Strong Vengeance

by Jon Land

  She used the remote to click open the SUV’s doors, wondering what life might be like if it was possible to just start over again. What would you do different? Which mistakes would you rectify first? Caitlin imagined just about everybody would make different mistakes in trying to correct their previous ones. Life was more like a gunfight, she supposed, than most realized: often times, you only got one shot.

  Caitlin yanked open her door, freezing at the sight of a man in the passenger seat all but lost to darkness.

  27

  LAREDO, THE DAY BEFORE

  “Your passports, please.”

  The two men in the front seat of Guillermo Paz’s massive Chevy Suburban slipped theirs out the open window, as Paz handed his and the one he’d had made for Cort Wesley up as well. All four men had the badges and IDs of Mexican federales and were crossing the International Bridge into Laredo on the pretext of a cooperative law enforcement meeting. They were cleared through moments later, only Cort Wesley breathing a sigh of relief it had been so easy.

  “Your men look familiar,” he said to Paz, eyes angling for the two in the front seat.

  “They were the ones who found your son’s kidnappers last year.”

  Both men cocked their gazes briefly backward and regarded Cort Wesley with a slight nod.

  “So who’s this friend we’re meeting, Colonel? What’s this about?”

  “I should think you’d just be happy with your freedom.”

  “Temporary as it may be.”

  “You read Spanish?” Paz asked him, handing over a tri-folded letter.

  “Not very well.”

  “Then let me save you the trouble. That’s a pardon signed by the president of Mexico himself.”

  Cort Wesley regarded the letter, recognizing the president’s name but not much else. “Okay, you’ve got my attention. This have something to do with that friend we’re meeting?”

  “Everything, outlaw.”

  “So I know him.”

  “He’s a friend of a friend.”

  “You like confusing me, don’t you?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say any more.”

  “You forget how well I know you, Colonel. You’re at liberty to do whatever the hell you please.”

  “Not this time,” Paz said as they slid off the International Bridge and continued into Laredo, approaching San Agustin Plaza in the center of the old section of the city.

  Cort Wesley saw the spire of San Agustin Church rising over the plaza rich with tourists strolling past sidewalk kiosks and open storefronts, snapping pictures with their cell phones and fishing cash from their wallets. The Suburban snailed past the famed Rio Grande museum contained in an L-shaped adobe building that reminded him of one of the five buildings housing rival gangs at Cereso prison. He knew he should’ve felt more a sense of relief, especially with a pardon in hand from the Mexican president. But he couldn’t get past the foreboding sense of unease over what the terms of his miraculous release might be exactly. If Guillermo Paz was involved, they promised not to be pleasant.

  But the driver had left the window open after the Customs stop, the air smelling dry, dusty, and laced with the scents of grilled food sifting out from restaurants featuring open fronts. Cort Wesley caught whiffs of spices and women’s perfume in stark contrast to the stench of sweat and urine that had dominated his world in prisons on both sides of the border for nearly a year now. He started thinking of Caitlin Strong’s lilac-scented shampoo. He might as well have been a million miles away from her while in Cereso; they were still several hundred apart now, but it felt like around the corner by comparison.

  Paz’s driver parked the Suburban illegally in front of a Mexican restaurant called Los Jacales, and Cort Wesley trailed the colonel out of the vehicle and inside while the other two men dressed as federales remained in the car. Paz saying nothing was Paz saying just enough, Cort Wesley content to follow him into the sparsely occupied restaurant. They moved toward a back alcove separated by a bead curtain Paz parted to reveal a single muscular figure, who rose from his chair at their approach.

  “Name’s Jones, Mr. Masters,” the man greeted, extending his hand. “Take a seat.”

  28

  LAREDO, THE DAY BEFORE

  Cort Wesley took the man’s extended hand and didn’t let go until he did. “Jones as in Smith?” he asked. They sat down together, while Paz remained standing.

  “I guess my reputation precedes me,” Jones smiled. He wore his hair close-cropped in a military style that exaggerated the square shape of his head and angular cheekbones as well as stiff jaw. He looked like a life-sized cardboard cutout of every CIA “wet” operative Cort Wesley had ever met in his past life that had ended nearly two decades before. Amazing how the profile hadn’t changed. Then again the times, for men like Jones here, pretty much hadn’t either.

  Caitlin had met him on several occasions, a combination of fate and the pots she kept stirring up thrusting them together, first in Bahrain when Jones was still Smith and the Middle East was his domain. He officially became “Jones” once transferred back stateside, where he was put in charge of a division of Homeland Security dedicated to security threats to the country coming from the inside instead of the out. One of those had been a militia group called the Patriot Sun, taken down by Caitlin, Cort Wesley, and Guillermo Paz who, it turned out, had been building a private army in Mexico on Jones’s behalf.

  “I recognize your voice too,” Cort Wesley told him. “You speak to Caitlin lately?”

  “No more than you.”

  “That’s a relief, since I don’t believe you’ve got a mind to stop until you get her killed.”

  Jones frowned, then smirked. “That woman’s a true gunfighter of the highest regard. Shame what they did to her.”

