LEGACY Book 1: Forgotten Son Read online

  A strapping barrel chest stretched his shirt, but something wasn’t right. Manny rolled up his sleeves, revealing his thick, hairy arms. There was something about bare arms that made a man a man. Kids these days did not understand things like that.

  He looked around. His newest mansion had been the kind of palace that he once would never have even dreamed of visiting, much less owning. It was a four-story citadel built in the Old World style of stone and mortar, sitting on the plushest eighty acres this side of Mexico City, complete with a double basement and a twelve-car garage. He boasted twenty servants, a real marble floor and a heated Olympic-sized pool that he had not used in years.

  From an empire built on drugs and blood, Manny Gonzalez had it all.

  That was when he realized the truth in the saying that life is a journey, not a destination. After thirty years, Manny Gonzalez had arrived and found there was nothing left to do at the end of the path he had taken. He had saved more money than he could spend in a dozen lifetimes. But for every professional and family goal that he had ever achieved, Manny Gonzalez was merely another man on a leash and the only way to get off the leash was by retirement or death.

  The holder of his leash was only known as Helmut, a European man perhaps a few years older than Manny and educated in fine Western schools. Manny never even graduated from high school, but he knew that schooling did not create intelligence, just as being clever was not a substitute for wisdom. But such maxims did not apply to this man who was learned and intelligent as well as clever and wise. After Helmut’s first devastating show of power that took the lives of both of Manny’s more powerful rivals, Manny learned not to question the leash.

  It was not all bad. Helmut had given Manny the kind of protection that allowed him to grow his empire to the size of a small country, but the fact remained that the leash was still there. As his laptop beeped signaling an incoming video call from Helmut, Manny felt it tighten around his neck just a bit more.

  As Manny answered the video chat on his laptop, Helmut appeared, giving Manny a perfunctory smile.

  “You will receive a package by personal carrier that will be delivered to a location I will later detail,” he said without greeting in a way that was neither rude nor rushed. “This package is more important than your entire empire.”

  The tone of his voice was serious, but Manny knew that he was not making a threat. He was merely spelling out expectations. Helmut never threatened, but Manny knew from personal experience that bad things happened whenever Helmut did not get his way.

  “When will it arrive?” Manny asked, knowing not to ask what was in the package.

  “It is at your doorstep right now. It will only be released to you and you will keep it in your presence until it is ready for delivery.”

  “I shall do as you say,” Manny said humbly. Hearing the voice of a servant come from his mouth only made his decision to retire easier. “My friend, I am old and this is a world for the young.”

  “You are thinking of retiring?”

  “Yes, for many months now.”

  “All is well as long as our arrangement is followed by your successor. I assume your nephew Tomás is next in line? I know how much your own sons have disappointed you.”

  Manny never questioned how Helmut knew things. At first, he tried to deny what Helmut said, but Helmut would just grin that knowing grin and smoke one of those large cigars of his and remain silent until Manny realized that it didn’t matter how he knew.

  He just knew.

  “Sí, he is a smart boy with a strong heart.”

  “A piece of unsolicited advice about Tomás. Your nephew is a crass brute who hides his murderous impulses behind a computer screen. I would exercise great caution.”

  And that was that. The conversation ended and Manny thought about what Helmut had said. He was right. Manny could not trust his fat, lazy sons and his daughter was certainly not a leader of anyone other than her boyfriend of the week.

  But despite Helmut’s warning, he would hand over reins of his empire — and more importantly, he realized with a sigh of relief, hand over his leash — to his nephew. Tomás was ruthless, yes, Manny knew this, but he also had a business sense about him. Born of the internet generation, Tomás knew computers and over the past two years had brought the Gonzalez Empire into the twenty-first century. No longer would they use phones and hand-delivered letters. Tomás had created extensive networks of electronic messaging. Video conferencing allowed him immediate access to remote parts of the empire. Manny never tried to understand the workings of this new electronic age. He preferred working directly with people, so in Tomás, he saw a future for himself, away from the business. Time to spend with his family.

  He had always wanted to take his wife Maria to Thailand. It was beautiful there.

  Manny received the package from the courier. It was neither larger nor smaller than a breadbox. For all he knew, it was a breadbox; some kind of perverse last test from Helmut to validate Manny’s loyalty.

  It didn’t matter what was inside. He could not risk the box falling into the wrong hands, so he had probed until he found an unguarded spot on the southeastern Arizona border.

  The first two groups of men he sent to survey the area never returned. At first, Manny thought they were taking advantage of the occasion to remain in the United States for the good paying jobs that didn’t exist in their home country.

  That was before their heads started showing up.

  The heads were found on the Mexican side of Agua Prieta, mounted on the top of a billboard that urged caution when crossing the border. Manny had not seen anyone stand up to him like that in years and a small spark of the man he once was actually looked forward to the challenge. Then the moment passed and Manny reminded himself that this was no longer his challenge, no longer his empire. This challenge was Tomás’ and it would truly show whether or not he was ready to lead the Gonzalez drug empire.

