I guess I should feel guilty, but the first guy I shot, he shot first, and the second guy I shot, well, based on his tatts and his attitude, he was no Boy Scout, either.
No guilt, then. At least not now.
I pull out and get on a side road that runs parallel to Linden, then drive up to North School Road, and make a left. I see flashing blue lights in my rearview mirror.
That was quick.
Must be some very attentive neighbors back there.
I keep my speed low, keep on driving, and look up in the mirror again.
I see one cruiser, and it looks like another is coming down North School Road, and I think, All right, one cruiser will probably go down Linden.
And what will the second cruiser do?
Join the first one?
Or come after the only other moving vehicle on North School Road?
Me.
One more glance. A couple of curious folks emerge from their small houses, putting their hands up to their foreheads, blocking the sun, looking at the action.
The first cruiser turns, and then the second.
The road behind me is empty.
So is the one in front of me.
I take a deep breath, let it out, glance at my passenger. He is gently rearranging his coat and his shirt, and then he looks around and grabs the seat belt, pulls it over, and clicks it shut.
“Hey,” I say. “You okay? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”
He gives me a look, almost…
Sad?
Tired?
A look of pity?
Then he turns and looks out the windshield.
I make a right, take out my iPhone, check my cell phone signal.
Pretty weak.
I need to make the most important phone call of my life to that man out there who has my family, and I’m not going to take a chance on losing the call over a bad signal.
I put the phone in my lap, keep on driving.
I say to the man next to me, “I’m sorry I’m doing this to you. Very, very sorry.”
He doesn’t say a word.
No matter, I think.
One way or another, he’s valuable to me, the key to get Tom and Denise freed, and if he wants to stay quiet, fine. In fact, more than fine. It’s perfect. I don’t need to hear him begging or pleading to be let go as I take him to the man who wants him.
I look at my iPhone.
The signal is getting stronger.
Good.
I pull over and dial that number from memory.
In less than three seconds, it’s answered, and I recognize the voice. “Yes?”
“Got him,” I say.
There’s an all-knowing chuckle from the phone.
“I know.”
CHAPTER 56
ANTONIO GARCIA belches in satisfaction and looks at the nice porn movie he’s watching on his Galaxy with the bigger screen he got last year, with his belly full of two Big Macs and a large order of french fries. He’s parked in the lot of the new McDonald’s, and he wishes he had come here earlier. The frozen foods back at their place…ugh.
He sips on a big cup of orange Fanta and wonders if he should go back in for something else to top off his meal, perhaps one of those grilled chicken sandwiches.
Chicken.
No, he really should get back to the house, before Pepe decides it would be the Christian thing to tell their jefe that he has violated orders and has left the place. The earlier Pepe would have never squealed like that, but the new Pepe…who knows. Once a man starts believing in the gods, anything can happen.
He sucks in the Fanta and finishes it, tosses the empty cardboard cup in the rear. Coming through the border crossing a week ago was so easy, even when the Border Patrol took them aside for a detailed search. Of course, the look of them made the norteamericanos suspicious—he, Pepe, and Ramon, looking the way they did, escorting a man who was so well-dressed and polite he looked like a retired television star.
The truck was pulled apart, two bitch dogs sniffed around and poked, and nothing was found. Nothing. Not a seed, not a trace of powder, not a single 9mm round.
So they were sent on their way, and when they arrived in this little crap hole in Texas, they found that weapons, DVDs, and food had been stocked up in that little house.
He peeks down at the screen of his Galaxy phone and sighs. A sweet movie. It is about a busty housewife wearing a skimpy bikini who invites three bulky men into her home to clean the pool. Oh, yeah, a lot of cleaning was going on, but none of it involved chemicals or skimmers. The four of them had started poolside nice and gentle, and now they were in the wide living room of the house, and the housewife was being tossed around like a doll with flexible limbs.
Antonio watches for a few more minutes—the movie is great but he’s seen some real stuff, the video quality not so great but what was being filmed could never be sold in public—but you take what you can get.
When the movie is done, he slides his Galaxy off, feels his stomach grumble.
Oh, one more sandwich. Why not.
He pulls around and goes through the drive-through, and a sweet little blond Anglo girl with a big bust under her ugly uniform passes over his order. She’s cute but her face has broken out with acne, but so what. That’s what pillows or paper bags are made for.
He smiles at her, says, “Gracias,” in his most polite and sweet voice, and drives off with his second McDonald’s meal of the day. God, the scent of that food…he starts eating before he even leaves the parking lot, and when he gets on North School Road, he wipes his fingers with a bunch of paper napkins, steering with his knees.
Up ahead a police cruiser is coming straight at him, lights on, siren wailing.
What?
He checks his speed, sees he’s right at the speed limit, as he always drives—how many of his friends have come here to the States and ended up in jail because of speeding or having a broken taillight?—and he just keeps on going.
The cruiser slides into a turn, heading right down—
Linden Street!
He swears softly, thoroughly, and with great enthusiasm, and he slows down just a bit more.
All right.
Slow enough not to get attention, but fast enough to look like an innocent resident, wondering what all the excitement is.
Madre de dios!
There are two police cruisers pulled up in front of their house, and an ambulance and fire truck are parked nearby. Cops are there, weapons drawn, huddled behind the police cruisers.
What the hell happened in the short time since he left?
More curses.
The warm and tasty food in his belly has just turned into heavy, wet, cold cement.
He has screwed up.
The words of his jefe come back to him.
Don’t draw attention to yourself. Keep things quiet. One of you to be awake at all times. No drinking. No drugs.
And most of all…
Don’t leave the house.
Another siren cuts through him, and he sees another cruiser fishtailing around another corner, heading straight toward Linden Street.
Like a good, law-abiding citizen, he pulls over.
Don’t leave the house.
All right.
Something has happened, something bad.
He chews on his lower lip.
He can still make it work.
He’ll call the jefe and tell him…something. He had to leave because…
Because the chicken was ill.
That’s right.
Their guest was ill, and he had to get medicine at the local drugstore.
While he was there, something bad happened.