The Territory (Josie Gray Mysteries #1)(61)

*

Hack Bloster received the cell phone call from underneath his pickup truck, where he was draining oil into a metal bucket. He continued unscrewing the bolt on the oil pan and fished his phone out from his shirt pocket with his free hand. The male voice on the other line said nothing more than, “Landline in ten minutes.” Bloster flipped the phone shut and laid his head back on the concrete floor. It was the code phrase. It was the Medranos, and they wanted to deal. He had hoped the phone calls would end after Red’s death.

He watched the black oil flow and remembered being stretched out with his dad under his first car. He wondered how his life had spun so far out of control. Five years ago, he had been a man with a clear sense of right and wrong: someone who acted morally, regardless the consequences. He had been proud to wear the badge, but he never allowed a rule book or code to keep him from doing the right thing. It was why he had joined the Gunners. Rules and laws were not keeping the border safe. Guns and people would see to that. He had personally vowed it.

Then Red came to him with a business proposition. He had a contact, a broker, who needed someone on the border to make a quick exchange of guns for money. Red started out as the mule, moving the guns from a contact in New Orleans to an unnamed runner from Mexico who met him once every two weeks to receive a shipment. Eventually, Red figured out what the New Orleans dealer was selling, and figured out he could buy off the Internet and sell even cheaper, so Red broke from the supplier to start his own business. It was at this point that Red involved Bloster. Red needed someone to help him buy the weapons; he didn’t have enough experience and knowledge about the computer and Internet sales and auctions to get the best deals. Bloster had developed the Web site for the Gunners. He was a natural partner.

The profit was more than Hack had ever dreamed he was capable of making, and in the beginning, the end user was nameless. He hadn’t even known Red was working with the Mexicans at first. By the time Bloster discovered how involved Red was with Medrano, it was too late to pull out. He was a partner, a very well paid one. But it didn’t mean that he supported the idea that the Gunners were now in partnership with a cartel. He had never intended for Medrano to have any association with Artemis. The cartel had been looking for a safe route into the country, and Red had provided it right through his front yard.

Bloster wiped his hands on a shop rag and answered the secure phone on his kitchen counter. Bloster knew how easy it was to trace cell phone calls, so he talked business only on a landline. His mouth was so dry, he could barely speak.

“We got business, Mr. Bloster. You ready to do some business?”

His hands grew sweaty. “I don’t owe you anything. We got all deals squared up. You got your last shipment and we’re done.”

The man laughed. “You telling me we’re done? You think it works like that?”

“Red’s dead.”

“So what? No, we’re not done until I say so. Understood?”

Bloster stared at the .38 on the kitchen table and considered putting it to his temple. There would be no doubt in the bastard’s head that it was over then. No chance his mother and sister would be impacted by the evil that surrounded him on all sides. Bullet to the head. Just like Red.

“Fifty thousand dollars per man, Mr. Bloster. Four prisoners? Two hundred thousand dollars. You release them, stage a breakout, lose the key, I could not care less. Tonight, before midnight. No later. I won’t discuss consequences, but they won’t be good if the job isn’t done.”

Bloster felt the acid in his stomach rising to his throat. “The jail is too secure.”

“Figure it out. A white nine-passenger van will be located behind the jail by eight o’clock this evening. A driver will be in the back. It’s already received clearance from the jail. You get the prisoners to that van by midnight tonight, and you’re a wealthy man.”

*

Gutiérrez was escorted back to his cell by a sheriff’s deputy. Otto, Josie, and Escobedo remained in the conference room.

After the door shut, Josie leaned against the wall, bent over at the waist, and stretched her fingers toward the floor. Her back cracked and the relief was instant. She stood and unhooked her five-pound gun belt, then laid it on the table, her attention on Escobedo.

“I don’t feel good about this,” she said. “We’re setting up a sting in the sheriff’s jail without informing him. He’ll be furious, and I don’t blame him.”

“You don’t worry about Martínez,” Escobedo said. “This isn’t about a courtesy call; it’s about saving lives. I’ve got two case agents on their way. From here out, I take over. It’ll keep you out of hot water with the locals.”

Josie narrowed her eyes at Escobedo, annoyed at his condescension. “You know me better than that. I didn’t call you to get cut out of the investigation. I don’t make decisions based on how much hot water I might get in. I’ve worked hard to see Hack Bloster in handcuffs.”

“This is a federal investigation. I’m looking at a law officer who sold guns illegally across a national border. He’s in serious trouble, and I suspect your mayor is culpable as well. You have too much on the line to let emotion get involved.”

Josie’s face flushed. She knew she could be called a lot of things; emotional was not usually one of them.

“I’m not asking to be there when you take him in, but I’ve got knowledge of this jail, of operating procedures.”