Читать книгу Hell Dawn - Don Pendleton - Страница 12

Cortez navigated the car out of the city limits, heading north, higher into the Rocky Mountains. Checking his watch, he smiled. He still had three minutes to reach the rendezvous point. The mission had come about as close to going to hell as one could imagine, with this crazy group of federal agents busting up his play. But he still had time to salvage the whole thing, if he kept his head about him.

A groan sounded from behind him, and he glanced over the backrest to scan his prisoner. The guy’s skin was pale, and he was shuddering, most likely slipping into shock. Cortez sent a mental prayer heavenward that the guy would make it. If the guy died, if Cortez failed to produce the goods, he knew the consequences of that failure. Miguel Mendoza wasn’t a man you wanted to disappoint under any circumstances, but particularly not when a big payday was involved. Cortez didn’t know all the details, but he definitely knew that the guy in the back seat was worth lots of money to someone. But not if he died.

Driving with one hand, Cortez torched a cigarette and puffed away, squinting through the blue-gray smoke at the road ahead. As it was, the guy was going to be pissed off at him. After all, the simple snatch-and-grab had turned into a bloodbath with at least two downed cops, a handful of his own guys dead or missing and perhaps even some wounded civilians. So Cortez had no delusions about the warmth of the welcome he’d receive when he returned to Mexico.

Glancing into the back seat, he eyed the guy again and shook his head.

“Easy, gringo,” he called over his shoulder. His English was nearly flawless from years of studying criminal justice at UCLA before returning to his homeland. “We’ll fix you up real good. You’re our little cash cow.”

Two minutes later he pulled onto the side of the road, parked it and exited. Taking out his cellular telephone, he hit the redial button. When the verbal prompt came, he hit three more buttons and terminated the call, tossing the phone back inside the car.

Grabbing the big man under the shoulders, he dragged him from the back of the vehicle, pulled him about thirty yards from it and laid him out flat on the dirt and sparse grass. Moments later a pair of helicopters crested a nearby mountain peak and knifed toward him. The crew worked quickly, strapping the prisoner onto a stretcher and loading him onto the helicopter. Two more guys, both heavily armed, sprinted for the car.

Mendoza’s son, Bernardo, appeared in the door of one of the choppers and gave Cortez a questioning look. He replied with a nod and the younger man hopped from the craft, an olive drab duffel bag in his hand, and strode up to Cortez.

Taking the bag, Cortez ran after the two gunners. Sliding down a small incline next to the car, he ran to the two men, both of whom gave him a questioning look.

Pulling open the rear passenger’s-side door, he stuffed the bag into the space on the floor between the front and back seats.

“More ammunition,” he said. “In case you need it. Now go, get out of here.”

The driver nodded. Cortez slammed the door and dismissed the two men by banging a fist on the roof of the car, watching as the vehicle backed up, then drove back onto the road and roared away. Grinning, he sprinted for the helicopters and boarded the nearer one.

Moments later, both craft were aloft.

Cortez pulled out a black box that featured several switches.

The Mexican stared at the box for a moment. He realized it was only a matter of time before the police caught up with the Hyundai. Most likely, the pigs would force the vehicle from the road and take the men into custody. He’d like to think his people were dead-enders, that they’d sooner take a bullet than sell him out. Sure, he’d like to think that. But he was a realist. If the police applied the right amount of pressure, his men would give him up in a heartbeat. He knew this because he’d do the same to them, in even less time.

Casually, he flicked a switch and snuffed out both men’s lives. Just the first of many to die this day, he thought.

MIGUEL MENDOZA FINISHED his morning swim in his Olympic-size pool. He climbed the ladder out of the deep end, water sluicing off his body. A young maid was on hand, a towel in her hand. He snapped his fingers and she unfurled it and wrapped it around his shoulders.

He strode up from the pool to his terrace. His wife, Rosa, looked up from her newspaper and smiled at him, exposing perfect white teeth. Her wavy hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a long T-shirt over her bikini-clad body as per his instructions, and he was pleased.

“How was your swim?” she asked, still smiling.

“It was fine, my love. Thank you.”

He walked past and admired her, like another man might admire a fast car. She was thirty years his junior, and he considered her his most prized possession, something to be trotted out, shown off and appreciated by others. He guessed that that was how others felt about great art, something he’d never developed a taste for. But like other treasures, he knew others wanted her. And he made sure he tucked her safely away, particularly when he wasn’t around to watch her.

