Family Matters Page 15

  “You know how close I am to Derek. He’s the first man I became friends with outside of the small community I had in Chicago, all two of them.” Lazarus smiled at the thought of HH and Darnell. “He was shot because he helped me out at Los Trios.

  “You don’t want to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway,” Lazarus quoted Dan. “This IS my responsibility, if not my fault. I know the difference. I may not feel guilty about it, that’s not who I am. I am, however, extremely disappointed in Mister Camacho. I’m going to clear this matter up, Dan, for Derek and for Ben de la Sedro. Ben was a good man. He trusted me with his life and, because of me he lost it.”

  Lazarus took a long breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll give your regards to Camacho when I get together with him. It will be two or three days, but we’re going to have a nice little chat about Derek.” Lazarus spoke like he was getting together with Camacho for a beer after work. His matter-of-fact tone sent shivers down Dan’s spine. He finally remembered who he was talking to. Lazarus had paid his respects. Now, the Chameleon would pay his, in devastation, blood and lives yet uncounted.

  “Thank you, Lazarus,” said Dan. “I mean it. Thank you for helping me see this is where I need to be.”

  “Anytime, Dan,” said Lazarus. “I’m going to be a little hard to get hold of, the next few days,” Lazarus chuckled mid-sentence, “to say the least. Katsumi will pass along anything you need to get to me.”

  His voice settled back into the cold flat tones of death personified. “Camacho will answer for this, Dan. You can count on it,” he said as he ended the call, not waiting for an answer.

  *****

  LJ answered on the first ring. “Angelique is home, and all is good. I have 6 men stationed throughout the island for security, though I doubt there is a need for it.”

  “Do whatever you need to do to make them feel secure, LJ. I know you’re doing it for your own peace of mind as much as theirs. Thank you, LJ.”

  LJ was taken aback. “There’s no need to thank me, boss. It’s what I’m paid to do.”

  “No, Leonard, it isn’t. I pay you to do jobs for me. You’re taking care of Angelique, Rebecca and Katsumi because you care about them. It’s why you’re the only one that works for me who knows both sides. The security people think they’re protecting some rich fucker with more money than sense from a kidnapping. I know that’s what you told them.”

  LJ smiled grimly. “I guess you really do know me, boss.”

  “I do, and I know you will get things done for me,” said Lazarus.

  LJ heard the change in his boss’s voice. “Understood. What do you need?”

  “I need Encarnacion and the AC-130 in El Paso in two days; tomorrow would be better. He’ll have clearance into Fort Bliss using the call sign Echo Lima Zulu 2018.”

  “ELZ-2018; got it. Can I ask?”

  “Sure, LJ. ELZ – two zero one eight; Eliminate Los Zapatos in 2018.”

  “I like it, boss. It’s short and to the point.”

  “Good. I need you in Key West at the airport by 7:30,” said Lazarus. “This morning, by the way.”

  “I figured as much,” said LJ. “I’m packed and ready to go. I can be there in an hour and change if you want.”

  “That won’t be necessary, LJ,” said Lazarus. “You be at the airport with my specialty gear at 7:30 and we’ll be good to go.” LJ know what Lazarus’ specialty gear was.

  “It’s already in the Expedition, boss. I took the liberty of loading everything I thought you might need for a full-scale one-man invasion of an underground fortress.”

  “Perfect,” said Lazarus and ended the call; the lights of Key West visible on the horizon. Lazarus knew without looking it was approaching 4:15. He would be on the island in thirty minutes. Men would die in less than an hour. You could bet your life on that simply by the look on Lazarus face. It was blank and emotionless. Everything except his eyes. His eyes were harbingers of death; as cold and black as the waters of the Gulf he sped across.

  ~19~

  November 13

  4:09 am – EST

  Lazarus crossed under the overseas highway, just north of Deer Key. He spotted the Coast Guard patrol boat about the same time they spotted him. Lazarus was already reaching for his mic when they hailed him. He gave them a quick response, throttled back and angled toward the boat.

  The patrol boat lit up Lazarus with a search-lite mounted on the port side. Lazarus continued, slowing his speed even more. He wasn’t concerned with being stopped, it was a matter of time; time he didn’t want to lose.

