Smoke Signals (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 4) (17 page)

Damn U.S. Everybody had a fucking gun.

The tall guy stopped a few feet from Baker and said, “Federal officer. You’re under arrest. You and your friends.”

Trying to brazen things out, Baker said, “What’d we do wrong? Hell, we’re the victims here. Someone vandalized our truck.”

Rebecca stepped forward and asked, “Where are you from?”

“Ohio,” Baker said. He’d never been there but thought it sounded plausible.

Rebecca shook her head. “Bullshit. I know that accent. You’re from Alberta.”

Baker squinted at her, as if that would help him think better.

“So are you,” he said. “I still don’t know what my friends and I did wrong.”

John told him. “One of you killed a Mexican migrant named Gustavo Morales. We have several witnesses.”

Something in Baker’s eyes moved, but not as fast as Rebecca’s foot. She kicked Baker’s right knee. He fell almost as quickly as Dog had. Ernesto came up behind Baker, reached inside the collar of the mercenary’s jacket and pulled out a fighting knife.

“Very good reflexes,
señora,”
he told Rebecca. “Very good instincts.”

Rebecca glared down at Baker. “I’m RCMP, dummy. If the Americans don’t want to execute you or pay for your keep, you’ll be spending the rest of your life behind bars back home, I promise you that.”

Baker silently cursed himself for having allowed any witnesses to his crime to live.

Then again, it hadn’t been his decision, and maybe he had a bargaining chip.

He said to John, “You think I could get some consideration if I gave you a major drug dealer?”

John told him. “Sure, I’ll see you get dessert with your last meal.”

Baker told him where Mateo Trujillo was waiting anyway. If this prick wouldn’t cut him any slack maybe the prosecutor would. At least, he could hope he’d get to do his time back home. Canada didn’t have a death penalty.

From the attic window of a nearby house, Beebs called out, “All clear?”

John said, “Yes.”

Beebs replied. “Wait until you see the video footage I got. Can you say viral?”

Marlene had watched the encounter on the street from a darkened room on the first floor of the house from which Beebs had shot his video, with Freddie looking on. Everything went as well as she or anyone else could have hoped. In his typical fashion, Tall Wolf deflected credit from himself. He’d set up others to claim the major shares of praise. The Mexican fellow with the military background had organized the situation with beautiful simplicity. Immobilize one vehicle, incentivize the other, surround your targets with superior force.

Leave the bad guys with only one real chance to flee, and then attack once they made the inevitable choice.

Tall Wolf’s woman, Bramley, had carried out her role with brilliant efficiency. Two arrows, two men down. Marlene felt sure her other skills were also top-notch. Knowing that Bramley would spend much of her free time at her future husband’s side would have to enter into Marlene’s calculations for any plans she made for Tall Wolf.

In a way, though, having Bramley on hand would be a comfort. She would be a defense against random threats facing Tall Wolf. Bramley would help make sure Tall Wolf was alive and well when Marlene came for him in the end.

Tall Wolf had been joking when he said Marlene might not like the way he tasted when she finally got around to eating him. Tall Wolf’s real appeal for her, though, was that he made an interesting adversary and a useful tool to help advance her other plans.

She’d never really known anyone else like him.

He’d infuriated her for quite some time, but the passage of time had eased her past that.

The way things would end between them was never in doubt, as she saw it.

So there was no reason to hurry the outcome.

And if she didn’t like the way he tasted, she could add a little salt.

From the back of the house, where Julián Fortuna, Basilio Nuñez and the women from the camp had taken shelter, a female voice cried out,
“¡Detiene!”
Stop!

Pounding footsteps and the bang of a door being flung open argued that the command to halt, now being repeated more loudly and shrilly, had been ignored. Marlene smiled. In fact, she was counting on something like this happening.

The time had come for Coyote to go to work.

The FBI arrived while Ernesto Batista was applying field dressings, courtesy of the local, shuttered-for-the-season drug store, to Charlie and Dog, who like Baker had refused to yield their real names. By way of conversation with his
compañeros,
Ernesto had learned that Baker had been the one to shoot and kill Gustavo Morales. While not having pulled a trigger themselves, John suggested that Charlie and Dog might be in line for capital murder charges: causing the death of a person during the commission of a crime.

