Wardogs: Barrett Mason Book 5 by Stewart Matthews

Author:Stewart Matthews [Matthews, Stewart]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Primrose Publishing LLC
Published: 2019-06-13T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

The cabbie took me through the heart of Mexico City. We wove through heavy traffic, keeping the pair of black SUVs in sight ahead of us. I filled in Libby and Garcia over the walkie-talkies as we drove.

I was a little concerned about losing radio contact with them the further away I went. But when the SUVs stopped ahead of us, we’d only gone about a mile or so from Zocalo, and I still had decent radio signal.

“Thanks, friend.” I got out of the car. Into the middle of the street, it turned out. The sidewalk was taken up by street vendors as far as the eye could see. I didn’t know exactly where I was, but it appeared to be some kind of bazaar. On the sidewalk straight ahead of me, an old lady and her son worked over a big stove, ripped right out of a restaurant.

Butted up against their right side, a guy with racks of what looked like knock-off DVDs. He sat on a barstool, looking at his phone. Couldn’t give a damn about all the people buzzing around. A TV pinned to a wire wall about eight feet high played Spiderman—the old one I’d seen in the theaters just before I enlisted in the Corps.

I joined all the people milling around the shops. Started making my way toward the black SUVs, which were just starting to pull off. Beside them, a team of men in black suits and dark sunglasses checked the area immediately nearby. I couldn’t see Diputado Hernandez, but it was a safe bet to assume he was at the center of his troupe of bodyguards.

“What’s your situation, Barrett?” Garcia asked over the walkie-talkie.

I smiled at the old lady. She smiled back while she turned over a tortilla with a pair of blackened tongs. A pile of empanadas cooled on a tray in front of her stove.

“Just stopping for a lunch break,” I replied to Garcia. I slapped a ten-peso coin on the back of the stove, took an empanada and winked at her.

“Lunch break? What about Hernandez, you gringo bastard? Where is he?”

I pretended to check out a bootleg copy of the newest James Bond movie in the booth next door, but I watched Hernandez slip out of his pack of bodyguards to shake someone’s hand—someone who looked important. He appeared about a decade older than me, with a thick head of hair trimmed down to a buzz cut, sharp nose, and hard brown eyes. He was thin, but in a way that suggested toughness, like he’d spent a lifetime chopping off heads with his bare hands.

“Hernandez is here,” I said. “He’s rubbing elbows with some of the locals.”

“Who?”

“Hell if I know,” I said. “Older guy in a suit, looks like he jogs every morning.”

Then, I saw him extend a letter-sized envelope to Hernandez. The wind caught the flap, lifting it open and revealing light-pink money.

One of the bodyguards took the envelope and tucked it into his jacket.

“And there it is,” I said, forgetting the walkie-talkie for a moment.

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