Texas Sicario (Arlo Baines Book 2) Page 15

  “If you and I weren’t friends,” I said, “I’d take you outside and—”

  He cut me off, face reddening, his anger matching mine. “I wanted to see the boy. You can’t keep him from me.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, tried to remain calm. “You could have just called. Nobody’s trying to keep anything from you.”

  He looked over at Quinn. “Are you fucking the landlord’s wife now?”

  “That’s me, the man slut. Don’t change the subject.” I took a deep breath. “Where is Miguel?”

  “Have a drink with me, Arlo. Let’s don’t fight.” He smiled, trying to be friendly.

  His irrationality was maddening. Booze-induced mood swings, grief, anger, everything competing.

  “I don’t want a damn drink. I want to see Miguel.”

  Javier took a long pull of beer. “He’s with Maria.”

  I realized then he didn’t think of the boy as I did, like a youngster who needed nurturing, both physically and emotionally. In Javier’s eyes, Miguel represented a way to fulfill his own needs.

  A surrogate son, someone to patch the hole left by the deaths of his own children.

  But not a real person. More like a puppy, something he could play with when it was convenient and then pawn off on someone else so he could wallow in grief and get shit-faced.

  “We can’t keep doing this,” I said. “It’s not fair to the boy. He needs a home.”

  Javier looked like he was going to say something, but he stopped when Quinn Vega materialized by the table, a terrified expression on her face.

  She slid next to me in the booth, pointed toward the bar. “He’s here.”

  I looked in the direction she indicated.

  Through the crowd, I could see Fito Alvarez standing by the beer taps, smiling and laughing. He appeared relaxed, talking to a pale-skinned Latino in his thirties wearing a hunter-green polo shirt.

  The man in the polo shirt turned. He had a wine-colored birthmark on his face.

  Pax Larson-Ibarra. Frank Vega’s client and the man I’d seen in the Sandoval backyard.

  “Is there another way out?” Quinn asked.

  “I’m not running from my own place,” Javier said.

  I pointed toward the hallway leading to the restrooms. “There’s an emergency exit that way.”

  Quinn slid out of the booth. I stood as well, right as Fito made his way through the crowd and stopped at our table.

  “Hola, amigos,” he said. “How are we doing tonight?”

  - CHAPTER THIRTY -

  I kept my attention split between Javier and Fito.

  The latter was still smiling, the picture of relaxation, not a care in the world.

  Javier, on the other hand, appeared as if he was about to stroke out. He was red-faced, a vein in his temple throbbing as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

  I looked at Fito. “What do you want?”

  He ignored me, spoke to Quinn. “Looking good, homegirl. I like those jeans.”

  She crossed her arms, face pale.

  “Where’s your husband?” he asked. “He shouldn’t let a woman like you hang out in a place like this.”

  “You need to leave,” I said.

  At the bar, Pax appeared to be buying a pitcher of beer for a man in dirty work clothes. The man smiled, shook his hand, and carried the beer to a table with two other people in similar clothes.

  “I like it here,” Fito said to Javier. “Good location. Not too far from the highway but off the beaten path.”

  Javier made a guttural sound, lips curled into a snarl.

  Fito pointed to Pax on the other side of the room. “That’s why me and my friend, we’re gonna buy you out.”

  I understood immediately the attraction. From a criminal organization’s point of view, acquiring the Aztec Bazaar made perfect sense.

  I couldn’t even begin to count the places in an operation as large as this where you could hide stuff. Executing a search warrant at a 150,000-square-foot building filled with dozens of separate businesses would take days.

  Then there were the tenants themselves, many of whom paid in cash, an easy source of clean money. Those who didn’t pay in cash could probably be persuaded to. Those who refused could be kicked out and replaced with businesses that were either sympathetic to the Vaqueros or owned outright by the organization.

  Tire stores, maybe, like Sandoval’s place. Or bus companies offering service to the border. Businesses that cashed checks and wired money internationally.

