Something felt off—she didn’t know what, but her instincts told her to stay alert.
A moment later she spied two men hurrying through the booths. One was white, the other Mexican. Both were muscular and wore cargo pants, white shirts and heavy utility belts. They ignored the goods and produce, and instead surveyed the shoppers, their dark eyes drifting periodically to the narrow alleys providing access to the square. Almost as if they were looking for someone.
The hairs stood on the back of her neck. She glanced back at the man from the jewelry booth. His stand was nearly empty as he hastily wrapped up the last of the necklaces and rings on display.
Ashley hurried along the chapel wall, trying to keep the nearby booths and their occupants between her and the two men. They still scanned the square, but they’d picked up their pace.
She rounded the front corner of the chapel, letting out a quick burst of breath at the sight of Logan standing on the chapel steps, blissfully unaware of the men on her tail. He held the camera up to his eye, taking a series of shots of the landscape across the river.
Here the terrain dropped down from the plateau, giving an unobstructed view above the rooftops of the small San Vicente homes built onto the hillside. Down near the glittering ribbon of the Rio Grande stood the old 1775 presidio, a large, square-ish adobe structure used as a fort by the Spanish. On the far side, vast desert stretched up to the roots of the Chisos, jutting like ragged teeth from the surrounding flatland.
“Logan.” She tugged on his sleeve. “We need to go.”
He lowered the camera, his face crinkling in annoyance. “You messed up my shot.” His green eyes drifted over the blanket still tucked under her arm. “Glad you found what you wanted.”
Ashley released his sleeve and took a step back, peering out into the square. Her breath caught.
The men were gone.
* * *
Logan tucked the camera into the bag dangling at his side. He’d gotten some good shots. Hard to say how helpful they’d be, though. He glanced at Ashley, wrinkling his forehead. He’d never understand women. She’d been so determined to come here, and now she couldn’t stop staring at the marketplace. He hardly would’ve pegged her for the shop-till-you-drop type.
“They’re gone,” she said, the blood draining from her face.
His hand automatically dropped to his waistband before he remembered there was no gun. Mexican law only allowed select US agents to bear arms, and only with special written permission from the government. Big Bend park rangers didn’t make the cut. “Who?”
“The men in the market. Come on.” The words tumbled out of her mouth as she grabbed his arm, tugging him around the far side of the chapel, away from the square. The dirt road was narrow and dark, lined with tightly packed adobe homes. Ashley let go of his arm and jogged along the side, keeping close to the chapel wall.
Logan followed, glancing behind them as they went, but the alley remained empty. “What men? Where are we going?”
She paused at the back of the chapel and peered around the corner into the cross street. “Two men in the marketplace. I think they were following me.”
He peered over her shoulder, the strawberry scent of her hair filling his nose. The street was empty. “Maybe we can lose them between here and the other side of town.”
“We’ll have to catch a ride to the border crossing.” Her pretty face held an uncharacteristic grimace. “There’s no way to walk back without being seen.”
They’d left the park at the official border crossing at Boquillas, paying ten bucks to a teenage boy to row them across the river. The only way to cross the six or so miles from Boquillas to San Vicente was in the bed of a pickup, and they’d need the same way back. “We’ll figure something out,” he promised. “If we can slip out of town unnoticed, we’ll be okay.”
They darted across the street, keeping close to the buildings and the little bit of shadow created by the midday sun. Noise from the lingering crowd in the market carried down the alley. A low, rhythmic sound echoed below the murmur of the crowd.
Footsteps. And close.
He stopped, snatching Ashley’s shirtsleeve, and they both pressed back against a dusty wall coated in chipping orange plaster.
Two men turned into the alley from behind the chapel. Both stocky and muscular, and no doubt carrying at least one illegal firearm apiece. One of them pointed at Logan and Ashley. “¡Por ahi!”
“Run.” Logan gave her a little shove, but she was already off, sprinting down the narrow street.
He followed as they took one turn after another, dodging children playing ball and hapless burros led by scrunched old men. South around the marketplace, then west, zigzagging up and down the narrow streets, heading ever closer to the road that would lead them out of San Vicente.
She pulled up after a few minutes and Logan glanced behind them. No sign of their pursuers.
“Do you think we lost them?” She massaged a stitch in her side.
“Hope so. We’re about out of real estate.” He nodded toward the far end of the street, where the last little gaily painted cantina fended off the endless desert, its sign advertising cold cervezas creaking against a rusty frame. “Maybe we can catch a ride.”
“Worth a try.”
They jogged the last hundred yards to the small terrace surrounding the cantina. Benches lined both sides of its open door, covered by a bright yellow-and-orange awning to provide a welcome bit of shade. The couple of metal tables and chairs beneath the awning were empty.
Logan peered through the windows as they approached, then stuck his head inside the door, glancing both ways before giving Ashley the all-clear. A pair of old men sat at a table beneath the only ceiling fan, its rickety thumping blades scarcely making a dent in the oppressive heat.
A long, wooden counter occupied most of the small place, lined with tall metal stools. Shelves hung on the wall in the background and held an assortment of glassware and dingy framed photographs of tourists. A door at the end presumably led into the kitchen.
