The Fugitive: The Border Series, #5

By David Griffith

Every drug cartel in Mexico wants Lonnie Bowers dead. But there's only one person with the skill and patience to make a kill shot in the middle of a thousand miles of forested wilderness. Carlos Quintero is the best in Mexico, maybe the world. He doesn't miss, and he never returns without completing a contract.

Lonnie has been warned, but with cattle to check, fences to fix, and a multitude of other ranch chores the urg, a close family member is murdered, and Lonnie becomes the prime suspect. To avoid arrest, he disappears into the vast tract of mountain and forest bordering the Blackwater Ranch, beyond the reach of any lawman--except the bulldog cop, Corporal Mcalister.

In the wild bush country, Lonnie is the master. He could comfortably survive for years, but to keep his family safe he has to find the wealthy financier who paid nearly a quarter-million dollars to have him killed.

In a quiet Yucatan enclave, Lonnie confronts an evil he'd never thought possible. The mission may change his life--but will it clear his name?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Griffith
• Release date: Nov 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393186007

David Griffith

David Griffith has lived around packers and outfitters, loggers and cowboys—and always with horses. His books showcase an intimate knowledge of cowboy life and the land, from northern British Columbia to the Sierra Madre of Mexico. With his wife Patricia, he still runs a cattle ranch in the big river country of British Columbia.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I’d no sooner mounted and urged Socks into his big, ground-eating trot, when the bullet slammed into my chest. I slumped in the saddle, and that half-broke, useless horse blew up and bucked me off. He’d waited for months to do just that. Fortunately, we were on the edge of the meadow, so when I hit the ground, there weren’t any rocks.

Though still conscious, blood cascaded down the inside of my shirt, which meant I wasn’t going to make it. Like most folks in those circumstances, the hereafter instantly escalated to the top of my life-and-death totem pole.

Frantically I scanned the ground around me, hoping that renegade horse had pitched my rifle as well. Nothing lay in the tall grass near the gate, which meant the rifle in my scabbard left with that treacherous cayuse. By now, he’d be standing at the barn. An instant weakness turned my legs and arms to mush, but fortunately I was conscious enough to determine where the shot had come from, and even why.

Anyone over the age of three could have answered the ‘why’ part. We had a few distant neighbors, but none we didn’t get along with, which likely meant my past had come north to haunt me. I’d made more than one enemy in the time I’d spent infiltrating drug cartels in Mexico and Central America. For too many years, bringing drug lords to justice had been a major part of my life. The search for those who sold drugs had consumed every waking minute, so it wasn’t like I didn’t know the danger. The Blackwater Ranch had been a way for me to retire, to fade into obscurity, because those who had sworn to kill me were lined up like corner store lottery ticket buyers.

I coughed, expecting blood in my mouth, but I spit out nothing more than pine needles, which might mean I’d last long enough the shooter could finish what he’d started.

Here, in one of the most remote places on the continent, I’d reckoned I was safe. Often, I didn’t even pack a gun unless a pack of wolves or a marauding grizzly had killed a calf. I raised my head and scanned the ridge on the south side of the trail. Years of danger, along with a certainty in the bottom of my gut told me the shooter was holed up on the brushy hump that lay a scant hundred yards from the spot where I’d dismounted to close the gate. Dead pine crisscrossed through dense patches of juniper which provided a multitude of hiding places, and I’d ridden right into his ambush.

The man who had opened the gate had correctly surmised that the moment any cows showed up in the hay meadow, I’d ride down and push them back into the range area. I’d done just that, shrugging off any suspicion as to how the gate latch had malfunctioned. Now I knew. No cow had rubbed it open, and whoever had shot me was right now lining up to finish the job. That thought disturbed me more than the blood pooling around the top of my jeans, but I hadn’t time to ponder further. My immediate need was to disappear, because as sure as God made our Ilgachuz Mountains, whoever carried that rifle would already be working his way closer to make sure I was properly dead.

