The Reaper (The Phoenix Chronicles Book 2) Page 7

  Alex reached for Maria’s wrist and felt it for a pulse. “She’s dead.”

  Hawk cursed under his breath. Their best lead was dead in the backseat as they drew fire from snipers on the surrounding buildings.

  “Go, go, go!” Alex said. “We need to get out of here!”

  Bullets pinged off the hood and sides of the car. The back windshield spidered into hundreds of tiny glass pieces.

  He could smell the rubber burning outside as he sped back toward the embassy.

  CHAPTER 12

  Washington, D.C.

  MORGAN TUCKED A NAPKIN inside her blouse and stared at the plate of DCity Smokehouse ribs in front of her. She picked one up and licked her lips. Her uncle had claimed that DCity Smokehouse was his favorite barbecue restaurant—and he’d taken her there enough that she felt the same.

  California senator Clive Orson was seated across the table from her and chuckled. “I like a woman who isn’t afraid to eat with her hands.”

  “If I’m to believe the tabloids, I think you just like women who have hands,” she said before sucking the bone dry.

  Owens shrugged and smiled. “Who believes the tabloids anymore?”

  “I don’t,” Morgan said. “But they are entertaining, if nothing else.”

  “I’ll just say, don’t believe everything you read. And that goes for The New York Times, too.”

  She grabbed another rib and dipped it in some sauce. “Unless I’m the one who fed them the story.”

  “I guess they’re still good for something,” Orson said before he took a bite out of his sandwich.

  “The list of things they’re good for is dwindling by the day, but I’m not above using them to sway public opinion when necessary.”

  “Your uncle was the master at that.”

  Morgan smiled. “If there were two things he knew in this city, it was where to get good barbecue and how to convince journalists to plant stories.”

  “Speaking of stories,” Orson said between bites, “what is it that you were so desperate to meet with me about?”

  “I wanted to pick your brain about The Alliance.”

  Orson sighed and shook his head. “Come on, Morgan. That is some fanciful boogeyman dreams.”

  She scowled. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss it.”

  “I’m the head of the Senate Intelligence Committee, for goodness sake. If there was something to be aware of it, I’d know it. And I can tell you that there isn’t.”

  “Based on whose word? The New York Times?”

  Orson put his rib down and eyed her carefully. “The Alliance is a figment of someone’s imagination. It’s just another way to accuse the deep state of being involved without any proof.”

  She took a long sip of her iced tea. “What if I told you that we have proof?”

  “I’d say you were lying. Because if you did have proof, I would’ve seen it by now.”

  “You think just because you’re on that committee that you see everything there is to see?”

  “My security clearance is as high as it gets,” Orson said. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because your security clearance doesn’t cover everything. They just want you to think it does.”

  Orson licked his fingers and eyed her cautiously. “What are you trying to say, Morgan?”

  “I’m saying that there’s more than what you’re being led to believe.”

  He huffed a laugh through his nose. “This is Washington. That’s to be expected.”

  “But it’s worse this time,” she said. “There’s a group organized enough to subvert what our country is trying to do as it pertains to the safety of our citizens. If that isn’t sounding alarm bells for you, I don’t know what will.”

  “For a moment, let’s just say you’re right. How can I help?”

  Morgan studied her rib for a few seconds before responding. “I want you to use your weight as someone on the intelligence committee to put pressure on the people trying to keep this from coming to light.”

  “And what happens when they do what they always do—refute, deny, redirect? Then what?”

  “You find out their pressure points, and then you push harder.”

  Orson took a long pull from his glass of water. “If what you’re saying is true, I’m not sure any amount of political pressure is going to help me uncover the truth. These people—if they exist—have already proven they’re able and willing to kill to protect their secret. And, of course, that’s only if everything you’re suggesting is true.”

  “Stop placing caveats on my statement,” Morgan said. “I know The Alliance is real. But I can’t fight them on my own. I need allies who are serious about bringing them to justice, if only for the good of the country. I just need to know you’re with me and willing to go the distance on this issue.”

