The Guardian (The Wolfe Series) (3 page)

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hey called it writer’s block.  All writer’s suffered from it on occasion but Laurie found little comfort in that fact as she pushed back her chair and snapped her computer closed.  She was restless.  Something was in the air, something illusive, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.  She felt that something important was about to happen in her life. 

Laurie sighed.  “Yea, right.  Something earth shattering, I’m sure.”

She looked around her tiny village efficiency apartment with it’s miniscule kitchen and even tinier bathroom.  She’d done her best to make the place livable, splurging on fresh flowers once a week and adding colorful towels to the bathroom and a new floral patterned slipcover to the hide-a-bed.  She saved every penny that she could, which was no easy feat in New York City, and refused to spend any more money fixing up a place that she didn’t own.  She almost had enough money saved to move to that small, picturesque town in rural Iowa where the pace of life would be more to her liking.  She would never live in a big city again.  New York was overwhelming and claustrophobic to her.  The long lines of people wherever she went, the traffic and blaring horns both night and day.  It was said that the city never slept and she could well believe it.

She was becoming a hermit, though, and that was probably the reason her
agent and only friend in this town was on her way over to see her.  Laurie was disciplined in her routine, running four to five miles every morning, then showering and having breakfast before sitting down at her computer and working until after lunch.  More work at the computer after lunch and then blessed freedom – the four hours each day that she took for herself. 

It took an hour on buses each way to get to the equestrian center where she boarded her horse and then two hours taking care of and riding Aragon.  The animal provided a much needed release from her daily routine, always glad to see her, whickering the moment he saw her and racing for the fence where he would nuzzle her shoulder none too gentl
y before striding toward the gate and waiting patiently for her to let him out.  He’d then follow her into the barn where he’d stand even more patiently while she groomed him and talked to him as though he were human and could understand her every word.  Laurie was almost certain Aragon would have purred like a cat if he’d been able to, he enjoyed her currying and brushing that much.

             
The smile left her face when the front door bell rang and she reluctantly walked to the door and opened it, knowing she was going to be in for a lecture. 

             
Julie Simpson’s bright blue eyes widened when her protégé opened the door and stepped aside for her to enter. 

“My goodness,” Julie said, glancing down at her watch.  “Eleven in the morning and still
in your bathrobe, I see.”  Julie was petite, almost a head shorter than Laurie but carried herself with confidence and poise.  Her lemon yellow business suit was the height of fashion, her auburn hair arranged in a loose knot at the back of her head and she carried a Hermes handbag and matching shoes.  She was the epitome of the successful New York business woman, everything Laurie didn’t want to be, and also Laurie’s agent.

“I like to be comfortable when I write,” Laurie waved her hand at the small desk that held her laptop as she made her way toward the kitchen where a tea kettle sat atop a two-burner stove.  “Would you like some tea?”

“No thanks.  I’ve got a luncheon appointment.”  Julie looked around the tiny apartment and shook her head before taking a seat on the hide-a-bed and placing her handbag on the floor.  “You really could afford something better than this, you know.  You’re books are selling very well and should continue to do so.”

Laurie turned the gas on under the tea kettle and reach
ed into an open cupboard above her head and took down her favorite teacup.  The teacup was bone china with hand painted roses, the only thing that she had of her mothers and it was precious to her. She remembered the smile that had covered her mother’s beautiful face when she had sipped tea from that same fragile cup – that was before the accident that had changed Laurie’s life forever, the accident that had claimed her parent’s and brother’s lives. 

The years in various foster homes after the accident had taught her not to trust people and had almost made her wish that she’d been
with her parents and brothers that day and killed in the accident right along with the rest of her family.  But she hadn’t been, and now she lived vicariously trying to replace the love she’d lost through the various characters in the romance novels that she wrote. 

Julie Simpson was one of the only people that she’d allowed to get close to her since the death of her best friend Sheila from a drug overdose. 
She and Sheila had been as close as if they’d been born sisters.  Laurie was shy and introverted while Sheila was an extrovert with all of the emotions and sometimes unwise decisions inherent in that trait.  Sheila wasn’t afraid to try anything, was very competitive and gradually succumbed to the lure of the drugs that had finally taken her life.  Laurie had been devastated by her friend’s death and had refused to go to the funeral, had refused to watch Sheila being put into the ground.  She hadn’t spoken for months after her friend’s death and also refused to get close to another human being again for fear of losing them, too.

“You really need to get out more,” Julie said, breaking into Laurie’s reverie.  “I’ll pick you up
Friday night at seven o’clock.  And wear something sexy, we’re going to a club I know that I think you’ll like.”

             
“You know I’m not really into the club scene.”  Laurie took her empty cup to the sink and carefully washed and dried it before placing it back in the cupboard.

             
“Nonsense, it’ll be fun.  You can’t stay cooped up in this apartment all the time the way you do.  It’s not healthy.” 

             
Laurie knew there was no disagreeing with her friend when she took that tone of voice.  Besides, it might be fun.  She did enjoy music and dancing.  She could pick up something to wear on her way back from seeing Aragon.  After all, the city never slept so she might as well use that fact to her advantage.

             
Julie could see that Laurie was weakening.  She called very few of her many clients friends, but she considered Laurie one of them.  She’d never met a sweeter, kinder person than Laurie Kincaid.  She’d watched over the younger woman since she’d arrived in New York so Laurie wouldn’t be taken advantage of.  Julie had begun to worry about Laurie, though.  She saw her friend spending more and more time alone or with that damned horse of hers.  How could you have a normal life if you were spending all of your free time in a horse barn?

