Saint Death

#1 Amazon bestseller in "Mysteries and Thrillers"

John Milton has been off the grid for six months. He surfaces in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, and immediately finds himself drawn into a vicious battle with the narco-gangs that control the borderlands.

He saves the life of an idealistic young journalist who has been targeted for execution. The only way to keep her safe is to smuggle her into Texas. Working with the only untouchable cops in the city, and a bounty hunter whose motives are unclear, Milton must keep her safe until the crossing can be made.

But when the man looking for her is the legendary assassin Santa Muerta — Saint Death — that's a lot easier said than done.

Mark Dawson

PROLOGUE

DAY ONE

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DAY TWO

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DAY THREE

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DAY FOUR

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EPILOGUE

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

Mark Dawson

Saint Death

I have fought a good fight

I have finished my course

I have kept the faith 2 Timothy 4:7

“Put on the whole armour of the God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the Devil / Because we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.” Ephesians, Chapter 6, Verses 11 to 17

PROLOGUE

Samalayuca

South of Ciudad Juárez

Mexico

Adolfo González lowered his AK and the others did the same. They were stood in a semi-circle, all around the three stalled trucks. There was no noise beyond the soporific buzz of the earth baking and cracking under the heat of the sun. Dust and heat shimmered everywhere. He looked out at their handiwork. The vehicles were smoking, bullet holes studded all the way across the sheetmetal. They were all shot up to high heaven. The windscreens had been stoved in by the .416 calibre rounds that the snipers had fired. Some of the holes that ran across the cars were spaced and regular from the AKs, others were scattered with uneven clumps from number four buckshot. The Italians had come to the meet in their big, expensive four wheel drive Range Rovers. Tinted windows, leather interiors and xenon headlamps. Trying to make a big impression. Showing off. Hadn’t done them much good. One of them had tried to drive away but he hadn’t got far. The tyres of the car were flat, still wheezing air. The glass was all shot out. Steam poured from the perforated bo

Adolfo looked up at the hills. He knew Samalayuca like the back of his hand. His family had been using this spot for years. Perfect for dumping bodies. Perfect for ambushes. He’d put three of his best snipers up on the lava ridge. Half a mile away. They had prepared covered trenches and hid in them overnight. He could see them coming down the ridge now. The sun shone against the dark metal of their long-barrelled Barretts and reflected in glaring flickers from the glass in the sights.

He approached the nearest Range Rover, his automatic cradled at his waist with the safety off. Things happened. Miracles. It paid to be careful. He opened the door. One of the Italians, slumped dead over the wheel, swung over to the side. Adolfo hauled his body out and dumped it in the dust. Bad luck, pendejo. There were two more bodies in the back.

Adolfo walked around the end of the truck. There was another body behind it, face up, mouth open. Vivid red blood soaked into the dirt. A cloud of hungry flies hovered over it.

He went to the second truck and looked through the window at the driver. This one had tried to get away. He was shot through the head. Blood everywhere: the dash, the seats, across what was left of the window.

He walked on to the third vehicle. Two men inside, both dead.

He walked back to the first truck to where the body lay.

He nudged the man’s ribs with his toe.

The man moved his lips.

“What?”

The man wheezed something at him.

Adolfo knelt down. “I can’t hear you.”

“Basta,” the man wheezed. “Ferma.”

“Too late to stop, cabrón,” Adolfo said. “You shoulda thought of that before.”

He put the automatic down and gestured to Pablo. He had the video camera and was taking the footage that they would upload to YouTube later. Leave a message. Something to focus the mind. Pablo brought the camera over, still filming. Another man brought over a short-bladed machete. He gave it to him.

The dying man followed Adolfo with his eyes.

Adolfo signalled and his men hauled the dying man to his knees. They dragged him across to a tree. There was blood on his face and it slicked out from the bottom of his jacket. They looped a rope over a branch and tied one end around the man’s ankles. They yanked on the other end so that he fell to his knees, and then they yanked again, and then again, until he was suspended upside down.

Adolfo took the machete with his right hand and, with his left, took a handful of the man’s thick black hair and yanked back to expose his throat.

Adolfo stared into the camera.

He went to work.

DAY ONE

The City of Lost Girls

When you’re lost in the rain in Juárez,

And it’s Easter time too,

And your gravity fails,

And negativity don’t pull you through,

Don’t put on any airs,

When you’re down the Rue Morgue Avenue,

They got some hungry women there,

And they really make a mess outta you. Bob Dylan ‘Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues’

From: <redacted>

To: <redacted>

Date: Monday, September 16, 5.21 P.M.

Subject: CARTWHEEL

Dear Foreign Secretary,

At our meeting last week you requested sight of a report detailing the circumstances in which the agent responsible for the botched assassination in the French Alps has disappeared.

I attach a copy of that report to this email.

While writing, please allow me to reiterate that all efforts are being made to locate and recover this agent. He will not be easy to find, for the reasons that we discussed, but please do be assured that he will not be able to stay undetected forever.

If there is any follow-up once you have considered this report please do, as ever, let me know.

Sincerely,

M.

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