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Chapter Twenty-One
Maceo
“Iknew giving you that journal might backfire,” Warren mutters. “Your dad is probably rollin’ in his grave, cursing me out. I didn’t give you that diary so you could start a manhunt. You deserve answers but not like this.”
“The manhunt started over two years ago when I left the Navy. This isn’t anything new, but he made this personal when he showed up at my wedding. My wife and babies are now in danger,” I say.
“Babies? You telling me you’re going to be a father?”
“I am.”
“Atlas, you get your ass back home to your wife,” Warren says in earnest. “You stop tracking Esteban right fucking now.”
“Believe me, I want to be at home with Josephine, but this is personal. My family is in danger—wife, kids, crew—all of them.”
“Go home, son. You’re needed there more than ever with kids in the mix.”
I’m boiling over with rage, but I keep my voice icy cool. “Are you telling me to tuck tail and run?”
“I’d tell you to finish reading the fucking diary, but I can see how well that’s worked out,” he snaps. “I knew I should’ve burned it, but your grandmother, Lucia, was adamant you have it when the time was right.Goddamnit!”
“Warren, I need those coordinates. It has to end,” I plead.
“There ain’t nothing but ghosts there, Atlas,” he says defeated.
“There may be something to put us on his trail.”
Warren sighs heavily on his end before giving me what I need to find the villa. “Atlas…that place may bring you more grief than give you leads. Prepare yourself.”
I end the call and address my crew “We have a location. We go in prepared for anything. Not sure what we’ll find, but we stick to protocol. Go by pairs. Let's rollout.”
* * *
It’s early morning in Ciénega when we arrive. Our jeeps are winding up a hillside road on the outskirts of the coastal city. The terrain is rough and nothing like what a grand house would have if it was still inhabitable. Dense jungle foliage encroaches on the road, like the forest is trying to reclaim what was once part of the land. When the villa does come into sight, I swallow my trepidation.
This was mymadre’sprison.
The once gleaming white stucco exterior of the three-story grand villa looks dingy and muted from neglect. The massive fountain in the front is bone-dry and probably hasn’t been working in over thirty years. The arched windows are covered in a film, several busted, by weather or vandals. Grand stone steps leading to the front solid-wood doors are now covered with debris from the surrounding forest.
We exit the vehicles, guns at the ready, and approach the mansion with silent footfalls. Testing the doors, we find them locked. No surprise. Even though the place looks vacant, the owner would most likely have barricaded the front door to prevent theft. This means there has to be a more accessible location, which would not be easy to spot. Breaking off into three groups of two, we take off in different directions around the villa.
Gauge and I aren’t investigating long before we hear Brass’s whistle. We jog to the location we heard him call from. Brass and Ziggy have pulled dense foliage away near the edge of the property, revealing what looks like a bunker door—an escape hatch. A hidden exit is not unusual to find knowing how good Esteban is at escaping capture.
With the butt of my rifle, I bust the padlock. We enter a dank and musty tunnel leading straight to the villa. No one says a word as we make our way forward with flashlights mounted to the Picatinny rail of the guns’ barrels lighting our path.
We’re all on high alert, even though the threat seems low. The tunnel ends at a steel door. I try to shove it open with my shoulder, but lack of use and exposure to the elements has rusted the hinges. Brass comes on the other side of me, and together we heave our collective weight against the door. We push ‘till it starts to give, screeching open.
The security door opens up into what was once a study. The door was disguised as bookshelves. Makes sense if this was where the bastard spent most of his time while in the house.
My crew breaks off and does a sweep of the first level. I yank out drawers from the ornate desk, which was left behind, spilling the contents out on top. Most of the room appears untouched, like Esteban only packed the essentials before escaping.
Gauge pops back in the study. “All clear on the main level, Atlas.”
I nod, continuing to sort through the paperwork. Most appear to be random nothings. Perhaps our luck will come from investigating the other rooms.
I make my way to a grand staircase, sneering at the vast wealth of this place. You can dress up this place any way you want, but when it’s built on the blood and heartache of innocents, it’s nothing short of macabre.
We clear the upstairs right-wing before making our way as a group to the left-wing, checking rooms as we go.