John mentioned that to Ernesto in the presence of the mercenaries.

By that point, all three mercs had decided that silence was their best bet.

Ernesto whispered to John that first aid might be rendered gently or painfully, if he wanted to get the three prisoners talking. John declined the opportunity of enhanced interrogation. It didn’t suit him, and he didn’t want Ernesto to complicate his own situation.

So the Mexican Marine applied the dressings briskly but not harshly.

He was working when the FBI arrived in force. Special Agent Mulgrew jumped out of the first of five black Chevy Suburbans. Nineteen of his closest colleagues, all armed and armored to the teeth, kept Mulgrew company, fanning out and looking for trouble. They didn’t find any but maintained an attitude of vigilance.

Stepping up to Tall Wolf, eyeing Ernesto still holding an AR-15, the special agent asked, “Everything good here?”

John sighed. “One innocent life lost. Otherwise, pretty good. Those three bozos sitting on the curb are some of the bad guys. The guy on the right pulled the trigger; the other two aided and abetted.”

Mulgrew summoned six of his people, two of whom were female, John was pleased to see, and ordered that Baker, Charlie and Dog be cuffed and put in the cage at the rear of vehicle number five. The federal minions were also instructed to notify the prisoners of their rights.

Once the mercenaries were taken away, Mulgrew asked John, “They’re not going to bleed all over my upholstery, are they?”

“No,
señor,”
Ernesto said. “They are bandaged properly and I do not think their wounds are life-threatening.”

Mulgrew looked at the Latino guy casually holding an assault rifle. Up to that point, he’d taken his cue from Director Tall Wolf that the man was one of the good guys. Now the special agent wanted to know, “Who are you?”

Ernesto came to attention and replied,
“
Sargento Ernesto Batista, Fuerza de Infantería de Marina.”

“You need any help with that, Special Agent?” John asked.

Mulgrew shook his head. “I worked in San Diego for six years. Nice to meet you, Sergeant. Would you mind handing over your weapon?”

After getting a nod from John, Ernesto complied.

Handing the weapon to a colleague, Mulgrew asked, “So almost everything is good here, after we drove hell bent for leather through a real fine imitation of a typhoon?”

John said, “Before they clammed up, one of those mopes your people took into custody said there’s a drug baron hiding in the woods nearby. He’s all yours, if you want him.”

“Yeah, I suppose I’d better justify the expense of this little joy-ride somehow. But I got word the Acting Secretary of the Interior and a billionaire named Freddie Strait Arrow are on hand. They’re all right?”

Before John could respond, a loud female voice filled with anxiety shouted,
“¡Detiene!”

All three men understood the command to halt.

Only Ernesto recognized Valeria’s voice.

He was out front as the forces of law and order converged on the nearby house.

Basilio Nuñez used the oldest gag in the book to escape: He had to go potty. Not just pee. He could have managed that with his hands tied in front of him, which they were. No, he said he had to make a little
mierda
. Shit.

That’s what he told Valeria.

She didn’t like the leering look in his eyes or the smirk on his lips when he told her. “You can watch me while I do my business,
señora
,
if you think I’m playing a trick. Also, see what you will be missing by not having the pleasure of my company in your bed.”

Valeria spat in Basilio’s face.

To her dismay, he only wiped it off and stared at her more offensively than ever.

“Such passion. It is
my
loss not to have you. Still …”

He passed gas, underscoring his need of the moment.

Even so, she was not going to touch him in any way. She ordered Julián to help his cousin.

He laughed and shook his head. “Wipe the shit from that
cabron’s
backside? You can shoot me first.” Ever the negotiator though, he added, “Put him in the water closet off the kitchen, the little room without a window. I can untie his hands and close the door.”

That was just what they did. Along the way, as the women in the house had no guns, Valeria picked up an eight-inch butcher’s knife from the kitchen. It had a fine edge, bringing a drop of blood as Valeria tested it with a thumb.

