by Peter Nealen
“He won't,” Renton said. “Because he knows that I've got the contacts and the information to tear The Network apart if he pisses me off.” He stabbed a finger at Janson. “Janson, you should get up, very slowly, and leave. Take Fitch's team with you. Now.”
Apparently realizing that I was dead serious about snatching the life out of him if he moved wrong, slowly placed his palms on the table and stood up. “You're making a mistake,” he said to Renton.
“You and your boss already made the mistake,” Renton snapped. “Get. Out.”
As he turned to leave, Renton stopped him with another word. “Janson. Tell Sherman that there will be a reckoning for this. I'll make sure of it. And if a finger is lifted against Praetorian Solutions or any of its people, I don't give a fuck by who, I'll bring your world to an abrupt and painful end.”
Janson didn't look at him, but simply nodded, and, stiffly, walked out of the bar.
Renton slumped back in his seat, a dead look on his face. He looked beaten. It was the most genuine, human expression I'd ever seen on him. Usually the man was preternaturally composed. “Damn,” was all he said at first.
“Who's Sherman?” Jim asked.
“A retired Colonel turned subject-matter-expert and behind-the-scenes mover and shaker,” Mia said. “He's an asshole, but he knew enough of the right people and spouted the right speeches to get brought into The Network.” She grimaced. “Apparently, he hasn't changed his colors at all.”
“Wait, Alan Sherman?” Jim asked. “The talking head on Fox?”
“The same,” Renton said heavily. “He brought enough to the table for the inner circle to bring him in, in spite of my protests at the time.” He looked up at me. “You have my word, Jeff. I had no idea what Sherman was playing at, and I was not read in on the suspicions that the target was a smokescreen.”
“Had you heard the speculation?” I asked him.
“Of course I had,” he said. “Everyone had.”
“Then you should have said so,” I said, holstering my pistol and standing up. “We could have used that information going in.” I looked him in the eye. “You might be trustworthy. You might not. But now I'm pretty sure that your organization isn't. I was afraid of that in Iraq last year. I'm not saying we won't work with you, but from now on, if there's a job you want us to do, you give us the rough parameters and we'll develop it ourselves. There will be no communication after that unless we need information from you. If it fails the smell test, we call it off. Understood?”
He nodded, his eyes on the table instead of me. “Understood. For what it's worth, it's what I'd do in your shoes.”
“Glad to hear it.” Jim and I walked away from the table, making for the exit. I reached for my phone to call Eddie, intending to make sure that Janson and his goons had cleared off.
“Jeff,” Mia said from behind me. I turned to see she had followed. She stepped up to me and slipped a card into my shirt pocket. “My contact info,” she explained. “I think we worked well together. I'd like to get a chance to do it again. Keep in touch.” She smiled dazzlingly. “Maybe next time you can take me to a fancy hotel for real.” Apparently satisfied with having the last word, she turned and swayed back toward Renton's table.
“Yep,” I muttered as we turned back to the door, “that woman's trouble.”
Looking down on The Ranch from up on the ridge, about five miles away, I could almost forget everything that had happened in the last few months. For the moment, it was just me and the wilderness. The only sound was the whisper of the wind in the treetops. As far as I could tell, I was the only soul for at least a mile.
Beep, beep. Fuck. Tom had insisted that anyone leaving The Ranch have some form of comms on them, just in case. It was good thinking, given what had gone down, but damned if it didn't still feel like having an electronic leash. I just wanted to be out in the mountains and the woods, damn it, even if the ghosts made sure I wasn't ever alone.
I didn't recognize the number when I pulled the sat phone out of my pack. Frowning, I answered it anyway. “What?”
“Jeff, would you meet me at Ray's in Powell in a couple of hours?” the voice on the other end said. “And bring James with you, if you would.” The voice sounded familiar.
“Gray,” I said.
He didn't deny it, but just said, “Ray's Diner. I'll see you there.” Then he hung up.
I stood up, shaking the kinks out of my legs, and adjusted the big Super Redhawk on my hip. It was mostly for bears up there, but it would do a number on a man, too. I slung my pack and headed down the mountain, what little peace I'd managed to find shattered.
Ray's was a local eatery and watering hole, sitting right on the highway, across from the train tracks and the grain elevators. It was nicer than Stoney's, but only by degrees. It was brighter, for one thing; it was a diner in front, with the bar in the back.
Jim and I walked in and made our way toward the back. I had my gun hand hooked on my belt, in such a way that it would be very easy to sweep my shirt aside and draw. Sure, we were in a small town in rural Wyoming, and the cartels didn't have a huge reach in the Mountain States in the first place, but complacency is never a good idea, especially when you've just pissed off half the underworld and the Chinese, for fuck's sake.
Gray was waiting in a booth at the back, dressed as a hiker. Gone was the soft-clothed aficionado of fine dining in Panama. He now appeared to be a seasoned outdoorsman, enjoying a meal before heading into Yellowstone. “Gentlemen,” he greeted us with a smile. “Please, sit down. Glad you could make it.”
