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

he had a price on his head now. He had made the connection between the foreigners and Montoya.

How many innocent lives would it now cost to take him down?

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico

Fernando and Alex marched in lockstep as they left Tijuana Airport. Nobody questioned them as they showed their IDs to security. None of the few people hanging around the airport glanced at them twice. In more liberal Tijuana, their tattoos didn’t make them stand out in a crowd.

“Vargas has contacted me,” said Alex. “There’s a gringo working for Montoya now.”

Fernando laughed at that. “He’s really that desperate?”

“It’s no laughing matter. The gringo knows what he’s doing. He’s already killed some of our men. We tried to get him in León, but he survived and killed most of the sicarios in the restaurant.”

Fernando stiffened up. “He’s serious then?”

Alex nodded as he hailed a taxi. “I don’t think this guy is part of any cartel or has any interest in drugs. He’s too well-trained. One time you can call it luck, maybe some retired military guy, but this guy is something else.”

The taxi pulled over to the side of the curb.

“Playa de Tijuana,” Alex said to the driver.

From the border fence at the north end of Playa de Tijuana, Mexicans could look upon San Diego in its grandeur in the distance, forever wishing they could cross the fence. By Tijuana’s standards, this was a safe zone.

“What do we know about this gringo?” asked Fernando.

“Nothing, other than he’s white. Could be American could be European. What we do know is he’s working with Diego Gutierrez, a businessman. He used to work for the French Foreign Legion.”

Fernando didn’t speak as they drove through Tijuana’s maze of highways. As usual, the roads leading to the US border were jammed. It took them more than thirty minutes to get onto the main road for Playa de Tijuana.

He’d never felt any concern about being a narco before. The work was easy, and he always felt safe in the company of Alex. But if their rivals had hired foreign military types to fight their wars for them, it put him under threat.

Alex typed away on his phone during the journey, never looking up from the bright smartphone screen.

“Who are we meeting?”

Alex still didn’t look up from his phone. “Roberto Romero. He came across the border to talk business. I’m speaking to Quezada now about this business. It’s a big deal. The only problem is we’ll have to cut in the Tijuana Cartel. They’re small these days, but we need them.”

The Tijuana Cartel once reigned supreme over Mexico’s drug industry. The US had long targeted the Tijuana Cartel specifically. The years had passed, and the Tijuana Cartel was no more than a servant of its rivals that had long surpassed it. Still, their fall didn’t make the city any less treacherous.

They cruised down the main boulevard of Playa de Tijuana. The various restaurants sold a mixture of Mexican and American food. Fernando gazed up at the immense black border fence before them. He’d never touched American soil before, and with the open stretch of beach between Tijuana and San Diego, he didn’t think he would touch it anytime soon.

Alex commanded the taxi driver to pull over next to one of the few modern restaurants in the beachside area. He handed him the fare with a big tip attached. An amount to make sure he forgot everything he might have heard.

“I’ve never been this far north before,” Fernando remarked as he got out of the car. “It doesn’t feel like Mexico.”

Fernando observed the distinct lack of Mexican culture at the beach. Most of the people looked like American tourists or Mexicans pretending to be American. He inspected the elaborate artwork painted on the large concrete walls. The sea air from the Pacific tingled his nose as the wind blew inland.

“Come on, he’s here already,” said Alex.

They entered the El Rincon del Mar restaurant. The interior had windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, offering tremendous views of the yellow sands below and the crashing waves. Even inside, Fernando heard the sea growling as it lapped at the beach.

Only three or four tables were occupied in the restaurant. One man sat alone, in a crisp pink shirt with the top button undone and a glittering gold watch.

“Mr. Parejo?” Romero stood up from the table to grasp his hand like they’d been friends for years. “At last, we finally meet. I’m sorry your boss couldn’t be with us today.”

“Fernando Gomez.”

Romero gave him the same warm handshake. “Please, sit. The Sopa de Marisco is fantastic.”

The three men took their seats at the table and Alex said, “I just wanted to make it clear, Mr. Romero, that I have full authority to make a deal in Quezada’s name, so whatever I say has his blessing. I’ve just been talking to him on the phone.”

Romero smiled. “Good. And, please, call me Roberto. I don’t just want to do business; I want to be friends. Friends always make good business.”

Alex managed a brief twitch of his lips in return. “Quezada has already told me you’ve cleaned up your previous contacts in Los Angeles. We want as many guns as you can manage coming through both California and Florida.”

The waiter approached the table with menus in hand. Romero dismissed him with orders for beers and three soups. This meeting had nothing to do with enjoying a pleasant meal together. It was merely a cover so they could speak freely away from the increasingly brutal war in Central Mexico.

“California is the more difficult border. The president has increased security in the last year. Florida, we still have ways and means. The only difficulty there is the US Coast Guard.”

“Understood. The Tijuana Cartel will take control of