CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“If you want a job done right, you must do it yourself.” Rodrigo repeated his father’s favorite saying aloud.
He’d heard him utter those words numerous times in this very room, right before he would leave to kill someone with his own hands.
Rodrigo disdained that particular aspect of his business but understood it was necessary to ensure the longevity of the Munoz organization. Normally, he would leave the dirty work to someone else.
This time, it had to be him.
He flipped through the stack of passports, selected one, and set the rest back into the small safe in his office. He swung the door shut with a solid thunk and gave the safe dial a last turn, making sure it was on the “0” before closing the cabinet door.
Surprisingly, he was looking forward to dealing with Calabretta himself. He wanted to stand over him and watch the life fade from his eyes. But first, he would take the life of someone he cared about.
This whole mess had been one big distraction, and he looked forward to refocusing his attention back where it belonged—on the continued growth of their empire.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Ingresar.” Enter.
The door swung open, and his assistant, Raimon, stepped one foot inside.
“Senor Rodrigo, su coche ya llegó.” Mr. Rodrigo, your car has arrived.
All of his employees, with the exception of one, were men.
He considered women to be an unwanted distraction.
The only woman he allowed in his home was their longtime family housekeeper, Esmerelda.
She first came to work for his father thirty years ago, when Rodrigo was only eight years old.
She’d never married nor had children of her own, and she had been a greater maternal presence in his life than his own mother.
She turned sixty-five this year, and to thank her for her years of loyalty, discretion, and, yes, love, Rodrigo had surprised her with a pretty little casa of her own, not far from the main house.
She could live out the rest of her days safely tucked away behind the walls of their large family compound.
“Estaré fuera por un momento.” I will be out momentarily. Rodrigo tucked his passport into the outside pocket of his bag, zipped it shut, and handed it to him.
Raimon took the bag, gave a slight nod, then backed out of the office and pulled the door shut.
His father had been very loyal to their heritage and insisted everyone in his employ speak Spanish. AJ had refused, saying English was the dominant language around the world and that their father needed to “keep up.”
For years, Rodrigo had watched how AJ’s complete disdain for their culture had saddened and frustrated their father. So, unlike his reprobate brother, he had respected their father’s wishes and never spoke English in front of him.
AJ would often call him an ass-kisser or suck-up. Rodrigo couldn’t have cared less. His brother’s opinion mattered very little to him. And what his brother never realized was that Rodrigo had a long-term plan.
He had always known AJ would not live long, what with his lifestyle and inability to control his impulses.
But that did not mean Rodrigo would turn a blind eye to what happened to him.
Not only was the honor of their family at stake, but the reputation of the Munoz empire had been sullied by a man who had gotten close to, and was responsible for, the murder of the heir apparent to the family business.
Rodrigo would show his enemies-slash-competitors that the ruthless strength they had respected and feared about his father still ran hot through the blood of his only surviving son.
He straightened the row of pens at the front of his desk, took a last look around his office, and headed toward the front of the house.
The butler opened the front door for him, and Rodrigo walked across the cobblestone drive to the waiting silver-and-black Mercedes-Maybach S-Class sedan.
“Todo está como usted solicitó, senor.” Everything is as you requested, sir. Raimon opened the back car door.
“Bueno.” Good. He climbed into the back seat, and the smell of rich, butter-soft leather filled his nose as Raimon shut the door and stepped back.
The driver eyed him in the rearview mirror, and Rodrigo nodded.
The car pulled away from the house, and a few minutes later, they arrived at the large main gates.
The guard in the tower waved at them, and the heavy, carved, wooden doors slowly swept outward. Once they were open wide enough, the car sped through, kicking up a cloud of dust from the dirt road as they headed away from their family estate.
He turned his wrist and checked the time on his nearly one-million-dollar Patek Philippe watch. His corporate jet was being prepared and would be ready to depart the private airstrip in two hours.
Rodrigo had decided to wear the watch his father had given him when he graduated from Wharton. It was the nicest gift he’d ever received, and it would almost be like having his father there with him.
