Rogue Launch, page 5
“Speaking of Quinns, we have Ryan on standby,” Reese said. “Darius filled him in, so if we need a marksman…”
I automatically looked to Joel.
Time to include that fucker.
“We might need Ryan anyway, but we have Joel too,” I answered. “He’s a sniper with the Coast Guard.”
Reese lifted his brows. “Damn. So you shoot up boat engines from a helicopter all day long.”
“On a good day.” Joel cleared his throat and folded his arms over his chest. “More and more these days, they use narco-subs to smuggle their merchandise.”
“Jesus,” Reese muttered. “We’re never gonna win that war.”
Hell no.
“We still have battles to win,” Crew said firmly. “Joel, what’s your mind-set like? You good to do high-risk or should we—”
“I’m going with Elliott,” Joel stated.
“Uh, you are?” I frowned.
He stared at me. “I dare you to pull some shit now.”
Fuck you.
I bit my tongue. It wasn’t the time or the place, but my fucking God, if he messed with my focus or slowed me down in any way, I’d leave his sorry ass in Mexico.
I refused to admit that he was the logical choice. We had all the paperwork in order to go.
“I’m sensing tension.” Crew threw that out there.
“Yeah…” Reese knitted his brows together. “Lemme get this straight, you’re Elliott’s niece’s dad, right?”
Stepdad.
“Yes. I was married to his sister,” Joel confirmed.
I felt my jaw tick. Sham of a goddamn marriage.
“Ah. In-laws,” Reese said, as if that was the answer. He wasn’t the first to assume the issue between Joel and me was based on two brothers-in-law not getting along. Even Piper thought it was some chauvinistic bullshit about territory. “As long as y’all can work together, I don’t care if you wanna kill each other when this is over. We gotta run a tight op—no fucking screw-ups.”
I heard him. Loud and clear.
“Maybe Joel wants to go to Europe instead?” Crew hedged. “He has his passport already.”
Punk. No, Crew was going. The rest of us didn’t wanna be halfway around the world if we found out where our loved ones were.
Joel shook his head. “Sorry, kid.”
Crew sighed with defeat and wrote his name on the board next to “potentionally going to fucking Europe.”
I didn’t correct his spelling, despite the numerous times he’d asked me to let him know if he’d made a typo. That was something we could do back at the office, where he didn’t want his dyslexia to show. He always asked Madison or me to proof his reports.
“Okay—Elliott and Joel, you’re gonna try to find Vincente,” he said. “River and Reese, you’ll be hunting down local gang members, and I’m going with you. Ortega, you will make calls and cash in favors to find more leads—and to hopefully rule out a rat problem. We have the Quinns on standby, with Darius and Gray assisting us in the background. Squeezy is reaching out tomorrow morning, and Ramirez is watching Piper, and he’s taken care of transportation for us. Logistics next?”
“Riv and I will need all the names you can come up with,” Reese added. “We don’t know where to start.”
“I’ll put together a list,” Ortega replied.
“For the record, every high-ranking member is on the other side of the border,” I said.
“Of course they are,” Reese sighed.
“Any thoughts on where Vincente could be?” Crew wondered.
I suppressed my own sigh, not looking forward to that hunt. “Vincente lives by his own DEFCON system and has a property for each level. I only know his official residence—it’s outside Mexicali. We’ll start there and hopefully get in touch with him through whatever staff he leaves behind.”
“But you don’t think he’s there right now,” Reese guessed.
“Not a chance.” I shook my head. “He’s paranoid by nature, and after what happened today… Word gets around fast. Twenty low-men associated with Carillo’s crew undoubtedly run into Vincente’s eyes and ears here and there. He would’ve known about the attack before we made the evening news.” Which reminded me. “You better be careful out there, Reese. On your own, you can probably blend in fine, but the second they see two of you, it’s easy to—”
“The dead don’t talk.” It was River’s quiet voice that cut me off. “We don’t plan on leavin’ anyone alive to identify us.”
I looked at him over my shoulder and swallowed the gravity of what he was saying. He was just lying there, looking up at the top bunk mattress.
Then I involuntarily slid my gaze to Joel, finding him already watching me. And we’d do the same, wouldn’t we? This was our little Blake we were talking about. They’d kidnapped her. We were gonna push our personal problems aside and kill anyone who stood in our way of finding her and bringing her home.
It was settled.
“Joel and I head out at dawn,” I said. “We’ll take one of the SUVs and drive to another safehouse, where I have an old car stashed away. The rest of you will reach out to Ramirez, and don’t forget to leave your number with Darius. He will forward them to Squeezy. Also, make sure you have cash. I have a few hundred bucks in both dollars and pesos if you’re short.”
“And if you cross the border, don’t use your own ID,” Ortega said.
That was why I had to get to another safehouse. I had an old Chevy there registered under a fake name, courtesy of Hillcroft. I was gonna have to scramble a bit. Going undercover wasn’t as easy as it once had been. I didn’t have a big PMC agency behind me that took care of everything. But I did have this one identity left, and I’d used it before.
It was ironic. For the first time, I needed a cover from law enforcement, not the cartel member I was looking for. Vincente knew me by my real name these days.
