Smoke Signals (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 4) Read online

  “Well, with Theo Blanchet out of the way and the new Prime Minister in Ottawa, I thought it might be time for me to move to the civilian side of government.”

  From his seated position, Bramley offered a small bow. “Madam Minister of Public Safety Canada.”

  Suddenly, Edward Bramley’s path to becoming commissioner of the RCMP looked a lot clearer, and his dear god-daughter, Rebecca, would be well cared for, too.

  As if reading his mind, Deputy Commissioner Murphy said to her dining companion, “All this will go much more smoothly if Rebecca doesn’t object to her temporary banishment.”

  “I’ll speak with her,” Bramley said. “She’ll understand.”

  “Do so without delay, Ed.”

  “Just as soon as she returns home.”

  Murphy frowned. “Where is she?”

  “My brother told me she went to see her fiancé in Washington.”

  “That large First Nation fellow?” DC Murphy knew a thing or two about the private lives of all her important people. She made a point of it.

  “John Tall Wolf, yes. He’s rising quickly through his country’s BIA bureaucracy from what I’ve heard. Even worked a case with James J. McGill recently.”

  Not much got by Chief Superintendent Bramley either.

  He thought dropping the name of the president’s husband would impress his friend, but a pensive look settled on her face.

  “What is it, Eileen?”

  “Just a thought. If Tall Wolf has connections all but inside the Oval Office, he might have more to offer Rebecca than we do.”

  Bramley’s first impulse was to laugh off that idea. Family was family and tradition was tradition, after all. But once Rebecca was married, Tall Wolf would be her family.

  “I’ll sound her out as soon as I see her,” Bramley said.

  “Please do.”

  The two of them tossed down their drinks.

  Chapter 39

  Cascade Mountains — Washington State

  The trek through mountain forest proved demanding for Mateo Trujillo. He still had the strength and stamina to make the hike, but the temperature was falling and his thin blood, used to the milder weather of Mexico, didn’t provide the necessary insulation to keep him from starting to shiver.

  The Canadians, Baker, Charlie and Dog, moved with no visible signs of discomfort. For them the weather probably felt balmy. It was all a matter of acclimation, of course. The conditions you knew best always pleased you the most. That simple insight had given Mateo direction for where he would hide once he turned on Fausto Zara.

  The weather, for one, would have to be warm. The native tongue, though he spoke four languages, would have to be Spanish. That was his linguistic home, where he could express himself with both precision and feeling. The political structure would have to be relatively stable but the social hierarchy needed to be stratified enough to have a privileged class whose members could buy their way out of trouble.

  There were enclaves in the U.S. that were balmy and one could get by using only Spanish. The rich there were certainly privileged, but the justice system sometimes took perverse pleasure in showing the masses that even the wealthy were not beyond its reach. Such uncertainty did not appeal to Mateo. He wanted a new home where the authorities respected the power of a bribe.

  He wasn’t sure he’d be able to find all the qualities he desired in a new home. So far, he’d been working by process of elimination. Staying in Mexico was definitely out. So was the United States. Those seeking vengeance for Fausto Zara would have too easy a time finding him in either place. The same could be said to varying degrees for the countries of Central America and South America.

  Mateo had briefly considered the Philippines. The country had some gorgeous islands. The southernmost of them were where Spanish was most common, but they were also the places where Muslim guerrillas were the most active. Taking hostages and so forth. He didn’t need that kind of trouble.

  Looking at Europe, there was Spain, of course, but that would also be an obvious place for Zara’s avengers to look for him. However, one of Spain’s 17 autonomous communities was the Canary Islands. Lying just off the coast of Morocco, the Canaries possessed many of the qualities Mateo was looking for and were probably out of the way enough to be overlooked by his pursuers.

  Especially after he left misleading clues pointing to other distant places.

  Baker interrupted Mateo’s reverie. “Hey, stop daydreaming, we’re here.”

  That they were. They’d arrived at the new camp. Mateo’s reverie of a new life had spared him a measure of discomfort from the weather. Which had grown even colder with a chill drizzle just beginning.

  Charlie looked up at the sky. “Rain now, snow before long.”

  Baker smiled, telling Mateo, “A little cold for you, huh?”

  Mateo rebutted the man’s insolence. “All’s quiet? You haven’t found any more farmers to shoot?”

  He’d told Baker who he had killed, a farmer. Made him feel like the fool he was.

  Embarrassed him in front of the other two.

  Baker’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Wasn’t any damn farmer that killed Able.”

  Mateo couldn’t argue with that. None of them could explain the savage attack on the mercenary team’s leader. Their best guess was some freakish mutation of a wolf. There were wolves in the mountains, but none of them had ever seen anything with the size, speed and power of the thing that had killed Able.

  Still, they all said wolf because if they didn’t assert some plausible explanation they’d all have to admit they might meet Able’s fate. There’d be no going forward if they did that.

  Things were bad enough as it was, having nothing to show for their efforts.

  Dog jogged up with an envelope in his hand, after taking a quick look around the new camp. He handed it to Mateo. “Got your name on it. Found it in the one tent that’s been set up. Nothing else here worth mentioning.”

