Highway to Vengeance: A Thomas Highway Thriller (23 page)

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“Doubt it all you want,” I said. “But my
hands stay right where they are.”

“All right,” Holland said. “But don’t make
any sudden moves. I don’t want this thing to get messy.”

“Neither do I.”

Holland looked out over the mall. “So are
you ready to get down to business?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Where do you want to start?”

“What’s the deal with Montoya?” I said,
wasting no time getting to the heart of the matter. I didn’t want
to be exposed any longer than necessary. “How and when did you turn
him?”

“Right after we shut down the CDT,” Holland
said. “His brother-in-law, Alvarez, brokered the deal.”

“What was he doing for you guys?” I asked.
“Giving you information on the other cartels?”

“More than that,” Holland said. “He was
using his connections to get us hard evidence on the members of the
Mexican government who are on the cartel’s payroll. In case you
haven’t noticed, it’s a volatile situation down there. The cartels
are getting more and more brazen every day. They’re pushing 3000
murders already and it’s only July. Plus things are starting to
spill over the border more and more frequently. We’re trying to
clean things up before it starts getting too out of hand.”

“So that’s how he was able to beat
extradition,” I said. “By hooking up with you guys.”

“That’s right. We picked him up, worked out
a deal, then cut him loose. We’re using him as bait to go after the
major players in this war.”

“I thought he
was
a major
player?”

“He is, on the operational side,” Holland
said. “But just like everything else, it’s the men behind the
scenes that are the real forces at play here. The politicians, the
elected officials that pave the way for the psychopaths to do their
thing. If we can’t get rid of the whole rotten infrastructure we
may not be able to keep Mexico from becoming a failed state. And
then the shit will really hit the fan. That’s what made Montoya so
important. He was our first real link to the big boys.”

“And now he’s dead,” I said.

“And all our work is wasted.”

I took a deep breath. Holland certainly was
persuasive. If he was simply playing a part, he was turning in an
award-worthy performance. But I still wasn’t completely convinced,
so I pressed him for more information, probing for cracks in his
story, trying to read his reactions.

“So if Montoya was working for you, I’m
guessing he wasn’t really negotiating with an Al-Qaeda splinter
cell to help them smuggle a WMD into the country?” I said.

Holland’s eyes widened. “Is that what you
were told?”

I nodded. “They said they had NSA
transcripts of the conversations and everything,” I said. “They
sold it well, told me that’s why my wife was killed, to protect the
integrity of one of his cross-border tunnels. They said Montoya was
trying to bring the CDT back from the dead by taking the biggest
money deal he could find. And I bought it; hook, line and sinker,
like a fucking blowfish.”

Holland sighed. “Don’t beat yourself up too
bad about it,” he said. “Obviously whomever set you up knew what
they were doing. My guess is they’ve had lots of practice. All we
can do now is try and figure out who they are, and why they wanted
Montoya dead. What did they tell you about themselves?”

“That they were an ultra-covert organization
created after 9/11 to go after guys like Montoya.”

“And you believed that crap?”

I shrugged sheepishly.

Holland shook his head. “Now
that
you
should feel bad about. You know better than to buy into that shit.
Groups like that are an illusion; television creations, no more
real than CSI supercops or investigators with ESP.”

“Yeah, I know. Although to be perfectly
honest, deep down I had a feeling it was all bullshit, but I didn’t
really care who they were, as long as they were going to help me
get the person responsible for Josie’s death. I was blinded by rage
at the time.”

“But not anymore?” Holland said.

“No,” I said. “Now I pretty much just feel
sick to my stomach for allowing myself to get played like that. But
I’m over the whole revenge thing, that’s for sure. It ain’t all
it’s cracked up to be.”

“I tried to warn you about that.”

“You sure did. And I’m sorry I didn’t
listen.”

“Don’t fret it,” Holland said. “I knew from
that first meeting that you were someone that needed to learn
things the hard way. I only wish I’d done more to keep you from
doing what you did.”

