Recovery Force

Casco had returned to his work as if he hadn’t heard Salto. Nearly a full minute passed before he looked up and noticed his house boss still standing there and pinned him with an icy stare.

Salto took a deep breath and blurted it out before he got in trouble. “She showed up here looking pretty hard, Hector. And she claims that what happened to our boys last night was not the doing of Los Zetas.”

“Bullshit.”

“That’s what I told her and she insisted.”

“And you believed her?”

“When she tells me to basically go fuck myself if I don’t let her see you, yeah, that gets me to start wondering. And then she tells me about this dude, the guy that she claims took them out, dressed all in black like some kind of commando, shooting this chatter gun and stuff. And she claims he took out all three of our guys from quite a distance, almost like a sniper or something.”

Casco’s pallor went a noticeable gray, and something flickered in his eyes. “Did you say he was dressed all in black?”

When Salto nodded, Casco’s mouth dropped open as if he wanted to say something.

“What is it, boss?”

“If that’s true, then that is a problem…a very serious fucking problem.”

It wasn’t often that Casco got excitable, but Salto could tell this had his boss on edge. He talked as if his mouth was dry as cotton, and some beads of sweat were visible as they glimmered in the light. Casco had a reputation of being a tough, fearless son of a bitch who didn’t worry about nothing or nobody. Yet every day the guy had to worry his enemies would track him down and kill him. He had to worry about underlings who might betray him, and rivals who might try to undercut his operations.

“You know who this guy is?”

“Maybe,” Casco said, clearing his throat. “Maybe I do. You remember Jose Carillo?”

“Panchos Carillo?”

When Casco slowly nodded, Salto felt a stabbing sensation to his chest. The very name conjured a cornucopia of memories. Most of it had been before Salto’s time, but he couldn’t imagine too many guys his age not hearing the legend of Jose “Panchos” Carillo. The deceased Mexican mob leader had brokered a deal with the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Columbia to provide protection for his massive drug-smuggling operations after the collapse of his only rival’s empire. Unfortunately, an equally determined faction of a Chinese triad known as the Kung Lok had set their sights on the American Southwest, as well.

As the story went, one man was credited with bringing down both sides in a bloodbath that lasted a couple of weeks and went from Las Vegas, Los Angeles and El Paso to Canada. It was even rumored that this same bastard—who dressed in black and used military tactics—took the fight to Hong Kong and closed the attempted Kung Lok operation into utter chaos. Carillo and his closest advisors were eliminated, along with some high-ranking officials in the American government, and this individual was credited with racking up a body count so great on both sides that they never recovered.

“You don’t think—”

Casco lifted a hand to cut him off. “We won’t make any assumptions. The first thing we must do is verify this. Go get the bitch.”

Salto turned and immediately retrieved Pacorbo. As they entered Casco’s study, Salto caught the strong odor of cigar smoke. This surprised him, since his boss didn’t typically smoke in his home. He chose to go outside to enjoy his cigars, and the fact he’d fired up inside the house—in his study, no less—told Salto all he needed to know about how his boss was taking this news.

“Have a seat,” he said to Pacorbo, gesturing to a nearby couch.

She practically fell into the plush cushions and propped her feet on the coffee table in a most disrespectful fashion. Salto looked in Casco’s direction with horror but it seemed his boss decided to overlook the indiscretion. He would have ordered the bottoms of the feet beaten of anyone else who had done such a thing. Casco appreciated fine furniture and didn’t tolerate anyone treating his possessions with indifference.

Casco sat on the edge of his desk and took a long mouthful of smoke, letting it out slowly before he addressed Pacorbo. “Maldo tells me you have some information about the man who killed three of my people last night.”

Pacorbo said, “You damn bet I do. But I got a question for you, first.”

Casco smiled but it lacked graciousness. “And what might that be?”

“What would this information be worth to you?” Pacorbo said. “Because once I tell you what I saw, I’m gonna have to get out of here for a while. Lay low.”

“Why’s that?” Salto asked.

“Quiet,” Casco said to him. He returned his attention to Pacorbo. “I would have to give the matter some additional consideration, but I suppose that I would initially ask you the same question.”

Pacorbo expressed confusion. “Say what?”

“How much is the information worth to you? Is it worth say, perhaps…your life? Or maybe it is not so much, maybe it is only worth one or two of your fingers. Or how about a nipple? After all, you have two of them.”

“What’re you talking about? You know me, Hector.”

“Yes, I do.” Casco took another purposeful draw from the cigar before continuing. “Which is what begs the question, does it not? You are known for being an opportunist, Claudia, and loose enough to do anything for a little blow. You are also a noted loudmouth, and obnoxious with a zest that borders on stupidity. How you ever got the nickname of Angel I will never understand, because you are anything but. So here is my proposal. If what you tell me sounds legitimate, I will allow you to leave here with all of your body parts intact. I will even arrange for a one-way trip to anywhere you wish. If you lie to me, however, or I believe you are exaggerating even a little, I will have to reconsider our relationship and refer you to some people who are not reputed to be lenient toward your kind.”