Wild Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 6)

by Dustin Stevens

  The name was the Spanish equivalent of John Smith, as vanilla as existed in Hispanic culture.

  Not that Tres had any concern that it would be noticed as a blatant misrepresentation to these men. The closest he could imagine either had ever been to the language would be Taco Bell.

  Just as the deputy had a moment before, the Sheriff shifted his weight. He settled his hands atop either hip, the ring and pinkie fingers on his right hand grazing the top of a Beretta handgun.

  A position Tres didn’t pretend to think was by accident.

  “Your client?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yes,” Tres replied. “Luis Mendoza. Hispanic, twenty-five years of age.”

  Unlike the name Tres had given a moment before, this one was real. Already he knew that the moniker would turn up absolutely nothing, the man from somewhere deep in the heart of Mexico, not a single known tie to put him anywhere near the operation.

  Just as he knew that if things went to plan in the coming hours, who the man was would cease to be of use to anybody moving forward.

  Turning at the waist, the Sheriff shot a glance to his deputy. “Luis Mendoza,” he repeated, the name clearly one he hadn’t heard up to that point, wanting to make sure that it was heard and recorded.

  At least Mendoza had had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

  Shifting back to face forward, Latham said, “And you are, again? I’m sorry, I’m not real good with names.”

  Forcing himself to chuckle, to not let it be known that he saw right through the ruse, Tres took a half-step forward. He thrust his hand across the desk separating them, his features completely neutral.

  One of the reasons he had been chosen for the trip up north was because he was adaptable. He prided himself on being just as good standing out in the forest as he was dressed in a suit and telling some ignorant rubes exactly what they wanted to hear.

  The detour might have been a pain, but it was necessary. He would do what he needed to here before finally turning back south, leaving the cold and the condescension and everything else behind.

  “Juan Perez,” Tres repeated, accepting the man’s reluctant shake and pumping it once before releasing. “I apologize for my delay, but I am based out of Seattle and the trip took longer than expected.”

  Bobbing his head just slightly, the sheriff remained silent. His eyes narrowed as he worked through what was just shared, Tres practically able to see the wheels turning as he tried to make sense of things.

  “Seattle. Right,” the man mumbled, his mind clearly elsewhere before blinking himself back into focus. Once more, he shifted to look back at Ferry before saying, “Absolutely, counselor. We do have Mr. Mendoza in custody right now, be glad to let you speak to him.

  “I just have one question first, and then I’ll take you straight back myself.”

  Having expected as much – if not worse – Tres slowly drew in a breath. He held it, making sure his vitals stayed even, before slowly exhaling, his gaze never wavering.

  “Please.”

  Leaning forward a couple of inches, the man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “He’s been in custody since midnight last night. Hasn’t made a phone call, hasn’t said a word.

  “So how in the world is it you managed to show up here now?”

  Chapter Thirty

  Leaving the house and getting back past the officer standing guard over the front drive hadn’t been easy. Not because the young man and his fledgling facial hair posed any real threat, but because I had to fight to keep my emotions in check, my features neutral as I did so.

  Filled with adrenaline and vitriol, with sudden dawning and the urge to be moving, it was all I could do to step out the front door and not immediately tear down the driveway. To stop to offer thanks for letting me pass and accepting the young man’s condolences once more for my fallen friend.

  To offer one last wave out the window as I departed, finally leaving the Martin home behind.

  Not until I was effectively around the bend, out of sight from the world, did I allow any of the thoughts I had to surface.

  “Ruiz,” I hissed, shoving the word out between my teeth, each syllable laced with venom. With one hand atop the steering wheel, I clenched it tight, veins running across the belly of my forearm.

  Not trusting myself to utter another sound, I knew that a torrent of obscenities would be the next words out of my mouth. Not wanting to give the man even that much, already the taste of his name like acid on my tongue, I instead jerked my attention out the window, watching the thick woods slowly pass by.

  The last time I had heard the name Junior Ruiz was the better part of a decade before. The previous instance he even crossed my mind, at least half that long ago.

  My body rigid, I drove with pure muscle memory, the truck coasting without my active input, my focus turned elsewhere, my mind racing. Scads of questions rushed to the surface, adding to the mix that had already arrived the night before.

  Things that didn’t make sense, for a multitude of reasons. Notions I had no way of answering.

  If memory served, Ruiz had been sentenced to somewhere between forty and fifty years in prison. Of the many cases we worked, that one always stood out in my memory, largely because it was far below what we had asked for.

  Though still a hell of a lot longer than whatever had passed since then.

  Unfurling the fist that was my right hand, I slowly unzipped the front of my coat. Reaching into the inner pocket, I slid out my phone, balancing it on a knee.

  Calling the screen to life, I moved through the recent call log, going down only a pair of listings before finding what I wanted and hitting send.

  A moment later, after only a single ring, Pally’s voice appeared.

  “You find Serra?” he asked.

  “Junior Ruiz,” I replied, ignoring his question for the time being in favor of the reason I had called. “Junior sonuvabitching Ruiz.”

