THE EDGE OF TRUST (TEAM EDGE) Page 2

  “Hold it. There’s a small brick chimney, left of that there’s a long bubble thing which is probably a--”

  “Skylight over the kitchen. Bingo.”

  “Looks like you’re gonna have to scale a wall after all.”

  “Hold that thought.” Moving fast, Dillon grabbed a bar stool from the cabana and positioned it under the southernmost eave. In one easy move, he went from the ground to the stool, pushed off from there, and grabbing the edge of the roof with both hands, hauled himself up and over.

  The roof above this part of the house was nearly flat, covered with clay barrel roof tiles, and had a four-by-four-foot skylight set into the ceiling. Stepping carefully, he transferred his weight from foot to foot as he cautiously made his way to the tinted plastic dome. Kneeling, he took a closer look. The skylight wasn’t meant to move, so there was no need for it to be wired. Damn lucky break, all things considered. He unhooked his Ka-Bar from his belt, and in one continuous motion, cut the seal around base of the skylight. After lifting it aside he unhooked the rope. He really needed to hurry. “Jake, time hack.”

  “Thirty-two minutes.”

  The theme song from Mission Impossible, whistled pitch perfect, came over Dillon’s headset. “Ha, ha. If you’re comparing me to Ethan Hunt, fine. Great, in fact. But if you have Tom Cruise in mind, I’m going to have to kill you.” With a quick loop and a knot, Dillon fastened the rope around the base of the chimney.

  “Well, you are all in black. Minus the ever present, very chill, always explosive sunglasses, of course.”

  “Don’t forget the oh-so-realistic flying motorcycles.”

  “Good point. Much cooler.”

  Crouching, Dillon peered down into the darkened kitchen. A center island squatted in the middle, about ten feet below him. With a deep breath, he shimmied down the rope, caromed off the kitchen island, dropped the last couple of feet, and landed on soft soles. His heart beat a little faster.

  “This would be a really bad time for someone to decide they’re hungry,” Jake said.

  “Ya think?” Dillon whispered as he crept quietly up a side staircase and into a hall.

  And what a nice upstairs it was. Airy and spacious, with sculptural art and custom furniture. Plants in every corner. Flowers on every surface. Pictures in pewter frames sat on marble-top antiques. Old world charm, tropical sprawl and modern luxury.

  Crime did indeed pay, Dillon thought, at least for those ruthless enough to kill their way to the top.

  Four doors faced into the hall. Two open, two closed. Dillon veered to the closest open door and went in. Judging by the large onyx desk, black leather chair, computer set up and books lining one wall, this was obviously somebody’s office. Masculine in appearance, so it was probably Sanchez’s. Dillon thumbed through a stack of papers, saw nothing but bills and ordinary household paperwork. This room was a waste of precious time. No way would Sanchez leave anything incriminating in his home office.

  “Thirty minutes, boss.”

  “I hear ya.”

  Dillon crossed the hall to the other open doorway and peered in. The entire room looked like Cinderella’s castle. Muraled walls, canopy bed, dolls, books, ornate white furniture with girly knick-knacks and pretty jewelry. And there, sleeping just a few feet away was a small girl, snuggled cozily under a princess comforter.

  Dillon stepped further into the room and said, “Bingo. I just found my leverage.”

  <><><>

  Rafael Sanchez tossed the bagged, severed head of Jorge Garcia, el Presidente’s special advisor, onto the stone steps of St. Catherine’s Cathedral, sat back against the rear leather seat of his black Escalade and wiped his palms on a pristine white handkerchief. Not to rid his hands of blood, but to rid himself of a deep betrayal. “Traitorous bastard.”

  “Blasphemer.” Moreno Chavez, Rafael’s personal driver and friend, crossed himself.

  Rafael granted him a small smile, quite sure he’d just offended Moreno’s very Catholic sensibilities. “Against the church, God, or our headless friend?”

  “All three, I’m sure.” Chavez sighed. “Dios, Rafe, someday your arrogance will be the death of you.”

  “Shall I recite ten Hail Mary’s for you then?”

  “Ten thousand would not be enough. El Presidente is going to be outraged. He’ll bring the entire Mexican military down on your head.”

