Way Tight: A Buck Duran Mystery: Buck Duran Mysteries, #4

By Robert Bogan

When faceless enemies try to kill Buck Duran with a bomb, they blow away his bride-to-be instead. The trauma nearly kills Duran but family and friends catch his fall. With their help, Duran regains his health along with emotional and psychological balance. Duran learns his enemies will strike again soon, so he teams with two others who are also determined to find and destroy whoever killed his fiancée. In violation of several international laws, the three of them invade Rancho Quetzaltocatl, nest of a treacherous drug cartel.

Way Tight climbs to brilliant heights of health and well-being, then dives into the darkness of a spider hole in Mexico.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Bogan
• Release date: Jun 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386849872

Book preview

WAY TIGHT

A Buck Duran Mystery

Robert Bogan

ONE

The mid-June sun bounced up from the rim of the golden east and flashed wealth down Fourth Street. When he opened his eyes, Buck looked into the warm depths of Ester’s eyes. She was wide awake, her face inches away, watching him, head on a pillow. She smiled, moved closer, closed her eyes and touched her lips to his.

Their joining was gentle and deep, but quick.

I love you, Mrs. Duran. Where would I be without you?

We’re not married yet, cabrón, Ester said softly.

Yes we are.

I know. We are. But I better get up, she said. I’ve got the big interview at ten-thirty.

Lieutenant Éster Cozcatl Cruz, who was earning a solid reputation in Central Texas law enforcement, had attracted the attention of the United States Secret Service. There was a push to diversify the workforce throughout the federal government, especially in policing. Today was her third interview.

Amazed at his luck, Buck watched Ester’s graceful form glide roundly out of sight. When she finally agreed to marry him, he sold his place on Anderson Bend where he always felt most at home. The prospects of his future with Ester Cruz seemed brighter than all alternatives. With her, he seemed honest and real. He felt what he did made sense.

They planned to combine resources and live together, so he moved into Ester’s condo in the Railyard three weeks before he had major surgery. The doctors replaced his severely damaged left knee with the latest titanium joint. His recovery demanded bed rest at first, and limited activity. Physical therapy started soon after surgery.

Buck was now in the sixth week of recovery so yesterday he attempted to drive. That did not turn out well. After a short painful cruise through downtown traffic, he returned home and found space at the curb large enough to park the Bronco at an angle, with difficulty. He had not worked out in months and had gained as much as fifty extra pounds. Top-heavy to begin with, now Buck needed more power for the crutches. Somehow he dislodged himself from behind the steering wheel and crutched across Fourth Street into the Railyard, through a plaza to the elevator. When he reached Ester’s second-floor condo, he collapsed onto the futon with tears in his eyes.

Nevertheless, this morning Buck was determined to continue a ritual he had resumed only a week before. With strain and resolve he launched himself upright. Using handholds for balance, he reached for the crutches and very carefully tried out the left leg. There was a bit more stiffness today, but the knee was better than he expected it to be. He pushed bare feet through the legs of a triple-x pair of blue chinos, stepped into super-size topsiders and shuffled to the kitchen.

A while later Ester appeared, wearing only bra and panties, her hair wrapped in a white towel turban. Buck was preparing his signature dish: huevos especiales con campañones, which he never prepared the same way twice.

Buck, thank you so much! But I’m running late, cabrón. I should have walked out ten minutes ago. Look, just wrap me a taco and I’ll eat at my desk.

Buck found two whole-grain tortillas, wrapped two generous servings of huevos, and sealed them in foil. He remained standing, leaning against the counter to rest the knee. Moments later, Ester walked out of her bedroom again, dressed in a sharp blue suit, black pumps clicking the tile. For the second time that hour Buck was amazed.

Here is your breakfast, baby. Good luck tacos, get you ready for the interview.

You are so sweet! You fixed two. You know I can only eat one.

Give the other taco to Rojelio. Captain Roejelio Cavazos was Ester’s superior and he was no fan of Ester’s fiancé, Mr. Duran.

Oh, Buck! She dropped both tacos into the purse that matched her pumps, and placed the long purse strap over her shoulder. She did the same with the strap of the case that held her service revolver. She then unzipped an inner pocket of her purse and probed around.

Where are my keys? Ester asked, an edge of panic in her voice.

I haven’t seen them recently, said Buck.

She searched frantically through both purse and gun case, unzipping every pocket. She ran back into her bedroom.

Buck, I can’t find my keys! This is a disaster! Panic was taking over.

Buck reached into the pocket of the chinos and pulled out the Bronco keys. He held them out to her when she returned.

Please take the Bronco. It’s parked right outside on Fourth Street.

You may need to go somewhere, she said.

No, I won’t try that again for another week. Go. Take the Bronco.

"I do feel safe driving that wreck because I sit up so high. Thank you, Querido."

Ester took the keys from Buck, planted her lips on his and breezed out the door, leaving him stunned by her fragrance.

Instead of lying again on the futon, he adjusted crutches and hobbled over to the window to watch her cross the street and drive away.

