Stealth Attack

by John Gilstrap

  “It’s very hard.”

  “Of course it is. But you have to suck it up. We’ve got a job to do here, and you’re an important part of it. Once I figure out how we’re going to get into Sinaloa with all the shit we’ve got to bring, you’re going to be a very important part of it.”

  “Whatever you need, of course.”

  “Of course. Now, what do we know about the guy in Alvarez’s window?”

  The question seemed to startle her. Jonathan figured her head was in a different place. “Oh, him. Give me a second.” He could hear the clack of her keys and the click of her mouse as she worked her magic on the other end. “Okay, this is interesting. The man’s name is Ernesto Guzman. He’s a small-time thug but has a long arrest record. And as you’ve probably already guessed, he has ties to the Cortez Cartel in Mexico.”

  “No surprise there, I suppose.”

  “It’s worse than you think,” Venice said. She relayed what she and Gail had learned about Patrick Kelly.

  “So, all roads lead to the cartels,” Jonathan said.

  “Is it possible that Roman wasn’t their target at all?” He heard the lilt of hope in her voice.

  “At this point, I think anything is possible.”

  “Would that be good news or bad news?”

  Jonathan took his time answering. He understood that she was terrified and that she needed him to say something reassuring, but he also understood that none of what was happening could be seen as good news. Hope was one thing—everybody needed to have hope—but false expectations were dangerous.

  “I don’t know how to answer that, Ven. Let’s focus on the best news of all—bringing Roman back home to you and Mama.”

  “Don’t let me down, Digger.”

  Jonathan pivoted the topic to something else. “What’s the next step on Patrick Kelly? We need to trace that to ground.”

  “Gunslinger is on her way over to talk with him.”

  “How long ago did she leave?”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes.”

  The fact that Patrick Kelly hadn’t reached out to the El Paso police bothered Jonathan. He didn’t know why, exactly, but it was an inconsistency, and inconsistencies in cases like this were always problematic. People under stress acted in predictable ways, at least within certain bounds. Some panicked, some didn’t. Some cried, some went quiet, and he’d even seen a few be overcome with inappropriate laughter. But the one thing that frightened parents always did when their kid was taken was reach out to the cops.

  He shared that concern with Venice.

  “That’s really odd,” she said.

  “Remember the first rule,” Jonathan said. “Everybody always acts in their best interests. At least, their perceived best interests. There’s a reason why Kelly didn’t call. Please reach out to Slinger and bring her up to speed.”

  * * *

  “It’s about more than just money now,” Monroe said. “I’m afraid Señor Pérez has one more task for you to perform.”

  “Señor Pérez needs to make a deposit to my bank account. I’m on the hook for a million dollars.”

  “And a daughter, I’m afraid.” The way Monroe uttered the words made Patrick feel cold.

  “Has he harmed her?”

  “I’m afraid I do not know her status,” Monroe said. “And she is with Cristos Silva, not with Pérez. I have no reason to suspect that she’s been harmed, but you know how . . . unstable those people can be. You know about his friend Guzman, of course.”

  Patrick closed his eyes. This couldn’t be happening. Cristos Silva had been Pérez’s right hand along the border for quite some time. As capable of violence as most of the cartel animals, Silva was nonetheless a reasonable man. A businessman. He saw situations and opportunities for what they were, and not every problem needed to be solved through bloodshed.

  But Ernesto Guzman was the opposite of all of that. He was a true sociopath, a true torturer. When rivals needed to be brutalized and returned to their families literally in pieces, Guzman was the one to turn to. He especially liked to break bones with hammers. Those whom he allowed to live often wished that he had not. When certain important daily functions are no longer possible, many would say that life is no longer worth living.

  Guzman was a killer without conscience.

  Fear and anger welled up like a toxic bubble in Patrick’s gut. “I swear to God, if a single hair on my daughter’s head—”

  “What, Patrick?” Monroe taunted. For the first time, his smile seemed genuine. “What are you going to do? Are going to invade Mexico? Are you going to swoop in and rescue your daughter from people who have made kidnapping and murder a profit center for decades? Pray, tell me how you will do any of those things.”

  “Then I will kill you.”

  The smile morphed to a laugh. “No, you won’t. I am the remaining lifeline to Ciara. If I so much as get a cold—if I forget to call Señor Silva and relay the results of our conversation here—trust me, Ciara will learn many new life experiences.”

  All of it was too much for Patrick. He had done everything they’d asked of him. He’d fronted the money, he’d said nothing when he knew that they’d taken Ciara as collateral, but he also knew that they knew that those steps were unnecessary. Now, everything had changed, and for the first time, he found himself on the wrong side of Silva’s sociopathy.

  “What of my money?” Patrick pressed. “When the authorities find out that Fernando is gone, I’ll lose everything.”

  “Then you’ll need to work quickly to earn it back,” Monroe said.

  “Earn it back! It’s my money!”

  “Patrick. Toby. Do you want to scream, or do you want to save your daughter and your bank account?”

  Patrick wanted to scream. To lash out. To do something to hurt this man. This man and his smugness.

  “What is it?” Patrick asked.

