Also by Pendelton C. Wallace
Blue Water & Me, Tall Tales of Adventures With My Father
Blue Water & Me is a high-adventure true story of author Penn Wallace's magical first summer fishing with his father, Blue Water Charlie, off the coast of Mexico at age eleven.
Christmas Inc.
What would happen if Santa decided to go public and sell shares of Christmas on the NASDAQ? What would happen to the elves if he outsourced toy making to China?
Warning: This is not a children’s book. Exposure to children under 12-years old may cause child to stop believing in Santa Claus or take a cynical view of Christmas.
The Inside Passage (Ted Higuera Series Book 1)
Somewhere on Canada's Inside Passage, terrorist plot to destroy a cruise ship filled with celebrities and VIP’s. Ripped from today's headlines, a group of Canadian-born terrorist plan to bring their war to the Western Hemisphere.
It’s also the story of a young Latino man coming of age in an Anglo world. Ted Higuera and his friends stumble upon an al-Qaeda plot to blow up the cruise ship and the clock starts ticking.
Can Ted and his friends act in time to save the thousands of people aboard the Star of the Northwest?
Hacker for Hire (Ted Higuera Series Book 2)
If Clive Cussler had written Ugly Betty, it would be Hacker for Hire.
Hacker for Hire, a suspense novel about corporate greed and industrial espionage, is the second book in a series about Latino computer security analyst Ted Higuera and his best friend, para-legal Chris Hardwick.
When you’re already in the top 1% of the country’s money makers, how much is enough?
Ted and lovely PI Catrina Flaherty are led deep into Seattle’s Hi-Tech world as they stalk a killer. But the killer is also hunting them. Can they find the killer before the killer finds them?
Mirror Image
Based on a real-life tragedy, Mirror Image is a heart-stopping tale of horrific abuse.
Female PI Catrina Flaherty tackles one of her most difficult cases. Cat specializes in women’s issues: infidelity, messy divorces, spousal abuse, sexual harassment, etc. But her newest client, Mandy Alcott, has an unusual problem; her abusive husband is the chief of police.
What do you do when your abuser is The Law?
You call Cat Flaherty.
The Mexican Connection
The Ted Higuera Series Book 3
by
Pendelton C. Wallace
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
Copyright © 2014 Pendelton C. Wallace
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For permission, contact Victory Press at www.pennwallace.com.
Visit Pendelton Wallace’s Web site at www.pennwallace.com
Contact the author at http://www.pennwallace.com/contact-penn.html.
Cover Design by Brandi McCann
Acknowledgements
I need to first thank my better half, Dawn Tift. Dawn worked with me from the start of The Mexican Connection to shape the story and develop the characters.
I must thank my writers group, The Sea of Cortez Writers. They helped me hone this book into a finished product.
Jordin Thiele was my editor. You can thank her that much of the irrelevant clutter disappeared from this work. It’s interesting that she lives in Australia. I had an editor on another continent working on a book I wrote in another country. Ah, globalization.
As usual, I need to thank Brandi McCann for the cover on this book. She did her customary outstanding job in taking an idea and bringing it to life.
Donna Rich was my proofreader, thank you very much, Donna.
I have to thank Mama. She has been in my corner from the beginning. She encouraged me when the night seemed the darkest. I would not be publishing my fifth book without her. Muchas gracias.
And finally, I have to thank you, dear reader. I want to especially thank those of you who have taken the time to write to me with your thoughts and comments. It’s incredibly invigorating to know that there are real people out there enjoying my work.
Without patrons, artists don’t last very long. The fact that you read and enjoy what I write drives me onward. Like Thomas Jefferson, I believe that a free society must read to maintain its freedom. You are all freedom fighters.
Pendelton C. Wallace
10/29/2014
San Diego, California
Author’s Note
I am horrified by the events taking place south of our border. The drug wars in Mexico are a blight on a lovely country.
I try to research my novels thoroughly and stick to the facts as closely as possible. I read numerous books and articles on the drug wars to give myself a strong enough background to write convincingly about this terrible situation.
I have to admit though that I played fast and loose with the truth in one area. I made Cessna three six niner zero Juliet a twin engine Cessna 421. That’s the call sign for the Cessna 150 in which I soloed. If you own or know of 3690J, please drop me a line.
I majored in Latin American History at the University of Oregon. I remember studying about Mexico’s past. I’ve stuck pretty close to the truth when writing about their religion and most of what I say about President Huerta is true. I just made a truly despicable dictator a little more despicable.
When I first began preparations to sail to Mexico, my friends asked me “Aren’t you afraid to go down there?”