  Baker gave Dog a questioning look. You read what’s inside the envelope?

  Dog shrugged. Yeah, but I don’t read Spanish.

  Mateo did. His face twisted in rage. He crumpled the message, was about to toss it away, changed his mind and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “Bad news from home?” Baker asked.

  “We’re done. We’ll head back to Seattle and you can go home.”

  “After you pay us, we’ll go home.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Dog said, “We should bury Able, too.”

  “Yeah, we’ll take care of that,” Baker agreed. Still, he couldn’t help but think, If that damn thing, whatever it was, hadn’t come back and eaten the rest of him. “Let’s get going.”

  Charlie, who’d been watching the perimeter, let off a burst of fire. Baker and Dog brought their weapons to the ready and clicked off the safeties. Mateo had his sidearm in hand.

  “No problem,” Charlie said, waving to the others.

  Baker gave him a look. What the hell did you shoot at? He hoped it wasn’t another farmer.

  “Just a bear,” Charlie said aloud. “Big fucker. Grizzly. But he ran like hell as soon as I raised my weapon. Didn’t have a chance of hitting him. Just wanted to tell him to steer clear.”

  After what had happened to Able, Baker wasn’t going to criticize.

  “Let’s head out,” he said.

  They’d let Señor Greaser walk drag. Maybe the damn bear would pick him off if he fell too far behind. That’d be worth losing the rest of their money.

  Mateo had other worries. The note had to be from Julián, even if it was unsigned.

  Compañero Trujillo, I can only think things are very bad with Jefe Zara if you have come all the way to my little operation in the yanqui forest. As smart a fellow as you are, you must have made plans to look after your own interests if things went bad for the big boss. You undoubtedly think the few million dollars I have on hand would make you more comfortable wherever you intend to go.

  I’m afraid I took a
ll that money, what I didn’t already give away to my workers. Maybe I’ll also be the first to tell the yanquis everything I know about Fausto Zara. Then they won’t need to bother with you so much. Buena suerte.

  Good luck.

  The smart little shit had figured out exactly what Mateo was going to do.

  As the rain increased, Mateo felt he was going to need all the luck he could get.

  If he had great good fortune, he was going to ram Julián’s note down his throat.

  Chapter 40

  Tesla — Washington State

  The campesinos were exactly where Ernesto Batista predicted they would be, standing at the side of the road leading out of town, waiting for — hoping and praying — a bus would come by and take them to a city big enough to allow them to blend in with their own kind. Méjicanos — Mexicans — preferably, but the poor of any ethnic background would do.

  They were a sad lot, shabbily dressed and looking all the more forlorn as the rain soaked them, but for once in their grindingly hard lives they had money in substantial amounts. The plan was that two of the more comely younger women would stand at the forefront of their cluster and wave thick sheaves of money at the bus driver.

  This plan would have been foolproof in Mexico, as far as getting the driver to stop. The problem at that point might become: Would the driver give them a ride or try to rob them? In El Norte they were uncertain of what difficulties they might face. Were the drivers there paid so well they would laugh at a handfuls of dollars and drive on by? Or would they stop and try to rob the would-be passengers, too?

  All but two of the guards had abandoned their rifles behind one of the pretty little houses in town. Several of the women and a few of the men looked at that particular dwelling, so clean and bright with new paint, and their hearts ached with longing. But no one said a word. Homes like that were not meant for such as them. Better to leave your yearning unexpressed.

  The two guards who retained their weapons stood at the back of the crowd. If a bus stopped and a fair amount of money was all that was required for passage, the guards would leave the rifles behind. If any thievery was attempted, however, they would defend their compañeros. The mere thought of shooting a yanqui was enough to make them all ill, but they would not be victimized — ever again, they all said.

  As an act of compassion, before standing to the side of the road, they had brought the body of Gustavo Morales out of the forest. It wouldn’t have been right to leave him where the animals might consume him. He was the only one of them who would remain behind, buried in the backyard of the beautiful little house where they’d found a shovel in a gardener’s shed.

  By acclamation, they’d decided to send Gustavo’s money to his family in Mexico. They would do so anonymously so as not to draw the attention of la migra — immigration — or of anyone else. The gift would seem to Gustavo’s family as if it fell from heaven, and when it came time for God to judge them, their honesty and generosity would be a mark in their favor.

  They all agreed it was easier to be unselfish when you had some money of your own.

  Benevolence was one thing, patience was another.

  The rain and their shared anxiety wore on everyone, and still no bus came. Many eyes began to look at the row of houses and shops. So pretty, warm and dry, and as far as they’d dared to look, all of them empty. The idea of spending the fast approaching night indoors was shared by most, if not all, of them and was about to be raised as a topic of debate.

  Until a young man walked out of the house at the far end of town. He was not like them. His clothes were too good; his skin was too pale. A yanqui. That immediately raised the question: Were there more like him around?

  The next question, of course, was: What did he want?

  “Paz,” he said. Peace. He raised his hands as if offering a blessing.

  He stopped ten feet away from them. “Tengo solo un poco de español. Me llama Bruno.”

  I have only a little Spanish. My name is Bruno.

