Chapter 6
The Man
Caleb Holt
IF YOU SNOOZE, you lose.
It’s that simple.
Many people sleepwalk through life. If you don’t notice your surroundings, then you’re going to pay the price, especially when you’re being watched.
Make no mistake about it though; my task force surveillance team is lethal. We’re very effective at what we do. We’ve not only got years of experience behind us, we also have massive resources. In any one investigation, the six of us will be watching you. But you’ll never see us and I guarantee if you do—you’ll never see us twice.
The team consists of six of us. We’ve been together since the beginning of this op. There’s Ayden Pierce or Drum as we call him because he never stops tapping his fucking fingers on the desk. Lucas Ferguson or Gin, short for his favorite liquor. Taylor Rhys or Rice. Julian Ryder or Bond because he’s smooth like James Bond. And finally, Liam Stone or Ford since he loves his old pickup truck more than anything. Each has their own story, their reasons for being here, each is my brother, and every one of them I would put my life on the line for.
Our triple-threat surveillance strategy reigns supreme. And our rapid response, managed aggression, and lack of utter stupidity should always be taken seriously.
That’s how it always works.
Until now, anyway.
My foolproof strategy seems to be failing on all levels when it comes to Cleo.
Then again, the telltale signs are there. He knows we’re watching him. His tactics to impair my ability to get the information I need are really pissing me off. Cleo is a hard target—that’s spy talk for a target who knows what he’s doing.
“I’M SORRY,” the screen reads, “BUT THE PERSON YOU ARE TRYING TO CONTACT IS NOT INTERESTED IN WHAT YOU ARE OFFERING.”
I pound my fist on the desk and slam the lid down. “Fuck you, Cleo!” I yell. “I’ll find something you are interested in.”
The guys look at me as if I’m insane. I’m not saying I’m not. I’m talking to a computer, for Christ's sake, but it’s been a long fucking time coming. Every time I try to prod deeper for further inquiries into any recent art purchase Cleo has made, I get nowhere. The whole every precaution is being made to ensure the anonymity and security tag line that the deep web offers is really starting to piss me off. Now, I can’t even dangle forbidden fruit to try to lure him in. A painting that isn’t even for sale doesn’t interest him. That’s it. I’ve fucking had it.
The walkie goes off. “We have a sighting.”
I look around the room and know what I have to do. “Drum, grab our shit. We’re going after him,” I order.
He eases back from the computer screen and leans into the chair across from me. Throwing his legs up onto the desk, he proceeds to cross them at his ankles. Chewing on the end of his pen, he deadpans, “We can’t do that and you know it. We don’t have affirmative on the target.”
Jamming to my feet, I fling his legs off my desk. “I don’t give a flying fuck what we have or don’t have. If it’s not him, I’ll wait inside the building for a fucking week if I have to. I need to find this asset and get him on my side.”
“Waiting for him is giving him a surefire reason to bail. Sight unseen, I might add,” Drum tells me, ignoring my little tantrum and hefting his legs back onto my desk.
I circle the desk and stare him down. “Fine, then I’ll pull the fire alarm to draw him in. I’m sure whatever he has in there is important to him. If it’s him in the building, that should get him running to us.”
Drum shakes his head. “Or not.”
“Time is running short. We need him,” I bite out.
Cleo’s name appears on more than two-dozen of the financial records for illegal transactions on the Mona Lisa, and they all have to do with pieces of art.
What’s the Mona Lisa you ask?
It’s the Amazon of underworld crime. It’s the eBay of vice. Guns, drugs, diamonds, art, and spilled blood are all commodities traded on the deep web with Leonardo at the helm.
Leonardo, the name makes my blood boil, just like the man behind the name.
I’m Caleb Holt and I’ve spent four years of my fucking life trying to find him, nail him, trying to bring him down. Him and everything he stands for.
He’s the last of the five heads of the Drug Cartel that is still breathing, and he’s mine.
Medina and Blanco were taken out.
I didn’t take them out.
Not personally.
Sure, I tried to bring them in the old-fashioned way and when that didn’t work, I ousted them to their enemies.
Now, that worked.
Replacements have come and gone, but none are as powerful as when the five were together. Until Cruz, the silent one, stepped up. He was the one we could never identify. Not until that night four years ago when I penetrated his compound on a tip from a slime ball that turned out to be playing both sides.
Cruz is the sole heir to the Mona Lisa.
The only Leonardo left.
Who the fuck knew we were helping him create a monopoly?
Not me.
He owes me a fucking hell of a lot, and I intend to collect with his head one way or another.
The reason he’s still standing is simple. He doesn’t live in the gutter or under the brush—he lives out in the open for the entire world to see. He’s a prominent businessman, a high-level member of The Powers of the Higher Mind, and he travels among the elite circles of San Diego, which makes nailing him a bit tougher.
