CHAPTER TWELVE
Tomás Beredo had gotten the nickname “Espantoso” when he was little more than a boy, because there were few places he could not get into and out of without ever being seen, like a ghost. Espantoso didn’t translate literally as “ghost,” but it referred to something horrible and dreadful, so many people used it that way. Beredo liked it for one simple reason.
The more people who were afraid of him, the better.
He had grown into a handsome man whose sleek good looks gave no real clue to the ruthlessness within him. Personally, he had killed seventeen men, four women, and six children. He had ordered the deaths of many more; he had no idea of the exact number. It wasn’t worth keeping up with. Over the past ten years he had risen steadily in the ranks of the cartel for which he worked, until he had reached a position of responsibility for operations in a section of the border between Texas and Mexico that stretched for more than two hundred miles. The amount of narco-trafficking in this area was impressive, but it could always be better.
Now the men Beredo worked for had sent this . . . this man Patel to him. This beast. Beredo was supposed to impress him with the efficiency of the cartel’s setup, because there was an agreement pending between the cartel and Hezbollah, the organization Gabir Patel belonged to. The Islamic terrorists had already invested heavily in the Brazilian and Colombian cocaine industries. That was the way they all thought of it these days, in business terms. Now Hezbollah was considering expanding its reach into the Mexican cartels, an alliance that could make billions of dollars for both sides. If Beredo could convince Patel that it was a good idea.
Which meant it was a bad time for all this trouble among his low-level employees.
“Tell them to wait,” Beredo snapped to the man who’d brought him the word that Nacho Montez, his idiot brother, and the gunslinger Jalisco were back. The only one Beredo had any respect for was Jalisco, who had been sent up here because he had killed too many federal officers in his hometown and his bosses there thought it would be wise to let the heat die down for a while. The Montez brothers were buffoons who were dangerous enough in a crude way, as long as they could smash their way through obstacles without having to actually think about what they were doing. But when it came to strategy . . . well, they wouldn’t be in the trouble they were in if they were any good at that.
“If you need to speak to these men, by all means go ahead,” Patel said.
Beredo shook his head.
“It can wait,” he said. “A minor matter, that’s all.”
Patel scratched at his jaw, which always seemed to sport a dark patina of beard stubble even five minutes after he’d shaved, and said, “No, go ahead. I’d like to see how you handle your subordinates.”
Beredo swallowed the anger that tried to well up his throat. Patel was infuriatingly smug, but the hombres in Mexico City wanted him kept happy, so Beredo would do his best.
He gave the guard a curt nod and said, “Bring them in.”
They were in Beredo’s new headquarters, a sprawling stucco ranch house several miles north of the border. The ranch had a number of barns and outbuildings that were good for storing drugs, as well as its own airstrip, and the house was luxuriously furnished. The increased smuggling and the attendant rise in other criminal activities had led the owner to sell it. The sale to a dummy corporation had been handled through Victor Martinez, and Beredo had moved in not long afterward. It made him feel good to know that he was operating on the Texas side of the border, right under the noses of the arrogant, idiotic Americans. If they only knew how futile their efforts to stop the smuggling really were! If they only knew how little so many of those in their own government really cared!
Patel seemed impressed with the surroundings. He and Beredo were sitting in the big living room with one wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the swimming pool, which was lit up as bright as day so the men inside had no trouble admiring the sight of half a dozen beautiful, naked young women enjoying the pool. Later, Patel would have his choice of the women, since he was not so devout in his religion as to prefer such pleasures in the afterlife. He could even have all six of them if he wanted, although Beredo had serious doubts that the man possessed enough masculine ability to satisfy even one of them. So many of those Arabs seemed to be more interested in young boys, Beredo thought.
A pair of guards carrying automatic weapons brought the three visitors into the room. Despite the fact that the Montez brothers and Jalisco worked for the cartel, they had been searched and disarmed before they were escorted in. Only Beredo’s personal guards were allowed to carry weapons anywhere near him.
Beredo leaned back in the overstuffed chair where he sat, casually cocked his right ankle on his left knee, and made them wait while he sipped from a glass of sparkling water. In deference to his Muslim guest, he wasn’t drinking tequila tonight. Finally he asked, “Has the matter been taken care of, Ignacio?”
Nacho Montez looked nervous. He licked his lips before answering, “We ran into an unexpected difficulty, señor.”
Beredo sat up straighter and frowned in displeasure.
“What sort of difficulty?” he demanded.
“Antonio was at his grandparents’ house, as we expected, but when we went there to get him, one of the neighbors interfered. We were forced to leave without Antonio.”
Beredo suppressed the impulse to throw his glass to the floor so that it shattered. Such a gesture was too melodramatic, although it would have felt good.
“One man? One man forced you to fail at your assignment?”
“He had a shotgun,” Nacho said sullenly. “We tried to kill him, but—”
Beredo silenced Nacho with a curt gesture.
“But you failed,” he said.
Jalisco said, “We have men watching the trailer park. If Antonio tries to leave, they’ll let us know.”