  Orson stroked his chin as he stared off in the distance before returning his gaze to Morgan. “If you can prove to me that your intel is legit and that this group actually exists, I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “That’s all I wanted to hear,” Morgan said before polishing off the last rib left on her plate.

  “Just be careful that you don’t turn out like your uncle,” Orson said. “Senator Blunt chased down every little possible conspiracy and wasted a lot of time doing so.”

  “He also saved a lot of lives, both here and abroad,” she said. “And if I waste some time chasing down these theories that turn out to be false but find one that’s right and save thousands of lives, what I’m doing is worth it.”

  She stood up and finished wiping her fingers with her napkin. “Thanks for lunch, Senator Orson. I’ll be in touch.”

  Morgan turned and walked out.

  A smile crept across her lips.

  CHAPTER 13

  Bogotá, Colombia

  HAWK PULLED INTO the U.S. embassy parking lot before calling the Bogotá police. He sat on the curb and waited for a homicide detective to show up. Alex volunteered to go inside and deliver the news to Ambassador Brownfield. When she returned a few minutes later, Hawk hadn’t moved.

  “How’d he take it?” Hawk asked.

  “As expected,” she said. “He showed no emotion. Maria, Diana, whatever her name was—she didn’t mean anything to him. And now he’s going to get off scot free for his crimes.”

  Hawk drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “If he’s lucky. But if not, President Miller will make sure he pays for his sins—and I’m not talking about the marital ones.”

  “He’ll have to do it discreetly. If anything about this case becomes public, the media will be all over it. Reporters will try to use this to discredit the president.”

  “The key word there is try. I think there’s plenty of evidence we can use to turn around a potential hit job into a condemning story about a rogue ambassador.”

  Alex crossed her arms as the wind gusted. “It’d have to be creative messaging.”

  “I’m sure Morgan can help with that.”

  A dark sedan roared up to their spot, the red light flashing on the dashboard.

  “We’ll have to worry about that another day,” Hawk said. “Looks like the cavalry is already here.”

  Hawk stood and put his hands on his hips as a slender man with a tightly-cropped mustache climbed out of the sedan. He rolled up the sleeves of his white oxford shirt as he approached.

  “Are you from the Bogotá Police Department?” Hawk asked.

  The man nodded and offered his hand. “Marcos Díaz, at your service. And you are?”

  “Brady Hawk. And this is my colleague, Alex.”

  Díaz took Alex’s hand and kissed the top of it. “You Americans excel at exporting beauty.”

  “Just so you don’t overstep your jurisdiction here,” Hawk said, “my colleague here is also my wife.”

  “Perdón,” Díaz said. “I didn’t intend to offend anyone.”

  “None taken,” Alex said. “But we sure could use your help with this one.”

  She nodded toward
the car. Diana Lorado, the woman’s birth name, was slumped over on the backseat, blood still pooling around her.

  Díaz grunted as he opened the door and looked at the body. “I hate the cartel. One day, they will catch me, but I swear I will never stop hunting these bastards. They’re pure evil.”

  “Seen a few grizzly murders in your day?” Hawk asked.

  Díaz nodded. “It started with my wife and kids after my first investigation into the Cordello cartel. I arrested Mr. Cordello’s son, which he didn’t appreciate. He bought off the judge and the jury, earning freedom for him. But that wasn’t enough for Mr. Cordello. No, he had to take away my family as retribution.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Alex said.

  “A nice day at the park ended with my pregnant wife and our four-year-old son getting gunned down in front of me,” Díaz continued. “I held her as she breathed her last. My son looked up at me and smiled and said he’d see in me heaven. If my son hadn’t said that to me, I’m sure I would’ve shot Mr. Cordello in public by now.”

  “So, this looks like the work of the cartel to you?” Hawk asked.