Ashley wiped her arm against her forehead and walked up to the bar. “¡Hola!” she called. When nobody answered, she glanced at Logan and shrugged. “That’s about the extent of my Spanish.”
His wasn’t much better, but living in the park for a few years had helped. He pulled out a handful of dollar bills and smacked the counter. “Dos agua sin gas, por favor.”
A moment later an older man came out, wiping his hands on a white apron. “Buenos días. Hello. Americans. So nice. You want water?”
“Yes. Two bottles.” Logan slid the money across the counter as the man slapped two tepid bottles down.
Ashley cracked hers open and guzzled it.
“Impressive.” Logan winked, laughing when she blushed. He turned back to the man behind the counter. “We need a ride back to Boquillas. Can you help?”
The man eyed them for a moment, then nodded. “One moment. I see.” The kitchen door swung shut behind him as he disappeared.
Logan leaned against the counter and slipped his hands into his pockets. No sign of their pursuers outside. The two old men sat at their table, languidly sipping bottles of beer and gesticulating with their hands.
Ashley perched on one of the stools, every one of her muscles taut like a coil ready to spring. Her dark hair, normally slicked back straight in a ponytail, fell in frizzy clumps around her cheeks. It was strange how calm she was, considering they were unarmed and under pursuit in a foreign country.
She was a constant mystery—one moment looking entirely out of place, the next like she belonged there. Erin had been the same in many ways, though never so coolly confident. Yet he’d still been blindsided when she told him she’d always hated Big Bend.
Ashley didn’t seem to hate it, but maybe today would change her mind.
The door to the kitchen swung open and the man thumpe
d back out, waving his hand for them to follow. “This way. My nephew give you ride. Fifteen dollar.”
Logan let out a sigh of relief, exchanging a quick glance with Ashley. Her lips tilted into a half smile, her shoulders relaxing a touch. Maybe they’d get out without any more trouble, after all.
He and Ashley followed the man out beneath the awning and around to the back of the cantina. A lone bench with faded blue paint stood beside a dusty vending machine that had seen better days. Farther down, the cantina’s wall disappeared into shadow beneath a makeshift roof of corrugated plastic, creating a storage shed between the cantina and the next building. The rusty bumper of a truck peeked out from the shadows.
The man pointed at the bench. “You wait. He be here in few minutes.”
“Gracias,” Logan said.
“De nada.” The man disappeared around to the front, leaving them alone in the hundred-degree heat.
Ashley wiped sweat from her forehead and pointed at the truck. “Think that’s our ride?”
“Maybe.” He swallowed a few sips of warm water. “If it gets us to the border, that’s what matters.” The intense afternoon heat tugged a yawn out of his chest.
“I wish I could’ve gotten a better look at them.” She gnawed on her lower lip, staring north across the desert.
“Do you think they were after...” He trailed off, not wanting to mention the map out loud. Just in case.
She nodded. “Maybe the same ones who tried to break into my house.”
“We’ll run the descriptions through the database when we get back. Maybe it’ll turn up a hit.” He patted the camera bag. “At least I got the shots before we had to run.”
“That’s something.” She paced back and forth in front of the vending machine, glancing alternately between the desert and her wristwatch. “Has it been a few minutes yet?”
The truck engine in the shed sputtered to life. Logan went rigid, stepping between Ashley and the vehicle more out of habit than anything else. But he relaxed as it eased out from under the awning, rolling toward them.
“Sí, señorita.”
Logan and Ashley both spun at the voice coming from the corner of the cantina.
One of the men who’d been chasing them stood there, his gun aimed at Ashley’s head.
Logan raised his hands slowly, nudging Ashley’s arm when she hesitated. His mind raced through their options, coming up dismally short beyond priority number one. Not getting shot. “We don’t want any trouble. Tourists.”
“Right.” The man smirked. “Then we have a tour all lined up for you.” He was white, perhaps an inch over six feet tall, two hundred pounds, American accent. Hair color possibly light brown, but hard to say under the blue ball cap.
The truck stopped, its engine idling. The other man, Mexican, with a long, jagged scar cutting across his right cheek, sat behind the wheel. He tapped the glass behind his seat and a third man, whom Logan hadn’t seen before, hopped out of the bed of the truck.
Also armed.
Ashley stiffened.
First rule of an abduction was to stay out of the vehicle. But with two guns trained on their heads, they hardly had a choice.
“Into the truck,” the American ordered.
“Where are you taking us?” Ashley asked.
He angled the muzzle of his gun up over her shoulder and fired, the bullet lodging into the cantina’s yellow plaster wall a few feet beyond her. Logan shot her a warning glance, his stomach clenching into knots. Her face was pale, but her knees didn’t wobble. The woman had nerves of steel.
Something cold and hard pressed against the back of his skull—the other gun. He gritted his teeth.
Ashley’s eyes went wide with alarm. If all they wanted was the map, or something else she had, maybe he was disposable.
The American nodded.