  “What they’d do to her?” Cort Wesley asked, his heart skipping a beat.

  “That’s right, you haven’t heard. Our favorite gunfighter’s been behind a desk since she shot a kid.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “She went Rambo in a hostage situation inside your son’s high school.”

  “My son…”

  “He’s fine. Three other boys, not so much, especially the shooter she took out. I reached out to express my regrets but she never returned my calls.”

  “She’s been busy.”

  “Right. Babysitting your kids. Great job for a person with her skill set,” Jones added, shaking his head.

  “You bust me out of prison to bring me up to speed on current events?”

  “Feel like you know me, don’t you, cowboy?”

  “I’d imagine the feeling’s mutual, Jones.”

  “I’ve committed parts of your file few have ever seen to memory.”

  Cort Wesley leaned back, stealing a glance at Paz blocking nearly the entire bead curtain with his bulk. “And I imagine those parts are the real reason why I’m here.”

  Jones leaned forward into a bright swatch of light shed from a dangling fixture adorned with a colorful shade. “Do I look scared to you, Masters?”

  “Nope.”

  “I should, because I am. Terrified, in fact.”

  “You shaking in your boots beneath the table?”

  “Why don’t you take a look?”

  “I’m afraid I might see a gun pointing at me too.”

  “We’re on the same side here, Masters.”

  “So I’m supposed to be scared too?”

  “Yes, you are.” Jones used his napkin to dab the sweat from his brow. The alcove was outfitted with a ceiling fan that wasn’t currently spinning. “But if you’re not, I’ll be glad to tear up that letter from the Mexican president and have Colonel Paz drive you back to Cereso.”

  Cort Wesley could feel Paz stiffen at the alcove entrance, a burst of breath blowing from his mouth that sounded like something between a grunt and a growl. Jones’s gaze angled toward him, then returned to Cort Wesley.

  “You’re here because he insisted. Wouldn’t do the job without you.”
>
  “What kind of job?”

  “Kind you do best, Masters, kind guys like you and me were born to do. Tell me you didn’t have the time of your life over in the Gulf War. Tell me.”

  “Okay, I didn’t.”

  “You’re lying, friend. I can see it in your eyes and already saw it in your file. The three men in this alcove belong to a fraternity where membership is rare indeed. Not just because we’re as good as we are at what we do, but also because we’re survivors. Even kryptonite can’t kill us and we don’t have to wear a red cape either.”

  Cort Wesley locked his gaze on Jones. “I’m gonna ask you to stop lumping yourself in with me.”

  “Don’t think I’m up to the task anymore, cowboy?”

  “I don’t know whether you are or not. I just don’t trust you, not one goddamn bit.”

  “This coming from a man on the verge of spending the rest of his life behind bars until someone stronger and faster puts him down for good.”

  “If you’re saying I don’t have a choice, I’m not arguing. Just don’t expect me to take whatever it is you’re talking about at face value.”

  “I’m talking about a war, the one we’re gonna be fighting for the next century or so unless we do something about it now. I’m talking about the enemy blossoming right under our goddamn noses.”

  “Could you be any more cryptic?”

  “Who do I work for, cowboy?”

  “What is this, a quiz now?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Homeland Security, last time I checked.”

  “Called such because we defend the homeland. And right now the primary terrorist threat to the homeland’s coming from right inside our borders.”

  “Homegrown terrorists…”

  Jones slapped the table hard enough to rattle the water glasses and stole a quick glance at Paz. “Give the man a cigar, Colonel, he’s right as rain.”

  “I don’t smoke, Jones.”

  “Know what?” Jones asked, grinning. “I can see why you and the Ranger get along so well. Goddamn match made in heaven. The two of you figure you can take down Godzilla fighting side by side. But this solitary gunman act’s wearing a bit thin, on both of you. It’s like you’re still living in the nineteenth century before there were airplanes flying into buildings. You crack wise because you figure there’s no problem you can’t shoot or fight your way out of. But I’m here to tell you that’s not the case this time and that’s why you’re here.”

  Jones stopped, awaiting a response from Cort Wesley that didn’t come.

  He folded his arms back on the table. “Let me lay it out for you, cowboy. The biggest cell in the homegrown terrorist world is right here in Texas. How do I know this? Because one of my men managed to infiltrate it until he disappeared. Pieces of him started showing up last week.” Jones’s cocksure sneer had turned to a grimace and his eyes took on a level of sadness consistent with what you’d see at a graveside funeral for a loved one. “You don’t believe me, I’ll show you the pictures.”

  “Just keep talking.”

  “We’re going to hit them at the mosque in Houston where they’ve been gathering. We’re talking a commando raid into hostile territory that would make SEAL Team 6 proud. Explains what you and the colonel are doing here. I can’t use my own men; even as deep as my department is buried, we still have accountability, and going to war in Texas doesn’t fit the job description. Like I said, other than me there’s only three people I trust to get that job done and two of them are in the room right now.” Jones rotated his gaze from Paz to Cort Wesley and back again. “I think we all know who the third is.”

  Cort Wesley looked at him across the table, opting for silence to keep Jones on the defensive.

