“Not in front of Marta,” she said. “Get us to the other side and I’ll tell you everything.”
He drove in silence, still concentrating on his headlights. When they reached a fork in the tunnel he turned left, heading into the larger tunnel. The air felt damp and the walls were streaked with dripping water. He slowed to a stop, waiting for Jimmy and Hawk to catch up.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“What is this?”
“A cave, formed thousands of years ago.”
His phone chirped that he had a voice mail, the sound echoing off the walls. The sound caused a flutter of activity above.
“Bats? Look at all of them!” she said. “Let’s get out of here!”
“We all have to stay together. Jimmy and Hawk have fallen behind.”
He reached for his phone. He played Lopez’s message aloud as Jimmy and Hawk coasted to a stop next to their cart: “Quin, it’s me. I’m on my way toward the border. Thought you should know, a guy on a motorcycle passed me, looked a lot like Jefe, and he turned off the highway heading into the hills. I could be wrong but I thought I would alert you in case he’s waiting at the exit.”
Everyone sat for a moment thinking about what this meant. “Does Jefe have a motorcycle?” he asked Autumn.
She nodded. “He races dirt bikes. That has to be him.”
“There’s more than one exit,” Hawk said. “How could he find us?”
In the movement above his head, Quin noticed larger black wings flapping in the air. His ravens had arrived, flying back and forth from one rock ledge to the other. And then he heard it, the distant hum of an engine.
“He’s not waiting at an exit, he’s following us,” Quin said.
They listened, but nobody else heard it.
“How could he get in?” Jimmy said. “Agent Lopez locked the door.”
“There have to be dozens of crevices and openings that he could fit a dirt bike through,” Quin said.
“He’s right, Jefe’s coming!” Autumn said.
The ravens flew in circles in the high dome ceiling of the cave and Quin watched them descend into the tunnel with the running stream.
“What’s with him?” Jimmy said.
“Shhh, he’s having a vision,” Hawk said. “Quin, what do you see?”
“A different way.”
“No, we’re taking the same route that got us here,” Jimmy said. “Follow the map.”
A shriek of Jefe’s engine echoed in the tunnels and this time they all heard it.
Quin turned to Jimmy and Hawk and said, “We need to follow the ravens.” He started the cart and led them downward, deeper into the earth, with Jimmy and Hawk following. He drove across the stream, water splashing up into the cart, where Autumn shielded Marta from the spray. He parked on the edge of the water and turned off the motor and headlights. Jimmy did the same. When Quin looked back up toward the main cave passage, all he saw was darkness, except for the soaring wings of a raven that appeared as a pale shadow of gray. It flew down into a smaller cave and the other raven followed.
“Grab your flashlights,” he said, following the ravens into the narrows, where he could barely stand upright.
Autumn cradled Marta in her arms, quietly singing her “Shii Naashaa,” a Navajo lullaby that their mother used to sing to them.
Then they walked into the earthen chamber with nothing but the yellow glow of two flashlights. Quin found a flat, dry surface and motioned for them to sit. He sat with them and told Jimmy, “Turn off your light.”
There was dark, and then there was completely blind, which was how Quin felt, his eyes wide open, craving even a speck of light. Just as a desert embraces heat and light, an inner cave imprisons cold and darkness.
“Caw! Caw!” a raven cried. Quiet! Quiet!
The groan of Jefe’s motorcycle engine echoed in the cave above them. He had slowed, possibly stopped.
“Shhh,” Quin whispered to the group.
They were silent except for the faintest whispers of Autumn reassuring her daughter that Uncle Quin would lead them to safety.
“Marta, estoy solo sin ti,” Jefe called out. I’m lonely without you.
How cruel that Jefe would lean on his daughter to give up their hiding place. But she was tough, though, barely making a sound except for a sniffle.
“¿Marta? ¿Marta?” he cried out louder, his voice echoing.
