“Yes. What’s going on?”

  “We’re placing you under arrest for the murders of your ex-wife Valerie Carter, and her companion, Cody Carl. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will, be used against you in a court of law. And, you have a right to an attorney.”

  The second officer gave Serrano a pat down as the first detective spoke. Serrano felt a sense of shock. “Valerie’s dead? Cody Carl? Who’s he?”

  “Save the innocent act for Judge McHenry,” the policeman said, as Serrano’s wrists were handcuffed behind him. “Did you check any luggage?”

  “Yes, one suitcase.”

  “Okay, let’s get it.”

  Serrano’s mind raced as he was escorted through the terminal to baggage claim. Who killed Valerie and why? And who was this Cody person? A boyfriend? Maybe he was the actual target, and Val was collateral damage.

  Then another possibility occurred to him. What about the three men who invaded his house shortly after his arrival in Lugar de Paz? The blabbermouth was named Creedy according to the ID in his wallet. And made no bones about working for Yankovic.

  At the time Serrano wondered how the hitmen managed to find him. Now he knew. She told them, probably under duress, and they killed her. And Cody Carl too.

  Serrano felt a deep sense of remorse. If his theory was correct, he shared responsibility for Valerie’s death. Something she didn’t deserve. But Yankovic did. And the bastard was going to pay.

  “Here it is,” the second officer said, as he emerged from the crowd. “Are you going to give me the combo? Or will we have to pry it open?”

  Serrano shrugged. “3-2-1.”

  “Wow!” the first officer said. “What a fucking genius. No one would ever figure that out.”

  “I don’t have anything to hide,” Serrano replied.

  “Not even the pistols in the suitcase?” the second policeman inquired.

  Serrano had the regulation memorized. “A passenger can transport unloaded firearms in a locked, hard-sided container as checked luggage, so long as they declare the firearm and/or ammunition to the airline when checking their bag,” Serrano told them. “And I did so. I have the paperwork to prove it.”

  “I’m glad to hear the murder weapon or weapons were properly processed,” officer one said. “Come on, Mack… Let’s book this clown.”

  The trip from the airport to the Magistrate of Bexar County’s office near Cattleman Square took 20 minutes. Initial processing lasted the better part of two hours, which Serrano spent in a small locked room.

  Then a gray-haired woman dressed in a running outfit and carrying a briefcase arrived. “Hi! I’m Jennifer Garvey, your court appointed attorney. Sorry about the wait. They always call me when ex-Marines are charged, and I was on the other side of town.”

  Serrano stood to shake her hand. It was cool and firm. “Why’s that? Was your father a Marine?”

  Garvey pushed a sleeve up. And there it was, an Eagle, Globe and Anchor tattoo. “Semper fi.”

  Serrano’s eyes widened. “You were a Marine?”

  “You betcha,” Garvey replied. “More specifically, a Marine Judge Advocate. I’m retired now, but I have a soft spot for jarheads.”

  “So,” Garvey said, as she sat down. “You’re accused of a double homicide. I’m your public defender. Whatever you tell me is covered by attorney-client privilege. Let’s start with the obvious question. Did you do it?”

  “No,” Serrano answered. “I didn’t.”

  Garvey eyed him cynically. “Can you prove that?”

  “I think so,” Serrano said. “When was my ex-wife murdered?”

  Garvey told him.

  Serrano nodded. “I was in Mexico on that day. And the stamp on my passport will prove it.”

  Garvey eyed a sheet of paper. “That’s helpful, but insufficient. According to this document the police believe that you entered Mexico to establish an alibi, came back across the border without passing through customs, and committed two murders. Then you recrossed the border into Mexico illegally. So, according to them, you had an opportunity. As for motive, Valerie’s mother claims you were very angry when her daughter left you for another man. Especially since she spent your savings on him.”

  “Multiple witnesses will corroborate that I was in the village of Lugar de Paz that day,” Serrano told her. “As for being angry, I was. But that doesn’t mean I would hurt Valerie.”

  “That’s a good start,” Garvey agreed. “However, according to the Mayor of Lugar de Paz, you shot numerous people there.”

