Highway to Vengeance: A Thomas Highway Thriller (13 page)

I looked out the window at the enormous,
obscenely expensive houses lining every street on this side of the
island. It was strange to think that less than a mile away, the
next generation of SEALs were on the beach, wet and exhausted and
sandy and praying for the night to be over so they could retire to
their walk-in closet sized living quarters and get an hour of sleep
on their rock-hard beds before getting up and going through another
tortuous fourteen-hour day.

“Are you all right back there?” Pittman
said.

“Fine,” I replied.

“So what do you think? Do you want to take a
shot at Montoya?”

“Hell yes,” I said. “But before I commit
fully, tell me one thing: Why do you guys want him dead?”

The corners of Pittman’s mouth turned up in
what could be considered a smile. “I was wondering when you’d get
around to asking that question. But before we get into it, tell me
how much you know about Ferdinand Montoya.”

“Just the basics,” I said. “I know he was
the head honcho of the Cuidad De Tijuana Cartel, and that he was
somehow able to avoid extradition to the states after the CDT got
shut down, but besides that, not much.”

“Not only did Ferdinand Montoya run the
CDT,” Pittman said, “He essentially
was
the CDT. He made all
the major decisions, from negotiating prices to acquiring product
to mapping out the smuggling routes. But what he loved most was the
killing. Competitors, employees who stole from him, government
officials who refused to take his money; anyone that stood up to
him or spoke out against him in any way, he’d have them murdered.
He was directly responsible for the deaths of literally thousands
of people, and he even did the deed himself when the occasion
called for a personal touch.”

“So Montoya’s a murderer,” I said. “Big
deal. All the drug lords down there are. It still doesn’t explain
why you guys want him dead.”

“Not only is Montoya a murderer, he’s a
complete and utter sociopath,” Pittman said. “And he loved what he
did; he lived for running the CDT. So much so that he is willing to
go to whatever lengths are necessary to get the cartel back on its
feet. No matter how many people may get killed in the process.”

Finally, after all the yapping, we were
getting to the crux of the matter.

“What kind of lengths are we talking about
here?” I said.

Pittman put his elbows on the table and
leaned forward. “We are talking about Montoya negotiating a deal
with an Al-Qaeda sleeper cell that would allow them to smuggle a
nuclear device into the United States using his drug transit
routes.”

I whistled through my teeth.

“Our thoughts exactly,” Pittman said.

“How did you guys find out about this?”

“The NSA intercepted a series of phone calls
between Montoya and a high-ranking member of Al-Qaeda,” Pittman
said. “They passed a transcript of the conversation on to the White
House and they passed it on to us.”

“What about Homeland Security?”

“What about them?”

“Aren’t they onto this too?” I said. “I was
told they had a major ongoing operation with Montoya as the main
player.”

Pittman shook his head. “The DHS operation
is a completely separate deal. They are after Montoya for his
previous role as leader of the CDT. They were not made aware of
this particular subset of Montoya’s activities.”

“Why not?”

I wasn’t really sure why I was questioning a
process that was presenting me with such a gift-wrapped opportunity
at revenge, but the question came out before I had a chance to
analyze my reasons behind asking it.

“Because they already had their shot at
him,” Pittman said. “And they fucked it up. Sure, they shut down
his organization, but they failed in their attempt to bring him to
the States. And the administration is fed up. So they funneled the
information directly to us, so that we could take care of the
situation. The right way. After all, this is what our organization
was created for.”

I offered a casual nod and said, “Fair
enough,” in an attempt to sound as though Pittman’s explanations
had made perfect sense. But deep down, a polyp of discomfort was
forming in response to the methods of his organization. Sure they
were working outside the law, but it’s not like I had any special
affinity for the law; everything I’d done to this point in the
search for Josie’s killer had been explicitly illegal, and it
hadn’t bothered me in the least.

