Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) (3 page)

No conversation takes place. The barricade officer raises his pistol and shoots into the cab several times. Immediately afterward, he climbs into the driver’s seat and wipes the blood off of the windows.

At this point, the flashing lights revolving atop the escort police vehicles go dark, and the cop cars quickly and quietly back up and drive away in separate directions.

The man recording the scene on his iPhone begins a chain of profanities in shocked disbelief as he watches the hitman drive the prison transport away into the night.

My cell rings. “Axton.”

“D’Angelo,” the caller announces. “Hope you put on a pot of coffee.”

“I’m trying to quit.”

“Bad timing.”

“Will there ever be a good one?”

“US Intelligence was tracking Miguel before he got sloppy and put two rounds through Jameson’s skull,” Police Chief Salvador D’Angelo, my contact and friend from the St. Paul police force, explains.

“What was Miguel’s connection to Jameson?”

“Theory points to Jameson having been Miguel’s Tide-cleaned and Clorox-fresh liaison, serving the high society kids at a couple prestigious southern universities, including Tulane in New Orleans and Rice in Texas.”

“You think Jameson got greedy?”

“Maybe. But again, it’s all just speculation at this point. All we know right now is the two obviously had some sort of falling out.”

“Obviously.” I Google Drew Jameson’s name and immediately locate his Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Tumblr social media sites.

D’Angelo says, “Jameson is—was—a straight-A student, he had never been arrested or even cited with a traffic violation, and seemed close to his family. His parents are devastated.”

“Tox screen?”

“Still in the works.” He continues, “And until now, Miguel was under surveillance simply for being an underling for the FBI’s real target, Juan ‘El Carnicero’ Cruz.”

I know of Cruz. El Carnicero is a high officiating political leader in his country, operating out of Mexico City. He’s a powerful man who’s spent years forging friendships, connections and loyalties, becoming Mexico’s most deadly cartel leader in over a decade. He’s the gatekeeper between South America, Cuba, Mexico and the US and controls the Gulf. When his activities spilled north of the border, so did American blood. The FBI wants him bad, and with very good reason.

“Any IDs on Miguel’s transport accomplices?”

“Not yet, but analysts are taking bets it was Cruz’s men behind it.”

“They think Cruz busted Miguel out before he could give incriminating testimony?”

“He wasn’t dead at the transport site. Cruz is either Miguel’s friend or enemy, but we’re not sure which yet. What we were led to believe, according to Miguel’s sob story, is that Cruz was unhappy and wanted him dead because of a botched deal—he lost nearly a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of Cruz’s cocaine.”

“And that’s how the feds thought they’d secured Miguel’s testimony. Makes sense. Do we know where Cruz is now?”

“Sources say he’s still operating out of Oaxaca,” D’Angelo replies. “Satellite imaging doesn’t show us any out of the ordinary activity at Cruz’s compound, and no one is taking credit for Miguel’s escape or death.”

I make a mental note before asking, “Where was Miguel’s transport vehicle located?”

“Located thirty miles south of the city. They were bringing him to the FCI in Terre Haute, Indiana to await trial. All five guards were gunned down and Miguel was gone.” He pauses. “And Ryder, it’s a real stain on the department that it all went down here.”

“I get it, sir,” I say then ask, “What was Miguel doing in St. Paul?”

“Possibly making inroads through Canada while hiding from police. He got caught at a dive strip joint with a buddy of his from the Canadian border patrol.”

“Nice.”

“I could read a laundry list of dirty deeds Miguel perpetrated, with prior convictions from prostitution to drugs, but all of it was nickel and dime shit compared to being the primary suspect for the murder of Jameson—and now, tampering with a federal witness.”

When he throws that second piece of info at me, it’s like a scorpion is dropped in my pants. It stings fast, and I want to stamp it under my boot until I hear its body break and crack apart. “Did he kill him too?”

“Her,” D’Angelo corrects. “Twenty-two-year-old Rachel Farrington was a fellow student with Jameson at Tulane. She was the only eyewitness to the murder. During Miguel’s disappearing act, she went missing too. She’s presumed dead.”

