It was something.
But for real dependability, she had the man beside her and Landry up on the roof of the water facility, covering them.
The place was quiet. Dead. The sky had gone from red to purple, and now it was near dark. Sodium arc lights came on in the parking lot, first glowing a pale sapphire blue, and then orange and finally, gold.
Cars went through on the main road into Mexico, but not many. Jolie could see their taillights as they stopped and then were waved through. Fewer cars came up from Palomas, and took longer to come through and past them.
There had been a lull, though. No vehicles other than a Border Patrol truck had appeared going either way for at least twenty minutes. The border was dead tonight.
Eric straightened, looking at the rearview mirror. “Cars coming,” he said. “From the north.”
One car drove straight to the port of entry. But the two cars after that turned right on the road behind them.
When they did, their lights went out.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked.
In the last light of day they could see the cars, although they were indistinct in the gloom. Between the first car and the second, there was negative space.
The negative space wasn’t really negative. Something was passing by, but it was impossible to tell what, because no light reflected off its surface. It was like a blank space, only Jolie could see the ground scrolling through it, just a shadow of the ground, the dry grass, the weeds. And way in the distance, the pinprick lights of Columbus—the larger part of Columbus to the north. Something sliding past, virtually invisible.
More cars turned onto the road. Followed by another space that wasn’t a space.
The faintest growl of an engine.
A semi’s engine.
“That is some kind of spooky,” Eric said. He donned his night-vision goggles, and handed Jolie her pair. Then she saw the driver of the semi truck. A flare of color.
Two of them. Two semis.
Two, because the third one had been wrecked on the highway.
A half hour earlier, before the sun went down, they’d driven this road, little more than a dirt track for Border Patrol trucks. There were two places where Denboer’s trucks could go through. The first was very close to the border crossing. Neither of them thought Denboer would risk it, even if the vehicles went stealth. The road, a sixteenth of a mile from where they sat in their truck, looped into a turnaround for big trucks. On the Mexican side of the border fence, the ground in that spot was hardpan, solid as concrete, and could support a truck of that size. And near that was an east-west road on the Mexican side that ran along the border. A couple of north-south streets intersected with the road. Since the fence was built, those roads had no place to go. Still, it was the best possible place to cross—if you didn’t take into account its proximity to the border crossing.
But there was another place, virtually identical, approximately four miles farther to the west.
“If it was me, that’s where I’d go,” Eric said, as the runner car in the lead turned on the road parallel to the border and the others followed. They watched through binocs, following their slow progress as they bumped along the road. Lights out for everyone, but there was still some ambient illumination.
“Twenty bucks they’ll go straight,” Eric said.
“I’m not taking that bet.”
But she should have, because Eric was wrong.
It was getting hard to see, darker by the minute, the cars running lights-off, jouncing slowly along the rutted road, but they could see the taillights when the vehicles braked. They could see them turning.
Then they heard a truck starting up.
Jolie recalled seeing a truck parked beside a building across the short expanse of desert to the north. Now it drove in the direction of the caravan.
“Shit! What’s that?”
“Jace.” Jolie recognized the engine noise. She heard it peel out and go. Definitely a muscle car, that deep-throated grumble, the sound she’d heard the night she had hidden outside the Circle K about a thousand years ago.
“So much for stealth,” Eric said.
The Camaro, which would have been invisible except for its lights, shot past them on Highway 11. With a shriek of brakes, the car nearly stood on its front wheels before slewing into the port of entry parking lot, going south. Heading for the port of entry itself.
“What’s he doing?”
“Donuts,” Eric said.
The noise was incredible. The car shrieked like a wounded dinosaur. Lurching, stopping, backing up under the sodium arc lights, speeding forward again, stopping, tires squealing, tires smoking. Backing up in wild circles before straightening out and stampeding forward again.
People ran out of the building and stood on the walk, helpless and scared. The engine revved. The tires squealed. Suddenly the headlights went out just as the screaming car hurtled forward again, scaring them back indoors. Around and around, carving out space in the parking lot. Pedal to the metal.
Border Patrol agents bolted from the booth. One ran for his car, and was nearly hit by the rogue Camaro.
“A diversion,” Jolie said.
They got out of the truck, having already been careful to turn the door light off. Guns at the ready, moving fast.
“There they are,” Eric said, nodding toward the cars and trucks driving down the access road.
“Right in the Border Patrol’s backyard.” Jolie looked back at the port of entry. Couldn’t see the car at all, now. But she sure could hear it.
Chapter 36
Landry watched the Camaro squeal out of the port of entry parking lot, nearly sideswiping another car before hitting Highway 11 going north. Audacious, he thought.
He followed the car through the G3’s scope. Thought about taking him out, but the kid’s job was done. He’d created the diversion, but Landry had to keep his eye on the ball.
Jace Denboer was the Border Patrol’s problem.
But he was wrong. Ten minutes later he heard the muffled sound of an engine, a big engine. He couldn’t see the Camaro, not now, but he could hear it.
