by Rob Sinclair
‘Come on!’ he shouted to Willoughby.
He spotted her dashing out from the doorway. She was firing on the third car as she moved, enough to keep the men stationed there at bay – the only shots they managed to get off all wayward. Ryker jumped into the back passenger seat and Willoughby flung herself in through the open driver’s door.
She adjusted herself, turned the key in the ignition, crunched the automatic gearbox into drive, released the handbrake and thumped on the accelerator. As the car lurched away from the curb – bullets coming at them from all directions now it seemed – Willoughby was unable to turn the wheel quickly enough and the front wing smashed against the back of the second car, sending plastic light casing fragments flying into the air. The front end of their vehicle wouldn’t be looking too pretty, but luckily it was only cosmetic damage.
Within seconds, Willoughby was flooring the accelerator. Ryker looked behind, out the back window, and saw the other two cars were giving chase. Willoughby didn’t seem overly concerned. She flung the car around a corner and Ryker slid across the back seat.
‘That was quite a bit of theatre back there,’ Willoughby said when he’d adjusted himself.
Ryker raised an eyebrow.
‘The stumble you took. I’m surprised they didn’t shoot you just for how bad it was.’
Ryker smiled. He looked at the speedometer. It was already edging toward one hundred and sixty km per hour and it felt like there was plenty of grunt left in the engine.
‘I can only hope your driving’s better than my acting,’ he said.
Willoughby took another corner sharply, easing off the accelerator slightly before twisting the wheel to the left and then to the right. The back tyres of the rear-wheel drive car lost traction, the rear end of the heavy but powerful vehicle swinging outwards. She regained control and drifted the car smoothly back into a straight line before flooring the accelerator again. A perfectly executed manoeuvre.
Ryker caught Willoughby’s eyes in the rear view mirror.
‘You’ll just have to wait and see about that,’ she said.
39
Ryker was glad to find that Willoughby’s driving was in fact significantly better than his acting. Within five minutes they’d lost the trailing cars within the town’s streets, though the way in which Willoughby had so easily evaded them made Ryker wonder just how familiar she already was with the town and surrounding area. It was one of many questions he had for her.
They ditched the damaged and bullet-ridden getaway car as soon as they could. Having found some spare ammunition and a knife in the car, which they’d used to snip the cable ties from Ryker’s wrists, Ryker had broken into a banged-up 1990s Ford, picking a car that he knew he could hot-wire the old fashioned way, and on which the rudimentary steering lock could be easily forced. They headed north in the Ford, away from Pachuca and into the wilds of Mexico.
Each taking turns in the driving seat, they carried on for a number of hours through the night, until the sun was just peaking up over the sandy, hilly horizon of the lower reaches of the Chihuahuan desert – a vast expanse that covered tens of thousands of square miles and whose northern edges straddled the border with the US. The road they travelled along was for the most part straight with no other vehicles in sight for miles at a time.
‘I see something up ahead,’ Willoughby said. She was sitting up front next to Ryker who was driving. ‘You see it?’
‘Yeah,’ Ryker said. ‘About a mile ahead. Looks like an old farmhouse, or a church maybe.’
‘Whatever it is, it looks like it’s abandoned. We should stop and get some rest. We’ve got a lot to talk about.’
‘You’re not wrong there,’ Ryker said.
So far there had been little chat on the journey. Willoughby had simply stated that they should get as far away from Pachuca and Mexico City as they could. It had only taken Ryker a few minutes of contemplation to decide he was quite happy with that proposal. Ryker was a wanted man in Mexico city – wanted by Powell, wanted for the murder of Jiménez, possibly wanted for the murder of Vasquez.
The only reason for Ryker to go back to Mexico City was to track down Powell and find out what he knew about Lisa – and, possibly, to punish him if he really had set Ryker up. Ryker wasn’t just going to forget about that. He’d wondered whether he should just head straight to the safe house hotel in Mexico, find Powell, and get what he needed before he escaped the city for good.
