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

by Dustin Stevens

  “Total net?” Ruiz pressed.

  “After everything?” Mejia replied. “Forty percent.”

  Feeling his eyes bulge, Ruiz glanced away. He let his gaze drift through the windows still standing open along the back of the office before glazing over, lost to the gentle ebb and flow of the thin curtains.

  When he had last been in control, the average net per kilo was somewhere close to seventy percent. Costs they covered included shipping in both directions, along with packaging and manpower.

  And of course, the need to always have the right people looking in the wrong direction.

  Whatever was going on now meant that an additional thirty percent – double what he had been running at – was being dumped into extras.

  Bullshit like the agricultural oasis they were standing in or the winery that was currently operating behind him.

  “That shit stops now,” Ruiz said. Blinking twice, he brought himself back into focus. Glancing over to Mejia, he gestured over his shoulder with the cigar. “All that back there. The excessive guards running around with AK’s. Whatever other unnecessary expenditures he’s got going on.”

  There was no surprise at the command. Not even a word of dissent.

  Nothing but one corner of Mejia’s mouth creasing back in a smile, his scalp becoming visible as he dipped his head in a nod.

  “Absolutely, El Jefe.”

  Stuffing the cigar into the corner of his mouth, Ruiz nodded. The number of things he needed to see to, the sheer volume of conversations to be had, was nothing short of overwhelming.

  All of it becoming an exercise in prioritization.

  One he’d had years of time to sit and perfect.

  “Now tell me about the other project we’ve got going. The one from up north.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  I knew the name Esmerelda Ruiz simply by virtue of her being the younger sister of Junior. A student at UCLA at the time we began our investigation into him, she was about to start her fifth year there when we made the move on his place, needing a couple of extra semesters to finish up a degree in marketing.

  Attached in the file we amassed on Ruiz and his family were a few surveillance photos, the girl fitting every last trope that existed about pretty young college coeds in Los Angeles. Hair and makeup always in abundance. Clothing that was always sparse by comparison.

  Beyond that, there hadn’t been much effort put into the girl. We were aware of her existence, of the fact that she was still close to the family, received plenty of financial benefit from them.

  Also, that they kept an eye on her from afar.

  Otherwise, neither side seemed to be too involved with the other. On one side a child off enjoying college, opposite that a family intent to let her do so.

  If she was even there the night we brought in Ruiz, I had not a clue.

  What I did know was that the woman standing before me only vaguely resembled the one from the file.

  Rooted just inside the threshold of the front door, Esmerelda Ruiz was dressed in a fuzzy blue robe checked with a white overlay. Looking like she was late in the stages of getting ready for work, her hair was twisted into dark curls, large loops hanging along either side of her face.

  Makeup had already been applied, a much lower volume than in years past, now meant more to accentuate than to draw attention.

  In the eight years that had preceded, I wouldn’t say she had aged as much as grown up. Transitioning from early twenties to somewhere around thirty, the dewy look of youth was gone. Replacing it was someone with a bit of life experience, her features touched with world weariness.

  A look I had no doubt she had earned every bit of.

  And one I was all too familiar with myself.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. Standing with one shoulder against the edge of the door, part of her remained hidden from view. Her posture hinted she wanted nothing more than to slam the door shut and throw the deadbolt.

  “Good morning,” Diaz said. Pulling her credentials from her hip, she wagged them in front of her, “Agents Diaz, Tate, with the DEA.”

  Noticing what she had done there, how she had managed to sidestep directly lying about my title or reason for being present, I kept my focus on Esmerelda.

  If she caught it at all, she gave no indication.

  Glancing between us, a bit of color drained from her face, her lips parting just slightly.

  “Okay.”

  “May we come in?” Diaz asked, returning the wallet to her side. “We’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  Again, she looked between us. “About?”

  “About the recent release of your brother from prison,” Diaz replied.

  Content to let her take the lead, to not overstep my being allowed to be here if I could avoid it, I flicked my gaze from her back to Esmerelda.

  Much like the first time we worked together, I knew Diaz had other matters that needed her attention piled up on her desk. I also knew that her choosing to help me was about much more than just our being friends, the death of a former agent and the possibility of an enormous get in the form of Junior Ruiz also factoring into her presence.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Esmerelda replied. “And I’m sorry, but I really need to finish getting ready for work.”

  Shuffling a couple inches to the side, she closed the door just slightly, narrowing our field of vision into the home.

  “You don’t?” I asked, inserting myself for the first time into the conversation. “You weren’t the one that picked him up yesterday from Lompoc?”

  Pally had managed to pull the footage the day before from the cameras covering the prison parking lot, even sending over a printout of the two of them embracing beside the Chrysler now parked in the driveway.

  The gap between her lips widened, a slight exhale pushing them apart. “I did, but I don’t know anything about him getting out.”

  “So you weren’t aware that it was more than thirty years before scheduled?” I pressed.

  Her jaw sagged a bit more as she looked at me. Her olive complexion grew pale, her body rigid.

