Chapter Nine #2
“No.” She shook her head hard enough to make her hair fly. “Not for me. I’m not worth it.”
His eyes narrowed, searching hers.
Looking for a truth she didn’t dare give him.
Finally, he spoke. “The guy with the mustache knew my father. He might have a connection to my mother.” His voice roughened. “Lock your door.”
He turned to leave—then paused. “And for what it’s worth, you are worth it.”
Warmth bloomed in her chest.
“Caleb,” she blurted, halting his exit. “Be careful.”
She shouldn’t worry about him. He’d proven he was more than capable of handling himself.
Still…the thought of something happening to him.
His eyes thawed, just a little. “I’ll be fine.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Closing her eyes, she pressed trembling fingers to her lips, where his kiss from earlier still lingered.
He was hunting for the men who had come for her.
What would he learn if he found them?
After he left Gia’s, Caleb called Nathan.
“How fast can you locate the clubhouse for the Aztec Kings, a motorcycle gang based in Gallup?”
“Locate it?” Nathan asked. “About two minutes. Identify the security setup and its strengths and weaknesses should you decide to pay a visit that wouldn’t be welcomed, about thirty to forty-five minutes or more, depending upon how good of a setup they have.”
“I just need the address. This is a reconnaissance mission.”
“What’s going on, amigo? First you ask me to dig up information on a woman and her ex. Now you want to spy on a motorcycle gang? I thought you were in Arizona to bury your mom?”
“That’s done. But there’s someone I need to talk to about my mother’s death, and he’s in town visiting the Aztec Kings.”
“Don’t do anything stupid where we have to come haul your ass out of trouble,” Nathan growled.
Caleb’s dark mood lightened a shade. “You know you’d have fun doing it.”
Nathan chuckled. “Yeah, I would, but I’m getting married soon, and you’ve met Emily. If I get shot again she’ll finish the job.”
Now it was Caleb’s turn to laugh because yeah, he did know Emily, and he wouldn’t cross that feisty blonde daughter of a Navy SEAL admiral, either. “How are the final wedding preparations going?”
“I am keeping my head down and mouth shut other than to say yes, dear. ”
“Smart man. Text me as soon as you have the address.” Caleb hung up.
Ten minutes later, Nathan had sent him the location—an address, a satellite photo of the area, and a message:
Friendly group of guys. They make the Hells Angels look like a knitting club. Unconfirmed rumor, a Mexican gang’s been sniffing around, looking to become a player in the US drug pipeline—Los Coyotes.
Don’t get caught in a turf war.
Caleb drove to the location and staked out the clubhouse from a distance through binoculars.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Bingo.
Manuel Ortega and his young sidekick slipped out and drove off in a battered Ford sedan—burgundy, with enough dings and scratches to be forgettable.
If the Kings had police informants, they’d already dumped the black Explorer at a chop shop.
Oblivious to their tail, they drove to a budget motel, entered one of the rooms, and left ten minutes later.
Caleb parked his Jeep behind a fast-food taco restaurant across the street, tucked deep in the shadows.
He pulled the hood of a plain gray sweatshirt over his head, waited for a break in traffic, and dodged across the road.
Everything he’d learned as a Green Beret and as an executive protection specialist screamed to call Zach. Sit tight. Let the authorities handle Ortega.
He knew better than to do what he was about to do .
And he didn’t care.
Every second wasted meant another trail gone cold.
Another mother buried. Another son left with nothing but grief and regret.
His gut told him Ortega knew about the fentanyl that had killed his mother—maybe he’d even been the one to hand it over.
If the police grabbed him, he’d clam up, lawyer up.
Or Espina Negra would silence him.
Strike first, strike fast, no mercy.
Caleb needed answers.
About his mother. About Vincente Garcia.
And Gia.
A healthy dose of fear might loosen Ortega’s tongue.
The motel was a two-story L-shaped structure that looked every bit as low rent as its thirty-five-dollar a night rate suggested. Room 102 was tucked at the far end of the building furthest from the lobby.
Keeping to the shadows, Caleb jogged to the far corner, avoiding the harsh light thrown off by the cheap security lamps.
At the door, he knocked. “Maintenance.”
Silence.
He knocked again, then picked the outdated deadbolt with practiced ease.
Unholstering his Glock, he twisted the knob, and used his foot to push open the door, then swept the room.
So far, his only adversaries were two queen beds that looked like someone barfed Kool-Aid on them. A battered heating unit wheezed musty air.
He riffled through two black backpacks on the particle board desk.
