“And second,” I continued, “how the hell did they get here? Judging by the positioning of the body in there, whoever did this was lying in wait, caught Carlos the minute he stepped inside.”
“Agreed,” Diaz said. “No way was this a classic double cross.”
“Nor was it a body dump,” I said. “You see the spray pattern in there? This was done here.”
“And no bindings of any kind, grocery sacks in hand,” Diaz added. “He thought he was alone. There’s enough MRE’s in there to last a couple weeks. He was coming to hide for a while, nothing more.”
“So again,” I said, “how the hell did whoever did this get here? You saw the lay of the land. There’s one road, completely wide open. If a car was parked here, Carlos would have seen it. If they’d parked on the highway and hiked in, he would have seen it.”
“And to even do that would have meant miles across open desert in the afternoon sun,” Diaz added.
“While knowing exactly where they were going,” I said. “It’s not like a person would just set off on foot out here and hope to find this place. Hell, we had directions and barely made it.”
A long silhouette appeared in the stripe of light protruding from the structure. It started as a black blob, the head and shoulders visible, swaying a few inches from side to side. After a moment a pair of long dark legs extended out from the bottom, the angle of the person changing as they walked towards us.
The sound of footsteps became audible behind us, though neither of us turned around. We both knew who was approaching, the smell of his herbal concoction preceding him by at least thirty feet.
“Preliminary findings by the ME say death was by decapitation, a single slice made by a sharp metal object,” Hutch said, coming to a stop beside us, paper cup in hand, a white plastic lid atop it.
“No shit,” Diaz muttered beside me, voice so low it just barely caught my ear.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Like I said,” Hutch said, “single slice. Had to have been somebody very strong, familiar with working a blade.”
“What about angle?” I asked.
“Too early to tell,” Hutch said. “And given the place is a mess, we may never know. He could have been bent over as he entered, could have been searching for the light switch on the wall, anything. Too many variables.”
“What are you thinking?” Diaz asked, sensing my question was for a reason.
“Single swipe, with a blade?” I replied. “Somebody powerful, used to working with primitive weapons. If we could determine it was at a downward angle, get an idea on how large this guy might have been...”
I let my voice trail off, shifting my attention over to Hutch. He took a long sip on his tea, pondering in silence, before his head started to work itself up and down in a small bob. “You think maybe Pavel Haney? Or whatever the hell his name really is?”
“It’s possible,” I said. “Didn’t you say he was cut free last night?”
Again Hutch nodded, his face compressed in a bitter stare. “Had to. There was nothing to charge him with beyond misdemeanor B&E charge. Can’t hold a man forever on that.”
“They impounded his car while he was inside though, didn’t they?” I asked.
Hutch shifted his gaze over to me and nodded, realization settling over his features. “I’ll get on the horn and put out a BOLO for him.”
At that he turned on his heel and walked away, cutting a straight path towards his own sedan, parked on the outside of a small clump of crime scene vehicles arranged haphazardly around the building, sand beginning to pile up alongside their tires.
“Man that stuff smells like shit,” Diaz said, finishing off the Gatorade and swiping the back of her hand across her lips. “How did you put up with it for five years?”
I turned and glanced over at her, pointing along the bony ridge of my nose with a single finger. “Broke my nose second year on the job, lost over half my sense of smell.”
“Lucky bastard,” Diaz said, pushing herself up from the trunk of the car and turning to face me. “You ready?”
I nodded in silence, sliding past her to take my seat. Even without asking I knew where we were going, off to pull on the only thread we still had available to us until Hutch’s BOLO turned something up.
It was time to pay Manny Juarez another visit.
Chapter Thirty
The task itself was easy. Sergey had fed him the exact location where Carlos would be, giving him more than enough time to get into position. He had even arranged for a weapon and a ride out into the desert for Pavel, dropping him off at the edge of the road, giving him water to cover the two mile hike back the sandy, windswept path to the safe house.
Only two real concerns had presented themselves along the way, both disappearing with relative ease. The first was the fear that his footprints would be visible leading back to the structure, a clear line in the sand that alerted Carlos he was there. For a time Pavel had considered dragging a broom, or even a blanket, behind him to blot them out. In the end, the combined effect of the hard packed ground just beneath the surface and the persistent wind pushing in from the west swept his steps away no more than minutes after he passed.
The second worry was of actually getting inside the structure. He had been warned that the terrain was flat and void of places to hide, the ideal location for a house of its purpose. If he couldn’t make it across the threshold before Carlos arrived, the odds of him remaining unseen went down tremendously.
For a time the thought of burying himself in the ground and waiting had seemed like it might be the most plausible option, but in the end a bit of luck saved him from two hours spent in a cocoon of superheated sand.
The front door was locked, as he expected it to be. The building was made of concrete and the frame and door from thick oak, all three making any kind of forced entry too difficult to manage without being obvious. The only other routes into the building were a pair of cracked windows, their glass painted over.
After the experience in Montana, Pavel was less than enthused by the options.
To his great surprise, one of them was left unlocked.