She chewed on a small piece of grapefruit while he seated himself. He scanned the smooth concrete walls that surrounded the estate and congratulated himself once again on the stronghold he’d created for himself and his family. The maid handed him a short-sleeved cotton shirt and helped him shrug into it. He snatched the newspaper from a second maid’s hands and whisked them both away with a wave of his hand.

“Darling,” Rosa said, “I want to take the children to town today. We are going shopping. After that I promised them that we’d eat shrimp at the old man’s restaurant on the beach.”

He nodded. “That’s fine. You’ll take Carlos and his people with you.”

Carlos was his personal security chief and one of the few men Mendoza trusted to guard his wife. The man was exceedingly loyal to Mendoza, almost as though he were one of his own children. As he spoke, he saw something flicker in the woman’s eyes.

She looked down at her plate. “Of course,” she said. She speared a grape with her fork, popped it into her mouth and chewed. He felt her unhappiness from across the table. His hands clenched into fists and he slammed one of them down on the table. Dishes jumped from the table and silverware clattered against the china. “What?” he yelled. “What’s your problem, woman?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock, terror. “I have no problem, darling. I swear.”

“Is it Carlos?”

She looked down at her plate and shook her head. “No, no.”

“What did he do?”

“He did nothing.

“Really, it’s not him.”

“Then what is it?”

“Please, please. Let’s forget I said anything.”

His voice dropped into little more than a whisper. When he spoke, he did so through clenched teeth. “Tell. Me. Now.”

“I just wanted some time alone. With the children,” she said. “Everywhere we go, we have guards. It just makes me self-conscious.”

“It keeps you alive, you ungrateful bitch.”

She nodded. He saw tears beginning to brim over. He considered letting it go at that. But obviously he needed to teach this little bitch a lesson. She’d either taken leave of her senses or she just didn’t appreciate all he did for her. Regardless, the woman needed to be taught a lesson.

He noticed her hand had slipped off the table and she clutched her stomach. “So you never complained before, but now you are. Now, it’s a big deal, yes? Suddenly you must complain.”

When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible. “Forgive me. I have no right to complain.”

“But here you are, feeding me this bullshit. You think this is a bad life? You think I’m giving my children, my babies, a shitty deal, right? I’m a bad Papa to my babies. Is that it?”

He turned and found one of his guards standing in the door leading from their bedroom onto the terrace. “Go get your boss. We’ll settle this bullshit once and for all.”

Rosa gave him a panicked look. “Miguel?”

He silenced her with a wave of his hand. They waited in tense silence for a couple of minutes. The security chief, dressed in khakis and a starched white shirt, sauntered through the Mendoza’s bedroom and onto the terrace. He winked at one of the guards, pointed a finger and smiled at the other one. When Carlos approached the table, he nodded politely at Rosa, but didn’t look at her too long. Rather, he turned to face Mendoza.

“You wanted something, sir?” he asked.

Mendoza leaned back in his chair. He laced his fingers together and rested the back of his head in the palms. “Carlos,” he said. “I have news.”

“News?”

“Yeah, news. I gotta let you go.”

Carlos smiled and began to shift on his feet. “Let me go? You’re firing me?”

Rosa interjected, “Miguel, no.”

His face whipped toward her. “You shut up!” he said. He underscored each word with a jab from his finger. “This is between him and me. Understand?”

“Is there a problem, boss?”

“You’ve offended my wife. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Carlos’s face tightened with anger. “Ma’am, is this true? I offended you somehow?”

Mendoza came out of his chair and punched Carlos in the stomach. The younger man staggered back, but almost immediately got his footing. He started to bring up his fists in a fighting stance, thought better of it and let them drop to his sides.

Mendoza glanced over his shoulder. He wanted to make sure the others were watching, particularly his wife, who now sat sobbing at the table. He knew they weren’t just questioning him, they were questioning his authority, his competency. They wanted to take him down. His wife, this pack of overpaid killers. They were all a bunch of damn savages. They all wanted what he had, and he needed to take them down before they took him.

He turned to the guards at his back. He nodded at Carlos. “Take him out.” The guards, both of them armed with Uzis, stared at him for a moment. “What, are you deaf? I said—”

One of the guards suddenly reached out, shoved him out of the way. He hit the ground, his outstretched hands breaking his fall. He heard autofire erupt overhead from the guards’ SMGs. Shell casings struck the ground and rolled underneath him. Somewhere in all the noise he heard his wife’s screams of terror. A moment later, the shooting had ended. He rolled over onto his rear. Carlos lay facedown on the ground, his back ravaged by bullet exit wounds. His handgun lay on the ground next to him, inches from his outstretched fingers.

