Rio Grande Night (The 11th Jack Nightingale Novel)

By Stephen Leather

Mexico is famous for its rich culture, ancient ruins, dazzling beaches, and spicy cuisine.

But there is a darker side to America’s southern neighbour, with vicious gangs dealing in drugs. extortion, money laundering, human trafficking and contract killings.

Jack Nightingale came across his fair share of villains when he worked for the Metropolitan Police in London.

But nothing could prepare him for the evil that was waiting for him when he crossed the Rio Grande river and entered Mexico - an evil that is hunting for an immortal soul. A very special soul.

PRAISE FOR THE JACK NIGHTINGALE SERIES

'Written with panache, and a fine ear for dialogue, Leather manages the collision between the real and the occult with exceptional skill' Daily Mail

'Another great thriller from Stephen Leather but this time with a devilish twist!' James Herbert

‘A stunning masterclass in darkness from a ferocious talent who excels in putting the devil in the details’ Daily Record

‘A wicked read’ Anthony Horowitz

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Leather
• Release date: Nov 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005412456

Stephen Leather

Stephen Leather is one of the UK’s most successful thriller writers, an eBook and Sunday Times bestseller and author of the critically acclaimed Dan “Spider’ Shepherd series and the Jack Nightingale supernatural detective novels. Before becoming a novelist he was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers such as The Times, the Daily Mirror, the Glasgow Herald, the Daily Mail and the South China Morning Post in Hong Kong. He is one of the country’s most successful eBook authors and his eBooks have topped the Amazon Kindle charts in the UK and the US. He has sold more than a million eBooks and was voted by The Bookseller magazine as one of the 100 most influential people in the UK publishing world. His bestsellers have been translated into fifteen languages. He has also written for television shows such as London’s Burning, The Knock and the BBC’s Murder in Mind series and two of his books, The Stretch and The Bombmaker, were filmed for TV. You can find out more from his website www.stephenleather.com

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Jack Nightingale was no fan of funerals, though he had probably attended more of them than most people, starting with the people he had always thought of as his parents, though it turned out they hadn't been. Then the aunt and uncle who had brought him up after the Nightingales were killed in a car accident. His real father never had a funeral, as far as he knew.

Since then, there had been colleagues in the Job during his time in the Metropolitan Police, friends, and some people he had hardly known, but whose deaths had intersected with his life. There had been times when his black suit had seen more wear than anything else in his wardrobe, with the possible exception of his trusty raincoat.

But, among all the funerals he had attended, he couldn't think of one that he'd enjoyed more than that day's. Nightingale was not a vengeful man, but if ever a man deserved to die, it was this one. The world was a brighter place for his leaving it.

The Dignity Funeral Home in Miami was full, since the deceased had been well-known, and popular amongst those who didn't really know his character. Those who did had probably shown up just to make sure the bastard was finally dead.

The priest must have known him for what he was. Why else would he have chosen those verses from the Gospel of Saint Mark, Chapter eight.

"For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?"

There had been a time when Jack Nightingale wouldn't have believed that he had a soul, let alone that it could be bought and sold. Then he had discovered that his natural father had sold Jack's soul to a Princess from Hell, with the deal due to be completed on his thirty-third birthday, and apparently there was nothing he could do about it. It was only by an almost miraculous combination of long shots and clever manoeuvering that he had been allowed to reclaim his soul, and it had made him conscious of how vital it was to him.

He thought of his genetic father, Ainsley Gosling, and how little it had profited him to sell the souls of his children. Limitless wealth, but it was never enough. Power over women, but he could take no pleasure from it. Deals with a demon always came with loopholes, those who sold their souls never got everything they thought they wanted.

Whoever had written Mark's Gospel surely had it right, there was nothing in the world that would be worth selling your soul for, nothing could ever be a fair exchange.

The last hymn was being sung, and the curtains at the front of the little chapel slid open, as the expensively customised mahogany coffin slid across the rollers and into the furnace beyond. The curtain closed.

