Fields of Wrath (Luis Chavez Book 1) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Mark Wheaton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503949966

  ISBN-10: 1503949966

  Cover design by Marc Cohen

  For Lauren

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  PART II

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  PART III

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  PART IV

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  PART V

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART I

  I

  The ocean came to him first. A breeze swept over the hills and cooled his skin. It arrived next as a taste, salt agitating his tongue and blistered lips. His water supply was long spent. Then it came as a sound, the tide crashing somewhere to the west. He didn’t have far to go now.

  Fifteen minutes later and he was looking at it, the undulating, black waters of the Pacific stretching to the horizon, where it met the cloudless field of stars.

  It hadn’t been so many years since the last time he’d trekked through unfamiliar territory to reach the sea. Like now, he’d done so to leave one life behind and begin another. He prayed he wouldn’t have to do it again.

  He moved to the edge of the ridge. The beach was a good eighty feet down at an incline that might as well have been ninety degrees. There was a highway between the cliff base and the beach. The headlights of the occasional passing vehicle were the first signs of civilization he’d seen for hours. He wondered if he’d have the energy to dash across the unlit road but then saw the narrow tunnel that ran under the highway.

  He just had to get down the cliff.

  With his feet cut, bleeding, and blistered, he knew he couldn’t do it upright. Lowering himself onto his knees, he took a deep breath and started scaling down backwards. His hands grasped for every rock and root as he kept as little weight as possible on dubious toeholds. Any misstep could be fatal.

  The sound of the ocean grew as he descended. It felt as if he were lowering himself straight into the water. He imagined finding a boat and sailing away, never to return.

  When he finally reached the bottom, tears filled his eyes. His knees had taken the brunt of the damage, blood trickling down his shins from half a dozen nicks. But it was over.

  He hurried into the tunnel. The walls and ceiling were impressively tagged for such an isolated location. He tried to read a few of the highly stylized scribblings, but in the dim light they were as unintelligible as hieroglyphs.

  Local poseurs, he mused. Not a lot of hard-core gangsters out in the Santa Ynez Mountains.

  He emerged from the tunnel to find the beach’s parking lot was roped off by a heavy chain. A sign hanging from it read, “Refugio Canyon State Beach—Open Daily, Sunrise to Sunset. Violators Will Be Fined.”

  He checked his watch. It was five minutes until two. However unlikely, he’d made it with time to spare.

  He stepped over the chain. The narrow strip of sand, bracketed on both sides by piles of boulders, wasn’t much to look at. The break of the water suggested it wouldn’t be much good for surfing, swimming, or fishing, and it was too far from LA for day-trippers, making it strangely romantic. He imagined bringing Odilia here when things calmed down. Annie had warned them that they’d probably be confined for the first few months at least, but maybe they could steal away for just an afternoon.

  He considered kicking off his shoes and stepping in but knew the salt would burn in his wounds. He’d driven down to the cliffs at Point Mugu once with his sister and her son. He’d heard you could see migrating whales out in the ocean from there. They’d stood for hours convincing each other that every rise and cresting wave was a humpback, an orca, or a shark.

  He’d see them again soon, too. There would be a long, difficult conversation. But then they’d be all right. Or so he hoped.

  He was suddenly engulfed in light. A car emerged from the narrow tunnel and paused at the chain. It was a cab.

  “Uh . . . Santiago Higuera?” The cabdriver sounded surprised. Prepaid fare or not, it didn’t seem like he thought anyone would actually be in this spot at the appointed time.

  Santiago jogged over. The driver was Indian or Pakistani, maybe in his fifties. By the way the cabbie eyed him, Santiago knew he must look pretty bad.

  “I have an address in Morningside Park,” the driver said as Santiago half climbed, half collapsed across the backseat. “Four thirty-one and a half, South Fourth.”

  “Sounds good,” Santiago said breathlessly. “Can we just go?”

  Catching a sidelong glance from the driver, Santiago wiped the fear from his face.

  Annie Whittaker’s watch said it was 2:50, her laptop 2:52. Either was bad news.

  “He’s probably still in the cab,” she said into the phone.

  “You don’t sound confident.”

  “Two forty-five was our best guess, barring traffic,” she said. “We knew there could be other variables.”

  “My guy’s already been by the house twice. Knocked on the gate and the front door. I don’t think we can get away with sending him back many more times. You don’t have any way of communicating with him?”

  “I don’t,” she said, fighting back panic. “But this was your suggestion, remember?”

  “Annie, I know how hard you’ve worked on this. It’s just as important to this office and me. But I told you from the beginning, if we don’t handle this right, we can lose everything. We’ll do our part, but I need your assurance that there won’t be any surprises on your end.”