Roberto Cardenas, the guard who’d shoved Mendoza to the ground, held out a hand to help him up. Mendoza slapped it away and came to his feet.

“You’re the new chief of security,” Mendoza said. “Think you can handle it?”

“Sure I do.”

“Good, clean up this mess. Then come with me. We’ve got a special delivery coming from America

“THE OLD MAN’S GONE crazy,” Cardenas whispered.

“Crazy?” Emilio Cortez replied, his confusion evident.

“Crazy, man. He just had Carlos killed for no fucking reason.”

“What the hell are you saying? Killed him why? When?”

Cardenas lightly gripped Cortez’s upper arm to steer him away from the others. He cast a last glance over his shoulder and watched as his team from Colorado unloaded Fox from the small jet they’d used to flee from the States. The big programmer’s body was limp thanks to drugs injected into him before they’d loaded him on the plane and returned to Mexico. The guys carrying Fox hauled him over to a black Mercedes, shoved him inside and shut the doors. Each took up a position next to the vehicle, apparently awaiting further orders.

Satisfied, Cortez turned his attention back to Cardenas.

“So, what happened? Why’d the old man have him taken out?”

Cardenas recounted the whole story. When he finished, Cortez slowly shook his head, feeling his stomach knot. He ran a hand over his mouth and swore. “He has lost it. And over some whore.”

“It’s not her fault,” Cardenas said.

Cortez shot him a look and the guy shrank a little bit. “So now you’re sticking up for her.”

“All I’m saying is, it’s not her fault. Mendoza did it, not her. She just asked to go into town without the guards. She wasn’t trying to start trouble. She sure as hell didn’t want Mendoza to flip out or Carlos to die.”

Cortez started to argue the point, thought better of it and clamped his jaw shut. The other man was right. Mendoza’s wife wasn’t the problem; he was the problem. He’d been losing his grip on reality for months now, becoming increasingly paranoid and irrational with each passing day.

“When’s the guy coming?” Cortez asked.

Cardenas checked his watch. “Twenty-five minutes.”

Cortez nodded. “Good.”

“Yeah, good unless Mendoza loses his cool and blows the deal. Then Jack Mace will turn tail and leave. And he’ll take his money with him.”

“The hell he will! Mace wanted this Fox guy in the worst way. You think that once he stands within grabbing distance of Fox he’s suddenly going to change his mind, turn tail and head back to Africa? All just because Mendoza’s a flake? C’mon, man, keep your damn head on straight. This is bigger than a couple of personalities.”

“I don’t know…”

“You’re right. You don’t know. So quit worrying about it and leave stuff to me. Now, get the hell out of here and get to work.”

When Cortez was alone, he stared skyward. He squinted against the sun’s glare but enjoyed the warm rays bathing his skin. He sighed deeply and thought about what had to be done next. Though he still considered himself loyal to Mendoza, his first loyalty lay with himself. In the past several months the old man had become more and more out of touch with reality. Maybe it was the drugs he used. Maybe he was intoxicated with the beauty of the caramel-skinned woman who shared his bed. Cortez didn’t know and he didn’t care. All he knew was that he’d sacrificed his career, his honor, to serve Mendoza.

Cortez would have to see for himself how far gone Mendoza had become. If he didn’t like what he saw, he would take out the bastard. As far as he was concerned, Mendoza had already served his purpose. He’d paid for their trip to the United States, their weapons and equipment and the bribes necessary to snatch Gabriel Fox. And, whatever Cortez’s boss failed to supply, Jack Mace had happily filled the gap.

Frankly, Cortez neither liked nor trusted either man. But he dismissed his misgivings with a shrug. He was in it for the massive payday it promised. Other than that, everyone could go to hell.

Cortez slipped inside the house. The air-conditioned atmosphere cooled the sweat that had beaded on his forehead, his neck and the small of his back. He slid off his sunglasses, slipped them into his breast pocket and wound his way through the corridors of the massive house. Occasionally he passed one of Mendoza’s gunners and acknowledged the guy with a nod. All the security people knew him and let him pass without incident.

The Mexican knew that Mendoza took his lunch on the terrace, and he likely still would be there. Or he would be about ready to take a siesta. Either way, Cortez wanted to see him, look into his eyes, look into his soul, to see if he was still up to the challenge that lay ahead.

If not, Cortez would have no problem using the Glock 19 that rode at his waist. A couple of well-placed shots and he’d send the guy straight to hell.