  “This is Captain Wilkerson of the Coast Guard Roanoke Island. Stand by to be boarded.” The Captain stood near the search-lite, watching as Lazarus cut the speed and idled towards the cutter.

  Lazarus keyed his mic, “Good morning Captain Wilkerson, Lazarus Solaris here.”

  The Captain hesitated, “Solaris? What the hell are you doing out here at this hour?”

  Lazarus idled up to the patrol boat. “I’m on the way to Key West, Captain. I’m flying out in the morning to Miami to pick up some friends.” He cut the engines twenty feet out, ending the need for radio communication.

  The Captain knew Lazarus well. They’d met socially on several occasions since Wilkerson had taken command of the Roanoke in 2015. “Don’t you have someone to do that for you?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “Come on, Tom. You know I wouldn’t trust just anyone with this baby. She’s a classic.”

  “That she is, Lazarus,” said Captain Wilkerson. “I wasn’t going to stop you, but it’s been a slow week and I figured I might get lucky. I knew that wasn’t happening when you cut towards me. That, and you were running with lights on and your flag up.”

  “I understand, Tom. I’m not usually on the water this time of the night, so I figured I’d better be visible,” said Lazarus.

  “Good call, Lazarus,” said Wilkerson. “Are you putting on another big charity event for New Year?”

  “Your invite is already in the mail, Tom,” Lazarus said with a grin. “Just be sure and bring that lovely wife of yours. I’ve got someone I want her to meet.”

  “No shit?” Wilkerson asked. “Don’t tell me the famous Lazarus Solaris finally got caught by a good woman.”

  “Ha-ha, Tom, very funny. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be heading on.”

  “Take care, Lazarus, and we’ll see you New Year’s Eve.”

  Lazarus waved as he fired the engines up, cutting away from the patrol boat. He throttled back to 65mph glancing at his watch; 10 minutes had passed. “That could have been a lot worse,” he said to himself as he continued south.

  He arrived at the Key West Marina at 4:35, ten minutes later than planned, but not so long it changed anything. Lazarus glided the Ducati into the slip and tied her off. He headed across the street to a row of storage buildings.

  The section Lazarus rented was 16’ x 60’; long enough to pull the Ducati in if need be in the event of a hurricane. Lazarus went inside after checking the area. He was alone. He went to the back of the boathouse and moved a wall panel to the side, revealing a hidden cache. Lazarus opened it and pulled what looked like a tool box out. He laid it on the bench, opened it and pulled out a water-tight bag. Inside was a Beretta 92FS with silencer and 50 rounds of subsonic 9mm rounds. He slipped the gun and two extra 15 round mags into a shoulder holster. The five extra rounds went in the duffle bag he’d brought from the Ducati. He put the tool box back, and slipped out of the storage building, headed south on Grinnell to Thompson Lane. Lazarus owned a small house on Thompson in his long-term alias, Mark Chambers. Chambers was a rarely seen recluse who appeared to be in his 70’s or early 80’s. Lazarus went out once or twice a year as the eccentric old man to keep the illusion alive. It would be the perfect disguise for what he had planned for Moses and rest of the Zapatos.

  Lazarus called Katsumi, advising her of his mission time-line. She gave him the address of the cartel’s so-called safe house. The house was known to the CIA, and no
w, to Lazarus. He went up into the attic and began his transformation.

  November 13

  4:51 AM – EST

  The five men at the Zapatos safe house had been celebrating the victory for about 4 hours. The two men shot in the exchange shared radically different outcomes. Chico Trevino had been mortally wounded; already lying on the bottom of the Atlantic, five miles south of Key West. The cartel had improved its water disposal system by first dismembering the victims, then putting the parts into heavily weighted crab traps. They hadn’t had to deal with a ‘floater’ for over two years.

  Rudy Jimenez fared much better. He took a round in the upper left thigh that went completely through. He was sore, but the wound was sealed, and the bleeding stopped. The bullet missed the bone and the adjacent femoral artery by less than an inch both ways. If the femoral artery had been hit, he would have bled out in seconds. He figured he had the right to celebrate.

  Camacho had taken the news well, even though Derek wasn’t dead. Ben de la Sedro was, and the gringo – paralyzed from the neck down. His men had gotten away, all but one, and that was good enough for him.