  “Like I said, I don’t know anything about that. He called last week and asked me to come pick him up, so of course I did.”

  The records showed no such call had been made. The last call to anybody Ruiz had made was more than six years prior.

  For the time being though, I opted not to press it.

  “Is your brother here now?” Diaz asked, pulling Esmerelda’s focus back her way.

  “No,” she replied, giving a shake of her head. Once more, she made a slight move to the side, hiding a bit more of herself behind the door. “And like I said, I’m getting ready for work. I have a nine o’clock meeting that I really can’t be late for.”

  Ignoring the comment, the not-so-subtle gesture to get away, Diaz remained in place. “Is he staying here with you?”

  “No,” Esmerelda repeated. “He stayed here one evening, but took off yesterday and hasn’t been back.”

  “Do you know where?” I asked.

  “And with who?” Diaz added.

  “No,” she managed to whisper.

  “Do you know how to get ahold of him?” I asked.

  Frozen in place, her mouth hanging open, Esmerelda stared at each of us. A slight crinkle passed over her face as if she might break, arriving and fleeing in a span of seconds.

  “Look,” she said, a hint of finality permeating the word, “I don’t know anything about Junior’s dealings, now or then. I know he called me a few days ago and asked me to come get him.

  “Being my big brother, the only family I have left, I happily took off work and went to get him. He came over, we had a nice dinner, shared some laughs, and then he went on his way. Where he is now or what he’s doing, you’ll have to ask him.”

  Moving a few inches again, making it clear she was about to close the door for good, she added, “If you’d like to know any more than that, you’ll have to come back with a warr
ant. I’m going to be late for work.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Every single part of Tres Salinas hurt. Not just the low lull of aches and pains. The deep-seated, persistent agony of a body having been actively abused.

  Harsh and angry, it penetrated the darkness that he was under, grabbing him by the throat and pulling him toward the surface. Ripping him from deep in a state of unconsciousness, it jerked him upright in the bed he was laying on, his eyes popping open into uneven slits.

  Bits of light popped around him like bubbles being shattered, the faint glow of an overhead bulb nearby penetrating his gaze like a knife to the front lobe.

  Wanting so badly to scream, to raise his face toward the heavens and bellow with everything he had, he only barely managed to keep it in. To force himself not to react, to acclimate to the state he was in.

  Which was to say, like he’d been dropped into a vat of acid. After being lit on fire. And hit by a car.

  The last thing Tres remembering with any clarity was being out in the woods. After getting snatched while trying to retrieve his car from the airport parking lot, he could recall coming to some time later. Stripped of most of his clothes, his wrists and knees and ankles were bound with duct tape. His arms were pinned above his head, fastened to a thick pine branch.

  Somewhere deep in the forest, the boughs of the trees around him were so thick he couldn’t even see the sky. No moon or stars above, the sole source of light the small fire put together in a bed of rocks on the forest floor.

  And beside it, the bastard that had nabbed him from the parking lot. The one that Luis Mendoza had been sent north to eliminate days before.

  The very same one that Tres had seen with Martin that night years before, recognizable despite the tangle of hair enveloping his features.

  After that, what Tres could call to mind was spotty at best. Beginning with the heated blade of a knife, the man had gone to work on him, peppering him with questions. Whenever an answer was refused, the knife was brought into play. Any answer that he didn’t care for or thought was a lie, more harm was done.

  Back and forth things had gone for some unknown amount of time, Tres doing his best to hold out, to resist as much as possible.

  Right up to the point where the man had decided to get creative, visiting the toolbox in the bed of his truck.

  From that point forward, the gaps in Tres’s memory were more pronounced, each one punctuated by a flare of bright light.

  Flares that all seemed to correspond to the pain now gripping his body, the various bandages encasing him corroborating most of what he remembered.

  Setting his jaw, clamping his molars down tight, Tres attempted to push past the pain. He drew in breath slowly through his nose, willing his mind to move beyond the litany of injuries covering his body.

  Lowering his face to stare straight ahead, he forced himself to take stock of his situation, to see where he was, determine how he might have gotten there.

  Based on what he could recall, the state of his body, it was a wonder that he wasn’t dead already. Considering where they were the last he could remember and some of the things the man was saying, he couldn’t believe that was by accident.

  Just as he wasn’t surprised to see the walls around him made from concrete block. Painted over dozens of times before, the glow of the lights outside his cell reflected off the shiny surface, making them look almost liquid.

  Lining the front of the space was a grate of iron bars. Beneath him was a cot mattress no more than a couple of inches thick, a flat pillow and cotton blanket so threadbare it was almost transparent.

  Affixed to the wall beside the bed was an aluminum toilet, one solid metal piece without a handle or seat.

  All of that together with the facts that he was alone and the place was silent also told him that he wasn’t in prison. More likely a holding cell of some sort, a place to wait for him to wake up before turfing him to wherever he was going next.

  Turning himself sideways, Tres attempted to lower his feet to the floor. Both completely mummified in gauze, he swung them a few inches over the side before remembering some of what happened the night prior and thinking better of it.

