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  “Our people spotted him in Colorado … in Denver,” Andres began. “Our information is that he remained there for at least two days.”

  “Two days? And no one contacted us.”

  “He made contact with a low-level street dealer, not one high in our organization. It was only after the dealer met with his local boss that he saw the photo and recognized the man, Sole, as someone who bought cocaine from him earlier in the day. The next day the man, Sole, met with the dealer again to buy more cocaine.”

  “And?”

  “And after that, he was gone. No more contact with him.” Andres hesitated a moment, intent on every hint of expression passing across Garza’s face then added, “Perhaps we should eliminate this dealer to send a message to the others … spread the word to the other cities that they cannot fail again.”

  Garza’s brow slanted down in the way that they recognized as his only outward expression of displeasure. His voice remained calm.

  “No. The dealer is not at fault here, but his supplier in Denver, his boss and our man, he should be held accountable.”

  “I’ll see to it personally,” Andres said, anxious to make up for the bad news he had delivered.

  “Everyone is to be familiar with his picture. I thought I made that clear.”

  “You did, jefe. The photo from the newspaper was there. It seems our man simply failed to show it to this small dealer. Otherwise, he would have recognized Sole.”

  “Alright.” Garza’s dark eyes signaled it was time to move on. A message would be sent. The other suppliers and dealers working for Los Salvajes would understand, if they did not already, that they would be held accountable for future failures to find Sole.

  “After Denver, do we have any word of him?” Garza continued.

  “Yes.” Andres took a breath and prepared himself to deliver more bad news. There was no point in lying. The penalty for lying to Garza was the worst of all punishments. Those found guilty of deliberately hiding the truth had been known to linger for days, begging for death, before Garza would allow them to escape this world and their pain.

  Andres, continued, “He stopped in Pueblo, another city in Colorado. It is one of our growing markets.”

  “And there he was recognized but not confronted.”

  “Yes, but he stayed only for a brief time … perhaps two hours, or less even. His behavior is strange, though.”

  “I’m listening,” Garza snapped.

  “Again, he bought cocaine from our dealer. The dealer did recognize him this time. He notified his supplier, who told him to follow the man. The dealer did and saw him go into a bar.”

  “A bar?”

  “Yes. According to the bartender, he ordered one beer, drank it, and left within a few minutes.” Andres shook his head. “They say it seemed he wanted to be recognized.”

  “And from there?” Garza’s face showed no emotion, and Andres had no idea how he was processing the information he provided.

  “The dealer followed him on foot to a parking garage. Sole got into his vehicle and left before our people could get to him. The whole incident lasted perhaps fifteen minutes, less even. It was not enough time for our people to get to him, and the dealer alone would not be equipped to confront a man like this.”

  “No, he would not,” Garza agreed. “And after Pueblo?”

  “No sign yet,” Andres said frankly. “But he will show up somewhere. He always does.”

  “Alright. Nothing has changed. Find John Sole.”

  An Unfriendly Sort

  At around ten thousand feet, he had to pull over. The low, high-altitude air pressure had the radiator coolant boiling and the pickup’s engine overheating.

  John Sole pulled onto the narrow shoulder, leaving the left two tires on the road. The right side of the truck almost touched the guard rail. Not the best place for engine trouble. He checked the rearview mirror as the truck came to a stop. There was no traffic in sight. In fact, he hadn’t seen another vehicle for the last ten miles.

  Pushing the door open, he stepped out into the road, raised his arms over his head in a luxurious stretch, and took a deep breath. In the valleys below, temperatures climbed into the nineties. At the top of the Sandia Mountains, the air blew fresh and crisp, carrying with it the scent of pine and cedar.

  Sole went to the front of the truck and opened the hood. The engine popped and clicked metallically while the radiator coolant boiled over into the reservoir, bubbling as it cooled.

  “Well, John-boy,” he sighed. “Looks like you’ll be here for a while.”

  He leaned against the truck, taking in the view. Beyond the guardrail, the mountain sloped away, revealing a spectacular vista across a valley to more mountains. She would like this, he thought.

  “Which she?” the voice in his head asked. “Isabella or Shaye?”

  “Both,” he answered himself and laughed.

  For a while, he had considered the possibility that he might be losing his mind. There were days when he carried on long conversations with himself. The more the miles piled up, separating him from the past, the more isolated he became. He didn’t mind at first, but with the isolation came a nagging need to talk, to converse, to say something out loud, to remain human.

  There was only one human in his life now. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. No friends, not even casual acquaintances, could be permitted to penetrate his shell. The dangers were too great for them and for him. It was better for everyone if he remained isolated from the world. That left him one person to talk to—himself.

  Concern about his sanity faded in time. He was fine, he told himself. Conversing with the voice in his head was simply a defense mechanism. His brain used it to ward off the inevitable loss of reason that comes from complete isolation. It was the brain’s way of saying, we’re gonna keep you sharp and sane, John-boy, at least for a while, until things are done. That’s the way he talked it over with the voice, and the voice agreed.

  “Yes, they’d love this.” He smiled and took another deep breath.