Ester was a knock-out, even when viewed like this from a downward angle. He was sure she would be offered the Secret Service job, though he had doubts about her taking it. He watched her approach and enter the driver’s side.

A few seconds later the Bronco disappeared in a flash that shook the buildings all around.

TWO

Three blocks to the west, two men sat in a dirty brown Pontiac parked on the south side of Fourth Street, in the shadow of a bank building. Guerra hunkered in the driver’s seat, black hair draped over the steering wheel, a pair of binoculars raised to his eyes. He watched a smartly dressed woman approach the driver’s door of his target, the red SUV. That was one fine looking woman. He saw her hair highlighted in the golden morning sun. She inserted a key and opened the door.

"Pinche perra! No!" Guerra shouted and pounded the steering wheel.

After the door closed, the vehicle sat there a moment as if reluctant to do what it did next. In Guerra’s binocular field, the red SUV disappeared with a noiseless flash. Guerra’s dark curse was drowned in the delayed sound wave of the blast.

Sitting in the passenger seat next to Guerra, a wiry little man felt his whole world collapse. Pulga’s body seemed to go numb from the waist down. Because his compact size and recklessness fit the criteria, he had been assigned the job of planting the bomb. Yesterday afternoon he watched their target, a big man on crutches, enter the SUV and drive away. Half an hour later, the big man drove back and parked on the north side of Fourth Street.

In the early morning darkness, Pulga had emerged from the shadows, carrying a small flashlight and a brick-sized object. He scanned the empty street and ducked under the SUV. Quickly he fastened the magnetized ordinance under the well of the driver’s seat. Biting the end of the flashlight, Pulga switched it on long enough to fasten two wire clamps. Pocketing the flashlight, he scooted nimbly out from under the vehicle and scurried back into the shadows.

Now six hours later, Guerra turned his rage on the bomber.

"I told all of you, do not use a bomb! Padrón is going to punish all of us. You can’t aim a bomb the way you can a gun. You killed a hot woman and our target wasn’t anywhere is sight.

Who the hell was that woman? That was all Pulga could say.

You fucked up! Guerra shouted in enraged Spanish. "I can tell you who that was not. That was not the big pendejo on crutches. Now you gotta go tell El Obispo."

Pulga felt his twisted gut ball into a nauseous mass.

THREE

Duran could not breathe. Down below where yesterday he had parked the Bronco, thick black clouds of smoke were rolling from a shallow crater in Fourth Street. What remained of the SUV was lost in blazes. He fumbled his crutches, one fell to the floor. He nearly lost balance when he bent down, one-legged, and retrieved it.

His heart racing, oblivious to pain, he crutched his way out of the condo to the elevator. By the time he reached the street, two police cars had arrived at the crater and other sirens were approaching from the distance. Buildings all around mixed the echoes of shouts, cries and car alarms. The first officers on the scene secured a perimeter by redirecting all traffic.

Duran nearly fell again when he maneuvered off the curb to the pavement. The left knee was completely numb now. He crossed the street as quickly as he could. One of the policemen noticed his approach and hurried to stop him.

Sir, you need to stay back!

That’s my wife! She is driving my truck!

Okay, said the cop, suddenly interested. We want to talk to you, but you need to return to the sidewalk right now.

Duran levered himself forward on the crutches, his eyes fastened on the still blazing remains of his Bronco. No living creature within could have survived the blast. The policeman blocked his way and caught his arm.

The tip of one crutch slipped and Duran crumpled to the pavement. The cop tried to catch him but only slowed his drop. Duran’s elbow hammered the pavement but that pain was lost in the much bigger pain. The numbness of his left knee split open and shot bullets of hurt through his body. Tears welled in his eyes, not just out of pain but also shock at the finality of his loss.

Okay, just lay there for now, said the officer as he unclipped his radio and called for another EMS bus.

Captain Rojelio Cavazos was in a dark rage. He would not approach Duran or even look at him. Instead Cavazos stalked around the scene, looking intently at the now-smoking remains of the Bronco. Finally Cavazos carried his rage to Duran and shoved it in his face.

What the hell did you do, you goddam bastard! Every day I told Ester to stay away from you!

It was not just Cavazos’ rage that landed on Duran’s face.

I know Ester is your friend too, Rojelio.

Captain Cavazos jabbed a thick forefinger into Duran’s face, almost striking his nose.

Don’t you fucking ‘Rojelio’ me ever again, see? This time I’m going to fry your ass. I got you now and Ester Cruz ain’t here to protect you.

Captain, we just lost Ester. I don’t have a clue what happened.

I got no fucking use for you now, mister. With Ester gone, I got less-than-zero use for you. I always thought jail was the best place for you anyways.

Why? Because someone out for my blood murdered my fiancé by mistake?

Exactly! Works for me, good a reason as any!

But who is it, would want to murder me?

Well. Okay, said Cavazos glancing around. I’d say at least half a dozen in my squad would like to see you fry. Beyond that, no telling how many.

Cavazos eventually marched Duran on crutches to a patrol car. The captain caught him by the shoulder to turn him around, but Duran fell to the ground again. His body was wracked by sobs that came from deep inside. Surprised and unsettled by what he saw,