SAVAGE PAYBACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #3)

by Seumas Gallacher

  She’s recognising me. She’s able to think.

  Several minutes later, her eyes closed as sleep set in once more.

  Now, ten hours later, she was awake again. Her eyes darted at him with concentration, communicating in her own way.

  God, he loved this woman so much.

  “Can you step outside for a little while, Mister Calder,” said Doctor Spencer, arriving through the door. “Routine checks. I’ll brief you as soon as we’ve finished.”

  “Of course, Doc, thanks,” said Jack. He joined Malky in the corridor.

  “How is she, big man?” asked his pal.

  “She can’t speak yet. But her brain’s in good shape. I can tell by the way she’s talking to me with her eyes.”

  “Grand,” said Malky. “She’s a warrior, that’s what she is. But there’s bad news from Mexico, Jack.”

  “Mexico? What news?”

  “Cy Foster and two of his buddies were shot to pieces at the airport in El Paso. Didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. The bastards ambushed his car and strolled away like some fuckin’ Sunday School picnic.”

  “Fuck. First Jules and May-Ling. Cy wasn’t part of ISP’s plans in any of this. Why the fuck is he hit?”

  “I think ye’ll find yer drug man in El Paso had a few scores to settle with him.”

  Jack sat down beside the Irishman. Losing Cy was barely believable. Jules was dead. Two better expert special ops men than these would be hard to find. Both murdered in the space of a week.

  “It’s vendetta time for these guys, Malky. Whatever the reason for taking out Cy we can guess at. Our man in Turkey is tied in, for sure. And Duval’s still invisible. Not good.”

  “What do ye propose we do?”

  “We do what Jules would do. Never wait for dangerous assholes to come hunting you. Go find them and clean them out. Whatever it takes, Malky. We’ve friends in important places. Let’s use them where we need. We get organised, and we execute.” Jack stressed the last word with controlled venom. “You in?”

  “Is the Pope a Catholic?”

  They stood up as the private-ward door opened and Doctor Spencer joined them.

  “Mister Calder, your wife’s condition’s still critical to serious, which is one level better than yesterday. She’s a strong lady. Her vital signs are improving and the baby is still in good shape. I can tell you from my last couple of examinations, she’s suffered no brain damage. But this will be a slow progression.”

  ‘I’m grateful to you and your staff,” said Jack. “Any estimate of how long she’ll have to stay here?”

  “At least a month or so, depending on her reaction to the medicines and therapy.”

  “Can she be moved?”

  “Why would you want to move her? We’ve all the resources at this hospital to care for her recovery.”

  “To be blunt, Doctor, the people behind the bomb attack could want another bite at us and at her. I’m not sure we should be putting the hospital at risk. She needs heavy armed protection.”

  “Mister Calder, I had an excellent conversation with Assistant Commissioner Rennie earlier today.”

  “He was here today?”

  “He’s been here every day. Oh, I know his detectives must pursue their investigations as well as they can, but it’s clear to me he’s personally concerned about what’s happening with your wife. He apprised me of the danger and possible further attempts on your wife’s life. This is a private ward, and this wing is secluded from the rest of the hospital. I’ve already made clear to the Board of Trustees my patient will not be moved from here, and they agreed unanimously to allow armed protection. In fact I think that’s arriving now.”

  The sound of steps preceded the arrival of Bob Granger and three plainclothes officers. Jack exhaled a long breath of relief. Thank God for Alan Rennie and his lads.

  “Hello, Jack, Malky,” said the DCI, shaking hands with them. “My boys here will be on rotational shift every eight hours. She’ll be safer here than anywhere else you can think of parking her, Jack. By the way, we heard about Cy Foster. Too bad, just too bad.”

  “You’re right,” said Jack. “If she’s at home, it’s too high a risk. Your guys’ll do a great job. Thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to say goodnight to my wife, and then Malky and I have some work to do.”

