“Look, I don’t know who you are, but you guys saved my life. I’ll pay you for that.”
Torres shook his head. “You’re full of shit.”
A couple of blocks over, a police siren resounded. Ah, the local guys Moore’s pal back at Langley had called in, but neither Torres nor his cronies reacted to the sound.
“I’m sorry you don’t believe me. Maybe I can talk to somebody else?”
Torres swore under his breath. “Take this prick inside.”
Moore was ushered into a second-story office over the club’s dance floor, and he sat there in a metal folding chair, frowning at the 1970s brown paneling on the walls and the heavy steel desk positioned near the window. A bookshelf behind the desk buckled from the weight of dozens of binders, and harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The only thing modern about the room was the iPad glowing on the desk. Fitzpatrick, two other thugs, and Torres remained in the room, and Torres lowered himself into the desk chair like an old walrus testing the water before sliding into the surf. In his case, the fat man was making sure said chair did not collapse under his imposing girth.
“What are we doing now?” Moore asked, drawing the grin of every man in the room.
“Listen, motherfucker, you start talking, otherwise,
Moore swallowed and nodded.
Torres folded his arms over his chest. “Are you working with the Federal Police?”
“No.”
“Local?”
“No.”
“Then why the hell are you poking around those old properties?”
“I was hoping to meet the owner. So you sent that guy to kidnap me?”
“Yeah, I did,” said Torres. “Talk about a botched job.”
“Not really. I still wound up here,” said Moore.
“Who are you?”
“All right. Here’s the deal. I’m someone who can help your boss. I need to sit down and talk with him, mano a mano.”
Torres chuckled under his breath. “Not in your lifetime.”
“Luis, listen to me very carefully.”
His gaze tightened. “How do you know my name?”
“We know a lot more than that, but I’ll cut to the chase. I work for a group of international investors. We’re based in Pakistan, and we were doing some very lucrative opium business with the Juarez Cartel until we were screwed over. My employers want the Juarez Cartel out of business. Period.”
“So why do we care?”
“Because I’ve been sent here to assassinate the leaders of that cartel. And you’re going to help me.”
Torres cracked a huge grin and addressed the others in Spanish: “Do you hear what this gringo is saying? Do you believe it?”
“They should believe it. Give me my phone. I’ll show you some pictures.”
Torres turned to Fitzpatrick, who’d been the one to confiscate Moore’s smartphone. He tossed it to Moore, and Torres leaned in toward him.
“If you make a call or send out some warning,” Torres began, “we’ll shoot you now.”
“You don’t want to kill me. I’m going to be your new best buddy.” Moore thumbed through screens on the phone and arrived at his photo gallery. He scrolled to a pic of Dante Corrales. “Is this one of the fuckers you want dead?”
“Corrales …” Torres breathed.
“I need to talk to your boss. I’ll pay fifty grand for the opportunity.”
“Fifty grand?” Torres was taken aback. “You’re not here alone, are you?”
Moore almost looked in Fitzpatrick’s direction. Almost. “We don’t care about you guys. We might even strike up a new deal with you. But first, it’s
Torres leaned back, the desk chair creaking loudly. And then, after a tremendous breath, he began to nod. “Where do you have the money? At the hotel?”
“Electronic transfer.”
“I’m sorry, gringo. Cash only.”
“I understand. I’ll get you the cash. You get me the meeting with your boss. And you’re right. I’m not here alone.”
17 SOME HAVE MONEY AND GUNS
Jorge Rojas stared absently through the oval-shaped window and sighed. They were at 41,000 feet now and his Boeing 777’s Rolls-Royce Trent 800 engines had been reduced to a purr by the well-insulated cabin. That was quite remarkable, since the 777 had the largest-diameter turbofan engines of any aircraft — and it should have big engines, he mused, given its cost. He had spent nearly $300 million on this VIP airliner, the world’s largest twin jet and often referred to as the “triple seven.” He could fly nearly halfway around the world before they had to land for refueling. If he was in a hurry, his pilot and copilot, veteran and distinguished officers of the Mexican Air Force, could get him there at.89 mach. The jet, like his many homes, was a testament to his success and a magnificent retreat. He’d taken delivery of the plane and had it flown from the Boeing plant in Seattle to the Lufthansa base in Hamburg, where it was furnished with an entirely customized cabin that followed his very specific and ambitious requests. While he could fly up to fifty passengers in a first-class seating area, most of the plane had been converted into his airborne home and office, complete with a master bedroom suite trimmed in knotty, warm tones of black-ash burl. The travertine-stone bathroom had a six-head shower and sauna for up to four, along with a jet tub. The adjoining office had been furnished with antique French pieces secured to the floor. Even his bookcases had little racks that protected the volumes from sliding off. While the furniture was old, the technology was state- of-the-art: printers, scanners, computers, Wi-Fi networks, webcams, and anything else his onboard information- technology expert thought he needed. Opposite his desk was a conference table with a flat-screen television and computer display projector, along with posh, heavily padded leather seats that his guests repeatedly sighed into and admired. Outside the office was a media room with yet another widescreen television and full-size sofas and recliners, along with a full-size wet bar manned by Hans DeVaughn, a World Class — winning international bartending champion that Rojas had recruited while in Spain. The World Class competition was recognized as the Oscars of the bartending industry, and Hans — with his knowledge, skill, and creative flair — had beaten more than six thousand bartenders from more than twenty-four different countries. In fact, all seven of Rojas’s attendants had been found during business trips to Europe, and they had their own modest-sized but functional quarters that included a shower and train-style bunks for much longer trips. Finally, the private kitchen with convection oven and stove was a spectacular affair that his longtime chef J.C. had helped him design. The man had insisted on having all his accoutrements, no matter where they traveled. A few of Rojas’s very special VIPs liked to remark that were they aboard America’s Air Force One, they’d be “slumming it” when compared to Rojas’s flying palace. The King of Jordan had jokingly said he was disappointed that the jet lacked a private swimming pool.
“Don’t laugh,” said Rojas. “The Russians had saltwater pools on their Typhoon-class submarines. But rest assured, the next plane I buy will be bigger — and you will have your swimming pool!”
“No need for that. What you have already is simply spectacular.”
Rojas was indeed wrapped in a cocoon of expensive leather and wood accents polished to a remarkable
