My brothers back home like to exploit this fear—the one tiny chink in my armor—whenever possible. Liam even threatened to get me drunk and give me a croc tat on my ass, but I reminded him that turnaround is fair play, and he wouldn’t like to see how I got him back for that little stunt. I also told him I’d have to show his handiwork off to his girl, Quinn, and while he might be secure in their relationship (hell, they’ve been pining for each other for more than a decade), he still didn’t relish the idea of her checking out my ass. Go figure.
After shopping in some nearby pawn shops for “supplies” I wasn’t able to take on my flight, I check into the local hotel. About a half hour later, I head up Route 73, cranking the AC in the triple digit summer heat.
It’s noon by the time I pass Big Daddy’s Crawfish Shack, a bustling Stuff-Mart and the local dry cleaners and follow the GPS directions to Beaumont Manor—the sprawling, five acre estate “Mason” purchased just last year.
I park the Jag a couple miles away and unfold the local area street map I bought for ten bucks at a nearby fill-up station. I invest the same amount of money each year in cartographer companies as I do bullet and duct tape manufacturers. A handy street map gives you a complete layout of the neighborhood you’re staking: entrance and exit points, nearest highway on-ramps and places you most definitely need to avoid like schools and places of worship. They can also give you an idea of places perps are most likely to hang out closest to their own homes, basically making a detailed local map an invaluable tool.
And according to the map, Mason’s/Miguel’s property is situated on a peninsula that reaches into the Lower Neches Wildlife Management Area.
Nice. That means the fucker is surrounded on three sides by gator and snake infested bayou habitat. Smart.
I slide out of the driver’s seat and make my way around back to the trunk, where I strip out of my jeans and button-up shirt before stepping into running gear. Concealing my Glock and KA-BAR against my back under my t-shirt, I load my backpack with surveillance equipment and go for a run.
When I get to the vantage point I’m seeking—a small knoll in an abandoned lot about a mile out with the perfect view of the estate—I lie low, employ a set of binoculars and take account.
The estate is fast becoming a fortress—twelve foot chain link fencing with a barbed wire topper and gate surrounds the property. A much more aesthetically pleasing six-foot stone wall is the next layer of security and wraps around the grounds seventy-five feet from the mansion itself, where armed guards patrol with automatics strapped to their sides. Tall and stately palm trees, dense banana palms and other lush tropical greenery and flowers thrive, affirming the wealth of the owner and exuding luxury.
Most importantly, the foliage gives me the advantage of camouflage.
Miguel has ten guards outside—not to mention dogs—German Shepherds and Rottweilers scouting the outside perimeter. After scoping out their pattern for a few hours, I’m happy to note they’re much sloppier than I’m sure Miguel would wish.
Oftentimes with hired muscle, that’s all it is—muscle—deterring thieves and criminals, along with rival gangs, with the sheer look of power, and frightening the average civilian. Truth is, even with legit security companies there are no state licensing requirements, and usually no proper training. It’s just a matter of shoving hard bodies into tight black t-shirts and arming them with automatics. They’re guns for hire and nothing more.
Scoping out this platoon, I can already tell they have no formal education. They’re simply here for looks and to point and shoot. That means they have one or two main men in charge who are usually ex-military guys. They’re the ones who know what they’re doing and that you have to watch out for.
Parked swamp-side are several pontoon boats and air gliders.
After staking the place for hours and observing a clumsily lazy guard change, I notice some activity out at the guard shack by the main entrance. The gate slides open slowly as a black stretch limo approaches and enters without hassle. It stops along the bowing stone driveway next to the archway leading to the front door of the mansion. Two guards step out to flank the walkway while another exits the passenger side of the limo to open the rear door.
A sharply-dressed, confident looking man with short blond hair, a thick mustache, an overgrowth of blond beard, large blue-tinted glasses and a gray raincoat emerges with a gorgeous Latino actress who goes by the name Valentina Alvarez. The only reason I recognize her is because I just learned she’s one of Miguel’s mistresses.
It really is a terrible disguise.
“Like a rat coming back to the nest,” I mutter. “I love a challenge.”
I sit at the counter in Big Daddy’s Crawfish Shack. A pretty woman in her thirties comes over from behind the counter wearing a tight black tank top and even tighter jeans.
“Can I get you some coffee?” she asks with a tilt of her head.
I wish. “Just some water.” I can think of a few other things she can get me.
She comes back with a pitcher. As she pours, she stares at the tattoos sheathing my arms.
“Like what you see?” I ask.