Failed State (A James Winchester Thriller Book 1) (James Winchester Series) by James Samuel (best selling autobiographies TXT) 📕

next to the steel gates. He said something in muffled Spanish, and the gates opened automatically. A large garden encircled the orange mansion house that stood before them. A couple of white pick-up trucks and a large black BMW 4x4 were parked in front of the main staircase leading to the massive front doors. The trees marking the boundary between grass and pavement were cut into curved shapes, like the tendrils of a great fire.

Francisco turned to his guests in the backseat. “We’ll see Montoya in a moment,” he said. “Before we go in, I’m going to need you to give me your guns. Nobody but his bodyguards are allowed to bring weapons into his home, I hope you’ll understand.”

It was no use denying they had any guns on them. They fumbled for their pistols and handed them over to Francisco. James patted the combat knife hidden behind his back.

“Alright.” Francisco left the car and secured the weapons in the trunk. He bent down to the open window and motioned for them to get out. “Stick with us.”

James climbed into the blazing sunshine. He squinted as he inspected the interior courtyard of the guarded mansion. Some of Montoya’s guards huddled underneath the shade of the overhanging roofs and lazy palms. Each of them shouldered large semi-automatic and automatic rifles.

He didn’t like being at the mercy of a drug lord. If Montoya wanted to turn around and execute them, nobody would ever find the bodies. His mouth went dry at the thought.

“Come on, James.” Sinclair gestured at him to follow Francisco.

Francisco led them through the front doors of the colonial-style mansion. Wide rooms with long windows characterised each sector of the mansion they saw. Every chandelier hanging above their heads bore a gold finish twinkling like morning stars.

Montoya’s office resided in the western part of the mansion. Francisco knocked on the door and a guard in a light-yellow shirt answered. There were no friendly greetings exchanged, like with the other narcos they’d come across, only silent nods of acknowledgement.

The office of Montoya Rodriguez could have passed for one of the great state rooms of Buckingham Palace or the Palace of Versailles. The same gold finish that bedecked every lighting appliance didn’t stop at Montoya’s centre of operations. Bookshelves with leather-bound volumes gleamed with gold leaf on the spines. A statue of what James thought to be Cupid sat to the right of the man of the moment.

Montoya remained at his desk, unmoving and emanating coldness. Was it all part of the act? Image was everything in this game. His shaved head gave way to black, beady eyes. His rotund figure gave him an aura of intimidation not seen amongst his soldiers. He didn’t stand to greet them as the three entered his office.

Francisco bowed his head as he took Montoya’s offered hand. Like a mafia don, Francisco reaffirmed his loyalty in low, sincere Spanish.

“This is James Winchester and Sinclair Wood, the Englishmen I told you about.” Francisco gestured to them in turn. “Please, gentlemen.”

They stepped forward without taking their eyes off Montoya. The closer they got the more the folds under his eyes deepened like chasms.

“Gentlemen,” Montoya said at last. “Please, sit.”

The two men settled into low-backed leather chairs beneath the enormous desk.

Montoya grabbed a wooden box on his right and slid it into the centre of the table. He opened it up to reveal long, thick cigars.

“Do you smoke?” asked Montoya.

“Not for me.” Sinclair shook his head. “James, this is about the only time you’ll get a good cigar.”

James bit his tongue and reached forwards, never taking his eyes off the cartel leader. He felt vulnerable even performing such an action. These men were not known for their loyalty. They could turn on them at any time.

He took the cigar and brought it to his lips. He took out his lighter and proceeded to illuminate the end. Someone had already prepared the cigars by trimming the ends. Immediately, the taste of a top-quality Cuban cigar painted the insides of his mouth.

Montoya, too, took a cigar and lit it with a solid silver lighter in the shape of a gun. The flame erupted from the barrel, where he held it for a moment, before dropping it back on his desk with a clink.

“Francisco tells me you’re trustworthy. I’m sorry that I wouldn’t meet you earlier,” said Montoya. “You must understand that money isn’t everything. If we took the offers of everyone who came to give us money, it would be quite easy for people to take advantage of us.”

“We understand, Mr. Montoya –”

“Call me Montoya. I’m an ordinary working man.” A hint of a smile crept across Montoya’s face for the first time.

“Montoya,” Sinclair corrected himself. “So, now that we’ve helped you, we’re hoping you can help us find Quezada. His death will be a benefit to all of us. And we’re outsiders, so we don’t get the same suspicion as one of your soldiers.”

“That’s true. But Quezada is not so easy to find. When you lead a cartel, you don’t eat dinner in the middle of Celaya. It’s too dangerous. Both sides are trying to take each other out, so they’re always trying to track his movements and my movements.”

“Well, Montoya, where should we start?” asked Sinclair. “We wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“This is where we can both help each other, my friends. You see, we know Santa Maria de Guadalupe has come in from the north. That’s the territory we’re fighting over. Whether it’s gasoline or drugs, there’s only room for one of us. Unfortunately, Quezada is winning.”

James noted the sudden flash of concern on Francisco’s face.

“He’s taken us by surprise again and again. Smart guy. Two weeks ago, he took my sister Jessi.”

James took another long drag of his cigar and blew the enormous cloud of smoke