Rogue Launch, page 6
“It’s outside Navojoa,” he replied, zooming in on his phone. “Christ, it’s a twelve-hour drive.”
I blew out a breath and rubbed my forehead. Twelve fucking hours. Sure, I could fly down and leave Joel’s sorry ass behind, but I still wouldn’t be picked up for almost thirty hours.
My leg was killing me too.
Pressure built up within me—frustration, anger, impatience. Those thirty hours were a minimum in terms of how long Blake was going to be held against her will. Unless River and Reese miraculously stumbled upon a Carillo safehouse where he was keeping Blake, Marisa, and Shay, I had to accept that this operation was going to take time. We couldn’t even be sure that Vincente was going to help us.
The road stretched long into the desert, disappearing on the horizon in liquid heat.
I couldn’t fucking take it. I pulled over to the side of the road and climbed out of the truck, almost stumbling when my leg threatened to give out. “You drive.”
Anger got the best of me, and I slammed a fist down on the hood of the truck. God-fucking-dammit. Thirty hours! She was just a little child! How many times had I heard about children being abducted? Many of them didn’t come home again. Some were held hostage for so long that they grew up in a new environment they learned to love, to side with, to fight for.
Shay was a problem too. It was easy to be proud of a fighter who struggled to the very end, but that end could sneak up a lot fucking faster if the cartel got sick of him and put a bullet in his head. Marisa and Blake made up enough leverage. And Marisa…? I could only imagine the thoughts running through Ortega’s head. They could torture her for answers, rape her to humiliate Ortega, and—
“We’ll find them.” Joel met me in front of the truck and squeezed my shoulder briefly. “Get in.”
Don’t touch me.
I already felt weak.
And this fucking heat could suck my cock too.
I wiped my forehead and moved to the passenger’s side, my leg cramping and trembling the whole time. Maybe it was more than a flesh wound after all. Who knew what nerves the bullet had torn through.
“We’ll stop at the next town and pick up better painkillers,” Joel said.
I drew a steadying breath and closed the door. We were off again, and now I just had to figure out how to stretch my—
“Stop being an idiot,” he said irritably. “Rest your foot on my leg—don’t fucking start. For once in your life, do as I say. You’re useless to Blake if you can’t even walk.”
I glared at him but couldn’t say shit. Blake was my priority; I had to get better as fast as humanly possible.
My skin prickled with discomfort and reluctance as I kicked off my shoes and turned in my seat. For six years now, I’d done everything in my power to keep my distance from Joel. Now, here I was, lifting my leg to rest it across his lap, and I was probably gonna spend more than a few days with him.
I groaned internally, pain and relief exploding in little bursts up and down my thigh. It felt so damn good to elevate it and stretch it out, at the same time as every movement hurt.
The back of my head hit the window, and I closed my eyes and breathed through the pain.
Jesus Christ, I was burning up. I blinked groggily, my vision unfocused. Joel wasn’t here—we weren’t driving. His window was rolled down. I squinted out the windshield and realized we’d reached the town limits of some place. We were parked outside a strip-mall-type joint, with a gas station, two pharmacies, a restaurant, and a convenience store.
Just a beat later, Joel was walking out of one of the pharmacies. He had the upper half of a popsicle stuck in his mouth while he rummaged through one of the bags he was carrying, all while juggling two cups of what I assumed was coffee.
I winced and rubbed the side of my head. Great, a headache too. Why not.
He opened the door as I pulled up my leg. Fuck me, that hurt.
“Mornin’, sunshine.” He returned his popsicle to his mouth, slid into his seat, and placed the to-go mugs in the cupholders. Then he handed me the plastic bags before he turned on the engine and let the AC blast.
“How long was I out?” I muttered.
Fuck yeah, Tramadol. God bless Mexico. He’d bought some other painkillers as well, but this was the good shit without a prescription. I spotted everything I needed to redress my wound too.
“Couple hours.” He backed out of the parking spot and grabbed my foot, planting it across his lap again. “Take your pills and go back to sleep. You’re so easy to be around when you’re dead to the world.”
