The Forgotten (John Puller 2)

Stiven Rojas.

Police around the world would pale at the name.

There had never been a successful prosecution of Rojas, though many had been attempted. But when witnesses, prosecutors, and even judges are slain during the course of a trial, convictions are exceedingly rare. He had given a whole new definition to the term “ruthless” and would make some of the world’s worst terrorists look innocuous by comparison.

He had started as an orphan on the streets of Cali and built himself into a cart

el chief of near mythic proportions. Despite his modest stature, men twice his size would drop to their knees at his approach. He would kill without warning or provocation. He was not simply a sociopath who happened to be a global criminal.

He was the sociopath who happened to be a global criminal.

But something had come along that even Rojas had not anticipated.

Rojas had watched his hemisphere’s drug pipeline into America move from his native Colombia to Mexico. But then he had adapted to a new business line. He would provide the mules to move the drugs throughout the United States. And along with that he would move other valuable product, namely prostitutes and slaves. Slaves in particular were the new growth market. Forget illegal immigrants. They expected to be free, and paid at least something. Slaves expected nothing. They just hoped not to die. Everything after that was a positive for them—not that there was much that was positive.

Rojas and Lampert were partners in the largest slave ring in the world. And they were poised to make it even larger.

Unless they were stopped.

Still in the water, Mecho moved down the starboard side of the ship. There was a line of portholes low enough for him to see in. He gripped one and pulled himself partially out of the water.

The room he was looking into was dark. And empty. He lowered himself back into the water and moved to the next window.

It was on the fourth porthole that he found something other than dark and empty.

Beatriz was still dressed in her maid’s uniform. She stood in one comer while Lampert sat at a table and ate his dinner. He ate slowly, chewing his food methodically. When he glanced at the bottle of wine within a few inches of his arm, Beatriz shot forward and refilled his glass.

As she bent slightly forward to do so Lam- pert’s hand slipped to her bottom and grabbed. She didn’t jerk or drop the bottle. She was apparently used to this treatment. She finished pouring the wine and retreated to the corner, her gaze downcast.

A minute later Lampert glanced at the basket of rolls.

Beatriz shot forward again, picked up one roll, broke it open, and used a small knife to butter it.

While she did this Lampert cupped her left breast with his hand and snaked his other hand under her skirt. As she buttered the roll Mecho could see her face. Bubbling just below the surface was anguish, coupled with a hatred that Mecho, in all his life, had rarely seen. He saw her hand tremble ever so slightly with the knife in it. He knew what she wanted to do. Even as Lampert stroked her she wanted to take the blade and stick it into his chest.

Mecho wondered why she didn’t do so.

Just do it, Beatrix!

Then he looked to the right and saw why she didn’t.

A man stood there with a gun pointed straight at Beatriz’s head.

She finished buttering the roll, placed it on Lampert’s bread plate, set the knife down, and once more retreated to the corner.

The man with the gun relaxed his stance and holstered his weapon.

Mecho sank back into the water.

Peter J. Lampert was not a man who took chances.

Mecho let the current pull him away from the yacht. When he was far enough away he struck out with long, powerful strokes.

And with every stroke he imagined plunging a knife into Lampert’s chest.

CHAPTER 65

Puller was driving fast.

Carson eyed him from the passenger seat.

“So where are we going now?”

“I need to see my lawyer,” Puller answered cryptically.

When they reached the street on which Griffin Mason had his law office, Puller parked the Tahoe at the curb about a hundred yards down from it. He reached into his duffel and pulled out his pair of night-vision optics and put them to his eyes. He trained them on Mason’s office.

Carson followed his gaze.

“Your lawyer?”

“Actually, my aunt’s lawyer. He’s handling her estate.”

“And how is Mason doing handling her estate?”

“Not so good.”

Puller eyed the other buildings on the street. They were all dark.

There was no car in Mason’s driveway. No lights on in the office.

“How do you feel about a little breaking and entering?” he asked.

“It’s a felony. That’s how I feel about it.” “Then you can wait here. I’ll be back shortly.” She grabbed his arm. “Puller, think about this. You don’t want to piss away your military career, do you?”

“What I want is to do right by my aunt. And that includes taking a hard whack at a creep who’s screwing her. And others.”

Carson sighed. “I’ll come. I can keep lookout.” “It wasn’t fair to ask you. You have a lot bigger career to lose than I do.”

“So don’t get caught. And if you do I’ll disavow all knowledge.”

“And I’ll back that statement up one hundred percent.”

“You’re damn right you will, soldier.”

A few moments later they were walking down the street. When they got to Mason’s place, Puller hooked a left and entered the man’s backyard. At the fence he told Carson to wait and keep watch.

“This shouldn’t take too long,” he said.

“Make sure it doesn’t.”

Mason had a security system, but one glance through the back-door window told Puller that it was not armed. The green light on the panel was lit.

Puller was surprised by this. Why have a security system if you didn’t use it?

The door lock was a deadbolt that took Puller only a few seconds to defeat using a pick gun from his duffel.

He opened the door and penlighted his way to the lawyer’s interior office.

It took him about thirty minutes to find what he was looking for.

Mason was meticulous in his recordkeeping.

A little too meticulous.

Puller looked at the pages he had brought with him, the inventory list Mason had given him about his aunt’s personal items. He checked it against the inventory list Mason had in the files.

It matched down to the last item.

He next searched for and found the inventory list for Cookie’s estate. He ran his gaze down it.

Puller saw what he knew he would see.

He put Cookie’s inventory list in his pocket along with his aunt’s. He shut the file drawer and looked around.

He thought about what the other estates attorney, Sheila Dowdy, had said.

Mason’s other car was an Aston Martin. He took expensive vacations. He had a big house.

It was all adding up, the pieces falling into place faster and easier than was normally the case.