The Wicked_A Black Force Thriller Read online

  ‘I do it all. And no, I don’t have a problem.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘A problem means it’s something I can’t control. I can control it, alright. You know how I know I can control it? Because every other aspect of my life is so unbelievably rigid, so disciplined. You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘I saw the shape you were in. That’s why your current condition surprises me so much.’

  ‘Yeah, well, do the shit I’ve been doing for long enough and you need a release.’

  ‘But you can stop whenever you want?’

  ‘You think I carry out operations when I’m fucked up?’

  ‘I don’t know. I only just met you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. I won’t touch a substance until whatever you’re sending me to do is wrapped up. I just…’

  Tommy didn’t respond so Slater could put his words together correctly.

  ‘My job,’ Slater said. ‘Black Force. It’s horrific. The operations break me. They put me up against ten, twenty, thirty men. Because they think I can handle it. And I can. But it pushes me to the limit of what a person is capable of. And then it pushes me further. You ever had your limits tested, Tommy?’

  ‘Only in training.’

  ‘Then you haven’t had your limits tested.’

  ‘But you keep doing it.’

  ‘Because I’m very good at it. And it pays me better than you can imagine. And if I didn’t do it, I’d probably drink more knowing there’s things out there that I could have stopped, if only I was man enough to put my body on the line. You get me?’

  ‘I get you.’

  ‘So when I’m not on the job, I go way in the opposite direction. I drink. I party. I have a good time. I’m only human.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like a problem to me.’

  ‘There we go. I knew you’d come round. Now what’s the job?’

  ‘It’s right up your alley.’

  ‘Nothing I do is up my alley.’

  ‘This one is.’

  ‘You sound pretty confident.’

  ‘I’ve had the whole morning to get to know you. I’m confident.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Black Force needs you to ingest a copious amount of substances so you can cosy up to a member of the Sinaloa cartel. He’s in San Francisco on one of his routine benders, and he has something Uncle Sam needs. It’s your job to get it.’

  Despite everything, Slater managed a wry smile. ‘They know me too well.’

  4

  Slater slammed back another couple of cups of coffee when they made a pit stop at a gas station, and then he felt better than okay.

  With enough caffeine in his system to power a truck, he figured he could take on the whole Sinaloa cartel if it came to that.

  ‘Why you?’ Slater said as they got back in the Ford, deciding to test the waters before they continued with the finer details. ‘Usually I get a phone call. Why not Lars?’

  ‘You can talk to Lars whenever you want,’ Tommy said, ‘but he imagined you’d need some added incentive to leave Venice Beach. He thought you might be having too much of a good time to want to go back into the field.’

  ‘He doesn’t trust me anymore?’

  ‘I don’t know, Slater. Are you two on thin ice?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’re blind to it.’

  ‘Maybe. What’s your gut instinct?’

  ‘That Lars thinks you’re out of control.’

  ‘I always get the job done. Always. And I never say no to an operation.’

  ‘Because you fear the consequences of saying no?’

  ‘Because that’s just not who I am.’

  ‘Maybe Lars doesn’t know who you are.’

  ‘He should. I’ve been working with him for years.’

  ‘How many other operatives are there?’ Tommy said.

  Slater flashed him a look. ‘I don’t know. Never met them. They keep us separate.’

  ‘Maybe there’s other operatives. Maybe they’re doing better than you. Who knows?’

  Slater said nothing, but a name flashed into his mind.

  Jason King.

  It was a whisper, an echo of some distant mythical figure, a man who represented the pinnacle of what an operative should symbolise. A man who, as far as Lars Crawford was concerned, was a god. Slater had only heard the name mentioned offhandedly, and he’d always considered King a work of fiction, made up to set a standard for how the other operatives should behave. A man of unquestionable discipline.

  But maybe he was real. And maybe he was doing astonishing things. And maybe Lars was judging the rest of them on that basis.

  If so, Slater knew he didn’t hold up. He’d killed dozens and dozens of men for the United States government, but his hedonistic spirals off the job were no secret. Uncle Sam knew. They let him go about his business, probably because there was no precedent for how a one man army should handle his inner demons, but maybe Jason King was setting the bar impossibly high.

  Or maybe Slater simply had fallen off the rails.

  He didn’t know. He’d get this job done, and then he’d think about it.

  Probably over a beer.

  That would expedite the thought process, no doubt.

  ‘This member of the Sinaloa cartel. Who is he?’

  ‘Malvado,’ Tommy said.

  ‘Wicked?’ Slater said, translating out loud.

  ‘It’s his nickname. No-one knows his real name.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘All unsubstantiated rumours … but, apparently, he’s one of their chief interrogators.’

  ‘He’s their head torturer? Fuck me. This is the cartels. You know what kind of sick stuff that would involve?’

  ‘Trust me, I’m aware.’

  ‘And he’s here? In San Francisco?’

  ‘Yes. In fact, he’s been making weekly trips, lately.’

  ‘Arrest him.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘I work for a black operations division, for God’s sakes. Just kill him.’

  ‘What makes you think that’s not what you’re here to do?’

