Don Pendleton - Hell Dawn

Roberto Cardenas, the guard who’d shoved Mendoza to the ground, held out a hand to help him up. Mendoza slapped it away and came to his feet.

“You’re the new chief of security,” Mendoza said. “Think you can handle it?”

“Sure I do.”

“Good, clean up this mess. Then come with me. We’ve got a special delivery coming from America

“THE OLD MAN’S GONE crazy,” Cardenas whispered.

“Crazy?” Emilio Cortez replied, his confusion evident.

“Crazy, man. He just had Carlos killed for no fucking reason.”

“What the hell are you saying? Killed him why? When?”

Cardenas lightly gripped Cortez’s upper arm to steer him away from the others. He cast a last glance over his shoulder and watched as his team from Colorado unloaded Fox from the small jet they’d used to flee from the States. The big programmer’s body was limp thanks to drugs injected into him before they’d loaded him on the plane and returned to Mexico. The guys carrying Fox hauled him over to a black Mercedes, shoved him inside and shut the doors. Each took up a position next to the vehicle, apparently awaiting further orders.

Satisfied, Cortez turned his attention back to Cardenas.

“So, what happened? Why’d the old man have him taken out?”

Cardenas recounted the whole story. When he finished, Cortez slowly shook his head, feeling his stomach knot. He ran a hand over his mouth and swore. “He has lost it. And over some whore.”

“It’s not her fault,” Cardenas said.

Cortez shot him a look and the guy shrank a little bit. “So now you’re sticking up for her.”

“All I’m saying is, it’s not her fault. Mendoza did it, not her. She just asked to go into town without the guards. She wasn’t trying to start trouble. She sure as hell didn’t want Mendoza to flip out or Carlos to die.”

Cortez started to argue the point, thought better of it and clamped his jaw shut. The other man was right. Mendoza’s wife wasn’t the problem; he was the problem. He’d been losing his grip on reality for months now, becoming increasingly paranoid and irrational with each passing day.

“When’s the guy coming?” Cortez asked.

Cardenas checked his watch. “Twenty-five minutes.”

Cortez nodded. “Good.”

“Yeah, good unless Mendoza loses his cool and blows the deal. Then Jack Mace will turn tail and leave. And he’ll take his money with him.”

“The hell he will! Mace wanted this Fox guy in the worst way. You think that once he stands within grabbing distance of Fox he’s suddenly going to change his mind, turn tail and head back to Africa? All just because Mendoza’s a flake? C’mon, man, keep your damn head on straight. This is bigger than a couple of personalities.”

“I don’t know…”

“You’re right. You don’t know. So quit worrying about it and leave stuff to me. Now, get the hell out of here and get to work.”

When Cortez was alone, he stared skyward. He squinted against the sun’s glare but enjoyed the warm rays bathing his skin. He sighed deeply and thought about what had to be done next. Though he still considered himself loyal to Mendoza, his first loyalty lay with himself. In the past several months the old man had become more and more out of touch with reality. Maybe it was the drugs he used. Maybe he was intoxicated with the beauty of the caramel-skinned woman who shared his bed. Cortez didn’t know and he didn’t care. All he knew was that he’d sacrificed his career, his honor, to serve Mendoza.

Cortez would have to see for himself how far gone Mendoza had become. If he didn’t like what he saw, he would take out the bastard. As far as he was concerned, Mendoza had already served his purpose. He’d paid for their trip to the United States, their weapons and equipment and the bribes necessary to snatch Gabriel Fox. And, whatever Cortez’s boss failed to supply, Jack Mace had happily filled the gap.

Frankly, Cortez neither liked nor trusted either man. But he dismissed his misgivings with a shrug. He was in it for the massive payday it promised. Other than that, everyone could go to hell.

Cortez slipped inside the house. The air-conditioned atmosphere cooled the sweat that had beaded on his forehead, his neck and the small of his back. He slid off his sunglasses, slipped them into his breast pocket and wound his way through the corridors of the massive house. Occasionally he passed one of Mendoza’s gunners and acknowledged the guy with a nod. All the security people knew him and let him pass without incident.

The Mexican knew that Mendoza took his lunch on the terrace, and he likely still would be there. Or he would be about ready to take a siesta. Either way, Cortez wanted to see him, look into his eyes, look into his soul, to see if he was still up to the challenge that lay ahead.

If not, Cortez would have no problem using the Glock 19 that rode at his waist. A couple of well-placed shots and he’d send the guy straight to hell.

Cortez had grown up in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, one of eight children raised in poverty. His father worked at the docks. Though he broke his back fourteen hours a day unloading ships, he barely made enough to feed his family or to keep the bank from snatching away the hovel they’d called home. His mother was given to long bouts of depression that caused her to stay in bed for days and sometimes weeks, shutters drawn despite the sweltering heat, and weep for hours on end. It was this sort of misery Cortez associated with poverty, and he wanted no part of it.

When he had become old enough, he’d lied about his age and joined the Mexican army. After that, he had become a police officer, and eventually joined an antidrug squad. The endless hours of paramilitary drills and urban combat training had helped hone his killing skills to a keening edge. The work had meant a steady paycheck. But he still supplemented it with bribes offered up by drug lords willing to exchange their money for their lives. In short, he knew how to survive. He’d proved that much when he’d chopped down that damn American in Colorado. And he would do it again as many times as was necessary to get where and what he wanted, which was money and security. Get that, he reasoned, and anything else he could want would follow.

He took the elevator to the second floor, made his way down the corridor until he reached Mendoza’s room. He rapped sharply on the door but waited for an invitation to enter. He heard footsteps and moment later, the door opened and he saw one of his men, Garcia, peering at him through the space between the door and the jamb.

“Hey,” Garcia said.

Cortez nodded. The door swung open.

Stepping inside, Cortez glanced around the room and found Mendoza seated in a corner. The old man nursed a cigar and a bluish haze hung heavily in the room. Mendoza gave Cortez a wide grin and gestured for the younger man to sit in a chair opposite him. Cortez strode to the chair, dropped into it.

“Welcome back, my friend,” Mendoza said. “I trust your mission to Colorado went well? You did a good job for me?”

Cortez seated himself across from the drug lord. He smiled and nodded at the older man. “It went well. The proof’s downstairs. You hear anything from Mace?”

“He’s coming. It won’t be long now.”

“Has he transferred the rest of the money yet?”

Mendoza shook his head. “We got a third up front. We get the rest when we hand over the American. You already knew that. What’s the problem? You don’t trust me now?”

Cortez feigned a surprised look. “Hey, you know better than that. I trust you with my life. It’s Mace I’ve got the issues with. I want to make sure we get what’s coming to us.”

Mendoza gave him a hard look. “You heard something?”