Failed State (A James Winchester Thriller Book 1) (James Winchester Series)

by James Samuel

  The woman grunted in acknowledgement and returned to the back. Sinclair opened the fridge next to the counter and removed a glass bottle of coke. He flicked it open with the bottle opener hanging from a piece of string on the wall.

  He turned to James and took a swig from the bottle. “Did you hear about Luna Carrea?”

  James returned to his lukewarm enchiladas. “Who’s that?”

  “Good God, it’s like talking to a hermit. She was a candidate for a senate seat in Hidalgo state. Her face was all over the news channels yesterday. She was murdered in Mexico City by a cartel. They shot her in a taqueria.”

  James really didn’t care for current events. A woman walked down the cobbled streets of his neighbourhood six days a week advertising her paper, The Red Note. It only reported on the Mexicans who had recently been slaughtered in any number of grizzly ways. He couldn’t believe so many people bought it.

  “As you would expect, no progress has been made in the investigation. The police have no suspects and no leads. None of the cartels has claimed responsibility for it.”

  “The police in this country wouldn’t have any suspects or any leads if she was shot right in front of them.”

  Sinclair released a half-laugh and resumed his seat. “She was considered a real up-and-coming politician. Before that, she was a heavy favourite in the polls in Hidalgo. Running on a platform of anti-corruption and national pride. The people reclaiming their land from the thieves that run this country.”

  James rolled his eyes. “Fascinating. What does this have to do with me?”

  “Nothing, I just thought it might be something interesting.”

  James remained silent as he polished off the last of his enchiladas. As the cook delivered Sinclair’s meal, she whipped the clean plate away from him. James leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach.

  Sinclair stuck his fork into the topmost enchilada when James harrumphed.

  “How would you recommend I approach this first?” asked James.

  “Really? You waited until my meal arrived to start asking questions?”

  James tilted his head like he had no idea what the hypocritical Sinclair meant.

  Sinclair sighed and let his cutlery fall back towards the table. “You have two options when dealing with a man like Quezada. The first step is to find him. That can be done from inside the cartel or from his enemies.”

  “Well, a white Englishman is hardly going to have much success infiltrating a cartel as a soldier, so I think the best option would be to make friends. If you have any contacts…”

  Sinclair leaned forward. “I know one man who can help you. His name is Mario Seco. He works for the La Familia Celaya cartel. His brother is a lieutenant with a direct connection to Enrique Montoya Rodriguez, the leader of their cartel.”

  “And this… Mario? Why would he help us?”

  “Because we are paying him a lot of money to help us. The only condition of his cooperation is he will not do anything against the interests of his cartel.”

  James folded his arms. He didn’t like the sound of this, not with Sinclair’s track record of dropping him into dangerous situations in the past.

  “You remember Hong Kong, Scotland, Tunisia?”

  Sinclair looked away. Even behind the sunglasses, James could see his eyeballs trying to look at anything but him.

  “I apologised for all that,” said Sinclair. “You know in this business nobody is ever one-hundred percent trustworthy. Are you going to name all the times where my contacts were trustworthy and helped you complete a contract?”

  “It only takes one serious mistake.”

  “The nature of the business.”

  James nodded. “Set up a meeting with Mario.”

  “Very well. I’ll bring him to Guanajuato City. This is about the only place where there’s no narco activity in this state. Now, can you please let me finish my lunch?”

  Chapter Three

  James awoke in his rented colonial house. The small two-bedroom home had a chill about it, as it always did before the midday sun penetrated the thick concrete walls. He stared out of the window at the Rubik’s cube of colonial houses twisting along the valley where Guanajuato City lay.

  His phone buzzed on the worn bedside table. James grumbled and picked it up as it continued to vibrate in his hand.

  “James? Are you awake?” said Sinclair.

  “Obviously. Why are you calling me this early?”

  “It’s nine in the morning. We need to meet earlier before we meet Mario. Something has happened that I think might be worth knowing. I can’t tell you over the phone. Even in Mexico, you never know who might be listening.”

  James sighed. “Where should we meet?”

  “Your place.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Now?” James exclaimed. “I’ve only just got out of bed. This can wait until after my coffee.”

  “I’m outside. Open the doors, or someone is going to wonder why some gringo is standing in the middle of the street banging on your door.”

  James bit his tongue to force down an angry retort. Sinclair had a habit of materialising any time he pleased without a care for what anyone else might be doing.

  He quickly threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt, before tugging open the reinforced corrugated metal doors that served as his front door. The house he lived in used to be a huge garage that the owner had converted into another apartment. With a heave, the doors scraped along the floor to reveal Sinclair dressed like a normal human being instead of an American retiree. His red hair glinted like fire as the morning sun encroached upon the street.

  James frowned. “What do you want?”

  “Can I come in, James?”

  “No.” James shut the doors behind him and locked them. “We’ll go into the garden.”

  James’ house came with a garden one door down. He could only access it from the street, but it served as a place for him to clear his mind and get a full panoramic view of the city below him. He took a small key and snapped open the garden door with a clang.

  “Fancy,” said Sinclair.