The moment I moved, a knifing pain exploded across my chest. I slumped into the verdant sedge grass that grew around what would soon be my dead body. Rage surged through every capillary and right to my knuckles, which probably meant more of my blood leaked onto the meadow. I winced, biting back the anger and pain as I crawled away from where I figured the shot had come from. Eventually, I reached a dense stand of alder and burrowed as far into it as I could. Even so, it provided no place to hide so I kept moving farther up the slope to a stand of beetle killed pine which unfortunately provided even less cover.

Questions ricocheted across my brain. How had they found me? I searched for a name, while I rested behind an upended stump. Who from my past was capable enough to find their way into this wilderness setting, so foreign to anything I’d ever experienced in Mexico or Latin America?

I’d always considered our remote ranch safe from Los Zetas or any of the half-dozen other major cartels. But if they could carry their war this far into one of the wildest, most inaccessible places on the planet, there was nowhere in the world my family would be safe. Mug shots, wanted posters, names and faces flipped through my mind, many of them complete with the extensive dossiers I’d so painstakingly created. Over the years, I’d run into a host of criminals and assassins, both male and female. Most, though dangerous on their own turf, were city folk, and despite my best efforts, I came up with no sicario, no assassin’s name that would be capable of reaching me here.

When I’d come home two years ago from my last intelligence assignment, I’d wanted desperately to forever leave the tortured mosaic of suffering and death that defines so much of Mexico under the bloody thumb of the drug cartels. Now, bleeding from a mortal wound, and scarcely a mile from my house, I realized how wrong I’d been. My fight with the cartels would never go away, and here, on the east end of the big meadow, a hundred miles from any town, they’d found me.

Despite the pain, I slipped away from the stump and scuttled farther up the ridge to a half-hidden cavern dug in the past by a wintering bear. I wanted desperately to crawl down in that depression and hide, but it had death-trap written all over it, so I angled farther up the slope. If the shooter was an excellent tracker he’d have no trouble trailing me across the meadow, but he’d have to be better than average to figure out which way I’d gone after I’d reached the pine needle carpeted forest I was in now. I hoped he lacked that level of skill, because I was losing a lot of blood and rapidly getting weaker. Once, I glanced down. Though the blood obscured anything definite, I reckoned there must be a hole on the left side of my vest, which meant a corresponding one in my chest.

For most of an hour, nothing moved behind me, which meant that whoever hid on the far side of the trail was a top-flight assassin. The man took no chances. Though his shot hadn’t killed me, he knew I’d been hit hard, and like any animal at bay, I would hole up and try to stop the bleeding. That would stop me from any serious attempt at escape. Another worry suddenly edged to the front of my brain. The sound of the shot would have carried back to our cabin. I’d left the house with my old standby .22 Remington in the scabbard so I could possibly bag a few grouse for supper. The bullet hole in my vest was larger than grouse gun size. Clarissa, if she’d been outside, would worry at the report of the larger rifle. She might even tromp out to the end of the meadow and investigate. I’d bypassed five cows and calves, and ridden down the west fence to see if a tree had fallen over the wires before checking the gate. My intention had been to then ride back and push the cows back onto the range area. Socks, after his bucking spree would head for home. When Clarissa saw him at the barn she would definitely come looking, especially if there was any blood on the saddle. The thought of her running into whoever had shot me sent a shiver of fear up my spine. I needed to remain conscious and somehow get home to warn her. Not for the first time, I wished for our old life where I could have simply dragged out my cell phone and texted her. "Hey, we have trouble. Bring my .270 up to the old wolf-den spruce tree, and stay on the north side of the ridge.

Though Clarissa hated guns, and steadfastly refused to learn anything more than the bare minimum about calibers or bullet sizes, she’d definitely know that it was the one with the expensive scope. Momentarily, my thought-line hit a solid wall as a wave of intense pain exploded across my chest. When it passed, I glanced down the hill. I could see nothing different, but I had a hunch he’d moved.

