by Sean Black
They had to brace their feet against the opposite bench to avoid being thrown on to the floor. Bouncing along in the back, Lock wondered if Brady had enjoyed a ride like this on the day he had died.
Thirty-four
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, the police wagon began to slow. Then it came to a halt. The engine died. Car doors opened and closed and excited voices were speaking in Spanish. The next few moments would give Lock some clue as to their fate. If the rear doors opened to fields or a disused warehouse, it was all over.
In the next moments that passed, he felt strangely calm. Normally he would have been going back over what he might have done differently, how he might have avoided the situation. But he found himself feeling supremely indifferent to everything. No one had forced him to come here looking for Mendez. He had done it because it was the right thing to do and because someone had to. If it ended in his death, he could accept that.
What did he have to live for anyway?
The words appeared from the ether. They felt simultaneously juvenile and right. He looked at Ty, who had closed his eyes. The man sitting across from him was his only cause for regret.
‘Hey, Ty.’
‘Whassup?’
‘I’m sorry, man.’
‘Nobody put a gun to my head. Not yet anyway. I knew what I was getting into. Felt bad for that girl too. The hell with it. If this is how I go out then so be it. I’ve lasted longer than most of my home-boys. I ain’t gonna go out crying about how life ain’t fair and shit. Hell, even if it’s over now, it’s turned out better than I thought it would. Kinda have one regret, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Eighth grade. Tynisha Brown offered to blow me at her grandma’s house when we were walking back from church. I turned her down because she was supposed to be dating one of my boys. Kind of wish I’d let her now. Man, she had some pair of lips. I tell you, she didn’t get ’em sucking oranges either, boy. Tynisha. Goddamn. Fine like cherry wine.’
‘Ty?’ said Lock.
‘Yeah?’
‘Do me a favor?’
‘Name it.’
‘Shut the hell up.’
‘What can I say? I talk too much when I’m nervous.’
Outside, the voices fell away to be replaced by silence. The temperature in the back of the wagon began to rise. Sweat prickled on Lock’s forehead until he could taste the salt on his lips. They sat in silence, baking in the heat and waited. If they were to be interrogated, this was probably part of it. Let them marinate for a little while and become dehydrated. Keep them quiet. Give them time to think the worst. An hour or two would be nothing to a bunch of cops sitting in an air-conditioned station house playing cards and watching TV. To two men sitting in the back of a wagon in a foreign country, uncertain of their fate, it would be an eternity. Unless, of course, they were men to whom waiting for something bad to happen was part of the fabric of their working lives.
Lock got as comfortable as he could, closed his eyes and went to sleep. Take it where you can, he figured – even if the big sleep might be just around the corner. Plus, Lock knew from experience that there was nothing more guaranteed to tee off a cop than finding a prisoner so nonchalant and unconcerned about his fate that he didn’t have the nervous energy required to keep his eyes open.
No sooner had he drifted off than the faces were appearing, floating somewhere between him and Ty. The first few he recognized. Carrie. Melissa. His mother, who had been dead a long time. Then others came, and these were the ones he found most unsettling. He could see them completely clearly, yet he had no idea who they were and why they were staring at him, silently pleading for his help. One was white but the others were Hispanic. All women. All young. All scared. Their fear and despair rolled from their eyes like vapor.
‘Ryan! Ryan!’
His name was being called. His eyes flew open. Ty had stretched out a boot to kick him in the shin. ‘Wake up, man.’
He took a moment to find his bearings. ‘What is it?’
‘You were twitching like a hound dog chasing rabbits in his sleep.’
Lock tilted his head back. ‘I was dreaming.’
A voice could be heard outside. A woman’s.
Ty called, ‘Can we get some water in here?’
There was no reply. A second later a hatch at the front of the cage opened and a bottle of water was thrown through. It bounced on to the floor.
‘We still got cuffs on,’ Ty called out, but the hatch closed with a snap of metal.