He must’ve noticed the golf carts and tracks leading down to the stream. Now Quin could hear Jefe’s footsteps sloshing along the water’s edge, the beam of his flashlight bouncing off the walls. Quin had no choice but to protect his group. He could use the Glock, but didn’t want to shoot where the ricocheting bullets could harm somebody. He slid the knife out of his boot and grabbed his flashlight.
“Everyone wait here,” he said.
“I’m going,” Hawk said. “I’ll distract him.”
Hawk ran ahead into the darkness toward Jefe’s light, shouting in shrieks and howls that sounded like a pack of coyotes. Jefe spun around toward the moving sounds. The echoes must’ve confused him and he began shooting wildly in different directions. Quin counted at least a dozen shots ricocheting off the rock walls. The muzzle flashes were a reminder that Jefe had his FN-57, a gun that could have a twenty-bullet magazine but was more likely to have a magazine with thirty bullets. Even a blind shooter with a full magazine clip could eventually hit a moving target like Hawk.
Quin ran out of the narrows into the open chamber and drove his knife into Jefe’s right shoulder to disable his shooting arm. The man screamed, but the gun didn’t drop from his hands; instead, he fired three more shots. Quin pulled him into a chokehold, pressing the knife up under Jefe’s chin where he could feel it. “Drop it, drop the gun!” he yelled, dragging him back away from wherever Hawk was hiding.
With his arm extended, Jefe turned his wrist and fired another three rounds toward Quin’s head. Quin sliced at Jefe’s gun arm, tearing into flesh, and the gun finally dropped to the ground. He tightened his chokehold, forcing Jefe to gasp for air.
“Grab the gun!” Quin said to Hawk.
In the darkness, he saw a flashlight beam on the ground. A hand picked up the gun, but it wasn’t Hawk’s leathery hand, it was Jimmy’s.
“There’s zip-ties in the golf cart,” Quin said, “and bandages. Grab those too.”
Jimmy ran up the path to the carts and Quin searched for Hawk.
“Hawk?” Quin called out. “Hawk?”
Jimmy returned with the ties and held the Glock pointed at Jefe. Quin tied the man’s wrists behind his back and wrapped a bandage around his bleeding forearm.
“Where’s Hawk?” Jimmy said.
“Here.”
Jimmy raised his other arm with the flashlight toward the sound of the voice. Hawk was on the ground, squinting in the light.
“You hurt?” Jimmy said.
“Yep.”
“You shot my granddad?” Jimmy said to Jefe.
Jefe shouted and went on a rant about something that only Autumn understood as they all walked back up to the carts. Quin seated Jefe and tied his wrist to the back of the seat post.
He and Jimmy tended to Hawk, who had taken a bullet through his lower right back. There wasn’t much blood, but he was in terrible pain, his breathing labored.
“What were you doing out here?” Quin asked.
“Distracting him,” Hawk said. “It worked, you got ‘im. We make a good team, the three of us.”
Everyone piled into the carts; Jimmy followed with Jefe and Hawk rode with Quin, Autumn, and Marta in her lap as they drove up to the main tunnel. They drove past Jefe’s dirt bike and Quin considered strapping it to the back of Jimmy’s cart in case they needed it. But with Jefe on board, they were hauling too much weight already.
“Let me go, man!” Jefe said.
“No, you’ve earned yourself a ticket to the USA,” Quin said.
“They know I’m down here,” Jefe said.
“My bros will come looking.”
That sounded like classic bullshit bargaining from a skip, but Quin decided not to take any chances. He got out of the cart, lifted the dirt bike, and walked it to the edge of the drop-off over the stream. He pushed it over and it splashed with a thundering clang as it hit the rocks below.
“What? Why?” Jefe said.
“If your friends come searching for you, they’ll think you escaped to the other side with us.”
He got back into the cart and punched it, and had been speeding through the tunnel for a good twenty minutes when he realized it was hard to see up ahead. At first he thought there was more dust, and then it occurred to him that his headlights were dimmer. Jimmy’s lights behind him were dimmer, too. Despite their having installed fresh batteries yesterday, the subterranean conditions had drained them. The high speed combined with the loose sand and the extra weight took their toll.
