Sole Survivor

  As for the legal transfer of the business, Elizondo provided documents with Ortega’s signature. Although Ortega never signed the papers, no one questioned the perfect counterfeits. Signed and notarized by an attorney, they transferred ownership to Moya with no inheritance or distribution provided for Ortega’s family.

  That matter settled, Moya settled in to become the suspected but unproven drug lord of Atlanta with tendril-like operations extending throughout the Southeast and up the east coast. Calm settled in over the city’s drug trade as he prepared to complete the assignment Garza had given him.

  There were two others on the list to be eliminated. Like it or not, Moya knew he had to take care of it. Bebé’s patience would end at some point, and he did not want his name added to the list.

  Luis Acero was in hiding, and the detective had disappeared from the police department and not returned to the house where they had murdered his family. Moya had his people scouring the city to find them, but the waiting was making him a nervous wreck.

  Moya flipped the light switch to the right of the door. The bright overhead fluorescents made him squint as he walked to the small office that was now his. He pushed the door open and froze.

  Maria Valdes, the night manager who had closed that evening and would have been the last to leave, sat behind his desk. Eyes wide, hands and mouth bound with duct tape, she stared at Moya.

  Her eyes cut to the left. Moya turned to follow her stare, then crumpled to the floor. His head throbbed. Lightning flashed through his brain. The blue steel of the pistol had opened a gash over his right eye.

  Stunned, he squinted up through the blood flowing into his eyes and mumbled, “What …”

  The man standing over him wore black gloves and a ski mask. He knelt and put a knee on his chest, wrapping Moya’s feet and hands together with the same roll of duct tape he had used on Maria.

  As Moya lay helpless on the floor, the man in the ski mask lifted Maria from the chair, hefting her over his shoulder. She whimpered through the duct tape as he carried her helpless through the back of the building to a storage closet.

  After lowering her to the floor in the closet, he raised a single finger to his lips telling her to remain silent.

  “Silencio. No te haré daño. Quédate aquí. No hagas sonido.” Silence. I won’t hurt you. Stay here. Make no sound.

  Maria Valdes nodded, eyes wide but slightly less frightened. The door closed, leaving her in the dark.

  She listened to his footsteps recede toward the office and forced herself to remain silent. The gringo spoke with an accent, but his voice was not threatening. Perhaps, he spoke honestly and would not harm her. His words and voice sounded truthful, but who could ever tell. She prayed to the Virgin of Guadalupe to save her.

  The man in the ski mask returned to the office to find Esteban Moya trying to scramble along the floor like an inchworm, working his way toward the door. He laughed and stood in the doorway, blocking his path. Moya stopped, rolled on his back, and looked up at his captor. He panted from the exertion of squirming along the floor.

  “Who the fuck you think you are? Do you know who I am?”

  “I do.” The man nodded, his eyes alive and intent behind the black ski mask.

  “You’re a dead man!” Moya sputtered.

  “Eventually,” the masked man said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  He reached down and jerked the bound man up by the shoulders. Moya kicked as the man dragged him to the chair behind the desk, and shoved him down into it. He pulled the front of Moya’s shirt up, wiping his face with it to clear the blood from his eyes.

  Turning away, he pulled the ski mask from his head and sat in a chair across from the desk. It was the chair Garza had occupied on the night of Ortega’s murder.

  Moya’s eyes widened. “You!”

  “Me,” John Sole agreed, nodding.

  “You … you’ll go to prison for this!”

  “That’s a possibility, but don’t worry about me.” Sole smiled. “You should worry about what is going to happen to you.”

  “What? You think you can frighten me with your threats like that woman.” Moya grimaced in defiance, shaking his head, his damp hair swinging across his forehead. “That’s not so easy. I’m no wetback. You can’t force me to say anything. It’s the law!”

  “Is that a fact?” Sole pointed the pistol at Moya.

  “Bullshit! You’re a cop … just trying to scare the shit out of me!”

  “Is it working?”

  “Fuck no. Who you think you’re dealing …”

  The pistol roared. Moya grunted and sank back into the leather chair.

  Then he shrieked. “You shot me! You fucking shot me!” He looked down at the blood streaming down his left arm. “I’ll have you in prison for that!”

  “Had to get your attention.” Sole’s voice was mild as if they were chatting about the weather. “Do I have it?”

  “Fuck you!”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Sole lowered the pistol. “Who was there?”

  “Where?”

  Sole raised the pistol, pointing it at Moya’s right arm. “That night.”

  “Which night?”

  There was no escape now for Moya. Luis Acero had pointed the finger at him as one of the killers, and Tully Sams confirmed Moya was not on the Sara Jane as expected the night of the murders.

  The pistol roared again. Moya shrieked louder. More blood dripped to the floor.

  “You’re fucking crazy, man!”

  “Don’t play games, Esteban. You won’t like the outcome. I’ll just keep putting holes in your body parts.” He lowered the pistol, pointing it at Moya’s groin. “All the parts until you beg me to stop and start talking.”