  Annie inhaled. “Have your guy circle back in half an hour. That’s all I ask.”

  Santiago said nothing on the drive into the city. The driver nodded to the satellite radio on the dashboard.

  “You want to listen to the game?”

  Santiago had no idea what game the man was speaking about and gave a noncommittal shrug. He turned back to the window and peered at passing cars. He didn’t think they’d been followed but couldn’t help himself. The driver left the radio off.

  The cab exited the highway. The address was in South Central, which Santiago knew was off-limits for some cabdrivers. This one didn’t seem to mind. They reached Crenshaw and pulled off the main street. The GPS guided them into a residential neighborhood. When they reached Fourth, the driver slowed. Santiago scanned the curbside numbers for 432.

  “This is it,” he announced.
r />   Santiago hopped out and waved to the driver.

  “Gracias!”

  Santiago felt the driver’s eyes on him as he jogged up the driveway, eschewing the front door for a gate leading to the backyard. He remembered the instructions and reached over to unhook the latch. It was just within reach. He pushed the gate open and slipped inside. Only when he closed the gate did the cab pull away.

  He went to the side door and put his hand on the knob. It was unlocked and turned with the slightest pressure. He entered, resisted the urge to turn on a light, and waited by the window to see if any other cars would appear.

  The man had been stuck in the same position for hours. There was no wind or moon, the only scent that of the nearby hackberry and jacaranda trees. The houses within his zone of fire all shared the same silhouette, the only difference in floor plan being whether the garage was on the left side of the house or right. Beyond that, the roofs, brick color, lawn, and token sapling thrust into each front lawn were the same.

  He aimed his scope into the other houses, hoping again for some kind of peep show. The best he could do was a middle-aged housewife watching television in a terry-cloth robe. He waited for it to open a little or ride up, but it never did.

  Shit.

  He checked his watch. Ten past three. He turned the scope back to the only house with lights ablaze in every room of the first floor. The woman there was still pacing. He sighted down the barrel, held his thumb over the safety release, and waited.

  There was almost no furniture in the house on South Fourth. A bed was in the bedroom, a sofa and easy chair in the living room, a refrigerator in the kitchen, but that was it. If not for the fresh towels in the bathroom, it would’ve looked like a time-share, albeit in an unlikely location.

  Santiago searched the kitchen cabinets for food but found only disposable cups and plates. A few plastic forks, chopsticks, packets of soy sauce, and a pile of takeout menus sat in the drawer. He finally found a packet of microwavable popcorn and tossed it in the microwave. When only half the bag had popped, he took it out, tore it open, and shoveled a few dozen kernels into his mouth without caring that they burned his tongue.

  Temporarily sated, he went to take a shower.

  The past week had been mad. He hadn’t been able to relax since Annie, the legal aide, told him their plan was a go. He’d have preferred she waited until hours before rather than days. Less time to overthink. Fewer opportunities to fuck up.

  As the dirt and grime sluiced down and away from his body, he finally relaxed. He wouldn’t be staying long, but it’d be nice while it lasted. He had no idea what the next few days would be like, to say nothing of the next few months. It would all be different now. For him, for his family, and hopefully for many more.

  Including Odilia. God, when she was finally in his arms, it would be paradise.

  He heard a noise from the other room.

  “I’m in the shower!” he called in Spanish.

  As he squirted a dollop of shampoo into his hand, the door burst open.

  “Hey, what . . . ?”

  Before he could finish, two men in the uniforms of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department—one white, one Hispanic—yanked him out. He kicked and flailed, but two swift elbows to the temple and he was out like a light.

  Annie’s heart leapt when she saw the number from the LA district attorney’s office on her caller ID.

  “Do you have him?” she asked.

  “No. My guy just left the house. Still nobody there. I had to send him home.”

  That’s when Annie knew. Somebody had found out. Santiago had either been taken that evening or intercepted on the way. Either scenario was devastating.

  “I’ll find out what happened,” she said evenly. “Will you be there when I call?”

  The deputy DA on the other end of the line, Michael Story, didn’t hide his exasperation.

  “I’m sorry, Annie,” he replied. “Not sure what more I can do for you, and I’ve got court in a few hours. If we’ve tipped our hand, we’ll never get another chance at these guys. And the blowback’s going to be killer.”

  “I won’t let that happen. It’s not over yet. Wait by the phone.”

  Annie hung up before Michael could respond. It was ten till four. She turned to the young woman who’d been sitting in the corner of the room throughout the evening. If she’d moved an inch, Annie hadn’t noticed.

  “I have to leave,” Annie said, seeing the apprehension rise on the young woman’s face. “I shouldn’t be gone long.”

  The young woman nodded.

