It was a zero-sum game. There would be no winners, only temporary leaders atop a board that constantly changed, evolved, and stripped down even the mightiest king, elevating new pawns to a monarchy built on powder. Cocaine had always been a part of the cartels' commodities, but with marijuana legalization on the rise in the United States, the organizations had to make a pivot.
They were businesses, after all, and when a product became less profitable, the leaders knew it was time to push something else with higher margins.
Enter the return of heroin.
A dangerous narcotic that had all but played itself out in America returned to the streets with new vigor. The cartels flooded American drug houses with the stuff, and with it, the number of overdose deaths had skyrocketed in recent years. On top of that, many of the drug lords blended fentanyl into their heroin, which caused the number of deaths to surge even higher.
Dak sat down at his computer station and flipped open the laptop. "So, what is Luis doing with a cartel?" he asked as the screen bloomed to life. An image of El Capitan in Yosemite filled the monitor with a few blue folders and documents populating the right-hand side.
"From what my intel says, he's the right-hand man to Giovani Mendoza—the head of the Dorado Aguila cartel."
"Golden Eagle," Dak said. "Interesting name. Someone thinks highly of themselves." Dak masked his bewilderment at the information for a moment, then spilled it. "Did you say he's the right-hand guy?"
"Yeah. It seems he's head of security and a key enforcer. From what I've gathered, he's pretty ruthless. Cops won't touch him. And American agencies won't try. They have too many other fish they're working on, higher-profile targets."
Luis, ruthless? The thought shook Dak to his gut. He'd seen Luis operate in combat. He did his job with careful efficiency. He'd killed in battle, everyone on the team had. But ruthless? That didn't sound like Luis. Then again, siding with Bo and the others to leave Dak for dead went against everything he thought he knew about the man as well as the rest of the crew.
It seemed Luis Martinez had completed his journey to the dark side.
Will interrupted Dak's silent contemplation. "I don't think I have to tell you how dangerous it will be to go after your boy on this one, Dak. He's protected. Not just by guns and a small army of cartel soldiers, but by the local law enforcement too. You won't get much help on this one if you decide to do it."
"I didn't have help on the last one either, except for your intel."
"Yeah, but this is different. Car—" He caught himself and stopped before he said Carson's name. "Your last target was on his own. I wouldn't advise an entire team of spec ops guys from any branch going into this hornets' nest. It's suicide."
"Thanks for the advice," Dak said. "I'm not taking a team. So, I should be fine."
"I had a bad feeling you'd say that."
Dak ignored him. "You said I won't get much help. Does that mean I'll get some?"
"Yeah," Will confirmed. "I have a contact in Guadalajara not too far from there. She can help you with anything you might need: weapons, supplies, whatever. I told her you'd be in contact."
"She?"
Will snorted. "You got a problem working with a woman?"
Dak chuckled. "No. Just wondering if it's one of your old girlfriends, because if so, maybe she won't help me as much as you think."
"You're funny," Will said flatly. "No, nothing ever happened with me and her. I'll send you her contact info when we get off the phone. Her name is Carina Perez. She's a tough one. Used to work for an anti-drug task force with the Federales. Now she runs a cantina outside Guadalajara."
"She's a bartender?" Dak's doubts were obvious in his voice.
"I didn't say she was pouring the drinks, although maybe she is. I recall she made a pretty good margarita. But the cantina is a cover. She helps equip locals with weapons so they can defend themselves. Keeps it real hush. Only works with double-checked referrals and always uses trusted third parties to make her deliveries. She's smart."
"I wouldn't say being a gun runner is smart if you're going against the cartels, but I like her moxie. I'll say that."
"I'm sure you do. I'll send over the information now. Good luck, Dak. Don't get yourself killed. Or worse."
Dak snorted. "I make no promises."