  Moya was breathing hard now, his face twisted in pain. “I need help … medical attention … goddamit, it hurts!”

  “Soon. Tell me what I want to know.”

  “I don’t …” Moya shook his head then stopped as Sole raised the pistol again.

  “You do. You have the name. You weren’t out on the trawler, or I would have arrested you then. You were there, in my home. You murdered my wife and children and my partner.”

  Sole locked the pain and memories deep inside where they wouldn’t be dirtied by what he was doing. He replaced them with something else, deadly and determined.

  “All right.” Moya nodded sweat streaming down his face. “Yes, I was there, but I didn’t do anything. You got to believe that. I just …”

  “Stood there while someone cut my children’s throats?”

  “Okay … okay.” Moya spit the words out rapid fire. “I get it. This looks bad, but …”

  “Looks bad!” Sole hissed, fire in his eyes.

  “You don’t understand. There wasn’t anything I could do,” Moya whimpered through the pain. “He would have killed me.”

  “Who?” Sole thundered.

  “If I tell you, they will kill me … my family … everyone.”

  “And if you don’t, what do you think I will do?”

  Moya stared down the barrel of the pistol, the black hole of the bore ready to spit fire and send a bullet crashing through the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” He clenched his eyes shut, his face twisted with the pain and loss of blood. “His name is Garza … Alejandro Garza.”

  “Who sent him?”

  “The Cartel … Los Salvajes.”

  “Who? Who sent him from the cartel?”

  “A man … they call him Bebé Elizondo.”

  “Good.” Sole nodded. “Where are they?”

  “Shit! How the fuck do I know? Mexico somewhere. They don’t give their address to someone like me. I do what I’m told, that’s all.”

  “Okay, Mexico somewhere.” Sole nodded. “I believe you.”

  He lifted the pistol. His eyes told Moya what would come next.

  “You said you would get me help!”

  “I am.” Sole aimed at the spot just above Moya’s nose.

  “You shouldn’t
be here!” Moya snarled, a trapped animal, lashing out when it realizes there is no hope. “You should have been there … dead with the others! Now, look at me! Look what you’ve done.” He looked down at his mangled, bloody body, his voice rising to a shriek. “You were supposed to die with them. You shouldn’t have survived! You should be dead!”

  “Yes, I survived.” Sole shook his head. “You won’t.”

  He squeezed the pistol’s trigger. As promised, Esteban Moya’s suffering ended.

  Outside, he stood for a moment looking up at the night sky. A shooting star streaked past the crescent moon. A sultry breeze ruffled his hair, carrying the fragrance of a nearby magnolia in bloom. He was oblivious.

  John Sole had passed through a door and closed it firmly behind him. Life was forever changed. He was no longer a police officer, no longer a father, no longer a husband, no longer a son. He was alone, the sole survivor of that other life.

  62.

  Relief

  Maria Valdes sat in the dark, sobbing and repeating her prayers. Her muscles twitched, straining against the tape binding her every time the thunder of a gunshot reverberated through the closet door.

  She prayed that it would end. Then it did. There was a final roar, and a minute later she heard the rear door open and close. She prayed the unknown man in the ski mask was gone.

  When employees arrived and began preparations for the day’s menu, they heard sounds from the back storage closet. They were as startled as Maria was relieved when they released her from the closet and called the police. The discovery of Esteban Moya’s body, still bound with duct tape and seated in the chair behind the desk sent several scurrying away before the police arrived. There would be questions, and answering questions was dangerous.

  Maria remained and told the story of the masked man who had bound her and locked her up before putting a bullet hole through the head of the new owner of Taqueria Ortega. The detectives who responded to the scene conferred with each other and agreed that Esteban Moya’s death was most likely part of an ongoing feud between rival crime factions—a feud that, in their minds, resulted in the disappearance and probable death of Bautista Ortega.

  The killer left no evidence behind, and they had little expectation of ever solving the murder. The weeks passed, and the investigation went to the back burner as detectives moved on to other more pressing cases, involving more sympathetic victims.

  You never knew. One day a break in another case might point at a suspect in the murder, or it might never be solved and end up in the cold case file. The general consensus among the detectives was that Esteban Moya’s death was more relief than a concern.

  63.

  Unfinished Business

  “It is good to have you home.” Bebé Elizondo embraced Alejandro Garza the way he might a long-lost brother as he stepped through the front door of the hacienda. “We have missed you.”

  Garza nodded. “It is good to be home.”

  “All went well? Our problems resolved … the message sent to the gringos?” Bebé motioned his lieutenant to a seat in his office.

  “In part,” Garza replied truthfully.

  “How so?”

  “One was not present. We could not complete the assignment as you directed.”

  Elizondo’s eyes narrowed, unaccustomed to failure from Garza. “Explain,” he said, his tone harsher than Garza had experienced in the past.

  “The detective … his name is John Sole. He was not home. We had no choice but to eliminate the other targets in the house, but he still lives. I have given orders to Moya to eliminate him as soon as he returns.”