  Just hearing the full name out loud, I again felt my core draw tight. Ire rose like bile along the back of my throat, my left fist almost aching for something to lash out at.

  On the opposite end of the line, Pally took only a moment before asking, “Ruiz? Are you sure?”

  Reaching the end of the road Martin lived on, I eased up to a stop sign. Seeing nothing in either direction, I remained sitting there, letting the engine idle as I focused on the conversation at hand.

  “Positive,” I answered.

  Before stepping foot into the Martin home, I had promised the deputy that I wouldn’t go near the crime scene. And I hadn’t.

  Because I hadn’t needed to, the message left behind right out in the open, the sort of thing someone would only notice if they knew to be looking for it.

  In the background, I could hear Pally fall back to the computer. A clatter of keystrokes echoed over the line, the man furiously working, no doubt in seek of answers to the same questions now filling my head.

  Continuing for almost two solid minutes, it ended abruptly, culminating with a loud exhalation before all sound bled away.

  “I’ll be damned,” Pally whispered, the words drawing my attention down to the phone.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to have to call you back.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The only sign that Ramon Reyes was more than twelve hours into his workday was the fact that his cufflinks had been unfastened, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm. On the underside of the cuffs of the designer dress shirt was a print design of black and white, the patterned formation a perfect match to the slacks and vest he wore.

  Always, a man like him had to live up to the position he held. He needed to look the part, act the part, the smallest details often meaning the most.

  Just denying himself from leaping on the first cup of coffee for the day wasn’t enough. He needed to exude confidence, display to everyone in his charge that he was on top of things.

  Even if in reality there was a tempest of thoughts and emotions roiling through him, all
aching to be expelled.

  With the rolling office chair he’d been perched in that morning pressed tight to the desk to clear space, Reyes walked a steady path across the breadth of his office. Head down, his hands were clasped behind him, his steps measured and even.

  Lips pursed, he thought on everything that was already underway, on what it could mean moving forward.

  Right now, the business was flourishing. Things were being taken care of. Not two hundred yards from where he stood, the work that was currently underway in the warehouse was finally making headway. The last year or two of trial-and-error, of attempting to put things together, was finally yielding results.

  Demand was up. Profits were increasing.

  Soon, they would be the sole provider of their particular product. They could effectively set the market in a new and burgeoning area.

  A marked shift from the old ways, from the methodologies of Junior Ruiz, was finally coming to fruition.

  A fact that made what was occurring now a hundred miles north all the more curious.

  And the timing as potentially bad as it could be.

  “Time is it?” Reyes asked, glancing across the desk to Arlin Mejia back in the same chair he so often occupied.

  Late in the day, the skin under his eyes sagged, the front of his slacks were rumpled. Given his age, he seemed to be aging in dog years, his prior time spent in the elements as a warehouse worker bore plainly on his features.

  That being just one of many reasons why he’d been selected for his current post.

  “Almost five,” Mejia responded, not needing to so much as consult a watch. “Two minutes.”

  Nodding slightly, Reyes resumed his steady pace.

  The first word Reyes had received that Ruiz was about to be offloaded was just a week before. Coming far outside of the traditional channels, it had started in a much more organic manner. A fellow prisoner inside Lompoc had gotten word, looking to use the information to curry favor with Reyes.

  A first-time informant, Reyes had met the original intel with obvious suspicion, waiting until it had been thoroughly vetted before acquiescing to the man’s requests.

  Even now, Reyes had no idea how the guy found out what he did, thankful only that he had.

  Even more that it had turned out to be true.

  His original reaction to the news was to be quick and decisive. To end Ruiz the moment he exited, ensuring that the possible return of the old guard could have no effect on what had been amassed.

  Grab one of the local guys with mouths to feed and no clear way of doing so. Promise them a pot of money and guaranteed protection for their family moving forward.

  Or even hire a professional, someone paid to pull triggers and keep their mouths shut for a living.

  Just, anything that came with no concern of anybody ever drawing a connection. With never having to worry about the triggerman pointing a finger at him.

  Nothing but sitting back and watching as whatever concern there might have been was brushed aside.

  That first idea hadn’t gotten far off the ground, though. As delicious, as enticing, as the thought might have been - one more solid statement to put on his resume, an act to hold up to anybody else that might challenge him - prudence won out.

  No amount of good behavior in the world could reduce a sentence from forty years down to eight. There had to be some reason Ruiz had been released, something more than deals cut and favors exchanged.

  That being where the real opportunity lay for Reyes.

  Halfway through his untold numbered pass across the back of the office, the phone sitting atop the desk burst to life. Offering a single shrill pulse, the sound was enough to jerk Reyes’s attention toward it.

  Pausing in the middle of his lap, he watched as Mejia leaned forward and slid the phone receiver to the side. Placing it face-up on the desktop, he hit a single button, shifting the call to speaker, before retreating back to his seat.

  By the time he made it into position, Reyes was back across from him.