First of all, I can’t get close enough.
Second, no one is willing to share any dirt about him.
And finally, there is nothing to link him to the largest illegal operation to hit the states since cocaine.
But I know it’s him and I’m going to nail his ass to the wall. With the help of a man named Cleo. Even if it’s the last thing I do.
Gin puts a hand on my shoulder. “Caleb man, chill. We have time. It hasn’t been that long. We just have to wait this out. If we pull that alarm and the target doesn’t respond, but runs instead, we can kiss our last lead goodbye, and this operation too.”
Yeah, I know that all too well. Fuck! I can’t risk losing it. Losing him. I need his help to get that son of a bitch.
The lead before this one didn’t end well—gunfire, shattering glass, and sirens were all that were left after I abandoned the plan—the plan to bring in the asset that would take me to Leonardo’s door.
That fucker took the easy way out—shot himself in the temple. He was the one name on the list besides Cleo that was nearly impossible to track. He was also the one name on the list that had enough interactions with the painter himself to help bring his empire crumbling down.
With that lead gone, Cleo is all we have, and he’s a long shot, but the only hope we have left.
“Just confirmed the sighting was a false alarm. The unit in the old factory is still empty. The target is nowhere in sight,” Rice says, tossing his phone on his desk and walking toward me.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck.”
“Caleb, tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.” He thrusts an envelope in my face. “Take this money, grab a seat on the next commuter, and go home to see your family.”
I shake my head no.
He slams the envelop into my chest. “We got things around here for a few days. You’ve been working around the clock for weeks, and you know you can use some time off, not to mention, you need it.”
“Not now. It’s not a good time to ghost.”
“Go, man. We’re here keeping things buttoned down. We’ll notify you if anything comes up.”
I nod, knowing Rice is right. “Okay, okay, I’m out of here—for tonight, but no promises about the fucking plane.”
Going home in the middle of an operation, this operation, doesn’t feel right.
Still, after the last failed attempt, I know I need to take a small breather or risk my temper getting my ass suspended, again. I’m strung so high right now, I can barely breathe.
It’s just I’ve been under for so long, it’s hard to see straight. I’ve become Caleb Holt, special taskforce commander. Somehow, I’ve lost who Caleb Holt, the man, actually is. And the worst part, I don’t think I want to know.
Being part of a unit formed to obliterate the negative impact the Mexican Drug Cartel is having on the state of California will do that to you.
Or to me, anyway.
It’s become my life.
My war.
My havoc.
And I don’t think I can do anything else.
Hey, I grew up enamored with James Bond and John le Carre, studied history in college, and have a passion for the right side of the law. All I ever wanted to do was hunt spies. So when I was recruited into the FBI’s Special Task Force division right after my first tour, I wasn’t about to turn it down.
No one knows, though. I had to lie to my friends and tell them I was going back to Afghanistan, when I was actually headed for Special Forces training.
It wasn’t that far off from the truth. I was going to hell, just a different kind of hell.
At first, after my training, I went undercover in the cities bordering Mexico. I’m not going to lie—it was rough. I’d alternated personalities. I was a drug dealer, a tweaker, a financial broker, a computer analyst, and finally settled on the cover that worked best—a security expert.
My latest gig though, it’s the biggest.
Pulling closed the door of the small, shabby office in Ocean Beach that serves as our cover for the security office, I look into the dark night. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I turn the corner. Everything is quiet, as always. I hate the quiet. Fucking despise it.
The team has had eyes on the old cigar factory building for the past two weeks. Ever since we learned that’s where the shipments were being sent that Cleo is purchasing off the deep web.
After the discovery, we quickly moved base locations. Not sure how long we’ll be here since to date there has been no sign of Cleo going in or out. Hell, there’s no sign of anyone at all going in or out. The place is practically deserted. It could be a dead end. In fact, it more than likely is a distraction to keep us from the prize. Cleo, himself. He’s one smart dude.
Still, I have hope.
There’s also another way.
A more dangerous one.
Going undercover as a security expert, I not only have a visual on the ultimate target himself, I’ve been working security detail at his office.
I just need a break.
An in.
It seems like it will never come.
Eyes on the prize, man.
Eyes on the prize, I remind myself.
This guy is tough—he’s a particular fucker. No one moves up the ranks in his organization until he says so.
Security.
Security.
Security.
It’s fucking everywhere.
Being around him, even only as a guard at his office, it’s easy to see why he’s the sole remaining kingpin. He’s unnamed. Unknown. Hiding in the shadows and living in the open at the same time.
He’s also the most lethal of the five.
Kills anyone who gets too close.
And yet, this fucker is a businessman who runs most of San Diego. This criminal is Leonardo—the man behind the Mona Lisa. This guy’s real name is Enrique Cruz.
Enrique fucking Cruz, I’m coming for you.