  The statement was something of a lie. Annie had no idea how long she’d be gone. But she couldn’t say that. She grabbed her keys and walked out.

  The shooter exhaled, waited until the woman was three steps from the driver’s door of her blue Civic, and pulled the trigger. The bullet took so long to reach her, he momentarily wondered if he’d missed.

  Impossible, he thought.

  Half a second later she was lifted off her feet and propelled forward into the car. He chambered a second round and fired again. This bullet, aimed at a nonmoving target, tore through her throat with such force it almost severed her head.

  He considered a third shot but knew she was dead from the first bullet. A third round was not only unnecessary, it would add to the ballistics evidence. He cleared the chamber and was preparing to depart when he detected movement. He swung the barrel around, catching sight of a figure running through Annie’s backyard. He turned the night vision back on as whoever it was flung open the back gate and emerged into the arroyo behind Annie’s walled neighborhood.

  It was another woman.

  He yanked back the slide, drawing a third bullet from the magazine into the chamber. He sighted on her torso and slowed his breathing. He needed a clean shot. Anything else wasn’t worth taking.

  The woman ran along the back wall in a straight line. This told him she had no idea anyone was aiming at her. It wasn’t even sporting.

  He led her with the barrel a second longer, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.

  II

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Chavez,” the club’s young assistant reception manager, Talya, said. “This is a private club. If you’re not a member, your name has to be on the guest list.”

  Luis Chavez sighed. He wasn’t here by choice.

  “I was told to come here at this time,” Luis replied.

  “By whom?” Talya asked.

  Luis watched her eyes weigh his appearance. He was in black pants, heavy black shoes, and wore a gray jacket zipped up to his Adam’s apple even though it was almost summer. He was clean shaven with short black hair. That he wasn’t representative of the club’s regular clientele wasn’t even a question.

  “Mr. Alazraqui.”

  “I’m sorry. We don’t have a member by that name or anyone on our guest list.”

  Luis nodded. His job was done. He could go home in good conscience.

  “My mistake,” Luis said, nodding to the young woman.

  He turned and was almost out the door when a white Mercedes SUV rolled up to the valet stand just outside in the sublevel parking garage. Its driver was a large Hispanic man practically bursting through the seams of an off-white suit and mustard-yellow shirt. Even though he was only an inch or two taller than Luis’s diminutive five foot three, his expansive girth caused him to dwarf Luis.

  Talya stepped past Luis to open the door for him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Mata!”

  Mata nodded a greeting at her and stepped through the door. As soon as the big man was through, Talya jogged ahead to ring for an elevator. Though the club’s entrance was in a parking garage, the club itself was an elevator ride up to the ninth floor.

  “Have a good breakfast, sir.”

  Luis had just located the valet ticket in his pocket when he heard the olde
r man’s voice.

  “Padre?”

  Luis winced.

  “Oh, is Mr. Chavez a guest of yours?” Talya asked.

  “He’s the priest. To deliver the benediction.”

  Luis caught the surprised look on Talya’s face, then felt Mata’s heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “Come on, Padre. Let’s get you upstairs.”

  As soon as they were inside the elevator, Mata nodded to the tiny strip of white peering over the top of Luis’s jacket.

  “Why didn’t you flash the collar?” Mata asked.

  “Waited too late,” Luis admitted. “Would’ve felt like a jerk.”

  “Ah,” Mata said, laughing. “Guess enough people out there think priests are assholes, huh?”

  Luis didn’t reply.

  Luis’s benediction had been short and sweet: “Lord, by the light of the Holy Spirit, inspire these men to be wise and visionary in their planning.”

  The fifty or so businessmen of the Los Angeles chapter of the Mexican American Business and Professional Association mumbled their amens like waking children. A photographer snapped a photo of Luis alongside the chapter’s president, Juando Alazraqui. Then he was excused.

  When Luis’s car was pulled around, his offer of a dollar tip was refused by the valet.

  “My aunt,” the valet said, eyes averted.

  “What’s her name?” Luis asked.

  “Vaitiare Oyervidez. She has ALS.”

  Luis nodded and climbed into the car.

  Luis didn’t relax until he was on his way back downtown to the parish. His car, an ’84 Chevy Caprice that had been donated to the church a few years back, was hardly flashy. The air-conditioning didn’t work and the taillights were spotty. But what mattered to Luis was that the radio worked perfectly. Though they weren’t allowed such things in St. Augustine’s rectory, he relished listening to it in the car, albeit with some guilt. Near-monastic solitude forced a person to confront himself as well as his relationship with the ever-present divine. Most of the time this was just fine for Luis. But he was an LA kid. Sometimes the voice of El Cucuy on AM 690 was all it took to make him feel more connected to his roots and less defined by the collar around his neck.