by Rick Mofina
Table of Contents
Three Bullets To Queensland
Author’s Note
IN DESPERATION (Excerpt)
The Story Behind IN DESPERATION
About the Author
Praise for Rick Mofina’s books
For more information please visit
THREE BULLETS
TO
QUEENSLAND
RICK MOFINA
Three Bullets To Queensland
Rick Mofina
Kindle Edition
Copyright 2011 Rick Mofina
ISBN: 978-0-9877080-7-6
This e-book is intended for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
e-Formatting provided by Carrick Publishing
Copyright © 2011 by Rick Mofina
Copyright © 2008 by Rick Mofina
Cover photo credit: Richard Holt, used with kind permission
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the creation of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Also by Rick Mofina
IN DESPERATION
THE PANIC ZONE
VENGEANCE ROAD
SIX SECONDS
Other books by Rick Mofina
A PERFECT GRAVE
EVERY FEAR
THE DYING HOUR
BE MINE
NO WAY BACK
BLOOD OF OTHERS
COLD FEAR
IF ANGELS FALL
Three Bullets To Queensland
By
Rick Mofina
The Gold Coast. Australia
Keep your eyes on the prize.
Ike Decker set aside his brochure for Queensland, slammed a magazine into his Smith & Wesson semi-auto, holstered it under his big Hawaiian shirt and stepped from his rented Taurus parked near a vacant lot some two blocks from his target in Santa Ana, California.
Time to go to work.
Less than two weeks after he had been assigned to the deadly armored car hit in L.A., Decker had a lock on the living suspect, Paco Sanchez. The one who got away with all the cash. About $1.2 million.
Since the heist, Paco had pinballed across East L.A. and the Southland. Decker figured it was a matter of time before Paco came to the home of Sophia Hernandez. She lived with her six-year-old son Felip on the edge of the old Civic Center Barrio in a small bungalow with blistering gray paint and a diseased looking white-picket fence that threatened to fall down.
Paco was a soldier in the Juarez cartel. Early last year, he finished nine months in Orange County for a minor narcotics beef. INS learned Paco was an illegal and was supposed to deport him but he somehow slipped through the cracks.
Four months ago an L.A. County Sheriff caught two rounds in his thigh during an armored car heist shootout in which the suspects used AK-47s. Three of the four suspects involved were killed. The fugitive, according to a latent found on an empty magazine at the scene, was Paco.
Now, after the deadly armored car hit, if any dick had thought to investigate beyond the obvious, they would have learned that Arturo Hernandez, one of the dead suspects, had been Paco's cellmate at OC; and that Arturo had been an OG, with one of Santa Ana’s street gangs and that Arturo was often visited inside by his sister, Sophia Hernandez a hairstylist at the Red Hills Mall east of 55, and that Sophia, as the girls at her hair salon knew, because she taped his picture to the corner of her mirror there, had a thing for Paco Sanchez.
Well, Decker had thought of it and five days and nights of watching Sophia’s house from his rearview mirror, five days and nights of eating drive-thru quesadilla, burritos and drinking cold coffee, while dreaming of his beachfront condo in Australia, had paid off.
Decker saw Paco enter Sophia’s house this afternoon carrying a very large L.A. Lakers sports bag. Moments ago, Sophia left with Felip, who was holding a small gift-wrapped box. Probably going to a birthday party.
Paco was now alone inside.
Once again, Decker had beaten everyone to the target. The FBI and L.A. County had Paco’s name but no clue how to find him. They were lazy-ass bureaucrats who, unlike Decker, lacked incentive. He was not employed by taxpayers. He worked for the armored courier industry, contracted by companies on a case-by-case basis. He was a Special Loss Recovery Agent, with the powers of a private investigator and bounty hunter. Sure, he was only paid $245 a day, plus expenses, but he had incentive: 10 per cent of any amount of lost cargo he recovered. So the way Decker saw it, as he neared Sophia’s pitiful bungalow, Paco Sanchez had his money and it was time to collect.
Salsa music leaked from an open window by a eucalyptus tree hiding the rear corner of the house.
Decker tapped his gun, an old habit from his police days in New York, then quickly scouted the perimeter. No one else around. No problem. He returned to the open window, incredulous that a warrior like Paco, hauling one point two, would come to this shack and leave the window open. Decker held his breath, peering around the window’s edge into a small, empty bedroom.
Godzilla yawned at him from a poster on the wall. Toys were scattered on the floor near a single bed. Must be the kid’s room. Decker heaved himself inside without making a sound. With the music slightly louder now, he unholstered his gun and moved to the bedroom door. It was open. Just a crack.