The squeeze was tight for his oversized body, positioning his head and left shoulder through, pushing himself forward, then twisting his right one in behind it. His body spun around so it was facing out the same direction as the house. An inch at a time he shoved his body backward until his feet touched the sandy floor beneath him before reaching back outside and taking up the gift his driver had bestowed upon him.
After that it was just a matter of sitting in the darkness, taking occasional slugs of water, and waiting. He put his back against the cool concrete of the back wall, the sand outside insulating it from the sun, and reduced his body to autopilot. His eyes lowered themselves into slits, his aching joints taking in the solace of rest, preparing himself for what the night held in store.
Two hours after assuming his position, the rumbling of an engine churning over the sand crept into his ears. His eyes opened wide and his heart rate elevated back to its normal level as he rose from the floor and took a place behind the door.
Gripped in his right hand was an authentic Russian shashka, its curved blade almost two feet in length, the outer edge honed razor sharp. It balanced itself perfectly in his grip, the contoured lines of the oversized handle fitting his massive hand, the blade catching errant bits of light, flashing in the darkness.
The entire encounter, from the time Carlos pulled to a stop outside to the moment Pavel saddled up in his Jeep and drove away, took less than five minutes. The moment his victim appeared in the doorway he did what was required of him, finishing the job in a single swipe, one massive cleave that removed the head clean from the shoulders. He waited a full minute for the blood to stop spurting across the floor before collecting the trophy, careful not to step in any of the fresh bodily fluids.
In a plastic sack much like the ones Carlos had in hand upon entering, Pavel carried the head away with him, tak
ing the car keys on his way out, stopping to lock the door behind him.
Not once throughout did his heart rate spike, his breathing grow rapid, a sweat even crease his brow. There was no way Carlos could have stopped him from doing what he came to do, the element of surprise and his physical prowess just too much to be denied.
That same mirror calm demeanor now encompassed his features as he approached the mansion overlooking the Pacific. He had swapped out Carlos’s Jeep for his Avenger, the last stop he would have to make before returning it to the spot he found it, his ride back to Mexico waiting for him at a private port.
The idling engine pushed him through a pair of oversized brick structures, the wrought iron gate that usually closed the driveway between them standing open.
The owners were expecting him.
Without touching the accelerator he allowed his car to follow the winding brick path to the base of an expansive home, three wings spread out wide before him. The Mediterranean style predicated the entire place was painted dull white, hundreds of windows facing out in all directions. Lights within each one were burning bright, the home lit up like a beacon, standing on an extended bluff, the ocean right beneath it.
Pavel could hear the sound of waves smashing into rocks below as he stepped from the car, pausing behind the open door and surveying his surroundings. From where he stood he could see a pair of guards on the front porch, both wearing light colored suits over t-shirts, automatic weapons in hand. Above them two more were positioned behind windows, making sure they were seen, wearing the same ensemble.
No doubt there were at least that many scattered about the grounds, lurking just beyond his sight line.
For a moment his mind flitted back to the USP compact .9mm in the middle console of the car, but just as fast he let it pass. The act would be seen as one of antagonism, something he could ill afford at the moment. The gift he was bringing along for them was gruesome enough, there was no need to exacerbate the situation.
With a curt nod to the guards Pavel closed the door and walked towards the front door, hands in plain sight. He kept the bag a few inches away from his side, the thin handles looped across his middle and index fingers, swinging free. One at a time he climbed the three steps onto the porch and stopped, raising his hands by his side, remaining motionless as one of the guards gave him a quick pat down, careful to avoid the sack, the other standing by, gun gripped in both hands.
Content that he was clean, the guards nodded to each another, the one that had executed the search leading the way inside. The other brought up the rear of the procession, his weapon never more than a few feet from Pavel’s back.
Throughout, Pavel kept his face neutral, his breathing even. He made no sudden movements, showed no signs of disdain. Instead he forced his features to be as serene as possible, allowing the guards to take the lead, granting them the illusion of being in control the entire time.
He was there to serve a purpose, not to win a test of manhood.
The house opened before him as he was led inside, the front door leading to an open foyer. A wraparound staircase extended up both sides of it, an enormous chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Everything was outfitted in white, the myriad of lights reflecting off each surface, the entire space seeming to glow. With the exception of the handful of armed guards watching his every movement, it seemed like a scene directly out of a movie.
The guards led him straight across the foyer and through a rear door, the back wall giving way to an outdoor patio stretched most of the length of the home. Made to match the rest of the spread it was done entirely in white, extending out over twenty feet before changing to plush green turf. Less than a hundred feet away the lawn ended abruptly on the edge of the bluff, the moon reflecting off the ocean visible in the distance.
Two brass fire pits were situated on the patio, twenty feet apart, both filled with glass fire rocks, flames rising above them. Between them were two white outdoor sofas, a glass table separating them.
A man in blue linen pants and a striped Oxford shirt stood as Pavel made his way out, an oversized smile on his face. His brown hair hung in two stiff arcs from a part splitting his head down the middle, framing blue eyes. His expression revealed a gap between his two front teeth, his veneers flashing white against his bronze skin.