He realised though that would be a rash move. Too risky. Mexico City was Powell’s turf. Best to just get away from there while he could. Plus, as much as Ryker had unfinished business with Powell, he was certain of one thing: Powell wasn’t finished with Ryker either. One way or another, their paths would cross again soon, he had no doubt of that.
When they neared the building, Ryker pulled the car off the road. Yellow dust swirled out from behind the Ford as it crunched through the dirt. Ryker brought the car to a stop behind the building so that the vehicle was screened from any passing traffic.
Ryker stepped from the car and felt a pleasantly cool breeze on his face. The temperature in the desert – at night at least – was far less oppressive than it had been in Mexico City and Pachuca, though Ryker had no doubt that within a few hours the fierce sun would turn that on its head.
Willoughby was a pace behind as they headed to the wooden shell of a building in front of them. An old farmhouse perhaps? Maybe even a roadside pit stop at one time. It looked like something from the Wild West with a raised wooden veranda and large wooden slats for walls. The sun, just creeping above the distant hills, cast a deep orange glow over the sand-blasted wood to reveal it was heavily weathered, the paint peeling. Parts of the walls were hanging loose, and the roof had collapsed in on itself.
‘It’ll do for a rest stop,’ Willoughby said.
‘Can the JIA not afford hotel rooms anymore?’ Ryker asked.
‘You see a hotel anywhere around here?’
The two of them traipsed into the building. Ryker slumped down against a wall. Willoughby sat on the remnants of a wooden bench.
‘It’s about time you properly explained yourself,’ Ryker said.
Willoughby gave him a sheepish look.
‘I didn’t lie to you,’ she said. ‘I really do work at the Embassy.’
‘So all Embassy workers get guns these days? And I saw the way you moved, the way you were holding and shooting that gun. The way you were driving too. You’re no office worker.’
‘I'm a field agent. Like you used to be. The job at the Embassy is my cover.’
Field agent? It wasn’t the first time Ryker had heard that term to describe his previous role at the JIA. What did that mean, exactly? For the JIA he’d been little more than a weapon. A weapon of mass destruction, doing anything and everything to bring down the bad guys – at least the guys who the British and American governments determined were bad. In reality there was a hell of a lot of grey in between.
A weapon of mass destruction. The term stuck in Ryker’s head for a few seconds. Based on recent events, it seemed that was exactly what he still was.
It was odd to hear Willoughby compare herself to him. I'm a field agent. Like you used to be.
It made him feel sorry for her.
‘What are you doing in Mexico?’ Ryker asked.
‘I’ve been working at the British Embassy in Mexico City for three years. They pay me, it’s all above board. I’m just a normal employee as far as most people there are concerned. I gather intelligence for the British Government, but I also pass what I find back to the JIA, and they direct me where to look.’
‘Which is where?’
‘The cartels.’
‘Who do you work for at the JIA? I’m presuming they sent you after me.’
‘I’m not telling you that.’
Her answer was unhelpful but it didn’t surprise Ryker much. Even if she did give him a name, chances were Ryker wouldn’t recognise it. He’d worked for the JIA for nearly twenty
years and had probably met fewer than fifty people in the organisation whose operations spanned every continent. It was a secretive and insular organisation even to those on the inside for one very good reason – plausible deniability. Every agent and other employee at the JIA was there unofficially, because the organisation itself was unofficial. That meant that any operation that didn’t go to plan, any agent that was caught overseas and imprisoned or killed could simply be disavowed. Ryker had always known that, and he’d fallen foul of the policy more than once when he’d been caught out on foreign soil.
Except this time, when he’d been banged up in a Mexican jail for a crime he didn’t commit, the JIA had apparently come for him. He still didn’t understand why that was the case, but he was positive that it wasn’t simply for his benefit.