“Given the circumstances, your invitation was quite...compelling,” I said, as I slid into the booth across from him. Jim snagged a chair from a nearby table, flipped it around, and sat at the end of the table. Neither of us would be trapped in the booth. It was already bad enough that Gray had the seat facing the door. “So, what do you want?”
“Just to talk,” he said, forking a piece of ham into his mouth. “You gentlemen have made one hell of an entrance into my world.”
“Not exactly our choice,” I said.
“No, but given the alternatives, you handled it well. Savagery often goes farther than subtlety in this realm of endeavor.” He looked me in the eye. “You know there's no going back, don't you?”
I chuckled bleakly. “There hasn't been any going back since Somalia,” I said. I didn't know if he knew enough about us to know what I was talking about, and I didn't care. “I think we're getting used to it.”
“Good.” He took a sip of his drink. “The statement has been made, and a lot of people are listening who didn't even know you existed a year ago. The Chinese have apparently decided to scrub the Fusang Group from reality; there are almost no traces left.”
“But they'll try again,” I said. It wasn't a question.
“Of course they will,” he said. “There's too much money at stake, not to mention the strategic value of the ports and resources in Mexico and Central America. Why do you think they snatched up the operations of the Panama Canal? It's the nature of the game, Jeff.”
“The game?” I asked tiredly. “Is that what this is to you?”
His expression went momentarily cold. “I've been at this since you were a teenager, Mr. Stone. I know this world, and I know how it works. I've put more people in the ground than you've probably ever known. Some of them I cared a great deal about, so you can shove your self-righteousness about my choice of words.”
As I met his eyes, I once again was reminded just how dangerous this little, balding man really was. I sighed. “It just seems like we lost a lot and killed an awful lot of people, for no permanent solution.”
“Permanent solutions are mushroom clouds,” he said gravely. “This kind of nasty business is the only alternative. Wars, assassinations, intrigue, shifting alliances and momentary advantages. Trying to ride the ebb and flow, and hoping to stay afloat long enough to make a little difference somewhere.” He leaned back in his seat, wiping his mouth with his napkin.
“None of these situations have simple solutions, either overseas or here at home. Don't expect to be able to bludgeon your way to peace anytime soon.”
“So what did we accomplish?” I asked wearily.
“You may have kept things from getting worse in Mexico for a little while,” he said. “You may have saved some lives. You put some very unscrupulous people on the back foot for a change. You may even have opened the door for some better people to take action. Only now you need to be prepared for what comes next.
“Power is already shifting. Some alliances are coming apart, and others are forming. If you relax too much now, you're going to be caught flat-footed when the response comes. You need to start preparing now; bolster your intelligence gathering and analysis capability, work on expanding your assets, and find more shooters. They'll need to be able to navigate intrigue just as well as a firefight, but somehow I doubt you need me to tell you that.” He dug out his wallet and put a couple of twenties on the table, then handed me a card. It had several email addresses and passwords on it. “Don't send emails; save them in the draft folder. I'll get them. If you need help, that's the best way to ask for it.” He walked around Jim and headed for the exit.
“Gray,” I called, leaning out of the booth. He turned to look back at me. “Why get involved? What do you get out of this?”
He smiled enigmatically. “I may have interests that have been advanced in the background of what's been going on. Like I said before, everyone has their own agenda. On the other hand, perhaps an old vigilante turned outlaw saw something of a chance to make the difference he hoped to, many, many years ago.” He put his ball cap on. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Author's Note
This book grew out of three ideas. One, after Alone and Unafraid came awfully close to colliding with the real events happening in Iraq in 2014, I decided that I needed to get out of the Middle East for a bit. I'd thought of doing a book set in Mexico for a while. Two, studying guerrilla warfare and terrorism has led me down the rabbit hole of what “globalization” really means, and it's real repercussions are far greater than outsourced jobs and free trade agreements. I've tried, in a small way, to illustrate just how extensive the globally interconnected world of crime, terrorism, and geopolitics really is. Third, the focus on the Middle East has, in recent years, led to Latin America largely being ignored, except as a possible vector for Islamic terrorists to attack the US. There are far greater problems in Latin America to be addressed than transient Al Qaeda terrorists.
Even more so than other volumes in this series, many of the organizations dealt with directly are fictional. Los Hijos de la Muerte does not exist, at least to my knowledge. Neither does the Fusang Group. However, the atomization of the Sinaloa Cartel (and all of the other cartels, for that matter), is very real. So is the cult of Santa Muerte. So is the Chinese involvement in buying stolen natural resources from the cartels. Prior to its disintegration, the Caballeros Templarios Cartel was selling thousands of tons of iron ore to the Chinese through the port of Lazaro Cardenas. Los Zetas made more money in 2013 by stealing oil from Pemex, the Mexican state-owned oil company, than they did by dealing drugs.
As much as some people have commented on the complexity of this series, I have actually had to try and simplify the situation in Mexico and Central America greatly in the course of this book. As of 2012, there were estimated to be somewhere close to 98 different drug-trafficking organizations in Mexico. It's likely gotten even more pronounced as the trend of atomization continues.
Table of Contents
This is a work of fiction. Characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination.&n...
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