No, I wasn’t. First of all, the violence was largely confined to certain areas close to the border. Most of the violence was one gang killing the other. Almost no Americans were affected by the bloodshed. The various drug cartels fought a bloody war for access to American markets. In places like sleepy little La Paz, there was nothing to fight over.
Secondly, you have to put it in perspective. At the time I began researching this book, about thirty thousand people had been killed in the bloody conflict. In the United States, during that same time period, over three hundred thousand people were killed by hand guns. I feel safer walking down the streets of La Paz or Guadalajara or Mexico City at two in the morning than I do in San Francisco or Chicago or Detroit.
All of the horrible acts of violence depicted in this story are real. I researched the drug wars extensively and had a terrible menu of despicable acts from which to choose. I asked my writers group, then polled members of various Facebook groups to which I belong, whether or not I should show the violence that is actually happening.
I was surprised by the results. The overwhelming majority said that I should be true to the facts. I have given a flavor for the callous disregard for human life in this story, but I shied away from showing some of the more heinous things that have actually happened.
As I write this, some sanity is returning to Mexico. Several of the major drug lords have been captured or killed and the military and police have made substantial dents in the power of the cartels. Thousands of corrupt police officers have been disciplined, dismissed or jailed. The war is far from over. As long as there is a market for the drugs and money to be made, people will kill each other over it.
Mexico is a wonderful country. I love the people, the culture, the architecture and the food. I lived for two years on my sailboat cruising the waters of the Sea of Cortez and will happily return in th
e future. I encourage all of my readers to consider visiting Mexico. We have much to learn from and share with our neighbors on this continent.
Pendelton C. Wallace
10/29/2014
San Diego, California
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Post Script
Chapter 1
West Seattle
A bluish light glowed from the windows of the quiet two-story West Seattle home. In the soft glow of the street lights, a neatly trimmed lawn with a rose-covered trellis over the flagstone walkway gave the house a welcome feel. A huge Camellia bush blossomed crimson red flowers on one side of the house, a gigantic rhododendron with lovely lavender blooms grew on the other.
In the living room, Lisa Adams and her ten-year-old daughter, Kayla, sat comfortably on the floral patterned sofa, feet up on the coffee table, in front of the television, watching The Little Mermaid for the umpteenth time.
“Mom,” Kayla said, “I think you’re just like Sebastian.”
On the TV, the cartoon crab sang about how wonderful life was “under the sea.”
“You’re always telling me how good everything is.”
Lisa reached out for her daughter and pulled her closer to her.
“That’s because you’re my princess. I’ll always make things good for you.”
Lisa reached for the remote and rewound the DVD. Under the Sea was her favorite song in the movie.
“Jeeze, Mom,” Kayla said, “How many times do you have to watch that scene?”
“As many as I want.” Lisa threw a piece of popcorn at her brown-haired daughter.
“POLICE!”
The front door of Lisa’s cozy home burst into splinters.
“Mom!” Kayla screamed.
Lisa jumped up, dumping the bowl of popcorn from her lap. The Little Mermaid played on. She froze while Kayla screamed at the top of her lungs.
Men dressed in black combat fatigues charged into the room carrying automatic weapons and shields.
“On the floor, now!” One shouted.
Lisa and Kayla stood rooted to the spot.
“Under the sea, under the see-eee-eee . . .” Sebastian the Crab sang on the TV.
“I said get down! NOW!” The man repeated. He grabbed Lisa by the shoulder and shoved her to the floor. A second man pushed Kayla down.
“MOM!”
“KAYLA . . . .” Lisa screamed. She tried to rise.
Before she knew what was happening, another black-clad officer was on top of her. He pulled her hands behind her back and cuffed her.
“”LEAVE MY DAUGHTER ALONE.”
“Clear!” A woman’s voice shouted from the kitchen.
“Clear!” A man in Lisa’s bedroom echoed.
Lisa felt a knee in her back. She couldn’t get up. She couldn’t get to Kayla. She struggled, but the man on top of her was too big. She had to get to Kayla.
Armed men swarmed into the kitchen, broke through the basement door and flooded down the stairs.
“Mom, what’s happening?” Kayla, lying face down on the carpet next to Lisa, screamed.
“I don’t know, honey. Be brave.”
With a Herculean effort, Lisa struggled free of the man on top of her.
“On your feet.” The order came from a small, trim man with a bushy mustache in a brown suit.
One of the cops pulled Lisa to her feet.
“I’m District Attorney Anthony Petrocelli.” He waved a folded paper in her face. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”
Lisa stared at the man with her mouth open. What are they doing here? Why have they broken into my house?
