Cartel: A Jason King Thriller (The Jason King Files Book 1) Page 7

  ‘I’m sure he will.’

  ‘Just a quick fling?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ King said. ‘I can’t say that I have time for anything else.’

  ‘Me neither. This feels … cold. Like a business decision.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s up to you.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You’re not bad on the eyes.’

  King smiled and watched as she headed for the other side of the warehouse. Lars and Raymond had disappeared through the towering sliding doors, trudging into the darkness beyond. Maybe they had recognised the underlying tension between him and Anne.

  King turned on his heel and headed past the partition of offices, ducking through a side door that led into his temporary living quarters. He muttered a silent thanks for his timing — the washing basket that had previously been piled high with sweaty workout gear had been emptied that morning. Otherwise, the room was spotless, containing nothing but a plain double bed and a narrow desk on the opposite wall.

  King sat down on the bed and waited for Anne to arrive.

  There was a knock at the door less than a minute later, three rapid taps filled with nervous excitement. He let her in and they pounced on each other, two spirits consumed by work and in desperate need of a release. He peeled his shirt off and felt her hands running along his chest, down his stomach, lower…

  He kissed her ravenously, breathing her scent. She reached for his belt and he picked her up off the floor, carrying her to the bed. He put her down, and they took it slow, appreciating the privacy they would have until the following morning.

  Hours later, when they finally grew tired of lovemaking and Anne dropped into a quiet doze, King draped an arm around her naked frame and leant back against the pillow.

  Before he dropped off, he wondered just what the hell had happened in Tijuana that had provoked such a rapid response.

  He had a feeling he would need all the rest he could get.

  11

  Mexico

  Twelve hours earlier…

  Joaquín Ramos had his back against the wall.

  He wouldn’t have preferred it any other way.

  It seemed like he was in his element in this position. He had made the most progress career-wise months ago, without a single dollar to his name. Back then, the only way to achieve anything had been massive, relentless action.

  Now, he felt like he’d been thrust back to his old roots.

  The Draco cartel would regret testing him.

  Ramos pulled his beat-up Toyota to a halt outside the building he’d been scouting for the last few days. It looked exactly how it had in the surveillance photos — one-storey, unremarkable, stretching a couple of hundred feet back into the block of land. There were no clear markings on the building’s exterior to signify its purpose.

  Ramos imagined that was intentional.

  It was one of the headquarters’ of the National Institute for the Combat of Drugs. For as long as he could remember, the organisation had been under the rule of the Draco cartel. Key officials had been bribed, others threatened with their life or the lives of their families.

  Ramos held no emotional weight over the way in which the Draco cartel had brutally seized control of their empire.

  If he had been in their position years ago, he would have done the same — if not worse.

  But the power that Draco possessed regarding the National Institute posed significant problems for his own rise. Chiefly, the authorities were seriously concerned by what Ramos was doing in Tijuana. They were applying pressure to his operation in a variety of ways, many of which had been exacerbated by the slaughter of his four tech-gurus.

  Lately, they had teamed up with certain members of the U.S. government in a public display of co-operation, intent on suppressing the sudden wave of violence that had seized the city in the wake of Ramos’ power-grab. Ramos had seen the hordes of American tourists that flooded the Avenida Revolución in the warmest days. All of them came to this city for cheap thrills and hidden pleasures, for things they couldn’t find back in their own territory. He knew that the violence between his cartel and the Draco cartel threatened the lives of innocents.

  Hell, he had gunned down his fair share of civilians along the way.

  It was a part of life around here.

  But after what had happened to the DEA agents in the basement of the abandoned maquiladora factory, it seemed the attention on Tijuana’s dark side from across the border had amplified.

  Ramos was here to achieve two things.

  Demonstrate the consequences if key regulators continued to be wooed by the Draco cartel.

  Send a message to the United States that they had no business in this town.

  The usual response to added sensitivity would be to shrink away from the DEA investigations, to cover up his dealings and prevent anyone from interfering.

  He never did things the usual way.

  He would continue the reign of terror until all his enemies determined that it was not worth their while to mess with him.

  The AR-15 had been reloaded.

  It was ready for use.

  He waited for a lull in pedestrian activity to make his move. He’d killed the engine a few minutes ago, and the heat started to permeate through the interior, soaking his shirt once again. It seemed that no matter how many times he changed his attire, the Mexican heat turned it to filth within the hour.

  It didn’t matter.

  He loved when things got dirty.

  He thrived in this kind of environment.

  When the stretch of sidewalk in front of the National Institute’s headquarters cleared of passers-by, Ramos snatched up the AR-15 and slung the leather strap over one shoulder. He stepped out of the Toyota, sweat dripping off the sides of his jaw in rivulets, and strode purposefully for the tinted set of double doors leading into the facility.

  He had no idea what he might find.

  His only intention was to cause chaos.

  He thundered a sneaker into the left-hand door, hard enough to splinter the sheet of darkened glass as it swung into the corridor within. He strode through, meeting the wide-eyed gaze of a pair of American agents leaning against the reception desk.

