by Ian Bull
Rafael types fast. “Twenty-seven degrees north latitude, fifteen miles from the Pacific Ocean puts them…here. Give or take twenty miles in any direction, probably.”
We all switch and bobsled behind Rafael and his monitor. A map of the Mexican State of Baja, California Sur comes on screen. Rafael draws a circle on the coastal mountains of the El Vizcaíno Biosphere Reserve. They are in wilderness. The closest town is El Juanico, a tiny fishing village on the coast.
A little too big an area, but it will have to do. As I snap a photo of his screen with my smartphone, it rings. We all jump. It’s Detective Niall McCusker.
Trishelle sees the screen. “About time.”
I put him on speaker phone. “Believe me now, McCusker?”
“Get your butt to Malibu City Hall. Bring a snack, you’ll be there a while.”
Trishelle looks stunned. Steven and Julia—hiding in the hills fifteen miles east of El Juanico, in the El Vizcaíno Biosphere Reserve—need me in less than eight hours. And now this?
“Webb? Do I have to send a squad car for you?”
I hang up. “I’m going to Mexico.”
Glenn screams. “Wait! I can find Too Cool for School!”
Darna and Rafael bobsled him, their heads an inch away from his on either side.
“How?” Darna asks.
“He or she was bragging in a subreddit chat room, and I can trace it back! He was using a computer using a cell phone as a hot spot,” Glenn says, pointing at his screen.
“Damn, he’s using a cell phone for his Wi-Fi?” Rafael asks.
Trishelle’s phone rings. She shows me her screen: Niall McCusker, LAPD. He wants her to come in, too. A squad car will be here soon. She mouths one word: Go.
I text the photo of the map to Lucas Rey as I slip out the front door. I get through the gate and jog to my car, which is already waiting on the shoulder of the Pacific Coast Highway. My phone dings with his response as I slip behind the wheel: Downloading topo maps now. Time frame?
Mission starts at eight pm.
I drive two hundred yards, then get his next text: You have passport?
Shit. I pull over, get out, open the trunk, and rifle through my travel bag. My hands search through the pockets while my mind goes over the mission: combat-ready rescue helicopter, pilot, co-pilot. Exfiltration gear. Crew of one: me. Weapons. We can’t muster on land. We have to take off and land from the ocean, at least a mile out, and that means some kind of barge. We will need paramedics on the barge, waiting.
I search every pocket again and find it, then text back: Yes. Where am I going?
He texts back. Brown Field, South of San Diego. Three hours from now, Warren will fly you into Mexico. You will land on a private beach close to that latitude.
Warren will load his homemade, red, two-seater plane with surfboards and beach coolers and tell customs that it’s a surf trip. That’s the cover.
I text back: And?
Response: Look for a speedboat. Paramedics will drive you out to a barge.
Chopper type?
Am I hooking up gear inside a French Eurocopter from the Mexican Navy? With no mounted guns? Or is it a Huey from the Mexican Army? Or is it some news helicopter from Tijuana?
He responds: Working on it.
Shit. He doesn’t have the chopper yet. I text back: Mounted gun?
He responds: No weapons. Not part of deal. Search and Rescue only.
It’s his gig; I’m just hiring him and have no clue who he must grease to make the Mexicans ignore us for eight hours. But I’ll get the bill.
I text back: On my way.
It’s 1:00 p.m. We fly into Mexico at 4:00 p.m. We then have four hours to find and rescue Steven and Julia. This is not the time to ponder my odds.
My butt hits the driver seat and my foot punches the gas.
54
JULIA TRAVERS
Saturday, March 16, 7:00 p.m. (PST)
Baja, California
I’m in the dark, again. Cold. Alone. Waiting.
At least it’s not as cold as this morning. That’s because I’m lying in a trench that Steven dug. He covered me with warm sand, until just my face was sticking out, and he covered that with grass and twigs.
And then he left me.
That was hours ago. It was warm at first. My hip felt wet. Bleeding, but the dry heavy sand stopped it, I think. Apply direct pressure. More lifesaving info from the Girl Scout Handbook.