No, it was something else, something that on
the surface sounded hypocritical, but it really wasn’t. It came
down to the idea that my methods were predicated on the ethics of
personal revenge, but Pittman’s were sanctioned by the government.
It shouldn’t have mattered—it could be considered a justifiable
response either way—but it did; at least on some level. For some
reason it just seemed wrong.

So what if it was?
said my
inner-SEAL.
Don’t worry about their methods. Don’t worry about
why they want Montoya dead. Don’t worry about the larger
implications of what they’re doing. Just take the information
they’re giving you and use it for your own purposes. Use it to kill
the man that killed your wife.

My inner-SEAL was right. The larger picture
wasn’t my concern. Getting justice for Josie was.

“Fuck it,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

Willis lived in Point Loma, an older suburb
of San Diego located about eight miles west of downtown. Like much
of older San Diego, it had started out as a military community. To
this day, it still retained a good portion of its quaintness.
Mostly residential, with narrow, tree-lined streets, houses with
character, and lots of quiet, it seemed to be a relic from the
1950’s stuck next to the Pacific Ocean.

Willis’s house was a well-maintained but
unassuming two-story of moderate size on a cul-de-sac set deep into
a residential community. The lawn was immaculate and a little
garden was tucked away in the far corner of the front yard. A white
picket fence ran along the outside of the property. Looking at the
set-up from the outside, it would have been impossible to tell that
a thirty-year old, single, private investigator with a propensity
for guns, strippers, and working in the shady area of the law lived
there. Which was precisely the point.

The early morning air was damp and
salt-tinged as I made my way onto his front porch and rang the
doorbell four times in quick succession. Knowing full well that he
rarely got up before noon, I counted to ten, then rang it four more
times. I was just about to press the button for the third series of
rings when I heard Willis bellowing from inside the house.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said.

Laughing, I rang the bell one last time,
just for the hell of it.

“Cut it out, dammit,” Willis said as he
disengaged the deadbolt and opened the door. He was wearing boxers,
a T-shirt and a pair of socks. His hair was a mess, he was
unshaven, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“Awake already?” I said.

“Very fucking funny.”

Willis stood aside and I stepped into the
house. He closed the door behind me and said, “This better be good,
Highway. I just got to sleep a couple hours ago.”

“Oh, it’s good,” I said as I dropped the
nylon bag I was holding onto his dining room table.

“What’s in there?” Willis said.

“A little over fifty thousand dollars.”

Willis walked over, stuck his hand in the
bag, and pulled out a tightly packed bundle of hundred dollar
bills. He ran his finger along the top of the stack, fluttering the
bills. “Jesus. Where did you get all this cash?”

“I emptied one of my bank accounts this
morning before I stopped by.”

Willis dropped the stack back into the bag,
pulled a chair out and sat down. “I didn’t know you had that kind
of money.”

“The Navy compensated me well for my little
accident,” I said.

“It sure looks like it,” he said. “What’s it
all for?”

“You. As payment.”

“Hell, this is way too much for what I’ve
done for you.”

“It’s not only for what you’ve done, but for
what you’re still going to do.”

“And what, exactly, is that?”

“Get me a new identity,” I said. “A good
one. Driver’s License, Passport, Birth Certificate, all that jazz.
And fast.”

“How fast?”

“By midnight tonight.”

Willis whistled softly.

I was nodding my head in agreement with his
succinct assessment. “Can you get it done?”

“With this much money? No problem. But why
the rush job?”

“I’m going down to Mexico to take care of
some business, and when I get back, it won’t be safe to be myself
anymore.”

Willis crossed his arms, gave me a knowing
look. “You got a bead on Ferdinand Montoya, didn’t you?”

I put on an innocent face. “What makes you
say that?

“Very fucking funny,” he said. “Who hooked
you up? His brother?”

“Nope.”

“Then who?”

“I just stumbled on to it.”

“Don’t give me that shit, Highway. Where did
you get the info from?”