The other bedroom was neater in a soft way and smelled of perfume. It was empty. So was the living room and kitchen. The music was coming from the bathroom down the hall. Decker inched toward the door, which was partially open. In a heartbeat, he inventoried his view and saw a relaxed foot resting on the side of the tub, next to a chair with an electric fan and a boom box, their long cords winding to outlets above the sink. On the floor next to the tub, a few maps and the unzippered Lakers bag, overflowing with bundles of U.S. currency.
A handgun rested on the edge of the tub.
As the music throbbed, Decker considered the situation. He could not see the person in the tub, or how they were positioned. There was no sound of water splashing. Carefully, he reached into his pocket for a small mirror, inching just inside the room, adjusting it until a man’s face came into view. Sleeping. Hands in the water, away from the gun.
In one swift motion, Decker stepped into the small room, sat on the toilet seat, then trained his gun on Paco’s head. Paco was sleeping. His leathery, creased face was pock-marked under a few week’s growth. His jet black hair was combed straight back. His arms, what Decker could see of them above the bubbles, were webbed with gang and prison tattoos. This hard, wiry young man had to be the brains behind the armored car hit, since he was alive and had the cash. What concerned Decker was that he could not see Paco’s hands under the bubbles and water. Well, he’d have to deal with that soon enough.
“Ola muchacho,” Decker said.
Paco opened his eyes to the muzzle of a 9 mm Smith & Wesson, and something resembling a human behind it.
Decker's nose was crooked from being broken three times. A jagged scar paralleled his jaw line. He was missing his right ear. It was a long story but he'd used his thumbs to gouge the eyes of the man who'd taken it. Decker possessed a shark-toothed mouth that, when he grinned, as he was doing now, made his eyes widen with ferocity. He telegraphed a clear message: I've come from hell to take you back there with me.
A shadow fell over Paco as Decker stood, his six-foot-three-inch-230-pound body filling the small ro
om, absorbing the light, keeping his gun inches from Paco’s face.
“Pick up your gun Paco,” Decker said in Spanish.
Paco did not move but Decker did, like an angry rattler, stepping back to the doorway discharging a round that missed Paco’s head by inches in a deafening explosion sending ceramic shards flying as Decker then stepped to Paco’s rear placing the gun near the back of his head careful not to touch it, “Pick up your fucking piece now.”
The music pounded.
As the victor of many life-and-death standoffs with men younger and quicker than this ugly hombre cop, Paco knew survival was a matter of control. He was not unnerved by the hideous stranger in the homosexual’s shirt with the puzzling tactics. Slowly he picked up his gun, tightening the fingers of his left hand around the grip knowing that for the moment he could not turn to put one in his challenger who stood slightly behind him.
“Fire a round at the doorway,” Decker said.
Paco was analyzing the order, aware Decker’s Smith & Wesson was aimed directly at the rear of his skull.
“Do it, Paco.”
Paco put two loud chest-high rounds out the doorway.
Then nothing. So now what, Paco wondered, still gripping his gun, suddenly curious about the scraping sound on the floor. What was that? It became crystalline to Paco in the final second of his life, which is what it took for Decker to jerk the electrical cords of the boom box and the fan, toppling them into the tub with Paco, sending a double dose of 120-volt current into his body, making it convulse. Paco's gun flew across the room as he gurgled and the bathwater hummed giving bubbly rise to an awful electric smell, then silence. This is how Paco Sanchez, the son of a carpenter from a village in Tlaxcala, in the shadow of Malinche, the sleeping volcano, died in the United States of America, with more than $1 million dollars at his feet.
He was 24 years old.
Decker stared at Paco then at the cash.
Decker smiled.
You know, he thought, maybe he was wrong. Maybe there was less than one point two. Paco must have spent, oh, say two hundred, two hundred fifty thousand, Decker counted and stuffed into the folded cloth bag he’d brought.
After hiding his bag, Decker alerted the FBI. Of course he would explain how he tracked Paco. How the front door was open, how he identified himself at the bathroom door. That Paco refused to surrender and fired twice. He returned fire and Paco must have kicked the fan and radio into the tub causing his electrocution. Decker smiled, he would sleep soundly tonight. For all he needed was one more big recovery, then he could retire.
To the Gold Coast. Queensland.
Beautiful Australia.
The End
Author’s Note
Three Bullets to Queensland is the story of Ike Decker, a Special Loss Recovery Agent, for the armored car industry. Ike has a dream and the only thing in his way to realizing it is Paco Sanchez and $1.2 million in stolen cash.