  The possibilities were endless, all gathered in one central location, a social hub catering to people reluctant to talk to law enforcement.

  “This operation isn’t for sale,” I said.

  “Everything’s available.” Fito smiled. “The question is whether the seller knows it or not.”

  Javier took several deep breaths and slid from the booth. He seemed to have calmed down some. He stood up tall and straight, only wobbling a little, and looked Fito in the eye.

  “You heard him,” he said. “Now get out of my bar.”

  Fito stared at him like he was a talking dog. Amused, mildly curious at what kind of person would stand up to him.

  “Even if what I have was for sale,” Javier said, “I don’t deal with people like you.”

  Fito laughed. “Look at you, being all self-righteous.”

  Javier staggered a little, losing his balance. He placed a hand on the back of the booth, steadied himself.

  “You do business with us already, borracho. You bought tires from Sandoval, meals from Mariscos.” Fito paused. “In this very building, you accept rent from our people.”

  Javier frowned. “What people?”

  “Does it matter?” Fito said. “Money is money.”

  Cheers erupted from the front, people yelling and clapping. The bartenders pulled fresh glasses from the shelves, pouring drinks as fast as possible. Everyone’s attention focused on Pax, who pulled a wad of currency from his pocket and slapped it on the bar.

  “My friend,” Fito said, “looks like he’s buying a round for the house.”

  Javier sat back down, face haggard. Quinn moved to his side.

  The noise in the bar grew louder as the free booze began to flow.

  Fito nodded toward Javier and lowered his voice so only I could hear. “How much longer you think he’s gonna last? We’ll end up with this place one way or the other.”

  “Get out.” I pointed to the door.

  He moved a step closer, whispered, “Where’s the car?”

  I stared at him, not understanding at first.

  “The Honda Prelude,” he said. “We know there were witnesses who saw that vehicle when Pecky Ruibal was killed.”

  The murders at the club south of White Rock Lake. The guy I’d reached out to by email, the money courier.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do. I think you’ve been holding out on me from the start.”

  The bartender brought a beer and a shot to Javier, part of Pax’s gift to the bar. He glanced at me nervously and then left.

  “The car leads to whoever is killing our people,” Fito said. “And whoever that is, he’s a dead man.”

  The noise grew louder still. The crowd was ecstatic with the free drinks, courtesy of everyone’s new friend, Pax.

  “Maybe you’re the killer?” Fito arched an eyebrow.

  The jukebox changed songs, another narcocorrido, the lyrics to this one about a man with an AK-47 and a bag of money.

  “That kid you like so much is a shooter. Maybe he’s your trigger man.” He paused. “So, who are you working for?”

  “Not the DEA, that’s for sure. Unlike you.”

  He cocked his head, obviously surprised.

  “Does Pax know about your deal with the feds?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “Who do you think arranged it?”

  - CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE -

  Quinn helped Javier stand, then led him down t
he hall toward the rear exit.

  Fito watched, rubbing his crotch. “She’s a looker, isn’t she? After all this settles down, I’m gonna have to show her what a real man is like.”

  “Stay away from her.” I felt an overwhelming need to protect Quinn Vega.

  Even as the feeling swept over me, I realized I was atoning for the past as much as anything.

  Fito stared at me, eyes formed into slits like a greasy snake about to strike.

  I stared back, not blinking.

  “You and me are due for a little reckoning,” he said.

  “I’ll put that on my calendar.”

  I’d known all along there would be consequences to challenging a man like him. His honor would demand an accounting for the perceived slights and disrespect I’d shown him.

  “Back to the matter at hand,” he said. “I’ll bring a contract tomorrow morning, an offer for the businesses. Maybe Javier will be sober by then.”

  Pax was still at the bar, buying more pitchers of beer, making more friends.

  Another man had joined him, the tattooed hood who’d been at the Sandovals. He had a couple of people with him, tatted up as well. The local muscle. None of them was drinking.

