Texas Sicario (Arlo Baines Book 2) Page 13

  Could Gusano be the killer? It wouldn’t be the first time a cartel had subcontracted out a piece of work, in this case hiring La Eme to take out the Vaqueros’ people. Something about that scenario didn’t feel right, however.

  The rain fell in sheets, pinging the skin of my truck like pebbles on a tin roof.

  Quinn asked if I had any idea where Fito was, how he might react. I had no answers or even reasonable guesses.

  Outside, the storm raged, federal agents and police officers scurrying about, trying not to be swept away.

  I cranked the ignition.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To find a Honda Prelude.”

  My pickup splashed through a puddle in the parking lot of the Players Inn, across the street from Mendoza’s Auto Salvage.

  I stepped on the brakes, and the truck skidded to a stop.

  The sky was overcast, but the rain had tapered off, leaving the city wet, hot, and gray.

  Only a few hours had passed since I’d been here, but it seemed like weeks.

  “Is something on fire?” Quinn pointed to a puff of smoke that looked like it was coming from the rear of the property.

  “The warehouse with the cars.” I swore, pressed the gas.

  The pickup jumped across Davis Street, entering the salvage yard going way too fast.

  Quinn braced an arm on the dash as my truck careened toward the rear of the property, zigzagging through piles of rusted metal parts and junked autos.

  The roll-up door on the warehouse was open. Inside, flames had engulfed the Honda.

  I stopped the pickup about sixty feet away, watching the best lead we had be destroyed. A moment later, the gas tank on the Honda blew, spewing flames on the other two vehicles.

  “Cameras,” I said.

  A chop shop and an auto salvage yard, Gusano had to have video on this place.

  “I need to check the office for video.” I slammed the transmission into reverse and turned the truck around. I headed toward the office on the other side of the property, driving just as fast as before, Quinn bouncing in her seat.

  We had to move quickly, before anybody showed up because of the fire. I parked by the front door.

  A Harley sat to one side of the entrance, the only mode of transport visible other than the junked autos.

  Despite the presence of the motorcycle, the place felt empty. A fire raged at the rear of the property, so you’d think Gusano or whoever would be outside, seeing what was going on.

  “Wait here.” I grabbed a pair of latex gloves from the floorboard.

  Quinn glanced around the salvage yard, the metal hulks, the corroding auto parts. “Not a chance.”

  “Stay out of the way, then.” I got out and strode to the front of the office.

  She followed me to the door.

  I motioned for her to stand to one side, out of the line of fire. I tugged on the gloves, positioned myself on the opposite side, and pressed on the door.

  It swung open. Unlatched.

  Quinn looked at me with wide eyes.

  I pulled the Glock from my waistband and waited, silently counting to ten, then stepped inside.

  The office for Mendoza’s Auto Salvage was small, maybe thirty by thirty, paneled in wood, the vinyl-tiled floor scarred from years of dirty shoes.

  A desk sat in the middle of the room, covered with papers and files. A calendar hung on one wall, a bikini-clad model lounging on a stack of tires.

  Two doors were at the rear of the office. One was marked with a RESTROOM sign.

  The other was partially open, leading to what looked like a storeroom, a likely spot for the video system to be located.

  I walked around the desk, past a transmission and several car batteries, and stopped at the doorway leading to the storeroom.

  Quinn moved to my side. She swore quietly at the same time that I saw the legs on the floor, just visible inside the entrance.

  Dirty coveralls, grimy sneakers. Not moving.

  I pushed open the door, stepped into a small room with a copier by one wall, shelves on the other.

  Gusano lay on his back, lifeless eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He’d been shot twice in the chest.

  “What is happening?” Quinn’s voice was tinged with panic.

  “The killer’s tying up loose ends.” I knelt by the body, felt for a pulse on one wrist.

  Nothing but the warmth of his skin. Gusano had been dead only a few minutes.

  A card table sat by the copier, a small computer with a twelve-inch monitor on top. Wires and coax cables ran from the back of the computer to a hole in the rear wall of the storeroom.

  The computer was really a DVR, one big hard drive, storage for the video surveillance system, similar to what we had at the Aztec Bazaar. The view from every camera recorded automatically, the footage deleting itself after a period of time, usually three or four weeks.

  The device was dark gray, so the bullet holes were hard to see until you got up close.

  Three of them in a row, diagonally across the top, destroying the hard drive inside.

  Quinn pointed to the ruined DVR. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

  I nodded.

  “Whoever he is, he’s thorough,” she said.

  I was about to reply when I heard the sound of footsteps on the vinyl-tiled floor.

  The obese ponytailed guy from this morning stood in the doorway of the storeroom.

  He looked at Gusano’s body and then at me. “What the hell is going on?”

  - CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE -

  No one spoke for a few seconds.

  The ponytailed guy blinked several times like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, his buddy dead on the floor.

  “Somebody killed Gusano,” I said.

  He looked at the Glock in my hand, took a step back.

  I put the gun in my waistband. “I think we just missed the killer.”

  He pointed to the body. “You know who that is? You got any idea?”