So who was calling the shots behind Willoughby, and what did they want with him? Ryker could only guess from her answers that she didn’t work for Peter Winter – Ryker’s old boss. If she did, she would surely have just said so. On the other hand, she did know that Ryker had worked for the JIA, so someone somewhere had connected the dots.
‘How did you find out about me?’ Ryker asked. ‘That I’d been taken to Santa Martha?’
‘By doing my job.’
‘You’re going to need to give me more than that.’
‘Jiménez has been on my radar for some time. Vasquez too for that matter. In fact everything that you stumbled across here has been my job for months now.’
‘Jiménez? What did you know about him?’
‘That he had history as a JIA asset – your asset, I know now – but that he was back in bed with one of the cartels. The Santos cartel.’
Ryker’s brain cells fired at the mention of the Santos cartel.
‘What did Powell tell you about Vasquez?’ Willoughby asked.
‘No. You first. You were telling me how you found out about me.’
Willoughby sighed. ‘I heard Jiménez was shot dead. I heard they locked up an Englishman in Santa Martha for his murder. I heard Vasquez was the man who took you in. I knew it didn’t make sense, so I started digging.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘That you used to work for the JIA. I was then given the order to go to Santa Martha to see what state you were in. Which side you were on.’
‘So rather than trying to have me freed, you wanted to see if I could be trusted to keep my mouth shut about the JIA.’
Ryker spoke with clear bitterness, though it wasn’t really a surprise. The JIA as an organisation didn’t care for its agents. Everyone was just an asset or a liability. Willoughby had simply been trying to figure out which one Ryker was.
‘We were working on getting you out too,’ she said.
‘Lucky for me then that Powell came along.’
‘You think that’s lucky?’
‘He got me out of jail.’
‘At what cost? You’re probably in more shit now than when you were locked up in there.’
Ryker humphed. ‘So who is he?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘I’ve got no reason not to tell you. He’s not JIA. He’s not CIA. He’s not armed forces. If he’s in any way legit then he’s working for some group that’s even more underground than the JIA.’
Ryker said nothing. It was more or less the same conclusion he’d come to, and it didn’t fill him with much confidence. An organisation like that could pretty much do what it wanted, kill who it wanted.
‘So what now?’ Ryker asked.
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On what you want to do next. You’re up to your neck in this now, Ryker. You can help me wade through the mess, the good guys versus the bad. That’s what you do, isn’t it?’
‘Good guys versus bad. So which side are we on?’ Ryker joked.
‘There’s a problem looming in the US. I think you know about it already. It’s serious and we need to quash it before it gets out of control.’
Ryker said nothing – he wasn’t going to blurt out the details of what he knew of Lincoln and Ashford.
‘We believe there’s a weapons smuggling ring between a group in Louisiana and some of the major cartels in Mexico.’
Ryker still held his tongue.
‘I’m not trying to trick you,’ Willoughby said. ‘I’m asking for your help. Why do you think I had us drive all this way north.’
‘Because you like sand and tumbleweeds?’
‘No, Ryker. Because our next stop is America.’
‘Our next stop.’
‘I’m sure you’re looking forward to meeting Powell again. And I’m pretty sure that’s where you’ll find him.’
Which was the same conclusion Ryker had come to. Powell hadn’t lied. Not entirely. Whatever side he was really on, whether legitimate or illegitimate, he’d claimed to Ryker that he was trying to bring to an end the cross-border weapons smuggling ring that originated in the US – as was Willoughby, apparently.
A thought struck Ryker. He looked over at Willoughby. She was looking back at Ryker and he held her gaze for a few seconds. As he stared into her soft eyes, his brain lost its focus for just a flicker of a moment.
No, going there wasn’t going to help.
He quickly brought himself back on track. Then he heard the faintest grumble in the far distance. An engine. He saw a flicker of unease on Willoughby’s face.
‘This isn’t just a random stop-off, is it?’ Ryker asked, standing up.
Willoughby said nothing, but got to her feet too. The noise of the approaching vehicle was growing louder. Ryker didn't know how far away it was – half a mile, more? He wouldn’t turn around to find out – he wanted his eyes on Willoughby.
