Don Pendleton - Cartel Clash

“He our target?”

“I’ve run some checks, and no one seems to know who this bastard is.”

“Nothing from the local law-enforcement agencies?”

“I had a word with my contacts at local and State. Not a whisper. If this guy is undercover, he’s so deep he’s invisible.”

Preacher drained his beer. “If the Feds have put in another agent so soon after the last one, he won’t be making himself known. And he isn’t about to make any new friends. That means he’s working in the cold. He’ll be a stranger. That could work for us. Folks around these parts don’t buddy up so fast. They tend to be suspicious if you’re not a native.” He pushed to his feet. “You leave it to us, Mr. Dembrow. We’ll find your boy and retire him.”

Choirboy picked up the money bag.

“I’ll keep you posted,” he said.

Choirboy placed the leather bag in the Lincoln’s trunk. When he climbed into the car, Preacher had the vehicle running, the powerful engine softly purring. Choirboy sank back in the soft seat, tipping his hat forward over his face.

“When you reckon you have the strength,” Preacher said, “give me some thoughts.”

“If we’re goin’ to find this boy, we need a starting point. How about the diner? He was there. He took out Dembrow’s crew. Somebody had to have seen him.”

“Good thinking, son. It’s the diner, then.”

They waited until dark. At 11:15 p.m., the parking lot was empty. The staff parked up at the rear of the establishment. Preacher coasted onto the lot, the Lincoln’s lights already turned off. Choirboy followed him out of the car and they walked down the side of the building, looking for the back entrance. The kitchen door was ajar against the night heat. There were two cars parked in back.

“Let’s do it, son,” Preacher said, leading the way in.

The diner’s kitchen hung on to the day’s cooking smells. A wall air conditioner pushed out barely chilled air, rattling as it worked. The owner, middle-aged and thickset, hunched over a deep fat fryer as he cleaned it. The back of his T-shirt clung to his skin, patches of sweat darkening the cotton.

“They say industrial kitchens can be dangerous places,” Preacher said conversationally as he moved up behind the man.

The man straightened and looked at Preacher and Choirboy. There was no mistaking the implicit threat in Preacher’s voice, so the man simply stood there.

Choirboy walked directly past, skirting the edge of the kitchen and emerging in the dining area to confront the waitress, who was clearing tables. She froze when she saw Choirboy, her eyes suddenly wide, swiveling toward the diner’s entrance. The damaged door had already been replaced since the shooting.

As Choirboy shook his head at her, he crossed to the door and locked it, then stood with his back to it as Preacher and the owner appeared.

“Both of you sit down,” Preacher said. “This ain’t gonna take long.”

“If this is about the shooting, we already told the cops everything we know,” the owner said.

“Let’s make this quick, then. You were both here that night?”

“Yes,” the woman said. She was in her early forties, not unattractive, but starting to show her age. She kept brushing loose strands of hair back from her cheek.

“The man and woman who came in—did you know them?”

“No, sir. Both were strangers to me,” she said, and the owner nodded his agreement.

“Tell me about the man.”

“Tall. Black hair and blue eyes. Handsome looking guy in a rugged sort of way. And he looked like he would be able to handle himself. Polite, too.”

“See, that wasn’t hard,” Preacher said. “And you gave a good description, ma’am.”

“Something that comes with the job,” she said. “You get to check people over. Try to spot potential problem customers. I guess it’s a habit.”

“Did they drive onto the lot?”

“No. I only noticed that after they’d already ordered, because two of our regulars left and drove away and the lot was empty. I didn’t have time to think about it, what with everything that happened.”

“So the guy and the girl must have walked here?”

“I guess so.”

“Unusual,” Preacher said. “Folk don’t make a habit of walking the streets around here.”

“So where did they come from?” Choirboy asked.

“Likely the motel,” the owner suggested. “Motel?”

“Out of the parking lot, make a left and it’s a couple hundred yards on the same side of the street.”

The waitress nodded in agreement. “That’s right. We get folks staying there coming in to eat. Hardly worth driving, it being so close.”

“You tell the cops that?”

“Ed and me told them nothing. The way they treated us, the hell with them,” the woman said.

Preacher glanced at his partner. Choirboy smiled.

“How did the shooting go down?” Preacher asked out of professional curiosity.

“We didn’t see it,” the woman said. “An armed man came in through the kitchen door. He pushed Ed and me into the big cold room and locked the door. Said if we raised any fuss he’d shoot us.”

“Next thing we heard,” Ed said, “was like a war had broken out. Lots of gunfire.”

“After that it just went real quiet. We didn’t know what was going on, so we stayed quiet, too.”

“When the cops came and started shouting, we hollered and they let us out. Bastards treated us like we were part of it,” Ed grumbled, obviously still resenting the treatment he’d received at the hands of the local police. “Questioned us half the damn night, and us still shivering from that cold room.”

“Is that all you wanted?” the waitress asked.

Preacher could see she was trembling.

“That’s all, ma’am. Hope we haven’t upset you too much. We’re going now.” He turned away, then paused to look back. “That thing you mentioned?”

“What?”

“Being able to remember details about customers and all?”

The waitress managed a thin smile. “It doesn’t seem to be working tonight,” she said, understanding the reasoning behind Preacher’s question. “Could be because I’m at the end of my shift.”

Preacher raised his hands. “Lucky for us then.”

BACK IN THE CAR Choirboy said, “Nice folks.”

“Yep.”

Preacher turned onto the street and coasted along until he saw the lights of the motel. He made a left and rolled the Lincoln across the courtyard, coming to stop outside the manager’s office. Through the window he could see the guy on duty watching TV.

“Come in the back way,” he said. “I’ll go talk to the guy.”

The motel manager didn’t even look up from his TV as Preacher entered the airless office. He simply waved a hand.

“You want a room?”

“Just some information.”

Now the man glanced up, irritation on his face.

“Do I look like a fucking tourist guide?”

Preacher smiled. “Remember I asked politely.”

“I’ll put you down for an award. If you don’t want a room, I’m busy.”

“This could have gone a lot easier, son,” Preacher said.

“Just get the hell out of here ’fore I—”

“Before you what, boy?” Choirboy asked.

He had walked around to the rear of the office, coming in through the screen door and had moved up beside the manager. He pressed the muzzle of his handgun against the guy’s skull.

“I asked nicely,” Preacher said, “but this cocky son of a bitch decided to get lippy.”

He turned and locked the door, closing the blind.

“You know what?” Choirboy said. “I recognize this bird. He used to work for Harry Lyle out of Dallas. You recall that place Lyle had downtown? This guy used to work behind the bar, but Harry caught him shortchanging customers. Had him worked over and run out of town. They called him Hatcher. Nick Hatcher.”