I even slept. Then the sun set, and the sand got cold, and some animal creeping by startled me awake. It must have passed because cricket noise came back.
The desert looks barren from far away but, up close, there are brambles everywhere, and under every bush there’s a hole for some crawlers, snakes or scorpions. Earlier, when we were lying in the darkness, waiting, two tiny eyes blinked at me from a hole. It must have been an owl, since the eyes were big and round and had lids.
Then Steven buried me.
Face it, Julia; Steven dug a grave, buried you and left. All they have to do is find you and shoot you, toss dirt on your face and walk away. Push out of this sand grave and find him.
That’s Doubting Julia, my inner voice. I let Calm and Trusting Julia take over:
Relax, Julia. He’s done everything he said he’d do. Yes, he’s weak and hungry and making mistakes. But this is where he excels. Stay still until he comes back.
The voices battle while my mind spins. He should have cut off my finger. Then I would have trusted his strength and wouldn’t have hesitated when we escaped. He wouldn’t have gotten an infection. His mind would be clearer. He would have shot those men instead of me. They may be dead because of me.
A twig breaks. Two men are whispering. They’re walking close. Nature’s noises—so loud a second ago—disappear. I smell sweat.
“Fuckers can climb,” one says. “And hide.”
“I wish they’d run. Then we could chase them and kill them. Peter would pay us all, and we could leave.”
“I say we firebomb the place. This isn’t worth getting shot, even if the idiot only has one gun. Not for some shitty show.”
Their voices drop to a whisper. Their footfalls are close enough to send mini-shock waves into my shallow grave. One of them steps on my shin and stands there. I hold my breath to keep from screaming.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“Did you hear an animal?”
“No. But if you’re scared, aim at it and shoot.”
“Shut up.”
Mr. Shut Up steps off my shin and keeps walking. I wait a full minute before breathing again. The smell of sweat is gone, but Mother Nature stays silent. They are still close. The twigs on my face keep me from seeing anything.
Minutes pass.
Three thumps—one, two, three—vibrate the ground, close by. Steven is back. I want to escape this sand grave and hug him. His hand pushes away the twigs and he kisses my forehead. His face is dark. He plunges his hand into the sand and finds mine.
We climb one more time. Fifty yards up.
Men were here.
Carl is coming. Trust.
OK.
You wear goggles. You will see chopper.
OK.
Pack will drop. Put on stuff attached to outside of pack.
What?
Vest with loops for arms and legs. Like climbing harness. Cinch tight.
OK.
Goggles, vest, harness for me are in pack. A weapon will be there. If I say, you must use it.
Memories of the dying men come back. but I can’t refuse.
OK.
A line will drop. I will clip you in. He will lift you very high, fast. If you see men below, turn away. The ride will be long.
And you?
If I clip in, I will be below you on the line.
No if. We both go.
You expert in movies. Me this. Trust.
My emotions shift from scared to furious, then to an overwhelming love for him, and then to a deep sadness for
us. Why is this when I feel my strongest love for him?
His hand grabs mine again. Move body, not brain.
He tugs my hand and I kick my legs and push my arms and pop out of the sand. My throat screams for water. He must see it through his goggles, because he puts the edge of his shirt into my mouth. It’s wet. He found water again, but not much. I suck on the tip, pulling out every drop of dirty brown water like its fine wine. My muscles fill with a new rush of energy.
He pulls me up and tugs me into a run. There is just enough light for me to see his shape in front of me. I keep pace. His shape rises. We’re going uphill. My side aches and send shooting pain down my legs. I’m squirting blood again.
Rocks move under us. He bends over. He’s climbing. My arms reach out and my hands touch rocks, then boulders. We’re in a notch in the hill, and we’re climbing a rock ladder.
We reach the top and wait. Steven listens. I know this drill now.
He tenses next to me. “Listen.”
There’s a distant throbbing, a familiar sound from Los Angeles. It’s the helicopter looking for us.
“I fucked up. They’re too far north.”
“I could never have done even this much.”