  ***

  In the months since leaving Isabella in Georgia, the old pickup had taken him across thousands of miles of highway, back roads and, city streets. First, west through Missouri to Kansas City. Then north to Minneapolis, and from there, over to Chicago and Detroit. He considered crossing into Canada from Detroit but wondered if the Los Salvajes cartel would be able to follow him there. Probably, he thought, but he wasn’t sure, and he needed them to follow. That was the point of everything he was doing.

  He turned south and west again. Indianapolis, St. Louis, and finally Denver. In each city, he sought out the places where they might be searching for him.

  The residents of the cities thought they were unique, somehow special. They gave themselves nicknames—America’s Crossroads, Twin Cities, Motor City, Big D, Forest City, Mile High. He visited them all and found they weren’t so special.

  The same seedy underworld existed in all of them, lurking just out of sight of the people who thought their city was special. And that underworld was always the same, inhabited by the same demons, regardless of the city’s nickname. Drugs changed hands. People killed for the price of a hit of meth or heroin. Women sold themselves to survive or to feed their drug habit. The same grinning faces laughed while others died.

  These are the places John Sole found in each city. He made himself visible, bought drugs he didn’t use, walked streets, sat in bars where his was the only strange face, just so they would take notice, recognize him, and pass the word—he’s here, the one you are looking for we saw him here in Detroit, or Milwaukee or Denver. Then he moved on, leaving a trail for them to follow.

  When it seemed the cartel may not be paying close enough attention, he would leave a body behind. It was always someone tied to the cartel, whose misfortune was to be standing on a street corner while John Sole passed. He felt no guilt as long as he had their attention.

  From Denver, he turned south. A newspaper there had said that Pueblo, C
olorado had the highest per capita murder rate in the state, and attributed the murders and associated crimes to the local gang problem. Gangs in Pueblo. That meant drugs in Pueblo. It wasn’t a place he would have considered visiting on his odyssey, but he decided he might as well leave no stone unturned and headed down the interstate toward Pueblo.

  Once in the city, it didn’t take long to identify the area he sought. He drove slowly, eyes scanning side to side. Two men in an alley passed each other, a word spoken, their hands briefly touching. The telltale signs of a drug buy.

  A few minutes later, he found a city parking lot, left the pickup, and walked back to the alley. Heads turned. Eyes stared. Voices whispered.

  Some figured he had to be a cop. Others said, “Naw, man. He just a stoner. Check out that doped up crazy look on the fucker’s face.”

  A few simply shook their heads and said the white boy walking down the sidewalk was fucking crazy. Sole tended to agree with the latter.

  Crazy or not, the dealer took his money in exchange for an eightball of cocaine. Sole walked away without speaking and entered a bar at the end of the alley. The chatter inside died out as he took a seat on a stool and ordered a beer.

  “Five-O in the house,” a voice called out.

  “Fuckin’ pig,” another said.

  The bartender stared into his face as he put the beer in front of him. Maybe he recognized him. Sole hoped he did, and sipped the beer slowly so the bartender had time to get a good look at him. With luck, he would report to the local cartel gangbangers that he’d seen the one they were looking for, the one in the newspaper picture.

  His work completed, he finished the beer and left, walked to his truck, and headed out of town. That was how he ended up on the road over the crest of the Sandia Mountains. Albuquerque was the next big city on his route. He hadn’t been there yet to leave his scent behind. After Albuquerque … well, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Just keep moving, always away from Isabella.

  ***

  A car approached from the south. It was new, and the young couple inside were laughing as they passed without slowing. Good. He didn’t want them to stop and offer help.

  Another twenty minutes passed. The pickup engine had cooled now, the angry popping gone. Another vehicle came along, an old man in a pickup. He slowed and rolled the window down.

  “Can I give you a hand?” He leaned toward Sole and smiled. “Looks like you overheated. Yeah, altitude will do that. Had the same trouble myself.”

  Sole closed the truck’s hood. “No.”

  He got behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and drove away without another word. The man watched him leave, shaking his head as he scratched under his ball cap. “Well, he’s a damned unfriendly sort.”

  “Remember,” the voice reminded Sole. “Keep moving. No friends.”

  Things Were Working Out

  “There’s one of my clients.” Billy Siever put his glass of wine on the table and gave a small wave to a familiar face as she walked into the popular steakhouse in Gainesville, Georgia.

  Isabella Palmeras stopped, uncertain for a moment, and then followed the hostess to a table, trailed by Sandy and Jacinta.

  “Client?” His wife, Vera, turned her head in time to see Isabella give a smile and wave back as she was seated. “She’s pretty.”

  “I suppose so,” Billy said, retrieving his wine. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Oh, come on,” Vera laughed. “She’s beautiful. How could you not notice? Hmm … makes me think you have indeed noticed. Anything I should be aware of?” she teased.

  “Stop, Vera. She’s a client, nothing more.”

  “A client, huh?” Vera was having fun. “Exactly what kind of … work … are you doing for her?”

  “You know me better than that,” Billy said. “I’m too terrified of you to be unfaithful.”

  “I’ll bet.” Vera laughed. “Seriously, what are you doing for her, or is it classified?”

  “Nope, not classified. I’ve been helping her with a name change.”