  “Can we trust Moya to carry out your instructions?” Elizondo asked, sitting back in his chair to consider the report.

  “Yes. He wants to please you more than anything else.”

  “I’m sure he does.” Elizondo smiled. “And no doubt, you emphasized the importance of pleasing me.”

  “I did.” Garza nodded, completing his report as always, concise and direct.

  He refrained from reminding Elizondo that he had tried to warn him about the dangers of acting in haste without consideration of the consequences. American law enforcement would not be intimidated, and most could not be bought. A student of history, Garza was reminded of the words Japanese Admiral Yamamoto uttered after the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor.

  “I fear all we have done is to awaken a sleeping giant and fill him with a terrible resolve.”

  Garza wondered about the sleeping giant they may have awakened. Like Yamamoto, he understood that once committed to such actions, there could be no going back.

  Unconcerned with sleeping giants, Bebé made plans for continued shipments into the United States. Alternate methods would take his products into the North American narcotics market.

  There seemed no end to the stream of proposals. Each claimed they had a better way to get the shipments to the north, eager for a share of the enormous profits.

  Two weeks had passed when Garza came to the hacienda for lunch with Elizondo. They sat in the dining room alone, the children at school, Sofia and her kitchen staff withdrawing to allow the men to discuss business in private.

  “I have news,” Garza said without preamble.

  “Yes?” Bebé smiled as he rolled a tortilla to dip into the fragrant sopa Sofia had prepared for them. “Speak.”

  “Moya is dead.”

  Elizondo’s hand halted midway to his mouth with the tortilla. Then he shrugged. Death was part of their business. “That is unfortunate. Do we have another to replace him?”

  “There is always another,” Garza said. “The problem is that his work remains unfinished.”

  “Unfinished? You mean …”

  “Yes. The detective was not killed. John Sole lives. The other, la rata, is in hiding.”

  “Very fortunate for this detective, but temporary. As for the rat, it is only a matter of time before he is found.” Elizondo dropped the tortilla and folded his hands on the table, considering this news. “Do we know who killed Moya? This cannot go unanswered.”

  “No.” Garza shook his head. “There is no word, and our contacts tell us the police have no leads.”

  “All right. Have our people identify the killer. When they do …” Elizondo shrugged. “Do what must be done.”

  “Yes.” Garza nodded.

  Elizondo noted Garza’s expression. “I know you did not agree with me about taking action, making a point to the Americans.”

  “I did not,” Garza said.

  “Yet, you perform your assignments to perfection and without question. I am fortunate to have one as loyal as you at my side.” Elizondo thought for a moment. “You may have been correct, my friend. I allowed my emotions to overcome my reason. That is never a good thing. Not in our business.”

  Out of respect, Garza made no response. Bebé apologized in his own way.

  “So, what do you recommend now? Elizondo continued.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Because you are displeased?”

  “Not at all.” Garza gave a slight shake of his head. “You ask what we should do about Moya’s death and the detective. I say we should do nothing. Continue making your arrangements for shipments to the north. Conduct business as usual.”

  “And you?” Bebé asked.

  “I will watch. When the time is right, I will handle our unfinished business.”

  64.

  Only Justice

  They hung suspended before him. Shaye, Samantha, Bobby, Travis. Images in his mind, so clear, so real, sometimes it seemed he could reach out and touch them. But they were just images, memories burned into the neurons in his brain, nothing more.

  He swiveled on the bar stool. The images followed. He lifted the glass from the bar’s sticky surface and drank the cleansing, burning liquid. The images remained but not so clear. He sipped again and again, until they blurred.

  Drinking them away, made him feel guilty. He sipped again, and the guilt melted away too. The alcoh
ol settled like a glowing ember in the center of his chest, searing away the memories, turning them to ash for a while.

  He was moving again now, restless. Moving was best.

  He roamed through small towns and big cities, country roads and barren desert. Nameless towns and blank faces were his world. He was one with the teeming humanity that surrounded him, losing his identity but finding his reason to continue.

  John Sole became another face in the crowd, an every-man and a no-man all in one, anonymous and alone. Inside, an invisible fire burned, scorching away his former life until only the flames remained, searing hot and dangerous.

  He understood now. The lines between good and evil Captain Pointer spoke of didn’t exist, not really. Good and evil tumbled through the world together like leaves tossed on a cold wind. They blew through lives randomly. Avoiding them was like trying to avoid the wind. It was everywhere.

  You could take shelter for a time, but as soon as you stepped out, the wind would smack you in the face. If it was a good wind, you were lucky. If it was an evil one … well, those were the breaks. No, there were no lines. There was only justice.

  For John Sole it was even simpler than that. One day, he would find them, or they would find him.

  End of Book 1

  Thanks for reading Sole Survivor. Book 2 of the Sole Justice Series is coming soon.

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  Ready for another suspense series? Check out the Blue Eyes Series, and don’t be fooled by the name. On the run from her past, Alice Trent lives life on her own terms.