  If Tomás survived, Manny would give him the keys of his kingdom. Manny sat back and took a long swig from a bottle of tequila, hoping Tomás was every bit the brute Helmut claimed he was.

  Chapter Six

  Liz looked at her watch. She had eight minutes to make her decision. To her left she had made a stack of newspapers that had begun to investigate her claims of Native American lineage. On the right was the sole paper that had not covered the story: a local high school paper that wasn’t allowed to cover politics. Seven other local high school newspapers were in the pile to the left.

  “Crap-a-poo!” she said. This was getting serious.

  Not only had two of the papers actually used the term ‘potentially racist’ which was a clear violation of their agreement with Liz’s organization, three of them had went so far as to actually pull their endorsements. She would appeal the use of the “R” word, but it was too late. The damage had already been done. Some of her most ardent supporters were privately asking questions. Her largest financial supporter, sensing blood in the water, pulled back any further support “until this blows over.”

  She was going to have to do something fast, but what? Liz buzzed the receptionist.

  “Yes, Ms. Worn?” the woman asked.

  “Send in my campaign manager.”

  “You fired your campaign manager, ma’am.”

  “Well, how am I supposed to run a campaign without a manager? Find me another one!”

  Nikki Jarrell quickly left the office. She had been Liz Worn’s original campaign manager, appointed by the Vice President himself, but was fired after Liz was videotaped sleeping in the middle of a policy briefing. She said that Nikki should have had a 3D likeness of her ready for situations like this to allow her to nap. When Nikki tried to explain that such technology didn’t exist, Liz called her a Luddite and fired her. Nikki took over the position as receptionist when Liz threw a stapler at the original receptionist, who promptly quit. Going through campaign managers had almost become a sport. Nikki had been secretly running the campaign from the receptionis
t desk since then, hiring a bench of campaign managers as phone staff. She had privately promised each one an opportunity at running the campaign, but she was already down to four people. But if Liz kept firing campaign managers at her current rate, they wouldn’t make it to the election.

  Nikki walked to the front desk of the phone staff office where a very serious-looking man was seated.

  “I’ve been waiting,” the man said, adjusting his tie. Unlike others in the campaign manager reserve, Christopher Scott was a child of privilege. Though he was handed the finest things in life, Christopher worked hard to amplify his already impressive beginnings. He graduated at the top of the best private schools, and at the top of his class at Harvard.

  “Mr. Scott, are you sure you want this job?”

  “Ma’am, I have never failed at a job,” Christopher said, gathering his folders.

  “Good luck,” Nikki said, returning to her desk.

  “Unnecessary,” Christopher said, entering Liz’s office.

  Liz smiled as he entered. Christopher smiled back and offered his hand.

  And then the door shut.

  “Hi, I’m…”

  “Get your ass over here!” she barked, dropping her friendly demeanor and pointing at her laptop. “I have four minutes to make a decision. Do I issue a press release that details my opponent’s high school cheating scandal or the one about the Indians?”

  Christopher handed Liz a folder detailing the Sinanju tribe controversy.

  “Our research has shown that the Native American story is not going to go away,” Christopher said. “You’ve either lost or dulled the support of most of your key constituents. I’ve already prepared a press release that will adequately deal with the issue as well as garner more support.”

  Liz opened the folder. It was all neatly printed out with graph charts of polling results, categorized by constituency. The press release said that the recent stories about her not being a Native American were the result of a misunderstanding with the tribe and that Liz planned to personally travel to Arizona to straighten things out.

  “Where is Arizona?” she asked. “I don’t have a passport!”

  “Arizona is an American state west of Texas,” Christopher replied, unfazed.

  “Do they have cows there? I don’t like cows.”

  Christopher wouldn’t allow her to sidetrack him with one of her well-known tangential statements. “We will make an anonymous donation of five thousand dollars to create a Sinanju college fund. I can arrange it with the chief now, so all you will have to do when you get there is to complete the rite of passage ceremony.”

  “Is it hot there?” Liz asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. The reservation is located on a desert. Temperatures typically pass one hundred degrees.”

  “What? My hair can’t take heat like that!”

  “I’ll arrange for research to get us accurate costume and hair styles for Sinanju women. We don’t want to insult them and risk them not giving you a new name.”

  “What do you mean, a new name? I’m Liz Worn!”

  “To claim kinship to the Sinanju tribe, you will have to assume a tribal name, at least until the election is over.”

  Liz gritted her teeth and jutted her chin out to show the world that she had come to a decision.

  “Book me in a five star Saint Joe hotel! If the press wants a real Indian, they’re going to get one! We’re going on the warpath!” she screamed, placing the palm of her hand against her mouth and whooping.

  Christopher glanced at the thick folder at the top of his stack of folders, which contained a psychological profile of Liz Worn.

  It was obviously outdated.

  Chapter Seven

  “Are you ready?” Smith asked Ben through his earplug.

  “Yes. And before you ask, I’m sober.”