It's hot in there,said Nightingale, but it'll be a damned sight hotter where you're going. Let's see what you think of your bargain now. Nothing's worth selling your soul for. Absolutely nothing.

He needed to get the taste of death out of his mouth, so he walked out of the chapel and took a taxi to the beach. He sat at a little bar, ate fried shrimp, drank two Coronas and smoked three Marlboros before he finally felt ready to put it all behind him. He took another taxi back to his hotel, undressed, crawled into bed and tried to sleep it all away.

CHAPTER 2

A thousand miles away, Isabella Perez was walking from her tidy little house to the shop which was her pride and joy. She'd always been interested in the practice of Wicca, probably influenced by her great aunt Gabriela, who was widely respected as a wise woman, and occasionally derided as a witch. Three years earlier, when the insurance money for her father had arrived from the car factory, she had taken the inheritance and bought a lease on the little store. It had been a haberdashers, but Isabella worked hard on the décor, filled it with herbs, candles, crystals, powders, potions, charts and books and re-christened it La Tienda de Brujeria, the Witchcraft Store.

Isabella was never going to make a fortune from her little shop, Matamoros was hardly a hot bed of Wicca interest, but she turned over enough to keep herself. Even those who had no interest in Witchcraft could often be attracted in by the displays of dreamcatchers, ornaments and astrology charts. There were still plenty of hippies left in town, and the tourist trade was very lucrative, especially at this time of year.

Isabella wore a frown as she walked through the streets, thinking of the previous night's conversation with the old priest and his sister. They were all agreed that the evil which seemed to be growing in the town represented a threat to all decent people, but they had few ideas of what to do about it. The priest could preach to his congregation, Isabella could issue warnings to her clients, but it all seemed so little in the face of overwhelming odds. Recently she had refused to supply the black votive candles and blends of herbs that the blasphemers required for their rituals, but she was in no doubt that they could obtain them elsewhere.

Her frown deepened as she arrived at her shop, the shutters still down, and saw the package that had been left there. She wasn't expecting a delivery, and, besides, stock for the shop generally arrived in business hours. It was wrapped in cardboard, about the size of a shoe box. She unlocked the shutters, pulled them up, opened the door, turned on the light and went inside, carrying the box with her.

She placed it on the counter, then found a knife from her stock to cut open the wrapping. Her heart was sinking, as she already suspected what it contained. She had heard about these packages from others.

Sure enough, there it was, her worst fears confirmed. She lifted it out of the box and set it on the counter. A miniature coffin, in dark, polished wood with gold fittings. She shuddered, but nerved herself to open it, though she already knew what it contained.

CHAPTER 3

The girls were more excited than usual tonight, this was the big night that the whole trip had been leading up to. So far their first Spring Break had been reasonably calm, they'd spent pretty much every day in bikinis, lounging around the swimming pool, running in and out of the sea, lying on the beach working on the all-important tan. There hadn't been much drinking going on, as none of them had reached the age of twenty-one yet, so they were obliged to stick to 'mocktails' and a variety of bright coloured drinks with 'virgin' in the name.

But tonight would be different.

They took turns for mirror space in their shared suite, sharing around make-up and checking with each other that everything was looking good. The tans were accentuated with glittering body cream, the hair carefully tousled, the eyeshadow just the right colour to complement the clothes. The evening would be hot, so crop-tops and shorts, or mini sun dresses were all that was needed. Except for Stephanie, who was a little bigger than the others, and sensitive about it. Her dress was knee-length and flowing, designed to hide a few of the extra pounds which she badly wished she could lose. She generally felt lucky to be allowed to hang out with the rest of the group, and put in an extra effort to be useful. Tonight she was designated driver, so two drinks would be her limit.

