Chapter One
Santiago
Santiago Martinez walked into the little Cuban eatery just outside Tampa, Florida. His contact, Athena Madero, called him twenty minutes ago requesting this little meeting. She had a case for him, one he “couldn’t say no to,” but he’d be the judge of that. He slipped the pair of mirror aviator glasses off his face, then squinted as his eyes adjusted to the bright, cheery glow of the restaurant. The scent of mouth-watering spicy food danced on his senses, causing his stomach to growl in interest—which didn’t happen often lately.
It had been three weeks since his last mission ended—not that he was counting. At first, when he came home, he wanted at least six months off to clear his mind of the carnage he witnessed.
No one should have to see a baby’s broken body being carried out of a house situated in the middle of nowhere. Observe the devastation of a mother who’d been promised her little girl would come home to her.
His therapist told him in this situation, it was better to go back to work and process what he’d seen than to sit home and dwell on it. He called bullshit, but the longer he sat around, the more he saw the little girl. The blood. The screams of horror. Some nights he woke up in a pool of sweat hollering, unable to remember his dream.
That’s why he stood there now. In the hashery, looking for Athena.
Santiago glanced around the restaurant and found his handler sitting at a table near the back. Her long, thick black hair had been pulled back into a severe ponytail. Though she appeared completely at ease, he knew if shit went sideways, she’d pounce. The woman was not one you’d want to meet in a dark alley. Shit, even a well lit one. She glanced up from her phone and arched a brow, as if to ask, ‘what took you so long?’
Strolling over to the table, an easy smile split his lips. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he stated, taking a seat across from her.
“Cut the shit,” she snipped, placing the device on the table in front of her. A plate of half-eaten food lay in front of her, along with a mixed-drink.
“Damn, someone didn’t get a chance to watch her telenovelas.”
A frown tugged at her lips as she placed her cloth napkin onto the table. “I have a case for you—FBI. I think it’ll be perfect and get you out of my hair.”
“And here I thought you liked it when I was up in your business.” He kicked back in his seat and stared at her for a moment. The strain etched into her features surprised him. She had better self-control than he did. Plus, hadn’t she said take his time? Do what he had to? “What’s wrong?”
She pulled a folder out of her bag and placed it on the table in front of him. “No matter what happens during this conversation, if you don’t want it, you’re still on the team. No questions asked.”
He cocked a brow. Nervous energy filled him. “Okay?”
She seemed to contemplate whether to hand him the file, before sliding it over to him. “What can you tell me about the Cajero Cartel?”
He sat there. His thumb ran along the edge of the portfolio. “Not much. After striking a deal with the 323 in Los Angeles, they’ve been pretty quiet. Why?”
She pursed her lips, her obsidian eyes narrowed. “There is a war coming.”
Okay, first he’d heard. “Says who?”
“My source. It appears someone new is running things in Los Angeles with the 323. The asshole is about to rain hell down on the Cajero Cartel and, more than likely, start a turf war.”
“Mission parameters?”
“Find out who has taken control of the 323 and then take them out.” She pressed her finger to the folder. “I don’t have to tell you how sensitive this mission is or how much is riding on it, do I?”
Even if she had to, he’d say no. “I understand. I think I have someone who can help us out. He’s already out there. Works security for some celebrities or some shit.”
“A celebrity bodyguard?” She arched her brow again. “I’m thinking you need to dig a little deeper into your contacts.”
“Nah, you don’t know Scott like I do. He’s not one to mess with. He’s got a record, but he’s … reformed. Actually, he’s a former 323er.”
“Then what am I doing sitting here?” Athena pushed away from the table. “Get to LA and find out what’s going on. I expect you to call in regularly and give me status updates.”
He nodded.
“Don’t fuck this up.”
“Won’t,” he grunted.
He waited five minutes after she walked out the door, then stood and followed. His stomach growled in disapproval. I’ll eat later. Work first. Knowing Scott didn’t sleep much, Santiago snatched his phone out of his pocket. He scrolled through his contacts and hit send, before bringing it to his ear.
“Don’t you ever fucking call at a decent hour?” The groggy tone of Scott’s voice greeted him.