He ended the call and focused on the news headline he'd pulled up during the conversation. His finger dragged the article down beyond the fold as he read the details about a convoy of Methodist missionaries who'd been slaughtered in the crossfire of a local drug war. The location of the killing was Uruapan.
According to the reports, a cartel called El Nuevo Guerrero was being blamed for the massacre. Dak figured that was one of the rivals of Luis' organization. Why would they attack missionaries?
That question would have to wait until later. His phone buzzed on the desk. He took his eyes off the computer and looked down at the text from Will.
"Carina Perez," Dak said. "Looks like I'm in for some tequila."
Four
Uruapan
Luis stepped into the dark basement. The sound of water dripping from a leaky faucet in the corner echoed through the room like a slow, persistent hammer. He quickly surveyed the room as he always did, taking in every detail. Even as one of the top men in the organization, Luis knew things could change quickly. A man who was an ally one minute could be the one to stick the knife in your back the next.
His senses always remained on high alert, whether he was eating a bowl of cereal or dolling out punishment on behalf of Mendoza.
Not counting himself, the headcount in the room was five: two of his security men on the right and two on the left, the fifth man sat in a metal chair, hands bound behind him and his feet clamped together with zip ties. Duct tape was wrapped around his belly and lower ribs to keep him firmly attached to the chair.
More duct tape stretched across his mouth, sealing his lips shut. His swollen, bulbous eyes barely allowed the man to see. Luis' men had been thorough in their beatings. If he had to guess, the prisoner probably had a few broken ribs, too.
The man's head sagged so low his chin nearly touched the top of his chest. His black hair was caked in sweat and blood.
Luis moved deeper into the room like a ghost floating above the floor. He stopped a few feet from the chair, hovering menacingly until the man raised his head, staring out through narrow slits.
"Why, Eduardo?" Luis asked.
The gangly man stared back blankly. His white shirt and blue jeans were stained with dirt, sweat, and splotches of blood—the poster child for torture.
Eduardo's breath came in heavy, labored gasps. Exhaustion had set in. Over the last 24 hours, Luis instructed he not be allowed to sleep, knowing that would weaken the man's will to resist the truth.
"I… I didn't—" Eduardo muttered. Spittle and blood spewed out from his lips.
"Yes, you did," Luis interrupted. "Yes, you did." He stepped closer to the prisoner and grabbed him by the back of the skull, propping the man's head up so he could look nowhere else but into Luis' probing brown eyes.
"I swear, Luis. It wasn't me."
Luis cocked his head to the side, feigning sympathy. "Oh? But you were the one who gave us the intel about the convoy. You were the one who told us when they would be passing through that route. You gave us the exact time and location, Eduardo."
He shook the man's head, clutching a fistful of hair, then shoved it down. Luis stood up and cracked his neck in both directions, dusting off his hands at the same time as if that would get the congealed blood off his skin.
"See what you did, Eduardo? You got blood on my hand."
One of the guards stepped forward immediately with a wet rag, extending it out to their general.
Luis accepted the proffered cloth with a nod and worked meticulously at getting his skin squeaky clean before handing it back to the guard.
"Gracias," he said.
The man accepted the gratitude and stepped back into the shadow
s near a sink to the right. A bucket sat on the floor next to him.
"Do you know what that is?" Luis asked, pointing to a plank five feet away in the middle of the room. It was propped up by cinder blocks, a metal drain cover underneath an ominous clue.
Eduardo barely had the strength to look to his right, but he managed and then brought his gaze back to Luis. "No," he said, weakly turning his head.
Luis squatted down so he looked at eye level. "You see, Eduardo, Senior Mendoza doesn't like traitors." He pouted his lips and bobbed his head as if making a concession. "I realize that in our line of work, that sort of thing is common." He raised a finger. "That doesn't mean we have to accept it."
"I didn't—"
"I wasn't finished," Luis said, raising the back of his hand to threaten further punishment. Eduardo's chest heaved as sobs climbed up into his chest and spat out of his mouth. "I want to know why. I want to know who put you up to this. Give me every detail, Eduardo."