  A set of stone steps led through a little seating area with a low table facing the garden. The stonework and the flowers in bloom were carefully tended to by the obsessive wife of the landlord. They settled into chairs at the wrought iron table. An ashtray rested in the centre, with the remains of James’ stubbed out cigarettes from the night before.

  “What a view,” Sinclair declared. “How much do you pay for a place like this?”

  “Two-hundred a month.”

  “Not bad.”

  “Just tell me what you want, Sinclair. You’ve already ruined my morning. Next time, call me before you come.”

  “But if I called you before I arrived, you would have lied and said you were busy. I knew if I staked out your house first, I could tell if you were lying to me or not. In any case, we are going to meet Mario later this morning at a small café downtown. I want us to be prepared.”

  James fumbled in his pockets for his large orange-and-white-coloured box of Chesterfield cigarettes.

  “Last night, Santa Maria de Guadalupe launched an attack against La Familia Celaya in Valenciana just north of here. Did you hear anything about that?”

  James shook his head. “You can’t really hear gunshots in Valenciana from here. It’s on the other side of the valley. The only time I heard anything was when those tourists got shot in front of the big church.” He pointed at the large red church sticking to the yellowed hills like a scab. “You can see it from here.”

  “Well, Santa Maria de Guadalupe destroyed them. At least four dead. They brought one of their narco tanks up there and took them by surprise. There was some meeting going on and they found out about it.”

  James nodded with interest. He’d read about the narco trucks before. They were the heavy armour of the cartels. Ordinary trucks plated with metal to form improvised armoured divisions. Occasionally, they sent them
out into the open during larger conflicts against the police and other cartels.

  He puffed away on his cigarette, the end glowing like an evil eye. “And Mario?”

  “Mario’s fine. He was in Celaya. I called him as soon as I found out what happened. He was angry, really angry. Try not to antagonise him today because I feel like this is a man with a short fuse. If we lose Mario, we will never be able to make an alliance with his cartel.”

  The door to the garden slammed. James’ head snapped around. He’d left his gun in the house, next to his bed.

  His shoulders sagged when he saw his landlord’s wife appear to do the gardening. James greeted the spindly middle-aged woman in Spanish. She returned the greeting and immediately headed for the room where she kept her supplies. It didn’t take long for the incessant scrape of bristles upon concrete to shatter the tranquillity of the morning.

  “Should we go elsewhere?” asked Sinclair.

  “No, no, she doesn’t speak a word of English. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Good. To tell you the truth, Mario almost pulled out. I think he has cold feet about trusting us, even with the amount of money involved. I came here to tell you that because I think he will want more than money. He will want you to prove yourself to him before he gives you the access we need.”

  James raised his eyebrows. “Prove myself?”

  “You know, intervene on their behalf. Kill one of Quezada’s men. To let him know we have taken a side and it’s in Rodriguez’s interest for him to work with us. We can win him his war.”

  James hit the flat of his hand on his thigh. “No, never.”

  “But I gave him your word. We work for a private military organisation. We have to take sides sometimes to get what we want. That means doing things we’re not proud of. Besides, why are you being so precious about this now? Have you gone soft lately?”

  James stubbed his cigarette out with such force the burning end broke free of the filter. “Political ideals are one thing. I don’t care what people believe. Drugs are a dirty business, and I don’t want to be an instrument in helping one cartel dominate an area so they can flood it with more drugs and death.”

  Sinclair gave him a cheeky smile. “Since when did you develop these dangerous ideas?”

  James had no desire to discuss his reasoning with Sinclair. Sinclair had never cared about what they did and why. He, on the other hand, had principles. His boss, Joseph Cecil Gallagher, had saved him from a military prison and recruited him, but that didn’t mean he would obey his every word. He was still human.

  “You need to pull yourself together.” Sinclair stretched himself out in the chair. “That’s the price of his trust. Without him, we have no way to deal with Quezada. If you have a problem with supporting the cartels, see it as wiping a piece of mindless drug-dealing filth from the face of the Earth.”

  James lit another cigarette. He didn’t buy into Sinclair’s attempts to convince him of the righteousness of the cause. Nevertheless, James had done this long enough to know his job required him to deviate from his own moral lines on occasion. For the greater good, as people within the organisation would tell him.

  “I’ll do it if I have to. But if this Mario betrays me, I’ll liquidate him on a matter of principle.”

  “You’re more than welcome to do what you want with Mario after we have what we need. You don’t think I enjoy biting my tongue around a narco and pretending I’m good friends with them, do you?”

  “Is there anything else you wanted to say?”

  “Nothing much. We are meeting him for breakfast at a small café, so you may as well get ready now. I want to scope out the area before he arrives.”

  James sighed and dismissed him with a flick of his finger. Sinclair, knowing him too well, chuckled and left him to his thoughts.

  Chapter Four

  The sleepy café on the edge of the central district welcomed few customers. It did, however, boast a peaceful garden in a private courtyard. Iron tables and chairs littered the uneven ground. A stone fountain with an indecipherable face carved into the wall bubbled away. James paced around the café, peering into the indoor seating areas to check for potential ambushes.

  “Narrow,” said James. “Lots of bottlenecks. Only one entrance and exit. It could be a trap.”

