“I can’t do it. I thought I could.”
“Listen. We have to stick with Ford.”
“I hear you, but I’m not letting the cartel have those guns.”
We’re crossing all the lines. We’re doing things we’ve got no business doing, taking risks we’ve got no business taking.
“They’ll get more guns,” he says. “That’s not a real problem for them.”
His cheeks are flushed with color, his voice thin, reminding me of his emotional reaction earlier on the road. He has a stake in this, too. His attachment to Nesbitt is what’s driving him, not any loyalty to me. He wants Ford, simple as that.
“Yeah, they’ll get more guns,” I say, “but they won’t get them thanks to me.”
“So you’re gonna let him go?”
I nod, hardly believing it myself.
“It’s unacceptable.”
“Even so—”
“All right, listen. Here’s what we’ll do. You stick with Ford. Don’t let him out of your sight, no matter what. Leave me here and I’ll take care of the van.”
“Take care of it how?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I’ll hot-wire it and catch up to you.”
The Toyota pulls out of the park, flashing past us down the street. Jeff pushes his door open, rushing to get out.
“Jeff—”
“Call me when you know where he’s going. I’ll catch up to you when I can.”
He slams the door, then beats his palm on the roof a few times until I finally get going. As I race to catch up with Ford, I see him in the rearview, running toward the van, moving like there’s a bomb to defuse and the timer’s ticking down.
The geography of the city is wholly unfamiliar to me, just a half-remembered jumble from those college visits, which means that after a couple of turns I’m lost, with nothing but the Toyota’s taillights to guide me. Even now, I couldn’t explain to Jeff by phone how to catch up to me, and maybe that’s for the best. If he keeps his word and takes care of the van, if he manages to hot-wire it or just flags down the policía to report a suspicious vehicle, then he’ll have justified my trust and ended his exposure to danger all at once.
Down darkening streets and brick-paved alleyways I follow Ford’s car from a safe distance, cutting through the heart of the city, past old, arcaded squares and glass-fronted, garishly painted storefronts with tatty striped awnings. Past bars and restaurants, farmácias and paleterías. They finally come to a stop halfway down a neon-lit side street, reversing into a curbside parking space and walking two by two to the mouth of a pedestrian alley.
I stop a block away, waiting for them to turn the corner before doubling back. Before locking the car behind me, I peel my jacket off and toss it onto the backseat. I free my shirttails and roll up my sleeves, trying to look as casual, as nondescript as I can.
By the time I reach the alley, picking my way along the congested sidewalk, Ford and his men are standing twenty yards away, killing time in front of a cantina entrance and checking their watches every couple of seconds. They seem to be waiting for someone.
I call Jeff from the end of the alley, reading the street markers phonetically.
“What are you doing?” I ask, unable to hear anything in the background.
He chuckles. “What do you think I’m doing, March? I’m driving.”
As I hang up, a knot of men approaches from the far side of the alley, moving with enough deliberation to part the crowds. The way they carry themselves, I don’t have to wait until they’re close enough to see the ink on their skin or the telltale bulges under their baggy shirts. They’re with the cartel, and on the streets of Matamoros they don’t have to hide it.
There might be ten or twelve of them—it’s hard to keep count—and in their midst walks an older man, more distinguished, with silver hair and a patrician bearing. He wears a guayabera the way American politicians wear plaid western wear, more as a symbol than an article of clothing, or the way a generalissimo might don mufti to travel incognito.
Ford advances to greet the man, making a little bow and waiting for the silver-haired man to offer his hand before extending his own.
“You made it,” the man says, or at least it appears that way from the movement of his lips. He shakes Ford’s hand in both of his, a gesture of warmth that, seen from a distance, conveys just the opposite.
Ford turns to introduce his companions, looking slightly unsettled. Perhaps I misinterpreted the old man’s remark. He must have said something that got under Ford’s skin. As the seconds pass, his expression goes from concern to panic, then shuts down completely.
