Shots exploded and Dawson jerked his head upright. The body of the man with the lighter shuddered at the impact of bullets. The lighter flew up and back, landing on the concrete and sliding into the darkness.
Carlos’s men wheeled and grabbed their weapons, but each was knocked backwards in the deafening barrage of gunfire. Garcia and a handful of commandos charged from the dim recesses, and with their advantage of surprise, dispatched the cartel men with ruthless efficiency. The warehouse fell eerily silent.
Garcia walked up to Dawson while the others went from body to body, pistols in hand, ensuring Carlos’s men were dead, then searched the rest of the warehouse.
“Raoul…I…ah…you saved my life…,” Dawson said with a groan.
“Don’t try to talk,” Garcia said. He and another commando lifted Dawson’s feet out of the drum of gasoline, then held Dawson tightly and lifted his cuffed wrists off the hook. Dawson collapsed into Garcia’s arms, then struggled to his feet, fighting to stay conscious.
Garcia handed Dawson’s limp and quivering body to another commando who slipped an arm around Dawson’s waist to hold him up. “Let’s get those clothes off of you,” Garcia said. “They’re soaked with gasoline.” He used a commando knife to slice them off, and nodded to the other commando, who helped Dawson stumble toward the exit.
“Wait,” Dawson said. He turned and watched Garcia upend the barrel, spilling the gasoline across the floor and around the bodies of Carlos’s men. Other commandos grabbed canisters of gasoline and doused the warehouse. Garcia searched the floor nearby, found the lighter, and lit it. Backing up to the exit, he tossed it on the gasoline, which erupted into an inferno.
Chapter 62
Santa Fe, New Mexico
It was a warm spring day when Dawson drove into the graveled parking lot of a sprawling recreation complex of soccer fields and softball diamonds south of Santa Fe. The sounds of cheers filled the air as family and friends watched boys and girls playing softball and baseball. He parked, then looked in the rearview mirror at his face. What would become scars were still pink lines on his cheekbones, lips, and forehead. The discoloration was gone, but the soreness remained, as did some numbing where there had been nerve damage.
He swung his left leg out, the knee in a brace, followed by his right leg, which let him stand and put weight on both knees. Fortunately, Carlos had only damaged one. The surgery to repair the cartilage and tendons had been successful, but the knee had to stay in a brace for another month or two until the healing was complete. Then rehabilitation.
He reached beside the driver’s seat to extract his walking stick, then pulled his briefcase from the passenger seat and looped it over his shoulder. He limped to the fields, pausing at a set of bleachers behind an enclosure of chain-link fencing.
He’d spent six weeks in recovery after the surgery, most of it at his mother’s house in Juárez. Staying with Jacquelyn was out of the question. She wasn’t talking to him. She’d been caught up in the FBI investigation, which was followed by a congressional investigation. The country club and her properties were in receivership, along with anything else that had been touched by Borrego cartel money. It included the Rancho la Peña property controlled by the Madsen blind trust, and remained off limits to the Sernas and Madsen’s extended family.
Garcia had been a regular visitor, which had helped. Although he had been put on administrative leave by the DEA, he had become a star witness for the congressional committee that was investigating the Madsen affair. He grumbled that he was spending far more time in Washington than he had ever wanted.
Dawson’s injuries had been hard on Mercedes, especially in the wake of Sam’s death. Sam had left some money to Mercedes, so she would be well set up for the long term once Sam’s assets were released.
Six weeks of recovery had given Dawson time to figure out what he was going to do next with his life. He scanned the softball field and then the bleachers, where he spotted Carolyn and Erica, both watching intently as Brandon played Little League. Erica was very much the lithe, tanned athlete he had seen the last time he’d been there. Her blond hair was tied in a ponytail, and she wore her numbered soccer jersey, shorts, and soccer cleats.
Brandon was at home plate, swinging the bat loosely. He held the bat over his shoulder as the pitcher threw the ball. Brandon swung and missed, prompting the coach to shout, “Keep your eye on the ball. Keep your eye on the ball.”
The pitcher casually took the toss from the catcher and turned, taking his sideways stance on the mound, then glanced at the runner behind him on second base. He lifted his glove above his head as he began his windup, then heaved the ball again toward home plate.
Brandon swung again and missed.
“Strike two!” the umpire yelled.
“C’mon, Brandon. Keep your eye on the ball,” the coach yelled again. “You can do it.”
The pitcher fiddled with the ball buried in his glove, then lifted the glove above his head, extended his leg toward home plate, and threw.
Brandon swung, connecting with the ball, and knocked it up and over the head of the second baseman, who stumbled backwards as he tried to catch it. The ball bounced and rolled into center field.
Brandon ran to first base as the other base runner dashed around third and to home plate, scoring. The team swarmed around home plate, jumping and shouting in celebration. But as the team cheered, Brandon rounded first base and headed for second base. By now the outfielder had chased down the ball, scooped it up, and thrown it to the second baseman, who was up on his feet and at the base, forcing Brandon to slide.
