by Haris Orkin
Mendoza was dazed. Blood spurted from his nose. His Mac-10 clattered on the floor. Mendoza leaned out of his seat and finally got his hands on it just as the Hummer bounced in and out of a deep gully. Mendoza bounced as well. Right out of the vehicle. He landed on his head and skidded in the dust, skittering and somersaulting as the Hummer sped away.
The killer in the passenger seat grabbed the steering wheel as Sancho squeezed him around the neck in the scissor hold. They struggled and the Hummer bounced and flew and lurched closer to the cliff. Dulcie struggled to free her hands, but they were tied too tight. She looked to Flynn, but he was no help, just a blank-faced bobble head with the mental capacity of a potato.
They were going so fast, yet everything seemed to move in slow motion. The killer struggled to steer them away from the cliff with one hand, while the other hand was busy trying to free himself from Sancho’s legs. Sancho tightened his grip, choking the thug out as he desperately fumbled for his Glock. The pendejo tried to stand, lifting Sancho half in the air and blindly aimed the gun. The Hummer hit another rut and the killer flipped off the side of the vehicle, almost dragging Sancho along with him. The driver bounced awake just in time to see the precipice. Without a word, he leapt off the side of the vehicle. Seconds later the Humvee roared right off the edge of the cliff.
Dulcie caught Sancho’s eye and together they screamed to high heaven. It was a panicky, high-pitched wail of existential terror.
“Silence!” Dulcie abruptly shut up to stare at Flynn, who was now back in charge and sharp as a tack. “Keep your heads about you, for God’s sake!” Dulcie and Sancho tried to maintain, but their eyes belied their panic. “When I say jump, jump. Jump!”
And they did.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The woman in Flynn’s nightmare wouldn’t stop screaming. Soon the scream split into a grating harmony; two distinct screams blended into a discordant chorus. The lower pitched scream began to fade and soon only the higher pitched one remained.
Dulcie.
The sound penetrated the darkness that surrounded him like the weak beam of a penlight. Dulcie was in danger. That much was clear. He followed the light and it led straight up. A tiny circle of brightness hovered high above. The light tugged on him, lifting him, pulling him like a rope, faster and faster until the world came flooding back in a riot of sound and color and physical sensation.
All at once, he knew where he was; the backseat of a speeding Hummer, flying off the side of a cliff.
Mendoza tasted dirt. It crunched between his teeth as he lay face down on the ground. Every square inch of him hurt. He pushed himself to a sitting position and spit out the grit that coated his tongue. He gagged and almost vomited. His gun was gone, his shirt was torn, and he was bleeding from more places than he could count. Grunting, he pulled himself to his feet and saw the killer, sitting in the dirt a few dozen yards away. The driver stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down at something far below.
Mendoza staggered forward. A sharp pain shot up his leg and into his lower back. He saw the Mac-10 and picked it up as he continued on his way, past the dazed thug, and all the way to the cliff.
Mendoza looked over the edge. The surf crashed into jagged rocks two hundred feet down. He felt a flutter of vertigo and stepped back. There was no sign of the Humvee. No sign of James, Sancho, or Dulcie.
The driver had a huge, bloody scrape on the side of his face. He glanced at Mendoza. “What do we tell Goolardo?”
“All he needs to know is that they’re dead.”
“No one could survive such a fall.”
“They’re gone. That’s all that matters.”
“What if he asks about the Hummer?”
“He won’t. But if he does, I’ll tell him I decided to make it look like an accident.” Mendoza continued to stare into the violent surf. He licked his split lip and touched a finger to his broken nose. As he looked at the blood on his hands, his eyes burned with rancor. “I’m just sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to make his death more unpleasant.” Mendoza grimaced, turned, and limped back in the direction of the Alcazar. The thug and the driver followed, wincing with every step.
The Sea of Cortez roiled and bucked as it crashed into the rocks at the base of the cliff. The sea had carved a cove into the bottom of the palisade, creating a haven protected from the violence of the most powerful waves. The water would rise and fall as the ocean rushed into the inlet. Flynn’s face burst to the surface as the water descended. He gasped and coughed and sucked in a huge lungful of air. He kicked his legs hard, treading water, leaning back to keep his face above the sea.