Beredo was aware that Patel was watching him closely. He set his glass aside and stood up. Clasping his hands behind his back, he walked closer to the three men. The big one who went by the ridiculous name Chuckie looked like he wanted to run.
“Do you have any idea who this one man who made you flee was?” Beredo asked.
Nacho didn’t answer, but Jalisco did.
“I got a good enough look at him to recognize him from the TV news. His name is Stark.”
Beredo stiffened. He knew the name, but he wanted to make sure they were talking about the same man.
“John Howard Stark?”
Jalisco nodded and said, “Sí, Señor Espantoso.”
Stark, the man responsible for the death of the legendary cartel kingpin Ernesto Diego Espinoza Ramirez, better known as the Vulture. Stark, one of the heroes of the so-called Second Battle of the Alamo. Stark, the man who only recently had defied three very, very low-level associates of the cartel and been hailed as a hero once again.
Nostrils flaring, Beredo drew in a deep breath, then smiled and said quietly, “Well. This changes everything.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“You’d better talk fast, Antonio,” Stark advised in a hard voice. “The cops will be here soon, and if you don’t tell me what’s going on here, I’ll have to turn you over to them.”
“John, you wouldn’t!” Fred exclaimed.
“I don’t like being shot at,” Stark said, keeping his voice flat. “Especially when I don’t know the reason.”
He didn’t really plan on turning Antonio over to the authorities, and he would make that clear to Fred and Aurelia later on. He had sensed, though, that the young man might be stubborn about revealing the truth, and Stark wanted to shock him out of that stance. He knew he would stand a lot better chance of being able to help if Antonio would come clean with him.
Antonio still didn’t say anything, so Stark made a guess.
“This has something to do with those heads that showed up in Dorothy Hewitt’s garden this morning, doesn’t it?” he prodded. “The men who put them there were supposed to leave them
over here as a warning to your grandparents, but they got the wrong house.”
A sigh came from Antonio. He said, “Poor Sonia.”
“That’s the girl who was killed?”
“Sonia Rodriguez. She . . . she didn’t have anything to do with the whole business. She just happened to be with her brother, Jimmy, at the wrong time.”
Stark could tell that the truth was ready to come spilling out of Antonio. It would be a relief to the young man. However, before he could ask any more questions sirens sounded outside, quickly growing louder and then stopping abruptly.
“Stay here,” Stark told the young man.
“You’re not going to turn me in?”
Instead of answering, Stark looked at Antonio’s grandparents and said, “It was just a simple attempted robbery. Some men tried to force their way in, I heard the commotion and hurried over, and we ran them off. Right, Fred?”
Fred swallowed hard and nodded.
“Right,” he said. “Thank you, John Howard.”
“Let’s go talk to the cops,” Stark said.
They left the weapons inside the house and stepped out onto the porch to meet the sheriff’s deputies who were crossing the lawn toward them with hands on their guns.
“Show ’em your hands, Fred,” Stark said quietly. He stood with his own empty hands in plain sight. After what had happened here at Shady Hills this morning, it was likely that a report of shots fired would put the deputies on edge.
“Is one of you the homeowner?” one of the deputies asked as they came to a halt about a dozen feet away.
“I am,” Fred said. “Fred Gomez.”
“Who are you, sir?” the deputy asked as he turned his attention to Stark.
“John Howard Stark. I live next door.”
“What happened here? We got a report that there was a lot of shooting.”
“Some thugs tried to break into my house,” Fred said. “They were yelling and threatening to kick down my door. Mr. Stark heard them and came over to help me. We chased them away.”
“How many were there?” the deputy asked.
“Three.”
“And they ran away from the two of you?” The deputy sounded dubious as he asked the question. He didn’t actually call them old farts, but that was the impression Stark got.
“We were armed,” Stark said. “I had a shotgun, and Mr. Gomez had a pistol. The weapons are inside if you want to examine them. I discharged two rounds, and I believe Mr. Gomez did, as well.”
“The intruders returned fire?”
“No, we did,” Stark said. “They started shooting first when they got back in their car. You can probably find some brass in the street.”
“Is it all right if Deputy Conners goes inside to look at those weapons?”
“Sure,” Fred said. “My wife is in there. Should she come out here?”
The deputy who’d been doing the talking nodded and said, “Yeah, we’ll want to ask her some questions, too.” To his companion he added, “Ted, go check out those guns.”
Fred turned and called through the open door, “Aurelia, can you come out here?”
He glanced at Stark, who understood the worry he saw in his friend’s eyes. Fred was concerned that the deputy would find Antonio hiding in there, which would cast doubt on their story. At this point, though, all they could do was hope that the deputy would just take a look at the shotgun and pistol and see that they supported the story Stark and Fred had told.
Aurelia appeared in the doorway, looking shaken and nervous. Nothing wrong with that, thought Stark. Anyone who’d just been the near victim of a home invasion would be upset. That was understandable.
Stark, Fred, and Aurelia went down the steps to talk to the first deputy while the other one went into the house. All three of them were relieved when he came back out almost immediately carrying Stark’s shotgun and Fred’s .45.
Both deputies examined the weapons for several minutes and seemed to be satisfied with what they found. They set the guns on the front porch.
