How do you survive being shot and left for dead in the Chihuahuan Desert? By being found by a beautiful wildlife photographer willing to risk her life to save yours.
A bitter ex-cop fights for his life after he runs to the sound of gunfire on the Ri...
Mendocino was waiting in the parking lot of Rex Frazier's apartment at dawn, which was gray. Clouds obscured the sunrise—apropos given his mood. He awoke with a singular purpose: End it. He wasn't going to live under Sartain's menace any longer. Rex Frazier held the key to that end.
The personnel files Amos got from Bar W told Mendocino all he needed to know. Sartain retired from the Army in 2006 as a colonel in Special Operations. He traded his Army boots for those of a mercenary, working for a European-based private military company operating in Africa, the Mideast, and South America. In 2017, he was hired as head of security for Bar W Oil.
Max Rogers, who served under Sartain in the US Army Special Operations, retired two years after his colonel. He went to work under Sartain, moving every time his colonel did.
Frazier was brought on in 2018.
They were the three at Santa Elena Canyon, Mendocino was certain. And he was equally sure one or all of them killed John David Watson. Mercenaries killed for one reason. Money. Who was paying them? And why? And what did Enriqueta Guzmán and Hermanos de Guerra have to do with it?
With two state drug convictions on his record, Rex Frazier should provide all the answers in exchange for leniency. One Harley was in the parking lot when he arrived a little before 6 a.m. He didn't know what Frazier looked like, but he knew which apartment he'd come from. He texted Bobby.
Then he waited. Two more hours. Patience. Something he'd learned on the job. Sit still. Watch. Memorize your surroundings in case the perp runs. Imagine scenarios of what could go wrong, and how you'd cope with each.
At last, Frazier's apartment door opened. The man who emerged was lanky, his dark hair worn in some kind of new-age mullet. Shaved on the sides, longish on top, and down the back, his hair riding on his shirt collar.
As he sauntered along the second-floor balcony, Mendocino noticed a multi-colored tattoo on the right side of Frazier's long neck. Another tattoo covered his right arm to his wrist. He carried his motorcycle helmet in his right hand as he descended the stairs. Mendocino met him at the bottom of the stairwell.
"Rex Frazier?" He smiled. "Mr. Watson asked me to pick you up. He wants to meet with you."
"Really?" Frazier's eyes were as glassy as they were leery. Amos said he was thirty-three. He looked older. Gaunt cheeks. His Bar W logo shirt and blue jeans couldn't cover up the stale smell of a smokey pool room. Neither did that splash of aftershave. Frazier didn't wake up in time to shower for work.
"Mr. Watson wants to talk to you about a new assignment. He sent me to get you. Bring you to him."
"What about Colonel?" Frazier's bloodshot eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Colonel's expecting me at 9."
"Mr. Watson's taken care of it," Mendocino said. "The man does own the company, you know."
Frazier hesitated, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess." He was all legs. Short torso, granddaddy long legs. That arm sleeve tattoo was a series of ghoulish skulls and rifles entwined with a tattered American flag. The neck art? A bulldog with a red spike collar.
Mendocino gestured. "This way."
Frazier followed, getting into the passenger seat of Mendocino's GMC truck and they began the drive to the airfield west of town. In the enclosed cab, Mendocino caught the faint odor of beer as Frazier peered out his passenger window. "Where are we going?" He turned in his seat to face Mendocino. Light blue-gray eyes still skeptical. "Watson Building's the other way."
Mendocino glanced at the man beside him. "I told you Hank's got a special assignment."
"This ain't right." Frazier's gaze had turned mean, and if Mendocino hadn't been traveling seventy-five miles an hour, the passenger might have bailed. "Where are you taking me?"
"Sometimes Mr. Watson has special assignments for people who show potential." Mendocino kept his tone reassuring. "He hears you're good with a rifle. It's not something you talk about in the Watson Building.
Granddaddy Longlegs stared, seeming to measure Mendocino.
"Savvy?" Mendocino met Frazier's stare with a hard one of his own. "You're not that slow, are you?"
Frazier tilted his head. "Okay. I get it. I guess."
"He'll brief you when we get there. It's not my place to talk. I just drive."
Frazier seemed to settle down. On the way, Mendocino assessed his passenger. He was flat-ass nasty with no shower or shave. Probably wired after a wake-up snort of crystal meth to counter the hangover. Drank a beer for breakfast. Hair of the dog. What a way to start the day.
The thunder was no longer distant. The sky was rumbling as the two pulled through the gates of Watson Field where a large metal airplane hangar was sandwiched between two warehouses, all facing the runway. Mendocino parked in front beside Bobby's Land Rover.
He motioned. "In here." He said as he walked through a steel personnel door beside the vertical lift door for the corporate jet.
Frazier's eyes wouldn't be still, betraying his uncertainty.
Hank stepped out of the front office to greet them. "Rex Frazier!" Hank was cool, extending his hand with a wide smile. "Hank Watson."
Frazier shook Hank's hand, appearing to shed some angst. "Nice to meet you, sir," he said. "What can I do for you, sir?"
"Come on in the office." Hank waved for him to follow. "Let's get to know each other before we talk business."
Hank and Rex seemed engrossed in conversation, neither noticing Bobby shut and bar the entry door. Mendocino caught it.
"I'm honored, sir," Frazier said to Hank as Mendocino entered the office. "Does the Colonel know I'm here? He's expecting me."
Hank motioned Frazier toward a chair facing the desk as he poured a cup of coffee. "You seem a little jumpy, son. Have a seat. Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Or hair of the dog?"
"Hair of the dog." Frazier rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. They were so red and glassy, it made Mendocino's eyes water looking at them. "Shot three ball all night." He smiled, showing bad teeth. "Had a good run."
"I always admired a man who could shoot a good game of pool." Hank offered Frazier a two-finger drink in a whiskey glass. "Never was much good at it, myself."
Bobby joined Mendocino standing at the office door as Rex threw back his shot. Go figure. Beer, meth, and whiskey to start the day.
Standing side by side blocking the door, Mendocino and Bobby exchanged glances. They had him. Mendocino's Glock 22 was in his shoulder holster. Bobby cradled his favorite hunting rifle, a Weatherby 300, in the crook of his arm.
Something about the click of a closing door in a moment of silence.
Frazier flinched, glancing over his shoulder. He shifted around in his chair, his gaze moving slowly from Bobby to Mendocino then he turned back to face Hank, his brows knitted. "What's going on? I thought you had a job for me." He tilted his head toward Mendocino and Bobby. "What are they doing?"
That friendly facade Hank used to lure Frazier into the office was gone. "I do have a new job for you, Rex." He held up a nine-millimeter Glock 17. Same size as Mendocino's just not as much stopping power. "Your new job is to tell me what Colonel Edward Sartain is doing at our line camp."
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