  “Your condition was never in question,” Smith replied.

  “I just assumed since you called me to a bar that you would want to know.”

  Not that this was the type of bar Ben frequented. If a building could have a hangover, then “Mike’s” had been hammered since the sixties. The bricks had grimed together into a solid mass of texture and the sign had been painted over so many times that the original logo was nowhere to be seen.

  “Your profile didn’t display a tendency toward alcoholism,” Smith said

  “Let’s get on with your big tour, because if you’ve read any of my reports, you know that 9/11 is just the start. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Ben opened the door to Mike’s and a cool breeze flowed from the inside.

  The bar was smaller than it looked from the outside. Eight tables and four booths surrounded a twelve foot bar. No one was inside except for the burly man behind the bar who matched the

  picture of Mike on the wall behind him. Mike looked up and nodded to Ben, then went back to wiping the bar.

  “Mike is CIA,” Smith’s voice said over the earpiece. “He is your gatekeeper.”

  Ben walked to the bar and sat down.

  “New here?” Mike asked.

  “Tell him that you’re his new boss,” Smith’s voice said.

  “I’m your new boss,” Ben said.

  Mike’s smile disappeared. He pulled a shotgun from beneath the counter so fast that Ben didn’t have time to duck.

  “I own this joint,” Mike said. “I ain’t got no boss.”

  “Tell him that the pond is cool in summer,” Smith said.

  “The pond is cool in summer,” Ben dutifully replied.

  Mike paused for a second, as if he were memorizing Ben’s face. He lowered the rifle and placed it back in its guard.

  “I’m Mike. Just remember, boss or not, drinks ain’t free.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Ben said.

  “Walk toward the restrooms,” Smith instructed. “Past the men’s and the ladies’ room is a door marked ‘Employees Only.’”

  Ben walked to the back corner of the bar. It was dark, but he could have sworn he saw the glint from a camera lens.

  “Cameras?” Ben asked.

  “Everywhere from the parking lot outside to the entrance.”

  Ben found the employee entrance. A worn touchpad was on the right side of the door.

  “There is a high resolution facial recognition camera mounted

  inside the peephole. It has already scanned your face and enabled the keypad. The code is 9 – 1 – 0 – 1 – 9 – 6 – 4,” Smith said.

  Ben entered the numbers and the door smoothly opened.

  Behind the door was a small corridor that led to a room with an elevator on either side. A solitary down button rested on the wall between them.

  “Never take the elevator to the left,” Smith warned. “Once an elevator alarm is triggered, an incapacitating agent is released into the air-tight confines of the elevator, rendering the subject inert.”

  “Knockout gas?” Ben asked.

  “It is much more complex than that, but we can discuss it at a later time.”

  Ben pressed the elevator button and only the left elevator door opened. Ben looked at it and was about to say something when the right door finally opened.

  “There is a ten-second delay to lure intruders into the left elevator,” Smith explained.

  Buttons one through four began blinking as Ben entered.

  “Choose three,” Smith said.

  Ben pushed it and the elevator began descending.

  “Sensors are located in the elevator walls to scan for weaponry, identity and heat signatures. The floor tiles hide sensor plates that measure weight and temperature.”

  The elevator doors opened to a single large room.

  “This room was originally designed to be one of the president’s bunker control rooms. It was constructed here because of its close proximity to the nation’s fiber-optic hub. Every bit of processed information in the United States passes through here.”

  And the president won’t be missing this room the next time there’s an emergen
cy?” Ben asked.

  “This is only one of his twenty-two bunkers. The safety of the president is not in question.”

  Ben was almost embarrassed at the opulent fixtures that adorned the walls. An exact replica of the president’s desk sat toward the back center of the room. A fake window was behind it, almost making the room look like the Oval Office.

  “Where do the other doors lead?”

  “Besides the elevator, there are six individual apartments for the president and his security team.”

  “I’ll be sleeping here?”

  “For the most part, yes.”

  Ben sat in the desk and the leather creaked comfortably to accommodate his weight.

  “Is Stone ready? I hope you’re right about Sinanju.”

  “You’ll see soon enough. You and Stone will fly from Tucson. Then he…”

  “I would rather drive.”

  “Why is that?”

  “No distractions, just two people in a car riding hundreds of miles. There’s nothing like a road trip to really get to know someone.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Tomás, what do your computers tell you?” Manny asked anxiously.

  His nephew sat in Manny’s chair, the only other person in the entire cartel allowed to do so. Tomás was engrossed by the laptop in front of him. His fingers moved nimbly over the keyboard, inputting commands with confidence. He tapped a key in response to his uncle’s question and turned the laptop so that Manny could see it.

  “There is a reservation in the area we are attempting to bypass. I think the Indians are beheading our men as a show of force.”

  Manny huffed. “It is a game of escalation, my nephew. If someone punches you, you just have to punch back harder. Every man has a point where escalation is no longer worth the cost. Find that level and then continue hitting. The package must go through this week. We don’t have time for another test run.”