Texas Sicario (Arlo Baines Book 2) Read online

  - CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE -

  The business of Dallas was business, according to Quinn.

  Commerce ruled.

  The city served as a major corporate hub. Companies relocated to the area every year, drawn by the entrepreneurial-friendly environment, central location, and well-developed transportation network.

  The last two were also reasons why the Vaqueros had come here, instead of, say, Austin or San Antonio. On a map, the metropolitan area composed of Fort Worth and Dallas looked like an enormous spider, one with thousands of legs, each a highway leading to the rest of the country.

  Seventy-five percent of the illegal narcotics imported from Mexico came across the Texas border, the vast majority moving through the Dallas area, transported by secondary organizations who partnered with the Vaqueros.

  If someone purchased a quarter ounce of pot in Chicago or Atlanta or Kansas City, or any point in between, the odds were good it had gone through Dallas. It was just a matter of time, Quinn explained, before the cartels expanded their reach, capturing the transportation routes north of the border.

  Dallas was the logical choice for a base; any business consultant could have told you that. The city was operating in a vacuum, contraband-wise. Too many opportunities existed here for someone not to take advantage.

  A law school classmate with a small practice in Brownsville had approached Frank a couple of years before, introducing him to Pax Larson-Ibarra, an energetic young man who was looking for investments in the North Texas area—real estate, small businesses, that sort of thing.

  The money, Frank later learned, came from Pax’s brother, a defrocked priest who earned his living in a manner that most people preferred not to discuss openly. Import-export, they might say with a shrug.

  The source of the capital didn’t bother Frank. Business was business. That was the Dallas way. He was a master of rationalization, according to Quinn, justifying whatever it took to make a buck.

  Pax began to spend more and more time in Dallas, and pretty soon he and Frank became friends as much as business associates. They enjoyed the same things—good food, fast cars, pretty women. Quinn’s eyes narrowed when she mentioned the last.

  After a year or so, Pax approached Frank with another proposition.

  Pax’s brother was worried about a takeover by one of his lieutenants, the man in charge of the rapidly expanding Texas infrastructure, an infrastructure that Frank had helped put into place.

  Would Frank help Pax and his brother to secure what was rightfully theirs, this burgeoning empire they had created?

  It would be simple, really. They just needed to put their own people in place. Getting rid of the existing personnel was going to be messy, but the rewards would be worth any momentary discomfort Frank Vega might feel.

  Intrigued, not to mention greedy, Frank asked just what kind of rewards they were talking about.

  Pax told him the plan. His brother wanted to give Frank control of Texas, the entire state. What better person to handle their affairs than an attorney, an officer of the court?

  The numbers were staggering, Quinn told me. How could anyone turn that down?

  Frank didn’t, of course, and the killings began.

  A text message dinged.

  Quinn reached into her back pocket and removed a phone, tapping out a reply.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Business is booming. A million details to take care of.”

  The message whooshed, sent on its way.

  She looked up. “Where were we?”

  “Talking about money,” I said. “The root of all evil.”

  “How biblical. The priest would like that.”

  “Who was Fito?”

  “He worked for the lieutenant Pax’s brother was worried about,” she said. “He was trying to stop the killings. Find out who was responsible.”

  Fito, Throckmorton, and I had obviously subscribed to the same theory: the murders were because a rival cartel was making a play for Vaquero territory. None of us had realized that the attacks were internal.

  When Quinn and Frank had learned Fito was in town and why he was there, I could only imagine how strong their fear was, the sleepless nights, churning stomachs, jittery nerves.

  Maybe only then did it sink in for them that they were playing an exceedingly dangerous game, wading into the middle of a drug cartel and staging a bloody coup. The outcome might have easily gone a different way, and they both would have ended up in a vat of acid.

  “Why’d you tell me all this?” I asked.

  “Didn’t you want to know?” She paused. “Are you happy with the way your life’s going, Arlo? Do you want to be a drifter forever?”

  She shifted in her seat. Under the table, her leg brushed against mine, lingering a moment. Her eyes softened, and a faint smile appeared on her lips.

  “Our business needs someone like you,” she said. “I can pay you every month what you made in a year as a cop.”

  I looked across the room, trying to project the image that I was considering her offer. I wondered about her mental stability, if she really believed I’d work for her.

  “You’d be spending time with me. I need someone I can trust to watch my back.” She smiled. “We’d have a good time.”

  The way she spoke those last few words left no doubt in my mind as to what my other duties would entail. The idea of being Quinn Vega’s side piece while working for her and her husband made me nauseous.

  “Sounds interesting. What’s the catch?”

  “Why does there have to be a catch?”

  Because there always is, I thought, especially with people like you.

  She shrugged. “I just need someone who’s not squeamish when it comes to getting his hands dirty.”

  “I’m not an assassin.”

  “Really?” She smirked, the crazy back in her eyes. “What about the people who killed your wife and children?”

  The air caught in my throat, grief mixing with anger, a toxic cauldron bubbling just beneath the surface.

