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Bingo.
Manuel Ortega and his young sidekick slipped out and drove off in a battered Ford sedan—burgundy, with enough dings and scratches to be forgettable.
If the Kings had police informants, they’d already dumped the black Explorer at a chop shop.
Oblivious to their tail, they drove to a budget motel, entered one of the rooms, and left ten minutes later.
Caleb parked his Jeep behind a fast-food taco restaurant across the street, tucked deep in the shadows.
He pulled the hood of a plain gray sweatshirt over his head, waited for a break in traffic, and dodged across the road.
Everything he’d learned as a Green Beret and as an executive protection specialist screamed to call Zach. Sit tight. Let the authorities handle Ortega.
He knew better than to do what he was about to do.
And he didn’t care.
Every second wasted meant another trail gone cold.
Another mother buried. Another son left with nothing but grief and regret.
His gut told him Ortega knew about the fentanyl that had killed his mother—maybe he’d even been the one to hand it over.
If the police grabbed him, he’d clam up, lawyer up.
Or Espina Negra would silence him.
Strike first, strike fast, no mercy.
Caleb needed answers.
About his mother. About Vincente Garcia.
And Gia.
A healthy dose of fear might loosen Ortega’s tongue.
The motel was a two-story L-shaped structure that looked every bit as low rent as its thirty-five-dollar a night rate suggested. Room 102 was tucked at the far end of the building furthest from the lobby.
Keeping to the shadows, Caleb jogged to the far corner, avoiding the harsh light thrown off by the cheap security lamps.
At the door, he knocked. “Maintenance.”
Silence.
He knocked again, then picked the outdated deadbolt with practiced ease.
Unholstering his Glock, he twisted the knob, and used his foot to push open the door, then swept the room.
So far, his only adversaries were two queen beds that looked like someone barfed Kool-Aid on them. A battered heating unit wheezed musty air.
He riffled through two black backpacks on the particle board desk.
Clothes, toiletries. No IDs.
Nothing useful.
Dragging the lone chair to the opposite corner, he sat and waited.