  “If Javier doesn’t accept the terms by lunch,” Fito said, “sometime in the afternoon, the police will search his pickup and find a bag of cocaine.”

  I took a deep breath, relaxed my arms and legs, centered my concentration.

  The jukebox clicked to a new song, the Texas Tornados, “Is Anybody Going to San Antone?”

  “We’ll make another offer the next day. The price will be half of what we’re willing to pay right now.”

  I slumped my shoulders, feigning defeat.

  Fito, sensing victory, moved closer, which was what I wanted.

  “You understand what I just told you?” he asked.

  I head-butted his nose, felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage against bone.

  Blood jetted from his nostrils, and he fell to the ground.

  The crowd was loud and boisterous. No one appeared to notice or care what had happened.

  The people closest moved aside as he hit the floor, no doubt wondering what was going on.

  A couple of drunks mixing it up? Well, it was Saturday night, and that was the kind of stuff that happened at a bar like El Corazón Roto.

  Across the room, Pax glanced our way, a puzzled look on his face, unable to see his friend. He motioned to the tattooed hood to check out what had happened.

  While the hood made his way through the crowd, I darted down the hallway leading to the rear exit.

  The back door of the bar was also a side exit for the Aztec Bazaar, the two structures being attached to each other. The door opened onto a narrow corridor in the bazaar, a little-used area lined by a half dozen vacant stalls. The corridor ended about fifty feet away at a wide walkway running perpendicular to it. The walkway was one of the main thoroughfares of the bazaar.

  I jogged to the intersection of the corridor and the walkway and looked in both directions.

  This time of night on a Saturday, most of the stores were closed, everybody at home resting up for tomorrow, the biggest day of the week.

  The only illumination came from a series of overhead fluorescents that served as emergency lighting. The walkway was dim, shadowy.

  To the left, I could see two figures moving away from me—Quinn and Javier, the latter leaning on the former as they inched away from the bar.

  I loped toward them.

  When I was about ten feet away, Javier stumbled. Quinn tried to catch him but got tangled in his legs, and they both went down.

  I helped Quinn to her feet. Javier was out cold, snoring softly.

  “What happened back there?” she asked.

  “I broke Fito’s nose. Wasn’t my smartest move, but I’d had enough of him.”

  “Sometimes talking is a waste of time.” She pointed to Javier. “What do we do with him?”

  “We need to find somewhere to lay low.” I looked toward the corridor leading to the bar, hoping no one was after us yet.

  She glanced that way, too. “You’ve disrespected Fito twice. He’s not going to stop coming after you. No matter what.”

  “He’s gonna do what he’s gonna do.” I grabbed Javier’s arm, pulling him up and over my shoulder like a large sack of drunken potatoes. “And so am I.”

  Maria’s shop was on the way to the front, where my truck was parked, the direction in which Quinn had been headed. I planned to continue going that way, stopping at Maria’s salon for Miguel. Then I would exit the building and load everyone in my pickup so we could find somewhere to spend the night.

  I lumbered toward Maria’s, Javier a dead weight on my shoulder, Quinn trailing after us.

  We turned the corner. This stretch of hallway was even dimmer.

  I trudged on, eager to get Miguel. The journey seemed to take forever with Javier’s unconscious body bouncing against my torso.

  Finally, I turned the last corner. Maria’s shop was ahead on the right.

  They were waiting for me inside.

  I stepped through the entryway and saw Fito in one of the stylist chairs, his nose swollen, blood still seeping from his nostrils. The gangbanger who’d been at the Sandovals stood next to him, holding a pistol. One of the gangbanger’s friends was just inside the doorway.

  I reached for my Glock, but Javier’s bulk hampered my movement.

  The gangbanger by the door slugged me in the stomach.

  I dropped Javier and bent over, struggling for air.

  The gangbanger next to Fito darted across the room and slapped the side of my head with his pistol.

  I fell to the floor, and he hit me again in the same spot.

