with long bony fingers and filthy yellow nails.
Zeke considered the hideous old woman’s question. Was he having one of his seizures? This was not the Lord speaking to him. On the contrary, this was a witch, much like the one King Saul consulted to call up the ghost of the Prophet Samuel. This had to be a hoax. Was Aaron behind this? If so, he’d pay for his trick.
Trembling with rage, he shouted, “Where is Ellen?”
The repulsive creature shook her head, and maggots fell out of her greasy mop of hair. “I’m Ellen.” She took two steps closer to Zeke.
He raised a fist. “Do not come any closer. I swear I will strike you down.”
“Father,” she croaked and the stench of methane and sulfur hit his nostrils, “please, you need to lie down, take care of yourself.”
“Stop calling me father, you abomination—you—you witch !”
She stepped back and placed the baby in the crib. “I’m getting help.”
Zeke closed his eyes and leaned against the rock wall. His fingers brushed the rough surface, anchoring him in the here and now. The hag brushed past him and wrapped his senses in a putrid miasma. Gut muscles clenched, bile filled his throat and mouth. He shuddered, blinked, and saw Ellen’s long blonde hair and lovely ass as she ran down the corridor, away from him and the waiting bed.
Chapter Five
Alejandro Espinosa Santoyo Torres glanced around Isabel’s air-conditioned home office and admired her sense of style. Attention to modern technology flowed with the villa’s traditional Mexican stucco walls and dark leather furniture. Colorful marketplace oil paintings arrayed on the walls over the cherry wood desk and between matching book shelves, bore the signature of Lola Getz or Lara Spencer. Based on the ATFE background information he’d memorized before taking this assignment, Alejandro knew Lola/Lara was one of the rare non-criminal relatives in the extensive crime family. A well-known artist, she had escaped a kidnapping attempt in Mexico a few years ago and now lived in upstate New York with her cop husband and a young son.
Beneath one of the more abstract pieces of her art, a laser printer/fax/scanner/copier stood alongside a large fireproof filing cabinet, a hungry maw waiting to be fed its evening meal of corruption. At the end of each nine to five workday, it was Alejandro’s job to back up and safeguard digital and hard copies of every money-laundering transaction conducted by the Mendez family. In the unlikely event that any of the government officials in the Mendez family pocket decided to go legit or find new business associates, the safe held plenty of blackmail material on their powerful partners.
If the patriarch of this Mexican mob had applied his fist and wits to a legitimate corporation, he might have rivaled Donald Trump’s wealth. Instead, his assets exceeded the Donald’s, as well as the Gross National Product of most African nations and several European countries. Alejandro shook his head. Anyone who believed crime didn’t pay was a fool, an idiot, or both.
A burst of laughter attracted his attention to the idyllic scene outside. Under the glaring Mexican sunshine, Ramon Mendez’s grand-daughters, twin three-year-old girls, Ruby and Sherry, and his five-year-old grandson and namesake, Ramon, splashed in the Olympic sized turquoise pool. The little boy wore the solemn mien of a funeral director and paddled around the perimeter of the pool in his blow up canoe while wearing a bright orange life jacket. Alejandro turned away from the window and stared straight ahead, oblivious to the numbers on the computer screen before him.
His nephew, Esteban, would have been eleven years old this year. He should have been running around a pool, laughing and playing in the sunshine—instead of lying in a graveyard next to his mother. Alejandro’s step-brother, Luis, should still have his hands instead of hooks . Jaw clenched, his hand curled into a fist and pounded the top of the
Zeke considered the hideous old woman’s question. Was he having one of his seizures? This was not the Lord speaking to him. On the contrary, this was a witch, much like the one King Saul consulted to call up the ghost of the Prophet Samuel. This had to be a hoax. Was Aaron behind this? If so, he’d pay for his trick.
Trembling with rage, he shouted, “Where is Ellen?”
The repulsive creature shook her head, and maggots fell out of her greasy mop of hair. “I’m Ellen.” She took two steps closer to Zeke.
He raised a fist. “Do not come any closer. I swear I will strike you down.”
“Father,” she croaked and the stench of methane and sulfur hit his nostrils, “please, you need to lie down, take care of yourself.”
“Stop calling me father, you abomination—you—you witch !”
She stepped back and placed the baby in the crib. “I’m getting help.”
Zeke closed his eyes and leaned against the rock wall. His fingers brushed the rough surface, anchoring him in the here and now. The hag brushed past him and wrapped his senses in a putrid miasma. Gut muscles clenched, bile filled his throat and mouth. He shuddered, blinked, and saw Ellen’s long blonde hair and lovely ass as she ran down the corridor, away from him and the waiting bed.
Chapter Five
Alejandro Espinosa Santoyo Torres glanced around Isabel’s air-conditioned home office and admired her sense of style. Attention to modern technology flowed with the villa’s traditional Mexican stucco walls and dark leather furniture. Colorful marketplace oil paintings arrayed on the walls over the cherry wood desk and between matching book shelves, bore the signature of Lola Getz or Lara Spencer. Based on the ATFE background information he’d memorized before taking this assignment, Alejandro knew Lola/Lara was one of the rare non-criminal relatives in the extensive crime family. A well-known artist, she had escaped a kidnapping attempt in Mexico a few years ago and now lived in upstate New York with her cop husband and a young son.
Beneath one of the more abstract pieces of her art, a laser printer/fax/scanner/copier stood alongside a large fireproof filing cabinet, a hungry maw waiting to be fed its evening meal of corruption. At the end of each nine to five workday, it was Alejandro’s job to back up and safeguard digital and hard copies of every money-laundering transaction conducted by the Mendez family. In the unlikely event that any of the government officials in the Mendez family pocket decided to go legit or find new business associates, the safe held plenty of blackmail material on their powerful partners.
If the patriarch of this Mexican mob had applied his fist and wits to a legitimate corporation, he might have rivaled Donald Trump’s wealth. Instead, his assets exceeded the Donald’s, as well as the Gross National Product of most African nations and several European countries. Alejandro shook his head. Anyone who believed crime didn’t pay was a fool, an idiot, or both.
A burst of laughter attracted his attention to the idyllic scene outside. Under the glaring Mexican sunshine, Ramon Mendez’s grand-daughters, twin three-year-old girls, Ruby and Sherry, and his five-year-old grandson and namesake, Ramon, splashed in the Olympic sized turquoise pool. The little boy wore the solemn mien of a funeral director and paddled around the perimeter of the pool in his blow up canoe while wearing a bright orange life jacket. Alejandro turned away from the window and stared straight ahead, oblivious to the numbers on the computer screen before him.
His nephew, Esteban, would have been eleven years old this year. He should have been running around a pool, laughing and playing in the sunshine—instead of lying in a graveyard next to his mother. Alejandro’s step-brother, Luis, should still have his hands instead of hooks . Jaw clenched, his hand curled into a fist and pounded the top of the
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