  Suddenly Serrano understood how the detectives knew he was traveling to San Antonio. Mayor Aguilar tipped them off. Another score to settle.

  “I was forced to defend myself,” Serrano replied. “But, the Federales investigated and cleared me. Their reports will confirm that.”

  “I’ll follow up on that,” Garvey promised. “How do you explain what the police are calling the ‘possible murder weapons’ found in your luggage?”

  “I followed all of the procedures for carrying weapons on a plane,” Serrano assured her. “And I have the paperwork to prove it. Plus, as a person with dual citizenship, I have the right to carry concealed weapons in Texas.”

  “That’s true,” Garvey agreed, as she scribbled a note to herself.

  “Now, one last thing. Why did you have twenty-thousand dollars in your suitcase?”

  “I was hoping to buy a used truck and drive it back to Lugar de Paz,” Serrano lied.

  Garvey looked skeptical. “A truck? Okay. But regardless of your intentions, you’ll need to post a bond. So, the money will come in handy.” Garvey made another note. “Here’s the deal. By now an assistant district attorney has examined the police report, and based on their allegations, will probably accept the case. I’ll meet you in court, where I’ll try to counter the evidence submitted thus far. As part of that effort, I will request that they compare slugs from your weapons to the bullets found in the dead bodies. Then,” Garvey added, “assuming the witnesses in Mexico confirm your story, you’ll be off the hook. A policeman will arrive shortly to escort you to the courtroom.” She rose and collected her things. “Oh, and one more thing… Keep your mouth shut. I’ll do the talking.”

  The hearing went exactly as Garvey said it would. And Serrano’s bond was set at $50,000. Serrano had to pay the bondsman $5,000.

  The prosecuting attorney objected and suggested that Serrano was a flight risk given his dual citizenship.

  But the judge disagreed, citing the stamps in Serrano’s passports, and the likelihood that witnesses would attest to his presence in Mexico on the day the murders were committed. He also mentioned Serrano’s spotless record in the Marine Corps, including the Silver Star awarded to him in Syria. Both of which had been put forward by Garvey—much to Serrano’s surprise.

  “I still have some connections,” Garvey told him after the hearing. “And they come in handy. Come on, let’s get your bond. We can take care of it online if you have a credit card.”

  Serrano had a card. So, he was free to leave shortly thereafter, and promised to stay in touch regarding the outcome of the initial investigation.

  It was early evening by then. After renting the cheapest car he could find, Serrano checked into a budget hotel and had dinner at the McDonald’s next door.

  The five grand, nonrefundable payment to the bail bondsman had taken a big chunk out of his working capital, so it was important to keep costs down.

  Rather than phone Martina, and worry her with the news that he’d been arrested, Serrano sent her a cheerful text message indicating that he was safe and would stay in touch.

  Then it was time to make his bed on the floor, sans even one pistol, since the police had them and were going to conduct tests. That meant Serrano would be SOL if a hitman broke in. But there was nothing he could do about it. Not yet anyway.

  Sleep came quickly. And, when morning arrived Serrano felt pretty good after consuming a breakfast sandwich and a grande Pike.

  It would have been nice to call Valerie’s mom, both to pay his respects and to find out where Val was buried. But Serrano was under orders to stay away from his ex-mother-in-law lest he be accused of tampering with a witness.

  So, Serrano used Papá’s laptop to go online. And when he googled Valerie’s name, Serrano found articles about both the murders and the funerals.

  A detective was quoted as saying that the murders were consistent with mob style executions. He also said that authorities were interested in talking to Valerie Carter’s ex-husband, a man with dual citizenship, who might or might not be in Mexico.

  And, thanks to coverage of the funerals, Serrano knew that Val was buried in the suburb where her mother lived.

  During the drive to the cemetery Serrano was deluged with memories both good and bad. There was the incredible high of falling in love, the joy of meeting up in Spain, and the nonstop sex.

  But there was also the sadness that followed a month without calls, texts, or letters. And the surge of anger, when Valerie confirmed what Serrano already suspected, that there was someone else.

