The Assassin's List (13 page)

The roadster maintained a steady speed through the Terwilliger curves and continued on toward downtown Portland. Part of him wanted to pull alongside, wave, and see how Kaamil reacted when he saw that Drake was alive. Instead, he followed at a distance to keep from being noticed.

When they neared the Markham bridge crossing over the Willamette River, Drake allowed a couple of cars to cut in front of him. I-5 continued over the bridge, but the freeway also split left into the city center and onto I-405 toward Mount Saint Helens. If Kaamil didn’t want to be followed, all he had to do was wait until the last moment and swerve to the left or to the right up over the bridge.

The roadster waited until the last moment, then crossed over into the right-hand lane, taking I-5 over the river. Drake followed, and watched a minute later when it took another right onto I-84, heading toward the airport.

Traffic on I-84 was more congested than on I-5, and he had to pay more attention to his driving to make sure he wasn’t spotted. He maintained pace with the Mercedes, but changed lanes frequently, and accordioned the space between the two cars. Kaamil, however, continued at a steady sixty-five miles per hour in the middle lane. Before much longer, Drake knew he would either take the exit to the Portland International Airport or continue traveling east.

When they reached the exit to the airport, Kaamil stayed on I-84. The freeway soon opened up and became a two-lane, winding speedway following the Columbia River up the gorge to Hood River. It was just the road for a car like the Mercedes SLS.

Wherever Kaamil was going, Drake was committed to following him. One way or another, he had to know if Kaamil was the man who sent killers to his farm.

Chapter 22

Despite the opportunity to drive faster, the black roadster held to a steady seventy miles per hour. Drake hardly noticed the Columbia River as it sliced through towering cliffs on either side. It was the only river that cut through the Cascade mountain range and allowed passage to the Pacific. Its beauty was lost on Drake, however. He had slipped into the role of the hunter.

When he was with Delta Force, he pursued the targets his government provided him, without question and without emotion. It had simply been his job. Now, he was pursuing someone and it wasn’t his job, and there was a lot of emotion.

As he drove past the Cascade Locks and the Bridge of the Gods, two hundred yards behind Kaamil’s roadster, his vibrating cell phone startled him back to the moment.

“Can I assume I won’t be seeing you later today?” Margo asked.

“I’m sorry, I should have called. Something’s come up. Everything okay there?”

“If you mean, do I have any more threatening men sitting around, the answer is no. Unless you count my husband, who’s mad as hell you didn’t let us know someone tried to kill you last night. Where are you?” she demanded.

“Margo, you and Paul have every right to be angry. I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything, as soon as I can, but I need to know how you heard about last night. Is Paul there?” he asked.

“No, he isn’t. A friend of his from the FBI called and asked if we were okay. He asked if there had been any trouble at the office that we needed help with. He assumed we knew what was going on, since we might be in danger, living in the condo above your office and all. Good thing we have friends, don’t you think?” she asked.

Her anger stung him, but he didn’t have the time to make amends.

“I’m on I-84 in Kay’s Land Rover following the ISIS manager up the Columbia. I said I was sorry, and that’s all I can say right now,” he said, in a voice that didn’t invite a response. “If that woman from DHS calls, don’t tell her where I am. I don’t need any interference. Everything is going to be all right, I promise. I’ll call you when I’m headed back to town,” Drake said and ended the call.

Everything will be all right, Drake thought, just as soon as I find the SOB who tried to have me killed.

Kaamil was still holding to a steady seventy miles per hour as they passed Viento State Park, and then began to slow. Seven miles later, he slowed even more and pulled off I-84 into the small town of Hood River, self-proclaimed windsurfing capital of the world. Apples and pears had been the main staples of the local economy before the fierce winds blowing down the Columbia started drawing windsurfers from all over the world. The town was now dominated by board shops, restaurants and microbrew pubs. There weren’t many businesses, however, big enough to need a security firm like ISIS.

