Aztec Treasure

Frank Grimes’ POV

Blue River Pack, British Colombia, Canada

We arrived at Coral’s pack in time for a late dinner. Their Pack House was bursting at the seams, with most of the Beloretsk Pack staying there while they searched for a permanent home. It was great seeing everyone, even if it meant Colletta had Council work to do. We met with Alpha Ivan and Luna Svetlana Boronsky and their leadership, passing along the Russian Ambassador’s offer. “I can’t tell you what to do, but their Ambassador approached me. Your Pack members have been freed and should arrive in the next day or two.”

Ivan was happy, but he was Russian and didn’t trust easily. “Putin doesn’t give away snow unless he’s getting something back. He’s got another play going on.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “No one is going to force you to go back. Until you tell us differently, we will continue working on legal refugee status here in Canada and a permanent home for your people.”

“Is that the play? By releasing our people and offering to take us back, are they trying to sabotage our asylum claim?”

I hadn’t thought about that. “I’m not sure the Canadian Government will believe their good intentions more than I do,” Coral said. “It changes nothing between us.”

We came back out of the conference room, and Colletta and I walked to where Timor was talking with Mykayla under the supervision of his mother. Mykayla and Timor were mates, but Mykayla was underage and was afraid of males. Timor was a rather large male, which made her nervous. He’d also pulled her attacker off and beat the crap out of him. Now that Timor’s Pack was with Blue River, Rori asked me to bring Mykayla here to see if a permanent transfer would work. I remained on the other side of the table while Colletta sat next to her. “How are you doing, Mykayla?”

“All right,” she said nervously. I noticed she’d picked a table near the wall and away from the others. Everyone knew about her upbringing and was giving her space to work through things. “I like the mountains.”

“You should go on the Pack Run tonight,” Colletta said. “Timor and his family will keep you safe.”

“I’ll think about it.” Her wolf was more confident than her human side around her mate.

“I wish I could go with you.” She couldn’t shift, and I didn’t want to risk her falling off while riding on my back, so we’d stay behind. We ended up retiring early, planning to leave for Montana after lunch.

I got the call as our car drove to the Bitterroot territory that the Murmansk Pack was looking to take over. I hung up, closing my eyes as I processed what they said.

For a man who can kill without regret, other crimes are of far less importance. The criminal’s ego gets in the way; after all, if you can get away with murder, grand theft auto is no big deal. This psychological effect blinds them to minor offenses, many of which have been the downfall of the biggest killers in American history.

Ted Bundy? The serial killer’s arrest came after being pulled over for driving with his lights out. He escaped once, only to get pulled over and captured for weaving in traffic. He lasted 46 days after his second escape until a cop found him driving a stolen vehicle.

The Oklahoma City bomber, Timothy McVeigh? He got pulled over for driving a vehicle without a license plate. During the stop, the trooper arrested him for carrying a pistol without a permit. He was in jail for this when the FBI linked him to the bombing. Joel Rifkin, who killed 17 people, was caught after the same offense.

A witness saw the Son of Sam serial killer drive off in a car with a parking ticket under the wiper. That tip led police to David Berkowitz.

Detectives and US Marshals who are honest about it would admit top-flight police investigations or forensic miracles don’t catch most fugitives. That stuff makes for good television because reality doesn’t fit well into their shows. No, most criminals get caught because a) they do something stupid, b) someone snitches them out, or c) a cop gets lucky and catches them.

Julio Salazar was done in by a blizzard. A Dairy Queen blizzard.

Julio Salazar’s POV

Ohio Turnpike (I-76)

I woke up as we came to a stop, and I felt the motorhome go into PARK. Looking at the clock, it was four in the afternoon, and I’d been asleep for almost five hours. “Where are we?”

“The last oasis before the Pennsylvania turnpike,” Leonis said. “We need gas.” He climbed out as I stumbled to the tiny bathroom. The curtains were all drawn around the living compartment, so no one would be able to see me. I grabbed a bottle of juice out of the refrigerator and heated the last Cinnabon as Leonis filled the tanks. As soon as we picked up the load from our contact in Sparta, we’d kept going east until we got through Chicago. We couldn’t risk me driving, so he stopped at a rest area in Indiana and slept for six hours. I kept up the watch while Leonis was sleeping, reviewing the material on the President’s movements. I didn’t know who these people were, but they were CONNECTED. The documents weren’t for public distribution.

When I’d made my escape from the oil platform, I knew I’d need help. The Oracle was my lifeline. I told her what I planned to do and what I needed, and she took care of the rest. Leonis was the first one she sent; his van and help allowed me to move about despite being America’s Most Wanted Fugitive. Through her, I got the sniper rifle and the intelligence about the former CIA Director’s movements. She passed along the intelligence about the First Husband’s golf round. And through her, I got the Stinger missiles and now the Javelin.

The Oracle had been around for over a decade, and I still didn’t know anything about her. The Club used her to pass messages, but she was far more than that. The quality of the intelligence and the access to military weaponry pointed to the Cartel, but why would they help? The Cartel killed the Sons leadership. The CIA? The FBI had them bent over their desks right now, stuffing their fat asses with warrants and subpoenas. It might take decades for them to recover from the current scandal. Maybe it was another agency, like the DEA, or a foreign intelligence service?

Whoever it was, they wanted President Laura Kettering dead at my hand.

Leonis had been gone longer than I expected for paying at the pump. I snuck a peek out the window, and the nozzle was stored back on the pump. “Fuck, did he decide to pay cash?”

I looked out the other side, not seeing him, so he was in that big travel plaza. I nervously waited until he came back out, two big Dairy Queen cups in his hands. He climbed back into the driver’s seat, setting the cups in the holders before driving off. “You got fucking ice cream?”

“Yep. Do you want the mint chip or the M&M?”

It was too late now. “The less time we spend with people and cops around, the better,” I said. “I’ll take the mint.” He handed it back through the curtain, and I sat back at the table with it. A Cinnabon and sixteen ounces of ice cream; I was going to be on a sugar high.

I opened up the Javelin Operator’s Manual and started studying.

Anita Lay’s POV

Glacier Hills Service Plaza, Ohio Turnpike

“I tell you, Mom, that’s HIM,” I whispered as we stood in line at the Dairy Queen. “The one on the news this morning at the hotel!”

“Are you sure?”

“The tattoo on his neck is a giveaway. No, don’t look at him! Just walk away and dial 911. Tell them Leonis is here!”

“I can’t leave you here alone.”

“Mom, GO! Head to the Ladies Room and call from there. I’m going to get some photos of him and whatever he is driving. There’s a big reward, Mom.”

“Fine. Be careful.” She left the line and headed towards the restroom. I took out my phone and started recording, leaving it in my pocket with the camera out. I walked past the line to the front, grabbing some napkins, then pretending I recognized the woman in front of Leonis so I could get a good shot of his face. I walked away, turning off the video, then headed into the restroom.

“My daughter swears it’s him. He’s in the line at the freaking Dairy Queen! Get someone out here?”

My Mom was frustrated that the operator wasn’t taking her seriously. I asked for the phone. “Look, I’ve got video of the guy. Give me a number I can text it to, and you can see for yourself!” She finally gave me a number, and I sent the text before I led my mom back out. We followed the guy at a distance, staying on the line with the 911 operator until he drove away in a Class C Forest River Sunseeker. I made sure they had our contact information before Mom hung up.

The news said he might be traveling with Julio Salazar, and that guy had a ten-million-dollar reward out from the President herself. That would be fucking SWEET.