Clothes, toiletries. No IDs.
Nothing useful .
Dragging the lone chair to the opposite corner, he sat and waited.
Forty-five minutes later, two male voices drifted through the air.
Coming closer. Joking in Spanish. A few beers in from the sound of it.
He got one piece of intel out of the exchange as they argued about who had the key—the kid’s name was Emilio.
Caleb rose silently and positioned himself behind the door.
Emilio sauntered in, Ortega a step behind.
Caleb’s arm clamped around the kid’s neck, ignoring the stab of pain from the wound on his shoulder. He pressed his Glock to Emilio’s temple and kicked the door shut.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
Ortega’s hand twitched against his thigh.
“You’ll be dead before you clear your weapon,” Caleb warned.
The older man’s hand fisted.
“You should have left town, pendejo ,” Ortega spat. “Kept your nose outta someone else’s business.”
“Nosy’s my middle name.” Caleb gestured with his chin. “Sit on the bed. Hands in the air.”
He kicked the back of Emilio’s knee, sending him to the stained carpet with a grunt, then disarmed the kid.
“Up. Slow and easy. Go join your friend—hands where I can see them if you don’t want a bullet in your head.”
Caleb let the cold ruthlessness he’d honed as a Green Beret show on his face as he faced Ortega. “Been renewing old acquaintances in Gallup? On behalf of Espina Negra?”
Surprise flickered in Ortega’s eyes before he masked it with a sneer. “What fucking business is it of yours?”
Caleb gave a nonchalant shrug. “I heard Espina Negra’s peddling fentanyl through the Aztec Kings. And you’re the middleman. ”
Ortega barked out a humorless laugh. “What, you looking to sample the goods? Smoke a blue?”
Rage detonated in Caleb’s chest.
Before Ortega finished the insult, Caleb pistol-whipped Emilio across the temple and shoved the barrel of his gun hard against Ortega’s skull.
“Someone important to me is dead because of that new shit.” He grabbed Ortega’s chin. Twisted the man’s head so their eyes met. “My old man was a Halcón for Espina Negra. Bastard’s dead, so it wasn’t him. But whoever it was…”
His voice dropped to a deadly growl. “I’m going to end them.”
He cocked his head, narrowed his gaze. “Maybe it was you. You look familiar.”
Recognition widened Ortega’s eyes. “Varella. You’re his brat.”
Caleb tightened his grip on Ortega’s face. He’d been right about the connection to his father.
“Did you give my mother those pills?”
The question came out in a guttural snarl, fueled by rage and grief. The urge to put a bullet through Ortega’s brain was so strong he had to move his finger off the trigger.
Ortega tried to shake his head, but Caleb hadn’t loosened his grip.
“No man. I swear—I don’t know nothing about your mother!”
Liar .
The scent of Ortega’s fear was a sickly sweet perfume.
Caleb leaned closer, whispered into the man’s ear.
“You two are expendable.”
He let the words sit with Ortega and his sidekick for a moment.
“And when the boss finds out the Aztec Kings are looking to cut a side deal with another cartel…”
He tsked softly .
“I bet that won’t sit too well with El Víbora .”
Sweat beaded on Ortega’s forehead. His gaze darted from the Glock to Caleb’s face.
“You’re lying,” he wheezed. “The Kings are solid.”
One motto of the Green Beret was “Improvise, Adapt, and Overcome.” And Caleb had just thought of a way to throw Espina Negra into disarray.
He eased back, arching a brow in cold amusement.
“Am I? I hear one of the Mexican motorcycle gangs is looking to push north, into Arizona and New Mexico. They’ll need local partners. Who better to connect with than the Aztec Kings?”
Fear flared in Emilio’s eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing on a swallow.
Ortega’s fists clenched helplessly.
“If I’m right,” Caleb continued, “ El Víbora ’s going to blame someone—might as well be you.”
Time to twist the knife.
“Look at you, old man,” he sneered. “All these years with Espina Negra and you’re still an errand boy. “Once Lopez guts you, he’ll go after the Aztec Kings. No one double crosses Espina Negra and lives to tell about it.”
He slid one foot back.
Then another, keeping his gun trained on the men.
Before he left, he delivered one final promise.
“And tell that prick in Miami, Vincente Garcia, that the woman is under my protection. He sends anyone after her again…”
Caleb let a feral grin curl his lips.
“…he’ll answer to me. This is desert country, where the wind and the sand steal your screams—and secrets stay buried forever.”
Palming the doorknob, he slipped into the night.