  ‘Because you mentioned information you need.’

  ‘You listen.’

  ‘I might be a drunk, but I’ve got a few brain cells left.’

  ‘Lars said that you weren’t their first choice. And he made it clear that I should tell you that.’

  ‘Love you too, Lars,’ Slater said.

  ‘But, he said, this might be the one time where your ability to take enough drugs to sedate a horse might be useful.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Malvado thinks he’s invincible,’ Tommy said. ‘Take his trips to San Francisco, for example. They’re completely unnecessary. He should stay in Mexico with the rest of the Sinaloa cartel. But he’s brash. And he’s confident. And he’s cocky. And he’s a raging alcoholic with a penchant for hookers and coke. Remind you of anyone?’

  ‘I don’t hire hookers,’ Slater grumbled.

  ‘Aside from that.’

  ‘Sounds like someone I know, yeah.’

  ‘Well, he’s taken it a step further. He’s made direct contact with the U.S. government, and he’s waving hints of information in their faces to boast. Stuff he picked up from his interrogations. Details about dozens of operations Uncle Sam’s conducted unofficially in the past. Below the border. It seems he knows a lot of shit, and it wouldn’t be good at all if that stuff made it out. There’s even rumours that Black Force took on the cartels a couple of times.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ Slater said.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘This still doesn’t add up.’

  ‘What are you talking about? It’s clear as day.’

  ‘Bring him in for questioning. Discreetly. You don’t need me. I’m the guy they insert when they know shit’s about to hit the fan.’

  ‘Shit’s about to hit the fan,’ Tommy said. ‘We don’t
want to co-operate with him. That’s a zero compromise strategy we’ve always held. Our balls are in a vice considering his relationship with the Mexican government, but we’re not about to jump into bed with him either. But if he takes offence to that, there’s no knowing what he might do. What if he goes to the journalists, gets them to run front-page editorials about operations we’ve conducted in the past? We need you.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Find out whether he’s bluffing or not. And if he’s not bluffing, then you need to kill him. Which won’t be easy. He has a small army of sicarios protecting him — but they’ll never officially be recognised as assassins, of course.’

  ‘So I’m cleaning up the government’s dirty laundry,’ Slater mumbled. ‘That’s what my life has become.’

  ‘You’re killing an inexcusable piece of shit. If you’ve got a problem with that, I’ve been told to tell you to find another career.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Lars.’

  Slater smiled. ‘Buddy, if I wanted another career, they’d put me in an early grave. They can’t have someone like me walking around retired with what I know. This is the only choice I’ve got.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘I have a very unique relationship with the U.S. government.’

  ‘Let’s not get into it,’ Tommy said. ‘You have all you need from me. Get the rest of the details from Lars.’

  ‘What happens when we get to San Francisco?’

  ‘I let you loose. And then it’s all on you.’

  ‘Welcome to Black Force,’ Slater muttered, watching the highway flash by.

  5

  San Francisco

  California

  Another motel room. Each was indiscernible from the last, and Slater barely managed a glance at his surroundings before he sat down on the cheap mattress and dialled Lars on a disposable phone he’d picked up from a Radio Shack en route to San Francisco. He had the budget to live out of five star penthouse suites in the most lavish hotels in America, but that was not the life of an operative of his calibre. He had to lie low when the situation demanded it. And this situation, in all its incoherence and muddiness, certainly did.

  He was alone. True to his word, Tommy had disposed of him in the city centre and carried on his way, another anonymous face amongst the millions populating the Golden State.

  Lars answered immediately. ‘Sorry for the rude awakening. I hear it didn’t go so smoothly.’

  ‘Who the hell is this Tommy guy?’

  ‘Just a guy.’

  ‘He said that.’

  ‘Frankly, it’s none of your business. I wasn’t sure whether you’d be in enough of a functioning state to get yourself to San Fran on time. So I added some help.’

  ‘What, a babysitter?’

  ‘Your words, not mine.’

  ‘Are we on the same page, Lars?’ Slater said.

  A pause. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I feel like you don’t trust me.’

  ‘What reason would I have to not trust you?’

  ‘Rampant drinking. Sleeping around. Going off the rails when I’m not assigned to a task.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m in any way concerned with your private life?’

  ‘Because you sent a guy to take me on a six-hour drive for no reason whatsoever. What is this?’

  ‘You’re reliable, Will. When you’re on an operation, you’re a freak of nature. I’ve never seen anything quite like it — except for one of our other operatives. The pair of you are forces to be reckoned with.’

  ‘And when I’m not on an operation?’

  ‘I just want you to keep your record consistent, Will. I don’t want you to throw away your potential.’

  ‘Have I ever?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Have I even so much as slipped up on a job?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘So unwind my leash a little bit. No more “Tommy”. No more bullshit. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. It’s worked out flawlessly so far, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Do you know the world we operate in?’ Lars said, suddenly intense. ‘Do you know how serious this shit is? What happens when you slip up on an operation? People die. Every single time. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. I’m not going to let that happen. So if it means hiring a grunt to pull you out of your self-induced coma and make sure you arrive in one piece, then so be it.’