             
“Remember, seven o’clock Friday night.”  Julie stood and grabbed her purse before heading for the front door. 

             
“I’ll remember,” Laurie said as she shut the door firmly behind her friend.

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he “Assassin” was a true psychopath.   Enrique Perez wasn’t motivated by love or fear or anger or hatred.  He didn’t feel those kinder emotions.  He didn’t feel anything at all.  He was a deviant killer, detached from the kind of emotions and feelings other might have, living for sexual indulgence and the thrill of the kill.  He didn’t care about his victims lives or deaths.  He was a seducer, charming his way closer to his victim.  There was no remorse once the killing was done as he was already looking forward to his next kill. 

He was second-in-command of the C
rótalo Cartel and on one occasion, in a single afternoon, he and several other members of the cartel had massacred forty-nine people whose corpses had been decapitated, dismembered and dumped on a highway as a warning to the other cartels and coyotes who were trying to take over his and his boss’, Luzaro Rivera’s, territory. 

Enrique turned toward the blood-red sunrise and licked his lips, the taste of blood sweet on his tongue. 
He now stood in the middle of a second scene of carnage in as many weeks.  Covered from head to toe with the blood of his enemies and more blood dripping from the machete he held in his right hand, he drew the smell of their blood deep into his lungs.  He’d waited patiently until these eighteen people had neared Guadalajara before he and the others had struck from ambush. He had feasted on their screams of agony as they had been systematically mutilated.  He was a stone cold killer who lived to see fear and terror on the faces of others. 

Enrique
shook his head as Luzaro Rivera approached him.  He’d sensed the leader of the Crótalo was growing tired of the life they’d chosen to live so many years ago.  Luzaro had even mentioned getting out of the drug business, but they both knew that was very unlikely.  Luzaro had made too many enemies in his climb up the ladder as head drug kingpin to be safe anywhere in the world unless he was surrounded by his army of paid assassins.

“Was all this really necessary?” Luzaro asked
in a tired voice as he surveyed the carnage where they stood in the blood of those who had been killed.  He didn’t mind the killing, it was part of their business and a way of life to him.  But this kind of butchery he found difficult to understand.

Enrique laughed a humorless laugh.  “You’re asking me that questions, you who killed twenty-nine cartel operatives in Nayarit last year?  Were the grenades and machine guns you used any different than the machete I prefer?”

Luzaro was tired of the bloodshed, tired of constantly having to look over his shoulder.  He had formed the Crótalo with a band of army deserters who had acted as enforcers for one of the other cartels.  It had only been a matter of time before they had broken away and fought a bloody turf war with their former bosses and other drug gangs.  Under Luzaro’s leadership the Crótalo had grown into a gang of more than ten thousand gunmen with operations stretching from the Rio Grande to deep into Central America.

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rótalo moved into towns or cities where they would carry out shakedowns and other crimes. They were aided by a network of spies called “hawks”, young men and women who soon became the eyes and ears of the cartel.

The
Crótalo stronghold in northeastern Mexico included some of the most sought-after trafficking routes into the United States and as a result that country was offering a five-million dollar reward for Luzaro’s capture as head of the Crótalo.

Luzaro
shook his head knowing that his chances of ever getting out of the drug business were zero.  He glanced at his second-in-command from beneath long, dark lashes.  Even though Enrique had laughed, that laughter never touched his eyes, reptilian eyes that never seemed to blink, eyes that could look straight through a man and determine his intentions long before the man knew them himself.  Enrique was a tall, good-looking man if you could look past those reptilian eyes.  Many a woman had succumbed to his charm only to pay for that mistake with their lives.  He had always been indispensable to the Crótalo and willing to do the unspeakable things necessary to maintain their hold on the local population as well as to put fear in the hearts of other rival cartel members.  Luzaro also knew there would come a time when he would have to dispose of the man.  Enrique was too clever and too ruthless not to try and take over as leader of the Crótalo some day.  Luzaro would gladly allow him that honor but knew that Enrique would never allow him to live if he did.

“I’m tired, my friend,” Luzaro said as he turned back toward the armored Hummer that had brought him to this place of death.  “Let’s get out of here.”

“You’ll feel better once we get to New York,” Enrique placed his arm around the other man’s shoulders.  “Beautiful women abound there.  You’ll be able to find someone to bring you out of these doldrums you’ve slipped into the past few weeks.”

Luzaro sighed and said, “Maybe you’re right.” 

“You’ll see,” Enrique said as he turned and walked toward his own vehicle. 

Luzaro didn
’t think so as he walked toward the Hummer and waited while one of his bodyguards opened the door for him.  Very little tempted him these days.  He was used to beautiful women falling at his feet because of his Latin good looks and the billions of dollars that were Crótalo’s share of the U.S. narcotics market.  He wasn’t above using the women to appease his carnal appetites but he didn’t abuse women the way Enrique did.  He liked women, especially tall, statuesque women.  It didn’t bother him if he was shorter than they were.  He was self assured in his ability to handle himself and whatever woman he chose in or out of the bedroom.  But somewhere deep down inside himself he knew that something was missing in all of the beautiful women he’d known.  None of them had held his interest for more than a day or two and he was beginning to wonder if any woman ever would.

As
Luzaro climbed into the Hummer he watched the tires of Enrique’s vehicle spray dirt and rocks over the bodies of the dead as it raced away from the scene of death.  It was at that moment that Luzaro realized he would have to deal with Enrique, and much sooner than he had planned.