A moment later Sancho popped to the surface, choking and hacking and sinking back down. Flynn’s arms were still tied behind him. Letting himself sink below the surface, he raised his legs up and pushed them through his tied-together wrists. Then, Flynn swam back to the surface, grabbed another lungful of air, and dove back down, undulating like a dolphin. He seized Sancho by his shirt and dragged him above water. He kicked his legs hard to keep them both afloat as he scanned the sea for Dulcie.
A huge wave exploded into the rocks, raising the water level, pushing them from the protected area. Flynn was exhausted and in pain, but he wasn’t about to let go of Sancho. He fought the rip current and kicked and pulled until he caught a wave which they rode all the way to a rocky little beach.
Flynn didn’t want to move. Nothing had ever felt as comfortable as that hardscrabble beach. He didn’t mind the rocks poking into his bruised ribs or the gritty sand against his face. He just blissfully breathed in that negative ion-rich oxygen; sweet with the smell of rotting fish. Sancho vomited on the sand, expelling seawater and seafood and whatever else was inside of him. Flynn untied Sancho’s hands and Sancho returned the favor. They were cold, they were wet, but they were alive—and that’s when Flynn thought of Dulcie. Where was she?
He struggled to his knees and then to his feet. He searched the water, but there was no sign of her. And then he saw a shoe farther down the beach, partly buried in the sand. He headed towards it and as he drew closer he saw it was a red pump with a pointy toe and a high stiletto heel. Sancho watched as he picked up the tiny shoe. She had such small feet. Flynn glanced back at the sea. He looked so melancholy. Sancho felt as bad for him as he did for Dulcie. What a short, miserable life she had. She never had a chance. And now she was gone.
Flynn headed back up the beach with the little shoe and showed it to Sancho. “I told her I would protect her. I told her nothing would happen to her.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.” Sancho’s comment took Flynn by surprise. When Sancho saw the hurt in his eyes, he mumbled, “I’m just saying.”
“You’re right.” Flynn said. “It was arrogant of me. I should have told her the truth.”
“Dude—”
“I just didn’t want her to be afraid anymore. I just wanted her to feel—”
“Dude!” Sancho pointed out to sea. Flynn followed his finger to a flash of red bobbing amidst the white caps.
Flynn dropped the shoe and ran for the water. He dove in head first and swam hard and fast, full of hope and crazy energy. He hit the riptide and felt it pull him forward. A wave lifted him and he saw her. She was floundering, gasping, her face slipping beneath the water. The current kept pulling her away. Flynn used its power to propel himself forward and, finally, he grabbed a handful of dress. As James swam for shore, Sancho waded into the water, the waves nearly knocking him down. Sancho grabbed onto Dulcie’s cold arm and together they dragged her to the rocky beach where Flynn gave her mouth to mouth. She coughed up water and vomited and finally started breathing.
“Dulcinea? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Dulcie spit and wiped her mouth. “For someone who just fell off a fucking cliff!”
Flynn gently untied her wrists and ankles and she glared at him the entire time. Her eye make-up was smeared and ran down her face. Her dripping hair was plastered
to her head and her Donna Karan cocktail dress was soaked and decorated with dirt and seaweed. But it didn’t matter. She was alive.
Sancho sat beside them, exhausted, dazed and wet. “I can’t believe this is really happening. There’s really a mastermind. There’s actually a plan.”
“Well, of course there is,” Flynn replied. “What do you think we’ve been doing all this time?”
Flynn finished untying Dulcie and she rubbed her wrists. They were red and raw where the twine had cut into her skin. She watched as Flynn stood and scanned the cliffs above them. He looked strong and determined, and he offered Dulcie a confident smile, which just pissed her off even more.
“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
“Danger, mystery, a ruthless enemy. What more could one possibly want?”
“A hot shower and some dry underwear.”