  ‘I can handle myself.’

  ‘Prove it to me.’

  ‘Ever killed anyone, Lars?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I wouldn’t say you were one to judge anything I do in my spare time.’

  ‘If you pull this off, I’ll never so much as look in the general direction of a leash again.’

  ‘And what exactly is “this”? There’s orders, and then there’s vague orders, and then there’s whatever the hell you’ve got me here to do. I need something.’

  ‘The White Phoenix.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s an upmarket establishment near Silicon Valley. Thousand-dollar bottle service, that kind of business. Apparently it’s a magnet for San Francisco’s wealthiest tech entrepreneurs. Malvado’s made it a second home lately, it seems. And he’s not being shy about it. He’s on public record stating he can’t get the kind of service in Mexico that places like the White Phoenix provides.’

  ‘They running anything illegal out of there?’

  ‘Nothing morally depraved, if that’s what you’re talking about. But it’s rumoured that several billionaires frequent the joint. Management spares no expense to provide them with nights to remember. There’s private VIP rooms, and who knows what goes on in there? Malvado has two or three of them rented out permanently. It gets obscene. Or so I hear.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do with this information?’

  ‘Malvado’s reckless, but he’s not an idiot. He’s protected to the gills. We’ve been working on endless strategies to take him out discreetly ever since he waved sensitive information in our faces, but realistically there’s no way to do it without the Mexican government throwing a fit. And we need that relationship intact.’

  ‘So if it happens, it needs to be organic.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Like a drugged-up brawl breaking out in a club. People die, it’s unfortunate, but it’s not on you guys.’

  ‘You’re catching on.’

  ‘That sounds easier than it is.’

  ‘That’s your job. When has it ever been easy?’

  ‘Once again. Why me? Especially if you think I need a fucking babysitter to drive across the state.’

  ‘Because I have to be man enough to admit when someone in my employ is perfectly suited to the job.’

  ‘This particular job?’

  ‘It needs to be organic. You need to get yourself into his VIP room without any help from us or the government. You need to cosy up to him. Socially.’

  ‘And you think I’m suited to that?’

  ‘You’re … probably our best candidate for that kind of approach.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the rest of your operatives? Not a social bunch?’

  ‘The job attracts lone wolves. They don’t do too well in social settings.’

  ‘You think I do?’

  ‘You’re in a bed with a different woman every goddamn night you’re off the job.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘You’re not shy about it, Will.’

  Slater smirked. ‘Sorry. I’ll keep my private life private in future.’

  ‘You’re smooth with your words. I won’t deny that, even though we can both admit we’re not on the best footing right now.’

  ‘I can’t talk my way into a cartel interrogator’s social circle. I’m not that good.’

  ‘I think you can. And I think you are.’

  ‘You speak rather highly of me, Lars.’

  ‘Don’t push your luck. Get this done. Do what you can. If you can’t, disa
ppear. You know the drill.’

  ‘Payment,’ Slater said.

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘No. Not the usual. You know what happens if I fuck this up?’

  ‘The same thing that always happens.’

  ‘He tortures people for a living. What do you think he’ll do to me?’

  ‘Terrible things. Horrific things. Use that as motivation, I’d say.’

  ‘I’ll use an extra five hundred thousand as motivation.’

  To Slater’s surprise, Lars didn’t immediately respond. Slater imagined his chief handler crunching numbers in his head, running through a detailed analysis of how much they could afford to pay a man who discreetly murdered one of the most volatile threats to the U.S. government in quite some time. The cartels handled billions of dollars in cash every month, racing to satiate the demands of drug-addicted North America with as much cocaine, ecstasy, and heroin as the paying customers could stomach. All those seized profits had to go somewhere. Why not channel a tiny portion of the cash flow into the operatives who sliced the head off the snake, even if two more grew back to take its place?

  ‘Sure,’ Lars said. ‘But…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get this done. We need this done.’

  ‘How bad is this guy? Malvado.’

  ‘One of the worst people you’ll ever have the pleasure of meeting.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Slater said, then killed the call and headed out into the glowing Californian afternoon to purchase clothes for the night ahead.

  He needed a suitable cover story.

  And he had a blank cheque to work with.

  6

  Everything about the operation involved standing out, highlighting himself as a beacon of power above a crowd of the uber-wealthy. Slater had no qualms with that kind of behaviour — in a final phone call with Lars, his chief handler had described the coming hours as “your own personality, ratcheted up to eleven. And then go five notches higher.”

  ‘No problem,’ Slater had said.

  Now, he stepped out of a rented Bugatti Veyron, thrumming idly out the front of the White Phoenix, which had proven notoriously difficult to locate. Lars hadn’t been kidding. The private club, buried in the heart of the city centre, had no advertising to speak of. It hadn’t shown up in any web searches Slater had made over the course of the afternoon. It was a hidden gem, tucked out of sight, its lavish indulgences sheltered from scrutiny. The tech billionaires and venture capitalists and angel investors didn’t want the general public to know what they got up to in their leisure time.