For his part, the silver-haired man seems disinterested. He uses the opportunity of each proffered hand to edge closer toward the cantina door. Once the niceties are concluded, he motions them down two shallow steps and into the bar, waiting to have a word with his entourage before following. They disperse to take up positions against the wall, staring down passersby. The boss pauses in the doorway, removes a plated case from his pocket, and withdraws a slim cigar. He puffs a few times, the light of the flame revealing a dark mole on his weathered face.
César.
The words reverberating in my head are my own, spoken years ago to Nesbitt when I only knew him by the nickname Magnum. I plan on slapping the cuffs on César, too. And there he is, surrounded by minions, smoking a cigar in the warm evening. Whenever I’m tempted to congratulate myself on being a good cop, a careful gatherer and logical analyst of concrete evidence, something like this happens to remind me all I am is an instrument. A blunt instrument of fate.
César disappears down the steps. I wait and watch, wondering whether his men will let me pass. After a frozen moment, several people approach and enter the cantina without being molested. I follow their lead, doing my best impression of a hapless tourist. Their eyes bore through me, but the gang proves as lax as the border agents, making no move to stop me.
I step down, grasp the door in my hand, and pull. A blast of muggy air hits my face, accompanied by a woman’s laughter and the strumming of guitars.
———
From a spot I’ve elbowed my way into at the far end of the long bar, I watch the round table where César holds court, flanked on his right by Brandon Ford and on his left by a tall and shapely blonde with big eyes and a tiny dress. Either she arrived early or she came with the table. Apart from the old man, no one at the table takes much notice of her. They can’t afford to. This is business, pure and simple.
Did César somehow rise through the ranks of the cartel, or did Nesbitt plant him here? I suspect the latter. Whether all the pieces fit or not, I can’t tell, but a theory rumbles like thunder through the back of my head. Nesbitt uses César to infiltrate the cartel, then César decides he doesn’t need Nesbitt anymore and uses Magnum’s own people to take him out.
At the table, Ford does most of the talking, leaning in and gesturing emphatically with one hand. Insisting on something. César dismisses all this with a slight shake of the head, as indifferent to Ford as a horse is to a fly. He steals glances at the blonde beside him, takes drags on his cigar and sips of tequila neatly from a glass at his elbow.
Increasingly desperate, Ford turns to his men for confirmation of whatever it is he’s saying. They have their backs to me, but I can see their heads nodding. One of their voices carries over the hum of conversation and music.
“We left it where they told us to. If it’s not there, how is that our problem? Is this his city or isn’t it?”
So that’s the problem. César has already discovered the absence of the van. Now the deal is falling through before my eyes.
Sweating cerveza in hand, I notch out a new position for myself down the bar, close enough to hear what’s happening at the table without being too obvious an eavesdropper. César hasn’t aged well, but he has retained the graceful manner I recall from our encounter more than twenty years ago. He studies the cherry of his cigar, letting Ford’s words bounce off him, then raises his hand as if to
summon someone from across the room. I follow the motion with my eyes. He looks at me. Looks away. Then his eyes cut back to me. The hand lowers.
“Gentlemen, excuse me,” he says to the table. He rises and makes for the rear exit, the blonde bouncing her way behind him.
Ford and his men exchange glances, dumbfounded.
“You’d better go after him,” one of them says.
“Fine. You sit tight.”
Ford peels away. The others make no move to follow him. Before he reaches the exit, they’re already calling for drinks, content to let the boss sort everything out. I scan the crowd for any of the gangbangers César brought in with him, but I’m not sure who’s who anymore.
Ford disappears behind a black-painted door.
Over the din I hear an electronic chirp and feel the vibration against my leg. I reach for my phone. The number on-screen is Jeff’s. His voice crackles, but it’s no use. I press the phone tight against my head and clamp my free hand over the opposite ear.
“Say that again.”
“Out back,” he says. “They came out back. They’re leaving. I have to go.”