But the throw was wide and bounced past the second baseman and the pitcher, who made a futile attempt to stop the ball with the tip of his glove. Brandon scrambled to his feet and charged to third base as the catcher picked up the ball and threw it to the third baseman, forcing Brandon to slide again.
The third baseman bobbled the catch and the ball rolled into left field. Brandon again scrambled to his feet and easily ran across home plate for the score.
The excited team surged again around home plate to greet Brandon.
Dawson clapped his hands and shouted excitedly. “Good job, Brandon! Nice hit. Good base running!”
Carolyn and Erica turned to the sound of Dawson’s voice. Carolyn lifted her hand to shade her eyes, not believing what she saw. Erica also stared, neither of them knowing what to make of Dawson’s appearance.
Dawson climbed into the bleachers and took a seat beside them.
“Are you lost?” Carolyn asked, this time with a weak smile.
“Hi, Dad,” said Erica.
Dawson nodded and gave Erica a quick hug. “Somebody’s happy to see me.”
Carolyn looked at Dawson, skeptically shaking her head.
Brandon broke away from his teammates, grabbed a water bottle from a large cooler, then jogged over to the bleachers. The game over, the other players and their parents drifted away.
“That was a heck of a hit, Brandon,” Dawson said. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
Brandon grinned and gulped water. “I dunno. What are you doing here?”
“Your mother was asking the same thing.” Dawson paused, hesitant to announce his plans. He took a breath and said, “I’m moving back to Santa Fe.”
“Really?” Brandon said with a smile.
“I have a book to write.”
“Are you serious?” Erica said.
“Never been more serious in my life.”
“You really nailed Madsen,” Carolyn said.
“Madsen got what he deserved. He’s finished.”
“As he should be.”
“Got something for you,” Dawson said, turning to Brandon.
Brandon squinted up at him, curious.
Dawson pulled his old baseball out of the frayed briefcase that hung from his shoulder and handed the ball to Brandon. He took it and looked at Dawson.
“Your grandfather caught that ball for me one day when I was your age. It was at pro ball game.
Now it’s yours.”
“Thanks,” Brandon mumbled, looking at the ball again.
“You know, base running like that deserves some ice cream. Anyone interested?”
“Yeah!” Brandon said.
“Yeah!” Erica echoed.
They both looked at Carolyn, who shrugged. “I suppose.”
Dawson took the ball from Brandon’s hand and tossed it lightly, then gripped it in his fingers and held it out to show him. “Now, this is how you hold a baseball to throw a curve.” Dawson made a throwing motion with his wrist as they walked toward the parking lot. “That will put a good spin on it.”
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***
Prologue
Muffled shots broke the late morning stillness in the Northern California vineyard. Chao Ling dove to the ground, scrambled through a row of vines, leapt to his feet, and kept running.
A man with a pistol fixed with a silencer trotted after him, barrel held high.
Ling dove through another row of vines, and another, then crouched behind a post, his lungs aching.
Holding the weapon at arm’s length, the gunman’s eyes narrowed and he fired again, the bullet ripping through a cluster of the ripening grapes, splattering Ling’s face with juice. He humped up the hillside vineyard, his chest heaving, and peered again through the leaves.
The gunman was nearly parallel to him, separated by four rows, aiming at him.
Ling ducked to his left as another thunk sounded. He cried out as his right thigh exploded with searing pain. He clutched his leg and tumbled to the ground, rolling onto his back. The bastard is crazy! Why did I get involved with this idiot? He looked up the row, searching for an escape. Keep moving! His leg on fire, he struggled to his feet and hobbled, blood soaking his pant leg. His left leg quivering with every step, he pulled out his cell phone. With shaky hands he tapped 9-1-1 and listened to the phone’s buzzing ring.
“What’s your emergency?” a dispatcher asked calmly.
“Someone’s trying to kill me!” Ling shouted.
“Are you okay?” the dispatcher asked.
“I’ve been shot!”
“Tell me who and where you are, and what’s going on.”
“My name is Chao Ling,” he yelled. “I’m at Morrison Creek Winery. It’s Bernie Morrison. He’s got a gun! He’s trying to kill me!” Ling sucked in one breath after another, his body shaking.
“Can you get to a safe place?”
“What the fuck? That’s what I’m trying to do!”
“Hold on.” The line went silent for what seemed an eternity.
Ling peered across leafy vines as Morrison crawled through a row, rose, and took aim, firing again, the muffled shot ripping through the leaves. “Aw shit!”
The dispatcher came back on. “We have a unit in the area. I’m sending it now. You’ll see it soon. Stay on the line and tell me what’s happening.”
Keeping his head low, Ling hobbled back down the slope and toward the winery, hoping the cops would get there before he’d be cut down. The phone slipped from his hand and fell to the dirt. He kept going.
Three rows separated him from Morrison, who kept moving, staying parallel to him. Blinding pain filled his head as two muffled shots sounded. Ling stumbled to the ground. He touched the side of his head and felt the wet warmth flowing from a gash in his scalp. His hand was bright red. He struggled to his feet at the edge of the vineyard, breathing heavily. His eyes stinging from sweat, his head on fire, he scanned the highway in front of the winery. A black-and-white cruiser, lights flashing, headed toward the vineyard.
