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

by Dustin Stevens

  And with that, a location to trace.

  Of the various people in Junior Ruiz’s life, there were only two that he had maintained even limited contact with while in prison. One of those was his mother, who had passed a number of years before.

  The other was Esmerelda, the person that had picked him up from prison and given him a place to stay his first night out.

  The one that would always have a way to contact him.

  And would damned sure call to alert him about a pair of federal agents already showing up to look for him.

  “What about that other number I gave you?”

  Two nights before when I’d nabbed Tres Salinas, the only phone he’d had with him was a cheap model that was clearly a prepaid, picked up with the intention of operating as a burner. Containing not a single text message, the sole listing in the call log was for a number in Southern California.

  In total, there were just a handful of interactions between the two. Calls going in both directions, often at random times.

  More than likely a contact overseeing the operation, someone radioing updated orders or for Tres to check in with for progress reports.

  “Nothing yet,” Pally replied. “I ran the number and it also belongs to a burner, part of the same shipment as the one you confiscated.

  “Looks like right now it’s turned off. No way of knowing if it’ll come back online, but if it does, I’ll be on that too.”

  Glancing over, I saw Diaz meet my gaze. Seeming to have nothing more to add to the conversation, she turned back to the road.

  “Alright, thanks a lot, Pally. Keep us posted on anything that turns up.”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  The car sitting at the curb didn’t have government plates, but it might as well have. A standard sedan not far from the one we had just climbed out of, it rested parallel to the front door of the Southwest Headquarters office, oblivious to the stretch of red paint along the sidewalk lining the front of the building.

  Solid black in color with windows tinted almost dark enough to match, it reflected the overhead sun, giving it an ominous quality. At once a beacon, drawing our attention, and a warning, telling us to stay far away.

  “This can’t be good,” Diaz whispered, stepping up from the parking lot onto the front walk.

  “Nope,” I agreed, not bothering to voice the second thought that came to mind, my hope being whatever news this car had been sent to dispatch was aimed more her direction than mine.

  For the better part of three days, I had felt like I was running a race with no clear idea where the finish line was. After the initial encounter with the man at my office, I had spent half a day sitting vigil over my friend, trying frantically to put together what it could be pointing to.

  The next morning, I had gotten a message, telling me about Shawn Martin’s death. A tiny breadcrumb, forcing me on a multi-state drive that revealed the bullet and the coin sitting on his mantle.

  Almost a full twenty-four hours to figure out the who.

  Another twelve after that tracking down what few leads I had in an effort to ferret out the why. A process that was still ongoing, just now beginning to finally bring me to what I ultimately needed.

  The where.

  Sixty solid hours I had been at this. I’d covered four states, put down two hired assassins, saved one friend and consoled another. I was calling in favors I didn’t have, leaning on folks for time and effort they couldn’t spare.

  The time for more confounding factors was over. Already, it was all I could do to contain the angst I had. Every part of me had wanted to shoulder my way through the door at Esmerelda Ruiz’s house, sit her on the couch and demand she get her brother on the phone.

  To hear his voice, find out exactly where he was, and then track down the man that was trying to wipe out our team eight years after the fact.

  Any further delays to that happening, and I could no longer be held accountable for my actions.

  Walking on the inside of the sidewalk, Diaz reached the front door first. Passing straight through, she held it just long enough for me to enter behind her, the two of us crossing the front foyer together.

  Finding nobody out of the ordinary waiting, no one that could explain the sedan outside, I allowed Diaz to lead us to the reception desk positioned in the center of the space. Behind it sat a young woman in her late twenties, a puff of curly blonde hair pulled into a ponytail behind her head. Any wisps held back by a thick white band, she was wearing a navy dress with an open white dress shirt.

  At the sound of our approach, she looked up from the screen of some handheld electronic device, a smile bearing hints of both recognition and embarrassment at being caught.

  “Good morning, Director.”

  Ignoring the greeting entirely, Diaz hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Who is that, and why are they parked right there?”

  Much like her steps since spotting the vehicle from the parking lot, each word was clipped, delivered quickly.

  The smile the girl wore faded as she leaned to the side. Peering past Diaz, she looked through the glass front of the doors to the sedan sitting in plain sight.

  “Oh, that is for Agents Jones and Smith,” she said. “They said this wouldn’t take a few minutes.”

  Flicking a glance my way, Diaz set her jaw, letting the look on her face relay exactly what she was thinking.

  The initial feeling we’d both had on approach wasn’t quite right. Not in that we were wrong, but that it was much, much worse than either of us had initially anticipated.

  “Jones and Smith?” Diaz asked, letting her disbelief for the names or what they could possibly want hang from her words.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did they say who they were with?”

  Any remaining hints of the smile faded completely. All color seemed to flee with it, the girl casting a glance between us.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “What they wanted?”

  Whether she was unable or simply didn’t want to repeat herself, the girl pulled up just the same. Jaw sagging, she gave us each one last look before lowering her eyes slightly, staring at the desktop in front of her.