“We should eat.” Crew ran a hand through his hair and looked to me in question. I nodded. No appetite whatsoever, but we needed the energy. “All right—I saw spaghetti and tomato sauce in the pantry, so brace yourselves for a feast. And let’s hope our new enemies dine on lobster and steak tonight, ’cause we won’t give them a last supper.”
I mustered a faint smile, appreciating that kid a whole lot. No matter how fucked things appeared, he tried to brighten everyone’s mood.
“Found it.” Joel came out of the house with my wallet. Or Frank Rivera’s wallet, rather. I had a driver’s license, an SDPD police ID, a passport, a debit card, and two credit cards under that name. “How many safehouses do you have?”
I reattached the gas cap and tossed the now-empty fuel can onto the porch. “Can’t really consider this a safehouse anymore. There’s nothing here except the truck.” And the wallet I’d concealed under a couple floorboards. This run-down little house right here had been there for my PMC heyday, when I’d had a lot of contracts in Mexico and South America. We were close to the border, just north of Brawley, with no neighbors around for a mile or two. Partly thanks to the nearby Salton Sea that graced the area with the smell of rotten eggs every now and then.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
It was all the answer he was getting.
With our gear hidden under a haphazardly folded tarp in the bed of the truck, and our guns secured underneath our seats, I got behind the wheel and hoped to whatever deity my old trusty Silverado worked. It’d been a year since we’d last crossed the border together.
Come on.
She protested, coughed and spluttered, as I turned the key a few times.
There we go. Good girl.
Nothing an oil change and fresh gas couldn’t fix.
I backed out of the overgrown driveway and turned around. Next up, wardrobe. Joel would have to stay in the truck while I picked up some pants and tees for us. He was wearing that now too, but I had to get out of my hoodie and sweats, and we needed to be able to change.
“Give me your cover story again,” I requested. Just in case we got stopped at the border. It was highly unlikely.
“I’ve been off the grid for a couple days, fishing and hiking along the Colorado, processing the passing of my ma,” he replied automatically. “On my way home, I decided to swing by my old buddy Frank’s place, and here we are. I haven’t checked my phone yet.”
Okay, good.
“Should I know anything about you?” he asked.
I drove onto the main road and followed my phone’s GPS. I knew of a store near the border that sold souvenirs and cheap clothes and had no indoor video surveillance.
“My cover’s fairly close to my true identity,” I replied. “My grandfather on Pop’s side is from Juarez instead of San Bernadino, and I just retired from the SDPD to pursue a career in private security.”
Joel opened my wallet and snorted softly at the sight of my driver’s license. “Nice mustache, Magnum.”
I grabbed the wallet from him and tossed it onto the dash.
Asshole.
After we’d crossed into Mexico, we had to take a breather. Everything had gone smoothly so far; I’d changed into a pair of jeans and a black tee, and Joel had replaced his USCG tee with a plain gray one.
We waited till we reached the outskirts of Mexicali, and then I stopped at the nearest restaurant. It was a roadside place next to a gas station and a few body shops, before a cluster of factories took over.
It was hot as hell today.
Joel and I headed inside, just in time for the lunch rush to begin.
I made sure not to put too much weight on my right leg and eyed the colorful menus over the counter. As much as I hated it, I had to make more frequent stops today to stretch out my leg. The pain was fucking brutal at times.
“I’ll grab us a booth,” Joel said.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t care. I’m not really hungry.” He walked over to the seating area and the dozen or so tables. Handful of booths, each one painted in different colors.
I was up next in line, so I scanned the menu again. Motherfucker—petty problem, but I would’ve preferred if he ordered his own food. I didn’t want him to notice that I remembered the shit he liked.
The older lady working alongside two younger men greeted me quickly and asked what I wanted. “Hola, buenos días. ¿Cuál va a ser su orden?”
I scratched the side of my head. “Buenos días. Quiero cuatro tacos de carne asada, dos con salsa verde extra, por favor.”
“Claro que sí. ¿Algo más?” she asked.
“No, eso es todo. Gracias.” I retrieved my wallet.
A couple minutes later, I received our food on a tray, and I joined Joel. He’d found a booth conveniently underneath one of the ceiling fans.
I winced and lifted my leg so I could rest my foot on the edge of his seat.
He glanced down, then grabbed his drink. “Maybe I should drive.”
“It’s fine.”
He sighed and leveled me with an impatient look. “Nothing about this is fine—and I know none of us wanna be here right now, but we gotta work together, Elliott. I won’t let you stand in my way.”
I chuckled incredulously, unable to help it. “Me getting in your way? Fuck off—I’d be better off if you stayed at home with Piper. What do you know about covert ops and working with cartels, huh?”
He fumed in silence, jaw set, but said nothing.
There was nothing he could add anyway.
I picked up one of the tacos and bit into it, and my mouth salivated at the taste. How I fucking loved Mexican food—and green salsa. The strong flavors kick-started my system, suddenly ready to let me know I was hungry, but my brain was elsewhere. I still heard Blake’s cries in my head. I still envisioned the terror in her eyes.