Ling heard footsteps behind him and twisted around, his leg wobbly, and fell to the ground. His vision blurred, he wiped his eyes with bloody fingers, and squinted up at Morrison, standing over him, pistol pointed at his chest. “Don’t!” Ling cried, staring at Morrison’s bloodshot blue eyes, arms reaching up in appeal.
Morrison glanced to the winery entrance where the sheriff’s cruiser swerved into the graveled parking lot and slid to a stop.
Ling saw two officers leap out and draw their weapons, crouching slightly. They shouted for Morrison to drop his gun.
Breathing heavily, Morrison returned his eyes to Ling and glared.
“No, no, don’t!” Ling yelled. Three muffled shots slammed into his chest like iron fists. He wheezed a breath as the air crackled with the deputies’ gunfire. Morrison’s body shuddered, bullets staggering him backward and to the ground. Ling’s world went dark.
Chapter 1
Dante Rath massaged the ache in his stomach. Heartburn flared from the black coffee he sipped, having devoured a foil-wrapped breakfast burrito at his desk. He leaned against the fraying pad of the low-backed office chair and re-read the memo from management. Consultants were reorganizing the newsroom. Early retirements and buyouts were coming, along with new beat assignments. He had been down this road before. He drew a deep breath and tossed the memo on one of the piles atop his desk. He yanked open a drawer, shook a couple of antacid tablets into his hand, and chewed them.
Dante crossed the newsroom to the drinking fountain and emptied his coffee mug, refilling it with cold water. He drank it down, refilled it, and looked out at the newsroom, empty but for a clerk with his feet up, reading the morning edition, and couple of section editors. Most reporters were on their beats. Dante wondered if he could survive another downsizing, or if he wanted to. He took a breath and returned to his desk.
At forty-four, he’d collected state and regional journalism awards. Three times his work had been submitted for the Pulitzer Prize as part of a team of investigative reporters at the San Francisco Chronicle. They won once for exposing a web of corruption around government contracts for private prisons. The stories had sparked a federal criminal investigation resulting in jail time for a state senator and the prisons’ director. He ached to return to investigative reporting, but after reading the memo he knew his odds of doing it for his current employer, the Santa Rosa Sun, were in the negative numbers.
A call on a police scanner near the city desk caught his attention. A female voice called out a “ten-seventy-one” at the Morrison Creek Winery. Sirens wailed in the background. Then a “ten-forty-nine.” Dante hurried over to the bank of scanners next to TV screens tuned soundlessly to local channels and listened closely to the calls. A ten-seventy-one was shots fired. What the hell? A ten-forty-nine meant a unit was proceeding to the scene. He sipped more water, his heart pounding.
The lights flickered on the Napa County Sheriff’s Department band as more calls came. Another sheriff’s unit was responding. The next transmissions were a ten-fifty-three and a ten-fifty-four. Person down, possible body.
Dante yanked the narrow notebook from his back pocket and jotted down the time, date, and ten-code numbers. It was nearly 11 a.m. and the crime beat reporter was out. Dante smiled as a shot of adrenaline pulsed through him. The story could be his and his alone. A shooting at the Morrison Creek Winery could salvage his sputtering career. It might even lead to … what? He didn’t have time to think about it, or the personal problems he had with the winery owner. He hustled back to his desk, pulled on his corduroy sport coat and slipped the notebook into the outside pocket. Looking again at the management memo, he wadded it and tossed it into the wastebasket.
Dante wove among the desks in the crowded newsroom to the glass-walled office of his managing editor, Seth Jones. A veteran reporter and editor in his late sixties, he’d grown a little soft arou
nd the middle, but carried the extra pounds well. Jones wore hippie-styled wire-rimmed glasses, had bushy white hair, and loved murder stories even more than corruption scandals. “Did you hear that?” Dante asked, standing in the open door.
Jones looked up from his desk. “Yeah. What is it?”
“Shots fired at Morrison Creek Winery. Possible body. I’m going.”
“The hell you are!” Jones barked, holding up a hand. “You’re the wine editor. Let Hansen cover it.”
Dante clenched his jaw, exhaled, and shook his head. “She’s not here.” Cathy Hansen was the newspaper’s young cops, crime, and district court reporter. She’d been hired out of journalism grad school at UC Berkeley, his alma mater. She was the kind of person they wanted these days, tech savvy and a social media maven willing to work long hours for entry-level pay and who didn’t talk back to her bosses. Nice girl, a good writer, but she was overly confident and naïve. She reminded him of himself at that age.
“I wrote about Morrison Creek a few weeks ago,” Dante said. “Remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. What’d you call the wine? Horse piss or something?”
Dante swallowed and felt his face flush. “Not in those words. The guy who owns the place, Bernie Morrison, deserved it. He’s selling box wine in bottles.”
“He threatened to kill you if he ever saw you again.”
“C’mon, Seth. Threats come with the territory.”
“There’s been a possible homicide at the winery of a man who said he hates you and the ground you walk on. Now you want to run over there and poke around? It probably has nothing to do with the wine.”
Borderland Page 34