"I swear, Luis. Please!"
Luis drew a long breath through his nostrils and stood up straight again. He flattened his black, button-up shirt and matching pants. "Okay, Eduardo."
He looked over to the guard who had brought the rag and nodded.
The man picked up the bucket at his feet and brought it over. Water sloshed over the sides and splattered on the floor. The other three guards immediately moved to the center of the room and picked up the chair holding Eduardo.
"What… what are you doing?" the prisoner asked, panic suddenly giving him a short burst of energy.
The men positioned the chair legs over the plank and then tilted it until Eduardo was on his back, staring up at the ceiling, head resting on the wooden board.
Luis shifted his feet and looked down at the man. "Have you ever wondered what it feels like to drown, Eduardo? Did you know you can experience this wretched feeling on dry land?"
Eduardo knew then what was about to happen. Dread filled his swollen face and his head rolled back and forth as if that would somehow keep his inevitable fate from knocking.
"No," he blathered. "Please, don't do this, Luis. I've always been loyal."
Luis leaned forward menacingly. He hovered over the man's face for a moment. The smell of sweat, the acrid scent of blood, and the pungent odor of desperate fear hung in the air. "Loyal to who, Eduardito?"
Luis turned to the man with the rag and gave a nod.
Eduardo shouted his protests, twisting his head violently back and forth as the guard placed the bloody rag over the prisoner's face, then pushed down with both hands to keep the victim still.
"No!" Eduardo's muted screams filled the room, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls and going no farther. No one would hear him. Not even upstairs in the mansion where Giovani Mendoza conducted business as usual.
One of the other guards, a man with a shaved head and matching crosses tattooed on both cheeks, picked up the plastic bucket and held it over Eduardo's head.
Luis waited for a second, and then said, "Who put you up to this, Eduardo?"
"Please! I didn't—"
His voice cut off as the guard dumped a stream of water onto the rag. Eduardo choked and gagged. The man with the bucket righted the container for a moment while the prisoner coughed.
"Who?"
After another ten seconds of gurgled coughing, Eduardo tried to speak. "Please, Luis. Please!"
Luis ignored the pleas and nodded again at the guard. Once more, the bucket tilted. The liquid poured onto the rag. Eduardo shook violently, jerking his head in every conceivable direction, but he couldn't escape. Water seeped into his mouth and lungs. The coughing returned as his body tried to reject the liquid. Eduardo's chest burned and squeezed in terrible agony.
The guard tipped the bucket back to its upright state and waited again.
"Tell me, Eduardo. Tell me who put you up to this. I want to know where the guns went. Give me everything and I will make this end."
Eduardo hesitated. Luis hadn't been certain of the man's guilt. It was entirely possible they were torturing an innocent person. That, however, came with the job. Sometimes the innocent were punished, but that was how control was maintained. That hesitation, though, told Luis he'd been right about Eduardo.
"Guerreros," Eduardo yelped. "Nuevos Guerreros." He sobbed openly now from under the soaked rag. His body convulsed with ever choking tears. "They said they would kill my family, Luis. My parents, my wife. They said they would execute all of them."
Luis inclined his head at the information. He'd suspected the Guerreros were responsible. They were the only organization clever enough to pull a stunt like that, in this part of the country, anyway.
The intention, Luis believed, was to make it look like Dorado Aguila had taken to butchering American missionaries. The plan would have worked if not for Marco's quick decision and Luis' ability to manipulate the media.
He'd spun the story on its head, turning it against the Guerreros before they could take further action. Now, they were a target for both the Mexican government and the Americans. The latter wouldn't do anything official. They would send in covert ops, teams of them, to mete out their own brand of justice.
One thing Eduardo said, however, needled at Luis. His heart—for the briefest of seconds—tensed at the prisoner's comment about his family.