Joel eyed the tacos left on the plate. Maybe more in particular, the cilantro, which he hated.
He didn’t say anything about that either. He just picked one up and took a bite.
2000
What was I doing here? Why had I agreed to this? Joel was Piper’s friend, not mine.
Joel and I met up outside Mamacita, and he led the way as if I hadn’t been here before. As if I hadn’t known that they didn’t check for ID here long before he’d figured it out.
The place was as lively as ever. It was essentially a large outdoor dining area with two food trucks slinging some of the best tacos San Diego had to offer. The music was loud, the bistro lights above us shone in different colors, the bar tables were crowded, and people were in a good mood.
The lines were fast-moving, and I kept my smirk to myself when Joel ordered a beer with his tacos. No cilantro, he said twice.
Joel turned to me next. “What do you want?”
I furrowed my brow. Was he implyi—
“I’m paying,” he clarified.
My eyebrows went up.
Either he was buttering me up to ask if I could buy him booze for a party or something, or…or he really was interested in me. He’d actually meant that before on the beach? Maybe not the wanting to get shot down part, but…
I shook my head to clear it. “Uh, one steak taco with extra green salsa and two shrimp quesadillas.”
Joel repeated my order to the girl in the truck—and added a beer.
If he was gay, or bi, how come Piper hadn’t mentioned anything? Christ, it was all she could do at dinner sometimes, talk about Joel.
We shuffled over to the side while we waited for our food, and I had to ask.
“What’s the plan here, Hayward?”
He flashed me a smile that was half cockiness, half nerves.
It was hot. I couldn’t lie. He was hot, period. He had these deep blue eyes that revealed a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. Perfect combo if you asked me. Summer freckles barely visible through his natural tan. And his body… He was as tall as me now. Definitely not lanky anymore. It was easy to tell he surfed a lot, played football, and ran every morning.
That was the shit Piper shared. Not a damn thing about his sexuality.
“I told you earlier,” he said over the music. “I’m gonna get shot down.”
Fuck.
I looked over at where they were preparing our food, and I ran a hand through my hair.
What if I didn’t shoot him down? Goddammit, could I even—I mean, with my sister… She’d never confessed she was into Joel, but it was so obvious.
“Looks like our order is ready,” Joel said. “You wanna eat down on the beach? I know, I know, we’re not supposed to leave the area with the beer—but I’ve never gotten into trouble for it. They don’t care.”
Oh yeah, sure, let’s cross the street and disappear into the darkness of a giant bed of sand.
Horrible idea. I wasn’t gonna agree to that.
“Sure,” I replied.
Chapter Four
“What’s taking so long?”
I turned around and pointed at the truck. “Get back in the truck.”
I didn’t need Vincente’s staff to get a good look at Joel. The fewer faces they saw, the better.
“Stop treating me like a fucking dog,” he growled. Then he returned to the truck and slammed the door shut.
I clenched my jaw and turned back toward the hacienda. A large spectacle of an estate—in the middle of the desert, of course. I’d made it about twenty feet up the winding driveway-like path to the house before two armed guards had darted toward us. Desert sand on both sides, shrubs and cacti, and then this perfectly built path that was tiled…and lined by a low concrete wall. The whole fucking driveway, tiles and mosaic. I wasn’t exaggerating if I estimated it was about a hundred feet long. Slanting upward too, because the hacienda sat on a man-made hill.
My goofball of a niece would’ve suggested pouring dish soap and water down the driveway to create a slide.
I checked my watch.
Fucking hell, I was gonna burn up before the guard came back. The other one waited some thirty feet away and hadn’t taken his eyes off me once.
Vincente had to see me. I didn’t care where he was, as long as he agreed to let me go to him. If I had to hop on a plane, I would. And I’d leave Joel behind. He couldn’t very well show his face in an airport. If that somehow made it back to US authorities, they’d have questions about why he wasn’t reaching out to Piper. Joel’s absence depended on his off-the-grid fishing trip.
I pulled out my phone and sent the guys a message.
Status update? EJ
I’d bookmarked the server so it was just a click away. It was a simple message setup, with a black background and a pale-gray, typewriter-like font.
Crew responded immediately.
Tracking a possible member along Madison Av. You? CF
I glanced up toward the house, then typed quickly.
Waiting for our next move outside Blanco’s estate. EJ
Ortega’s message popped up at the same time.
Our cover is secured at the office. I’m on my way to SD to talk to the police. The Feds are involved now too.
No surprise there.
Movement caught my eye, and I pocketed my phone again as the guard, at long fucking last, hurried back to us.
I steeled myself.
The guy couldn’t be old, maybe twenty-five or something, but he’d been around long enough to get this position.
When he reached me, he handed me a note and spoke in rapid Spanish that I was to go to this location and wait for someone to pick us up tomorrow at eight PM.
Vincente was gonna see me. This was his MO.
Relief strengthened my resolve, and I thanked the guard before I limped back to the truck.
We were on our way.
I cranked up the AC and handed Joel the note. “Look up those coordinates. That’s where we’re going.”
It was going to be a long wait till eight PM tomorrow. Possibly a long journey too.