  “Look,” Jones continued, “the one hard bit of intelligence my man relayed before they sliced and diced him was that we’re looking at a coming attack that will make nine/eleven and Oklahoma City look like amateur hour. It’s going down in Texas and we’re talking casualties into the six figures within the state and plenty more outside of it. That’s hundreds of thousands of people, Masters.”

  Cort Wesley pretended to count numbers out on his fingers. “I believe you’re right there, Jones.”

  Jones shoved his chair backward, as if to better size him up. “And am I right about you?”

  “Which part?”

  “The part about how good you are at this sort of shit.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know the answer to that.” Cort Wesley leaned forward, close enough to Jones to make him pull back a bit. “Now tell me if I’m right about you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’re an unreliable, untrustworthy son of a bitch only interested in serving his own ends.”

  “If you mean the country’s by my own ends, I suppose you’ve got me nailed dead solid perfect.”

  “So what is it you’re not telling me here, Jones, what are you leaving out of the picture?”

  Jones smacked his lips together and doused them with his tongue. He rocked backward in his chair, stealing the light from his face.

  “Time to show your cards, Masters,” he said, instead of answering the question. “You in or not?”

  Cort Wesley nodded. “On one condition.”

  29

  SAN ANTONIO, THE PRESENT

  Caitlin hadn’t even realized her hand had dropped to her SIG, thoughts jumbled and breath bottlenecked in her throat until she recognized Cort Wesley seated in the darkness.

  “Tell me you’re not a ghost.”

  “I’m the one who sees them, remember?”

  Caitlin glanced into the backseat to see if Cort Wesley’s old prison pal Leroy Epps might be sitting there too. “Should I ask?”

  “Not unless you want to know.”

  “Don’t tell me: Paz.”

  “Paz.”

  “He didn’t break you out, right? Please tell me that much.”

  “Might’ve been cleaner if he had; your old friend Jones is holding his leash now.”

  “Nobody holds Paz’s leash, except Paz himself.”

  Caitlin climbed into the cab and closed the door behind her, twisting a knob to leave the dome light on to better see Cort Wesley. His hair was the longest she’d ever seen it, his frame leaner and not as muscled as nine months before when they’d last seen each other. It was his face that looked the most different, and not in a figurative sense either. It was typically prison pale, yes, but also marred by pockets of healed-over tissue and bruises that dotted his skin. One of his eyelids drooped downward as if it had forgotten how to open all the way.

  “You’ve looked better,” she managed.

  “That the best you can do?”

  Caitlin didn’t remember leaning over the bucket seat to kiss him. She held her eyes closed, smelling a combination of stale soap and the musky odor of nervous perspiration over that of stiff clothes fresh out of the box.

  She didn’t remember the kiss ending any more than it starting. One moment their faces were pressed together and the next they weren’t. She felt Cort Wesley cringe when she hugged him tighter.

  “Ouch.”

  “Was it something I said?” Caitlin asked him, easing away.

  Cort Wesley cupped her cheek in a hand that felt like sandpaper. “I like your hair.”

  “It’s too long.”

  “Looks good that way. Something else is different too.”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  “Your eyes look tired.”

  “Maybe it’s the bad light.”

  “More likely the stress that comes with raising two boys.”

  “Watching, Cort Wesley, not raising.”

  Cort Wesley looked away, then back again. “Jones told me about your reassignment.”

  “It’s been rescinded, on a provisional basis according to Captain Tepper.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “Happened to find a couple dozen murdered oil rig workers off Ba
ffin Bay.”

  “Lucky you, Ranger.”

  Caitlin smiled. “I am now.”

  Cort Wesley leaned closer to her again. “So you got time to hit a motel room?” he asked with a wink, his old self for that moment at least.

  “You don’t want to see the boys?”

  “Want, yes, more than anything. But I don’t want them getting the wrong idea.”

  “What idea is that?”

  “That I’m back.”

  “You’re sitting right here.”

  Cort Wesley scolded her with his stare. “This is your friend Jones we’re talking about.”

  “He had you sprung to do a job for him, that it?”

  He nodded. “In return for an official pardon letter signed by the president of Mexico.”

  “Must be a big job.”

  “It is. Right here in Texas too.”

  “You want to be a bit more specific?”

  “Nope.”

  “Just tell me you don’t trust Jones.”

  “I don’t trust Jones.”

  “Then you mind explaining why you don’t want to tell me what he’s up to?”

  Cort Wesley shifted about in the passenger seat until he faced her with shoulders squared. “Because I don’t want you inviting yourself along.”

  “You’re starting to piss me off, Cort Wesley. If something’s going down in Texas, don’t you think the Rangers should know about it?”

  “That’s Jones’s call, not mine.”

  “Since when did something like that stop you?”

  “Since I promised not to tell you any more than I already have. I owe him for getting me out of jail and that’s a hell of a debt. The Mexicans can keep me stashed at Cereso forever or until I’m dead, whichever comes first.” A smile flirted with his lips, then lingered there. “When they told me I had a visitor, I figured it had to be either you or my lawyer. Then I got one look at Paz wearing a federal uniform and I knew he was my ticket back to you and the boys.”