I well-remembered the day I’d brought that .270 home. The Swarovski scope had first-class written all over it, but it also made a royal shambles of our budget. I tried to justify my purchase. I needed it for predators. The calves we saved would more than pay for it. At the time, Clarissa wasn’t impressed, and though we’d spent a tense evening, after I’d dispatched three problem wolves, she admitted it might have been a good investment. Now, I wished for that rifle along with a working cellphone. I had neither, and whatever I did next would determine whether I, and possibly my family would live to see another sunrise. I gritted my teeth against a new spasm of pain.

I pulled my hat off, then poked my head up over the rim of the narrow cavern. Nothing. Though I had an uneasy feeling that whoever was down there was now much closer, he remained hidden. Painfully, I pulled myself to my feet and crabbed further up the hill. If I could get far enough away to stop the bleeding, I might be able to make it to the house. That was the only way I could hope to survive. I needed a rifle.

The hopeless reality of my situation slammed into me with at least as much power as the bullet I’d taken. That shot had changed our hopes and dreams—everything. Never again could I treasure this wilderness ranch as a place where my family was safe, a refuge far from the vengeful retribution of the drug cartels.

By the time I’d reached the top of the ridge, the blood from the wound in my chest had soaked through the top of my jeans, and the realization hit me that I might never make it to the house. If I didn’t find a hiding place, the shooter would quickly follow me and finish what he’d started.

A pitchy, ancient spruce tree with low-hanging branches offered the only haven. I pushed through the protective screen. Behind the tree, a massive rock bluff swept up toward the top of the hill. Several years ago I’d crawled in here, curious to see what lay behind the heavy veil of branches. I’d cornered a wolf bitch with pups in the den that lay behind the tree. She bluffed better than I did, and I left a lot faster than I’d arrived. This time, there were no occupants in the den, and I crawled painfully into the shallow indentation in the rock.

Gingerly, I pulled at the snap buttons on my shirt, then eased the fabric away from my blood-encrusted wound. It didn’t go well, and by the time I’d separated my shirt from the bloody mess on the front of my chest, I was in danger of passing out. With some water, I could have washed enough of the blood and gore away to get a decent view of the damage. That luxury I didn’t have, but as I gingerly explored the edges of the wound, I grimaced. I wouldn’t die, at least not today, because there was no hole in my chest.

The jagged, horizontal rip made me queasy, a nearly carbon copy of another wound I’d suffered long ago in Costa Rica. I eased the rest of my shirt away from the coagulating mess, which caused a bunch more pain and bleeding, but there was little I could do about that. Meanwhile, I thought about the angle of the shot. To avoid detection, the shooter had to have hidden in that jungle of juniper and deadfall on the south side of the meadow. After I’d dismounted to check the ground for tracks, I’d thrown the gate farther back, then mounted and leaned over in the saddle in a last search for any tracks that didn’t belong to a cow. Within seconds, the assassin had fired. His position on the south side of the trail meant he’d not had a frontal shot, and it’s not a simple task to hit a sideways target on a moving horse. Had he panicked and squeezed off a second too early? I stared at the bloody wound. The shooter’s trajectory had been off by two inches. Barring gangrene, septicemia, or a half-dozen other infectious complications, I might survive—if I made it out of here.

Chapter 2

Iwell-remembered the day I’d walked away from the intelligence work that had consumed most of my adult life. Whether you’re an undercover city drug cop or a CIA plant in hostile territory—at some point, your nerves go wonky. Every agent knows that time will come. If you’re smart, you have a solid exit plan. I’d spent mission after mission in foreign countries where entire teams of assassins hunted me like a rabid dog. Up to now, I’d survived, but I’d had enough. My body carried the bullet holes and scars from a multitude of missions, and mentally, I’d endured all I could handle. I sat down with Frederick Roseman, my old boss at Stirling Associates, and told him the time had come for me to move on.