  A bright white light filled my vision. Then everything went dark.

  My mouth was empty, but I tasted metal.

  I opened my eyes, blinked several times, saw that I was in the far corner of the shop. Javier was still passed out where I’d dropped him near the doorway.

  Maria stood over me. “I told you to leave town.”

  Weeks before in my motel room. Her cryptic comments about how I should just keep traveling. She was part of the cartel.

  “Wh-where’s Miguel?” My voice was a croak.

  Fito appeared next to her, a hand pressed to his nose. He pushed her aside and glared at me. “What the hell is your problem?” he asked. “All you had to do was nothing.”

  I felt for my Glock. Gone, as was my phone.

  “You can’t stop the tides,” he said. “And we are the fucking ocean.”

  I scanned what I could see of the room. No sign of Quinn or Miguel. But then I realized there were two Fitos swimming in front of my eyes, so my vision probably couldn’t be trusted 100 percent at this point.

  Both Fitos aimed a gun at my face. “Who’s killing our people?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “In the end, you’re gonna tell me everything you know,” he said. “You won’t have any secrets left. That’s what they pay me for.”

  Despite my mouth being empty, the metal taste grew stronger. A dagger of pain shot through my skull. Now there were three Fitos.

  Three Fitos and a smaller figure, shimmering and indistinct.

  Miguel.

  The three Fitos handed him three guns.

  Miguel held the pistol like it was a piece of alien technology, like he was unsure of how to use such a bizarre device.

  “The boy’s with me now,” Fito said. “I can use someone like him.”

  Miguel straightened his grip on the gun, the weapon now an extension of his arm.

  Fito smiled, a teacher glad that his pupil had mastered a particularly difficult technique.

  My head felt like someone had jammed a hot ice pick deep into my temple. I struggled not to vomit.

  “You’re going to shoot him once in the knee,” Fito said to the boy. “I need some information before you kill him.”

  For a moment, Miguel didn’t mov
e. Then he pointed the gun at my leg.

  “Bueno.” Fito nodded. “We’ll get ice cream afterward.”

  Miguel’s fingers grew white as his grip tightened.

  Despite my messed-up vision, I stared at Miguel’s face, hoping to see something—anything—that could save me. But there was nothing, just an empty void, cold and unending, a bottomless canyon.

  I remembered the first time I’d laid eyes on him, months before in the bus station. Emaciated and alone, a sad little boy who needed protecting.

  “It’s OK, Miguel.” I tried to smile. “Do what you need to do.”

  He took a deep breath, his arm shaking.

  A long moment passed.

  “Shoot him,” Fito said. “Now.”

  Miguel closed his eyes. He turned, jammed the weapon into Fito’s stomach, yanked the trigger.

  The blast was loud, even muffled by the barrel being up against flesh.

  Fito doubled over like a sledgehammer had hit him in the gut. He collapsed, landing on top of my legs.

  A pistol was in the back of his waistband. Three of them, actually.

  I reached for the middle one but came up empty-handed.

  Another shot rang out.

  The mirror behind me shattered.

  Miguel aimed across the room at a target I couldn’t see.

  A woman screamed. Another blast.

  Even sitting down, my balance was off, head swimming like I was drunk.

  I reached once more for the gun in Fito’s belt, but the taste of metal overcame me. I grasped my head to keep it from spinning.

  Sounds became muted. The woman screamed again, but it seemed a long way off. Quinn or Maria, I couldn’t tell. For an instant, I thought it was my wife.

  I looked up as the gun in Miguel’s hand bucked twice.

  Empty cartridges scattered.

  My eyelids felt heavy.

  A few moments passed.

  Miguel stood in front of me, face fearful.

  I didn’t remember much after that, which the doctor said was normal after a head trauma.

  - CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO -

  One Month Later

  Gunfire woke me, the blast of a shotgun somewhere close by.

  I jerked upright, disoriented. Reached for the pistol on the nightstand, the sheets falling down my torso.