The Edge of Trust: Team Edge Read Online Free Page A
year. I figure I’ll be lucky to live that long. ~~ D.C.
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Dillon Caldwell let Sanchez sweat for two long, feverish days. While he waited, Dillon reread and memorized the thick, nothing-much-he-didn’t-already-know file the FBI, CIA, DEA, and Mexican government had on Rafael Dario Sanchez.
Insufficient. Inadmissible. Unconfirmed.
Not one single shred of hard evidence. Just miles and miles of dead ends and red tape.
Someone, it seemed, didn’t want Sanchez busted. But who? More to the point, why?
It was time to set up a meet.
<><><>
Roberto’s was a grungy dive on a narrow street in an area where smart people departed long before dark. Even at this hour, the building’s pink facade stood out like a well-fed flamingo. Bright, neon-colored beer signs filled the grimy, smeared windows.
From outside the back wooden door, Dillon heard the clink of beer bottles, raucous laughter, and the Stones playing on the jukebox.
He’d parked the SUV two miles away, hidden in scrub, and watched by one of his men--armed with a Glock 9mm, a long-range rifle and an RPG just in case things got ugly. He could’ve left the Escalade and money behind, back in the States, but wasn’t quite sure how tonight would play out. While Sanchez might be cold and disciplined, humiliation had a way of boiling a man’s blood.
Dillon had made the cantina by nine-fifteen, and by nine-thirty, Rafael had ten armed men sitting inside the small bar. Eight outside.
Not great odds.
A slow trickle of sweat started between his shoulder blades. He’d have felt a lot better if he had a weapon. A gun. A grenade. Maybe a tank. Unfortunately, none of those options would go very far in instilling the trust factor he was aiming for.
With one last look around the rear lot, he entered through the cantina’s back door. When he strode into the main bar, time slowed, laughter ceased, eyes squinted, and suddenly he felt like he’d been thrown into a bad Western.
Beer, sweat, and guns. Not a single six-gun to be seen but a hell of a lot of AK-47’s, Uzi’s and an MP5 here and there. One AR-15 judiciously kept near the bartender.
Someone unplugged the juke.
Dillon slid into the booth opposite Sanchez. “Nice crowd,” he said, and waited for a gun to be shoved into his ribs or maybe the back of his head.
Sanchez stared at him for a long time. He wore a black silk suit, exquisitely tailored, a burgundy shirt and striped tie. He looked like any Wall Street executive until he pulled an impressive looking .44 Magnum with custom engraved ivory grips from a holster at his waist and laid it gently, almost reverently, on the scarred wooden table.
He had large hands, smooth with long fingers that moved with the grace and precision of the tiger paws which colored them. His body was trim, tall, with the Patrician features of Spaniard nobility. He wore long dark hair tied neatly back with braided leather. His eyes were so black, no line delineated between the iris and pupil. And his voice…his voice had the presence of a priest and the edge of a butcher.
“Four years ago, a close, childhood friend of mine invited me for dinner,” Sanchez began. “His wife asked to take my coat, which she did, and placed it in the foyer on a peg. We had drinks, talked. When I excused myself to use the restroom, my friend, a man who I loved like a brother, stole five hundred dollars from the wallet in my suit-coat. When confronted, he denied his action.”
Sanchez lit a cigarette. Exhaled. “Had he simply asked, I’d have given him triple that amount. I had a weapon and I tried to threaten my friend into telling me the truth. He would not. So I tied him and his wife to separate chairs. I sewed their mouths closed with a turkey needle and fishing line. If they could not tell me the truth, they could not lie either, you see?”
“Riveting,” Dillon said, feeling acid
<><><>
Dillon Caldwell let Sanchez sweat for two long, feverish days. While he waited, Dillon reread and memorized the thick, nothing-much-he-didn’t-already-know file the FBI, CIA, DEA, and Mexican government had on Rafael Dario Sanchez.
Insufficient. Inadmissible. Unconfirmed.
Not one single shred of hard evidence. Just miles and miles of dead ends and red tape.
Someone, it seemed, didn’t want Sanchez busted. But who? More to the point, why?
It was time to set up a meet.
<><><>
Roberto’s was a grungy dive on a narrow street in an area where smart people departed long before dark. Even at this hour, the building’s pink facade stood out like a well-fed flamingo. Bright, neon-colored beer signs filled the grimy, smeared windows.
From outside the back wooden door, Dillon heard the clink of beer bottles, raucous laughter, and the Stones playing on the jukebox.
He’d parked the SUV two miles away, hidden in scrub, and watched by one of his men--armed with a Glock 9mm, a long-range rifle and an RPG just in case things got ugly. He could’ve left the Escalade and money behind, back in the States, but wasn’t quite sure how tonight would play out. While Sanchez might be cold and disciplined, humiliation had a way of boiling a man’s blood.
Dillon had made the cantina by nine-fifteen, and by nine-thirty, Rafael had ten armed men sitting inside the small bar. Eight outside.
Not great odds.
A slow trickle of sweat started between his shoulder blades. He’d have felt a lot better if he had a weapon. A gun. A grenade. Maybe a tank. Unfortunately, none of those options would go very far in instilling the trust factor he was aiming for.
With one last look around the rear lot, he entered through the cantina’s back door. When he strode into the main bar, time slowed, laughter ceased, eyes squinted, and suddenly he felt like he’d been thrown into a bad Western.
Beer, sweat, and guns. Not a single six-gun to be seen but a hell of a lot of AK-47’s, Uzi’s and an MP5 here and there. One AR-15 judiciously kept near the bartender.
Someone unplugged the juke.
Dillon slid into the booth opposite Sanchez. “Nice crowd,” he said, and waited for a gun to be shoved into his ribs or maybe the back of his head.
Sanchez stared at him for a long time. He wore a black silk suit, exquisitely tailored, a burgundy shirt and striped tie. He looked like any Wall Street executive until he pulled an impressive looking .44 Magnum with custom engraved ivory grips from a holster at his waist and laid it gently, almost reverently, on the scarred wooden table.
He had large hands, smooth with long fingers that moved with the grace and precision of the tiger paws which colored them. His body was trim, tall, with the Patrician features of Spaniard nobility. He wore long dark hair tied neatly back with braided leather. His eyes were so black, no line delineated between the iris and pupil. And his voice…his voice had the presence of a priest and the edge of a butcher.
“Four years ago, a close, childhood friend of mine invited me for dinner,” Sanchez began. “His wife asked to take my coat, which she did, and placed it in the foyer on a peg. We had drinks, talked. When I excused myself to use the restroom, my friend, a man who I loved like a brother, stole five hundred dollars from the wallet in my suit-coat. When confronted, he denied his action.”
Sanchez lit a cigarette. Exhaled. “Had he simply asked, I’d have given him triple that amount. I had a weapon and I tried to threaten my friend into telling me the truth. He would not. So I tied him and his wife to separate chairs. I sewed their mouths closed with a turkey needle and fishing line. If they could not tell me the truth, they could not lie either, you see?”
“Riveting,” Dillon said, feeling acid
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