They were nearly ready, just some last-minute adjustments as two of them changed their decision on shoes. Heels would, of course, have looked better, but maybe flip-flops would be more practical for the walk between bars. They checked the contents of their purses, then filed outside into Stephanie's Toyota Camry. The plan was to drive from their hotel in South Padre Island to the far end of the bridge, park the car there and take the pedestrian bridge across the Rio Grande river into Matamoros.

The streets of the Mexican town were heaving with Spring Breakers, keen to take full advantage of the more lenient Mexican drinking laws. The group of girls almost had to push their way through the throng to get to the first bar. Janey usually took on the role of group leader, and she reminded them of the rules they'd agreed on.

Alright, girls, remember, stick together, watch your drink. If you need the bathroom, go in twos, and leave one of the others to make sure your drink doesn't get messed with. If one of us is feeling bad, for any reason, we'll all go back to the hotel. Now, let's show these guys how well Texas girls can party.

Jennifer and Helen pushed open the bar door and the five of them walked in.

The bar was packed to the seams, with every customer in there an American student, or so it seemed. Trays of beer and shots were being passed around and emptied almost immediately, as the young people swilled down the unaccustomed alcohol. Many of them seemed to have peaked too early, and were being held up by friends, The noise was ear-splitting, as patrons and staff shouted to be heard above the disco music, playing at distortion volume.

The girls smiled at each other, it was just as much fun as they'd expected. A couple of American boys on the left pushed against Janey and Helen, smiled and apologised, then started to talk to them. A tall blond man with a fair moustache grinned at Jennifer.

Your first time in Mexico, eh?

Yes, she said. Isn't it fun?

Let's hope you have an evening to remember, he said.

Hell, yeah! said Helen.

CHAPTER 4

The ranch had once been used to raise beef and dairy cattle, but the present owners had sent the herd off for slaughter a few weeks after completing the purchase. Much of the land lay fallow now, as the owners made their profits from other sources. Some fields were given over to the cultivation of marijuana, which was, strictly speaking, not legal, though bills to legalise the crop had been bouncing around from parliament to the Supreme court and back again for many years, without passing into law. The owners of the ranch felt safe from official interference, as it would take a detachment from the Mexican army to stop their cultivation, and there was no appetite among the authorities for such a conflict. Especially since the owners could probably have mobilised a determined, well equipped army of their own to defend their interests.

The weed was a small part of the business conducted at the ranch. Its proximity to the border and the Rio Grande made it a useful centre for the import and export of harder and more profitable drugs. Firearms were very difficult to obtain in Mexico, with only one licensed dealer in the whole country, and the regulations very strict. Far easier to buy them in any one of Texas's six thousand licensed gun dealers and smuggle them in. Again, there was little trouble from the authorities. Bribes and threats ensured that business was rarely interrupted. Policemen and army officers were not well paid, certainly not well enough to put their lives on the line.

There were those who whispered that the owners of the ranch also enjoyed a more powerful protection, perhaps not of this world. This was not a healthy thing to discuss, and one or two of the less discrete locals had been found with their eyes gouged out and their tongues ripped from their mouths, a warning to others to look the other way, and avoid discussing matters which did not concern them.

None of the townspeople would ever have dared approach the ranch uninvited. There was only one decent road in and out, and it was patrolled by armed men in black SUVs. The whole ranch was surrounded by a high fence, the only opening being a gate on the east side, which was always kept locked and guarded by heavily armed thugs.

And then there were the rumours about what went on in the ranch house on certain nights, stories which were terrifying to start with, and became the stuff of madness as they passed in whispers from mouths to ears.

Tonight there was a gathering in the big ranch house. It stood in the middle of the grounds, a large, brown plantation style building, with arches and verandahs on all three of its stories, and a peaked, grey slate roof. Most of the vehicles parked on the scrub in front of the house were some variant of an SUV or four-wheel drive, since the track out here was rough and would have damaged a normal sedan.