  He thought his formal name would sound better than Beebs.

  One of the young women holding money stepped forward, extended her cash to him.

  Beebs shook his head. “No quiero dinero.” I don’t want money.

  He saw a wave of relief roll across the crowd. “Habla inglés, anyone?”

  The woman who had offered Beebs her money said, “I do, un poco.”

  Beebs smiled. “Good.” He took a satellite phone out of a pocket, showed it to the crowd. “Ernesto y Valeria Batista dicen hola.” Ernesto and Valeria say hello. “Vengan conmigo, por favor.” Please come with me.

  To get out of the rain, he wanted to say, but his Spanish didn’t extend that far.

  Beebs turned and walked back toward the house at the far end of town.

  He was hoping he’d been taken as friendly, and the two guys with the assault rifles would leave their weapons on the front porch, if they came. The sound of the rain kept him from hearing any footsteps following him. So he jumped a foot in the air when someone took his arm.

  His alarm turned to relief when he saw it was the young woman who’d offered him the cash.

  He felt even better when she told him, “Paz, Bruno. Me llama Luciana.”

  Chapter 41

  Tesla — Washington State

  Able’s corpse looked even more gruesome than it had several hours earlier, owing to the start of decomposition. Even so, John knelt on one knee just outside the darkened puddle of blood and examined the body. He thought he could see an expression of horror in the dead man’s eyes. His last thought must have been a muddle of unarticulated terror. He’d been incapable of understanding just what kind of monster was about to kill him.

  The man’s fate sent a shiver through John. He didn’t care if the others saw it. He was thinking of what his own final moments of life might have been like if his mom and dad hadn’t saved him as an infant from Coyote’s rending teeth and insatiable hunger.

  He looked up. Three of the others, Freddie, Valeria and Julián, looked as if they might vomit. Rebecca maintained a stoical cop face, but a jaw muscle twitched. Ernesto and Basilio looked on impassively, as if their respective roles as a Marine and a killer had shown them equivalent savagery and maybe worse. Marlene, though, was the only one who examined the gory remains with a sense of personal pride, as if inspecting a piece of handiwork that showed no room for improvement.

  John stood and said, “We can’t leave this body here.”

  “Wouldn’t be good for property values,” Marlene added with a straight face.

  “I’m going to have this place torn down,” Freddie said.

  Marlene took his hand. “You could do that, but then you’d no longer have the place where you survived the first attempt on your life.”

  “The first?” Clearly, the thought hadn’t occurred to Freddie there might be another.

  Marlene released his hand. She sighed. Turned to John.

  “Tall Wolf?”

  John looked at the young billionaire. “Beebs told us there were four more guys with this one, and they were heavily armed. Given the weather, we’ll likely have to deal with them before the FBI arrives. Beyond that, you’re stupendously rich and will only get more so from what I’ve heard. That alone will make you a target.”

  “Sí,” Basilio said, nodding, “sin duda.”

  Ernesto translated, “Without a doubt.” He inclined his head at Basilio. “That one over there, unarmed, with his hands tied and having the full knowledge I would kill him if he attempted to harm anyone here, he is still thinking how he might kidnap you some day.”

  Freddie, having led a sheltered life and not wanting to believe such a thing could be true, asked Basilio, “Is that right?”

  The sicario, now deep into his fantasy of illegitimate riches, only nodded.

  He looked as if he was measuring Freddie for a car trunk. That or a grave.

  Freddie turned to Marlene. “Did you do that?”

  He pointed at Able’s ravaged
body.

  John and Marlene exchanged a glance as the others looked on.

  Marlene was not going to admit she was Coyote, John knew. Not to so many people. Not to Freddie. He wasn’t ready for that. So she had to find the right way to express things. A turn of phrase that would make her rich young man feel safe without being horrified.

  She was still looking for how to express herself when Basilio said, “She is the devil, that one.”

  Marlene only smiled at him in reply, broadly enough for everyone present to see her dagger-like incisors. At that point, it wasn’t necessary to say anything. There was no question those teeth could rip out a man’s throat. But the glimpse of who Marlene truly was lasted only a heartbeat.

  Leaving everyone to question what they really saw.

  Was it only their imagination that sent a bolt of cold terror through them?

  John was the only one who knew for sure, but now Rebecca had far better reason to believe her fiancé’s stories about Coyote.

  Turning back to Freddie, Marlene only said, “I could kill someone. To save your life, I would do it. I hope you’ll take comfort in that.”

  Freddie did. There was no small measure of seduction in hearing a beautiful woman say she’d kill for you.

  John brought the conversation back to Able.

  “We need to move this man before his armed friends return. We have to be ready for them and we don’t want to trip over him, metaphorically or literally.”

  Marlene asked, “Are you going to set up our defenses, Tall Wolf?”

  John surprised everyone by shaking his head.

  “I’ll defer to the expert, the man with recent military experience.”

  He looked squarely at Ernesto Batista, the marine from Mexico.

  Ernesto came to attention and voiced his service’s motto, “Todo por la Patria.”

  Everything for the Fatherland. And apparently the present company as well.

  Chapter 42

  Woods Above Tesla — Washington State