Jace had created his diversion and was coming back for the finale.
Landry trained his eye on the caravan headed for the border fence.
Shakedown Cruise.
All along, he’d doubted the trucks were empty. Customs had drive-through X-ray machines, but these trucks would have the technology to blank out their X-ray, making the inside of the truck box appear empty. Yes, the BP had dogs, but dogs couldn’t sniff out weapons—guns were just metal and oil. And if the scanners were aced out . . . no problem at all. It was the unexpected thing: they weren’t so worried about contraband being smuggled out of the US into Mexico. But it would be better to go through the fence. It fit with Denboer, who was greedy.
He didn’t want anyone to see his magic trucks. Or even get wind of their passing.
Unfortunately for Denboer, one truck had already crashed. That set the parameters for what came next. Two choices: abort, or keep going, full bore.
The Border Patrol and other cops converging on the scene must be wondering what the hell they were looking at. Landry understood Denboer’s audaciousness in going through with the run. Once the trucks were in Mexico they would stand a better chance of going undetected—especially if Denboer’s people had already chosen a warehouse on the other side to hide them.
He checked in with Jolie. She answered immediately, her voice low. “Looks like they’re taking the easy route. We’re on it. We’re right here. Can you see us?”
“Roger that.”
As they spoke, the lead car went dark, and so did the others. The place was ideal: a dark spot, no lights, no contrast.
A truck engine started to life. Landry focused on the direction of the sound. A dirt lane, little more th
an a chicken scratch, ran perpendicular to the road along the border. Headlights came on about a half mile up that road. It was dark, but watching through the night-vision infrared scope he could see the vehicle as it jounced down the lane toward the border fence.
A tow truck.
The truck halted a couple of car lengths from the border fence. Two men jumped out of the cab. They were fast and good, used precision tools to cut grooves toward the top of the iron fence—eighteen feet between them—working from opposite sides with plasma cutters shielded by what Landry knew would be lightweight steel shields—a little circle around the nozzle of each gun. Otherwise, the light would be seen for miles.
Miko Denboer jumped down from the passenger’s side of the lead semi, and stood watching the men as they started to work. He held a Heckler & Koch MP5 at his side.
“Good choice,” Landry muttered. The most reliable submachine gun on the market—the same make and model of the gun he’d brought to New Mexico.
It would take them all of five seconds to cut and drop the fence. When the trucks were through, they’d use the tow truck’s pulley to replace the fence and tap weld it here and there to make it seem as if it had never been cut.
The lead semi, which had been idling, shifted gears. In another moment it would nudge the fence so that it would fall flat. And then the semi would roll over it and into Mexico.
Time to stop it.
And that was when Jolie and Eric stepped out of the dark. Jolie held her badge up under her weapon. Eric aimed his G3 at Miko Denboer.
The two men who had been cutting the fence used the opportunity to scurry away into the dark.
The empty tow truck blocked traffic access to the fence.
Denboer’s chief of security jumped down from the cab with his M-16 and waved it around. Started firing indiscriminately.
Jolie and Eric hit the dirt.
Time stretched, as it always did in these situations. Landry was a half mile away, easy. But his rifle was zeroed three power to 55 power. Which meant he could see a wide field of terrain from a great distance and at the same time concentrate on his target up close and personal.
His peripheral vision was stellar, and he had all the magnification he needed.
Suddenly he heard a whoop of a siren.
Border Patrol.
Eric was fast. On his feet in seconds, he used the surprise factor—and the butt of his G3—to knock Denboer’s security chief down.
More Border Patrol vehicles coming, a caravan of them, still a couple of miles away, but coming fast. Dust rose in a scrim around their headlights.
Landry peered through the scope. He had Miko Denboer in his sights. He could squeeze, just the slightest pressure, and blow Denboer to kingdom come.
He wanted to. He was trained for it. He had the man, owned him. It would take the lightest bit of pressure—
But he didn’t.
He stood down.
Then everything changed. Oblivious to the Border Patrol cars, Miko Denboer raised his submachine gun and trained it on Jolie.
Landry took his shot.
Chapter 37
Denboer dropped like a marionette that had abruptly lost its strings—straight down. The MP5 slipped out of his hand and bounced once on the ground beside him. Landry had made the kill shot dead center in the “death triangle”: the area between the eyes and the bridge of the nose.
The world had telescoped down to one small area to Landry. He had the power here. He could choose his shots.
An engine screamed—the muscle car was coming back. The sound so familiar it had ingrained itself into his psyche.
The Camaro roared up the road and skidded to a stop, generating a massive cloud of dust. In the infrared scope Landry saw two men running for the car. One was one of the fence cutters, but the other, Landry recognized. Small, hunched, a monkey of a man. Landry had seen him in another venue, the Tobosa County Sheriff’s Office. Sheriff Ron Waldrup reached the Camaro first, dove in, and closed the door behind him, leaving the fence cutter behind. The Camaro slewed around in the dirt and took off.