  Rafael met his driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror and tucked his still clean handkerchief back into his pocket. “So? I own most of them.” Along with several governments, mercenaries, guerillas, arms dealers.

  And the violence. He unquestionably owned the violence.

  Sanchez tapped a quiet tattoo against the soft leather bag on the seat next to him as he glanced out the darkened windows of his armored-up, very high-tech, SUV. “Take the next side street. Radio the others to run parallel.”

  Chavez nodded and picked up the two-way.

  They’d just left downtown Tijuana and his driver was moving him down a quiet, unmarked, residential neighborhood to make a five million dollar handoff to his youngest brother, Xavier.

  Brilliant with numbers, Xavier handled the books and distribution. Marco, the second oldest and second in command, handled protection and enforcement. Rafe handled strategy, buyers, sellers, payroll, and everything else. Together they handled electronic espionage and counter surveillance measures.

  Usually Rafael himself stayed far removed from money drops, but with the citywide turmoil and warring cartels, his trust in Tijuana was running thin. He had too much at stake to let just anyone make this drop. He would not risk the five million in cash nestled comfortably next to him on the seat of his SUV. Normally he’d have a larger convoy and at least two decoys. He didn’t use them today, not under these circumstances. Too much attention. With attention came questions and conflict. He could afford neither.

  Today he used only two other SUVs, each carrying four armed men, each moving quietly along the two side streets running parallel to the street Rafael was on. They were all to meet at the next junction after he made the drop. He had fifteen minutes. If Rafael didn’t show at the intersection in time, his men would slaughter every man, woman and child on the block. Then they’d go after aunts, uncles, cousins. Extreme perhaps, but Rafe made sure no one crossed the SBC and lived. No one.

  They were just cresting a hill when his driver suddenly stomped on the brakes.

  Rafael jerked forward, his seatbelt cutting into his shoulder. “Chavez! What the hell?”

  A rusted up Chevy angled across the road, blocking them. A peasant, tall with long flowing hair, dressed in filthy, ragged clothes, gesticulated wildly, screaming.

  Chavez lowered his window. “He’s shrieking about his wife, and something about a baby.”

  Sanchez had no time to suffer fools. “Dammit, do something!”

  “You! Move your car.” Chavez stuck an Uzi out the window. “¡Ahora!”

  The peasant became more agitated, almost hysterical. He approached the car with his hands clasped, a desperate beggar. “Please. My wife. She’s bleeding…the baby is coming…” He put his face in his hands and shook his head, muttering pathetic pleas and sobbing. “Dios, they are dying. Help us. Help us, please.”

  Odd. No blood shown on the man’s hands, nor clothes. If his wife were actually in trouble—“Shoot him, you fool! Ram the car!” Rafe slapped Chavez on the shoulder. “He’s lying! Dammit, shoot him!”

  Chavez raised the gun, and at that instant the sobbing man grabbed the barrel of the weapon and rammed it butt first into the driver’s face.

  Chavez howled as blood erupted from his nose and mouth.

  Before Rafael could draw his own weapon, the peasant had a .357 trained mere inches from Rafe’s face. “Open the door slowly and get out.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Rafe snapped the words in outrage as he opened the rear door. “You, whoever you are, are a dead man.” He said the words slowly, making sure the threat was not only heard, but omened.
>
  “Uh, huh. Now let’s pretend you’re smart enough to follow orders. Señor Sanchez.”

  At the mention of his name, Rafael’s simmering anger threatened his good sense. His hand reached for his gun.

  The Uzi poked him in the ribs. He let his hand drop. “How do you know me?” If he stalled long enough, his men would soon worry, show up and kill this bastard.

  “Put your weapon on the floor and get out. Your backup won’t show for eleven more minutes. And since I won’t endanger the civilians who live here, that means you have five, and only five, minutes before I shoot you.”

  Chavez got out, cursing and bleeding. Rafael took his time. He ached to shoot this stranger in the head. “You seem to know a lot about me. Perhaps more than is wise.”

  “Head of the SBC. Husband of Adoña. Father of Dreena.” The man looked directly into Rafe’s eyes. “Wisdom, I suppose, is a matter of perception. Now move.”

