Rio grande night the 11t.., p.1
Rio Grande Night (The 11th Jack Nightingale Novel), page 1
RIO GRANDE NIGHT
By STEPHEN LEATHER
Copyright 2022 © Stephen Leather
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author.
Smashwords Edition
Mexico is famous for its rich culture, ancient ruins, dazzling beaches, and spicy cuisine.
But there is a darker side to America’s southern neighbour, with vicious gangs dealing in drugs. extortion, money laundering, human trafficking and contract killings.
Jack Nightingale came across his fair share of villains when he worked for the Metropolitan Police in London.
But nothing could prepare him for the evil that was waiting for him when he crossed the Rio Grande river and entered Mexico - an evil that is hunting for an immortal soul. A very special soul.
ALSO BY STEPHEN LEATHER
Pay Off, The Fireman, Hungry Ghost, The Chinaman, The Vets, The Long Shot, The Birthday Girl, The Double Tap, The Solitary Man, The Tunnel Rats, The Bombmaker, The Stretch, Tango One, The Eyewitness, Penalties, Takedown, The Shout, The Bag Carrier, Plausible Deniability, Last Man Standing, Rogue Warrior, The Runner, Breakout, The Hunting, Desperate Measures, Standing Alone, The Chase, Still Standing
Spider Shepherd thrillers:
Hard Landing, Soft Target, Cold Kill, Hot Blood, Dead Men, Live Fire, Rough Justice, Fair Game, False Friends, True Colours, White Lies, Black Ops, Dark Forces, Light Touch, Tall Order, Short Range, Slow Burn, Fast Track, Dirty War
Spider Shepherd: SAS thrillers:
The Sandpit, Moving Targets, Drop Zone, Russian Roulette
Jack Nightingale supernatural thrillers:
Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade, Lastnight, San Francisco Night, New York Night, Tennessee Night, New Orleans Night, Las Vegas Night
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 1
Jack Nightingale was no fan of funerals, though he had probably attended more of them than most people, starting with the people he had always thought of as his parents, though it turned out they hadn't been. Then the aunt and uncle who had brought him up after the Nightingales were killed in a car accident. His real father never had a funeral, as far as he knew.
Since then, there had been colleagues in the Job during his time in the Metropolitan Police, friends, and some people he had hardly known, but whose deaths had intersected with his life. There had been times when his black suit had seen more wear than anything else in his wardrobe, with the possible exception of his trusty raincoat.
But, among all the funerals he had attended, he couldn't think of one that he'd enjoyed more than that day's. Nightingale was not a vengeful man, but if ever a man deserved to die, it was this one. The world was a brighter place for his leaving it.
The Dignity Funeral Home in Miami was full, since the deceased had been well-known, and popular amongst those who didn't really know his character. Those who did had probably shown up just to make sure the bastard was finally dead.
The priest must have known him for what he was. Why else would he have chosen those verses from the Gospel of Saint Mark, Chapter eight.
“For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?”
There had been a time when Jack Nightingale wouldn't have believed that he had a soul, let alone that it could be bought and sold. Then he had discovered that his natural father had sold Jack's soul to a Princess from Hell, with the deal due to be completed on his thirty-third birthday, and apparently there was nothing he could do about it. It was only by an almost miraculous combination of long shots and clever manoeuvering that he had been allowed to reclaim his soul, and it had made him conscious of how vital it was to him.
He thought of his genetic father, Ainsley Gosling, and how little it had profited him to sell the souls of his children. Limitless wealth, but it was never enough. Power over women, but he could take no pleasure from it. Deals with a demon always came with loopholes, those who sold their souls never got everything they thought they wanted.
Whoever had written Mark's Gospel surely had it right, there was nothing in the world that would be worth selling your soul for, nothing could ever be a fair exchange.
The last hymn was being sung, and the curtains at the front of the little chapel slid open, as the expensively customised mahogany coffin slid across the rollers and into the furnace beyond. The curtain closed.
“It's hot in there,”said Nightingale, “but it'll be a damned sight hotter where you're going. Let's see what you think of your bargain now. Nothing's worth selling your soul for. Absolutely nothing.”
He needed to get the taste of death out of his mouth, so he walked out of the chapel and took a taxi to the beach. He sat at a little bar, ate fried shrimp, drank two Coronas and smoked three Marlboros before he finally felt ready to put it all behind him. He took another taxi back to his hotel, undressed, crawled into bed and tried to sleep it all away.