  “I’ve read everything I could about that case,” she said. “You were the only suspect until your father-in-law confessed. How convenient that he took the rap, right as his financial world crumbled.”

  I flexed my fingers, imagined them around her throat.

  She tapped out a text.

  A moment later, the exit door at the rear of the bar opened, and Stodghill the gun dealer approached our table, a large manila envelope in one hand. He was wearing the same tactical vest that he’d had on when Quinn and I had visited his place the month before.

  I remembered Quinn worrying that he would recognize her from dealing with Frank, how Stodghill had acted like he’d never seen her before. Their performances had been Oscar-worthy. Amazing how well money can motivate a person.

  “That was some Donnie Brasco–level work,” I said. “Color me impressed.”

  They both shrugged, appearing satisfied.

  I looked at Stodghill. “Shoulda figured a crooked son of a bitch like you would be involved in this.”

  He dropped the envelope on the table but didn’t speak. The package was heavy, landing with a metallic clank.

  I turned to Quinn and nodded in Stodghill’s direction. “What’s the payoff for our merchant-of-death friend?”

  “He’s moving his business to the bazaar,” she said.

  “We’re going to have a separate storefront for the used guns.” He crossed his arms. “Private-party transactions only.”

  Gun sales between two individuals didn’t require the paperwork and background checks that a transaction with a licensed firearms dealer mandated. However, there were numerous ways a dealer could direct inventory to the used gun market.

  “A ready supply of untraceable weapons.” I nodded. “Just what every drug cartel needs.”

  “Speaking of weapons that are untraceable.” Quinn dumped out the contents of the envelope, a pistol and a sheet of paper. “This one is very much traceable.”

  The
paper appeared to be a copy of the ATF form required when someone buys a gun from a licensed dealer.

  Quinn slid the document across the table so I could better see my name written in block letters.

  I pointed to the gun. “That’s my Glock, isn’t it?”

  The one I thought I had thrown into the river after the killings at Mendoza’s salvage yard.

  She nodded. “And this is the paperwork showing that gun being sold to you by our mutual acquaintance.”

  Stodghill grinned, and I added him to the list of people I wanted to throat-punch.

  “At the river,” Quinn said, “when you went to throw away the guns, I took this one out, stuck it in my overnight bag.”

  I remembered pulling off the road at the bridge, parking where the fishermen usually gathered. I’d walked around the truck to get the sack from Quinn’s side. She must have removed the weapon in those few seconds.

  She put the gun and the paper back into the manila envelope. She handed the envelope to Stodghill, who left the bar.

  “Those go straight to Detective Ross if you don’t do exactly as I tell you.” She glared at me.

  Neither of us spoke for a moment.

  “I don’t want to threaten Miguel,” she said. “I know what he means to you.”

  I nodded. “That’s probably best.”

  “But you need to know his safety depends on what you do next.”

  I waited. She had me, and she knew it. A double whammy—the boy and the gun.

  “A couple of more loose ends that need taking care of,” she said. “Then Texas is secure.”

  “You mean somebody who needs killing?”

  She nodded.

  “Who?”

  “My husband,” she said. “You’re going to kill Frank.”

  - CHAPTER FORTY -

  Quinn slid out of the booth.

  “Why Frank?” I asked.

  She strode to the front entrance. “Don’t try anything. I have to send messages to keep the boy alive.”

  I stayed seated.

  She stopped by the door, turned, and looked at me, head cocked.

  I didn’t move.

  In a hostage situation, which this was, there were two primary goals.

  Number one: try to escape as soon as possible. That didn’t seem to be a reasonable option given the fact that they had Miguel as well as my tainted pistol.

  That left the second goal: establish whatever control of the situation you can, by whatever means available.

  “Get up,” she said. “We’re leaving.”

  “Not yet. Not until you fill me in.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You think I’m screwing around here?”

  The jeans she wore were slim fit, expensive looking. She had a knife in one back pocket, the cell phone in the other. The front pockets appeared empty, and her shirt was tucked in. All of which indicated that she didn’t have a weapon other than the blade.

  Maybe she’d been telling the truth weeks before at Stodghill’s shop when she said she didn’t like guns. Not the best attitude to have when you were in her line of work—like a carpenter who didn’t care for hammers—but who was I to judge?

  “If you want me to kill your husband,” I said, “you need to tell me why.”

  She marched across the room, leaned on the table, face inches from mine. “Because I said so, that’s why.”

  I could smell her sweat, see the pores of her skin. I didn’t react.

  A moment passed.

  “You ever killed anybody?” I asked. “Other than the guy at Mendoza’s?”

  She blinked a couple of times but didn’t speak, which was the answer I’d guessed—no.

  “Tricky work, killing people.” I paused. “A million things can go wrong.”

  She pushed herself off the table, crossed her arms.

  “I need to know as much as possible up front,” I said. “The location, what kind of security’s there, who else is on the premises. Why this has to happen now.”

  She pursed her lips and stared at me.

  “You don’t want a repeat of Pecky Ruibal, do you?” I asked. “All those dead bodies at that nightclub.”

  After a moment, she shook her head.