He dragged his bag over from the other side of the seat, unzipped it, and removed a folder containing information regarding a possible acquisition.
For the rest of the drive, he poured over the financials and background information on the current owners and board members and deemed it to be a bad investment.
The sound of a plane overhead had him looking up from his work, and he realized they were at the airport. Time flies when you’re having fun, and reviewing financial statements was Rodrigo’s kind of fun.
They rolled to a stop in front of a private hangar, and the driver stepped out and opened the back door for him.
Rodrigo slid the file back into his bag and zipped it shut, grabbed it and climbed out.
As he walked through the large hangar, he admired the sleek design of the dark blue and white Gulfstream G600.
He had personally selected all of the deluxe interior appointments, down to the slab of granite used for the bathroom countertop.
The addition of a reinforced, mid-cabin bulkhead separating the main cabin from the sleep area had been expensive, but privacy and security were critical.
The driver popped open the trunk and hefted out the large suitcase. He carried it over to the plane and handed it off to a member of the ground crew that Rodrigo recognized.
Rodrigo thanked his driver and climbed the five small steps into the jet.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Munoz.” A male flight attendant greeted him in Spanish when he entered the cabin. “Everything is as you requested.”
“Good.” He slipped his phone from his pocket, removed his sport coat, and handed it to the flight attendant. “I’d like a mineral water, please.”
“Certainly.” The flight attendant hung the jacket in a small closet, then headed into the small galley located directly behind the cockpit.
Rodrigo moved to the middle of the cabin, where two chairs were set up on either side of a table. He set his bag in one, sat down across from it, and secured the seat belt.
“Here you go, sir.” The flight attendant carried a tray with a single crystal glass atop it. He placed a cocktail napkin on the table, then set the glass down. Mineral water with crushed ice and one thin slice of lime. Just the way he liked it. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you.” He dismissed him with a flick of his wrist and took a sip of the refreshing water.
The flight attendant closed the privacy door between himself and Rodrigo.
Unlike his father and brother, Rodrigo had never once let alcohol pass through his lips, and it never would. It was a weakness to be exploited, and it made people do stupid things. He detested everything about it, to the point he’d sold off the tequila business his father started years ago.
The jet engines began to whine, and they rolled out of the hangar and down the airstrip. They gained speed, forcing him back in his seat, then they lifted off the ground. He felt the slight jostle when the landing gear tucked itself away.
Rodrigo smiled and took another sip of water. He was one step closer to getting vengeance for his family.
He picked up his phone and tapped out a number he kept locked away in his memory.
“Yes?” The man knew not to say too much.
“I will be arriving in”—he twisted his wrist to check the time—“approximately five hours.”
“Okay.” He lowered his voice to a mere whisper. “The things you asked for are in place.”
“Good. I will call you again when I arrive in Mexico,” Rodrigo said.
He ended the call and set his phone on the table. Satisfied things were being handled, he reached over and pulled his laptop from his bag. He would use the time in the air to finish analyzing some business reports.
A few hours later, the plane touched down at General Servando Canales International Airport of Matamoros. It taxied off the runway and rolled to a smooth stop in front of a private hangar.
Rodrigo glanced out the window and unclipped his seat belt. He saved his work, shut off his laptop, and placed it back in his bag.
“The car is ready for you, sir.” The flight attendant walked over with his jacket and held it so Rodrigo could stab his arms into each sleeve, then he slid it up onto his shoulders.
The flight attendant walked ahead of him to open the door, turned the levered handle to one side and gave a gentle push to swing the door outward. Hot, dry air filled the cabin as he lowered the steps and jogged down to stand on the tarmac.
Rodrigo made his way down the steps, looked around, and slipped on his sunglasses.
“I hope your trip is successful, sir.” The flight attendant stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
“As do I.” Anything less than complete success was unacceptable.