I didn’t respond. We weren’t gonna enter banter territory. Those bridges were blown up.
I chased down the pain relief with a sip of perfect coffee, then dropped the pharmacy bag on the floor. Another bag revealed sodas and snacks, and the last had water and… I raised my brows. He’d bought cigarettes?
“Are you smoking again?” I had to ask. We’d quit on the same morning seven or eight years ago. I’d gone from occasional social smoker to chain smoking as my marriage had deteriorated, and he’d stress-smoked in between deployments sometimes.
“Apparently I cave when my daughter’s been kidnapped.”
She’s not your daughter.
He held out a hand, and I gave him the pack and a lighter before I stashed the other bags on the floor as well.
Not in the mood to utter another word, I pulled out my phone to see if I had any new messages. The secure chat Squeezy had set up didn’t offer any alerts, so we—
“Jesus fuck.” I stiffened and read the wall of messages.
“What?” Joel demanded.
Fucking hell! You seen the news?! CF
There’s no more doubt. Something big is happening. JO
Yeah, we can call off the search for other suspects. DQ
We’re working on new papers for you, CF. Get ready to go to Europe. DQ
Marveluss. CF
How the hell did he escape? RT2
According to the statement, he was being transported back to prison after a hospital visit, and they were ambushed on the road. GQ
A buddy at DEA said they’re all involved now. JO
“Carillo escaped from prison.” I couldn’t fucking believe it. No, actually, it made perfect sense, but I still couldn’t believe it. Ortega was right. Something big was happening.
“What the—how?” Joel grated out.
I replied to the group. “Hold.”
Switch all focus to hunting down Carillo affiliates. JH and I will be picked up by Blanco’s men at 8 PM tomorrow, so steer clear of his crews on the streets. We don’t need another enemy. JO, you work on more names. RT1 and RT2, look up every name JO sends you. CF, I want you to prepare a profile. Talk to DQ. We have to find Delgado. DQ, we’ll need your brother. We can’t send CF to Europe alone. EJ
“During a hospital visit, I guess.” I went to Google to look up the news. “He had his men ambush the transport on the way back.”
Joel shook his head grimly and threw the rest of his popsicle into an old coffee mug in the door’s side pocket. “But it’s proof, right? He’s behind the attack.”
“Zero doubt,” I confirmed.
He pulled out his phone just as the screen went dark, and he unlocked it again. “Another missed call from Piper. I’ll call her when we get to a hotel.”
I didn’t care.
“Don’t let that phone end up in the hands of a cop back home,” was all I said. Joel wouldn’t be able to prove he’d been off the grid.
“You’re a little too paranoid about that,” he replied. “I’m not a suspect.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. “No, you’re just naïve. Carillo’s men will do anything to interfere with our mission, whether they kill us in cold blood or alert the authorities in the US that we’re running our own investigation.” I wasn’t saying that the cops would suddenly chase us, but when the dust settled, we could be charged for tampering with evidence or interfering with an ongoing investigation. Moreover, the man who killed a murderer was also a murderer, and revenge killings were unfortunately not legal back home. We had to stay off their radar. Simple as that.
Joel chuckled. “There you go again, treating me like a kid who doesn’t know shit. Classic Elliott.”
I finished my coffee. “Pretty sure a kid uses more than two brain cells.”
“Fuck you.”
Right back at you, buddy.
“Hey, wake up.”
I grunted and stiffened, and I cracked my eyes open. Christ, I didn’t remember falling asleep. “What,” I uttered flatly. I scrubbed a hand over my mouth and peered outside. The sun was dipping low on the horizon.
“I want your background with Vincente,” Joel said. “What do I need to know? You’ve had run-ins with him before.”
I cleared my throat and sat up straighter. The fucking relief of my leg not killing me—I couldn’t describe it. I could live with a dull ache.
“Where are we?” Aside from in the middle of the desert. My stomach tightened with hunger. I could smell food. “Did you eat?”