The volume climbs as I move forward. Maybe it’s the thumping of the pulse in my head. I hear something crash on the floor and look down in time to see my beer bottle rolling around just as I kick it. The bottle spins, gurgling foam, but I keep pressing toward the door. I pull it open and duck through, down a dimly lit hallway, dodging a waitress with a tray of empties over her shoulder. I reach a door with a scarred kickplate and a grimy push bar.
SALIDA.
The breeze on the street is cool in comparison to where I’ve come from. There’s a lonely sidewalk and a few parked cars and at the end of the road—which is so narrow it must be one-way—I spot the brake lights of the white van.
I run. In contrast to the din inside the cantina, out here there is nothing but the sound of my feet on the pavement and the hum of traffic out on the thoroughfare beyond the van. I reach the back bumper as the van rolls forward.
“Wait!” I yell, slamming my hand against the side.
The van lurches and halts. I wrench open the passenger door, only pausing an instant to confirm that it’s Jeff behind the wheel. He motions me inside with an impatient curse, then mashes his foot down on the gas. I fall heavily against the back of the seat, the force pulling the door shut.
“Thanks for the ride,” I gasp.
“We’re cutting this too close. I told you to stay with him. You better put your seat belt on.”
“Yes, sir.”
According to the clock on the dashboard, it’s already a quarter past eight. The fact that he’s here, and that he managed to take the van, fills me with wonder. Behind me, a mountain of long canvas duffels lie one on top of the other like a stack of body bags. I slip through the seats, steadying myself against the side of the van, and stagger toward the nearest one, pulling the zipper open. Inside there are smaller nylon cases, the same kind I saw in the icebox inside the storage unit, with pouches on the side for 30-round magazines.
Jeff yells at me to sit down, then yells again for me to hold on as he turns.
“You got them,” I say. “You got all the guns.”
“Do you have your gun?” he asks.
“It’s still under the car.”
“Great. In that case, you can make yourself useful and see if there’s any ammo back there. Otherwise we’re taking a knife to a gunfight—assuming you have a knife.”
“Who says anything about a gunfight?” I ask, crouching between the seats.
“When they came outside, there were guys waiting. They grabbed Ford and stuffed him into the trunk of the car. Whatever we’re heading into, I’d just as soon be ready.”
“They kidnapped Ford? The old man was with him?”
“The old man was in charge,” he says.
I slump to the floor, feeling the hum of the wheels underneath me.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Jeff says.
“I think he recognized me.”
“Who, Ford?”
I ignore the question. “They were supposed to pick up the guns. But you took them instead. And now Ford’s got some explaining to do.”
“So it’s my fault?” he asks. But he’s not angry. He’s laughing.
While Jeff struggles to keep up in the traffic, I feel my way around in back, opening bags, digging through their far recesses in search of ammunition. Water, water everywhere. And not a round to fire. I have to empty each of the duffels, patting down every empty magazine pouch. There must be a hundred rifles in total, maybe more, some of them rattling around loose in the canvas bags, but most tucked inside the soon-to-be-discarded Cordura cases.
At the bottom of the second to last bag I find an odd-looking case. It’s similar to the others, only longer, like it was made for a full-size rifle, and it’s olive drab with stained leather tabs on the corners, the surfaces scuffed from use. There are no magazine pouches on the outside, but when I unzip the case, I find not a brand-new flattop M4 but an old-style CAR-15 with the carry handle on top, the bluing around the sharp edges all but worn away. Nestled in the space between the grip and the bottom of the case are four stubby plastic 20-round magazines. I grab one, pleased with the weight. Running my finger along the top of the mag, I feel the sharp point of a full-metal-jacket round.
“We have ammo,” I call out. “But not much.”
In all those straw purchases, one of Ford’s middlemen must have bought this off a private seller who’d delivered up the goods already in a case, with his loaded magazines forgotten inside. I like the well-used look of the CAR, so I slap one of the mags inside and tuck a second into my front pocket. Then I load one of the M4s for Jeff, sliding it between the seats with the last of the four magazines alongside.