Sancho tried to stand and teetered off balance. Flynn grabbed his arm and steadied him. “Are you all right, my friend?”
“I’ll live.” Sancho pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. “What about you, homes. You okay?”
“Never better.”
“‘Cause you like totally shut down back there, man. He brought up that stuff about your family and…” He hesitated, afraid such talk would take Flynn back to that painful place.
“I had to make Goolardo think I wasn’t a threat.”
“So that was all an act?” Dulcie seemed skeptical.
“Absolutely.”
“But that file was real, right?” Dulcie asked. “All those pictures. Wasn’t that you? Weren’t those your parents?”
Flynn’s self-assured smile faded and Sancho grabbed him by the arm. “That’s just a cover story,” Sancho said. “That’s just some, you know…made up…umm…”
“Carefully constructed fabrication,” Flynn continued.
“Exactly,” Sancho said.
Dulcie raised a skeptical eyebrow. “A cover story?”
Sancho ignored her. “So, ese, we’re not exactly home free and clear. How the hell are we gonna get back to L.A.?”
“We’re not. Not yet.”
“What?”
“We have a job to do and until it’s done—”
“Job?” Dulcie couldn’t believe it. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Angel Island.” Flynn knocked the sand out of his shoes. “We have to warn Mr. Beckner and stop Goolardo.”
“Stop Goolardo? Are you kidding me?”
“You’re frightened. That’s to be expected. You’re not a field operative. You’re—”
“Shut up!” Dulcie shouted. She turned to Sancho. “Would you please talk to him.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Tell him the truth!”
“The truth is”—Flynn smoothed her damp hair off her forehead—“the fate of the world is in our hands.”
She grabbed Flynn by the soggy lapels of his suit. “Listen to me, you psycho. I’m done with this, okay? I am through! We’re lucky we’re alive. You wanna go off and get yourself killed, have fun. Not me. I’m going home.”
“How?”
“I don’t fucking know.” She looked at Sancho. “Are you coming or what?”
Sancho shook his head.
“You’re going with him?” She pointed at Flynn.
“We can’t just walk away,” Sancho said.
“You’re as crazy as he is!”
Sancho met Flynn’s gaze. “If you have nothing to die for…”.
“You have nothing to live for,” Flynn finished. Dulcie threw up her hands. She couldn’t believe that Sancho was now as committed to this insane enterprise as Flynn.
“Fine,” she said, her anger now tempered with melancholy. “Get yourself fucking killed.” Tears filled her eyes.
“We better start moving.” Flynn scanned the horizon. “They may already have that helicopter out looking for us. And if they find us…” He left the thought unfinished. Sancho and Dulcie looked up at the sky, suddenly fearful.
Dulcie’s shoes were in the sand. Flynn picked them up and cracked off the stiletto heels. “Jesus Christ!” Dulcie said, her voice rising. “Those are Manolo Blahniks! They’re like five hundred dollars a pair.”
“And totally inappropriate for our purposes.” Flynn threw them at her feet. “When we flew in, I noticed a small fishing village a few miles north of here.” He started walking up the beach, his wet shoes squeaking with every step. Sancho followed and Dulcie angrily put on her mangled Manolo Blahniks and brought up the rear, cursing to herself quietly as she struggled not to fall behind.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The most beautiful time of day in the tiny fishing village of Puertecitos was at sunset, when the town was shrouded by the shadows of the surrounding mountains. The islands and hills across the bay would glow with a soft blue-violet light. The ramshackle houses and rusted trailers looked less run-down at twilight. The dirt roads were darker, which made it harder to see the trash and discarded auto parts. The turquoise waters of the sea dimmed to midnight blue as the sun disappeared. The islands faded away. Even the sounds grew gentler. In the daytime, you could hear mothers yelling at their crying children, howling dogs, and fishermen laughing and arguing as they cleaned their morning’s catch. You could hear sea lions bark, sea gulls squawk, and blue-footed boobies whistle and squeak as they did their strange mating dance. At night, the only sounds were the waves lapping against the fishing boats and the occasionally eerie shriek of cats fighting over fish guts.