  Díaz leaned over the body and inspected the wounds as well as the bullet holes. “Was this from a long-range sniper?”

  “As far as we know,” Alex said. “We never saw anyone and the shooting stopped when we rounded the corner.”

  Díaz drew back from the vehicle and jotted down some notes on a pad he’d pulled from his back pocket. “Was this Vargas?”

  Hawk nodded.

  “Then someone tipped them off that you were suspicious of her,” Díaz said.

  “That confirms her guilt then,” Alex said.

  “Not necessarily. The cartels are very well connected to local embassies. They also are very well adept in the art of distraction. They will send you chasing—how do you say it in English? Wild geese?”

  “A wild goose chase,” Hawk said.

  “Exactly. That’s what they’ll do to you. But that’s not to say that she isn’t complicit in the crime. We just don’t know how. But we’re going to find out.”

  Hawk filled in Díaz as much as possible about what they were investigating. Hawk danced delicately around the fact that Ambassador Brownfield was in a relationship with Maria Sanchez, omitting the fact that she was an American citizen and her real identity was Diana Lorado.

  Díaz’s cell phone rang. He paced near the car while he talked.

  “What do you think?” Hawk asked Alex.

  “Seems like we’ve got the right man for the job.”

  “But we need to move quickly. This is already blowing up on us. If we don’t figure out the connection between her and those dead DEA agents, we’re going home with nothing.”

  Díaz returned to the conversation. “There’s a forensics team on the way over now. Hopefully, they’ll be able to tell us more about the method, which might tip us off as to who was behind this.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind,” Hawk said. “Vargas was behind this.”

  “And what kind of information were you looking to get from Miss Sanchez?” Díaz asked.

  “We needed some kind of connection between her and whoever was killing those agents,” Alex said. “Their identities were well hidden, but we believe Miss Sanchez had an opportunity and a motive for passing along those names to hitmen.”

  Díaz lifted a cigarette from the pack in his hand and flicked his lighter. The tobacco crackled as he took his initial long drag. “What kind of opportunity would she have to obtain this information?”

  Alex looked at Hawk, who nodded subtly. “She was having an affair with the U.S. ambassador.”

  “Scandalous,” Díaz said with a wry grin. “You Americans and your obsession with politicians’ affairs. It’s expected in Colombia and everywhere else in South America. Here, if you’re not having an affair, people start to wonder about you.”

  Hawk stood and walked over to the car to get a look at Sanchez one final time. Her silver cigarette case had slid out of its hiding spot. He studied it curiously for a moment.

  “Do you have a pair of gloves in your car, Detective Díaz?”

  “Please, call me Marcos,” Díaz said. “And I believe I do.”

  As he returned to his vehicle, Alex got up and sidled next to Hawk.

  “What do you see?” she asked.

  “Do you remember her smoking?” he asked.

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “The cigarettes weren’t very long,” Hawk said. “But this case looks like it’s made for much longer cigarettes.”

  “And?”

  “Well, if you were going to hide something, sometimes the best place is right in front of your face.”

  “You think she felt like she had to hide something?” Alex asked.

  “She certainly wasn’t being forthright with us—and I doubt she trusted Vargas either.”

  Alex nodded. “And Vargas felt likewise, obviously.”

  “Here you go, amígo,” Díaz said as he handed a pair of latex gloves to Hawk.

  He put them on and then went straight for the cigarette case.

  “If you wanted a smoke, I have plenty,” Díaz said.

  Hawk held up the case to Díaz. “Does this look rather large for a cigarette case?”

  Díaz shrugged. “It might be on the larger side. What of it?”

  Hawk turned over the case and studied the bottom. He pushed and pulled on it for a few seconds before it clicked. A portion underneath slid out, revealing a small compartment. Inside, he found a key.

  “Where do you think this goes to?” Hawk asked.