  Fury that this peasant, this pig, knew about his family nearly drove him back into the car after his gun.

  “Now, now, Rafe. Let’s not be hasty.” The man put the .357 in his waistband and motioned with the Uzi. “Both of you. Strip.”

  “I will not!” Rafe spat. This man was going to die a slow, painful death.

  The peasant shot Chavez in the foot.

  Chavez screamed and fell to the grimy pavement, then started shucking his clothes like a ten dollar whore. Damn fool.

  “You have ten seconds.” He aimed his weapon, this time, at Sanchez.

  Sanchez stripped. With each piece of dispatched clothing he planned this pig’s death. When his shirt came off, the man studied him.

  “Nice tat. Impressive.”

  Yes, Rafe thought with some ferocity, his canvassed torso, inked back to front in the brilliant and lustrous colors of a tiger’s coat, with front legs and paws running over his arms to his hands, was indeed impressive. But not nearly as impressive as his temper.

  The man picked up their clothes and climbed into the SUV, leaving Chavez bleeding and Rafael holding nothing but his naked dick. Minus five million dollars in cash. Then the peasant, who was not a peasant after all, turned the vehicle the way it had come and drove off, giving them a two-fingered salute, and to Rafael’s amazement, a grin.

  “Dios mió,” he muttered. He could not help but admire the audacity of a dead man.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Journal Entry

  Days of surveillance. Following, questioning, bribing. Laying low. Painstaking planning and a boatload of luck.

  The war on drugs has gone into bat-shit crazy high def. Technicolor, 3D, and in your face. It’s become a guided missile with no guide.

  This so-called war has become embarrassing. Billions of dollars spent and so far the DEA has been as effective as a half-wit turtle trying to swim the Atlantic in a Cat 5 hurricane.

  At any rate, the admiral is tired of getting his ass chewed by certain subcommittees. Neutralize the supply from the SBC, he said. The baddest of the badasses. If I get in, he figures I’ll be undercover for a year. I figure I’ll be lucky to live that long. ~~ D.C.

  <><><>

  Dillon Caldwell let Sanchez sweat for two long, feverish days. While he waited, Dillon reread and memorized the thick, nothing-much-he-didn’t-already-know file the FBI, CIA, DEA, and Mexican government had on Rafael Dario Sanchez.

  Insufficient. Inadmissible. Unconfirmed.

  Not one single shred of hard evidence. Just miles and miles of dead ends and red tape.

  Someone, it seemed, didn’t want Sanchez busted. But who? More to the point, why?

  It was time to set up a meet.

  <><><>

  Roberto’s was a grungy dive on a narrow street in an area where smart people departed long before dark. Even at this hour, the building’s pink facade stood out like a well-fed flamingo. Bright, neon-colored beer signs filled the grimy, smeared windows.

  From outside the back wooden door, Dillon heard the clink of beer bottles, raucous laughter, and the Stones playing on the jukebox.

  He’d parked the SUV two miles away, hidden in scrub, and watched by one of his men--armed with a Glock 9mm, a long-range rifle and an RPG just in case things got ugly. He could’ve left the Escalade and money behind, back in the States, but wasn’t quite sure how tonight would play out. While Sanchez might be cold and disciplined, humiliation had a way of boiling a man’s blood.

  Dillon had made the cantina by nine-fifteen, and by nine-thirty, Rafael had ten armed men sitting inside the small bar. Eight outside.

  Not great odds.

  A slow trickle of sweat started between his shoulder blades. He’d have felt a lot better if he had a weapon. A gun. A grenade. Maybe a tank. Unfortunately, none of those options would go very far in instilling the trust factor he was aiming for.

  With one last look around the rear lot, he entered through the cantina’s back door. When he strode into the main bar, time slowed, laughter ceased, eyes squinted, and suddenly he felt like he’d been thrown into a bad Western.

  Beer, sweat, and guns. Not a single six-gun to be seen but a hell of a lot of AK-47’s, Uzi’s and an MP5 here and there. One AR-15 judiciously kept near the bartender.

  Someone unplugged the juke.

  Dillon slid into the booth opposite Sanchez. “Nice crowd,” he said, and waited for a gun to be shoved into his ribs or maybe the back of his head.