Flynn, Sancho, and Dulcie reached Puertecitos a little after midnight. They were exhausted, having walked somewhere between five and seven miles. All Dulcie wanted to do was lie down. She couldn’t take another step, but Flynn insisted they press on.
A door squeaked open and a middle-aged man stumbled outside to take a leak in the bushes in front of his shack. Many residents of San Felipe didn’t enjoy the luxury of in-door plumbing. He was surprised to see Flynn, Sancho, and Dulcie walking down the narrow dirt road, dressed in elegant designer fashions. They looked like aliens from another world in their torn and dirty, wrinkled and seaweed encrusted dinner wear. Flynn nodded to the man and the man nodded back as they strolled past him.
“Do you think there’s like a motel or something here?” Dulcie asked.
“I doubt it,” Flynn said.
“They got phones though, right?”
“Maybe.”
Flynn eyed the dilapidated docks where the fishing boats rested in their slips. There was an area with wooden tables where the fishermen cleaned their daily catch. A Pemex station with one fuel pump appeared to be boarded up. Dulcie held her nose and tried not to gag from the aroma of the quaint little pueblo. They had smelled Puertecitos a half a mile before they arrived. The stench grew stronger the closer they came, and now that they were there, the odor was almost overwhelming. It wasn’t just the dead fish. It was dead fish mingled with the sickeningly sweet smell of raw sewage.
“Jesus Christ,” Dulcie said with her nostrils pinched shut. “What the hell is that smell? How do people live like this?”
“They get used to it,” Flynn replied.
“You never notice your own stink,” Sancho pointed out.
“Maybe you don’t,” Dulcie said.
Flynn approached the docks and Sancho followed. Dulcie tagged along only because she didn’t know where else to go. “We may have to borrow one of these runabouts,” Flynn said.
Dulcie was not happy. “Do you even know how to drive one of these things?”
The boat Flynn selected was a forlorn-looking wooden craft with aluminum fittings. The blue paint peeled and the metal was spotted with rust, but it looked sturdy. There was a large hold for the fish, a couple of berths, and a main cabin paneled with plywood. Flynn opened a metal compartment that revealed an old engine dirty and sticky with oil.
Sancho watched Flynn try to start it up. It was clear that when it came to boats, Flynn didn’t know his ass from a poop deck. Flynn pul
led levers and turned cranks, pushed buttons, and flipped switches—and the engine didn’t do anything but lay there and look up at him with pretty much the same expression Dulcie gave him. Sancho’s cousin had a boat and he had some experience working on it. So, unlike Flynn, he wasn’t a complete nitwit when it came to things nautical. Sancho pulled out a knob, which he assumed was the choke, primed the engine, and pushed the ignition. The engine roared to life. The quiet, peaceful little pueblo suddenly wasn’t so quiet.
“Jesus Christ!” Dulcie yelled. Her voice was barely audible. “You’re gonna wake up the whole town!”
“What?” Flynn couldn’t hear her.
“What did you say?” Sancho asked.
“The engine!”
“Who?” Flynn said.
“What does she want?” Sancho shouted.
Dulcie threw up her hands. “I’m out of here!” she screamed. But neither one could hear what she said. She stormed off the boat and jumped back to the dock.
“Where the hell is she going?” Flynn wanted to know. Sancho shook his head. He didn’t hear what Flynn said.
Dulcie walked towards the little village square, still holding her nose, angrily mumbling to herself. “How the hell do I always end up with assholes? I’m like an asshat magnet. What the fuck did I ever do to deserve—” Dulcie abruptly stopped mumbling when she saw a half-dozen villagers running towards her. Six irate guys wielded crowbars, baseball bats, and machetes. She turned on her heel and ran the other way. Lights flickered on and doors crashed open. The village awoke. Dulcie raced away from shouts and running footsteps as the angry fishermen closed in on her.
“Hey!” she screamed to Flynn and Sancho as she hurried for the boat. “Hey!”
