence when the deep rumble of a car engine echoed through the air. Seconds later, a blood-red Aston Martin slid in behind the Tahoe and parked.

  The side windows were dark, and I couldn’t see who was driving. My breath shallow, and acutely aware of the press of my gun, I paused, hoping like hell that whoever got out of that sports car didn’t have anything to do with Chacon or Momo.

  My heart beat staccato in my ears as the door opened and the driver climbed out. At first I didn’t recognize her because of the oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses. When her identity finally dawned on me my breath caught, mind feverishly tumbling toward an explanation.

  That smile. Like a Cheshire Cat with a cadre of mice at her disposal. She’d changed her hair. Again. The last time I’d seen her in Mexico, it had been short and iceberg white. This time, Angie McKenna had toned things down a bit, opting for a warmer, caramel-and-tan inverted bob.

  How the hell did she find me?

  The assassin’s ensemble of black cigarette pants, cream-colored blouse, and fitted black jacket screamed East Coast chic except for her flats, which had serviceable written all over them. The gold glinting at her ears, neck, and wrists made a tasteful if overly upmarket statement. Even when she was closing in for the kill, I couldn’t help but admire her fashion sense.

  “Angie.” I stayed where I was, preferring not to get too close in case there was still a contract out on me.

  “Kate, darlin’. How are you? It’s been an age.” Angie’s southern drawl flowed over me like raw honey.

  Thick, viscous, sticky honey.

  “I’ve been all right. Thanks for asking,” I added. It seemed the thing to do. Acutely aware all that separated me from death by assassin was the streaming traffic and probable witnesses, my brain searched anxiously for reasons why she was there, but came up empty.

  Except for the unfinished business of my death.

  How did she even find me? I doubted she knew where Sam lived.

  Or did she?

  With a smirk, Angie crossed the street during a lull in the traffic and stepped onto the curb. “Oh, jus’ fine, honey. Jus’ fine.” Crossing her arms, she turned her head and studied the razor wire on top of the fence. “That looks serious. Just what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.” I shifted my stance so my body was at an angle to her, making me less of a target. “How did you find me? Or, more to the point, why? Vincent Anaya’s dead, or hadn’t you heard?”

  Angie waved the comment away and leaned against the car. “I’m not here because of Vincent, Kate. Don’t you think I would’ve killed you already?” She shrugged, looking at our surroundings. “I’d have opted for your house, though. Fewer witness
es.”

  “My house? So you followed me from the house?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, of course, darlin’. How else?”

  “How long have you known where I was living?”

  She glanced at her watch. “About two hours, give or take.”

  “Maybe I should ask how did you know?”

  “Oh, please. I’m not going to give away all my secrets.”

  “Why are you here, Angie?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one who left the message.”

  No. It couldn’t be. “You—you’re Lucy?”

  A slow grin spread across Angie’s face, and she stretched her arms wide. “At your service.”

  “But—” The whole encounter was beginning to take on a surreal quality. Having a conversation with someone who’d been hired to kill you can do that.

  “You’re wondering where Ron is?” She studied her fingernails, which had been painted a particularly obnoxious shade of green. “Let’s just say I’m not a fan of competition.”

  Well. One less hit man in the world wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  A semi roared by, the screech of its Jake brakes making conversation difficult. Angie grimaced and waited for it to pass.

  “Listen. I know a great little restaurant nearby where we can get a proper drink and something to eat. I’m famished.” She checked the elegant timepiece on her wrist, and then her eyes met mine. A faint glint of amusement sparkled in them. “It’s a tad quieter there, and public.” She emphasized the word public and smiled. “I can tell you need some convincing that I’m not here to kill you. Honestly, I’m not. No one wants you dead, hon.” She shrugged again, giving me a look that said sorry.