  I waited.

  “This business doesn’t take kindly to weakness,” she said. “And Frank is a weak man.”

  I didn’t speak, knowing there had to be more.

  “The women,” she said. “That’s going to trip him up eventually.”

  She wanted me to believe her actions were not personal, but that was clearly not the case.

  Jealousy wrapped up as a business decision.

  Another mistake.

  The main entrance to El Corazón Roto was unlocked, a tactical error considering there’d been a hostile inside with only one unarmed person as a guard.

  I stepped outside before she reached the door, another small effort to exert control.

  She didn’t try to stop me. She just followed me out.

  The sun was bright and hot.

  There was no security that I could see, another bit of info that I stored away, right next to Frank Vega’s overheard comment: Hire some more people, then.

  Only a handful of vehicles were by the bar. Several pickups full of building materials and the late-model Mercedes sedan that had been parked in the Vega garage. Quinn’s car.

  Tuesday afternoon, the parking lot should be fuller than this.

  “We shut down half the bazaar,” she said. “Remodeling for our new tenants.”

  “Where’s Miguel? I want to see him before we leave.”

  Despite the heat, the air between us seemed to grow cold as an icy expression formed on her face.

  “You’re done asking questions,” she said. “If you stall one more time, I’ll make a call and have somebody bring us one of the boy’s fingers.”

  After a moment, I nodded. “Understood.”

  A small measure of tranquility settled over me at that moment as I realized that one way or the other, she was going to die today. Maybe I would as well, but not before killing her.

  She handed me a key fob, pointed to the Mercedes. “You’re driving.”

  I slid behind the wheel while she walked around to the passenger door.

  The interior of the vehicle had been freshly cleaned, the dash shiny, the carpet vacuumed. A rolled-up yoga mat was in the rear next to a reusable grocery bag from Whole Foods.

  I realized that for all of Quinn’s bravado and tough talk, she had no clue what operating on the street was really like.

  Once we were both inside, I said, “Where are we going?”

  “My house.”

  I turned on the ignition, pulled out of the parking lot. “Who else is there?”

  She glanced at me but didn’t respond.

  “I’m not stalling. I don’t want to walk into a crew of cartel thugs.”

  “You won’t have that problem, trust me.”

  Her voice held a faint trace of irony, and Frank’s comment came back to me again. Were they running short on manpower? Could they have expanded too quickly?

  “Only two people are there,” she said. “Frank and Pax.”

  “Whose side is Pax on?”

  No answer.

  “I need to know if he’s friend or foe.”

  “Pax recognizes weaknesses the same way I do,” she said.

  So the cartel connection was on board with taking out the new head of Texas. Maybe that had been the plan all along—use Frank to eliminate the lieutenant’s people, then kill Frank once everything was wrapped up.

  Quinn obviously hadn’t completed all the calculations yet. She didn’t realize that after one Vega was gone, it would be a simple matter to kill the second. Then Pax and his brother would control the territory themselves. Honorable men, these were not.

  I didn’t say any of that, of course. I just nodded, and we drove in silence for a while.

  When we were about a mile away, I said, “Where’s the gun?”

  She
pointed to the glove compartment.

  I decided it was time to push her a little more.

  “Why can’t Pax handle this himself?” I asked.

  She turned and stared at me.

  “Don’t you think Frank’s going to be suspicious when I just show up at his house?”

  She crossed her arms, looked out the window.

  “You sure no one else is going to be there?” I asked.

  If I were running a smuggling crew and someone brought an allegedly former enemy turned hit man into my home, you wouldn’t be able to count the guns aimed at him.

  She nodded.

  “Running a lean operation, huh?”

  “Quit talking and drive,” she said.

  They were short on personnel. The lack of guards. Only two people at their house.

  The lieutenant they’d cut out was no doubt a street guy, which was how he came to be a lieutenant. He had the connections to the local gangs, knew how to control the troops, keep everything humming. Maybe they were hoping to take over those connections, but that hadn’t happened yet. Maybe the connections figured they’d cut out Frank and Pax. Who knew?

  A lot of variables. Buckets of mistakes.

  I wondered about the two gangbangers at the bar, the one Miguel had knifed and the guy I’d jabbed in the eye. How many more were there? Also, how pissed were they at the boy and me right now?

  One problem at a time.

  We drove the rest of the way without talking. When we reached White Rock Lake, I pulled to the side of the road, her house a few hundred yards away.

  “Time for the gun.” I pointed to the glove compartment.

  She didn’t move.

  “You own me,” I said. “You really think I’m going to try anything?”

  She stared at me, face blank, one eyelid twitching.

  I shrugged. “Suit yourself, then. You can pull the trigger.”

  She took several deep breaths. Opened the glove compartment, removed a pistol, handed it to me.

  The gun was a Beretta 9mm, at one time the standard issue for the US military. This one had a full magazine with a round in the chamber, but the serial number had been filed off.

  I leaned forward, slipped the pistol in my waistband. “Where’s Frank going to be?”

  “In his office. The room next to where we met before.”