  Knowing they were still in no shape to be bearing weight, he instead rested them on the edge of the bed, leaning back against the wall behind him.

  Feeling the cool of it pass through his shirt, he stared straight ahead. Eyes barely more than slits, he peered into the darkest corner of the room, doing his best to avoid the harsh agony of the light penetrating his skull.

  There he remained, forcing himself to clear his mind. To get past the physical damage, beating back the impulses traveling the length of his body. To fight his rising body temperature, his heart rate climbing in the face of what he knew he needed to do next.

  “Hello?” he managed, his throat dry and raw, distorting his voice. Tilting his chin just slightly, he lifted his face an inch. “Hello?”

  For a moment, there was no response. Nothing but the sound of the wind outside howling past, audible even through the concrete brick behind him.

  “Hello?” he called a third time, his voice rising just slightly. Taking everything he had, it felt like a razor had hurtled the length of his throat, one more pain added to the collection.

  So sharp it brought moisture to the underside of his eyes, he clenched tight, holding his breath, willing the moment to pass.

  A moment that culminated with what he’d been waiting for, the sound of footsteps finally appearing.

  Slow and persistent, they grew closer in an uneven amble. Every one seemed to be accentuated by the groan of various implements and metal chains, the kind found on a utility belt worn by law enforcement.

  Little by little, the sounds grew more pronounced, finally ending as a figure came into view.

  And someone that – outside of the bearded man from the woods the night before – was the last person on earth Tres wanted to see.

  “Well, hello yourself,” the deputy that Tres had last left dumped in a pile on the floor of the medical clinic said. A narrow bandage was pressed across the bridge of his nose, dark circles underscoring each of his eyes.

  Despite the words he used, a glare covered the rest of his features, malevolence oozing from every pore.

  “Finally wake up, Juan Perez? Or do you prefer to go by your actual name, Tres Salinas?”

  Mouth still clamped shut, Tres stared straight back at the man. He made sure not to react in any way, to not let the needling that was being tossed his way get to him.

  The assumption he had made before was correct. There was no way that he would have simply been left in the woods for dead. Not only had he been brought in on purpose, he had been brought back to this very spot.

  And his real name had been used.

  All things that couldn’t add up to anything good.

  “Let me guess,” the deputy sneered, “you want to see your attorney?”

  Reactions of every sort exploding just beneath the surface, Tres leaned his head forward and offered only a pair of words.

  “Phone call.”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  The point in driving all the way to Escondido was never to get Esmerelda Ruiz to suddenly open her home to us. It wasn’t under the delusion that her brother would be there or even that she would tell us where he was.

  If she had, it would have been wonderful, but it would have effectively made her the first person in her position in our cumulative time with the DEA to do so.

  Not that either of us blamed her for staying quiet. The bonds of family are thick and run deep, nowhere more so than in Latin culture. The odds were better of her opening fire on us than giving up the older brother that had just returned to her life after almost a decade away.

  The goal in going up there was to tap into that. To set a trap, knowing exactly how she would probably react, and then using that to put things into motion.

  With the time being half past nine, the sun sat much higher in the sky
above. Even with it being the opening week in November, already the temperature was halfway between seventy and eighty degrees, with the promise of it only getting warmer the closer we got to afternoon.

  Coming in straight through the front windshield, the sun far outpaced the cool air being pushed out of the vents. Unacclimated after months spent in Montana, I could feel a film of sweat resting beneath the hair hanging across my forehead.

  Already, moisture underscored my beard, my neck just beginning to itch.

  Ignoring all of that, I watched as San Diego grew closer before us. Our second pass through of the morning, most of the earlier traffic had already cleared. Along with it went most of the negative energy that seemed to radiate up from the asphalt, people finally making it to their destination.

  A process that had ended for now, only to begin anew in six hours, the only difference being the direction it was traveling.

  Folded into the front seat, I stared out, ruminating on the meeting we’d just had before pulling my cellphone onto my thigh. Balancing it there, I worked through a series of screens before finding what I wanted. Hitting send, I shifted the volume to speakerphone, turning it up loud enough to be heard over the thrum of the road beneath us.

  Hidden behind her mirrored shades, Diaz glanced over only once from the driver’s seat. “Pally?”

  “Yeah,” I grunted.

  “Unless, of course, she really did have a meeting at nine she needed to get to.”

  Snorting softly, knowing the comment was a barb at the blatant lie Esmerelda had been trying to pedal not long before, I refrained from answering, letting the sound of the ringtone pipe in instead.

  After just three rings, it was snatched up.

  “Are we a go?” Pally asked, his voice a bit detached, as if he were in the process of doing multiple things at once.

  “Just left,” I replied. “We never made it past the front door, so I don’t know if she had a cell or landline or what, but-“

  “Already on it,” Pally said. “One of each, been tracking them all morning. She hasn’t made any contact yet, but as soon as she does, we’ll have a number.”