  Sinclair scanned the small area. “We are more than capable of handling these people,” he said. “These are narcos, not special forces. Worst-case scenario, we could fight off enough of them. These people won’t bring an army into the city, which is why I suggested we meet here and not in Celaya.”

  They had purposely arrived at the café a half-hour before the scheduled meeting with Mario. During their time scouting the café, no customers had entered. The young girl behind the counter spent most of her time tapping away with two thumbs on her smartphone.

  James chose a table in the garden, where they could see everyone advancing up the little hill and across the open plaza. Nobody could surprise them from this angle. If Mario had set a trap, they would have enough time to react.

  As they waited, James ordered a breakfast of coffee and chilaquiles, a dish of beans, eggs, chicken, and tortillas in a Salsa Roja sauce. It came in a deep blue metal pot.

  “Are you armed?” asked James.

  “Hmm?” Sinclair had taken a strong interest in the leafy vines creeping up and down the walls of the centuries-old building. “Of course. A small pistol. Enough for something like this. You?”

  “Always.”

  As James spoke, he glimpsed a man coming up the hill. He didn’t need to ask if it was Mario. The glint of his gold Rolex watch and his tattoo-covered forearms announced to any onlooker that the narco had arrived. Only a narco would consider that high fashion.

  “Ah, our man.” Sinclair stood and gave Mario a little wave.

  James and Sinclair greeted Mario as he entered the café. Mario barely came up to James’ shoulders, but he walked like he believed himself ten feet tall. His designer clothing and the gold crucifix chain around his neck made him look like a rapper’s caricature.

  James shook his hand with reluctance. “Good morning, Mario. Would you like something to eat? Perhaps some coffee?”

  Mario shook his head, the tension apparent in his face. “You have the money?”

  Sinclair sat down and took a thick envelope out of his coat. “They are all hundred-dollar bills. You can count them now if you like.”

  The narco made it clear he trusted neither of them by meticulously counting the notes out in the envelope and muttering the numbers under his breath. Although the two of them could both speak Spanish, Mario’s heavy accent and tendency to mutter his words made it difficult for them to understand every word.

  “All there?” asked Sinclair.

  “Good.” Mario stuffed the envelope into his pocket. “You want to speak to Rodriguez?”

  “As I said on the phone, that’s why we’re here. We have business with Quezada, and we need your help to get to him. You’ll be dealing with my friend here, Mr. Winchester.”

  Mario looked James up and down. “Him?”

  James maintained a straight face, even though the idea of working with a man like Mario disgusted him.

  Sinclair nodded. “You know the deal. You have half now and you will get the other half when we find Quezada. Until that time, you will work with Mr. Winchester.”

  Mario clicked his tongue. “Okay. My brother already knows. You going to work for us?” He looked James directly in the eye.

  James nodded. “If that’s what it takes to meet your boss.”

  “Meet me tonight at the bus station. Then we see if we’re going to work with you. My brother will be there, and he’ll decide. Be there at eight. Don’t be late.”

  Mario didn’t linger to shake their hands or say goodbye to them. He stood up from the table and made his way out of the café. James noted the bulge coming from his waist at the back, the tell-tale sign of a gangster hiding a weapon.

  James watched him
until he disappeared out of sight. He didn’t know what to say about what had just transpired at their table.

  “So, he’s not one for talking.” Sinclair laughed. “I suppose he still thinks we work for the police or the government. I’m sure after you prove yourself to him, he will lighten up and you’ll be the best of friends.”

  James rolled his eyes. “He’s the sort of man I’d kill for free.”

  Chapter Five

  MTP fire-resistant gloves, ultra-high-density polyethylene body armour, L-3 BNVD night vision goggles, and countless weapons of various calibres, including an unused and vicious-looking Colt M4 Carbine.

  All the tools of an advanced mercenary. All completely illegal. James arranged his gear on the bed in his spare room. Yet, despite his careful attention to every detail, in a few hours, he would meet with Mario, and he would be entirely at the mercy of the cartel. The moment he stepped into their presence he will have cut all his lifelines.

  As much as he wanted to take as much of his gear as he could, he knew it would only put the cartel members on edge. He had to blend in and rely on his own wits to keep him alive and in their good graces. James selected a military-grade Glock 19x, with some extra bullets hidden inside his coat pocket.

  After putting on his body armour and buttoning up his shirt, he observed himself in the mirror on the textured wall. It wasn’t obvious. It didn’t make him look too fat. The cartel members wouldn’t suspect anything as long as he kept his coat on.

  He took a deep breath and left his home, ready, equipped, and with the mindset of a cold-blooded killer. Nothing else mattered now.

  The sunset created a blood-red mask skittering across the sky. The tattered ends of the shroud gave way to fiery oranges and reds. He knew he had about an hour to meet Mario and his men at the bus station.

  He had Guanajuato’s primary layout memorized, but the side streets and alleys snaking up the sides of the valley took a lifetime to master. James always stuck to the main roads to avoid getting lost. Even in safe Guanajuato City, cholos, dealers, and other unsavoury characters lurked in the maze of back streets after sunset.