Drake stayed a block behind Kaamil’s roadster when it turned left at the first intersection and drove down toward the river. Kaamil continued on, past a vast parking lot that served as a staging area for the windsurfers. Vans and SUVs with roof racks, and old Volkswagen campers were everywhere. Beyond them, a couple hundred colorful sails skimmed back and forth across the water. For a moment, Drake had the sinking feeling that maybe it was Kaamil’s day off, and he was here to meet someone for an afternoon of board sailing.

Kaamil drove past the parking lot and pulled up in front of what looked to be an old, abandoned warehouse. The warehouse was surrounded by a chain link fence topped by barbed wire, with a gate that appeared to be locked, blocking Kaamil’s entrance.

Drake pulled to the curb just beyond the town’s riverside Expo Center and watched. Within a minute, a man dressed in a dark blue shirt with lettering above the left pocket, a dark blue baseball hat with matching lettering, and jeans hurried out and opened the gate. When Kaamil pulled through the gate, the short Hispanic man stood at attention with his head bowed, and then stayed at the gate as Kaamil drove in and stopped next to the building.

When the guard stayed at the gate, Drake drove to the end of the street and made a U-turn that brought him back past the warehouse. He pulled into the parking lot of the Expo Center. He pulled out a map and looked over the top of it toward the warehouse. Moments later, Kaamil came out of the warehouse with another man and got into Kaamil’s car. For a second, Drake had the feeling he knew the other man. Thick black hair, stylishly trimmed, sunglasses, and a gold chain flashing at his throat, the man looked like a Latin movie star dressed in a denim shirt and blue jeans.

There was one street leading away from the warehouse, and it ran right in front of the Expo Center parking lot. When Kaamil and the warehouse man drove past, Drake lowered the map and followed in the Land Rover. Up the hill to State Street, and then left on First Street, Kaamil drove slowly, looking for a parking spot.

The light traffic in the small town and the two turns Kaamil had made left Drake only one car behind the black roadster. If Kaamil pulled into an open space, he would have no choice but to drive by to keep from being spotted. If that happened, he’d be lucky to find a space of his own close by.

At the next intersection, Kaamil turned left onto the one-way Oak Street. Midway down the block, he pulled into an open space in front of a restaurant called Taco Del Mar. It was the only open space on the block. The only thing Drake could do was drive around the block and hope to catch sight of them, or find somewhere to watch Kaamil’s car until he returned to it. Either way, he’d come too far to lose the man now.

Drake drove back to Second Street, then an extra block down State Street and tried again to find a place to park on Oak Street. Every parking space was full on both sides of the street. It was looking like finding somewhere to watch Kaamil’s car was his only option, when a pickup pulled out from the last space on the left side of the street. Drake quickly pulled into the vacated space and searched for Kaamil or his passenger. He couldn’t see either man, but he did have a clear view of Kaamil’s black roadster parked on the other side of the street in front of the restaurant.

Tourists moved up and down both sides of the street, in and out of the sport shops and T-shirt emporiums. Drake noticed some of them checking out sandwich board menus displayed in front of several of the street’s restaurants. That had to be where Kaamil went, he thought, taking his Latino friend to lunch. There were three restaurants he could see, but only one offered him a full view of its occupants. Taco Del Mar was an unpretentious fish taco stand with a counter along the back and wooden picnic tables scattered throughout the seating area. The front of the restaurant was open, with a pull-down overhead door to close up at night.

Two of the first tables were occupied by young couples wearing short wetsuits turned down to the waist and T-shirts. A couple of families took up another three tables, with the adults at one table and the kids at the other two. At the last table in the rear, two men sat with bottles of beer in front of them. Kaamil had his back to the street, leaning across the table to talk with his passenger, who sat facing toward the street. The man still had his sunglasses on, but Drake again had the feeling that he knew the man somehow.