“Went missing? Wasn’t she in protective custody?”

Nothing but silence from D’Angelo.

“Jesus Christ! Are you fucking kidding me?”

“She was holed up with two officers in a hotel in Wichita. The officers were shot dead, and she’s missing.”

“Is she being considered a suspect?” I speculate. “Why didn’t he just off her too?”

“We don’t know yet. Investigators are searching to find out if she had any tie-ins to Jameson, but so far it seems like the two may not have even known one another—”

“And Miguel?” I interrupt.

D’Angelo sounds tired. “It’s highly doubtful she was in league with him. Reports say she was a real wreck after what she saw, and she was terrified of the shooter. After working with artists, she picked Miguel’s photo from the database. She nearly had a breakdown just looking at the picture.”

I search the net for photos and leads while I piece together possible scenarios. “He probably got what he wanted from Farrington then killed her before skipping south-of-the-border to his home base in Tamaulipas. Is he known to own any other property?”

“DEA suspects he has a safe house in Tijuana.”

“How about in the States?”

“They’re still linking other known aliases.”

“And they’re going to take a fucking millennium,” I say, now sifting and combing through both Farrington’s and Jameson’s social media sites. “No offense—there are a lot of bad guys out there—I know workloads are heavy.”

“That’s where you come in.”

“Always is.”

“The DEA was in the middle of a wet dream over the charges they held over Miguel; his testimony against Cruz was solid. If we can find Miguel, we’ll have enough evidence to convict Cruz—and I don’t have to tell you that infiltration into that level of the Mexican Cartel is the modern day equivalent to crumbling Capone’s empire.”

“Not to mention putting away a drug trafficking murderer like Miguel himself,” I remind him. But I get it. The government’s obsession with cracking down on El Carnicero is nothing new—they’ve been after him for years. They thought Miguel’s eyewitness-murder fiasco would be the key to bringing the cartel king to his knees and putting an end to his virile command. He headed the export of billions of dollars in drugs, which flooded into the US each year. His cartel also brought everything from gang violence, not only in Mexico but north of the border too, to human trafficking, to murder-for-hire, kidnappings, prostitution and extortion.

“You do know, unless he’s a lot more important to Cruz than the feds suspect, Miguel is probably already dead,” I say, stating the obvious.

“Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. But Homeland Security isn’t taking any chances. They just put a seven-digit bounty on Miguel’s head,” D’Angelo responds, sweetening the pot

Chapter Two

Rachel

Adrenaline isn’t my ally.

I hear footsteps approach. Fight or flight kicks in full-throttle, and what are you going to do with that when you’re locked up like an animal?

Wrenching at the chain, involuntary whimpers escape my throat as I try to move my body to run, escape, fight,
anything
, but the steel links keep me steadfastly bound.

“
Tranquila hermosa.
No estas lastimado.
—
Quiet, beautiful. You are not harmed.
The voice speaks soothingly before placing what feels like a plastic bottle to my lips. My first instinct is to back away, but as the cool water dribbles down my chin I’m struck by my voracious thirst.

I open my mouth like a greedy child and try guzzling the liquid until I choke—sputtering and drowning in my captor’s offering until he pulls it away.

“Cálmate. Cálmate.”

It takes me a moment before I can regain my breath and he gives me the drink again. This time I command myself to try and be slow. The water still pours down and around the sides of my mouth, soaking down over my shirt.

“
¿
Hablas español?” Do you speak Spanish?

I don’t move. My blood chills.
He’s asking me if I speak Spanish.
Somehow I don’t think it’s wise to admit I’m fluent. Let them think I don’t understand a word they’re saying. I silently thank my mom for enrolling me in a dual language program when I was in school.

“
¿
Hablas español?”
he repeats.

“No español, I don’t know what you’re saying!” I cry out and struggle against the shackles. “What am I doing here? What do you want from me?”

He laughs before I hear the sound his boots make against the floor as he walks away.