“How much further do you think we have to go?” Quin asked Autumn, who was holding his phone. Hawk had all he could do to manage his pain on the bumpy ride.
“We’re more than halfway there,” she guessed, reading the map on his phone. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Jimmy had faded back and Quin slowed so he wouldn’t lose him. When Jimmy caught up, he was shouting in frustration, “Almost out of juice!”
“What’s that mean?” Autumn asked.
“We’re losing power,” Quin said.
“You’re all gonna die down here,” Jefe said.
“Shut up, Jefe!” Autumn said.
Quin drove on at half-speed and as the light dimmed, he scanned the floor ahead for signs and debris that he’d recognize—soda cans, beer bottles, anything to reassure himself that they hadn’t missed a turn. So far, it all seemed familiar—or was he imagining it?
Jimmy had fallen behind again. He flashed his headlights on and off. Quin slowed and realized he wasn’t playing with his lights to get his attention; Jimmy’s batteries were dead. He and Jefe were back there in the blackness.
Quin stopped and set the cart in reverse. It beeped and beeped as he drove backward toward Jimmy’s cart, scraping the walls. He handed Autumn the flashlight and she pointed it back so he could see where he was driving. There were Jimmy and Jefe, their cart completely dead.
Jefe laughed like a crazy man Quin had once met in the psych ward who had a cackling laugh that often ended in coughing fits.
“Now what?” Jimmy said.
“You drive the front cart, we’ll leave this one behind,” he said. “Get moving, while you still have power in my cart.”
“See ya, bro,” Jimmy said, elbowing Jefe.
“You’re coming with us, Quin,” Autumn insisted.
“No, there’s too much weight in that cart and Hawk needs medical attention. I’ll walk or run and catch up.”
“What about Jefe?” Autumn asked.
“He’ll come with me.” He took two flashlights and handed Jefe’s gun to Autumn. “Go on, hurry.”
Jimmy drove the cart barely twenty miles an hour. The halo of light faded into a candle glow as the rumbling of the motor evaporated in the distance.
“Cut me free, man.”
The only weapon Quin had left was his knife, which he used to cut the zip-ties that secured Jefe to the cart seat. He didn’t cut the tie that held Jefe’s wrists bound, however.
Quin turned him around, facing toward Mexico. “Start walking.”
“Let me go.”
He shoved Jefe, forcing him into a trot with his hands still bound behind is back.
“You gonna cut me again, kill me?”
“Maybe. More walkin’, less talkin’.”
“Can’t see.”
Quin shined the light over Jefe’s shoulder; the other light was tucked into his belt in the small of his back. He wasn’t sure what to do with Jefe other than put as much distance between him and his escaping family as possible. The guy needed to cool off and lick his wounds, and a walk would give Quin a chance to drag information from his brother-in-law. There was so much he needed to know, and family members are always the best source of family dirt.
“How long have you known my sister?”
“Quatro o cinco anos.”
“Speak English. What’s your story?”
“Huh?” Jefe asked, looking over his shoulder.
Quin shoved him again for effect. “How’d you meet her?”
“Through the company. Workin’ my way up through Sinaloa,” he said. “She was with them.”
“She worked for them?”
“Worked, lived, it’s all the same. When you’re in, you’re in. Her family needed money. They had her run drugs, like me. That’s how we met.”
“Who’s this family on the Mexico side? Her real family was in Arizona before somebody attacked us.”
“A man named Santana,” Jefe said. “A fat gringo, with pink skin. Kids in the street call him Santa.”
“He’s American?”
“He’s fat with pink skin, obviously he’s American.” He laughed, stumbling forward.
“What does Santa do?”
“Does what Santa always does, delivers gifts.”
“What? Drugs? He’s a drug runner?”
Jefe shook his head, chuckling, enjoying the guessing game. “What’s more precious than drugs?” He began singing “Feliz Navidad” as Quin thought about the riddle.
What’s more precious along the border than drugs? Quin guessed again. “Gold? Diamonds? Weapons?”