“I do too,” I said. I took a deep breath,
exhaled audibly. “So who do you think these guys really are?”

Holland shrugged. “It impossible to know for
sure at this point, but the way you described their methods my
guess is they’re some old CIA operators, either working as
straight-up mercenaries or maybe for a rival cartel. But the
important question isn’t who are they, it’s who were they working
for. And how did their employers find out we’d flipped Montoya?
That’s what we really need to find out. And we will, especially if
you’re still willing to help.”

“More than ever,” I said.

“That’s what I like to hear. What kind of
information do you have on them?”

“Locations of our meetings, physical
descriptions of at least three people, names they used, those sort
of things.”

“Anything tangible?” Holland said.
“Pictures? Recordings? Anything?”

“No, they were too careful for anything like
that,” I said. “But there are a couple of bodies down in Mexico
that you can probably still get your hands on, plus I’ve got a cell
phone that one of them used.”

“We might be able to get something useful
off the cell. Do you have the phone on you?”

“No. I left it in a safe place. But I can
get it for you.”

“And I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me
where I could find these bodies?”

“Right now? No. But set up a meeting at the
federal building and show me the paperwork proving that you won’t
charge me in Montoya’s death, and I’ll tell you everything you want
to know.”

Holland flashed me a bemused look. “You
still don’t trust me, huh?”

“Not completely,” I said. “But I’m slowly
getting there.”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Use the
information you gave me and then turn around and charge you with
Montoya’s murder anyway?”

“Actually, I was thinking you might be part
of Pittman’s group, trying to figure out exactly how much
information I have before you decide whether or not to just knock
me off.”

Holland chuckled, shook his head. “You
really are one paranoid son of a bitch.”

“After the last couple of days? You’re damn
right I am.”

“I can understand why,” Holland said. “But
personally, I think you’re giving these guys too much credit. Sure,
they got you good once, but that’s because they had time to plan
the whole thing out. Now that you got them on their heels, my guess
is they’ll panic and go into hiding. In fact—”

I nodded but I wasn’t really listening. I
was conditioning myself to the idea that I wouldn’t be going after
Pittman personally, that I’d handed over responsibility to someone
else. It bothered me a little, but for the most part I was just
glad to be through with the whole mess.

There was something else bothering me too, a
little nugget of information I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It
was something that arose out of the fact Montoya actually was
working for the feds, a detail that went to the heart of the whole
situation. I started thinking about how the whole thing had begun,
how I’d gotten involved in this mess in the first place, back to
Josie’s murder—

I was so lost in my own head that I almost
didn’t see the suspicious-looking man in the cheap suit until he
was halfway up the escalator. His right hand was under his left
armpit, grabbing something beneath his unbuttoned sport coat. He
was staring directly at me.

A sickening feeling gathered in my bowels. I
cast my eyes up, towards the escalator on the other side, and saw
another, similarly dressed man coming down. His hand was in a
similar spot, just a little lower on his hip, no doubt preparing to
pull his own weapon from his holster. He too was staring at me.

Shit. This whole thing was a setup after
all. The only question left was; who was behind it? Homeland
Security or Pittman’s group, whoever the fuck they really were.

Only one way to find out.

I reached out and grabbed Holland around the
neck, spun him around, and pulled him close. I pulled the Glock
from the pouch of the sweatshirt and jammed it into the small of
his back and together we started moving backwards, away from the
escalators.

“What the hell is going on?” Holland said,
panic clear in his voice.

“I fucking knew it,” I said.

“You knew what?”

“That you’re one of them,” I said.

“One of who? What are you talking
about?”

“Shut up,” I said. “Just shut the fuck
up.”

The first man was now three-quarters of the
way to the third floor. His right hand appeared to be gripping the
butt of his weapon but it wasn’t yet visible. The second man was
just now climbing off the escalator but hadn’t started moving
towards us. Like his partner, he also appeared to be holding a
weapon beneath his coat.