“I came into contact with the right people,
and their wants coincided with mine,” I said. “So now I’m on my way
to Mexico with all the information I need to take the motherfucker
out.”

“What kind of people are we talking about
here?” Willis said.

“People who don’t like to give out much
information about themselves.”

“You mean like
government-supported-but-not-explicitly-acknowledged type
shit?”

“That sums it up pretty accurately,” I
said.

Willis smiled. “That’s pretty fucking
cool.”

“Yeah, I thought so too.”

“How did they get their hands on you?” he
asked.

“They picked me up at your warehouse.”

“They knew you were there?”

I nodded. “They’d been following me for a
while, even before Homeland Security picked up my scent. They
learned about Josie shortly after she’d been killed and stumbled
onto me during their investigation into her death. They figured we
might be able to help each other. Apparently they’d been looking to
get after Montoya for a little while, and I provided them with the
perfect opportunity to green-light their plans.”

“So these guys give you the information you
need to kill Montoya, and you give them the plausible deniability
for Montoya’s death.”

“That’s right.”

“Seems like a pretty fair trade to me,”
Willis said.

“Yeah, it sounded good to me too.”

“Did they tell you why they wanted Montoya
dead?”

I tried to maintain a neutral expression.
“They didn’t say.”

“Bullshit,” Willis said immediately. “They
told you. I can see it on your face.”

“Sorry man, I’m sworn to secrecy. I’ll give
you the scoop after it’s all over.”

“Fuck that,” Willis said. “You want me to
help you out, you better tell me what Montoya’s up to. And don’t
make me beat it out of you, because you know I will if I have
to.”

Obviously it wasn’t a true threat, but I
acquiesced anyway. I was dying to talk about it, actually, despite
the warning Pittman had given me about keeping my mouth shut. And
there was no way I was going to leave Willis in the dark. Not after
all he had done for me already. So I told him.

“Montoya is negotiating a deal with an
Al-Qaeda splinter cell that would allow them to use his tunnel to
bring a WMD into the country.”

“Holy Shit! Are you serious?”

I nodded. “Apparently, he’s trying to get
back into the drug business and this is the quickest way to get a
big lump of cash.”

“So he had Josie and her client killed to
make sure nobody knew about the tunnel,” Willis said. It wasn’t a
question.

“Exactly. From what they told me, it’s
pretty much his only remaining asset. If it gets compromised, he’s
fucked.”

“And all this is real, verifiable
information?”

“They’ve got NSA transcripts of the
conversation and everything,” I said.

“Then why don’t they go after him
legally?”

“They can’t,” I said. “According to what I
was told, Montoya’s got connections in the highest levels of the
Mexican government. He’s essentially untouchable, at least by legal
means.”

“So they decided to turn to you.”

I nodded.

“Sounds like a perfect solution for everyone
involved,” Willis said.

“I thought so.”

“So when are you heading down south?”

“As soon as we’re done here.”

“Are you sure you want to go at this alone?
I’ve got nothing better to do today. I could keep an eye on you
from afar, make sure everything goes according to plan.”

“Thanks for the offer,” I said. “But this is
my deal. Besides, you can help me out more by staying here. If
things go to hell down there, I’m fucked anyway. With you here, if
I can make it back across the border, I may just have a
chance.”

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

It was nearly noon when I parked my car in a
long-term lot adjacent to Interstate 5 and walked into Mexico via
the San Ysidro border crossing.

I was chosen for a random search, and after
telling the border guards that I was coming down to spend the night
partying in Tijuana, they walked me through a metal detector then
let me pass without further hassle. Besides the clothes on my back,
I had brought only money with me; six hundred dollars in my front
right pocket and two thousand more in each of my shoes, just in
case I ran into trouble.

The first thing I noticed whenever I crossed
the border was the smell. It wasn’t horrible but it was definitely
different; a little more ripe and slightly less refined. I always
found it interesting that the air itself served as a constant
reminder that you were no longer in the United States.