  “They’re waiting in the conference room for you now.” Raising her gaze to me, she added, “Both of you.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Junior Ruiz didn’t mind that the operation had been moved north of the border. Considering the amount of competition that had sprung up between the various cartels working out of Baja and the assorted pitfalls in perpetually negotiating an international barrier, it was only a matter of time before he’d made such a move himself.

  The weather down south was wonderful, there was no denying that. As was the fact that every person he considered family – by birth or by circumstance – was concentrated in a geographic area no larger than fifteen miles across.

  The spread they had was great, and the post they occupied right off the coast aided considerably in the shipping process.

  But the amount of money he was beginning to expend in keeping local government and police at bay was becoming astronomical. As were the assorted losses in manpower, many of those newer to the trade having seen too many action movies, believing the only way to garner a toehold in that world was with a lot of guns and hired muscle.

  Beliefs that saw most of them eradicated pretty quickly, but not without cost.

  And all that was before even factoring in global changes that had occurred in recent years. Ranging from heightened fuel prices to increased border scrutiny, it made a great deal of sense to be located where they now were.

  What Ruiz didn’t like, would soon need to go about fixing, was the particular spread that Ramon Reyes had put together.

  An exercise in extremes, the place was designed to service a front business that never should have existed.

  Standing on the same veranda where he’d officially taken over the night before, Ruiz stared out at the grounds around him. The thick tangle of palm and fruit trees u
p close, acre after acre of grapevines stretched off into the distance. The various tractors and machines he’d seen moving over the grounds throughout the afternoon. The irrigation system keeping everything alive.

  The assorted outbuildings and the enormous warehouse sitting directly across from him. All eyesores. Things that could draw unwanted attention from anybody that might become curious and start looking around.

  Reasons for health and agriculture inspectors to come around. People with eyes and ears and devices with video capability, making it that much easier for things to slip out.

  Standing in the same spot along the balcony, Ruiz allowed the warmth of the stucco railing to pass through his palms. In his face was a faint breeze, ruffling his hair, filling his nostrils with the scents of apple and damp earth.

  Letting his gaze sweep from one side of the property to the other, he made mental notations on all that he saw, things that would need to be relayed to Arlin Mejia soon. Items that would require their immediate attention as they reformed the business back into their own design.

  Completing his pass, he turned his head back to face forward, his gaze landing on the even rows of grapevines stretching out before him. Extending out far enough to drop over a dip in the distance, he allowed his focus to glaze, working through all the last few weeks had held.

  Of the promise of the weeks ahead.

  Rooted in place, lost in his thoughts, the faint buzzing of his phone resting on the stucco between his hands barely resonated. Completely out of place in the scene he was immersed in, it wasn’t until more than a half dozen bursts had sounded out before they finally managed to penetrate his thoughts.

  Drawing his focus down, a deep V formed between his brows as he stared at the screen, taking a moment to recognize the number staring back at him before snatching it up. Turning away from the railing, he passed back through the open windows into the office, the breeze and the bright light of day disappearing behind him.

  The number he had left with his sister was given with the strictest instructions only to contact him if absolutely necessary. Promising that he would be in touch in the very near future, the expectation had been clear that she was to avoid reaching out if at all possible.

  The fact that she was doing so now, after barely more than half a day, caused his stomach to draw tight. Marching just past the desk, he paused, pressing the phone to his face.

  “Esmera?”

  “I’m sorry,” she shot back, barely waiting to hear his voice. Mixed with heavy breathing, it sounded as if she’d been crying, her voice on the cusp of hysterics. “I know you told me not to call, but they just left a little bit ago and-“

  “Wait,” Ruiz inserted, cutting her off mid-ramble. Not wanting her to get too far afield, to let whatever was gripping her take over completely, he raised a hand before him. Mimicking an exaggerated breath, he said, “Calm down. Take a breath. What’s going on?”

  Heeding his advice, Esmera pushed out a long sigh. Whistling through the mouthpiece, the sound rocketed through Ruiz’s ear before disappearing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, “I know you told me not to call unless it was important, but-“

  Once more, Ruiz interrupted her, stopping her before she got too carried away. The feeling in his core grew more pronounced, the myriad things that could have put her in such a state, have worried her enough to ignore his request not to reach out, crossing his mind.

  “It’s okay, Esmera. Just tell me what happened.”

  “Okay,” his sister replied. Taking another breath, she seemed to compose herself for a moment before saying, “This morning, before leaving for the office, a pair of agents showed up at the door.”

  “Agents?” Ruiz asked.

  “Yeah,” Esmera said. “They showed me their badges and everything. Said they were with some organization, but I can’t remember right off hand. To be honest, I was trying to keep from freaking out.”

  Ruiz had assumed this was how it was going to be the moment the offer was first extended to him. By gaining his freedom, he would be forever beholden to them, the terms of their agreement changing whenever the other side felt like it.

