FREQUENT FLIER
Matt Pearson Series
BY J.D. WEBB

Excerpt

The raindrops slowly descending Matt Pearson’s face showed no sign of stopping. Just like the semi-torrential downfall he’d stood in for the last hour. His current location proved to be the closest he’d gotten to Cristian (Jefe) Polanco who, contrary to his name, no one who knew him could or would call him a Christian.

Jefe operated in the northeast corner of Mexico. A small army of around two hundred AK-47 toting men whose only option for survival turned out to be a soldado. Some had yet to reach the age of fourteen.

A meth lab, human trafficking, and his special team of three for assassination rated as the main ‘business’ operations for Jefe. His compound/headquarters occupied the clearing Matt watched through the raindrops.

Four months. It had taken four months and thirteen thousand US dollars to locate this place. Many of Jefe’s so-called friends willingly gave him up for a few easy dollars. Matt deemed the expense acceptable.

Five months earlier a state department person showed up at his door with sincere condolences that his parents had both died in an accident. They celebrated a forty-two-year anniversary with a Caribbean cruise.

It took much too long to find out they had gone on a side trip in Mexico and an incompetent guide got them lost in the jungle. Jefe’s jungle. No one had been identified as a suspect in the crime and an investigation had turned up no further leads.

When Matt decided to go down and check it out for himself, he developed his own leads. And now here he was. About one hundred meters from the killer. He continued to wait. A glance at his watch showing 2:14 am satisfied him. Not long now. One minute.

Two black SUVs sat in front of the two-story cabin, a staccato of water beating down on the now cool hoods. Two outbuildings in back emitted no light. The main building blinked light from both floors through the rain.

Thirty seconds left. Matt checked his weapons. Ready.

Less than half a mile away the jungle erupted in a mass of flames and debris.

Scratch one meth lab.

Sudden chaos hit Jefe’s place. Four men flew out of the building south of the main cabin and stood racking weapons while a barefoot man in a T-shirt and baggy shorts yelled at them. All four jumped into one of the SUVs and it fishtailed toward the lab.

Matt waited until the man reentered the cabin and jogged to the front door. Thankfully the door was unlocked, and he peeked inside. Empty. Easing across the threshold he stopped to listen because the hinges squeaked noticeably. Not to worry. The man still ranted and had gone upstairs.

Matt cleared the downstairs level and crept up the stairs. Three empty rooms relaxed Matt a bit. He’d had various reports of the number of Jefe’s security staff. Anywhere from five to ten. One room at the end of the hall seemed to be where the ranting originated. He leaned into the side wall and continued.

Matt’s Spanish could be termed as minimal, but he picked up enough to know that Jefe demanded answers. Laying on the floor, Matt took aim at the room.

“Senor Jefe, we need to talk.” Matt hailed in broken Spanish.

Quiet.

“Senor Jefe, I am sorry for your loss of a lab, but it could not be helped.”

A small man swung around the open door and sprayed the hallway. Two rounds in his forehead stopped that.

“Not a good idea Senor Jefe. Come out with your hands up please.”

An assault of curses added to Matt’s Spanish vocabulary.

“If I don’t see both hands empty and over your head, you and your guard will share burial appointments.”

Movement inside indicated that the man had hidden something, probably a weapon. Then two hands appeared in the doorway over Jefe’s head.

“Do you speak English, Jefe?”

“Si, yes. Who are you?” Furrowed lines populated his forehead.

Unruly black hair, a bushy moustache, and scraggly beard disguised a chubby round face. Still wearing a wet T-shirt and shorts the man started to step out into the hallway.

“Stop. Lay down on your stomach. Now.”

“May I use my hands to get down?”

“Yes. Quickly now.”

While Jefe laid down Matt zip tied his feet and hands. He stepped into the room. Two computer monitors blinked pictures of the destruction Matt had caused. One monitor showed the four men from the SUV running around frantically trying to determine where the attack had come from.

Perfect. The distraction worked to a T. The barely furnished room contained a two-person couch, two recliners and a massive desk holding the monitors. Matt noticed one couch cushion a bit higher than the other.  The gun stash. He left it. He searched the desk drawers and found another pistol. He dumped it in a nearby wastebasket.

The middle drawer revealed something that made him gasp out loud. He pulled out a solid gold necklace with a diamond studded roman numeral forty engraved on the front. He’d had his favorite jeweler create this piece two years ago to give to his mom on their fortieth anniversary. If he’d had any doubts that this man had been the killer, they instantly vanished.

He gently picked up the necklace and returned to the hallway. Jefe wallowed back and forth trying to loosen his restraints. Matt waved the necklace in front of the man.

“Do you remember two Americans lost in the jungle a few months ago?”

Jefe looked up at the swinging gold piece.
“No.”

“So how did you acquire this?”

“I bought it from a friend.”

“Really? This was my mother’s. I had it made and gave it to her as a present. Then she was killed right here in this jungle. Do you suppose your friend did that?”

“Yes. Yes. I can give you, his name.”

Matt wrestled the man up and led him into the computer room. He cut away the tie on his hands and sat him in the desk chair.

“Write down his name.”

Jefe took a pen from the middle drawer and wrote on a blue sticky note. He handed over the paper and while Matt looked at the monitors, Jefe leaned down and opened the drawer where Matt had found the gun.

On the monitor, the four guards looked to be ready to head back, so he needed to leave. Jefe had spotted the gun in the wastebasket and dove toward it, twisting to find the grip. Way too slow. Matt’s assault weapon spit four rounds into the man’s chest as he fell to the floor.

Matt slipped the locket into his pocket and hurried downstairs. One last task to finish. He had some Semtex left. Just enough to fashion a booby trap. A loose board on the porch revealed a perfect space underneath to hold two packages and a pressure plate.

He hoped it would be used for the SUV guys and not one of Jefe’s neighbors. Although neighbors in this jungle usually crawled. The fob for the remaining SUV rested in its cup holder. It seemed only fitting that this would be his way out.