The Territory A Novel - By Tricia Fields Page 0,77

knowledge of the Medrano cartel in the process.

“Here’s what we do, then.” Escobedo went on, “You work for me. I’ll bend the rules to get you out of here.”

Gutiérrez’s expression changed. He looked expectantly to Escobedo, who now appeared to hold the keys to his life. “Tell me what you want.”

Josie said, “You’re going to pretend to be a Medrano today.”

* * *

Hack Bloster received the cell phone call from underneath his pickup truck, where he was draining oil into a metal bucket. He continued unscrewing the bolt on the oil pan and fished his phone out from his shirt pocket with his free hand. The male voice on the other line said nothing more than, “Landline in ten minutes.” Bloster flipped the phone shut and laid his head back on the concrete floor. It was the code phrase. It was the Medranos, and they wanted to deal. He had hoped the phone calls would end after Red’s death.

He watched the black oil flow and remembered being stretched out with his dad under his first car. He wondered how his life had spun so far out of control. Five years ago, he had been a man with a clear sense of right and wrong: someone who acted morally, regardless the consequences. He had been proud to wear the badge, but he never allowed a rule book or code to keep him from doing the right thing. It was why he had joined the Gunners. Rules and laws were not keeping the border safe. Guns and people would see to that. He had personally vowed it.

Then Red came to him with a business proposition. He had a contact, a broker, who needed someone on the border to make a quick exchange of guns for money. Red started out as the mule, moving the guns from a contact in New Orleans to an unnamed runner from Mexico who met him once every two weeks to receive a shipment. Eventually, Red figured out what the New Orleans dealer was selling, and figured out he could buy off the Internet and sell even cheaper, so Red broke from the supplier to start his own business. It was at this point that Red involved Bloster. Red needed someone to help him buy the weapons; he didn’t have enough experience and knowledge about the computer and Internet sales and auctions to get the best deals. Bloster had developed the Web site for the Gunners. He was a natural partner.

The profit was more than Hack had ever dreamed he was capable of making, and in the beginning, the end user was nameless. He hadn’t even known Red was working with the Mexicans at first. By the time Bloster discovered how involved Red was with Medrano, it was too late to pull out. He was a partner, a very well paid one. But it didn’t mean that he supported the idea that the Gunners were now in partnership with a cartel. He had never intended for Medrano to have any association with Artemis. The cartel had been looking for a safe route into the country, and Red had provided it right through his front yard.

Bloster wiped his hands on a shop rag and answered the secure phone on his kitchen counter. Bloster knew how easy it was to trace cell phone calls, so he talked business only on a landline. His mouth was so dry, he could barely speak.

“We got business, Mr. Bloster. You ready to do some business?”

His hands grew sweaty. “I don’t owe you anything. We got all deals squared up. You got your last shipment and we’re done.”

The man laughed. “You telling me we’re done? You think it works like that?”

“Red’s dead.”

“So what? No, we’re not done until I say so. Understood?”

Bloster stared at the .38 on the kitchen table and considered putting it to his temple. There would be no doubt in the bastard’s head that it was over then. No chance his mother and sister would be impacted by the evil that surrounded him on all sides. Bullet to the head. Just like Red.

“Fifty thousand dollars per man, Mr. Bloster. Four prisoners? Two hundred thousand dollars. You release them, stage a breakout, lose the key, I could not care less. Tonight, before midnight. No later. I won’t discuss consequences, but they won’t be good if the job isn’t done.”

Bloster felt the acid in his stomach rising to his throat. “The jail is too secure.”

“Figure it out. A white nine-passenger van will be located