His two guards stepping over to Juan’s unconscious men accentuated his point. They raised their weapons and pulled the triggers. The muffled pops sent rounds into the back of the men’s skulls, and fresh blood soon spilled onto the floor.
Juan struggled to his feet and turned around to see what the guards had just done. He didn’t offer a protest. It was the way things were done. Truthfully, he knew he was lucky to still be alive.
“You’ll probably need to close down and get this mess cleaned up.” Sanchez waved his gun recklessly at the bodies near the doorway.
“Of course. I’ll take care of it.” Juan’s shirt was soaked in crimson from his wound.
“No, get someone else to do it. You’ll need to get that cut cleaned up. See to it the next guys you hire aren’t imbeciles. Or my next visit won’t be so merciful.”
“Yes, boss. I understand.”
Juan slinked away and locked the front door before disappearing through a doorway in the back.
Sanchez watched him leave and then returned his attention to Allyson. He shoved his weapon into the back of his pants. “So it’s me you want, not Espinoza?” he asked, still dubious.
She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. Sanchez was three inches over six feet tall. His striking black beard and slicked-back matching hair made him quite the handsome man. If this job required a little extra effort on her part, Allyson wouldn’t have any complaints.
“No disrespect to your employer. He obviously knows what he’s doing since he hired you. But I always like to go straight to the source.”
He tilted his head back, hiding any emotion. Sanchez was accustomed to women throwing themselves at him. With his vast wealth, such things came easily, especially in a country ravaged with poverty.
“Francisco is having a little get-together tomorrow night. Perhaps you would like to accompany me.” He gave one more look at the bodies on the floor. “After all, one can’t have enough protection, hmm?”
Her lips curled teasingly. “A party at Espinoza’s?” She feigned surprise. “I’d be delighted.”
18
Jackson Kennedy’s reputation as a reckless, carefree pilot had carried through the Western Hemisphere. He was a retired Navy pilot, having entered the service in the late 1970s. Jackson did twenty years for the US Navy before deciding to hang it up and try his hand in the private sector. He ran a few unsuccessful businesses out of Los Angeles until he ended up depressed and very nearly bankrupt. At the age of sixty-one, he moved across the border to Tijuana and went back to the only thing he ever really knew how to do: flying airplanes.
Last she’d heard, he was flying crop dusters during the growing season. Between harvest and planting time, though, he could usually be found at the bottom of a bottle of cerveza.
Jackson was a good guy, or so Tommy said. But he’d had a rough go of it through the years. His wife had left him for another man, an aspiring golfer who was trying to go pro at the age of forty. Last Jackson heard, the man had left her for a younger woman. When the ex came crawling back to see if Jackson would let her back in his life, all she found was an empty home. He knew his limitations. And even though the divorce crushed his spirit, he also realized that he was weak. He probably would have taken her back if he’d stuck around. So he went to the one place he knew she’d never go: Mexico. She was too prim and proper for the rough-and-tumble outskirt towns beyond America’s southern border.
Right now, the only thing that mattered was that Adriana could trust him. Her boyfriend, Sean Wyatt, met Jackson four years ago when he was planning a trip into the Sierra Madre mountain range. He'd been sent to recover some artifacts, and the mission required a certain level of what Sean called discretion.
Apparently, the corrupt local government wanted to acquire the artifacts for personal gain. In most cases, Sean and the International Archaeological Agency did what the respective governments requested. There were occasions, however, where the best interest of preserving history didn’t always line up with what certain government officials wanted.
According to Sean and Tommy, Jackson was a bit of a crazy guy, but if she wanted a pilot who would do a little dirty work, Adriana could do no better.
She pulled her rucksack snug over her shoulder and stared at the notes she’d scribbled on the napkin the day before. Her eyes drifted up slowly to the rusty sign hanging over the building’s entrance. Time and the weather had taken their toll, fading some of the letters to the point where they were faint shadows. There was still enough of the original paint for her to make out what the sign said. Pedro’s.
Adriana pushed open the red door and stepped into a dark, dusty saloon that looked like a place Pancho Villa might have visited once or twice during the earlier part of his infamous career. The only things missing were the swinging wooden double doors and tables full of desperados. In the dim light of a few iron chandeliers, she took in the surroundings. An L-shaped counter wrapped around the front end of the bar’s liquor shelves, refrigerator, and taps. Three men wearing mechanics' outfits huddled together at the bar’s farthest end, drinking bottles of Pacifico. They must have been having a beer on their lunch break, or so Adriana figured. Two more men sat together at a table to the right, near the hallway leading into the bathrooms. The corridor was marked with a white sign that read, Baños.
And there, sitting at a table for two against the wall, was the man she came to see, Jackson Kennedy. He fit the description: a bushy white beard and matching hair capped with a red bandana. He wore a Hawaiian-style shirt with flowers and trees printed all over it in bright yellows, greens, blues, and whites. His shorts were the old-style camouflage, before they started making the newer digital kind. His darkly tanned feet were wrapped in leather sandals. Jackson looked less like a pilot and more like a member of the Jimmy Buffet Fan Club.
He was reading a book,a beer sitting to his left, almost against the wall. A pair of Ray-Bans sat next to the bottle. The sudden light beaming in from the doorway and her subsequent appearance had drawn the attention of everyone in the room. Knowing the other patrons were of a less than reputable cut, Jackson spoke up quickly.
“Adriana,” he said in a rough tone. “Over here.”
She nodded and strode over to the little table. Jackson stood and extended his hand. “Jackson Kennedy. ’Course, you already knew that.”
According to his dossier, Jackson was from Fort Worth, Texas. Even though he’d not lived there in decades, his accent still came through. “I guess you didn’t have any trouble finding the place.”
He motioned for her to have a seat across from him.
“No,” she said, easing down and tucking her rucksack under the table at her feet. “Nowadays, there aren’t many things that are hard to find thanks to the wonders of GPS.”
He let out a hearty chuckle. “I suppose you’re right. Back in the old days, we didn’t have those kinds of things to get us around. If you wanted to find a place, you better have a map and some good directions.” He closed his book and set it aside.
She eyed the title on the cover. “Count of Monte Cristo? That was one of my favorite stories in school. Still is.”
“Yeah, I’ve read it a few times; it’s always fun to go back to the classics.” His eyes wandered around the room, making sure no prying ears were listening in on their conversation. “So,little lady, tell me about this job you’ve got. I mean, Tommy gave me a few brief details, but I want to make sure I understand correctly.”