  Choosing to stand rather then retake the chair, Reyes leaned forward. Both palms pressed into the front edge of the desk, he could feel the yoke of his dress shirt strain across his shoulders as he stared down at the phone.

  “Hector?”

  “Si.”

  The last time they had spoken was three hours prior. By that point, Ruiz had pulled into a house outside of Escondido, a small outpost forty miles north of San Diego.

  Barely more than twice that from where they now stood.

  “Anything?” Reyes asked.

  “No,” Hector replied, the vowel sound drawn out to twice the normal length. “Since they got here, nobody has come or gone.”

  Lifting his gaze, Reyes took in Mejia across from him, the man’s focus on the phone.

  A handful of quick follow-ups immediately sprang to mind, each dissipating as fast as they arrived, the previous response answering much of what Reyes wanted to know.

  Pushing himself back from the desk, Reyes folded his arms across his chest. He thought on things a moment, considering each angle anew.

  Nobody coming or going was somewhat surprising, but not entirely. Just hours into his first day of freedom, it made sense that a man like Ruiz would hole up. He’d want to shower and change, get his feet back under him before ever allowing anybody to see him.

  And if his behavior on the inside was any indicator, there weren’t many left that would even want to. Years had passed since he’d received a visitor. Ditto for any phone calls incoming or outgoing. Same for basic mail.

  His father had been gone for decades, his mother passing on a few years before. His sister lived in Escondido, ensconced in a regular life so boring Reyes had stopped keeping tabs on her long ago.

  A handful of Reyes’s employees had once worked for Ruiz, though they had been thoroughly vetted.

  Who else that left that might have any interest in visiting Ruiz – if they even knew he was out – Reyes could only speculate on.

  “Orders?” Hector asked.

  Optimally, Reyes would tell him to figure out a way to get a listening device inside the house. Or to tap whatever phone Ruiz was using.

  A way of monitoring the conversations that were being had, both in person and over the phone. A peek behind the curtain on what had landed him such an early exit and what he planned to now do with it.

  Doing so, though, would tip his hand too much. If caught, it would give the appearance to Ruiz and anybody else that might be watching that he was nervous. That his own affairs weren’t seen to, even so many years later.

  And as he knew all too well, in this particular business, appearance was everything.

  “Stay on him, but keep your distance,” Reyes replied. “If you need to be relieved for anything, let me know, and we’ll get somebody there to spell you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Given the time of year and being so far north, the sun was already well into its descent by the time I pulled into the lot of the Snoqualmie Police Department. Bouncing over the seam separating it from the street, the single remaining headlamp on my truck threw a glow across the brick façade of the building, leveling out as I slid into a diagonal visitor space along the front.

  Making no effort to shut off the engine just yet, I instead reached for my cellphone tucked away in the middle console. Dragging it over onto the seat, I again went to the recent call log, dropping down past Pally and hitting send.

  A moment later, Diaz was on the line.

  After speaking to Pally earlier, I had decided to wait before placing the second call. Fighting back a potent mix of anger and confusion, I decided to spend the ten-minute drive back into town composing myself before speaking to anybody else.

  Pally would have understood what I was feeling. I’m sure he heard the strain in my voice, matching it with his own, the revelation we had discovered a lightning bolt from the clear blue sky.

  Expecting anybody else to get that, to not be offended or worse if I
was to explode, was another thing entirely.

  A decision that proved to be prescient, most of my drive spent alternating between mashing my left palm into the top of the steering wheel and my right fist into the seat beside me.

  A healthy amount of screaming had been involved as well.

  Now that several minutes had passed, most of that initial torrent of acrimony was now tucked an inch or two below the surface. Not gone by a long stretch, but tamped down enough that I could explain what I had found, what it might mean, with something approximating a level head.

  At least, that was the hope.

  “Hawk,” Diaz opened, using the same greeting she usually did.

  Much the way I had with Pally before, I cut straight to it, bypassing any form of salutation.

  “Junior Ruiz,” I said, the mere mention of the name causing my left hand to curl into a fist.

  For a moment there was no response, nothing but dead air, before Diaz said, “What about him? The picture you sent me this morning was definitely not Ruiz.”

  The second part of her statement was unequivocally true. The guy sitting at the West Yellowstone Sheriff’s Department right now was at least fifteen years younger than Ruiz, if not more. He was also several inches taller, several pounds lighter, and had a nose that was now much less functional.

  Not that Ruiz would have ever been there to begin with.

  Guys like him never touched anything that might result in blood or leave behind fingerprints. They were always puppet masters, the ones that were sure to take credit, but never got their own hands dirty.

  Him showing up at my office would have been unheard of, for a variety of reasons.

  As was any notion that I would have left him alive after the fact.

  “Right, but he’s the one calling the shots.”

  Again, silence fell for a moment before Diaz asked, “What makes you say that?”

  “Plata o plomo,” I whispered, just barely audible.

  Finally putting to words what I’d known since standing in the living room of Martin’s home, I felt my eyes slide closed, another spike of venom welling within me. With it came the urge to again swat at the steering wheel, my jaw clamping down tight.