Rodrigo walked over to a man standing in the shade of the building, wearing tan pants, an ill-fitting light blue dress shirt, and a tie that was poorly knotted and hung crooked.
Tamarin Rios had arranged for another one of his cousins to make a nondescript car available for Rodrigo’s use. He’d also been warned not to ask any questions.
“Welcome to Tamaulipas, Mr. Munoz.” As instructed, he spoke Spanish.
He was sweating through his shirt, and beads of perspiration gathered on his upper lip.
One trailed down from his hairline to his temple, then dripped off his jaw onto his shirt.
“I am Julian Serrano, Tamarin’s second cousin. My brother is—”
Rodrigo held up his hand to stop him. “I am aware of who your brother is.”
This man lived in Mexico. You would think he would be better acclimated to the heat or at least know enough not to wear that color shirt.
Rodrigo was a stickler for personal hygiene and taking pride in one’s appearance. He felt he had every right to judge people who did not meet his expectations.
This man definitely fell far short.
“I was asked to give you this.” He handed him a sealed manila envelope. “It must be very important.”
“You have something else for me.” Rodrigo held out his hand.
“Oh, yes.” He quickly handed him a set of keys. “Everything you requested is in the trunk of the vehicle.”
The sweaty man jogged around the front of the unremarkable, older model sedan and opened the driver’s door.
“My cell phone number is on a business card in the envelope.” He tugged a handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbed it over his forehead and across his mouth, then shoved it back in his pocket. “If you need anything during your trip, please feel free contact me.”
He extended his hand—the same hand that had been handling the now sweat-laden handkerchief.
Rodrigo glanced down at it and, making no effort to hide his disgust, looked back up at the man. Without a word, he reached over and set his bag on the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, and shut the door.
The guy’s hand dropped to his side, and he backed up into the shade.
Rodrigo jammed the key into the ignition and turned it to start the engine.
He clicked on the air-conditioning and adjusted his seat and the mirrors.
As the car cooled down, he checked the glove box for the necessary vehicle documentation.
He did not want to draw any unwanted attention, should he happen to be pulled over during his time in America.
He opened the envelope and dumped a new burner phone out onto the passenger seat.
A fake Texas driver’s license and credit card with the same name as the one on his fake passport, as well as a business card, fell out on top of the phone.
He slid the ID and credit card into his wallet and ignored the business card.
As he’d said during their earlier phone call, his contact had satisfied all of his instructions.
Rodrigo pulled a sanitary wipe from his bag and wiped down the phone. He grabbed a second one to wipe down his hands.
There should only be three numbers programmed into the phone—Tamarin Rios, Augustin Martín, and the Border Patrol agent Raphael Serrano. He hadn’t bothered with Jaime Ortega’s number—the man was a simpleton.
He input the number he’d committed to memory. He waited through three rings before the man answered.
“Yes?”
“I am preparing to leave the airport,” Rodrigo said. “I trust things have been arranged?”
“Yes, they have,” he said.
Rodrigo hung up and tuned the radio until he found a classic rock station.
While attending school in Philadelphia, he’d gained an appreciation for groups like the Eagles, Aerosmith, and Led Zeppelin.
He’d also fallen in love with the changing seasons.
But that had been a temporary indulgence, as his goal had always been to return to Colombia to work by his father’s side, growing the business while doing everything he could to keep his brother from destroying it.
Rodrigo input his destination into the phone’s GPS, tapped “START,” and pulled away from the hangar.
He merged onto Highway 10, checked his side mirror, and moved into the left lane.
His lips curled in disgust as he gazed out across the dull brown lifeless terrain, at the cliffs and rock formations in the distance.
He already longed for the lush greenery near his home in Colombia.
He relaxed into his seat for the fifty-mile trip to the border crossing where Serrano worked. With today being Friday, it was critical he be there before Serrano’s shift ended at five thirty, or else he would be forced to wait until he returned to work on Monday.
He hummed along to the song “Hotel California” as the airport and all signs of civilization slowly disappeared behind him.