“And catch you at a good time? Never.” He chuckled.
“You never call when a good time is to be had. What can I do for you?”
“I’m coming to Los Angeles,” Santiago stated. “Meet me at the airport, yeah?”
“Fuck.” A light clicked on. “When do you think?”
“First flight out,” he answered. “I’ll get you the details in a bit.”
Santiago sat at his dining room table, the contents of the case file scattered across the Formica surface. Pictures of 323 members sitting around a bonfire at Huntington Beach were strewn about. Other pictures taken from inside of a gated ghetto apartment complex joined them. However, one picture in-particular stood out to him.
Juan Ramos.
Santiago scrubbed his chin. The guy had a rap sheet a mile long. It started with small smash and grabs as a teen to aiding and abetting. He’d been charged with murder, but never convicted. Drugs. Larceny. Shit, if the three strikes law hadn’t been amended, he’d have been stuck in the Twin Towers Correctional Facility for the rest of his life.
Instead, it seemed Juan rose through the ranks of the 323s.
He grabbed a taco out of the box he picked up from a roach coach near his home and took a bite. After leaving Athena, Santiago’s stomach hadn’t let that shit go. He was starved. Stomach, meet back bone. The first thing halfway palatable for him since he’d come home had been the spicy scent of carnitas and pico de gallo. Taking another bite, he read over the reports left for him by whoever had been on stakeout.
For the last month, Juan traveled from his Echo Park residence to Mexicali. When he returned he had several black, industrial storage boxes with him. Some of them held guns, others held drugs. The few pictures attached to the statements showed as much, but none of them were taken at close enough range to determine the boxes’ exact contents.
At most, they had a gang banger who was going off reservation and would cause a war in the heart of Los Angeles. At least, he was trying to build up his arsenal. What did Santiago miss here? How did the Cajero Cartel play into this?
He finished the taco in his hand, then grabbed his beer to wash it down. He had to dig deeper. He went back to the beginning of the folder, to the first recorded time the Cajero Cartel showed its face in Echo Park. He whistled low. Son of a bitch. This was some hardcore, brought-back-memories-for-him, shit.
Tom Bradley had been Mayor. Daryl Gates had been Chief of Police for LAPD. Sixteen months before Rodney King would get beat by four LAPD officers, and two years before the Los Angeles riots would destroy their city. The leader of Cajero, Cesar Gallegos moved to town, and with him came shipments of pure cocaine, and black-market fire arms.
He setup shop within the CRS—the Crazys and the Varrio. The distribution of the drugs and the guns had become an epidemic rather quickly, cementing the cartel’s control over the area.
But it didn’t stop with the gangs.
There were also corrupt council members. Men and women who were getting kickbacks from the cartel to keep the distribution flowing and to keep them out of jail. Then, in 1993, the year after the riots and Daryl Gates was removed from his post, Chief Willie Williams took over. Things slowly began to change.
The landscape of the city changed.
Some people moved away, and those who stayed started pushing back. As much as people supported Rodney King, they hated what came afterwards. So, the city went to work. Initiatives were started to buy fire arms, taking them out of the hands of potential bad guys and keeping the streets safe. Drug task forces were strengthened. Selling became a risky proposition, and it sent Cesar back to Mexico to wait it out.
If he’d decided to return and Juan was trying to cut into his territory, only bad things could come out of it. Santiago threw another report back on the table and scrubbed his face. Hell, he should let the assholes raze the area and take themselves out, but it would mean innocent people would get hurt, and he’d fucking kill himself before he let that happen.
Santiago’s phone signaled an incoming text with an attachment. He opened it and whistled. Alyssa Ramos. Juan’s sister had come home as well. Looks like this might be a party after all. He studied the photo, taking in every little detail he could. A thick mass of curly hair fell around her shoulders. Hard, amber eyes stared into the lens of the camera, daring whoever took the pictures to take another. Full pouty lips were covered in a shade of dark purple and he caught the hint of a tattoo across her chest. Escapae de la… Escape what?
Well, whatever she was trying to get away with, he’d figure it out tomorrow. He glanced at the clock and realized he only had six hours to grab some shut eye and pack for his trip.