CHAPTER 2
A thousand miles away, Isabella Perez was walking from her tidy little house to the shop which was her pride and joy. She'd always been interested in the practice of Wicca, probably influenced by her great aunt Gabriela, who was widely respected as a wise woman, and occasionally derided as a witch. Three years earlier, when the insurance money for her father had arrived from the car factory, she had taken the inheritance and bought a lease on the little store. It had been a haberdashers, but Isabella worked hard on the décor, filled it with herbs, candles, crystals, powders, potions, charts and books and re-christened it La Tienda de Brujeria, the Witchcraft Store.
Isabella was never going to make a fortune from her little shop, Matamoros was hardly a hot bed of Wicca interest, but she turned over enough to keep herself. Even those who had no interest in Witchcraft could often be attracted in by the displays of dreamcatchers, ornaments and astrology charts. There were still plenty of hippies left in town, and the tourist trade was very lucrative, especially at this time of year.
Isabella wore a frown as she walked through the streets, thinking of the previous night's conversation with the old priest and his sister. They were all agreed that the evil which seemed to be growing in the town represented a threat to all decent people, but they had few ideas of what to do about it. The priest could preach to his congregation, Isabella could issue warnings to her clients, but it all seemed so little in the face of overwhelming odds. Recently she had refused to supply the black votive candles and blends of herbs that the blasphemers required for their rituals, but she was in no doubt that they could obtain them elsewhere.
Her frown deepened as she arrived at her shop, the shutters still down, and saw the package that had been left there. She wasn't expecting a delivery, and, besides, stock for the shop generally arrived in business hours. It was wrapped in cardboard, about the size of a shoe box. She unlocked the shutters, pulled them up, opened the door, turned on the light and went inside, carrying the box with her.
She placed it on the counter, then found a knife from her stock to cut open the wrapping. Her heart was sinking, as she already suspected what it contained. She had heard about these packages from others.
Sure enough, there it was, her worst fears confirmed. She lifted it out of the box and set it on the counter. A miniature coffin, in dark, polished wood with gold fittings. She shuddered, but nerved herself to open it, though she already knew what it contained.
CHAPTER 3
The girls were more excited than usual tonight, this was the big night that the whole trip had been leading up to. So far their first Spring Break had been reasonably calm, they'd spent pretty much every day in bikinis, lounging around the swimming pool, running in and out of the sea, lying on the beach working on the all-important tan. There hadn't been much drinking going on, as none of them had reached the age of twenty-one yet, so they were obliged to stick to 'mocktails' and a variety of bright coloured drinks with 'virgin' in the name.
But tonight would be different.
They took turns for mirror space in their shared suite, sharing around make-up and checking with each other that everything was looking good. The tans were accentuated with glittering body cream, the hair carefully tousled, the eyeshadow just the right colour to complement the clothes. The evening would be hot, so crop-tops and shorts, or mini sun dresses were all that was needed. Except for Stephanie, who was a little bigger than the others, and sensitive about it. Her dress was knee-length and flowing, designed to hide a few of the extra pounds which she badly wished she could lose. She generally felt lucky to be allowed to hang out with the rest of the group, and put in an extra effort to be useful. Tonight she was designated driver, so two drinks would be her limit.
They were nearly ready, just some last-minute adjustments as two of them changed their decision on shoes. Heels would, of course, have looked better, but maybe flip-flops would be more practical for the walk between bars. They checked the contents of their purses, then filed outside into Stephanie's Toyota Camry. The plan was to drive from their hotel in South Padre Island to the far end of the bridge, park the car there and take the pedestrian bridge across the Rio Grande river into Matamoros.
The streets of the Mexican town were heaving with Spring Breakers, keen to take full advantage of the more lenient Mexican drinking laws. The group of girls almost had to push their way through the throng to get to the first bar. Janey usually took on the role of group leader, and she reminded them of the rules they'd agreed on.
“Alright, girls, remember, stick together, watch your drink. If you need the bathroom, go in twos, and leave one of the others to make sure your drink doesn't get messed with. If one of us is feeling bad, for any reason, we'll all go back to the hotel. Now, let's show these guys how well Texas girls can party.”
Jennifer and Helen pushed open the bar door and the five of them walked in.