  Jack entered the room and approached the bed. May-Ling was awake. He touched her hand. “I love you,” he said. “You’re the most precious thing in my life. Bob Granger’s men are here. You’ll be well protected,” he said.

  Her lips moved without sound as she mouthed the words, “I love you, too.”

  He made to leave and her mouth moved silently again, “Get him, Jack. Get him.”

  CHAPTER 31

  His explosives expertise would serve him little in El Paso-Juarez. The fall-back planning required more time. Rikko Duval needed information and a weapon.

  The local television channel in his room carried the news of the murders of the DEA operatives at the airport earlier in the day. Reports assumed drug gang involvement, which surprised nobody in this city. A brief conversation with the Hotel Bravo’s concierge gave him the name of a street with bars where the journalist fraternity shaped their stories and swapped gossip. A good place to start.

  The first bar held a handful of patrons. The lack of buzz told Duval this was unlikely to help him. The second wasn’t much better. The next one was busy. Most of the tables were occupied and a few men chatted at the bar counter. Better. At the end of the counter a free seat beckoned, adjacent to a squat, middle-aged customer deep in conversation with his companion, his junior by some years. The younger man listened with a frown on his face. Duval ordered a cola. The news program on the screen above the bartender’s head was audible, and most of the men at the counter peered at the set and talked among themselves. The prime item covered the airport attack.

  “Broad daylight shooting, eh? Takes some nerve,” Duval said to the server, loud enough to be picked up by his chatting neighbours. The nearest man turned to see who was speaking.

  “Evening, gentlemen.” He nodded to the drinkers. “I came in at the airport today, didn’t catch any of that,” he said.

  “Yeah. It all happened in minutes. Some gringos pissed off the local boys,” said the older man, tipping his glass toward the barman.

  “Buy you a drink, guys?” asked Duval.

  “Never say no, thanks. You been in here before?”

  “No. First time in this neck of the woods. I’m only here for a few days, insurance work. Yourselves?”

  “I’m Sanchez. Pedro here and me, we work for the newspaper down the street. We cover everything from the baseball season, to politics, to the crime beat. And there’s plenty of that to keep us going, Senor. Pedro’s my brother’s son. I’m teaching him the ropes.”

  The nephew nodded and smiled at Duval.

  “Good to meet you both. I suppose the police will never find out who did this stuff, eh?”

  “Word is on the street already, my friend. Nothing stays quiet in this city for long. Manuel Estrada’s getting the credit for it.”

  Sanchez smiled and tapped his glass against Duval’s.

  “Salud.”

  “Credit? Surely whoever did it wants to be invisible?”

  “Senor, this is El Paso-Juarez. The cartels run this city. Money talks louder than the law. Most of the time, money is the law. Word is Estrada’s holding a huge garden party tomorrow for his wife’s birthday. You can bet all the top local officials, including the cops, are invited. And they’ll be there.”

  “Are the press invited, too?”

  “Some will be there, Senor. The puppets. I’m not on that exalted list,” said Sanchez, downing his drink in one shot.

  “Another round please, barman,” said Duval, pushing his glass across the counter. The journalists didn’t resist the offered drinks.

  Two hours later, the pressmen were ready to go home to sleep off the effects of the flow of free drinks.
In the meantime, their new friend had casually milked them of all the information he needed.

  According to Sanchez, the hacienda for the birthday party the next day was near the edge of the city, halfway on the route toward the airport. Duval recalled it well from his drive from the airport to the hotel. A small, wooded hill overlooked the sprawling gardens. The party would kick off with a typical, massive lunch. Musicians and liquor would be in steady supply with revels in full swing by mid-evening and continue well into the following morning.

  The journalists lumbered into a taxi outside the bar and disappeared into the darkened night. Duval walked for a few streets and found what he was looking for. In the poorer quarters of the city, pawnshops proliferated; open all hours of the day and night. These shops paid no heed to registration laws for the sale and purchase of weapons. The range of high-powered rifles available would not have been out of place in an armoury.