Santiago gathered up the information and placed it back into the file, then tossed it into his go pack. Omega Team would set him up in a hotel near Echo Park, and if he needed anything, he could buy the shit there. He pushed away from the table before grabbing his trash to throw away. On the way to his room, he started formulating a plan of action for him and Scott. Nothing could be left to chance. If they got caught, well, someone would find them floating in the pond at Echo park.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Los Angeles. It’s a balmy, sunny seventy-eight degrees with a light wind from the east. The time is ten minutes after ten …”
Damn. A little less than six hours on a plane full of screaming kids and chatty passengers. Usually it didn’t bother him. This time … he’d considered jumping out of the plane over Rio Hondo College.
Athena had offered up the company jet for him to use, but he didn’t want to land on some fuckwit’s radar and give away his arrival. So, he flew commercial and regretted every minute of it.
They began their decent into the airport. The 105 freeway stretched out hundreds of feet below him as they passed through Compton and Watts. The jet touched down five minutes later and he let out a pent-up breath. Once he deplaned he had to pick up his rental and meet with Scott.
The guy hadn’t been too talkative at three in the morning local time, but fuck it, Santiago had shit to do. Scott’s instructions weren’t the best, but they’d do in a pinch. Meet him on the corner of La Brea and Sunset. Why there, he had no clue. The lights came on, and the seatbelt indicator turned off. Santiago stood, opened the overhead compartment and grabbed his go-bag.
When the door opened, he headed for it, not wanting to get caught up in a mass exodus from the plane. The walk from the concourse to the terminal took minutes. When he stepped into the middle of LAX, he took it all in. Phones rang, along with all calls for different flights leaving. The collision of several different languages spoken simultaneously washed over him.
In some ways, he missed this. Missed the hustle and bustle of a major city. Missed the sights and sounds. The smell. He followed the signs to the car rental desk and had the keys to his truck in hand within minutes. The shuttle service they provided gave him a moment to text Scott to let him know he’d arrived.
Bout time you showed up. See you soon. ~S
Santiago slipped his phone back into his pocket, then stood as the tram stopped near his vehicle. The smell of industrial smog, heated asphalt and jet exhaust greeted him like an old friend. With less than ten percent humidity, the warmth of the sun kissed his skin, instead of steam baking it. He could breathe without feeling oppressed. Move without feeling as though he trudged through water. And, though it was a balmy seventy-eight degrees, a chill still hung in the air.
Nothing beat Southern California weather.
He pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the 405. At this time of the morning, he knew traffic would be tight, but it’d save him the bumper to bumper tourist congestion on surface streets, as well. The fancy navigation system binged at him, asking if he needed assistance. The day he needed assistance getting around his home turf was the day he didn’t deserve to call Los Angeles County home.
What he hadn’t been prepared for, though, was how much he missed being there. The changes were subtle, of course. New paint here, new businesses there. Yet, the same dirt color haze clung to the tops of buildings. The paletas man still stood on the corner ringing his bell. Migrant workers hustled on the off ramps selling their bags of oranges and raw peanuts. A sense of child-like wonder swirled within him. He’d be hard press to explain his reaction, only that, if you didn’t come from California, especially L.A., you wouldn’t get it.
He exited the freeway and followed Sunset until it met La Brea then pulled into the parking lot behind a liquor store. A few minutes later, a blue sports car pulled in beside him. He didn’t recognize the man who stepped out of it. Oh, sure, he had the same tattoos, the same walk, and the same scowl as Scott, but everything else had changed.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Scott drawled. “Don’t you know those things are gas guzzlers?”
“I didn’t know you started caring about the environment, bro.” He lifted his chin in the direction of Scott’s car. “Must get tiring winding that piece of shit up.”
They clasped hands through the window as they both laughed. It’d been years since he’d seen Scott. Whatever his new job entailed, it sure as fuck seemed to calm him down and make him respectable. It looked good on him.
“Follow me, bro. I know a place where we can talk without anyone listening in.”
“Sounds good,” Santiago answered. “I’m right behind you.”