  “We didn’t do this,” Quinn said. “You have to believe us.”

  He looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. He took several more steps back until he hit the desk.

  I walked out of the storeroom. Quinn followed.

  “Do you know about the cars in the second warehouse?” I asked.

  He didn’t speak, just kept looking back and forth between the two of us, eyes wide.

  “Gusano was letting somebody use a Honda Prelude,” I said. “We need to know who.”

  “Do you know what the bounty’s gonna be?” he asked.

  “What are you talking about?” I realized the front door was open, and one or more people were just outside.

  “On you,” he said. “Because you took out Gusano. He’s a freaking captain.”

  He had to be referring to La Eme.

  Gusano must have been a higher-up in the organization. He was now dead, and I’d been seen standing over the still-warm body, holding a gun.

  I shook my head. “I didn’t kill him.”

  Ponytail flexed his fingers, telegraphing his intent.

  I reached for the Glock right as he charged.

  His head hit my sternum, a hippo stomping on my chest.

  I fell backward, dropped the gun.

  He landed on top of me, which was bad and good.

  Bad because he weighed as much as an entire village in Ethiopia. Good in that he couldn’t do much damage with his arms and legs.

  After a couple of seconds, he rolled off, tried to stand, a tough task when you weighed that much.

  Still on the ground, I struggled to fill my lungs with air, then elbowed his face, aiming for the nose but ending up striking his lips.

  From the front of the office, I heard footsteps, exclamations in Spanish.

  One problem at a time.

  Ponytail lay on his side, one hand held to his mouth, trying to hit me with the other.

  I kneed him in the stomach, my knee disappearing into a
foot or so of blubber.

  He stopped trying to hit me.

  I slammed the fleshy part of my palm into his nose.

  Quinn screamed.

  I scrambled to my feet, wobbly, chest aching, hoping Ponytail was out of the game for the next few seconds at least.

  A Hispanic man wearing an oversize white T-shirt and a heavy gold chain around his neck stood in the doorway. He held a pistol sideways like he was in a bad action movie from the nineties.

  He aimed at Quinn, who was across the room, clutching my Glock.

  He fired. And missed.

  She screamed again, yanked the trigger. She didn’t miss.

  The thug in the doorway made a sound between a burp and a hiccup. A bright-red spot about the size of a marble appeared in the middle of his chest.

  The spot grew larger, staining the white T-shirt.

  He dropped his gun, fell to the floor.

  I dashed to the doorway, carefully peered outside.

  A Cadillac Escalade was parked by my pickup, both front doors open. It appeared to be empty, and no one else was around.

  I turned to face the office.

  Quinn was staring at the dead thug on the floor, one hand against her mouth, the other still holding my Glock.

  “Give me the gun,” I said.

  She didn’t react, breathing shallow, pistol still up, her finger on the trigger.

  I approached her from the side, avoiding the muzzle, and slid my hand around hers, trying to ease the weapon from her grasp.

  Grunting from across the room.

  Ponytail was standing. Blood streamed down his chest from the damage to his nose and mouth.

  He held a gun in his hand the correct way, where the odds of missing were greatly lessened. He brought the weapon up, aiming at me.

  Only milliseconds before he pulled the trigger.

  No time to take the Glock from Quinn’s hand.

  I slid my index finger on top of hers, jerked the pistol toward Ponytail. Pressed the trigger.

  Quinn yelped as the pistol bucked in her hand.

  The bullet hit Ponytail in the cheekbone.

  His head snapped back. He dropped the weapon. Landed on the floor with a thud that shook the foundation.

  Quinn fell against me.

  I braced her with my free arm, taking the Glock from her hand with the other.

  She turned in to me, burying her head in the space between my neck and shoulder.

  I held her for a moment before pushing her away.

  “We need to leave,” I said.

  She placed a hand on the desk, palm on top of a tool catalog, trying to steady herself.

  I grabbed the two pistols on the floor, Ponytail’s and the guy in the white T-shirt’s.

  “Are they dead?” she asked. “B-b-both of them?”

  I nodded, making a mental list of all the possible ways this could come back on us. Too many to count. At least I’d been wearing gloves.

  “Did you touch anything?” I asked.

  “Just the g-gun.” She moved her hand from the desk.

  I decided not to mention the catalog. She was shaky enough already. There was a small paper sack on the floor. I grabbed the sack and placed the three pistols inside, followed by the catalog with her palm print.

  “Let’s get out of here.” I tucked the sack under my arm.

  - CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX -

  I drove down Davis Street, heading toward the highway, careful to stay under the speed limit. In the rearview mirror, I could see a column of oily smoke snaking skyward.

  It was late Saturday afternoon, and there was very little traffic in this part of town. Nobody was parked in front of the Players Inn, no police or firefighters rushing to the scene yet.

  Quinn sat in the passenger seat, shaking uncontrollably, the paper sack with the guns in her lap.

  I turned onto Loop 12 and headed north, away from Mendoza’s and the three dead thugs, away from the Aztec Bazaar and Javier. Away from Miguel.

