Whitewater (Rachel Hatch #6)(66)

Hatch would not be there for any of that. She would part ways in Austin and set off to close a door that had been open for way too long. Its salty California breeze held answers to a question only one person could answer.

"Got a paper and pencil?" Hatch asked.

"Check the glove box. Should be a couple napkins and a pen if that works?"

Hatch spread the napkin on her thigh and uncapped the pen. Her letter began like this:

Have I ever told you the one about the seed and the boulder?





Forty-Four





The Very Thought of You by Nat King Cole played on the radio, just above the rattle of Ayala's yellow Nissan, as they watched the cafe from a block away. Ayala wore his favorite Hawaiian shirt for today's occasion. He'd retired it four months ago when a bullet tore through it. The yellow of the pineapples were a little darker on that side, but he figured, you can't appreciate the light without a little bit of the dark.

Other than the music and the air conditioning at full blast, neither men spoke as they watched the front of the cafe where Hector Fuentes was finishing up a midday meal.

In the months since Ernesto Cruz's death, Sanchez searched for a pattern in the cartel leader's itinerary that could be exploited as weakness. Everybody had them. And with the right set of eyes, anybody could find them. And he found it in the tip from a reliable informant who worked at the restaurant where Mr. Fuentes was now dining.

He told Sanchez that the restaurant was rented out whenever he came to eat there. No other customers were allowed in or out. He posted one guard by the door at all exits, and kept his personal bodyguard, Juan Carlos Moreno, with him at all times. He tightened his security ever since his son had tried to kill him, and public appearances had become almost non-existent. It was rumored that the psychological impact of his firstborn's attack and then subsequent death had unhinged the man. And with that, his power was starting to wane.

Sweat formed on Ayala's brow, coating him in a light sheen, as he waited patiently for Sanchez' thumb to move. It was resting just to the side of the red detonator switch in his hand. Sanchez had used his primary skillset from his time with the special forces. Demolition.

The long bike chain securing the rusted bike to the base of the tree trunk was actually a thick strand of det cord, shrouded in a plastic coating and shaped to look like a bike chain. It was connected to the bike, but only so the signal receiver, underneath the bike seat, could run the thin, black wire along the frame of the bike.

The luncheon lasted nearly an hour and a half. And even with the air conditioning running, both men were now soaked through with sweat, further darkening the stain on Ayala's Hawaiian shirt.

"I think I can see them moving around in there. Looks like the party's breaking up."

Ayala gnawed on the end of the unlit cigar in his mouth. The man at the door stepped forward, his head swiveling from left to right. He kept his gun hand close to the pistol underneath his sports coat. He looked back into the cafe and nodded. The doors opened a moment later.

Hector Fuentes exited with Juan Carlos Moreno close to his side, moving him towards the limousine that pulled up, like he was a dignitary under protection. Moreno shut the door on his boss and began to make his way around the back end of the vehicle to speak with the security man who had been posted at the door.

Sanchez moved his finger over the red plastic button. With no hesitation, he pressed it. Silence followed the click until a moment later, it was broken by the detonation.

White light exploded out in a concentric circle from the tree.

The driver and doorman were killed instantly. It took a second to find Moreno because the cartel head of security's body was scattered in several different places. It wasn't until Ayala saw Moreno's head impaled on a stop sign that he let out a breath.

A loud crack followed the initial explosion.

The blast had badly damaged the limo. But somehow, Hector Fuentes had survived.

Ayala watched him crawl away, badly injured, but alive. The cracking sounded again. It rumbled the ground and felt and sounded like an earthquake.

The explosion severed the massive tree. The cracking was the release of the thick trunk's resistance to the blast. It fell forward onto the fleeing Fuentes, who was incapable of escaping its path, and crushed him under its branches.

The cigar fell from his mouth as Ayala's jaw dropped wide. He thought of his good friend, Ernesto, and left the cigar where it lay. He looked on at the sight before him one more time before driving away in his patched-up Nissan.

He thought, how wonderful it would've been for Ernesto to see him prove to the devil himself, the seed is mightier than the boulder.





Forty-Five





On that day I was to kill your parents, fate put me in line with you. As you have rightly guessed at but never asked, I am not a tobacco farmer. I am a killer of men, women, and children. I know where my journey ends. I will be in good company as the fires of hell lick at my flesh. But rest assured, I do not fear this end or its consequence for the life I have led. I say this not out of a bout of boastful machismo, but for the simple reason that the path I walked led me to you. And for that, I would roast in a thousand hells if it meant I could do it again.

If you are reading this, then you know I am gone. Hopefully in the five years of life we have shared together you have felt in some small measure a fraction of the love and adoration I had for you.