Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (107 page)

“He cut me off. I got no idea where he is. Now get the hell
out of here,” Cillo said. “This conversation is over.”

Leon left his Glock on the rock and stepped into the pool.

The old man tried to get up, but Leon was fast on him,
grabbing the guy under the chin to lock his head and partially choke him out
before he intended to bounce his head on a rock, then drown him. But the old
codger, in spite of age and fat, had some fight in him. He pushed off with one
foot against the side of the pool and Leon slipped back, hitting the protruding
rocks. Now, enraged, he grabbed the old man and put an MMA chokehold on him.

Leon leveraged the bastard, worked him around, and got the
hold he wanted. He kneed him in the crouch to get him off balance, then slammed
him back against the side of the pool, smashing his skull on the rock. As the
man slipped under, momentarily out cold, Leon held him down. Scene still looked
good for a slip and an accidental drowning.

Accidents look as good as suicides. No real follow-up.

But then the bastard came alive like some horror-movie dude,
grabbed Leon’s ankle, and tried to drag him down with a seriously strong grip,
forcing Leon to back off. The way Cillo came up coughing, spitting, and
fighting, Leon had to smash him in the face repeatedly, then jump on him with
his knee against the bastard’s throat, pinning him under. Even then, the old man
showed remarkable fight, and it took a hell of a long time to get him to settle
and get done with it.

Finally, the kicking and struggling stopped. The last gurgle
and bubbles came next. Leon knew soon the bowels would let loose, and he didn’t
want to be in the water. He got out, breathing hard, soaked—amazed at how strong
and determined the old fool was. Probably the damn Viagra.

Leon cursed himself for being lax. The last guy, so willing
to die, so beaten, had affected him in dealing with this guy, and he wasn’t
happy with himself about that. If it was to look like he slipped and fell in, he
must of slipped a couple times.

Dripping wet and staring at the dead guy, Leon said, “You
miserable old son of a bitch, you had some life in you, I’ll say that. All I did
for you—even let you get your last blow job. And you got to give me a bad time.
You and your fucking wolf-dog.”

Before heading back to the house, Leon went through the dead
man’s robe and found his cell phone. So far, nothing had gone smoothly. First he
met the asshole client. Then he ran into this crazy old bastard and his dog. Now
he was wet, hungry, and pissed.

He had a lot of work yet to do. Not a good start to the
night. Leon left Cillo’s and hiked back to his Raptor. He had his travel bag in
the vehicle. Leon never left anything in a hotel room.

He changed, draping the wet clothes in the back seat. Then
he headed for Jesup’s condo on the other side of South Lake. He wanted to get a
hold of Jesup’s computer, notes, and files.

All the fun had gone out of the night.

22

Marco was asleep when Sydney got the call from her
police-reporter friend. She went into the bathroom.

“Hi. Thanks for getting back to me. What did you find out?”

“Not a lot, but enough. You were right about this guy. His
records have been sanitized. Wiped clean. I talked to a very solid source who
knew all about Marco Cruz and his problems.”

“Federal?”

“Yes. He wouldn’t tell me anything real specific, for
obvious reasons. Cruz ended up in a Mexican prison for unknown offenses. I’m not
sure he was even charged, but if he was, it’s been cleaned. This was after he
took out the guys who killed the border agent. It may or may not have been
connected to the gun-walking deal.”

“How did he get away with being in Mexico?”

“He has relatives in Mexico. Some with questionable
associations. Anyway, he ended up in prison for a time. All under a tight wrap.
Can’t confirm anything about what happened. Then he’s out, vanishes for over a
year. Now, apparently, he’s clean and in Tahoe. According to my source, he
survived in prison because he was friendly with the big dog in there. Maybe the
guy was a relative or a friend of a relative. He got released suddenly, without
any explanation. Who got him out, and what he did to earn his freedom, or what
he did for his benefactors, I don’t know. Whatever he did, somebody with lots of
power liked him for it. And the only people who can clean records like that have
a lot of federal power. Could even be the CIA. He was a perfect candidate for
whatever they wanted—his military and border background, shady family ties. Like
he was designed for clandestine activity.”