I’m brought back to a memory of the
why . . .

At Tulane University, it’s always Mardi Gras. Students leave as much time in their schedule for evening parties as they do for daytime classes.

I was all dressed up—gold glitter around my eyes, a short halter dress covered in metallic sparkles that looked amazing in the evening light. My best friend and dorm roommate assured me that Thomas Monroe—class president and political science major—would be there. Thomas had been asking me out for weeks, but I was playing hard to get. That night might have been my night to get got. 

Because I had so much homework to finish up, I was late getting to Frat Row where all the fraternity parties happen. So I took a stupid shortcut through a few back alleys. It was dark; the moon was nothing but a thin tear in the sky. And I was alone at eleven thirty. It was the kind of thing my mom would come down on me hard for, and I’d be grounded for a month.

Straight-laced, straight-A student. I never do anything this stupid,
I reasoned.
I’ll be okay this once.

That’s when arguing voices reached me—one in Spanish, the other in English with no hint of an accent. No big deal.

Except for the conversational content.

“
Estás muerto, chico blanquito lindo.”  You’re dead, pretty white boy.

Pretty white boy
started begging for his life.

I pressed the number 5 on my iPhone to speed dial campus security and poked my head around the edge of the alley. Maybe I was overreacting and the situation was really less dire than I imagined. But as my eyes adjusted to the bright headlight beams from an idling car, I saw the Spanish speaking guy standing over the pleading English speaking guy—who I knew as a classmate and fellow Tulane student—with a pistol pressed against his forehead.

As I hitched in breath to scream, a sickening sound deafened all thought, freezing me in place. Blood and bone, milky-white chunks of brain and sticky strands of hair splattered against the brick wall behind them.

My phone plummeted from my hand and bounced hard off the blacktop.

The guy whirled around to face me, aiming the same gun he’d just exploded the other kid’s head with.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OUT THERE!?” a masculine voice shouted, cutting through the last echoes of the gunshot.

“THE FUCK!?” another brayed.

“WHO IS BACK THERE?”

A chorus of voices spilled out into the night as doors and windows opened up all around us and people started heading towards the alley. Festive music followed them with ill-timed irony.

The gunman met my eyes then lifted his finger to his lips to tell me to be quiet.

Bile rolled through my stomach. If I ran, would he kill me? How about all the people coming? How far would he go?

“I’M HERE—I’M BACK HERE!! HELP ME!” I screamed.

The gunman wasn’t happy. There would probably be a lot of dead bodies to clean up. He pointed at me—like he was marking me—before he made his way back to his car and drove off fast.

As people surrounded me and the dead body, that moment’s-ago bile came up from my stomach, and I spewed all over the ground.

T
he next few weeks were a whirlwind. Hours spilled into days as I was questioned endlessly, reliving the scene again and again for police, lawyers, sketch artists and important government officials. I found out the name of the suspected shooter was Eduardo Miguel after I positively identified his photo.

I was told my testimony—the DA and the DEA hoped—would cinch his going away for good.

While Eduardo Miguel was locked away, they had no real fear for my safety, but still two special agents were parked outside my apartment, assigned to watch over and protect me until after the trial.

But then he disappeared during transport. That’s when the agents made me drop everything I was doing and go with them to a hotel. They wouldn’t even let me call my family or let my professors know I wasn’t coming in to class. All I could think of when they checked me into the room was that my mom and little sister must have thought I was dead.

It was only temporary, they said.

We weren’t there for more than four hours before the taller one went to get us some food from the diner across the street—the heavyset one watched him out the windows with binoculars.

When the agent came back with takeout containers, I downed half my lemonade before I even took the wrapper off my sandwich.

All of a sudden I started feeling lightheaded and queasy. I broke out in a cold sweat and wondered if maybe there had been some type of bacteria in the drink I’d just guzzled.

Next thing I knew, I woke up here . . .

He’s going to kill me.
I have no doubt.

