Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

“Do they understand there can’t be any witnesses, not even children? We’ll have to leave the country if there’s anyone left to identify us.”

Roberto finished his second taco and lifted his Corona to his mouth, running the rim of it back and forth over his lips. Kaamil thought his eyes looked like the eyes of a rattlesnake, unblinking and deadly.

“What is it you’re worried about, Kaamil? Are you worried my men won’t get your guys in, or that your young martyrs will chicken out? Decide Paradise isn’t worth dying for?” Roberto said, with a sneer. “You would do better to worry about your own men.”

Kaamil forced himself to remain calm. He thought, when this is over, I’ll kill you myself. What could you ever know about dying for a righteous reason? The only god you’re willing to die for is money, or maybe good sex. That’s why we will win, Roberto, that’s why we will win.

“Oh, I do worry about my men, Roberto. I worry their sacrifice will be wasted if you let me down. If you do, I will have to kill all of you. That’s just my worry. I need to get back to Portland. You need to get to the ranch and make sure everything is prepared for Malik’s arrival tomorrow. If you let him down, make peace with your god, you won’t live another day.

While the two men were busy eating, Drake called his secretary.

“Mr. Drake’s law office. He’s not practicing law this week, he’s out pretending he’s Superman. May I help you?”

Drake suppressed a smile. “You know you weren’t supposed to tell anyone about the Superman thing. If it’ll make you feel better, this is all on the clock, so there’s a possibility you’ll be paid this month. Is your husband there by any chance?”

“Just one moment please,” she said, mimicking a receptionist at the D.A.’s office they used to joke about.

Drake knew she used humor to cover her feelings. He imagined this time those feelings were probably anxiety and fear. He had to stop thinking he was the only one involved in what was happening. Margo was more than his legal assistant. She and her husband were friends.

“Afternoon, Adam. Margo tells me you’re in Hood River. What’s up?” Paul asked.

Drake pictured him standing ramrod straight next to his wife’s desk, with his square jaw clenched, waiting for an answer.

“Sounds like I have some fences to mend when I get back.”

“She’s worried about you. We both are. She’s not used to guys gunning for you and hanging around the office. She wasn’t exposed to that, even when she worked for you in the D.A.’s office,” Paul reminded him.

“Paul, I’m sorry. I had no idea this was going to turn out this way. Margo told you, I followed Kaamil, the ISIS manager, to Hood River this morning. Well, I’m watching him have lunch with someone you may remember, Roberto Valencia.”

“Sure, I remember the punk,” Paul said, after a moment. “Young Mexican drug dealer, son of that Mexican cartel leader. I thought he was still in prison. What’s he doing with the ISIS guy?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m not getting warm fuzzies, watching these two breaking bread together. Valencia’s sentence was fifteen years. Can you find out when he was released and what his parole officer says he’s supposed to be doing? I saw him come out of an old yellow warehouse here in Hood River, down on Portway Avenue. Maybe someone in the department knows someone up here who can tell us who owns the building. Don’t tell them why you’re interested. Valencia may have bought some friends here.”

“I’ll make some calls. If things take a turn, let us know what’s happening, or Margo says don’t come back. I guess she means she wants you to keep in touch,” Paul said.

“Tell her I promise.”

Drake focused again on the two men. When Valencia turned toward the street, to watch two young women in cutoffs and bikini tops walk by, he took two quick pictures of his leering face. Both men then got up and strolled toward Kaamil’s black roadster.

Before the two got there, Paul called back.

“Valencia was released six months ago. Good behavior apparently means you get ten years off your sentence. His parole officer thinks he fled to Mexico, only reported in once. The warehouse you had me check belongs to ISIS, according to the Hood River PD.”

“What a surprise, Kaamil’s in business with Valencia.”

“Well, there’s more. The warehouse is leased to a farm supply company. One of its key customers is a ten-thousand-acre ranch that ISIS owns and uses as a regional training facility.”

Strange that an international company like ISIS would locate a training facility in such a remote area, Drake thought. Even stranger that it had connections to a known drug smuggler.

“Paul, I have to go. Kaamil’s leaving with Valencia. Find out as much as you can about this training facility and call me back.”

Drake watched the roadster pull away from the curb and followed in the Land Rover. Kaamil turned right at the light on North Second Street and retraced his route back to the old warehouse. There, he pulled through the gate and let Roberto out. Kaamil didn’t get out of his car, and as soon as Valencio entered the warehouse, made a U-turn and drove back out of the fenced warehouse yard.

At the Expo Center where he’d parked again, Drake decided to stick with Kaamil. He knew about the warehouse. Now it was time to see what else Kaamil was doing in Hood River. As he started to pull out, he saw a yellow Hummer H2 drive out of the warehouse from the delivery bay.

Drake hung back until the Hummer drove by. He could see both cars ahead of him and hoped they were both going the same way. That hope didn’t survive for more than a minute. Kaamil pulled onto the I-84 ramp back to Portland. Valencia continued on to Hood River.

Now what, he thought. Follow Valencia and see what he’s up to, or stay with Kaamil. As much as he wanted to stay with Kaamil, his instinct told him to follow Valencia. Besides, Valencia was making it easy for him, driving the biggest SUV you could buy, painted bright yellow.

Valencia turned onto I-84 headed east, and then took the exit for Hwy. 35 heading south toward Mount Hood. Drake hung back a hundred yards or so as the highway passed through the outskirts of Hood River and then became a two-lane highway running through farmland. The twists and turns of the winding road interfered with his line of sight at times, but he was able to stay close enough to catch occasional glimpses of the yellow Hummer.

Leaning down until his nose almost touched the steering wheel, he could see the snow-capped peak of Mount Hood rising above, dominating the skyline through his windshield. From his farm, he could watch the distant peak turn pink with a good sunset. When you were near the mountain’s base, it dwarfed everything around it.

Before they reached the small town of Mount Hood, maybe ten miles from Hood River, the Hummer’s brake lights flashed. Drake was two hundred yards behind when it turned left, off the highway. As he passed by, he saw a manned security gate, a twelve-foot cyclone fence with a barbed wire crown stretching out on both sides of the gate, and an enclosed guardhouse. Next to the cement and river rock guardhouse, an elegant sign made of black lava rock with brass letters announced the location of the ISIS Pacific Northwest Regional Training Facility. Admittance was by appointment only. Before the gate disappeared from view, Drake watched in his rear view mirror as the Hummer was waived through.

He drove on until he saw a gravel road where he was able to turn around. Before he pulled back onto the highway, he called his office. Paul answered.

“Glad you’re still there. This is really starting to smell. Kaamil headed back to Portland, so I followed Valencia. He drove south of Hood River, and right into a restricted area operated by ISIS, their Northwest Regional Training Facility. Security guard, cyclone fence, the works. Valencia was waived right through. You ever heard of the place?”