  He bragged to Castro. “Now, the Chameleon knows I have eyes everywhere and do not fear him.”

  Castro nodded and smiled at Camacho, considering his boss in a different light. If Camacho thought the Chameleon would be wary or afraid because of the ambush, he was a fool – and a stupid one at that. Castro knew the assassin would come for Camacho. He had few, if any doubts Camacho’s days were numbered. Castro was good, many would say very good, when it came to blood work, but he knew he was no match for the man who killed El Corazon in Argentina. This killer’s reach was long, and his reputation, though perhaps a bit exaggerated was only that; a bit exaggerated. He left Camacho to his revelry and began preparing the compound for the inevitable.

  *****

  It was 5:35 in the morning. Rudy Jimenez was sitting on the porch drinking beer when he noticed the old man coming down the sidewalk. The man shuffled along, his feet dragging the ground with each step. The only things keeping him upright were the two oddly shaped canes he used. The looked like they were made of mesquite wood, maybe hickory, Rudy was no wood worker. They were slightly curved with handles of nearly 10 inches, wrapped in what looked like electrical tape. Rudy sipped his beer and watched the old man shuffle along.

  The old man stopped a few feet from the front walkway, his head hanging down as he coughed and spat on the ground. He took a very unsteady step and stopped again. He leaned over even more and began coughing again.

  “Hey, old man!” called Rudy from the porch. “Hey, you okay?”

  The old man kept coughing as he tucked his right came under his arm and waved at Rudy in a ragged motion. Reaching inside his jacket, the old man pulled out what might been a white cloth at some point, wiping the corners of his mouth. He held on to the rag and started to move again, only this time he went down on one knee; the cane slipping from his grip and rolling to the right.

  “Well, fuck,” grumbled Rudy as he forced himself up from the chair, draining his beer. He grabbed the crutch next to him and headed towards the old man. There were no steps to deal with, so the going was easy for Rudy.

  He put his left hand on the old man’s right shoulder as the man was tucking the rag back into his coat.

  “You okay old man?” were the last words Rudy spoke.

  Lazarus powered up from the crouch he was in; driving a knife through Rudy’s throat and into his brain, then twisting the blade. He wrapped his arm around the already dead man and held him as he looked around. The street was still empty. He retrieved his other cane and walked Rudy back to the porch. In the dark, it was hard to tell who was helping who. The knife was embedded in the dead man’s head, limiting the blood flow to a small trickle down his neck, absorbed by his shirt.

  Lazarus sat the corpse back in the chair, tipping his head to the left, away from the door while he wrapped the right hand around the beer bottle.

  Voices came to him from inside the house. Voices and the sounds of snoring. Lazarus had chosen 5:30 for the strike because that’s what he expected to find. It had been over five hours since the attack on Derek’s team. The adrenaline was long gone, and the drinking merely helped them along to where Lazarus wanted them. Half-awake, unguarded and feeling victorious.

  Moses was one of the two awake. Lazarus moved to the right side of the property where a long row of pink oleander hid the house from the neighbor’s view. Lazarus stopped and tapped his ear.

  “No one outside, sir. No response to the first victim,” advised Katsumi. Lazarus didn’t respond; Katsumi knew he wouldn’t.

  He moved down the side of the house to the back yard. It was fenced, though in need of repairs it was enough for cover. He smiled grimly when the backdoor handle moved easily in his hand. ‘Fools’, Lazarus thought to himself. He wasn’t surprised. Overconfidence had made his jobs easier so many times he’d lost count.

  With the door open an inch, Lazarus pulled one 21” bladed Katana from the hickory scabbard that doubled as a walking stick. He pulled a mask down over his face and slipped through the door. The sword in one hand, the silenced Beretta in the other.

  There was a room to his immediate left. He heard heavy snoring as he eased the door open. The hinges gave a feint metal on metal sigh as the door moved; drowned out by the snoring. Lazarus moved silently to the bed. He took in a long slow breath, lowering his heart-rate, fighting the adrenaline that spiked in his body.

  His grim smile returned as he holstered the Beretta. Then, with a two-handed grip, he brought the Katana down on the sleeping man, severing his head from his neck. The only sound was the blade whistling through the air and a dull click when the blade passed through the spine.