The cab door opened, and the bench under Lock shifted fractionally as someone got in and sat down. The door slammed. The engine roared back into life. There was a grinding of gears, as if the person at the wheel hadn’t driven it before. Lock looked at Ty as the wagon began to reverse, jolted to a stop and lurched forward, slowly picking up speed. Whatever was happening, wherever they were going, it wasn’t good.
The only up-side so far was that there seemed to be just one person besides themselves in the vehicle, and even though they were cuffed, that gave them a chance.
Sounds of traffic and the steady thrum of the wheels over smooth blacktop told Lock that they were still in the city. They picked up speed. After five more minutes they seemed to hit traffic because the driver stood on the brakes so hard that both he and Ty slid down the bench seats towards the cab. The bottle of water was at his feet but there was no way of getting to it.
They set off again. Occasionally a truck would pass them or another car but the traffic seemed to thin. The wagon kept moving at a steady speed. The air changed and grew fresher. The stench of the city fell away and so did the heat.
The minutes passed. Looking at Ty, he sensed that his partner was starting to suffer the effects of dehydration. His chin had fallen on to his chest, his eyes were sunken and his shoulders were slumped.
‘Ty, stay with me, okay?’
His head snapped up. ‘I’m good.’
‘Listen, they’re gonna have to stop at some point, and if either of us gets a chance we’re going to have to take it.’
‘Gonna be tough with these cuffs on but I hear you.’
They had been cuffed behind their backs, their feet and heads were all they had at their disposal. Sometimes cuffs could be popped open by banging them hard against a solid surface but Lock had already tried slamming them into the side of the wagon with no result.
The vehicle must have hit a rut in the road because it bumped violently and he almost fell off the bench. Another rut, and this time he had to stick out a foot to brace himself in place.
They were on a dirt track or off road entirely. The wagon bounced and juddered along for what he estimated was five or six hundred yards. Then it stopped and the engine was switched off. The driver’s door opened and someone got out, then slammed it shut.
Silence.
Lock began to shift towards the rear door, shuffling along the bench on his ass. Ty did the same. When the door opened, they wanted to be as close to it as possible. Even with their hands cuffed behind their backs, two on one gave them a shot.
The rear door was unlocked and thrown open. Sunlight flooded in, blinding them both. Having been in the dark for so long, and now unable to shield his eyes, the best Lock could do was squint. He could make out the outline of the driver, who was around five foot eight inches tall and of average build, but that was about it. He couldn’t see their face.
Whoever it was removed the padlock from the second door, threw back the bolts and flung it open. Then, perhaps anticipating the prisoners’ plan, they took half a dozen steps back, their right hand resting on the butt of their service weapon, which rode high in its holster.
‘Get out!’
It was a woman’s voice.
Ty went first, toeing the cage door open, shuffling forward and jumping out of the wagon on to bare desert. Lock followed him. The woman backed up a little further, making sure to keep a proper distance.
Gradually Lock’s eyes adjusted to the low blazing sunset. There w
ere juniper trees, desert and tumbleweed and that was pretty much it. No buildings in sight. No vehicles. No other people. It was the perfect spot to kill someone.
‘Turn around,’ said the woman, unholstering her service weapon.
There was too much distance for either of them to rush her. She would shoot them before they got within striking distance, and even if she didn’t, all she had to do was move back. Maybe this was it, he thought, doing as she had asked.
Executed in the desert. Two more bodies for the coyotes.
‘Kneel down.’
Lock glanced across at Ty.
‘You got a plan? I’d sure like to hear it,’ he said.
‘No talking. Now get on your knees.’
As being killed went, you wouldn’t know too much about a single shot to the back of the head. There was only one problem, as far as Lock was concerned. He’d come here for a reason.
He turned and faced the woman. His eyes had adjusted to the glare and this time he could pick out her features. She was the woman he had seen in the shopping mall.