  “One more task needs to be done before you earn back the money,” Monroe said. He pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his suit coat and scrolled through for the item he was looking for. “What does the name Angelina Garcia mean to you?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” A true statement.

  “I will send you some pictures, along with her address and other particulars.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She is a special agent with the FBI. She is the intrepid investigator who has made Fernando Pérez’s life a living hell for these past few years.”

  Patrick’s phone buzzed, and he pulled up the pictures. One was an official Bureau photo, the cliché with the famous shield in the background and the American flag off to the side. A second picture showed the same young lady—young, dark haired, could have been a lawyer more readily than a cop—playing in a park with two small children.

  “Why are you showing me these?” Patrick asked.

  “Because that is the woman you need to kill.”

  Patrick felt blood drain from his head. His vision sparkled around the edges, and he wondered if he was going to fall down.

  “Whoa, Patrick,” Monroe said. “Take a seat.” He indicated one of the chairs in place to try on shoes.

  Patrick sat. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh yes I can.”

  “But I’m not a murderer. I don’t even know how to go about killing someone.”

  “It’s not all that difficult,” Monroe said. “You walk up and you pop her. Now, getting away with it might be more of a problem.”

  “She’s an FBI agent!”

  “Then getting away and staying away may be a very big problem.” Monroe smiled again.

  “Why?”

  “That is a not a wise question to ask to Santiago Pérez. But I imagine it’s to deliver a message. Our federal agencies like to think that they are above retribution for the things they do. They sometimes need to be educated otherwise. That would be my guess.”

  “Then why doesn’t he hire an assassin?”

  “He doesn’t need to,” Monroe said. “He has you. Be
sides, assassins only work for money. You work for passion. For love. For Ciara.”

  Patrick’s mind raced, but it produced nothing. No way out, no real comprehension.

  “It would be good for you to work quickly,” Monroe continued. “Señor Silva asked me to inform you that while young Ciara is safe and unmolested for now, he cannot guarantee her condition indefinitely.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “How long do you want your pretty young daughter to be in the custody of Cristos Silva and his friend Guzman?”

  Patrick’s head felt full. Physically full, as if filled with cotton. Or concrete. This was all too much. “Don’t look so devastated,” Monroe said. “If you can pull it off—you know, just a walk-up and shoot—you’ve got a great chance of getting away with it. No one will suspect you because there is no real connection between you and Agent Garcia. Don’t check out any library books on her, don’t ask the neighbors any questions, and for God’s sake, don’t drive your own car. Wear a hoodie. If you’ve got one with the logo for a team you hate, so much the better.”

  “But you will know,” Patrick said. It was weakness to show fear, but he saw no other way. “And through Silva, Pérez will know. He will own me forever. So can all of you.”

  “I assure you I have no interest in owning you. I have no interest in being involved in any of this. You are involved because of circumstance, but after this meeting and my report to Señor Silva, I am out of here.”

  “How do I do this, Billy?” There it was, the totality of his hopelessness.

  “You’ve got a lot of information in what I sent you about her. Someone has done their research. You’ve got her address, and you’ve got her schedule. You’ve got where she drops her kids off before and after school, and you’ve got as much as Pérez knows about the kids themselves.”

  “Who did all this research? And why?”

  “Way above my pay grade. I have no idea, and I don’t want to know. My guess? They had a backup plan in case you screwed up on the business with the bail bond.”

  There had to be a way out of this. There had to be. If only he had time to think, he’d find it.

  While Ciara suffered at the hands of Ernesto Guzman.

  “That’s all I have for you,” Monroe said. He rose from his seat. “I know it’s a lot, and for what it’s worth, I think they’re handing you a shitty deal. Good luck with it.”

  Patrick sat in his seat, unmoving, until he heard Monroe pull the door open. Then he spun around. “Hey, Billy, one more thing. If I do this thing—no, when I do this thing—you be sure to tell Cristos Silva that I’m definitely going to do this thing—do you think they’ll really let Ciara go? Will they really put the money into my account?”

  Monroe gave him a look that seemed genuinely sympathetic, but he didn’t say anything before he disappeared back into the mall.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Why were you so mean to him?” Ciara asked in unaccented Spanish. “Roman is a nice boy. Why can’t he be in here with me?” She sat comfortably on a sofa in the main salon of Silva’s hacienda. She hadn’t seen Roman since they were placed in separate compartments on the airplane.

  Silva sat nearby at his computer, editing the video he had just shot. “He is lucky that he is alive.” Guzman had been stupid enough to walk into the frame once, and that had to be cut. He also needed to edit the sound in a couple of places where Silva himself could be heard giving directions from behind the camera.

  “But he didn’t do anything to hurt you,” Ciara said.

  Her voice had a grating, whiny edge to it that caused Silva to grind his teeth. “My business is not your business, young lady.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “I am sure you do.”

  “Where is my father? You told me last night in the plane that he would be here.”

  Silva clicked the icon to render the video to make it easier to play back. Perhaps if he didn’t answer the bitch, she would stop talking altogether.

  “Did he really ask you to come and get me?”