  Lazarus moved quickly now. It was killing time. He walked out of the room with the 9mm extended in his right hand, the sword, still dripping blood, in his left. Thanks to Katsumi, he knew there were only 4 men in the house, not the five that carried out the attack.

  He entered the living room where Moses and another man were watching a soccer match with the sound down low.

  Lazarus didn’t hesitate, putting two rounds into the second man’s forehead less than an inch apart. The sound from the gun barely audible above the television.

  Moses sat there, too stunned and drunk to react. Lazarus pressed the sword tip against his chest. Moses flinched as blood started to stain the front of his white Madras shirt.

  Lazarus lifted the mask. “I know we’ve never met, and this must seem rather rude to you, Señor. I mean, some stranger bursts into your house, killing everyone as he goes without even so much as a hello.” The smile on Lazarus’ seemingly 80-year-old face seemed genuine, almost apologetic. However, if you looked up you realized it was hollow; His eyes black as onyx.

  “Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am referred to as the Chameleon among the various cartels. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” He asked as the smile faded.

  “I have a job for you, Moses,” said Lazarus. “I need you to send a message to Andres for me. May I please borrow your cell phone?”

  Moses numbly nodded and took his phone out of his shirt pocket, handing it to Lazarus who hit resend when he took it. “I’m just guessing the last person you spoke to was Andres. You had to call and tell him what a great job you did at the restaurant.”

  Camacho answered on the fourth ring. “God dammit, Moses. I told you not to fucking call me until after noon!”

  “Hello, Andres,” said Lazarus politely, his voice seemingly that of an elderly man; raspy as he teeth clicked while speaking. “You’ll have to forgive Moses, he really didn’t have a say in the matter.”

  Camacho rubbed his eyes. “Who the fuck is this?” he demanded.

  “Hold on please, Senior Moses will fill you in.” He handed the phone to Moses, “Go on, talk to him.”

  “Hefe, it’s me,” he said; his voice quaking with fear.

  “Who is the old man who called me, Moses. This is
n’t amusing.”

  “Si, Hefe, it is far from amusing; more so for me than you at the moment.”

  “What does that mean, Moses? Don’t talk to me in riddles. Who is the old man?”

  “El Chameleon,” said Moses. The words were followed by four shots to his chest from the Beretta. There would be no mistaking the unique sound.

  Lazarus picked up the phone. In his regular voice he said softly. “I’ll see you soon, Andres.”

  November 13

  6:04 AM – EST

  Lazarus called 911, dropping the phone on the couch as he headed out back. He jumped the fence behind the cartel house and slipped through two back yards to Catherine street. He’d parked his Vespa behind the self-storage on Catherine and Grinnell. Five minutes later he was back at the house on Thompson Lane. He disposed of the Beretta in a street drain about a block before he arrived. The holster and extra ammo went into a dumpster in the alley behind his house. He changed his outfit and took a quick shower, using cleaners to remove any potential gun-powder residue.

  He changed into an old pair of Levi’s, a blue long-sleeve Columbia fishing shirt, a black Under-Armor windbreaker and a pair of Nikes. After slipping the ear-com back in he tapped it twice.

  “Yes, Sir,’ said Katsumi.

  “On my way to the airport. Any action around the safe house?”

  “The police arrived on-scene 18 minutes ago. Two more cars arrived within 5 minutes.”

  “Good. They can handle the clean-up.” Lazarus usually took care of his own cleaning, but time was of the essence, and he’d left no usable DNA or prints. They might find a strand or two of gray hair, it was human hair after all.

  The donor of the hair was long gone, buried in an unmarked grave near the border of Argentina and Brazil. Lazarus had killed the man 12 years prior. He didn’t even remember the name, only the reason. The target was a former Nazi officer who had commanded the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in Germany. The camp where his Aunt Ziva had endured unending abuse and rape at the hands of the man who laid dead at his feet. She survived through shear will-power; liberated in April of 1945. It had taken Lazarus nearly 18 years to find the man who tortured his aunt. It took him almost 4 hours to kill him. He kept the hair and beard for their usefulness as a disguise, nothing more. He had no emotional attachment or negative memories connected to them. It was just hair.