Cortez had grown up in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, one of eight children raised in poverty. His father worked at the docks. Though he broke his back fourteen hours a day unloading ships, he barely made enough to feed his family or to keep the bank from snatching away the hovel they’d called home. His mother was given to long bouts of depression that caused her to stay in bed for days and sometimes weeks, shutters drawn despite the sweltering heat, and weep for hours on end. It was this sort of misery Cortez associated with poverty, and he wanted no part of it.

When he had become old enough, he’d lied about his age and joined the Mexican army. After that, he had become a police officer, and eventually joined an antidrug squad. The endless hours of paramilitary drills and urban combat training had helped hone his killing skills to a keening edge. The work had meant a steady paycheck. But he still supplemented it with bribes offered up by drug lords willing to exchange their money for their lives. In short, he knew how to survive. He’d proved that much when he’d chopped down that damn American in Colorado. And he would do it again as many times as was necessary to get where and what he wanted, which was money and security. Get that, he reasoned, and anything else he could want would follow.

He took the elevator to the second floor, made his way down the corridor until he reached Mendoza’s room. He rapped sharply on the door but waited for an invitation to enter. He heard footsteps and moment later, the door opened and he saw one of his men, Garcia, peering at him through the space between the door and the jamb.

“Hey,” Garcia said.

Cortez nodded. The door swung open.

Stepping inside, Cortez glanced around the room and found Mendoza seated in a corner. The old man nursed a cigar and a bluish haze hung heavily in the room. Mendoza gave Cortez a wide grin and gestured for the younger man to sit in a chair opposite him. Cortez strode to the chair, dropped into it.

“Welcome back, my friend,” Mendoza said. “I trust your mission to Colorado went well? You did a good job for me?”

Cortez seated himself across from the drug lord. He smiled and nodded at the older man. “It went well. The proof’s downstairs. You hear anything from Mace?”

“He’s coming. It won’t be long now.”

“Has he transferred the rest of the money yet?”

Mendoza shook his head. “We got a third up front. We get the rest when we hand over the American. You already knew that. What’s the problem? You don’t trust me now?”

Cortez feigned a surprised look. “Hey, you know better than that. I trust you with my life. It’s Mace I’ve got the issues with. I want to make sure we get what’s coming to us.”

Mendoza gave him a hard look. “You heard something?”

“No,” Cortez replied, shaking his head. “Just my gut talking. Something tells me this SOB will stick us. I’ll feel better when we’re rid of him, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t want him to put one over on you.”

“You let me deal with Mace.”

“Sure. I was just giving you something to think about.”

Mendoza cut him off with a gesture. “I don’t need it. This is all under control. My control.”

“Sure. I’m just saying this scientist is the most important thing. If I were you, I’d focus on getting the money.”

The drug lord smacked an open palm against the table and it caused a thunderous noise. “I got it, damn it! I got it! You understand me?”

Feigning surprise, Cortez held up his hands, palms facing outward in a calming gesture. “Sure. I got it.”

“Any problem with the snatch?”

“We took out at least one police officer and left two others for dead. We killed some bystanders, too. What can I say? They were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“It will put them on our trail.”

“You think they weren’t going to follow us otherwise? What, we were going to kidnap a guy in broad daylight and the police wouldn’t investigate?”

Mendoza’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward in his chair. “You should’ve paid some people off. That’s what I’m saying.”

“With all due respect, that was risky, too. The more folks we bribe, the more there are to sell us out. This was supposed to be a quick strike. In and out. It went bad.”

Mendoza’s nostrils flared and his fists clenched until the knuckles whitened. Cortez felt adrenaline spike through his system. The muscles in his neck, shoulders and legs tensed as he prepared to launch himself at Mendoza.

Before either man could act, the door opened and a small man dressed in a well-tailored blue suit stepped inside. “Mace is here,” he said.

Mendoza stood and two men helped him shrug into his jacket. He stared down at Cortez who waited for him to speak his piece.

“I want you to stay here,” he said.

“What?”

“You don’t trust this guy? Fine. But I don’t want you out there asking questions and pissing him off. You stay here.”

“Damn it—”

“Stay!”

Cortez threw up his hands and looked away from Mendoza. The drug lord smiled and, flanked by his security entourage, left the room.

Reaching into his pocket, Cortez touched a business-card-size CD that lay inside and smiled. The CD contained a copy of the Cold Earth worm that he had found hidden within the seams of the American’s coat. Cortez had known for months that his partnership with Mendoza was fragile, primarily because of the fragility of Mendoza’s mind. When he’d found the small CD during the return trip to Mexico, Cortez had known instantly that he had found a way to profitably end the partnership.