Landry was about to take him out when he saw something else to the left—a man leaning on the hood of one of the runner cars, raising a submachine gun. Pointed at Jolie.
Easy choice.
Landry put him down, then turned his attention to the Camaro. The dust along the car’s dead-black paint job was just enough to screen the car.
Landry could have still made the shot if he could see the Camaro, but the dust along with the car’s dead black paint job was just enough to screen the car. He aimed for what might be the back window. The window exploded. By then, though, the Camaro had traction. Engine screaming, the car slewed onto the border road, fishtailing in a fountain of dust. Jace overcorrected, banged off one of the iron fence posts, straightened out, and accelerated away.
But the gun battle was still raging, and Landry had to take out whoever was still shooting. He dispatched two other shooters, but let the two fence cutters run off into the desert.
Thinking: that was one fast damn car.
Landry drove north on Route 11. His passengers were both quiet. Jolie stared at the road ahead, but Eric, in the back, was asleep.
Landry kept to a steady fifty-eight on the two-lane road. He didn’t want to attract any interested parties. Like the New Mexico State Police, or worse, the sheriff’s office. As it was, he’d had to drive through three jurisdictions to get to Branch.
The night was bright with stars. Grassland stretched to low mountains on either side of the road like a black ocean. It was quiet.
Jace Denboer had a good head start, a fast car, and a fire under his butt the size of a rocket-propelled grenade. Landry was pretty sure where he’d go. The only question was which Jace would he encounter? The crazy Jace or the normal Jace? He was betting on the crazy Jace.
Eric opened one eye. “Are we there yet, Daddy?”
“Almost.”
Eric closed his eye again. Like any good soldier, he could fall asleep anywhere.
Jolie said, “You think Jace would go straight to his father’s house? He’d be that stupid?”
“We’ll find out,” Landry said. “He could have Waldrup with him. We should be prepared for that.”
“I guess it’s just the three of us,” Jolie said.
“What about the Branch PD?”
“That’s a no go. I wouldn’t know who to trust over there. A lot of those guys are in thick with the sheriff.”
“The chief of police?”
“He’s poker buddies with the sheriff. Quite a few of the higher-ups in the police department have themselves some brand new cars, too.”
“One big happy family.”
“We stopped them from getting those trucks across,” Jolie said. “At the least, they’ll have to regroup. I’ve been asking myself: why don’t we just get out of Dodge? While the getting is good. All the way up here, that’s what I was thinking. Just . . . go.”
Landry said nothing.
Then Jolie said, “But I like it here.” She stared out the window at the low, dark mountains. “I like my job, I like being in homicide.”
She lapsed into silence.
Not long after that, he saw the lights of Deming. It wouldn’t be far, now.
In Branch, Landry turned onto the drive up the curvy road that led to the Denboer place. Taking the corners, enjoying the ride, filing the carnage away as he always did. He could keep his thoughts to himself because no one felt like chatting.
Jace was still on the loose. And so was the sheriff of Tobosa County.
Landry turned onto Jacarunda Drive.
Chapter 38
This part of Branch reminded Landry of California. Green, dewy lawns, sprinklers shooting out arcs of spray. Although there was a moon, the night had muted color. But Landry knew that every hou
se up here was either white with red tile roofs, beige with red tile roofs, or brown stucco pueblo style. All of them surrounded by gardens that would shame Omar Khayyam’s poetry. Fruit trees aplenty, hedges to hide the sprawling properties, tall eucalyptus and Aleppo pines. Behind clipped hedges he glimpsed the occasional swimming pool or tennis court.
The rich are different.
They came around a turn and nearly ran into Jace’s Camaro.
It was parked haphazardly, having come to rest against one of the pillars marking the entrance to the Denboer estate. Dark, bulky, the ugly paint job swallowing light. The right fender was crumpled—not bad, just a minor fender bender. The kid had misjudged the distance between his car’s bumper and the pillar. But it was enough of a bump to deploy the airbags. Two of them. They looked like a couple of Pillsbury Doughboys, chef’s hats and all.
The driver’s door was open.
Reflection from a streetlight picked out a river of antifreeze trailing down the road.
A blood trail wandered up the steep incline to the house. Not a lot of blood, just splotches. Maybe one of them had been shot.
Two people. Jace and the sheriff.
Landry nodded to Jolie and Eric, reached into the car and grabbed his MP5. He shouldered his duffle, and started up the drive.
“What’s in the duffle?” Eric asked.
“Tennis balls.”
“Oh. Planning on a match?”
“Grudge match, maybe.” Landry winked at Jolie. Her face remained composed, but he could see that she was having a good laugh inside. He secured the duffle to his back. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. He really didn’t want to leave behind his secret weapon.
Halfway up, they encountered a bloody sock and a running shoe. The footprints continued on, up past the cactus garden and the privet hedge and the lawn as smooth as the felt on a pool table.
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