Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (80 page)

But he felt like he could kill that day. This Crash guy had brought nothing good with him and he had led to the breakup of the Cossacks, he thought to himself. And, with him out of the way, he and the Cossacks would be free to run things in southeastern Arizona.

Speedy packed an AR-15 and a couple of extra clips in his bag, added a Glock on each hip and put on a Kevlar vest. He knew where Crash lived and, realizing his Harley would draw too much attention, drove his brother's car to the house. After driving around it twice to get a better idea of whether or not anyone was inside, he parked in the alley way behind the yard and jumped the fence. Getting in the back door was no big deal. In fact, Speedy was surprised how little security Crash had on his place.

Once inside, he looked around, determining that he was indeed alone. He shut all the lights off, except the one in the front hallway that had been on when he arrived, and took some night-vision goggles out of the bag with the AR-15. He sat and waited for Ned to come home.

* * *

Stew Bob didn't recognize the man who came into his shop, but was always happy to make new customers. The man, ordinary-looking, wearing jeans, a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt and boots seemed to be checking out the WASR-10s—civilian copies of the AK-47 that were popular in the area. Stew Bob knew that a lot of Americans were being bribed by Mexicans to buy powerful guns for them; in fact, just a week ago one kid bought eight WASR-10s from him, paying almost $3,000 in cash. Stew Bob had a very clear idea as to where the guns were going and what they were being used for, but it wasn't his problem.

He approached the guy. “That's a pretty nice gun you're looking at there,” he said. “If you're after an AK-47 copy, I have these guys from Romania, or I can move you up to an Arsenal, assembled in the U.S. from Russian and Bulgarian parts. But if you want to go cheap, you're better off over at Mickey's up the road. I don't carry any of that Chinese shit.”

The man shrugged. Then he pulled out a Glock handgun and shot Stew Bob three times in the face.

His body fell forward so quickly that Big Red had to step out of the way to avoid being hit by it.

Weasel had been at his desk back in the clubhouse when he heard the shots. He heard shots in the building all the time—Stew Bob had a firing range in the basement—but these sounded different, as though they came from within the shop. Normally, he wouldn't even have noticed, but all of his senses had been on high alert since Scruffy's body had been discovered. He grabbed his own pistol and went out to investigate.

As quietly as he could, Weasel approached the door to the shop. He grabbed the knob, and as slowly and quietly as possible, he turned it with his left hand. Before applying any pressure to the door, he lifted his right hand, holding his loaded gun, and pointed it at heart level. He opened the door a crack. A shaft of light shot in. “Stew Bob?” he shouted. No answer. “Stew Bob, you in there?” Again nothing.

Weasel opened the door wide. Scanning the room, he saw that the front door was characteristically left open; then he saw Stew Bob's giant corpse facedown in the middle of the shop. Instinctively, he ran to his fallen friend. Big Red, who had been hiding behind the back door, popped out and sent four shells searing through Weasel's back. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Without emotion, Big Red stepped over the dead bodies, shut and locked the door, and turned the “Open” sign on the shop window to “Closed.” He then dragged the bodies behind the counter, shut off the lights, and went into the clubhouse to wait.

Ned woke up the next morning in the front seat of the Jaguar. He was parked behind a Taco Bell in some suburb he barely recognized and his fitful sleep had been shattered by the clatter of metal and plastic bins thanks to the guy who carried out the restaurant's garbage. Without thinking, Ned put the key in the ignition and began to drive back to Tucson. He was headed home until he looked to see what time it was. He knew he had to get started on the trip to Coronado soon, so he had better get back to the clubhouse. If it came down to it, he knew he could shower and change there if necessary.

It took him quite a while to get back to the city. A combination of early-morning commuter traffic and his new adherence to speed limits and other traffic laws ensured a slow ride in. The amount of time he took made him even more nervous. But when he finally arrived, he felt a bolt of much-needed confidence when he saw Stew Bob's gigantic Harley and Weasel's truck parked together.

If he had gone around the front, he may have noticed that the store was closed, something that virtually never happened at this time of day. And if he had peeked in the window, he would have seen a pool of blood trailing to a place behind the counter.

But he didn't. Fearing he was late and knowing he had an all-important job to do, Ned went in the back entrance. The lights were off. He shouted for Weasel and Stew Bob, but got no answer. Thinking he may have read his car's clock incorrectly and been early, Ned headed back toward the room with the cot and the shower. He wasn't sure if he'd sleep or shower, but he knew he couldn't just sit around and wait. He was just too stressed.

As he passed through the office, he was stunned by the sight of Big Red sitting behind Weasel's desk and pointing his Glock at Ned's head. “How's it going, Mr. Aiken?”

“Who the . . . Aiken?” Ned shook his head. “Who are you?”

“Just a friend,” he said. “Now drop your weapons.”

Ned did as he was told, took the gun out of his bag, and placed it on the desk. “That's the only one,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “Why did you call me Aiken?”