Then the spokesman said, “Take me through the story again. Mrs. Gomez, why don’t you tell me your version of it?”
Aurelia handled herself well, keeping things simple and sticking to the “facts,” as Stark had laid them out quickly in Antonio’s old bedroom. The story they told the deputies was in fact true, except that they didn’t say anything about Antonio or the real reason the three intruders had shown up.
“You know, the sheriff’s department was out here this morning on another call,” the lead deputy mused. He inclined his head toward Dorothy Hewitt’s place. “It was a pretty bad one, too.”
“We know,” Stark said. “We all talked to Sheriff Lozano while he was here.”
“Do you think what happened tonight had any connection to that other incident?”
This was the first time they’d actually had to lie. Fred stayed calm and said, “I don’t see how. But I’ll tell you, I’m starting to wonder if I want to keep on living here. I mean, first that horrible business right across the street and now this tonight . . . things didn’t use to be so bad around here, that’s for sure.”
“You’re right about that, Mr. Gomez,” the deputy agreed. “Can you describe the vehicle those men were in? You didn’t happen to get a license plate number, did you?”
“No, it was too dark to read the plate,” Fred said.
“You can look for a car with a lot of buckshot holes in the driver’s side and the rear,” Stark added dryly. “It was big and loud. A muscle car.”
“And a low rider,” Fred said. “Dark. Blue or gray, I’d say. Not black.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you the make or model. I was too scared and upset to notice all those details.”
Stark agreed with that. The deputy was making a few notes in his notebook when the radio squawked through the cruiser’s open door. The other deputy went to answer the call, then a moment later popped out of the cruiser and yelled, “Bennie, come on! Officers down!”
The deputy snapped his notebook closed and said hurriedly, “You folks are all right now?”
“We’re fine, Deputy,” Stark said. “Go on and answer that call.”
The deputy ran to the car. His partner was already behind the wheel. With lights still flashing, the cruiser swung around in a wide turn, causing some of the bystanders who’d come out to see what all the commotion was about to get out of the way in a hurry, and then roared back toward the park entrance.
“That went about as well as we could hope,” Stark said. “Now let’s go inside and find out the rest of the story.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Although Stark thought it was unlikely with the deputies right outside, there was a chance Antonio had climbed out the window and taken off. When they got inside, he was relieved to see that that wasn’t the case. Antonio emerged tentatively from the bedroom when Fred called out that everything was okay.
“Not hardly,” Antonio said, his face set in grim lines. “Nothing is okay.”
“Let me get some coffee for everyone,” Aurelia said. “Then you can tell us all about it.”
Antonio still looked like he wanted to bolt, but he sat down on the sofa, perched nervously at the front of the seat cushion with his hands clasped together between his knees. Stark thought the boy looked like he’d been to hell and back.
Fred sat down beside Antonio, being careful not to get too close and crowd him. Stark took an armchair across from them. The shotgun and Fred’s pistol lay on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Stark wouldn’t have put the guns there, but Aurelia had said it was all right since the table had a cloth on it.
Aurelia brought cups of coffee for everyone, then sat down on the other side of Antonio. She patted his knee and said, “Whatever you have to tell us, you know it’ll be all right. It won’t change how we feel about you.”
Antonio let out a hollow laugh.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he said. “I . . . I was there last night .
. . when Jimmy and his little sister were . . . killed.”
“Did you do it?” Fred asked. His voice was as hollow as Antonio’s laugh had been.
“No!” Antonio shook his head firmly. “No, of course not.”
Aurelia muttered thanks to the Blessed Virgin in Spanish.
“When I saw what was happening, I . . . I ran,” Antonio went on.
“That’s good,” Fred told him. “I never thought you’d have anything to do with something like that.”
“No, it’s not good!” Antonio burst out. “Didn’t you hear me? I saw them shoot Jimmy. I knew they were going to kill Sonia. And I ran! I just tried to save myself!”
Stark could see the torture the young man was going through. He didn’t agree with any of Antonio’s decisions, but he also knew it was impossible to walk in anybody else’s shoes and inhabit his soul.
“Was it the three who were here tonight?” he asked quietly.
Antonio swallowed and nodded.
“Nacho Montez and his brother, Chuckie. And the other one, the one who . . . who looks like the grim reaper, he’s called Jalisco.”
“What would they have done if you’d tried to stop them?”
“They would have killed me,” Antonio answered without hesitation.
“Then there would have been three folks dead instead of two,” Stark said. “You couldn’t have saved the girl.”
“I could have tried!”
Stark knew that’s exactly what he would have done, if he’d been in Antonio’s place. But he didn’t see what good it would do to say that.
“What was it all about?” Fred asked. “Was it drugs?”
“Of course,” Antonio answered with a bitter edge in his voice. “That’s what it’s always about now, isn’t it? Jimmy, he worked for the same bunch that Nacho and Jalisco do. He helped bring the stuff across the border. But the bosses—the hombres, Nacho always calls them—they thought Jimmy was keeping some of the money for himself. Not much, but some.”
“And they can’t abide that,” Stark said.
The Bleeding Edge Page 6