Failed State (A James Winchester Thriller Book 1) (James Winchester Series) - James Samuel (top novels of all time .txt) 📗

“I hope there were no problems,” George pried.

“Not at all. Only an ill-timed call when I have important guests. Remind me, what were we talking about?”

“You need to cut back a little on your imports and exports, just for a few months. That way we reassure the public and the government can get back to ignoring the problem.”

“Why would I care about that?” asked Romero.

George drained the last of his whisky. “Look, Mr. Romero, I know exactly how many shipments are stopped by the Coast Guard. One in every six. I know that you more than make up for that, but what happens if they start taking it seriously? What if they stop two in every six, or half of all your shipments? I know you don’t have those sorts of margins to work with.”

Romero steepled his fingers in front of his face. “What are the chances of that?”

“High. This isn’t an election year. It’s not even a midterm year. There are no scandals and no international crises. The media are looking for something to focus on, and if we aren’t more careful it could be us.”

Romero took a deep breath. His slender shoulders rose up and down as he scratched his designer stubble.

“Come on, Mr. Romero, you won’t lose a cent. You’ll still be making millions a year, regardless.”

Romero straightened up and adjusted his sunglasses with a manicured fingernail. “For you, Senator Black, I can cut shipments by half for six months.”

“You’re a reasonable man, Mr. Romero,” said George, not quite believing it himself. “Once everything has passed, you can get back up to full steam again.”

Romero didn’t display the excitement that George did. The smile dropped from his face leaving him looking altogether serious. Once again, he steepled his fingers and then cracked them.

“Understand, Senator Black, we trust one another. But if you ever think to fuck me, you will go down with me.”

The butler, who had been lingering on the upper part of the patio, clicked the little recording device in his pocket.

Chapter Seven

Santa Rosa de Lima, Guanajuato, Mexico

The little town of Santa Rosa de Lima rested on the limits of the City of Celaya’s municipal control. James and Sinclair stepped out of a taxi on the roundabout with the welcome sign affixed to the centre. The dusty town held no more than a couple thousand people, but it had gained notoriety due to the penchant for the leadership of the La Familia Celaya cartel to house themselves here in the mansions on the outskirts.

“Isn’t this a charming place?” said Sinclair. “Look, there’s a little juice stand.”

James glanced at the obese woman sitting at her stand, underneath a piece of plastic covering the large plastic bottles of orange juice and the hibiscus-based Jamaica juice. Bystanders hiding under the shade of the leaning trees gave them a fair few looks. Tourists didn’t come here.

“We shouldn’t be standing on the side of the road like this,” said James.

“Are you getting cold feet? You just shot a member of a cartel in the head. Standing here shouldn’t scare you too much.”

James ran his tongue across the front of his teeth. He didn’t care about shooting that prisoner. The only good member of any drug cartel was a dead one in his eyes. The world had become a marginally better place with his death, but he didn’t like Sinclair nonchalantly pointing out his kills like they were hunting deer.

“We’re vulnerable here,” said James. “There’s no cover and nowhere to run to.”

“We’re safe here. We’re under their protection.”

James grunted. He knew that, but he sensed they were being watched from the moment they moved into the open. An old Mexican man in a tan Stetson sat with his back against a tree smoking a cigarette. He never took his eyes off them. Could he be an informer for the cartel too?

The black S500 from the night before circled the roundabout and pulled over next to them. Once again, the window rolled down, but this time Francisco appeared behind the glass.

James thought he looked like any other narco, but he had a kindly, almost welcoming, face. He thought of him like a Hispanic John Gotti parading around in front of the cameras.

“Welcome to Santa Rosa de Lima. Get in. Also, Mr. Wood, happy to meet you at last. Mario’s told me all about you.”

Sinclair shook Francisco’s hand through the passenger window. “I hope that the deal is still on, and you can trust us now. We’re on your side on this.”

James and Sinclair piled into the backseat together. Today, only the driver and Francisco had come to greet them. James wasn’t sad about not seeing Mario. He sensed Mario had taken a dislike to him, even after proving himself at the bordello.

“Santa Rosa de Lima is like most small towns in Guanajuato and Michoacán,” Francisco explained. “Poor, abandoned by the government. They don’t care for none of these people. We have protected them for years. Most of these streets were repaired because of us.”

James stared out the darkened window and inspected the town. The people dressed poorly, and most of them were drastically overweight, but the roads ran smoothly, and the houses, with signs of recent renovation, didn’t look like they belonged here.

“So, we’re going to meet Mr. Rodriguez?” said Sinclair.

“Yes,” said Francisco. “Call him Montoya, though. Only his mother calls him by his last name.”

“Got it. You hear that, James?”

“I heard it. He’s called Montoya.”

In a few minutes, they reached the border of Santa Rosa de Lima. A high wall topped with broken glass and electric fencing hid Montoya’s mansion from the outside world. James noted the security cameras on the gates.

Francisco stuck his head out of the window and pressed the button