The bar was packed to the seams, with every customer in there an American student, or so it seemed. Trays of beer and shots were being passed around and emptied almost immediately, as the young people swilled down the unaccustomed alcohol. Many of them seemed to have peaked too early, and were being held up by friends, The noise was ear-splitting, as patrons and staff shouted to be heard above the disco music, playing at distortion volume.
The girls smiled at each other, it was just as much fun as they'd expected. A couple of American boys on the left pushed against Janey and Helen, smiled and apologised, then started to talk to them. A tall blond man with a fair moustache grinned at Jennifer.
“Your first time in Mexico, eh?”
“Yes,” she said. “Isn't it fun?”
“Let's hope you have an evening to remember,” he said.
“Hell, yeah!” said Helen.
CHAPTER 4
The ranch had once been used to raise beef and dairy cattle, but the present owners had sent the herd off for slaughter a few weeks after completing the purchase. Much of the land lay fallow now, as the owners made their profits from other sources. Some fields were given over to the cultivation of marijuana, which was, strictly speaking, not legal, though bills to legalise the crop had been bouncing around from parliament to the Supreme court and back again for many years, without passing into law. The owners of the ranch felt safe from official interference, as it would take a detachment from the Mexican army to stop their cultivation, and there was no appetite among the authorities for such a conflict. Especially since the owners could probably have mobilised a determined, well equipped army of their own to defend their interests.
The weed was a small part of the business conducted at the ranch. Its proximity to the border and the Rio Grande made it a useful centre for the import and export of harder and more profitable drugs. Firearms were very difficult to obtain in Mexico, with only one licensed dealer in the whole country, and the regulations very strict. Far easier to buy them in any one of Texas's six thousand licensed gun dealers and smuggle them in. Again, there was little trouble from the authorities. Bribes and threats ensured that business was rarely interrupted. Policemen and army officers were not well paid, certainly not well enough to put their lives on the line.
There were those who whispered that the owners of the ranch also enjoyed a more powerful protection, perhaps not of this world. This was not a healthy thing to discuss, and one or two of the less discrete locals had been found with their eyes gouged out and their tongues ripped from their mouths, a warning to others to look the other way, and avoid discussing matters which did not concern them.
None of the townspeople would ever have dared approach the ranch uninvited. There was only one decent road in and out, and it was patrolled by armed men in black SUVs. The whole ranch was surrounded by a high fence, the only opening being a gate on the east side, which was always kept locked and guarded by heavily armed thugs.
And then there were the rumours about what went on in the ranch house on certain nights, stories which were terrifying to start with, and became the stuff of madness as they passed in whispers from mouths to ears.
Tonight there was a gathering in the big ranch house. It stood in the middle of the grounds, a large, brown plantation style building, with arches and verandahs on all three of its stories, and a peaked, grey slate roof. Most of the vehicles parked on the scrub in front of the house were some variant of an SUV or four-wheel drive, since the track out here was rough and would have damaged a normal sedan.
Inside the ranch house, almost half of the ground floor had been cleared, to give an open space. At one end of the room stood a wooden altar with an inverted cross on the wall behind it. In front of the altar was a long wooden table, with the figure of a white female skeleton with long black hair dressed in a red robe perched at one end. It might have been made of plastic, it might equally well have been genuine dried bone.
The room contained about thirty people, of all ages and sexes. They sat on wooden chairs facing the altar. At the stroke of midnight, the big, wooden doors at the back of the room swung open, and a procession made its way up the aisle. It was led by a figure in white priest's robes. A capirote, the traditional Catholic conical mask, worn in Holy Week processions and usurped by the American Ku Klux Klan covered the face. In one hand was a tall wooden-handled metal scythe, in the other a brass globe.
The figure turned to face its motley congregation, and began to speak. “My friends and followers, we gather here tonight to renew our pledge to Our Lady of Death. She looks kindly on all our endeavours, protects our shipments and brings fear and death to those who would oppose us. To this end, bring an offering of blood. Bring on the sacrifice.”
Two men walked up the aisle of the church, bareheaded and dressed in white robes, each carrying a burning wooden torch. Behind them came two more men, dragging a body between them. By the torchlight, the crowd could see the long, blonde hair of the young woman as they carried her along. Her wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape, another strip of it prevented her from calling out. Her green eyes were filled with panic as they darted around the room, desperately trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
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