  You know that he did not, he thought. She hadn’t believed it when he’d first told her that—he could see it in her eyes. But when people are frightened, they choose to believe the unbelievable. Knowing that there is a lie is often more comforting than knowing the reality of the truth.

  “I asked you a question!” Ciara snapped.

  That was it. The step too far.

  Silva spun his padded desk chair away from the table he used to support his computer and addressed Ciara face-to-face. “Who do you think you are speaking to?” he asked.

  He saw the fear return, and he suppressed a smile. He disliked children in general, and he hated those with disrespectful mouths. It was easy to hate every American child. Every American, for that matter.

  “Don’t just look at me, Ciara,” he said, rolling his chair closer. “I asked you a question, and I expect an answer.”

  Confusion joined the look of fear in her face. “Who do I think you are? I think you are you. Uncle Cristos.”

  He allowed his smile to bloom. “And you know that that is a fiction, do you not? If you have an Uncle Cristos, I am not he. I am your father’s employer.”

  “Yes, I know, but he told me—”

  “He lied to you. I am not a close family friend. I am not even a friend. He does work for me and I pay him.”

  “But that time at the lake house—”

  “That was business.” Several years ago, Patrick Kelly’d needed to learn the lesson that he was never out of Silva’s sight. Not really. He’d needed to know that even while on vacation, Silva could reach out and touch him. Patrick had concocted a story about them being old friends and had marveled at the coincidence of them running into each other at Deep Creek Lake. Kelly’d done a fine job of pretending to be happy as he invited Silva to stay in the cabin with the family.

  “Do you want to know a secret?” Silva asked.

  Ciara shook her head. The fear was beginning to overwhelm her now. He liked that. Frightened children were compliant children, and he needed her to stay alive and healthy until she’d served his purposes. Once that was done, he’d have choices.

  “I watched you while you were sleeping in the cabin,” he said. “You’re very pretty when you sleep.”

  There it was, the flash of terror he’d been looking for. She curled her legs up and hugged herself. “W–why am I here?”

  “That is business, too,” Silva said. “You are here to help me convince your father to perform a task that perhaps he would otherwise not want to do.”

  “What kind of task?”

  “Again, my business is not your concern.”

  “I want to go home.” Ciara stood. “You can’t keep me here.”

  Silva kicked out with his feet to roll his chair to block her path. “I assure you that I can,” he said. “More importantly, I assure you that I will.”

  Ciara’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, please,” Silva said with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Weep if you must, but understand that I do not and will not care.” He gave her a few seconds to absorb the words. “Now, please sit back down.”

  “Can’t you just take me back?”

  “That would not be fair to your friend, would it? After all, you are the reason why he is here in the first place.” Another pause. “I will not ask nicely again for you to sit back in the sofa.”

  Ciara remained standing, not taking her eyes off of Silva.

  And he would not be the first to break eye contact. Let her understand that he had complete control over her and everything she might do.

  Finally, Ciara folded her legs and lowered herself back into the seat cushion, where she drew her legs up again and lowered her face into her hands.

  How stupid was this girl? Silva wondered. How could it just now be occurring to her that she was in peril? Did she think that she had special status over Mr. Roman Alexander? Perhaps, since they had met each other in the past, but these
dramatics seemed so . . . belated.

  A courtesy knock at the front door pulled his attention away from the girl. Guzman entered and walked across the room to the high-top bar that dominated the center of Silva’s main room. He placed his sledgehammer on the granite top, its handle pointing to the stamped copper ceiling.

  “Is our house guest settled in?” Silva asked.

  “Yes. And so you know, when I rechained him, I gave him some bales of hay that he can lean against. I can take them away if you want him to remain uncomfortable.”

  “No, that is fine. He performed well for us. He has earned a little comfort.”

  “Have you heard back from his people?”

  “I have not yet sent them the video. I will do that soon.” Silva heel-walked his chair back to his computer. “Unfortunately, Miss Ciara Kelly over there has been asking the wrong kinds of questions. I believe she has become a flight risk.”

  In his peripheral vision, he saw her head snap up from her hands. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Please don’t hurt her,” Silva said in a mocking tone. “But do escort her to her bedroom and chain her to the bed.”

  Ciara gasped. “No! Please.”

  Guzman approached her, his hands out, and she clamored across the cushion to get away from him.

  “Ciara!” Silva boomed. “Stop!”

  He rose from his chair and approached her. He stared down at her, his fists on his hips. “If you wish to be treated in the same manner as your boyfriend in the barn, we can accommodate that. I do not wish for it to be so, but I will do what I must. It is up to you. Walk with my friend Guzman on healthy legs or be dragged by broken ones. Which is your choice?”

  * * *

  Gail Bonneville thought Patrick Kelly’s house was nice, but nothing special. Nestled among other homes that looked more or less identical to his, the Kelly residence looked less cared for. Other lawns were greener, other flower beds better trimmed.

  She drove a different pool car today. They’d already changed out the license plates on last night’s vehicle, and by the day after tomorrow, it would be a whole new color and on its way to the car auction. The biggest mistake criminals made when they were breaking the law is that they kept with a pattern. That very pattern was the one that detectives were trained to recognize and follow.