“Tell them to back off,” I said calmly. “Do
it now.”

“Tell who to back off?” Holland said, his
voice rising in intensity with every word. “I don’t know what the
fuck you’re talking about!”

Both men were now on our level and walking
towards us. Their weapons were still not visible, and so far, none
of the mall customers had any idea what was going on.

I thought about shooting both men right
there, but I still didn’t know if they were federal agents or part
of Pittman’s group. For now, I figured keeping my gun trained on
Holland gave me the best chance of getting out of here alive.

I raised the Glock, stuck it against the
back of Holland’s head and continued backing away. Speaking more
urgently now, I said, “Last chance, Holland. Tell them to back the
fuck off, right now, or I put one in your head.”

By now, Holland had shifted into full-tilt
panic mode. “I’M TELLING YOU, I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING
ABOUT!”

The gunmen simultaneously pulled Uzi’s from
their coats, making it blatantly obvious they weren’t with Homeland
Security. Now the only questions were whether or not Holland was
with them, and if not, whether they’d shoot through Holland to get
to me.

The answer came almost immediately.

Holland was still yelling something but his
voice was drowned out by the explosion of gunfire. His body shook
violently. The force of the bullets striking his flesh shoved me
backwards, but I maintained my grip, holding Holland tight, using
his body as a human shield.

I stumbled, nearly fell, then caught my
balance and turned my gun towards the man on the right. I fired
three times in rapid succession, hitting the man once in the chest
and once in the throat.

He took two steps backward and fell to the
ground, his finger still on the trigger as he dropped. Bullets
whizzed everywhere.

The mall exploded into chaos—people
screaming, running into stores, vacating the immediate area—but I
kept my eyes trained on the other man.

He was walking towards us, still firing, the
bullets striking Holland’s now flaccid body, knocking me further
off balance, not allowing me to fire back with any accuracy. I
started to lose my grip on Holland and stumbled backwards, trying
desperately to hold onto the agent until the gunman’s clip ran
dry.

Three agonizing seconds later, it did.

He released the empty clip but before he had
a chance to reload, I’d lifted my gun, taken aim, and fired.

The bullet entered his forehead and exploded
out the back. He dropped to the ground.

More gunfire erupted behind me.

I dropped to the floor and turned and rolled
into firing position, using Holland as a combination shield and
shooting platform. I had just started scanning the area for the
other shooter when the unmistakable CRACK! of a high-powered rifle
reverberated throughout the open-air mall.

Seventy-five feet away, a man wearing a
bright blue nylon running suit fell like a ragdoll, his spine blown
out by a .308 caliber bullet traveling at the speed of sound. His
Uzi skittered away on the heavily-polished marble floor.

My chest shuddered as the breath rushed from
my lungs. In the heat of the moment, I’d forgotten all about Willis
having taken a position on the mall’s roof, just in case everything
went to hell. Thank God we’d planned ahead.

I took a deep breath, stood up and scanned
the area.

To my left, three men dressed in various
outfits were rushing towards me. On my right were two more. All the
men were armed with handguns. The closest man was still a good 200
feet away but I could clearly hear all their shouts.

“STAND STILL!”

“DON’T MOVE!”

“PUT YOUR HANDS UP!”

Words before gunfire. Now these guys were
definitely Homeland Security.

I quickly assessed the situation. I’d chosen
this spot for the talk with Holland for a specific reason; the only
question now was whether or not I took the opportunity to
escape.

For a moment, I considered just letting
Homeland Security take me in, but with Holland dead, it was
impossible to know where I stood with them. I had no idea how much
he’d told his superiors, or if he’d even talked to anyone at all
about what he knew. For all I knew, this whole thing—Montoya’s
death
and
this mall debacle—could end up squarely on my
shoulders.

Besides, I’d already tried it their way, the
legal way, and it had almost gotten me killed. It was time to
finish this the way I’d started it. My way. Hooyah.