  The owner of the outlet smelled of alcohol and cheap tobacco. He asked no questions of Duval as a bunch of dollars changed hands. The marksman left the pawnshop with his weapon and ammunition, wrapped in an anonymous cardboard box. A good night’s work. One more piece of business remained, which he’d look after early next day.

  Scheduled daily departure flights from El Paso included a connection to Los Angeles, leaving soon after ten in the evening. After breakfast, Duval confirmed his seat for the flight. Check-in time allowed was forty-five minutes. With only hand luggage that would pose no problem.

  He rented a grey, nondescript Ford from the local car hire, paying for three days. His reconnaissance of the area around the hacienda didn’t take long. The hillside gave unobstructed views across the surrounding gardens. From no more than a hundred and fifty metres, everything happening at the birthday party would be clear. Trees near the crest of the bank provided enough cover. This would do. He drove a short distance away to find a secluded area to test the rifle sight’s calibration. A few shots at a target a couple of hundred metres away told him he needed only a marginal adjustment.

  Duval returned to Hotel Bravo around three o’clock. His knee hurt. Damn, he had forgotten to bring his medicines with him. The pharmacy along the street provided painkillers and he settled down to rest for the afternoon. The television showed again the aftermath at the scene of the airport shooting, blatantly followed by the news of Estrada’s party later in the day. No-one had claimed responsibility for the murders. The head of the local police force told the cameras investigations were underway, but currently had no clues pointing toward the perpetrators. He was a prime guest at the birthday function.

  The trestle tables stretched in several rows around the huge garden. A professional kitchen team hired to supply his guests with adequate food and drink worked hard to please Estrada. They had catered here for previous parties. The Mexican’s reputation as a generous tipper for looking after his family and friends was incentive to provide the best possible service. The downside incentive was not so pleasant.

  Cars began to arrive around midday, valet-parked outside the hacienda by half a dozen of his own people. Armed security with weapons visible surprised no-one. Many of the invited assembly brought their own personal bodyguards. This was El Paso-Juarez.

  A platform offered ample room for the band, one of the best local combos. In front of the stage, the dancing surface covered several dozen square metres. Estrada’s wife loved flowers and large clusters of flora decked the tables and walls of the buildings within the compound. Waiters greeted guests on arrival with trays of champagne and whatever other drinks they preferred. Today marked a special, family day each year, where the drugs boss showed the world what a loving, caring husband and father he was. Lunch started a couple of hours after noon, and would run on for hours. As mine host, Estrada made constant visits to each table, being photographed with his friends and their families. This was as much business as pleasure in this city’s web of connections. The noise grew louder as the day progressed. Many of the guests were already drunk. Laughter and music filled the garden. Children squealed, playing around their parents. The heat of the sun receded in the late afternoon. By seven-thirty, the musicians introduced dance music to the repertoire, but nobody approached the dance floor. Except Manuel Estrada. Everyone knew the annual routine.

  He stepped onto the stage and took a microphone from the band, which had stopped playing.

  “My dear amigos. I want to extend my thanks to all of you for coming to the birthday celebrations of my beloved wife, Isabella. Our family is your family, my house is your house, my home is your home. My dear Isabella graces my life and has given me our five beautiful children. She is the one who holds our family in her wonderful hands, and we hold her in our hearts. I am a blessed man. Come here, my dear.”

  Isabella smiled and joined her husband on the platform. A waiter offered a tray with two glasses of champagne.

  “I give you a toast to the most lovely woman and the best wife in the world. My dear Isabella.”

  The crowd roared back, “To Isabella.”

  Loud applause followed, while several of the other ladies in the garden smiled inwardly, remembering when Manuel Estrada was alone with each of them, dear Isabella was furthest from his thoughts.

  With a kiss for his wife and an expansive wave of his arms, he called to the bandleader, “Maestro, music for dancing, if you please.”

  In moments, the floor filled. The second part of the day had begun.