Inside the ranch house, almost half of the ground floor had been cleared, to give an open space. At one end of the room stood a wooden altar with an inverted cross on the wall behind it. In front of the altar was a long wooden table, with the figure of a white female skeleton with long black hair dressed in a red robe perched at one end. It might have been made of plastic, it might equally well have been genuine dried bone.

The room contained about thirty people, of all ages and sexes. They sat on wooden chairs facing the altar. At the stroke of midnight, the big, wooden doors at the back of the room swung open, and a procession made its way up the aisle. It was led by a figure in white priest's robes. A capirote, the traditional Catholic conical mask, worn in Holy Week processions and usurped by the American Ku Klux Klan covered the face. In one hand was a tall wooden-handled metal scythe, in the other a brass globe.

The figure turned to face its motley congregation, and began to speak. My friends and followers, we gather here tonight to renew our pledge to Our Lady of Death. She looks kindly on all our endeavours, protects our shipments and brings fear and death to those who would oppose us. To this end, bring an offering of blood. Bring on the sacrifice.

Two men walked up the aisle of the church, bareheaded and dressed in white robes, each carrying a burning wooden torch. Behind them came two more men, dragging a body between them. By the torchlight, the crowd could see the long, blonde hair of the young woman as they carried her along. Her wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape, another strip of it prevented her from calling out. Her green eyes were filled with panic as they darted around the room, desperately trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

As the group arrived at the altar, the two men lifted her body and placed it on the long wooden table. She frantically tried to wriggle off, but some more strips of the duct tape were applied and held her firmly in place. The watching crowd shuffled in their seats, but made no sound. The figure in the hood set down the globe, then held the scythe aloft. Finally his strong voice rang out again.

"Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte Our Lady of Death, accept this, our sacrifice of the unbeliever. May we continue to enjoy your protection in all our works. We pledge our souls and bodies to you, come now and look favourably upon us."

The crowd murmured in agreement.

The scythe was a clumsy weapon, but its use had clearly been much practised. It flashed down, glinting in the torch light and severed the girl's head with one brutal stroke. One of the figures in white stepped forward to catch the blood in a brass bowl. The onlookers gasped, a mixture of fear and horror. Some muttered among themselves, but none dared raise a protest. They were committed to the organisation and all its brutality.

The sacrifice was complete.

"Nuestra Señora de la Muerte is pleased to accept our sacrifice to her, shouted the cowled figure, She will continue to offer us her protection. Let the body of this unbeliever be put to use now."

The remainder of the ritual would be conducted by the Scorpion in private. The girl's brain would be scooped out from the skull and boiled in a pot known as a nganga and the resulting mess would be dried in the sun and used in other rituals. A long wire would be inserted in the spinal column, and then the body buried. In time, when the flesh decomposed, the wire could be used to pull the body up from the ground, and the bones would be worn by followers, in the belief that they would protect the wearer from evil.

The blood would be kept, for use in further rituals, such as when a follower decided to pledge his immortal soul to La Señora de la Muerte, Lady Death.

CHAPTER 5

I don't like the idea, said the woman. If the police in two countries can't seem to make any progress, what hope can one young guy have? And he always seems so lazy, what on Earth can he do about it?

Honey, we don't have time to lose. It's been five days now, and not a word. We've played things by the book until now, and where has it got us? Maybe it's time to throw that Hail Mary pass. We're desperate.

Mort, we're talking about Jennifer, not some college football game.

I know that honey, all I was saying is that we've tried everything that could possibly be done, maybe it's time to give the impossible a shot.

But we hardly know the man. Alright, you've had some business dealings with him, and we've bumped into him at parties, social events, but what do we really know about him? Nobody seems to know where his money comes from, though there are all kinds of rumours. And I always feel a little uncomfortable around him, as if we're not seeing the real man, as if he's hiding something. He’s always so controlled.

He's never hit on you, has he?

No, quite the reverse, he's always treated me with nothing but respect, a damned sight more than some of your other associates. It's just a feeling I have, that his whole persona is a front, a disguise.