“Petrocelli,” a man wearing a windbreaker with SPD and a star stenciled on the front yelled. “Down here.”
The little man in the suit turned and dashed into the kitchen.
“Mom,” Kayla sobbed. “Who are these people? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, honey.” Lisa tried to think. It was so hard in the confusion.
Why are they here? What do they want?
“Where’s your husband, ma’am?” a woman in an SPD windbreaker, said. “We have a warrant for the arrest of James Adams. James Adams is your husband, right?”
Lisa just stared at the woman. A warrant for Jimmy? Why?
“I asked you a question.” The woman challenged Lisa. “Where’s your husband?”
“Ah . . . he’s not here.”
“I can see that.” The woman stepped forward and shoved her face right in Lisa’s. “Where is he?” shouted.
“Away. . . On business . . .”
“Scooooore.” Petrocelli came prancing back into the living room, tossing a plastic wrapped package a little bigger than a brick up and down in the air. “At least ten kilos. High-grade cocaine.”
Cocaine? How was that possible?
On the television, Sebastian danced to the music, clapping his claws like castanets. Bubbles floated up all around him.
“Petrocelli!” The policewoman shouted. “Gloves! You’re getting your prints all over the evidence.”
Petrocelli ignored her. “Arrest her,” he said, waving the package at Lisa.
“Lisa Adams, you are under arrest.” The woman in the SPD windbreaker turned to face Lisa. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. . . .”
Lisa tuned her out. This nightmare couldn’t be happening. What had they found? Why was it there? It couldn’t really be cocaine, could it? They must have planted it. But why?
“I’ve alerted CPS about the girl,” the woman said to Petrocelli. “They’ll be here to take her into care shortly.”
“Kayla . . . No!” Lisa came to life. “DON’T TOUCH MY DAUGHTER!” She tried to move towards Kayla, but the woman and the man in the SPD jackets grabbed her arms and dragged her towards the door.
“Kayla . . .”
“Mom!”
“We got no troubles,” Sebastian the Crab sang on the TV. “Life is the bubbles. Under the sea. Under the sea-eee-eee.”
****
East Los Angeles
The El Chaparral restaurant was normally closed on Sundays. Papa felt his employees should be home with their families. The pale yellow stucco building with rustic arches and red-tile roof surrounded by palm trees and cactus usually sat empty.
But this Sunday, music blared from the open door. A mariachi band in traditional charro costumes filled the stage in the dining room. A buffet was set up on a row of tables against the wall. A couple hundred people wandered through the dining room and around the plant-covered terracotta patio.
Papa’s oldest son, Ted Higuera, had substantially upgraded the facility. Water tinkled in a Puebla tile-covered fountain the middle of the patio. The area itself had been carved out of what had been the parking lot. Giving up parking for extra dining space had been a tough decision, especially because it meant an extensive upgrade to the kitchen.
Ted was c
atching on to the restaurant business. He was smart enough to realize that if he was going to add room for an extra fifty diners, the kitchen must be able to handle the extra load.
“Papa, Papa,” Esperanza, Ted’s younger sister and co-manager yelled. “Ven aquí. Come here.”
Papa, a short, stocky sixty-something Mexican with a Pancho Villa mustache, looked up. “¿Que pasa?”
“We can’t find Guillermo. Have you seen him? It’s time to make the speeches.”
Esperanza Higuera, or Hope as her Anglo friends called her, was a tiny Latina beauty with deep, dark eyes and luxurious black hair down to the middle of her back. This was her big day; she flittered around the restaurant in a flower-print dress with just enough cleavage to interest the boys, but not enough to raise Papa’s ire.
After five long years at Cal State LA, she earned a bachelor’s in business with flying colors. Not quite the Summa Cum Laude that her big brother, Ted, had earned at the University of Washington, but not bad for a chica from the barrio. Now she wanted to enjoy her graduation party.
“Where did The Mouse get to?” She dashed out the side door and into the parking lot.
“Guillermo Raton!” She knew her little brother hated being called “Guillermo the Mouse.” “What are you doing out here?”
Guillermo sat on the hood of a fire-engine red 1970 Boss 302 Mustang convertible, surrounded by three of his amigos all puffing weed. The legendary muscle car had belonged to Tio Ernesto since before they were born.
“Oh my God!” Hope yelled and swatted at Guillermo’s hand.
The joint went flying across the parking lot.
“Hey, sis, back off!” Guillermo hopped off the hood of the car and grabbed for the doobie. “Yow!”
A Reebok Cross Trainer came down on his hand. “Forget it, you little turd.”
The Mexican Connection: Ted Higuera Series Book 3 Page 1