Page 10 of Maddox

Unknown:Meet me at Tony’s coffee shop in thirty minutes. Alone. Order your usual latte and sit at the corner table with your back to the window. If you do not comply, no information will be provided.

This was interesting. Maybe karma was looking up for me.

Me:Who are you and why should I consider talking with you?

The unknown sender obviously had an iPhone. I knew that by the three blips that pulsed across the screen. Then they stopped.

I stood back, allowing the eerie sensations to engage my mind with various nefarious possibilities. Whoever it was knew that Tony’s was a favorite coffee shop—one slight indulgence in a sea of practicality.

That meant whoever was texting me had been watching. He knew what I drank.

I should be terrified. Instead, my curiosity was piqued to the point I knew I wouldn’t let this go, at least not without a good reason.

But the waiting continued.

Finally, the three dots began to pulse again.

Unknown:Because you crave the truth.

Tony’s was crowded, but given the hour, not nearly as much as when I arrived almost every morning. I scanned the perimeter of the small coffee shop in my attempt to ascertain if the unknown person had already arrived. No one stood out to me, not in their clothing or actions. I was forced to wait in line for almost five minutes before ordering my usual coffee. While the barista bantered as usual, I felt awkward and said very little.

I’d been lured into clandestine locations during my career, people refusing to provide their real identities so they couldn’t be implicated in a crime or unveiling of some atrocity, but this felt different. At least it was in the middle of the day.

I headed for the table he’d mentioned, thankful no one was occupying the space. As I sat down, I realized my hands were shaking, enough so when I brought the cup to my lips, several beads of scalding liquid dripped on my hand. The slight pain forced me to wince.

Everything about this was disturbing, my instincts telling me to back away.

Yet I remained seated.

Two minutes passed.

Another two.

I was already antsy. Maybe the person wasn’t going to show.

The latte was delicious, but my stomach was doing flip-flops. As I pushed the cup aside, I had the sudden urge to leave. The moment I started to stand, a deep voice from behind me sent another wave of apprehension to my core.

“Charmaine Douglas.” It wasn’t really a question, but a statement confirming what the man obviously already knew. His voice was being disguised, little more than a throaty whisper. That made me suspicious.

“Who are you?”

“Someone who can provide you with a story.”

“Why do I need a story?” I asked and as soon as I started to turn my head, the mystery man snarled.

“Do not turn around. If you do, this meeting is over. You need a story because your career is tanking.”

I started to argue with him, but taking anything he said personally wouldn’t garner me privilege of the details he’d alluded to. “Okay. What does this pertain to?”

“Fernando Alfaro.”

A cold shiver tumbled through me. The last decent article that had created both rave reviews and death threats had been about the notorious El Salvadoran Cartel leader who seemingly had ties to at least a dozen countries and several world leaders. The influx of his cocaine and other illegal drugs into the United States had surpassed every other cartel and crime syndicate. The man was a horrible piece of scum, and not just based on my opinion and what I’d learned.

The brutal dictator had been linked to numerous murders. My article had been the first real telling of how he ran his business operations. I’d done months of research and had talked to numerous sources, some of whom had been ranking members of his organization. I’d heard after the article had printed that every law enforcement agency in the US and several abroad were using it as a basis for criminal investigations, but that’s where any news had ceased trickling down.

I’d also been privy to the fact there’d been a string of brutal decapitations linked to Alfaro and his soldiers. My suspicion was that the informants had been discovered and slaughtered.

There’d been whispers that several prominent citizens throughout the world had been buddies with Alfaro. That hadn’t been confirmed or denied, only minimal scandal occurring because of the words I’d penned on paper.

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