“Well, the FBI has been putting these posters of your face up all over the place, and since we all like to share information, I thought I'd find out a little bit more about you,” he said. “Let's see now, my friends over at the FBI say you were with the Springfield Sons of Satan, ratted them all out, went into rat's protection under the name Eric Steadman then fled after murdering an FBI agent for reasons unknown. That about it? Or is there something you've done here that I should know about?”

“Murder? FBI agent? I never . . .” Ned realized that the man in the chair was probably talking about Dave, his primary FBI contact, whose body he had found back in Delaware. It was actually a professional assassin from the Russian mafia who'd killed the man, but Ned knew he didn't have time to explain what had really happened. He also knew nobody would believe him, so there was no point denying it. “So you're a cop?”

“Something like that.”

“And you're arresting me?”

“Well, if I arrest you, I'll get a very pretty ribbon, maybe a raise, and perhaps a promotion some time down the road,” he smiled. “I'd much rather have the $18 million.”

“I see.”

“So where is it?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you mean you don't know?”

“I really don't know,” he said. “You don't think they'd trust me with that kind of information do you? My instructions were to wait here until my contact told me where it was. Weasel and I are going to take it to Coronado, hook up with some couriers, load the truck, and bring it back here.”

Big Red laughed. “Okay, so we wait,” he said. “First things first, though. You're going to have to put this on.” Then he threw him a small electronic device attached to a flexible strap.

“What's this?”

“We call it a tether; it's an ankle monitor,” he told him. “It sends radio signals over cellular phone lines to tell me exactly where you are all the time.”

Ned held the device and scoffed. “Don't you need a court order for something like that? Aren't these ankle bracelets all monitored by some kind of central command?”

“Court order? Central command? I'm stealing $18 million, asshole, not putting you in jail—unless you refuse to cooperate,” Big Red laughed. “This is just an evaluation device anyway; the only one who will see your comings and goings will be me on my laptop here. Hey, I can see you now.” He laughed and pointed at the screen. “Put it on and walk over here so I can make sure it's locked,” he said. “And don't worry about Weasel.”

Ned did as he was instructed. “So what's your plan?”

“We wait for your phone call, you go get the cash, you bring it to me, and we part company,” Big Red said. “Where you go after that doesn't really matter to me. Even though you are an inveterate rat, I know you can't rat on me because if you did you would be facing the gas chamber . . . no, wait, it's lethal injection in Delaware, isn't it? You don't have any friends left with the Mexicans. The bikers are out for your head. You'd be better off just disappearing. What the hell, maybe I'll give you a few bucks to help that along a little. No, actually, I don't think I will.”

The two men sat together in silence on opposite sides of the desk, waiting for Ned's phone to ring. Finally, Big Red broke the tension. “You must be a hell of a lot smarter than you look, getting away with all this for so long,” he said. “I mean, I wasn't even looking for you. I just happened to be here in Tucson when I saw your picture in the window of a fast-food place.”

Ned sighed. “You're from the Tortured Souls, right?”

“President of the Tortured Souls, my friend.”

“Weasel should be back soon,” Ned said. “That could be a problem for you.”

“Don't worry about Weasel.”

“Don't tell me he's in on this, too.”

“I'd like to, but he isn't.”

Ned's phone rang. When Ned brought it to his ear, Big Red leaned in close so he could hear, digging the barrel of his gun between two of Ned's ribs.

“Yeah,” Ned answered.

“Espagueti, it's me, El Martillo.”

“Yeah.”

“What's the code word?”

“Pozole.”

El Martillo's sigh was audible. “Good, good, man, just had to make sure it was you.”

“It is.”

“You sound strange, Espagueti, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just nerves.”

“Don't worry, man, it gets easier. After a couple of times, you barely even think about it anymore. Just relax. It will all be over soon.”

“Yeah, thanks, man. So where do I go?”

“There's a little shop on the south side at 51 South Sunset called Maria's. Go there and ask for Abuelita. She's a tiny old lady, but everyone listens to her because they are totally into the Santa Muerte.”

“Santa Muerte?”

“You know, Saint Death, the cult with the skeleton angel?”

“You mean that Grim Reaper thing you see everywhere in Sonora?”

“Don't scoff, man. It's a religion to a lot of people down here and even some up there. Treat it with nothing but the greatest respect around those people or they will leave your dried-up bones in the desert—and only if they want them to be found.”

“Understood. Do I have a password when I get there?”

“Nope, just ask for Abuelita.”

“Fine.”

“Good luck, Espagueti.”

“Thanks.” Ned hung up.

Big Red went back around his desk. “Okay, I wrote everything down and I've found the address on Google Maps,” he said. “If I see you go anywhere other than this Maria's place or if the tether tells me you've tried to take it off, then you are a dead man. I have people—some from the local cops, others from the ATF, and others who just want to be Tortured Souls—all over the city and the highway who know who you are. On my word, they might just arrest you for the murders of Stewart Robert “Stew Bob” Wisniewski and Edgar “Weasel” Ortiz and bring you back to me, or they might just shoot you on sight. It kind of depends on who it is.”

Learning that both Stew Bob and Weasel had been murdered sent a lighting strike of fear through Ned, but the possibility that he might be framed for the killings didn't bother him at all. He was beyond that by this point.