‘Turn back around,’ she said.
‘You’re a cop?’ he asked her.
She didn’t answer.
‘Was this how they got Brady?’ Lock went on.
She took a step back. Her body language didn’t suggest she was hesitant as much as irritated. ‘I’m not going to shoot you, I’m going to take the cuffs off, and I’m not going to do that unless you’re kneeling. And, for the record, I had nothing to do with what happened to Joe Brady. If he’d listened to me he’d still be alive.’
‘Is that so?’ Lock said.
Still clutching her weapon in her right hand, her left hand fell to her hip. ‘Okay, then, don’t turn around. I’ll just leave you two out here in the desert.’
‘Maybe we should do what she’s asked,’ said Ty.
Lock stood beside Ty and rubbed at his wrists as the woman threw them each a bottle of water. When they had finished slaking their thirst, Lock said, ‘Now what?’
She nodded to a dip in the terrain. ‘You walk. It’s about two miles to the border. Border Patrol will pick you up near the fence. Two miles should give you time to come up with a story about why you’re breaking back into your own country.’
‘And if we don’t want to leave?’
‘Then it’s about fifty miles back into town and the next cop who picks you up might just turn you over to the cartel. Or throw you into jail for bringing firearms into the country. Your choice.’
‘I’m liking the first option,’ offered Ty.
‘You should listen to your friend,’ the female cop said. She bent down and picked up two plastic bags. She threw one to each man. ‘Your cell phones and wallets. Your weapons are illegal.’
They stooped and gathered their belongings.
Lock scraped at the ground with the toe of his boot. He looked up at her. She had big brown eyes and long, unruly black hair tied into a ponytail. She was carrying a little extra weight around the hips, but so was he. There was an intensity about her that he admired. But something didn’t square.
‘I came here for Charlie Mendez. Why are you protecting him?’ Lock asked.
She holstered her weapon. Judging by her expression, Lock’s question demonstrated such a degree of naïvete that she no longer considered him a credible threat to her safety. But her hand stayed on the butt just in case.
‘You Americans. You’re so arrogant.’
‘You’ve done it now,’ Ty said, under his breath.
‘You know how many young women’s funerals I’ve been to this year?’
Lock shrugged.
‘Dozens. All of them young women taken off the streets on the way back from the maquiladoras. Raped. Tortured. Mutilated. Their breasts cut off. Left out in the open. On display. And for what? For pleasure. And yet you stand there, Mr Tough Guy Bounty Hunter, and you tell me I’m protecting a rapist?’
‘Then let me go get him.’
‘Go home, Mr Lock. Take your friend and go home before you end up like Brady. Which was what was going to happen to you if I hadn’t offered to bring you out here. Sooner or later Mendez will be caught, but right now, someone like you only makes my job more difficult. We have enough crazy men out for revenge around here. We don’t need any more.’
Lock considered his options. It didn’t take long. He wasn’t going to try to overpower her. They couldn’t walk back into town. The only real option was to do as she said, then come back and try again.
‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘We’ll go. But will you do me one favor?’
‘What?’
Lock switched on his cell phone and pulled up the picture he had of Mendez’s bodyguard. ‘Mendez is supposed to have picked up an American girl in a bar. I’m concerned for her safety. Could you at least look into it? I can tell you where he was last seen.’
He stepped forward and angled the cell-phone screen towards her. ‘He was with this man,’ he said, showing her the picture of the bodyguard.
She took the phone from him, looked at the picture and back at Lock. ‘Where?’
Lock didn’t follow her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Where was this taken?’ she asked.
‘A bar out near …’ He stopped himself. Now he had something she wanted.
She had her gun out again. It was a Browning. ‘Where? Where was that taken?’
‘We’ll show you.’
‘Tell me.’
Finally he had some traction. ‘You help us and we’ll help you. No games. No tricks. I give you my word.’
She started for the wagon. She opened the driver’s door. ‘You’ll have to ride in back.’