  The fact that Val had spent Serrano’s savings didn’t come to light until the divorce. And with it the most hurtful thing she’d ever said to him. “I didn’t steal your money… I earned it.”

  So, why visit Valerie’s grave? To dance on it? No. In spite of the pain, a part of him still loved her. And, regardless of what Serrano felt, his ex-wife didn’t deserve to be murdered.

  After finding the cemetery, and with guidance from a maintenance worker, Serrano found the plot. Valerie’s maiden name was inscribed on the headstone and flanked by cherubs—which she would have detested.

  Serrano knelt. Hey Val, it’s me, Nick. I’m not very good with words. You know that. But I want to tell you how sorry I am, especially since your death was ultimately my fault, even if I didn’t pull the trigger. I wish I could go back and fix it. But I can’t.

  I’m not likely to go to heaven, so I won’t see you there, but rest assured… The other man who is responsible for your death will be with me in hell. And with that, Serrano placed a single rose on the headstone. Then he stood and walked away.

  After buying lunch at a Taco Time, Serrano returned to his hotel room, and went to work.

  The search term “Maurice Yankovic” turned up a surprising number of hits. And a surprising number of identities: There was Yankovic the bitcoin trader. Yankovic the off-road racer. And Yankovic the philanthropist. But Serrano found no mention of Yankovic the mob chief or Yankovic the killer.

  And there was something else too. Something that might or might not be significant, and that was Yankovic’s new crib. The old-new castle was the subject of a detailed feature story in Colorado Magazine.

  The home, called The Eagle’s Nest, had been constructed by a timber baron named Oliver West, originally Oliver Liebknecht, who built the castle as a labor of love. And according to legend, spent one-million 1932 dollars to complete it. A great deal of which was spent on the serpentine access road which, according to the breathless reporter, “…crept up between lofty peaks to claim a piece of the sky.”

  It was by necessity a two-season residence due to landslides and heavy snows.

  But when the Nest was accessible, it was a retreat for not only West, but luminaries like the governor of Colorado, the nature photographer John Freed, and a steady trickle of Hollywood celebrities.

  Sadly, West died of a heart attack in his sixties, causing the castle to be sold to the first of more than a dozen owners, all of whom were infatuated with the home’s spectacular views.

  But eventually the cost of maintenance, or some sort of misfortune, got the better of each. After all, it was a rare individual who could afford a getaway that had to be staffed year-round, but could only be accessed for three to four months at a time.

  That was until a fantastically wealthy businesswoman named Esther Bruck purchased the Eagle’s Nest for a measly two million, remodeled it from top to bottom—and most important of all—installed a helicopter landing pad. An amenity that theoretically made the place accessible year-round, although the article was careful to say, “Weather is a factor. And there are days, even weeks, when the castle is cut off from the rest of the world.”

  And that’s how things were until Bruck was diagnosed with cancer and put the Nest on the market yet again. But this time it was a new type of “king” who claimed the home, a bitcoin magnate named Maurice Yankovic, who made no bones about his need for a doomsday residence. A place where he would purportedly be safe from a nuclear war, a catastrophic meteor hit, or civil unrest.

  Serrano sat and stared at a photo of the home. It consisted of a square tower with a crenelated top, two diagonally opposed towers with pitched roofs, a central fortification with high arched windows, a partial moat, and what was said to be a functioning drawbridge. All in keeping with West’s original fantasy.

  Various thoughts flitted through Serrano’s mind. The sale had closed while he was in Mexico. What’s really going on? Maybe Yankovic was worried by the possibilities outlined in the article. Or, maybe he, Yankovic, had enemies. People who wanted to seize control of his lucrative crypto scam.

  But there’s another possibility, Serrano thought. What if he’s afraid of me? The guy he hasn’t been able to kill, the guy who might come for him in real life, and not just his dreams.

  Two days passed before Serrano’s phone chirped and Garvey delivered the good news. Father Colon, Martina Blanco, and Carlos Alonso had all verified his presence in Lugar de Paz on the day of Valerie’s murder.