“We just left Puerto Libertad.” He dug out a paper bag from the floor. “Here. It should be warm still.”
Not seeing the harm in lowering my leg for a moment, I pulled back from his lap and planted my foot on the floor. Which actually felt really good. I’d slept in the same position for too long. Hell, I was stiff and sore all over. Cold where the AC had hit me, sweaty elsewhere… I had problems.
“Pull over,” I requested. “I gotta stretch and take a piss.”
He slowed down and came to a stop on the side of the empty road, and I limped outside and stretched my arms over my head. Fucking hell, road trips weren’t meant for forty-five-year-olds who’d spent twenty years breaking more bones than I could count. My knees protested, my neck…hurt.
I walked away a few feet before I relieved myself to the view of a desert sunset.
If someone had told me two days ago I’d be here today, with Joel as my travel companion, I would’ve laughed in their face.
After tucking myself back into my jeans, I zipped up and returned to the truck, where I grabbed a bottle of water. I’d had the sun blazing against my neck all afternoon. I bent over and emptied half the bottle over my head, and I ran my fingers through my hair. Then I poured the rest over my face and scrubbed off.
I felt marginally better.
I tossed the bottle into the truck and lifted my tee to wipe my face.
Joel joined me on my side, and he’d brought the food.
Right. My background with Vincente Blanco.
He set the container on the hood and opened it, revealing a generous serving of quesadillas, chips, and guac. My mouth fucking watered.
“First time I ran across Blanco, he was just a low-man,” I said. “Hillcroft sent me to locate a cartel member that the DEA wanted extradited. I was undercover—the next two times too. I was responsible for his old man getting killed, and I brought home a German banker they’d held hostage.”
I picked up one of the quesadillas, the food warm enough for the cheese to string along, literally.
“You could say he wasn’t happy with me.” Goddammit. Shrimp quesadillas. He’d bought shrimp quesadillas for me. See, that was enough to make my mind spin, and I couldn’t fucking afford that now. I chewed quickly. “Then last year—Tariq and I took a final contract with Hillcroft, and they sent us right back to Mexico for a briefing. Before I knew it, we were at a hotel in Mexicali, and none other than Blanco walked in. He was the fucking client. He’d managed to track me down—but instead of killing me, he wanted me to do this job for him, and he’d gone through Hillcroft to ensure it.”
Surprise flitted across Joel’s features before he folded his arms over his chest and knitted his brows. “Can just anyone hire a PMC through that agency?”
“No.” I finished the quesadilla. “But if you’re a multimillionaire and launder money through a big corporation where you’re the CEO, chances are you get through the vetting process without much hassle.” The thing with Vincente was that he had brains. He knew how to play the entire field. He didn’t see private contractors as the enemy. He didn’t even view the DEA as the enemy all the time. We were just tools. “He wanted Carillo locked away—actually, he wanted him dead, but his baby sister is married to the fucker. To Carillo,” I clarified. “And I guess Vincente was sympathetic enough to settle for a prison sentence. So he hired Tariq and me to go undercover as freelancers. That was how Frank Rivera was born. First time I used that identity. Our job was to get close to Carillo—just enough to rack up his charges. And to make sure the charges would stick properly, Vincente had tipped off the DEA too. It was a joint op. We did the dirty work, got Carillo extradited, and the DEA took care of everything else.”
Plus got the fucking credit, but whatever.
It hurt to think about Tariq. He’d been my best friend for years.
“Wait, so you actually know Carillo,” Joel said. “You know his ways, how he—”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” I had to interrupt him before he got excited. “I know of him. I moved in the background at sit-downs, but I was never alone with him. Up until yesterday, I wouldn’t even have thought he remembered my face. He doesn’t let strangers go near him. At the same time, they’re goddamn arrogant, because they have so many people in their pocket that they can move freely and get away with anything. Cops, border patrol agents, judges—fuck, I don’t have to tell you this, do I? You know how it is.”
He nodded with a dip of his chin and glanced out at the desert, at the setting sun.
“Do you think he’s crossed the border yet?” he wondered.