The first sign that I needed to move on presented itself in the most innocent of ways. Clarissa and I had taken a weekend holiday to a small ski resort a few hundred miles from our wilderness home. After a gorgeous day of bright sun and powder, we sat in a cozy restaurant over dinner. A man with a dark complexion walked through the door and stood quietly surveying the tables. He could have been from any one of a dozen countries, but suddenly my hands began to tremble, and I had to concentrate to bring the glass in my shaky hand to my lips. Clarissa noticed it immediately, which precipitated a serious conversation about our future. Other incidents followed. I knew what they meant. A long rest may have been all I needed, but I’d had enough. Much to Frederick’s dismay, I pulled the pin. Until now, I’d harbored no regrets, and we’d lived on our remote ranch insulated from all the danger and mayhem I’d left behind. Or so I’d thought. Then, the stranger who had Mexican written all over him hoofed it into our yard.

For those who live in more settled areas of the world, you don’t drive to where we live. Most of the year you can walk, presuming you have the wilderness smarts to find your way along a gravel road that winds through a hundred miles of forest. If you make it that far, you then hike down a rocky trail to the Blackwater River. At the Crossing, you may only get wet to your knees, or you might get swept away by a flood current and drown. If that happens, nobody will know, and it’s a toss-up whether your body will ever be discovered. Safer to ride, especially if you’re fortunate enough to have a bush-smart horse between your knees.

The Mexican stood at the bottom of our expansive veranda with a cheap backpack slung over his left shoulder. He must have walked, because he was wet to the waist. At the time, I thought it unfortunate that he hadn’t drowned, which may have been an unkind thought in normal circumstances. However, due to my former occupation, I would always need to be wary. So when this Latino looking stranger walked into my yard, I wanted nothing more than to pull out a gun and escort him a million miles away from our haven of peace. Did the color of his skin have a good deal to do with that thought? Better believe it. That might have qualified me as a racist, if mine weren’t just as dark. Besides his facial features, the minute he spoke, I knew his native language was Spanish.

Who are you? My voice crackled with anger and a touch of fear as I thought of my family in the house behind me.

The man held up a hand, his palm extended toward me. Señor Bowers, I am sorry. I did not want to startle you, but I knew no other way to announce my presence."

What do you want? That’s not how we ever greet guests at the Blackwater Ranch. The man had been polite, but I couldn’t stop the waves of alarm that sent every rusty antenna in my body into high alert.

Rafael sent me. I have come to give you a message.

Rafael? The leader of the Michoacán defenders?

Sì.

Why would you come here?

Because in the past you helped us in our fight against all the horrors the cartels have brought to our villages, and now you are in great danger.

Why am I in danger? Besides, isn’t my old friend Rafael still in prison?

He waved away my concern. They released him, and you need to understand. A man Rafael despises is sending a sicario to kill you.

And this man is from one of the cartels? They’re sending someone this far to find me? The minute I spoke, I knew how trite my questions sounded.

Yes. He didn’t roll his eyes, but I reckoned that had taken some restraint. You know better than most. The cartels never forget.

I nodded wearily. It felt as if a combination of lead and arsenic flowed through my veins as I gazed down at the meadow, then up to the far mountains. I’d hoped this would never happen. Many were the nights I’d lain awake, staring out at the stars through our bedroom window, wondering if my former career infiltrating some of the worst drug mafias in the world could still have consequences. Apparently, they’d not forgotten the damage I’d wrought, and I well-remembered the mantra we agents lived by. Never let your guard down. Had I inadvertently thought that didn’t matter this far out in the wilderness? The second, more ominous aphorism instantly came to mind. The cartels can reach you—anytime, and anywhere. Foolishly, I’d let my guard down thinking that here I might be safe from their vengeance.

The man at the bottom of our axe-hewn steps shuffled from one foot to the other.

Welcome . . .. My voice trailed off. The truth was that he, like all of the Mexico I had left behind was not welcome. Nevertheless, I tried to show a portion of the hospitality we were known for. Come in. I will find you some dry clothes.

That will not be necessary. He gestured toward the blue backpack slung over his right shoulder. If you can show me where I can change, I have extra clothes with me.

Certainly.

