In the months since Ernesto Cruz's death, Sanchez searched for a pattern in the cartel leader's itinerary that could be exploited as weakness. Everybody had them. And with the right set of eyes, anybody could find them. And he found it in the tip from a reliable informant who worked at the restaurant where Mr. Fuentes was now dining.
He told Sanchez that the restaurant was rented out whenever he came to eat there. No other customers were allowed in or out. He posted one guard by the door at all exits, and kept his personal bodyguard, Juan Carlos Moreno, with him at all times. He tightened his security ever since his son had tried to kill him, and public appearances had become almost non-existent. It was rumored that the psychological impact of his firstborn's attack and then subsequent death had unhinged the man. And with that, his power was starting to wane.
Sweat formed on Ayala's brow, coating him in a light sheen, as he waited patiently for Sanchez' thumb to move. It was resting just to the side of the red detonator switch in his hand. Sanchez had used his primary skillset from his time with the special forces. Demolition.
The long bike chain securing the rusted bike to the base of the tree trunk was actually a thick strand of det cord, shrouded in a plastic coating and shaped to look like a bike chain. It was connected to the bike, but only so the signal receiver, underneath the bike seat, could run the thin, black wire along the frame of the bike.
The luncheon lasted nearly an hour and a half. And even with the air conditioning running, both men were now soaked through with sweat, further darkening the stain on Ayala's Hawaiian shirt.
"I think I can see them moving around in there. Looks like the party's breaking up."
Ayala gnawed on the end of the unlit cigar in his mouth. The man at the door stepped forward, his head swiveling from left to right. He kept his gun hand close to the pistol underneath his sports coat. He looked back into the cafe and nodded. The doors opened a moment later.
Hector Fuentes exited with Juan Carlos Moreno close to his side, moving him towards the limousine that pulled up, like he was a dignitary under protection. Moreno shut the door on his boss and began to make his way around the back end of the vehicle to speak with the security man who had been posted at the door.
Sanchez moved his finger over the red plastic button. With no hesitation, he pressed it. Silence followed the click until a moment later, it was broken by the detonation.
White light exploded out in a concentric circle from the tree.
The driver and doorman were killed instantly. It took a second to find Moreno because the cartel head of security's body was scattered in several different places. It wasn't until Ayala saw Moreno's head impaled on a stop sign that he let out a breath.
A loud crack followed the initial explosion.
The blast had badly damaged the limo. But somehow, Hector Fuentes had survived.
Ayala watched him crawl away, badly injured, but alive. The cracking sounded again. It rumbled the ground and felt and sounded like an earthquake.
The explosion severed the massive tree. The cracking was the release of the thick trunk's resistance to the blast. It fell forward onto the fleeing Fuentes, who was incapable of escaping its path, and crushed him under its branches.
The cigar fell from his mouth as Ayala's jaw dropped wide. He thought of his good friend, Ernesto, and left the cigar where it lay. He looked on at the sight before him one more time before driving away in his patched-up Nissan.
He thought, how wonderful it would've been for Ernesto to see him prove to the devil himself, the seed is mightier than the boulder.
Forty-Five
On that day I was to kill your parents, fate put me in line with you. As you have rightly guessed at but never asked, I am not a tobacco farmer. I am a killer of men, women, and children. I know where my journey ends. I will be in good company as the fires of hell lick at my flesh. But rest assured, I do not fear this end or its consequence for the life I have led. I say this not out of a bout of boastful machismo, but for the simple reason that the path I walked led me to you. And for that, I would roast in a thousand hells if it meant I could do it again.
If you are reading this, then you know I am gone. Hopefully in the five years of life we have shared together you have felt in some small measure a fraction of the love and adoration I had for you.
I will not feel the lash of the devil's whip, for my spirit will wander above it all. I will be with you in the wind that passes through your hair. I look on as you live the rest of your existence in peace and tranquility. In those moments of doubt, when you need a father's hand, you will hear my wisdom in the rustle of leaves.
For you were more than a servant girl who became my daughter. You were the girl who planted the seed of love that blossomed into a flower, replacing darkness for light.
In you, I see a different path than I have traveled. And on it, I hope you continue to spread your seed wherever the wind takes you.
Maria stepped out of the busy café onto the street and walked over to the man in the blue ambulance carrying her heavy satchel. He turned to face her. "Are you the one they call Azul?"
"I am."
Maria then fished out a metal box the size and shape of a brick. A turquoise bracelet dangled loosely at her wrist with beads that rattled noisily. Azul accepted the box containing twenty-five thousand dollars. Maria hoped it would do well for the man she'd read about in the newspaper.
The article had struck a chord with Maria when she'd first read it. The three hundred thousand dollars Machado had left her was more than she'd ever know what to do with in two lifetimes.
She set aside enough to carry her through the rest of her life. And then looking at the pile left over, Maria contemplated how to best use her newfound wealth. The answer came with a breeze pushing its way through the clustered branches of a nearby tree. Maria was instantly found by a hissed whisper and set forth to do its biding.
Standing beside Azul and looking upon his blue ambulance, Maria was suddenly inspired to do something else.
Maria pulled a paintbrush and palate from her oversized satchel. She then took a step back. Holding the bristled end of the paintbrush in front of her, she angled it and turned it and angled it, squinting her eye while taking in the blurred image of the blue backdrop. And thought of the flower she planned to paint.
The whisper she'd heard had told her what to do with the money. In the leaves jostling, she heard Machado's slithered tongue tell her what to do. She heard it as plain as if the man, who she had loved as a father, said four words to her.
Make light the dark.
And Maria planned to, using the money gifted her to help those in need. Maria looked at her canvas and it came to her. The flower would be a rose. It seemed a fitting flower for the van, since Maria planned on meeting with the reporter who'd written the article at a restaurant called Rosa's Café.
Maria squirted a deep red into the recessed bowl and, looking at her canvas, she wondered if the reporter, Miguel Ayala, would like to see one of her flower drawings.
READ on for a sneak peak at AFTERSHOCK （Rachel Hatch Book 7）， or pre-order your copy now:
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The Rachel Hatch Series
Drift
Downburst
Fever Burn
Smoke Signal
Firewalk
Whitewater
Aftershock （pre-order now）