When I crawl back into the passenger seat, we are no longer driving down city streets. The lights are all behind us and a dark stretch of highway looms ahead, the running lights of several cars just visible about a mile in front of us, the cone of their headlights casting shadows on the swaying palms. Jeff’s face, illuminated by the console, is grimly set.
“I’m trying to catch up,” he says.
They could stop anywhere, I realize, dragging Ford out into the dust, leaving nothing behind for us but a bullet-riddled corpse. We’d have his body and nothing else. The end of the road and not a thing to show for it. No answers and no explanations.
“How many guys did you count?” I ask. “Are we about to do something stupid here?”
He shrugs. “Maybe five or six? There’s a woman, too. And the old man.”
Nesbitt said he would go far and he certainly has. Nesbitt said he would take care of it, that César was his problem, not mine. But Nesbitt is dead and César isn’t. What did he expect me to do? What was in that packet he gave Jeff for me? An apology? A confession? An entreaty urging me to finish the job he barely started?
“César,” I say. “He’s the boss. He’s the reason Nesbitt dragged me into this. Don’t let them get away.”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
Jeff is exasperated, but I don’t care. I watch the red lights on the horizon, willing them closer. Not for Ford’s sake, not anymore. The generalissimo with silver hair, the old man, the big boss. The one who plucked the cigar from his lips, his once-handsome face, and smiled. César, he’s the one I want. He’s always been the one. But he was untouchable until now.
CHAPTER 27
There are two cars up ahead. Our headlights flash on the trunk of the rearmost car, gilding random bits of trim, casting a glow into the cabin. In the backseat, a round-faced man with black hair and an old scar down his cheek turns to squint at us, and makes a rude gesture with his hand. The figures up front are only silhouettes obstructed by the headrests. I can see the driver fiddling with his rearview mirror, trying to cut the glare.
“He’s in that one,” Jeff says.
The car in front, a sleek Teutonic sedan, contains César, the blonde, an
d a couple more of the foot soldiers.
We’re racing down a divided highway, two lanes heading south and two north, with scraggly palms swaying in the median. Just beyond the grass shoulder on our right a metal fence runs parallel to the road, backed by a screen of lush, shadowy scrub, while on the left the bare prairie is interrupted every mile or two by modest signs of habitation—a garish motel, a lonely Pemex gas station, a walled courtyard hiding a cluster of squat houses. I hold the CAR-15 in my lap, the barrel pointing toward the floor between my feet, my hand resting on the cocking handle. My window is rolled down, the wind thundering in my ear.
In the backseat of the car, the scarred man is yelling to his companions, jerking his thumb in our direction. He twists himself around and starts waving a chromed semiautomatic in the air, warning us off.
I glance down at my untrembling hand, feeling disassociated from my physical self, a hovering watcher, calm and detached. As my options pare down, so does my indecision, leaving behind the hard but simple equation of survival: kill or be killed.
The man lowers the chrome gun, his expression transforming from one of menace to wide-eyed surprise. And he’s not paying attention to us anymore. His eyes are cast down. I lean across the dash, trying to see what he’s seeing.
The trunk lid bounces as the car hits rough pavement, rising a foot in the air, opening up a gap for our headlights to shine through. Under the lid I glimpse a section of forearm before the trunk settles down.
“It’s Ford! He’s opened the trunk—”
The driver hits the brakes, bathing us in red, and the back end starts to slide. The trunk lid rips free of Ford’s grasp, flapping wide open, revealing his hunched body like Botticelli’s goddess on an oyster shell. His skin is washed out by the shine from our high beams, but the rictus of fear is unmistakable.
Jeff has to brake, too, swerving into the next lane to avoid a collision. The car’s brakes let up and it gains speed on us. Jeff hits the gas, pitching me back. In the trunk, Ford is writhing, afraid to jump out and afraid of missing his chance, too. I can almost read the thoughts running across his face.
Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) Page 28