“Thanks. I appreciate your help.”

“Syd, how you’re connected with this guy, I don’t know…and
maybe don’t want to know. But he’s not exactly someone you want to take home to
Mom. Look, I know some rumors, and I don’t much like to deal in them—”

“What?”

“Well, this is rumor. After prison activities—and this is
speculation because of timing and location—but it might be connected to the fall
of one of Mexico’s most powerful families. That’s very much undercover as well.
Information surfaced about connections beyond the cartels, reaching all the way
to the Middle East. Somebody got that information and there’s this rumor—and
that’s how it was put to me—that Marco Cruz was involved in the operation.
People died. People ended up disappearing. It was supposedly a major operation.
His role in it, I don’t know. But be careful—”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Syd, I don’t know what you’re doing, but—”

“Don’t ask. I won’t tell.”

Sydney hung up. When she walked back into the dark bedroom,
Marco was still dead asleep. She stared at him, that rugged but handsome face,
the scar on his neck, the mouth and nose, the curly hair, the dark skin.

He’s my guy, she thought. My dark knight.

She smiled. If he was half as bad as it appeared,
Well,
she thought,
maybe he’s exactly what a girl needs when the most powerful
people in the Sierras are trying to kill her.
It wasn’t like she was
marrying the guy. And it wasn’t like he didn’t do this kind of thing. But, she
admitted, he needed to come to it himself. If all he wanted was the shooter, so
be it.

At some point in her ruminations, she realized he was awake
and staring at her.

“You looked stressed out about something,” he said, shifting
in the bed, propping his pillow to sit up a bit.

“I had my police-reporter friend, my only real friend up
here at the moment, check you out. His advice was to get the hell away from
you.”

“Sounds like he’s a wise man. You don’t strike me as someone
who doesn’t take good advice.”

“I don’t.” Sydney Jesup looked away from him, her gaze on
the wall, the window curtain, the old furniture in the room. “I never, ever
thought of myself as crossing certain lines. Always by the book, by the law. And
then I did.”

“Let me tell you something,” he said. “You take the very
best, law-abidingest person on the planet and you stick them in the midst of
massive and brutal corruption that has even the law in its grasp, and that
leaves a simple, if unfortunate, choice. You have to submit and become corrupt,
as many cops do—if not most in Mexico and quite a few in this country—or you
have to rebel and cross that line. You took the right moral path in my mind. It
comes with costs and high risks, but it leaves you your soul.”

“And your Shelby Mustang,” she said with a smile.

“That’s right, and I’m going to get the bastard who put
bullet holes in it.”

No, it’s not ending there, she wanted to tell him. You might
not know it yet, but you’re in this, and you can’t get out that easy. You’re
going to help me get those bastards.

I’m not a cop or DA’s investigator anymore,
she told
herself.
And he’s not a soldier or border patrol agent.
But what did the
things they were going to do—because she was confident that the deeper he got,
the more locked in with her he was—make them? Criminals?

No. We’re not criminals, but we aren’t going to use the
authorities, and we’re probably going to commit crimes. There needs to be a
third category.

Staring at him, she made a decision: at some point in the
not too distant future, she was going to climb into his bed if he showed
interest.

23

Shaun Corbin was freaking out, yelling at himself in his
head, coming apart.

You are such a moron! Jesus, man, you’re a dead man, Shaun
Corbin. Sonofabitch. Is this how it ends?

His first panicked thoughts when he woke up in the dark in
his pickup were,
I got to get the hell out of here. Pack, get money from
Kora, hit the road.

He’d been sleeping in his truck on a side street near the
ski run. He drove the short distance to his house. Earlier, he’d been afraid to
go home, but now he needed to pack up and get ready to run.

He parked and stood outside for awhile, looking around for
something amiss. Something that would tell him somebody was there. But he
realized he was alone on the lonely road. He wasn’t even entirely sure it was
the same night. He went inside and put stuff together in a backpack and
suitcase. Just the essential stuff—his laptop, some files, the travel junk, some
clothes.

Should I take it with me now? No, I can’t leave it in the
truck and go up to see her. If she can’t get the money until the bank opens,
then what?