He tugs my hand. We run across flat ground in the dark. He’s wearing the goggles, so he better not lead me into some prickly bush. He slows, then stops. He kneels and pulls me down next to him.
“Put on the goggles. I need your help sending a signal.”
He puts the goggles on my head and pulls them over my eyes. The green light returns. We are almost knocking knees in a shallow depression filled with dry grass. The pistol is next to his right knee, and there’s a flat rock next to his left knee. In front of us is a thick, two-inch, brick-shaped thing wrapped in white plastic with wires.
“Is that a battery?”
“From the drone.” He shows me a short, sharp stick. He has made another tool with the glass shard at the tip, wrapped tight with a shoelace. He must have done it with his teeth and one good hand. He touches the battery in the dark. “This is a lipo battery. If you stab it hard enough, it catches fire. I’ll hold the stick. Take the rock and hit it so the glass goes in. You have to hit it right, like a hammer on top of a nail. It will break into the chemicals inside, there will be a fireball, and it’ll light all this grass on fire.”
“Won’t they see it?”
“Yes, but so will Carl. I didn’t want to do this, but now we must.”
We can hear men shouting.
Steven holds the sharp glass point against the battery. “Use both hands and smash the rock down hard. But look away as you do it.”
I pick up the flat rock slab and feel its weight in my hands.
“The fireball will be big. Roll away the moment you hit the stick. The grass will catch fire. I’ll grab you and we’ll run north up this hill another five hundred meters.”
The voices are close. I hold up the rock. “Here goes nothing.” He nods and closes his eyes. The flat rock stays frozen in my hands. What if I miss? This is our only chance.
My eyes stay open. My hands drive the rock down onto the stick.
The battery pops with a white flash, and a hot fire ball engulfs my face. My hair is on fire. I cover my head and roll, remembering the drawing in the Girl Scout manual.
My whole head is on fire. It hurts.
My brain says to roll, but my body says run.
55
STEVEN QUINTANA
Saturday, March 16, 8:00 p.m. (PST)
Baja, California
I leap on Julia, covering her flaming head with my body. She kicks and punches, trying to get away. The stench of burning hair and skin stings my nostrils. We roll in the dirt smothering the flames. She hits my back and whimpers under me. She can’t breathe.
I yank her to her feet as she gasps for air, and I jam the gun in her hand. “Take it.”
The fire we started is growing and her face is illuminated from the flames, but not her eyes behind the goggles. She nods. She’s back now and fighting.
I throw more grass and dried barrel cactus skeletons that I gathered into the pit. The earth vibrates. Someone is running at us. A shadow appears against the rising fire, a gun raised.
“Steven!” she screams. I drop. Julia shoots and—BAM!—hits him. The man flies backward and lands on his side, still. She’s a better shot than me. All of that movie training has paid off.
That was the last bullet. Another man pushes through the growing wall of fire. I grab the gun from Julia and throw it hard, beaning him square in the face. He goes down.
Julia staggers. I push her. “Lead the way! Run! Up that rise!”
Julia takes off, and I fall into place behind her. We run a hundred yards in world-record time. Behind us is a barrier of fire now, but we see shadows of men getting through. A line of dead cacti explode into flames like burning giants.
The taste of blood rises in my mouth. My pulse pounds in my temples, my neck, my groin. The hill gets steeper. My legs are empty. The helicopter noise comes closer. We reach flat ground. This is the spot. I grab Julia’s shoulder and pull her to a stop.
Gunfire erupts, which sounds like popcorn popping. They are shooting at the chopper, and people on the chopper are shooting back at them.
The helicopter hovers right above us. A line drops and hits the ground two feet away. Julia grabs it.
“Look up!” She looks a second too late. A pack flies down the line, hits her on the shoulder and knocks her to the ground.
“I wanted you to dodge it, not catch it.”
“Shut up, it’s not funny.” She kicks me in the leg, then pulls the pack between us. My hand touches it in the dark, feeling for what’s there. Stuck to the outside is a harness with a vest just like I promised her. She pushes my hand away and rips it free from its Velcro straps.