Luis swept the emotions under a resolute, grim façade. "Thank you, Eduardo. I knew it was them. I'm glad to see you have confirmed my suspicions."
The man holding the rag pulled it back and revealed Eduardo's face again. "Please, Luis," he begged between feeble coughing fits. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I sw—"
Luis raised a pistol in his right hand and fired. The suppressor muffled the sound to just above a click, like someone flicking their fingernail on a desk.
Eduardo's head fell back against the wooden board and slumped to the side, a blackened crimson hole in his forehead.
"Get rid of him," Luis ordered his men. "Leave his body at one of the known Guerreros pickup locations. It's time to send them a message."
He turned and stormed out of the room and up the stairs, never once looking back.
Five
Guadalajara
Dak scrolled through his phone, reading an article about the terrible massacre that happened on the road between Uruapan and the village of Tiamba. His heart ached for the victims and their families. Yet all he could see from the incident was an ongoing argument between the local cartels. The government, for their part, also helped gloss over the tragedy by continuing to put out statements about how the investigation was ongoing and they weren't certain who was responsible.
Could Luis have been behind the killings? The possibility was 50/50 at this point.
Dak sat at a corner booth so he could keep an eye on everything and everyone in the place. The cantina harkened back to the days of old Mexico, when outlaws roamed freely, kicking in doors and settling matters with pistols instead of law and order. Ironically, it seemed much of the country still embraced those antiquated customs. At least here, in this part of the big city, the cartels' grasp wasn't as firm. Expensive high rise condos and apartment buildings reached to the sky over the rolling plains of Guadalajara. He'd passed Ferrari, Aston Martin, and Maserati dealerships on his way to the bar—a telling contrast between the lives of the wealthy and those who kept the country running from the depths of blue collar mediocrity.
To her credit, Will's contact had picked a place between the two. The location of the bar on one of the many side streets Guadalajara had to offer gave it enough business to look legitimate, but not enough to bring in any significant revenue.
That, Dak knew, came from somewhere else.
The bar was nearly empty, only playing host to three other patrons. To be fair, it was still early in the day, but he estimated the busiest time would only produced six or seven more customers. The books probably reflected that, showing just enough profit to keep the lights on and the cops away.
He set the phone
down on the table and picked up the glass of light gold tequila. He raised it to his lips and took a sip, letting the peppery liquid sit on his tongue before swallowing it.
He exhaled as the smooth burn slipped down his throat.
A black-haired woman in a white v-neck button down and faded blue jeans emerged through the manager's door to his left. She stalked over to him, crossing the twenty feet with long strides. The door closed slowly behind her as she approached. The untucked shirt, flapped at her hips. The long v at the neck stretched down to the very top of her breasts, revealing nothing, and promising the same.
She stopped short of Dak's table and crossed her arms. "Enjoying the reposado?" she asked in a heavy, exotic accent.
He looked down at the glass, letting his gaze linger on it for a few dramatic seconds, then diverted his eyes to meet hers. They pulled him in like twin vortexes, their gravity stronger than a thousand black holes. He wondered if her soul was as dark, but didn't push himself to find out.
The stunning young cantina owner stood out in the dusty bar like an orchid in the Sahara, an impossible bloom in an otherwise desolate wasteland.
Stupid pickup lines bubbled to mind. Not as much as I'm enjoying the view, he thought, but he knew better than to say something so trite. She was a businesswoman. Attractive, no question, but she wasn't here to be hit on or complimented. If they'd been two strangers at someone else's bar, he might have taken a chance, though he knew deep down it could go nowhere. His heart was still in Istanbul with a woman who would never take him back.
"It's excellent," he said, opting for focused honesty on the drink.
"I should hope so. I make it."
He tilted his head to the side and questioned her with raised eyebrows. "Yeah?"
"Yep," she said with a twitch of the head. "Family secret."
She slid into the seat across from him and folded her hands atop the table.
The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set Page 15