  When we reached Interstate 30, I headed west toward Fort Worth.

  “Wh-where are w-w-we going?” Quinn’s teeth chattered as she spoke.

  “We need to get you something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Food’ll calm you down.”

  Eating would keep her hands busy, engage her brain, the rote activity soothing. Plus, the bustle in a restaurant would give her something to think about beyond the fact that she had just smoked a member of the Mexican Mafia.

  An IHOP lay about a mile away, and that was my ultimate destination. Before that, however, we had a stop to make.

  The Elm Fork of the Trinity River cut through this section of town. There were very few buildings. Lots of vacant land, heavily wooded.

  I exited at MacArthur, drove north until we reached a narrow dirt road just before a bridge that crossed the river.

  The road led to a spot under the bridge where people sometimes fished, trying their hand at whatever the muddy waters had to offer, usually channel cats and alligator gar.

  I slowed and turned onto the dirt path. A few yards later, I parked under the bridge and exited the pickup, taking a moment to check out the surroundings. No fishermen were present. No sounds but the traffic on the bridge above. The air smelled like water and damp soil.

  I walked to Quinn’s side. Knocked on the glass.

  She rolled down the window.

  “Give me the sack,” I said.

  She frowned, still shaking.

  “We need to lose the guns.” I pointed to the river.

  “B-b-but we have to have a weapon.”

  “No, we don’t.” I shook my head.

  I could have wiped down everything and removed her prints, but the last thing we needed right now was to be in possession of any firearms connected to a homicide.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “What if they come back?”

  “We’ll be OK. I promise.”

  After a moment, she gave me the paper sack.

  I walked to the edge of the river, about ten feet away. There, I tossed the bag into the middle of the water and watched it sink.

  I would have preferred to find a power drill and bore out the barrel of my Glock, rendering a ballistics match impossible. But that meant stopping at a hardware store, a place with cameras and witnesses. The faster the evidence disappeared, the better.

  I got back in the truck.

  Quinn hugged herself, still shivering.

  “Let’s get you something to eat,” I said.

  We sat in a corner booth at the rear of the IHOP.

  The place was nearly empty. A handful of people in the front, truck driver types, and a Dallas County constable at the counter.

  Even though it was late in the afternoon, I ordered breakfast food for both of us.

  Bacon and eggs, pancakes and hash browns. A pot of coffee.

  When the waitress left, I said, “How are you feeling?”

  “How am I supposed to feel?” Quinn glanced at the constable.

  Numb, shaky. Remorseful, maybe angry. Fearful. Certainly jittery.

  I decided not to mention any of that. Also, the sleep issues and nightmares that were to come.

  “Should we call the police?” she asked.

  I didn’t answer, hoping she could figure out the danger of that particular action on her own.

  “What choice did I have?” She crossed her arms. “That guy was going to kill you . . . me . . . us.”

  “You did what needed to be done.”

  Across the room, the constable paid his bill, headed for the exit.

  When the door shut behind him, Quinn said, “I need to tell Frank.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  She frowned. “You don’t trust my husband?”

  “That’s not the issue.”

  “What, then?”

  I took a moment, pondering the best way to say what she needed to hear. “The smartest thing you can do is to never ever talk about what happene
d today. Not to anybody.”

  “But I killed a man.”

  “And you’ll have to live with that the rest of your life.” I paused. “But the more people who know, the higher the odds are that you’ll end up in prison. Or worse.”

  The waitress brought our food, refilled our water glasses, asked if we needed anything else. When she left, Quinn pushed away her plate. I pushed it back, told her to eat.

  She took a couple of hesitant bites and then dug in like she hadn’t taken nourishment in a week. We ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “What’s going to happen?” she asked. “Back there at the salvage yard.”

  “The police’ll run the ballistics on the bullets that killed the three men. My Glock is clean, so the bullets in the two hoods we shot won’t ping anywhere.”

  She put down her fork.

  “But Gusano’s gonna be a different story,” I said. “I’m willing to bet the round that killed him came from the same gun that killed Sandoval, Pecky Ruibal, and the restaurant guy.”

  She took a sip of coffee, stared out the window.

  I continued. “That, combined with the other two dead thugs and the massacre at the club, is gonna make heads spin with the Dallas police.”

  “The media,” she said. “They’ll have a field day with this.”

  Along with the DEA, the competing cartel, and the powers that be at La Eme. I didn’t say anything.

  The waitress took our plates, refilled our cups. We sat without talking for a while, drinking coffee.

  “You ever fired a gun before?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Frank taught me. He has a lot of guns. He’s a pretty good shot.”

  There was an interesting tidbit.

  She’d brought her overnight bag in with her, not wanting to leave it in the truck, the post-violence paranoia setting in, the need to guard, to protect. She picked up the bag from the floor, ready to leave.

  “Frank’s not a killer,” she said. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “What is he, then?”

  Her brow furrowed. “An angry man. But not a killer.”

  I didn’t reply because there was no sense contradicting her.

  One thing I’d learned as a cop. Anyone could commit murder.