“Incorrect, incorrect, incorrecto! See? Ah, when you have so much of it, it has no value. My hands are tied, your American hands are not—”
It hit Quin. “Freedom!”
“Si, Señor!”
“This man you call Santa brings people across the border.”
“For a price, mucho dinero,” he said in a mock Spanish accent.
“He sells them freedom.”
“The idea of freedom,” Jefe said. “Men slave in the fields and women slave on their backs, or knees…you know.”
“I’m familiar with human trafficking. But how did Autumn get caught up in it?”
Jefe stopped and turned to Quin, squinting. “Caught up in it? You and she were born into it.”
“Explain,” he said.
“She hasn’t told you?”
“Told me what, Jefe?”
Jefe spun around and walked away, mumbling to himself, and Quin followed. He was practically running back to Mexico in the dark.
“What is it that she has to tell me?”
“It’s a family thing.”
“You’re family. Tell me,” he said, grabbing Jefe from behind by this injured arm.
“Ahhh! Dios mio! Watch it, wouldja?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Really? You took my wife, my child, stabbed me, tied me, and now you’re sorry?”
“What do mean Autumn and I were born into it?”
“Your father worked with Santa, helped him ship people across.”
Quin took a step back. He spat and inhaled a breath of musty air. Jefe, who lived in Mexico, was confirming Nizhoni’s theory about his father’s business.
“How come Autumn was kidnapped, living with this scum of a profiteer?”
“I dunno,” Jefe said. “My phone is vibrating in my pocket. I better answer it.”
Quin realized they were only twenty yards from the interior cave where cellphone reception was available. He slid Jefe’s phone out of his pocket and held it to Jefe’s ear.
“Don’t say anything you’ll regret,” Quin warned him, “or I’ll slit your throat.”
Jefe mumbled something in Spanish into the phone. There was no way he could know for sure whether Jefe had just tipped off his friends that Autumn and Marta were escaping. Quin had to get moving.
“Thanks for the info about Autumn,” he said.
“You owe me, brother,” Jefe said. “When I shot at you earlier? I could’ve killed you. I sp
ared you because you’re Autumn’s brother.”
That could have been bravado, but Quin knew it might also be the truth. The fight in the cave was Jefe’s way of coming to terms with his new reality. His wife and daughter were leaving him, crossing under the fence that separates the haves from the have-nots, and there was nothing he could do but rage against it before he let go.
Quin cut the zip-ties and handed Jefe one of the two flashlights, and then they went in separate directions, Jefe down to the stream to retrieve his busted dirt bike, and Quin back into the tunnel leading to the States.
Jefe called back over his shoulder, “Life in the States isn’t so great. They’ll come back.”
Quin walked off, thinking about what Jefe had told him, and the more he thought about it, the faster he walked. Soon he was jogging, the flashlight beam bouncing in front of him on the ground and walls depending on the contours of ground under his boots. In the distance he saw a reflection of light, two small eyes, and then a rat the size of a raccoon turned and scampered ahead along the wall and buried itself under a pile of trash.
He slowed, told himself it wasn’t the rat. He just needed to catch his breath, to pace himself. It was more eerie down here alone with a single beam of light than moving thirty miles an hour in a cart. That would be his first goal, to get to the cart that had been left behind and see if any of the batteries were working. Quin wondered if Jefe had tampered with them before the fight broke out. He should have asked him. Shoulda, woulda, coulda, he thought. He reached for his phone to call Jefe and ask him, but there was no cell signal. Damn, he was too far underground or in a no-man’s-land of no cell phone service. A cobweb blanketed his face and he wiped it off with his sleeve. That gave him the shivers and made him feel like something was behind him, following him, stalking him. He started running again, counting his strides, distracting himself from the patches of graffiti on the walls: names of people who had made it—or died trying.
How could his father risk everything to bring people across? Did his mother know? She must have known. Is that what their late-night fights were about?
In The Company of Wolves_Follow The Raven Page 19
