The Cartel Hit. Don Pendleton

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       1

      “You really believe I’m going to let that cockroach give me up to the cops?” Seb Jessup said. “I will bury that bastard and his evidence.”

      Three of his crew members sat in the plush office. Not one of them made any comment. They might have been thinking his outburst was more than a little risky, given that he was already under the close eye of federal authorities who were just waiting for him to step across the line.

      But that was Seb Jessup.

      A man who had total contempt for the law, society and anyone who dared to cross him. Jessup had a personal mantra: “I go where I want and I do what I want. Get in my way and I will crush you.”

      Simple and direct. Jessup believed in being up front with people. They got what they saw. He made no concessions to anyone or anything.

      He was in his midthirties, a hard-bodied man who ruled his criminal organization by brute force and cunning. He had a financially successful association with a Mexican cartel over the border, and he traded in weapons and stolen cars. He also had a thriving business in human trafficking. He had no interest in corporate crime. Not for Jessup the sleight of hand in the white-collar world. He was a hands-on racketeer. Jessup liked money. Lots of it. And his territory, which still clung to the well-defined individualism of West Texas, was large enough to accommodate his appetites.

      Jessup was entirely a self-made man, and he considered himself a product of his environment. Brought up on a hardscrabble farm, where his family had struggled daily to stay fed, Jessup learned early that a man got what he did only by hard work and grabbing any opportunity that presented itself. He’d made a vow that he would not end up like his folks, worn to a frazzle as they struggled to maintain some kind of life. The land they lived on was hard. The crops they grew were sparse and tended to die off if you turned your back on them.

      Jessup’s father was a strong man physically, but less so mentally. Each time he had a setback he would resort to the bottle, becoming surly and downright vicious. The rest of the family was often on the receiving end of Anson Jessup’s hard fists. That went on until Seb’s eighteenth birthday. Tired of being knocked around like a straw-filled dummy, he’d decided to fight back. He drove his bullying father to the ground, his solid fists leaving the man bloody and beaten. For the first time in his life, Jessup’s simmering rage gave him the strength to overcome someone. It would not be the last time that happened.

      It was his last day as part of the family. After putting his father down, he went inside the house, packed his few belongings in a bag and walked away. He never looked back.

      He spent the next five years in the army. For a boy who had spent long days working the hostile land on a dirt-poor farm, army life was easy. All he had to do was follow orders, and he was given three meals a day, a bed to sleep in and a wage. When he heard other recruits grumbling about the hard life, Jessup had grinned. They knew nothing. He’d kept his head down. He was a quick learner, and he quickly gained promotion. The day he was made corporal was something he was quietly proud of.

      He was eventually shipped off to the Middle East and saw a side to life he’d never even thought about back in West Texas. He witnessed killing and destruction. Experienced his first action and found himself facing the possibility of his own death. His training kicked in and he accepted that he either put it to good use or he was going to die right there and then in the midst of the dust and flies and the rattle of gunfire. He was promoted to sergeant.

      He met Cole Hatton while he was in the war zone. They clicked from day one. And when the chance arose, they teamed up in a partnership that would follow into civilian life. By the time they were sent back stateside, Jessup and Hatton were considerably wealthier than when they’d first put on uniforms. The army was bringing in vast stores of goods to keep the American forces fed, clothed and armed. It was to be expected that some of those supplies would be diverted. Jessup found a way by bringing in one of the civilian contractors the military was using. Siphoned-off materials were flown back to the States, using the contract aircraft that were coming and going on an almost daily basis. Jessup started small, not wanting to attract attention, and that, coupled with the money he was pulling in from deals with the locals for food and clothing, all added to his growing cash balance.

      While Jessup provided the brains, Hatton became the partnership’s muscle and backup. He handled any problems that might interfere with the operations. He did it well. He was direct and dedicated, with a persuasive manner that told anyone getting in the way that it would be extremely advisable to step aside.

      They set themselves up back home, building their criminal business with a dedication that would have been the envy of any hardworking entrepreneur. They operated out of a midsize community called Broken Tree, in cattle country. It was a tough town in tough borderlands.

      Nine years down the road and they were established as the major player in the region. Jessup had connections across the board. He’d bought and paid for influence in high circles. He ran his organization with a hard hand and took no crap from anyone. His name opened doors, his wealth bought him the rest.

      He had his world by the balls. Saw himself as untouchable. Out of reach. A big man in a big piece of country.

      One of his most lucrative ventures involved bringing illegal immigrants across the border. Mexico provided plenty of people who were eager to enter the US, lured by the promise of work and money. The promises came true, though they weren’t as clear-cut as the immigrants had been led to believe. Money, yes, but the expenses incurred when they were brought to America were taken from their paychecks. If they protested, they could be exposed to the authorities. That could mean jail, or being sent back to Mexico. There were times when Jessup’s enforcers would hand out physical persuasion. The Mexican laborers were just another product, as far as Jessup was concerned. He bought and sold them. Had the power to make them disappear if the notion came to him. There were plenty of lonely and desolate places in border country where bodies could be, and were, made to vanish.

      Jessup believed his most recent enterprise would prove to be even more lucrative. He’d met with Ramon Mariposa, the jefe of A La Muerte, an offshoot of the Sinaloa drug cartel. Ramon Mariposa was looking for a US distributor and Jessup had been interested in growing his presence in the drug trade.

      Mariposa СКАЧАТЬ