  A man and a woman, just like the pair who had swarmed his position in the basement a week earlier.

  Ramos recognised their uniform — they were special agents working for U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Probably here for a meeting with those in power, to discuss the violent grip Ramos had seized on the city.

  He killed them with a pair of perfectly-placed headshots, sending a thick round through the centre of each of their foreheads. The roar of the semi-automatic rifle and the gory results of the exit wounds were shocking enough to send the young receptionist into an uncontrollable bout of screaming. Ramos silenced her with a third shot, less accurate due to his aim at a moving target. She had almost made it off her swivelling office chair before the bullet blew through one half of her face, dropping her unceremoniously to the thick carpet behind the desk.

  He pressed into the offices, marching down hallways that were entirely devoid of life. It seemed that the employees of the National Institute had opted to hide from the armed lunatic patrolling its corridors. He found himself angered by their hypocrisy. They had no qualms taking blood money from the existing cartel in exchange for turning a blind eye to their dealings. But when the drug war made it into their offices themselves, they wanted nothing to do with it.

  Cowards.

  Ramos found the door he was looking for and shouldered through the lock with the type of strength that only came from a massive dose of adrenalin. He found the man he was looking for seated behind a broad oak desk, shoulders hunched and head bowed, frozen by hesitation.

  ‘Hey, Hernández,’ Ramos said, his hearing still impaired from the unsuppressed AR-15 gunfire he’d unleashed moments earlier. ‘Great to finally meet you in the flesh.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ the man cursed.


  Hernández was ex-Army. For years, he had acted as the National Institute’s poster boy, glamourising their escapades in television interviews and media days. His face and voice were spread across all the major television networks and radio stations, promoting his division’s effectiveness on the war on drugs.

  All the while receiving hefty bonuses under the table for allowing the Draco cartel to maintain its hold on the packaging and processing facilities they operated in Tijuana’s working district.

  ‘Hopefully this stirs the pot,’ Ramos muttered to himself.

  Before Hernández could respond to the rapidly escalating situation, Ramos shot him dead. He unloaded an entirely unnecessary amount of bullets into the man’s unprotected chest. Blood fountained across the desk, soaking through the various documents that Hernández had been transfixed on before Ramos’ surprise entrance.

  When the crimson aftermath had reached unbelievably gory heights, Ramos turned and left the building, moving fast. He passed the three corpses in the reception area, taking a glance at the two dead U.S. officials.

  Briefly, he wondered if his actions had truly been necessary this time.

  He had little experience with the Americans.

  He wasn’t sure how strongly they would react.

  His only goal had been to kill Hernández — the deaths along the way were only collateral, events used to hammer home his point. It wasn’t often that a cartel attempted to enact a takeover on the existing regime — when attempts were made, they usually ended in bloodshed. The Draco cartel always came out on top.

  Not this time.

  Ramos had slaughtered the most important figurehead of the National Institute for the Combat of Drugs, a man revered by society and promoted in the media. It would serve as an announcement to anyone thinking of aiding the Draco cartel that there would be serious consequences.

  As far as Ramos was concerned, anyone protecting the Draco cartel — whether that be through accepting bribes or caving to intimidation — was fair game. He was willing to do whatever it took to ensure that every individual in Tijuana distanced themselves from the Draco cartel.

  That way, they could be crushed.

  That way, Ramos could enact the equivalent of a corporate takeover.

  He peeled his eyes away from the three dead bodies in the reception area and hurried back to his Toyota. Already, sirens howled in the distance. He had three armed men on call, just in case the local police decided to enter a shootout with him. He wouldn’t put it past them — Draco had them on the payroll too.

  However, it seemed he’d be long gone by the time they arrived.

  He threw the AR-15 through the open driver’s window, ignoring the screams of fleeing civilians in the distance. Anyone within the vicinity of the National Institute’s headquarters had fled for their lives, for good reason.

  Ramos fired up the engine and tore away from the sidewalk, passing a police cruiser with flashing lights only a few moments after leaving. They didn’t give chase — if they did, he would have gunned them down in the street.

  He couldn’t shrug the feeling that things had reached a tipping point.

  He had left too many bodies in his wake.

  He had crossed the line from an annoying grievance to an out-of-control tyrant.

  It was all or nothing.

  The takeover had begun. Seeds had been planted. Roadblocks had been met. He already had a three-man team of tech prodigies hurrying down from San Francisco. Men swayed enough by large dollar signs to abandon their promising careers in Silicon Valley for a riskier venture, but a higher payday. They would get the back-end in order. The three of them were due to arrive tomorrow.

  Until then, he had to bunker down.

  After the killings he’d dealt out over the last few days, it was clear that he’d started a war.

  And he would finish it, too.

  He twisted the wheel hard to the left, screeching around a corner, and rocketed back to his mansion with power on his mind.

  12

  At 0600 the sun had yet to rise, but the sky had shifted from a murky dark blue to a paler pre-dawn light. It was a cloudless day — King could see the breath steaming in front of his face even before the sun had risen. He pounded along the steep mountain trail, breathing deep as the blood circulated through his system and his limbs warmed up.