The man stepped up onto the veranda. His wet shoes squished and left water marks on the weathered planks. As he reached the top step, I held out a hand. I guess you know who I am. Thank you for coming.

He met my hand with his own. My name is Jesús. He pronounced it, haysus, as all did in Latin America, but the name jarred me, a cultural thing I’d never understand. Why would you call your kid Jesús, the name of the Son of God, even if you pronounced it differently? To me, it almost seemed blasphemous. Nevertheless, it’s a common practice in the Spanish speaking countries. I batted that minor argument to the back of my mind as his eyes locked on mine.

Jesus’s round features were solid, and if I had to guess—honest, though I’d not stake my life on that. Had he really traveled most of three thousand miles just to warn me, or was there something more sinister here? Sure, in years past I’d pulled some strings for the vigilante groups in Michoacán. But could Rafael still have the clout to send one of his devotees this far, in exchange for a service I’d managed to pull off nearly a decade ago? Maybe, but my suspicious agent blood ran as thick as winter maple syrup while I listened to this man’s unusual adventures in reaching our remote ranch.

What did this visit mean? Did Jesús wonder what kind of people would live this far from the established environs of normal men, or was he casing me and our ranch for future, more sinister visits? And what if he wasn’t who he said he was? Might he himself be a sicario from one of the cartels? The thought sent frozen chunks of ice through my veins.

My wife and children could be at risk. Oh, I failed to mention our other blessings from Heaven. Conor was now nine, and starting to be my little cowboy. Cassie had come early, born during one of the deepest winter snows we’d ever seen at the ranch, all with the capable and loving help of an Indian midwife friend who lived twelve miles to the east. At three years old, Cassie took after her mother in looks—though hardly in temperament. When she’d joined our family, her big brother Conor thought she was at least as good as a new puppy. As time passed, that fluctuated. If she messed up his Lego creations, he was instantly ready to give her away. Overall though, they got along well. Most of the time, he was sure his little sister was the cutest kid in the world. Then, last year when little Ben joined our family, Conor resigned himself to more siblings, and even more competition for his parent’s now much-divided attention.

I ushered Jesús into the house and introduced him to Clarissa and Conor who raised a hand in recognition. Conor’s attention span had never been great, but when he was building a new Lego creation, he remained oblivious to anything around him. At this point, he had the foundation laid for an ancient Japanese castle. I didn’t even know there was such a thing, but apparently he did. My only job was to admire his creation. It was impressive, and I wished we owned it for a refuge, because I had no illusions. If this man’s words were true, we were in more trouble than I could have ever imagined.

As with most backcountry ranches, nobody ever kicked off their muddy boots on our step without getting fed. As little as I wanted to trust the man, Jesús would get a meal and a bed. He sat at our table, and we ate good grass-fed roast beef with vegetables and salad fixins’ from our garden and greenhouse. At the end of the meal, he stood and thanked Clarissa. We offered him a bed in the bunkhouse cabin, but he gracefully declined. Though daylight had faded, and he faced at least a four hour journey across the river and back to civilization, he insisted he had to be on his way. I followed him outside to the veranda and offered to harness the team to take him across to where I presumed he must have a vehicle. He replied in Spanish, and the only way he could know I was fluent in that language was if Rafael had actually sent him. Curiously, that assuaged some of my doubts about his story, which meant my danger gauge ratcheted upward about a hundred points. I reached for his hand and tried to impart the gratefulness I felt for what he’d done to warn me of the danger ahead.

Jesús softly held my palm. Be very careful, Señor.

With that, he jumped cat-like to the bottom of the steps, and disappeared into the night.

Chapter 3

For a long time, I leaned against one of the log uprights that supported the veranda roof, and stared at the place where Jesús had disappeared. The inky blackness of a moonless night gave me complete cover from anyone lurking out there in the darkness. That was something I’d not worried about in the past. I would now. While I listened to the familiar night sound of a Wilson’s snipe thrumming overhead, I gnawed on a toothpick. Far off,