Don Pendleton: The Cartel Hit

The line was clear and the voice on the other end calm and precise. The words spoken would change Escobedo’s whole life.

“Justice Department. How can I help?”

* * *

IT WAS DARK by the time Escobedo reached the building where he rented his small apartment. He stayed in the shadows, waiting until he was sure no one was watching the place, then he climbed the stairs. He let himself in quietly and used the illumination from the street to guide him around. He was not expecting to stay very long. Just enough time to stuff a few belongings into a backpack.

His instructions from the man he had spoken to in Washington had been clear: “Stay away from contact with anyone you know. Do not speak to anyone. Do exactly what the agents tell you, and cooperate. Try to behave normally, so that you do not arouse suspicions.” The man had described a location, and given a time when two agents would pick him up and take him somewhere secure.

Escobedo left his apartment by the fire escape and strode quickly through the neighborhood to the rendezvous point. It was a long walk, and when he reached the spot and saw the parked SUV blink its lights, he moved faster, relieved that his pickup was waiting as promised.

He was almost at the car when the squeal of tires behind him made him glance over his shoulder. He saw the shadowy bulk of the approaching vehicle as it accelerated.

Everything moved so fast that Escobedo had no time to think of anything except staying alive.

The passenger door of the waiting car opened and an armed figure stepped out. Someone yelled for him to keep coming.

The unknown vehicle was still closing in. As it swerved across the street, automatic weapons began firing. The heavy bursts sent streams of slugs that peppered the waiting SUV and punctured the bodywork, shattering windows. The man who had stepped out of the car went down first; the driver was hit while he was still behind the wheel. Escobedo caught a brief glimpse of a bloodied face behind the windshield. The rattle of automatic fire followed him as he raced for the cover of the SUV. He had barely cleared it when a dull thud was followed by a burst of fire blossoming from the interior. He felt the heat as he swerved away from the vehicle, almost going down. The ball of flame swelled out from the car, flames curling from the bullet-shattered windows.

Escobedo saw a dark alley between two buildings and dashed into it, hiding among the shadows as he negotiated the trash-strewn pavement. When he reached a turn, he followed it and simply kept running, clutching his backpack when it slid from his shoulder.

His chest burning, Escobedo wove his way between buildings, not once looking back. He had no idea where he was going; he was just attempting to gain some distance from the shooters. He twisted around corners, ignoring the shouts of alarm as he pushed by the few people he encountered. He made no attempt to speak to them, because now he couldn’t be sure who to trust.

So he trusted no one.

He was in a race for his life.

Until, exhausted, he was forced to halt. He leaned against a wall, staring around him. Struggling to breathe. Not even sure what part of town he was in. At the mouth of the alley he saw silent, dark storefronts. A deserted street. He heard distant traffic sounds. It took a few moments for him to figure out he was in a part of Broken Tree he seldom visited. Escobedo peered out from behind the building on his left and saw the lighted frontage of the bus depot a few blocks away.

The bus depot.

Could it be the answer to his problem?

Contacting the Justice Department had not worked for him. Escobedo needed another option, and he needed time to think. To plan how he was going to make this thing work. And to do that, he needed to get away from Broken Tree.

He couldn’t erase what he’d seen in Jessup’s barn. Despite the position he had put himself in, he knew he had to follow this through. Seb Jessup had committed murder. Escobedo had witnessed it. Recorded the very act. And his conscience would not allow him to walk away. Jessup had to pay for the brutal crime.

Escobedo also knew he was a marked man. Jessup could not afford to let the matter lie, and he was wealthy enough to pay for Escobedo’s capture. His people would search for him. If Jessup got his hands on Escobedo, he’d suffer the same fate as the couple in the barn—or worse.

And then there were the two agents sent to protect him. Two more murders Escobedo had witnessed, two more dead under his watch.

He needed to get far away. Distance would grant him the time to work out what to do.

Escobedo focused on the bus depot lights again.

He would leave Broken Tree, take a coach across the border.

Into Mexico.

Back to the village where he had come from. Back home.

To Ascensión.

“You really believe I’m going to let that cockroach give me up to the cops?” Seb Jessup said. “I will bury that bastard and his evidence.”

Three of his crew members sat in the plush office. Not one of them made any comment. They might have been thinking his outburst was more than a little risky, given that he was already under the close eye of federal authorities who were just waiting for him to step across the line.

But that was Seb Jessup.

A man who had total contempt for the law, society and anyone who dared to cross him. Jessup had a personal mantra: “I go where I want and I do what I want. Get in my way and I will crush you.”

Simple and direct. Jessup believed in being up front with people. They got what they saw. He made no concessions to anyone or anything.

He was in his midthirties, a hard-bodied man who ruled his criminal organization by brute force and cunning. He had a financially successful association with a Mexican cartel over the border, and he traded in weapons and stolen cars. He also had a thriving business in human trafficking. He had no interest in corporate crime. Not for Jessup the sleight of hand in the white-collar world. He was a hands-on racketeer. Jessup liked money. Lots of it. And his territory, which still clung to the well-defined individualism of West Texas, was large enough to accommodate his appetites.

Jessup was entirely a self-made man, and he considered himself a product of his environment. Brought up on a hardscrabble farm, where his family had struggled daily to stay fed, Jessup learned early that a man got what he did only by hard work and grabbing any opportunity that presented itself. He’d made a vow that he would not end up like his folks, worn to a frazzle as they struggled to maintain some kind of life. The land they lived on was hard. The crops they grew were sparse and tended to die off if you turned your back on them.

Jessup’s father was a strong man physically, but less so mentally. Each time he had a setback he would resort to the bottle, becoming surly and downright vicious. The rest of the family was often on the receiving end of Anson Jessup’s hard fists. That went on until Seb’s eighteenth birthday. Tired of being knocked around like a straw-filled dummy, he’d decided to fight back. He drove his bullying father to the ground, his solid fists leaving the man bloody and beaten. For the first time in his life, Jessup’s simmering rage gave him the strength to overcome someone. It would not be the last time that happened.

It was his last day as part of the family. After putting his father down, he went inside the house, packed his few belongings in a bag and walked away. He never looked back.

He spent the next five years in the army. For a boy who had spent long days working the hostile land on a dirt-poor farm, army life was easy. All he had to do was follow orders, and he was given three meals a day, a bed to sleep in and a wage. When he heard other recruits grumbling about the hard life, Jessup had grinned. They knew nothing. He’d kept his head down. He was a quick learner, and he quickly gained promotion. The day he was made corporal was something he was quietly proud of.