With the cage door at the back of the wagon wedged open, Lock sat with Ty as the woman, who had finally introduced herself as Detective Rafaela Carcharon of the Policía Federal, drove them back towards the highway. A hatch opened from the mobile holding area into the cab. A grille covered it but Rafaela kept the windows open so that they got some breeze. Lock didn’t blame her for having them ride in the back. She had taken a risk helping them in the first place. It was clear from what she’d said that, as soon as they’d been arrested, they had been marked for death.
It had been the picture of the bodyguard and the mention of the girl. He had asked her who the man was but she had said she didn’t know. She was lying to him. She knew exactly who he was and, tough cop or not, she was frightened of him. It had shown in her eyes and her fear told him that for someone like her, who lived every day in a war-zone filled with atrocity and horror, he must be a very bad man indeed. And he was the man who stood between Lock and Charlie Mendez. At least now he was beginning to understand why Mendez had stayed untouched for so long. But it still didn’t explain why these people were protecting him.
That was the real mystery that lay at the heart of this business. What was in it for them?
Thirty-five
TURNING AWAY FROM the windows that looked over the swimming pool, Hector walked out of the room and down the corridor to the kitchen where he fixed the girl something to eat. He put it all on a tray and walked it down to the room.
At the door, he set the tray on the floor, unlocked the door and stepped inside. She was where he had left her. She eyed him with a mixture of fear and relief. Fear of what he would do. Relief at not having been abandoned. He didn’t speak to her. It was better that way. He might still have to kill her and he felt badly enough for her without getting to know her more than he had.
People on the outside might laugh at that, but it was true. He was a killer many times over. On more than one occasion his hands and arms, all the way up to his elbows, had been immersed in blood. He was an executioner. A sicario. But he still felt pain, and grief, and sympathy, and fear, and every emotion that others did.
He propped the door open with a case of beer, one of many stacked in the narrow corridor outside the room, brought the tray in and set it down next to her. There was bread and eggs, juice and coffee. An American breakfas
t. Bland but filling. ‘The coffee is hot,’ he said to her. ‘But don’t get any ideas about throwing it at me. I am used to pain.’
She didn’t react but she seemed to take in what he was saying. He took the keys from his pocket and released her from the restraints. He retreated to the door as she ate. She had an appetite, which was good.
As she finished her coffee, she looked up at him. ‘Why are you keeping me here? If it’s money, my parents do okay but they don’t have millions or anything.’
So young, he thought. So naïve.
He motioned for her to sit back so he could put the manacles on again. She did as she was told. As he knelt next to her, he sensed that someone else was in the room with them. Not a person. Something much bigger than they were. Bigger than the boss.
Later, he would reflect that he didn’t think it was God, or the Virgin, or Santa Muerte, because what washed over him was beyond a thought: it was something far more powerful. His face was close to hers and for a split second he thought he might throw himself on the floor and weep for what he was doing. But the core of him, which allowed him to function, reared up again, pulling him back from what was surely an abyss. The feeling didn’t abate entirely but it retreated, like the tide.
‘Don’t tell anyone your family is poor, okay?’ he whispered. ‘If you have no money, they won’t keep you alive.’
He was so close that he could see flecks of green in her blue eyes.
She nodded.
He stood up, took the tray, walked out and locked the door behind him. His hands were shaking so hard that the coffee cup rattled in its saucer. He needed a drink. Needed it bad.
Thirty-six
RAFAELA LEFT THEM at a fast-food restaurant while she went to return the police wagon. They took a table near the back and ate in silence, the only Americans in the place. It was Ty, the only African American they had seen since they had crossed the border, who drew the stares. It had been the same everywhere they’d been. Not that Ty seemed to mind. Maybe he didn’t notice it, or maybe, thought Lock, he just figured that with his height, build and rugged good looks, he was a pretty tough guy to ignore.