Time slowed, each millisecond passing in an eternal haze of waiting for the click of the trigger, the impact of the bullet, the loss of consciousness. The moment he’d see Jesus face to face, after the blinding agony of death.
“No!” Fear laced Ashley’s voice, tugging at his heart.
The impact came, but not the click. And the bullet felt heavier, blunter, more crushing than he’d expected. He crumpled to the ground, stars flaring in the blackness.
The last thing he heard was the American’s voice, repeating his order to Ashley. “Get in the truck.”
ELEVEN
Ashley couldn’t see where they were going as the truck jostled and bounced over the uneven dirt road, but at least they were both still alive. She’d thought, for a moment there, they’d kill Logan. When the man had hit him with the butt of his gun instead, her legs had gone so weak she’d nearly collapsed.
His breathing was slow and steady, his eyes still closed, as he lay facing her on the hot metal of the truck bed. Ropes chafed at her ankles and wrists, bound behind her back, and the smell of exhaust choked her.
Logan stirred as the truck slowed to a stop.
“Logan?” she whispered.
He blinked a few times, his gaze snapping into focus when he saw her face. The back gate dropped open with a loud clang. Somebody barked rapid commands in Spanish and the man who’d ridden in the back with them, his gun always aimed at her chest, yanked on the ropes around her ankles.
She sat up, scooching herself toward the tailgate as the man pulled and stealing a quick glance at their surroundings. They were parked in the open courtyard of a large, square adobe structure—inside the presidio, she guessed. The walls were half in ruins, but a long, low building ran along the south side, close to where the truck was parked. Four or five open doorways suggested multiple rooms.
Beyond the walls, a little town—she assumed it was San Vicente—sat on a low hill a mile or two away. In the other direction lay the river, the Chisos Mountains and the United States.
Freedom.
But first they had to get out.
The men hauled her and Logan through one of the open doorways into a long room. Four high, narrow windows revealed glimpses of blue sky in the wall with the door. Heavy wood lintels stood above the door and windows, and hewed logs supported the roof. An empty niche in the back wall probably held a religious statue long ago. The only other items in the room were a single chair and a stack of decaying baskets.
“Tie them up.” The order came from the man with the American accent. Working with a drug cartel to get rich. Ashley couldn’t stop her nose from wrinkling in disgust. If she could figure out who he was, would that help her identify the insider with the park service?
She wanted to ask questions but decided to keep her mouth shut for the moment. They tied her to the room’s lone chair and dragged Logan over to the end wall, looping his tied wrists over a hook above his head. Keeping him alive, thankfully. But why? Jimenez would never let either of them leave alive.
The answer, she knew, lay hidden inside the secret pouch, where she’d stowed the map after meeting her contact. Once they had it, she and Logan were as good as dead.
“Good.” The American gestured to the man who’d driven the truck. “Manuel, report to the boss.”
Jimenez. Did that mean he was here? Or were they merely calling him?
Across the room, Logan’s head drooped and he groaned as he lifted it again. His shoulder blades jutted out in what had to be a terribly uncomfortable position.
Ashley’s heart thrummed against her ribs. She had to get them out of here. Logan hadn’t deserved to be dragged into this mess.
Focus. She needed to focus. Assess the situation, like she’d been trained. She flexed her hands behind her back. The ropes dug into her skin. No gun tucked comfortably under her waistband. Their best odds would be to get the two men out of the room. Give them a chance to figure out a plan.
The American bent in front of her, his face filling her vision. “Where is it?�
��
Ashley clamped her mouth shut.
“What...are you...talking about?” Logan sounded as if he was talking through a mouthful of packing peanuts. His eyes were still unfocused and dried blood was smeared across his cheek.
“Nobody asked you anything.” The other man, the one who’d knocked him out, slapped him hard across the face. Ashley’s stomach lurched at the sound.
Logan glared, spitting blood onto the floor. “What do you want from us?”
“The map, my friend. Where is it? Get your girlfriend to tell me and we will give you a painless death.”
No less than she’d expected. They hadn’t mentioned her contact, but they’d known she would be in San Vicente. Had he given her up or had it been somebody else? And if it was her contact, why give her all that information first? Was it false?
“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Logan mumbled.
The American ignored him, kneeling in front of Ashley, his face inches away. “Where is the map?” His fingers stopped inches away from her shirt. “Or shall I search for it myself?”
“Don’t you dare touch her,” Logan snarled, his tone fierce.
Ashley held the man’s steely gaze, despite the fear skittering along her spine. She hated feeling vulnerable. Hearing about attacks on girls was one reason she’d chosen law enforcement in the first place.
His hand was very close.
She whipped her head forward, clamping her teeth down on his fingers as hard as she could. He howled, jerking back so fast he nearly pulled some of her teeth out.
His face turned splotchy red but when he finally spoke to her again, the words were calm. “Either you can tell me or we can do this the hard way.”
When Ashley merely stared at him, unflinching, he nodded. “José.”
The man called José drew back his fist and slammed it into Logan’s unprotected stomach. A groan slipped out and his face contorted in agony.
Fatal Flashback Page 10