At first glance, Pavel sized him up as a beach bum turned entrepreneur, a child of fortune that had eschewed the family business for a chance to make fast money.
Exactly the kind of man he had encountered frequently, despised every time, since coming to North America.
“My friend, how nice of you to stop by,” the man said, extending a hand to Pavel. He accepted the shake, noting the weak grip, trying not to crush the man’s hand within his. “Wyeth Mender.”
“Pavel Haney, thank you for having me,” Pavel said, his English as usual a bit stilted, but passable. He chose to stick with the alias name just in case, not sure how much these people knew. “You have a very nice home.”
Mender released the grip and stepped back, holding his hands wide and motioning to the place. “This old place? Aw, it ain’t much, but you’ve got to live somewhere, right?”
Images of the hovels Pavel had lived in growing up, with their lack of heat, running water, beds, passed through his mind. Already he could feel his dislike for the man growing, held in check only by the half dozen guards that now loped nearby, all within easy firing distance.
“That is very true,” Pavel replied.
“Please,” Mender said, extending a hand down towards the sofa opposite him, “have a seat.”
Pavel nodded in appreciation and lowered himself down, the soft white padding cocooning around his legs and back, undoubtedly by design, meant to make movements difficult for him.
“Can I get you anything?” Mender asked, playing the perfect host. “Coffee? Water? Vodka?” He added a wink and a smile at the last one, pointing a finger in Pavel’s direction.
“No, thank you,” Pavel said, forcing his mouth to curl upward without showing any teeth.
After the previous few days he was not in the mood for pleasantries, even less so for blatantly false ones. Hoping to move things along, he swung the plastic sack up onto the glass table, letting the weight of it hit with an audible thud. Dried, congealing blood could be seen smeared along the inside of it, a few tufts of short brown hair protruding from the top.
All mirth, and color, bled from Mender’s face as he looked at the bag and up at Pavel again. He worked his mouth twice through an exaggerated motion in an attempt to conjure moisture, fear plain across his features.
“Just like that?” Mender asked.
Pavel nodded, keeping his face impassive, wanting to appear as unimposing as possible. “I am led to believe you are a very busy man, so I came here to talk business and to get out of your hair.”
Again Mender looked from the bag to Pavel and back again. “Okay?”
“My employer was told that you still have some trepidation about joining the network,” Pavel said, the story rehearsed, quoting directly from what Sergey had told him hours before. “That there was still some concern about backlash from the Juarez cartel.
“We are here to show you there is nothing to fear from the Juarez’s, nor will there be anything to fear from any competitor moving forward.”
The words felt odd in his mouth, a type of syntax he never would have chosen for himself. Still, he rattled them off as practiced before reaching out and pulling back the sides of the sack. The thin material slid down without opposition, bunching up at the base of the table, its contents obvious to all.
Around them, the guards inched forward, weapons held at the ready. Each one seemed to glance at the object before looking to Mender, waiting for some sign of how to react.
A long moment passed as Mender stared down at the head of Carlos Juarez, his mouth curled down in an open frown, his face twisted away. He seemed to look at the grisly offering through only one eye, his head twisted to the side, his mind
fighting for the proper response, his body wanting to flee.
“What...what the hell is that?” he muttered, his voice cracking, his face contorted.
“That,” Pavel replied, “is Carlos Juarez. Mateo Perez has also been taken care of, though his body is not so easy to provide proof of.”
“Mateo?” Mender mouthed, terror crossing over his features. “So, you mean he’s also...”
“Dead, yes,” Pavel said, feeling the guards inch ever closer, but forcing himself to remain still. He knew before entering that this would be the most difficult part, the moment where they would either shoot him where he sat, or be so repulsed by what they saw, so fearful of what might happen to them, that they would allow him to leave and be under Blok’s control forever.
“But I thought...witness protection?” Mender managed, prying his gaze from Carlos and looking up at Pavel.
“Mr. Mender,” Pavel explained, speaking as if a teacher talking to a child, “we have known the location of both men since the day they entered witness protection, just as we know that Manny Juarez is inmate number 546708 at the Metropolitan Correctional Center not twenty miles from here.”
“How...” Mender began, his thoughts apparent on his features, trying hard to catch up. Ten minutes before he had thought he had the upper hand, armed with his men and the home field advantage. With one simple move Pavel had turned the dynamic on him, letting it be known where the power in the meeting resided.
“The minute we took control,” Pavel said, “we began keeping tabs on them. For a long time there was no need to act against them, so we let them live in peace. Recently, both men left the program, and you started to show reservations about our arrangement.
“Needless to say we couldn’t have that, so steps were taken.”
Pavel made sure his demeanor stayed neutral, his tone non-combative. His goal in the meeting was to issue a threat without appearing threatening, to make Mender believe this was done in the best interest of business, to put him at ease over any lingering uncertainties about the new arrangement.
Krokodil Page 16