  “Name change? You need a lawyer for that?”

  “No, not really, but she’s new to the state and wasn’t sure where to begin.”

  “That’s it … a name change.”

  “That and some domestic issues she’s been having. That’s what the name change is all about.” He smiled at his wife and added, “In the interest of full disclosure, I should also advise you that she is renting one of our houses in Gainesville. Now, have I answered your interrogatory satisfactorily, counselor?”

  “You have indeed, counselor.” Vera nodded at the woman at the table across the dining room. “You should go talk to her. She keeps looking this way.”

  Billy turned his head and caught Isabella’s nervous glance. “Maybe I should.”

  “And have them join us,” Vera added. “I like to be acquainted with our tenants.”

  “Fair enough.” Billy nodded and stood, taking his wine glass with him.

  Isabella looked up as he stopped at their table. She glanced beyond him to see his wife smiling at them. Shit, she thought. She should have just gotten take out at McDonald’s.

  She gave Billy a wry smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your meal.”

  “Relax.” Billy smiled. “You didn’t. Just wanted to see if everything is alright. Is it?”

  “Everything is fine. We’re settling in pretty well.”

  “Good. So here’s the thing.” He lowered his voice. “Now’s your chance to get into your new characters for real.”

  “New characters?” Isabella’s brow furrowed. “Not sure I follow.”

  “Your new characters … your new identities. It’s easy at home, but at some point, you need to begin interacting socially. You need to become the person on the IDs we got for you. Why don’t you come over and join us for dinner?”

  “Oh, I don’t think I can do …” Isabella started to shake her head and saw Billy’s wife smiling at her from across the room.

  “Sure you can,” Billy insisted. “Sit with us. Vera will want to hear your story, so this will be your chance to try it out in public and get comfortable with it in a friendly setting.”

  “Friendly?” Isabella cast a doubtful glance at Vera, who continued to watch and smile. She was aware that women’s smiles were not always what they seemed, even if Billy Siever wasn’t.

  Billy caught the glance and laughed. “It’s not a trick. I assure you. Vera doesn’t have a deceptive bone in her body. She really would like to meet you. Besides, she always wants to meet our tenants, so this visit is overdue.”

  Isabella looked at Sandy and Jacinta, who had listened quietly to the entire exchange. Sandy nodded. “Let’s do it, Mom. He’s right. We can try out our cover stories and make sure they fly.”

  “If you think so, then okay.” Isabella stood.

  “Great,” Billy beamed.

  He waved over a server and explained they were joining his party. It took a minute to gather some additional chairs and get everyone seated. Billy waited and was the last to take a seat. He looked from their guests to his wife.

  “Vera, I’d like to introduce Abigail Banks, her son Chris and his fiancé Margarita …” He paused. “I’m sorry Margarita. I can be so forgetful. What was your last name again?”

  Jacinta looked into Vera’s eyes and smiled. “Flores … Margarita Flores. I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Siever.” Her English became more fluent as each day passed, with just the right hint of accent.

  “Please Margarita, call me Vera.” She looked around the table. “I think we should all be on first-name terms, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Isabella agreed. “And please call me Abby. Abigail is so formal. My mother wanted a little girl to dress up like a doll and play house. She always hoped I’d be a little more feminine if she called me Abigail, thinking it would steer me in the desired direction.” She laughed. “It didn’t. I was more tomboy than girl, hated dolls, never played house, and I always preferred Abby.”
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br />   There were laughs around the table, and the evening began.

  ***

  On the run from the Los Salvajes cartel, John Sole turned to the only person he could trust. He contacted his boyhood friend, Billy Siever, and then left to lead the cartel away from the people he had endangered.

  The next day, Billy attempted to make contact with Luis Acero, the CI—criminal informant—snitch Sole worked with during his police days in Atlanta. All Billy had to work from was a voice mailbox that Sole used to send and receive messages with those he trusted.

  For three days, Billy called the number morning, noon, and night, leaving a message and his number. Not being familiar with the daily schedules and activities of drug dealers and snitches, he had no idea when Acero might return the call—or if he would return it at all.

  On the morning of the fourth day, Billy’s cell phone rang. The display simply said ‘Wireless Caller.’

  Usually, he would have let a call from an unknown source go to voice mail. This time he answered immediately.

  “Don’t hang up.” Sole had warned Billy that Acero would be nervous about accepting the call.

  “Who is this?” Luis said.

  “A friend gave me your number, he told me to say to you … Esteban is napping.”

  It was a signal from Sole. Esteban Moya, an enforcer for the Los Salvajes cartel, had planned to kill Luis Acero. Sole prevented that from happening by putting a bullet through his brain.

  There was silence on the phone. They needed his help, but Billy knew that Acero, a snitch and a drug dealer, would have a hard time trusting anyone. The seconds ticked by while he waited and hoped Acero would not hang up and disappear forever.

  Finally, Luis whispered into the phone, “Only one man s’posed to say that to me.”

  Billy breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. John Sole told me the words to say. He said it was the only way you would talk to me and help us.”

  “You know him?”

  “Yes,” Billy said. “We are friends … have been since we were boys.”