Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)(6)
I make a mental note before asking, “Where was Miguel’s transport vehicle located?”
“Located thirty miles south of the city. They were bringing him to the FCI in Terre Haute, Indiana to await trial. All five guards were gunned down and Miguel was gone.” He pauses. “And Ryder, it’s a real stain on the department that it all went down here.”
“I get it, sir,” I say then ask, “What was Miguel doing in St. Paul?”
“Possibly making inroads through Canada while hiding from police. He got caught at a dive strip joint with a buddy of his from the Canadian border patrol.”
“Nice.”
“I could read a laundry list of dirty deeds Miguel perpetrated, with prior convictions from prostitution to drugs, but all of it was nickel and dime shit compared to being the primary suspect for the murder of Jameson—and now, tampering with a federal witness.”
When he throws that second piece of info at me, it’s like a scorpion is dropped in my pants. It stings fast, and I want to stamp it under my boot until I hear its body break and crack apart. “Did he kill him too?”
“Her,” D’Angelo corrects. “Twenty-two-year-old Rachel Farrington was a fellow student with Jameson at Tulane. She was the only eyewitness to the murder. During Miguel’s disappearing act, she went missing too. She’s presumed dead.”
“Went missing? Wasn’t she in protective custody?”
Nothing but silence from D’Angelo.
“Jesus Christ! Are you f*cking kidding me?”
“She was holed up with two officers in a hotel in Wichita. The officers were shot dead, and she’s missing.”
“Is she being considered a suspect?” I speculate. “Why didn’t he just off her too?”
“We don’t know yet. Investigators are searching to find out if she had any tie-ins to Jameson, but so far it seems like the two may not have even known one another—”
“And Miguel?” I interrupt.
D’Angelo sounds tired. “It’s highly doubtful she was in league with him. Reports say she was a real wreck after what she saw, and she was terrified of the shooter. After working with artists, she picked Miguel’s photo from the database. She nearly had a breakdown just looking at the picture.”
I search the net for photos and leads while I piece together possible scenarios. “He probably got what he wanted from Farrington then killed her before skipping south-of-the-border to his home base in Tamaulipas. Is he known to own any other property?”
“DEA suspects he has a safe house in Tijuana.”
“How about in the States?”
“They’re still linking other known aliases.”
“And they’re going to take a f*cking millennium,” I say, now sifting and combing through both Farrington’s and Jameson’s social media sites. “No offense—there are a lot of bad guys out there—I know workloads are heavy.”
“That’s where you come in.”
“Always is.”
“The DEA was in the middle of a wet dream over the charges they held over Miguel; his testimony against Cruz was solid. If we can find Miguel, we’ll have enough evidence to convict Cruz—and I don’t have to tell you that infiltration into that level of the Mexican Cartel is the modern day equivalent to crumbling Capone’s empire.”
“Not to mention putting away a drug trafficking murderer like Miguel himself,” I remind him. But I get it. The government’s obsession with cracking down on El Carnicero is nothing new—they’ve been after him for years. They thought Miguel’s eyewitness-murder fiasco would be the key to bringing the cartel king to his knees and putting an end to his virile command. He headed the export of billions of dollars in drugs, which flooded into the US each year. His cartel also brought everything from gang violence, not only in Mexico but north of the border too, to human trafficking, to murder-for-hire, kidnappings, prostitution and extortion.
“You do know, unless he’s a lot more important to Cruz than the feds suspect, Miguel is probably already dead,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. But Homeland Security isn’t taking any chances. They just put a seven-digit bounty on Miguel’s head,” D’Angelo responds, sweetening the pot
Chapter Two
Rachel
Adrenaline isn’t my ally.
I hear footsteps approach. Fight or flight kicks in full-throttle, and what are you going to do with that when you’re locked up like an animal?
Wrenching at the chain, involuntary whimpers escape my throat as I try to move my body to run, escape, fight, anything, but the steel links keep me steadfastly bound.
“Tranquila hermosa. No estas lastimado.—Quiet, beautiful. You are not harmed. The voice speaks soothingly before placing what feels like a plastic bottle to my lips. My first instinct is to back away, but as the cool water dribbles down my chin I’m struck by my voracious thirst.
I open my mouth like a greedy child and try guzzling the liquid until I choke—sputtering and drowning in my captor’s offering until he pulls it away.
“Cálmate. Cálmate.”
It takes me a moment before I can regain my breath and he gives me the drink again. This time I command myself to try and be slow. The water still pours down and around the sides of my mouth, soaking down over my shirt.