it and leave stuff to me. Now, get the hell out of here and get to work.”
When Cortez was alone, he stared skyward. He squinted against the sun’s glare but enjoyed the warm rays bathing his skin. He sighed deeply and thought about what had to be done next. Though he still considered himself loyal to Mendoza, his first loyalty lay with himself. In the past several months the old man had become more and more out of touch with reality. Maybe it was the drugs he used. Maybe he was intoxicated with the beauty of the caramel-skinned woman who shared his bed. Cortez didn’t know and he didn’t care. All he knew was that he’d sacrificed his career, his honor, to serve Mendoza.
Cortez would have to see for himself how far gone Mendoza had become. If he didn’t like what he saw, he would take out the bastard. As far as he was concerned, Mendoza had already served his purpose. He’d paid for their trip to the United States, their weapons and equipment and the bribes necessary to snatch Gabriel Fox. And, whatever Cortez’s boss failed to supply, Jack Mace had happily filled the gap.
Frankly, Cortez neither liked nor trusted either man. But he dismissed his misgivings with a shrug. He was in it for the massive payday it promised. Other than that, everyone could go to hell.
Cortez slipped inside the house. The air-conditioned atmosphere cooled the sweat that had beaded on his forehead, his neck and the small of his back. He slid off his sunglasses, slipped them into his breast pocket and wound his way through the corridors of the massive house. Occasionally he passed one of Mendoza’s gunners and acknowledged the guy with a nod. All the security people knew him and let him pass without incident.
The Mexican knew that Mendoza took his lunch on the terrace, and he likely still would be there. Or he would be about ready to take a siesta. Either way, Cortez wanted to see him, look into his eyes, look into his soul, to see if he was still up to the challenge that lay ahead.
If not, Cortez would have no problem using the Glock 19 that rode at his waist. A couple of well-placed shots and he’d send the guy straight to hell.
Cortez had grown up in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, one of eight children raised in poverty. His father worked at the docks. Though he broke his back fourteen hours a day unloading ships, he barely made enough to feed his family or to keep the bank from snatching away the hovel they’d called home. His mother was given to long bouts of depression that caused her to stay in bed for days and sometimes weeks, shutters drawn despite the sweltering heat, and weep for hours on end. It was this sort of misery Cortez associated with poverty, and he wanted no part of it.
When he had become old enough, he’d lied about his age and joined the Mexican army. After that, he had become a police officer, and eventually joined an antidrug squad. The endless hours of paramilitary drills and urban combat training had helped hone his killing skills to a keening edge. The work had meant a steady paycheck. But he still supplemented it with bribes offered up by drug lords willing to exchange their money for their lives. In short, he knew how to survive. He’d proved that much when he’d chopped down that damn American in Colorado. And he would do it again as many times as was necessary to get where and what he wanted, which was money and security. Get that, he reasoned, and anything else he could want would follow.
He took the elevator to the second floor, made his way down the corridor until he reached Mendoza’s room. He rapped sharply on the door but waited for an invitation to enter. He heard footsteps and moment later, the door opened and he saw one of his men, Garcia, peering at him through the space between the door and the jamb.
“Hey,” Garcia said.
Cortez nodded. The door swung open.
Stepping inside, Cortez glanced around the room and found Mendoza seated in a corner. The old man nursed a cigar and a bluish haze hung heavily in the room. Mendoza gave Cortez a wide grin and gestured for the younger man to sit in a chair opposite him. Cortez strode to the chair, dropped into it.
“Welcome back, my friend,” Mendoza said. “I trust your mission to Colorado went well? You did a good job for me?”
Cortez seated himself across from the drug lord. He smiled and nodded at the older man. “It went well. The proof’s downstairs. You hear anything from Mace?”
“He’s coming. It won’t be long now.”
“Has he transferred the rest of the money yet?”
Mendoza shook his head. “We got a third up front. We get the rest when we hand over the American. You already knew that. What’s the problem? You don’t trust me now?”
Cortez feigned a surprised look. “Hey, you know better than that. I trust you with my life. It’s Mace I’ve got the issues with. I want to make sure we get what’s coming to us.”
Mendoza gave him a hard look. “You heard something?”
“No,” Cortez replied, shaking his head. “Just my gut talking. Something tells me this SOB will stick us. I’ll feel better when we’re rid of him, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t want him to put one over on you.”
“You let me deal with Mace.”
“Sure. I was just giving you something to think about.”
Mendoza cut him off with a gesture. “I don’t need it. This is all under control. My control.”
“Sure. I’m just saying this scientist is the most important thing. If I were you, I’d focus on getting the money.”
The drug lord smacked an open palm against the table and it caused a thunderous noise. “I got it, damn it! I got it! You understand me?”
Feigning surprise, Cortez held up his hands, palms facing outward in a calming gesture. “Sure. I got it.”
“Any problem with the snatch?”
“We took out at least one police officer and left two others for dead. We killed some bystanders, too. What can I say? They were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“It will put them on our trail.”
“You think they weren’t going to follow us otherwise? What, we were going to kidnap a guy in broad daylight and the police wouldn’t investigate?”
Mendoza’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward in his chair. “You should’ve paid some people off. That’s what I’m saying.”
“With all due respect, that was risky, too. The more folks we bribe, the more there are to sell us out. This was supposed to be a quick strike. In and out. It went bad.”
Mendoza’s nostrils flared and his fists clenched until the knuckles whitened. Cortez felt adrenaline spike through his system. The muscles in his neck, shoulders and legs tensed as he prepared to launch himself at Mendoza.
Before either man could act, the door opened and a small man dressed in a well-tailored blue suit stepped inside. “Mace is here,” he said.
Mendoza stood and two men helped him shrug into his jacket. He stared down at Cortez who waited for him to speak his piece.
“I want you to stay here,” he said.
“What?”
“You don’t trust this guy? Fine. But I don’t want you out there asking questions and pissing him off. You stay here.”
“Damn it—”
“Stay!”
Cortez threw up his hands and looked away from Mendoza. The drug lord smiled and, flanked by his security entourage, left the room.
Reaching into his pocket, Cortez touched a business-card-size CD that lay inside and smiled. The CD contained a copy of the Cold Earth worm that he had found hidden within the seams of the American’s coat. Cortez had known for months that his partnership with Mendoza was fragile, primarily because of the fragility of Mendoza’s mind. When he’d found the small CD during the return trip to Mexico, Cortez had known instantly that he had found a way to profitably end the partnership.