“Why don't you just come along with me?”

“You think I trust those people? Besides, don't you think the president of the Tortured Souls being seen with a member of the Cossacks might raise a few eyebrows?” Big Red laughed. “Now get the hell out of here.”

Ned did as he was told. He really didn't like the idea of going to the drop without a gun and contemplated going home to pick one up. He never kept a gun in the car in case he was stopped by cops and searched, and was starting to regret that decision. But he remembered what Big Red had said about deviating from the path, and if he really did have people everywhere, he certainly would have at least one at his house. It was a stupid idea. He would have to go to the pickup on the south side unarmed.

He jumped into the Jaguar and started the engine. Stressed and freaked out, he neglected his customary look into the back seat. In the moment before he shifted the car into drive, he felt an arm around his neck and a gun barrel pressed into the back of his head. “Drive,” the man who owned them said.

As soon as they got moving, the man relaxed his grip, but Ned knew the gun was still aimed at him. “Are you a Tortured Soul?” he asked.

“What the hell kind of question is that?” came an answer in heavily accented English.

Ned couldn't help but laugh a bit. What he asked must have sounded absurd. He switched to Spanish. “Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want from me?”

“Never mind. I am here to find El Espagueti, take him to Coronado.”

Ned knew he was lying. Weasel was supposed to go with him to Coronado. There no way this guy was going to pop out of the back seat on both of them. That would have been suicide. He knew this guy intended to put a bullet in him as soon as they got away from witnesses. “Whatever they're paying you, I'll double it, triple it, quadruple it,” he said. “Whatever you want.”

“Can't do it,” the man said. “They have my son. Unless I show them pictures of your body, they won't let him go. I'm sorry.”

Ned recognized something in his accent. He took a quick scan of the back seat in his rearview mirror. He couldn't make him out well enough to identify in a police lineup, but he could tell the man was Mayan.

And for the first time since this whole adventure began, Ned came up with a real plan. “Do they call you ‘El Chango'?”

The man in the back moved so that his eyes met Ned's in the mirror. “Yes, yes they do.” Ned could hear emotion in his voice.

“And you hate it, right?”

“What man wants to be called a monkey?”

“You speak Q'eqchi'?”

“No, but you're close. My native tongue is Poqomam—from Guatemala. How do you know about these things?”

“I know because I've been down there and seen how they treat your people. Do you think they'll let you and your son go after this? Don't you think you will always be owned by them? Is that how you want your son to grow up? Ask yourself this: what do they call him?”

“El Changito,” the man said.

“And what happens when they let him go, if they actually even let him go?” Ned asked. “They will own you. You know as well as I do that once a criminal gets something from you, they keep taking and taking until there is nothing left to take. And then they put you to work. You will always work for them, and so will your son. Is that what you want?”

“It is a tragedy, but what can I do?”

“If you help me,” Ned said. “I can get you all the money you will ever need.”

“What good is money without my son?”

“I have an idea that could free your son and give you enough money to escape Mexico,” Ned said. “Do you have any serious training as a
sicario
?”

“Better,” the man said. “I am a Kaibil, Guatemalan special forces, one of the few clean ones left. When they finally realized I would not take their money, they took my son.”

* * *

Believing that he and Weise were close to finding Aiken, Tovar had contacted the local police and state troopers about what the Heinz woman had told them, and they had set up surveillance at every Dave's location in the area. He was surprised to learn that the ATF had already alerted the same organizations about Ned Aiken earlier that day.

At the one Dave's location on North Campbell where Aiken had been positively identified, Tovar began to question the staff about him. None of them claimed to recognize his photo.

After Weise called Philadelphia to tell them what he and Tovar had learned, Meloni had promised to fly out later that day. Tovar welcomed the additional manpower.

* * *

Speedy got tired of waiting at Ned's house. He had long since realized that Ned wasn't coming home, but decided to wait until morning to make his next move. He collected his gear, left by the back door, and went back to his car. He thought he would find Ned at the Cossacks' clubhouse, and even if he didn't, he could discuss with Weasel what the changes in Mexico meant for them all. With Poco Loco, Crash's one and only supporter, out of the picture, it could be the opportunity he was waiting for. And if Weasel didn't like the way things were shaping up, Speedy could go see the Tortured Souls.

* * *

Although he was still far from sure that he would get out of the day alive, Ned had encouraged this latest El Chango to put his gun away and move up to the front seat. They spoke about their mutual hate for the cartels and the tragedy that had befallen Mexico and how it had affected their own countries.

El Chango III told Ned his real name was First Lieutenant Luis Yrigoyen. He had grown up poor in Guatemala and joined the army as soon as he could. He showed great aptitude, spirit, and athleticism as a youth, and eventually found himself in the Kaibiles where he was promoted very quickly. He had even served as part of a UN-sponsored peacekeeping group in the Democratic Republic of Congo. His unit had been ambushed and five of them were killed. He himself had lost a toe. If it had not been for the quick work of a Tunisian combat surgeon, he would have died or at least lost a leg.