Don Pendleton - Cartel Clash

“I do believe you’re right there, son.” Preacher leaned against the desk. “He was a lippy bastard then. No grace in him at all.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t work for Lyle anymore,” Hatcher said. “But I do work for someone a damn sight harder, so you better lay off me.”

Preacher’s eyes raised to Choirboy’s face and smiled. No words were needed. Choirboy used his pistol to remind Hatcher he was in no position to make threats. The meaty slam of the steel against Hatcher’s head delivered the message. Hatcher grunted, sliding from his seat after the third blow and landed on his knees, his head hanging. Blood ran down his neck and soaked the collar of his shirt. More dripped to the floor. Preacher joined Choirboy behind the desk, and together they hauled the dazed Hatcher back into his seat. Hatcher stared up into Preacher’s face, still defiant. The killer sighed, then without warning he punched Hatcher in the face a few times, rocking the man’s head back. Blood spattered Hatcher’s features, and he would have slid out of the chair again if Choirboy hadn’t caught hold of his shoulders and pulled him back.

“Don’t make the mistake of believing I give a rat’s ass who you work for,” Preacher said after a while. “Anything that even smells of a threat kind of gets me all upset, son.”

“Take heed of that,” Choirboy said from behind Hatcher. “He gets kind of unstable if someone threatens him.” He slapped Hatcher on the shoulder. “You should have been nice to the man. We would have been long gone by now, and you could be back watching your movie.”

“So what is it you want?” Hatcher asked. His words were muffled due to the bloody state of his lips and a couple of loose teeth. Blood dribbled from his mouth as he spoke.

“Night of the diner shooting. You had a guest here. Big guy.

Tall. Black hair. Blue eyes. He could have walked to the diner. Had a girl with him. Pretty. Mexican. She was the one who got shot and killed. You recall?”

Hatcher considered the question, sucking air noisily into his battered mouth. He seemed to be having trouble focusing on Preacher’s face, but he eventually nodded.

“Only stayed a couple of nights. Left the day after the shooting. I never seen him with no girl. I don’t notice everyone who walks by.”

“Now that wasn’t hard, was it?” Choirboy asked.

Hatcher pushed to his feet, wobbling unsteadily, and made his way to the file box on the desk. He rifled through the cards until he found the one he wanted, passed it to Preacher, then sank back into his seat. Preacher slid the card into his pocket after a quick look.

“His vehicle? What was the make and model?”

“Late model Ford 4x4. Dark red. License number’s on the card. The guy calls himself Matt Cooper.”

“Been a pleasure doing business with you, Nick,” Preacher said. “We’ll go now. Leave you to your business. Here’s a word of advice. Don’t even consider bringing the cops in. It wouldn’t do you any good. Tell your boss what happened if you feel you need to.” Preacher smoothed down his jacket. “If you do, tell him Preacher said hello. He’ll understand.”

Hatcher watched them leave, his eyes already glazing over, sliding back down in his seat.

Choirboy led the way out through the back door. They walked around to the waiting Lincoln. Choirboy got behind the wheel and Preacher settled beside him.

“Which way?” Choirboy asked.

“You choose, son. I got a few calls to make.” Preacher took out the registration card and held it up. “We got some tracking to do, but first I need to get us a little direction.”

While Choirboy cruised, Preacher tapped in a number and held his cell phone to his ear.

“Clarence, I need you to check out a license-plate number for me.” He read out the details. “Soon as, son. This is urgent. Call me.” Preacher redialed and asked to speak to Dembrow. “His name is Matt Cooper. That’s all we got up to now, but it’ll do.”

He ended the call.

“If this yahoo ain’t an undercover cop,” Choirboy said, “who the hell is he?”

Preacher considered. “Good question, son. I’ll ask when we find him.”

“Maybe he’s some covert military specialist. Delta Force. SEAL. Sent in by the government so he don’t have to be answerable to anyone.”

“Son, you amaze me sometimes,” Preacher said. “It could be you’ve lit on the right number. DEA and the like don’t have those kind of skills. They ain’t trained in such business. But the military teach their special forces just the way our boy acts.”

“Likely then he won’t be easy to find.”

“Oh, hell, son, it wouldn’t be fun if it was easy.”

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