‘You know this place,’ Ryker said.
Still Willoughby said nothing. Ryker’s gaze dropped down to her hands. The fingers of her right hand were coiling slightly, like she was priming to grab something.
Ryker didn’t wait to find out what move she was going to make – he sprung forward. As he whipped the knife he’d been carrying out of the sheath, he saw Willoughby draw a gun. Ryker dodged to the side and grabbed Willoughby, aiming to pull her around into a headlock – he didn’t want to kill her, he needed answers – but he underestimated her.
I’m a field agent. Like you used to be.
Willoughby countered, ducking and spinning away, and Ryker had only a split second to change his tactic. He caught her moving arm and twisted her wrist upward and behind her back so the elbow was at bursting point. Her hand released the gun and Ryker let go of her wrist to grab it, but Willoughby wasn’t done yet either. She once again spun out of the hold and sprang back toward Ryker. He caught sight of the gleaming metal in her other hand just as he was pulling the gun toward her head...
It was a standoff. Their bodies were pressed up against each other. The gun in Ryker’s hand was pushed up under Willoughby’s chin. The knife in her grip was up against Ryker’s throat and he could feel the razor-sharp edge nicking his skin.
‘I’m not setting you up,’ Willoughby said, staring into Ryker’s eyes. She sounded in control still.
Ryker said nothing. Just stared into her eyes, trying to read her, looking for any sign of deceit. The grumble of the approaching vehicle was now loud to his ears. Ryker didn’t take his eyes from hers for what felt like an age. The vehicle got louder still then...
Ryker saw a pick-up truck thunder past outside.
After a few seconds, the sound of its engine was fading into the distance, to be replaced only by silence.
Ryker felt Willoughby’s body relax slightly.
‘Are we good now?’ Willoughby asked.
Ryker thought about that for a few seconds. Only when Willoughby drew the knife away from his neck did he finally decide his answer. ‘Yeah. I guess we’re good.’
Ryker lowered the gun and they both backtracked away a couple of steps, each on edge still and ready for another attack
.
‘You need to trust me,’ Willoughby said.
‘You have to earn trust.’
‘You don’t think I’ve done enough already to earn yours?’
Ryker didn’t answer that. Willoughby tossed the knife and it clanked to the ground by Ryker's feet.
‘I'm not a threat to you,’ Willoughby said.
Ryker still had a niggling doubt about that, but it was fading fast. He put the gun into the waistband of his trousers, and noticed Willoughby relax a little more.
‘So what are we really doing here?’ Ryker asked.
‘I certainly didn’t bring you here just to ambush you. You need to give me more credit than that. For starters you’ve got a good view from here about two miles along the road north. You can see probably over a mile to the south. There’s nothing out east and west other than dust and sand. Hardly the place for an elaborate assault. It’s just you and me. And if I wanted you dead I wouldn’t have come all this way with you, and I wouldn’t do it by leaping up and tackling you on your own when I know you’re armed. I know the training you’ve had. I had it too, and I’d only be playing the odds.’
‘Yeah. I guess you just demonstrated that. So what’s the real answer then? Yes, we’re heading north. You want me to go to the US with you–’
‘Will you?’
Ryker thought for a moment. It didn’t take long to make up his mind. ‘Yes. Because you’re right. This is what I do. I take out the bad guys. And because I want to find Powell again.’
‘I’m glad to hear that.’
‘So then, what is it about this place?’
A smile spread over Willoughby’s face. She moved across the room. Ryker followed her, two steps behind. She shifted aside planks of wood that had once been part of the building’s roof, but had many years earlier collapsed into the shell. Ryker watched as she crouched down onto the floor and pulled away a loose floorboard to reveal a hole underneath the floor.
He saw the small space was filled with three things that he was sorry to say were pretty much the most important things in his life, and had been for many years: money, weapons, and passports.