He was tempted to use the binoculars he’d brought along, but decided it might attract too much attention from some passerby. Instead, he dug out Kay’s digital camera from the center console and switched it on. He focused the zoom lens on Kaamil’s car. When its image was clear, he set the camera on the dash and flipped out the side LCD screen. He could see Kaamil’s table clearly without having to hold the camera.

Drake sat back in his seat and watched the two men. They were still talking and drinking their beer when a waitress brought two plates of tacos to their table. Kaamil didn’t acknowledge the waitress, but his passenger removed his sunglasses and smiled broadly, saying something that made the young woman laugh. With his sunglasses off, there was no question in Drake’s mind where he’d met the laughing Latino. He had convicted the man of meth production and distribution, the attempted murder of a prostitute, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer. He was surprised Roberto Valencia was out of prison. He had been sentenced to fifteen years, and even with good behavior, should still be behind bars.

Young Valencia was the son of Armando Valencia, one of the drug-smuggling kingpins operating out of Mexico. Armando had been a top lieutenant of Amado Carrilo Fuentes, when
El Jefe
died accidentally after a botched plastic surgery operation in 1997. Armando moved aggressively out on his own, and was soon moving tons of drugs from Columbia through Mexico into the United States. He was also the first to recognize the tremendous profit potential in manufacturing and distributing methamphetamine in large quantities, along smuggling routes already established for other drugs.

Meth, produced in sophisticated super-labs capable of turning out enough for sales of $750,000 to a million dollars a day, soon became Armando’s largest income producer. When the super-labs were targeted by the DEA and frequently raided, Armando used his Mexican gangs to smuggle the meth and allowed others to take the risk of production.

Armando’s son, Roberto, was born in California, the first child of his first wife. Armando had a habit, however, of marrying the prettiest girl wherever he lived. He remained faithful until the police were too close to capturing him. Then he moved on. Each time he settled down after escaping capture, he celebrated his freedom by starting over, with a new wife.

After Roberto graduated high school in Los Angeles, he tracked his father down in Mexico and told him he wanted to learn the family business. Four years later, Armando sent his son to the Northwest to oversee his meth network there. That’s when Drake met the young man. He had been arrested for trying to kill a prostitute who failed to please him. Further investigation connected him to a number of other crimes, including the sale of methamphetamine. Drake convicted him of attempted murder and assorted drug charges.

That was five years ago. Drake saw Roberto had lost his youthful appearance, but he still had style. Even in jeans and a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the wrist, his heavy gold chain and gold Rolex made him look like a rich playboy. What he and Kaamil had in common, Drake could only imagine. Whatever it was, he doubted it was legal.

~~~

Kaamil wasn’t a huge fan of Mexican food, but Roberto loved fish tacos. Roberto said it reminded him of growing up in Los Angeles. So, they ate fish tacos. Roberto was too valuable to their plan to upset.

“Are you ready?” Kaamil asked, drinking a little of his Corona.

“Don’t worry, enjoy your taco. I know the routines of the security guards, and their families. My men have even been in their homes. My men will do what I tell them.”

Kaamil watched Roberto carefully. He wasn’t concerned about Roberto. The man would put a bullet between the eyes of any man in his gang who disobeyed him. Behind the good looks and quick smile was a man who enjoyed inflicting pain and killing people, especially young women. Kaamil had buried enough of them at the ISIS ranch, as a favor for Roberto, to know. He was concerned about Roberto’s men. They were the ones who had to blackmail the targeted security personnel, and maintain control of them when their families were taken hostage.

“Do they understand there can’t be any witnesses, not even children? We’ll have to leave the country if there’s anyone left to identify us.”

Roberto finished his second taco and lifted his Corona to his mouth, running the rim of it back and forth over his lips. Kaamil thought his eyes looked like the eyes of a rattlesnake, unblinking and deadly.

“What is it you’re worried about, Kaamil? Are you worried my men won’t get your guys in, or that your young martyrs will chicken out? Decide Paradise isn’t worth dying for?” Roberto said, with a sneer. “You would do better to worry about your own men.”