I took another quesadilla and did the math while I chewed. I mean, it was definitely possible. If Carillo and his men could orchestrate an escape like that, they could probably make sure the right guys were on duty at the border. But we would know about it. Our side, that was. They would get footage of each vehicle that was and wasn’t searched.
“Lemme put it this way,” I said, “I’m sure we have a team of unlucky DEA agents going through footage from the crossings right now.”
He sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face.
He wasn’t wearing a wedding band anymore. He obviously shouldn’t; it was just the first time I’d seen it.
“Piper misses you.” Fuck. Why did I say that? Dumbass.
He frowned and nodded once. “I know.” Then he cleared his throat and started walking back to the other side of the truck, taking the leftovers with him. “We should get back on the road.”
Do you miss her too?
I cursed myself. At least I didn’t say that out loud.
“So how did you get Vincente’s dad killed?” he asked.
“I blew up a house before he could get out.” I climbed in on the passenger’s side again and got as comfortable as possible. Without using his lap as a resting spot for my leg. “Back then, I wasn’t on Blanco’s side or anything. I didn’t have a name that made the rounds in the cartel, fake or otherwise. In other words, when Vincente hired me last year, he just connected that persona to Frank—and made sure everyone heard it.”
“Huh?” Joel was confused. “Not only did he forgive you for killing his old man, he spread the word? How does that make sense?”
I chuckled a little. “Trust me, he was furious at first. When I ran out of the jungle that night, he screamed that I was a dead man. But over the years, I guess he found a new angle.” I shrugged. “Apparently, the old man was a vicious bastard. By the time I became Frank Rivera, Vincente was telling everyone he’d recruited the ‘crazy lobo’ who had killed his pop. I’m telling you right now—when we see him tomorrow, he’ll tell the story to those nearby. The moment we show up. He’s never alone. A star needs his audience and all that. And he’ll go, see this man right here? He killed my dad. And I hired him. Because I don’t care if we’re family. If you fuck with me, you’re dead.”
Joel snorted under his breath and shook his head. “They always liked their bold gestures.”
Truth. Bold gestures and strong messages.
I was looking forward to Carillo’s next move. He’d been a free man, so to speak, for hours now. When was he gonna reach out? Like Crew had mentioned, having a low-man shout to Ortega that Vincente sends his regards wasn’t a message. It was bullshit. It was a whisper of a clue that possibly shone a light on someone that another motherfucker wanted dead. And what if Ortega had been killed? Who would’ve relayed the message then? Nobody.
It gave me an idea, and I retrieved my phone to send a message to the group.
Hold up, I had some unread texts first.
All right, this is the second affiliate we hunt down who’s already dead when we get to their place. RT2
What? JO
I didn’t see this until now. Can you report back, RT2? DQ
Make that three. Maybe. RT2
Someone is cleaning house. We’re going by the list JO sent. Mostly known-to-the-police hustlers and low-men. We’re outside guy number three’s apartment complex right now, and there’re cops everywhere. Mark my words, they’ll be carrying out someone under a blanket soon. The other two guys we went to see earlier were dead. Bullet to the head, both of them. We got out just in time to see the cops arrive. RT2
And these are all confirmed associates of Carillo? GQ
Yeah. RT2
I pinched my bottom lip as my mind started racing; only, it stopped on the first name that popped into my head. Vincente. Who else could it be? Who else would kill off Carillo’s people?
I replied.
If Carillo has 100 people in San Diego, from the lowest of low-men only loosely tied to the cartel, to the official members running their crews of lieutenants, Blanco has at least three times as many. I’m 99% sure Vincente knows what’s going on. He’s got eyes and ears fucking everywhere. So if someone is killing off Carillo affiliates, I think it’s Blanco.
Crew responded.
Yeah. Bet. That’s the RTs theory too. CF
I went on to the next topic.
DQ and GQ, can you install surveillance at my house? I don’t know yet how Carillo’s gonna reach out. He may very well have my number somehow, but in case he sends someone to my address, we’re gonna want footage.
