supplier of weapons. The drug cartels were in a violent, ongoing war with competitors and Mexican law enforcement. In a brutal business, A La Muerte was way ahead of its rivals. Mariposa operated with total, unflinching violence. He saw no reason to do otherwise. His need for a reliable supply of quality ordnance was something Seb Jessup could manage easily.
In the end, it was a marriage of convenience. A two-way street. Mariposa and Jessup’s relationship was beneficial to both, workable and problem free.
Until Hermano Escobedo started to rock the boat.
Rocked it with such ferocity that Jessup, for the first time since he’d faced combat, experienced fear.
He maintained his cool in front of his people, while inwardly feeling sick. Not because he was about to cave in under the threat posed by Escobedo, but because he realized for all his power, influence and wealth, he was still vulnerable. Jessup might have been resistant to threats against his security, yet he saw the shadowy possibility that his empire could be badly damaged—even brought down—by the young Mexican. Escobedo was the unexpected threat, the one coming out of left field. And he just might be capable of knocking Jessup off his throne.
Hermano Escobedo obviously felt he had justification, a good reason to strike out. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have placed himself in the firing line. In truth, Jessup could even sympathize with the young man’s motivation. But he still had to stop him.
If Escobedo brought his evidence into the light, Jessup could face life in prison—or even execution. He understood the penalties, and despite his position of power, realized he might conceivably pay the price.
He was going to have to play this one carefully. Hatton had broached the subject, pointing out that Jessup needed to keep his distance. No hands-on punishment this time—which pissed Jessup off. He had always been a hands-on participant. But his partner was insisting he lie low.
“We do this smart,” Hatton said now. “Pull in outside help, give them the details and turn them loose.”
“Not our boys?” Jessup asked.
“Nope. We stay clear. I talk to them, they keep me informed. We fund this with cash. Nothing written down, no computers—only disposable phones. Seb, we can pull this off. Take the bastard down and wipe out the evidence. With nothing to hang on you, the law is going to be pissing in the wind.”
“Trouble with wind, Cole, is that it can change direction.”
Hatton shook his head, a grin on his lips. “You were the only grunt who could make a joke with bullets flying over your head,” he said.
“What can I say, buddy?”
Hatton levered his rangy frame out of his chair, pulling his phone from his pocket. He held it up as he walked to the door. “Today’s burner,” he said. “I’ll make the call. Bring Candy in for a head-to-head. We’ll get him on the case and set him loose on Escobedo.”
“You figure that chili popper is going to make trouble, boss?” one of the remaining two crew members asked.
“He’s going to try,” Jessup said.
The other man said, “If Cole sets Candy on his ass, that boy isn’t going to have another minute of peace. Hell, Seb, you recall when Candy went after that sucker down Nueces way? He had that done and dusted in a couple of days. No one ever found that feller’s body.”
“That’s the way I want it with Escobedo,” Jessup said. “Gone.”
* * *
HATTON STOOD ON the wide porch fronting the big house, speaking into his cell.
“I want you to drop everything, Candy. This is important. Wouldn’t offer it to anyone else. You sort this out for Seb and it’ll be the best payday you ever had.”
“He got himself in a bind?” Candy asked. His voice was low and slow, a homegrown Texas roll.
“Sort of. Candy, this needs clearing real fast. No mistakes.”
“Kind that needs a shovel to finish it?”
“That kind. Dead, buried, forgotten.”
“My specialty.”
“The Meat Wagon in an hour. Okay?”
“Fine,” Candy said, and hung up.
The Meat Wagon was a diner on the west side of Broken Tree that had been there for more than twenty-five years. The aluminum siding had weathered, the metal dull and pitted, but the painted sign had been refurbished recently. The original owner, Hoyt Dembrow, had died a few years back and the diner was managed by his son, Hoyt Dembrow Jr. Junior was over fifty and looked it, so the youthful title didn’t do him any favors. The man liked the food he served in the diner, sampled it every day. His ample size showed that.
As Hatton stepped inside an hour later, the familiar smells of coffee and fried food hit him. He liked that. The Meat Wagon was a piece of stability in a rapidly changing world. It had no offshoot truck franchise, no menu with fancy food catering to dietary needs. It served American food, period, and that was the way Hatton liked it.
He spotted Candy at the back end of the diner, facing him over a raised mug of coffee. At this time of day there were only a few other customers, and Candy had picked the table farthest away, leaving an empty stretch between him and the other eaters. Hatton’s boot heels clicked on the metal floor as he made his way over, stopping to speak to the owner en route.
“Hello, Junior. Coffee?”
“Sure enough, Cole.”
Hatton took the offered cup and joined Candy, dropping his cowboy hat on the table beside him. Candy watched, not saying anything, as he pulled a thick envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table. Candy picked it up and lifted the flap, flipped through the thick wad of bills inside and nodded briefly.
“Down payment,” Hatton said. “Usual terms.”
“You paying for the food, as well?” he asked.
“Don’t I always?”
Candy’s lean, weathered face showed a thin smile. He was a six-foot-three whip of a man who dressed like an out-of-work line rider. He raised his hand and summoned the waitress, ordering a big steak with all the trimmings. Hatton went for his weakness: a stack of pancakes with syrup, bacon and a couple eggs on top. While they waited, Hatton pulled out some photos and showed them to Candy.
“Hermano Escobedo. Son of a bitch is ready to drop the hammer on Jessup. He has evidence that could see Jessup locked up for the rest of his life. Or worse.”
“And Seb, naturally, don’t sit comfortable with that.”
Hatton handed over a folded sheet of paper. “Everything we have on the guy,” he said. “Ain’t much. He came over the border a few years back. He’s legal. Set himself up doing all kinds of hands-on work. We took him on account of he’s got a green thumb and does a tidy job. You know how Seb likes his place looking homey.”
Candy drained his coffee and signaled for a refill.