As a crime reporter, I had covered several armored car heists. I talked with several investigators from the FBI, RCMP and police in the UK, and Australia. I also talked with experts in the industry, the few who were willing to talk. I think that’s what gave me something of a foundation for this story, but the rest is pure fiction.
Three Bullets to Queensland is also included in Dangerous Women & Desperate Men, my small four-story anthology available only as an E-book. The three other stories in the collection are: “Lightning Rider,” “Blood Red Rings,” and, “As Long As We Both Shall Live.” I hope you will consider adding Dangerous Women & Desperate Men to your E-library. You can also obtain each story individually online. Each story has its own spectacular cover and additional content about my work.
If this is your introduction to my writing, you might want to consider longer works of mine that are available in E-format. Some samples are presented in the following pages.
Thank you,
Rick Mofina
-Click to Buy Dangerous Women & Desperate Men at Amazon Kindle-
This book is for
Lou Clancy,
who gave me my first job as a reporter.
IN DESPERATION (Excerpt)
1
DAY 1
Phoenix, Arizona, Mesa Mirage
Cora Martin was propped against two pillows in her bed when she heard a faint noise and put her book down.
Was that Tilly?
Her daughter was asleep down the hall.
No, that sounded like it came from outside.
Cora listened for half a minute. Everything was quiet. She dismissed the noise as a bird or the Bannerman’s darned cat. The clock on Cora’s night table showed the time: 12:23 a.m. She returned to her book. After reading two pages she began drifting off when she heard another strange sound.
Like a soft murmur. This time it came from a far side of the house.
What the heck is that?
Cora got up to investigate, groaning because she had to go to work in a few hours. She needed to get some sleep.
Wearing only a cotton nightshirt, she padded down the hall to Tilly’s door. It was partially open as usual. Her eleven-year-old daughter was asleep on her stomach. One foot had escaped from the sheets. Cora moved to her bedside, adjusted it then took in the room, Tilly’s stuffed toys, posters of teen idols and Cora’s favorite: the drawing of two happy stick figures holding hands, titled: ‘Mommy & Me.’
Cora smiled.
Soft light painted Tilly’s face. She was more than a beautiful child to Cora; she was her lifeline, her hope and her dream.
I love you more than you’ll ever know kiddo.
She stroked Tilly’s hair then went from the room to check the rest of the house. Cora had rented the small, ranch-style bungalow at an affordable rate from a widowed realtor who didn’t hide her maternal fondness for single-working moms and their daughters.
Cora checked the front and back doors then the windows in each room. Nothing was amiss. She reconsidered what she’d heard. It kind of sounded like someone walking around the house.
She thought of calling the police but pushed it aside for now.
Should I go outside?
It would be better to check the alarm system. She went to the console on the wall to inspect the indicator lights. Cora wasn’t afraid to check the yard. This was Mesa Mirage, almost hidden among the larger east valley suburbs of metropolitan Phoenix. Mesa Mirage was a tranquil community of retirement villages and golf courses. It didn’t have its own police department. It was served by the County Sheriff’s Office, supported by volunteer posses and was safe.
Almost crime free.
Everything was in order, according to the light sequence of the alarm system. Good. Cora was thirsty. She’d get a drink in the kitchen then crawl back into bed and sleep.
As she finished her water at the sink she was suddenly haunted by an old secret that kept her hostage to past mistakes. She touched her fingers to her lips. She had forged a good life here and she would do anything to protect Tilly.
Especially from the monsters she’d buried long ago.
Cora’s attention shifted to the knock on her front door. Who could it be at this hour? Moving through the living room, she looked at the window and glimpsed two uniformed officers at the door.
Police?
She opened it.
In the instant Cora absorbed their grave faces, half in shadow under the porch light she was pricked by a twinge of unease.
Something was wrong.
Not the kind of wrong that often accompanies a late night visit by police, but something darker but she had no time to ponder it.
“Sorry to trouble you ma’am,” one of the officers said. “We’re checking on the welfare of residents here. Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Can you tell us how many people are in your home tonight?”
“Just me and my daughter, why?”
As one of the officers took notes, a thousand points of concern flashed across Cora’s mind. She gla
nced to the street for a patrol car, finding a late model sedan. She didn’t think the two men were with the County or the volunteer posse. She scanned their uniforms for a shoulder patch. But since she really never encountered police she was not sure if the officers were from, Mesa, Tempe, Chandler or Gilbert.
“I’m sorry,” Cora said. “Who are you with?”
“We’re with the task force,” the first officer said. “Ma’am, my question was, are there any firearms in your residence?”