  He just hadn’t expected it to start already.

  “That’s okay,” Ruiz said, feeling some of the angst he’d held just moments before begin to flee. “Those are the guys I met with before being released. I’ll give them a call later today.”

  Esmera accepted the information in silence, considering what was said, before asking, “Are you sure?”

  Raising a hand to his brow, Ruiz turned back to the windows behind him. He looked out past the balcony railing to the warehouse in the distance, midday sun reflecting from the metal roof. On either side of it he could see horsetails of water sprouting in various directions, the sprinkler system fighting an ongoing battle against the desert heat.

  He had plenty of problems to deal with already. He didn’t need Jones and Smith adding to them.

  “Yeah,” Ruiz said. “I’m sure. Goofy bastards probably just got lost on their way to get matching haircuts and pick up some more cheap suits. Nothing to worry about.”

  On the other end of the line, he heard a sharp intake of air. Pulling his hand from his forehead, he moved his focus back to the call, a trio of horizontal lines appearing across his brow.

  “Esmera?”

  “They weren’t wearing suits,” his sister whispered. “And they definitely weren’t both guys.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Both men were staring at the door as we entered the conference room, as if they knew we were coming. Looking to personify the stereotype of the fabled government agents in every way, both wore black suits that had clearly not been tailored to fit their builds. White shirts and solid black ties completed the ensemble.

  Each with hair buzzed above the ears and the neck, they both had shoved it to the side, the only discernible difference being that the one standing was a shade or two darker.

  If I were to guess, I’d peg them both in their early forties.

  Most of all, the first thing that jumped out at me was they both looked a little soft, like most of what they did included barking orders from behind a desk.

  “Good morning,” Diaz said, pushing into the conference room. Like she had at the front, she paused to hold the door just an instant, letting me catch it before heading on in. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but I didn’t know we were expecting anybody.”

  Delivered without any inflection, the word choice was deliberate, relaying the exact thought we’d both shared on the short walk from the front desk. Regardless who these guys were, the intrusion was neither expected nor appreciated.

  Right now, we had far more important things to be doing than tiptoeing around bureaucracy.

  Neither of the men made any effort to step forward as I filed in behind her. While I closed the door in my wake, they both merely stared back, each maintaining their respective position.

  Letting everyone stay exactly as they were for a moment, the man sitting eventually spoke, forcing something approaching a pleasant countenance onto his features.

  “Good morning,” he said. “My name is Agent Jones. Here with me is my colleague, Agent Smith. You’ll have to excuse our sudden appearance.”

  The names he rattled off without the slightest hint of irony, as if we were both supposed to accept at face value the blatant fabrications.

  Even Tres Salinas had tried harder with his Juan Perez pseudonym.

  Pausing there, he glanced expectantly between us, the silence extended long enough that Diaz eventually said, “Okay, I’m acting director here, Mia Diaz. With me is my colleague, Agent Tate.”

  Across the room, the man named Smith smirked slightly, loud enough to be heard, but soft enough he could pretend to mask it.

  Lifting my hands, I grasped the padded leather top of the rolling desk chair before me. Already, I could see how the interaction was going to go. Coupled with the assorted emotions roiling through me, it was best to have som
ething to clamp onto, a way of dispelling some tiny bit of the animosity I felt.

  “DEA?” I asked.

  In unison, both men flicked their gaze my way. Fixating on me for several moments, regarding me as if I were a dog that had somehow managed to speak while sitting beside the dinner table, neither said a word before turning their attention back to Diaz.

  “The reason we’re here this morning,” Jones said, “is to make you aware of a very difficult situation currently unfolding and to ask for your help.”

  My grip on the chair before me grew tighter at his blatant dismissal of my question. My knuckles flashed white as I squeezed, every muscle in my upper clenching at once.

  “And what situation is that?” Diaz asked.

  The smile remained in place on Jones’s face as he began to speak. Pulling up short, he drew in a short breath, glancing down to the table for a moment.

  “Well, I think we all-“

  “Stay the hell away from Junior Ruiz,” Smith said, jumping in and finishing the sentence. Hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks, he stood a couple feet back from Jones, peering over his shoulder.

  A look that appeared every bit an open challenge.

  One that I would love nothing more than to answer, the fact that I was a guest in Diaz’s office being the sole thing keeping me from tossing the chair out of the way and going straight across the table after him.

  Never in my own experience before had I encountered what this had all the hallmarks of, though I had heard a few stories over the years. Instances where somebody from one of the bigger agencies – or namely, the bigger agency – would show up and start making veiled threats.

  Suggest a new course of action. Hint at what would be in the best interest of all parties. Dissuade someone from whatever it was they were doing at a particular time.

  “Right now, this office is not looking into Junior Ruiz,” Diaz replied, taking a bit more of a diplomatic approach. “Last I heard, the man was still in prison.”