  Sanchez stared at him for a long time. He wore a black silk suit, exquisitely tailored, a burgundy shirt and striped tie. He looked like any Wall Street executive until he pulled an impressive looking .44 Magnum with custom engraved ivory grips from a holster at his waist and laid it gently, almost reverently, on the scarred wooden table.

  He had large hands, smooth with long fingers that moved with the grace and precision of the tiger paws which colored them. His body was trim, tall, with the Patrician features of Spaniard nobility. He wore long dark hair tied neatly back with braided leather. His eyes were so black, no line delineated between the iris and pupil. And his voice…his voice had the presence of a priest and the edge of a butcher.

  “Four years ago, a close, childhood friend of mine invited me for dinner,” Sanchez began. “His wife asked to take my coat, which she did, and placed it in the foyer on a peg. We had drinks, talked. When I excused myself to use the restroom, my friend, a man who I loved like a brother, stole five hundred dollars from the wallet in my suit-coat. When confronted, he denied his action.”

  Sanchez lit a cigarette. Exhaled. “Had he simply asked, I’d have given him triple that amount. I had a weapon and I tried to threaten my friend into telling me the truth. He would not. So I tied him and his wife to separate chairs. I sewed their mouths closed with a turkey needle and fishing line. If they could not tell me the truth, they could not lie either, you see?”

  “Riveting,” Dillon said, feeling acid climb into his throat.

  “I retrieved my money from my friend’s pocket and pissed on it. And then slowly, with much care, I sliced off his eyelids. To ensure, you see, that he would have to watch me rape, then mutilate, his wife. He tried to scream but could not. I did not kill him. To this day he will not speak.”

  A chill whispered through Dillon’s chest. It wasn’t the words, but the demeanor by which Sanchez said them. This kind of evil did not discriminate. Dillon had thought he’d meet fury. He hadn’t. In fact, if apathy was the glove in which evil slipped its hand, then Sanchez wore the challis well.

  Dillon leaned back wondering what the man’s weakness was. If, in fact, he had one. “You keep your friend supplied in Ray Bans?”

  “You find me amusing?” Sanchez stubbed out his cigarette and leaned back against the booth, managing to look both offended and pleased.

  “I don’t find you…anything.”

  “Perhaps that is your mistake.”

  “Look around you.” Dillon angled his head toward the middle of the bar. “How many of those men are yours? How many are mine?”

  Sanchez glanced around, a
nd for a moment uncertainty played across his features. Then he laughed. “Yours?”

  Dillon shrugged. “Warring cartels and all. Plus, I do have five million dollars.”

  “My five million dollars.”

  “Not at the moment.”

  Sanchez searched Dillon’s face with those opaque eyes. “I wonder. Will you beg for your life or pray for God’s mercy when I kill you?”

  Dillon gestured to the bartender and wondered what this man knew of mercy. “Mind if I have a beer?”

  “A drink before death. A bit cliché, perhaps,” Sanchez inclined his head, “but not unexpected.”

  “Glad to be predictable. I’ll take a Dos Equis.”

  “Make it two,” Sanchez said to the bartender. “Would you like a steak as well? Or a cigarette perhaps?”

  Dillon didn’t bother to answer.

  A moment later, two bottles of beer clapped the table simultaneously. The sound ricocheted around the still-quiet room.

  “My patience is wearing thin. Where is my money?”

  Dillon took a long pull on his beer. “And here I thought Mexican hospitality insisted on pleasure before business.”

  “If we were here for pleasure, I would have killed you by now.” Sanchez slid his palm across the grip of his .44. “Who are you working for?”

  Dillon would have preferred the slam of a fist. A demand. Macho posturing even. Anything other than this mild civility. The way Sanchez absently caressed his weapon made Dillon want to carve the other man’s arms off at the shoulder. “I work for myself.”

  “How do I know you’re not DEA? ATF? Federales? A rival cartel?”

  “Why would I return your money if I were?”

  “Why would you not?”

  “A man could disappear forever with five million dollars. Surely that buys a little trust?”

  “And a bullet in the head doesn’t worry about such things.”

  Dillon eased into a smile, provoking. “You don’t want to do that.”