Valeria told Basilio through the door, “You have two minutes, and then I will come in and use this knife on any skin I see exposed.”

The
sicario
only laughed at the threat. He’d seen Valeria draw her own blood and it had excited him. “Two minutes,” she repeated.

She gave him five. He didn’t say a word. He made no sounds of defecation. Valeria began to worry. Ernesto had entrusted her with the job of keeping all the women safe inside the house. That and making sure neither Julián nor Basilio escaped. A verbal threat from Ernesto had been sufficient to make Julián promise to make no escape attempt. Basilio’s hands had been bound.

Had been.

Valeria had asked for a gun. Ernesto said for her own protection and that of the other women he could not do that. If the gun was taken from her, things would get very bad. The implicit idea that she would lose rather than use a gun had angered Valeria. She wished she’d had one that very moment. She would shoot right through the door. Hope to kill Basilio where he sat … if that was what he was doing.

She was tempted to run outside and call for Ernesto’s help.

Only what if that was when Basilio chose to make his escape?

None of the other women would be able to stop him.

Valeria pounded on the door. “Come out right now or I’ll cut off your
verga.”

Literally, stick. Colloquially, dick.

Basilio didn’t even laugh at the threat. He said nothing. Made not the slightest sound.

Madre de Dios,
Valeria thought. There was no way out of the room except through the door. Even if the turd had managed to flush himself down the toilet she would have heard something. Forcing herself to be strong, at least to the point that her teeth didn’t chatter, Valeria shoved the door open and jumped back.

The light in the water closet was out, but the illumination from the kitchen let Valeria see that the toilet was unoccupied. Her mouth fell open in stupefaction. Where could that bastard have … She stepped into the small room.

And Basilio fell on her from where he’d wedged himself against the ceiling.

He wrested the knife from her with one hand and locked his other arm around her throat, cutting off the chance for her to cry out. He whispered to her, his lips against her ear, “Clearly, you don’t watch the right movies,
señora.
I will be back someday and we will have a much longer and more intimate conversation.”

He ran the back of the hand holding the knife along her thigh, and then he was gone.

Valeria had to swallow hard twice before she could find her voice.

Then she cried out,
“¡Detiene!”

Marlene could have stopped Basilio before he got out the back door of the house, but that wasn’t her plan. She walked calmly past the women who were taking shelter in the wake of the
sicario’s
escape. Most of them probably thought she was going to lock the door through which Basilio had escaped, so he couldn’t get back in. Only Julián, in the kitchen, saw the look in her eyes and perceived that she had other intentions. He quickly figured out what they were: She was going hunting.

He told her,
“Buena suerte.”
Good luck.

She replied,
“Ninguno necesario.”
None necessary.

His nod to her prowess struck Marlene as both gallant and subservient.

Two qualities she appreciated in a man. She made a brief mental note to see what became of this young man. Possibly, she might exert some subtle influence over the justice system’s handling of the charges brought against him. Leniency might be available should she decide he might be useful to her.

The moment she was out the back door, Marlene raised her nose to the sky. She caught Basilio’s scent despite the rain. His fear and excitement hung rank in the air. He might as well have erected neon lights pointing out the direction of his flight. He was headed uphill into the forest. Marlene followed at an easy lope.

The
sicario
thought his best chance to make an escape was to avoid human contact, not let Tall Wolf, his woman or their ragtag militia catch him. Then Marlene noted other nearby scents. The FBI had arrived. Who else would have come in so many overpowered vehicles spewing exhaust? That and the scent of naked ambition to reach the heights of power in Washington.

Well, with her own goals, she couldn’t fault others for that.

Once Marlene reached the shelter of the trees, she let her shape shift. Her ears rose to points listening to a chorus of sounds most humans never heard. Her eyes enlarged, processing low levels of light in ways people needed night vision goggles to achieve. Her nose, though, became her most sensitive and wondrous guide. The range and note of scents would have overloaded the human mind. To her, on the other hand, the olfactory sense was the surest path to her prey.