Woman's intuition?

I guess you could call it that. But what do you really know about him?

Not all that much, I guess. He's meant to be richer than God, though how he got that way nobody seems to know, he has no family now, and he has something of a reputation for helping people with problems the authorities can't handle. For example, when that musician Dirk Deadman and Minx Madison discovered they had some strange happenings going on in their mansion, he sent a guy down who sorted the whole thing out. Though they might have wished he hadn't, in view of what was discovered.

I didn't know you knew Minx Madison, any other supermodels you hang out with?

Nat, come on, this isn't the time. I heard the story from a friend of Dirk's, we handle his account. I'm just saying that he's a guy who gets results. And we're desperate.

You're right. I'll try anything to get her back, and we've pretty much tried everything else. Will you call him?

I'll call him, then we'll fly to wherever he is and explain it in person. He needs to know just how important this is to us .

CHAPTER 6

Juan Eusebio Mendez had lived all his life in the border town of Matamoros, but this was the first time he had set foot in the Tienda de Brujeria, the witchcraft shop. He was not a believer in Wicca, or anything else, and he had not been inside a church since his First Communion as a child, but he was a superstitious man, so surreptitiously crossed himself as he pulled open the door, and walked in, to the sound of windchimes.

Isabella Perez looked up from behind her counter, and her eyebrows rose in surprise. Most of her customers were women, and this unshaven, shabbily-dressed, middle-aged man with the drooping grey moustache seemed out of place. She was sure she had never seen him before, but she recognised the type - uneducated, an idler, a nuisance to women.

He looked around the store, taking in the shelves of crystals, wands, herbs, potions and the many books. Then his gaze settled on Isabella, small, dark and pretty in her simple black dress with the moon and stars printed on it, and he licked his lips. She saw him do it and she shuddered, whatever this man wanted, she hoped he wouldn't linger.

"Le puedo ayudar en algo?" she asked.

Juan didn't want her help, he preferred to look around. "Voy a mirar."

He moved to the side of the store, and began to study the names of the books stacked on the shelf. Isabella was surprised that he appeared able to read, but the wind chimes sounded again, and two of her regular female customers walked in. She gave a small sigh of relief, smiled a welcome at them, and put Juan Eusebio out of her mind.

Juan Eusebio continued to look at the spines of the books, though he had little understanding of the titles. From time to time, he took one off the shelf, opened it, pretended to look inside, then replaced it. He darted his gaze towards Isabella and the two women, but they were paying him no attention. He eased his right hand into his jacket pocket, and brought out the slim package that he had been given. His instructions had been very clear, and he had not needed to ask any questions. In his other pocket sat the five five-hundred peso notes which he had also been given, more than a month's salary to a labourer like himself. His eyes sparkled as he thought of the cocaine he would be able to buy for such a sum, and he sniffed automatically. It had been too long since his last line.

When he was sure that nobody was watching him, he took down another book, one of the largest he could see, opened it, then placed the package inside its pages. The book would obviously now not close properly, but the shelves were not tightly packed, so it fitted back into its space easily enough. His job was done, but he lingered a while, taking down and replacing another few books. He had been told not to draw attention to any particular book. He had also been told not to draw attention to himself, but he knew that he stood out like a sore thumb in the neatly ordered little store. Finally, he turned and headed for the door, not bothering to offer a parting word to anyone else in the shop. Isabella gave a smile of relief, as the door closed behind him. She very much hoped that she would never see him again. She gave her full attention to her two female customers.

Once outside the store, Juan Eusebio turned left and walked down the street, past a long, black Cadillac limousine, which stood with its engine running. Juan Eusebio didn't break stride, or look at the driver. He just gave one small nod, and continued down the street ducking into a small bar where he knew he would be able to make his connection. The car drove away.

Isabella closed her store at six, then spent two hours counting the day's fairly meagre takings, replenishing her shelves with fresh stock, and cleaning the place. By the time she