  Furthermore, the forensics tests had come back negative, and there were no traces of Serrano’s DNA at the crime scene. As for the final formalities, Garvey volunteered to take care of those, and would take custody of his pistols. And, since Serrano was unemployed, the county would pay her fee.

  Serrano thanked Garvey and promised to retrieve the weapons prior to departing for Mexico. Because, now that forensic tests had been performed on the pistols, the last thing he wanted to do was use either one of them during the showdown with Mr. Yankovic.

  Preparatory work began. The first step was to get the tail number of the helicopter that Yankovic used to travel to and from the Eagle’s Nest. And, since all flights were a matter of public record, that data was available.

  It took hours of sorting, but eventually Serrano discovered that a helicopter belonging to Trenton Aviation in Nickle City, Colorado, made regular trips to the Eagle’s Nest. Moreover, those flights coincided with the arrival and departures of a private jet registered to the Yankovic Corporation.

  That was the good news. The bad news was that Yankovic’s trips were totally random. As a result, there was no way to know when the piece of shit might visit his castle. A reality that Serrano would have to take into account when devising a plan.

  His first challenge was to reach the area where the aerie was located without leaving a paper trail. And the best way to do that was to drive, pay cash for everything, and camp out along the way.

  For $9,970, Serrano was able to buy a 2011 Chevrolet Silverado with a crew cab. The purchase was consistent with what Serrano had told Garvey.

  Then, after turning his phone off, Serrano set out on the thousand-mile trip, stopping occasionally to purchase items on his shopping list.

  Weapons came first because Serrano wanted to acquire them in Texas, which didn’t require records or background checks. Camping gear was gradually purchased in cities along his route and put to use in public campgrounds, where he slept in the bed of the truck with the canopy to protect him from rain.

  By the time Serrano arrived in the vicinity of Yankovic’s getaway, he was ready to tackle his mission. The final night of the trip was spent in the Double Nickle RV Park, where he paid for a week in advance, before leaving on a “backpacking trip.”

  A twenty-mile hike lay ahead at that point, and Serrano was carrying about one hundred pounds of gear, similar to the loadouts he carried during combat missions. But that was then. And now, years later, the load felt like twice that amount as Serrano followed a series of twisting-turning trails toward his destination.

  Serrano’s headlamp was on and he held his new Smith & Wesson .357 in his hand as he hiked. Was an animal attack likely? No, but anything was possible.

  It soon became apparent that Serrano’s fantasy of hiking twenty miles before dawn was just that, a fantasy. His back hurt, his legs hurt, and his hurts hurt.

  So, after ten miles Serrano used his Jetboil to prepare a dehydrated meal, drank cold water from a stream, and deployed the bivvy-sleeping bag combo—which had proven itself during the trip to Nickel.

  The night passed uneventfully. Serrano tackled the last ten miles after a hearty breakfast. It was a mostly uphill trek that ended near the base of the pinnacle upon which the Eagle’s Nest rested.

  As Serrano looked up, he saw gray rock, snowy ledges, and hints of green where hardy shrubs had managed to eke out a living. Tomorrow, Serrano thought. Win or lose.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Near Nickel, Colorado

  The Corkscrew. That’s what industrialist Oliver West called the narrow path that started at the Eagle’s Nest and circled the underlying pinnacle of rock all the way down to the ground.

  The trail was, according to the plans drawn up by architect Homer Williams, a route that he likened to a fire escape. As such, it would serve as a way to evacuate the castle in case the structure caught fire and the road was closed.

  Though referred to in the early plans, the Corkscrew never came up again until it was mentioned in an article which appeared in an architectural magazine in 1958. “The path isn’t for the faint of heart,” the journalist wrote. “But it would offer a means of escape in an emergency.”

  Was the Corkscrew maintained? And if so, was it guarded? Serrano was about to find out.

  The sun was starting to rise as Serrano circled the rock formation, looking for the point where the trail began, or ended, depending on one’s point of view.

  The trail’s endpoint was on the southside—he knew that. And sure enough, after fifteen minutes of searching, Serrano found two posts and a rusty chain. The sign that dangled from it read No Trespassing and was perforated with bullet holes.