  Lars led the way, hurrying to the mountain’s summit before the sun rose. He’d told King that he saw it as something of a personal challenge. He wanted to witness the sunrise with his own eyes.

  So did King.

  Something about today felt different.

  It started with the familiar sensation of pre-operation jitters — the difference today was that he still had no idea what he would be heading into. He knew enough about Mexico and the drug business to understand just how ruthless the industry was. The glamourised tales of drug kingpins sweeping the entertainment industry were a cruel ruse. He was aware that cartels were monstrous entities, devoid of any morality and willing to kill and torture and dismember over and over again to get what they wanted.

  Now, the sheer detachment from his previous comrades became obvious. He loved the solitude of training alone, but field work threatened to be an entirely different beast.

  What if he found himself in an unprecedented situation with no reinforcements or contacts to rely on whatsoever?

  He would have to trust his intuition.

  They reached a small gravel clearing at the top of the mountain trail just as the first fingers of sunlight began to crawl over the horizon. King caught his breath, resting his hands on his hips. It only took a few seconds. He had never been in better shape — the added agility and martial arts training had honed his senses beyond his wildest dreams. He was poised.

  Ready for war.

  ‘I’m guessing this is where you tell me what the hell I’m here for,’ he said.

  He cocked his head. His voice sounded strange surrounded by nature.

  Like he was destroying the peace.

  That’s what you’re here for, he reminded himself.

  ‘What do you know about Tijuana?’ Lars said, sitting down on a fallen log that had been set up as a resting place for hikers to admire the view.

  King dropped down alongside him. ‘It’s hot. And the drinks are cheap.’

  ‘It’s a border town,’ Lars said. ‘Which means it’s a goddamn hotspot for cartel activity, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Frontier life,’ King mused.

  ‘Frontier life indeed.’

  ‘What are you expecting me to do about it?’

  Lars paused. ‘I want you to kill the leader of a new cartel — and any other of its senior members that you can find.’

  ‘That sounds like it would be highly frowned upon in official circles.’

  ‘It would. What do you think this division exists for?’

  ‘I’m going to need more details than that.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘So shoot.’

  ‘Joaquín Ramos,’ Lars said.

  ‘That’s a little less information than I was looking for.’

  ‘He’s your man.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘We know very little about him. He hides himself well. Pays for everything in cash. Uses a maze of false names and trust companies to hide his assets. No-one knows his exact whereabouts at any time. What we do know is that he’s the head of a radical new cartel, and he’s currently in the process of attempting a full-scale takeover of Tijuana’s drug trade.’

  ‘You think it’s going to work?’

  ‘Oh, it’s working,’ Lars said. ‘Whether through sheer dumb luck or actual talent, he’s managed to send the previous cartel’s ranks into meltdown. He’s one of the more reckless individuals I’ve ever had the chance to follow. He’s almost single-handedly responsible for the murder rate in Tijuana quadrupling over the last year.’

  ‘Surely people have attempted this before.’

  ‘Not like this.’

/>   ‘What’s he doing differently?’

  ‘We’re still in the dark about a lot of Ramos’ operation,’ Lars said. ‘But it’s quite unique. As far as we can tell, he has no street-level dealers to speak of. His business is almost entirely online. The Department of Defence has been attempting to track his online activity, but it’s near-impossible. He’s got the entire system hidden in the Dark Web.’

  ‘I’m not a computer guy,’ King said.

  ‘It’s a section of the Internet that can’t be accessed by standard search browsers. Everything’s encrypted beyond measure. We managed to find a private cryptocurrency wallet that we believe is storing Ramos’ funds. It disappeared under a layer of encryption as soon as we came across it, but it contains almost fifty million USD. More than likely his personal profits from his business endeavours. He’s slowly building a drug empire using methods we’ve never seen before. The way it’s set up means that there’s no single point with which to track them, and everything’s encrypted. He’s cutting massive operating costs and maximising profits. That’s how he’s giving the Draco cartel a run for their money.’

  ‘The Draco cartel?’ King said. ‘They’re the power players in Tijuana?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are we doing to stop them?’

  ‘If we wanted to try and take down every node of the global drug trade, the government would laugh us out. The system does $300 billion in revenue every single year. We don’t have a chance at making a dent in Draco’s empire. Not yet. You’re heading into Tijuana to send a message to every cartel in the country. U.S. personnel are not to be touched. Under any circumstances.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A week ago, two DEA agents were murdered in a basement in Tijuana. We were preparing to begin a campaign of arrests. Cracking down harshly to try and reimpose the unspoken law that we’re not to be touched. Then shit hit the fan.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yesterday morning,’ Lars said. ‘Two of our Customs Enforcement agents were gunned down in the lobby of a Mexican government building. A senior member of their National Institute for the Combat of Drugs was killed too. We think it was Ramos — no-one else is that insane to try and provoke us further. Not even Draco.’