The fire is getting close. The chopper blades push heavy air down on us. The popcorn keeps popping, keeping the men away. I put myself in front of Julia, so kernels won’t hit her. BAM! Someone punches me in the back with an iron poker. That wasn’t a poker; it was a bullet. Thank god for the vest. My adrenaline supercharges me, and my pain disappears.
My hands find the new goggles. I rip them free of their Velcro straps, tug them over my eyes, then pull the rifle out of a webbed sheath on the side of the backpack.
A rush of air goes by my face, followed by a gun crack. That bullet went right past my ear. They’re either getting around the fire or they’re shooting through it. My bruised back won’t let me lift the rifle all the way, but my finger finds the trigger. Bullets fly at the fire-lit silhouettes, hurting my own ears.
“I’m in the harness and the vest! He gave us helmets too!”
I plop my helmet on my skull just as a bullet hits the back of my head. Damn it. I put the rifle down, find the straps on Julia’s legs, arms, and chest, and yank them tighter.
“Too tight!”
“You’ll live! You better, after what we’ve been through!” I push the rifle into her hands and wave at her to shoot the shadows coming at us. She squeezes off one shot, which knocks her back, and then she widens her stance and does it again.
I pull on my harness and bullet-proof vest. Julia grunts as a bullet hits her in the chest She retreats three steps, but then comes back angry and shooting.
PING! PING! PING! They’re close enough to hit the helicopter hard now. Heavy popping comes from the above.
Carl screams over the noise of the blades.
I cinch my straps tight, grab the drop line, find a carabiner, reach behind Julia’s vest, and clip her in. My hand follows the line and finds the next carabiner.
Julia motions for me to take the rifle back.
“You’re a better shot!” I wave up at the chopper.
It rises, lifting Julia off the ground. Me next—
Six bullets hit my vest in the chest, and another grazes my cheek. Julia grunts above me. They’re hitting her too.
A shape rushes out of the dark and grabs the
harness loops around my thighs. I twist and kick but he hangs on tight.
Bald head. It’s Peter Heyman. He looks up at me; his face has been altered with a gash of metal through his cheek. He’s bright green in my night vision goggles like a grinning ghoul.
“Honu! Time to die!” He plunges a knife into my thigh, so deep that I feel nothing, but an involuntary jerking begins.
The chopper rises, pulling the knife against my leg. Heyman lets go and falls fifteen feet to earth, where he goes into a perfect parachutist roll, popping to his feet like a gymnast. Bastard.
Julia squeezes off five bullets in a row—sending red light from its tip and hurting my ears, but she hits Heyman in the hip. He spins and falls to the ground.
We keep rising. Another bullet rushes past my ear, and then three more punch my chest. Damn it. I already have a knife in my leg. I twist, and three more punches hit my back.
And, then…
The shots no longer reach us. The yelling disappears. The only noise comes from the chopper above us. The knife in my thigh is bad. I’m losing blood.
We are high, at least two thousand feet and we’re flying west. There’s a sliver of water in the distance. We’re heading for that. The ocean. Far below my dangling feet are the brown rocks and valleys of Baja. They look pretty from here.
There’s a road. Hell, it’s probably Highway 1. Why does that surprise me? A wind comes off the ocean, swinging us like we’re on a long trapeze. Julia drops the rifle. Good call, girlfriend.
My body shakes from the cold. Too cold. Am I dying?
We fly into the wind for ten minutes, then head over water. My shaking gets worse. Come on, Carl, land! Are we flying all the way to San Diego?
Then I see it—a barge with lights, floating on the water. We get closer. A man with two long, red lights in his hands waves us in, just like the airport guys at LAX. He crosses his arms, the chopper hovers, and the winch lowers us. They set me down on the barge surface, and, as my feet touch, someone rushes forward and detaches me. I fall to my hands and knees. Men shout in Portuguese. Carl hired the Brazilians. That makes me feel safe. Julia touches down next, a few feet from me. The harsh lights on the barge show the red, raised bubbles on her face and arms—she’s burned.