A million damn questions and problems. He separated out
everything with Kora North involved—the videotapes, photographs. It was what he
would trade for the cash. He put it all out on the coffee table.

Kora was his greatest find. She was now the top call girl in
Tahoe and worked exclusively for his cousin’s party set. But it was late—he
assumed she’d have to go to the bank in the morning, and probably bring the
money to him. By then, he’d make up his mind what to do. And she could find out
some things for him, like when his damn cousin was coming back. Maybe she’d even
know something about what was going on with the pro Gatts said was coming.

That scared him. Last thing he wanted was to be in Tahoe
when some stone-cold killer showed up.

I’ll be gone by then, he told himself.

He sat for a minute, his brain all messed up from the binge
he’d been on. But to get himself straight, he needed a drink. And he needed to
go see Kora.

On his way to her place, like a broken record, his mind
played the hatchery shooting again and again and again. He’d been so close,
fired so many shots. Then the chase and her escape in the Shelby. It was the
worst moment of his life when she’d gotten out of there. It didn’t seem
possible. It was like the universe conspired against him. Hated him.

Instead of being on the hunt, he’d been riding the bottle.
He’d messed up big time and it was over. He had to get out.

He was drunk and miserable. His greatest opportunity kicked
him in the gut and mocked him. He hated himself for wanting so desperately to be
accepted by the goddamn Thorps. All he did for them…the party girls, the drugs.
God, he hated the whole arrogant elitist bunch of assholes. But he knew he’d
screwed up big time. He was a dead man if he didn’t get the hell out and get far
away.

Once he had some running money, he was thinking of Florida.
He’d get what he could from Kora and from a guy who owed him. Then he’d pay a
visit on his way out of town to Gatts, maybe, and relieve him of some cash and
drugs and be on his way.

For sure, Kora North had become the star. Nothing like the
demand for her. She had become the mother lode for Thorp and Rouse’s ambition to
get everyone on sex tapes for future use. She was a sex magnet. Tahoe’s new
Monroe.

He turned onto her street. Kora lived in a place at the
trendy Tahoe Keys condos. Top of the line, all the way. Sixty to a hundred grand
was what he figured he needed to get things going, but he doubted he could get
much more than thirty out of her.

He parked. The Keys had fingers of land reaching into the
wetlands they’d drained and made into boat docks, condos, and houses. He went up
to her place, a corner unit with a nice view of the lake, and started with the
doorbell.

After no response, he started pounding. “C’mon, bitch, wake
up!”

24

Who the hell…? Oh, Jesus…

Kora North, on her bed writing in her journal, wearing her
running pants and a T-shirt, heard somebody pounding on her door in the middle
of the night and knew who it had to be. She went out into the living room and
heard Shaun Corbin, the nemesis of everyone’s life, out there yelling for her to
wake up. Looking through the peephole, she confirmed it, then opened the door.

“Shaun, what the hell are you doing here? It’s, like,
one-thirty in the damn morning. You look like shit.”

He pushed his way in. “That problem I got is too big to
argue with you. You didn’t talk to me. Hung up on me, you bitch.”

“What problem? You’re drunk. Get the hell out of here. You
want me to call security or the police?”

“You got anybody here?”

“No. And I don’t want you here, either. Goddamn, you’re
drunk and you stink.”

He went over to her bar, his gun sticking out in the small
of his back.
He shoot somebody?
she wondered. She watched as he poured
himself a half-glass of vodka.

“You got anything to eat?” He opened the little bar fridge
and pulled out some string cheese.

“You’re pathetic. What do you want, Shaun? If it’s about
your big screwup, don’t come to me. And don’t break anything. Who’d you shoot?”

“What do you know?” he said, giving her a look of concern.

“That’s the point of the question, isn’t it, genius?”

He looked almost relieved. “I got a serious big problem and
I need some help.”

“You are your biggest problem. You did something, and I
don’t care about it, so why are you here? Go. Get the fuck out of here. You mess
me up and you know what’ll happen to you. They’ll hunt you down like a rabid
dog, and it’ll go bad.”