“Okay, we go no further,” James cautioned. “We’ll need to retrace our steps very carefully. Does anyone see my hat anywhere?”
“Behind you, to your left,” Uri said, pointing.
“Shit. Well, it can stay there. I’m not putting my feet anywhere other than in the direction we came.”
It took James a few moments to get his bearings. “I can see subtle traces of our footsteps where the earth isn’t as hard. Follow me◦– carefully.”
“Let me go first,” Obadiah insisted.
Back at the Toyota, they used some of the water from the cooler to wash the dust off their faces. James and Obadiah loaded up the equipment while Uri got on the radio.
“Operator, put me through to Building-3A, Level-2,” Uri spoke into the mic.
“Is that Dr. Lovinescu?” the operator asked. “If you’re looking for Mr. Johnson, he’s right here.”
Gene’s voice came through. “Dr. Lovinescu. Glad to hear your voice. The place you’re going to is mined.”
“Yes… we just found out.”
“Are you, Mr. Clark and Mr. Brown all right?”
“Yes, fortunately. We’re returning and will see you in about three hours. Are Emily and Nate there?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Good. We’ll bring you all up to speed when we get back,” Uri signed off.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Angelo Cevallos paced back and forth on the second-floor balcony of his Spanish-styled mansion. He halted abruptly and gripped the ornamental white railing. Deep in thought, he looked toward the eastern horizon where Las Vegas pulsed interminably in the early evening twilight. Some decisions needed to be made.
Angelo, affluent beyond measure, accumulated most of his wealth the old-fashioned way◦– taking it from others. Not illegally, but through the generous and willing contributions from customers feeding slot machines and gaming tables at Fabulous Angelo’s, the gambling halls he owned. Like all the other lucrative enterprises along the Las Vegas Strip, his slot machines, roulette wheels and poker tables, were stacked heavily in favour of the house.
Angelo couldn’t believe the stupidity of people. Did they really think their luck or skill had anything to do with it? They were betting their life’s savings against computers programmed to keep them in high hopes by occasionally delivering big winnings. Pennies compared to what they were feeding in.
Cash, house tokens, debit cards, credit cards, his machines accepted it all. Roulette wheels had an additional pocket added, the triple-zero, and doubling up on Red/Black or Odd/Even was strictly prohibited, further favouring the house. Croupiers were the best Angelo could find. Spinning the rotor with precision, they were able to run the ball along the track and bring it to rest in any numbered pocket required. Anyone suspected of counting cards at the poker table was promptly removed from the premises. This didn’t, however, include the skilled dealers who were doing just that.
Over-salted peanuts and other spicy snacks were freely available everywhere. The clientele thought this was great, getting something for nothing, but all it did was make them thirsty. Over-priced, watered-down booze flowed at a phenomenal rate.
And Angelo was completely honest paying taxes on the millions deposited into the bank each morning.
Having inherited the very best of his Spanish bloodline, Angelo Cevallos was an extremely good-looking man. Greedy, arrogant and totally self-absorbed, he took what he wanted, when he wanted. It was his undeniable right; his wealth demanded it.
He was also a remorseless, cold-blooded killer.
When it came to the ladies, however, Angelo was a very smooth operator; courteous, attentive and charming.
Some years back, overlooking the slots from a discreet balcony, his eye caught a lady enthusiastically feeding one of his machines. Three other women crowding behind were encouraging her in their excitement. A group vacationing in Vegas, hoping to walk away with some winnings, Angelo thought to himself. He watched for a few minutes. She was not like the normal tall and leggy blondes he preferred, in fact, exactly the opposite, but there was just something about her, something alluring, even mysterious.
Angelo turned to one of his henchmen. “Put a two thousand dollar payout on slot machine fourteen in aisle seven.”
In less than a minute, the women were jumping up and down in jubilation as money poured out the machine to flashing lights and musical sirens.
Two hours later, Angelo had her in his bed, and he didn’t even know her name. At least, not then. He had no shortage of women, but most had more brains between their legs than they had between their ears. Not this one though. With just the right curves, she was much shorter than those he usually brought to his mansion. She was also a few years older than suggested at first glance; early thirties maybe. Short wavy hair and the most intelligent piercing brown eyes he’d ever looked in to. She had a cute sexiness about her and didn’t object to a single thing he did; whether it was with his hands, tongue or penis, she had taken it all. He indulged himself in the most mind-blowing and selfish sex imaginable; an experience he hadn’t enjoyed in more years than he could remember.
They spent the nights together in his mansion until the end of her vacation the following weekend.
Five years later, Angelo saw her again. Early one morning, his bodyguard beckoned him to the open front doors where she stood. He reeled back in surprise. There was no doubt as to who fathered the twins standing by her side. Much to his relief, she didn’t demand any form of compensation. She simply wanted her girls to finally meet their dad. They parted on good terms and it was only recently Angelo discovered where she lived and worked; something that may prove useful.
Most of the women working as cleaners in Angelo’s gambling halls came from a small but lucrative business he had on the side; trafficking Mexican families into the United States. Being illegal migrants, they never complained about the pitiful wages, or the appallingly long hours they were forced to work.
The migrants were smuggled in from Mexicali in Baja California. Angelo’s system was remarkably simple. Mexicali, like all towns along the border, had its official entry and exit point, but twenty miles along the high razor-wired fence to the west, another gate existed. On either side, an official government sign in English and Spanish, instructed people to use the border station in Mexicali as there were no officers manning this point.
No one questioned the gate, assuming that it was legitimately constructed. The American border authorities assumed it was the Mexicans; the Mexicans assumed it was the Americans.
Late one evening there was an uninterrupted fence; the next morning before sunrise, a heavily secured gate. Angelo’s drivers were the only ones with keys.
There was a problem with the drivers, however. Most of them were complete idiots. The crossings, always at night in overloaded trucks without lights, were easy. Roads off the beaten track were used, but when it came to traversing the Mojave, things got difficult. Entire trucks got lost only to be found a day later heading in totally the wrong direction on many of the major highways or regional roads. Highway patrol usually intervened, shipping the migrants back to Mexico, impounding the unregistered trucks and arresting the drivers.
With the stifling Mojave heat, bad air, overcrowding and lack of water, trucks that made it successfully often arrived with a few dead women and children aboard.
So, some of them died. What did Angelo care? He already had their entire life savings.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Angelo’s incompetent drivers certainly had a lot to answer for. Miguel Gonzales, on the other hand, was different.