I don’t know why it hasn’t happened already, why he didn’t just get it over with and dump my body in some roadside ravine. Good God, I don’t have any information to bargain with.

Did he contact my mom? Is he demanding a ransom? We don’t have money for that.

What happened to my protection detail?
Jesus, maybe they’re dead!

Then another thought hits me:
Oh dear God, what if he killed my family?

Think, Rachel. Just think. Breathe.
Why would he do that?
They know nothing about him.

Shifting where I sit, my body sinks into the give of what seems to be a mattress. To confirm it, old, used springs pop and ping in and out of shape. I can tell by the shape it’s a twin size mattress.

As I trail my hands down behind my body and contort myself so I can feel around, my skin comes in contact with the scratchy polyester of the uncovered mattress. It’s tacky and grimy. I continue feeling over the edge of the mattress to a cold concrete floor.

I’m fucked.

I’m so fucked.

No one knows where I am.

I’m blindfolded, chained and hidden in a killer’s basement.

I try to hold it back, but I can’t. Softly, I begin to cry.

Ryder

As I comb through the information via authorized databases (along with some I’m not so authorized for), an entirely new picture of Eduardo Miguel begins to emerge. I sit back in the hotel chair and stare at the first and most crucial page of notes and facts I’ve compiled. I call it the perp’s “quick profile.”

Chief taught me that you can’t always trust what you hear, to look at the cold facts and let your mind instinctively put the pieces together to form a cohesive picture.

Sometimes our intel is spot on. Other times, when the circumstances in a case just
feel
wrong, or off, this method proves to be invaluable.

And right now, I’m looking at how the DEA, and the FBI and everyone else who’s so hell bent on bringing down Cruz, could be missing the bigger picture. I see a Miguel who has been hiding behind Cruz as a smokescreen for his own dealings. His cartel is growing in numbers, amassing strength and territory, and all right under the noses of federal agents. 

My instinct tells me Miguel wants to be a ghost to honest law enforcement and a source of easy, large cash sums to the dishonest, all while becoming a legend in the cartel. And being brass enough to murder a student on campus and kill the witness to his crime is behavior he’ll want to take credit for.

That kicks it up a notch.

And what if it wasn’t Cruz who broke Miguel out of transport? Is it possible Miguel has built enough clout to have it done himself?

Hell, what a great diversion! Get arrested as a suspect for murder, get the feds all hard and horny because they think you’re their ticket to Cruz and orchestrate your own escape while making it look like it was actually your enemy who did it . . . that way authorities are looking for Cruz and connections to Cruz instead of directly tracing you!

I consider the odds of this scenario.

Where are you, Miguel, and are you still breathing?

I spend the better part of the night tracing leads and making phone calls, until I have the hotel room wall covered in evidence—department of motor vehicle records, gas receipts, credit card purchases, bills, addresses of property owned or connected to Miguel, the names and addresses of known associates, buddies who’ve put up his bail each time he’s been arrested, and the women he’s slept with (during the three months before his arrest) in the US, Mexico and Columbia, along with his wife’s, mother’s and sister’s whereabouts in Florida. I’ve printed off the most pertinent details that D’Angelo emailed with the criminal arrest file the state department sent him on Miguel and have included the legitimate and illegitimate businesses he’s been tied to.

What I find the most interesting, I note before throwing back a Red Bull and glancing down at my watch at four in the morning, is how much business our perp had in Texas. Especially southeast Texas, where it borders Louisiana. In less time than it takes to make a pot of coffee I learn a lot about Bridge City: it has a population of just over seven thousand, is less than a hundred mile drive to Houston, is surrounded by the Neches River and Cow Bayou and sits like an obscured jewel in one of the biggest shipyard hubs in America, with fast-track access to ports all over the world.

And if my theory is correct, Miguel may have created his own world there under the alias Alex Mason. He began by simply renting a storage space under that alias three years ago, but since that time Alex Mason’s business has become very affluent. It may have started with a storage unit, but it’s now become an established, well-to-do import and export trade business out of Port Arthur’s main shipyard.