  The dusk segued into darkness around the hacienda, contrasting the bright lights in the garden. Duval picked his spot between two bushes and prepared the rifle sights. There would only be time for one shot. He panned the weapon across the festivities, pleased with the focus on his purchase. The music was in full swing and the dancing area packed with men, women and children. The large frame of Manuel Estrada careened in and out of a mass of revellers as he linked arms with several men and women with gusto in a lively conga. With too much movement for a clean shot, the hitman waited. Finally, his target mopped his brow and walked toward a table at the edge of the dance floor. He sat down beside a pretty girl in her teens and kissed her gently on the forehead. She smiled and offered a half-full glass to Estrada. Duval squeezed the trigger and watched for the Mexican to fall. A split second before he fired, the glass slipped from his prey’s hand. Manuel Estrada leaned forward to see where the glass had fallen. That split-second spared his life, but not that of his eldest daughter who had given the glass to her father moments before. The bullet intended for her father pierced the neck of the girl, killing her instantly.

  “Damn,” muttered Duval. The noise of the band covered the rifle shot from that distance, and continued until replaced with screaming as people saw the blood pumping onto the daughter’s party dress. A second shot was out of the question. In seconds, the gunman retraced his steps to the Ford and drove away toward the airport. Traffic was light. Not enough time had passed to expect any police sirens. Duval stopped in a lay-by after five minutes and threw the cloth-wrapped weapon far into the woods by the roadside. Ten minutes later, he presented his flight ticket in exchange for a boarding pass and moved to the departure gate.

  Back at the hacienda, a half-drunk Chief of Police attempted to bring some order into the mayhem. His thought processes weren’t sharp enough to order an immediate check on outgoing flights. When the squad cars arrived at the airport an hour later, Rikko Duval was five miles above the ground on his way to Los Angeles.

  CHAPTER 32

  The media had a field day, both locally and internationally. Closer to home, journalists were guarded in reports linking the deaths of Cy Foster and his colleagues with the murder of Manuel Estrada’s eldest daughter. Internationally, no such inhibitions cramped the stories. Rumours of DEA revenge for the killing of three of their own mingled with accounts leaked by rival gangs claiming credit for the hit. Three days after the shooting, the funeral attracted hundreds of mourners. Estrada’s grief hadn’t dulled his brain. He heard the opinions of who was responsible. He
discounted all of them. Much as the DEA was at war with all the cartels, it didn’t include assassinations like these. Takedowns, yes, but not measured targeting as this had been, with so many dignitaries present, including high-ranking, law enforcement personnel. For all the baying from his competition he sensed in his gut they didn’t have the cojones for such an outrageous act. That left international competition. Ahmed Fadi. He’d make that snivelling bastard suffer for this.

  In Istanbul, the object of his growing desire for revenge philosophically accepted the accidental killing of Estrada’s daughter as a blip. Collateral damage.

  “There’ll be other opportunities to take him out,” he told Duval on the international line.

  “Don’t underestimate him,” said the assassin. “I agree he’s a bit crazy, but he’s not stupid. He’s not likely to react immediately. He’ll think this through, and I’ve no doubt he’ll figure you’re responsible. I’m not the only person for hire in this market. Apart from sending his own people after you, he could engage professionals. It’s time to be careful until we get another shot at him.”

  “Sound advice, my friend. Let me think about it and I’ll be in touch again soon.”

  Rikko Duval heard the line go dead. The missed hit in El Paso-Juarez was just one of those bad days at the office. A lifetime of being careful dictated most actions have counter-actions. He had to make some arrangements. He dialled another number and a polished voice sounded on the other end.

  “Good afternoon. This is the general manager, Reliance Bank in Gibraltar. How may I help you?”

  “This is Robert Cavendish. I’d like to take some of your time tomorrow afternoon around three to review my portfolio with you and to make some money transfers. Will you be free?”

  “Of course, Mister Cavendish. It’ll be my pleasure. See you tomorrow,” he said, reaching for the embossed business card with the Interpol chief’s number.