  Díaz smiled. “I know where that key goes all too well. It’s for a locker at the Bogotá La Sabana train station. I used to shine shoes there as a kid. The superintendent gave me a locker so I could keep my supplies there without having to take them home and getting robbed every night. What do you think you’ll find?”

  Hawk shrugged. “Answers, I hope.”

  They waited until the coroner arrived before leaving. Díaz volunteered to drive since he knew the fastest route.

  As they drove along, Díaz gave Hawk and Alex a history lesson on the city as well as the country’s top export next to oil—illegal drugs.

  “We’re only five minutes away,” Díaz said. “Sit tight.”

  As soon as the words came out of his mouth, a van pulled up next to them. The door slid open and Díaz immediately noticed the gun barrel sticking out. He swerved toward the shoulder and slammed on brakes. Several shots hit Díaz’s car.

  When he came to a stop, everyone was eyeing the vehicle speeding away.

  “What are you guys into?” Díaz said. “How do you say it in English? You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest?”

  Hawk watched the van disappear around the corner. “It certainly appears that way.”

  Díaz winced in pain and grabbed his shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” Alex asked.

  Díaz shook his head. “I’ve been hit.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Eastern Oregon

  REAPER LOOKED IN HIS rearview mirror as he hummed south along Highway 95 through Eastern Oregon. It was only out of habit that he checked. The scenery hadn’t changed in an hour and the horizon gave no indication things would be different any time soon. Treeless plains dotted by sagebrush with mountains in the far distance on both sides of the road marked a drive that he thought should’ve been a cure for insomnia.

  But Reaper stayed awake by keeping his mind active, thinking about Charlie—and how to catch Travis Taylor. However, Reaper dwelled more on his son, considering how he might get involved in the boy’s life. So much time had passed, but Reaper didn’t need to let more go by if he could help it. Then he formulated a plan on what he’d do after finishing his latest job.

  This is my last assignment.

  Reaper had plenty of money socked away, some of it stashed in offshore accounts so Kayla—or the IRS—wouldn’t find out about it. He could buy a small home across town, find
some honest work, maybe a repairman of some type. If he could do something with his hands aside from killing people, it’d be fine. He could have a normal life, maybe even a decent relationship with Charlie before it was too late. Of course Reaper would have to deal with Kayla more, but it’d be worth the price to watch his son grow up. With that settled, he mulled over how he’d finish off Travis Taylor.

  In this kind of terrain, Reaper figured he didn’t need to do much. A cowboy out on the open plain couldn’t survive long without medical help. Then nature would finish him off and destroy the evidence by the time someone found his body. It’d be a fitting end for a traitor.

  A half-hour later, Reaper turned off Highway 95 and onto Sheepshead Ranch Road. His truck tires thumped as he drove over the cattle guard. Snow remained prevalent on the mountaintops but patchy in the valley. He glanced in his rearview mirror again. Nothing but a contrail of thick dust.

  So much for a discreet entry.

  The road stretched for a couple of miles before reaching the Sheepshead Ranch headquarters. Aside from a small brick building, the compound was comprised of several aluminum structures that housed cattle, feed, and equipment. Reaper parked in front of the building and climbed out of his truck. Dust billowed up from around his boots the second his feet hit the ground. Reaper beat the dirt off the bottom of his jeans before striding toward the door.

  “From dust we came and to dust we shall return,” said an elderly gentleman seated just outside the door, his chair leaning back on two legs and resting against the wall.

  Reaper looked at the man, whose complexion and look appeared to be of Native American descent. “Is this what you do? Just sit out here and dish out sage advice to every stranger who approaches the door?”

  The old man chuckled and then leaned over to the side and spit a stream of tobacco onto the dirt. “Sage advice,” he said as he slapped his knee. “That’s a good one.”

  “If that’s not your end game, old timer, why’d you say that?”

  “I listen to the wind and repeat what it tells me.”

  Reaper stroked his chin and eyed the man cautiously. “Is that supposed to mean something?”